Piano Concerto No. 3
Béla Bartók (1881-1945)
Allegretto; Adagio religioso; Allegro vivace
Béla Bartók was an unlucky Hungarian. His native land kept changing size and shape as bits of it were annexed by belligerent and quarrelsome neighbours. At the time of his voluntary exile, Hungary was facing the terrifying forces of Hitler’s Germany, and was later to be browbeaten by Stalin’s USSR. Because Hungary was no place for a shy, sensitive musical genius, Bartók emigrated to the USA in 1940 and never returned. Despite his international reputation and the universal acclaim that his music attracted, the Americans weren’t interested. His failure to establish a plinth for himself in the USA led to a loss of confidence, exacerbated by poor health. The breakthrough occurred in 1943, when the conductor Serge Koussevitzky commissioned a ‘Concerto for Orchestra’. Bartók’s creative flame was re-ignited and the outcome was a sensation. It was now a race against time because his bronchial illness, which had dogged him since childhood, joined by an aggressive form of leukaemia, was going to claim his life quite soon. The Third Piano Concerto was his last work, indeed, he died with 17 bars left to be scored by another. Knowing he would never perform the solo part himself, he wrote the concerto for its dedicatee and intended soloist: his wife, Ditta. She was an outstanding pianist, albeit less abrasive and wild than Bartók himself. As it turned out, it was György Sándor who premièred the work in 1946.
Bartók’s understanding of Ditta’s strengths and character seems to have influenced the style of the work as a whole. Commentators have suggested that the almost romantic nature of some passages indicates a weakening of his compositional powers. It is more likely that he was determined to compose a work suited to its dedicatee’s personality. Listeners who have found Bartók’s music gritty and ‘difficult’ might be surprised at how approachable this concerto is – the first movement in particular. The opening melody, with its rather jerky gait and exotic harmony, makes an immediate imprint. When it returns, we recognise it readily, and that helps us to grasp the overall shape of the movement. The ease with which Bartók travels between consonance and dissonance is a joy to experience. Part of that joy is the realisation that we also make the journey. In an almost magical manner, we reconcile the challenging with the more comfortable elements of this intriguing music without difficulty.
The slow movement offers another kind of journey. Adagio religioso means just what it says: slow and religious. The opening music is so stark and transparent, confined to strings and soloist, it could have been written by almost any composer in any age, but not for long. Bartók provides a bit of ‘edge’ to the harmony, then plunges us into a brief session of ‘night music’, one of his trademark devices. We hear snippets of melody, almost like the squawks of night-birds, alongside spooky creaks and knocks. This melts into a return of the opening material, now enriched by wind instruments and an appealing countermelody.
The last movement is vintage Bartók, brimful of energy and crackling harmony. The soloist and orchestra seem to delight in their headlong rush to the winning post, exploring all kinds of compositional sleights of hand, not least some sensational fugal writing created with a fieriness matching the panache of J.S. Bach and the energy of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Béla Bartók (1881-1945)
Allegretto; Adagio religioso; Allegro vivace
Béla Bartók was an unlucky Hungarian. His native land kept changing size and shape as bits of it were annexed by belligerent and quarrelsome neighbours. At the time of his voluntary exile, Hungary was facing the terrifying forces of Hitler’s Germany, and was later to be browbeaten by Stalin’s USSR. Because Hungary was no place for a shy, sensitive musical genius, Bartók emigrated to the USA in 1940 and never returned. Despite his international reputation and the universal acclaim that his music attracted, the Americans weren’t interested. His failure to establish a plinth for himself in the USA led to a loss of confidence, exacerbated by poor health. The breakthrough occurred in 1943, when the conductor Serge Koussevitzky commissioned a ‘Concerto for Orchestra’. Bartók’s creative flame was re-ignited and the outcome was a sensation. It was now a race against time because his bronchial illness, which had dogged him since childhood, joined by an aggressive form of leukaemia, was going to claim his life quite soon. The Third Piano Concerto was his last work, indeed, he died with 17 bars left to be scored by another. Knowing he would never perform the solo part himself, he wrote the concerto for its dedicatee and intended soloist: his wife, Ditta. She was an outstanding pianist, albeit less abrasive and wild than Bartók himself. As it turned out, it was György Sándor who premièred the work in 1946.
Bartók’s understanding of Ditta’s strengths and character seems to have influenced the style of the work as a whole. Commentators have suggested that the almost romantic nature of some passages indicates a weakening of his compositional powers. It is more likely that he was determined to compose a work suited to its dedicatee’s personality. Listeners who have found Bartók’s music gritty and ‘difficult’ might be surprised at how approachable this concerto is – the first movement in particular. The opening melody, with its rather jerky gait and exotic harmony, makes an immediate imprint. When it returns, we recognise it readily, and that helps us to grasp the overall shape of the movement. The ease with which Bartók travels between consonance and dissonance is a joy to experience. Part of that joy is the realisation that we also make the journey. In an almost magical manner, we reconcile the challenging with the more comfortable elements of this intriguing music without difficulty.
The slow movement offers another kind of journey. Adagio religioso means just what it says: slow and religious. The opening music is so stark and transparent, confined to strings and soloist, it could have been written by almost any composer in any age, but not for long. Bartók provides a bit of ‘edge’ to the harmony, then plunges us into a brief session of ‘night music’, one of his trademark devices. We hear snippets of melody, almost like the squawks of night-birds, alongside spooky creaks and knocks. This melts into a return of the opening material, now enriched by wind instruments and an appealing countermelody.
The last movement is vintage Bartók, brimful of energy and crackling harmony. The soloist and orchestra seem to delight in their headlong rush to the winning post, exploring all kinds of compositional sleights of hand, not least some sensational fugal writing created with a fieriness matching the panache of J.S. Bach and the energy of Ludwig van Beethoven.