Symphony No. 2 in D major, Op. 43
Jean Sibelius (1865-1967)
Allegretto; Tempo andante, ma rubato; Vivacissimo; Finale: Allegro moderato
After a decline in popularity soon after his death, Jean Sibelius has enjoyed a revival of interest, and some might argue that he deserves it more than many of his contemporaries. The reason for this is his innovative reappraisal of symphonic form. We are comfortable with the symphonic conventions of Josef Haydn, Ludwig van Beethoven and Johannes Brahms, but some are uneasy about the late Romantic extensions offered by Anton Bruckner and Gustav Mahler. Could it be that a tradition of tight musical argument was being surrendered to questionable length? Not so with Sibelius, whose Second Symphony provides the evidence. Rather than wander, he turns the world of analysis up-side-down. The so-called development section does not dissect broad opening melodies through fragmentation. Quite the opposite. It fulfils the promise and implications of the fragments offered at the outset. The bits and pieces come first, and a joyful sense of completion follows.
Here is a work built on motifs. In the first movement we hear characterful but unconnected musical ideas that are attractive but seem to lead nowhere in particular. This is not a ‘musical argument’; it’s a sketch; a search; a ‘thinking aloud’. It seems that Sibelius is seeking to find a rationale for an edifice that he has already built. Listen to the hesitant utterances from the strings at the opening. Try to remember them, then listen to the triumphant call of the trumpets at the end of the symphony. There is a connection.
Historical research suggests that this iconic symphony was to some extent a hotchpotch in that the second movement was written before the others, and therefore might be seen as an interloper. Forget that because it fits perfectly into the overall scheme and is hauntingly memorable, not least for the strange and extended journey that the double basses pursue at the opening, and for the arresting tuba solos in some of the more animated passages that follow. Its broad canvas suggests an extensive range of emotions and visual images: a portrait of the highs and lows in Finnish history and character perhaps. Sibelius never suggested that this music was ‘pictorial’ in any sense, but listeners may well feel drawn into his world with or without extra-musical associations.
After the breadth of the second movement, the opening of the third comes as a surprise. It almost causes one to leap from one’s seat! The scampering of the strings and woodwind again seem to be reminiscent of Finland, perhaps suggesting wild winter weather or strenuous activity, just to keep warm. Against this agitation, the ‘trio’ section of the movement provides an inspired contrast: a broad melody offered by the oboe, characterised by a note repeated eight times (i.e. nine in all) before moving on. This is a record repetition for any well-known melody. The sheer tunefulness, the richness of the harmony and the yearning emotion of this section are surrendered reluctantly to a reprise of the opening material, but the listener’s regrets are short-lived because the oboe melody returns, this time serving a different purpose. The third and fourth movements are linked, and the oboe tune is the means for getting from one to the other.
As in the first movement, the finale opens with musical motifs rather than full-blown melodies. We have to wait a while for their potential to be realised. After reaching an interim point of excitement, the music dies down to a murmuring in the strings. Against this, simple phrases are offered by woodwind soloists, rather as though they are taking turns to read ‘their’ line of a poem, allowing gaps between. The tension builds. In due course we find ourselves in the open, rejoicing in tunes that have now become familiar. Sibelius’s next surprise is to repeat almost everything that we have heard so far, but with significant differences. The solo phrases against the murmuring background are extended, the roles of the woodwind and strings are reversed, and a great sense of tension is created which, in turn, produces an equally huge sense of relief as the triumphant coda arrives. And what does Sibelius do at this point, only a minute or two before the end? He gives us a new melody, gloriously uttered by the trumpets and leading to a virtual ‘Amen’. Brilliant!
Jean Sibelius (1865-1967)
Allegretto; Tempo andante, ma rubato; Vivacissimo; Finale: Allegro moderato
After a decline in popularity soon after his death, Jean Sibelius has enjoyed a revival of interest, and some might argue that he deserves it more than many of his contemporaries. The reason for this is his innovative reappraisal of symphonic form. We are comfortable with the symphonic conventions of Josef Haydn, Ludwig van Beethoven and Johannes Brahms, but some are uneasy about the late Romantic extensions offered by Anton Bruckner and Gustav Mahler. Could it be that a tradition of tight musical argument was being surrendered to questionable length? Not so with Sibelius, whose Second Symphony provides the evidence. Rather than wander, he turns the world of analysis up-side-down. The so-called development section does not dissect broad opening melodies through fragmentation. Quite the opposite. It fulfils the promise and implications of the fragments offered at the outset. The bits and pieces come first, and a joyful sense of completion follows.
Here is a work built on motifs. In the first movement we hear characterful but unconnected musical ideas that are attractive but seem to lead nowhere in particular. This is not a ‘musical argument’; it’s a sketch; a search; a ‘thinking aloud’. It seems that Sibelius is seeking to find a rationale for an edifice that he has already built. Listen to the hesitant utterances from the strings at the opening. Try to remember them, then listen to the triumphant call of the trumpets at the end of the symphony. There is a connection.
Historical research suggests that this iconic symphony was to some extent a hotchpotch in that the second movement was written before the others, and therefore might be seen as an interloper. Forget that because it fits perfectly into the overall scheme and is hauntingly memorable, not least for the strange and extended journey that the double basses pursue at the opening, and for the arresting tuba solos in some of the more animated passages that follow. Its broad canvas suggests an extensive range of emotions and visual images: a portrait of the highs and lows in Finnish history and character perhaps. Sibelius never suggested that this music was ‘pictorial’ in any sense, but listeners may well feel drawn into his world with or without extra-musical associations.
After the breadth of the second movement, the opening of the third comes as a surprise. It almost causes one to leap from one’s seat! The scampering of the strings and woodwind again seem to be reminiscent of Finland, perhaps suggesting wild winter weather or strenuous activity, just to keep warm. Against this agitation, the ‘trio’ section of the movement provides an inspired contrast: a broad melody offered by the oboe, characterised by a note repeated eight times (i.e. nine in all) before moving on. This is a record repetition for any well-known melody. The sheer tunefulness, the richness of the harmony and the yearning emotion of this section are surrendered reluctantly to a reprise of the opening material, but the listener’s regrets are short-lived because the oboe melody returns, this time serving a different purpose. The third and fourth movements are linked, and the oboe tune is the means for getting from one to the other.
As in the first movement, the finale opens with musical motifs rather than full-blown melodies. We have to wait a while for their potential to be realised. After reaching an interim point of excitement, the music dies down to a murmuring in the strings. Against this, simple phrases are offered by woodwind soloists, rather as though they are taking turns to read ‘their’ line of a poem, allowing gaps between. The tension builds. In due course we find ourselves in the open, rejoicing in tunes that have now become familiar. Sibelius’s next surprise is to repeat almost everything that we have heard so far, but with significant differences. The solo phrases against the murmuring background are extended, the roles of the woodwind and strings are reversed, and a great sense of tension is created which, in turn, produces an equally huge sense of relief as the triumphant coda arrives. And what does Sibelius do at this point, only a minute or two before the end? He gives us a new melody, gloriously uttered by the trumpets and leading to a virtual ‘Amen’. Brilliant!