Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 94
Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904)
Allegro maestoso; Poco adagio; Scherzo: Vivace; Finale: Allegro
Some music seems to be plucked from the air, as though its composer were a go-between, a conduit between pre-existing as yet unheard music and its audience. Such special works tend to have features in common: they are written at speed; they are mesmeric in their impact on audiences; even their composers sometimes pondered aloud about where they had come from. Examples are Frederick Handel’s Messiah, W.A. Mozart’s last three symphonies, and Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. This symphony is possibly one such work. It has a natural momentum and a wealth of melody that seem to spring from elsewhere, and in a twinkling of an eye as well.
Antonín Dvořák started to compose his Seventh Symphony in December 1884; he completed it in March 1885, three months later; and he conducted its première in London only one month after that. During this brief period, he was obsessed by it. He wrote to a friend, ‘Everywhere I go, I think of nothing else other than my work, which must be such as to shake the world…’ He knew that this would be a ‘make-or-break’ symphony, one that would put him on the map as a composer of the top rank while preserving his reputation as a patriot whose music reflected a love for his Czech homeland. And that is what happened. The première was a triumph. His happy knack of invention coupled to fluent output won praise from almost all quarters. ‘I should be glad if something occurred to me as a main idea that occurs to Dvořák only by the way’, wrote Johannes Brahms, rather modestly. The great conductor, Hans von Bülow regarded Brahms as the greatest living composer, but had no hesitation in suggesting that, ‘…next to Brahms…Dvořák is…the most God-gifted composer of the present day.’
The two Dvořák symphonies that followed the Seventh attracted even more attention, the ‘New World’ causing such a stir as to eclipse previous triumphs, for a while, anyway. That is probably why the Seventh Symphony is less well known to music lovers generally. Another reason lies in Dvořák’s choice of key: D minor. It is a commonly held belief that works in major keys are ‘happy’; works in minor keys are ‘sad’ or ‘tragic’. Such stock descriptions cannot be applied comfortably to the Seventh Symphony because the minor key melodies are often more closely related to the folk music of Dvořák’s homeland than to the clichés and assumptions associated with questions of tonality. A great deal of folk music is couched in the minor key or in modes bearing a close resemblance to it. Dvořák had an affinity with the musical mores of the Czech nation, as did Bedřich Smetana and Leoš Janáček. Although he borrowed existing melodies rarely, his music is imbued with the melodic characteristics that haunt them. In this way, he is regarded as a ‘national’ composer similar to Edvard Grieg with regard to Norway, and Jean Sibelius to Finland. Notwithstanding this ethnic link to humble roots, Dvořák’s greatest works are closely argued intellectually, bearing comparison with those of his great contemporaries and predecessors such as Ludwig van Beethoven, Brahms and Anton Bruckner.
We can listen to this symphony in one of two ways, or possibly in both ways concurrently. Because the work is so sturdy architecturally, a close analysis can be rewarding. Following an analysis while the music is playing provides a rich musical education. The other and almost opposite way is to bathe in the sheer delight of the invention, the melodies, the colourful orchestration and the eternal freshness of the music. For many listeners, this second approach is the easier and possibly more fulfilling line to follow. Even so, several special moments are worth noting as they arise during performance.
The first movement is the most sombre, possibly reflecting Dvořák’s emotions at the recent death of his mother. The subdued opening comprises a meandering yet urgent melody that forms the kernel of the movement as a whole. When it returns later in full flood, it is difficult for the listener to recall how bare it was at its first appearance. The Poco adagio is like a long song without words, full of lush harmony and broad phrases. It seems to pay tribute to other composers, not by quoting their music, but through reverent imitation of their style. Listen out in particular for a harmonious passage, featuring the horns, in which a Wagnerian ‘turn’ worthy of Tristan tugs at the heart. Possibly the most popular and attractive of the four movements is the Scherzo because it seems to capture the very essence of Czech folk dance, but also on account of its counterpoint, so artless, one barely notices it. Counterpoint is the technique of combining melodies, and that is what Dvořák does here. Against a catchy accompaniment, two melodies are played at once in perfect accord, one by the wind, the other by the strings. Roles are exchanged but every time this passage returns one cannot help but smile. Maybe the epithet ‘tragic’ could be best applied to the final movement. It is stormy and eventful, dominated by the searching quality of the opening theme, yet it ends quietly in the minor key, in thoughtful mood. This unexpected departure from the norm was almost certainly influenced by Brahms’s Third Symphony, much admired by Dvořák, and premièred one year earlier. Brahms’s symphony also ends without any hint of bombast. Dvořák’s symphony as a whole takes us on a special journey, prompting us to ponder on its remarkable creation, conjured from who knows where in the space of three short months.
Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904)
Allegro maestoso; Poco adagio; Scherzo: Vivace; Finale: Allegro
Some music seems to be plucked from the air, as though its composer were a go-between, a conduit between pre-existing as yet unheard music and its audience. Such special works tend to have features in common: they are written at speed; they are mesmeric in their impact on audiences; even their composers sometimes pondered aloud about where they had come from. Examples are Frederick Handel’s Messiah, W.A. Mozart’s last three symphonies, and Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. This symphony is possibly one such work. It has a natural momentum and a wealth of melody that seem to spring from elsewhere, and in a twinkling of an eye as well.
Antonín Dvořák started to compose his Seventh Symphony in December 1884; he completed it in March 1885, three months later; and he conducted its première in London only one month after that. During this brief period, he was obsessed by it. He wrote to a friend, ‘Everywhere I go, I think of nothing else other than my work, which must be such as to shake the world…’ He knew that this would be a ‘make-or-break’ symphony, one that would put him on the map as a composer of the top rank while preserving his reputation as a patriot whose music reflected a love for his Czech homeland. And that is what happened. The première was a triumph. His happy knack of invention coupled to fluent output won praise from almost all quarters. ‘I should be glad if something occurred to me as a main idea that occurs to Dvořák only by the way’, wrote Johannes Brahms, rather modestly. The great conductor, Hans von Bülow regarded Brahms as the greatest living composer, but had no hesitation in suggesting that, ‘…next to Brahms…Dvořák is…the most God-gifted composer of the present day.’
The two Dvořák symphonies that followed the Seventh attracted even more attention, the ‘New World’ causing such a stir as to eclipse previous triumphs, for a while, anyway. That is probably why the Seventh Symphony is less well known to music lovers generally. Another reason lies in Dvořák’s choice of key: D minor. It is a commonly held belief that works in major keys are ‘happy’; works in minor keys are ‘sad’ or ‘tragic’. Such stock descriptions cannot be applied comfortably to the Seventh Symphony because the minor key melodies are often more closely related to the folk music of Dvořák’s homeland than to the clichés and assumptions associated with questions of tonality. A great deal of folk music is couched in the minor key or in modes bearing a close resemblance to it. Dvořák had an affinity with the musical mores of the Czech nation, as did Bedřich Smetana and Leoš Janáček. Although he borrowed existing melodies rarely, his music is imbued with the melodic characteristics that haunt them. In this way, he is regarded as a ‘national’ composer similar to Edvard Grieg with regard to Norway, and Jean Sibelius to Finland. Notwithstanding this ethnic link to humble roots, Dvořák’s greatest works are closely argued intellectually, bearing comparison with those of his great contemporaries and predecessors such as Ludwig van Beethoven, Brahms and Anton Bruckner.
We can listen to this symphony in one of two ways, or possibly in both ways concurrently. Because the work is so sturdy architecturally, a close analysis can be rewarding. Following an analysis while the music is playing provides a rich musical education. The other and almost opposite way is to bathe in the sheer delight of the invention, the melodies, the colourful orchestration and the eternal freshness of the music. For many listeners, this second approach is the easier and possibly more fulfilling line to follow. Even so, several special moments are worth noting as they arise during performance.
The first movement is the most sombre, possibly reflecting Dvořák’s emotions at the recent death of his mother. The subdued opening comprises a meandering yet urgent melody that forms the kernel of the movement as a whole. When it returns later in full flood, it is difficult for the listener to recall how bare it was at its first appearance. The Poco adagio is like a long song without words, full of lush harmony and broad phrases. It seems to pay tribute to other composers, not by quoting their music, but through reverent imitation of their style. Listen out in particular for a harmonious passage, featuring the horns, in which a Wagnerian ‘turn’ worthy of Tristan tugs at the heart. Possibly the most popular and attractive of the four movements is the Scherzo because it seems to capture the very essence of Czech folk dance, but also on account of its counterpoint, so artless, one barely notices it. Counterpoint is the technique of combining melodies, and that is what Dvořák does here. Against a catchy accompaniment, two melodies are played at once in perfect accord, one by the wind, the other by the strings. Roles are exchanged but every time this passage returns one cannot help but smile. Maybe the epithet ‘tragic’ could be best applied to the final movement. It is stormy and eventful, dominated by the searching quality of the opening theme, yet it ends quietly in the minor key, in thoughtful mood. This unexpected departure from the norm was almost certainly influenced by Brahms’s Third Symphony, much admired by Dvořák, and premièred one year earlier. Brahms’s symphony also ends without any hint of bombast. Dvořák’s symphony as a whole takes us on a special journey, prompting us to ponder on its remarkable creation, conjured from who knows where in the space of three short months.