By January of 1891, 49-year-old Antonín Dvořák was living his “best life.” Years of struggle as a low-paid church organist, community orchestra violist, and private music teacher had eventually led to state scholarships and a career as a full-time composer. Now a mature artist whose music was being celebrated and performed not only in his native Bohemia but in European capitals from London to Vienna to Paris, he had just finally settled down and accepted a position as professor of composition at the Prague Conservatory. His personal life had also finally found equilibrium. After the deaths of the first three of his children in the space of just over two years, his wife, Anna, had borne him six more children, the youngest of whom was not yet three years old. It must have been a bit of a shock, then, a mere six months into his tenure at the Prague Conservatory, to receive an invitation from a wealthy New York philanthropist to cross the Atlantic and become the director of the new National Conservatory of Music in New York City. Equally shocking must have been the salary offered—$15,000—which was more than 30 times his salary in Prague. Despite this, he did not say yes immediately but took almost four months before deciding to leave his home and make the arduous ocean crossing to a country (and position) in the “New World.”

Following a five-month “farewell tour” of Bohemia and Moravia, Dvořák, his wife, and two of their children set sail for New York, arriving in late September 1892. His task was monumental: to establish an American national school of music—a training ground for American composers who would compose American music with a distinctly American sound. He was also tasked with composing his own “American” music, which he began doing a mere three months after setting foot on the dock. Living on the Lower East Side, Dvořák immersed himself in the sights and sounds of New York, as well as the sounds of Native American music and African American spirituals, which were sung for him by one of the Conservatory’s students. He published articles in the newspaper discussing the idea that Native American and African American music could be the foundation of a uniquely American school of composition. “These beautiful and varied themes are the product of the soil. They are the folk songs of America, and your composers must turn to them,” he wrote. Dvořák knew that the secret to creating a “national sound” was to look to a nation’s folk music. Indeed, he had used the rhythms and melodies of Bohemian folk music as the inspiration for many of his most successful works. Like a chef who can detect individual ingredients in a complex dish, Dvořák could recognize and pull apart the musical components common to Native American and African American folk music—things like the use of pentatonic scales and syncopated rhythms—and reconstitute them into his own original works. In this way, his music evokes the “spirit” of the America he saw while remaining 100 percent Dvořák’s.

The Ninth Symphony was commissioned by the New York Philharmonic shortly after Dvořák’s arrival in New York. It was completed in just over four months, and received its premiere in Carnegie Hall on December 16, 1893. By all accounts, the performance was one of the highlights of the composer’s entire career, with the capacity audience bursting into spontaneous applause after each movement, requiring Dvořák to stand and bow from the audience. Dvořák would go on to write several other works during his almost three years in the United States, each showcasing his uncanny ability to absorb the sound of a country and make it his own. The subtitle, “From the New World,” which Dvořák only added to the score at the last minute, says it all. The symphony is intended as a musical postcard, full of the impressions and sounds of America as heard through the ears of a lifelong European. The Americans were not the only ones to be enchanted, however, and the piece has continued to be among the most beloved and often performed Romantic-era symphonies, with a universal appeal that transcends both time and borders.

The symphony opens quietly with a melancholy melody in the lower strings echoed by the upper woodwinds. The mood is nostalgic, and historians have suggested that it represents Dvořák’s homesickness. The wistfulness is short-lived, however, as the entire orchestra interrupts the reverie with a dramatic outburst as if to say, “Enough reminiscing!” The tempo begins to pick up, and the low strings and woodwinds offer snippets of what will become the movement’s first heroic theme, presented by the horns. This bold, thoroughly “American” melody evokes the wide-open spaces and adventurous spirit of the New World and will recur throughout the entire symphony. The other main theme of the movement is first heard in the flute and has the character of an African American spiritual. Many hear similarities to “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” in the tune, but this is Dvořák’s melody, infused with the spirit of American folk song. Interestingly, both the main heroic theme and the spiritual theme share the same rhythmic pattern in their first measure, making them feel as if they are two sides of the same coin. A swaggering closing section leaves the listener eager for more.

The second movement, Largo, could not be further removed from the bravado of the first Allegro. A series of gentle chords opens the movement and leads directly into one of the most poignant melodies ever composed, offered as an extended solo for the English horn. The music is so perfectly evocative of an African American spiritual that in 1922 a former student of Dvořák’s put words to it and rechristened it as the song we now know as “Goin’ Home.” Modern-day listeners may assume that Dvořák was simply quoting the tune in his symphony, but in fact, the melody is entirely Dvořák’s own—another example of the composer understanding so intuitively the DNA of the American sound. The middle of the movement contains a profoundly sad second theme, almost funereal in its presentation. Eventually, the sun comes out again as the flute and oboe usher in a reprise of the English horn melody. The ending of the movement is especially poignant as the principal strings take up the tune, almost like a lullaby being sung as a child falls to sleep, culminating in a hushed final chord.

The third movement, Molto vivace, showcases Dvořák’s interest in Native American folk music. Dvořák had read Longfellow’s 1855 epic poem The Song of Hiawatha in translation before arriving in America and had intended to write an opera based upon it. Although the opera never materialized, Dvořák noted that this movement was inspired by the scene in the poem where the Native Americans dance. The movement is structured as a scherzo, with one main theme returning again and again, interspersed with contrasting music. The main theme is a war dance of sorts featuring whirling strings, fierce timpani blows, and a relentless, ferocious melody. In between repetitions of this music, Dvořák inserts rustic folk tunes that sound as if they could have been heard at a country dance or around a campfire.

The finale, Allegro con Fuoco, sees a return of the bravado of the first movement. The brass present the main theme, a swaggering heroic melody invoking the adventurous spirit of America. A contrasting second theme, first presented in the clarinet, is a wistful tune evoking the vastness of the open prairie. These two melodies return in various guises and are eventually joined by snippets of music from each of the previous movements as Dvořák creates a panoramic vision of grandeur. Modern audiences are still moved by this musical love letter, a postcard from an “Old-World” artist on the New World adventure of his lifetime.

Born in Providence, Rhode Island in 1970, GRAMMY-nominated composer Peter Boyer is one of the most frequently performed American orchestral composers of his generation. His works have received over 700 public performances by more than 250 orchestras, and tens of thousands of broadcasts by classical radio stations around the United States and abroad. Boyer has received commissions from major American orchestras and institutions, including the National Symphony Orchestra, Boston Pops, Cincinnati Pops, and the United States Marine Band, which premiered Boyer’s Fanfare for Tomorrow at the inauguration of President Joe Biden in January, 2021. Boyer’s 2002 work Ellis Island: The Dream of America, for actors and orchestra, has been performed by over 120 orchestras since its premiere. His recording of the work was nominated for a GRAMMY Award for Best Contemporary Classical Composition, and in 2017, the work was filmed live in concert for PBS’ Great Performances series, broadcast on over 300 stations nationwide.

Horizons was premiered in May, 2024 by the Tucson Symphony Orchestra. The composer has provided the following program notes on the piece:

“The commission for this work began with a call from Patricia “Pat” Joslyn, Senior Vice President of the Tucson Symphony Orchestra, in late 2021. I had known Pat through her previous work at the Sarasota Orchestra, where she had helped to program my music. As Pat looked ahead to her retirement, she had the great idea to have the three orchestras at which she had worked—Tucson, Sarasota, and the Brevard Symphony—co-commission a new work which would be performed by all of them, and would be part of her legacy. I was delighted when she told me that I was her first choice as the composer, and that she felt a strong personal connection to my music; and so I accepted this special commission. The title of Horizons seemed appropriate when contemplating a major threshold in life—one might look out to the horizon, thinking of what has been accomplished, and imagining what lies beyond. For this nine-minute work, I chose to compose two highly contrasting sections, called “Reflection” and “Celebration.” As Pat was a horn player, she had only one specific request: that I compose good horn lines in this piece. That musical direction helped shape the first section, “Reflection.” After an introduction for spaciously-voiced strings with “glittering” figures in the percussion, harp, and piano, a solo horn plays a prominent line, which is optimistic, even heroic in character. Later the second horn joins, followed by the third and fourth horns, before this theme is taken up and developed by the full orchestra. At the six-minute mark, this theme and section reach a climax which might sound as if the piece is over—but it’s not. High violins sustain, and the percussion softly introduce a fast new rhythm, which builds to the introduction of the second section, “Celebration.” This is a vigorous, jubilant romp in 7/8 meter for the full orchestra, as we joyfully celebrate a milestone, and look to the horizon, anticipating adventures ahead.”
-Peter Boyer

Sitting in a pristine 21st century concert hall, listening to an impeccable performance of a work by one of the great masters of the past, modern audiences are normally blissfully unaware of the frequently chaotic and even disastrous circumstances surrounding the premieres of some of our most revered works. Whereas today’s most celebrated composers are normally blessed with a well-rehearsed, and well rested orchestra at the premieres of their new pieces, such was not the case in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Beethoven frequently presided over programs where he had not only composed all the music, but had also secured an orchestra, a venue, and funding, not to mention conducting and/or performing as a soloist. His questionable organizational skills, coupled with the complexity of mounting these concerts, often led to mammoth programs that were performed with little rehearsal by an exhausted (and frequently angry) orchestra. Such was the case on April 5, 1803 at the premiere of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto in C Minor.

The concert, billed as a benefit concert, (meaning a concert to benefit Beethoven), was held at 6:00 pm at the Theater an der Wien. Included on the program were three world premieres—Beethoven’s Second Symphony, his Oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives, and the Piano Concerto in C Minor—as well as a reprise of his First Symphony, which had been premiered a year earlier. According to Beethoven’s pupil Ferdinand Ries, there was exactly one rehearsal scheduled for the program, and it began at 8:00 am that morning. Apparently, the best players in Vienna had been hired for a performance of Haydn’s The Creation that same evening, so Beethoven was left with a collection of decidedly “junior varsity” players. “[It] was frightful,” Ries recalled. “At half past two everyone was exhausted and dissatisfied. Prince Karl Lichnowsky [one of Beethoven’s patrons], who was at the rehearsal from its beginning, sent out for large baskets of buttered bread, cold meats, and wine. He invited all the musicians to help themselves, and a collegial atmosphere was restored.” Complicating things further, Beethoven had not finished writing out the piano part to the concerto by concert time, which meant that he was improvising a great deal. Another of his students, Ignaz von Seyfried, had been tasked by Beethoven to be his page turner at the performance, and his recollection of the experience gives a sense of the “fly by the seat of your pants” nature of the concert. “I saw empty pages with here and there what looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs, unintelligible to me, scribbled to serve as clues for him. He played most of his part from memory, since, obviously, he had put so little on paper. So, whenever he reached the end of some invisible passage, he gave me a surreptitious nod and I turned the page. My anxiety not to miss such a nod amused him greatly and the recollection of it at our convivial dinner after the concert sent him into gales of laughter.”

Despite this inauspicious premiere, the concerto was a success, and has remained a beloved representation of Beethoven at the beginning of his extraordinary “middle period”—a time when, despite his ever-worsening hearing, Beethoven’s determination to continue to compose, and his convictions about the validity of his musical vision, resulted in some of the most important and revolutionary works of the 19th century.

The first movement is structured in traditional classical period style, and opens with a full orchestral exposition wherein all the melodic material for the movement is presented. The first theme is introduced in hushed strings, then woodwinds – a sneaky three-note figure that climbs up, then abruptly drops back down again. It is a perfect example of Beethoven’s ability to take an inordinately simple melody and turn it into the basis for seemingly endless invention. The second theme is a happier affair in a major key, but the sunny moment is short-lived as the opening three-note figure returns in a thunderous end to the orchestral introduction. The piano enters with dramatic scales, joining the orchestra in new presentations of the both the fierce first theme and tender second theme. An orchestral interlude precedes the development section, during which orchestra and soloist trade snippets of both melodies. Dramatic flourishes in the piano lead into the recapitulation and finally to the soloist’s cadenza, where the pianist gets to pull out all the stops. The orchestra eventually sneaks back in, joining the piano in propelling the movement to a fiery conclusion.

The mood changes abruptly as the Largo begins with the pianist softly playing a wistful tune, presented with a simple nobility that we now recognize as uniquely Beethoven. The achingly beautiful melody is then taken up by the orchestra in a lush presentation by muted strings and woodwinds. An interlude features plaintive solos for bassoon and flute, as the piano retreats to the role of accompanist, before eventually reemerging with a reprise of the opening music. Just as the breathtakingly delicate movement draws to a close, Beethoven snaps us out of our reverie with a full orchestra, final chord, as if to say “enough heaven, back to earth now.”

As “worldly delights” go, there are few more exuberant than the final Rondo, which features a rollicking tune that recurs throughout the movement, interspersed with interludes that range from virtuosic to quirky. At one point, as if to show off, Beethoven inserts a mini-fugue that begins in the cellos and spreads throughout the orchestra, as the “everything but the kitchen sink” movement races on. A final moment of repose for the pianist precedes a breakneck coda section which concludes the high-spirited movement in grand style.

Following the premiere performance, it would take Beethoven more than a year to fully notate the concerto so other pianists could play it. It was his student Ferdinand Ries who gave the second performance. By that point of course, the drama surrounding its premiere had faded, and audiences were left with a perfected “recipe,” and only the legend of the “mad chef” who had created it.

The late 1800’s marked a period of upheaval in the history of German music. Beethoven, the musical revolutionary who had stretched the strict boundaries of classical composition almost to their breaking point, had died in 1827. Following his death, there emerged two distinct schools of thought about composing: one that honored the traditions of the past - valuing form, structure and craftmanship - and one that saw the rules for writing symphonies, concertos and sonatas as a prison to be escaped from. The spiritual leader of the “burn it all to the ground” camp was none other than Richard Wagner, a compositional rebel whose enormous operas epitomized the “more is more” ideal. On the opposing side was Johannes Brahms, a traditionalist with a deep respect for the music of the past, whose meticulous attention to detail prioritized not bombast, but elegance. Brahms’ four symphonies are among the finest examples of his commitment to tradition. Composed with a painstaking craftsmanship that was his trademark, his symphonies utilize conventional structures and harmonic language, yet remain some of the most creative, and exquisitely beautiful orchestral works ever composed. Brahms did not seek to redefine an art form. Rather, he challenged himself to create the most elegant and meaningful music that he could, all while honoring the traditions of a musical past that he revered.

The late 1800’s marked a period of upheaval in the history of German music. Beethoven, the musical revolutionary who had stretched the strict boundaries of classical composition almost to their breaking point, had died in 1827. Following his death, there emerged two distinct schools of thought about composing: one that honored the traditions of the past - valuing form, structure and craftmanship - and one that saw the rules for writing symphonies, concertos and sonatas as a prison to be escaped from. The spiritual leader of the “burn it all to the ground” camp was none other than Richard Wagner, a compositional rebel whose enormous operas epitomized the “more is more” ideal. On the opposing side was Johannes Brahms, a traditionalist with a deep respect for the music of the past, whose meticulous attention to detail prioritized not bombast, but elegance. Brahms’ four symphonies are among the finest examples of his commitment to tradition. Composed with a painstaking craftsmanship that was his trademark, his symphonies utilize conventional structures and harmonic language, yet remain some of the most creative, and exquisitely beautiful orchestral works ever composed. Brahms did not seek to redefine an art form. Rather, he challenged himself to create the most elegant and meaningful music that he could, all while honoring the traditions of a musical past that he revered.

From the opening of the first movement, Brahms’ compositional skill is on full display as he takes the simplest of motifs, a two-note, sighing figure, and magically develops it into a restless first theme. Woodwinds interject themselves above the flowing string accompaniment as the music slowly builds in intensity and complexity. Suddenly, horns and woodwinds announce a new theme, a heroic, fanfare like figure that leads to a new melody in the cellos. This regal music is then developed, culminating in a noble cadence before the gentle opening music returns. The development section which follows takes snippets of both the opening, sighing figure and the heroic, fanfare-like figure and weaves them together into incredibly complex, yet amazingly organic-sounding music. Musicologists marvel at the ingenuity with which the music is structured, with different instrumental sections taking just pieces of a melody, then handing them off to other sections to continue. Themes are dismantled, inverted and reconstructed in myriad ways, yet nothing sounds forced. The entire movement flows with an inevitability and beauty that belies its complexity. There is a muscular coda section at the end that puts an exclamation point on this meticulously crafted, yet mysteriously beautiful movement.

Like the alpine horns whose melodies were used to send messages across the mountains, the 2nd movement opens with an expansive, ceremonial call from the horn section. This simple, regal opening gives way to an exquisite melody in the clarinet and bassoons, accompanied by pizzicato strings. As complex as the first movement was, this melody is achingly simple. The strings eventually take over the tune, with a lush presentation that could only have been written by Brahms. The energy builds briefly, but soon cedes the floor to the second theme, a poignant, nostalgic music given to the cellos. Brahms legendary “gift of melody” is on full display as this tune, and the opening horn call melody take turns, in versions both lush and delicate. The woodwinds and horns eventually bring a gentle close to the movement, as night falls on the mountains.

The third movement is marked Allegro giocoso (quick and playful), and it is exactly that. The brass and percussion join the party, with a rustic theme full of syncopations and foot stomping fun. The boisterous celebration is the perfect palette cleanser between the bliss of the second movement and the drama of what is to come.

For the last movement of his final symphony, Brahms again chose to look to the past for inspiration. A lifelong admirer of the music of J.S. Bach, Brahms set himself the challenge to compose a chaconne (also called a passacaglia) – an 18th century musical form in which a single bassline or harmonic progression is repeated over and over, with ever changing melodies above it. Bach had been a master of this form, and Brahms was fascinated with the challenge that the format presented – utilizing the same harmonic basis for everything, yet needing to create unique and ever-changing variations that avoid repetition and maintain interest. To compose an interesting chaconne requires not only extreme creativity, but herculean compositional skill. Luckily, Brahms had both.

In another homage to Bach, Brahms did not compose an original bassline for this movement. Rather he utilized the bassline from Bach’s Cantata No. 150, titled Nach Dir, Herr, verlanget mich — “I long to be near you, Lord.” Whether this choice was intended to convey anything particular in terms of Brahms’ state of mind at age 52, or whether he simply admired the simplicity of the music, we do not know. However, he opens the last movement of the symphony with a dramatic statement of this bassline in the brass. Eight chords, bold and declarative, lay out the harmonic foundation of what will be one of Brahms’ most admired symphonic movements. What follows are 32 variations, each exactly eight measures in length and utilizing the exact same bassline, yet dramatically different in sound and character. From tender woodwind variations, to solemn brass chorales and muscular full orchestra moments, the mood is constantly shifting, yet the movement never feels disjunct. The compositional skill necessary to create an interesting and musically satisfying symphonic movement within the confines of a passacaglia structure is monumental, yet Brahms rose to the challenge, eager to prove that great music could still be composed utilizing the structures of the past. Only in the final, quicker coda section does he break the passacaglia pattern, putting a dramatic exclamation point on the movement. The extraordinary work of a master craftsman, the Fourth Symphony exemplifies all that Brahms valued – refined artistry, knowledge of and reverence for the past, and elegance achieved through meticulous detail work. A dramatic statement by a mature artist, this loving look backward serves to remind us that the past can serve as powerful inspiration, and that one need not abandon tradition in order to compose emotionally compelling, “contemporary” music.