Discover… Joy
Roberto Sierra, Alegriá
The Composer
Born in Vega Baja, Puerto Rico, in 1953, Roberto Sierra studied at the Puerto Rico Conservatory of Music and the University of Puerto Rico, later serving as an administrator at both schools, including chancellor of the Conservatory. He continued his education at the Royal College of Music in London, the Institute for Sonology in Utrecht, Netherlands, and then worked with György Ligeti at the Hochschule für Musik in Hamburg, Germany, for three years. He began teaching at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York, in 1992 and is now retired, holding the title of Old Dominion Foundation Professor of Music Emeritus. Mentoring generations of students, he served on 43 graduate student committees.
Sierra’s music has been commissioned and premiered by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Detroit Symphony, Pittsburgh Symphony, Milwaukee Symphony, National Symphony, Atlanta Symphony, New York Philharmonic, Zurich Tonhalle Orchestra, Los Angeles Philharmonic, Minnesota Orchestra, Dallas Symphony, and the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, among many others.
He has served as composer in residence with the Milwaukee Symphony, New Mexico Symphony, Puerto Rico Symphony, and the Philadelphia Orchestra. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2010 and the American Academy of Arts and Letters in 2021. His Sonata para Guitarra won the Latin Grammy for Best Classical Contemporary Composition in 2021.
The Music
Sierra has embraced his heritage, using Spanish, Afro-Caribbean, and South/Central American musical traditions within the context of European paradigms. He calls this fusion “tropicalization.” The result is marvelously exemplified by this exuberant concert overture, Alegría (“Joy”), commissioned and premiered by the Houston Symphony in 1996. Scored for a customary symphony orchestra, Alegría makes use of an expanded percussion section to enhance Latin American timbre and propulsive energy.
There is nothing shy and retiring about Alegría; it is a high energy exclamation of joy, akin to a wildly vibrant street festival, with melodic and rhythmic outbursts continually competing for your attention. The work launches with driving rhythm from the outset, establishing the metrical boundary of six notes which Sierra then playfully arrays between two groups of three and three groups of two (called hemiola). Punctuating the haze of this euphoria are syncopated flashes that compel attention. There are explosions of sound and color at every turn, seemingly discordant yet mysteriously harmonious. Even the calmer sections have an underlying dynamism, a kinetic
force that will not be denied. In one brief moment near the conclusion, rhythm and meter become unmoored as Sierra asks the musicians to play a series of notes accelerating faster and faster, independent of one another. From this starburst of sound a soft steady pulse emerges, soon becoming a veritable torrent. On the way to the end of the piece, there is a brief excursion in a meter of five rather than six. The work finishes with an enthusiastic and emphatic musical shout.
— Eric T. Williams
Serge Prokofiev, Classical Symphony, Op. 25
Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich are the two composers who stood above the rest of those who labored during the years of the Soviet Union. Unlike Shostakovich, however, Prokofiev enjoyed part of his career living and composing in the West, returning to the USSR in 1936 voluntarily. Like his compatriot, he must be counted as one of the great composers of the twentieth century, although unlike Shostakovich, his direct influence on composers outside of the Soviet sphere was minimal. He was a virtuoso pianist, but who also composed from the beginning, graduating from the St. Petersburg Conservatory shortly before World War I. His musical style was based in the Russian romantic tradition, but he established early on a personal idiom that was characterized by pungent dissonance, soaring lyrical melodies, a facile manipulation of motoric rhythms, and kaleidoscopic harmonic changes. Part and parcel of his musical personality was an acerbic appreciation of satire, parody, and even the grotesque.
Although he travelled widely early on, he returned to the Soviet Union from time to time for extensive concertizing; his works were performed frequently there, and he always kept his Soviet passport. He was never a political naïf regarding the life of artists under that political system, and it must be surmised that his eventual removal to the USSR was made with open eyes. His musical language had been gradually moving to a simpler, more accessible style—a necessary condition for artists who wished to serve a collectivist state and appeal to the masses. So, when he and his family arrived in Russia in 1936, he adapted readily to political requirements by composing works that addressed the necessary content of “socialist realism.” This primarily meant patriotic subjects, in a traditional musical style, that served political ends.
Never really playing his political cards, he managed to survive the incredibly difficult times during the 1940s by adroit artistic gamesmanship with the harshly repressive Stalinist state. He never joined the Communist Party, and made few public statements. He struggled to survive, maintain his artistic integrity and continue composing in an authentically personal style. But, alas, the difficulties of the extreme, repressive measures beginning in 1948 ultimately got the best of him. His death on 5 March 1953 ironically garnered little recognition—Joseph Stalin’s demise on the same date preempted the stage.
His “Classical” symphony is a charming example of “what if.” That is to say, what if one of the great twentieth-century modernists had decided to compose a symphony using many of the essential characteristics of Haydn and Mozart, while also employing his own ideas of melody and harmony? Prokofiev’s unique answer has long been part of the standard orchestral repertoire, owing to its adroit, successful combination of what would seem to be antithetical elements. Written in the summer of 1917, while the composer was a student at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, it is cast in the traditional four movements of the classic model: fast movement in sonata form, slower movement, dance movement, and fast concluding movement.
By the time of World War I there had arisen in musical composition a counter approach to the dense complexities of late romantic music, and the equally dense dissonance of the works of those who pushed past the limits of tonality. It sought solutions in an opposite approach that featured simplicity of harmony, melody, and rhythm, along with an adaptive reuse of the forms of times past. Dubbed “neoclassicism” by music scholars, it became an important way of composing during the period between the world wars. The preeminent composer of the century, Stravinsky, adopted these principles around 1919, and stayed with them for three decades. Other luminaries dabbled in the techniques, but went on in other directions.
Prokofiev’s Symphony is considered perhaps the earliest foray into neoclassicism, or at least a harbinger, but Prokofiev later dismissed the stylistic significance of it in terms of his own development as simply “an experiment.” Indeed, he never again wrote anything quite like it, and quickly moved forward into his familiar modern, but personal, style. It’s important to keep in mind throughout this work that the key word is “experiment,” for in its simplicity, it’s far more “classical” than “neo.” Most works of other composers more committed to so-called neo-classicism used the older elements somewhat more sparingly, and employed newer approaches with commitment.
The first movement is about as simple as one can get: almost all of the notes are either eighth notes or quarter notes, the rhythms are straightforward and clearly right out of the middle of the eighteenth century. Even the melodic lines are definitely “in a clear key,” but with one decided exception: A lifelong proclivity of Prokofiev was to write an apparently simple diatonic melody, but jumping around from distant chord to distant chord in a most refreshing manner, only to land right back on the tonic chord just in time! And thus it is here. The first theme, a busy, dynamic one, is heard right at the beginning. The clear, mincing second theme, is a delicate affair, composed of soft, short notes that drop a whole two octaves, accompanied by the bassoon. Some busy closing material takes us to the end of the exposition—all in a “textbook” sonata form. Lots of surprising changes of harmony clearly tell us that we’re in the development, and the recap is as straightforward and as easy to follow was one could wish.
The second movement contains another “life-long” signature of the composer: a delicate melody in the violins, scored very high above the prevailing texture, sounding ghost-like, wan, and thin. It’s basically the main theme here, and after some contrast in the middle, the gentle interlude ends as it began.
During the classical period the third movement was almost always a minuet, only later did the likes of Beethoven speed it up to become a scherzo—but almost always in triple meter. But here, our stalwart—and always sly—Prokofiev reaches back one more historical period (to the baroque) and selects a common dance from that time that is in two—not three—beats to the bar. The gavotte traditionally has the accent on beat two, rather than the conventional downbeat of one, so listen for trills, accents, and other ways of emphasizing beat two. Prokofiev knew his historical dances.
Rondos are common ways of shaping the last movement during the classical period, but here, the composer eschews that in favor of a quick, little sonata form that sparkles and scintillates—to the point that the material zips along so much that it’s rather hard to follow the form. The first theme is hardly more than figuration—at least to the ear, until finally a clear tune emerges as the second theme. The development jumps around harmonically, as you may expect, except observe: there are no traditional dark clouds harmonically speaking in this development. It’s overwhelmingly major chord after major chord. The recap whips in before you know it, and the race to the end of this sparkling little movement is over. This effervescent, diminutive symphony may have been an “experiment,” but the positive results have been clear for a century, now.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2016 William E. Runyan
Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphony No. 7, Op. 92, A major
This work is simply a gem, and while certainly well known, deserves to be even better appreciated by concert audiences. Beethoven, himself, famously said that it was one of his best works. And, unlike so many works of genius that initially were pearls cast before swine, everybody knew on the spot that this work was great. It is commonplace, of course, for scholars to think of Beethoven’s musical life in three great periods—the last being the time of compositions that “challenge” comprehension and appreciation. The fecund middle period, roughly the first decade of the nineteenth century is the time of dozens of the magnificent works that came to define the composer and establish his eternal reputation, and his seventh symphony stands pretty much near the end of that time.
Written mostly during 1811 and finished by early 1812, it is a without doubt a complete reflection of the happy times and optimistic personal attitude of the composer at that time in his life—both professionally and personally. We are all familiar with the struggles and depressive moments in his emotionally up and down life, but times were good about then. The beloved “Pastoral” symphony was finished in 1808, and he then busied himself with important works, among them, the “Emperor” piano concerto and the music for Egmont. Sketches for both the seventh and the eighth symphonies were all part of his activity during this time.
He had already suffered health problems by early 1811 and traveled to the spa in the Bohemian town of Teplice, where work on the symphonies went on during that summer. Both symphonies were finished the next year, and together they more or less demark the end of an era. From that time on, until the end of his life in 1827, Beethoven the man, and his musical works underwent significant changes. His health underwent further deterioration, with debilitating family squabbles and failures in personal relationships all contributing to the change. While there were great works still to be written, the flow of inspiration was lessened, his social isolation increased, and the style of his composition took on a new, abstract quality.
So, the uplifting joy and vigor of Symphony No. 7 is a turning point. Beethoven, himself, conducted the première—contemporary accounts entertainingly describe his energetic and exaggerated gesticulations on the podium. And in the orchestra were some of the luminaries of the musical scene. It must have been an inspiring concert, indeed. The audience is on record for its enthusiastic response to this vivacious composition. No wonder, for there are few works by Beethoven so spurred by rhythmic inspiration and drive. Wagner has been endlessly excoriated for the banal comment that the work is “an apotheosis of the dance.” While it may have been a ham-fisted comment—neither Beethoven, nor few others have alluded to any dances in the work–but there is more than a grain of truth in the comment.
After a few dynamic chords the first movement opens with a long, slow introduction that is a perfect example of Beethoven’s skill at artfully creating an atmosphere of expectation out of nothing much more than a few scales, sustained chords, and some melodic fragments. As it ends it seems to fragment into just a few repeated notes peeking out from octave to octave. And then there coyly appears a murmur of the simple rhythmic figure around which the first movement, proper, is built. A multiplicity of themes inhabits this driving, happy affair—all built in typical Beethoven fashion out of that little dotted rhythm.
The second movement is a special one—even for Beethoven. The first audience immediately recognized its inherent appeal, and forced its encore, right then. It consists of a “theme” that undergoes a series of variations—or, rather more strictly, is repeated with new and attractive elements added with each repetition, while retaining all that which was added. And it’s not really a theme in the melodic sense at all, rather just a basic chord progression in a constantly repeated simple rhythm. Here again, is ample evidence of Beethoven’s consummate skill at conjuring up magic out of the simplest of elements. There is a new tune in the middle, in the major mode—still with the simple rhythm of the beginning. The material of the opening returns, with some development added, and it all ends as it began.
A driving and dynamic scherzo can be expected next, and the composer certainly delivers one, quite a long one, at that, in an extended form that Beethoven liked. This movement possesses all of the impetus and rhythmic verve of the first movement and again reaffirms the composer’s optimism. The last movement, if it is possible, trumps everything so far. It jumps right in with an intensity and jubilant ferocity rare even in Beethoven. Thumping, swinging, hammering—it relentlessly drives ahead, spurred by the timpani and the horns. If ever there was one movement from Beethoven’s nine symphonies that reminds us of his epochal innovation of rhythm as a fundamental element in musical composition, this is it. It doesn’t take long, dashing to a headlong conclusion that is nothing less than breathtaking.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2015 William E. Runyan