Jared Sacks

SAINT-SAENS TCHAIKOVSKY BRUCH I still find it striking that when we are asked for a typically romantic cello concerto, we think immediately of Dvorok, or even of Elgar, even though these works were composed respectively in 1895 and 1919, while the truly romantic cello concerti are actually those by Schumann (1850), Saint-Saitns (1870), and Tchaikovsky (1876). It would appear, then, that there are considerable misapprehensions about the nature of romanticism and the 19th century. In any case, the latter three works do not present the cello as a primarily autumnal and nostalgic instrument Singing yes, expressive, yes, but also agile and flexible. Moreover, the soft spot that I have for these pieces lies in the intriguing counterpoint of passion and ironic elegance, enthusiasm and civilization, a style in which, on one hand, aristocracy and on the other, sensuality and passion, play into each other’s hands. Under the surface, feelings of fear, regret, protest and impossible longing play their roles, but the balance between intoxication and discipline predominates. A simple example of that balance can be seen in the opening 8 measures of the famous theme from Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations. A sort of formal decorum alternates every 2 measures with emotionalism, the other supporting pillar of the composition. The symbiosis in a nutshell. A good example of the deceptiveness of outward appearances is the close of the central movement of the Saint-Saltns. Unexpectedly, diverse elements from the minuet theme take on new and ultimately dark and foreboding forms, and suddenly we are engulfed in psychological quicksand. Quickly the wrinkles are ironed out again, but that moment of magic will remain in the listener’s unconscious. We hope that you will excuse us for adding two unmistakably late-romantic works to SaintSans and the ‘Rococo and invite you to see the combination of styles in the context of counterpoint and polemic contrast Moreover, a bit of cellistic nostalgia never hurts. Pieter Wispelwey

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I arrogantly assumed I’d have to put my mind to making them sound as different from each other as possible, as they wouldn’t assert their own character within the set by themselves. I’m ashamed of that thought now, since I quickly realized that I wasn’t dealing with ‘same-y’ music at all, but with extreme inventiveness within a definite framework. Vivaldi uses melodic figurations in so many remarkable ways. It’s as though he likes to experiment with every variant and push the players beyond expectation of what might be coming next.

Having said that, the most predictable comment about his music is that his music is predictable! But listen, for example, to the last movement of Concerto no.1, where we see him first setting up a simple phrase, experimenting with the opening figure (first 2 bars) in minimal ways, taking us unexpectedly (unpredictably!) into a new key just when we expect the solo part to take charge. For 111 bars he lets his imagination run riot with this very simple opening figure, transforming it and avoiding any obvious phrasing that the listener might assume. This way, he creates a wonderful spirit of exploration in the music. Fragments of figurations are often thrown from one part to the next in the orchestra, later making up a whole phrase.

Vivaldi also uses very simple tools by, for instance, making the tune leap across the two violin parts: there is an ascending triadic figure which goes to-and-fro between the fiddles as a variation on a similar tune heard earlier in a single part within the orchestra (Concerto No. 3, first movement). His citing of a tune, repeating it twice note-by-note and then changing it at the last minute is often both witty and clever (like in Concerto No. 5, first movement, during the 4th tutti section).

Vivaldi conveys so much variety and character; it feels easy to perform as the language is so direct and the expression within looks candidly at you from the page. The sublime slow movements (such as in Concertos nos. 1 and 11) recall descriptions or paintings of paradise where you feel like you’re hovering on a cloud for the duration of the movement… and the demon-like moments in Concerto No. 8 (first movement) make you believe you’re being devoured by hungry tigers.

I want to thank all the members of Arte dei Suonatori for helping to make this recording such an exciting project and for being so good-natured in putting up with all my experiments in the sessions. And I’d like to thank Jared Sacks, Jonathan Freeman-Attwood, Cezary Zych, and Tim Cronin without whom this recording would not have been possible.

Rachel Podger – Violin
Arte Dei Suonatori Baroque Orchestra

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