Location: The DeBartolo Performing Arts Center 574-631-2800

Gabriel Fauré
Masques et bergamasques, Suite for Orchestra, Op. 112

Gabriel Fauré was born in Pamiers, France in 1845 and died in Paris in 1924. He composed this work on a commission from Prince Albert I of Monaco in 1919, using previously composed materials along with a Pastorale composed for the occasion. The work was first performed as a choreographic divertissement in Monte Carlo in 1919. Fauré extracted the four movements of the Suite for Orchestra shortly thereafter. The score calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, harp, and strings.

Fauré composed Masques et Bergamasques for Prince Albert I of Monaco as a short choreographic divertissement for the Monte Carlo Theater. The story was a case of theatrical role-reversal: the players of a commedia del arte troupe amuse themselves by observing and mocking the amorous goings-on of their own aristocratic audience. The plot—such as it is—was developed by René Fauchois and based loosely on the poems of Paul Verlaine.

The original production consisted of eight numbers, only one of which Fauré composed for the occasion (the Pastorale). The rest were drawn from the composer’s earlier works. As it happens, two of the numbers included in the Suite (the Overture and Gavotte) date from very early in Fauré’s career and two were composed near its end (the Menuet and the Pastorale).

The Overture was originally the Intermezzo de symphonie that Fauré had composed in 1868; a thoroughly lighthearted curtain-raiser, it has been called “Mozart imitating Fauré.” He composed the Menuet in 1918 very much in the manner of its Baroque namesake: slow, stately, and rather prim. The Gavotte comes from 1869; its vigorous outer sections frame a warm, long-lined melody in the strings. The Pastorale originally came second in the divertissement but ably serves here as a Finale to the suite. Almost shocking in its divergence from what comes before, it is full of atmosphere and sublime delicacy. It was Fauré’s last orchestral work.

Maurice Ravel
Le Tombeau de Couperin

Maurice Ravel was born in Ciboure, France in 1875 and died in Paris in 1937. He dated this score 1914-1917, and parts of the work were first performed as a ballet in Paris in 1920. The score calls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, trumpet, harp, and strings.

When Ravel began Le Tombeau de Couperin (The Tomb of Couperin) in July of 1914 his intention was to compose a tribute to Couperin in the manner of a Baroque suite. The style and forms would be from history, but matters of rhythm, melody and harmony would, of course, be Ravel’s own.

But just as he began the project, the world was suddenly at war. Though he was a frail man, Ravel volunteered for the service and spent three years as a driver. The experience of The Great War affected him profoundly, and when he returned to the work after his discharge he changed the whole point of it: now each movement would be a memorial to a fallen friend.

Ravel originally composed Le Tombeau de Couperin as six movements for the piano; later he was asked by the Swedish Ballet to orchestrate the work for a new production. He scored four of the original movements—the Prelude, Forlane, Menuet and Rigaudon—and did it so deftly that it sounds as if the piece was conceived for orchestra from the start.

The Prelude ripples with a constant stream of undulating notes. The Forlane was an ancient dance from northern Italy; Ravel’s is reserved and wistful. The Menuet is a delicate miniature, composed with the utmost economy. The flashy and cheerful Rigaudon is a dance from Provence we know as the rigadoon.

The title of this suite of dances was never meant to be taken too literally. The homage Ravel intended to pay with Le Tombeau was “less, in reality, to Couperin himself than to eighteenth-century French music” in general. The affinity between Ravel and his subject is not hard to find, however. The music is sublimely refined, understated and elegant. The feeling of loss that so devastated the composer at the time isn’t obvious; it lies deep within, and is inseparable from, the bittersweet music itself.

Claude Debussy
Sarabande
(Arranged by Maurice Ravel)

Claude Achille Debussy was born in St. Germain-en-Laye, France in 1862 and died in Paris in 1918. He composed this work in 1894 as part of his Images inédites, then slightly revised the music for inclusion in his Pour le piano of 1903. At the request of the publisher, Maurice Ravel orchestrated the piece in 1922; this version was first performed in Paris in 1923 under the direction of Paul Paray. The score calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, trumpet, percussion, harp, and strings.

Debussy wrote a great many piano miniatures, especially at the beginning of his career. They are by nature simple pieces, usually based on a single musical idea that is presented, developed, and rounded off, succinctly and with a great deal of style. Many are witty and playful, and all show the composer’s mastery of his instrument.

Debussy originally composed Sarabande as part of his Images inédites of 1894; he also included a slightly revised version in his Pour le piano, which was completed in 1903. Four years after Debussy’s death, his publisher asked Ravel to orchestrate this work, as well as another, Danse. Ravel was intrigued by the project, but he was sure to obtain permission from Debussy’s widow first.

In either version, the Sarabande is one of Debussy’s most intimate pieces—one almost feels as an intruder on a private conversation between the composer and his music. There are no fireworks, no enormous contrasts, and no real progression from point A to point B. There is only the feeling of timelessness and inexorable beauty. It has been said that Ravel’s orchestration of the work is “more Debussyesque than Debussy,” and it’s true that it would be impossible to tell that it was not Debussy’s hand that did it. Ravel’s arrangement is just what you might expect from an immensely talented friend: he finds the spirit that lives within the notes

Camille Saint-Saëns
Concerto for Piano & Orchestra No. 2 in G minor, Op. 22

Saint-Saëns was born in Paris in 1835 died in Algiers, Algeria in 1921. He composed this concerto 1868 and was the soloist at the first performance, conducted by Anton Rubinstein in Paris the same year. The score calls for solo piano, 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.

Contemporary descriptions of Saint-Saëns’ piano playing sound a lot like a description of his music: mercurial, technically assured, sparkling in tone and clarity, rarely giving in to Romantic excess. Saint-Saëns himself appeared as the soloist for the premieres of all his piano concertos; for this one, he sorely wished he had had more time to practice.

Saint-Saëns had been the conductor for a series of concerts in Paris featuring the renowned Russian pianist Anton Rubinstein. Near the end of the run, Rubinstein told Saint-Saëns that he would like to conduct a concert, too, and perhaps Saint-Saëns would compose a new concerto and appear as soloist? Saint-Saëns agreed, but time was short. He composed the work in just three weeks, but even that left almost no time to practice the difficult piano part. “I played very badly,” he said, “and except for the Scherzo, which was an immediate success, it did not go well. The general opinion was that the first part lacked coherence and the finale was a complete failure.” The “general opinion” has since changed: now this concerto is one of the most popular ever composed.

The work begins with piano alone, much in the manner of a Bach prelude, but before long the soloist is ranging up and down the keyboard in thunderous arpeggios, as Romantic as can be. The orchestra remains (mostly) in the background, as the piano leads the movement through passages of heavenly beauty spiked with moments of intense and passionate fury.

The dance-like Scherzo begins with a surprising solo in the timpani, then launches a sprightly rondo of unsurpassed elegance and good cheer. The timpani returns at the end to reinforce the smile it put on our faces at the beginning.

The Finale recaptures the fire of the first movement, but without its periods of relaxation—this movement dazzles relentlessly as it races for the finish.

It’s hard to imagine music like this being faulted as “too conservative,” but it was. Saint-Saëns was considered to be old-fashioned in his own time, and no worse fate can befall a composer. Nowadays we take his alleged faults for virtues, and without an ounce of embarrassment.