ANTONÍN DVORÁK (1841-1904)
Czech Suite in D Major, Op. 39, B93 (1879)
When we think of Czech music, two names immediately spring to mind: Antonín Dvorák and Bedrich Smetana—both featured on this concert. Dvorák, being younger by 17 years, felt that he was in the shadow of his countryman. But today, both embody what we associate with the Czech musical character: beautiful folk melodies and dances, filtered through a refined classical prism. The wide arc of Dvorák’s life took him from humble beginnings as the son of a rural Bohemia innkeeper and butcher, and later playing viola under the baton of Smetana himself at Prague’s Provisional Theatre, to being lionized as director of the National Conservatory in New York, and finally to the status of renowned and beloved composer. He championed the land and people of his native land, whose cadences he evokes in his symphonies, chamber music, operas, and dances (the latter already immortalized in the first set of his Slavonic Dances, completed in 1878—the year before the Czech Suite—making Dvorák’s name a household word). The Suite’s lovely and lyrical five movements exude Old World charm. Three of them showcase folk dances: the Czech polka, the Sousedská (“Neighbors’ Dance,” similar to an Austrian Ländler), and a whirling Furiant. The first movement, Preludium, is pastoral in tone with the tranquil sounds of oboes and horns, while the fourth, Romance, features English horn. All in all, though it isn’t as well-known as the “New World” Symphony, the Czech Suite immediately endears itself to any listener lucky enough to encounter it.

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (1770-1827)
Piano Concerto No. 3 (1803)
Beethoven was notorious for not having works ready in time for performances. This was certainly the case with this concerto, a work “in progress” at its first presentation. The composer conducted from the keyboard, while Ignaz von Seyfried turned pages: “I saw almost nothing but empty pages; at the most, on one page or another a few Egyptian hieroglyphs, wholly unintelligible to me, were scribbled down to serve as clues for him; for he played nearly all of the solo part from memory since…he had not had time to set it all down on paper. He gave me a surreptitious nod whenever he was at the end of one of the invisible passages, and my scarcely concealable anxiety not to miss the decisive moment amused him greatly and he laughed heartily at the jovial supper afterwards.” The concerto was part of a benefit marathon for the composer himself in spring of 1803 that went on for hours and also included premieres of the Second Symphony, the oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives, and a reprise of the Symphony No. 1. Despite the improvisations, the Piano Concerto No. 3 was a masterpiece that spoke with a new voice—a personal statement from the heart of its creator and a showcase for his prodigious pianistic abilities. He uses the dramatic key of C Minor—one he turned to in other revolutionary works—and expands the orchestral introduction to a gargantuan 110 measures. And, when the piano finally announces its presence, it is with three crashing fortissimo chords. In the magnificent Largo, the partnership between soloist and orchestra is rich and melodious, though the primacy of the piano is never is question. The Allegro is a robust and vibrant movement, with the final Presto bringing the concerto to a fast and furious, jubilant close.

BEDRICH SMETANA (1824-1884)
Má vlast (My Country) (excerpts) (1874-79)
Czech musical nationalism first saw the light of day with Bedrich Smetana, and his two best-known works are proof of this important contribution: his opera The Bartered Bride and the present work, Má vlast. Though he had left his country for Sweden for a time, he felt powerfully drawn back to Bohemia in 1861 when Austrian dominations had eased somewhat. A few years later he was offered the position of chief conductor at the first theatre exclusively for Czech use, the Provisional Theatre in Prague, built in 1862. Following his dictum that “If we are gifted, it is our duty to work for the glory of our country,” he was moved to express his patriotism in his music. In 1870 The Bartered Bride, set in a Bohemian village, was premiered—an event that signaled the beginning of a Czech national opera. Sadly, four years later the onset of total deafness forced Smetana to give up his theatre post and focus only on being a composer. It is around this time that he began writing Má vlast, variously translated as “My Homeland,” “My Country” or “My Fatherland.” The beloved cycle of six tone poems celebrates the history, legends, and natural beauty of Smetana’s Bohemia. Vyšehrad (the High Castle) is the citadel, sitting along the Vltava River, and was the splendid seat of early Czech royalty. The composer provides a detailed description of Vltava, the great river better known by its German name, The Moldau: “The composition describes the course of the Vltava, starting from the two small springs, the Cold and Warm Vltava, to the unification of both streams into a single current, the course of the Vltava through woods and meadows, through landscapes where merry feasts are being celebrated, the round dance of the water nymphs in the night’s moonshine: on the nearby rocks loom proud castles, palaces and ruins aloft. The Vltava swirls into the St. John’s Rapids; then it widens and flows toward Prague, past the Vyšehrad, and then majestically disappears into the distance, ending at the Elbe.” Šárka is a kind of Bohemian Amazon in ancient Czech legends, who together with her warrior maidens slaughter her unfaithful lover and his men. Z ceských luhu a háju (From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields) is a lovely paean to the Czech countryside; Tábor is the name of a city founded by the followers of the religious dissident Jan Hus and is their capital, and Smetana uses a Hussite hymn as the main theme of this tone poem; Blaník, a mountain said to harbor the sleeping Hussite army, led by the legendary St. Wencelas, who will be summoned to defend their country in time of dire need.

PHILIPPE JORDAN
Conductor, born in 1974 in Zürich, Switzerland
Philippe Jordan was steeped in music from childhood on, taking piano and violin lessons, singing in the Zurich Boys’ Choir, and “at the knee” of his acclaimed conductor father. Armin Jordan (who died September 2006) took the boy to his opera rehearsals, and young Philippe at first considered the career of stage director. (When he was just nine years old, he built a model set for Wagner’s Das Rheigold!) Eventually his interest turned to conducting, even though he never studied it. He told Andante Magazine: “There are so many ways to become a conductor. A violinist has his violin, a pianist has his piano to practice, [but] the chance for a conductor to practice on his own orchestra, that’s very rare. It’s difficult to say how you learn conducting. But my way has been the solid German way, learning through experience.” His meteoric rise while still in his 20s took him to ever more important jobs, at ever more important opera houses, including the Vienna Staatsoper, Deutsche Staatsoper in Berlin, and Glyndebourne, along with his American debut at Houston Grand Opera. And he led the world’s most renowned symphony orchestras—Vienna, Salzburg, Berlin, Montreal, along with many American ensembles. At these concerts he makes his New York Philharmonic debut. He points out that he’s not the first young conductor to ever undertake challenges usually associated with more “mature” leaders: “You have to remember that Bruno Walter conducted his first Bruckner symphony when he was 18, or that Karajan was general music director in Aachen when he was 25!...I think it’s not a question of maturity; I think it’s a question of experience.”

“Two years ago, young Mr. Jordan made a splash at the Mostly Mozart Festival. He was alert, commanding, very, very musical. And he has already become a conductorial hero at the Salzburg Festival.” Opera Today

“On the podium, Swiss-born Jordan is a high-energy, high-drama figure with hair like a Malibu surfer and gestures like a fencing master… Jordan seemed to galvanize the orchestra with his energy and enthusiasm.” The Seattle Times

“…so thorough was [Philippe Jordan’s] command of the score, so elegant and majestic his reading, that it seemed he had been conducting it far longer than the 28 years he has been on this planet.” Financial Times

PIERRE-LAURENT AIMARD, piano, born in 1957 in Lyons, France
For many classical music lovers the name Pierre-Laurent Aimard is closely allied with the music of György Ligeti, and especially Olivier Messiaen (whose music he calls his “mother language” and with whose wife, Yvonne Loriod, he studied at the Paris Conservatoire). Among his early achievements were winning first prize in the 1973 Messiaen Competition, and being appointed at the age of 19 by Pierre Boulez to become the Ensemble InterContemporain’s first solo pianist. And for more than 15 years Aimard collaborated closely with György Ligeti, recording nearly all of the composer’s works for piano. June 2009 marked Aimard’s first year as artistic director of the prestigious and historic Aldeburgh Festival, where his dynamic programming won tremendous acclaim from public and critics alike. But this amazing pianist also regularly receives accolades for performances of the traditional repertoire. In the London Sunday Times he comments on his connection to composers of the past: “As a human being I need both the future and the past. There are children, and there are parents. We cannot sacrifice one generation to another. Our first role is to interpret the music of today. But we must also renew the old.” He was named by Musical America Instrumentalist of the Year 2007. And his release of Bach’s Art of Fugue not only received the Diapason d’Or award, it also debuted at No.1 on Billboard’s classical chart and topped the classical album download chart on iTunes US.

“Mr. Aimard has been branching into standard repertory, winning wide acclaim for his extraordinary pianism without losing his identity as a musician immersed in his own time.” The New York Times