For many music lovers, the work of Czech composer Antonin Dvořák begins and ends almost at the end, with his beloved Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95 "From the New World." Among musicians, the standing of the New World Symphony is a little more equivocal. Apart from the glorious and all-but-perfect slow movement, the work does have its share of odd features and even a clumsy moment or three.
But notice that the New World is the ninth published symphony. What about the other eight? And what about so many other beguiling works from this master's pen? The impulse to write this post came after hearing a rare (for North America) and engrossing performance of the sixth symphony of the series.
In all honesty, my favourite Dvořák symphony is always the one I happen to be listening to at the moment, but for purposes of this post I want to focus on #s 5 & 6, both of which are full of masterly orchestration and a positive overflow of engaging melody. From there, I want to move on to # 7 which comes closer than any of Dvořák's symphonies to earning the sobriquet of "Tragic."
By the way, don't put too much reliance on the misleading opus numbers.
Dvořák's first four symphonies were never published in his lifetime.
The first one to hit publication was # 6, followed by # 7, then # 5, and
finally #s 8 and 9 in their proper place. The opus numbers were
assigned as each score was published, but the current numbering from # 1
to # 9 places them in their correct chronological order of composition. Older
readers may recall hearing them identified by the older numbers from 1-5
with the New World as # 5, but these numbers are now rightly discarded.
There are few moments in all of music more imbued with sunshine and sheer good spirits than the opening bars of Symphony No.5 in F Major, Op. 76. The melody does little more than fly up and down an F major arpeggio, ending with a 3-note rising tag, but as scored in the bright tones of the woodwinds it has an immediately engaging and cheery air. One characteristic of Dvořák's writing in both this work and # 6 is his habit of separating out the woodwind choir, and leaving the other instruments silent or all but silent while the wind group carries the musical argument forward. This habit contributes a good deal to the summer-like air of these two works.
The fifth symphony goes on very much as it begins, with a charming slow movement, a completely beguiling folk dance as a scherzo, and a finale which -- if sometimes discursive -- is forgivable because of the unfailing interest and strength of the melodic ideas.
The Symphony No. 6 in D Major, Op. 60, marked Dvořák's first great success in international circles, aided by the support of Brahms and of the famed publisher Simrock. Commentators seem to feel obliged to search out points of comparison with the music of Brahms as a result, and the comparisons are ready to hand in the older master's second symphony, which shares a common home key and some other similarities in the first and last movements. I don't place too much stress on this because in all its essentials this music is as overtly Bohemian as anything Dvořák ever wrote.
The sixth is a more robust symphony in many ways, perhaps one might even say earthier, than its immediate predecessor in F major. Once again we have a profusion of delightful melodic thoughts and afterthoughts in the first movement, and a strong contrast from its powerful climax in the haunting lyrical beauty of the slow movement. The finale returns us to the energy of the first movement, and ends with a fantastic coda in faster tempo which can practically be guaranteed to pull the audience out of their seats.
However, it's the scherzo that distinguishes this symphony for all time. Dvořák wisely and accurately labelled it as a Furiant, a tremendously energetic Czech dance in triple time with alternating bars grouped in three groups of two beats and two groups of three. In fact, he was here repeating a pattern from the eighth of his Slavonic Dances, originally for piano 4-hands, and later orchestrated. Like that dance, this scherzo rushes onwards at an appropriately furious pace, creating a surge of energy such as has rarely been heard in the music of any other composer, Beethoven not excepted. The trio then gives the greatest contrast you can imagine, a beguiling melody for the winds with the end of each phrase punctuated by a dreamy little cadenza for the piccolo.
The Symphony No. 7 in D Minor, Op. 70, is only one of many significant works of music from the latter part of the 1800s which we owe to the enterprise in commissioning new work of the London Philharmonic Society. Perhaps because of that commission, this symphony is more conscientiously constructed than the fifth and sixth. But don't mistake "conscientiously" for an accusation of being boring or uninspired. In fact, I've often felt that this symphony marks the height of Dvořák's dramatic inspiration as much as the fifth marks the pinnacle of his lyrical gifts. It's also the least overtly "Czech" of the nine, although Dvořák stated that he intended parts of it to evoke the struggle of the Czech people for freedom from Austria-Hungary and independent nationhood.
The home key of D minor tells us right away that this is going to be a dramatic, not to say tragic, work -- and that character emerges from the very opening bars, with a gloomy melody that emerges from darkness deep down in the lower instruments of the orchestra. The symphony as a whole won't maintain that gloomy character, but that simple little melodic motif will continue to evolve into moments of high drama as the movement goes on. One of the odd characteristics of the movement, and of the symphony as a whole, is the frequent flip-flopping between major and minor chords based on the same key (D minor-D Major-D minor, for example).
The first and last movements of the seventh symphony between them give us more dramatic intensity than any other symphonic work by this composer. Perhaps, subconsciously, Dvořák wanted to signal to the world that there was much more to his art than folk dances and pretty tunes. If so, he succeeded magnificently, as we hear when the full orchestra, led by the horns and trombones, thunders out that quiet and gloomy opening theme fortissimo to usher in the recapitulation. The intensity of the coda goes light years beyond anything that Dvořák had written to that time, and (for my money at least) arises far more organically than the somewhat contrived "tragic" climaxes of the New World. Not the least of Dvořák's innovations is the quiet yet unquiet (read: unresolved) ending of the movement immediately in the shadow of that tragic catastrophe.
The winds open the slow movement in a plaintive and reminiscent mood worlds removed from the lyrical delights of # 5 and # 6, although the melodies sing just as beautifully. This movement is punctuated by several repetitions of a strange little phrase which eventually takes on a drum-beat rhythm evocative of stress and fear. A contrasting theme is intoned by the horns like a kind of secular benediction.
The third movement scherzo resumes the feel of folk dance, in a slower version of the furiant rhythm of # 6, but with a more uneasy feeling lurking behind the lilting rhythms and the main theme. The uneasiness is even more pronounced in the fragmented cross-rhythms and restless character of the trio.
The finale brings us back to the tragic intensity of the first movement with a vengeance. The music swells quickly to a first climax within moments, and then leads into a ponderous melody played with great emphasis on the strings. This theme, and the surging octave of the opening, will be developed to great effect in this gripping music. The last word of # 7 is among the most unusual closings in all of symphonic literature. Dvořák eschews the triumph-from-tragedy shape so common in the 19th century, but equally avoids the rarer tragic ending in the minor. Thus the final cadence of this intense symphonic drama performs the almost unique feat of ending the work in the full power and darkness of tragedy on a D major chord.
In each of the fifth, sixth, and seventh symphonies, Dvořák follows the example of his mentor Brahms in giving us three completely distinct and distinctive symphonic worlds to enjoy, without either retreading old ground or overtly copying the work of others. In no uncertain terms, he stamped himself with these works as one of the great masters of the symphonic art. To readers who have enjoyed the New World Symphony, any or all of these three works should almost certainly give equal pleasure.
The fifth symphony goes on very much as it begins, with a charming slow movement, a completely beguiling folk dance as a scherzo, and a finale which -- if sometimes discursive -- is forgivable because of the unfailing interest and strength of the melodic ideas.
The Symphony No. 6 in D Major, Op. 60, marked Dvořák's first great success in international circles, aided by the support of Brahms and of the famed publisher Simrock. Commentators seem to feel obliged to search out points of comparison with the music of Brahms as a result, and the comparisons are ready to hand in the older master's second symphony, which shares a common home key and some other similarities in the first and last movements. I don't place too much stress on this because in all its essentials this music is as overtly Bohemian as anything Dvořák ever wrote.
The sixth is a more robust symphony in many ways, perhaps one might even say earthier, than its immediate predecessor in F major. Once again we have a profusion of delightful melodic thoughts and afterthoughts in the first movement, and a strong contrast from its powerful climax in the haunting lyrical beauty of the slow movement. The finale returns us to the energy of the first movement, and ends with a fantastic coda in faster tempo which can practically be guaranteed to pull the audience out of their seats.
However, it's the scherzo that distinguishes this symphony for all time. Dvořák wisely and accurately labelled it as a Furiant, a tremendously energetic Czech dance in triple time with alternating bars grouped in three groups of two beats and two groups of three. In fact, he was here repeating a pattern from the eighth of his Slavonic Dances, originally for piano 4-hands, and later orchestrated. Like that dance, this scherzo rushes onwards at an appropriately furious pace, creating a surge of energy such as has rarely been heard in the music of any other composer, Beethoven not excepted. The trio then gives the greatest contrast you can imagine, a beguiling melody for the winds with the end of each phrase punctuated by a dreamy little cadenza for the piccolo.
The Symphony No. 7 in D Minor, Op. 70, is only one of many significant works of music from the latter part of the 1800s which we owe to the enterprise in commissioning new work of the London Philharmonic Society. Perhaps because of that commission, this symphony is more conscientiously constructed than the fifth and sixth. But don't mistake "conscientiously" for an accusation of being boring or uninspired. In fact, I've often felt that this symphony marks the height of Dvořák's dramatic inspiration as much as the fifth marks the pinnacle of his lyrical gifts. It's also the least overtly "Czech" of the nine, although Dvořák stated that he intended parts of it to evoke the struggle of the Czech people for freedom from Austria-Hungary and independent nationhood.
The home key of D minor tells us right away that this is going to be a dramatic, not to say tragic, work -- and that character emerges from the very opening bars, with a gloomy melody that emerges from darkness deep down in the lower instruments of the orchestra. The symphony as a whole won't maintain that gloomy character, but that simple little melodic motif will continue to evolve into moments of high drama as the movement goes on. One of the odd characteristics of the movement, and of the symphony as a whole, is the frequent flip-flopping between major and minor chords based on the same key (D minor-D Major-D minor, for example).
The first and last movements of the seventh symphony between them give us more dramatic intensity than any other symphonic work by this composer. Perhaps, subconsciously, Dvořák wanted to signal to the world that there was much more to his art than folk dances and pretty tunes. If so, he succeeded magnificently, as we hear when the full orchestra, led by the horns and trombones, thunders out that quiet and gloomy opening theme fortissimo to usher in the recapitulation. The intensity of the coda goes light years beyond anything that Dvořák had written to that time, and (for my money at least) arises far more organically than the somewhat contrived "tragic" climaxes of the New World. Not the least of Dvořák's innovations is the quiet yet unquiet (read: unresolved) ending of the movement immediately in the shadow of that tragic catastrophe.
The winds open the slow movement in a plaintive and reminiscent mood worlds removed from the lyrical delights of # 5 and # 6, although the melodies sing just as beautifully. This movement is punctuated by several repetitions of a strange little phrase which eventually takes on a drum-beat rhythm evocative of stress and fear. A contrasting theme is intoned by the horns like a kind of secular benediction.
The third movement scherzo resumes the feel of folk dance, in a slower version of the furiant rhythm of # 6, but with a more uneasy feeling lurking behind the lilting rhythms and the main theme. The uneasiness is even more pronounced in the fragmented cross-rhythms and restless character of the trio.
The finale brings us back to the tragic intensity of the first movement with a vengeance. The music swells quickly to a first climax within moments, and then leads into a ponderous melody played with great emphasis on the strings. This theme, and the surging octave of the opening, will be developed to great effect in this gripping music. The last word of # 7 is among the most unusual closings in all of symphonic literature. Dvořák eschews the triumph-from-tragedy shape so common in the 19th century, but equally avoids the rarer tragic ending in the minor. Thus the final cadence of this intense symphonic drama performs the almost unique feat of ending the work in the full power and darkness of tragedy on a D major chord.
In each of the fifth, sixth, and seventh symphonies, Dvořák follows the example of his mentor Brahms in giving us three completely distinct and distinctive symphonic worlds to enjoy, without either retreading old ground or overtly copying the work of others. In no uncertain terms, he stamped himself with these works as one of the great masters of the symphonic art. To readers who have enjoyed the New World Symphony, any or all of these three works should almost certainly give equal pleasure.
