Category: Classical music

This text is an expanded version of the article originally published (in Estonian translation) by Sirp, 16 September 2022.

It’s surely true that no composers today – and very few composers historically – would give any credence whatever to the so-called “curse of the ninth”, the absurd superstition that, having written their ninth symphony, a composer is doomed to die before completing any more. Yet it’s interesting to note that, since the time of Joseph Haydn (who not only established the symphonic form but also set the bar ridiculously high, with 104 of them), relatively few people have composed more than nine symphonies. There are, of course, notable exceptions, among them Henze, Panufnik, Pettersson, Maxwell Davies and Shostakovich, as well as the Estonian Eduard Tubin, who over the course of a 40-year period established himself as the country’s greatest symphonist, composing 10 symphonies. (He died before completing his eleventh; make of that what you will.) Tubin’s compatriot Erkki-Sven Tüür has now equalled this total following the completion of his Symphony No. 10, which received its world première in Bochum in May this year, and its first Estonian performance a few weeks ago by the Estonian National Symphony Orchestra.

Born in 1959, Erkki-Sven Tüür’s symphonic journey began while he was still a student. His Symphony No. 1, completed in the spring of 1984, was submitted as part of his final coursework at the Tallinn Conservatoire. Tüür evidently already had concerns about the work – which was his first orchestral composition – consulting privately with fellow composer Lepo Sumera for advice and guidance. Despite useful feedback from Sumera – “He took my score for couple of days and wrote a good deal of suggestions and questions” Tüür told me recently – he nonetheless remained unhappy with the piece, withdrawing it following its first performance in November 1984. It would remain unheard for a further 36 years, until Tüür unveiled a heavily revised version of the symphony completed in 2018, which was given its première in February 2020.

Ordinarily, one would look to an early work like this to find examples in the young composer’s musical language that point to the future, signs and traces of that would subsequently develop. But in the case of Symphony No. 1, such an examination is complicated by the fact that the work has been revised. The situation would be less problematic if the revisions were slight, but for much of the work they are very extensive indeed, such that it can be argued that the symphony as it now stands, for the most part, no longer meaningfully represents Tüür’s musical thinking in 1984 but in 2018. (As such, being revised after his Symphony No. 9, would it be more accurate therefore to refer to it as Symphony No. 9a?)

The two outer movements, containing the most lively music in the symphony, are where the revisions are most extreme. In the first movement, Tüür’s approach has been to greatly reduce the musical material, to the extent that its original duration of a quarter of an hour has shrunk to less than seven minutes. The original movement had a three-part structure, beginning with a long introduction, sounding rather like a procession, underpinned by a recurring two-note motif most often played by a suspended cymbal. The end of the movement returned to this mood, somewhat treading water with vestiges of the earlier material gently heard for the final time. Both of these sections have been cut completely from the revised version of Symphony No. 1, Tüür refocusing the opening movement on just its 6-minute central portion, where the tempo picks up and the music becomes rhythmically energised. However, while the character of this middle section has been retained, it has been extensively reworked such that it is almost unrecognisable. The original movement takes nearly five minutes to move past the introduction and get its pulse going, before a 7-beat syncopated motif appears, driving the music along, like an obsessive fragment of Morse code over a ceaseless chugging pulse. For the 2018 revision, the tempo is faster and gets up to speed instantly, falling back to rising wind lines before launching into light, string-heavy counterpoint redolent of Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra. Instead of the Morse code motif, Tüür uses a shorter syncopated idea that soon dominates all parts of the orchestra. On a couple of occasions there’s a possible homage to the removed 1984 introduction, when a suspended cymbal keeps steady time in the background while the primary material rushes past.

If the 1984 version of this movement could be heard to take far too long to get going, the original last movement does the opposite, taking almost no time at all to charge directly towards its main climax. Tüür has therefore sought to expand here rather than compress, in the process increasing its length from six to eight minutes. The 2018 revision uses the same basic motivic material but now allows it time to ebb and flow, oscillating between brief moments where the music subsides before surging onwards. Now when the movement reaches its climax, it sounds much more like the apex of a coherent musical argument, the orchestra letting rip with fanfares, a wild drum kit breaking out, and what sounds like a united howl of exuberance. The curt 1984 ending has also been developed, Tüür nicely clarifying the music into discrete strata before concluding in a similar way to the original, settling over a sustained chord with brief final chirps from the winds.

By complete contrast, the revised central movement is in all important respects the same as the original. This is extremely fortunate, as it is undoubtedly one of the most arresting movements in Tüür’s entire symphonic output. It also has a three-part structure, opening with gentle, lyrical music on strings and harp; occasionally the music becomes halting, its harmonies turning oblique, but each time regains its focus and continues. A legato wind idea starts up, akin to organum, each phrase ending with a repeated note, and unexpectedly this gains more and more strength and soon spreads everywhere. As the orchestra unites behind this idea, the music becomes more dense, the strings start to unleash harsh slashes, and all trace of the initial lyricism is entirely forgotten. What’s happening? How did we get here? There’s something of the dark symphonic trajectories of Shostakovich in the way Tüür takes us so surprisingly far from the place of clarity and certainty with which the movement began. Only when this idea finally reduces in size is the lyrical string melody heard again, as unexpectedly as it vanished, its return seemingly causing the orchestra to pause periodically in rapture, everything becoming briefly suspended.

Though lyricism is hardly absent from Tüür’s symphonies, none of them are as overtly, melodically lyrical as in this early slow movement. From a superficial perspective, it may seem as if the first and last movements – with their energy and momentum – are the most obvious connection between this early work and the nine symphonies that have followed. Yet there’s a more compelling argument to say that it is in the central slow movement – in both its 1984 and 2018 versions – that we find a more essential connection. As we will see, one of the primary features of Tüür’s symphonies is a focus on the juxtaposition (rather than development) of highly contrasting, even conflicting, ideas. In this movement, the nature of this juxtaposition is slow and insidious, though the contrast is considerable and the effect it makes highly unsettling, causing us to ask fundamental questions about what we are hearing, and how and why the music has moved between such radically different types of material. It is precisely this kind of disorientation that typifies much of Tüür’s subsequent symphonic output. (One could also say that the contrast between the dark central movement and the much lighter first and third movements is similarly disorienting.)

The world première of the revised version of Symphony No. 1 took place on 21 February 2020, performed by Tallinn Chamber Orchestra conducted by Tõnu Kaljuste.

CANTON − Sunday’s Canton Symphony Orchestra concert will feature acclaimed Black pianist Michelle Cann performing the concerto of a pioneering Black composer.

Nathan Maslyk, the symphony’s marketing manager, said the 7 p.m. MasterWorks concert at Zimmermann Symphony Center will celebrate the local orchestra’s commitment to diversity through music.

“It’s an example of fulfilling our promise to become a more diverse organization and to shine a spotlight on those who either were undiscovered or underappreciated in the classical music community,” he said.

Starting at $10, tickets can be purchased at https://www.cantonsymphony.org/. The symphony box office can be reached at 330-452-2094. Zimmermann Symphony Center is at 2331 17th St. NW in Canton.

More:From Beyoncé to Bach to Kurt Cobain, cellist brings love of all music to Canton Symphony

Cann will be featured on Florence Price’s Piano Concerto in One Movement. Price was the first Black woman to have a work performed by an American orchestra. 

“I don’t think anything like this has happened in Canton before like a rising African-American woman performing the work of Florence Price who was such a driving force in the classical music community,” Maslyk said.

Price finally receiving full recognition as significant composer

Over the past 10 years, Price “has received a resurgence in notoriety but she was previously ignored,” Maslyk said.

Selections from Price’s 300 compositions have been performed by such celebrated musicians as soprano Leontyne Price and contralto Marian Anderson, the Canton Symphony Orchestra said.

Born in 1887 in Little Rock, Arkansas, Price won first prize in the Wanamaker Competition with her Symphony in E minor, and as a result, became the first female composer of African descent to have a symphonic work performed by a major national symphony orchestra.

The Chicago Symphony Orchestra played the world premiere of her Symphony No. 1 in E minor in 1933 during Chicago’s Century of Progress Exposition. Despite the fame the performance garnered, other high-profile performances and recognition would not follow for Price due to systemic racism.

Now Price is remembered as a significant composer of the 1930s and 1940s, the Canton Symphony Orchestra said.

At Sunday’s concert, Price’s concerto will be played alongside works by by Franck, Strauss and Tchaikovsky.

More:New leader of Canton Symphony wants to make organization ‘more of a household name’

Pianist performed NYC premiere of Price’s work

Making her orchestral debut at age 14, Cann has since performed with orchestras in Atlanta, Cincinnati, Cleveland, New Jersey and Philadelphia. This season she will be featured with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

Debut performances this year will include the Baltimore, Seattle and Utah symphonies, along with the New York Youth Symphony at Carnegie Hall.

Cann is the recipient of the 2022 Sphinx Medal of Excellence and the 2022 Andrew Wolf Chamber Music Award.

She studied at the Cleveland Institute of Music and the Curtis Institute of Music, where she holds the inaugural Eleanor Sokoloff Chair in Piano Studies. She also regularly appears in solo and chamber recitals throughout the United States, China and South Korea.

Cann is an admirer of Price’s music, and she performed the New York City premiere of the composer’s Piano Concerto in One Movement with The Dream Unfinished Orchestra in July 2016, followed by another premiere with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 2021.

Pre-concert discussion featuring M.J. Albacete and Michelle Cann

This is the second MasterWorks concert of the new season.

M.J. Albacete will be leading a pre-concert discussion with Cann from 6 to 6:30 p.m. in Umstattd Hall. Guests are encouraged to arrive early to hear the talk and then enjoy live music in the lobby from Canton Youth Symphony students from 6:30 to 6:50 p.m.

Sunday’s concert will be conducted by Gerhardt Zimmermann, who missed the season opener due to illness. The symphony recently announced that Zimmermann will be stepping down in 2026 as maestro. Zimmermann will be succeeded by assistant conductor Matthew Jenkins Jaroszewicz.

Reach Ed at 330-580-8315 and ebalint@gannett.com

On Twitter @ebalintREP

The city known as Tremontaine, after the locale’s three mountains, was renamed Boston by English settlers who had come from Boston, Lincolnshire. The official renaming was on September 7, 1630 in the old-style calendar, which today is recognized as September 17, 1630 (More on that date “fuzziness” below in the Coda). That means that on September 17, 2030, Boston will turn 400 years old. Woohoo! That’s going to be some party!

Even though we’re 8 years away from the milestone birthday, I think all birthdays should be celebrated! To celebrate the city’s 392^nd birthday we’re saluting some classical composers who had close ties to Boston.

William Billings (1746-1800) was born in Boston to a poor family. When he was 13 or 14, his father died and William had to stop his education to apprentice to a local tanner to help feed the family. Although that became his official vocation, he spent most of his life in pursuit of a music career. It’s believed that he was largely self-taught in music, although it’s possible he received some musical training from John Barry, the choir master from the New South Church. He joined Barry as a partner in Boston in 1769 and they advertised their “singing schools” in a Boston newspaper. He also taught singing in Stoughton, MA, and in Providence, RI.

Billings composed approximately 350 songs in all, and most were religious hymns along with a few patriotic anthems. Almost all the songs were for four-part chorus, singing without any musical accompaniment. Only one hymn called for organ accompaniment, and that was a piece written to celebrate a new organ in a local church. Despite having an actual trade, plus the music career, Billings died in poverty at age 54. Due to the young country’s lack of meaningful copyright laws, many of his songs were simply appropriated by others and showed up in hymnals around the country.

One of Billings’ most famous pieces today is the Revolutionary War song, “Chester.” Paul Hillier leads His Majestie’s Clerkes.

Fun fact: the Stoughton Musical Society was founded by some of his students over 200 years ago, and still performs to this day!

Although he was born in Maine, and not in Boston, John Knowles Paine (1839-1906) had a lot to do with the city’s musical advancement. In fact, he begins a long line of composers who were dubbed the “New England Classicists,” or “The Second New England School,” or simply “The Boston Six.” Paine came from a family of music teachers and composers, and his grandfather is credited with building Maine’s first pipe organ. Paine gave organ recitals from around age 18 to fund a European music education trip. He studied music for three years, mostly in Germany, and traveled around Europe giving recitals and gaining a solid reputation as a musician.

When he returned to the United States he settled in Boston. At just 22 years old, he was appointed Harvard’s first organist and choirmaster, and helped establish the curriculum for the school’s new music department, the first college music department in the country. He stayed on as Music Professor there until 1905, and Harvard’s Paine Hall was named for him. He also served as director of the New England Conservatory, and was noted for his lecture series there. While his composing style is described as “Beethovenian,” Paine is credited with beginning America’s symphonic tradition.

Here’s Zubin Mehta conducting the New York Philharmonic in Paine’s Symphony No. 1 in C Minor, Op. 23.

Fun fact: John Knowles Paine was the first guest conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in their first season!

WCRB always gets lots of enthusiastic phone calls from listeners who enjoy the music we play by George Whitefield Chadwick (1854-1931). He was born in Lowell, MA, and was given organ lessons by his older brother. When he was about 16 he dropped out of high school to work at his father’s insurance company, but when he traveled to Boston for work, he would take in concerts. That’s apparently what prompted his interest in pursuing a music career. He was accepted at the New England Conservatory where he studied organ, piano and music theory. Just four years later he became a music instructor at Olivet College in Michigan. It was there that his composition career began, but he realized that American composers needed to study in Europe in order to be taken seriously. He traveled and studied in Leipzig for 2 years, and then to Munich and France for an additional year, before returning to the States.

Although his early musical output relied on his German compositional education, one of the things Chadwick did differently from those who came before him was that he wanted to establish an “American” sounding catalog of music. For that matter, even while in Germany as a student, his Rip Van Winkle Overture included some American themes. He composed, conducted and performed as an organist to great acclaim, before being named Director of the New England Conservatory in 1897. He is credited with transforming the NEC into a respected music school in the style of German conservatories, with members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra hired as teachers.

Here’s Neeme Järvi conducting the Detroit Symphony Orchestra in the Rip Van Winkle Overture.

Fun fact: Chadwick wrote some of the most popular patriotic songs during World War I, including “Land of Our Hearts” and “The Fighting Men.”

Frederick Converse (1871-1940) was born in Newton, MA and went to Harvard, where he studied with John Knowles Paine. Like so many others intending to pursue a music career, Converse studied in Germany before returning to the United States. He taught at both the New England Conservatory and at Harvard, but eventually gave up teaching to devote himself to composition. Converse’s music blended the German compositional style with American themes; for example, he wrote “Flivver Ten Million,” a piece to celebrate the ten-millionth Ford vehicle!

Here’s JoAnn Falletta conducting the piece with the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra.

Fun fact: The first American opera to be performed at the original Metropolitan Opera House in New York was Converse’s The Pipe of Desire in 1910. But that was four years after it premiered in Boston at NEC’s Jordan Hall!

Boston’s history is rich with many cultural advancements, including in the music world. William Billings, John Knowles Paine, George Whitefield Chadwick and Frederick Converse are but a few of the American composers with ties to the city. You can be sure others will be celebrated in blog posts leading up to Boston’s 400^th! Meantime, happy birthday, Boston!

Coda: OK… so why does Boston have 2 September birthdays? Here’s the explanation right from the Boston.gov website.

This text is an expanded version of the article originally published (in Estonian translation) by Sirp, 16 September 2022.

An extreme example of disorientation caused by juxtaposition – first glimpsed in Erkki-Sven Tüür‘s Symphony No. 1 (in both its original and revised versions) – occurs in the opening part of his Symphony No. 2 (1987). Titled ‘Vision’, the first movement is filled with strangeness – a mixture of rumble and distant activity – where the only clear sound is a bell. This continues for a couple of minutes, until dissonant trumpets suddenly appear from nowhere, heralding an enormous crash, causing the full orchestra to launch into a loud, relentlessly busy, extended sequence. The effect is like an inversion of the beginning of Richard Strauss’ Eine Alpensinfonie, with something like a black sun suddenly exploding into view. The only stable aspect of this sequence is a deep drone far below, holding in place the chaos above. After a few minutes, everything subsides, arriving at a similar music to the start, soft and distant, with rumbles below. We end up asking the same question as in the middle movement of Symphony No. 1, though even more forcefully: what the hell just happened?

Tüür doesn’t so much answer that question as provide a second movement that pushes the idea of juxtaposition to even further extremes. Titled ‘Process’, over the course of its 20-minute duration the music veers wildly between material that can be described as either clear or ambiguous. But which is which? The fast, rhythmic (somewhat minimalistic) material seems to provide certainty, but Tüür often gives it the power and subtlety of a piledriver, complicating it with explosive accents, aggressive repetitions, and harsh clusters. Likewise, the quiet, slithery material at first seems nebulous and unclear, though its gentleness ensures that all the edges are soft, making it sound more tangible and focused.

The reality is that these opposite forms of material are, in different ways, both ambiguous and clear at the same time, which makes the result of their juxtaposition all the more disorienting. (This is despite the fact that, as in the first movement, the different sections of the movement tend to be harmonically static, with their underlying ‘tonic’ often clearly audible.) What Tüür does with the juxtaposition in this movement could hardly be more basic: he simply keeps it going. As the minutes pass, far from familiarity bringing relief, this complex mingling of extreme but confusing contrasts starts to feel more and more overwhelming, surrounding us on all sides with a violent, volatile music that resists our efforts to predict or understand. This is another important characteristic of Tüür’s symphonic writing; similarly long and intense periods of radical juxtaposition appear on multiple occasions in the later symphonies.

Symphony No. 2 was the first of Tüür’s symphonies to be commercially recorded. Performed by the USSR State Symphony Orchestra conducted by Paul Mägi, it was originally released on Melodiya in 1988. This recording was reissued by Finlandia Records in 1994 and Apex in 2003. Though long out of print, second-hand copies of both of these CDs are available online.

In both of these early symphonies, Tüür’s approach can be thought of as an oscillating juxtaposition, alternating between highly contrasting ideas. (Indeed, even the titles of the two movements in Symphony No. 2 are stark contrasts: the involuntary passivity of a ‘Vision’ answered by the deliberate activity of a ‘Process’.) In Symphony No. 3 (1997), however, this approach is developed into a parallel juxtaposition, where contrasting ideas are presented simultaneously. However, it is not immediately obvious that this is where the music is going.

In the first movement, ‘Contextus I’, Tüür takes time setting up a variety of discrete ideas, including a kind of ‘ghost jazz’, filled with soft suspended cymbal strikes and a network of pizzicati; a cloud of rapid, individual woodwind lines; boisterous, dissonant brass; and rhythmic strings with a strange, distant rising or falling, followed either by more winds or a vibraphone solo. It’s the strings that prevail from this steady presentation of ideas, though shortly after Tüür starts to layer up the ideas, placing them side by side, to the extent that the juxtapositions become convoluted and blurred, no longer merely oscillating or interrupting but overlapping and giving the distinct impression of ideas in conflict, pushing against each other.

He explores something similar in the second movement, ‘Contextus II’. Initially, the juxtapositions oscillate between another busy wind texture – by now a firmly established trope in Tüür’s symphonies, prominently occurring in almost all of them – and a slow-moving, octave-doubled string line. At a similar point to the previous movement, additional ideas appear and again start to be heard in parallel, jostling together in a way that starts to feel uncomfortable, most obviously in the collision between lyrical strings and punchy brass. Yet while the nature of this parallel juxtaposition suggests friction and discord, Tüür nonetheless retains the possibility that, being in parallel, the contrasting ideas are not necessarily impacting upon or otherwise affecting each other. They could possibly be simply adjacent parts in a wildly incongruous chorus. As such, the word ‘Contextus’ could simply refer to the way we keep perceiving these discrete ideas differently depending on the ever-changing (clear or ambiguous) context.

While the juxtapositional approach used in Symphony No. 3 becomes more convoluted than before, it nonetheless consolidates the fundamental nature of Tüür’s contrasting ideas, established in the first two symphonies, tending either toward clarity (often melodic or rhythmic) or ambiguity.

Symphony No. 3 was released by ECM in 1999 in a recording by the Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra conducted by Dennis Russell Davies; though nearly 25 years old, it is still in print and readily available.

In both Symphony No. 4 (2002) and No. 5 (2004), Tüür continues these ideas within a relationship between soloists and the orchestra. Subtitled ‘Magma’, Symphony No. 4 also suggests ideas playing out in parallel, here seemingly unaffecting each other, with the solo percussionist (a part originally composed for Evelyn Glennie) riding on top of them, either wildly embellishing these ideas or following her own path in the foreground.

When writing about this symphony following its performance at the 2018 Estonian Music Days, i commented on the “vast volcanic scale of the work [and] the sense of awe that it projected”. In no small part this is due to the several occasions when Tüür again allows his convoluted juxtapositions to continue for long periods of time, making it easy to feel not just awestruck, but also lost in the midst of such a welter of simultaneous, and therefore only half-tangible, trains of thought. Importantly, though, the soloist’s role at times acts as a foil to this disorientation, either as a locus of stability in the midst of apparent chaos or as a catalyst for partial or complete orchestral clarity. The work thereby demonstrates a subtle but significant shift in Tüür’s use of juxtaposition, now enabling – via the soloist – the possibility of collaboration between the symphony’s contrasting elements.

A recording of Symphony No. 4 ‘Magma’ by the Estonian National Symphony Orchestra conducted by Paavo Järvi, with the work’s dedicatee Evelyn Glennie as percussionist, was released by Virgin Classics in 2007. This disc is out of print but copies can still be found.

Symphony No. 5 features an electric guitar soloist in addition to an entire big band as a concertante group. The concept of contrasts is expanded here to encompass both notated and improvised music as well as stylistic differences. Continuing the idea of juxtapositional collaboration heard in Symphony No. 4, Tüür has referred to this coming together of diverse elements from jazz, rock and classical as “trilateral negotiations in a constructive atmosphere”. That description suggests openness, perhaps even sympathy, though the reality is more complex and argumentative.

Indeed, the first movement is not far being a shouting match, with the strings, winds, brass and band all having their own, entirely separate, gestural ideas, the music being the turbulent result of them all being thrown together in close proximity. Again it falls to a soloist to facilitate unity, which comes with the grand entrance of the electric guitar at the start of the second movement. Its extensive solo, essentially silencing everyone else, at first seems like a red herring, being yet another contrasting element with no obvious connection. But it proves catalytic; immediately thereafter there’s a sense of the orchestral sections (principally, at this point, strings and winds) acting with regard to each other. Having been silent, the band comes to the fore in a showcase third movement, now supported and embellished by the orchestra. This is extended through the final movement, leading to music full of confident swagger, though once again Tüür demonstrates his willingness to effortlessly brush aside bold, powerful ideas in favour of much less assertive material, in this case arriving in a dark place full of unsettling, hovering chords, with guitar notes sliding strangely in the middle distance.

Symphony No. 5 was released by Ondine in 2014 in a recording featuring Nguyên Lê on electric guitar and the UMO Jazz Orchestra alongside the Helskinki Philharmonic, conducted by Olari Elts.

Among the Jews who escaped Nazi Germany in the 1930s and 40s were more than 200 of Europe’s leading classical musicians. During their time in China, part of it spent living under Japanese occupation, they taught classical music to the locals, and their influence is said to live on today among the millions of Chinese and people of Chinese descent who carry on the tradition of Western classical music. Selected music and songs from “Shanghai Sonatas,” a musical based on the memoirs of the Jewish musicians, comes to the China Institute, 40 Rector St., on Thursday, Nov. 3 at 6:30 p.m. Go here for more information on “Shanghai Sonatas” and here to purchase tickets.  

Over 20 years ago I was asked to do a huge recording project at a pretty low-key but prestigious studio in downtown Boston. It took several days of recording over several months. There were a number of engineers who came and went on the project over that time, but I enjoyed chatting with one in particular.

I learned that José Elizondo was an MIT graduate, very serious and very professional. But he also had eyes that lit up when we could take a break and talk about classical music. It took a while for the information to come out, but in addition to being an electrical engineer, I learned he was a composer.

Over these 20+ years, I have had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Elizondo’s music in many different settings, and playing some of his recordings on WCRB. I’ve also attended magical concerts not knowing ahead of time that his music was included on the program. Imagine how delighted I was to attend a spur-of-the-moment concert when on a family vacation in California five years ago and Mr. Elizondo’s music was the highlight!
I interviewed him on the phone last week.

Laura Carlo: Let’s start at the beginning. You were born in Mexico, which I think of as a land of music. Did you come from a particularly musical family?

José Elizondo: My father’s business was as a potato farmer and my mother came from a family of coal mine workers in rural Mexico. Neither of them finished elementary school nor did either have any interest in “classical” music, per se. However, my mother encouraged me and my sister Adriana to take music lessons. Throughout her life, Mom did everything possible to support our music interests. She thought music was important for a well-rounded education.

When planning my path for university, I made a very pragmatic decision to study engineering and was fortunate to be accepted at MIT. In addition to electrical engineering, I pursued music education at MIT as well as at Harvard (in a co-registration program). But my desire to be a pianist was short lived, due to a hand injury. I ended up taking classes mostly in music history and conducting. Fortuitously, I ended up taking a couple of courses in composition. My teachers were so nurturing and encouraging, that this opened opportunities I hadn’t considered.

LC: So what was your music education and training?

JE: I started studying piano when I was approximately 5 years old, and organ a year or two after. I credit my organ teacher, maestro Arturo Ochoa, with transforming my life, by being a musical father figure, an inspiration, and by instilling in me a musical “intuition” that I’ve relied upon through my music career. Another major influence was my piano teacher Socorro Soto Ponce. Prior to university I participated in many national competitions and recitals.

It wasn’t easy to study engineering at MIT and also study music at the same time, so I didn’t have a lot of time to devote to my music. Towards the end of my time at MIT, I was fortunate to take a couple of composition classes with the wonderful composer Peter Child. He inspired me and gave me confidence to write music exploring the musical tradition of my homeland.

LC: In addition to Peter Child’s tutelage, who were your other music  mentors?

JE: I’ve been very lucky to have many amazing musicians in my life that, in addition to making my life better through their kindness and friendship, have been very generous with their advice, such as maestros Wayne Toews, Orlando Cela, Sergio Buslje, and the wonderful Şefika Kutluer.

I should also mention Carlos Prieto, the legendary Mexican cellist, author, entrepreneur and philanthropist (and MIT alum) who in a matter of minutes changed my life forever. I met him after one of his concerts at MIT. He listened to my first (and only) composition at the time, saw something in me, and right there and then commissioned me to write a cello duet, which he eventually performed in a concert together with maestro Yo-Yo Ma! That experience changed my idea of what was possible and inspired me in a way that had profound impacts in my life.

In recent years other notable influences include maestros Augusto Carrión, Gustavo Martín, Sébastien Hurtaud, Benedict Klöckner, and Kevin Sütterlin.

LC: Wow – that’s an amazing line-up of mentors and influences. I’ve met composers who only write songs, others who only write orchestral works, for example. Do you specialize in one type of output?

JE: I’m best known for my compositions for cello. I even go by the name “Cellizondo” on Instagram.

LC: Has your musical style changed with the years?

JE: I wrote my two best-known compositions, inspired by Mexican and Latin American music, in the ‘90s. Then I didn’t write almost anything for 15+ years due to health challenges and other life circumstances. Only recently, in the past 6 years, have I written a more significant number of compositions. Because of the nature of the events for which most of my recent music has been commissioned, I have explored a more lyrical and contemplative style. But I still cherish the opportunity to include Latin American elements in my compositions. I did that recently in a composition called Despapaye, which I wrote for maestro Orlando Cela and the Lowell Chamber Orchestra.

LC: How do you describe your own composing style?

JE: The one constant in all my compositions is my love for lyrical melodies. Most of my music is somehow related to dance. My compositions are either inspired by elements of folk dance music, or they consist of flowing melodies that are imagined in terms of ballet or contemporary dance. I can’t dance to save my life, but dance happens to be the way that I imagine music when composing, and I find it very helpful as a tool for understanding the prosody and proportion of a new composition.

Many of my compositions lately have had a contemplative aspect to them. Most of them incorporate a reference to the Gregorian chant Dies irae and at least one reference to music by Bach. It sounds like a collection of disparate elements, but I invite people to listen to my compositions like The Dawn of Hope to see how these elements work together in my music.

Regarding a routine for composing, I work full-time in a company that specializes in speech technology, artificial intelligence, and other technologies. The work we do is very exciting and interesting, but it can be very intense and time-consuming. It doesn’t leave a lot of free time for composition. It’s always at night or on weekends that I do most my music work, whether it is writing a new composition, or, most frequently, creating a new transcription of my existing works for some new combination of instruments.

LC: What is the actual composing process like for you?

JE: I wish I could say that it is a very systematic, predictable process, but the reality is that it takes me months of preparation to be able to get started. During that period, I try to fill my brain with ideas related to the concepts that will form part of my composition. This could be listening to music in a particular genre, reading poems on a specific topic or by a specific author, trying to understand the key points of an event that are meaningful to the performer I’m writing for or that are emotionally compatible with something I can relate to.

There is a lot of trying out melodies on the keyboard and shaping them into meaningful units that seem to be compatible with the original intention for the composition. Then there’s a long process of refining that material and producing the final piece. There have only been a couple of times when I wrote a piece in a single “compositional outburst”.

LC: Most of your compositions have been written for specific performers or for specific events.

JE: Yes, and because of that, I have had a very specific starting point or seed for the creative process. However, my best compositions have had multi-layered sources of inspiration.

For example, I was asked by the extraordinary French cellist Sébastien Hurtaud to write a piece that would be appropriate for two events: a concert in Paris commemorating the 100th anniversary of the World War I Armistice, and a concert in Panama celebrating a gathering of young people with the hope of making a difference in the world (World Youth Days). I had found great inspiration in a poem by an Australian World War I Veteran who described the moment when he, still in the trenches, was informed that the war was over. He recalled seeing the clouds of smoke dissipate and give way to the light of the sun.

Shortly after I started writing, a very important person in my life passed away. The piece instantly became more personal and I decided to embrace a more universal theme of the journey through darkness to light, whether it’s at a macro level (people going through war and longing for peace) or at a personal level (people grieving or going through a challenging situation). And the result of this process is my composition The Dawn of Hope. I decided to focus on how love and compassion can transform someone, even when dealing with great challenges or loss, and help him see life again with hope.

LC: I know that it’s like asking a mother to choose her favorite child, but do you have a favorite piece among all those you’ve written?

JE: My most performed piece is the tango Otoño en Buenos Aires, and I love it very much.This is a performance with Sheku Kanneh-Mason and Ashok Klouda:

I also have two that are particularly close to my heart for reasons related to the life circumstances in which they were created: The Dawn of Hope, which I mentioned earlier, and Under the Starry Sky of the Rhine.

LC: How does your cultural heritage inform your compositional style? 

JE: Without a doubt, my cultural heritage has been a very important part of my compositional style. Some of my pieces are very explicitly Mexican or Latin American. But in general, I think that my cultural heritage has strengthened my love for melody, my preference for writing music that connects with the audience at an emotional level, and my love for dance forms.

LC: As a Hispanic composer, do you see any issues or roadblocks for Hispanic composers today?

JE: We are blessed to live in a period with wonderful tools and opportunities that didn’t exist even a couple of decades ago. Composers these days don’t have to rely on publishers, record labels, et cetera, to make their music known. And we don’t have to be limited by geography to make musical connections, collaborate on projects or get performances of our works. The availability of extraordinary learning resources online and the easy access to scores for study is something unprecedented as well. So, more than speaking about roadblocks, I prefer to think about it in terms of blessings and opportunities.

Of course, I’m quite aware of the many challenges that remain, in terms of support for music education, budgets for music institutions, availability of affordable instruments, grants for concerts, et cetera. But I’m grateful for the many things that are a lot better and more possible now that they were not so long ago. I’m encouraged by the many efforts that are in progress to make more music by Latin American composers available to everyone, with notable projects like the Sphynx Catalog, the amazing projects by artists like Gustavo Martín (“El violonchelo en Mexico”), Evangelina Reyes and her colleagues (Latin American flute catalogue) and many others.

LC: I got to hear your music unexpectedly at a California concert. I think in that concert program book I read your works have been played by orchestras all around the world, not just in the U.S. Tell me about your music’s reception in those other countries.

JE: It’s been a blessing to hear my compositions performed by more than 180 orchestras around the world. I never expected anything like this to happen! There have been many beautiful, memorable moments. For example, the very first professional performance of my music by an orchestra. It was in the context of an outdoor festival. To hear my composition, which I had written as a homework for a university class, performed by professional musicians, and to receive a standing ovation by an audience of nearly 25,000 people was absolutely incredible and that still motivates me when writing new music.

Another wonderful experience was when I visited a dear conductor friend in England, maestro Andrew Sherwood. He invited me to meet him at what he described as a “rehearsal” of his youth orchestra. He had actually invited current and former orchestra members who had performed my music in 40+ concerts during the past 5 years under his direction. They played my compositions for me and we had a wonderful conversation. At the time, I had just recovered from a very traumatic surgery and was very moved and encouraged to hear the stories from all those kids that had grown up playing my music.

LC: Wonderful story! Looking ahead now, what are projects you are working on?

JE: I’ve been writing a cello concerto for the extraordinary cellist Benedict Klöckner, who is also a very dear friend of mine. The piece is called The Legend of the Noble Knight. I’m particularly excited to collaborate with my dear friend, maestro Kevin Sütterlin to bring this concerto to life. I’ve also been asked to write a celebratory piece for the opening ceremony of a beautiful new church that is being built in northern Mexico. And not too long ago, I was asked by maestro Carlos Prieto to write another cello duet for him and maestro Yo-Yo Ma. The piece is called Cantabrigian Reflections. Having two of my all-time music heroes associated with that piece is a dream.

LC: And as if that weren’t thrill enough, what else would you consider the greatest thing that could happen to you as a composer?

JE: Hearing that I have touched the heart of the listener and facilitated a moment in which they can forget their troubles, or feel connected to an emotion that provides serenity, joy or healing. It’s not something one can “plan for,” but it’s incredibly special when people tell you they’ve had such an experience while listening to your music. It has happened to me a with my composition, The Dawn of Hope, and I feel incredibly blessed and fortunate.

CODA: As you read, Mr. Elizondo has great affection for two of his pieces in particular. Let’s hear them now, starting with The Dawn of Hope. This version is performed by cellist Sébastien Hurtaud and pianist Pamela Hurtado.

Another piece near-and-dear to his heart is Under the Starry Sky of the Rhine. You’ll hear the Bach references he mentioned.

This text is an expanded version of the article originally published (in Estonian translation) by Sirp, 16 September 2022.

Having featured them prominently in his Fourth and Fifth symphonies, Erkki-Sven Tüür does away with soloists in Symphony No. 6 (2007), but he continues the more nuanced approach to juxtaposition heard in those previous two symphonies. The work bears the subtitle ‘Strata’, and indeed there is the impression of moving through a series of different layers. In this context, the effect of the juxtapositions is less volatile and more organic, producing an episodic music where the orchestra acts as a single, sympathetic entity.

However, if that suggests a lessening of intensity then what follows, if anything, does the complete opposite. After this measured opening, Tüür begins what will become the main sequence of the symphony (initiated by the strings) where, over the course of around 15 minutes, the orchestra continually pushes and pulls in multiple directions. The result is a stop-start motion in which the strings’ material keeps getting interrupted, causing them either to restart or just attempt to plough on regardless, all the time becoming increasingly surrounded by a relentless barrage of contrasting ideas, primarily in the form of pounding timpani (threatening to explode but always subsequently defused), heavyweight brass and percussion, and excitable xylophone clatter. Though the enormous length of this sequence to some extent reduces its power – eventually causing one to feel somewhat numb – it again testifies to Tüür’s fearlessness in channelling extreme juxtapositions into enormous slabs of sound.

Yet the most striking contrast of all comes in the symphony’s conclusion, Tüür pulling everything back and introducing an innocuous pivoting motif in the cellos. This motif persists, becoming the basis for an obsessive, rather mournful conclusion, evoking a wailing song of the indigenous Seto people. The contrasts continue until the end, Tüür moving back and forth between the outworking of this motif and small bursts of glitter.

Symphony No. 6 ‘Strata’ was released by ECM in 2010, in a recording by the Nordic Symphony Orchestra conducted by Anu Tali.

Symphony No. 7 (2009) is, to date, Tüür’s only symphony to include voices. Subtitled ‘Pietas’ and dedicated to the 14th Dalai Lama Tenzin Gyatso, the work’s text draws on short proverb-like quotations from, among others, Buddha, Gandhi, Augustine of Hippo and, unexpectedly, Jimi Hendrix. Perhaps due to the earnest nature of the work, addressing concepts of love and compassion, both the scope and the intensity of its juxtapositions are simplified. Throughout all four movements, Tüür’s musical language oscillates between floridity – once again taking the form of lively, individuated wind textures – and solemnity, the latter (performed by strings and brass) intended by Tüür to “seemingly halt the flow of musical time”. Throughout the symphony these behavioural opposites interpenetrate each other, leading to fascinating states of change and internal tension. In the third movement, in particular, the various forces at play create a kind of semi-immobile chugging, which only starts to find its way back to freedom when both elements let rip at once, resulting in a mesmerising combination of gravity and weightlessness.

However, it could be argued that the most prominent contrast in Symphony No. 7 is the relationship between choir and orchestra. Put simply: is there one? The voices are situated between these behavioural poles, articulating the words with a mixture of force and gentleness. Yet the choral passages tend to feel disconnected from the musical drama happening around them, a more neutral intrusion into an otherwise energised and engrossing instrumental environment. This sense is reinforced by the minimal use of the choir in the first three movements (indeed, they are completely absent in the third). They feature prominently in the symphony’s 20-minute final movement, the orchestra now channelling its twin identities to support and embellish the choir, though the litany of quotations sounds like a parallel world from what preceded it. Furthermore, when the music refocuses on the orchestra in the lengthy centre of this movement, it sounds like a natural continuation and conclusion of the polarities explored earlier. Perhaps it’s a controversial suggestion, but if the vocal sections were removed entirely, Symphony No. 7 would be largely unaffected, not merely representing a highly engaging next step in Tüür’s symphonic evolution but, crucially, one where his use of juxtaposition is demonstrably extended into rigorous development.

Symphony No. 7 is featured on another ECM release, from 2014, featuring the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra and NDR Choir conducted by Paavo Järvi.

There are distinct echoes of the opening of the Sixth Symphony in Tüür’s Symphony No. 8 (2010). Again there’s the impression of an orchestra generally working together on a number of discrete ideas, here presented less as moving episodically through strata than halting attempts to ‘road-test’ a variety of possible options. (In my 2018 review i commented on this “chop-and-change approach” being “as if Tüür were playing with ideas on the fly, trying them out … in different configurations.”) Tüür’s fondness for textural clouds of wind activity makes its presence felt yet again, though as part of an overall tendency to floridity in all parts of the orchestra. Combined with the highly elastic way that the piece moves forward, this leads to a highly organic music that appears to be working out what to do in real time, ultimately shrugging off superficially jaunty ideas in favour of more serious melodic searching.

In the central movement this searching splits to form a number of interlinked lines that come together in a hugely impactful climax. The build-up to this is notable for being so focused, single-minded and united, lacking the conflicts that usually typify Tüür’s materials. The symphony ends with another split, negotiating between slow-moving, thoughtful string lines and woodwinds that seemingly just want to get the party started. Instead of picking a side, Tüür resolves this – after what sounds like a tutti shrug – by throwing both elements together, surprisingly proving them to be complementary, launching the symphony into a punchy finale where rhythms are positively festooned with wind cascades.

Symphony No. 8 was released in 2018 on the Ondine label, in a performance by the Tapiola Sinfonietta conducted by Olari Elts.

There then followed a symphonic hiatus of seven years, the biggest since the decade-long gap between the Second and Third, before Tüür’s next – and, at present, penultimate – symphony. In his Symphony No. 9 (2017), Tüür returned to the most basic types of contrasting materials heard in the earliest symphonies. The work is initially founded upon the simple juxtaposition of vagueness and clarity, the former heard in nebulous networks of rumbles, micro-gestures and superimposed trills, the latter in a string line that turns out (once other instruments provide support) to be the impetus for energy and rhythm.

As i discussed at length in my review of the symphony’s première in 2018, in keeping with the evolution of Tüür’s symphonic language, there is again a strong organic sensibility, one that draws directly on the work’s subtitle, ‘Mythos’, to suggest world-building, of a landscape being constructed from primordial elements. At times the music doesn’t even seem composed, but a spontaneous chain reaction of sonic elements, with new ideas and reactions continually bubbling to the surface, some going nowhere, others proving to be extremely significant. In this respect, Symphony No. 9 was Tüür’s most intricate, detailed symphonic score to date, focusing much less on the contrasts that typify so many of the earlier symphonies, and instead rethinking their extended sequences of overload (as in Symphony No. 6), here directed towards music in a constant, wildly creative state of flux.

The world première performance of Symphony No. 9 ‘Mythos’, by the Estonian Festival Orchestra conducted by Paavo Järvi, was released on the Alpha label in 2020.

The Aspen Music Festival and School announces its winter music lineup of classical music and Live in HD productions.

Live in HD

In conjunction with the Wheeler Opera House, it brings a curated series of The Metropolitan’s Live in HD productions to Aspen’s historic opera house.

Cherubini’s Medea, 5:30 p.m. Feb. 14

Having triumphed at the Met in some of the repertory’s fiercest soprano roles, Sondra Radvanovsky stars as the mythic sorceress who will stop at nothing in her quest for vengeance, kicking off the 2022–23 Live in HD season. Joining Radvanovsky in the Met-premiere production of Cherubini’s rarely performed masterpiece is tenor Matthew Polenzani as Medea’s Argonaut husband, Giasone; soprano Janai Brugger as her rival for his love, Glauce; bass Michele Pertusi as Medea’s father, Creonte, the King of Corinth; and mezzo-soprano Ekaterina Gubanova as Medea’s confidante, Neris.

Verdi’s La Traviata, 5:30 p.m. Feb. 28

Soprano Nadine Sierra stars as the self-sacrificing courtesan Violetta — one of opera’s ultimate heroines — in Michael Mayer’s production of Verdi’s tragedy. Tenor Stephen Costello is her self-centered lover, Alfredo, alongside baritone Luca Salsi as his disapproving father, and Maestro Daniele Callegari on the podium.

Kevin Puts’s The Hours, 5:30 p.m. March 7

Soprano Renée Fleming makes her return to the Met in the world-premiere production of Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Kevin Puts’ The Hours, adapted from Michael Cunningham’s acclaimed novel. Inspired by Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and made a household name by the Oscar-winning 2002 film version starring Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, and Nicole Kidman, the story follows three women from different eras who each grapple with their inner demons and their roles in society. The premiere radiates with star power, with soprano Kelli O’Hara and mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato joining Fleming as the opera’s trio of heroines. Phelim McDermott directs this drama, with Met music director Yannick Nézet-Séguin on the podium to conduct Puts’ score.

Winter Music

Aspen Music Festival and School also presents Winter Music at Harris Concert Hall. All performances start at 6:30 p.m.

Pacifica Quartet, Feb. 16

Since its appointment to lead the AMFS’s Center for Advanced Quartet Studies in 2017, this multiple Grammy Award-winning quartet has been a fixture at the festival with performances and instruction. Pacifica Quartet kick offs its Aspen recital with Shostakovich’s Quartet No. 2. Next, the ensemble showcases its musicality with a work from its recent Grammy-winning album: Shulamit Ran’s Third String Quartet, “Glitter, Doom, Shards, Memory.” Ran pays tribute to the artwork of German-Jewish painter Felix Nussbaum in this four-movement work. The program concludes with Dvořák’s “American” Quartet.

Alexander Malofeev, Feb. 23

Since winning his first major international competition at age 13, pianist Alexander Malofeev has captured the world’s attention. Still only 20, he regularly performs with top orchestras around the world, garnering critical praise for his technical prowess and emotional maturity. Following his debut with the Aspen Festival Orchestra during the 2022 festival, the young star returns to Aspen for a solo recital of wide-ranging piano sonatas.

Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata opens his winter program. A dynamic sonata from a lesser-known Polish composer and friend of Shostakovich, Mieczsław Weinberg, follows. Though his music was largely disregarded during his lifetime, many of Weinberg’s works have been rediscovered posthumously. The program closes with Rachmaninoff’s Piano Sonata No. 2.

Joyce Yang piano, March 16

AMFS alumna and pianist Joyce Yang takes audiences on a musical journey as she plays works by Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and Stravinsky.

In a number of selections from Tchaikovsky’s Les saisons, Yang musically represents the passage of time and the changing seasons over the course of a year. The program continues with a hand-picked assortment of works from Rachmaninoff’s Thirteen Preludes. Then comes three movements from Stravinsky’s first ballet, The Firebird. The “Danse infernale” kickstarts the work; “Berceuse” presents a hypnotic musical lullaby; and the “Finale” completes the journey.

Single tickets go on sale Jan. 17. For more information, visit aspenmusicfestival.com.

Released on Sony’s Orchard label, the album comprises six movements of a work by Xifarias about children impacted by conflicts around the world

Peter Xifaras is a New York-based composer, guitarist, orchestrator, and producer, whose music has topped Billboard’s Classical and Crossover charts.

His latest release on Sony’s subsidiary label, The Orchard, is a collection of six short contemporary classical movements under the overarching title: “Children Of Conflict.”

Performed by the Czech National Symphony Orchestra (CNSO) and conductor Marek Štilec, the piece aims to raise awareness about the plight of children around the globe due to conflicts.

As the press release explains, “Children Of Conflict” is the message of countless innocent children and young people across the world, who suffer each day and are at the mercy of corrupt dictators and governments.

Driving Xifaras’ writing and recording of this work were the ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan following the Taliban takeover of the country in August 2021 and heightened human rights crises, as well as the Russian invasion of Ukraine and its impact on families and livelihoods.

The six movements of “Children Of Conflict” are Prologue, Fathers Lament, Lost Innocence, Desolation, Mothers Lament, and Epilogue.

Each movement also has a corresponding video that reinforces the message of the music. The videos can be watched on YouTube here.

“In the world tonight, millions of children are begging for help,” Xifaras recently posted to Facebook. Each year 10.6 million will die before reaching their 5th birthday.” 

“I hope someday the human condition will be focused on providing equal economic access to all humans so that we can enjoy and revel in our achievements as a race in science, engineering, the arts and music, where poverty and destruction were only memories of a past world,” Xifaras told FnB World News in an interview. “Hopefully a dream to aspire to.”

“Children Of Conflict” has also received a nomination from the Hollywood Music in Media Awards in the classical category. To purchase and listen to the album, click here.