Views And Reviews: Elgar's 'Cello Concerto
Paul Serotsky introduces us to Elgar’s ‘Cello Concerto which he started to write in London in 1918 in the aftermath of war.
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Elgar (1857-1934) – 'Cello Concerto
A fin de siècle artistic revolution sent shock waves through Europe. The high excitement of the times reverberated in Elgar's music: in the early 1900s, he dropped chamber music in favour of a string of fabulous orchestral works, culminating in the two symphonies, the Violin Concerto, and Falstaff. However, this artistic earthquake symptomised a deeper, seismic pressure, which erupted in the Great War. The old order was destroyed, and replaced by a new uncertainty. Elgar (along with innumerable others, I shouldn't wonder!) was devastated. Inevitably he sublimated his dismay in his music, principally through a final foray into the intimacy of chamber music: the Violin Sonata, String Quartet and Piano Quintet.
The 'Cello Concerto, started in London late in 1918, amid the aftermath of war, shows a similar stylistic shift, from the opulence of pre-war symphonic works like Cockaigne and Falstaff to a much more intimate treatment of the orchestra, sparer and more translucent. This comes not from economics or sophistication, but from expressive necessity – the similarity to Mahler is striking. Confident Edwardian gestures are supplanted by fierce anger, ceremonial mourning – like the funeral music of the Second Symphony – by naked grief. Having been dumped into purgatory, Elgar responded by paring off the comfortable orchestral fat to bare his own lacerated soul. It can, in fact, be argued that there is at least a philosophical parallel with the composer’s own First Symphony, which stands at a watershed in English music.
1. Adagio – moderato. After Beethoven, a solo lead is no longer shocking – but to hear the 'cello, of all instruments, emit such an anguished cry, that is – and always will be – shocking. The orchestra consoles the soloist with the first subject, indefinitely extendable, lilting like a lullaby. Gradually passions rise, then subside to a brief hiatus, into which 'cello and woodwind inject the second subject, a wistful throwback to Elgar's youth. The soloist slips back into the first subject – not an exposition repeat in a large-scale sonata structure, but the end of a simple ternary form, linked without a break to . . .
2. Lento – allegro molto. From deep gloom, the angry motto glowers. A stuttering 'cello offers diversion, accepted only after considerable prevarication, a game of “tag” where the main subject scurries around at length, and the vaulting second subject provides the brief “catches”. The third time round, a sudden high pang interrupts. The game continues, now involving the second subject, through to a sprightly, beautifully weighted “full stop”.
3. Adagio. Three slowly rising phrases and a three note (marcato) descent introduce the only subject of the movement, a broad melody which is first given by the soloist supported by the orchestra. Immediately initiating a full reprise, the orchestra becomes more actively involved the second time around. The 'cello provides a short codetta, leading to a repeat of the introductory phrases.
With exactly the same word count as the movement has bars, that's as dust-dry a description as I can muster for one of the most heartbreakingly poignant utterances in musical history. Elgar so expresses utter bewilderment at loss beyond measure that I seem to hear, in those final marcato notes, the question, “What comes now?”
4. Allegro – moderato – allegro ma non troppo. According to the orchestra's vigorous suggestion, the answer is a “girding of loins”. The still-bemused soloist turns it into desolated soliloquy, but the orchestra won’t take “no” for an answer, and together they boisterously intertwine elements of rondo and sonata. The soloist is prevented from becoming despondent over the second subject, and in a development they even aspire to the old spirit of “Cockaigne” et al. But, gradually, irrepressible anguish intrudes, eventually compelling the 'cello, in a moment of supreme nostalgia, to recall the slow movement. With the angry cry from the start of the work, the music shakes itself out of its maudlin mood, and storms off to a forceful conclusion. Clearly, Elgar was not about to let a little despondency get him down.
© Paul Serotsky 1998, 2004
