Violin Concerto, Op.14

One of the most interesting aspects of Samuel Barber’s generally fascinating Violin Concerto is the way that it seems to split in personality between the second third movements. The opening Allegro and the Andante are predominantly and irresistibly lyrical; the Presto in moto perpetuo, though no more resistible than the other two, is prickly, obsessive, even aggressive in places.

A likely explanation of the apparent dichotomy can be found in the curious circumstances of the composition of the work. Paid in advance by a rich American businessman to write a concerto for a certain young violinist - on the strength no doubt of the recent success of his Adagio for strings - Barber worked on the score first in Sils Maria in Switzerland and then in Paris. Wisely returning to Philadelphia as war broke out in Europe, the composer less wisely submitted the two movements he had written to his patron, only to be told that the solo part was too easy and lacking in opportunities for the violinist to show off his virtuoso technique. So Barber promised to make amends with a particularly brilliant finale, which he duly did, but now to be told that this last movement was unplayable! It was only when Oscar Shumsky privately demonstrated how playable it actually is that the financial dispute between the businessman and the composer was settled and the work was given its first performance - not by the young violinist for whom it was written nor even by Oscar Shumsky but by Albert Spalding (with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra) in Philadelphia in 1941.

Anyone who would feel happier in the belief that the last movement is not completely distinct from the other two will find an anticipation of the Presto in moto perpetuo in the opening Allegro. True, it is not in the lingering, nostalgic melody introduced by the violin at the very beginning of the work. Nor is it in the comparatively lively but still somewhat rueful second theme appropriately awarded, with its slightly jazzy syncopations, to clarinet and piano on its first appearance. There is, however, a third theme, a brilliant exercise in agility for the violin which, though brief, provokes the orchestra into an extraordinary state of excitement. This third theme is not featured in the development, which is concerned almost exclusively with the considerable emotional implications of the shapely main theme, but it does reappear in the recapitulation and with a similar effect on the orchestra.

The Andante, like many of its kind, is purely lyrical - somewhat in the manner of Rachmaninov one might think on hearing the introductory bars. It is based on another beautifully shaped and extended melody, introduced in this case by a solo oboe. The violinist takes it through a rhapsodic development, made curiously uneasy by distant trumpet calls, before reintroducing it in the romantic grand manner in the full sonority of the G string.

Unplayable though it obviously is not, the last movement isn’t exactly kind to the violinist either. It allows the soloist only two short rests in an exhilarating study in restless activity which, though it runs into some bitter orchestral harmonies here and there, is wittily sustained and cheerfully concluded.

Gerald Larner

When Samuel Barber was commissioned by an American businessman to write a Concerto for a promising young violinist friend of his, it must have seemed a very attractive proposition. The composer was to be given a handsome fee and, better still, it was to be paid in advance - which gave him a welcome opportunity to indulge his taste for travel in Europe, where he intended to write the piece. The timing was unfortunate, however. After he had spent only a few weeks in Sils Maria in Switzerland and a few days in Paris in the summer of 1939, the political situation in Europe had become so dangerous that he was warned, with all other American citizens, to leave immediately.

Back in the United States and with only the first two movements of the Violin Concerto complete, he made the mistake of showing what he had written to the businessman and his violinist protégé. He was told that the solo part was too easy and lacking in opportunities for the violinist to show off his virtuoso technique. So Barber promised to make amends with a particularly brilliant finale, which he duly did - but now to be told that this last movement was unplayable! The businessman wanted his money back but Barber, who had already spent it in Europe, was unable to comply. It was only when Oscar Shumsky privately demonstrated how playable it actually is that the dispute was settled and the work was given its first performance - not by the young violinist for whom it was written nor even by Shumsky but by Albert Spalding (with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra) in Philadelphia in 1941.

It is no doubt because of these distressing circumstances that there seems to be a split in personality between the second third movements. The opening Allegro and the Andante are predominantly and irresistibly lyrical; the Presto in moto perpetuo, though no more resistible than the other two, is prickly, obsessive, even aggressive in places. There is, however, at least one thematic link between the first and last movements. True, it is not in the lingering, nostalgic melody introduced by the violin at the very beginning of the work. Nor is it in the comparatively lively but still somewhat rueful second theme appropriately awarded, with its slightly jazzy syncopations, to clarinet and piano on its first appearance. There is, however, a third theme, a brilliant exercise in agility for the violin which, though brief, provokes the orchestra into an extraordinary state of excitement. This third theme is not featured in the development, which is concerned almost exclusively with the considerable emotional implications of the shapely main theme, but it does reappear in the recapitulation and with a similar effect on the orchestra.

The Andante, like many of its kind, is purely lyrical - somewhat in the manner of Rachmaninov one might think on hearing the introductory bars. It is based on another beautifully shaped and extended melody, introduced in this case by a solo oboe. The violinist takes it through a rhapsodic development, made curiously uneasy by distant trumpet calls, before reintroducing it in the romantic grand manner in the full sonority of the G string.

Unplayable though it obviously is not, the last movement isn’t exactly kind to the violinist either. It allows the soloist only two short rests in an exhilarating study in restless activity which, though it runs into some bitter orchestral harmonies here and there, is wittily sustained and cheerfully concluded.