Sinfonia Concertante, Op.125, for cello and orchestra

Prokofiev had endless trouble with the work now known as the Sinfonia Concertante for cello and orchestra. It all started with a cello concerto he sketched and then put on one side when he was in Paris in 1933. Looking at the sketches again in 1938, after his return to Russia, he didn’t like what he saw. He rewrote what he had already done, added new material and designated the finished work as Cello Concerto in E minor, Op.58. The first performance was a disaster - not least, apparently, because neither the soloist nor the conductor had any real understanding of the piece.

His faith in the work unshaken, Prokofiev made further revisions and then turned his attention to other things until - just a few years before his death, at one of the few concerts his doctors allowed him to attend - he heard the young Mstislav Rostropovich play the work. This performance convinced him that it would be worth rewriting the Cello Concerto yet again, to which end he enlisted Rostropovich’s expert help. The cellist spent two summers with the composer at Nicolina Gorina, advising him on the cello writing and generally encouraging him in the losing battle with ill health. The work was finished towards the end of 1951.

The first performance of what was then described as the Second Cello Concerto was not a great success either, even with Rostropovich as soloist (and with Sviatoslav Richter making his debut as a conductor). The composer expressed himself satisfied but continued to make further revisions throughout the rest of the year, finally renaming the work Sinfonia Concertante - in just acknowledgement of the complex and often virtuoso role played by the orchestra and in spite of the continuing dominance of the self-willed soloist.

The first movement is basically an improvisation for the cello - which the orchestra seems to know in advance as it introduces itself in parodistic humility with a crudely repeated accompaniment figure. The cellist sets against this a melody which is actually the main theme of the movement although, in his eagerness to develop it, the soloist scarcely gives it chance to establish itself. The accompaniment figure rivals it in eloquence moreover when, encouraged by the cellist and a solo flute, muted violins turn it upside down and very quietly convert it into something poetic and mysterious. Although other material achieves temporary prominence, the only themes consistently developed are the cello melody and the accompaniment figure, which latter appears in a magical transformation at the end of the movement.

The construction of the second movement approximates in a way to sonata form, much expanded though it is by the inexhaustible spontaneity of both the soloist and the orchestra. The main theme, proclaimed by the cello after a busily rhythmic introduction, is distantly related to that of the first movement. The dreamily lyrical second subject, while it is said to be essentially Russian in quality, is inescapably reminiscent of the Prayer in Humperdinck’s Hansel and Gretel. The resemblance is surely accidental but it is interesting that, before the cello’s A-string gives voice to it, Prokofiev inserts a compensatory near-literal quotation of a street dance from his own Romeo and Juliet. In the development section, after the extended cadenza, the two ideas are combined - the dance on the bassoon and oboe, the prayer on the cello - and then set apart again in the recapitulation, the prayer now rising on clarinet over solo cello arpeggios.

The last movement is a theme-and-variations construction with a difference. Neither the heroic main theme presented by unaccompanied cello nor the first variation, distinguished by trumpet and horn solos, betrays a hint of what the difference might be. The second variation, following an amusing little cadenza, certainly has more than a hint of parody about it. But it is still surprising when a slightly tipsy bassoon introduces an inspired comedy interlude in the middle of the movement and persuades the soloist and a sextet of solo strings - “poor relations,” the composer called them - to take part in it. Indeed, Prokofiev was so doubtful about this episode that he supplied a more respectable (and rarely played) middle section as an alternative. And that is not the only difference: after two more variations the work ends not with a glorification of any of the main themes but with a trumpet fanfare based on the Romeo and Juliet street dance and a series of minimalist arpeggios high on the A-string of the cello.

Gerald Larner ©2004

Prokofiev had no end of trouble with the work now known as the Sinfonia Concertante (or Concerto-Symphony) for cello and orchestra. He first started on a cello concerto in Paris in 1933 but got distracted from it when it was still in sketch form. When he looked at again in 1938, after his return to Russia, he didn’t like what he saw: “I could see the seams connecting the various sections of the concerto and, besides, I felt that the music was not always good.” So he rewrote what he had already done, added new material, designated the finished work as Cello Concerto in E minor, Op.58, and entrusted the first performance to the cellist Leonid Berezovsky and the conductor Melik-Pashayev.

According to Sviatoslav Richter, who was involved in preparing Berezovsky for the great occasion, neither the soloist nor the conductor understood the concerto. The first performance was a disaster. The composer made further revisions and then turned his attention to other things until - just a few years before his death, at one of the few concerts his doctors allowed him to attend - he heard the young Mstislav Rostropovich play the work. This performance convinced him that it would be worth rewriting the Cello Concerto yet again, to which end he enlisted Rostropovich’s expert help. The cellist spent two summers with the composer at Nicolina Gorina, advising him on the cello writing and generally encouraging him in the losing battle with ill health. The work was finished towards the end of 1951.

The first performance of what was then described as the Second Cello Concerto (in Moscow on 18 February, 1952) was not a great success either, even with Rostropovich as soloist and Sviatoslav Richter making his debut as a conductor. The composer expressed himself satisfied but continued to make further revision throughout the rest of the year, finally renaming the work Sinfonia Concertante - because, we are officially told, of “the independent character of the complicated orchestral part.” Certainly, as a title for a new version of a first cello concerto, Sinfonia Concertante is better than Second Cello Concerto. It is still misleading however though in a different way. The orchestra undeniably does have an important role to play but, if every a concertante work was dependent on the inspiration of a self-willed soloist this is it.

The first movement is basically an improvisation for the soloist - a fact which the orchestra seems to know in advance as it introduces itself in parodistic humility with a crudely repeated accompaniment figure. The soloist sets against this a melody which could well be the main theme of the movement, if only it were given the chance to establish itself. But this is a soloist who doesn’t like to play the same thing twice. So although the theme is presented four times before anything else happens, it also assumes four different shapes. What does happen next is that, encouraged by the cellist and a solo flute, muted violins turn the introductory accompaniment figure upside down and very quietly convert it into something poetic and mysterious. Other material achieves temporary prominence, usually but not exclusively on the cello, but the only themes consistently developed are the cello melody and the accompaniment figure, which latter appears in a particularly poetic transformation at the end of the movement.

The construction of the second movement does approximate in a way to sonata form, although its outlines are frequently obscured by the wilful spontaneity of both the soloist and the orchestra. The main theme, proclaimed by the soloist after a busily rhythmic introduction, is distantly related to that of the first movement. The dreamily lyrical second subject, praised by Prokofiev’s Soviet biographer for its Russian quality, is more closely related to the Prayer in Humperdinck’s Hansel and Gretel. The resemblance is presumably accidental but it is interesting that, before the soloist’s A-string gives voice to it, Prokofiev inserts a compensatory near-literal quotation of a street dance from his own Romeo and Juliet. In the development section, after the extended virtuoso cadenza, the two ideas are combined - the dance on the bassoon and oboe, the prayer on the cello - and then set apart again in the recapitulation, the prayer now rising on clarinet over solo cello arpeggios.

The last movement is a theme-and-variations construction with a difference. Neither the heroic main theme presented by unaccompanied cello nor the first variation, distinguished by trumpet and horn solos, betrays a hint of what the difference might be. The second variation, following an amusing little cadenza, does have more than a hint of parody about it. But it is still surprising when a slightly tipsy bassoon introduces an inspired comedy interlude in the middle of the movement and persuades the soloist and a sextet of solo strings - “poor relations,” the composer called them - to take part in it. Indeed, Prokofiev was so doubtful about it that he supplied a more respectable (and rarely played) middle section as an alternative. And that is not the only difference: after two more variations the work ends not with a glorification of any of the main themes but with a trumpet fanfare based on the Romeo and Juliet street dance and a series of minimalist arpeggios high on the A-string of the cello.