On this program we present three works, each without a traditional, celebratory ending. In arranging the order of pieces, we are reminded of the significance that last statements hold. 

We begin light-heartedly with Josef Haydn's "The Joke", Opus 33 No. 2 in E Flat Major. Dubbed a "musical prankster", Haydn often wove humorous elements into his music. This is part of Haydn's signature as a composer- his willingness to be silly. Part of being a good joke teller is understanding the importance of timing and context. Though there are brief moments of whimsy sprinkled throughout the piece, the general quality of this quartet is an earthy groundedness. This is in part due to the key signature containing three flats, which softens the timbre. But the tone of the musical writing itself is warm and earnest: more rounded and pastoral than, say, the quirky character of Opus 33, No. 5.  And so, the audience is caught off guard when Haydn upends the final moments of what is otherwise a straightforward rondo. 

Here we see that Haydn employs humor not only to be playful but also to comment on accepted conventions of 18th century compositional aesthetics.  Why, he seems to ask, are we content to end pieces in this general manner? And I ask, what happens when we end things differently than one expects? Does the meaning of the entire work shift? Or are endings operating, on some level, on their own? Or, perhaps it depends on the composition?

For Matthew Recio's Clutch of Venus, endings- and beginnings- provide us with a setting. The piece is organized into two movements. In the first movement Recio describes a scene of, "the chaos that ensues in the jungle, constant fear from being preyed upon." With the direction primal, the piece opens with a repeated three note pattern marked piano (soft) that quickly crescendos. As the sound grows, the rhythm is thrown off kilter; there is a sense of natural motion becoming suddenly violent. Ferocious lines of eighth notes drive the movement, erupting in another fit of violence as the music comes to halt- wreckless.

The second movement changes scope with music that aims to represent the relatively static nature of plant life. Our gaze is no longer sweeping across a teeming jungle landscape. Instead, we are honed into the imagined moment to moment experience of a Venus flytrap. These plants attract their prey to come to them, a sinister existence which is felt in the lurking pulse that both opens and closes the movement. In between, a significant catch is made. But the underlying stasis- the waiting- is the truly scary space to be in. Recio leaves us in the midst of this psychological terror. There is, it seems, no escape, even as the music itself ends.

Sergei Prokofiev's String Quartet No. 1 in B Minor also operates in emotional environments, though not in the specific terms of a programmatic work such as Clutch of Venus. We know Prokofiev chiefly as a composer of large scale symphonies, ballets and concerti. He composed relatively few chamber music works, once expressing that he found string quartets, specifically, unable to produce the richness of tone color that an orchestra could provide. It is not surprising, then, that his first string quartet came about by means of a commission from the United States Library of Congress. 

At the time- 1930- Prokofiev was touring the States, concertizing as a pianist. He describes studying Beethoven string quartets while in transit from one performance to the next; and there are indeed snippets of Beethovian phrases and forms throughout the work. But the expressive character of the piece can be traced to Prokofiev's own desire for the colorful nature of symphonic aesthetics. There are moments where the music abruptly switches faces: one moment sharp and pointed, then suddenly lyrical, as if the instruments themselves are taking on a variety of personae. Though I'm playing the violin, there is a sense of becoming an oboe for a phrase, a trumpet for another.

1930 was a dark time. America was in the throws of the Great Depression while fascism was on the rise throughout Europe and Asia. And so I find Prokofiev's decision to end String Quartet No. 1 with a slow and, at points, musically gut-wrenching movement, very appropriate. World War II would shatter European classical music aesthetics. 20th century composers such as Pierre Boulez, Karlheinz Stockhausen, and Iannis Xenakis were uninterested in writing tonal music, music that satisfied 19th century conventions. This no longer resonated with them. I hear threads of this narrative in Prokofiev's first string quartet- a recognition that the world of Beethoven and Brahms was disappearing.

This isn't to say that composers have stopped writing expressive, celebratory music. I hear elements of Prokofiev's bold, lyrical writing in the music of György Ligeti and Sofia Gubaidulina. Rather, the nature of that celebration and expressive has shifted- and will continue to shift, as is shown in the way these three composers interact with form and convention as the course of Western classical music unfolds.