Leif Ove Andsnes, piano

Edvard Grieg
Piano Sonata in E minor, Op. 7
When the 22-year-old Edvard Grieg wrote his only piano sonata in 1865 in Rungsted, Denmark, he was just discovering the distinctive Nordic voice that would bring him fame. From the age of 15, he had been steeped in German music and its rigorous technical rules at the Conservatory of Leipzig. But, though Grieg did well at his lessons, he chafed at the rules-based drills imposed by teachers whom he found to be mostly dry and uninspiring.

In 1863, searching for better training, Grieg moved on to Copenhagen to study with Niels Gade, the famous Danish violinist, composer, and close friend of Mendelssohn. But here, too, he discovered Gade—also wedded to German theories—less sympathetic to the new voice he was trying to release. Instead, he found his inspiration from a young Norwegian musician named Rikard Nordraak, who was striving to create a school of Nordic romanticism, drawing on the folk traditions of Norway’s music. Today he is best known as the composer of the Norwegian national anthem. He was charismatic and a dreamer, like Grieg himself, and the two became close friends and partners. Nordraak sparked a burst of unfettered creativity in Grieg, including the Piano Sonata in E minor we will hear tonight. As Grieg later wrote, “Through him, and through him alone, light came to me.”

The summer of 1865 when the sonata was written was one of Grieg’s happiest times. In Copenhagen, he had also met Nina Hagerup, a talented musician with a beautiful soprano voice. They fell in love and that summer became formally betrothed. Thus, Grieg’s personal happiness was fueling his work on this sonata. The sonata-form first movement demonstrates his newfound confidence by imbedding his initials EHG (in German notation, H stands for B natural) in the descending first notes of the principal theme. Stated softly at the beginning, they are soon reprised in forceful octaves. Rachel Hocking identifies the lighter, more rhythmic second theme as resembling a Norwegian halling dance. The development section is full of imaginative contrasts in the working out of the two themes.

In C major, the melodious second movement might be a portrait of Nina, Grieg’s wife-to-be. It begins modestly, but grows in fervor and excitement. Before its quiet close, Grieg celebrates with a burst of ecstatic descending chromatic scales.

The third movement is a minuet in rhythm only, as if Grieg felt obliged to adopt this Teutonic staple. More energetic than most minuets, it is dominated by a short-long rhythm with the stress on the second beat. This carries over into the gentler trio section, which moves to E major and a new meter. It is, however, enlivened by Grieg’s love for harmonies of the seventh, ninth, and beyond.

Opened by a brief introduction, the finale is a spirited sonata form with a highly rhythmic dancing theme brightened by staccato accents. Grieg contrasts it with a smooth hymn-like second theme with modal coloring. A development section that grows in intensity and virtuosity is devoted mostly to the dancing principal theme. The hymnal second theme must wait until the recapitulation, where it leads a decisive modulation from E minor to E major. It grows to a densely chorded proclamation, marked sempre grandioso, and, gathering up the principal theme and increasing the tempo to Presto, achieves Grieg’s first triumphant conclusion.

Geirr Tveitt
Piano Sonata No. 29, Op. 129, Sonata Etere
Since his death in 1981, when he apparently believed his career had been a failure, Norwegian composer and pianist Geirr Tveitt’s reputation in his homeland has undergone a major transformation. Once spurned by Norway’s musical establishment, today his music is embraced by important artists, including Leif Ove Andsnes. “He was a kind of Norwegian Bartók,” says Andsnes. “He was very much into folk music, and he collected lots of folk music from the western part of Norway—[the musically rich Hardangerfjord region]—where he was from…. The pieces that are most often played in Norway are his folk tunes that are very colorfully orchestrated or written for the piano.”

Andsnes, however, won’t be playing Tveitt’s folk arrangements; he’ll be tackling perhaps the composer’s grandest and most important work: the Piano Sonata No. 29, Sonata Etera. It was the only piano sonata to survive a terrible fire at Tveitt’s home in 1970, which destroyed about 80% of his prolific compositions. “It’s very funny that it’s called Piano Sonata No. 29,” says Andsnes. “I think it’s a reference to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 29, the Hammerklavier.…So I believe this was him playing with numbers and signifying that this is his big piece.… I’m very excited about it. It’s a unique piece, and I hope that people outside of Scandinavia will also appreciate it.”

Born in 1908, Tveitt, like Grieg, had his first formal instruction at the Leipzig Conservatory and, also like Grieg, didn’t enjoy his time there. He went on to receive the broadest training of any Norwegian musician: studying in Paris with Honneger, Villa-Lobos, and later Nadia Boulanger. He then moved on to Vienna, for lessons with Egon Wellesz, a pupil of Schoenberg. However, Tveitt didn’t neglect his own native music and returned to Norway to steep himself in her folk traditions.

Despite his eclectic studies, Tveitt was Norwegian to the core. Following the ideas of Norwegian philosopher Hans S. Jacobsen, he embraced the Neo-Heathenistic movement, which replaced Christianity with the old Norse gods and mythologies. When Jacobsen became a member of the pro-German Quisling government during World War II, Tveitt—though not at all politically involved—was tainted by association. This, combined with the unorthodox style of some of his works, like the Sonata Etere, led the Norwegian establishment to shun him.

After the war, Tveitt resumed his virtuoso piano career. At a warmly received concert in Paris in 1947, he introduced the Sonata Etere to a Parisian audience more willing to applaud his experimental keyboard techniques. Its title “Etera” means “ethereal.” Writes Norwegian commentator Hallgjerd Aksnes: “It is technically demanding and majestic in scale…covering a wide range of expressions and pianistic styles—from impressionistic, sonorous contemplation; to barbaristic tempestuousness; to neo-classical, tonally skewed elegance, to romantic virtuosity and pathos.”

In “In Cerca Di…” (“In search of…”), the first of the sonata’s three movements, we meet the two themes that run throughout this work. The first appears immediately: a repetitive idea that keeps to a narrow range and never changes from steady quarter notes. Soon it is joined by the second theme in the bass, which leaps around within a wide range, is rhythmically and harmonically freer, and both complements and conflicts with Theme No. 1. In keeping with Norwegian folk music, Tveitt uses modes rather than traditional keys. The movement follows an unorthodox sonata form, in which the themes stay essentially the same, but are varied by rhythmic patterns, harmonic shifts, and textures. The overall sonic impression is very percussive. Frequent sustained notes in the bass imitate the drones used in Norwegian music.

The second movement, “Tono Etereo in Variazoni” (“Ethereal Tones in Variations”), is devoted mostly to the second theme. In its arresting opening, the pianist uses his left forearm to produce large tone clusters, which remain depressed throughout the entire Theme No. 2 entrance. This haunting sound—Katy Hamilton calls it “a halo of ghostly echoing harmonies”—creates sympathetic string resonances with the theme, etched out in staccato, as well as a drone effect. Eighteen fascinating variations follow, each different in tempo, mood, color, and figurations. Later, Theme No. 1 makes a surprise return, delicately played high in the right hand. The movement closes with the return of the shimmering tone clusters and the pointillistic etching of Theme No. 2.

The wild, percussive dance of “Tempo di Pulsazione” provides an electrifying finale. Theme No. 1 returns to dominate this relentless, motoric music. In the score, Tveitt keeps reminding the pianist to keep this driving pulse absolutely steady, without slowing or speeding up, although a more relaxed phase intervenes briefly in the middle. The density and volume of this music progressively increase until reaching fff possible (“as loud as possible”). Then the ghostly tone clusters of the second movement return for an otherworldly close.

Frédéric Chopin
24 Préludes, Op. 28
Frédéric Chopin was one of many great composers who worshipped at the shrine of Johann Sebastian Bach. Studying Bach’s scores since childhood, he drew many of his skills in contrapuntal writing from what he learned there. Of all Bach’s works, the one he prized most was the Well-Tempered Clavier: two sets of 24 preludes and fugues each in all the major and minor keys. Sometime in the early 1830s, he began his own response: the 24 Préludes, which also move through all the keys of classical harmony. However, while Bach’s preludes are organized by major keys followed by their tonic minors, then rising progressively by half steps (i.e. C major, C minor, C# major, etc.), Chopin’s alternate the major key with its relative minor, then rise by the harmonic circle of fifths (i.e. C major, A minor, G major, E minor, etc.).

There is yet another major difference between Bach’s and Chopin’s works. Bach’s preludes are followed by fugues and thus employ the prelude’s traditional meaning: a short piece introducing a longer piece. Chopin’s 24 Préludes do not introduce anything: they are complete, freestanding pieces, though of short duration. The longest are about five minutes in length, the shortest about half a minute. Yet these 24 pieces taken as a whole cover an extraordinary range of moods from serene to tragic, as well as a compendium of keyboard techniques. The true greatness of this work can only be fully appreciated when they are played together.

Chopin’s work on this project began at a relaxed tempo, but finished under dire conditions during the greatest physical and emotional crisis of his life. Having recently begun his long affair with the writer George Sand, in 1838 he and Sand decided to spend the fall and winter on the island of Majorca in an attempt to find a healthier climate for the frail composer. Planning to work there, Chopin packed his scores-in-progress as well as a copy of the Well-Tempered. He also purchased a new Pleyel piano and had it shipped to the island.
Then things started to fall apart. First the piano got stuck in customs, and Chopin had to make do with what he called a “wretched replacement.” Next, a diagnosis of tuberculosis forced the couple to be quarantined in a remote Carthusian monastery at Valldemosa in the mountains of northern Majorca. Then the weather changed from mild and sunny to cold and rainy. Although Chopin managed to recover his piano and began revising and completing the Préludes, the weather got worse. And in the damp chill of the monastery, Chopin health worsened. Finally, half-dead, he had to be evacuated back to France, but not before he succeeded in finishing the Préludes and sending them off for publication.

Living through all this turmoil and suffering, Chopin experienced extreme emotional ups and downs. Some days when he and the weather were better, he was happy and wrote of “everything breathing poetry” in Majorca. But often, as the Polish musician and podcaster Wojciech Oleksiak writes: “His letters would emanate the fear of death and consciousness of his own dashed hopes….These constant fluctuations of emotion are reflected in the preludes and are probably the main factor of them being so varied and sometimes so grave and harmonically uneasy.”

A Closer Listen
“The main feature of the cycle is that it is based on contrasts,” continues Oleksiak. “The preludes are varied in terms of expression (from ecstasy to despair), dynamics (from very quiet to clamorous), tempos (from slow to extremely fast), rhythm (from monotonic to ragged or loose), and color (from warm to rough).”

Chopin scholars have divided the preludes into seven categories, several of which correspond to individual pieces elsewhere in his oeuvre. The first category is “Idyllic,” referring to pieces in the major mode that flow without tension, use a quiet dynamic, and stick to a single theme. The first prelude, in C major, is a fine example. Deploying an ardent, optimistic theme, it ripples and rolls with triplet figurations and lasts just half a minute.

The next category is “Elegiac”: preludes that are in minor keys, have slow tempos, and are highly dramatic, with death looming in the air. With his worsening tuberculosis, Chopin was often obsessed by mortal fears. Preludes Nos. 2 and 4 belong to this group and were written during those grim days in Majorca. In No. 2, in A minor, a darkly tolling, dissonant accompaniment, in which the medieval chant “Dies irae” is embedded, continues throughout; over it, the right hand plays a weary, low-range melody in single notes. Chopin biographer Alan Walker calls it “one of [the composer’s] most desolate creations.” No. 4, in E minor, is one of the most popular preludes; it has even been quoted in popular music. Its beautiful, yearning melody eventually grows so intense that the tempo speeds up, before sinking back in resignation. Chopin requested this piece be played at his funeral.

“Scherzoidal”: No, it’s not some horrible disease, but a term for pieces in scherzo style, which use fast tempos, triple meter, and are humorous or agitated in mood. A good example is the wild Prelude No. 8 in F-sharp minor, which breaks the set’s early pattern of a quick major–mode piece followed by a slow one in minor. Marked Molto agitato, this is one of the most technically difficult to play, with its extreme speed and the juxtaposition of polyrhythms between the hands. Walker quotes Sand’s likening this prelude to “the eagles and vultures circling on the thermal currents around Valldemosa’s mountaintops, the better to swoop on their prey.”

The “Nocturnal” category references the nocturnes that Chopin famously specialized in. Here the best example is No. 15, in D-flat major, often called the Raindrop Prelude. This longest and most renowned has an incessant patter of A-flats throughout, which Sand likened to the raindrops pounding down on the monastery roof. (Chopin denied this.) Over them rises a serene and lovely melody in the right hand. Modulating to C-sharp minor, the middle section grows dark, even tragic as dissonant chords battle against the unchanged pattering.

Prelude No. 16, in B-flat minor, is an example of the “Ballad” category. Writes Oleksiak: “The Ballad preludes are very dynamic, explosive, and ‘out of breath’.… They are said to represent Chopin’s mortal struggles with his illness.” Marked Presto con fuoco and launched by six frenzied chords, this is a virtuoso whirlwind with relentless sixteenth notes twisted by chromaticism. For the pianist, this may well be the most demanding of all the preludes.

The apotheosis of the “Cantabile” or “Singing” preludes is No. 17, in the warm key of A-flat major. It features a soaring, exultant melody reminiscent of the bel canto arias of Vincenzo Bellini, one of Chopin’s favorite composers. Both Robert and Clara Schumann proclaimed this their choice of the set.

Rachmaninoff’s favorite prelude was No. 20, in C minor, which he used for his Op. 22 Variations on a Theme of Chopin. This is an example of the “Hymnic” category: slow-tempo pieces with the solemn chordal style of a hymn. Played predominantly in low register, this piece requires much hand crossing.

And finally, we come to the last prelude, No. 24, in D minor. Marked Allegro appassionato, this is the grand summation of the 24 Préludes. The key of D minor during that period was often associated with Death. Over the turbulence in the left hand, the right hand hurls out a heroically striving theme that gathers virtuoso embellishments along its way. No matter what he faces, Chopin’s spirit cannot be broken, even as the piano tumbles down to three fortissimo low D’s to complete his journey.
—Janet E. Bedell © 2025

Janet E. Bedell is a program annotator and feature writer who writes for Carnegie Hall, the Metropolitan Opera, Los Angeles Opera, Caramoor Festival of the Arts, and other musical organizations.