Mahler Chamber Orchestra
Mitsuko Uchida, piano and director

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Piano Concerto No. 18 in B-flat major, K. 456

“Mozart essentially invented the classical piano concerto and then elaborated the concerto’s potentialities of form and expression in a series of highly individual masterpieces. He unveiled a universe and then devoted himself to populating it with the most diverse creations.”
—Maynard Solomon in Mozart: A Life

Mozart and Beethoven scholar Maynard Solomon here eloquently sums up Mozart’s extraordinary contribution to the development of the piano concerto, epitomized by the 12 keyboard masterpieces he wrote in quick succession between 1784 and 1786. (In total, he would compose 27 piano concertos.) The impetus for such an outpouring of genius in a specific musical genre was the composer’s immense popularity as a keyboard soloist in Vienna during the middle of the 1780s. But with these works, he went far beyond creating vehicles simply to display his own virtuosity. Instead, he used them to explore different sides of his temperament and artistry. And he was as much concerned with the orchestra’s role in a concerto as the pianist’s: relishing the interplay between tutti and solo in the musical argument. Especially, he loved to exploit the colorful sonorities of the woodwind instruments.

On this program, we will hear two concertos, one very popular and the other too rarely heard. The Piano Concerto No. 21 is indeed a favorite with pianists and audiences, but, unaccountably, Concerto No. 18 in B-flat major is a work that receives far less attention. Perhaps this is because of its mostly gentle, lyrical style and its lack of dramatic conflict. However, its Andante is one of Mozart’s most beautiful and affecting slow movements, one well worth discovering.

No. 18 was composed for the extraordinarily talented pianist Maria Theresia von Paradis, who, despite being blind, was a sought-after soloist throughout Europe. Becoming a personal friend of the Mozart family, she naturally requested that Mozart write a concerto for her to play at her upcoming concerts in Paris; he obliged with this lovely, rather feminine work in September 1784. His father, Leopold, wrote about his son’s performance of the work at the Vienna Burgtheater before Emperor Joseph II in February 1785. Calling it a “magnificent concerto,” he recalled that he was so overcome “by hearing the interplay of the instruments…that tears came into my eyes for sheer delight.” He also noted that the Emperor rose to his feet, crying “Bravo, Mozart!” and doffing his hat to him.

A spirited, optimistic march, the first movement opens with the strings softly introducing a repeated-note fanfare motive, which is immediately repeated in higher range by the woodwinds. This establishes an equality between strings and winds that will characterize this concerto throughout. The strings resume their fleshing out of the principal subject, which has many components to be broken apart and developed long before the development section proper arrives.

All seems to be rolling along smoothly until a sudden pause just before we expect to hear the second subject. Instead, the strings “with a kind of cushioned shudder” (Michael Steinberg) suddenly introduces a chord of E-flat minor, and a darkly haunting interlude in B-flat minor follows. Bravely, the two oboes move the music back to major and introduce the birdlike second subject. Thus another important element of this concerto has announced itself: the tussle between major and minor modes that will keep the music from becoming too safe and predictable.

The jewel of this concerto is the slow second movement in G minor, which is theme-and-variations writing of sublime beauty and sadness. Strings introduce the sighing theme with its memorable pattern of three repeated notes that sink downward with the fourth note. This eloquent theme is in two sections, each repeated. And as Steinberg explains, beginning with the second variation, Mozart also varies the repeats, “so that the five variations actually turn out to offer nine different transformations of the theme.” The third and fourth variations present a striking contrast with each other. In the first of these, the orchestra breaks away from the gentle mood with strident fortes and angry dissonances. This rebellious music is quelled with the fourth variation’s surprise move to G major, and a soothing pastoral dialogue between woodwinds and the piano. A superb coda muses sorrowfully over the theme’s opening motive.

Again taking up the repeated-notes motive that has pervaded this concerto, the pianist launches a jaunty finale in the traditional rondo-sonata form and a bouncing 6/8 rhythm. This is the pianist’s moment toshine with keyboard brilliance, accentuated with wit. But if we think we can sit back and smile, the composer has another of his surprises in store late in the movement. A pause resets the meter to 2/4 and pushes the home key out of the way. For a few moments, turbulence reigns as the music explores distant minor keys. Topping this, the pianist decides to stick with the original 6/8 meter against the orchestra’s 2/4. Then, as if nothing has happened, the rondo returns and restores order for a vivacious finish.

Leoš Janáček
Mládi for Wind Sextet
No other composer had a career path quite like Leoš Janáček’s. Born to a poor family of musician/teachers in Moravia, he worked for decades in diligent obscurity as a teacher and conductor in the region’s capital, Brno. The greatest period of his creativity came after his 60th birthday, during the 12 years after his opera Jenůfa finally had its triumphant premiere in Prague in 1916. During that extraordinary decade, Janáček wrote his two string quartets, the Sinfonietta, and his finest operas Káťa Kabanová, The Cunning Little Vixen, The Makropoulos Affair, and From the House of the Dead—most of the works for which he is renowned today.

The wind sextet Mládí (“Youth”) was yet another chamber work that came from this miraculous final period. He wrote it to celebrate his 70th birthday, and those who knew him described the composer as extraordinarily youthful and full of vitality at that age. Much of the secret of this vitality was due to his passionate but platonic love affair with Kamila Stosslová, which was largely conducted through letters. Only half his age, she became his muse and inspiration.

Preparing to collaborate on a biography at this time, Janáček began collecting memories of his youth, part of it spent as a student at Brno’s Augustinian monastery. These reminiscences prompted Mládí, which is indeed as fresh and youthful as its title suggests. Written during the summer of 1924, Mládí was scored for a bright-toned ensemble of flute (sometimes doubling piccolo), oboe, clarinet, bass clarinet, bassoon, and horn.

All of Janáček’s music, whether vocal or instrumental, sprang from the rhythms of the Czech language he loved deeply. And thus, the Allegro first movement is built around a little downward-sighing theme announced at the very beginning by the oboe; it sets the Czech words “Mládí, zlaté mládí” (“Youth, golden youth”). This idea keeps returning between episodes of contrasting music in the minor mode and often faster tempos. The conclusion of the movement is a high-speed romp joyously recalling this theme over and over.

The bassoon introduces a nostalgic, slightly melancholic theme for the Andante sostenuto second movement, which is treated to a variations process and also interrupted by a fast, playful interlude. The nostalgic theme, however, has the last word, rounded off by a sigh from the flute and mutters of agreement from the bassoon.

Immediately before writing Mládí, Janáček had written a little march for piccolo, bells, and piano or tambourine, which he called the “March of the Bluebirds.” “Bluebirds” referred to the nickname of the Brno monastery boys, Janáček once among them, who wore blue coats and marched to a little whistling song. The third-movement scherzo features the shrill voice of the piccolo imitating the whistling. Two slower and tenderly melodic interludes briefly interrupt the march.

Reminiscences of the “Youth, golden youth” theme open the Allegro animato finale. Eventually, a bolder theme emerges, led by the horn. Janáček’s development of his “Youth” theme is stunningly imaginative throughout, as is his exploitation of all the members of his ensemble, juxtaposing their distinctive color characteristics. The close is a fast, brilliant salute to the “Youth” theme.

Mozart
Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K. 467
Even before Swedish director Bo Widerberg made its slow movement the theme music of his romantic film Elvira Madigan in 1967, Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major was one of his most popular concertos. But when it was premiered on March 10, 1785, the composer’s father, Leopold, was so alarmed by its dissonance that he thought the overworked copyist must have made an unusual number of mistakes. After all, his son was notorious for barely meeting his deadlines and had just completed the score the day before the premiere. But the notes were correct. In the sublime slow movement, Mozart demonstrated what the poet Baudelaire put into words a century later: “The Beautiful is always strange.”

This second movement is a soaring aria sung by pianist and orchestra, always hushed and breathing a nocturnal, dreamlike atmosphere. The orchestration is exquisite: muted strings magically blended with poignant woodwinds. But listen closely: in this song without words, soothing consonances constantly tumble into dissonances. Its harmonies always yearn toward keys far from the home key of F major. And its gentle flow is troubled by a nervous accompaniment.

Of course, this concerto also has two other movements, and the first especially matches the slow movement’s greatness. Expansive and leisurely, it is a remarkably subtle military march, with its stealthy opening “a tiptoed march in stocking feet” (the venerable Cuthbert Girdlestone). Listen for the charming gesture of oboe, bassoon, and flute gently beckoning the pianist onto the stage for her first solo.

The finale is a comic-opera rondo with a sly refrain and merrily mischievous contributions from the woodwinds. Here Mozart wakes his audience from the yearning dream of his slow movement and sends them home smiling.
—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.