Boris Tchaikovsky (1925-1961)
Sinfonietta for string orchestra (1953)
Sonatina (Allegretto)
Waltz (Allegro molto)
Variations (Adagio)
Rondo (Presto)
Boris Tchaikovsky belongs to the group of major Russian composers of the "Soviet era" (along with
Miaskovsky, Vainberg, Shebalin, Sviridov, Lokshin), that is just beginning to be discovered outside
of Russia. While these composers share certain characteristics, each of them has a distinctive
voice and personality, and if to "label" B. Tchaikovsky, it would be as a "lyrical classicist"
composer. Prolifically working in the full range of genres -- symphonies, operas, chamber music,
lieder, instrumental concertos, music for cinema -- B. Tchaikovsky in his musical subjects and
personages would always find light and kindness, and give them prevailing exposure. In Boris
Tchaikovsky's musical world, the passionate sweep of his namesake predecessor turns into a gentle,
tender caress, the driven intensity of Shostakovich into restful pastoral, and the biting
sarcasm of Prokofiev into charming humor. As will be evident to the listeners of his Sinfonietta,
his writings are filled with wonderfully memorable melodic material.
Alfred Schnittke (1934-1998)
Lamento for Strings (1980)
(
String quartet No. 2, arranged by Misha Rachlevsky)
Moderato
Agitato
Mesto
Moderato
(Played without pause)
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samples
Until the mid-eighties, when ideological oppression in Russia was lifted, the works of Schnittke had a very difficult path getting to the major concert stages of the country. At the same time, his music was heard by millions, as Schnittke was one of the most sought-after composers for movies and television. In 1980 he was working on a movie with a brilliant young Russian film director, Larisa Shepitko. Then tragedy struck - Larisa died in a fatal car accident. The second string quartet was written shortly thereafter, and dedicated to her memory.
Knowledge of these circumstances convincingly "de-codes" this work, making it nearly a piece of program music. The four movements of this composition unfold a chain of events similar to the emotional steps, which often accompany the parting of a loved one. The first movement is unsettled and questioning, somewhat unreal, perhaps even with reticent hope of "just a bad dream". The anguished second movement takes under seven minutes, but seems to last forever. A remarkable transformation takes place: the beginning of the movement throws everyone into horror and complete disorientation, but when the same material returns at the end of the movement, strangely, it appears orderly, nearly victorious, just like the relief of reaching the final destination of a long journey. The third movement makes this composition perhaps the most "Russian" of Schnittke's instrumental output, as it invokes the distinct image of a Russian liturgical service, substituting choruses of the Russian Orthodox Church with strings. By then, the tragedy is a reality, and its bottomless grief is passionately expressed. The concluding fourth movement completes the cycle by bringing a sense of acceptance, even serenity.
In 1994, a Schnittke Festival, commemorating the 60th birthday of the composer, was held in Moscow, and Chamber Orchestra KREMLIN was invited to present a concert. Wanting to include a new work in the program, I asked the composer for his permission to arrange his Second String Quartet for string orchestra. His sincere, enthusiastic endorsement of this idea was a most rewarding, humbling experience for yours truly.
Rodion Shchedrin (b. 1932)
Russian Photographs (1994)
Ancient town Aleksin
Cockroaches throughout Moscow
Stalin-cocktail
Evening bells
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samples
Profession of performing musician has many rewards. One of the highest of them is in an opportunity to work with composers, have them hear the rehearsals, offer comments and suggestions. Collaboration with Shchedrin began with a bang – a concert of his works at the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory. From the very first time we played for him it was clear, that we are very much on the same wave-length as to interpretation of his music, and a wonderful relationship, both professional and personal, was forged practically immediately.
Shchedrin’s music is well known in Russia and internationally, and there are many performers, including some of the best known names on the scene, who always welcome opportunity to present his compositions. This is not surprising, as one could hardly find a better vehicle for captivating the audience.
This is not only music with wonderful melodic material, masterful development and colorful orchestration. There is also a message, subject, story – can’t quite find a single word to describe it. I guess the best way to describe my own view of it is to say that Shchedrin’s music is always about something. And what separates him from many other is that this very something is very definable, nearly tangible image. The Russian Photographs is a cycle of four movements - or, one could say, four stories. The frozen time in the Ancient town of Aleksin - playing or listening to this movement is like slowly turning pages of an album of old lithographs. Cockroaches throuout Moscow is a portrait of a modern city, but rather than taking a birdview of it, it examines the level under the surface of the city, with its own life. Stalin-cocktail is a movement, which forces both, performers and the audience to take a position – what sounds funny to some terrifies the others. Then comes all-unifying “The Evening Bells”.
The Russian Photographs places considerable technical and emotional demands on performers, but what glorious rewards!
Franz Schubert (1797-1828)
Death and the Maiden, D. 810 (1824)
(String quartet in D minor, arranged by Misha Rachlevsky)
Allegro
Andante con moto
Scherzo: Allegro molto
Presto
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samples
Music aficionados might notice that we do not use Mahler's arrangement of Death and the Maiden for string orchestra, but my own. The reason is simple - the "divisi" (sub-division into two or more parts within one group of instruments) in Mahler's version clearly suggests large performing forces, as he had at his disposal. Other than that, Mahler's version deviates very little from the original, and mine is yet less so. Why then, one could ask, mention Mahler at all?
Well, because. While the practice of performing arrangements and, in this case, taking one of the true shrines of quartet literature and expanding it to full string orchestra, is becoming accepted on concert stages, it still has its detractors, and having protagonists such as Mahler and Bernstein (with Beethoven's Op. 131) certainly strengthens the position of the "pro-arrangements" clan.
As unbelievable as it seems to us now, this quartet, written in 1826, two years before Schubert's death, was rejected by the music publishers as uninteresting. The first performance took place in Berlin in 1833, five years after the composer's death; the reviewer wasn't kind to Schubert, criticizing the work's "irregular harmonic progressions".
Time did the justice to the work, however, and now Death and the Maiden is one of the most beloved works in repertoire. Incidentally, the piece was nicknamed after Schubert's death, based on the title of one of Schubert's songs which he had "re-arranged" (aha!) for the theme of the second movement.
And as for Mahler, although he finished an
arrangement of the entire work (and even began arranging some of
Schubert's other quartets), he conducted only one movement - the
variations - in a single concert in Hamburg on November 19, 1894.
Discouraged by the criticism that he deprived Schubert's quartet of
its intimacy, he did not pursue performance of the complete work.
This did not stop him, however, from reviving this practice four
years later, when he moved from Hamburg to Vienna. There he
completed the arrangement of Beethoven's Quartet in F minor, Op. 95,
and performed it in its entirety.
Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)
Octet for strings (1825)
Allegro moderato ma con fuoco
Andante
Scherzo. Allegro leggierissimo
Presto
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samples
Many years ago I heard an interesting view on Mendelssohn's place in the hierarchy of history's greatest composers, and while this theory is somewhat odd, perhaps there is something to it.
A few fellow musicians and I were reading through some of Mendelssohn's chamber works, not the most popular ones, like the Octet, but those hardly ever heard in concert. We were all quite astonished by the beauty of the music and the exquisite craftsmanship of writing, and the conversation turned to discussing Mendelssohn's musical heritage in general. It was easy to agree that Mendelssohn is commonly viewed as "lightweight" when compared with Brahms or Schumann. It is true, the most noticeable attributes of his musical style are grace, elegance, fragile lightness, and for most part, the moods and subjects he deals with are that of happiness and content, rather than the ferocious struggle of Beethoven, the passionate soul-searching of Schumann or the global monumentalism of Brahms. But in his territory, Mendelssohn has few rivals.
So, in discussing this "image problem" at the above-mentioned sight-reading session, one of my colleagues offered this comment: "We just can't forgive Mendelssohn for not suffering enough, as most other great composers had to." Indeed, as we glance at the biographies of great creators - not just composers, but writers, artists - it is obvious that beyond the rich and eventful life one would expect them to have, they had a far greater share of turmoil and suffering than statistically allocated as average. Food for thought, isn't it?
As for Mendelssohn, he indeed was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His family was not only one of the most prosperous and cultured in Germany, but one enhanced with strong discipline (5 am for daily arrisal, 6 am on Sundays) and the best tutoring on all subjects, including music, where Mendelssohn's precocious talents were quickly discovered and strongly supported.
The Mendelssohn mansion became the site for twice-monthly concerts, and in 1822 a summerhouse was fitted as a concert hall where several hundred people were invited every Sunday for a concert featuring works of standard repertoire and the newest compositions of Mendelssohn. For these concerts the 13-year old selected the programs, led the rehearsals, appeared as a solo pianist and even conducted some programs, standing on a stool so to be seen by the musicians. And, of course, he composed -- by 1825, when, at 16, he created a true shrine of chamber music literature, the Octet, he was author of some 80 works , including thirteen string Sinfonias, operas and operettas, concertos, motets and much chamber music.
So, is history fair to Mendelssohn? Listen, and judge for yourself!
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)
String Sextet No. 2 in G major, Op. 36 (1866)
Arranged by Misha Rachlevsky
Allegro non troppo
Scherzo: Allegro non troppo
Adagio
Poco Allegro
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samples
There are some very good and "proper" answers that are routinely given to the question of why transcriptions are made - to expand the repertoire, to introduce the works to larger audiences (or, conversely, to afford the possibility of performing a work in an intimate setting), to bring out additional colors which the arranger hears "hidden" in the composition. True as those answers may be, when a transcription is done by a performing musician, the dominating reason, I believe, is the desire to perform a given work which happened to be written for a different instrument or configuration of instruments. This is certainly true in my case for the majority, if not all, transcriptions I have made.
The resulting works differ in the degree each deviates from the original, and in the instance of Brahms' Sextet, this deviation is one of the smallest, if compared with other "stolen / borrowed" works in our repertoire.
Those interested in the evolution of the public's musical taste should find Brahms an interesting case to explore. During his lifetime, recognition of his talent was far from universal. Detractors saw in him a retrograde, whose devotion to pure classicism was a throw-back to the exploration of new musical horizons, charted by demonic Wagner. He was often accused of dullness, and no less a figure than George Bernard Shaw wrote excruciatingly denunciatory articles about his music. His "anti-fan club" included Hugo Wolf, Gustav Mahler, Piotr Tchaikovsky. There is a much-repeated legend of the 1900 opening of Symphony Hall in Boston, when the "Exit in Case of Fire" sign was temporarily renamed "Exit in Case of Brahms". Today, however, Brahms is one of the top crowd-drawing names, and the catalog of his works is remarkably fully represented on concert stages and in recordings. And very deservedly so.
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
Serenade for Strings, Op. 48
(1880)
Pezzo in forma di sonatina: Andante non troppo - Allegro moderato
Valse: Moderato. Tempo di Valse
Elegie: Larghetto elegiaco
Finale (Tema Russo): Andante - Allegro con spirito
Listen to audio
samples
The music of Tchaikovsky creates an illusion that it arrived in this world absolutely effortlessly (like the music of Mozart, Tchaikovsky's favorite composer). It is indeed so at times, but far not always, and the supremacy of the results of his numerous revisions, from corrections to major rewrites, convincingly illustrate Tchaikovsky's saying that "the muse doesn't come without being called". The Serenade for String Orchestra (the correct Russian title, although in the West it is customarily called "Serenade for Strings"), written in a relatively short time in September - October 1880 (simultaneously with the 1812 Overture), was definitely one of those happy instances: ".. it poured from the heart" wrote Tchaikovsky. Another lucky moment was the immediate and unanimous success of this work.
The Serenade quickly rose to the top tier of the works Tchaikovsky was scheduling for the concerts he conducted himself, and under his baton was heard in many major European music centers as well as in his 1891 visit to the States, where he conducted it in Baltimore and Philadelphia. It seem that the composer himself was nearly embarrassed for the affection he felt for this work: (from his letter to Nadezhda von Meck, his pen-friend and patroness): "The first movement is my homage to Mozart, it is intended to be an imitation of his style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way approached my model. Do not laugh, dear lady, at my zeal for standing up for my latest creation. Perhaps my parental feelings are so warm because it is the youngest child of my fancy".
While the whole composition is heard on a single breath, so to speak, the two inner movements are extraordinary. The Waltz is exquisite, and the Elegy is one of the most moving, heartfelt statements in music. Again, from Tchaikovsky's letter to Nadezhda von Meck: "It is often said that good actors never perform for a whole audience. They choose one person in the theater who appears to be a compassionate soul and perform the entire piece with the aim of pleasing only him or her". There are not too many scores that can rival this Elegy as a medium to address "a compassionate soul".
Two points about Serenade which I learned
recently, while not being anything significant, are amusing, and I
will share them with you. In his letter to Jurgenson, his publisher,
Tchaikovsky revealed that he first conceived this work as a
symphony, then thought that his sketches could be appropriate for a
string quartet or an orchestral suite, and finally decided
("inspired", as he wrote) on Serenade for String Orchestra.
And again, from Tchaikovsky's letter to Nadezhda von Meck,
written after the Serenade was completed, but did not yet have its
official premiere performance: "I wish you could hear my Serenade
performed properly. It loses so much played at the piano, and I
think that the middle movements played by the violins would win your
heart". On the piano? Yes, a very common practice before the
invention o f the phonograph, and even some time after. In the
summer of 1881 von Meck hired a 18-year-old Paris Conservatory
student to play four-hand piano pieces with her as well as to give
piano lessons to her children. He also did some transcriptions on
her request, and the excerpts from Swan Lake became his first
published scores. The name of a young man? Claude Debussy.
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
Souvenir de Florence, Op. 70 (1890-1892)
Allegro con spirito
Adagio cantabile e con moto
Allgretto moderato
Allegro vivace
It is interesting how some things
experienced in childhood affect our perception for many years to
come. Of the few things that I remember from my years at elementary
school one stands out, perhaps because it proves its validity time
after time. Our teacher showed us a reproduction of Leonardo da
Vinci's "Mona Lisa" and said: "Now you all can move around the
classroom, but keep looking at her, and you'll notice that Mona
Lisa's eyes follow you wherever you go." After we had a jolly time
enjoying this never-before-allowed freedom of movement during a
lesson and indeed amusing ourselves with Mona Lisa's ability to
"watch" us (Communist Party leaders, looking at us from the
portraits on the walls, could not do that), order in the classroom
was re-established, and the teacher asked us to give our own reasons
and explanations for Mona Lisa's smile. Another round of jolly
moments, as our interpretations were all so different. She
summarized the subject with something like this: "One piece of great
art makes all people feel the same, another piece of great art makes
people feel a variety of emotions, but one thing is constant: great
art always makes people feel."
If not for this lesson, perhaps today I would indulge myself in poking fun at some musicologists for describing Souvenir de Florence as, for instance "suffused with an atmosphere not often associated with this composer, of a calm geniality". Calm geniality? Well, perhaps indeed for some. (An old joke: Texas man, looking at Niagara Falls: "Our plumber could fix this leak in a couple of hours."). For me, this is one of the most turbulently passionate works in all music literature! Written in the winter of 1890, shortly after returning from Italy where Tchaikovsky had been working on his opera "The Queen of Spades", it was perhaps indeed intended to be a light detour from the dark drama of the opera. It did not go this way, however. Tchaikovsky had complained to his brother, Modest, that he felt under great strain working on it. Yet he was very pleased with the results - until he heard it performed. Greatly dissatisfied, he completely rewrote two movements - it was at this time that the title "Souvenir de Florence" was added. Unlike "Capriccio Italien", composed some ten years earlier and full of Italian quotations, this work is decidedly Russian, with only the gorgeous bel-canto in the second movement suggesting a possible link to the title. Italy was a place where Tchaikovsky spent some of the happiest moments of his life which, perhaps, could be a key to the naming of the piece. The first performance of the revised version took place in 1892, led by the great Russian violinist and pedagogue Leopold Auer (teacher of Heifetz, Milstein and Zimbalist, among others), and had great success.
Tchaikovsky saw a great challenge in writing this work - a sextet for two violins, two violas and two cellos - in such a way as to give prominence to each voice. He succeeded magnificently. Performances of this work in string orchestra version are very common nowadays, and, strangely enough, multiplication of performing forces does not complicate, but rather helps in achieving the proper balance and allowing every voice to be heard. (There is actually a simple, albeit very technical, explanation of this phenomenon.)
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
String Quartet No. 3 in E flat minor, Op. 30 (1876)
(arranged by Misha Rachlevsky)
Andante sostenuto - Allegro moderato - Andante sostenuto
Allegretto vivo e scherzando
Andante funebre e doloroso, ma con moto
Allegro non troppo e risoluto
Quickly, how many works can you name which were written to celebrate the birth of a child? Wagner's
Siegfried Idyll, .... um....hurmph..... Well, that is what I came up with when confronted with this
question. And as a farewell to those departed from this world? A much easier task -- even in this
tour's repertoire there are two such compositions -- Schnittke's Lamento for Strings, dedicated to
his friend and collaborator movie director Larisa Shepitko who died in a car crash, and Tchaikovsky's
Third Quartet, dedicated to violinist Ferdinand Laub, whose untimely death caused Tchaikovsky to
be greatly distraught. In both instances the impact of loss induced a creative surge, and the
results are superb in both cases, as different as they are in musical language and philosophical
content.
In the notes to some other composition on this tour, I quoted the opening sentence of Leo
Tolstoy's Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in
its own way." Indeed, the emotional spectrum of tragedy is much broader than that of happiness,
and, as such, provides greater inspiration and a broader range for self-expression, for both
composers and performers alike.
In many ways, Tchaikovsky's Third Quartet is
very symphonic. Its form, thematic material, size, depth of
development - everything is pushed to the maximum. It isn't,
however, one of those works which "plays itself". Among
Tchiakovsky's compositions, as well as those by other great
melodists such as Mozart or Schubert, there are works which appear
to have an incredible immunity to the most mundane performances,
which still manage to satisfy some listeners. Not so in this case.
It is marvelous when played by a great string quartet and
practically intolerable in less capable hands (the same is true with
Beethoven's Grosse Fuge,
Op. 133, for example). But even in the best quartet performances of Tchaikovsky's Third, I always crave
for larger forces, and by making this arrangement for string orchestra, I can, at
least partially, satisfy this feeling. It is interesting that the "symphonism" of this quartet was noted
very soon after it was written, as Glazunov made an arrangement of its slow
movement for string orchestra.
Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904)
Serenade for Strings in E minor, Op. 22
(1875)
Moderato
Tempo di Valse
Scherzo: Vivace
Larghetto
Finale: Allegro vivace
Listen to audio
samples
Just like delivering good news to someone has a positive rub-off effect on the messenger, performing Dvorak's Serenade is really a very therapeutic endeavor for performers. There is so much "pure goodness" in it. Somehow even the moments which could cast a gloomy shadow - light melancholy of the Waltz, or the fragility of the opening of Larghetto - retain the wonderfully cloudless atmosphere. Usually large scale compositions have drama, tension, conflict -- the tools which help the performer "to take a position", interpreting work from his/her unique angle. If to compare a dozen great performances of Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony with another dozen of equally great performances of his Nutcracker Suite, the range of differences in interpretation will be far greater in the former. ("Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Lev Tolstoy, the opening sentence of "Anna Karenina"). The remarkable thing about Dvorak's Serenade - this "cloudless goodness" is fully sufficient for sustaining meaningful communication for nearly half an hour of music.
While the circumstances surrounding creation of the work and the emotional content of the resulting composition far not always go hand in hand, in this particular instance they do. In the summer of 1874 the recently married Dvoraks were expecting their first child. Dvorak was employed as the organist at one of Prague's churches - a position which did not create any problems for getting qualifying papers from the City Hall, documenting his poverty. With these papers, and a healthy stack of his recent scores (which included two symphonies, orchestral overtures, songs and some chamber music), he applied for a government grant. A distinguished jury, which included Johannes Brahms, did not fail to recognize the "genuine and original gifts", and on their recommendation, the Minister of Culture presented Dvorak with the highest stipend available under this program. Little wonder that the announcement of this grant stimulated an outburst of creativity. And it was in this happy wave, that Serenade for Strings was completed in just 11 days.
Josef Suk (1874-1935)
Serenade for Strings in E-flat major, Op. 6
(1892)
Andante con moto
Allegro ma non troppo e grazioso
Adagio
Allegro giocoso, ma non troppo presto
Listen to audio
samples
The name Josef Suk rolls off one's tongue far too easily for a composer whose music is hardly known outside the Czech Republic. This is largely thanks to his grandson, an outstanding Czech violinist Josef Suk who presently enjoys a very active career as soloist and chamber musician. To complicate matters a bit, it should be noted that the first-mentioned Josef Suk (who cannot be called Josef Suk Sr., because he, in turn, was the son of yet another Josef Suk, also a musician and his first and important teacher. The youngest known to me in the dynasty of Josef Suks, the above-mentioned violinist, is the great-grandson of Antonin Dvorak. So, if you are still with me, you've probably already figured out that Josef Suk, the composer of Serenade for Strings, was married to Dvorak's daughter. And from this point on, he is the only Josef Suk we will be talking about, and the fact that he was a brilliant violinist and founder of the Czech (formerly Wihan) Quartet, with which during 41 years (1892-1933) he gave over 4,000 performances, should not have him confused with his violinist grandson, whom I will not risk calling Josef Suk Jr., because should he have a son or grandson of his own, I am pretty sure that the clan's tradition will not be broken.
The Serenade was written on the recommendation of Dvorak, who felt that the 18-year-old composer, at that time his student at the Conservatory, should broaden the emotional content of his compositions, which to that point were very dark and tragic, and write something more cheerful. The result was splendid. While Dvorak's influence is quite apparent, it is very much original music. Although the overall spirit of the Serenade is indeed cheerful, Suk was unable to stay within just the happy moods, and in this respect his Serenade differs drastically from that of Dvorak's.
I planned to close this note by mentioning that the great promise shown by the young composer did not seem to materialize. Out of curiosity I opened a catalog of his works and found there a great many compositions for orchestra, chamber ensembles and piano, which I have never heard. So, I will withhold my comments, but this discovery spawned an idea for an alternative ending:
In Soviet years, during attacks on Solzhenitsyn, there were staged meetings at which "volunteers" from various social groups were made to express their distaste for the "smearing lies about our wonderful life and devoted government" in his books. Once someone managed to voice a question to a particularly zealous orator: "Have you read any of Solzhenitsyn's books?" The answer was a resounding "No, I have no interest in these repulsive lies." This is a true story, and the orator's answer is more thoughtful than it may seem at first, because at that time reading one of Solzhenitsyn's books was a crime severely punishable by law. Now, after this mind-bender, to figure out who is who among the Josef Suks is a relative piece of cake, excuse the pun.
Richard Strauss (1864-1949)
Metamorphoses (1945)
Listen to audio
samples
Time and time again we find ourselves faced with the fact that the works created out of pain and turmoil far outnumber those that arrived in this world under happy, content circumstances. And, exceptions notwithstanding (and among them there are some glorious compositions), more than the quantity, the quality of music and strength of the message are also superior. Strauss wrote Metamorphoses in 1945, upon seeing the destroyed opera houses in Munich and Dresden.
I will not even attempt to write about the music itself, the often quoted phrase of Strauss’ compatriot, Henrich Heine “when the words end, music starts” rings very true here. Hence, a couple related points.
Many, if not most musicians (and yours truly among them) would vary performance of the work from concert to concert. Over the years the difference in one’s perception of the score could change dramatically, but even repeating the same composition the day after a given performance usually brings in some changes. (For many years I did not believe that one can play identically and not sound stale and insincere. Then I performed with a soloist, who at all the rehearsals and then in concerts four nights in a row played absolutely identically - and gloriously beautiful, captivating everybody on stage and in the hall at every performance.) As for myself, some works would deviate just a little, other more so, but still, the general outline for a given night is always clear before I give the first beat. When, many years ago, I began conducting the Metamorphoses I was surprised to see how far I would deviate from the prepared “game plan” both at rehearsal runs through and then at concerts. This is not unusual in the initial stages of adding new works to the repertoire, but as a rule once the work “settles”, one gets a good degree of predictability as of how “the tune will go tonight”. Surely, many things will still affect the performance – acoustics of a hall new to us is one of them (presence of an audience sometimes noticeably change it from a rehearsal in an empty hall), the way we “link” to the audience in the previous compositions, some other factors. Well, many years and many performances behind me I am now happily accepting the fact that “metamorphoses” will take place during the performance, and I count my blessings for having this marvelously flexible and responsive orchestra in front of me.
And another point. Strauss originally wrote
Metamorphoses for 23 solo strings. Or did he? A few years ago a
score of Metamorphoses for a string septet was discovered, and it is
believed that it was completed shortly before the commonly known
version. In our case, we perform this work in a transcription for
Kremlin’s configuration, which is a bit smaller, than Strauss’ score
calls for, yet every note of the original is played. The
transcription by Vladislav Bezroukov, concertmaster of the
orchestra, enables us to perform this piece both in Moscow and on
tour.
