Edward Elgar
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in B minor, op. 61

At the beginning of the 20th century, Edward Elgar had achieved his ambitions: knighted by King Edward VII, awarded honorary doctorates by the universities of Oxford and Cambridge, and known – indeed, famous – throughout the world. Around two decades earlier, he had already begun composing a violin concerto, but had not been satisfied with it and had destroyed the drafts. The violin virtuoso Fritz Kreisler provided an impetus for Elgar to revisit the project. In a newspaper article in 1905, Kreisler had placed the composer alongside Beethoven and Brahms, concluding his tribute with the words: “I wish Elgar would write something for the violin.” A few weeks later, Elgar sketched his first ideas for a violin concerto, and in 1909, the London Philharmonic Society formally commissioned the work. A violinist himself, Elgar knew how to write for the instrument; nevertheless, he sought advice from his friend William H. “Billy” Reed, the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra. After a private test performance in which Reed played the violin part with the composer accompanying him on the piano, the piece was premiered by Kreisler at Queen’s Hall. The opus number 61 was probably no coincidence: Elgar had likely arranged it deliberately so that his sole contribution to this genre bore the same catalogue number as that of Ludwig van Beethoven, for he was a great admirer of German music.

The three-movement work is among the longest violin concertos in the repertoire, lasting well over three-quarters of an hour. Two of Elgar’s particular talents come to the fore in this piece: his ability to invent striking themes and his skill in developing these themes, subtly transforming them, and establishing underlying relationships. Thus, in this monumental work, virtually nothing is repeated, no bar is exactly the same as another, yet it conveys a profound sense of unity. The first movement follows sonata form with significant deviations. The first theme, initially presented quite forcefully by the full orchestra, is soon supplemented by additional ideas that play an important role. The four opening notes of the main theme, repeatedly varied in rhythm, shape the entire movement, just as the step of a second interval characterises almost all thematic beginnings. The solo violin does not enter with grandeur, but rather introspectively in a low register (“nobilmente” is the performance instruction), and only with the second phrase of the main theme, when the orchestra is repeating the first. In this way, the solo instrument enters like someone thoughtfully joining an ongoing conversation – imbuing the theme, delivered so powerfully by the orchestra, with an entirely different, contemplative expression: this is just one of many examples of how Elgar, by altering only a few parameters, achieves a profound transformation in the character of his themes.

In the Andante, too, listeners encounter the kinship of diversity, similarity even in contrasts. Here again, the main theme introduced by the orchestra is not so much repeated by the solo instrument as joined by it, with the violin playing a kind of complementary melody in counterpoint. The variations through which themes are ornamented, enriched, and alienated, are inexhaustible. Syncopations lend the themes a flexible, forward-driving momentum: the music never stands still. In the highly virtuosic finale, Elgar treats the violin as a storyteller – sometimes appearing thoughtful and wise, at other times carried away by its own exuberant imagination. This journey reaches its climax in the Cadenza accompagnata of the finale: a cadenza not only for the final movement, but for the entire concerto.