Bohuslav Martinů
Symphony No. 1 Bohuslav Martinů Symphony No. 1

In Paris of the 1920s and 1930s, where Bohuslav Martinů was living at the time, the symphony was regarded as a somewhat dusty, old-fashioned genre. That was surely one of the reasons why the composer only turned to this branch of orchestral music once he was in exile in America. Then, however, he did so with full force. All six of his symphonies were written during his years in the United States between 1941 and 1953, and Martinů was already 52 when he began composing his First Symphony. Although he ordinarily composed with remarkable speed, the work stretched over many months. He himself claimed that he was not sufficiently “prepared” for the symphonic genre. And yet the initiative for the work had come from him. In 1941, he expressed in a letter to Serge Koussevitzky, then chief conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his wish to write a large-scale work for the orchestra. Koussevitzky issued the commission, but made no musical stipulations of any kind. The symphony – with a duration of around 35 minutes, one of Martinů’s longest orchestral works – is dedicated to the memory of Natalie Koussevitzky, the conductor’s wife, who had died shortly beforehand.

Martinů believed that a symphony should be built from the simplest possible elements. In the case of the First Symphony, this is a pair of chords – B minor and B major – which resounds at the very beginning of the work, is combined with various chromatic runs, and serves as the point of departure for a melancholy string theme. This characteristic motif reappears later in the third and fourth movements. Rhythmically, in the opening movement Martinů works with irregular dance figures of the kind frequently found in Janáček, and comparatively easy to realise within a 6/8 metre. Sonorous dissonances – perhaps mastered by Martinů like no other – combine with unusual timbres and supple harmonic textures to form an orchestral mélange with an impressionistic flair. The sheer colourfulness of the score demonstrates what Martinů had learned in Paris from his mentor Albert Roussel. Later in the movement, an important wind theme emerges as if from nowhere, beginning with a pendulum-like oscillation between two notes, then gradually gaining contour and shaping the final section.

The second movement, an exuberant, almost wild Scherzo, fuses irregular rhythms with dance-like elements. It has tremendous drive, even when the oboe strikes up a folk-song-like melody. The Ländler-like trio section, introduced by flutes and oboes with a pastoral tune, offers a strong contrast to the forward-driving main part, which at times can sound almost bombastic.

A wholly different sound world is opened up by the following deep and searching Largo – perhaps one of the most beautiful slow movements Martinů ever wrote. Cellos and double basses first present a circling idea, from which a melody then unfolds in the upper strings and woodwinds – seemingly endless – and eventually reaches a first climax under the piano’s incisive accents. The movement then brightens; the piano figurations, too, grow lighter, and the cor anglais contributes an expressive solo. But before long, this episode yields once again to the expansive lament of the opening, which, after another sonic climax, dies away in a spirit of reconciliation.

Light, dance-like, rhythmically pointed and rich in colour, the finale begins. This character is repeatedly interrupted by expressive intermezzi, yet in the end rhythm, tempo and the sheer joy of playing prevail.