Rediscovering Beethoven’s Concerto Op. 61

The following article was originally presented in the album booklet of the album: Beethoven’s Forgotten Piano Concerto, available now on CD and streaming.

It chronicles the historical context behind and the process of realizing Beethoven’s piano concerto, op. 61a. I performed the solo on an original Broadwood fortepiano from 1806, collaborating with concertmaster Rachael Beesley to direct my ensemble, Das Neue Mannheimer Orchester.

The Creation of Beethoven’s Op. 61

*Josef Willibrord Mähler, Portrait of Ludwig van Beethoven, around 1804–1805, Sammlung Wien Museum*

While our performance involves the piano transcription of Beethoven’s violin concerto, it is impossible to speak of this work without first discussing the genesis of the violin original. Today, Beethoven’s violin concerto is one of the most celebrated works of the entire classical music oeuvre. While extremely technically challenging for the violinist, it remains one of Beethoven’s most breathtakingly sublime works, with its magnificent scope, sweeping grandeur, tender meditations, and striking emotional intensity, all worked into a structure whose scale dwarfs concerti written by Beethoven’s contemporaries. Beginning with a solo militaristic drum, the work explores a diverse range of topics and genres: from its serious, heroic, monumental opening movement, to the serene Romance in the second movement, to the closing rondo’s rousing rustic pastorale that erupts into exuberant transports. However, the lesser-known piano version is rarely performed today; regardless, the fantastic qualities of the concerto remain equally evident in this version.

The violin concerto was perhaps inspired by violin concerti of the French school, written by teachers at the Paris Conservatoire like Pierre Rode, Rudolphe Kreutzer, and Pierre Baillot. Beethoven’s work was originally composed as a commission by the Viennese violinist Franz Clement (1780-1842), who premièred the concerto in 1806. Clement showed talent at an early age as a child prodigy on the violin. He soon distinguished himself as a virtuoso and also composed. In addition, Clement was an important personality in the early nineteenth-century Viennese music scene, and in 1802, he was appointed concertmaster at the Theater an der Wien. He was good friends with Beethoven and tried to promote Beethoven’s works to the Viennese public.

Clement premièred the violin concerto at the Schauspielhaus an der Wien on 23 December 1806. The work was met with a mixed reception. While generally received with approbation, the attitude of the connoisseur was summarized in a statement by the critic Johann Nepomuk Möser:

With regard to Beethhofen’s [sic] concerto, the opinion of all connoisseurs is the same; while they acknowledge that it contains some fine things, they agree that the continuity often seems to be completely disrupted, and that the endless repetitions of a few commonplace passages could easily lead to weariness. It is being said that Beethhofen [sic] ought to make better use of his admittedly great talents, [...] It is feared, though, that if Beethoven continues to follow his present course, it will go ill both with him and the public. The music could soon fail to please anyone not completely familiar with the rules and difficulties of the art. Burdened by a host of unconnected and piled-up ideas, and a continual tumult of different instruments which should merely create a characteristic effect at their entry, one could only leave the concert with an unpleasant sense of exhaustion.
(Translated by Robin Stowell)

*Thomas Hardy, Portrait of Muzio Clementi, 1794*

Like many of Beethoven’s most famous works at their premières, the violin concerto was met with audience confusion and a generally lukewarm reception that limited its popularity. There were further sporadic performances around Europe by other violinists in the first decades of the nineteenth century including Luigi Tomasini Jr. (Berlin, 1812), Pierre Baillot (Paris, 1828), Henri Vieuxtemps (Vienna, 1834), Friedrich Barnbeck (Stuttgart, 1834), Karl Wilhelm Uhlrich (Leipzig, 1836), and Jerome Gulomy (Leipzig, 1841). However, it was not until the mid-nineteenth century that the true genius of the work was finally appreciated. On 27 May 1844, a landmark performance of the concerto was given by the then twelve-year-old violin prodigy Joseph Joachim under the baton of Felix Mendelssohn at the Royal Philharmonic Society in London. From this point onwards, the work became a mainstay in the concert hall. Regardless, some London reviewers voiced concerns that the concerto “has been generally regarded by violin-players as not a proper and effective development of the powers of that instrument”, i.e. not entirely idiomatic to the violin, and stretching the boundaries of what could be played effectively on that instrument.

The question of the suitability of the concerto for violin should be raised when considering Beethoven’s piano version. Mere months after its première by Clement in Vienna, Beethoven was already preparing an alternate version at the request of the pianoforte virtuoso Muzio Clementi, who was visiting Vienna at the time. At this stage in his career, Clementi’s fame had been secured, and he was the proud owner of a piano-building firm and publishing house. On this occasion, Clementi negotiated with Beethoven for the English publishing rights to a number of works, including an arrangement of the violin concerto for piano. Writing to his business partner Collard, Clementi exclaimed: “‘remember that the Violin Concerto he will adapt himself of which made their [sic] appearance in London for the first time anywhere and send it as soon as he can.”

Beethoven completed this transcription during 1807. It arrived in print in Vienna already in 1808 and finally in London by 1810. The transcription retains all of the orchestral parts unchanged but provides a new solo part adapted for piano alongside a number of substantive cadenzas and eingänge. Publishing transcriptions of violin concertos for piano was fairly common practice in this period, especially in order to sell prints to a wider market. Consequently, the cynic might view Beethoven’s preparation of a piano version as a purely commercial venture. Some musicologists like Alan Tyson called into doubt Beethoven’s authorship of the transcription, and Tyson suggested that it was, in fact, likely produced by his pupils Carl Czerny and Ferdinand Ries. Regardless of these conjectures, Robin Stowell points out that “the weight of available evidence suggests that Beethoven [...] undertook the piano adaptation himself.” Even if parts of it were compiled by his pupils, since “Beethoven checked and corrected their transcription,” “it must have met with his approval and should be recognised as his work.” Given Beethoven’s prowess as a fantastic composer and performer on the pianoforte, it is no surprise that much of the passage-work in this concerto is in fact very idiomatic for the piano; arguably more so than for the violin in many cases. For example, the octave leaps that open the solo in the first movement are technically demanding for the violinist, but prove trivial for the pianist. Further minor changes in the melodic lines of the solo are made and new accompanying textures are added for the left hand, masterfully re-imagining the concerto for the pianist. Despite this, the technical demands on the soloist are comparable to the difficulty of the other Beethoven piano concertos. The cadenza which Beethoven wrote for the first movement is one of the most creative and magnificent parts of the new work. It is certainly a tour de force for the piano and is augmented with the uncommon combination of an obbligato timpani which integrates and develops the famous drumbeat opening, showing the full extent of Beethoven’s genius. Clearly, despite its initial “failure,” Beethoven must have thought that a piano version of the concerto could give it new life and another chance at success. And although the piano version is often ignored today by most pianists, it is still an interesting, genuine Beethoven piano concerto that is worthy of acclaim for its own merits. At the very least, it gives pianists the opportunity to “steal” one of the greatest violin concerti ever written.

Performance Approach by the Artists

*Das Neue Mannheimer Orchester during the recording*

The Spirit of Romanticism

Our recording was completed during 5-6 February 2024 at the WestVest 90 Church in Schiedam, the Netherlands. In our search for a faithful, historically informed approach, we present the recording with a number of period instruments that match this work closely. Anders Muskens plays the solo on an original John Broadwood & Sons grand pianoforte built in London in 1806 and represents exactly the type of piano that would have been available in London at the time of the concerto’s transcription and publication. It was tuned in Young’s temperament. Rachael Beesley takes the leading concertmaster role, playing an original Franz Geissenhof violin made in Vienna in 1811. Furthermore, timpanist Rubén Castillo del Pozo plays original Schraubenpauken made around 1780 in Bavaria, with 580 mm and 600 mm diameters and SonnbergTM goat skins restored by Relinkbremen in 2017. The leader of the second violins, Pietro Battistoni, plays an original anonymous late eighteenth-century English violin, and the principal cellist Evan Buttar plays a cello by Jakob Weiss c.1740, on loan from the collection of the Dutch Musical Instruments Foundation (het Nationaal Muziekinstrumenten Fonds). Many more original and high-quality copies of instruments from Beethoven’s time were featured in the production, pitched at A=430.

Fortepiano by John Broadwood & Sons c. 1806 in the collection of Anders Muskens, used in the project.

However, our commitment to the period goes further than our choice of instruments. In our preparations, we sought to indulge in the emotionality of the Romantic aesthetic and dared to experiment with and incorporate aspects of nineteenth-century solo and orchestral performance practices. As many early Romantic theorists wrote, music was a language of pathos: of sentiments, sensibility, and sentimentality. To be an effective “feeling” musician, one has to have a vivid imagination, and paint all the various colours of human emotional expression with sound in a way that is inspired by genuine emotional experience. In the imagination of the Romanticist, and within the works of Beethoven, this is often found through the aesthetic category of the sublime, or as Hugh Blair describes it in 1783, “a kind of admiration and expansion of the mind; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state; and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well express.” While “the emotion is certainly delightful,” it is “serious,” such that “a degree of awfulness [expressing awe] and solemnity, even approaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height; very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beautiful objects.” It is through the majesty of the sublime that we dare to glimpse the infinite: the expanse, power, and extent of the wider universe, and “great power and force exerted” produces that irresistible expressive torrent that drives other thoughts out of our minds. Beethoven connected these qualities with his understanding of Nature and the spiritual, and these qualities became exceedingly present in his work as he entered his middle and late periods of composition. It was through all of the expressive devices afforded to us by our period instruments, as well as knowledge of the techniques and style of the period, that we sought to create these powerful effects in our interpretation.

Thus, we did not seek to restrict ourselves to the trappings of the “modern symphonic orchestra” sound: we wanted to find a mode of expression that was inherently more Romantic. Using a pioneering approach brought to prominence by Rachael Beesley, we explored many expressive devices that were integral to the Romantic orchestra within Beethoven’s time. These techniques have a long-standing history and can be heard on the earliest recordings from the early twentieth century, but were largely abandoned after 1950 and are rarely employed by modern orchestras today. Why these expressive devices were abandoned is a complex story, but recovering these devices in search of the ‘spirit of Romanticism’ was a priority for us.

What were the main ideas we employed?

Firstly, we sought to use flexible tempi throughout that were guided by the sensibilities of our musicians. The ensemble has no baton-wielding conductor, and is governed by the joint leadership of the soloist and concertmaster. This form of governance, which is inspired by hierarchies in orchestras of the period like that in Mannheim during 1742–78, allows for a lot of liberty and initiative to be taken by the individual musicians within the ranks of the orchestra. Rather than restricting ourselves to very specific pulses given by a baton, or setting metronomic markings to follow, we played at whatever tempo felt appropriate to express the prevailing sentiments in every section of the work whilst remaining sensitive to the other players in the group. Hence, we relied on the “feeling” of musicians to guide ourselves, resulting in a more organic expressivity. This is very natural: if one feels joy and excitement, one speeds up, and despondency and languid sentiments are accompanied by increasing heaviness and retardation of tempo. This also extended to rhythmic nuances and agogics: we tried to avoid producing “sewing machine rhythms”, or very regular, mechanical pulses, which are a hallmark of classical music post-1950, but were abhorred in earlier epochs. An inegalité in rhythmic figures produces articulation, shaping, and emphasis, much like the way we speak in natural languages. Such an effect is described in various sources even earlier in the proto-Romantic “age of sensibility” (1740–1800) by authors such as Denis Diderot, who wrote about the objection musicians of “feeling” would have to a chronometer or metronome:

“They [musicians] will object, against any Chronometer in general, that there may not be four bars in an aria that are exactly the same length; two things necessarily contribute to lengthening some and hastening others: taste and feeling in harmony […]. A musician who knows his art has not played four bars of an air before he grasps its character and gives himself over to it: only the pleasure of harmony suspends him; here he wants the chords to be struck, there he wants them to be concealed; that is to say, he sings or plays more or less slowly from one bar to another, and even from one quarter-time to the next.”

In any case, we did not try to replace one arbitrary modern convention with a different arbitrary convention: we felt that in certain passages, rhythmic flexibility contributed specifically to expressing certain types of tender and pleasing affects. Secondly, we employed dislocation within the piano solo (between the hands) and orchestral parts. This is an artful un-togetherness between voices that produces more lyrical phrasing and other rhetorical effects, often in service of showing how a mind may labour or even become overwhelmed by a certain passion. It also serves to create more interesting textures and intricate nuances within the sound of an ensemble. Lastly, mainly within the string section, portamento, or a sliding of pitch by drawing the finger along the fingerboard of a string instrument while the bow is drawn across the strings, was employed judiciously. Again, the application of portamenti accompanied the prevailing sentiments expressed, as the slide of pitch produces the impression of weeping or sighing. This album is our unveiling of a fresh take on Beethoven that will certainly challenge more mainstream approaches to this repertoire. We hope that the result will feel more “Romantic”: not stiff, mannered, or mechanical, but rather sensuous, full of pathos, and highly moving for the listener.

Cadenzas

As mentioned before, the cadenza within the first movement was composed by Beethoven in 1807, specifically for the piano transcription of the concerto. I decided to use this cadenza because of its unique qualities, and the blend of solo fortepiano and timpani is an unusual, if fitting, combination. In a few cases, I had to modify the right hand to fit the compass of the fortepiano. English fortepianos during 1795-1815 were typically 5 ½ octave instruments from FF-c’’’’, while some Viennese fortepianos, starting around 1805, began to use 6 octaves from FF-f’’’’. Evidently, Beethoven wrote the cadenza with this 6-octave compass in mind, and while his cadenzas were not printed with Clementi’s publication in 1810, I thought to make a few modifications in the arpeggiation to fit the English fortepiano of the period, so that I could have an opportunity to play this monumental cadenza.

Beethoven produced three other cadenzas and eingänge for this transcription: one that fits between the second and third movement and two for the rondo. In this case, though, I decided to adopt the practice of the period and improvise new extemporizations on the spot during the recording process. The cadenzas selected in the recording were deemed the best out of several different extemporized variants. However, the final cadenza of the rondo is more planned out. In fitting with the pastoral theme of this movement, as a fun riff, I thought to incorporate a few famous horn calls that were often featured in music that celebrated the formal French courtly hunt. This includes numerous symphonies from the Mannheim School by composers such as Christian Cannabich, Georg Joseph Vogler, Carl Stamitz, and Wilhelm Cramer. The specific horn call I chose was documented in Diderot’s Encyclopedie (1751-72) in his article on “Le chasse” as “Ton quand le cerf est à l’eau” used for when the deer is in the water, combining it with a double and triple trilling pattern often employed by Vogler in his extended cadenzas.

Anders Muskens & Rachael Beesley

Bibliography

Blair, Hugh. Lectures on rhetoric and belles lettres: By Hugh Blair, ... In three volumes (Dublin: printed for Messrs. Whitestone, Colles, Burnet, Moncrieffe, Gilbert, [and 8 others in Dublin], 1783).

Diderot, Denis. “Hunting.” The Encyclopedia of Diderot & d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project (Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing, University of Michigan Library, 2010). Originally published as “Chasses,” Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, vol. 3 (plates) (Paris, 1765).

Diderot, Denis. Mémoires sur différens sujets de mathematiques (Paris: 1748).

Möser, Johann Nepomuk. Wiener Zeitung für Theater, Musik und Poesie (1807), col.27.

Stowell, Robin. Beethoven: Violin Concerto. Cambridge Music Handbooks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).