Composer: (Born in Sontskova, Ukraine in 1891; died in
Moscow in 1953)

Work composed: 1916-1917

World premiere: 1918 in St. Petersburg with Prokofiev conducting the Petrograd Court Orchestra

Instrumentation: 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, strings

Symphony No. 1 in D Major, “Classical,” Op. 25
I. Allegro
II. Larghetto
III. Gavotte – Non troppo Allegro
IV. Finale – Molto vivace

As a virtuoso pianist and young composer, Ukrainian-Russian Sergei Prokofiev had been writing all of his works at the piano when, between 1916-1917, he decided to try writing without it. In order to tackle such a feat he felt he needed to write in a familiar genre, such as the Classical symphonic form of Haydn and Mozart. He then had another idea: What if Mozart and Haydn were still writing music in 1917? What would it sound like? Symphony No. 1, nicknamed the “Classical,” was Prokofiev’s answer to his musical dare to himself: it’s a wonderfully compact (barely lasting 15 minutes in total) and light-hearted symphony, full of humor and whimsy and just the right amount of impertinence toward the Classical form he was modeling.

One of the most delightful and prominent features of Prokofiev’s experiment is its frequent and abrupt changes of keys – a very un-Classical technique. In fact, it only takes 11 bars for a key-change to happen in the first movement, Allegro, and only another 9 bars for it to happen again. It might be a little difficult to distinctly identify this sort of key-changing, but the subtle, yet uncanny, effect is like being on a roller coaster – you can feel the changes in your spine. This technique of key changing will happen all throughout the Symphony – reaching near ridiculous proportions in the third movement, Gavotte – yet, despite this playfulness, the Symphony maintains a kind of urbane gracefulness.

The first movement Allegro immediately proves Prokofiev’s experiment in “Classical-ness” to be successful. The key changes are but a moment of “what if” about Haydn or Mozart’s time-travel, enriched by more modern compositional techniques. Musical phrases are irregular, and occasionally Prokofiev throws in a measure with a different meter. It may put the rhythm off a little, but in Prokofiev’s masterful hands, these imbalanced phrase lengths and metrical shifts seem almost normal. What’s most convincing are the themes, which deliciously bridge the gap between the Classical era’s typically refined melodies, with Prokofiev’s exceptional gifts for more complex ones over morphing harmonies. A great example occurs at about one minute, with the violins playing an exaggeratedly clipped-note (short notes) tune over the bassoon’s very “staid” Alberti-bass accompaniment (a Classical-era technique that plays the main notes of the harmony in a specific rising and falling pattern) – all the while wandering in and out of key. Though seemingly a juxtaposition of era techniques, the moment is magically graceful and winsome.

The second movement, Larghetto (meaning rather slowly and dignified), is particularly magical and the longest movement in the Symphony. Cast as a bittersweet Classical slow movement, it’s otherwise hallmark Prokofiev. The beginning bars are low and lazy and sweet, overtop of which Prokofiev scores the strings who soar into the stratosphere. This huge sound separation will also be explored with the flutes, which soon evoke the chirping of birds. As a counterbalance to this sonic expansion, the middle section shifts tone entirely –the instruments are tightly packed together in a theme that feels as though it’s plodding hurriedly but with difficulty. Soon, however, in a particularly Prokofiev esque grand gesture, out of that musical thickness the orchestra suddenly scatters apart, and the high winds and lower instruments engage in a call-and-response over sustained strings, creating a vast sonic scape – Prokofiev will often return to this technique his orchestral writing throughout his career. The ending counters the soaring strings with several quietly fading bass notes.

The third movement Gavotte (“non troppo Allegro” meaning “not too fast”) is perhaps the least “classical” in style in this “Classical” Symphony, but no less delightful for that. In fact, Haydn and Mozart wouldn’t have used a gavotte form as their dance movement in their symphonies, rather, it would have been a minuet. The typical Russian listener in Prokofiev’s time, however, would likely have not recognized the nuance, although this movement’s almost comical quick key-changes are wonderfully destabilizing. The Gavotte became the instant classic that Prokofiev aspired to for the entire Symphony – Prokofiev took advantage of its popularity several times more in later works by including it in his ballet Romeo and Juliet (1935, 1940), and recasting it as a stand-alone piece for piano which he recorded onto disc in 1935. It’s altogether witty and charming even in its excesses, and wonderfully tuneful.

For romping great fun, the Finale (“Molto vivace,” meaning “very lively and fast”) is a kind of finale to end all finales – rollickingly fast and breathless. It plays like a brief virtuoso concerto for each section of the orchestra, with devilishly challenging break-neck passages for everyone. Even so, in the midst of the whirlwind, the themes stand out as catchy and whistle-able. And take note of  Prokofiev’s wonderful little moments of keen inventiveness, such as the raucous fun that takes place not even 30 seconds into the movement – while the strings and the lower winds trade rising and falling motives, respectively, a magnificent bubbling of merriment in the flutes and oboes chatters away overtop. And, to make hay with his Classical forbearers, listen for repeated moments of “Mannheim rockets,” a wonderful musical effect from the town of Mannheim, Germany that was at the cutting edge of the early Classical Era techniques, where the instruments race upwards as if launched into the sky. There is no respite in this Finale as it races to its last bars with unbridled excitement.

© Max Derrickson