Run time: Approx. 28 minutes

By the late 1700s, Haydn, now in his 60s, was enjoying the rewards of a fruitful career. He had become quite well-known, and though his long-time patron, Prince Esterházy, had died, he had left Haydn a generous pension. The new prince was wholly uninterested in music, so the court musicians were dismissed, leaving Haydn with fame, money, and quite a lot of free time.

Requests for commissions were coming in left and right, but the most interesting was an offer from conductor and music impresario Johann Peter Salomon, for not one, but twelve symphonies. Salomon was a significant player in various European music scenes. He was born in not just the same city as Beethoven (Bonn), but the same house! It’s also believed that he provided Haydn with the original model text used for The Creation, as well as bestowed the nickname “Jupiter” onto Mozart’s 41st symphony.

Haydn accepted the offer and set out for London, where he composed most of the works, and oversaw their premieres. The public adored him, and his time in the English capital was both well received and well compensated. In his journal he wrote that he made 4,000 gulden from the concert, saying, “such a thing is possible only in England.”

Though all twelve symphonies are collectively known as the “London Symphonies” (sometimes also called the “Salomon Symphonies”), Symphony No. 104 is the only one that today bears the official subtitle London, possibly because it is the final installment of the set and was used for the grand celebratory concert honoring Haydn’s time in the city. It’s unclear whether he knew this would be the last symphony he ever composed, but he certainly knew this was his grand adieu to London. He delivered a farewell for the ages.

Symphony No. 104 exudes the spirit of a composer who has made his mark and has nothing remaining to prove. It also joyfully capitalizes on the fact that London orchestras were larger than the troupes Haydn was used to writing for as a court composer. The piece is dramatic and experimental, full of exuberance, and most of all, shows off one of the things Haydn was best at—the element of surprise.

It begins with a big, dramatic opening, the orchestra playing declarative chords in unison, alternating with a more somber passage. Haydn writes a substantial introduction in this manner, long enough to convince even the most seasoned concert-goer that this will be a dark and angsty work. But just as you think you’ve got it pinned down, the music gives way to an easy going melody. Fooled you. And before there’s even time to finish a second phrase, it erupts into a triumphant, full-throated statement of the theme. Fooled you again. Here we have finally arrived at the true character of the first movement—lively, proud, and absolutely victorious. The crowd must have been delighted.

The second movement adagio is delicate, courtly, sweet, and unassuming, until—I almost feel a spoiler alert is warranted—the orchestra suddenly explodes in a great rapture. Where did this come from? It’s reminiscent of the fiery, thunderous passages of sacred oratorio; one almost expects a 300-piece chorus to appear. Then, just as quickly as it began, everything stops, and the music goes right back to its charming dance, like nothing ever happened, but only for a moment before another burst of energy takes hold. He got you again.

I won’t spoil every unexpected twist and turn, but the roller coaster ride continues all the way to the end. The exuberant third movement would be incomplete without a few unexpected halts, and the joyous finale meanders from its whirl once or twice to offer some rather poignant asides, echoing the disquiet of the work’s opening.

All of this points to a man who, nearing the end of a prolific career and having earned the full trust of his audience, was simply taking a victory lap. It also lays a trail of breadcrumbs that we can follow directly to Beethoven, who was profoundly influenced by the great composer. Consider all those Beethoven slow movements suddenly interrupted by an opening of the heavens—a strike of Zeus’s thunderbolt. One can imagine Haydn looking down from his eternal rest and saying, “He got that from me.”