Composed in 1821; 19 minutes

In the Sonata Op. 110, the astonishing sequence of events Beethoven puts forth leaves the listener in a state of awe. In none of the other 31 piano sonatas does Beethoven cover as much emotional territory: it goes from the absolute depths of despair to utter euphoria. Playing Op. 110, or even listening to it, is an experience like none other: devastating and life-affirming in equal measure.

Formally, the Sonata is a bit of a paradox: it is on the one hand a wild, woolly journey—its last movement has so many component parts, I’m not entirely sure it is properly described as a single movement. But in spite of this, it is also one of the most tightly constructed works Beethoven ever wrote. Just 19 minutes long, it is unbelievably compact given its emotional richness, and its philosophical opening idea acts as the work’s thesis statement, permeating the work, and reaching its apotheosis in its final moments.

Op. 110’s structure is not its only paradox. While much of its material is lofty, even exalted, it has moments of extreme earthiness—some of the second movement’s themes were allegedly familiar to Beethoven from his time spent in Viennese beer halls. And while the sonata is forward-looking and was a tremendous source of inspiration to 19th-century composers, it also has a certain retrospective quality. There are numerous links to the preceding (and equally awe-inspiring) Op. 109 Sonata: their opening ideas are close cousins, and when Op. 110 reaches its most desperately dark moment, it does so with a direct quotation of Op. 109. And in many ways, Beethoven is reaching even further into the past with this work: its sprawling final movement, composed of recitatives, ariosos and fugues, is really the world of the Baroque, viewed from a 100-year distance.

“Bad composers borrow; great composers steal,” Stravinsky is alleged to have said. While the forms of this last movement may come from Bach, Beethoven’s theft of them is as undeniable as it is glorious— the forms themselves become almost incidental, a backdrop against which Beethoven can apply his profoundest thoughts and titanic personality. Beethoven takes one of the movement’s ideas and literally turns it on its head—the second fugue’s subject is a literal inversion of the first’s—and this is a helpful metaphor for what he does to the Baroque forms. Bach may have loved the recitative, but he would never have repeated the same note 27(!) times in a row—a desperate, obsessive cry into the void. He may have written hundreds of magnificent ariosos, but he would never have incorporated a massive crescendo, followed by a sudden subito piano—a musical representation of a dashed hope—into one. And he may have been the greatest master of the fugue of all time, but his fugues were ends unto themselves: they did not develop and grow and strive until they turned into something else entirely – into outpourings of pure melody (pure spirit, really) at the extreme upper end of the piano, the accompanying left hand at the extreme lower end (because the piano was never, ever enough for

Beethoven—he wants more, bigger, everything). Bach is the template here, but the music is Beethoven at his most sublime: at his most Beethoven. Having stolen from the very best, Beethoven gives his very best: Op. 110 is a journey into the infinite.

Composed in 1905; 12 minutes

A “Baroque/Classical” thread weaves through the piano music of Maurice Ravel (1875-1937). Just as Debussy’s piano music had bowed in the direction of the French clavecinistes in the Suite bergamasque (1890) and Suite: pour le piano (1901), so Ravel composed the Menuet antique (1895), Pavane for a Dead Princess (1899), Sonatine (1903-5), and Tombeau de Couperin (1914-17). All of these used more or less strict forms from the 18^th century, and all contained classical restraint of expression.

The Sonatine became a project “by default.” In 1903, the Weekly Critical Review, an Anglo-French magazine sponsored an international composition competition. For a prize of 100 Francs, composers were to submit the first movement of a piano sonatine. Ravel entered. Unfortunately, the magazine shortly went bankrupt. Ravel’s piece, an exercise in adapting his style to sonata form, then took on a life of its own, and over the next two years, he continued to dabble with it, eventually completing all three movements in 1905.

The first movement of the sonatine opens with a musical style reminiscent of Mozart, setting the tone for the entire piece. The recurrent alternations in the accompaniment underscore Ravel's unmistakable influence from Mozart's musical language, particularly evident in the incorporation of the Alberti bass. Ravel adeptly blends Mozart's characteristics with elements of French music, and the movement is so clearly structured in sonata form that it could easily find a place in a textbook. The principal, secondary, and closing themes are extremely distinctive in melody and texture. After the repeated exposition of these, a carefully controlled development takes us through contrasting keys in an emotional crescendo that has to cool a little before the recapitulation of themes — now less restrained than at first and rounded out at the end with a charming, refined coda.

The second movement, a graceful minuet, begins like a typical French harpsichord piece: with a repeated couplet. A new theme digresses, but soon we hear a reprise of something like the couplet. Another digressive theme leads us back to a general reprise of the movement’s main ideas.

Capping the Sonatine is a toccata-like movement that begins with flashy passagework, fast-moving broken chords, and a fanfare motive. Then, Ravel the modernist steps forward with a section in alternating meters. The unusual 5/4 meter predominates. Then, for classical balance, the composer introduces the movement’s first real melody. Bringing back a variant of the first section, Ravel now occupies the remainder of the movement working out and combining elements from the first (flashy) and second (melodic, mixed-metered) sections. The accelerated coda fuses these together in a frenzied series of repetitions that conclude the Sonatine.

Notes by Dr. Michael Fink, with additional insights contributed by Dr. EunAe Lee

Composed in 1844; 28 minutes

The bold intensity of the Allegro maestoso opening of the B-minor Sonata is certain to have a heightened visceral effect. A rapid descending figure, one that is to be exploited throughout the first movement, is a dramatic clarion call: Chopin making a fist. A propulsive chordal procession follows the initial statement of the important figure, and there is a series of other ideas before the entry of the lovely nocturne-like secondary theme in D major. Yet another parade of themes follows, all of the materials cut from Chopin’s best musical bolt. If there is any faltering in the movement, it is in a diffuse development that begins with a halting contrapuntal procedure and carries on with some pianistic gymnastics that can seem uncharacteristically awkward (at least in some hands). As he did in the Second (“Funeral March”) Sonata, Chopin brings back only the movement’s secondary theme in the recapitulation, and the movement ends brilliantly in the key of B major.

The Scherzo second movement, a quicksilver (Molto vivace), etude-like tour de force in the distant key of E-flat major, has a serene, sustained middle section (which is suddenly pulled back to B major). There is exhilaration of the most compelling kind in this light-as-air music.

Following the bravura close, extreme contrast is to be expected in the Largo third movement, which caresses the ear with a combination of somewhat nervous lyricism and swooning etherealness, both carried to extreme though lovely lengths.

With its amazingly harmonized series of 14 octave Fs in the right hand forming an introduction, the Presto non tanto Finale emerges as a movement of rock-ribbed musical strength and genuine technical élan. It is a demon to perform, but spectacularly rewarding for the player who can bring off both the massive virtuosity and the heroic sweep. In its way, the movement is Chopin’s Appassionata, but with an ending in exuberant (B) major. 

Notes by Orrin Howard