Album insights
Most composers rarely expect a revival of their original work after reworking it to their liking, even though posterity sometimes decides differently, as seen with Vaughan Williams' "London" Symphony or the challenging initial version of Sibelius' Symphony No. 5. Prokofiev made it clear that he perceived the two problematic works of the 1930s—the Fourth Symphony and the Cello Concerto—differently, giving their successors new opus numbers and ultimately, in the case of the concerto, a completely different name ("Symphonie Concert" in Russian translated as "Symphonic Concert," a more fitting term as insisted by Mstislav Rostropovich, rather than the misleading "Sinfonia Concertante" akin to Haydn or Mozart).
Prokofiev, like Rossini, constantly reused themes while enriching them when transitioning them from one work to another. However, the situation becomes complicated with the First Cello Concerto and Symphonic Concerto due to the different realms in which they were created. While the prevailing view has been that of the homesick composer in the 1930s, needing the inspiration of his Russian homeland, Prokofiev's letters and diaries reveal a different picture. Despite external challenges like the Great Depression and brewing conflicts in Germany and America, the Soviet Union seemed more alluring, valuing composers and the time needed to create masterpieces. His move to Moscow in 1936 symbolized a shift towards a simpler form of musical expression, aligning harmoniously with his vision of a new vein of melodic composition in his music.
Far from abandoning this melodic vein in his works for Western consumption, Prokofiev simply expected his audience to listen more attentively until "the contours of a true face" appeared, as he later expressed. This applies to the Fourth and Fifth Piano Concertos, the intricate Symphonic Singing—infamously met with a disappointing reception at its 1934 Moscow premiere due to French orchestras being inadequate—and the Cello Concerto. Prokofiev's extensive diaries, recently published, shed light on his origins. An entry from May 22, 1932, reveals the visit of the "excellent cellist" Gregor Piatigorsky to his Paris apartment:
Piatigorsky ardently desires that I write a concerto for him and is keen on performing it everywhere. I already have a plan (and themes) for a fantasy for cello and orchestra. If Piatigorsky could provide the funding, I would do it... He brought his cello and we played the Ballade together [Prokofiev's 1912 only other work for the instrument with piano accompaniment], quite skillfully.
Details about the development of the Cello Concerto are blurry, but by 1934, Prokofiev had set it aside. Only in 1938, with Piatigorsky no longer in the picture for unknown reasons, was the concerto completed and premiered in Moscow, conducted by Alexander Melik-Pashayev with Lev Berezovsky as the soloist.
The fact that such a private, enigmatic work was heard in the year of the heroic film score "Alexander Nevsky" is surprising. Much like the Symphonic Singing, it contained hardly overt Soviet material, and after its unsuccessful premiere, Prokofiev channeled his darkest, most personal thoughts into chamber and instrumental music. A rising star in the musical firmament, the barely twenty-year-old Mstislav Rostropovich, impressed the composer with his performance in December 1947, leading to a revision of the concerto.
Thus began a two-year collaboration and friendship that highly impacted the young cellist. Rostropovich spent substantial time in the summers of 1950 and 1951 at Prokofiev's dacha in Nikolina Gora near Moscow, absorbing various traits and habits of the master while working on technical aspects of the cello part and playing through the results. A revision was made, leading to a refined work later known as the Symphonic Concerto, premiered in 1952 with Rostropovich as the soloist and Sviatoslav Richter as the conductor. Prokofiev passed away before hearing his final ideas performed.
The less frequently performed Cello Concerto may sound familiar to many listeners, albeit distorted and occasionally unclear—like "a dark image seen through a mirror." The Symphonic Concerto blends a relatively well-defined structure with horror and dissonances, a peculiar feat for the early 1950s; its prototype emerges from Prokofiev's leaner yet equally authentic self of the 1930s. The shared introductory four-note motif sets the tone, echoing the ostinato from "Romeo and Juliet," a ballet composed a year after Prokofiev temporarily abandoned his work. The e-minor theme typical of the "new melody" explored by the composer in the early 1930s offers initial clarity but swiftly ventures into unexpected territories. The symphonic work signifies a shift towards a more direct melodic impact, hinting at the composer's evolving approach to melody. Notably, the revision emphasizes a second, more straightforward C-major melody, contrasting with the descending theme of the original dreamlike coda.
In the Cello Concerto, the opening movement serves more as an intriguing introduction, while the Symphonic Concerto's first movement takes a more defined, emphatic form with a grander build-up. However, the lengths and significance of the subsequent movements differ. The central scherzo of the Cello Concerto presents a subtle dispute compared to the pronounced terror in the Symphonic Concerto, highlighting the importance of the woodwind solos unique to the sparingly orchestrated original piece. Noteworthy is the new, slightly macabre scherzo theme in the symphonic work, indicating Prokofiev's desire for a fresh start that aligns with the original material. Comparing the tumultuous accompaniment and emotive melody in the molto espressivo, revealing an intensified role in the later work, offers valuable insights into the compositional evolution. The original stark aftermath, initiated by a pale flute, is altered in the revision, demonstrating Prokofiev's nuanced edits.
As the bold melody unfolds, seemingly offering aid in the Cello Concerto, the original conclusion faces despair by revisiting the dreams and despondency of previous movements. In contrast, the symphonic piece transitions into a manic final conflict, losing itself in dreams before grappling with the ghosts of previous movements and culminating with an escape into the stratosphere—a daring leap for the frail Prokofiev in the early 1950s. While undoubtedly more thrilling, the later work symbolizes a departure from Prokofiev's uncertain stance during the 1930s. The existence of both pieces is a treasure worth celebrating.