Between his arrival in Vienna in 1792 and the turn of the century, Beethoven supported himself by producing a quantity of occasional pieces for Viennese society, including several with wind instruments. The Serenade op. 25 for flute, violin and viola, the last and one of the finest of this series of works, was written in 1801 in the company of such forward-looking works as the op.18 quartets and the Moonlight Sonata. An unknown arranger made the transcription for flute and piano; after correction and approval by Beethoven the new version was published in 1803 as his op. 41.

   The piece is cast in the traditional forms of the Viennese serenade, and was likely first heard out of doors or as a diversion at a banquet. Beethoven entitles the first movement "Entrata." Entrance music is implied, or music to signal the commencement of a festive event. The finale also has an un-usual designation: Allegro vivace e disinvolto –"disinvolved;" or as Beetho-ven occasionally put it, "unbuttoned." Its theme consists almost entirely of Scotch snaps – those rhythmically pointed pairs of notes that originated in Scottish dance music, and which give the movement its bumptious vitality.

   In the four intervening movements Beethoven invested sufficient craft and originality to produce a work that is unfailingly fresh, entertaining, and inventive. In the third movement, for instance, marked Allegro molto, we catch a glimpse of the emerging Beethoven. The agitated D-minor mode, the mischievously misplaced accents, and the abrupt dynamic changes betray a composer who had more on his mind than the production of well-crafted entertainment. And in the fourth movement Beethoven tips his hat to the Viennese Classical tradition he inherited: its coda is afflicted with a Haydnesquely charming indecision as to when it will end.

   A musical polymath of a sort seldom encountered nowadays, Philippe Gaubert was equally successful as flutist, teacher, conductor, and composer. In the 1920’s, during his tenure as professor at the Paris Conservatory, Gaubert restored to the flute repertoire the works of such composers as Bach, Mozart, Gluck, and Handel, which for most of the previous century had been neglected in favor of the sentimental and virtuosic effusions of composers now forgotten. A man of boundless energy, Gaubert conducted a vast quantity of music, which gave him an intimate knowledge of European compositional development between the wars. As a composer, he was not an innovator, but he assimilated many of the innovations of Franck, Ravel, Debussy, and others. In his third flute sonata, Gaubert’s many meticulously notated nuances of tempo, phrasing, and dynamics give the music, despite its classical form, a feeling of improvisational freedom and spontaneity.

   The webpage of Yinam Leef, a native of Jerusalem, describes him as having “grown up in a cultural melting pot, where East meets West, old and new coexist, and local and universal aesthetics are apparent at a change of a glance.” The page goes on to list a distinguished array of commissions, performances, honors and faculty appointments that testify to his high standing among Israeli composers. I am indebted to my long-time duo partner Sally Pinkas, who is also a long-time friend of Mr. Leef, for proposing the Bagatelles for this concert.

   As one would expect, the Bagatelles are succinct – but they are by no means lightweight. Mr. Leef has an ear for clean, clear sonorities, and each movement is based on a simple, vivid idea that he develops just long enough and no longer. The five movements are arrayed in a kind of Bartókian arch form: the first and last mirror each other in their intensity and violent dynamic contrast; the second and fourth likewise mirror each other in their serenity and attenuated sonorities. The third movement, the keystone of the arch, is a tiny scherzo, dry and delicate, puckish and playful, and no more than a minute in length.

   Bohuslav Martinû’s mature style synthesizes an intriguing variety of influences. Chief among them are the music of his Czech compatriots Dvorák and Janácek; Renaissance polyphony and the Baroque concerto grosso style; jazz, which he encountered in Paris in the 1920’s and early 30’s; and the music of Roussel, Debussy, and Stravinsky. Although one has the impression that Martinu may be the only composer of consequence who set foot in Paris between the wars but failed to study with Nadia Boulanger, his music nonetheless embodies the virtues she espoused, and which seem to have been inherent in the musical milieu of that time and place: clarity of form, economy of means, and an abhorrence of sentimentality.

   This Sonata also has New England connections. After an arduous and painful departure from Hitler’s Europe, where his music had been black-listed, Martinu arrived in New York. Serge Koussevitzky of the Boston Symphony Orchestra had championed his orchestral music since the early 30’s, and he encouraged the disheartened immigrant by commissioning his First Symphony and offering him a summer teaching position at Tangle-wood. Martinu never really settled anywhere, but lived briefly in various locations across New England, including Cape Cod, where our Flute Sonata was composed. Adding a bit of local color, Martinu incorporates the follow-ing transcription of the call of the whippoorwill (Caprimulgus vociferus!) that sounds – vociferously – several times in the course of the finale:

- Fenwick Smith