Passion and protest

Patriotism and PR sense

Antonín Dvořák captured the Czech folk soul in his music. That the Czech Philharmonic plays Dvořák is as natural as that the Swedish Radio Symphony Orchestra plays Franz Berwald. Semyon Bychkov, the orchestra’s chief conductor since 2018, has continued to lead its development as one of the world’s leading orchestras during his eight years in the role. Two years ago, they released an acclaimed recording of Dvořák’s last three symphonies.

Today, we naturally think of Dvořák as a Czech composer, but he was born in the Austrian Empire and died in the Austro-Hungarian Dual Monarchy. Both empires also included Moravia and Bohemia, which today constitute the eastern and western Czech Republics, respectively.

During Dvořák’s life, a longing for freedom and a separate identity grew in Bohemia and Moravia, just as in other parts of Europe at the same time. He absorbed the folk music of his homeland and channelled it into his works. His Slavonic Dances, for example, are not arrangements of existing folk melodies, but his own compositions inspired by folk dances.

The seventh symphony, on the other hand, is not a distinctly Czech work, which was probably a highly conscious decision. It had been commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic Society in London, which elected Dvořák an honorary member in 1884. This could have been his great international breakthrough. Patriotism had to come second – this was above all to be a symphony of the calibre of Brahms and Beethoven.

The four movements of the Seventh Symphony

The first movement is said to have been sketched out in just a few days. “I am at present completely absorbed in my new symphony,” Dvořák wrote to his friend Antonín Rus, “and wherever I go I cannot think of anything else.” Dvořák’s high ambitions for the symphony are also evident: “it must be able to move the whole world, may God grant it!”

The dramatic introduction is said to have been inspired by anti-royalist demonstrations in connection with a visit to Prague by a delegation from Budapest, one of the capitals of the dual monarchy. The stormy main theme, dominated by timpani and trumpets, is noticeably contrasted by the carefree side theme, at least until it is infected by the main theme’s gloom in the middle section. After a cascade of fanfares, the movement ends as it began: dark and mysterious.

The second movement begins with a slightly folk-tinged chorale melody in the woodwinds, like a humble but proud pastoral. The music oscillates between the peaceful idyll and threatening shadows – especially in the parts dominated by the string section – which recall the stormy first movement.

The Seventh Symphony is not completely free from Czech influences. The third movement is written in six-bar time, but the melody often runs in a kind of grand triple time, with emphasis on every other beat. This syncopated rhythm is typical of the Bohemian folk dance furiant that Dvořák used in many of his works. The furiant is not as pronounced as in his sixth symphony, for example, but Dvořák’s Bohemian roots nevertheless shine through.

In the final movement, the symphonic bag is tied together with flashbacks to the restless first, the carefree second and the dance-like third movements. Thanks to a sure hand, it is not a motley patchwork but a grand finale in a shining D major.

From Stalin to Khrushchev

Dmitri Shostakovich’s conflicted relationship with the Soviet regime is well known. Not yet 30, he was already a rising star. The opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk was praised all the way from politics to the cultural world when it premiered in January 1934. But almost to the day two years later, things took a turn for the worse.

Two days after Joseph Stalin himself attended a performance of the hit opera, the propaganda newspaper Pravda published the infamous article “Confusion Instead of Music,” in which it was branded vulgar and incomprehensible, and accused of making fun of the art of opera. At the same time, Stalin began the bloody persecution that has come to be known as “the Great Purge.” Shostakovich made a humiliating abdication and adapted his music to the political dictates – with his life hanging by a thread.

In the 1930s, Shostakovich got to know the violinist David Oistrakh, who wanted a solo concert from his fellow musician of the same age. But under the watchful eye of the regime, no such concert was written. It was not until the summer of 1947 that he began working on Oistrakh’s piece. He was just about to finish it in February of the following year when, in a twist of fate, he and his fellow composers were hit by the Zhdanov Doctrine’s repression of art deemed unsuitable by the party. The Violin Concerto was completed but shelved.

It was not until October 1955, after Stalin’s death and with Nikita Khrushchev’s systematic de-Stalinizing reforms underway, that David Oistrakh finally had the opportunity to premiere the Violin Concerto, 20 years after he had commissioned it. Oistrakh described the solo movement as a “marrow-filled Shakespearean character” and the work was a great success.

A Symphony for Violin and Orchestra

A violinist of Janine Jansen’s calibre hardly needs any further introduction, especially not to Berwaldhallen’s audience. She has visited the Swedish Radio concert hall several times, not least during the 2025/2026 season as Berwaldhallen’s Artist in Residence. Shostakovich’s First Violin Concerto is known as a real challenge, but Jansen is not known for ducking challenges.

The Violin Concerto oscillates in a characteristically Shostakovichian way between emotional extremes: from bitter melancholy to almost sarcastic rapture. The first movement is dark and pensive, justifying the title “Nocturne”, which means night music, although the dynamics move between sheer flageolets and passionate outbursts. The work immediately changes character in the second movement: a seemingly danceable and klezmer-inspired scherzo, but turned up to furious mania, as if driven by the Nixie himself.

The Passacaglia, the third movement, begins with low strings, brass and timpani that strike a doom-laden note. Against the repeated bass line, which is the hallmark of the passacaglia, it is as if Shostakovich is pouring out his soul in the heartbreaking solo part. This feeling was shared by Shostakovich’s close friend Isak Glikman, who said that in the passacaglia he “blurred the line between the outer world and the inner”. A long and very intricate solo cadence leads right into the last movement, which again offers a drastic contrast: if the second movement was manic, the last is a real devil’s dance that does not let go of either player nor listener.

Text: David Saulesco (translated by Anna Rickman)