‘The Moldau’ by Bedřich Smetana is a wonderfully picturesque piece describing a journey down one of Europe’s most magnificent rivers. And even better, it’s your imagination that brings this piece to life! In this episode I share insights into the piece, I discuss Symphonic Poems, and also I describe why a listener must have conviction in their responses to music.

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Hi! My name’s Scott Wilson. I’m a conductor and I’m passionate about classical music. In this podcast we discover the music of one of our greatest artforms. We listen to a new piece in each episode, I share insights into the music, and over time, I’ll take you on a journey through classical music’s composers, musicians, and history. Everything’s discussed in an easily digestible way, and no prior knowledge is needed. This podcast is for you!

Today we’re listening to ‘The Moldau’ by the composer Bedřich Smetana. It’s a wonderfully picturesque piece, describing the course of the Moldau River through the Czech Republic. Listening to it is like journeying down the river on a raft: you’re encouraged to hear the flow of the water, and to see the people and places in the surrounding countryside. I hope you enjoy it!

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Isn’t that a wonderful melody? We’ll hear it throughout the piece: it’s the main theme. It comes again and again and it represents the Moldau River.

But the piece starts before we arrive at the Moldau. Two streams combine to form the river and it’s these tributaries that are depicted at the beginning. You’ll hear music played by the flutes. It’s the perpetual motion of water as it rushes over pebbles and flows around rocks. Here we go from the beginning of the piece.

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For me, the endless running notes are the movement of the water, whilst the plucked strings are the pebbles on the riverbed being picked up and dropped down again, gently knocking into each other.

The piece will continue on in this descriptive way. And we know what the piece describes because the composer stated it. He said: ‘The river flows through woods and meadows, and in the fields we see proud castles, palaces and ruins. At one point the river passes hunters in a forest, and then there’s a village where a wedding is being celebrated. Later, in the moonlight, we enter a gorge where water nymphs are seen dancing. In daylight again, the river rushes through rapids, before widening on the approach to Prague. It then vanishes into the distance.’

That’s the plot of the entire piece. But right now we’re at the moment where the two streams have combined to form the Moldau River. Listen to the magnificence of the music. The sound of the orchestra conveys the river’s breadth and beauty.

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There’s love in this composition. When you look at the score, you can see the care the composer Smetana has taken over the details in the music. A particular favourite of mine is the instruction to the percussionist to play the triangle ‘elegantly’! Beyond that, Smetana’s request is that the violin melody is played ‘sweetly’. The composer is seeking a sound that isn’t forced, and that’s as beautiful as these instruments can produce.

And for me, the music comes alive most when you listen to the accompaniment to the melody, which is played by the cellos. In the score, the composer asks these musicians to play in an ‘alluring’ way that’s ‘always swaying’.

I’ll use a piano to demonstrate the music that’s played by the cellos.

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The notes flow upwards and downwards, and as they do, the volume naturally expands and contracts. This music is intended to replicate the undulating movement of the water.

Above the music of the cellos we hear the violin melody. The melody is the composer’s way of depicting the river as it winds its way through the countryside. But, whilst hearing this, also listen out for the cellos. They convey the moment-to-moment flow of the current. By listening to both parts of the music, you can simultaneously imagine the aerial view of this grand river sweeping through the fields, whilst also feeling the swelling and rippling of the water as it passes logs, rocks, and sandbanks.

[music excerpt]

So this is the last of my several episodes describing the different types of pieces that orchestras play. I haven’t outlined all the types of pieces, but I’ve discussed the main ones: overtures, symphonies, concert pieces, concertos, music from opera, from ballet, from film, tv and video games, and pieces that I called ‘event pieces’. Today we conclude by taking a look at Symphonic Poems, which are sometimes called Tone Poems. These are pieces where the music describes a poem or story. The narrative is often written at the beginning of a score, and if it is, it’s usually reproduced for an audience so they can read it before a performance.

Composers began writing Symphonic Poems around the middle of the 19th Century. In previous generations, the composers Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven had established symphonies as the greatest vehicle for orchestral composition. But future composers wondered if there was anything left to say in this genre. And also, the world was changing: were symphonies still relevant? Symphonies had been born during the Age of Enlightenment. At that time, composers emphasised clarity and restraint within their music, reflecting a period that was dominated by scientific thought. But in the reactionary years that followed, the favoured way to relate to the world was emotionally, rather than rationally. Composers in this new era, called Romanticism, focused on heightened drama and intense personal expression in their works.

To reflect the ideas of the time, a new model for composition was developed. Composers looked to poems and stories to provide structure and inspiration for their works. These pieces were written with the intention of provoking listeners to imagine scenes, atmospheres, and characters.

Symphonic Poems were also an ideal vehicle for expressing feelings of national pride and national distinctiveness. During the mid 19th Century, there was wide-spread discontent towards ruling monarchies, and calls for the formation of independent nation-states. The music we’re listening to today is based on the most important river of Smetana’s native Bohemia. At the time of composition, Bohemia - which is the largest region of the modern-day Czech Republic - was a province of the Austrian Empire.

So the composer’s decision to write a Symphonic Poem depicting the Moldau River and its surrounding landscape, wasn’t by chance. Smetana intended to create a piece of music that celebrated and promoted Czech culture.

Just listen to this next excerpt. The use of horns - a traditional hunting instrument - and the jumping, fanfare-like rhythms that they play portray a hunting party on horse-back. Perhaps the listener is being encouraged to imagine the past glories of Czech warriors.

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For me, the music of the horns, combined with the rushing up and down of the strings, creates an atmosphere that’s fantasy-like. We also hear pride, joy, and excitement. Smetana’s composing a legend; he’s conveying the greatness of his nation. This was his intention not only in this piece, but in five additional symphonic poems which he grouped together under the title ‘My Country’. The pieces are all patriotic: they depict the landscape, the stories, and the history of the Czech people.

As we move further on in the piece, there can be no doubting that we’re in some kind of fairy-tale. It’s nighttime and we’ve arrived in a gorge where water nymphs dance in the moonlight. You’ll hear long, high sounds in the strings and flutes playing delicate rising figures. Occasionally a harp strums in the background. It sounds a bit like bubbles arriving at the surface of the water.

[music excerpt]

The gorge has slowed the pace of the water. But the flowing music of the flutes reminds us that we’re still gently progressing down the Moldau River. The notes are always rising, and this gives the music a dream-like quality: perhaps we’re being invited to look to the stars above us? Are we lying on a raft in the middle of the gorge? For me, the long, high-pitched notes in the strings represent the graceful, slow dance of the nymphs. And I have the feeling that we’re observing this dance at a distance; or perhaps, even better, we’re imagining it as we drift off to sleep.

When I listen to this next excerpt, I continue to imagine this dream-like scene. And when the harp comes in - more actively now - it sounds like it might be conveying the twinkling of moonlight on the water. Listen out for the horns too; they come in immediately after the harp’s music.

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I really enjoy those few notes played by the horns. Underneath the orchestra, the horns play this:

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And then this:

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They’re little fragments that resemble military or marching music. I hear them as a subtle echo of the hunting music we heard before. We’re resting our eyes, and we’re dreaming. We see nymphs dancing and we’re half-remembering the images and sensations of the previous day.

But perhaps this isn’t what Smetana intended whatsoever! All we know for certain is the basic plot he outlined in that brief bit of text I read earlier. Other than knowing that these few minutes in the music are about nymphs dancing in the moonlight, we have no other information that confirms what the music might mean. We have, solely, our own imagination. And our imagination isn’t fixed. Today the music causes you to respond in one way, tomorrow you think it means something else entirely. Needless to say, other than some possible general overlap, it’s inconceivable that any two people would imagine the exact same scene - or feel the same emotions - when listening to the same performance of a piece of music.

And that’s part of music’s brilliance. It’s indescribable in words. And it demands something of the listener. The music poses questions. It says, ‘what do you think this means?’ or ‘how does this affect you?’.

The original story gave the composer the impetus to write this piece. But, at all times the composer knew that it’d be impossible to etch his vision into the minds of the listener. This is never a composer’s intention. When writing music, a composer is gifting you a vehicle for your imagination. Each one of us is given the opportunity - in fact, is required - to form our own thoughts, images, emotional responses, or narratives to every piece of classical music.

So, we hit the heart of the issue - and we’re extending our journey from previous episodes where I outlined what it is that makes a performance thrilling. The conviction of the listener in their own interpretation of the music is an essential part of thrilling performance. In each moment, when you listen, it's important to immerse yourself in the music, and then you must commit to your response to that music. Your responses might be fleeting: you won’t even know what that thought or emotional reaction was. Or, you might clearly see images or a scene: peasants dancing, stars and planets slowly moving, or the rolling hills of the countryside. And all the time, it’ll be somewhere between difficult and impossible to quantify your response to the music in words.

A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words. But Music Speaks a Thousand Pictures. These thousands of pictures - images, scenes, emotions, feelings, and ideas - pass through us when listening to classical music. To experience music as thrilling, requires the listener to have conviction. We must believe in how we respond to the music. And when we do so, we fully invest in the music we’re hearing: we open ourselves up to the potential of experiencing thrilling performance.

So let’s listen to the next excerpt. How do you respond to the beautiful sounds and the emotional range of this music?

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Halfway through that excerpt the long flowing melody was interrupted: suddenly the timpani strikes. This was answered by lower brass instruments playing menacing music, and the strings who played short, energetic bursts of notes. This isn’t the calm, majestic river we’re used to! We’ve arrived at the rapids.

So, a listener must have conviction in their response to this music. And therefore, it’s also helpful for a conductor to imagine what this music might represent. Perhaps the forceful notes from the timpani is a raft being pounded by the water. Maybe the lower brass instruments are the waves, and those short bursts of notes in the strings might be the frothing whitewater. Loosely assigning descriptive qualities to aspects of the music assists me in finding the quality of the sound that I seek in the orchestra. A vision or an emotion can provide a palpable benchmark from which I can gauge how to rehearse an orchestra to achieve maximum effect for an audience.

Listen now to the final few moments of the rapids. Following this, the music disintegrates. It quietly hums before regaining its earlier magnificence. According to Smetana’s narrative, we’re now on the approach to Prague.

[music excerpt]

It’s fabulously joyful now. Buoyant, bouncing, almost child-like in its enthusiasm. It continues on like this until it slows up and more than halves its speed. We’re going to hear grandiose music: the river becomes awe-inspiring. And the music’s speed and the fanfare-like figures in the trumpets give it a ceremonial feel. This is surely Smetana conveying his sincere pride in the Czech nation. He’s encouraging us to look at the great city of Prague as we flow past it on this most majestic of rivers.

[music excerpt]

It’s a fantastically evocative piece, isn’t it? And even more amazing, the images, scenes, and emotions this piece inspires will be unique to each individual. Your conviction in your response to this music is part of what makes listening to this piece thrilling. In a way, it really is your piece. Smetana has shared a basic plot outline and he’s composed the music. But it’s your response to the music that makes this piece your own.

Thank you for being with me for another episode of A Thousand Pictures. If you have questions or would like to make a suggestion of a piece or topic for a future episode, please get in touch via social media or email feedback@athousandpictures.com. Further information, a link to the recording featured in today’s podcast, and suggestions about what to listen to next can be found at athousandpictures.com. Or subscribe to our email list and you’ll receive this information directly to your inbox.

Today we’ve been listening to ‘The Moldau’ composed by Bedřich Smetana. I recommend the recording by The Cleveland Orchestra conducted by George Szell.

And finally, please subscribe, please rate and review, and please share this podcast with others. Your support is valuable and it’s appreciated: together we can create a community which celebrates classical music! Now go and listen to this wonderful piece, and get out there and hear a performance by your local orchestra!

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