“The Harp Legend: Xavier de Maistre with the SSO” concert

Zoltán Kodály – Dances of Galánta (1933)

The evening begins not with a thunderclap, but with a clarinet — singing its heart out like a storyteller who’s just taken a long sip of pálinka. It’s Zoltán Kodály’s Dances of Galánta, and from its first smoky phrase to its riotous finale, the piece pulses with old-world color, charm, and an unmistakable sense of place.

Galánta was a small town in Hungary (now part of Slovakia) where Kodály spent several years of his childhood. Though modest in size, Galánta left an outsized imprint on the composer’s imagination — largely due to the local Romani musicians he heard performing in taverns and public squares. These were no conservatory-trained professionals; they were fiery improvisers who played with freedom, virtuosity, and soul. Kodály never forgot them.

Years later, when commissioned to write a piece for the Budapest Philharmonic’s 80th anniversary, Kodály returned to those childhood memories — and to an old collection of verbunkos dances from the 1800s. Originally used as recruitment music for the Hungarian army, verbunkos were meant to impress potential soldiers with their swaggering rhythms, sudden bursts of speed, and ornate melodies. In other words: the perfect source material for a composer looking to dazzle an audience.

In Dances of Galánta, Kodály channels those folk traditions into a glittering orchestral tapestry. The piece opens languidly, with a clarinet solo that seems to improvise its way out of silence, before giving way to a series of increasingly wild and joyful dances. The rhythms kick, swing, and snap with the flair of a seasoned dancer — sometimes teasing, sometimes explosive. Every instrument gets a turn to shine, and the whole ensemble feels like it’s been let off the leash.

But Kodály, ever the educator and folklorist, was doing more than just writing a showpiece. He was reminding the concert hall that the music of peasants, dancers, and roadside fiddlers belongs on the same stage as Brahms and Beethoven. And that reminder still resonates. In Dances of Galánta, you can hear a culture singing proudly through the concert form — with a wink, a flourish, and maybe a touch of mischief.

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Reinhold Glière – Harp Concerto in E-flat Major, Op. 74 (1938)

Xavier de Maistre, harp

Let’s face it — the harp has something of a stereotype problem. It’s often thought of as delicate, angelic, and mostly good for shimmering in the background during movie love scenes or dream sequences. But tonight, that stereotype gets turned gently — but decisively — on its head.

Reinhold Glière’s Harp Concerto is a work that insists the harp isn’t just an ornament; it’s a lead character. Written in 1938 with input from the great Russian harpist Ksenia Erdely, the concerto is elegant but far from dainty. It combines lyrical melodies with moments of true athleticism, all delivered through an instrument that is notoriously tricky to tame.

Taking on this challenge is Xavier de Maistre, one of the finest harpists in the world today. Former principal harp of the Vienna Philharmonic (where harp solos are no joke), de Maistre has built an international career by doing things on the harp that make even seasoned musicians sit up a little straighter. He’s not just playing the instrument — he’s conversing with it, pushing its limits, and inviting the audience to rethink everything they thought they knew about those 47 strings and 7 pedals.

Glière’s concerto is an ideal vehicle for that kind of artistry. The first movement opens in grand Romantic fashion, with broad themes and sweeping gestures that allow the harp to sing in long, expressive lines. The second movement is a study in tenderness — a sort of Russian lullaby that floats above the orchestra with serene poise. But the third movement is where the real fun begins: a lively, playful dance with echoes of folk melody, clever syncopations, and bursts of brilliant color.

It’s not hard to imagine why this concerto has become one of the few harp concertos to enter the standard repertoire. It flatters the soloist, charms the audience, and treats the orchestra as a full partner in the storytelling. Under de Maistre’s fingers, the harp transforms from a mythological symbol into something very real, very human — and very alive.

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Antonín Dvořák – Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70 (1885)

If Dances of Galánta is a musical toast and Glière’s concerto a dance of elegance, then Dvořák’s Seventh Symphony is something deeper — a work of conviction, introspection, and emotional sweep. It’s the kind of piece that doesn’t just entertain, but speaks to the heart of who we are.

Composed in 1885 for the London Philharmonic Society, Dvořák’s Seventh is often hailed as his greatest symphony — even more so than the popular New World. And it’s easy to see why: the Seventh combines the structural rigor of Brahms with Dvořák’s own Bohemian soul. It is dark, noble, and utterly sincere — a portrait of a composer grappling with grief, identity, and the power of music to transcend both.

At the time of writing, Dvořák had recently lost his mother and was watching his beloved Czech homeland struggle for recognition. These emotions seep into every corner of the symphony. The first movement doesn’t just begin — it erupts, with a sense of urgency and inner conflict. The themes twist and unfold with logic, but they also carry emotional weight. You can feel Dvořák digging deep.

The second movement offers a kind of solace — a prayer, perhaps, or a remembered folk song sung from across the hills. It is gentle without being sentimental, a moment of reflection amid the storm. Then comes the scherzo, which reminds us that even in times of hardship, the human spirit dances. Its rhythms are unmistakably Czech — bold, irregular, and joyfully earthy.

But it’s the finale that leaves the strongest impression. The music pushes and strains toward something larger than itself. There are moments of anger, triumph, even defiance — but in the end, the symphony closes not with bombast, but with a kind of hard-won affirmation. Not everything is resolved, but something has been endured. And that, Dvořák seems to say, is enough.

This symphony doesn’t aim to dazzle — it aims to move. And in doing so, it completes a concert that traces the contours of Slavic musical life: from folk dances and storytelling to introspection and transcendence. Kodály gives us the village square. Glière, the elegance of Romantic lyricism. And Dvořák? He gives us the soul.

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This evening’s program offers more than just three beautiful pieces of music. It offers a journey through the landscapes of Central and Eastern Europe — not as seen on a map, but as felt through melody, rhythm, and emotion. From Hungary to Russia to the Czech lands, the music speaks of identity, of joy and struggle, of beauty preserved in tradition and passed on through artistry.

At the center of this journey is the harp — often overlooked, now given full voice by Xavier de Maistre. His performance reminds us that virtuosity isn’t just about speed or volume; it’s about communication, nuance, and the ability to make something ancient feel completely new.

Whether you’re a seasoned listener, a regular guest at our SSO concerts, or new to classical music, tonight’s concert invites you to listen with curiosity, to feel with openness, and perhaps to leave humming something you didn’t expect to love.