Young Mozart
Manuscript of Mozart’s first known symphony, K. 16
I have been a Mozart fanatic since playing a semi-staged production of The Marriage of Figaro as a 12 year-old with the Boston Youth Symphony. I loved it at first, and still, for passages like the Count’s apology at the end of Figaro, or the “Lacrimosa” from the Requiem, when the sincerity of the dramatic moment is almost overwhelming.
But in purely instrumental works, I have always found it difficult to describe exactly what is wonderful about Mozart, and I have been increasingly dissatisfied with the various answers one is tempted to give. Simon Keefe’s introduction in The Cambridge Companion to Mozart comes to mind, in which he writes, “Respected and admired in all quarters, [Mozart’s] music defines greatness, rather than being circumscribed by it.” I can’t think of a worse way to attract new audiences than with this kind of argument. On the other hand, I understand the difficulty, and maybe futility, in dissecting works that have been used as the standard bearers of greatness for hundreds of years of musical history.
Recently, I have found myself drawn to works of Mozart that certainly do not define greatness but gradually aspire to it — namely, his early symphonies. Between the ages of 8 and 18, Mozart wrote 30 (confirmed) symphonies that collectively chart his development from child prodigy to master craftsman. What I find most fascinating and touching is that these symphonies tell a story less about the development of a prodigy and more about the trial and error of a young composer — sometimes inspired, other times not. By observing Mozart’s various efforts to cultivate his talent, I feel microscopically closer to understanding how Mozart learned to write his later masterpieces — and why they are indeed great.
MUSICAL FORMULA?
I was reluctant to look at Mozart’s Symphony No. 1 in E flat, K. 16 — written at the age of 8 on a tour of England with his family — but pleasantly surprised to find it to be a helpful place to begin: the opening of this symphony is remarkably similar to that of his Symphony No. 9 in C K. 73 and the Piano Concerto No. 22 in E flat K. 482. They each begin with the same sort of musical formula: a forte “motto” played by the entire orchestra followed by a softer, sequential “continuation” in piano, enriched with suspensions. By following this line of musical genealogy, it is possible to trace how Mozart’s control of musical material developed over time.
The Symphony K. 16 begins with a tutti E flat major arpeggio, followed by repeated B flat eighth notes that drive to the third measure. But the momentum is lost in the subsequent phrase: the harmony changes only once per bar and there is little melodic interest. I can’t help but be touched by the suspensions in the oboe, but as a whole this first phrase fails to hold my attention. What’s more, the opening 11 measures are then repeated verbatim, and the symphony sputters forward.
Symphony No. 1 in E-flat, K. 16
The C major symphony K. 73, written 5 years later by 13 year-old Mozart, uses the same formula with much greater success. The opening theme is nearly identical to that of K. 16: the orchestra arpeggiates the home key, C major, with an abundance of rhythmic energy But what happens in the rest of the phrase — the soft, sequential continuation — is drastically different from its earlier counterpart.
Symphony No. 9 in C, K. 73
First, there is no pause between the two halves of the phrase: the cellos and violins immediately carry one’s attention to the next idea. More importantly, the harmonic rhythm of the sequence is faster than that of K. 16, changing twice per measure for the first two bars and then doubling again for the final cadence in m. 5. As a result, the reiteration of the first phrase begins not in m. 6, as expected, but halfway through m. 5, this time with a different harmonization.
As a result, the continuation retains its soft, lyrical contrast with the opening arpeggio without losing a sense of momentum. While the first symphony’s use of this formula was static, the same formula in K. 73 is thrillingly unstable.
The E-flat Major Piano Concerto K. 482, written just weeks before Mozart’s 30th birthday, successfully uses the same formula but with a different musical result as K. 73. It begins with an E flat arpeggio, followed by a piano continuation of suspensions. Again, the harmonic rhythm of the continuation is double that of the first symphony, and the continuation proceeds without pause after the opening arpeggio. But Mozart does not destabilize the phrase as he did in K. 73: it is 6 measures long, with a regular harmonic rhythm. Instead, he varies the orchestration: the texture thins to only three voices, using bassoons and horns for the first iteration and violins and clarinets for the second. While lacking the rhythmic variety of K. 73, there is instead an added contrast of texture between the forte and piano and of timbre between the two repetitions of the phrase. The subtlety and clarity of this opening phrase is delightful.
Which use of this formula, then, can we say is superior? If one equates quality with complexity, then it is tempting to say Symphony K. 73: after all, it does more in its manipulation of phrase length and harmony than the piano concerto. And maybe if taken in isolation that assessment holds up. But a quick comparison of these measures within the context of the entire movement suggests otherwise: Mozart’s maturity is not found in the degree to which he manipulates material but rather in his ability to use this material to serve the particular needs of the piece at hand.
Exposition repeat in K.482 1st movement, now with piano elaboration
K. 482, 1st movement: turn to B flat minor
While the instability of K. 73 works as an opening statement, the movement ultimately fails to sustain and resolve such instability: apart from these first few measures and their reappearance in the recapitulation, the rest of the movement resembles K16 in its consistent lack of harmonic direction and melodic creativity.
The simplicity and clarity of K. 482, on the other hand, is extremely effective in facilitating the central drama between orchestra and soloist. The opening measures required such simplicity because they were an anticipation of the return of this material with the piano soloist in m. 96 (top left): the texture allows for the piano to add to the original orchestration without thickening the texture. What’s more, the stability of the entire orchestral introduction allows for maximum contrast when the piano suddenly turns to B flat minor in m. 127 (bottom left). While less complex in its outset, the piano concerto’s use of the K. 16 formula is ultimately much more successful in its ability to contribute to the piece as a whole.
I love looking at these three pieces because together they demystify the art of composition, if only slightly. Even for a composer as talented as Mozart, we can see how each work is constructed from a series of choices about how to use very simple musical material. In the early symphonies, the choices are abundantly clear — you can see the seams of the piece, the way in which its individual components are stitched together, often unevenly. But as Mozart matures and his choices coalesce behind a larger sense of compositional intention — like in K. 482 — these seams disappear. We are left with a work that is so well crafted that its individual components are no longer immediately discernible. It is no wonder, then, that when examining only masterpieces it is so difficult to explain why Mozart is fantastic. Somehow, through this process, I have found that it is the shortcomings of youth that are most capable of defining subsequent greatness — an idea that, to me, makes Mozart feel particularly human.