Antonio Vivaldi (March 4, 1678-July 28, 1741) composed over five hundred concertos, yet Stravinsky joked that Vivaldi actually wrote the same concerto five hundred times. Many of the Venetian composer/violinist’s concertos display similar traits, making them instantly recognizable as the work of the same artist. Yet how each performer (and listener) approaches Vivaldi’s concertos makes all the difference. “Sundays with Vivaldi” will take Il Prete Rosso’s concertos one at a time, and see whether each of these things is in fact like the others.
Few composers knew how to milk a minor key for such driving, at times downright sensual effects as Vivaldi, but this concerto stalks much more serious territory. It begins so bluntly, so severely, that even the major harmonies that follow almost immediately after the introduction [about eight seconds into the following clip] fail to really lighten the mood or offer any contrast:
Violin solos are decorous but hew closely to the theme. There’s a spontaneity and seamlessness to those solos which, along with the storming main theme, keeps things brooding. Vivaldi marks the first movement “Spiritoso,” which unlike “Allegro, Andante” or “Presto” doesn’t just indicate a tempo but a way to approach the music. Whatever dark ideas are at play are meant to simply never let up.
Without the typical big finish or even a simple cadence, the soloist and the first movement just stop, mid phrase, and the central movement materializes with three notes from the strings and patches of light between the shadows:
Those chiaroscuro progressions in turn become a reflecting pool for the soloist, who hangs some disturbing suspensions over even the sunnier harmonies [for example at 0:47 and 0:51 in the above clip].
The third movement proceeds with an inevitability and leanness which Jonathan Freeman-Attwood explained in terms of Vivaldi’s “economy of means.” That concision reinforces both the underlying tension and Vivaldi’s moody choice of key. Really elegant emotional blackmail here:
The contrast between the full orchestra and the lone soloist wasn’t a Vivaldian innovation, and there’s the usual ritornello form, modulations, jogging rhythm and violinistic displays we expect of Vivaldi, but the soloist’s questioning, at times desperate replies speak to a deeply personal integration between the composer’s instrumental technique and his operatic language. Yet there’s no deus ex machina happy ending like in the stage works. There is a concluding cadence but no sense of resolution; things just seem to stop, like an unpleasant conversation, or a very subtle attack.