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Rating: By the end of the 19th century, what is now known as the American "star system" was already in operation. However, at the time, its purpose wasn't to create plastic stars from scratch (also due to the lack of raw materials, not yet invented) only to quickly replace them with other identical but "new" ones. As De Gregori tells us in "Bufalo Bill," the country was very young and therefore eager for music, despite lacking its own school of composers: Ives would make his mark a few years later, while Gershwin and Copland had yet to be born. The power of the Almighty Dollar was thus exploited by some enlightened patrons to bring to the USA the best the Old Continent could offer, and among the most illustrious composers of this late-romantic phase, the Czech Antonín Dvořák had already assumed a prominent position.
Hard to categorize within the rigid dualism of that century ("progressives" like Wagner vs. "conservatives" like Brahms), he was more than anything a sublime interpreter of the popular musical spirit of his Bohemia, which, though small, like much of the Slavic countries, was an inexhaustible reservoir of melodies, often melancholic but enchanting. Born in an anonymous village not far from Prague, Dvořák already had a solid future laid out as a butcher, his father's trade, and to be sure of it, he took the certificate to practice this profession, even if his innate musical talents would soon change his life's course, albeit through a period of hard apprenticeship. This to give an idea of the character, who, as a good farmer, remained tied to the most practical aspects of existence even when he was already acclaimed as one of the greatest European composers. It should not be surprising, then, his enthusiasm when in 1892 he accepted the offer to direct the National Conservatory of Music in New York: on one hand, there was the prospect of leaving his Bohemian roots, an essential source of his inspiration, but on the other hand, there was a rich salary guaranteeing an income about 30 times what he would have received in his homeland. Moreover, in his case, the transplant to the USA didn't even dry up his creative vein but rather had the opposite effect, both due to the triumphant reception, with each concert never ceasing to amaze this simple and concrete man, and the fact that he found himself, even across the Ocean, always surrounded by his countrymen, especially during his stay in the village of Spillville (Iowa), a genuine Bohemian island amidst the overwhelming nature of an America still largely untamed.
"Americans expect great things from me, and the main one is to point them to the Promised Land; in short, to create a national music" is one of his ambitious statements from those years, and given his underlying humility, it gives an idea of the exalted state in which this American adventure placed him. An exaltation fortunately very fruitful for us: his gratitude towards the great country that had so warmly adopted him found expression in various works, among which stands out the Symphony No. 9 in E minor Op. 95, known as Symphony "From the New World," his most famous symphonic masterpiece, but not the only one (both the Seventh and especially the Eighth can also be comfortably regarded as such). It seems the subtitle was added at the last minute by Dvořák, unaware of the misunderstandings it would generate: many would have interpreted the "from" as "of," and despite the author's subsequent clarifications, they would have embarked like hunting dogs in a quest for alleged American folk sources, even bringing in the Indians, besides the black spirituals. Now it is known that the curious Dvořák was passionate about indigenous folk music and African American songs; indeed, it is worth quoting this almost prophetic assertion of his: "In the Negro melodies of America, all the elements are found to create a great and noble musical school (...). I am convinced that the musical future of this great country lies in black culture." Not bad, said about ten years before the appearance of the first jazz bands. But Dvořák himself is equally clear in stating that his works "be they written in America, England, or elsewhere, are simply a genuine expression of Bohemian music." Couldn’t be clearer than this... Perhaps more than an American musical source, a connection was found with a literary source, Longfellow's poem "The Song of Hiawatha," which seems to have inspired the second and third movements.
Anyway, what every simple listener can grasp is the extraordinary beauty of this Symphony, which derives from an exceptional evocative and descriptive capacity. Right from the first movement, "Adagio - Allegro molto," one perceives a broad vision of the vast American expanses: after a brief slow introduction, an abrupt lurch of strings reinforced by timpani introduces the first theme, presented by the horn, which seems to emerge directly from the dark green of the thickest forests, and in turn, paves the way to the second, more serene, a motif capable on its own of catapulting us into a world more dreamed of than real, the one we have known through western movies. The contrast becomes ever more vivid and energetic, up to the peremptory and majestic coda.
The "Largo" is one of the most inspired melodies of late romanticism, in fact, it is actually based on two motifs. The first, between pastoral and elegiac, is presented by the unusual voice of the English horn, harsh and nasal like the oboe's but deeper; the second consists of a series of orchestral tremors, like sighs of a sweet but inconsolable cry, at times almost Schubertian. Slowly but inexorably, the tension grows, interrupted only by a lively citation of the themes from the first movement.
Liberating, lively like one of Dvořák's "Slavonic Dances," the third movement erupts in a triumph of triangles and timpani,"Molto vivace," so festive as to manage incorporating the previous elegiac theme reprised in a completely different form, practically just a little less than danceable.
And so full of joy, we arrive at the grand finale,"Allegro con fuoco,"almost tyrannically dominated by the famous theme, almost elementary but with great expressive power, initially literally blasted in unison by the brass, then reworked into imaginative interweavings with citations from previous movements, finally expanded as needed to prepare a most majestic closure, as this superb Symphony deserves, extraordinarily rich in motifs that are easily singable, understandable even to non-classicophiles. Saying that the interpretation by the Berliner Philharmoniker conducted by Herbert Von Karajan is absolutely perfect practically does nothing but state the obvious, but on the other hand, it is the one I know and I am very pleased with it.
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