Dobrinka Tabakova, Orpheus’ Comet
Dobrinka Tabakova was born in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, and has lived in London since 1991, graduating from the Guildhall School of Music, and obtaining a PhD from King’s College London. The Washington Times described her music as being “exciting, deeply moving,” while The Strad wrote of her ‘glowing tonal harmonies and grand, sweeping gestures [which] convey a huge emotional depth.” She has been commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic Society, BBC Radio 3 and the European Broadcasting Union and was appointed composer in residence with the BBC Concert Orchestra in 2017 and the Halle Orchestra for the 2022/23 season. Her debut profile album String Paths, on ECM Records, was nominated for a Grammy in 2014. Her second album on ECM was released in September 2025. Her music is performed throughout the world, and she has received numerous commissions. Composed in 2017, Orpheus’ Comet was inspired by one telling of the myth about the Thracian singer, and by the fanfare-like “Toccata” from Claudio Monteverdi’s 1607 opera, L’Orfeo. It was first performed on 27 November 2017 at LSO St Luke’s, London by the BBC Concert Orchestra, conducted by Johannes Wildner. The work is scored for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, three trombones, percussion, and strings.
In her liner notes for the 2023 recording of Orpheus’ Comet, Tabakova states that it “was the first official piece written during my residency with the BBC Concert Orchestra.” She continues, “Commissioned by both the BBC and the European Broadcasting Union, it was written for the 50th anniversary of the regular Music Exchanges and the opening of Monteverdi’s opera L’Orfeo – the signature melody of Euroradio – was at the heart of the concept for the work. It is a regal, upbeat opening – exactly what you would wish from a fanfare – and in my reimagining, it becomes the culmination of tribute to Euroradio. In my research for Orpheus’ Comet, I came across one of the earliest mentions of the Orpheus legend, which is found in Book IV of Virgil’s Georgics. Essentially these are books about agriculture but, the fourth book begins with a detailed study on the life of bees. The final chapter then turns to the legend of Orpheus and tells of Aristaeus (a shepherd and bee-keeper) who chased Euridice, causing her to trip, be bitten by a serpent and ultimately die. As the piece began to take shape, it was the buzzing bees that left a strong impression on me and transformed into musical material. At the very opening of the piece, the buzzing begins in the horns, gradually evolving into nebulous chord clusters and accent sparks that pass around the rest of the orchestra. This dialogue continues until a solemn chorale appears out of the busy texture. The chorale is taken up by the strings and grows to include the buzzing ideas, which are transformed [in]to almost hypnotic rhythmic loops. A soaring melody in the flute and clarinet hovers above as momentum starts to build. Trombones underpin this build-up and prepare for the finale, and the arrival of Monteverdi’s theme, with a modern twist.”
Robert Schumann, Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, Op. 97
Robert Schumann was born June 8, 1810 in Zwickau (Saxony) and died July 29, 1856 at the Endenich asylum, near Bonn. His “Rhenish” Symphony was composed between November 2 and December 9, 1850. Schumann conducted its first performance on February 6, 1851 in Düsseldorf. It is scored for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.
Robert Schumann’s role in the history of the symphony was a critical one, coming as it did during a period when interest in the genre was flagging. While the origins of the symphony as we know it may be found in the mid-18th century, the high point of its development may be said to extend from roughly the 1780s—when Haydn started to reach his maturity with the “Paris” Symphonies—through the last symphonies of Mozart, composed in the latter part of the decade, and, of course, the mighty nine symphonies of Beethoven, extending from 1800 through 1824. But what then was to follow?
Schumann bewailed the fate of the symphony in an article published in 1839 in the journal he helped to found, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik. Interestingly, the key to any move forward was to lay in the discovery of the past, namely the last symphony of Franz Schubert (the “Great” Symphony in C Major), a work of extraordinary innovation that sadly lay dormant until the year 1839, at which time Schumann rescued it from obscurity by insisting on its performance in Leipzig on March 21, 1839. A glowing review of this piece by Schumann followed in 1840, and his own career as a composer of symphonies ensued in 1841 with the first version of his D-minor Symphony (revised in 1851 and known as his Symphony no. 4). His Symphony No. 1 dates from 1841, while his Symphony No. 2 was composed in late 1845 and early 1846.
Schumann’s Third Symphony (Rhenish), composed in 1850, was actually the last of his four symphonies in respect to date of composition. It came into existence at the time the composer accepted an appointment as Music Director of the Düsseldorfer Allgemeine Musikverein. Düsseldorf is located north of Cologne on the banks of the Rhine, and Schumann was eager to drink in its landscape and culture after his time in Dresden. Among his explorations of the Rhine Valley was the discovery of the magnificent and imposing Kölner Dom (Cologne Cathedral), the acknowledged inspiration for the fourth of the Rhenish Symphony’s five movements.
Yet one cannot escape the feeling that the other movements also reflect Schumann’s impressions of the river itself and its surroundings. Take, for example, the turbulent cross-rhythms that inform the opening of the first movement (marked Lebhaft, or lively), in which we feel ourselves literally swept up in the mighty river’s currents. (Surely it was no accident that Schumann’s disciple, Johannes Brahms, wrote these same cross-rhythms into the opening of his own Third Symphony!). Even the Scherzo: Sehr mässig has the feel of an oarsman pulling his boat against a strong current.
Any program one might project for the third movement, Nicht schnell, would be even more speculative, but as is the case for all the themes one encounters in this symphony, its interconnectedness to the rest of the piece is palpable. As indicated earlier, fourth movement, marked Feierlich (ceremoniously), was inspired by the architectural majesty of the Cologne Cathedral, conceived “in the character of an accompaniment to a solemn procession.” At one time it was thought that Schumann had attended the solemn ecclesiastical ceremony celebrating the elevation of Archbishop Johannes von Geiβel to Cardinal, held in the cathedral. Schumann’s diary, however, reveals that the composer did not attend due to illness. The “solemn procession,” therefore, existed in Schumann’s fertile musical imagination. But even its self-consciously antiquated notation—a feature of which audiences would not aware without consulting the score—bespeak the language of the high church. Schumann imitates the effect of the pipe organ by bringing in three trombones—instruments traditionally associated with sacred space. The trombones remain in use as the Rhenish Symphony concludes with a vigorous finale that draws together the various thematic strands, rhythms, and counterpoints that filled the symphony’s first four movements. Triumphant horns and solemn trombones seem to lead “Father Rhine” along its inexorable flow to the sea.
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Concerto no. 1 in B-flat Minor for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 23
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky was born on May 7, 1840 in Votinsk, Russia and died on November 6, 1893 in Saint Petersburg. He remains one of the most popular composers of all time, beloved especially for his symphonies, ballets, and concertos. His Piano Concerto no. 1 was composed in 1874 and received its first performance in Boston on October 25, 1875 with Hans von Bülow as soloist and Benjamin Johnson Lang conducting the Boston Symphony Orchestra. It is scored for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, timpani, and strings.
The first of Tchaikovsky’s piano concertos continues to hold a special place in the hearts of performers and listeners alike. Tchaikovsky had virtually completed the piece by Christmas Eve of 1874, and he eagerly played it for his friend and colleague, Nicolai Rubinstein, hoping to gain his friend’s advice on the practicality of the piano passagework. Rubinstein’s opinion was important to the composer, not only on a personal level, but because Rubinstein was a pianist of considerable influence. Indeed, Tchaikovsky hoped that Rubinstein would agree to perform the work. How bitter, then, must have been the composer’s reaction to his friend’s torrent of harsh criticism, declaring the work to be poorly written for the piano, and even accusing Tchaikovsky of stealing melodies from other composers.
There may have been a modicum of truth in the first accusation, as the composer later revised the solo part (in 1876 and 1889) based upon the suggestions of other pianists who performed the piece. As to the charge of theft, what Rubinstein may have noted was Tchaikovsky’s use of Ukrainian folk tunes in the outer movements, as well as of a French song, Il faut s’amuser, danser et rire, in the second movement. Tchaikovsky must have realized that piece was essentially correct as he had originally written it in most other respects. Indeed, the great pianist and conductor, Hans von Bülow, who gave the Piano Concerto its first performance in Boston with Benjamin Johnson Lang conducting the Boston Symphony Orchestra, cabled Tchaikovsky with the good news of the work’s immediate success. Even Rubinstein found it in his heart to apologize to Tchaikovsky for his crude chastisements, eventually both conducting and performing the work in Moscow and elsewhere. Posterity, of course, has deemed the work as the Romantic piano concerto par excellence.
One of the work’s most intriguing aspects is the fact that its famous opening theme from the first movement—perhaps the Concerto’s most memorable and beloved feature—disappears completely after its opening statements. Tchaikovsky compensates for this disappearance by rewarding the patient listener with a lush romantic theme in the last movement.
I leave the final word about Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No. 1 to Paul Henry Lang, who wrote the following in the preface of The Concerto: 1800-1900, a statement that succinctly identifies this piece’s enduring appeal:
The secret of [its] enormous and lasting success rests on the combination of sweepingly brilliant writing for the solo instrument with melting, long-grained ultra-Romantic melodies, and even with popular Russian tunes, all of it skillfully kept in the clear—nothing is ever covered or obscured here—and the whole wrapped in a lively and colorful orchestral garb. . . . No pianist can consider himself arrivé until he can launch successfully into the crashing chords, the racing octaves, and the bracing runs of this world-conquering concerto.
Program Note by David B. Levy, © 2007/2017/2026
