“When I am on form, in good shape, as it were… that’s when ideas most readily come to me, in their droves. Where from? How? I have no idea, I can’t help it… The way to turn all these pieces into a good dish comes to me gradually, in accordance with the rules of counterpoint, the timbres of the instruments, and so on. My brain is fired up.”

This, according to Friedrich Rochlitz, is how Mozart described his creative process. Rochlitz was a writer close to Mozart in his final years; how much he embellished the composer’s account is open to speculation, but the description remains powerful. At the heart of Mozart’s creativity is a fascinating contrast between apparently effortless inspiration and disciplined execution, as well as a sensitivity to timbre that would prove essential in his writing for the clarinet.

Mozart first met his fellow-Freemason, the clarinettist Anton Stadler, in 1782, and the two swiftly became friends. Stadler frequently borrowed money, which Mozart could barely afford to lend, but this did nothing to impair Mozart’s admiration for Stadler, whose playing inspired the Clarinet Quintet, as well as a concerto and a trio.

Yet it was not simply Stadler’s ability which Mozart wished to showcase; even before their acquaintance he had expressed admiration for the clarinet itself. This is unsurprising when one considers that Mozart loved playing the viola, often choosing to bring out its warm, deeper tones in his quartet writing; the woodwind equivalent, the clarinet, was sure to hold similar charms. On hearing the famous Mannheim orchestra, Mozart declared: “Ah! If only we too had clarinets! You can’t believe the wonderful effect produced by a symphony with flutes, oboes and clarinets!”

Mozart’s instinctive understanding of the instrument’s capabilities produced exquisite results, with perfect shaping of line and blending of tone. In fact, the instrument for which Mozart was writing was the basset clarinet championed by Stadler, with an extended lower range – perfect for Mozart’s enjoyment of rich, deep sonorities.

Mozart wrote the quintet in 1789, a difficult year: his wife Constanze had been seriously ill, leaving in August to take the cure at Baden. At least some of the sadness this caused can be felt in the more wistful passages of the quintet, which was entered in Mozart’s catalogue on 29 September. The work was first performed at the Society of Musicians’ Christmas concerts on 22 and 23 December of that year, with both Stadler andMozart playing.

The composer called it “Stadler’s Quintet” – and so it is, with ample opportunity for the soloist to display intricate technical mastery. Yet the work’s greatness 
lies in the depth with which this skill is expressed: both the slow movement and the finale encompass moments of aching beauty as Mozart wrings every last 
drop of lyricism from the instrument’s rich timbre. Hans Keller described this as Mozart’s “simultaneous depth and finished surface, his originality and appeal… his public privacy.”

The Minuet has two trios, the first of which is for strings alone – a felicitous device allowing the soloist a well-earned pause for breath. The joyous finale has, intriguingly, been linked with another masterpiece: Così fan tutte. A fragment of one of Mozart’s sketches contains material probably intended for the quintet, which is used to open Ferrando’s aria “Ah! Lo veggio”. This aria’s text also echoes the quintet’s mood: “in those lovely sighs a sweet ray of hope lights up my heart.”

English composer Gerald Finzi was temperamentally very different from Mozart, and the loss of close family and friends in the First World War consolidated an already introspective nature. But the two composers shared a natural affinity with the clarinet, in Finzi’s case aided by his facility for vocal writing, and a lyricism untarnished by overly sentimental nostalgia or showy technique for its own sake. Finzi’s tendency to rework some of his compositions makes it difficult to give them an exact date. His Five Bagatelles for clarinet and piano, heard here in Christian Alexander’s arrangement for clarinet and string quartet, were begun in the 1920s, but were not finished until the Second World War, when Finzi composed during brief breaks from his work at the Ministry of War Transport. A bagatelle is a short, light piece of music, but in the hands of a fine composer can reach greater depths. Dismissed by Finzi as “only trifles”, three of these bagatelles were complete by 1941, cobbled together, if Finzi’s self-deprecation is to be believed, from “20-year-old bits and pieces”. A fourth piece was added before the premiere in January 1943, given by Pauline Juler and Howard Ferguson at one of the famous wartime National Gallery concerts established by Myra Hess with the assistance of Vaughan Williams. Finzi added a fifth piece, the finale, for the work’s publication as his Op.23 in July 1945, and the set became immediately popular, prompting Finzi to remark that they were “not worth much, but got better notices than my decent stuff”.

The opening Prelude is, like the first movement of Finzi’s Clarinet Concerto, a brisk and breezy movement, its outgoing nature contrasted with a softer central section. The Romance and Carol were probably the earliest written of the bagatelles. An autumnal Romance begins and ends in a spirit of contemplation, thawing during the relaxed central passage. The more animated Carol anticipates the tone of Finzi’s Christmas scene for voices and orchestra, In terra pax. Finzi was a great admirer of J.S. Bach, and his choice of a ‘Forlana’, in a lilting 6/8 meter, may have been influenced by Bach’s use of this Venetian dance style in his Orchestral Suite No.1, BWV1066, or, indeed, by Ravel’s use of the movement in his tribute to friends lost in the First World War, Le Tombeau de Couperin. The final Fughetta is, like the first movement, propelled onwards by a spirit of verve and alacrity, concluding with witty understatement.

Born in New York in 1938, John Corigliano has long espoused a philosophy of inclusiveness in his music, expressing the desire to write for willing performers and audiences. As a consequence, his style often embraces lyricism and tonal harmonies with a flair for theatrical and virtuosic flourishes, sometimes contrasted with modernist techniques. Corigliano’s devastating Soliloquy was composed in 1995 in memory of his late father, who had died in 1975 after a long career as leader of the New York Philharmonic. Corigliano pays tribute to his father’s skill 
as a violinist in this piece through intimate dialogue between the first violin and the clarinet.

Soliloquy begins with the violin alone before the other strings are added, setting the scene for the clarinet’s first entry. The pieceis built around two main melodies, for violin and clarinet, in keys a semitone apart, as well as a three-note motif which bridges the gaps between the two themes. Corigliano states that: “The prevailing feeling is that of desolation. I deliberately avoided an emotional climax in the Soliloquy, feeling that sustaining the same mood throughout the music would achieve a heightened intensity.” The work ends with the opening violin line, but this time it is not alone; it is joined by the clarinet.

Argentinian composer Carolina Heredia wrote Ius in Bello in 2014 on commission from the New Music on the Point Festival, held on the shores of Lake Dunmore in Vermont. The title has its roots in international law, in which the concept of ius ad bellum outlines the rules governing the use of force by states, and ius in bello (meaning “law of war”) regulates the nature of hostilities once conflict isunder way. Whilst Heredia was moved by events in Venezuela when composing the work, she was also seeking to reflect on wider moral principles relating to contemporary politics. Musically, Heredia draws upon an array of Latin-American popular styles to addcolour and depth to the work’s tensions, its dream-like quality evoking the heartfelt desire for peace.

© Joanna Wyld, 2019