Ludwig van Beethoven

Concerto No. 4 in G Major for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 58

Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770 and died in Vienna in 1827. He composed this concerto in 1805 and 1806, and it was first performed publicly in 1808 in Vienna with Beethoven the soloist. The score calls for solo piano, flute, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings. Duration is approximately 31 minutes.

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Beethoven knew full well what audiences expected in a concerto—by this time the form had hardened into a shape everyone thought they knew—so it gave him the greatest pleasure to break the mold at every opportunity. His Fourth Piano Concerto has surprise after surprise, if we can open our ears to hear them.

The trouble is, modern listeners simply cannot hear Beethoven as his own audiences did. We know the rest of Beethoven’s music, and we know all the music that came after: it’s hard to be shocked by Beethoven once you’ve heard Stravinsky, or Webern. But Beethoven’s music continually broke new ground, re-evaluated first principles, and came to different conclusions about what music ought to be. This came as a shock to his own audiences—some thought they were hearing the ravings of a lunatic. Our ears aren’t as innocent as theirs, but it’s still possible to allow ourselves to be delighted when Beethoven defies our expectations.

For example: everyone knows that a concerto begins with a lengthy orchestral exposition where we hear the themes the soloist will expand upon later. But here the piano begins the first movement alone, and quietly. Is this any way to begin a concerto? It is now! And what a marvelous beginning: sweet and gentle, yet incomplete. We want more.

We get more, but not exactly what we had in mind. Beethoven has the orchestra play a similar phrase, but in what is quite obviously the wrong key. Really wrong—no wonder people thought he was mad. Beethoven brings us back home to G major in short order, but then we’re left with the question: where did the piano go? In other concertos we dutifully wait for the piano to enter at the usual place, but here he’s given it to us and then taken it away. Now we wonder when it will be back—and that’s just what Beethoven wanted.

Eventually the piano re-enters, but almost casually, as if it has only now thought of something to say. As the movement unfolds, listen for the several fantasia-like episodes, each lasting only a few bars and always in a wildly distant key. By the time we realize how magical they are, they’re gone. And so is the movement, before we know it.

The second movement is startling in its originality, even for Beethoven. The orchestral strings, in octaves, sound a series of loud, aggressive statements, each followed by piano ruminations of sublime tenderness. These alternations begin to come closer together, even to the point of overlapping. Finally the piano extends its thoughts in a passage of great depth and passion, and the orchestra is tamed by its influence. A remarkable piece of music.

The Finale brings one revelation after another: how a simple theme can yield such a bounty of variations, how a piano and orchestra can interact in such unpredictable ways, how we may detour into fantasy episodes that remind us of the first movement—and how Beethoven saves the last delight for the ending.

We have to expect the unexpected in this concerto, because Beethoven looks at the form and says, “Why, anyone could do that. I believe I’ll do something a bit more fun.” Yet he isn’t merely satisfying a whim: nothing happens in Beethoven by accident. There is a powerful, inexorable logic at work here. It may be hidden from view or disguised as caprice, but by the end we will feel it in our bones.

- Mark Rohr