Mozart Symphony No 19, K132

A café I go to plays classical music. I was told that they change the type of music they play according to the time of day, so maybe by the evening they’re playing heavy metal. But they start the day with classical, I’m on the go early and this suits me fine. Especially since the music they play is rarely vocal – except at Christmas time, when they zap the unwary traveler with carols whether the Good News has reached them yet or not.

I find that if music has words it interferes with what passes for my thought process, which also uses words.

On one occasion last week I was innocently sitting in this haven of rest catching up with the news when the background music nipped smartly into the foreground. They were playing the minuet from Mozart’s Symphony No 19 in Eb, K132. I was amazed to hear it because, like other of his early symphonies, it hardly ever appears in concert programmes. It was written in July 1772 when Mozart was 16.

The work is in four movements, though Mozart wrote an alternative slow movement, as he did for the Paris Symphony of 1778. My recording gives both, and both are excellent. The first time I heard this symphony I was stopped in my tracks by the minuet and trio because the trio is modal.

At this point I will insert a brief digression concerning my father, now departed the scene. He was an excellent pianist, very much better than I have ever been. But on a visit to Russia he returned with a number scores where he was clearly biting off more than he could chew. For example, among the pieces he brought back was Prokofiev’s 7th Sonata. As might be expected from this composer, this piece is fiendishly difficult.

During our discussion of the music he had brought back I happened to mention tone and semi-tone intervals –  only to be pole-axed by his refusal to admit that such a distinction existed. I played him whole tone intervals (C to D) and semi-tone intervals (E to F) but it did no good. According to him they both sounded the same. So he was better at doing it and I was better at knowing what it was he was doing. Here endeth the digression.

In these happy times of ours there are thought to be two types of scale, major and minor. By convention, minor is deemed to be sad, though there is nothing intrinsically sad about it. And what is the difference between these two types of scale? In both there are two semi-tone intervals, the only difference lying in where these semi-tone intervals occur. That’s it. (Two semitone intervals are visible on a piano or electronic keyboard where two white notes are side by side with no black note between them.)

What does this have to do with Mozart’s Symphony No 19? The trio section of the minuet uses neither major nor minor but a type of scale known as a mode. Mozart uses modes so rarely you don’t heard it coming unless you know the piece, and here he uses one to great effect –  increased, I would say, by the fact that the minuet on either side of it is both strong and austere.

Beethoven also used modes on rare occasions, perhaps the best known being in the slow movement of the Quartet Op 132 (the Heiliger Dankgesang).

The modes are referred to by Greek names, Dorian, Lydian, and so on. Again, what defines them is where the semi-tone intervals occur. For anyone wanting more information on this subject, here is a link to the relevant Wikipedia entry.

Another  notable feature of this symphony is the use of four horns, as in the Divertimento K131 which I mentioned in a previous post. Here, two of the horns are marked in the score as ‘alto’ and hit quite high notes from time to time.

I can’t find a recording of Symphony No 19 with vision as well as sound, but in this sound-only version the minuet begins at 9.28 into the recording and the modal trio at 11.18.

Composers of note

People interested in classical music are well aware of household names such as Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. There is a good reason for that since they are both notable composers. If we were in any doubt of this, concert programmes would confirm it. Beethoven symphonies and concertos are a staple of concert programmes, and Tchaikovsky is always well represented. A glance at the recording catalogue would reinforce this view. Conductors are given to recording ‘Beethoven cycles’ in much the same way as pianists like to record complete sets of Beethoven sonatas. A search of the Fifth Symphony on Presto, a well-known classical music website, brings up 39 pages listing recordings of this work, and each of these pages lists several recordings. We could reasonably ask how many recordings of this work we really need.  Conductors also like to record ‘Mahler Cycles’ primarily, it seems, for the Japanese market.

Some other composers are reasonably well represented in concert programmes too, such as Haydn, Mozart and Rachmaninov, but what has always amazed me is the composers who are seldom or never to be found in live concerts but whose music is well crafted and enjoyable. You would think that if music is well written and a pleasure to hear, concert programmers would let us hear it. But in the main they don’t. Here are just two examples.

Franz Krommer (1759–1831)


Krommer is listed in Wikipedia under a Germanic form of his name. In fact he was born in what is now the Czech Republic and might better be known as František Kramář. For many years there was a great deal of confusion over this composer’s name, to the extent that when I was at school (many years ago) we believed there was a composer called Frantisek Krommer Krammer, a name we liked a lot.

Kramář’s output was considerable, including symphonies, concertos and seventy string quartets, though nowadays he is best known for his many works involving wind instruments. I know only a small percentage of his output, but greatly enjoy both of his concertos for two clarinets. Why do we never hear them in the concert hall? They are well written and inventive. Because two clarinet soloists would have to be paid? That can’t be the explanation, since the powers that be never schedule any of his solo concertos for clarinet either.

Bernhard Molique (1802-1869)


Molique wrote a flute concerto, a cello concerto and six concertos for violin that I know of. But he also wrote two concertos for Signor Regondi, an Italian gentleman who was a virtuoso player both of the guitar and the concertina. And of these two instruments it was not, as you might expect, the guitar that he wrote them for but the concertina.

This might seem an odd instrument to write a concerto for since the concertina is small and not well capable of standing out against an orchestra. But if you have heard a virtuouso concertina player in action, Simon Thoumire, for example, you would not be so surprised. The scores of both concertos exist but one remains unpublished.

If I win the lottery I will happily pay to have it published and for these concertos to be performed and recorded. But this is unlikely to happen. I don’t buy lottery tickets – so I am marginally less likely to win it than those who do.

Molique also wrote a sonata for concertina and piano. This has been recorded (alas, though sensitively, on the accordion). It is a delightful work with a sonata form first movement very fully worked out.

To illustrate the man at work, here is a movement from one of his concertos for concertina and orchestra (played on the accordion).

Where would we be without Youtube?