Haydn's "Sturm und Drang" phase around 1770 gave us such memorable works as the "Farewell" Symphony (No. 45). Thereafter comes a stretch when most of the composer's creative energy was devoted to opera—for much of his long tenure in the service of Austria's Prince Esterházy, the "minimum weekly requirement" of music for the Prince's establishment included two operas! With 50-odd symphonies already under his belt, the composer was presumably able to "recycle" earlier works in the genre while he scrambled to keep the stage at Esterháza buzzing with new plots and characters.

Haydn remained active as a symphonist during this period, but in general he was less prolific and was to some extent feeling his way along the path leading up to the strongly characterized and memorable later works including the "London" symphonies (Nos. 93-104). The works from this "in-between" phase have yet to gain the concert-hall currency of their earlier and later rivals. But they include some striking specimens waiting to be discovered by the enterprising listener.

Authorities differ somewhat as to the dating of the Symphony No. 64 in A major, with conjectures ranging between 1773 and 1778. There is, however, little dispute that the unusual subtitle "Tempora mutantur" is Haydn's own. The phrase is thought to refer to a Latin epigram by Elizabethan poet John Owen: "Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis" ("Times change, and we must change with them.") The symphony is scored for an unusually spare ensemble consisting only of strings and pairs of oboes and horns.

The opening allegro is rather expansive in scale; beginning with a gentle main theme in the strings; it's punctuated by forte outbursts from the winds as it progresses. Gradually a pulsing accompaniment figure in the lower voices energizes the music still further, leading it through a number of surprising harmonic turns before the main theme makes its expected re-appearance.

As with the contemporary "Roxelane" Symphony (No. 63), the center of attention in this work is its strikingly original slow movement, to which the subtitle refers. To the well-informed listener it may foreshadow the vivid depiction of primordial chaos that opens Haydn's masterful late oratorio The Creation. But what's depicted here is not so much chaos as profound uncertainty; this might have been the music that the proverbial mule hummed to himself as he starved to death between haystacks. Conductor John Hsu speaks compellingly of "its discontinuities of material, dynamics, and register; its refusal to execute an intelligible form; and, most of all, its willfully strange, almost incoherent ending."

The following minuet, vigorous and ingratiating, contrasts profoundly with what has gone before. The concluding rondo might be said to combine the very different moods of the two preceding movements. It opens with a sinuous yet quirky principal theme in the violins; and as the music hurries along, that theme periodically appears, disappears, and reappears as breathlessly and unexpectedly as an overstimulated kitten.

© All Music Guide

Portions of Content Provided by All Music Guide.
© 2008 All Media Guide, LLC. All Music Guide is a registered trademark of All Media Guide, LLC.