Work

The late 1960s saw Arvo Pärt so unable to reconcile the opposing aesthetic values that informed his and others' music, that he eventually removed himself from the arena of public composition for several years. This conflict is played out in the works from this period, which combine elements of austere modernist Neoclassicism, strict serialism, and evocatively referential pastiche. In his Cello Concerto from 1966, "Pro et contra," this opposition is spelled out in the title as well as the tune.

Within the relatively short span of the work (a performance would most likely not exceed nine minutes), Pärt offers a barrage of orchestral colors and effects. In doing so, he demonstrates an acute ear for instrumental character that only occasionally breaks the homogenous surface in his later tintinnabular works. (One rare example that comes to mind immediately is the unexpected appearance of an electric guitar in Miserere.) The wide variety of timbres colors is matched by the array of "stylistic colors." Bits of harmonically-complete baroque figuration are broken up by dodecaphonic tone clusters or aleatoric percussion sounds, and the seams between stylistic moments are self-consciously exposed—as if the various ideas are rudely cutting each other of as they vie for the spotlight.

The work is set up somewhat like a concerto grosso, with the soloist, a small group of various other soloists that serves as a concertino, and the full ripieno orchestra. But whereas in the Vivaldian and Romantic concerto alike, the combatants wield their weapons with skill and aplomb, in this eclectic work all parties seem rather inept, unsure about the foe they're facing and the turf they're attempting to conquer. Though the opening movement is marked maestoso, the indication really only applies the first measure, a self-assured D major chord. Instead of the expected expository continuation, however, the orchestra and soloist erupt into a noisy mess. When the orchestra drops out, the soloist is left sheepishly sustaining part of the D major chord. Utterly unprepared to take the floor, the cellist seems to forget how the instrument even works—and ends up smacking the bow against various parts of the instrument's body, only occasionally managing to produce a tone. Gradually, regaining his/her footing, the cellist is challenged by equally quirky sounds from within the ensemble, sounds which, nevertheless, culminate in a twelve-tone order. It is clear that by now Pärt isn't writing within various styles so much as commenting on them, and the cumbersome competition between styles signals the composer's profound distrust.

The middle movement is the most curious of the three. Lasting barely thirty seconds, it is comprised nothing but an unadorned, transitional Baroque chord progression. The third movement then begins without a hint of tonality. The cello vigorously saws at the first few notes of a twelve-tone row, eliciting the mimicry of the winds and brass, while the strings slowly build a vertical twelve-tone cluster. Layers of instrumental color are added, with sound effects from the entrails of the piano, 'hoops and hollers in the brass, and finally a cymbal crash that, as in Perpetuum mobile, marks the peak of cacophony. Once again the soloist "misses" the cut off and ends quite awkwardly. Then, in a delightfully ludicrous gesture, the ensemble tries to make up for its concerto's worth of mishaps by ending on an ostentatiously flowery and entirely misplaced Baroque cadence.

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