Violin Concerto No. 5 in A Major, K. 219 (Turkish)

Even concertgoers who have never studied music likely have some familiarity with Mozart’s life story. Whether it’s from having watched the actor Tom Hulce cavorting around the screen in the 1984 movie Amadeus, or from having seen pictures of the child prodigy in powdered wig and formal wear, sitting at a piano in front of 18th-century royalty. Indeed, Mozart was an extremely gifted pianist who wowed royalty across Western Europe as a youngster and went on to compose 27 piano concertos. What is less known is that Mozart was also an accomplished violinist and violist, whose earliest forays into composing were writing for string instruments. He had perhaps the finest violin teacher of the day at his disposal, as his father, Leopold Mozart, was not only an accomplished player, but authored one of the most acclaimed books on playing the violin. A Treatise on the Fundamentals of Violin Playing, published in 1756, the year of Wolfgang’s birth, was widely considered the most important treatise of the period (and can still be purchased today)! Wolfgang began violin lessons with his father around age four, and at age 13, he entered into the service of the Archbishop of Salzburg as both the concertmaster of the court orchestra and a composer.

Among his first efforts at composing concertos, Mozart wrote five violin concertos, the last four within the span of nine months in 1775. Each concerto increases in musical depth and complexity, and they provide interesting insight into his development as a composer. Following the completion of the fifth concerto in December 1775, the 19-year-old Mozart turned his attention to composing for other instruments and (much to the dismay of violinists worldwide) never again wrote another violin concerto.

The Concerto No. 5 is arguably the most popular and widely performed of the five. Its structure is more inventive and shows Mozart already pushing the boundaries of what was considered “normal” concerto structure at the time. The first movement opens with a traditional, bubbly orchestral exposition, which would normally be followed by the soloist taking over the same material. Mozart, however, decides to try something new. Instead of the soloist entering with the same music the orchestra had presented, everything stops, and the violin enters in a completely different mood. It’s almost as if the channel has been switched, and we’re hearing a different piece. The violin takes a moment to introduce itself with a broad, somewhat melancholy melody, then, just as quickly, we’re back to the lively tempo, but with a completely new, almost heroic first theme presented by the violin. The remainder of the movement continues in the expected exposition/development/recapitulation format, with a spot for a cadenza near the end giving the soloist a chance to really show off. The overriding feeling of the movement is confident, gutsy, and mature—definitely not what one would expect from the pen of a composer not yet out of their teens.

The second movement is a wistful affair, with the orchestra introducing a contemplative melody and the violin following. It is an expansive movement that gives the soloist ample opportunities to demonstrate their expressive gifts, particularly in the high register of the violin. The final movement, labeled Rondeau, is where the moniker “Turkish” derives from. The main theme is a courtly minuet, begun by the solo violin and echoed by the orchestra. Rondo (or Rondeau, in French) structure is one in which an opening tune is presented multiple times, with intervening interludes where there is an opportunity for embellishment. In this case, the genius is in the interludes, each of which shows a different aspect of Mozart’s personality. The first interlude begins lyrically, gradually growing more virtuosic. Following the return of the theme, the second interlude is a stormy affair, suddenly moving from staid elegance to a much more passionate character. The storm passes quickly, however, and the graceful minuet returns. It’s during the third interlude that Mozart really kicks up his heels. In this section marked “alla turca” (in a Turkish manner), Mozart switches both key and meter in a dramatic shift of character. He gives the soloist the equivalent of wild “gypsy” fiddling, while simultaneously asking the lower strings of the orchestra to play using the wood of their bows on the strings, producing a rough, percussive sound. Europe was enamored with “exotic” Turkish culture at the time, and Turkish subjects showed up frequently in operas, art, and literature. Imitating the percussive sounds of a janissary band would have been recognized as a nod to that fascination with all things Turkish. Doing it without having any actual percussion instruments in the orchestra is a testament to Mozart’s creativity and formidable compositional skill. Following this Turkish adventure, there is a final cadenza for the soloist before the unassuming minuet returns. One more interlude leads to a final, joyous reprise of the minuet and then a decidedly drama-free conclusion, as the final notes of the minuet simply evaporate into the air—the 19-year-old Mozart choosing courtly elegance as the final word.