By the summer of 1940, 67-year-old Sergei Rachmaninoff was tired. Having left his native Russia in 1917 at the start of the Russian Revolution, the virtuoso pianist, conductor, and composer had eventually arrived in New York, where he decided to devote himself to a performing career, working as both pianist and conductor. Although he had been composing since he was a teenager, Rachmaninoff had determined that trying to make a living as a composer was going to be too difficult. Fortunately, as one of the greatest pianists of his generation, he had options, and for the next 23 years, he devoted himself to touring - living in hotel rooms and on train cars, performing hundreds of concerts across the United States and Europe. It was exhausting, and there was simply no time for composition. Even if there had been, Rachmaninoff had lost his inspiration since leaving his homeland. “Losing my country, I lost myself also," he wrote. Between 1918 and his death in 1943, Rachmaninoff gave countless performances but composed only six works.

This makes it all the more remarkable that, in that summer of 1940 as he recuperated from minor surgery at an estate near Huntington, Long Island, he suddenly found himself wanting to compose again. Perhaps it was the location, which was large enough for him to write in private, or the proximity of good friends nearby, including Vladimir and Wanda Horowitz, but for the first time in a long time, Rachmaninoff found himself happily dividing his day between practicing for his upcoming winter concerts and composing a new work for orchestra.

Initially envisioned as a ballet score, Rachmaninoff finished the Symphonic Dances in August of 1940. He had hoped to interest his friend, the Russian choreographer Michel Fokine, in a second collaboration after Fokine’s ballet Paganini, utilizing Rachmaninoff’s Variations on a Theme of Paganini, had enjoyed great success. Unfortunately, Fokine died before any work on the ballet could be done, and the Symphonic Dances was premiered by Eugene Ormandy and The Philadelphia Orchestra in 1941. The work, which would be Rachmaninoff’s final composition, was received warmly by audiences.

Originally titled Fantastic Dances, the three movements of the work were at first called Noon, Twilight, and Midnight. From the very opening of the first movement, it is clear that this is indeed music designed for dance. A pulsing, rhythmic energy is the focus from the beginning as the violins tiptoe in, like dancers entering the stage. When everyone has arrived, there is a burst of energy as a muscular, energetic theme for the whole orchestra explodes. A slower, romantic section follows, featuring the woodwind section—augmented by an alto saxophone—playing a melancholy melody. This dreamy music is the equivalent of a pas de deux and develops into a soaring, majestic moment for the string section. The contrabassoon ushers the full complement of dancers back to the stage in a return to the opening, pulsating music. After a final, sentimental nod to the romantic theme, the movement concludes with the “dancers” leaving the stage the way they arrived, the violins slowly retreating, leaving the stage silent.

In yet another tribute to dance, the second movement is a somewhat diabolical waltz. The sneering brass at the opening let us know that this is not to be a good-natured, whirling Viennese dance, but rather a tragic, dark waltz that repeatedly sputters to life, then disintegrates in a series of haunting vignettes. Rachmaninoff was not the first to offer a ghostly, somewhat ominous version of the waltz; Sibelius had done it with his Valse triste in 1903 and Ravel with his La valse in 1920. Rachmaninoff’s waltz is cut from the same dark cloth as these, and at the end we are left feeling that we have just awakened from an unsettling dream.

The final movement is a hallucinogenic trip through darkened, dangerous streets. One can almost see the curtain rise on a moonlit courtyard. We hear church bells tolling, and the snappy rhythms lend the opening a Spanish flavor. The atmosphere seems charged, almost dangerous, as another dark, heavily rhythmic theme emerges in the unison strings. A lighter, almost dreamlike middle section transports us to a different scene entirely, although the music still feels heavy with drama. When the opening music returns, it is now in vintage Rachmaninoff style, overlayed with the Dies irae (Day of Wrath). A menacing snare drum and other percussion join as we race to a psychedelic conclusion. Much has been made of the fact that Rachmaninoff wrote the word “Alleluia” in the score near the end. It may have been an allusion to one of his earlier works, or simply an indication that the music had reached a triumphant conclusion. Either way, it is clear that Rachmaninoff felt redeemed. Whether or not he suspected that this would be his final work, we do not know, but after so many years of perpetual practice, exhausting performances, and endless travel, perhaps Rachmaninoff was simply feeling content to finally be reunited, late in life, with his creative muse. The last page of the score contains the words “I thank Thee, Lord” in Rachmaninoff’s hand—perhaps that says it all.