When I think of Saint-Saëns, the piece that comes to mind is his Danse Macabre, a gleefully spooky tone poem that’s immensely hummable, and which also catapulted the xylophone into public awareness. As a percussionist, playing Danse Macabre gave me the sense that beyond composing at an exemplary level, Saint-Saëns was also interested in writing parts that were and are legitimately fun for the musician to play. There’s a mischievous joy to his best works, a complementary knowledge that the piece will not only be a treat to listen to, but also to perform — and that’s why listening to his Suite in D Minor for Cello and Orchestra makes me so profoundly jealous of cellists. I dabbled with the cello for a time before eventually focusing on percussion for a little over a decade. The cello is one of my favorite instruments, and has such a unique, soulful sound — at once both wistful and seductive in nature.
Saint-Saëns’s five-movement suite begins with a Prélude built on tension. As the cello loops back and forth, doing hairpin turns ascending a mountain, the woodwinds provide a growing sense of unease. The melody is legato but not altogether calm. Saint-Saëns takes his time to draw in the listener, luring you with mild intrigue. It’s deceptive. Sort of rude! Because what follows is a quick change in mood (it really is Libra season, I suppose) in the Sérénade. Here’s the cello we all know and love. Though another movement is literally called Romance, this Sérénade is what the cello is built for. It’s upbeat, charming, and rather than drawing the audience in with conflict, it hinges on humor and lightness. Here’s the cello, standing outside your window with a boombox, playing a recording of itself. Color me intrigued!
A small Gavotte follows. Saint-Saëns originally wrote this suite for cello and piano, and in 1919 he revised it, scrapping the piano for orchestra. The third movement was initially a Scherzo, and he replaced it with a more complex gavotte — a folk dance. For what’s one of the two more modern movements in the revised suite, there’s something that feels very genuinely Baroque about it. The gavotte form originated in the 16th century, and listening to Saint-Saëns’s take on it invokes something ancient and foreign. It stands out, almost bizarrely, and though it is pleasant to listen to, it perhaps doesn’t capture the beauty of the cello until the final minute or so, when the instrument converses with the woodwinds.
The fourth movement is the Romance, and boy, is it a romance. Here’s the slow dance, the bouquet of roses, the sun setting over the beach, a crackling fireplace on a cold night in. You know what I love about this movement? The flute! It’s the cello’s show, the cello’s seduction, if you will, but the flute enters at the 1:09 mark with such a beautiful little melody before the piece transitions back over to the cello. Little details like this flesh out the suite, and make it more than just a showcase for one musician. The fullness with which the orchestra supports the soloist in this movement is so lovely — neither too much or overwhelming, but there, present. I almost want it to never end.
Of course, when Saint-Saëns ends a piece, he really goes for it. The other revised movement in the suite, the Tarantelle, is yet another folk dance. We all know tarantellas, don’t we? Tarantulas? Big, bad, awful spiders whose bites supposedly make people dance around? Well, I can promise that Saint-Saëns’s tarantella is not too spider-reminiscent. Instead, it’s funky and vibrant and not afraid to go for some real (light) fury in parts. It’s a fitting, frisky conclusion for the piece, one that ultimately goes out with a big bang. C’mon, you gotta love the cello. I do!!
Some more cello recommendations for low strings lovers:
Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor
This is the holy grail of cello concertos, and it’s the whole basis for my crush on the instrument. Wrenching, emotive, beautiful.
Dvořák’s Cello Concerto in B Minor
These minor keys really do it for the cello, huh? This is one of my favorite cello pieces because it so beautifully renders how mysterious the cello has the capacity to sound. With each subsequent listen, I almost understand Dvořák’s piece less and fall in love with it even more.