Má Vlast… Who was Bedřich Smetana?
Born in a brewery in the Bohemian town of Litomysl in 1824, Smetana took part in the 1848 Czech uprisings against the repressive Austro-Hungarian regime as a young man. However, the composer who would become known as the father of Czech took a while to make his mark on his home country. It was, in fact, only in his late-30s, after his return from a five-year stay in Sweden, that the masterpieces began to flow – these included the operas The Bartered Bride and Libuše in the 1860s, crowned by Má Vlast the following decade. Plagued by ill health, he died in 1884, at just 60 years old.
Má Vlast – the work
Nearly every country can boast at least one work that somehow embodies the spirit of that nation. Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and Chopin’s mazurkas, for example, easily conjure up distinct aspects of England, the United States or Poland. Only a handful of works, though, have acquired almost anthemic status in their homelands – pieces that not only depict composers’ countries but which have become central pillars in their cultural identity. Finlandia by Sibelius is one example. Another is Má Vlast,(My Homeland), Smetana’s cycle of six orchestral tone poems from the 1870s.
When was Má Vlast composed?
Má Vlast was composed towards the end of the Czech composer’s life. He had started to experience hearing problems during the composition of the first movement (‘Vyšehrad’) in 1874 and by the time he came to write the second (‘Vltava’) his hearing loss was complete. Like Beethoven before him, deafness, while devastating in one respect, seemed to open up new musical territories, and nearly all his greatest and most celebrated works stem from this late period of his life.
Creating a Czech style of music
For most of his adult life, Smetana’s career oscillated between modestly successful and roundly ignored by the Czech music establishment. To modern ears, his musical language is readily accessible. It is relatively easy listening – in places even ‘filmic’. To 19th-century Czech ears, however, it was a little too revolutionary for conventional tastes. Smetana was an ardent admirer of the music of Wagner, and this was problematic for many.
At the time, Bohemia formed part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the most commonly spoken language, especially among the educated classes, was German. Smetana wanted to be at the forefront of a movement to create a uniquely Czech style of music, distinct from the Germanic music of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and critics argued that this new Czech music needed to put distance between itself and anything overtly German. But the problem was that no composer was considered more Germanic than Wagner – and Smetana had firmly tied his musical flag to Wagner’s Teutonic mast.
In short, he struggled. Dismayed by his lack of success in Prague – ‘a prophet is without honour in his own country’, he grumbled as he packed his bags – Smetana took up a teaching post in Sweden. It was during this period of self-imposed exile that he realised the depth of his love for his homeland and determined once more to make a go of it in Prague.
Liszt and the tone poem
Smetana’s great mentor and friend was the Hungarian composer and pianist Franz Liszt. Liszt’s most important innovation in orchestral writing was the creation of the tone poem, a single-movement work depicting a story, landscape, journey or philosophical idea. The tone poem offered unlimited narrative possibilities, imposed very few restrictions on composers and was the perfect vehicle for stirring up nationalist emotions. Liszt’s innovation was to have a profound impact on Smetana and on Czech music more widely.
What is the structure of Smetana’s Má Vlast?
Má Vlast, a cycle of six tone poems each representing a different aspect of Czech history, landscape or mythology, was begun in 1874 and completed in ’79. Even though it was conceived as a complete cycle, each tone poem was written and premiered separately, with the first performance of the whole cycle taking place in Prague in 1882.
‘Vyšehrad’, the first movement, celebrates the ancient seat of Czech kings perched on an outcrop above the river Vltava in Prague. It is followed by ‘Vltava’ itself, which has carved out a life for itself as a hugely popular standalone concert work. The movement traces the course of the river from its source, through the Czech countryside and Prague to its confluence with the river Elbe. Next up, ‘Šárka’ is a female warrior of Czech legend, while ‘From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields’ represents the beauty of the Czech countryside. ‘Tábor’ is the town founded by the Hussites in the Hussite Wars of the 15th century, and ‘Blaník’ is a mountain in which it is said a huge army sleeps and which will one day come to save Bohemia at its hour of need.
How Má Vlast became the ultimate expression of Czech national pride
Má Vlast was rapturously received at its premiere and soon acquired an almost talismanic status among the Czech cultural resistance. Its significance became so powerful that the Nazis banned all performances of it in 1939 following their occupation of Czechoslovakia; the annual Prague Spring Festival has opened each year since 1952 on the anniversary of Smetana’s death (12 May) with a complete performance of Má Vlast; and today, it is so deeply embedded in the national psyche that announcements at Czech train stations are all preceded by the four opening notes of ‘Vyšehrad’.
With Má Vlast, Smetana finally found the recognition he sought. While other Czech composers have enjoyed more widespread success abroad, Smetana is treated with particular reverence by Czech audiences as the founding father of their national music.
The best recordings of Má Vlast…
Our top pick
Smetana – Má Vlast
Jakub Hrůša (conductor)
Bamberg Symphony
Tudor TUD7196
In some ways, Má Vlast isn’t a fantastically difficult work to play – any competent professional orchestra with a decent conductor and enough rehearsal time should be able to muster up a respectable performance. On the other hand, truly excellent renditions of the work are few and far between, and require performers of rare insight and dedication. In the wrong hands, Smetana’s orchestration can come across as thick and muddy, and it takes a deft hand to navigate the kaleidoscopic but subtle shifts in mood, tempo and texture.
This 2016 recording is an extraordinary example of a body of performers – a German orchestra under a Czech conductor – who have dug deep to convey the composer’s intentions at every moment, creating compelling accounts of each individual tone poem while preserving a sense of larger-scale architecture to create a coherent drama over the recording’s full 81 minutes.
Forensic respect for every detail
In the opening movement, ‘Vyšehrad’, Hrůša’s forensic respect for every detail of the score, coupled with his willingness to allow each passage and phrase to breathe and to be heard, produces exactly the sense of reverence and grandeur that Smetana surely intended. Hrůša avoids the common pitfall of immediately becoming loud and bombastic as soon as the faster material begins, instead carving out a beautiful arc which elegantly reaches its apex towards the end of the movement before subsiding into the airy textures of the opening.
In ‘Vltava’, Hrůša achieves the near-impossible task of creating freshness in a piece that has become a warhorse in the hands of so many. The famous ‘big tune’ is lovingly sung by the violins without ever threatening to become a romp, and there is a clarity and delicacy in the brass playing in this movement (as well as all the others) that allows the finer shades of Smetana’s orchestration to be heard and which gives this performance a rare sense of lightness and mobility.
And it is exactly this responsiveness and virtuosity that bring ‘Šarka’ and ‘From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields’ to life. The orchestra easily navigates the rapid twists and turns of Smetana’s score with the weight of a symphony orchestra and the versatility of a chamber ensemble. Finally, the darker shades of ‘Tábor’ and ‘Blaník’ are never ponderous – where other versions emphasise awe and might, Hrůša and his Bamberg forces close theirs on a note of pride and optimism.
Three other great recordings…
Colin Davis (conductor)
Although this live 2005 performance doesn’t enjoy the full breadth of orchestral colour that recent studio recordings offer, the sound quality is not at all bad, and any shortcomings are more than compensated for by the playing. The LSO is perfectly crystalline in the moonlight music of ‘Vltava’, the folk dances that appear throughout the work are tenderly crafted, and the dark orchestral tuttis of ‘Šarka’ and ‘Blaník’ are both clinical and devastate with an energy that only a live concert can produce. (LSO Live LSO0061).
Jiří Bělohlávek (conductor)
Jiří Bělohlávek, the late chief conductor of the Czech Philharmonic, is buried only a few graves away from Smetana at Vyšehrad, the high castle of the ancient Czech kings. This, from 2014, is one of Bělohlávek’s final recordings, a performance by a conductor and orchestra who carry this music in their veins. The interpretation is weightier and broader than those of Hrůša or Davis, but it’s also a profoundly heartfelt and deeply personal account that gives a real sense of the place Má Vlast holds in the hearts of Czech musicians and audiences. (Decca 483 3187)
Roger Norrington (conductor)
Although not perhaps the first version to listen to in terms of interpretation, the London Classical Players’ 1997 recording on period instruments gives a real insight into the orchestral sound world that Smetana himself would have known. On the one hand, when compared to recordings by large modern symphony orchestras, it’s hard not to miss the sheer size of sound in the more heavily scored sections; on the other hand, the opening trickles of ‘Vltava’ and the subsequent moonlight music have never sounded more beautifully limpid than when performed on these lighter wind instruments. (Erato 2435453015)
And one to avoid…
Conductor Nikolaus Harnoncourt brings his wealth of knowledge of historical performance practice to this 2002 recording but, unlike Norrington, does so without the benefit of an actual period instrument orchestra, recording instead with the mighty Vienna Philharmonic. The result is perfectly respectable but, at times, it feels as though it’s neither one thing nor the other. There’s neither Norrington’s absolute commitment to recreating a historical soundworld, nor Hrůša’s uncompromising immersion in the score and absolute command of the modern symphony orchestra.