In March of 2024, the Symphony Orchestra of Kennesaw State University, under the direction of Nathaniel F. Parker, presented a program entitled “Tragedy and Triumph.”  In addition to the Concerto for Bassoon by Sir Andrzej Panufnik, the program included Brahms’ Tragic Overture and Saint-Saëns’ Symphony No. 1.

The bassoon concerto is certainly the least familiar of these pieces to most audiences. Panufnik’s works are underperformed in the United States; this is an unfortunate circumstance which I hope may be remedied. The piece is exceptional in bassoon concerto literature, which often relies rather heavily on works by Antonio Vivaldi, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Carl Maria von Weber. In contrast to these more traditional compositions, the Panufnik Concerto explores the composer’s unique approach to serial techniques in a quasi-tonal framework and utilizes the entirety of the register of the bassoon.  And while the orchestra and soloist played well—I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge Dr. Jeffrey Lyman’s consummate performance as soloist—it was perhaps most fulfilling to observe an earnest engagement in the body language of the ensemble. These are musicians who met the demands of the avant-garde with enthusiasm rather than apathy.

The Concerto for Bassoon is a study in conflict which conveys an extramusical message about the balance of power, faith, and tyranny in society. Shortly after its commission by American bassoonist Robert Thompson and the Polanki Society of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Panufnik learned of the kidnapping and murder of Father Jerzy Popiełuszko, a well-known Polish priest and political activist who often criticized the Polish Communist Regime. This piece is Panufnik’s meditation on the legacy of Popiełuszko’s ministry and his conflict with those in power.

The piece consists of five movements.  The first, third, and fifth movements are aggressive, loud, and fast. Panfunik illustrates the concept of conflict not only through the musical characteristics of these movements, but also by providing stark contrast in the second and fourth movements.  These inner movements are lyrical, sparsely orchestrated, and meditative. A convincing performance of the piece requires an orchestra that is able to play at both ends of the musical spectrum with equal skill. The Kennesaw State University Symphony Orchestra rises to the occasion; the mastery and control demonstrated by the students is beyond reproach.

Panufnik himself was extremely hesitant to assign specific programmatic meaning to any of the movements of the Concerto for Bassoon. It is therefore possible to exercise some freedom in the extramusical references intended by the composer. However, according to Panufnik’s own notes, the first movement (Prologo) intends to portray the cadence of Father Popiełuszko’s fiery sermons denouncing the actions of the Communist Regime. The bassoon and strings perform a march theme which is regularly interrupted by a violent 12-tone motive. Each statement of the march is made up of phrases of decreasing length, and in each subsequent statement, the bassoon theme is pushed into increasingly higher register. These processes portray increasing tension, and eventually result in the impression of a scream reminiscent of the first movement of Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto. It is to Panufnik’s credit as an orchestrator that the soloist is never overpowered by the strings, despite the aggressive nature of the movement.

The second movement of the piece, Recitativo I, is evocative of chant and therefore implies private reflection of Father Popiełuszko’s institutional faith.  The beginning of the movement is unaccompanied, and allows Lyman to explore the expressive potential of his instrument’s dynamics with subtlety and nuance. He is eventually joined by a flute and two clarinets, who provide delicate tension in the expression of a motivic cell borrowed from the first movement.  The performance of this part requires excellent breath control on the part of the woodwinds. The spare orchestration leaves no place for weakness and no place for the musicians to hide. In this performance, the clarinets and flute emerge victoriously and therefore deserve commendation.

The third movement, Recitativo II, may be interpreted as Father Popiełuszko’s interrogation and eventual death at the hands of the Secret Police. The nuance and flexibility of the second movement are immediately replaced by a series of angry declarations by the soloist, punctuated with violent glissandi expressed by the strings. The coordination of glissando execution in the strings is notable in this performance. The soloist, meanwhile, appears to be chased from the lowest notes of the bassoon register to the uncomfortably high and famously unreliable E5. After reaching this pitch, the scourge of many an orchestral bassoonist, the soloist notably falls completely silent while the glissandi continue in the strings.

The fourth movement, Aria, is significantly longer than the other movements. It is this movement that I believe houses the soul of the piece. When considered in the context of the piece, Aria appears nearly tonal. The ensemble provides moments of almost bluesy nostalgia, phrases of nearly perfect simple beauty and delicate intonation. Against this backdrop, Lyman explores all the delicate aspects of lyrical phrasing, allowing for subtle variations in articulation style, vibrato, and tempo. These moments are always interrupted by themes from previous movements, frustrating the audience. This frustration of beauty by violence and dissonance is symbolic of the central conflict between Popiełuszko and the government he fought. One might argue that it is the entire point of the piece.

The final movement, Epilogo, appears at first to be a simple return to the first movement’s Prologo. Once the soloist enters, we recognize a theme reminiscent of Recitativo II, which may be understood to depict the Priest’s interrogation. Much like Recitativo II, the soloist provides a phrase which is rising through the register of the bassoon. However, in this case Panufnik surprises us all by ending on a C Major chord (with minor inflection in some voices), which he restates multiple times through the ending of the concerto. The implication is of a triumph of some sort, an unexpected but welcome note of optimism despite the preceding dissonance and conflict.