Piano Concerto No. 1 

Composed in 2015, Jandali’s First Piano Concerto, he says, “is a work in which I tried to accumulate all I know and love about the piano concerto as a genre from Tchaikovsky to Prokofiev and Bartók. Arnold Schoenberg once said something along the lines of: ‘I never was taught composition professionally, but if I found something really impressive in music of Brahms, Wagner, or Mahler I immediately tried to do the same myself.’ So this concerto has features of both Romantic and early twentieth-century music, though the themes stem from ancient Syrian music.”

Jandali recorded his Piano Concerto in Moscow on November 20 and 30, 2016, with the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Sergey Kondrashev. Jandali was acutely aware of the timing of these sessions—just as he was recording this work in which he aims to protect and preserve Syrian culture, bombs were being dropped on the children and cities of Syria.

Movement I: Moderato—Allegro moderato

The Piano Concerto’s first movement unfolds in a full-fledged sonata form, launched by a dramatic introduction of imposing solemnity, in which Jandali draws inspiration from two genres of vocal music. The mawwāl is one of the most widespread genres of sung poetry in the Arab world—especially popular in the Syrian cities of Homs, Ḥama and Aleppo—performed in improvisatory style often with its rhymes extended by elongation of its vowels. The adhān is the call to prayer that can be heard five times a day from mosques throughout the Muslim world. Jandali colors these improvisatory-sounding melodic phrases with drumrolls, piano flourishes, and gut-pounding chords. These subside into a sparer texture highlighting the piano and plaintive string fragments led by cellos resonating in their lowest register.

The somber drama of the introduction provides the perfect foil for the dance-like first theme of the exposition, bringing to mind the age-old concept of “laughter amid tears” so often depicted in the music of Eastern Europe, of the Middle East, and of persecuted peoples of many cultures. The piano presents both this lively theme, based on a samā’i (instrumental piece) in the Bastah Nikar maqām (melodic mode) by Alī Darwīsh (1884–1952), as well as the lovely, lyrical second theme, which draws on an old samā’i in the Shahnaz maqām. Such a thematic contrast is not only typical of Western sonata form but also helps to convey the great spectrum of emotions that relate to the Syrian experience. Jandali heightens the contrast with a pronounced slowing during the transition that stems the rhythmic pressure of the first theme.

A compact development section builds gradually from a mysterious hush to a tremendous climax and the powerful return of the first theme. Quiet descends again to introduce an extended piano cadenza, which shows just as wide a range of emotions as the entire movement. The coda, containing a haunting recall of the main theme by the violins in octaves, begins slowly and, like folk dances of many cultures, builds momentum to a whirlwind conclusion.

Movement II: Andante

The slow movement creates a melancholic dreamworld in an extended three-part form whose main theme is based on an old samā’i in the Nakriz maqam. The first section grows out of a rising motive that the piano takes up under its poignant spinning-out of the melody. When the clarinet takes up the theme, the piano provides delicate elaboration. A gradual surge comes to a great peak as the orchestra adds sonorous bits of color and texture—sometimes graceful, sometimes searing. The middle section creates a kind of nocturnal atmosphere—perhaps a bow to some of Bartók’s famed “night music” as in the slow movement of his Third Piano Concerto—from which a lovely flute solo emerges as well as a poignant cello melody based on a samā’i in the Ajam maqām by Sisak Afandī. The latter becomes the starting point for a piano cadenza that begins introspectively but eventually unleashes great power, which in turn sets up the impassioned outpouring of the main theme by the whole orchestra—replete with tam- tam crashes as the piano reinforces. The veiled dreamworld gradually returns, and another brief cadenza leads directly into the finale.

Movement III: Vivace

A wave of phrases in varied textures banishes the spell, and an energetic dance breaks out, based on the popular Syrian folk tune “My Grandmother’s Dance.” As with a host of Classic and Romantic concertos, Jandali’s finale combines elements of sonata and rondo form in a way that provides plentiful opportunities for the soloist to show dazzling skills. But with such a pronounced folk element one immediately thinks of national schools represented by such composers as Sibelius, Khachaturian, and Bartók. By taking up this tradition of a folk-themed virtuoso finale, Jandali creates a new Syrian national school.

The finale’s second theme, too—which begins like a capricious march in the vein of Prokofiev or Shostakovich—borrows a motive from an old Syrian folk tune of unknown origin, which people have often fit with words to cheer on their favorite sports team. The main theme returns in developmental permutations that culminate in a grand pause. This sets up the entrance of the entire orchestra soaring majestically in the manner of a Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff “big tune,” here employing another old Syrian melody, a samā’i in the Bayati maqām. Jandali concludes with a return to the second theme, which builds in sound and speed to another dramatic pause and final emphatic chord.

The Moonlight

Jandali composed The Moonlight for piano and orchestra in 2015 and recorded it in Moscow on April 4, 2016, with the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sergey Kondrashev. The composer also made a version for piano, oud, and cello, which the Malek Jandali Trio recorded in New York on November 15, 2015, and released on The Jasmine Tree album in 2018.

The Moonlight is based on one of the oldest songs in Islamic culture, “Tala’al-Badru ‘alaynā” (The full moon rose over us), dating back more than 1,400 years. The people of Madinah received Prophet Muhamad with this song, a sign of the value that the first Muslims placed on art and music in their daily lives. Featuring the Nahawand maqam, the piece begins quietly with steady rhythmic patterns that accumulate and subside but eventually wind up to a powerful conclusion.

The full moon rose over us
From the valley of Wada’
And it is incumbent upon us to show gratitude.
For as long as anyone in existence calls out to God Oh our Messenger (Emissary) amongst us
Who comes with the exhortations to be heeded You have brought nobility to this city.
Welcome you who call us to a good way.

Ya Allah | Oh God

Composed in Atlanta, Georgia, in 2012, Ya Allah for piano and orchestra is based on two chants employed by the Syrian people in their peaceful quest for dignity and freedom. Jandali recorded the work in Moscow on February 5, 2013, with the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra, led by Sergey Kondrashev. He then produced a shorter version with chorus joining in on the phrase “Oh God, we have only you, oh God” in Arabic. He recorded this version with members of the Arabic Choir of the Cairo Opera House and
employed a portion of it in a music video that he released in May of 2013. The present album features the complete work in its original version for piano and orchestra.

The piece begins in an atmosphere of deep foreboding, out of which emerges the powerful main theme, which Jandali based on a popular chant that the Syrian people adapted to sing at soccer games in support of their favorite team. (See also the second theme in the Piano Concerto’s finale.) They changed the lyrics to “Oh God, we have only you, oh God” when they realized that the international community had abandoned them. In 2014 the United Nations stopped counting Syrian casualties. Using a well- known tune was immensely helpful to mobilize and engage all people. Says Jandali, “While marching in the streets in peaceful protest, demonstrators used to chant together and clap their hands as proof that they were not armed to avoid being shot at by the regime snipers and soldiers on top of buildings.”

After the mood quiets, a fleeting reference steals in, unconscious but lovely, evoking Wagner’s “Fate motive,” in turn inspired by Beethoven’s famous motive “Muss es sein?” (Must it be?). This luminously prepares the way for the solo piano’s presentation of the main theme, which becomes gradually enlivened by orchestral interjections and leads directly into the energetic second theme. Derived from the chant “The People Want Freedom,” this theme receives all manner of variations and combinations with the main theme, rising to an almost brutally martial treatment before turning quasi-fugal. The composer writes, “I integrate polyphonic techniques in the juxtaposition of both chant themes to emphasize the unity and harmony of the people and their noble quest for human rights, dignity, and freedom.” The piece concludes with a broadened peroration of the main motive.

Elegy 

The warmly nostalgic Elegy, the only work on the Piano Concerto album commissioned by Queens University of Charlotte without piano, dates from the summer of 2013, composed in New York City and recorded in London on May 21, 2014, with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of David Firman. Again, following his basic aim to preserve Syrian culture, Jandali bases the piece on an old Syrian tune, in this case drawing on the form of a tahmīla in the Saba maqām. A tahmīla is a dance form in a simple 4/4 or 2/4 meter that alternates between short improvisational solos and composed ensemble refrains in a call and response format. In this context flute, clarinet, and horn take on significant roles, with an especially lovely flute solo making a tender statement over steady pizzicato midway through the piece. Gently sustained countermelodies add texture, leading to a lush presentation of the main melody. Toward the end Jandali introduces a heartrending violin solo, which dies away to an ethereal final utterance by the flute.