Composers...

Composers over the centuries have utilized music written by their predecessors as building blocks in their own works, whether Brahms’s “Variations on a Theme by Haydn,” Mozart’s “Variations on a Theme by Rossini” or Vaughan Williams’s “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. ”

But Alfred Schnittke (1934-1998), in his Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra, ingeniously combines disparate allusions to previous stylistic eras and composers in rapid-fire progression. Written in 1979, the Concerto veers from spartan, Minimalist lyricism to Chopin-like piano writing to brief jazz riffs to atonality—all in one propulsive movement. It’s a prime example of the Russian composer’s trademark polystylism, an approach akin to postmodernist architects who employ references to multiple historical eras in their buildings. But as Schnittke once wrote about another of his eclectic works: “I did not steal all the ‘antiquities’ in this piece; I faked them.”

Said another way, he imitated the works of the past as much as he literally quoted them. In this Concerto, the allusions are often distorted; there is a sense of beauty being despoiled. For example, about four minutes into the piece, the strings triumphantly proclaim rich, tonal chords similar to those at the beginning of Tchaikovsky’s “1812” Overture, both probably based on a well-known Orthodox chant. They are interrupted by dissonant piano pounding that becomes increasingly vehement in a later repetition. In interviews, Schnittke suggested that when he evoked the old musical order, he was at times “tweaking the listener” and at times lamenting its demise.

While not as profound as Schnittke’s morose Piano Quintet or his mystical Symphony No. 8, his Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra deserves a higher place in this 20th-century composer’s pantheon. Despite its many historical references, the Concerto possesses an impressive unity of expression and is a superb example of the polystylistic genre—increasingly commonplace today—though Schnittke was hardly the first classical composer to employ it. (That distinction is normally accorded to Charles Ives. ) According to Schnittke’s music publisher, Hans Sikorski GmbH, it is the second most frequently performed of the composer’s works world-wide. Interest is also growing in the U.S., where the Cleveland Orchestra recently released a vibrant, in-house recording of the Concerto with its music director Franz Welser-Möst, and pianist Yefim Bronfman.

Born in western Russia to parents of German ancestry, Schnittke experienced the deprivations of World War II, the paranoia of the Stalinist era and the disintegration of the Soviet Union. He was a latecomer to his profession, beginning musical studies in Vienna around age 12 after his father, a journalist and translator, was posted there temporarily. Later, in Russia, the composer earned a degree from the Moscow Conservatory and made his living by teaching and writing film scores. Early concert works from the 1960s were influenced by the music of Shostakovich, Stravinsky and Italian avant-garde composer Luciano Berio. During this period, Schnittke explored various modernist compositional techniques. He was a contemporary of such other “underground” Soviet figures as Sofia Gubaidulina and Arvo Pärt, who also found their own way out of the strictures of Post-World War II serialism.

For Schnittke, the 1970s were a decade of artistic growth and personal change—his mother died in 1972; he was baptized in the Catholic Church at a time when religious practice was barely tolerated in Russia. Among the significant works created during this period were his immense, frequently parodistic Symphony No. 1 (1969-72), the above-mentioned Piano Quintet 1972-76) and the Concerto Grosso No. 1 (1977). Concertos for Russian string players who championed his music, among them violinist Gidon Kremer, violist Yuri Bashmet and cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, helped bring his music to global attention.

In 1985, Schnittke suffered the first of several strokes, which paradoxically triggered a new burst of creativity. Gradually, his music became bleaker but more accessible, exploring religious themes. He ultimately wrote several hundred works, including nine symphonies, leaving the last incomplete when he died at age 63 in Hamburg after his final stroke.

The Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra opens quietly, with a slow, extended passage for the soloist with delicate grace notes and somber, insistent repeated tones said to represent rhythmic imitation of an Orthodox chant. Typically about 23 minutes long, the piece has frequent tempo changes and contrasts between leisurely and motoric rhythms. The strings often play second fiddle to the piano, murmuring beneath its antics, providing acerbic commentary or welling up in occasional, impassioned outbursts. The piano alternates between simple lyricism and dissonant, thundering chords, some of them tone clusters made by using the lower arm and elbow to play all the notes within a specified range.

Yet there’s a haunted, anguished quality now and then, particularly evident in a performance by pianist Adam Kośmieja and conductor José Maria Florêncio

with the Capella Bydgostiensis. The ending, which returns to the quiet simplicity of the piano opening over hushed string drones, gradually fades out—much like its composer’s last few years of life.

—Ms. Jepson reviews classical albums and concerts for the Journal.