Artists and Repertoire

Rafael Payare, conductor
Inon Barnatan, piano

Johannes Brahms: Piano Concerto No. 2, in B-flat Major, Op. 83
Gity Razaz: Methuselah (In Chains of Time)* [WORLD PREMIERE]
Antonín Dvořák: Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70

*Commissioned by the League of American Orchestras with the generous support of the Virginia B. Toulmin Foundation.


A San Diego favorite hailed by the New York Times as “one of the most admired pianists of his generation,” Inon Barnatan brings us Brahms’ brilliant blockbuster, the Piano Concerto No. 2. Music Director Rafael Payare and the Orchestra deliver an exciting world premiere by the much-in-demand Iranian-American composer Gity Razaz. The evening closes with Dvořák’s tender and intensely expressive Symphony No. 7, with its warm melodies inspired by the Bohemian spirit.

Note: gates for the Saturday performance will open at 6pm, and gates for the Sunday performance will open at 3:30pm.

Pre-Paid Parking

Ace Parking has provided a DEDICATED PARKING PURCHASE PAGE which can be used for EITHER concert event.

Insights from our Creative Consultant

Johannes Brahms: Piano Concerto No. 2, in B-flat Major, Op. 83

When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!

A silly old schoolroom joke, maybe, but one that hides a truth. Because we have to, we all of us use language to label things, give them names, pin them down. But things often refuse to be defined or limited in this way. And that’s as true of works of art as it’s true of everything else we see and experience.

Brahms was famously a joker, and his friends were sometimes irritated by this. When he finished this Second Piano Concerto, he amused himself by telling them it was "a very small piano concerto" and even just "some little piano pieces." It’s nothing of the kind, of course; it’s one of the mightiest and grandest of all piano concertos. In fact…

When is a piano concerto not a piano concerto? Perhaps, when it is almost a symphony.

Jokes and irony, like Brahms’s on this occasion, often conceal anxiety and a desire to hide. And there is something about this concerto so huge and muscular that makes it seem very different from all those other 19th century concertos which, like a sports event, feature a virtuoso piano soloist versus the orchestra. In this piece, the spectacularly tough and beautiful piano part and the equally tough and beautiful orchestral music seem to flow into one another, like surging currents in the ocean.

This flow of sound  back and forth, in and out, and mingling in a hundred different ways  unquestionably stemmed from Brahms’s distinctive approach to the piano, his own instrument. He was, we know, a magnificent player, and in Brahms’s compositional mind everything either stemmed from the piano or returned to it. That is why he made wonderful two-piano versions of his symphonies (composed at the same time as the familiar orchestral versions) and why so many of his chamber works – violin and cello sonatas, piano trios, string quartets and quintets – also exist as two-piano works. In fact, many of these versions were written for him to play with his friends, and especially with Clara Schumann. And if you listen to them, you find that they often differ in their details from the familiar versions, as though his mind were constantly wondering how many different ways a single musical idea might be imagined.

In other words, any piece of music – indeed, any musical idea  can also become another musical piece or another musical idea.

And that’s what happens in this concerto. Melodies, rhythms, textures, colors, musical details of every kind are thrown back and forth between the piano and the orchestra, in such a way that our ears are dazzled and we start to hear resemblances, echoes and connections in the strangest places.

And – as in his symphonies (but this was unusual for a concerto in his time) – he constructs the piece as four movements, four contrasted scenes: a powerful opening one; a dazzling scherzo, like a wild dance; a gorgeous slow movement, with a cello solo with one of this composer’s most unforgettable tunes; and another wild dance for the finale.

And the music of the first movement drifts and spills into the third movement; and, similarly, the music of the second movement drifts and spills into the fourth movement.

Yes, of course, this is a piano concerto. But it is so many other things at the same time, perhaps even things for which we do not have a name.

Gity Razaz: New Commissioned Work WORLD PREMIERE

Gity Razaz is a young American composer from an Iranian background who has been drawing a great deal of attention recently for her highly sensuous and attractive music.

While we cannot of course know what she is going to write in answer to this commission from the San Diego Symphony Orchestra, you can get a feel for who she is and what she is after and what her music sounds like, by visiting her excellent website at

Antonín Dvořák: Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70

Dvořák is world-famous today as the greatest of all Czech composers, and the musical voice of his people’s painful longing to be a free and independent nation when they were still locked up in the 19th century within the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and ruled by a German-speaking and deeply autocratic and anti-democratic emperor in Vienna. And when the composer came to the United States in the 1890s, his patron, the New York philanthropist Mrs. Thurber, explicitly announced she had invited him to this country "to teach the Americans to write American music."

In other words, Dvořák was understood by his contemporaries all over the world  and is still understood this way  as a composer writing about those supposedly very modern ideas: identity and difference. But these ideas are not new. They have been with us for centuries. And they are summed up in the deep and age-old question his music constantly raises in the hearts of his listeners:

Who are we and where do we belong?

Dvořák himself was always clear: this question was central to what he was trying to achieve. When he began his glorious but deeply tragic Seventh Symphony in December 1884, he made no bones about it. The restless and surging tune at the very beginning of the symphony came, he said, from his immediate feelings when he witnessed a great crowd of his fellow Czechs who had just arrived at the Prague railroad station on a train from another city and were pouring onto the streets on their way to a political rally at the National Theatre in support of democracy, freedom and independence, and also for the right to use their native language which had been so brutally repressed.

Dvořák was a direct man and he put it simply:

I am now busy with this symphony… and wherever I go I can think of nothing else. God grant this Czech music will move the world!

A few years later, after the world premiere in New York of Dvořák’s famous Ninth Symphony, From the New World, the German-born conductor Anton Seidl announced:

This music is filled with pathos… the pathos of homesickness.

It’s a perceptive remark. And not just about the New World Symphony, but about pretty much everything Dvořák ever wrote. But rarely is that feeling as strong as it is here in this Seventh Symphony.

But what does it mean to be homesick in this way? The sense that so many human beings in the world have that pain deep in their hearts which makes them think that they somehow do not belong goes far beyond politics and even beyond justice. It’s there with us from the beginning, and in the beautiful slow movement of this Seventh Symphony, Dvořák hints at this even deeper meaning. At the end of this gentle, haunting Poco Adagio, in the manuscript score he wrote an enigmatic phrase:

From the sad years…

It seems what he was referring to were two deeply personal events that had not long before taken place: the death of his adored mother; and the death of his much-loved eldest child. So, in this music, we should hear something beyond even the longing for freedom, nationhood, justice and equity… We should hear the echo of those most universal of human experiences: grief and loss. That is the true "pathos of homesickness" that Dvořák understood so well. And which he depicted so wonderfully in this music because he so wanted this symphony to "move the world." He wanted us to feel what he felt.

– San Diego Symphony Creative Consultant GERARD MCBURNEY

  • Jacobs Masterworks @ The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park

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Time 7:30 p.m.
Venue The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park
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Time 5 p.m.
Venue The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park
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Here is Daniel Barenboim with his Berlin orchestra performing Brahms' Second Piano Concerto, conducted by Gustavo Dudamel.

And do give a listen to Brahms’s own version of his Second Piano Concerto for two pianos.

The great musicians of the Czech Philharmonic, for whom this music is so close and personal, especially in the years after World War 2, perform Dvořák’s 7th, conducted by the amazing Václav Neumann.

The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park


The Rady Shell expanded culinary program — The Shell Provisions — offers an impressive range of local specialties from some of San Diego's finest eateries and locally sourced options ranging from casual to upscale. New state-of-the-art kitchens and dining spaces will make dining with your friends and family at The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park a memorable experience.

The Shell Provisions is brought to life by our local partners. These partners include some of San Diego's most talked-about favorites, like Chef Richard Blais, Urban Kitchen, Biga, Lola 55, Achilles Coffee, Marketplace Grille, Kitchens for Good and others.

(See all of your options, including our new, deliciously curated "Blais by the Bay" pre-order service, on our Dining Page!)

Please note: Food and beverages may not be brought in to The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park. In an effort to reduce waste, guests are welcome to bring one empty reusable plastic or aluminum water bottle only. Bottles can be filled at water refill stations inside the venue. Glass bottles are not permitted.