While more than 100 years separate the composition of Dvořák’s symphony and Kats­Chernin’s concert­opener, they share, along with Bartók’s concerto, a sense of urgency and delight in music making—a delight shared by the gifted players of the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra.

The program’s four performances will take place Thursday, March 13, (8 p.m.) at bergenPAC in Englewood; Friday, March 14, (8 p.m.) at Richardson Auditorium in Princeton; Saturday, March 15, (8 p.m.) at Count Basie Theater in Red Bank and Sunday, March 16, (3 p.m.) at Community Theatre in Morristown. Pre­concert Classical Conversations precede the performances on March 13 and 14. Ticket prices begin at $20.

The Music

The music of Elena Kats­Chernin reflects her unique personal history. She was born in 1957 in Uzebekistan and educated in Moscow before emigrating to Australia as a teenager and studying composition in Germany. Her work has the wistful melancholy and stirring passion of Slavic music, but it is filtered through a distinctly post­modern sensibility with more than a touch of irony to leaven the weight of tradition. Zoom and Zip (1997), a 13­minute concert­opener for string orchestra, is one of Kats­Chernin’s most popular pieces. Not only has it had dozens of performances in Australia, Canada, Finland, Germany, Sweden, the United Kingdom and the United States, but it has been choreographed three times—a testament to the work’s irresistible rhythmic drive and compelling emotional pull.

Says Kats­Chernin, “The melodies are expressive and reminiscent of Slavonic nostalgia. Zoom and Zip does not directly quote anything, but like most of my pieces it draws on memories of having heard something as a child in Russia, and this particular piece has some of the typical Russian harmonic and melodic twists, especially in its first half. The main idea behind the piece was this heavy and relentless motion which gives way to a kind of nostalgia and romance which should not really belong. I am interested in breaking harmonious situations and making things slightly unusual.”

Béla Bartók knew how to compose concertos that would provide ample opportunities for virtuosic display while remaining fiercely true to the integrity of his musical ideas. His Violin Concerto No. 2, composed 1936­38, is a fine case in point. Bartók was asked to write the concerto by his friend Zoltán Székely, first violinist of the renowned Hungarian String Quartet. Bartók wanted to write Székely a set of variations for violin and orchestra, but the violinist was cool to the idea—he preferred a more traditional three­movement concerto. On the surface, Bartók accommodated his friend; the mercurial first movement, with its striking use of a verbunkos (traditional Hungarian recruiting dance) rhythm, is in the customary sonata form. But Bartók had the last word: the second movement, an unexpectedly tender and lush Adagio, is a set of variations, and the exciting finale, alternately driving and reflective, is a free variation on the material presented in the first. These components add up to a giant arch form, an architectural device that fascinated Bartók during the 1930s. Throughout, the composer keeps his soloist busy with dazzling passagework, challenging double­stops and, for good measure, some quarter­tones to play just before the first­movement cadenza.

Antonin Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8 (1889) may be doomed to forever live in the shadow of its more famous sibling, Symphony No. 9 “From the New World.” That is a shame, since Symphony No. 8 is a tremendously appealing piece. It is steeped in Bohemian melodies and dance rhythms, and though there are stormy episodes, particularly in the exhilarating opening movement, a celebratory mood prevails.

A profound sense of joy infuses the second movement Adagio, described by Dvořák’s biographer Alec Robertson as resembling “a miniature tone­poem of Czech village life”—complete with bird songs. Yet the longing in the wistful C­minor theme is unmistakable. Throughout, such shadings prevent the symphony from becoming a mere picture postcard, and lend it satisfying emotional weight. The third movement, in a flowing 3/8 meter, is graceful but restrained, with a faint yet unmistakable tinge of melancholy. Of the trumpet fanfare that opens the finale, Czech conductor Rafael Kubelik remarked to an orchestra, “Gentlemen, in Bohemia the trumpets never call to battle—they always call to the dance.” The finale’s characteristic, lighthearted rhythms certainly inspire foot­tapping and smiles. Like the final movement of the Bartók concerto, it takes the form of a theme and variations, and it too ranges quite widely in mood, by turns turbulent, pensive and, at the work’s close, joyfully triumphant. -- www.njsymphony.org