Stravinsky met the Polish-American violinist Samuel Dushkin over dinner in Wiesbaden in October 1930. They’d been introduced by Stravinsky’s German publisher Willy Strecker, who was keen to obtain a Stravinsky violin concerto, and who assured the composer (in the words of Stravinsky’s biographer Stephen Walsh) that Dushkin was no prima donna virtuoso, but a “cultivated and dedicated musician of intelligence”. It was a shrewd move: Stravinsky was temperamentally allergic to old-style romantic violin virtuosity. “I had been a little doubtful” he recalled in his autobiography:

I was afraid of Dushkin as a virtuoso. I knew that for virtuosi there were temptations and dangers that they were not all capable of overcoming … Dushkin is certainly an exception in this respect among many of his fellow players, and I was very glad to find in him, besides his remarkable gifts as a born violinist, a musical culture, a delicate understanding and—in the exercise of his profession—a self-abegnation that is very rare.

In short, they clicked; first socially, and then musically. Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto (1931) was the result, and soon afterwards the two started to consider suitable material for a joint recital tour, with Stravinsky as pianist. Stravinsky began to assemble a duo programme (or as he jokingly called it, “un joli Kammerabend”), based largely around transcriptions of Pulcinella and Le Baiser de la fée, as well as brand-new, wholly original work for Dushkin: the Duo Concertant, completed in July 1932.

Stravinsky, by this stage, had an aversion to the routines of classical sonata form that was almost as strong as his dislike of romantic notions of the violin. The Duo, he said, was an attempt to resolve the problem of “the blend of strings struck in the piano with strings set in motion by the bow”. More tellingly he cited Petrarch and Virgil. The Duo, he said, was “a lyrical composition, a work of musical versification”: five musical poems that add up to a single whole, inspired by the ideals of classicism in its Greek sense. The opening Cantilène instantly redefines the title’s suggestion of songfulness; the two Eclogues that follow are pastorals, moving with eloquent poise between bright sunlight and dappled shade. The playful, Italianate Gigue provides a temporary release before a final Dithyrambe whose quiet ecstasy is all the more conclusive for being so superbly controlled.

from notes by Signum Classics © 2026