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Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68
Johannes Brahms

Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68
Johannes Brahms
(b. May 7, 1833 in Hamburg; d. April 3, 1897 in Vienna)

Brahms was more than halfway through his career as a composer when his first symphony debuted in 1876. Twenty plus years in the making it was a smashing success. Whatever personal Hell he went through getting there, even crusty critic Eduard Hanslick gave the symphony his blessing. The next year conductor Hans von Bülow dubbed it as—probably the greatest accolade Brahms could imagine—“Beethoven's Tenth.”

A tensely wrought introduction unfolds for nearly three minutes, subsiding at the end, only to meet the Allegro and new disquieted, urgent pronouncements. The movement follows a recognizable sonata-form; however, there is very little material that anyone will be whistling later. 

Much has been made of the C-minor key—the same as Beethoven's legendary Symphony No. 5—and it can hardly be coincidence that its “fate knocking” rhythm, short-short-short-long, begins to dominate the movement. If there was any doubt, it is erased as the timpani relentlessly reiterate it while the movement subsides and gently comes to rest.

The second movement is in an utterly different place. Brahms is at his most unguarded and vulnerable. The oboe enters with the movement's main theme that describes a sublime place. The music soars and aspires to something beyond imagination. When a solo violin picks up the theme, it tugs at the heartstrings in a way likely to bring tears to all but the most immovable.

The short third movement is easy listening but offers some musical surprises. A minuet or scherzo belongs here and this is neither. A genial first part in 2/4 time gives way to a middle part with an impassioned climax. The opening theme returns and, for a moment, the strings foreshadow the famous theme of the last movement. Like the first movement, the energy ebbs away to a quiet end.

The final movement begins by recapitulating the feelings raised in the first two movements. Burning tension, roiling anticipation, where is this going? The horn then enters (Brahms called it the “alphorn” theme) and all is light and blessedness. The trombone choir, silent until now, reinforces the special moment. Gently arriving at a silence, it could be over—except for the lingering unresolved harmony. Enter the big theme, familiar to almost everyone, where some may recognize it as the hymn, “We Are God’s People.” It has been likened to the “Ode to Joy” theme in Beethoven's Symphony No. 9—a similarity that Brahms himself said, “any ass” could see. 

That's plenty of thematic material. What follows is cathartic jubilation—Brahms' demons have been exorcized. When the alphorn and hymn themes return, the joy overlaying them is palpable and the march to the end is transcendently triumphant.

How is it that Brahms, who by the 1870s had written large works that were enthusiastically received, still had his path to his first symphony blocked for so long? “You have no conception of how the likes of us feel when we hear the tread of a giant like [Beethoven] behind us!” Brahms wrote a friend. Had his early works been less eagerly received or had he not been hailed by the Viennese as Beethoven's rightful heir—Viennese who still remembered Beethoven walking in their midst—he might have had an easier time of it.

Brahms biographer Max Kalbeck found significant that Brahms began work on the symphony as Robert Schumann’s life was ending in madness. With Robert gone he hoped for a romantic link to Robert’s widow Clara whom he adored. We know Clara was kept informed of Brahms’ progress on his symphony. If it was also entangled in unrequited love, it adds one more dimension to the struggle he had with it.

(c) 2011, 2018, 2024 by Steven Hollingsworth,
Creative Commons Public Attribution 3.0
United States License.
Contact steve@trecorde.net


Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68
Johannes Brahms

Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68
Johannes Brahms
(b. May 7, 1833 in Hamburg; d. April 3, 1897 in Vienna)

Brahms was more than halfway through his career as a composer when his first symphony debuted in 1876. Twenty plus years in the making it was a smashing success. Whatever personal Hell he went through getting there, even crusty critic Eduard Hanslick gave the symphony his blessing. The next year conductor Hans von Bülow dubbed it as—probably the greatest accolade Brahms could imagine—“Beethoven's Tenth.”

A tensely wrought introduction unfolds for nearly three minutes, subsiding at the end, only to meet the Allegro and new disquieted, urgent pronouncements. The movement follows a recognizable sonata-form; however, there is very little material that anyone will be whistling later. 

Much has been made of the C-minor key—the same as Beethoven's legendary Symphony No. 5—and it can hardly be coincidence that its “fate knocking” rhythm, short-short-short-long, begins to dominate the movement. If there was any doubt, it is erased as the timpani relentlessly reiterate it while the movement subsides and gently comes to rest.

The second movement is in an utterly different place. Brahms is at his most unguarded and vulnerable. The oboe enters with the movement's main theme that describes a sublime place. The music soars and aspires to something beyond imagination. When a solo violin picks up the theme, it tugs at the heartstrings in a way likely to bring tears to all but the most immovable.

The short third movement is easy listening but offers some musical surprises. A minuet or scherzo belongs here and this is neither. A genial first part in 2/4 time gives way to a middle part with an impassioned climax. The opening theme returns and, for a moment, the strings foreshadow the famous theme of the last movement. Like the first movement, the energy ebbs away to a quiet end.

The final movement begins by recapitulating the feelings raised in the first two movements. Burning tension, roiling anticipation, where is this going? The horn then enters (Brahms called it the “alphorn” theme) and all is light and blessedness. The trombone choir, silent until now, reinforces the special moment. Gently arriving at a silence, it could be over—except for the lingering unresolved harmony. Enter the big theme, familiar to almost everyone, where some may recognize it as the hymn, “We Are God’s People.” It has been likened to the “Ode to Joy” theme in Beethoven's Symphony No. 9—a similarity that Brahms himself said, “any ass” could see. 

That's plenty of thematic material. What follows is cathartic jubilation—Brahms' demons have been exorcized. When the alphorn and hymn themes return, the joy overlaying them is palpable and the march to the end is transcendently triumphant.

How is it that Brahms, who by the 1870s had written large works that were enthusiastically received, still had his path to his first symphony blocked for so long? “You have no conception of how the likes of us feel when we hear the tread of a giant like [Beethoven] behind us!” Brahms wrote a friend. Had his early works been less eagerly received or had he not been hailed by the Viennese as Beethoven's rightful heir—Viennese who still remembered Beethoven walking in their midst—he might have had an easier time of it.

Brahms biographer Max Kalbeck found significant that Brahms began work on the symphony as Robert Schumann’s life was ending in madness. With Robert gone he hoped for a romantic link to Robert’s widow Clara whom he adored. We know Clara was kept informed of Brahms’ progress on his symphony. If it was also entangled in unrequited love, it adds one more dimension to the struggle he had with it.

(c) 2011, 2018, 2024 by Steven Hollingsworth,
Creative Commons Public Attribution 3.0
United States License.
Contact steve@trecorde.net