Run Time: Approx. 24 minutes

“You may shut Beethoven out of your study, but you cannot shut him out of your subconscious.”

— Dmitri Shostakovich

Shostakovich was likely wrestling with this very quandary as he approached his own Ninth Symphony. Living in the 20th century, he was undoubtedly aware of the great Ninths that preceded him, and he was a huge lover of Beethoven and Mahler.

And then there was Stalin. Shostakovich spent most of his creative life trying to balance his artistic voice with the often-difficult task of staying alive through the Great Purge. Survival meant writing the kind of music that Stalin wanted to hear. But in the words of the great American conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein, Shostakovich was “a great nose thumber.” He always found a way to slip an act of defiance into the subtext of his music.

In the years leading up to the composition of the Ninth Symphony, Shostakovich was riding high. He enjoyed good standing with the Soviet government, and his global recognition had boomed following his enormous seventh and eight symphonies.

In 1945, the USSR ended the Battle of Berlin by capturing the city, playing a major role in the defeat of the Nazis, and bringing World War II to a close. What Stalin wanted now was Russia’s own “Beethoven’s Ninth”: a nationalistic masterpiece that could become synonymous with Soviet greatness, just as Beethoven’s magnum opus had come to symbolize the ideals of Western Europe.

Publicly, Shostakovich promised exactly that. He hinted that the work would be his grandest yet, possibly including a full chorus—a clear nod to Beethoven that Stalin so desperately desired. So, with the Soviet machine and the ghost of Beethoven looming over him, he set about his Ninth Symphony. In the end, what he delivered was nearly the exact opposite.

At 24 minutes, the Ninth Symphony is Shostakovich’s shortest and lightest, representing a sharp left turn for the composer whose works had been steadily expanding in scope. It’s also exceptionally playful, full of musical jokes and unexpected interjections.

The first movement features a main theme reminiscent of an upbeat military-style march—the sort that might be heard in a parade. Buoyant and campy, it’s first announced by the trombone with two bombastic slides. When the theme recurs towards the end of the movement, the trombone reenters several times—all in the wrong place—before finally coming in correctly on the seventh try. It all seems quite silly, even childish, but his choice of a militaristic march as the foundation for these antics raises the question: is this a moment of Shostakovich’s nose-thumbing? He certainly would have found Stalin’s claim of victory over fascism to be a tad hypocritical, to say the least. “Here’s your anthem,” Shostakovich seems to say—and then sticks out his tongue.

The second movement is more serious, even lonely, beginning with a sparsely accompanied clarinet solo. Bernstein found this particular brand of melancholy to be uniquely Russian, noting what he called “that peculiarly spare quality of brooding resignation,” which he believed characterized the works of authors like Chekhov as well. This is interspersed with an eerie waltz, eventually arriving at a bittersweet climax before fading once more into that characteristic Russian bleakness.

The final three movements are played without pause. First, the scherzo stirs up a flurry of woodwind activity that recalls the exuberance from the first movement. But the energy soon fades, like someone slowly turning down the volume on a stereo. Then comes a menacing pronouncement from the low brass, announcing the fourth movement and a new central character: the solo bassoon, who embarks on two extended cadenzas. They are contemplative and operatic, and they have a message.

The first begins with material taken from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and after another jolt from the brass, the second expands on a short quote from Mahler’s Ninth. It conjures an image something like the famous Fearless Girl sculpture, in which a small child gazes defiantly up at a charging bull. The weight of expectation storms through the horns. “No,” Shostakovich seems to say. “My Ninth will be written on my own terms.”

From the second cadenza, the bassoon slyly transforms its melody into the final movement’s theme, which rounds out the symphony with the same quirky levity with which it began. Though there are moments of darkness amid the festivities, they’re never allowed much purchase, and the work comes to a prompt and flamboyant close.

So, did Shostakovich successfully avoid the Curse of the Ninth? He certainly did! And in every one of his fifteen symphonies, if his thumb wasn’t directly on his nose, it was certainly nearby.