These notes were written not in 2004, but several years earlier, and recycled for concert on 3 X 2004. [comment by LRT. -ed]
Some Thoughts on the Ninth Symphony...
It is possible to claim that in the entire history of Western music no single composition has cast such a long shadow, and more totally absorbed the attention of musicians and music lovers for so many years, as the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. The premiere in Vienna on May 7, 1824, was an eagerly awaited event. A dozen years had passed since the Eighth Symphony. It was a turbulent, often unhappy period for the composer, with remarkable creative bursts interspersed with long spells of little accomplishment. As he approached his fiftieth year, Beethoven, who had compressed the bulk of his output into a remarkably prolific twenty years (1792 1812), was now living in near isolation, writing works whose musical language and expressive meaning seemed increasingly enigmatic and intractable to many of his contemporaries. Enveloped by total deafness, the composer became ever more withdrawn from society. In the view of many observers, it accounted for the increasingly eccentric nature of many of the later compositions.
Beethoven gradually emerged from this protracted period of family problems, poor health, and deep depression to regain his creative energies. In 1817, an invitation from the Philharmonic Society of London to write a pair of symphonies was a hopeful omen for the future. There was to be a series of remarkable works for piano, starting with the colossal "Hammerklavier," Sonata, as well as the equally daunting "Diabelli" Variations, and the beginning of the Missa Solemnis, op. 123. Tackling such monumental projects was a clear sign of renewed energies, but it was with news that a ninth symphony was ready for performance that the outside world became aware of the composer's creative recovery.
For all the technical limitations of the performance (directed by three persons - one of them the deaf composer himself), the premiere was a success, a grand occasion. The more perceptive observers of the day were well aware that this symphony was a portent of powerful changes in the art of music: things would never be the same. Most younger orchestral composers were profoundly stirred by the Ninth and shaken by the challenge it represented. The writing of a symphony was, from then onward, never again a matter to be taken lightly.
For the younger generation of Romantic composers Beethoven was indeed a tough act to follow. Although a passionate advocate of Beethoven in France, Berlioz steered clear of the seductive influence of the Ninth, taking the "Pastoral" Symphony as the jumping off point for his Symphonie Fantastique, although the grandeur of his Requiem and Te Deum show signs of the impact of the Ninth. Composed not long after the death of Beethoven, the symphonies of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and even Liszt show clear evidence of having been written in the uneasy shadow of of the Ninth Symphony. True, these are works of originality and great power, even in those problematic instances when the example of a choral finale is embraced, as Princeton Chamber Symphony listeners will recall in the case of Mendelssohn's "Lobgesang" Symphony. The male chorus conclusion of Liszt's "Faust" Symphony is another example. Liszt's own decision to develop the "symphonic poem" was taken by many Romantic composers as a sign that the best solution to the challenge of Beethoven's example was to move in a quite different direction. In the well known case of Brahms, who rejected Liszt's example, the sheer audacity of following in the footsteps of Beethoven kept the young composer in a state of agonized indecision for years before producing his first symphony. Wagner, after a charming early symphony written in the spirit of Weber, directed his own Beethovenian tendencies into the music drama, insisting (probably correctly) that his stage works embodied the essence of the "symphonic principle" derived from Beethoven. Rather unexpectedly, it was Anton Bruckner who confronted the enormous challenge of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony. Out of nowhere, Bruckner emerged as the "house symphonist" for the Wagner faction, with works positively haunted by the Beethoven Ninth, as can be heard in the hushed string tremolo opening bars, and spacious adagio slow movements found in most of his symphonies. Significantly, although a superb composer of choral music, Bruckner never dreamed of following the example of a choral finale. The final flowering of that symphonic innovation would come in the works of Mahler.
If the achievements of Newton and Einstein mark key events in the history of ideas, the Ninth Symphony occupies a comparable position in the history of art. Quite early on, the Ninth took on a strikingly ceremonial, even emblematic position. An example would be the dedication of the Bayreuth Festspielhaus in 1872, when Richard Wagner, no shrinking violet when it came to self regard, chose not to perform one of his own works, and instead conducted the Choral Symphony, as though invoking from the immortal Beethoven himself a musical blessing upon the enterprise.
Not only is the Ninth one of a handful of landmark compositions looming over the history of music, in the contemporary age it also has taken on an unparalleled cultural significance. Years ago, Pablo Casals urged that the symphony be heard worldwide as a symbol of peace and brotherhood, the Ode to Joy as a sort of "international anthem." We were reminded of this sentiment when Beethoven's music boomed out over loudspeakers in Tiananmen Square during the Chinese students' protests in 1989. Later that year, with Schiller's word Freude [joy] replaced by Freiheit [freedom], Leonard Bernstein led an international body of singers and players in an emotionally charged performance celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall. Yet, with the widely held view of the Ninth as symbol of the noblest human aspirations, the symphony, always resilient, has been used for other darker purposes. In 1942, the symphony was the high point of a birthday concert for the Fuehrer conducted by Wilhelm Furtwaengler. And, for some who remember Anthony Burgess's Clockwork Orange, the Ninth can seem positively creepy. When the Bayreuth Festival reopened in 1951, the symphony was played again, perhaps to cleanse the premises of fascist contagion. With fitting irony, the conductor was Wilhelm Furtwaengler! Beethoven, however, seems to rise above even the most twisted claims to his legacy. The Ninth has always occupied an honored place in the repertoire of the Israel Philharmonic, which (then called the Palestine Philharmonic) performed the work when word of the Nazi surrender was received in 1945.
From the very beginning, the symphony was viewed with awe. Until well into the modern age, performances were rare, eagerly awaited events. The rise of modern technology over the last fifty years has (for good or ill) made possible the huge, worldwide popularity of the symphony. The writer of these notes remembers the excitement of hearing the Ninth for the first time at age ten on a car radio, broadcast from Boston - his father obligingly pulled over and parked to avoid losing the radio signal. And those who can remember the majestic sight of the Ninth on a library shelf, a heavy album of ten breakable 78 r. p. m. records, may smile with satisfaction to learn that the very duration of the Ninth Symphony inspired the inventors of the compact disc to accommodate an uninterrupted stretch of approximately seventy minutes of music!
The Ninth can fascinate by its sheer scale alone. For many it is a sort of musical Mount Everest, which can challenge a listener's sense of adventure "because it is there." The spirit of the choral finale remains an overwhelming experience, with its appeal to a nonspecific but powerful religious impulse that sweeps past divisions of religion, race, and politics. This enduring appeal makes the Ode to Joy a target for every sort of use and misuse. The melody turns up everywhere: in church hymnals, in television commercials, at the Olympic Games, sampled by Michael Jackson. Somehow the music survives the overkill. The symphony is so popular in Japan that 162 performances were reported to have taken place in December of 1991 alone! And whatever the aftermath of Tiananmen Square, Chinese audiences are deeply moved by the work, as was reported by the Princeton Chamber Symphony's own Toby Goodyear and Gerald Neary, who joined the Yale Alumni Chorus this past summer for performances of the symphony in Beijing, Xian, and Shanghai.
Thus, the Ninth Symphony seems to take on a wider significance than could ever have been imagined in earlier times. And although the century now concluding may seem to be a period of unequaled horror, those unwilling to abandon Beethoven's idealistic vision of a world in which "all men shall be brothers" may be heartened by the symphony's increasing appeal in an ever shrinking world community. Clearly this work has never lost its power to provoke and challenge.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, op. 125
Between 1800 and 1812, Ludwig van Beethoven composed his first eight symphonies, reaching a peak of popularity with a remarkable harvest of works in what is sometimes called his "heroic" period. After the first performance of the Eighth Symphony in 1814, a ninth symphony was eagerly anticipated. Troubles, however, awaited the composer the most immediate being his increasing deafness, which brought to a close his career as a pianist after a performance of the "Archduke" Trio in May of 1814. At that point, Beethoven began to be overwhelmed by a host of personal problems, including family disputes, deteriorating health, and what today would be called depression. Creative work was increasingly set aside, and Beethoven began to retreat from the world.
Sketchbooks kept by Beethoven bear evidence that he had considered composing another symphony soon after the premiere of the Eighth Symphony. (One of these, the Scheide Sketchbook, now housed in Princeton University's Firestone Library, contains a few bars of what would become the famous theme of the Ninth Symphony scherzo.) Another sketchbook entry refers to a "Symphony," with descriptive comments that seem to look ahead to the plan for the opening movement of the Ninth. But there are other fascinating early seeds that would eventually bear fruit. Above all was Beethoven's desire to compose a setting of Schiller's Ode to Joy, which can be traced back as early as 1792 - thirty-two years before the Ninth Symphony was completed! Forty other settings of the Schiller poem appeared before Beethoven's version, including one by Franz Schubert. Beethoven himself made notations for a setting in 1798, and again in 1811.
In 1817, using Beethoven's pupil Ferdinand Ries as an intermediary, the Philharmonic Society of London put out feelers for a possible commission of a pair of symphonies they hoped would be performed a year later, with Beethoven invited to London to take part, in the manner of Haydn's appearances there a generation earlier. Beethoven originally agreed to the commission, only to set it aside on grounds of health problems. The state of his health, however, did not stand in the way of composing the "Hammerklavier" Sonata! In his initial thoughts regarding a pair of symphonies, Beethoven considered one work employing the antique "church modes," and another that would incorporate voices in a setting of a German text. These ideas remained hazy at best during the period in which the late piano works were finished, and a long cherished hope to compose a Missa Solemnis was fulfilled. By the time Beethoven worked out the final terms for a commission from the Philharmonic Society (April, 1822), the plan for a pair of symphonies had given way to a projected single work. The curious notion of using the church modes was put off, only to reappear in the celebrated "Hymn of Thanksgiving" movement in the op. 132 string quartet. A symphony with voices was still uncertain, and for a time Beethoven toyed with the idea of a purely instrumental finale. He even sketched out a theme that, oddly enough, also turns up in the finale of the same string quartet. Beethoven still entertained hopes for a symphony "with voices" but was uncertain about whether a setting of a German text would be appropriate for a commission from England. These doubts were soon set aside, and the long anticipated setting of the Schiller text would become a reality.
The orchestra used in the Ninth Symphony is Beethoven's largest: winds, trumpets, and timpani in pairs, piccolo, four horns, three trombones, and percussion. An unusually large orchestra was assembled for the first performance, in the spacious Kaerntnerthor Theater. Fifty eight strings are known to have taken part, with ninety singers in the chorus. Adding the other players, the orchestra probably numbered between 75 85 members. Eager as ever to lay out a groaning board of musical nourishment, Beethoven also programmed three movements from the Missa Solemnis, and the "Consecration of the House" Overture!
First impressions count, it is said, and among many other gifts, Ludwig van Beethoven had a unique touch when it came to starting a composition. That said, truly nothing in all of Beethoven can match the originality and sheer mystery of the opening bars of the Ninth Symphony: an enigmatic humming open fifth in the strings (plus horns) hovers on A around apparently shapeless thematic fragments. The movement seems to come to life, in sudden swell into fortissimo, unleashing the first subject in a full, fierce unison proclamation - those "shapeless" thematic fragments begging to find form. After a moment of powerful rhetorical gestures, the music swoops back to the hushed opening. This time, it hovers on D (the home key) and the great unison theme is now heard in B flat, followed by further rhythmic hammering back and forth between winds and strings. B flat becomes the tonality of the second subject, ushered in through a gentle transitional phrase in the winds. (B flat takes on great significance in the over all plan of the symphony, often as a lyrical contrast to the sterner character of the home key of D minor.) The second subject lays out three important elements in quick succession: 1) a solemn melody in fourths heard in the winds against a pattering background in the strings; 2) a figure moving in contrary motion, swooping through the strings and gaining in urgency; 3) a tight rhythmic figure (in dotted notes) barked out by the entire orchestra. The music gains density and darkness and the rhythmic element takes the lead to round out the exposition with more unison hammering.
There is no repeat. The musical argument moves forward with single-minded intensity into a development of great concentration and intricacy. Plunging into the first subject, Beethoven directs his attention to a tiny motive of eight notes that heretofore has been overlooked. This motive emerges with great clarity in an elaborate fugal section in C minor, first in the cellos, then the violins, against a chain of chattering, syncopated sixteenth notes. This "chattering" takes on a more dramatic character before subsiding into a moment of quiet still punctuated by the restless sixteenth note background figure first heard in the exposition. Moving onward, the music suddenly finds itself swept into a recapitulation of amazing violence. The first subject material fights to be heard while the timpani thunders away without let up for some forty bars. This stunning outburst gradually gives way to the relative calm of the second subject, which is laid out very much as before, only this time moving uneasily between the major and minor forms of the home key. Such an amazing flood of ideas and emotional power unleashed in the main body of the movement demand a grand summation, which led Beethoven to compose a vast coda, virtually a second development. The first subject and the mysterious textures of the symphony's introductory bars are recalled and joined by a tense, striding march figure in the lower instruments. While the darkness is relieved for a moment in a haunting "pastoral" touch in a solo horn, which quietly intones the eight note figure, the strings turn away from this and trudge forward in a grim unison. Soon, an insistent chromatic ostinato figure in the strings reaches pitch of controlled, cold passion. Tremolando patterns swing in great arcs against unyielding rhythmic patterns in winds and brass. With a last reiteration of the opening statement, the movement not so much concludes as slams shut.
The scherzo occupies the second position in Beethoven's structural plan, as if providing comic relief after the dark drama that precedes it - albeit on a colossal scale, this being the third longest symphonic movement ever composed by Beethoven, clocking in at about thirteen to fifteen minutes! In contrast with the complex first movement, the scherzo is a straightforward musical structure. It abandons the traditional ABA structure, however, in favor of a more subtly balanced sonata form while still retaining a contrasting trio section. The opening of this scherzo is another of those moments of great originality in Beethoven: a hammered out, three note rhythmic motive, swung about the orchestra, with the solo timpani giving a startling fortissimo entry. Surpassing even the unfettered energies of the Seventh Symphony, this scherzo movement goes even further in making rhythmic expression the primary focus of his work. It is interesting to consider this movement as the locus classicus for a rich harvest of rhythmic scherzo movements, extending from Schubert and Bruckner to Mahler and Shostakovich.
The opening primary statement is immediately extended in fugal fashion. It soon lands in the bracing fresh air of C major for a secondary theme. This rough hewn, folk-like tune skirls in the winds against a background of the omnipresent, three note rhythmic motive tirelessly thrashed out by the strings. The development section manages to slide into keys as remote as E minor and C minor before eventually piling back into the home key for an uproarious recapitulation, in which the timpanist declares war on the entire orchestra. After that splendid display of high spirits, the trio comes as an episode of relative calm. The beat changes from three to four and settles down in the key of D major. A main hurdy gurdy tune is heard against a trotting, energetic pattern in the bass with immediate contrast provided by a gliding, stepwise tune in the strings. The trotting bass line moves into the violins, while the folk tune is heard over and over in the horn. This time, an unmistakable bagpipe drone is added. All of this is effected with the harmonic support of little more than a pair of chords. When the drone effect envelopes the entire orchestra with a sustained D, the trotting figure is passed on to the upper winds. This idyllic scene is dispelled with a bang, and it is off and running in a reprise of the scherzo. We again run head on into that great drone of D remembered from the trio, and conclude with an impatient dive out of sight.
Like the opening of a flower, the adagio reveals itself with simplicity and tenderness. Following a structural approach adapted from Haydn, the movement takes the form of "double" variations, with two distinct themes varied in alternation. The tonality is B flat major, with a smoothly sustained primary theme in the violins that is rounded out by subtle "echo" figures played by the winds at the end of phrases. Without pause, the strings unfold a secondary theme, a murmuring, meditative melody in D major. Once again, the B flat/D polarity characteristic of the entire symphony makes an appearance. The tempo becomes slightly quicker, yet the harmony is nothing more than a languorous swinging back and forth between tonic and dominant. The texture is enriched by doublings in the winds. The music gains in intensity, then sinks back into B flat with the primary theme now subtly embellished in the violins, accompanied by horns and pizzicato lower strings. A quickening tempo brings the secondary theme into a new key for its variation (G major). This time, the winds are given greater attention and decorated by a nodding rhythmic figure in the strings. An episode in E flat follows. It is new sounding but actually is based upon the first two bars of the primary theme. Here, it is wholly given over to the winds, with the strings confined to whispering pizzicato patterns. The harmony moves into ever more remote areas before reaching the unlikely key of C flat major! The fourth horn is given a rare chance to be heard as a soloist. Returning to B flat, the primary subject returns for a final variation. Again, the violins carry the melody with a flowering, elaborate embellishment heard against a sumptuous, harmonic tapestry in the winds. The secondary theme is not heard again. Instead, another tonal shift leads forward a coda in E flat, where, for the first time, music of a sterner cast is heard. It relaxes into the warm richness of an organ-like D flat major. Returning to the home key, the closing bars are rounded out in the spirit of the movement's serene opening bars.
If each movement of the Ninth Symphony opens with great originality, the stunning dissonance that wrenches the listener from the reverie of the slow movement in the opening of the finale never loses its shocking impact. Richard Wagner called this a Schreckensfanfare, or fanfare of terror. The cellos and basses step forward from this welter of confusion and agitation to take the lead in reviewing a succession of thematic elements from the earlier movements in an instrumental recitative. It is almost as if the listener were being reminded of the earlier stages of this long journey while preparing for the transfiguring moment when the human voice enters into the symphonic arena. After these kaleidoscopic contrasts of texture, harmony, and mood, the wordless recitative gives way to the first hint of the "Joy" theme in the winds. With a final comment from the cellos and basses, the introduction snaps to a close.
In discussing the main body of the finale, it is important to point out that a great variety of approaches can be taken in analyzing this movement. Among them is an intriguing suggestion by Charles Rosen and others that the movement is actually a self contained symphony in four movements! While tempted by Rosen's analysis, the following discussion follows a fairly traditional approach, one that may offer a moderate and fairly uncomplicated view of the structure of the final movement.
The main body of the finale can be heard as a free set of variations, interspersed with three episodes, two of them fugal in texture. The theme (the famous Ode to Joy melody) is first heard in a smoothly sustained form played by the cellos and basses. Three orchestral variations follow, which expand in scale and power. Variation 1: melody in violas and cellos, with a counter melody in the bassoon. Variation 2: a fully harmonized setting for the full string section, the bassoon adding color. Variation 3: a statement for full orchestra, this time extending the final four notes into a "codetta," which is often used to round out successive variations.
Just when the listener might expect a fourth variation on a yet grander scale, there is a savage wrenching back to the dissonance of the introduction. This time, the baritone soloist enters singing words actually written by Beethoven, "O friends, not these tones…" The baritone goes on to sing the fourth variation, initially joined by the basses of the chorus, then the full chorus (without the sopranos). The vocal quartet is heard for the first time in the fifth variation, the second strain of which is repeated by full chorus. In the sixth variation, the theme is treated to a florid, somewhat strenuous ornamentation in the solo quartet before being taken up (ornamentation and all) by the chorus. This time, the codetta rounding out the variation pushes forward to a joyous high A in the sopranos at the words "the cherub stands before God." Here, Beethoven breaks the long stretch of D major with a bold shift to the key of B flat, which yet again acts as a tonal foil to the home key of D. This seventh variation is marked by the sharpest contrasts in the symphony: a change of tonality, meter, tempo, orchestral color, and emotional tone. Switching to a jaunty 6/8 meter, the sound of Turkish music carries us into a lively martial atmosphere, inspired by the sprightly tone of Schiller's text, sung by the solo tenor with men's voices. The bright colors with the piccolo's penetrating timbre are matched by the oompah bass of the contrabassoon and the jingling "Turkish" effects in the percussion. They introduce touches of musical exotics popular in Austrian music since the 18th century, and perhaps best known from Mozart's Seraglio. This unbuttoned expanse of musical exuberance moves effortlessly into the first fugal interlude, in which the Ode to Joy tune is converted into rapid eighth notes circling around a syncopated theme derived from the march melody. The chorus is silent while the orchestra strides restlessly through a wide range of tonalities in an excited buzz of counterpoint. A gigantic repeated unison F sharp sweeps through the orchestra for a moment before the solid footing of D major is regained in the eighth variation. The chorus repeats the opening stanza of Schiller's poem and rejoins the proceedings in an exultant outpouring of emotion that is supported by the orchestra with unflagging rhythmic energy carried over from the fugue. A shuddering halt is reached and a pause. In another bold contrast, the second episode, an andante maestoso in G major, is heard first in the mens' voices doubled by the trombones. This setting of the words Seid umschlungen, Millionen (Be embraced, oh ye millions!) is the spiritual heart of the work, as fervent in its passion and eloquence as the march variation was sportive and buoyant. Joined by the upper voices (and the rest of the orchestra), the image of the "firmament of stars" is depicted by the sweeping of strings and winds into their higher registers. Hovering on a starry, dazzling, dissonant chord, and in no hurry to break away, this hushed moment is swept aside by the third episode: a double fugue in D major, combines a version of the original ode tune (set to words from the first stanza) with the Seid umschlungen theme (retaining its own text). In this episode the sopranos of the chorus are asked to sustain a high A for ten punishing bars. When asked about this, Beethoven was said to have made one of his withering comments to the effect that, "when I was overcome by the spirit of God, I didn't have your wretched vocal chords in mind!"
At this point, as Donald Francis Tovey has written, "all themes vanish: there is an awestruck hush at the thought of falling prostrate; from which the thought of the loving Father beyond the stars brings calm…." After a pause, the coda springs into view, with a new, rather childlike tune for the solo voices, a kind of free round that is soon taken up by the chorus. After a repetition of this passage, the solo voices suddenly veer into B major. The tempo drops to a poco adagio. Two notes sung by the baritone soloist (low A and B) take us back to the home key. A jubilation centers upon those two pitches and leads to the final prestissimo, in which key phrases from Schiller's poem sail through the chorus. With a last great maestoso declamation of the words Tochter aus Elysium, the orchestra sprints through the final bars in an uninhibited delirium of sheer joy.
Against all advice, Beethoven insisted on taking part in the collective direction of the premiere of the Ninth Symphony. In the rehearsals, it became obvious that his deafness (and intense emotional involvement) made following him nearly impossible, yet nobody dared to persuade Beethoven to leave the direction to others. So, joined in a loving conspiracy, the performers, while pretending to follow the composer, relied upon signals from key leaders of the performance. At the end, the composer, dripping with perspiration and standing rooted to the spot, was gently taken by the arm by one of the soloists and turned around to see an ovation he could not hear.
