Symphony No. 1 (1896 version)
Gustav Mahler (1860-1911)
Langsam, schleppend (Slowly, dragging); Ländler: Kräftig bewegt (Ländler: Moving strongly); Feierlich und gemessen (Solemnly and measured); Stürmisch bewegt – Energisch (Stormily agitated – Energetic)
Gustav Mahler liked writing long symphonies, ‘long’ being more than an hour. Ludwig van Beethoven set the trend with his Ninth Symphony, the ‘Choral’, and Anton Bruckner (Mahler’s senior by 36 years) made notable contributions to a tradition that few others could sustain. Mahler was undaunted by these antecedents. The first version of this symphony had five movements and passed the one-hour mark comfortably but, after several revisions, he jettisoned one of the movements and left us with 50 minutes of well-argued, dramatic and interesting music. The symphony was written within a few weeks. ‘It gushed out of me like a mountain torrent’, Mahler wrote. He forgot to mention that he was in the throes of a passionate and illicit affair at the time, a possible fillip for the adrenalin and creative juices.
Mahler’s music is said to reflect his complex and often agonised psychology. Some passages drip with angst while others sound naïvely simple. Alongside the expansiveness of his overall scheme, the unravelling of a musical narrative and the accumulating tension create an atmosphere of ‘titanic struggle’. Indeed, Mahler named his first symphony ‘Titan’ but jettisoned the moniker along with the redundant fifth movement. ‘Titan’ as a title may have gone but the ‘titanic’ forces remain: quadruple woodwind, five trumpets, seven horns and plenty of percussion. The overall scheme is conventional, apart from the scherzo preceding the slow movement rather than following it.
The opening bars remind us of a similarly bleak beginning to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony; and the descending perfect fourths of the melody are akin to those of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony, but this work could never be mistaken for Beethoven. Its succession of memorable and often folk-like melodies, which are pure Mahler, helped to establish his style and reputation at its première in 1889, notwithstanding a lukewarm reception from critics.
The tension and vigour of the first movement are carried forward into the second, a Ländler. This Austrian precursor of the waltz is characterised by a galumphing pulse and Stein-waving swagger. However, there’s less ‘ho-ho-ho’ in this Ländler. Its joviality is tinged with menace and musical discord, suggesting struggle rather than partying. Then, unexpectedly, the dance gives way to a lyrical ‘trio’ section, rather like a tipsy song, swaying and seductive, but not for long. The initial material returns in varied form and the movement careers to a close with ferocious energy.
The novelty of the third movement must have dumbfounded its first audience. Indeed, it takes modern audiences by surprise, even though they know what is coming. Described as a ‘funeral march’, it is built on a nursery theme, Bruder Martin, more commonly known as Frère Jacques. Mahler couches the melody in the minor mode, entrusts it to a solo double bass, treats it canonically as befits a traditional round, then combines it with a perky fanfare-like countermelody played by the oboe. Astonishingly, the two tunes fail to blend properly. They break several rules of conventional composition, but Mahler persists. As a result, the march is lent an unresolved grimness that matches the tenor of the other movements. However, melodies from the fairground intervene, turning grief to smiles for a while.
The final movement is the longest and most agonised of all, resolving into a triumphant major-key peroration at the close. Again, we witness the struggle between inner torture and outer serenity, the discords of one lending extra colour to the almost sentimental harmony of the other. A kind of resolution is achieved and the work ends magnificently. What started as a barren musical landscape becomes a concert hall spectacular matched only by Mahler’s subsequent symphonies. He throws the whole works at us! The horn players stand as they play, the woodwind raise their bells to blare their offerings to the astonished listeners, and the percussion section has a field day. No wonder it has caused some to weep from torn emotions, and others to cry ‘Vulgar!’
Gustav Mahler (1860-1911)
Langsam, schleppend (Slowly, dragging); Ländler: Kräftig bewegt (Ländler: Moving strongly); Feierlich und gemessen (Solemnly and measured); Stürmisch bewegt – Energisch (Stormily agitated – Energetic)
Gustav Mahler liked writing long symphonies, ‘long’ being more than an hour. Ludwig van Beethoven set the trend with his Ninth Symphony, the ‘Choral’, and Anton Bruckner (Mahler’s senior by 36 years) made notable contributions to a tradition that few others could sustain. Mahler was undaunted by these antecedents. The first version of this symphony had five movements and passed the one-hour mark comfortably but, after several revisions, he jettisoned one of the movements and left us with 50 minutes of well-argued, dramatic and interesting music. The symphony was written within a few weeks. ‘It gushed out of me like a mountain torrent’, Mahler wrote. He forgot to mention that he was in the throes of a passionate and illicit affair at the time, a possible fillip for the adrenalin and creative juices.
Mahler’s music is said to reflect his complex and often agonised psychology. Some passages drip with angst while others sound naïvely simple. Alongside the expansiveness of his overall scheme, the unravelling of a musical narrative and the accumulating tension create an atmosphere of ‘titanic struggle’. Indeed, Mahler named his first symphony ‘Titan’ but jettisoned the moniker along with the redundant fifth movement. ‘Titan’ as a title may have gone but the ‘titanic’ forces remain: quadruple woodwind, five trumpets, seven horns and plenty of percussion. The overall scheme is conventional, apart from the scherzo preceding the slow movement rather than following it.
The opening bars remind us of a similarly bleak beginning to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony; and the descending perfect fourths of the melody are akin to those of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony, but this work could never be mistaken for Beethoven. Its succession of memorable and often folk-like melodies, which are pure Mahler, helped to establish his style and reputation at its première in 1889, notwithstanding a lukewarm reception from critics.
The tension and vigour of the first movement are carried forward into the second, a Ländler. This Austrian precursor of the waltz is characterised by a galumphing pulse and Stein-waving swagger. However, there’s less ‘ho-ho-ho’ in this Ländler. Its joviality is tinged with menace and musical discord, suggesting struggle rather than partying. Then, unexpectedly, the dance gives way to a lyrical ‘trio’ section, rather like a tipsy song, swaying and seductive, but not for long. The initial material returns in varied form and the movement careers to a close with ferocious energy.
The novelty of the third movement must have dumbfounded its first audience. Indeed, it takes modern audiences by surprise, even though they know what is coming. Described as a ‘funeral march’, it is built on a nursery theme, Bruder Martin, more commonly known as Frère Jacques. Mahler couches the melody in the minor mode, entrusts it to a solo double bass, treats it canonically as befits a traditional round, then combines it with a perky fanfare-like countermelody played by the oboe. Astonishingly, the two tunes fail to blend properly. They break several rules of conventional composition, but Mahler persists. As a result, the march is lent an unresolved grimness that matches the tenor of the other movements. However, melodies from the fairground intervene, turning grief to smiles for a while.
The final movement is the longest and most agonised of all, resolving into a triumphant major-key peroration at the close. Again, we witness the struggle between inner torture and outer serenity, the discords of one lending extra colour to the almost sentimental harmony of the other. A kind of resolution is achieved and the work ends magnificently. What started as a barren musical landscape becomes a concert hall spectacular matched only by Mahler’s subsequent symphonies. He throws the whole works at us! The horn players stand as they play, the woodwind raise their bells to blare their offerings to the astonished listeners, and the percussion section has a field day. No wonder it has caused some to weep from torn emotions, and others to cry ‘Vulgar!’