Sometimes, when it rains, it pours. In early 1853, Johannes Brahms was an earnest 20-year-old pianist and composer. Having finished his studies, he had been trying to eke out a living playing and teaching when he landed his first substantial job, touring with a well-known Hungarian violinist. The two of them departed in the spring, performed together throughout Germany, and in May, spent some time with Joseph Joachim, perhaps the most important violinist of the time. Brahms took advantage of the opportunity and shared with Joachim a few piano pieces he had written. Joachim was impressed and took it upon himself to use his influence to open doors for Brahms with important musicians of the day. He wrote a letter to composer Robert Schumann, introducing Brahms and encouraging Schumann to hear his music. In October, Brahms carried that letter as he traveled to Düsseldorf to meet Robert (and his wife, Clara, the virtuoso pianist). The Schumanns were equally impressed by the young Brahms’ compositions, and within less than a month, Robert published an article in the most important arts publication of the time, proclaiming Brahms as Beethoven’s successor. Thus, in the space of seven months, a career had been launched.
A lifelong friendship had also been launched as Robert, and especially Clara Schumann, would become not only mentors to the young Brahms, but eventually like family. It was five months later, shortly after Brahms had begun work at his first “real job” as director of court concerts for the prince of Detmold, that he received word that Robert Schumann, long afflicted with mental health conditions that caused him to hear voices, had tried to commit suicide by drowning himself in the Rhine. Schumann had been rescued and voluntarily committed to an asylum. Although he had known them for only a short time, Brahms felt compelled to rush back to Düsseldorf to be with Clara, who was pregnant with the couple’s seventh child. Finding lodgings there, he traveled frequently to visit Robert in the asylum, relaying news back to Clara, who had been forbidden by the doctors to visit her husband. The 21-year-old Brahms also very quickly felt compelled to begin work on a new piece, prompted by the trauma of Robert’s suicide attempt—a massive work that would eventually become his first piano concerto.
Initially conceiving of composing a sonata for two pianos, it didn’t take long for Brahms to realize that what he was hearing in his head actually required orchestral forces. He then spent some time developing the musical material into a symphony, but he felt that his knowledge of orchestration was insufficient. He eventually settled on composing a concerto for piano and orchestra, albeit with the orchestra playing a much larger role than was traditional at the time. So important is the orchestra in the work that, over the decades, other composers and critics have jokingly referred to the piece as a concerto for piano versus orchestra. In all, it would take Brahms a full five years to finish the concerto, during which time Robert Schumann would die and his relationship with Clara would deepen into one of the most important of his life.
Historians generally believe that the concerto’s first movement, opening with thundering timpani, was a visceral response to Robert Schumann’s suicide attempt, its massive mood swings equating to Schumann’s tortured psyche. Angry, slashing motifs in the orchestra open the movement with an unparalleled sense of anxiety. This first theme, full of furious trills and relentless blows, eventually subsides, giving way to bucolic, regal melodies that, although beautiful, never fully relax. Even in its most serene moments, the sense of unrest is never far away as the music cycles through periods of tremendous anxiety and relative tranquility, not unlike Robert Schumann’s difficult life. The sheer magnitude of the orchestral forces is remarkable and caused more than a bit of consternation in early audiences, who were more accustomed to concerto soloists having a deferential orchestral accompaniment. The orchestra is an equal partner in almost every aspect of the movement as the pianist trades melodies with orchestral soloists and, occasionally, is even relegated to the role of accompanist. Rather than a competition, however, the movement is best heard as a collaboration between soloist and orchestra, with each having their turn in the spotlight, working together to maximize the drama and pathos. The conclusion of the enormous movement is nothing less than symphonic in scope, leaving one to wonder what can possibly follow.
What does follow is an achingly beautiful tribute to Clara Schumann. By the time Brahms was completing the second movement, Clara had become (at the least) his closest friend and confidante, and (at the most) a forbidden romantic interest. While no one knows the exact nature of their relationship, what is indisputable is that they loved one another deeply. Even before Robert’s death in 1856, Brahms was an indispensable help to Clara, aiding her in sorting out Robert’s papers and finances and assisting with the couple’s seven children. Brahms vacationed with the family, and Clara was the first to see many of his compositions, offering her opinions and suggestions for revisions. Brahms wrote to a friend, “I believe that I do not have more concern for and admiration for her than I love her and find love in her. I often have to restrain myself forcibly from just quietly putting my arms around her and even—: I don’t know, it seems to me so natural that she could not misunderstand.” Clara similarly confided in her diary, “There is the most complete accord between us … It is not his youth that attracts me: not, perhaps, my flattered vanity. No, it is the fresh mind, the gloriously gifted nature, the noble heart, that I love in him.” As he was working on the movement in 1857, Brahms wrote to Clara that he was “painting a tender portrait of you, which is to be the Adagio.” That tender portrait has a reverence to it that remains a remarkable testament to Brahms’ admiration for a woman, 14 years his senior, who would forever be his first love.
After completing two such emotionally packed movements, Brahms was at a bit of a loss as to how to finish the piece. He eventually took inspiration from Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto and settled on a final-movement Rondo, a format where a single theme recurs multiple times, interspersed with different material, much like a chorus returning after differing verses. The main theme is an energetic romp, begun by the piano then echoed by the orchestra. Interspersed are more lyrical sections where Brahms flexes his compositional muscles, even including a mini-fugue that sounds as if Mendelssohn could have penned it. An extended cadenza gives the pianist a final chance to show off, after which jaunty winds and horns usher in a coda section full of flash and flourish. Following the seriousness of the first two movements, the Rondo is the type of good-natured, optimistic fun one would expect from the pen of a 25-year-old just at the beginning of his career.
The concerto received three performances in early 1859 with Brahms as soloist, none of them particularly successful. It was only in later years, after Clara began performing it, that the work’s true brilliance was recognized. Rather than a one-dimensional vehicle for a virtuoso soloist, Brahms had offered the innermost thoughts of a young man who had already experienced more of the world’s darkness (and beauty) than most people his age. Luckily for us, he had the maturity and skills to translate them into music.
Program notes by © Betsy Hudson Traba 2024