Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, Op. 47

It was January 28, 1936, and 29-year-old Dimitri Shostakovich had a serious problem. It was not merely a professional problem or a personal crisis; it was potentially an existential crisis, and he was frightened. That day, the Communist newspaper Pravda had published a scathing review of Shostakovich’s opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. Titled “Chaos Instead of Music,” the article was a direct response to Joseph Stalin’s having seen the opera and Stalin’s personal belief that it was scandalous. The overt sexuality, crude language, and dissonant score were at odds with Stalin’s ideas of appropriate Soviet art, and Lady Macbeth was immediately banned from theaters. In an era where artists who crossed Stalin regularly ended up in prison or worse, Shostakovich knew that he was in trouble. “Now everyone knew for sure that I would be destroyed,” Shostakovich recalled later. “And the anticipation of that noteworthy event—at least for me—has never left me.”

Shostakovich’s first act of self-preservation was to cancel the premiere of his Fourth Symphony. That work, which was near completion, was an equally provocative piece, and Shostakovich knew that it would put the final nail in his coffin were it to be heard. (Although he did finish the symphony, he would not allow it to be performed until 1961, eight years after Stalin’s death.) His next act of contrition would come in the form of his Fifth Symphony, which he began in April of 1937 and completed a mere three months later. Shostakovich knew that he needed to appease Stalin if he was to continue to work (and perhaps live), and he set about composing a symphony that he hoped would live up to Stalin’s ideals of Socialist Realism—populist works that glorified life under Communism. The final product, premiered in November of 1937, not only satisfied the Soviet authorities but was a massive popular success as well. An immediate audience favorite, it continues to be among Shostakovich’s most popular works. It is of course a testament to the composer’s genius that he was able to recognize what was needed, yet still produce a profoundly moving work—giving Stalin what he wanted without compromising the quality or integrity of the artistic product. Shostakovich did what he needed to do to save his career and possibly his life, but he did it with the same skill and unique voice that marked all his music. So, although 21st-century audiences may cringe at the thought that this beloved work had as its inspiration a desire to appease Stalin, there is no doubt that what Shostakovich created is an extraordinary masterpiece. In fact, had Shostakovich not written the Fifth Symphony, the world might have lost another brilliant artist to political persecution, and all the provocative music he went on to write during the remainder of his long career might have never been heard.

Although there is no explicit story depicted in the symphony, Shostakovich referred to “a lengthy spiritual battle, crowned by victory” in the program notes at the premiere. He later described his intent, writing, “I wanted to convey in the symphony how, through a series of tragic conflicts of great inner spiritual turmoil, optimism asserts itself as a world-view … .” The “great inner spiritual turmoil” is evident from the very first bars of the symphony as the string section opens the work with a series of wide, forceful leaps, low strings and upper strings responding angrily to each other. This is no genteel introduction—rather, the listener is put on notice immediately that danger is lurking. As the menacing opening music relents, an eerie first theme emerges in the violins. It is an unsettled music, full of large, sometimes dissonant leaps. As this melody is developed, the angular opening music interrupts repeatedly. Eventually gentle, rhythmic chords announce a ghostly second theme that, while it is somewhat more relaxed, again uses large leaps and displaced octaves to maintain an ominous atmosphere. An angry keyboard heralds the return of danger as the entire horn section, playing in its lowest, most diabolical register, announces the central part of the movement. The tempo has quickened and the sense of manic danger increases exponentially as frenzied woodwinds and caustic brass clamor for attention. Finally, the percussion join the fray, and a deranged march begins. The macabre, grotesque madness continues, culminating with the entire orchestra screaming in unison. Exhausted, the chaos eventually subsides with a flute and horn duet helping the dust settle. An eerie stillness returns, like night settling on a battlefield. Delicate scales from the celeste evaporate into the ether, and the listener is left with a profound sense of unease as the movement ends.

The second movement scherzo provides a bit of comic relief after the intensity of the first movement. A sardonic waltz that alternates between buffoonish clamor and faux elegance, the movement is a delight. Delicate woodwinds and pizzicato strings offer macabre, angular melodies, which are answered by raucous outbursts from the full orchestra. It’s a brilliant example of Shostakovich’s dark humor and provides a welcome respite before the anguish of the next movement.

If one were seeking a sonic representation of loneliness and desperation, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better one than the Largo movement. Here the darkness and fears Shostakovich must have had for his own career, and even his life, are front and center in a wrenchingly beautiful orchestral soliloquy. The desolate opening melody in the strings eventually leads to an eerie duo for flute and harp. The interlude is short-lived, however, as the strings return with an even more searing version of the opening music. The emotional centerpiece of the movement arrives in the form of three impossibly delicate solos, first for oboe, then clarinet, then flute. Like a tiny voice crying out in the dark, the sheer loneliness of the music is devastating. The full orchestra returns and builds to a wrenching climax, but nothing is resolved, and the desolate opening music returns. As the harp and celeste reprise the lonely woodwind solos, darkness is everywhere, although the hushed major chord that ends the movement hints at hope.

As the final movement begins, we are jolted from the intensely private atmosphere of the Largo into the cacophony of a garish military march. Thundering timpani and marauding brass evoke an almost malevolent marching band. Music historians disagree as to whether Shostakovich was genuinely portraying triumph over the desolation of the previous movement, or secretly thumbing his nose at the pompousness of the Soviet regime. Regardless, the mood is manic, with screaming woodwinds and swirling strings adding to the fierce melee. A slower central section recalls the pain of the previous movement with searing strings and a feeling of aimless wandering. Eventually the military theme returns, but now in a less frantic, more noble presentation. At the conclusion, with a giant cymbal crash, the sun dawns on a new day, and it appears that our hero has prevailed—bloodied, but alive.

Shostakovich—similarly bloodied, yet alive—also prevailed, as the premiere of the work in November 1937 was an enormous success. One reviewer described the symphony as “a Soviet artist’s response to just criticism,” and Shostakovich did not dispute the description. An audience member recalled, “The whole audience leapt to their feet and erupted into wild applause—a demonstration of their outrage at all the hounding poor Mitya had been through. Everyone kept saying the same thing: ‘That was his answer, and it was a good one.’ [Shostakovich] came out white as a sheet, biting his lips. I think he was close to tears.”