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.

The evening of December 8, 1813 was likely one of the happiest in Ludwig van Beethoven’s entire life. That night, at the University of Vienna, he took to the podium to conduct two of his newest works at a charity concert benefiting Austrian and Bavarian soldiers wounded at the Battle of Hanau, the most recent skirmish in the campaign to expel Napoleon’s forces from Germany. The orchestra’s roster that evening read like a “who’s who” of Viennese musical royalty and included violinist Louis Spohr; composers Johann Nepomuk Hummel, Giacomo Meyerbeer, Ignaz Moscheles and Antonio Salieri; and the Italian guitar virtuoso Mauro Giuliani sitting in the cello section. The concertmaster was the renowned violinist Ignaz Schuppanzigh, one of Beethoven’s few close friends. Opening the program was Wellington’s Victory, Beethoven’s patriotic work celebrating the British victory over Napoleon at the Battle of Vittoria. Wellington’s Victory caused a great deal of excitement due to its massive orchestra, replete with dueling percussion sections that included muskets and artillery sound effects. Following this spectacle, which a concert attendee commented was "seemingly designed to make the listener as deaf as its composer,” the orchestra played the premiere of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7.

Despite the fact that the music critic for the Viennese paper called it a “companion piece” to Wellington’s Victory, the audience was quite enamored with the symphony, especially the second movement, which they demanded be played again immediately. Beethoven, despite (or perhaps because of) his worsening hearing loss, was at his most animated on the podium, with Spohr noting that "as a sforzando occurred, he tore his arms with a great vehemence asunder ... at the entrance of a forte he jumped in the air.” The entire evening was such a huge success that a repeat performance was scheduled for days later, providing Beethoven with a much-needed boost to his bank account. Calling the work "one of the happiest products of my poor talents,” even the irascible Beethoven seemed to revel in the pure joy with which the symphony is imbued, and the work has continued to inspire audiences with its cheerful energy for more than 200 years.

The first movement opens with a lengthy and stately introduction, where long, sustained woodwind melodies are punctuated with chords from the string section. The mood is one of anticipation, almost as if courtly dancers are greeting one another tentatively on the dance floor. When everyone is in their place, the dance begins as the Vivace starts with a leaping motive that will form the basis of the rest of the movement. Whereas other composers would focus on a melody around which to structure the music, Beethoven instead focuses on this jumping rhythm in 6/8 meter, which stays continually present in some form throughout the remainder of the movement. The mood is joyful and playful, and one can almost picture Beethoven leaping up and down while conducting as the propulsive rhythm dominates.

The Allegretto is among the most beloved compositions Beethoven ever wrote. Arresting in its simplicity, the entire movement is again based upon a repeated rhythm, begun in the low strings, which underpins one of Beethoven’s most heartfelt melodies. Again, as in the previous movement, this simple rhythm is the focal point of the music, constantly present somewhere in the orchestra like a reassuring heartbeat.

The third movement is a boisterous scherzo, again characterized by a repeated rhythm—in this case, a galloping motive that recurs continually throughout the faster portion of the movement. The slower trio section is a stately affair, as restrained as the scherzo is untamed. The two sections alternate back and forth, with the rowdy music having the final word.

The final Allegro con brio is a joyous barn dance of a movement, featuring relentlessly whirling music in the strings punctuated by raucous brass and timpani. A quirky second theme features off-kilter accents that momentarily make us forget what foot we’re on, but the giddy spinning music always returns, ending in a joyous, foot-stomping conclusion. Richard Wagner called Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony “the apotheosis of the dance,” and indeed, it can be difficult to sit still while hearing it played. One suspects that Beethoven, leaping up and down and throwing his arms wildly asunder, would not have wanted us to.

Italian composer Ottorino Respighi was “an old soul.” A lifelong book collector who was said to have been fluent in eleven languages by adulthood, he pursued interests in science and history, as well as music. In particular, he held a lifelong fascination with the history and music of ancient Italy, and was drawn especially to the sounds of medieval church music. The hypnotic sounds of Gregorian chant were a special source of comfort to him, and his wife Elsa, herself a composer and soprano, would often sing the soothing, single line melodies to Respighi for hours. He composed numerous works that were based on the modal harmonies of ancient church music, and also transcribed works by 16th and 17th Italian composers Monteverdi, Bach, Tartini, Vitali, Vivaldi, and Rossini. His popular suites titled Ancient Airs and Dances, were based on baroque lute music.

Respighi’s fascination with history was not limited to ancient music however. His three most celebrated works are orchestral tone poems based on landmarks and festivals in Rome. Fountains of Rome, written in 1916 was followed by Pines of Rome in 1924 and Roman Festivals in 1928. These three compositions brought Respighi lasting fame, and of the three, Pines of Rome, with its brilliant orchestration and exhilarating ending, is without a doubt the most popular.

When composing Fountains of Rome, Respighi had noted that his prime motivation was to depict the “sentiments and visions” that were inspired in him by four exquisitely sculpted Roman fountains, viewed “at the hour in which their character is most in harmony with the surrounding landscape.” In Pines of Rome however, nature was the primary focus of the work, with Respighi remarking that his inspiration had been “the centuries-old trees which so characteristically dominate the Roman landscape” and which had “become witnesses to the principal events in Roman life.” This romantic idea of the massive Roman pines standing like sentries, bearing witness to centuries of human activity, proved the perfect inspiration for Respighi, combining his affection for nature with his fascination with the history of his beloved homeland. It also proved an inspiring image for audiences, with dozens of recordings, and thousands of performances having enchanted listeners worldwide for almost 100 years.

For the world premiere of the work on December 14, 1924 in Rome, Respighi provided the following descriptions of the four movements, which are played without pause:

The Pines of the Villa Borghese (Allegretto vivace)—Children are at play in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese, dancing the Italian equivalent of “Ring around a Rosy.” They mimic marching soldiers and battles. They twitter and shriek like swallows at evening, coming and going in swarms. Suddenly the scene changes.

The Pines Near a Catacomb (Lento)—We see the shadows of the pines, which overhang the entrance of a catacomb. From the depths rises a chant, which echoes solemnly, like a hymn, and is then mysteriously silenced. The Pines of the Janiculum (Lento)—There is a thrill in the air. The full moon reveals the profile of the pines of Gianicolo’s Hill. A nightingale sings.

The Pines of the Appian Way (Tempo di Marcia)—Misty dawn on the Appian Way. The tragic country is guarded by solitary pines. Indistinctly, incessantly, the rhythm of unending steps. The poet has a fantastic vision of past glories. Trumpets blare, and the army of the Consul bursts forth in the grandeur of a newly risen sun toward the Sacred Way, mounting in triumph the Capitoline Hill.

In addition to Respighi’s extraordinarily colorful orchestration, there are several unusual moments in the work, including an extended offstage trumpet solo in the Pines near a Catacomb movement, and a recording of a nightingale which Respighi indicated should be played at the conclusion of The Pines of the Janiculum. Recording technology was very new in 1924, and Respighi’s having incorporated it into the movement reminds us that he was not just a composer who lived in the past.

There are few moments that are more thrilling in live performance than the finale of this work. With six extra brass players heralding the arrival of the ancient Roman army on Capitoline Hill, along with celebratory percussion and an orchestra at “full throttle,” it is among the most exhilarating moments in orchestral music – all courtesy of a composer with an “old soul,” but also the very modern skills necessary to bring his vision to life.

American composer Jennifer Higdon was a classical music “late bloomer.” Born in Brooklyn and raised in Tennessee, her earliest musical influences came not from Mozart and Beethoven, but rather from the Beatles and bluegrass. She taught herself to play the flute at age 15, and played both flute and percussion in high school band. When she entered Bowling Green State University as a music major however, she quickly learned that she had had far less classical training than the average music student. Undeterred by the amount of catching up she had to do, Higdon persevered, eventually beginning to study composition at the age of 21. She went on to earn both a Master of Arts and a PhD in composition from the University of Pennsylvania, and an Artist’s Diploma from the prestigious Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. She has become one of America’s most frequently performed composers.

Higdon received the 2010 Pulitzer Prize in Music for her Violin Concerto, and has won three GRAMMY Awards for Best Contemporary Classical Composition - in 2010 for her Percussion Concerto, in 2018 for her Viola Concerto, and in 2020 for her Harp Concerto. She has received commissions from major symphony orchestras, including the Philadelphia Orchestra, the Cleveland Orchestra, the Chicago Symphony, the Atlanta Symphony, the National Symphony, the Minnesota Orchestra, the Pittsburgh Symphony, the Indianapolis Symphony, and the Dallas Symphony, and has composed two operas. More than 70 recordings have been made of her compositions.

Her most popular orchestral work is blue cathedral, composed in 2000 in memory of her brother. Since its premiere, blue cathedral has been performed by more than 400 orchestras worldwide. The composer has provided the following program notes:

“Blue…like the sky. Where all possibilities soar. Cathedrals…a place of thought, growth, spiritual expression…serving as a symbolic doorway in to and out of this world. Blue represents all potential and the progression of journeys. Cathedrals represent a place of beginnings, endings, solitude, fellowship, contemplation, knowledge, and growth. As I was writing this piece, I found myself imagining a journey through a glass cathedral in the sky. Because the walls would be transparent, I saw the image of clouds and blueness permeating from the outside of this church. In my mind's eye the listener would enter from the back of the sanctuary, floating along the corridor amongst giant crystal pillars, moving in a contemplative stance. The stained-glass windows' figures would start moving with song, singing a heavenly music. The listener would float down the aisle, slowly moving upward at first and then progressing at a quicker pace, rising towards an immense ceiling which would open to the sky…as this journey progressed, the speed of the traveler would increase, rushing forward and upward. I wanted to create the sensation of contemplation and quiet peace at the beginning, moving towards the feeling of celebration and ecstatic expansion of the soul, all the while singing along with that heavenly music.

These were my thoughts when The Curtis Institute of Music commissioned me to write a work to commemorate its 75th anniversary. Curtis is a house of knowledge--a place to reach towards that beautiful expression of the soul which comes through music. I began writing this piece at a unique juncture in my life and found myself pondering the question of what makes a life. The recent loss of my younger brother, Andrew Blue, made me reflect on the amazing journeys that we all make in our lives, crossing paths with so many individuals singularly and collectively, learning and growing each step of the way. This piece represents the expression of the individual and the group…our inner travels and the places our souls carry us, the lessons we learn, and the growth we experience. In tribute to my brother, I feature solos for the clarinet (the instrument he played) and the flute (the instrument I play). Because I am the older sibling, it is the flute that appears first in this dialog. At the end of the work, the two instruments continue their dialogue, but it is the flute that drops out and the clarinet that continues on in the upward progressing journey. This is a story that commemorates living and passing through places of knowledge and of sharing and of that song called life.

This work was commissioned and premiered in 2000 by The Curtis Institute of Music.”

—Jennifer Higdon