a tale of two brahms

Another musician who blogs quite frequently is the pianist Stephen Hough (a favorite soloist here in Portland, with frequent appearances with the Oregon Symphony), and he recently wrote a blog post for the Guardian newspaper (he also has a regular blog at the Telegraph) describing his process of revising his opinions on the two Brahms piano concertos as he prepared to record them for a newly released album.

His prevailing opinion was this:

I might say that of the two Brahms piano concertos the second is the better piece, but the first is the greater. I think the second is better constructed, better orchestrated, themes are better developed, harmonies are better judged, textures are better balanced – but for me the earlier work has a greater burst of pure, utter, natural genius. Its flame flares with such intensity, and with such promise of more to come (he was only 25 years old when he wrote it), that I find myself overwhelmed by it in a way I’m not by his second (and final) piano concerto, written 22 years later.

And then, after having played these two massive concertos on a single concert last year, he came to the following conclusion:

For all the grandeur and excitement of the first concerto’s youthful flare, the second’s older vintage seemed wiser, more fascinatingly complex as I revisited and re-recorded both pieces last year. Its musical arguments seemed more nuanced, more open to exploration, more a search for common ground where, as in life, the sun can shine brightest … and warmest.

http://youtu.be/WxH50l50dvs

I was discussing this column with some colleagues in the symphony on the drive down to Salem (my initial response was just to the sheer insanity of playing these two concertos on the same concert), and as I talked about the differences between these two concertos, each composed about 20 years apart, I was reminded of the feelings that I’ve held for the two Brahms string sextets. One colleague sagely suggested I write a blog post about those thoughts, and here’s what has percolated up to the surface over the intervening couple of days.

The tale of the two sextets is remarkably parallel, in my view, to that of the two piano concertos, but in the case of the sextets, they were composed only a few years apart (the B-flat in 1862, and the G major in 1864-5). The B-flat is a staple of chamber music reading parties and chamber music festivals of all stripes. It is so ebullient and warm – with great writing for all of the instruments, but most especially the viola and cello. Indeed, the opening features one of Brahms’ favorite orchestration techniques: the cello playing the melody in the middle-high register, with the viola providing the bass line:

The second movement andante is one of the crowning glories of chamber music, especially if one is a violist. It is a noble theme and set of variations that covers a vast range of colors and emotions in its ten minutes. While the entire piece is very rewarding to play and listen to, this is the movement that most performers are looking forward to the most:

There is much to love in this music. It is Brahms with his heart on his sleeve, before he was subjected to the life experiences that would lead him to a more inward-looking emotional landscape. It is by turns brash and loud, tender and subdued. It even ends its final movement with a bit of viola ‘fiddling’.

The G major sextet is 18 opus numbers later in his output, but as I noted before, only 2 years elapsed between its composition and that of the B-flat major sextet. Whereas the first sextet opens with a trio of two cellos and a viola, lushly orchestrated in close harmony, the G major opens with the viola playing an eerie sounding bariolage figure (where notes are quickly alternated on different strings, one of which is open, or not stopped with a finger), with a pizzicato bass line in the second cello, and the violin melody soaring relatively quickly to a great distance from the bass line:

Already, things are going very differently that in the B-flat sextet. There is less homogeneity in the orchestration, with a pizzicato bass line, the bariolage in the viola, and with the first violin moving quickly into its own register well above the other instruments. It’s an altogether more sophisticated approach, and one which immediately grabs the ear with its interest.

The range of emotions is somewhat more muted as well, but no less intense. In fact, as is often the case with Brahms, especially as he matured in his compositional process, he would use understatement to devastating emotional effect.

This really is more of a ‘stub’ in Wikipedia parlance, than a full on article about these two pieces, but take a listen (there are many, many fine recordings available, both for purchase and on YouTube) and see for yourself how Brahms’ compositional language progresses over the course of just a few short years. The differences may surprise you!