Many composers contemporary with Brahms regarded the traditional symphony as an outdated genre. Richard Wagner (1813-1883) had revolutionized opera, establishing a musical and philosophical approach he referred to as "Music of the Future" (Zukunftsmusik). Even when writing music for instruments alone, Wagner and his disciples believed that Classical or early Romantic formal principles were academic, sterile, and a hindrance to full emotional expression. The great symphonist in these circles was Anton Bruckner (1824-1896), whose music, especially in its dramatic pacing, was decidedly unlike that of previous composers. It was not, however, that Wagner's group had lost respect for composers of the past: Beethoven continued to be venerated as the consummate master of the symphony.
Brahms knew all of the modernist propaganda, and he, too, was mindful of Beethoven's legacy. His response, however, was to honor Beethoven and other past masters by following in their footsteps, rather than declare the old forms perfected and without need of further contributions. In the process of creating his own first symphony, however, Brahms found himself plagued by self-doubt. Early in his career, in 1855, he attempted to transform a piece which he had written as a sonata for two pianos into a symphony. He was dissatisfied with the orchestral result, but not, apparently, with the essence of the music: the work survives as the impassioned Piano Concerto #1. Brahms completed a multi-movement, large-scale work for orchestra alone in 1858. Rather than identify the work as a "Symphony," however, Brahms opted for the title "Serenade." A serenade was somehow more modest, or at least less conspicuous, than a symphony; it seems likely that Brahms was dissatisfied with the emotional impact of the work or with the sophistication of his writing for such a large combination of instruments. As further warmups, Brahms composed a second serenade (scored without violins) in 1859 and the masterful Variations on a Theme of Haydn in 1873.
The work that ultimately became the Symphony #1 was begun in 1855 and completed in 1876, an astonishing gestation period of 21 years. The psychological strain of the compositional process seems to have been captured in the symphony's tragic introduction. (The Symphony #1 is the only Brahms orchestral work that begins with a separate introduction, whereas Beethoven used one in four of his nine symphonies and several overtures; evidently Brahms found the older device worth a try, but ultimately not to his liking.) Over relentless hammer-blows in the timpani, the strings inch menacingly upwards while the winds move in the opposite direction, immediately establishing a sense of conflict. The main body of the first movement draws heavily upon this idea as well as others from the introduction, achieving a level of thematic and motivic integration that would surely have impressed Beethoven himself. In the middle of the movement, a rhythmic cell, short - short - short - long, starts intruding into the texture, an unmistakable reference to the first movement of Beethoven's Symphony #5.
Indeed, gestures of homage to Beethoven, particularly the Fifth Symphony, are present throughout the work. The key is C minor, giving way to C major in the final movement, following the same tonal plan as Beethoven used in the Fifth. The Brahms work also contains references to Beethoven's Sixth and Ninth Symphonies, the Sixth receiving a few brief quotations in the middle of the first movement. The echo of the Ninth Symphony's "Ode to Joy" in the grand melody of this symphony's finale is particularly obvious: when a critic called the similarity to Brahms's attention, his testy reply was, "Any ass can see that!" A further reference to the Fifth Symphony comes toward the end of the work, when the final coda is arrived at by means of an accelerando. Finally, one wonders whether Brahms's decision to identify the symphony as his opus 68 is merely a coincidence: Beethoven's opus 68 is his Symphony #6, and the Symphony #5 is right next door, at opus 67. In spite of the clear influence of Beethoven, however, Brahms's personality emerges clearly: the violent first movement ends quietly, with echoes of the introduction -- a distinctly Brahmsian understatement.
The second movement features rich string writing at the opening and a beautiful melody, introduced by the solo oboe, as a second theme. The middle section begins with wandering solos in the oboe and clarinet before becoming more agitated. After a tragic climax, the texture begins to disintegrate, and just when the movement has been reduced to the barest wisps of sound, the timpani enters for the first time. Music from the beginning of the movement returns, but it is entirely transformed: the melody which had been in the strings has been moved to the delicate high woodwinds, the lower strings offer a gentle pizzicato (plucked) accompaniment while the upper strings provide a new counter-melody, and the trumpets (who wait even longer than the timpani for their first entrance in this movement) unify the sound with a pure, modest beam of light. The melody from the solo oboe returns, but this time the oboe is joined by the horn and a solo violin -- the only concertmaster solo in all of Brahms's orchestral music.
The third movement is the least like Beethoven. Beethoven, for the third movement of a symphony, usually wrote a scherzo: a fast, typically heavy, often rhythmically unpredictable dance in a quick triple meter (three beats per measure). This movement is moderate in nearly all respects: a moderate tempo (in an easy-going two beats per measure), a moderate dynamic range, even a moderate register for the solo clarinet as it introduces the first theme. An agitated passage, with a rhythmically unstable accompaniment in the strings underpinning chromatically inflected melodic lines in the woodwinds, disturbs the tranquillity -- but the clarinet solo returns, unaffected by what has happened. Subtly, the movement relaxes into the middle section, with a different metric organization (6/8 instead of 2/4). This section builds up considerable energy, but the excitement is ultimately contained. Just when the music is at its most defiant, the tension fades away. The clarinet solo returns once more, surrounded by echoes of the previous section. These echoes persist, but the conflict has been forgotten, and the movement ends peacefully.
The finale begins mysteriously. As soon as the first phrase is finished, the orchestral sound disintegrates, leaving only static pizzicato. The footsteps accelerate, then stop in their tracks, only to have the woodwinds bring back the rest of the orchestra. The cycle repeats, and after the next pizzicato episode, a new challenge rises from the bottom of the orchestra. A series of outbursts are cut short by an interruption from the timpani, and as the smoke clears, the introduction has come to end. Or has it? A solo horn calls from the back of the stage, offering new hope -- but the music is still imbedded in the introduction. This movement really has two introductions, one following the other: the first tragic, the second optimistic. For the traditionally minded Brahms, a compound introduction is quite out of character, and it is likely that he had in mind the final movement of Beethoven's Symphony #9, with its famous several-part introduction. The horn solo is repeated by the flute, which then gives way to a beautiful chorale in the trombones. The trombones do not play in the first three movements, but their use here is telling: Brahms wants to make sure that the listener remembers this chorale, as he has later plans for it.
After the optimistic segment of the introduction, the stage has been set, and Brahms finally gets around to unveiling the eloquent melody which is the heart of this movement -- the one with the superficial similarity to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy." Gradually, the majestic music shows signs of being challenged, and the movement comes to a temporary halt with a succession of coarse, angry chords. Casually disregarding the implied conflict, the grand tune returns, making its way into a remote key and paying a brief visit to the mysterious pizzicato of the introduction. After another attempt at full celebration, the music wanders into a dream world, with melodic fragments in the woodwinds searching for a sense of direction. The character changes suddenly with a violent outburst from the strings, and the entire orchestra builds up to a terrifying passage where the strong metrical beats are silent, but the weak beats are mercilessly attacked, one after another. After the music reaches the moment of greatest despair, the horn once again sounds its call of hope. Over grim pounding in the timpani, the orchestra tries to assert its glory, but the momentum subsides again, and the music returns to familiar material from earlier in the movement.
As the familiar music comes to a close, an ominous mood settles over the orchestra, just as it did before. The movement has already been very long, and yet the glorious conclusion which the horn call and the "Ode to Joy" cousin seemed to foretell is nowhere in evidence. A stormy transition leads to a disorienting accelerando, where the various sections of the orchestra are not quite in synchrony with one another. Finally overcoming the previous tension, the music fights its way to an energetic coda, during which the trombone chorale from the beginning of the movement returns in triumph. Brahms and Wagner spent their careers in disagreement about the expressive power of older symphonic forms. The enduring popularity of Brahms's symphonies over the last 120 years suggests that the younger man was correct.