"[I thought that] sooner or later … someone would and must appear, fated to give us the ideal expression of the times, one who would not gain his mastery by gradual stages, but rather would spring fully armed like Minerva from the head of Kronion. And he has come, a young blood at whose cradle graces and heroes mounted guard. His name is Johannes Brahms, from Hamburg, where he has been creating in obscure silence.… He carries all the marks of one who has received a call." So wrote Robert Schumann in 1853, in the musical journal that he founded, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik. At the time, Brahms was but 20 years old, with few compositions to his credit but high aspirations. Among other things, he was interested in writing a symphony, but he feared that his work would be unfavorably compared with Beethoven’s. Schumann, with whom Brahms became fast friends and who surely meant well, had eliminated any hope Brahms might have had of rising through the compositional ranks in safe obscurity.
Thus, Brahms turned to orchestral genres that were not quite symphonies, even while presenting many of the same challenges: the orchestral serenade and (later) the variation set. The Serenade #1 dates from 1858, and it is an extroverted work, in six dance-dominated movements for full orchestra. The second serenade, written just a year or so later, is much subtler. Most striking is the absence of violins from the orchestra: the leading string role belongs to the mellower sound of the violas, and the wind instruments are more active than is typical in an orchestral setting. The first movement, based on deceptively simple melodic material, is serene throughout, functioning more as a prelude than as a symphonic first movement. The second movement is an energetic dance, similar in spirit to the equivalent movement of the first serenade. Brahms’s distinct musical personality is most in evidence in the remarkable third movement. The chromatically inflected bass line seems to evoke the spirit of J. S. Bach, whose music Brahms adored. Yet the melodic and motivic interrelationships – and, especially, the great range of moods created with such an economy of material – can be the work only of Brahms. The fourth movement, in straightforward ABA form, begins and ends with a naïve minuet, but journeys in its middle section to a murky world where melody seems to disintegrate. A piccolo joins the orchestra for the finale, which chases the previous clouds away with its folksong-like main theme and overall festive spirit.