Symphony No. 9 in d, Op. 125

It is certainly daunting to set oneself the task of writing something original, important, insightful—indeed of writing anything at all—about a work so iconic as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. For one thing, there are so many directions in which one could go. Each statement seems pregnant with so many ideas that, for the sake of space, must remain unsaid; each decision determines which avenues of analysis and commentary will be followed, as well as those that will not. Moreover, dozens of book length studies of the symphony, not to mention hundreds of shorter articles, seem to have adequately said all that can be said. So perhaps we should choose to stay silent. Often it is said—and with good reason—that music transcends language. Is beauty not better experienced than described? In the face of towering works of art, do words not fail us?
Words, in fact, are the crux of the matter when considering Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. For no matter how much ink will be spilled about its innovative first movement, brilliant Scherzo, or tender Adagio, it is the choral finale that ultimately explains this symphony’s elevation to mythic status. The massive finale, setting a poem by Friedrich Schiller, shifts the center of gravity toward the work’s end. This in itself is important. Classical-era symphonies by Haydn, Mozart, and even a younger Beethoven tend to be frontloaded: their first movements generally are longer and more involved than subsequent movements. Beethoven’s Fifth and Sixth symphonies took tentative steps in reversing this tradition, and both use continuity between penultimate and ultimate movements to maintain an end-oriented structure.
In the Ninth, Beethoven makes a paradigm-shifting forward leap. For one cannot make sense of this finale apart from its preceding movements. True, it is a long finale (about 25 minutes), equal in duration to some entire four-movement classical symphonies. True, the inclusion of voice in an otherwise instrumental realm was a decisive innovation. But even more, the organic unity that binds the finale to preceding movements signifies a level of integration that forever altered music. Thus, even if hundreds have exercised their wit and imagination to write about this incredible finale, approaching it in isolation would be akin to describing only the head of Michelangelo’s David.

The symphony famously begins ex nihilo with strings and horns intoning the fundamental open fifth interval between A and E. Those pitches can suggest many keys as the possible tonic (including A, E, and D). But without a chordal third, we are left in limbo whether it would be major or minor. Other instruments gradually appear on the scene, a crescendo builds, and the rhythmic action quickens, culminating in the first thunderous thematic statement. Beethoven uses rhythmic acceleration and motivic growth to create an immensity that is without precedent in music. Continuing with this “evolution of musical life” metaphor, Beethoven dissolves the theme back into the primordial void sound of open fifths and rebuilds his idea in a new key (B-flat major) for the arrival of the second theme.
For the sake of space, I must pass over the many subtle achievements of that second theme except to note the brilliant and simple way in which Beethoven dovetails the end of his second theme group into a resurgent void motif (first theme). The closing arpeggios in B flat major mimic the opening intervals, and a simple pitch drop from the local tonic (B-flat) to A puts us directly back to square one. A new development is soon afoot moving to G minor and eventually B-flat major, A minor, F minor, and D major/minor mingled with relentless timpani rolls. These keys are all expected destinations for a development of a D-minor sonata-form structure. Yet the way Beethoven combines such striking material is captivating beyond anything that his contemporaries had been able to achieve.
In contrast to the weighty rhetoric of the opening movement, the following Scherzo celebrates demonic frivolity. The idea of placing a scherzo in second position of symphonic form is rather novel; a few precedents exist in other solo sonatas and chamber works. In this Scherzo the timpanist plays the trickster, stepping forward at key moments to pound out a few unsettling F naturals. The material is not without its learned appeal. This is at times a fugue, but the quizzical changes from section to section, Beethoven’s aberrant use of C major as a second key after D minor, and the periodic silences that halt the flow garner most of the critical comment. Paired with the scherzo is a pastoral Trio. The D-major Trio opens with woodwinds, though I find the second phrase, based on rising scales in the strings, more affecting. Beethoven periodically uses a drone or sustaining pitch in the horns to reinforce the sound of a pastoral musette. The whole atmosphere may be read as a brief “natural” respite following the tumultuous upheaval of the first movement and unsettling comic jabs of the Scherzo. Normally such Scherzo-Trio materials were played in a three-part arrangement, thus S–T–S. Beethoven liked to amplify the scale to include five parts (S–T–S–T–S). Something akin seems to be at work here. But after a few measures of the second trio appearance, Beethoven brusquely cuts short the good cheer with a peremptory, firm cadence.
The third movement offers a massive, brilliant and beautiful theme and variations. There would be little point in cataloging the changing nature of the theme through all of the variations. What may be noticed is Beethoven’s use of a certain key for this movement, B-flat major, which played a pivotal role in the first movement. Moreover, the theme is based on a series of falling intervals redolent of the symphony’s opening void motif. It unfolds mainly in the strings; winds provide short echoes as if to confirm and sympathize. This interplay between instrumental families becomes a source of continual interest throughout the variations. Note also the striking key changes that occur between episodes, as the total pattern unfolds generally B-flat, D, B-flat, G, E-flat, B-flat. The normal course of events is interrupted by an orchestral fanfare that—understood in hindsight—foreshadows the iconic “horror fanfare” just moments in the offing. But we anticipate… A striking breakthrough occurs after the halfway point of the variations as Beethoven veers off into a radiant, foreign key of D-flat major. This new vista lasts but a moment and presages the close of the movement. The brief turn to D-flat major makes no lasting difference in the Adagio’s form. But by sheer contrast of tonal color, it does prime us for more radical changes about to occur in the finale.

When that famous finale eventually arrives, all hell seems to have broken loose. Beethoven jettisons the resplendent mood he had luxuriated in for the past quarter of an hour. The effect is, of course, intentional. Beethoven wants us to be rudely shocked, even rendered speechless. As 21st-century listeners, that’s a tall order. But we might at least try to imagine how the audience at the 1824 premiere would have felt upon hearing these sounds; at least, reach deep to recall a time in your life before you had ever heard this finale. Just a few seconds of chaos (the so-called “horror fanfare”) suffice to wipe the musical surface clean. The message of the ensuing, low string recitative is made abundantly clear by the text underlaid to this same passage later in the movement:

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne. (O Friends, not these sounds.)

Not which sounds? Well, Beethoven immediately recycles the main themes of the previous three movements as if to suggest that none of these have been the solution, the best path forward. The recitative following the recall of the Adagio leads to a possible new direction. This is the beginning of the familiar “Ode to Joy” theme. Presented a tempo in winds, Beethoven provides only the incipit before the recitative cuts it short—momentarily. For this theme seems to have hit upon something. The “Ode to Joy” theme begins again, now barely audible, in the low strings. From the depths it will gradually build to a glorious rendition for full orchestra. With the recurrence of the “horror fanfare” motive, Beethoven once again restarts the narration, culminating with a further evolution: the human voice.
From this point onward Schiller’s text, delivered via a combination of the quartet of vocal soloists and four-part chorus, becomes the driving force. Across various musical styles, including the distinctive Turkish March, Schiller’s words of brotherhood and optimism ring forth. The final choral sections literally burst with sound. All manner of intricate compositional tricks, extra-musical references, and heroic narratives have been pulled out by careful analysts. But rather than go into extreme detail or, on the other hand fall back on empty hyperbolic platitudes, it’s time for this essay to change focus. Even if a lifetime of listening cannot adequately grasp all that is at work here, we nevertheless try. That resolute spirit and its quest for transcendent experience—while still living on earth, among men and women with their gifts and flaws—has been perhaps the Ninth’s greatest gift to humanity. It is a soundtrack to accompany humanity’s fight for self-realization.

The significance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony goes well beyond the Austro-German world in which it was written. It goes beyond England, from which its commission originated; beyond Europe, which would experience most of its early performances; even beyond America, where it was presented in 1874 with a chorus and orchestra of thousands. The music has been appropriated as a commodity and employed in all manner of situations. In popular culture it is quoted in works by The Beatles and Michael Jackson; in films from A Clockwork Orange to Die Hard.
Perhaps its most important uses took place in 1989, a year of great social upheaval in the world. Many of us will recall the momentous collision of art and politics that took place at the breaking down of the Berlin Wall. On Christmas Day the American conductor Leonard Bernstein led a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth with an ensemble combined of East- and West-German orchestras. Bernstein famously replaced Schiller’s keyword “Freude” (meaning “joy”) with “Freiheit” (“freedom”) for this singular moment in history. The performance became an aural and visual encapsulation of triumph over division and mistrust.
Fewer people may recall that, half a world away and just a few months earlier, amplified broadcasts of Beethoven’s Ninth also filled Tiananmen Square in Beijing. Students protesting for greater democratic freedoms used Beethoven’s music as a rallying cry and a defiant, ultra-Western slap in the face to their country’s repressive leadership. The end result in China was hardly as victorious as in Berlin, as nearly a thousand students were killed. But the expressive power of this musical work still resounds—every time it is performed—as a memorial to their never-ending quest for freedom and self-determination.


I recall first hearing Beethoven’s Ninth on a cassette tape given to me by my grandfather. As a teenager I knew absolutely nothing about classical music, but I connected with my grandfather, whose love of books and music was captivating. He copied his LP recording of the Ninth Symphony onto a cassette for me simply labeled “Beethoven, Choral Symphony.” I can distinctly recall the power of the first movement’s crashing chords and the subtle changes that occurred in the slow theme-and-variations movement. It was a favorite cassette of mine, one that I would listen to repeatedly, hitting the rewind button as soon as the symbol crashes of the finale had died away.
It wasn’t until many years later that I accidentally discovered an additional reason to treasure that recording. In my eagerness to replay the music, I had never let the cassette continue playing beyond the final chords. I had assumed there was just blank silence filling up the remainder of side B. But one time, without noticing, I let the tape continue to play. After about 10 seconds there was a sharp click, and a voice began to come out of the speakers. The voice belonged to my grandfather, who had used a microphone to record a message onto the tape: “The Ninth Symphony was performed by the Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Eugene Jochum, with Liselotte Redmann, soprano, Anna Reynolds, contralto…”
When I heard this, it had been about four years since my grandfather’s death. Of course, it was great to hear his voice again. Even more, I had always wanted to know if the recording I knew so well was now available on CD. But until his message, I had no clue about who the performers were; and there are literally hundreds of CD recordings of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It was like putting a name to the face in a beloved old photograph. A year later I found the CD recording of that Concertgebouw performance. And although my cassette player no longer works, that cassette containing Beethoven’ Ninth Symphony and my grandfather’s message remains a deeply held treasure.

(c) Jason Stell