Trio in a for Clarinet (Viola), Piano, and Cello, Op. 114

When Johannes Brahms composed his A-Minor Trio for Viola (originally clarinet), Piano, and Cello, op. 114, in summer 1891, he was looking back on a life and compositional career full of its ups and downs. This is often referred to as the “autumnal” season of his term on earth, and it’s not hard to fault that description. Brahms had left his hometown of Hamburg to seek musical fortunes elsewhere, had befriended Robert and Clara Schumann and eventually recognized his own, pervading love for the latter, he had come to terms with the gloomy aspect of that love forever going unrequited (or at least unconsummated); he struggled to secure his individual voice in larger compositional forms, had been passed over for several important positions, and then finally secured one; he had known the of opposing the aesthetic principles of Wagnerism, which placed him in a reactionary camp of musicians.
And now, having produced a large corpus of works in all genres (except opera), he was speaking anew in a refined, more austere, and immensely compelling way. Just as we welcome autumn as a respite from summer’s heat, we still look forward to the resurrection of warmth and radiance on a late September afternoon—a last hurrah of summer, a fading memory of youth. So, too, it seems did Brahms reflect on his musical creations of the 1890s, which include the clarinet quintet (op. 115) and sonatas (op. 120), the final piano pieces (opp. 116-119), and the spiritual chorale preludes for organ (op. 122).
The A-minor trio shows Brahms rethinking compositional conventions, primarily in the realm of form. Gone are the familiar repeat signs, and in their place we find a fluid, through-composed narrative of musical material. The first movement opens as a meditation on a simple, quasi-Bachian fugue subject, though this gives over quite quickly to an infectious theme in triplets that is pure Brahms. Some themes do recur, such as a falling chromatic figure and the triplet passage just mentioned, but by and large the aural signposts of sonata form are left behind in favor of developing variations on basic motives. Brahms makes a lovely turn to A major toward the close of the movement, and this causes the ensuing turn back to minor for the coda sound all the more oppressive. In the end, a Picardy Third restores the bright sound of major to the final chords.
The second movement is far more songful than the first—a typical relationship that even this work does not supplant. There is here, too, a more traditional development followed by reprised main theme. When that theme does return, Brahms sets in stronger relief by minimizing the accompaniment: just spare chords on the piano and pizzicati in the cello.
In third position Brahms places a dance-based movement structured as forms with forms. The opening section, a waltz, unfolds as an aaba structure. The central section features steady eighth-note rhythms played as rising and falling arpeggios. Such a combination sounds a note of (perhaps Hungarian) folk influence, though the whole sounds somewhat like a ländler. The earlier waltz returns, creating the movement’s larger ABA form.
The polymetric finale will be the trio’s highlight to many listeners. At times in 2/4, at other times in 6/8, and sometimes in both at the same time—rhythmic coordination becomes a matter of utmost importance to the performers of this movement. In general the 6/8 material is the lyrical and dance-like, whereas the 2/4 passages embody a feisty march with gypsy resonances. The differing characters not only become a type of dialectic, they also help us (almost unconsciously) to appreciate the competing impulses of conflicting meters.

(c) Jason Stell