Symphony No. 1 (Titan), arr. Simon

Symphonies don’t come much grander than the nine created by Gustav Mahler (1860-1911). With his prominent position as an in-demand conductor, at one point heading the Vienna Court Opera, Mahler encountered nearly every major symphonic work. His own works bear the stamp of that exposure, while at the same time retaining something of the composer’s particular lyrical gift. Mahler was a master of song. And even in the larger forms, he stuns us with his sense for intimacy, lyricism, and an interior drama that refuses to be brushed aside by powerful exterior factors. He did not write a great deal of chamber music—precious little, in fact. But other people, including arranger Klaus Simon, have expertly noted that Mahler’s symphonic style often makes a fascinating case for translating into one-per-part chamber scoring.
Consider the massive Symphony No. 1 in D Major, composed in originally in 1887-1888 and revised on two subsequent occasions. (The composer applied the nickname “Titan” to this symphony in its earliest version.) Mahler calls for an orchestra of 100 players, but Simon pares that down to a mere 15! It is a novel way to experience Mahler. For some, it will seem so drastic a difference as to qualify as an entirely new work. More than anything else, Simon’s arrangement helps us to hear a familiar masterpiece with fresh ears—which is always a good thing.
Like Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Mahler’s First opens out of the void with octave A’s, including harmonics in the higher strings. A principal motive begins to take shape; the falling 4th interval A-E develops into a series of similar descending figures answered by clarinet birdcalls, all at the softest dynamic level. The process repeats, slightly altered, leading to trumpet and horn calls. The falling 4th intensifies across all the instruments. After more than 60 measures, the motive has finally evolved into a recognizable theme in D major. Presented first in the cellos, it gradually overflows its bounds and exudes joy in nature. A development returns to the opening void texture in order to recount the long progress forward. Despite several tonal digressions (into D-flat, A-flat, and C), the development builds inexorably toward a massive fortissimo in D major punctuated by timpani, cymbals, and triumphant horn calls.
The second movement is a brusque Landler in A major. Staying totally straightforward in the A section, Mahler veers off course into C-sharp during the B section. Two mournful horn calls signal the beginning of the central Trio section in F major, which offers a delightful waltz in reduced scoring trio. In order to return to his main theme, Mahler again uses horns interrupt the prevailing mood; perhaps it is their association with distance and longing that allows the horns to function so well as scene changers.
Of all of the material in this “Titan” Symphony, it is the third movement that would have most troubled its first audiences. Presenting three very contrasting episodes, none is more haunting than the initial one. Writing a funeral dirge in D minor is hardly unique; but constructing that dirge as a canonic version of the folksong “Frère Jacques” is a stroke of macabre brilliance. The French folk song is normally in the major mode, but Mahler buries it morosely in minor. Upon that scene intrudes an incisive rhythmic tattoo from the oboe. From this bizarre realm, Mahler conveys us to a klezmer-style theme with close chromatic writing in the woodwinds. Just as quickly, we are then abruptly pulled aside a parodistic touch of the military before abundant rubato returns us to our klezmer band. This, in turn, progresses without obvious rationale into a lyrical episode in G major with rippling accompaniment in the low strings and harp. After this succession of disjointed ideas, we are left wondering where Mahler can go next. But the resulting step is probably not altogether surprising. The “Frère Jacques” canon returns, now cycled a half-step higher in E flat minor, and is gradually overlaid with contrasting motives until everything is jumbled together.
The finale uses the storm topic as a way to wipe the slate clean. And it is certainly here, with invigorating brass writing, that Mahler strikes his most “titanic” mood. Of course he is not going to stay there throughout the movement; a fervent lyrical theme, for instance, appears midway through all the chromatic striving of Wagner at his most passionate. If we focus merely on the latter stages of the finale, we see that Mahler clearly wants to conclude with a cyclical recall of the earlier themes—another homage to Beethoven’s Ninth. This begins with a return to the opening void, but other material will also be discernible. The end result of all this effort is a final evolution of the symphony’s fundamental motive: the falling 4th first heard in m. 3 some 50 minutes earlier. Its continuation now casts the motive as the head of a hymn-like figure; to me, it sounds redolent of the “King of Kings” material from Handel’s Messiah. And though Mahler explicitly instructs the brass players to render the theme like a chorale, his “king” is not a Christian but a pagan one. From start to finish, Mahler’s First Symphony sings a paean to Nature and to the gods he finds in the natural world around him.

(c) Jason Stell