The piano soloist enters the composition with a waltz-like tune that will lead both to recollections of the opening and to meditation. Now a theme in the major mode offers respite in a chorale-like passage for the soloist. This is echoed by the strings, burnished to full glow and leading to a rare moment of exaltation in the brass.
Reflection follows, the brass pondering its triumphant figure. Then the soloist begins to dwell on and develop everything heard to this point. When at last the orchestra reaches a peak of agitation, the soloist enters with the gestures heard at the work’s outset, as the strings ripped apart the sonic texture. Aside from those super-powered first gestures, so much of this movement is quiet and reflective, dominated by a dreamlike sense of the dance, where you and your unidentifiable partner are the only ones on the floor.
The quietly impassioned second movement could not be more unlike the first. “Blessed, who comes in the name of the Lord”: Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini, Brahms wrote above his sketch of this Adagio, which he also described to Clara Schumann as a lovely portrait of her. It may be a stretch—though not by far—to say that Brahms believed Clara possessed all the attributes of someone bestowed upon the world by a divinity.
As this movement opens, listen to the wind figures that accompany the serene string writing. This is a clue to how Brahms structures accompaniments not simply as decorative devices, but to deepen and intensify his argument.
The confident finale emerges into sunlight. We are back in the world of dance, but we have left the ballroom of dreams for the theater of the real world. The Leipzig audience hated the concerto and hissed when it was over, as though four years of the composer’s work counted for nothing. Was Brahms hurt? Yes. Did he allow it to stop him? You know the answer to that.
Here is pianist Yuja Wang to play this music for you:
