Program Notes

Johaness Brahms (1833-1897)

Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat major, Op. 83 (1878-1881)

Scored for piano solo, pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets and bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, timpani and strings 

“I want to tell you that I have written a tiny little concerto with a tiny little scherzo. It was written in the key of B-flat major, and I fear that I have made too heavy and frequent a demand on this udder which has on many occasions provided such excellent milk.”

Johaness Brahms’ tongue-in-cheek self-deprecatory manner must certainly have been a breath of fresh air to those he called friends. In fact, when Elisabeth von Herzogenberg first read these words printed above in 1881, one can imagine her rolling her eyes to the ceiling and letting out a gentle sigh of half-hearted exasperation and a gentle chuckle. Brahms similarly described the concerto to his friend Theodor Billroth as “some little piano pieces.” (Clara Schumann, however, knew Brahms better than anyone, and when she received a similarly worded letter, she was quick to reply, “Of course, I do not trust the ‘little one’ you included.”)

For Brahms, who was frequently dissatisfied with his work, it would not be unusual to notice a hint of bitterness in his remarks about his music. But these comments about his new piano concerto must have seemed to those closest to him as something very different. This time Brahms’ understatement had a mischievous, playful edge to it. He actually seemed to be happy about what he had done.

First of all, he was talking about a piano concerto of four movements and some forty-five minutes duration which contained a piano part that would tax the abilities and try the patience of the world’s greatest pianists. In short, it was the most massive, ambitious and demanding concerto that had ever been written. It also contains some of Brahms most inspired music, and inspired music-making, uniting the piano and orchestra in a symbiotic relationship that reveals an unerring gift honed to an unbelievable height of perfection. The piano is at turns master and servant, rising to heights of grandiose self-confidence and then simply stepping aside, or adding a subtle supporting voice to the proceedings. The composer wrote to his friend Joseph Joachim when he started the work and said, “The next one (his second piano concerto) will sound quite different [from the first].” Today, this is not simply a true statement about the piece, but one that has been ringing ever since in the ears of those composers since who have tried to equal it, and those pianists who have tried to tame it.

The first movement opens with a gentle horn call, answered by piano and both continue in discourse. The music is briefly taken up by the orchestra, which then steps aside for a brilliant piano cadenza, firmly establishing the kind of effort required of the soloist. An enthusiastic orchestral tutti then gives this opening music full-blooded treatment. Other themes are introduced in a harmonically complex framework. Throughout the movement the piano is clearly the star, yet seems surprisingly generous to the orchestra. It does not merely take up the orchestra’s themes, but offers its own varied interpretation. Though the mood is optimistic, the sweeping drama and overwhelming passion of Brahms is also in good supply here.

The second movement is a fiery scherzo, the first theme impassioned and forceful, and the second wistful, but no less dramatic. The piano and orchestra are once more engaged in a synergistic dialogue which rises to overwhelming heights of emotion. Out of nowhere, Brahms offers us a stately baroque dance, its growing fervor leading us naturally back into the scherzo, this time with the orchestra clearly in charge. But lest we forget that the piano is the headliner, it takes its place at the fore to impart a dynamic conclusion.

Brahms wrote to Clara Schumann that the third movement was a tender portrait of her. The startlingly lovely theme for solo cello that opens the andante causes us in an instant to forget its unlikely existence in a work of such drama and mammoth proportions. We are quite happy for this gentle music to carry on, and when the piano enters with its own romantic and inspired reply, we are utterly enraptured. An unexpected, impassioned outburst from the piano does little to dispel our pleasure. The middle section dispenses with the orchestra and allows the piano a tender discourse with two clarinets. Once the opening music has been established again, the cello returns and its gently intertwined duet with the piano is breathtaking.

Not even really hinted at in the first three movements, Brahms’ love of Hungarian dance is evident in the enticing sonata-rondo that serves as finale. Brahms now seems to be content to leave most of the impassioned pleas and lofty utterances behind and present us with music brimming over with joyful enthusiasm and rhythmic verve.