Piano Concerto No. 1 in D Minor, Op. 15—Johannes Brahms
Brahms wrote two piano concertos, separated by the passage of some twenty-two years. This first one is the product of his relative youth, having been completed in 1859, when he was twenty-five. A youthful work it is not, however. Brahms had labored over it for most of the decade of the 1850s, and during that time it underwent several substantial transformations. Originally, Brahms had conceived of the work as a sonata for two pianos—he was a fine pianist, and that medium naturally fell easily to him. But, as he worked, he came to understand that the imposing nature of his ideas for this composition suggested the full powers of the symphony orchestra. Ultimately, his difficulties in casting it into the form of a symphony, not to speak of his incomplete mastery of the skill of orchestration, led him finally to cast the work in the form of a piano concerto. During that process, the last two movements were discarded, and new replacements were crafted.
During the last half of the nineteenth century Brahms was, of course, the standard bearer for those who believed that the future of music lay in continuing the disciplined classically oriented musical style of Beethoven. They held that the traditional forms of sonata, concerto, and symphony had not nearly exhausted their viability, and that music should continue to speak in an integrated language that referred to it, alone, and certainly not to extra-musical ideas. The music of those of the opposite view, Liszt, Wagner, et al, while respecting the music of the past, saw no future in continuing that tradition. Today, most of those who compose, perform, and listen to art music see no contradiction in valuing both aesthetics.
With that as background, Brahms’ first concerto honors those traditions of the past in its form and the nature of its musical ideas and their manipulation, but it is not conventional in any sense. This powerful work betrays its own genesis in the pronounced importance given to the orchestra—in fact, critics of the time (and some of today) snidely called it a symphony with “piano obbligato.” But, of course, that matters not; great works of art take their own way. The massive first movement (inspired by the beginning of Beethoven’s ninth symphony) starts conventionally, for the times, with a long exposition by the orchestra alone, before the entrance of the piano. While the part of the piano is quite difficult, and demands a virtuoso, it cannot be characterized as based in empty virtuosic bombast like so many other concertos of the time. The demands of the part simply grow out of Brahms’ musical style and the task of the piano in the ample orchestral context. Many have posited a connection between the suicide attempt by Robert Schumann and the tone of this movement—but that is not clear. What is clear, however, is that Brahms, himself, characterized the remarkable beauty of the Adagio second movement as a “gentle portrait” of his beloved Clara Schumann, Robert’s wife. He wrote in the score under the opening melody, “Benedictus, qui venit, in nomine Domini!” Not surprisingly, the third movement is clearly based upon the like movement of Beethoven’s third piano concerto. It—typically—is a rondo, that is, a fast, spirited movement with an easily recognized theme that returns several times, with contrasting ideas interspersed.
Early performances of this masterpiece were not successful—in Leipzig the audience was not receptive and hissed the work with great enthusiasm. One critic averred that it offered nothing but “waste” and “barren dreariness.” Brahms was not deterred, however. He wrote to his friend, Joachim, “In spite of all this, the concerto will please some day . . . .“ And so it has.
Pines of Rome—Ottorino Respighi
After Respighi moved permanently to Rome in 1913–at the time, a center of orchestral concerts in Italy–he turned more attention to the composition of instrumental music. His first big success was the symphonic poem, Fountains of Rome, from 1916, although it did not garner accolades immediately. But, by the early 1920s it was fast becoming an international hit, and he was on his way to world-wide recognition—not to speak of a much more secure financial future. He followed up on this success with two more symphonic poems evocative of his home: Pines of Rome (1924) and Roman Festivals (1926). Collectively, they are often known as his “Roman trilogy.” They all are showpieces for orchestra, spectacular evidence of his mastery of orchestration, vivid musical imagination, and flamboyant penchant for instrumental color. He had listened well to his predecessors who were successful in this vein.
Pines of Rome is cast into four movements, all using the conceit of pine trees that happen to be growing by various evocative Roman locations to tie everything together. Respighi scored the work for a large orchestra: the usual and familiar full complement, with additions of piano, organ, celesta, off-stage brass band, and (for the first time in musical history), a sound recording of a bird. All of these resources receive a full workout. What else would one expect from a composer who, in a later composition (Brazilian Impressions) adroitly depicted snakes and spiders in a Jungle research institute! Pines of Rome was an immediate hit; Toscanini was so enamored with it that he included it in the first concert—and nineteen years later, the last—that he conducted with the New York Philharmonic.
The first movement, “Pines of the Villa Borghese,” is a sparkling, lilting evocation of children playing on a Sunday morning, madly dashing about, full of youthful delight. The Villa Borghese is one of the largest public gardens in Rome, built in the informal English garden style, containing spectacular plantings, lakes, pathways, and buildings. It has long been a favorite with tourists and natives alike, and Respighi conjures up a bright musical context that depicts the cheerful setting. A filigree of attractive rhythmic figures and simple tunes clearly evoking childhood mirth sustains the fun-filled, light-hearted atmosphere. Woodwind trills, cheeky dissonances, glissandi in the harps and keyboards, high register brass, and the complete absence of “gloomy” low instruments sustain the joy.
It abruptly ends, though, as we enter the dark world of a catacomb. The second movement (“Pines Near a Catacomb”) is set in the malarial region of the Roman campagna, abandoned in ancient times, but with extraordinary stark beauty. The ominous, dark atmosphere of the burial caverns is aptly portrayed by most of the instruments that we did not hear in the first movement. Trombones, with the deepest of organ notes beneath them, don the garb of priests as they solemnly chant the melodies of the dead. The gloom is then broken by a shimmering solo trumpet, offstage in a lonely elegy. The chanting soon returns, building to a huge climax, more affirmatively, perhaps alluding to triumph over death. All soon dies down (no pun intended), as the brass returns to a crepuscular chant.
The “Pines of the Janiculum” is a tranquil visit at night to the prominent hill west of Rome where St. Peter is popularly thought to have been crucified, and which is now the site of a number of universities, colleges, and academies. It offers a spectacular view of Rome, and is named after the Roman god, Janus, who famously looked simultaneously in two opposite directions: the past and the future. This movement is a nocturne, opened by the gong and piano, introducing various woodwind solos that quietly evoke the moon on the pines. Apparently, a nightingale is perched in one of them, for as the music gradually fades away in trills, his song is faintly heard.
The nightingale is chased away, and the mood is ominously broken by the distant tread of the Roman Legions on the Appian Way (“Pines of the Appian Way”), beginning far off, perhaps in the morning mist, as they grow inexorably closer. A sinuous solo in the English horn adds a bit of mystery. Fanfares are heard, both in the orchestra and in the off-stage band that portrays the ancient Roman buccine—the large circular horns familiar from Roman mosaics. Everyone in the orchestra gradually joins in as the Legions march closer, and the music grows inevitably to a paroxysm of aural grandeur. It’s one of the most impressive moments in orchestral sound, and never fails to please.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2026 William E. Runyan