No composer in the late nineteenth century could be unaware of the work of Richard Wagner
(1813-1883), whose revolutionary approaches to harmony, melody, form, and musical philosophy
made him the dominant artistic voice of his time. Among composers in the Austro-Germanic
tradition who lived at the same time as (or just after) Wagner, the question is never whether they
were influenced by Wagner's work, but how. Wagner rejected the genre of "symphony" as being
outdated and no longer suitable for true expression, arguing that Beethoven, with his ninth
symphony, had already recognized that voices and freer forms were necessary for genuine
communication. Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) wrote traditional symphonies but was derided in
many circles as anachronistic; Anton Bruckner (1824-1896) tried to create symphonic structures
in a vaguely Wagnerian style, but his results earned little favor from most contemporaries.
By his mid-20's, Mahler was well on his way to becoming established as one of the leading
conductors of the day. Working mainly in opera, he was well acquainted with Wagner's work and,
by extension, his philosophy. Mahler's development as composer was not nearly as prodigious as
his ascent as a conductor: he would be middle-aged before his music enjoyed any widespread
interest, and even then he relied heavily upon his own orchestral conducting engagements to
secure performances of his works. His early compositions were songs on German poetry written
by 19th-century romantics, borrowed from the German folk tradition, or authored by Mahler
himself. (In this final category, Mahler followed especially closely in the steps of Wagner, who
wrote the words for all of his own mature music dramas.) Although his nine numbered symphonies
would eventually constitute the bulk of his compositional output, it was only via a circuitous route
that he became a true symphonic composer.
Mahler wrote the first symphony within a year or two after discovering a compilation of folk poems
entitled Des Knaben Wunderhorn ("The Youth's Magic Horn"). Mahler was attracted to the duality
of this collection, in which optimistic attitudes toward life and nature are tempered with a bleak
sense of futility in the face of mortality. He set several Wunderhorn poems and wrote some of his
own in a similar spirit. Seeking to create a work on a grander scale, he then wrote a five-
movement "symphonic poem" – a genre that Wagner had not specifically rejected and which was,
indeed, championed by his good friend Franz Liszt. In his symphonic poem, to which he assigned
the name Titan, Mahler borrowed some melodies from his recent songs and, more importantly,
tried to capture the same double-edged emotional undercurrent. For the second performance,
which took place in March 1896, he provided the work with a descriptive program, making his
intentions explicit. The first three movements made up "Part I," which bore the heading, "From the
days of youth." "Part II" of the work was labeled "Human comedy," which seems to have been a
reference to Dante, especially given that the last movement was entitled "From the Inferno."
Over the next several years, Mahler made minor revisions to Titan, first renaming it his
"Symphony #1" and, by 1906, deleting the original second movement to give the work the four-
movement form in which it is known today. However, the original decision to classify the work as a
"symphonic poem" rather than a "symphony" was not merely cosmetic. The opening section of
first movement – with its exaggerated stillness, unmistakable birdcalls, and off-stage trumpet
fanfares – creates a fascinating sonic landscape, but it provides almost no material suitable for
traditional symphonic development. The following faster section is, in some ways, like the
exposition of a sonata-form movement, but it is too short to be fully convincing in this role.
(Mahler's final version of the symphony asks for this section to be repeated, as an exposition
ordinarily would be, but the repeat strikes many conductors as arbitrary and is rarely observed.)
The rest of the movement unfolds in a way that is more consistent with a "programmatic"
approach than with motivic development: closer to Wagner's and Liszt's ideas about form than to
those of Beethoven or Brahms. Mahler's second, third, and fourth symphonies, while all being
designated as "symphonies" from the beginning, ask for voices and make more sense
programmatically than as "absolute" music. It was not until the fifth symphony that Mahler's style
took on the formally taut, motivically organic properties that were most strongly associated with
traditional symphonic writing.
Fully developed even in this early symphony, however, are compositional elements that would
characterize Mahler's work throughout his career: mastery of orchestration, dizzying emotional
extremes, and the ironic introduction of vulgar elements into an otherwise lofty musical
atmosphere. In the first movement, the stark, nearly "unmusical" landscape of the introduction
gives way to a main theme (first heard in the cellos) of almost Mozartian grace. By the end of the
movement, this gentle melody gets whipped into a frenzy, catapulting from the brass to the
strings, then to the woodwinds, and finally even to the timpani. The second movement is a
raucous scherzo, but the middle trio section, in another sharp contrast, has the feel of a much
lighter peasant dance.
The third movement is, as The New Grove Dictionary observes, the "most experimental" of the
symphony. Mahler takes a popular folk melody (best known in its French version, "Frère
Jacques") and transforms it into a bizarre, grotesque funeral march. The oboe and E-flat clarinet
mock the procession with biting catcalls, and a klezmer band intrudes on the scene more than
once. A brief middle section – marked "very easy and simple like a folktune" by the composer –
attempts to find a temporary peace, but the funeral procession, with all of its attendant
distractions, soon returns and maintains the sense of gloom until the end of the movement.
Considerably longer than any of the other movements, the finale has an epic quality. The full
forces of the orchestra combine to create the "Inferno" that Mahler referred to in the program for
Titan. After about four minutes of relentless onslaught, the music's anger finally subsides, giving
way to a beautiful melody in the strings with gently pulsing accompaniment in the horns. In the
following section of this sprawling movement, the angst from the beginning of the movement is
always present, but the possibility of an eventual victory is occasionally glimpsed. After one
particularly dramatic build in the orchestra, a song of triumph indeed rings out, but this proves to
be premature. The symphony's hero can be redeemed only through nature: music from the
introduction to the first movement returns, and the string melody from earlier in the finale is also
retrieved for an abbreviated, more intimate presentation. A moment of great yearning bursts forth,
but quickly recedes into a hypnotized stillness – not, this time, of serenity, but of suspense. A
series of convulsive entrances in the violas reinitiates the conflict, and once again the music
reaches a point where victory seems close at hand. This time, the triumph is genuine: any
possible doubt is removed by Mahler's marking of "Triumphal" in the score. The horns lead the
way in an exhilarating coda, which ultimately hails not only the conquering hero of Titan, but the
arrival of the last great romantic symphonist.
