program notes {
tion for the Seventh, Levi found he could
not comprehend this longest and most
mystical of Bruckner’s scores. Regretfully,
he sent word he couldn’t perform it and
suggested revisions.
Bruckner was devasted. Levi’s rejection
led to a crisis of confidence that lasted for
years and undoubtedly prevented the aging composer from completing his Ninth
Symphony. Not only did he revise his
Eighth, but with the eager assistance of his
pupils Josef and Franz Schalk and Ferdinand Löwe, he rewrote his First through
Fourth symphonies as well. Although the
revision of the Eighth, completed in 1890,
did actually strengthen Bruckner’s original
concept, the work on the other symphonies did more harm than good as Löwe
and the Schalks took substantial cuts and
made the orchestrations more sumptuous
and Wagnerian. Despite his acquiescence,
Bruckner still stubbornly believed in his
original versions and carefully preserved
them “for the future.”
In the 1930s, the International Bruckner Society, under the direction of Robert
Haas, tried to straighten out the resulting
mess by issuing editions of the symphonies cleansed of the cuts and embellishments made by Bruckner’s pupils. In the
problematic case of the Eighth, Haas
used some creative license. Recognizing
that the 1890 revision was in many ways
superior, he published that version but
with some material in the third and fourth
movements restored from the 1887 original. A later edition by Leopold Nowak
took a “purer” approach by not including the 1887 material. Günther Herbig
has chosen to perform a version that is a
hybrid of the Haas and Nowak editions.
Listening to Bruckner
To enter into the world of a Bruckner
symphony—and especially into the
visionary splendor of the Eighth Symphony, the composer’s longest and by
general consent his greatest — listeners
must readjust their 21st-century internal
clocks. Inspired by Wagner’s tremendous
expansion of the operatic form, Bruckner
conceived his symphonic movements on
a very broad scale. Even when his tempos
are not actually slow, his music still
seems leisurely. Bruckner themes are very
long: built cumulatively from many elements. Fortunately, he initially presents
them twice, which helps us fix them in
our minds for the considerable duration
of his movements. His harmonic strategies are even more protracted: harmonies
often change slowly, and the home key
becomes a distant goal approached by a
very circuitous route. Actually, Bruckner’s model for the Eighth is less Wagner
than Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
Inspired by Wagner’s
tremendous expansion of
the operatic form, Bruckner
conceived his symphonic
movements on a very
broad scale.
Bruckner has been unfairly accused of
writing for immense, swollen orchestras
in the manner of Wagner or Mahler. In
fact, he was a master of achieving monumental effects from moderate orchestral
means. For the Eighth Symphony, he
employed his largest ensemble, but its
only special additions are the eight horns
— four of them doubling on Wagner
tubas (a hybrid of horn and tuba devised
for the Ring operas) — plus two harps for
the second and third movements. Bruckner’s orchestral sound is unique and
extraordinarily effective. Like the great
organist he was, he juxtaposed contrasting blocks of wind, brass or string sound
much as an organist moves to different
manuals with new stop combinations.
His strategy for building his immense
climaxes was to fall continually short of
the summit and build again to achieve
truly Olympian heights.
Just as we allow our pulse to slow
when we enter a cathedral, so must we
turn off our beepers and surrender ourselves to a world beyond time as we listen
to this composer. In the words of Robert
Simpson, Bruckner’s art has “a special
appeal in our time to our urgent need for
calm and sanity, for a deep stability in
the world, whatever our beliefs, religious
or other.”
First Movement: The symphony begins
with the characteristic Bruckner sound of
hushed tremolo violins. Against this primeval background, we hear a disturbed,
questioning theme leaping upward on
jagged rhythms, then drooping backward.
After each pause, it grows a little more.
Bruckner interrupts its close and cadence
on C minor with a more dramatic statement of the theme that veers farther from
home. Violins then introduce the gentler
second theme group, beginning with a rising scale; this, too, is repeated in variation
and reaches a noble summit. A third and
final thematic group features loud downward cascades in antiphonal groups of
instruments playing together in a mighty
“Bruckner unison.”
But the music soon darkens and
loses its way. The movement expresses
humanity’s plight on earth, and here
questions are not easily answered, nor
goals reached. A huge climax reprises the
opening theme and marks a temporary
arrival home in C minor. But subsequent
events undermine this security, and the
movement ends in a tragic coda, added
by Bruckner in his 1890 revision of the
score. He called it the “Death Watch”
and likened it to a dying man watching a
clock ticking steadily as his life ebbs.
The second-movement scherzo in
C Major has been transformed from its
rural Austrian dance origins to something huge and cosmic. Simpson likens
it to “a celestial engine”; to this writer,
it sounds like a heavenly carillon or the
peal of God’s laughter. Descending
bell peals juxtaposed against ascending
ones form the thematic substance. This
scherzo encloses a lengthy trio section
in A-flat. Lyrical and serene, it suggests
Bruckner’s rural Austrian roots and
contains some of his loveliest orchestral
writing, emphasizing the warm colors
of horns, strings, and harps.
Movement three, in D-flat Major, is
one of the greatest Adagios created by
the man Austrians dubbed the “AdagioKomponist” for his tragic elo