“Everyone is afraid to do a ninth. It is a jinx that people think about.”

— Phillip Glass

 

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a composer. You’ve written eight excellent symphonies and have just received a commission for another. As you read the request, your stomach twists with nerves. A ninth symphony? Do you dare?

There are two major fears associated with a ninth. First, there’s the pressure—several composers have already written monumental ninth symphonies. The weight of expectation is immense.

Then, there’s the curse. How many composers have died after completing their ninth symphony? Beethoven, Schubert, Bruckner, Dvořák, Vaughan Williams. Mahler was so afraid of the so-called “Curse of the Ninth” that he avoided numbering what would have been his ninth symphony altogether, instead calling it Das Lied von der Erde. He thought it might have worked, too, so he did number his next symphony as the Ninth and even began a tenth. And then, of course, he died. One would have to be exceptionally confident in their luck—and their health—to tempt fate like that.

As you get up for another cup of coffee, still contemplating whether you have enough audacity to start down this path, you curse the picture of Beethoven that hangs in your study. After all, wasn’t it he who started all this trouble in the first place?

 

Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major (1945)

Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975
Run Time: Approx. 24 minutes

 

Shostakovich was likely wrestling with this very quandary as he approached his own Ninth Symphony. Living in the 20th century, he was undoubtedly aware of the great Ninths that preceded him, and he was a huge lover of Beethoven and Mahler.

And then there was Stalin. Shostakovich spent most of his creative life trying to balance his artistic voice with the often-difficult task of staying alive through the Great Purge. Survival meant writing the kind of music that Stalin wanted to hear. But in the words of the great American conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein, Shostakovich was “a great nose thumber.” He always found a way to slip an act of defiance into the subtext of his music.

In the years leading up to the composition of the Ninth Symphony, Shostakovich was riding high. He enjoyed good standing with the Soviet government, and his global recognition had boomed following his enormous seventh and eight symphonies.

In 1945, the USSR ended the Battle of Berlin by capturing the city, playing a major role in the defeat of the Nazis, and bringing World War II to a close. What Stalin wanted now was Russia’s own “Beethoven’s Ninth”: a nationalistic masterpiece that could become synonymous with Soviet greatness, just as Beethoven’s magnum opus had come to symbolize the ideals of Western Europe.

Publicly, Shostakovich promised exactly that. He hinted that the work would be his grandest yet, possibly including a full chorus—a clear nod to Beethoven that Stalin so desperately desired. So, with the Soviet machine and the ghost of Beethoven looming over him, he set about his Ninth Symphony. In the end, what he delivered was nearly the exact opposite.

At 24 minutes, the Ninth Symphony is Shostakovich’s shortest and lightest, representing a sharp left turn for the composer whose works had been steadily expanding in scope. It’s also exceptionally playful, full of musical jokes and unexpected interjections.

The first movement features a main theme reminiscent of an upbeat military-style march—the sort that might be heard in a parade. Buoyant and campy, it’s first announced by the trombone with two bombastic slides. When the theme recurs towards the end of the movement, the trombone reenters several times—all in the wrong place—before finally coming in correctly on the seventh try. It all seems quite silly, even childish, but his choice of a militaristic march as the foundation for these antics raises the question: is this a moment of Shostakovich’s nose-thumbing? He certainly would have found Stalin’s claim of victory over fascism to be a tad hypocritical, to say the least. “Here’s your anthem,” Shostakovich seems to say—and then sticks out his tongue.

The second movement is more serious, even lonely, beginning with a sparsely accompanied clarinet solo. Bernstein found this particular brand of melancholy to be uniquely Russian, noting what he called “that peculiarly spare quality of brooding resignation,” which he believed characterized the works of authors like Chekhov as well. This is interspersed with an eerie waltz, eventually arriving at a bittersweet climax before fading once more into that characteristic Russian bleakness.

The final three movements are played without pause. First, the scherzo stirs up a flurry of woodwind activity that recalls the exuberance from the first movement. But the energy soon fades, like someone slowly turning down the volume on a stereo. Then comes a menacing pronouncement from the low brass, announcing the fourth movement and a new central character: the solo bassoon, who embarks on two extended cadenzas. They are contemplative and operatic, and they have a message.

The first begins with material taken from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and after another jolt from the brass, the second expands on a short quote from Mahler’s Ninth. It conjures an image something like the famous Fearless Girl sculpture, in which a small child gazes defiantly up at a charging bull. The weight of expectation storms through the horns. “No,” Shostakovich seems to say. “My Ninth will be written on my own terms.”

From the second cadenza, the bassoon slyly transforms its melody into the final movement’s theme, which rounds out the symphony with the same quirky levity with which it began. Though there are moments of darkness amid the festivities, they’re never allowed much purchase, and the work comes to a prompt and flamboyant close.

So, did Shostakovich successfully avoid the Curse of the Ninth? He certainly did! And in every one of his fifteen symphonies, if his thumb wasn’t directly on his nose, it was certainly nearby.

 

 

Symphony No. 9 in D Minor “Choral”

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Text by Friederich Schiller (1759-1805)
Run Time: Approx. 80 minutes

 

Joy, bright spark of divinity,
Daughter of Elysium,
Fire-inspired we tread
Within thy sanctuary.
Thy magic power re-unites
All that custom has divided,
All men become brothers,
Under the sway of thy gentle wings.

 

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is enormous. The orchestra is big, the chorus is big, and there are four soloists to boot. It runs far longer than any other symphony of its time, and its influence on all music that followed cannot be overstated. It’s also lodged itself firmly in our collective subconscious—who hasn’t heard the famous Ode to Joy, the crown jewel that defines the work?

Beethoven was also big. In response to the claim that he forever changed music, one must first ask: “Which time?” His third symphony marked the transition from the Classical to the Romantic era; his sixth symphony pioneered programmatic storytelling. His late string quartets redefined the genre, and anyone present at ASO’s previous masterworks concert experienced the raw emotional power of his fifth. He didn’t just redefine how music was written, he revolutionized what it could be—its emotional bounds, its narrative potential, its political power, and its role in people’s lives. As the musicologist Maynard Solomon wrote, “What Beethoven created was not just music—it was myth, it was cosmos, it was revolution.”

So, what is the titanic final symphony from a giant of a composer about? It must be something big… mustn’t it? The answer is yes—and no. Beethoven indeed crafts a narrative of epic scope, exploring the existential forces that define the human experience—a musical odyssey touching nearly every emotional realm. A hero’s journey for the entire human race. What could be bigger than that?

But the salvation he offers in the conclusion of the symphony—the part everyone knows—is startlingly simple, even small: Joy. Joy, unity, and brotherhood for all mankind.

Some things to listen for on the journey:

The very opening of the symphony is often interpreted as a depiction of creation. The music seems to emerge from nothing, as if marking the beginning of time. Suddenly, mighty, raging chords explode over the stark backdrop—a musical big bang. The foundational intervals give the music an elemental, almost primordial quality, as though the universe itself is being born in sound.

Listen closely to how Beethoven uses harmony throughout the first movement. When the harmonies are open and simple, with the notes spaced far apart, they evoke a pastoral quality, grounded and earthly. But when the harmonies thicken—layered, dense, and crunchy—that’s where the existential angst creeps in, as if some malevolent higher power is interfering. Here lies the clash between the vast and the intimate, the cosmic and the human.

Throughout the work—but especially in the second movement—pay attention to the timpani. It’s a bit of a havoc-wreaker, bursting in at unexpected moments, like Zeus’s thunder—a divine power throwing the world off balance. Those familiar with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (perhaps some recent Masterworks attendees) might recall how he used the timpani to symbolize fate’s relentless meddling. Perhaps he’s up to something similar here?

In the third movement, listen to how he weaves together a tapestry of distinct voices, especially in the woodwinds. Often, multiple completely different yet equally poignant melodies sing against each other, all fitting into the broader harmony. It’s remarkable craftsmanship, but it also feels like a nod to individualism—a popular idea in Beethoven’s day—and a perfect setup for the symphony’s imminent call for unity and brotherhood.

The fourth and final movement begins with a statement that Wagner called the “fanfare of horror.” Today, we are used to such sonorities, but in 1824, it may well have been the most jarring sound ever heard at an orchestra concert. Beethoven was fond of these “wake up and pay attention” moments, but this one was by far his most daring.

He begins his final chapter by repeating a bit from each preceding movement—the fire and brimstone of the first, a glimpse of the bacchanal from the second, and the tender hymn of the third. He makes clear that what comes next is a response to what has been.

Notice that when the famous Ode to Joy theme finally arrives, the chorus and vocalists are still absent. The orchestra begins the declaration in a whisper, but even when it gains confidence, it’s not enough to ward off one final eruption. Only the addition of voices, singing together in unity, can fully defeat the darkness.

It’s a tale both cosmic and deeply human—enormous, yet so very ordinary. Perhaps this is why Beethoven’s Ninth has made such a lasting mark. Its dichotomy transcends time and place, speaking to all of us, not just across the world but throughout the ages. We feel Beethoven’s call for peace and brotherhood as acutely today as he did more than 150 years ago. “Whoever has achieved the great feat / Of being a friend’s friend…” Schiller’s text declares, “Join in our jubilation!”

 

—Valerie Sly, 2025