For Anton Bruckner's bicentennial, we've asked WRTI classical hosts, and a couple of other prominent experts, to pick favorite moments in his vast body of work. We hope you enjoy their selections — and we want to hear yours, as well! Tell us your “Bruckner Moment” in the comments below, or send it in to editor@wrti.org.
Yannick Nézet-Séguin (Music and Artistic Director, The Philadelphia Orchestra): Symphony No. 9, Adagio
One of my favorite Bruckner moments is the Adagio of his ninth and final symphony — the last movement that he completed. He began to write a finale movement but it was left incomplete at his death. It is quite evident to me in listening to this Adagio that he knew this was his final musical statement. It begins with this beautiful longing — an ambiguity that leaves you questioning everything. This expansive movement alternates between joy and sorrow in the same way we journey through life. Some performances of the Ninth Symphony include completions of the final fourth movement, but I prefer this Adagio to be the final statement, the culmination of the life of a genius.
Melinda Whiting (Classical Host): Mass in E Minor, “Credo”
My first experiences with Anton Bruckner’s music centered on his symphonic scherzo movements — how could he generate such power? I grew up listening to The Chicago Symphony, with their epic brass section, and these moments inevitably left their stamp on an aspiring horn player. But it was when I began to sing his choral music that Bruckner opened a whole new world for me. First the motets, irresistibly melding counterpoint straight out of the 16th century with revelatory harmonic twists that went beyond Wagner. Then I discovered Bruckner’s extraordinary Mass in E Minor, which combines an eight-part choir improbably with a wind band: the paired woodwinds of a classical serenade ensemble, fortified by trumpets and trombones. I could go on about the glorious timbral possibilities Bruckner exploits with these resources, but I’ll pick just one moment. At the heart of the Credo (Creed) comes an evocation of the Crucifixion. Hushed at first, the choir intones the tragic episode simply, with increasing pathos, supported by a somber countermelody in the winds. Then a wrenching harmony at “passus” — Christ’s passing — and a Mozartian benediction on the completion of an episode that mattered deeply to the devout Bruckner. Absolute magic.
Zev Kane (Classical Program Director): Symphony No. 3
My favorite type of murder mysteries occur in reverse. In the opening frame, the identity of the killer is revealed. The suspense, instead, comes from the detective working backwards to establish motive and means. Bruckner's Third Symphony is one of these stories. He begins by conjuring a character draped in mystery and menace. Slowly panning upwards through a mist of falling D minor string arpeggios, some distant trumpet fanfares and horn calls outline the contours of the villain’s massive body, crescendoing tension until at last the orchestra lands on his diabolical face and demonic grin. All of the piecing together that comes in the ensuing movements is just as hair-raising, but I can think of few moments of symphonic cinematography that are as effectively unsettling.
Benjamin Korstvedt (Author of Bruckner’s Fourth): Symphony No. 8, Adagio (coda)
I just spoke at a Bruckner symposium in Austria about one moment that I describe as some of the mellowest music in his entire output. That’s the coda of the slow movement of the Eighth Symphony. It comes after this tremendous storm and stress, and a huge catastrophic climax. The music calms down, and there’s a stretch of totally blissful music that brings that movement to an end.
John T.K. Scherch (Classical Host): Symphony No. 9, Second Movement
I’m a singer who loves musical epicness, so it’s only fitting that my moment involves one of the symphonies, bookended by choral music: I was in the chorus for The Philadelphia Orchestra’s performance of Bruckner’s Ninth, woven seamlessly between his setting of Christus factus est and his Te Deum. If I were to narrow it to one moment, the metalhead in me is drawn to the pounding motif in the second movement, which I was glad for the opportunity to headbang to in rehearsals, as that might have seemed uncouth in a concert hall.
Meg Bragle (Classical Host): Os justi
Anton Bruckner was a person out of place in many respects. Deeply insecure, he constantly revised his scores and looked for approval from outside authorities. None of this is at all obvious in his music. His towering symphonies are surely some of the grandest and most ambitious works of the 19th century. However, as much as I love the slow movement of his Fifth symphony, or the entirety of the Ninth, it is his choral motets that move me deeply. The care and craftsmanship of the vocal writing make clear his deep engagement with the Renaissance masters but are energized by his own individual, and often urgent, chromaticism. You could start with Locus iste, continue with Christus factus es, but save the magnificent Os justi for last. It is a setting of Psalm 37; 30-31 and I'll include the text and translation below:
Os justi meditabitur sapientiam (The mouths of the righteous utter wisdom)
et lingua ejus loquetur judicium (and their tongues speak what is just)
Lex Dei ejus in corde ipsius: (The law of their God is in their hearts;)
et non supplantabuntur gressus ejus. (their feet do not slip.)
The whole piece is a masterclass in text painting, but in particular listen for the extraordinary chord progression on the words “meditabitur (meditate)” and “Lex Dei” (law of God) where Bruckner opens the four-part harmony into an incredibly lush 8-part symphony of voices that is transcendent. Hear how he brings us back to earth with suspensions on the word “corde” (hearts) so plaintive and personal. The final phrase uses a chant-like setting to situate you firmly within the ancient wisdom of the church.
