Gustav Mahler’s valedictory Ninth Symphony is a sublime mystery. As a conductor, Mahler would often perform his own works and make substantial changes during rehearsals, from minor revisions like dynamic markings to full reorchestrations. Because he died shortly after completing the Ninth, however, he never had the opportunity to edit this piece. This leaves conductors and orchestras with the daunting task of interpreting what feels, for better or worse, like an unfinished product.
For this reason, it is hard to articulate what makes an effective Ninth. What is certain is that, like most of Mahler’s works, it is deeply personal. Mahler was famously paranoid and superstitious. For one, he believed very strongly in the “curse of the ninth,” which he thought was responsible for the deaths of Ludwig van Beethoven, Franz Schubert, and Anton Bruckner after the composition of their ninth symphonies. He also spent most of his tragic life in deep fear of dying young. His death at 50, not long after finishing the Ninth, would seem to validate this suspicion. The symphony is therefore considered by many to be Mahler’s farewell to the world and to music, describing the gradual process of dying. Each movement offers a distinct chapter in that process: the first expresses a deep love and longing for life; the second is a bitter caricature of fleeting pleasures and cheap thrills; in the third, one senses a noble defiance of death, which is ultimately rendered futile by the hymn-like finale, in which the music dies away with a whimper.
As though Mahler’s score was not already technically challenging enough, the symphony’s profundity and depth of emotion make it a particularly demanding piece for conductors. For soon-to-be Music Director Klaus Mäkelä, the Ninth offered a unique opportunity to prove to Chicago audiences that, despite his age (he turned 30 just a few months ago), he has what it takes. With Thursday’s performance, he did just that.
In an interview during rehearsals, Mäkelä described the Ninth as “a symphony where everything is connected. And because everything is connected, you need to make sense of the symphony in a way that it works for you and that the audience understands.” This approach became evident as early as the first movement, in which Mäkelä carefully balanced the orchestral forces and produced a smooth melodic line. Unlike most conductors, Mäkelä did not fall into the traps of sentimentality and melodrama at the expense of control; rather, he focused on clarity and precision, masterfully bringing out the intricacies of Mahler’s score. He allowed the music to breathe without excess, making those climactic moments where, with a swing of the arm, Mäkelä unleashed the full energy of the Orchestra, particularly effective.
The second movement, an homage to traditional folk music, opened with sharp and precise playing by the woodwinds. Despite being filled with waltz tunes and graceful melodies, the movement is not meant to be treated merely as an innocent dance. Marked as Etwas täppisch und sehr derb (somewhat clumsy and very vulgar), the music is laden with anxiety, and often comes off as eerie and disconcerting. Under Mäkelä’s baton, it sounded satirical—a caricature of fleeting pleasures and the hollowness of youth. Mäkelä’s ability to handle the nuances of this deceptively simple movement indicated a maturity beyond his years. He understands that in order for works like Mahler’s Ninth to have a full effect, charming melodies and bombastic fortissimos do not suffice. In fact, such music often requires a dose of discomfort and unease.
In the third movement, Mäkelä and the CSO brought out the energy and defiant spirit of Mahler’s score with vibrance and panache. Mäkelä’s gestures seemed to immediately render a response from the musicians—an indication of his rapport with the orchestra. Throughout the movement, he kept the musicians in perfect sync while bringing out Mahler’s magnificent counterpoint. The final bars were forceful and emphatic, as if to represent Mahler’s final effort to hold on to life.
Nothing in music is harder to get right than a slow movement—especially a Mahler adagio. Not only did Mäkelä and the CSO rise to the occasion, but the final movement was their most impressive performance of the night. The movement was marked by beautiful playing across the board, especially by Concertmaster Robert Chen, who performed the demanding solo violin passages with warmth and clarity. Most notable was Mäkelä’s sensitivity and vulnerability from the podium. The soft moments were filled with grief, the climaxes ripe with Wagnerian tension.
As the final bars of the symphony faded into darkness, Mäkelä held a silence that lasted several minutes. Thankfully, the audience indulged him (save for the occasional unfortunate cough), creating a calm and intimate space for reflection. Apart from giving audiences a wonderful preview of the Mäkelä era in Chicago, this concert was more than anything a celebration of the unparalleled power of live music. There is no better place to feel, reflect, and simply be present than Chicago Symphony Center.
