(Eastman Studies in Music) Scott Murphy (Editor) - Brahms and The Shaping of Time-University of Rochester Press (2018)

b r ahms
and th e
shaping
of
t ime
Edited by Scott Murphy
Brahms and the Shaping of Time
Murphy.indd i 5/17/2018 1:13:15 AM

Eastman Studies in Music
Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor
Eastman School of Music
Additional Titles of Interest
Bach to Brahms: Essays on Musical Design and Structure

Edited by David Beach and Yosef Goldenberg
The Dawn of Music Semiology:

Essays in Honor of Jean-Jacques Nattiez
Edited by Jonathan Dunsby and Jonathan Goldman
Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis

Edited by David Beach and Su Yin Mak
Formal Functions in Perspective:

Essays on Musical Form from Haydn to Adorno
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and Nathan John Martin
Liszt’s Transcultural Modernism and the Hungarian-Gypsy Tradition

Shay Loya
The Music of Luigi Dallapiccola

Raymond Fearn
Of Poetry and Song: Approaches to the Nineteenth-Century Lied

Edited by Jürgen Thym
Performative Analysis: Reimagining Music Theory for Performance

Jeffrey Swinkin
Rethinking Hanslick: Music, Formalism, and Expression

Edited by Nicole Grimes, Siobhán Donovan,
and Wolfgang Marx
Schubert in the European Imagination Volumes 1 and 2

Scott Messing
A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music series may be found
on the University of Rochester Press website, www.urpress.com
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Brahms and the
Shaping of Time
Murphy.indd iii 5/17/2018 1:15:25 AM

The University of Rochester Press gratefully acknowledges the American Brahms
Society for generous support of this publication.
Copyright © 2018 by the Editor and Contributors
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no

part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system,
published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted,
recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission of the copyright owner.
First published 2018
University of Rochester Press

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and Boydell & Brewer Limited
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ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-597-7
ISSN: 1071-9989
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Murphy, Scott (Musicologist), editor.

Title: Brahms and the shaping of time / edited by Scott Murphy.
Other titles: Eastman studies in music ; v. 144.
Description: Rochester : University of Rochester Press, 2018. | Series: Eastman
studies in music, ISSN 1071-9989 ; v. 144 | Includes bibliographical references
and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018001039 | ISBN 9781580465977 (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Brahms, Johannes, 1833–1897—Criticism and interpretation. |
Musical meter and rhythm. | Time in music.
Classification: LCC ML410.B8 B655 2018 | DDC 780.92—dc23 LC record available
at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018001039
This publication is printed on acid-free paper.
Printed in the United States of America.
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Contents
Acknowledgments vii
Introduction: Brahms, Analysis, and Time 1

Scott Murphy
Part One: Setting Texts
1 Expressive Declamation in the Songs of Johannes Brahms 13

Harald Krebs
2 Temporal Disruptions and Shifting Levels of Discourse in

Brahms’s Lieder 49
Heather Platt
Part Two: Measuring Phrases
3 Phrase Rhythm and the Expression of Longing in Brahms’s

“Gestillte Sehnsucht,” Op. 91, No. 1 83
Jan Miyake
4 On the Oddness of Brahms’s Five-Measure Phrases 110

Samuel Ng
Part Three: Recasting Hemiolas
5 Hemiola as Agent of Metric Resolution in the Music of Brahms 143

Ryan McClelland
6 Brahms at Twenty: Hemiolic Varietals and Metric Malleability

in an Early Sonata 178
Richard Cohn
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vi ❧ contents
Part Four: Shifting Perspectives
7 Containment and Wave: Temporal Experiment in Brahms’s Opus 2 207

Frank Samarotto
8 Rhythmic Displacement in the Fugue of Brahms’s Handel Variations:

The Refashioning of a Traditional Device 239
Eytan Agmon
9 Durational Enharmonicism and the Opening of Brahms’s

“Double Concerto” 260
Scott Murphy
List of Contributors 295
Index 297
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Acknowledgments
In 2009, at a meeting of the Haydn Society of North America in Cambridge,
Massachusetts, Heather Platt, the president of the American Brahms Society
at the time, shared with me her observation of a need for the concerted pub-
lication of more contemporary analytical studies of the music of Brahms.
I am grateful to her both for this idea and her trust in me to carry it out. I
am indebted to my fellow authors for their terrific contributions and their
patience. I appreciate Rick Cohn’s suggestion to reprint Eytan Agmon’s 1991
analytical study of the Handel Variations, which, at least before 2018, was not as
electronically accessible as many other articles of comparable scope and value.
Matthew Ferrandino typeset examples for the second and eighth chapters.
Lastly, I thank Sonia Kane, Julia Cook, Tracey Engel, and Ralph Locke for their
steady guidance and judicious assistance throughout the editing and publica-
tion processes.
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Murphy.indd viii 5/17/2018 1:16:13 AM
Introduction
Brahms, Analysis, and Time
Scott Murphy
This book brings together nine essays authored by leading music scholars,
each of which analyzes some music of Brahms with a particular focus on
the music’s temporality. Publications under such a rubric have the poten-
tial for both corroboration and innovation. With regards to corroboration,
both Brahms studies and music-analytical studies are thriving well in the
first decades of the twenty-first century. Moreover, the prosperity of each
has significantly contributed to the prosperity of the other. For example, in
article titles of the last fifteen years from the esteemed British journal Music
Analysis, the name of Brahms has appeared more often than the name of
any other composer. From this point of view, the nine essays in this volume
are in good company. With regards to innovation, sophisticated theories of
rhythm and meter do currently flourish in contemporary musical scholar-
ship. However, less bountiful—or at least less conspicuous—is scholarship
whose primary goal is the close reading of musical works and whose pri-
mary analytical perspective is more time-based, rather than pitch-based.
From this point of view, these nine essays provide a welcome complement
to the current state of the field.
These essays also complement each other well: the analytical subjects range
from a few measures to an entire multi-movement work, from music written in
the 1850s to music written in the 1890s, and from many of the genres within
which Brahms composed. Before progressing to a summary of each essay, the
first two parts of this introduction locate the collective contribution of these
essays within current scholarly practice, building upon the aforementioned
binary framework of corroboration and innovation.
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2 ❧ introduction
The Tradition of Analyzing Brahms
What is it about the music of Brahms that, to echo words of Kevin Korsyn,
compels us to adopt an analytical attitude?1 Perhaps this compulsion stems
from an abstract consanguinity between Brahms and today’s music analyst. In
a recently published essay called “The Composer as Critic,” Edward T. Cone
makes the case that the line separating composition from criticism, an activity
inherently enmeshed with analytical goings-on, “is never so distinct as we imag-
ine.”2 Brahms has earned enough honorifics over the years—“the Classicist,”
“the Progressive,” “the Ambivalent,” “the Subversive,” and so on—that one
more would do no harm: Brahms the Analyst. Those familiar with the com-
poser’s biography know this epithet to be appropriate for many reasons. To
cite just one: Brahms’s sizable compilation of instances of parallel octaves and
perfect fifths in the music of his predecessors, and the apparent grouping of
these instances into six categories, brings to mind a modern corpus study. It
also indicates a penchant for a certain kind of focused musical collecting that
numerous present-day analysts share.3
Those familiar with the composer’s music also recognize the suitability of
this appellation. Among the multiple rewards for listening to one of Brahms’s
variation sets is free access to the equivalent of a brilliant scholarly article analyz-
ing the theme, inscribed not in words but in tones.4 More generally, Brahms’s
compositional acts and the kind of analytical acts that begin in earnest in the
nineteenth century both have an intense awareness of the entangled relation-
ship between Self and Other. In both endeavors, the work is party to other
works that have come before it, simultaneously adding to, but also subtracting
from, a significant portion of its meaning and identity. In the 1820s Gottfried
Weber entertained the first viola note in Mozart’s “Dissonance” Quartet as a
G♯ instead of the notated A♭; in the 1850s “jeder Esel” entertained the begin-
ning of Brahms’s op. 1 as the beginning of Beethoven’s op. 106: these two dif-
ferent modes of response nonetheless share a common source.5
Yet, while the nineteenth century midwifed modern analysis along with the
concept of the work and the anxiety of the composer, the twentieth century
nurtured a kind of analysis that is curiously compositional. Not only do certain
compositions evince aspects of analysis, but also certain analyses evince aspects
of composition. An obvious example of this is recomposition, a powerful and
efficient analytical tool that can communicate the relationship between token
and type, between deviation and norm, between what is and what may have
been (or what could also be).6 Each of the nine essays in this collection capital-
izes upon this particular approach. Indeed, a composer’s own recompositions
can afford analytical insight into both the antecedent and consequent works.
From this perspective, Brahms’s recompositions belong to a class in them-
selves.7 (Cone’s first example in the aforementioned “Composer as Critic”
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introduction ❧ 3
comes in the form of a substantial comparative analysis of the two versions of

Brahms’s first piano trio.)
An analysis can also be composerly, but more notionally so, through impos-
ing a novel and distinctive organization upon a musical work, analogous to how
the composer imposes a novel and distinctive organization upon the raw mate-
rials of sound. This organization is not necessarily theoretical and regulative,
for it does not have to apply beyond the measures at hand to other parts of the
work or other works. Nor is this organization necessarily hermeneutical and
expressive, for it does not have to apply beyond the measures at hand to some
extra-musical domain. Rather, it is the creative discernment of some distinctive
technique of “intelligent design,” even if the original designer did not intend
such a technique. Perhaps not coincidentally, early exemplars of this kind of
analysis orbit around Princeton University, where the disciplinary boundary
between musical-academic pursuits and compositional endeavors has tradition-
ally been more porous than at other institutions. Cone identified imitation by
diminution in the opening measures of Beethoven’s first piano sonata.8 Milton
Babbitt identified a quasi-serial melodic inversion in the opening measures of
Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde.9 David Lewin, the Princeton student of Cone’s and
Babbitt’s who has arguably influenced contemporary music theory and analysis
the most, refined and propagated this kind of analysis, into which the music of
Brahms figured prominently.10
This kind of analysis that straddles “prescription and description”11 shares
the analytical market of the early twenty-first century with several other
approaches. Nonetheless, it exerts a significant influence that cannot be easily
ignored. Furthermore, alongside that influence slips in a predilection for the
type of composition often associated with Brahms: music without a prescribed
program, and music that epitomizes intricacy. Such unfixed complexity, while
undeniably reified as a “work,” also yields itself as a particularly rich substrate
for further organization. As long as there are “critics as composers”—that is,
formers of satisfying patterns and wholes—the music of Brahms will likely con-
tinue to figure prominently in music-analytical enterprises.
The Need for Time-Based Analysis
Historiography has paid heed to how distinctively Brahms manipulates musi-

cal time. Moreover, in the context of Western art music, in which the music
of Brahms and metric/rhythmic complexities are two of many components,
university music students infer from their books, if not already from their les-
sons, that these two components are more mutually implicative than many
other pairs of this sort. Music history survey texts typically deliver this message
in short, unobjectionable bursts: Brahms’s music makes “considerable use of
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Example I.1. Intermezzo op. 116, no. 6, mm. 43–64. Hollow dots and solid dots
of the same size propose duple and triple divisions, respectively, of the same
durational span.
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introduction ❧ 5
cross-rhythms,”12 “frequently using syncopated rhythms,”13 and abounds in

“rhythmic intricacies, shifting metric accents, [and] triplets against duplets.”14
If a student were asked to analyze the metrical complexity of the page of music
shown in example I.1 and to identify its composer, many would probably guess
Brahms as a composer, through their identification of one or more hemiolas.
While this is an important start, analysis has the potential to show much
more, as a closer look at these survey texts suggests. Two texts in particu-
lar stand out in how they depart from the standard manner of describing
Brahms’s especial temporal constructions. In his contribution to this textbook
genre, Douglass Seaton devotes four paragraphs to Brahms; the last of the four,
cited below, begins with sentences like those above, but then delivers a bold
conclusion:
Brahms’s treatment of rhythm possesses special interest. Taking up hints

from Schumann, he frequently used hemiola, in which triple rhythmic beat
groupings shift from one metric level to another. With Brahms such shifts
came to be more than momentary effects; they become structurally signifi-
cant, making the rhythm in his works of greater importance as a determinant
of structure than in any music since the fifteenth century.15
This claim becomes even bolder when placed beside what Richard Taruskin
has to say about Brahms’s rhythmic practice in the chapter devoted to the com-
poser in his multi-volume Oxford History of Western Music—which is nothing at
all. Perhaps this absence arises from the peripheral role that rhythmic complex-
ity plays in the historical narratives upon which Taruskin focuses: Brahms and
Wagner contending for Beethoven’s mantle, Brahms’s appropriation of allusion
in service of high art, the prolonged and difficult gestation of the First Symphony,
and so forth. Or perhaps its role in these narratives is more central than periph-
eral, as Seaton’s claim would imply through its sheer weight. However, the theo-
retical frameworks and analytical strategies needed to observe this more central
role either have not been developed yet or have been developed but await prom-
ulgation in more widely read publications and university course offerings, per-
haps even during entry-level musicianship training.16
Contents
This volume’s nine chapters are grouped thematically into an aksak rhythm
of 2 + 2 + 2 + 3: three topical pairs precede a trio of essays sharing a more
covert affiliation. The first pair examines, and then makes significant gener-
alizations about, aspects of rhythm and meter in Brahms’s lieder. Each essay
continues a particular line of inquiry left open by Yonatan Malin’s recent
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6 ❧ introduction
and important study on temporal processes in German art song.17 In his

chapter, Harald Krebs applies his analytical notion of BRD, or “basic rhythm
of declamation”—which he earlier fashioned to elicit insight into the songs
of Schumann—to Brahms’s song output. This method supplies evidence
that Brahms’s atypical declamations fall into certain categories, and they
often singularly symbolize aspects of the poetic text. While Malin explored
the relationship between the song’s expression and the metric dissonances
Krebs designated as grouping and displacement a decade earlier, Heather
Platt’s chapter recognizes another type of temporal alteration outside of
Krebs’s purview that helps to elucidate meaning in some of Brahms’s lieder.
Serendipitous is Krebs’s and Platt’s mutual interest in op. 72, no. 3, “O küh-
ler Wald,” a compact étude of text-rhythm networking.
In his landmark 1989 text Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music, William Rothstein
focuses on the music of certain composers: Haydn, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and
Wagner. But he also suggests in his introduction how a future study on phrase
rhythm might explore the music of other composers, including Brahms, who
missed this first cut.18 The two essays that form the second pair in this book
pick up the mantle from Rothstein among others and contribute to such a
study, while also pivoting the book’s focus from vocal to instrumental music.
Jan Miyake argues of the first song from Brahms’s opus 91 that a progression
from obscurity to clarity of phrase lengths matches the progression of the
poem’s dramatic structure. Her systemization of the concept of phrase “stretch-
ing,” while especially pertinent to this lied, contributes to ongoing explora-
tions of phrase rhythm. Samuel Ng’s chapter, somewhat conversely, contends
that certain five-measure phrases in Brahms’s music are better considered as
optimizations of this length rather than, by default, as “stretched” or otherwise
modified appearances of a four-measure norm. His systemization of the con-
cept of phrase “irreducibility” or “inevitability,” while especially pertinent to
the opening themes of Brahms upon which he dwells, certainly applies beyond
Brahms and beyond counts of five measures.
As aforementioned, historiography has situated the device of hemiola
among the features at the core of Brahms’s compositional identity. However,
one of the consequences of such a centrality is its presumed equivalence with
thorough comprehension, which is not a certainty. Each of the chapters of the
third topical pair cross-examine, and essentially expand, our understanding of
the hemiola, but do so from complementary angles. Ryan McClelland’s essay,
while focusing on a few select moments in Brahms, ultimately unveils a broad
and notable principle: hemiola has the ability to restore, as well as perturb,
metrical stability. Richard Cohn’s essay, while cultivating a number of rhizom-
atic extensions of the hemiola that expand conceptual, geographic, and chron-
ological domains, ultimately offers a penetrating analysis of the first movement
of Brahms’s Piano Sonata op. 5.
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introduction ❧ 7
The concluding trio of essays continues the focus on the analysis of the tem-
poral aspects of individual works. While no obvious common subject unites
them, they each promote minority hearings that encourage the reader to
breach the confines of the score’s metric notation. Within an essay on another
of the early piano sonatas, Frank Samarotto explores the tensions between the
architectonic structures of metrical and tonal containers, and the energetic
actions of metrical and tonal waves, tensions that interact and unfold in par-
ticularly overt and instructive ways in Brahms’s opus 2. Eytan Agmon’s chapter
extends this interest in tonal and metric interactions and robustly supports a
metric malleability for the subject of Brahms’s fugue from his Handel Variations,
a manipulability that in turn enables both the fugue’s overall form as well as
the composer’s distinctive dialogue with a compositional tradition. My contri-
bution adds to the growing list of pitch-time analogies—dissonance, modula-
tion, tonicization—the concept of durational enharmonicism, and suggests its
suitability for the instrumental recitative that opens the “Double” Concerto.19
These essays constitute a tributary that, as suggested earlier, feeds into a vigor-
ous early twenty-first-century stream of music-analytical scholarship concerned
with the music of Brahms. But they may also contribute to another kind of flow.
In reviewing Carl Schachter’s trio of influential articles on meter and rhythm in
1992, Krebs states without reservation that “we have now entered a new phase of
the history of rhythmic theory: the explorers have been succeeded by pioneer-
ing settlers who have dug deep and have laid solid foundations on which they
and others will be able to build.”20 His metaphor of post-Manifest-Destiny home-
steading is consistent not only with Kuhnian “normal science” in general but
also with twentieth-century music theory’s stabilization of the twin paradigms of
Schenker and set theory in particular. And yet, in the two decades since Krebs’s
review, there continue to be just as many explorers as settlers in the vast territory
of rhythm and meter studies, explorers not only wielding navigational tools bor-
rowed from the aforementioned paradigms but also from philosophy, psychol-
ogy, history, mathematics, and so forth.21
To mix this metaphor with that from Samarotto’s essay, music-theoretic
research in rhythm and meter continues to have as many waves as it does con-
tainers. To be sure, the neatness and constancy of a container is prerequisite to
any “normal-scientific” research that could successfully back up Seaton’s claim
or complement Taruskin’s pitch-based narrative. But not all ideas must confine
themselves to containers. In fact, looking back in time through music theory’s
history reveals how scholarly ideas about musical time—in contrast to some of
those about musical pitch, but like the substances that make up musical time
itself—have generally flown into one another as much as they have accreted
with one another, each generation’s perspective reflected in how it views the
nature of rhythm and meter in music. This collection of essays exemplifies this
duality, and it is my hope that both its energy and stability will be of value to
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8 ❧ introduction
succeeding generations of those who treasure the music of Brahms and who
think about musical time.
Notes
1. Kevin Korsyn, “Brahms Research and Aesthetic Ideology,” Music Analysis 12,
no. 1 (1993): 89–103.
2. Edward T. Cone, Hearing and Knowing Music: The Unpublished Essays of Edward
T. Cone, edited and with an introduction by Robert P. Morgan (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2009), 123.
3. Margaret Notley, Lateness in Brahms: Music and Culture in the Twilight of Viennese
Liberalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 119ff.
4. Jeffrey Swinkin, “Variation as Thematic Actualisation: The Case of Brahms’s
Op. 9,” Music Analysis 31, no. 1 (2012): 37–89.
5. Gottfried Weber, “A Particularly Remarkable Passage in a String Quartet in C
by Mozart [K465 (‘Dissonance’)]: Attempt at a Systematic Theory of Musical
Composition,” in Versuch einer geordneten Theorie der Tonsetzkunst zum Selbstunterricht,
mit Anmerkungen für Gelehrtere (Mainz, 1817–21), reprinted in Music Analysis in
the Nineteenth Century, vol. 1, Fugue, Form, and Style, ed. Ian Bent (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 157–83. A well-known source for Brahms’s
“jeder Esel” quote is Arnold Schoenberg’s essay “Brahms the Progressive,” in
Style and Idea: Selected Writings, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1975), 398–441. In Brahms among Friends: Listening,
Performance, and the Rhetoric of Allusion (New York: Oxford University Press,
2014), Paul Berry considers how Brahms’s compositional borrowings “might
have addressed and manipulated the musical experiences and interpretative atti-
tudes characteristic of specific, historically situated listeners” (26).
6. Matt L. Bailey Shea’s article “Filleted Mignon: A New Recipe for Analysis and
Recomposition” (Music Theory Online 13, no. 4 (2007)) seeks to examine and
expand the role of recomposition in analysis.
7. In his chapter “Brahms’s Missa canonica and its Recomposition in his Motet
‘Warum’ Op. 74 No. 1” (Brahms 2: Biographical, Documentary, and Analytical
Studies, ed. Michael Musgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987),
111–36), Robert Pascall suggests, for example, that Brahms’s Missa canonica
into his motet “Warum ist das Licht gegeben” “offers yet another fascinating
glimpse into Brahms’s compositional process, and the evolution of the old into
the new is itself original, highly subtle, and deeply, powerfully expressive” (36).
8. Edward T. Cone, Musical Form and Musical Performance (New York: W. W.
Norton, 1968), 75–76.
9. Babbitt’s observation was first reported without attribution by Cone in
“Analysis Today,” Musical Quarterly 46, no. 2 (1960): 172–88 (see in particu-
lar 172–74); Cone later revealed Babbitt’s identity in “Yet Once More, O Ye
Laurels,” Perspectives of New Music 14, no. 2 and 15, no. 1 (1976): 294–307.
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introduction ❧ 9
10. Lewin’s article “On Harmony and Meter in Brahms’s Op. 76, No. 8” (19th-
Century Music 4, no. 3 (1981): 261–65) catalyzed multiple subsequent ideas
regarding Brahms and time, including Richard Cohn’s “Complex Hemiolas,
Ski-Hill Graphs, and Metric Spaces,” Music Analysis 20, no. 3 (2001): 295–326,
and my “On Metre in the Rondo of Brahms’s Op. 25,” Music Analysis 26, no.
3 (2007): 323–53. Lewin assumed a dialectic stance on the first movement of
the Quartet op. 51, no. 1, in “Brahms, His Past, and Modes of Music Theory,”
in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. George S. Bozarth
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 13–27. His book Generalized Musical Intervals and
Transformations (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987) offers analytical
insights into the opening of the Rhapsody op. 76 no. 2 and the last movement
of the op. 40 Horn Trio. His essay “Die Schwestern,” on the op. 61 no. 1 duet,
was published posthumously in Studies in Music with Text (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2006), 233–63.
11. Cone, “Analysis Today.”
12. Donald Jay Grout and Claude V. Palisca, A History of Western Music, 6th ed.
(New York: Norton, 2001), 586.
13. Ibid., 598.
14. K. Marie Stolba, The Development of Western Music, 3rd ed. (Boston, MA:
McGraw-Hill, 1998), 517.
15. Douglass Seaton, Ideas and Styles in the Western Musical Tradition (New York:
Oxford University Press), 368.
16. In his keynote address to the 2015 meeting of Music Theory Midwest entitled
“Why We Don’t Teach Meter, and Why We Should,” Richard Cohn imagined
what a core Music Theory curriculum might look like if meter received at least
as much attention as tonality (May 9, 2015; Rochester, MI).
17. Yonatan Malin, Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German Lied (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2010).
18. William Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer, 1989),
viii.
19. In Fantasy Pieces: Metric Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1999), Harald Krebs recognizes Hector Berlioz as the
first to use the expression “metric dissonance” (13). An early, perhaps the ear-
liest, use of “metric modulation” occurs in Richard Franko Goldman, “Current
Chronicle,” Musical Quarterly 37, no. 1 (1951): 87. As a turn of phrase, “met-
ric tonicization” appears occasionally, as in Peter Smith’s “Brahms and the
Shifting Barline: Metric Displacement and Formal Processes in the Trios with
Wind Instruments,” Brahms Studies 3, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln: University
of Nebraska Press, 2001), 197; as a modern concept, it owes much to studies by
Krebs and Lewin; as a theory, it is explored in my “On Metre in the Rondo of
Brahms’s Op. 25.”
20. Harald Krebs, review of “Rhythm and Linear Analysis: A Preliminary Study,”
“Rhythm and Linear Analysis: Durational Reduction,” and “Rhythm and
Linear Analysis: Aspects of Meter,” by Carl Schachter, and Phrase Rhythm in
Tonal Music by William Rothstein, Music Theory Spectrum 14, no. 1 (1992): 82.
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10 ❧ introduction
21. See for example Christopher Hasty, Meter as Rhythm (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1997); Justin London, Hearing in Time: Psychological Aspects
of Musical Meter (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004); Danuta Mirka,
Metric Manipulations in Haydn and Mozart: Chamber Music for Strings, 1787–1791
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2006); Godfried Toussaint, The Geometry
of Musical Rhythm: What Makes a “Good” Rhythm Good? (Boca Raton, FL: CRC
Press, Taylor & Francis Group, 2013).
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Part One
Setting Texts
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Murphy.indd 12 5/17/2018 1:16:53 AM
Chapter One
Expressive Declamation
in the Songs of
Johannes Brahms
Harald Krebs
Introduction
There has been extensive discussion of declamation in the songs of Johannes

Brahms, much of it critical in tone. Even Brahms’s best friends occasionally
questioned his text underlay: Elisabeth von Herzogenberg, for instance, asked
him for permission to move syllables around in the duet “Walpurgisnacht.”1
As Heather Platt points out,2 severe criticisms originated with proponents
of the Wagnerian aesthetic (notably Hugo Wolf, Wilhelm Kienzl, and Ernest
Newman).3 A considerable number of recent writings about Brahms’s songs
have reiterated and elaborated on these early criticisms, accusing Brahms of
bypassing or ignoring the text.4
There is substantial evidence to counter the claims that Brahms was inatten-
tive to his poetic texts in general, and to declamation specifically. For example,
(1) he advised young composers to read poems that they wished to set to music
aloud many times, paying close attention to the declamation,5 and to lay the
poem out across a grid of measures in accordance with the stresses;6 (2) sam-
ples of his own scansions of song texts exist in his notebooks;7 and (3) there
are instances of multiple settings of the same text, which show Brahms wres-
tling with the appropriate metrical alignment of the syllables.8
Some early critics realized that the prevalent opinion of Brahms’s declama-
tion was inaccurate. Wilhelm Kienzl, though he quibbled with specific aspects
of Brahms’s text-setting, admitted that “Brahms is, on the whole, a good
Murphy.indd 13 5/17/2018 1:16:56 AM

14 ❧ chapter one
declaimer; that is, he makes no glaring errors.”9 Hugo Riemann also defended
Brahms against the accusation by “less penetrating listeners, readers and sing-
ers” that he “often commits errors in declamation,”10 and argued that many
of Brahms’s apparent infractions of accentuation stem from a metrical flex-
ibility akin to that of early seventeenth-century music. Several recent authors
have similarly offered defenses and justifications of Brahms’s manner of decla-
mation. George Bozarth, analyzing “Beim Abschied,” op. 95, no. 3 (for which
Brahms’s scansion is preserved), shows that the composer responded in a logi-
cal manner to the poetic stresses via accents other than metrical downbeats.11
Deborah Rohr finds that many studies have erred by inspecting Brahms’s dec-
lamation in isolation, and that it makes sense if viewed in conjunction with
other factors.12 Yonatan Malin shows that the vocal rhythms of Brahms’s songs
are often based on perfectly regular declamatory schemas, and assesses devia-
tions from normal declamation not as “failure[s] of compositional insight,”
but rather as instances of Brahms’s “interest in rhythmic motives and metric
disturbance” taking priority over “declamatory realism.”13 The present study
continues this tradition of vindication.
Brahms’s songs undeniably contain puzzling instances of the elongation
or metric accentuation of weak syllables. But many such examples can be
explained à la Riemann by the presence of an unnotated metrical layer to
which the poetic stresses do conform. At the beginning of the well-known song
“Wir wandelten,” op. 96, no. 2, for instance (ex. 1.1a), the stressed second syl-
lable of “zusammen” (m. 8) appears on a third beat in common time, whereas
the weak third syllable falls on a downbeat (m. 9). This apparent problem is
mitigated by the implicit 23 meter, which originates in the piano introduction
and is continued in measures 7–8 by the durational and registral accents at
“wandelten” and on “zusammen.” In this 23 meter (shown in ex. 1.1b), the final
syllable of “zusammen” is a weak rather than a strong beat. The situation in
the second vocal phrase is similar (ex. 1.1c). One might ask why, in the state-
ment “ich war so still und du so stille,” the first word (“ich”—m. 10) should fall
on a third beat, and the complementary “du” on a downbeat (m. 12). If one
rethinks the phrase in the three-two meter implied by the durational and regis-
tral accents (see ex. 1.1d), both “ich” and “du” fall on downbeats.
Another mitigating factor that is frequently operative in Brahms’s place-
ment of weak syllables on strong beats is the fact that the given strong beats
are hypermetrically weak: on a higher level of meter, Brahms is faithful to
the poetic stresses. For example, in “Erinnerung,” op. 63, no. 2 (ex. 1.2),
the final weak syllable of the word “Lieblichste” appears on the downbeat
of measure 6. The infelicity of this metrical placement disappears when
one realizes that this downbeat is the second hyperbeat of a four-measure
hypermeasure; a perceptive singer would avoid undue stress on the syllable
“-ste” for this reason.
Murphy.indd 14 5/17/2018 1:16:56 AM

+ { + { {
Example 1.1a. “Wir wandelten,” op. 96, mm. 1–9
'' ' ( A AA { A A A A A A A A A AA{ A A A A A A A A A A AA{ A A A A A A

'' A A
' ' AN {{ + @ AN {{ + A{ A N A
' ' ' N{ A A -AA ' N { A A A
5
A A
A A @ K
Wir wan - del - ten, wir zwei zu - sam - men,
Example 1.1b. “Wir wandelten,” op. 96, opening of introduction and opening of
vocal line, notated in 23 meter
+ { + {
'' ' A AA { A A A A A A A A A AA{ A A A A A A A A A A
'
' A A
'' A{ A A A N A
7
' ' ' A A A @

Wir wan - del - ten, wir zwei zu - sam - men,
Example 1.1c. “Wir wandelten,” op. 96, mm. 10–13
' A{ A A A A A{ A A A
10
' ''' ( @ @ A A @ K
ich war so still und du so stil - le;
Example 1.1d. “Wir wandelten,” op. 96, mm. 10–13, notated in 23 meter
' A{ A A A{
' ''' A A A A A
A A @
ich war so still und du so stil - le;
Example 1.2. “Erinnerung,” op. 63, no. 2, mm. 1–8, hypermetric analysis
N
A N A A A A N
1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4
N A A N A N A N
A
Ihr wun - der - schö - nen Au - gen - bli - cke, die Lieb - lich - ste der gan - zen Welt
Murphy.indd 15 5/17/2018 1:16:56 AM

16 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.3a “Gunhilde,” WoO 32, no. 10, mm. 5–6 (first strophe)
A A
5
A A

A A A
A A A

I
bis sie ihr Beich - ti - ger ver - führt,
Example 1.3b. “Wach auf mein Hort,” WoO 33, no. 13, mm. 12–13 (second
strophe)
A{
+
12
A A A A A
+ A I
werd mir freund - lich zu Wil - len.
Example 1.3c. “Nur ein Gesicht auf Erden lebt,” WoO 33, no. 19, mm. 12–13 (first
strophe)
+ A A
13
A A A A
a - ber der Seel groß
Another possible explanation for Brahms’s apparent lapses in declamation

is the influence of folk song, in which he was more deeply immersed than any
other nineteenth-century lied composer. Placement of weak syllables on down-
beats is common in the folk songs that Brahms arranged (ex. 1.3 shows only
a few of the many instances; italics in the text highlight the counterintuitive
declamation). It is not surprising that the unusual declamation typical of these
folk songs became a component of his song style.
Most important for my investigation, however, is the notion broached by
Deborah Rohr, Heather Platt, and Yonatan Malin that Brahms’s “awkward
declamation,” rather than resulting from carelessness and inattentiveness to
the poetic text, is an expressive device.14 It is the primary aim of my chap-
ter to provide additional evidence that Brahms’s deviations from an accu-
rate musical representation of the poetic rhythm were often motivated by
expressive considerations: while deviating from and disrupting the poetic
rhythm, he was faithful to another, and ultimately more important aspect of
the poem—its meaning.
Murphy.indd 16 5/17/2018 1:17:26 AM

expressive declamation ❧ 17
The Basic Rhythm of Declamation (BRD)
Before proceeding to discussions of examples, I introduce some analytical tools

that I use throughout this chapter. My investigation is based on the assump-
tion that most nineteenth-century German lyric poems possess a recognizable
“basic rhythm of declamation” (BRD), which functions as the foundation for
readings of the poems as well as for musical settings.15 Such an assumption
would be problematic if a) one were overly rigid and specific in identifying the
BRD of a poem and b) if one further assumed that good song composers were
obligated to adhere to the BRD in their musical settings.16 I conceive of the
BRD as an abstract entity, to which few recitations of the poem, and few musi-
cal settings, will correspond precisely. But a distinction can be made between
deviations from the BRD that preserve its essential features, and those that
result in its distortion. Settings that exhibit the former class of deviations are
based on some variant of the simple form of the BRD, and can be considered
BRD-conformant. Song composers frequently indulge, however, in more dras-
tic and distortive deviations from the BRD. I fully support, even celebrate the
right of composers to do so—provided that the distortion, rather than consti-
tuting a wanton destruction of the meticulously crafted poetic rhythm, occurs
for a good reason.
Below, I elaborate on the characteristics of the BRD, using some of Brahms’s
lieder as examples. A significant component of the BRD is stress, which exists
on more than one level. In German lyric poetry, the surface level of the BRD,
which corresponds to what we usually call the “meter” of the poem, features
regularly recurring stresses and a regular alternation of stressed and unstressed
syllables. But the BRD has a deeper level. Not all stresses in a poetic line are
equivalent in weight; each line usually contains one or two especially strong
stresses, which may or may not be regularly spaced.17
Aside from the component of stress, the BRD has a durational component,
which, in pre-twentieth-century German lyric poetry, is normally based on reg-
ularity. The poetic feet are approximately equivalent in duration. Silences at
the ends of lines (if present—they are not obligatory) are often of the same
duration as the feet. Larger-scale durational units, determined by the lines,
couplets, and stanzas, are, like the surface-level durational units, approxi-
mately equivalent in duration.
Generating and notating the BRD of a song text, and thereby becoming
aware of the stresses and durational regularities of the poem, is a useful first
step in the analysis of the declamation of a song. To generate the BRD, one
labels the stresses in the poem; in the diagram below, the stresses in Felix
Schumann’s poem “Wenn um den Hollunder” are shown with asterisks; double
asterisks show the strongest stresses.18
Murphy.indd 17 5/17/2018 1:17:53 AM

18 ❧ chapter one
*
* * * *
Wenn um den Holunder der Abendwind kost
* *
* * * *
Und der Falter um den Jasminenstrauch,
* *
* * * *
Dann kos ich mit meinem Liebchen auch
* *
* * * *
Auf der Steinbank schattig und weich bemoost.
The next step is to translate the BRD into musical notation.19 Musical dura-
tions, as nearly equivalent as possible, are assigned to the syllables to produce
the simplest form of the BRD (ex. 1.4a). Here, I have used mainly quarter-
notes because those are relevant to Brahms’s setting of the poem. Some of
the strongly stressed syllables can only be read with elongation: although the
stresses recur in a regular fashion, and the foot lengths are equivalent, a few
iambs are interspersed with the amphibrachs, resulting in occasional long syl-
lables. It is therefore necessary to employ some half-note durations in the tran-
scription of the BRD.
The BRD (its strong stresses in particular) invariably suggests one or more
musical meters; here, with 43 or 46 obvious choices (ex. 1.4b). Selection of a dura-
tional unit other than the quarter-note would result in a different, but related
meter.
Having notated the BRD, one can add the melodic pitches of the compos-
er’s setting to arrive at a hypothetical BRD-conformant vocal line (ex. 1.4c).
Comparison of this hypothetical melody with the composer’s actual vocal line
is useful in gauging the amount of unexpected declamation in the given set-
ting. Some analytical notation clarifies aspects of the poetic rhythm and its
musical treatment, both in hypothetical and actual settings. Aside from aster-
isks to show poetic stress, I use square brackets below the poem to delineate
the feet, and numbers below those brackets to show the durations of the feet
(measured in terms of a unit that is indicated at the top left of the example).
In later examples, there is occasion to use additional notation to designate
the treatment of silences after poetic lines: numbers in square brackets show
the durations of those silences, and numbers in square brackets with strokes
through them indicate omission of expected rests.20
Murphy.indd 18 5/17/2018 1:18:17 AM

Example 1.4a. Felix Schumann, “Junge Lieder II,” BRD in musical notation
* * *
A A A A A A A A A A A A A N A A A A N A N A
* * * * * * * *
** * * *
A A A N A N A A A A N A A A A N A N @
* * * * * * *
Example 1.4b. Felix Schumann, “Junge Lieder II,” BRD in musical notation with
meter
A A A A A A A A A A A A A N
* * *
A A A A N A N A
* * * * * * * *
* * * *
A A A N A N A A A A N A A A A N A N @
* * * * * * * *
Example 1.4c. Brahms, “Junge Lieder II,” op. 63, no. 6, beginning, hypothetical
BRD-conformant vocal line (based on Brahms’s melody)
1=/
A A* A A *
* *
A A A A
*
A A A A A A A A A
* * *
A A
Wenn um den Ho - lun - der der A - bend - wind kost und der Fal - ter um den Jas -
3 3 3 3 3 3
N
* *
A N*
A A @ 'A -A A
* * *
A
mi - nen - strauch, dann kos ich mit mei - nem
3 3 etc.
*
*
A A* A A -N*
*
A A* A 'A
*
N{
'N
* *
N A
Lieb - chen auch auf der Stein - bank schat - tig und weich be - moost,
In my hypothetical, or the composer’s actual BRD-conformant vocal lines,

the musical meter aligns with and reinforces the stresses of the poetry, and
regular foot durations and expected pauses at line ends are reproduced in the
music. In settings that deviate from or distort the BRD, on the other hand,
some combination of the following attributes will be present: strong stresses
(shown by double asterisks) that do not coincide with metrical strong beats; a
Murphy.indd 19 5/17/2018 1:18:20 AM

20 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.4d. Brahms, “Junge Lieder II,” mm. 3–11, vocal line
A A* A A *
3 * *
A A{ A A A A A A A A A A A
* * * *
A A
Wenn um den Ho - lun - der der A - bend - wind kost und der Fal - ter um den Jas -
3 3 3 3 3 3
'A {
N N*
7 * *
A
A -A A
* * *
A @ A
mi - nen - strauch, dann kos ich mit mei - nem
3 3 etc.
'A { -A
A N A A -N A A* A 'A N{
9 * * *
* * * * *
N A
Lieb - chen auch auf der Stein - bank schat - tig und weich be - moost,
significant disparity among foot durations; omissions of expected rests at line

ends; and rests occurring unexpectedly at points other than line ends. Notice
that example 1.4c possesses the characteristics of a BRD-conformant setting;
double asterisks coincide with downbeats, and foot durations are equivalent.
Comparing Brahms’s vocal line for “Wenn um den Hollunder” (ex. 1.4d)
with our hypothetical BRD-conformant setting, we notice that his vocal line
is almost identical to the hypothetical one, and is therefore BRD-conformant.
Brahms adds dots at times, and occasionally speeds up the poetic upbeats to
eighth-notes (e.g., at “auf der” in m. 9), but none of these techniques results in
significant deviations from or distortions of the basic rhythm shown in exam-
ples 1.4a and 1.4b.
Brahms’s minor deviations from the BRD demonstrate that the simplest
form of the BRD cannot rigidly be applied as a benchmark in the analysis of
declamation. Although his vocal rhythm does not correspond to the simple
BRD, it is based on one of the many available variants of that simple form.
Other BRD-conformant variants would have been possible; Brahms could, for
instance, have elongated a larger number of stressed syllables, as shown in
example 1.4e.
A look at another song by Brahms that consistently conforms to the BRD—
his setting of Hans Schmidt’s “Sommerabend,” op. 84, no. 1—will serve to clar-
ify the notion of BRD and its variants (and the associated analytical notation).
A hypothetical vocal line adhering to the simplest form of the BRD is shown in
example 1.5a. Example 1.5b is a variant in which the strong stresses at the ends
of odd-numbered lines are elongated for special emphasis. Although this elon-
gation results in surface-level irregularity of foot duration (and in the omission
of expected rests between the lines of the couplets), there is an underlying
Murphy.indd 20 5/17/2018 1:18:25 AM

Example 1.4e. Brahms, “Junge Lieder II,” beginning, hypothetical BRD-

conformant vocal line with elongation of stressed syllables
+ + +
*
A N A A N A A N
* * * *
A A N
Wenn um den Ho - lun - der der A - bend - wind kost
3 3 3 3
Example 1.5a. “Sommerabend,” op. 84, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line
1= /
'
* *
A A @ @
* * * * * *
A A A A A A 'A A 'A A A
Geh schla - fen, Toch - ter, schla - fen! Schon fällt der Tau aufs Gras,
etc.
2 2 2 1 [1] 2 2 2 [2]
' @ A A A A A @
A A A A A A A N
und wen die Trop - fen tra - fen, weint bald die Au - gen nass,
Example 1.5b. “Sommerabend,” op. 84, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line with elongation of strongly stressed syllables
' A @ A A A
* *
N
* * * * * *
A A A A A A 'A A 'A N
A
Geh schla - fen, Toch - ter, schla - fen! Schon fällt der Tau aufs Gras, und wen die
etc.
2 2 3 1 2 2 3 [1]
4 4 etc. /
[1]
' A A N A A A A A A N @ A A A A A N
Trop - fen tra - fen, weint bald die Au - gen nass, weint bald die Au - gen nass!
sense of regularity, as shown by the lower brackets in the example. This variant
of the BRD underlies Brahms’s entire setting (ex. 1.5c). Brahms’s use of dot-
ted rhythms introduces minor irregularities—deviations by .5 units, in either
direction, from the basic foot duration of two quarter-notes. The basic BRD-
conformance of his setting is, however, readily perceptible.
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22 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.5c. “Sommerabend,” op. 84, mm. 1–19, Brahms’s vocal line
' I A+ A { A+ A { A+ N A A 'A { A+ 'A { + N @ A A A

* *
* * * * * *
A
Geh schla - fen, Toch - ter, schla - fen! Schon fällt der Tau aufs Gras, und wen die
1.5 1.5 2.5 1 2.5 2 2.5 [1] 2 2
/
[1]
10
' A A N A A A{ A+ A{ A+ N @ + +
A A{ A A{ A N
Trop - fen tra - fen, weint bald die Au - gen nass, weint bald die Au - gen nass!
etc. /
[1]
Occasional Deviation from the BRD in

Primarily BRD-Conformant Contexts
Using the BRD concept, I now proceed to investigate deviations from the
BRD in Brahms’s songs—that is, situations of surprising and unpredict-
able declamation. While relatively few of Brahms’s songs are consistently
BRD-conformant, many largely conform to the BRD, with only occasional
deviations in the form of substantial, unpredictable elongations of particu-
lar syllables. These elongations are not haphazard distortions of the poetic
rhythm: they usually have an expressive function, suggesting a silent read-
er’s lingering over or savoring of significant words,21 or, in some cases, a
protagonist’s emphatic utterance of a word that is especially meaningful
to her or him. Brahms’s setting of Heine’s “Mondenschein” (op. 85, no. 2)
provides an illustration. A hypothetical BRD-conformant setting of the first
two lines is shown in example 1.6a (I have included Brahms’s repetition of
Heine’s second line). Brahms’s setting (ex. 1.6b) is very similar, except that
he elongates the final words of the second line (“müde Glieder”—weary
limbs). At a corresponding later point (mm. 17–19), he similarly elongates
the words “nächt’ge Grauen” (nocturnal dread). These elongations consti-
tute an appropriate lingering on poignant words, rather than a haphazard
deviation from the BRD.
Another example of expressive elongation within an otherwise BRD-
conformant context occurs at the beginning of “Der Jäger,” op. 95, no. 4. A
BRD-conformant setting of Friedrich Halm’s poem is shown in example 1.7a.
Brahms’s setting (ex. 1.7b) is very similar, but he stretches the first syllable of
the word “Jäger” in all three strophes. Clearly, the elongation of this word (and
no other) is intended to suggest the speaker’s intense pride in the métier of her
beloved—a deliciously comical effect.
Murphy.indd 22 5/17/2018 1:19:18 AM

Example 1.6a. “Mondenschein”, op. 85, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant
vocal line
' *{ A{ A{ A 'A {
1= /
+ * A
' ( 'A A A{
* * *
A A A A I
* * * *

Nacht liegt auf den frem - den We - gen, kran - kes Herz und
A {
2 2 etc.
'A {
' A{
' *
*
+ * A A{ A A
'A A 'A A A

mü - de Glie - der, kran - kes Herz und mü - de Glie - der;
Example 1.6b. “Mondenschein”, op. 85, mm. 1–8, Brahms’s vocal line
' *{ A{
+ *
A{ A 'A { A
' ( 'A A A{
* * *
A A A A I
* * * *

Nacht liegt auf den frem - den We - gen, kran - kes Herz und
2 2 2 etc.
A** {
' A* { + * A 'N {
A A{
4
A 3*
* *
' 'A A 'A A @ K
* *

mü - de Glie der, kran - kes Herz und mü - de Glie - der;
2 4 5
Example 1.7a. “Der Jäger,” op. 95, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line
1= /
A*
' A A A A A A A @
* * *
A A A A A
Mein Lieb ist ein Jä - ger, und grün ist sein Kleid
3 3 3 3
Example 1.7b. “Der Jäger,” op. 95, mm. 4–9, Brahms’s vocal line
N* {
5
' A A A A A @ A A A A A A A @
* * *
Mein Lieb ist ein Jä - ger, und grün ist sein Kleid
3 6 3 3
Murphy.indd 23 5/17/2018 1:19:27 AM

24 ❧ chapter one
In some of Brahms’s surprising elongations, we sense not the voice of an

anonymous silent reader or that of the protagonist of the poem, but the voice
of the composer—that is, it appears that Brahms elongates a word of the poem
that is especially meaningful for him. In his setting of Heine’s “Es schauen die
Blumen,” op. 96, no. 3, for example, Brahms begins in a BRD-conformant man-
ner (see ex. 1.8a): stressed syllables appear on strong beats, and there are only
minor deviations from consistent foot duration (resulting in part from irregu-
larities in Heine’s poem). Brahms follows the rhythm of the poem throughout
his setting of the first stanza. In the second stanza, however, where “Lieder alle”
(all of the songs) are mentioned (ex. 1.8b), he doubles the duration of the
word “alle” from the earlier half-measure (cf. ex. 1.8a, m. 2) to an entire mea-
sure, and then repeats the word to boot (thereby avoiding an expected pause
after a line). Clearly, and understandably, the phrase “all of the songs” means
more to him than the earlier “all of the flowers” and “all of the streams,” which
he passes over without emphasis. The final reference to songs (“ye melancholy
and dark songs”) includes even more significant elongation (ex. 1.8c).
Larger-Scale Deviations from the Regularity of the BRD
The departures from expected declamation that we have investigated so far are
conspicuous but brief events within songs that are primarily BRD-conformant.
In many of his songs, Brahms deviates more drastically and extensively from
the regular BRD of the poetry. These larger-scale deviations take three main
forms: 1) setting a poem that is regular in rhythm to variegated, albeit BRD-
conformant vocal rhythms; 2) setting a poem that is regular in rhythm to an
irregular non-BRD-conformant vocal rhythm; and 3) setting a poem in a meter
that conflicts with the implications of the BRD. As I describe examples of these
types below, I attempt to demonstrate the expressive motivations for Brahms’s
deviations from the regularity of the BRD.
Brahms frequently switches from one BRD-conformant vocal rhythm to
another when setting poems that remain rhythmically consistent. In Yonatan
Malin’s terms, Brahms switches the “declamatory schema.”22 Especially fre-
quent in Brahms’s songs are significant changes in the rate of declamation
(while conformance with the BRD is maintained); these changes can usually be
explained by some text-expressive impulse. In the early song “Der Frühling,”
op. 6, no. 2, for instance, Brahms consistently reflects the iambic meter of the
poem in his vocal rhythm, but imaginatively varies the specific musical rendi-
tion of the iambs. He begins with relatively slow declamation (ex. 1.9a); most of
the iambic feet at the opening of the vocal line (mm. 8–24) occupy six eighth-
note pulses. (Some of the iambs occupy only four eighths, because of wel-
come minor deviations from the opening rhythm, e.g., the use in measure 11
Murphy.indd 24 5/17/2018 1:20:10 AM

Example 1.8a. “Es schauen die Blumen,” op. 96, mm. 6–10, Brahms’s vocal line
1= 4
+ A* A A A* A A+ I A+ A A A A A A
7
A ! ! A A @
* * * *
A ! ! ! !
Es schau - en die Blu - men al - le zur leuch - ten - den Son - ne hin - auf;
5 5 4 [2] 5 4 5
=5 [1]
Example 1.8b. “Es schauen die Blumen,” op. 96, mm. 14–19, Brahms’s vocal line
0 * A A A* A* A A A* A A A A* A A* A A! A* @
15
A A
A A ! ! ! ! !
Es flat - tern die Lie - der al - le, al - le zu mei-nem leuch-ten-den Lieb.
4 5 8 7 5 4 4
/
[2]
Example 1.8c. “Es schauen die Blumen,” op. 96, mm. 25–31, Brahms’s vocal line
A N A
A A+ A A
26
A A A A A* @
* *

ihr Lie - der weh - mü - tig und trüb!
8 14 24
of a dotted quarter-note instead of an eighth-note for the word “den.”) At

the halfway point of the song, the vocal rhythm remains BRD-conformant,
the stressed syllables of the iambs still falling on strong beats—but the rate of
declamation abruptly doubles, the feet now occupying three eighth-note dura-
tions (ex. 1.9b). Given the unaltered poetic rhythm, Brahms could easily have
continued the opening vocal rhythm, as shown in example 1.9c. The change
can be accounted for partly by Brahms’s desire to avoid a paralyzing monot-
ony, but his response to the more active imagery at the point of the change
is another possible motivating factor: the gentle images of rustling trees and
breezes during the first three lines of the stanzas are replaced by those of turn-
ing energetically (“frisch”) to the golden light of the sun, of the awakening
of the flowers, and of the fluttering of the heart as it searches for the right
companion. Brahms bridges between the static and more active declamation
by replacing the initial halting rendition of the iambs (separated with rests)
with a more continuous, sustained version (in ex. 1.9a, cf. mm. 8–14 and mm.
17–20). Spring arrives gradually, rather than abruptly!
In “Botschaft,” op. 47, no. 1 (ex. 1.10a), the change in the rate of declama-
tion proceeds in the opposite direction. Brahms begins this song by setting
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26 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.9a. “Der Frühling,” op. 6, mm. 9–20, Brahms’s vocal line
1= )
A{

A+ A { @ A A { @ A A { @ A A { @ A A { @ A
+ * A{ + *
9
* * * *
Es lockt und säu - selt um den Baum: wach auf aus dei - nem
A* { A{
@ A A { A A A { A A -A { A I
6 6 4 6 [2] 6 6
A I @{ @{
15

* * * *

Schlaf und Traum, der Win - ter ist zer - ron - nen.
4 6 [8] 6 6 4
Example 1.9b. “Der Frühling,” op. 6, mm. 25–27, Brahms’s vocal line
+ + + +
26
A 'A A -A A 'A
* * * *
-A A
Da schlägt er frisch den Blick em - por,
Da wer - den al - le Blu - men wach,
Flieg auch, mein Herz, und flat - tre fort,
3 3 3 3
Example 1.9c. “Der Frühling,” op. 6, mm. 25–27, hypothetical vocal line
+
-A { 'A {
+
A @ @
* *
A
Da schlägt er frisch
6 6 etc.
the trochees of the poem with alternating three- and six eighth-note dura-
tions. The alternation is not suggested by the BRD of the poem, but given
its regularity, it does not give the impression of distorting the poetic rhythm.
The first statement of the words “eile nicht” (“do not rush [to fly away]”—an
admonition addressed to the breezes that play with the beloved’s curls) occurs
within this relatively quick declamation (mm. 13–14). Immediately thereaf-
ter, however, the declamation slows drastically (at the words “to fly away,” and
for the subsequent repetitions of “do not rush”). The vocal rhythm remains
BRD-conformant, stressed syllables still being metrically emphasized and elon-
gated—but most of the feet now occupy nine eighth-note pulses. Since the
poetic rhythm remains constant, Brahms could have maintained the initial
declamatory pacing (see ex. 1.10b). It appears that he slows the declamation
for expressive reasons; his pulling back dramatizes the breezes’ lingering in
Murphy.indd 26 5/17/2018 1:20:40 AM

Example 1.10a. “Botschaft,” op. 47, mm. 11–22, Brahms’s vocal line
A A* A -A* { A 'A* A * {
A A{ @ A{ A{ A { A{ A{ @ { @ {
1= ) 12
'' *
* *
' ' -A ) A{ A
* * *
' I

spie - le zart in ih - rer Lo - cke, ei - le nicht hin - weg zu fliehn,
{ * *{
3 6 3 6 3 9 9 9
' ' *A{ A { A A{ @{ @{ N{ A { A A{ A { A{ A { A { A I @ { @ {

17 *
* * *
' ' '
ei - le nicht, ei - le nicht hin - weg zu fliehn!
9 9 9 9 9 9+
Example 1.10b. “Botschaft,” op. 47, mm. 11–15, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line
'' * A{ A A A* A -A** { A 'A* A * + A* A * { {

*
' I A A{ @ @
*
'
' - A ) A{ A A
spie - le zart in ih - rer Lo - cke, ei - le nicht hin-weg zu fliehn!
3 6 3 6 3 6 3 3
the beloved’s locks, so as eventually to whisper a message in her ear. The sub-
sequent return of the opening melody with its quick declamation coincides
with the uttering of the lover’s passionate message (m. 40), and the final reap-
pearance of slow pacing (m. 51) corresponds to the mention of the beloved’s
thinking about the lover, suggesting that the thinking is intense and lingering
rather than fleeting—or at least that the lover wishes her thinking of him to be
of that nature.
In the fourth song of the same collection, “O liebliche Wangen,” op. 47,
no. 4, the declamatory pacing again shifts from slow to fast. The consistent
amphibrachs of Paul Flemming’s poem initially occupy six eighth-note pulses
(ex. 1.11a). At measure 13 (ex. 1.11b), as the poet launches into a list of the
amorous actions to be performed on the “liebliche Wangen” (lovely cheeks),
Brahms accelerates the central stressed syllable of the amphibrachs from a
dotted quarter to an eighth-note, while still adhering to a six eighth-note foot
duration; three eighth-note rests follow the accelerated amphibrachs so as to
fill the duration. As the listed actions become more “physical,” the rests fall by
the wayside, so that each amphibrach occupies only three eighth-notes—one-
half of the original duration. The mounting excitement of the obsessed lover is
perfectly captured by this declamatory strategy.
Another striking example of accelerating BRD-conformant declamation
is Brahms’s setting of Hebbel’s “Vorüber,” op. 58, no. 7. The poem is again
Murphy.indd 27 5/17/2018 1:21:07 AM

28 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.11a. “O liebliche Wangen,” op. 47, no. 4, mm. 1–8, Brahms’s vocal line
A* { A* { A** {
1= )
+ + + A A +
A A
*
A A A A A
*
A{
O lieb - li - che Wan - gen, ihr macht mir Ver - lan - gen, dies
6 6 6 etc.
A{
* A{ + A{
5
+ A{ A A
* *
A A A
* * *
A A
ro - te, dies wei - sse, zu schau - en mit Flei - sse.
Example 1.11b. “O liebliche Wangen,” mm. 12–16, Brahms’s vocal line
A A A* A A *
13
*+
+ + * A *A
A+ A A I I I A A A I I I A A A A A
* * *
*
zu schauen, zu grüssen, zu rüh- ren, zu kü - ssen, ihr macht mir Ver - lan-gen
6 6 3 3 3 3
dominated by amphibrachic meter. This poetic meter lends itself to triple

time (ex. 1.12a), but Brahms opts for common time, the “extra” beat aris-
ing from his elongation of the stressed syllables (ex. 1.12b). This variant of
the BRD is more appropriate in relation to the initial mood of the poem
than a triple-meter setting would have been: the consistent elongations lend
Brahms’s setting a languorous, dreamlike affect that perfectly matches the
somnolent subject material of the first strophe. Brahms maintains this slow
declamation in the greater part of the song—but, significantly, at the words
“Denn nun ich erwache” (Now that I wake up; ex. 1.12c), he doubles the
pace of the declamation—an apt representation of a rude awakening and a
reluctant return to reality.
Additional beautiful examples of expressive shifts from slow to fast BRD-
conformant rhythms occur in “Dämmrung senkte sich von oben,” op. 59,
no. 1, at the moment when the “schwarzvertiefte Finsternisse” (deep black
darknesses) begin to be dispelled by the light of the moon (mm. 46–47);
at the points in “Vom Strande,” op. 69, no. 6 where fast motion of various
kinds is described (mm. 10ff and mm. 48ff); and at the passages in “Steig auf,
geliebter Schatten,” op. 94, no. 2, where the poem refers to the energizing,
rejuvenating powers of the shade of a departed beloved (at “deiner Nähe
Macht” in mm. 9–12, and at “mach mich wieder jung” in the final four mea-
sures of the vocal line).
Murphy.indd 28 5/17/2018 1:21:22 AM

Example 1.12a. “Vorüber,” op. 58, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant vocal

line in triple meter
1= /
A* A A N* A A* A A A *
' A A A A A N @
* * *
A N N
Ich leg - te mich un - ter den Lin - den- baum, in dem die Nach - ti - gall schlug;
3 3 3 3 3 3 3
Example 1.12b. “Vorüber,” op. 58, mm. 2–9, Brahms’s vocal line
+ A{ A A A* { A A
3
'( A A{
*
A A A *
A @
Ich leg - te mich un - ter den Lin - den - baum,
A* {
4 4 2.5 1.5
N{
6
' K @ A
*
A A A A
*
@
N
in dem die Nach - ti - gall schlug;
4 4 3
Example 1.12c. “Vorüber,” op. 58, mm. 22–23, Brahms’s vocal line
A*
22
'( @ I A A* A A A @

Denn nun ich er - wa - che,
2 2.5
As mentioned earlier, in many of Brahms’s songs the BRD is abandoned

rather than merely being rendered in a variety of manners. In some songs,
the vocal rhythm is in part BRD-conformant, but an irregular, non-conformant
rhythm appears at intervals. In other songs, the vocal line is dominated by
irregular rhythms that have little to do with the regular rhythm of the poetry.
Both strategies can be explained with reference to Brahms’s effort to express
the meaning of the given poems.
“Herbstgefühl,” op. 48, no. 7, demonstrates the former strategy: the contrast
between BRD-conformant and non-conformant rhythms is used for expressive
effect. The vocal line begins with a quarter-half rhythm that is almost perfectly
attuned to the iambic meter of the poem, the stressed syllables being elongated
Murphy.indd 29 5/17/2018 1:21:50 AM

30 ❧ chapter one
(ex. 1.13a, mm. 4–14).23 As the song proceeds, the vocal rhythm becomes
irregular (while the poetic rhythm continues unchanged). At measure 18,
Brahms inserts a surprising gap between the words “gelb” (yellow) and “und
rötlich” (and ruddy)—surprising because the two adjectives belong together
grammatically. This hesitation in the vocal rhythm initiates the crumbling
of the rhythmic regularity that has reigned so far. The next line, “ein einzles
Blatt im Windhauch schwankt” (a single leaf sways in the breeze), which would
occupy four measures if the earlier BRD-conformant quarter-half rhythm were
maintained (see ex. 1.13b), is stretched over three times that duration by dras-
tic elongations of feet as well as by the repetition of “ein einzles Blatt” (see
ex. 1.13a, mm. 21–34). The following line, “so schauert über mein Leben”
(thus there shudders over my life), by contrast, occupies only three measures;
Brahms sets it almost syllabically.24 Brahms briefly reverts to the initial declam-
atory schema at “ein nächtig trüber” (mm. 38–40), then elongates the first syl-
lable of “kalter” (cold). Similar alternations of quarter-half declamation and
substantial elongations occur in the setting of the next few lines as well. The
progressive destruction of the initial BRD-conformant vocal rhythm and the
shift into unpredictable declamation of this primarily regular poem aptly sug-
gests the similarly progressive decay of the beauty of summer, as described at
the beginning of the poem.
“Meerfahrt,” op. 96, no. 4, is a further example of a strikingly irregular set-
ting of a fairly regular text. Heine’s poem, as is so often the case in his works,
is not perfectly regular; the poetic meter fluctuates between amphibrachs, dac-
tyls and trochees. Nevertheless, there is a sense of regularly recurring stresses
in the poem, which is entirely absent in Brahms’s setting. Given the marked
divergence of Brahms’s vocal rhythm from the BRD, it is difficult to construct
a hypothetical BRD-conformant setting using his melody, but I have made
an attempt to do so in example 1.14a. Compare Brahms’s actual melody (ex.
1.14b): Brahms places all stressed syllables on the dotted-quarter beats of his
6—but he rarely assigns extra prominence to the primary stresses, often lend-
8
ing more emphasis to less strongly stressed syllables. For example, the strongly
stressed second syllable of “beisammen” is placed on the second dotted-quarter
beat of a measure, whereas the weaker first syllables of “trau-lich” and “leich-
ten” are placed on downbeats and elongated. The result is that the main
stresses, spaced equally in Heine’s poem, are almost randomly distributed
in Brahms’s setting. Furthermore, Brahms does not consistently present the
pauses between lines that Heine’s poem clearly implies (see the crossed-out
numbers in example 1.14b).25 The irregular vocal rhythm strongly suggests
that something is not right with the lovers who are snuggled up by night in a
boat. It is only at the end of the song that this suggestion is confirmed: in the
final line (which Brahms emphasizes by copious repetition), the poet describes
the lovers as “trostlos” (comfortless, despairing). The unexpected vocal rhythm
Murphy.indd 30 5/17/2018 1:22:12 AM

Example 1.13a. “Herbstgefühl,” op. 48, mm. 4–43, Brahms’s vocal line
1= /

A N A N A N A N
5
A < @ @ A N A N A
* * * * * *
Wie wenn im frost - gen Wind - hauch töt - lich des Som - mers letz - te
3 3 3 3 1 [5] 3 3
*
A N {
13
N A N @ @ @ A N -A N @ @ @ @ A
* * * * *
A N A
Blü - te krankt, und hier und da nur, gelb und röt - lich, ein
3 3 [3] 3 3 6 3 1 [2]
@ @ A N{ A A A *N {
*
22
N{ N @ N{ A A A
* * *
A N
ein - zles Blatt, ein ein - zles Blatt im Wind -
6 3 [3] 6 4 8

31
A A A N{ A @ @ @ @ A A -A 'A A -A A -A A @
* * * *
- hauch schwankt, so schau - ert ü - ber mein Le - ben

3+ [4] 3 3 3
A 'A* A A
38
A* A A N
@ @ A -A A ' A @
* *
A -A
ein näch - tig trü - ber kal - - ter Tag.
[3] 3 3 6 3
Example 1.13b. “Herbstgefühl,” op. 48, mm. 21–25, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line

A N A N @
* * * *
A N N A
ein ein - zles Blatt im Wind - hauch schwankt,
3 3 3 3
Example 1.14a. “Meerfahrt,” op. 96, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line

*

*

*
1=

*

* **
*

Mein Lieb-chen, wir sa-ssen bei - sam - men trau -lich im leich - ten Kahn.
3 3 3 [4] 3 3
Murphy.indd 31 5/17/2018 1:22:38 AM

32 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.14b. “Meerfahrt,” op. 96, mm. 14–29, Brahms’s vocal line
A A A A* { A-A A *A { A{ A @ I A
15
A * + A A* + * A A A{
* *
A A A A A A
*

Mein Lieb - chen, wir sa -ssen bei- sam - men trau - lich im leich - ten Kahn. Die
6 3 4 / 5
[4] 6 9 [3]
A A {
+ A A A + A* A A A{ A A + * +
21 * *
A A A A A A
* * *
A
Nacht war still und wir schwam - men auf wei - ter Was - ser -
4 5 3 /
[3] 6 6
A { A{ A A A{
25 *
A @ A A A A A A A A A I @ I
* * * * *
A
bahn, auf wei - ter, wei - ter Was - ser - bahn.
9? 7 3 3 3
throughout the song subtly mars the gentle, serenade-like mood and foreshad-
ows the negative tone of the ending.
“Abenddämmerung,” op. 49, no. 5, is another song in which the vocal
rhythm is irregular, in sharp contradistinction to the regular BRD. The tro-
chaic meter of the poem suggests a setting in 42 or 44 time (ex. 1.15a), but BRD-
conformant variants in triple meter would also be feasible (ex. 1.15b). Brahms
does use 43 meter, but by no means in a BRD-conformant manner (ex. 1.15c).
The third word of the poem, “Zwielichtstunde,” is declaimed in an unexpected
manner, the stressed syllables “Zwie-” and “stunde” placed on weak beats of
adjacent measures.26 Thereafter, the stressed first syllable of “al len” appears
on a second beat, the stressed word “lieb” is displaced by an eighth-note from
the downbeat, and the stressed first syllable of “jede,” set to a hasty eighth-
note, appears on a third beat. It is not only the placement of the stresses that is
unexpected, but also the foot duration; the regularity of the poetic rhythm is
obscured by Brahms’s unpredictable durations. Brahms concludes the setting
of the first stanza by using a slow BRD-conformant triple-time variant of the
BRD (compare mm. 15–17 in ex. 1.15c with ex. 1.15b); both stresses and foot
durations become predictable.
The first stanza’s progression from volatile, unpredictable declamation to
slow BRD-conformant declamation is appropriate in relation to the poem’s ref-
erence to the comfort and assuagement of pain that twilight brings; Brahms
causes us to feel the gradual calming effect of eventide. The final stanza is set to
the same music; here, the progression from irregular declamation toward BRD-
conformance suggests the “sinking down of blessed peace” upon the slumberer.
Murphy.indd 32 5/17/2018 1:22:54 AM

Example 1.15a. “Abenddämmerung,” op. 49, beginning, hypothetical BRD-

conformant vocal line in common time
1= )
* A* + * + A A A A+ A A A A
A A A -A A A A
* * * * *
A
Sei will - kommen, Zwie -licht - stun - de! Dich vor al - len lieb ich längst,
2 2 2 etc.
Example 1.15b. “Abenddämmerung,” op. 49, beginning, hypothetical BRD-

conformant vocal line in triple time
*
N A N A -N A N A N A N A *
A A{ A A N{
* * * * * *
Sei will - kom - men, Zwie - licht - stun - de! Dich vor al - len lieb ich längst,
3 3 3 etc.
Example 1.15c. “Abenddämmerung,” op. 49, mm. 7–17, Brahms’s vocal line
* A* I A A A -A
8
A A A -A A A A* A A A A A
* * * *

Sei will - kom - men, Zwie - licht - stun - de! Dich vor al - len lieb ich
1 2 2 2 1 2.5 2.5
* A * A* A{ A A N*
12
A I I A+ A+ A A A A A A A
@ @
* * * * *
A A
längst, die du, lin -dernd je - de Wun- de, uns - re See - le mild um - fängst.
1 [1] 1 2 1 2 1 3 3 1
“Abenddämmerung” demonstrates not only the setting of a regular poem

with sections of irregular (and “infelicitous”) declamation, but also Brahms’s
choice of a musical meter that seems alien to the poem—another type of large-
scale non-conformance with the BRD. The frequent irregularities in declama-
tion, in fact, can largely be ascribed to Brahms’s manner of using triple meter.
As is mentioned above, the poem suggests duple meter (as in ex. 1.15a), or,
with regular elongation of stressed syllables, triple meter (ex. 1.15b). Brahms,
however, uncompromisingly forces the duple-metered poem into a triple
meter devoid of regularity of elongation. Interestingly, he begins the vocal
line with a hemiola, thus suggesting the duple meter that governs the poem
(see the duple durations shown by brackets at the beginning of ex. 1.15c). The
prevailing dissonance between the poetic and musical rhythm as well as the
Murphy.indd 33 5/17/2018 1:23:16 AM

34 ❧ chapter one
metrical dissonance of the hemiola create a subtle tension that is surely linked
to the various negative aspects that the poet ascribes to the day: wounds (mm.
13–14), garish brightness (m. 26), and loudness (m. 27)—all of which are dis-
pelled by the evening.
The use of a musical meter that does not emerge naturally from the poetic
rhythm is common in Brahms’s songs. In most cases, the situation is as in
“Abenddämmerung”—a duple-meter poem is set in triple meter.27 A song that
has often been criticized for its declamation, “Wie bist du meine Königin,” op.
32, no. 9, provides another illustration. The poem suggests duple meter (see
ex. 1.16a),28 or, with elongation of stressed syllables, a regular triple-meter set-
ting of the type shown in example 1.16b. Brahms sets the poem in 83 time, but
avoids regular elongation and correspondence between stress and metrical
accent, such that the musical meter and the poetic rhythm are almost always at
odds (ex. 1.16c). The weak initial syllable “Wie” is strongly marked in Brahms’s
setting as the first vocal downbeat. The first syllable of “mei-,” not strongly
stressed in a normal declamation of the poem, is emphasized by downbeat
placement as well as elongation. The initial two syllables of the significant word
“Königin” (queen) are, surprisingly, squeezed into the last beat of a measure,
whereas the unstressed final syllable appears on a downbeat. The first state-
ment of the word “wonnevoll” is treated in the same manner. The important
word “Lenzdüfte” (spring breezes) flits by during the last three sixteenth-notes
of a measure, its stressed first syllable being placed on a weak sixteenth-note
pulse. The foot durations, unlike those in my hypothetical vocal lines (exx.
1.16a and 1.16b), are irregular and unpredictable.
Despite these oddities, there are indications that Brahms was not simply
riding roughshod over the poetic rhythm. For example, at the passage in the
second strophe that is parallel to “Güte wonnevoll” (mm. 10–11), he deviates
from the vocal rhythm of the first strophe, thereby avoiding an infelicitous
placement of the unstressed last syllable of “deinigen” on the downbeat of
measure 30 (compare the hypothetical setting in example 1.16d to Brahms’s
actual setting in example 1.16e).29 We can assume that he gave the poem
equally careful consideration throughout, and that he had good reasons for
all of his choices. Although I see no large-scale poetic motivation for Brahms’s
idiosyncratic three-eight setting, the unexpected declamation that results from
his application of this meter can often be explained with reference to the sense
of individual words. The emphasis on “mei-” (my) in measure 7, for instance,
suggests the reveling in the possession of the beloved, a common theme in love
poetry (Wilhelm Müller’s “Mein” being a paradigmatic example); this empha-
sis may be a distortion of the expected declamation, but from the standpoint
of the meaning of the poem, it is a legitimate reading. The quickness of the
declamation of “Lenzdüfte” in measure 13 suggests a sudden breeze bringing
the scents of spring.
Murphy.indd 34 5/17/2018 1:23:45 AM

Example 1.16a. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” op. 32, no. 9, beginning,
hypothetical BRD-conformant vocal line in duple meter
1= )
' A
' ' A* A A* A + + *+ + *+ A
A A A
A* A A* 'A
* *
A A A A
* *

Wie bist du, mei - ne Kö - ni - gin, durch sanf - te Gü - te won - ne - voll! Du
2 2 2 etc.
' * + *+ A -A* A A* A A* A A* A A* + *+ I

* *
' ' A A A A A
läch - le nur Lenz - düf - te wehn durch mein Ge - mü - te won - ne - voll!
Example 1.16b. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” beginning, hypothetical BRD-
conformant vocal line in triple meter
' A * + * A A** A A*
' ' A A A A A A A A+ A A A
*
* * * *

Wie bist du, mei - ne Kö - ni - gin, durch san - fte Gü - te won - ne - voll!
3 3 3 etc.
Example 1.16c. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” mm. 6–20, Brahms’s
vocal line
' A A* A A{ * 0 * *+ + *
{ * A A
A I 'A A* A+
6
0 0 A
* *
' A
' ! A A A I ? A A
A A A ! ! !
* *

Wie bist du, mei - ne Kö - ni - gin, durch sanf- te Gü - te won - ne - voll! Du läch - le
2 2.5 1 2.5 [1.5] 1.5 2.5 1 2.5 [1] 2 2.5
' *+ A -A* A A* {
{
A A* A * I A* + * I
13
A* A A* A
* * *
'
A ! ! !
' ! <
! ! A A A
nur Lenz - düf- te wehn durch mein Ge - mü - te won - ne - voll, won - ne - voll!
1 2 1 2.5 3 2 [1] 3 2
Example 1.16d. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” mm. 28–30, hypothetical vocal line,
corresponding to Brahms’s line at mm. 9–11
A{
' *+ + A A*
' ' ? A0 A A A ! A
*
A I
* *
! !
ver - gleich ich ihn dem dei - ni - gen?
1.5 2.5 1 2.5
Murphy.indd 35 5/17/2018 1:24:05 AM

36 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.16e. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” op. 32, mm. 28–30, Brahms’s
vocal line
A{
' *+ + A A* A A *A
28
' ' ? A0 A
*
A ! ! I
*
!
ver - gleich ich ihn dem dei - ni - gen?
1.5 2.5 2 1.5
Example 1.16f. “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” op. 32, mm. 44–60, Brahms’s
vocal line
' ' A+ A+ 'A A { A A0 A0 'A I A+ A+ -A -A { A A ! -A A I

' + * 0 * + * * A *
44 * *
* * *
! !
Durch to - te Wüs - ten wand -le hin, und grü - ne Schat - ten brei - ten sich,
*+
' + 0 *0 0 * 'A A + +
A {
50
+ A*
* *
' ' A -A A A -A A A A A
* *
'A
ob fürch - ter - li - che Schwü -le dort ohn En - de brü - te,
' 'A* A* +
55
'A
* * *
' ' < A I -A A + I

* * *
A A
won - ne - voll, won - ne - won - ne - voll.
It is noteworthy that at the end of each strophe, Brahms employs BRD-

conformant triple-time declamation (similar to that shown at the end of exam-
ple 1.16b) for the final word “wonnevoll.” This gesture, resulting in a resolution
of the dissonance between poetic and musical meter, contributes to a sense of
closure at the ends of sections. Furthermore, the relative slowness of this BRD-
conformant declamation, partitioned off from the preceding quicker decla-
mation and with added repetitions (the poet stated “wonnevoll” only once in
each stanza), creates an appropriate sensation of blissful contemplation of the
beloved. The effect of resolution and contemplation is enhanced in the third
and most modified of the four strophes (ex. 1.16f). Here, the unusual decla-
mation is allied with the minor mode, with strong pitch dissonances, and with
a modulation to ♭II—a large-scale dissonance against the tonic harmony. All
of this occurs during the most negative images in the song—deserts, shadows,
fearful sultriness. The restoration of BRD-conformant declamation at “won-
nevoll” coincides with the disappearance of pitch dissonance, and with the
return to the tonic key in the major mode.
Murphy.indd 36 5/17/2018 1:24:28 AM

Example 1.17a. “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line in duple meter
1= /
A A A* A
*
A A A A A A N
A A N
* * * * * *
Ruft die Mut - ter, ruft der Toch - ter ü - ber drei Ge - bir - ge:
2 2 2 2 2 2 4 etc.
A A A A A A A A A A N N
A A
“Ist, o Ma - ra, lie - be Toch - ter, ist ge - bleicht das Lin - nen?”
Example 1.17b. “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, hypothetical BRD-conformant vocal line

in triple meter
N A N A N{
**
A N A N A N A N N{
* * * * * *
3 3 3 3 3 3 6
Example 1.17c. “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, mm. 3–10, Brahms’s vocal line
A+{ A A { + A0 A {
2 2 2
0 * + + *+
{
3 *
A A A{
A A{ ! ! A A A A @
* * * * *
A
1 2 1 2 1 1 3 [1] etc.
A { A! A { A{ A A {
*+ 0 * *+ 0 * +
7
+
*
+ A{ A A{ A A A @
* * *
A A
“Ist, o Ma - ra, lie - be Toch - ter, ist ge - bleicht das Lin - nen?”
In some of Brahms’s songs in an unexpected meter, his metric choice

has to do with deep-level, large-scale aspects of the poem.30 One such song
is “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, no. 9. The poem is in regular trochaic, therefore
duple meter; a hypothetical 42 setting is shown in example 1.17a. A BRD-
conformant triple-meter setting would, of course, be feasible (ex. 1.17b).
Brahms begins with an unexpected vocal rhythm within the latter meter (ex.
1.17c): he frequently elongates the second and fourth stresses of lines (mm.
3–4, 7–9, 11, etc.), and places them on second beats of the 43 measures. The
elongations occur at important words—“mother,” “daughter,” “Mara” (the
daughter’s name), etc.—so that the declamation feels logical, even if the sec-
ond-beat accents result in metrical displacement dissonance.
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38 ❧ chapter one
This displaced but regular rhythm alternates with another that departs
more drastically from the expectations for 43 meter and, in some respects,
also from the BRD. This rhythm involves two dotted eighth/sixteenth-note
groups followed by a pair of tied quarter-notes, the tie crossing a bar-line (e.g.,
mm. 5–6, 17–18). The tied pair, always associated with a strongly stressed syl-
lable, produces an appropriate durational accent; on the other hand, the tie
always begins on a third beat, so that the strongly stressed syllable is metrically
under-accented.
While in one sense this rhythm deviates from the BRD, in another sense
it approaches it: the rhythm results in a hemiola (see the 2s above the staves
in example 1.17c). It is as if the duple meter of the poem is rattling the bars
of the triple meter within which Brahms has imprisoned it. The duple meter
becomes more prominent from measure 21 (ex. 1.17d); the displaced triple
layer disappears for a time, and the elongated and registrally accented second
beat in measure 20 initiates a series of duple groupings of the quarter-note
pulse (as shown by the numbers above the vocal line in measures 20–35). Not
all of the duple groupings realize the implications of a regular duple-meter
BRD; the words “taucht ich noch das” in measures 21 and 23, for example, go
by very quickly, while “Linnen” in measures 21–22 and 23–24 is elongated (cf.
mm. 5–6 and 17–18). But in measures 25–27 and 31–33, the duple groups are
perfectly in accord with the BRD; the vocal rhythm is much like the hypotheti-
cal one shown in example 1.17a, except that there are some dotted rhythms. At
this point, Brahms maintains the triple-meter notation—but slightly later (after
a brief resurgence of the initial non-conformant triple-meter rhythms in mea-
sures 39ff.), the poem’s duple meter succeeds in breaking out of its triple-meter
cage (ex. 1.17e). The process of liberation of an “imprisoned” duple meter is
repeated in compressed form in the final section of the song (mm. 101–28).
There are at least two ways of interpreting the relationship between this pro-
cess and the meaning of the poem. First, it is noteworthy that the duple meter
is first freed of its triple-meter shackles when the maiden progresses from
announcing that she will curse her lover to actually cursing him; therefore,
the full emergence of the concealed duple meter (originating in the poem)
coincides with and possibly represents the surfacing of the maiden’s repressed
hostility. But a second interpretation is perhaps more convincing. The maid-
en’s curses are strangely ambivalent; immediately after wishing some dire fate
upon her lover, she recasts her wish in positive terms (e.g., the wish that he
would hang himself on an evil tree yields to the wish that he would cling to her
white throat). The maiden’s ambivalence is perfectly mirrored by the prevail-
ing conflict between the duple poetic meter and the notated triple meter of
the music.31
“O kühler Wald,” op. 72, no. 3, is another striking example of the perva-
sively irregular setting of a regular poem. The simple BRD of Brentano’s poem
Murphy.indd 38 5/17/2018 1:25:37 AM

Example 1.17d. “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, mm. 19–35, Brahms’s vocal line
+ *+ 0 * { + *+ 0 *+ 0 ** A{ A A { A A
A { A!
*
2 2 2 2 2
A -A { A A A A{ A A { A A A A @
A{
19 *
* * * *
! !
“Nicht ins Was - ser, lie - be Mutter, taucht ich noch das Lin - nen, taucht ich noch das Lin -
1 2 1 2 1 1 3 [1] 1 1
A A -A + A0 A { A+ N
2 2 2 2 2 (2) 2 2 2
{
24
I A+ A A
*
A{ A A A A @ A
* * * * * * *
A
- nen, denn, o sieh, es hat das Was - ser Ja - wo mir ge - trü - bet.
4 2 2 2 2 [1] 1 2 3
+ A A{ A N
(2) 2 2 2 2 (2) 2 2 2
A
A{ !
30
A A A A
*
< A{ A A A A @
* * * * * * *

Wie dann erst, o lie - be Mut -ter, hätt ich es ge - bleicht schon!”
[2] 2 2 2 2 [1] 1 2 3
Example 1.17e. “Mädchenfluch,” op. 69, mm. 51–58, Brahms’s vocal line
* + * * A{ A A{ I
51
A{ A A{ A A A A A A A I A A A A
*
* * * * *

Gä - be Gott im hel - len Him - mel, dass er sich er - häng - e!
2 2 2 2 2 2 4
could be notated in even half-note values, and in duple meter (ex. 1.18a), but
elongation of all or alternate stressed syllables yields the triple-time variants
of the BRD shown in example 1.18b and 1.18c. Brahms’s setting, shown in
example 1.18d, eschews the duple BRD (although the hemiola at measures 8–9
could be regarded as a momentary allusion to it), and uses the triple variants
only occasionally. In measures 11–13, and only there, he employs the rhythm
shown in example 1.18b,32 and in measures 4, 16, and 18, he uses rhythms
related to example 1.18c. Otherwise, Brahms’s vocal rhythm does not appear
to grow out of the poetic rhythm at all. He does not elongate syllables in the
predictable manners shown in examples 1.18b and 1.18c; elongations always
occur at stressed syllables, but usually at relatively weak stresses (“Wald,” “du,”
“dem,” etc.) rather than at the strongest ones (“rauschest,” “Liebchen”). Why
this tension between poetic and musical rhythm? Again, there is a large-scale
textual reason. The first stanza of Brentano’s poem presents the positive and
comforting images of a cool, soughing forest in which the beloved walks, and of
Murphy.indd 39 5/17/2018 1:25:59 AM

40 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.18a. “O kühler Wald,” op. 72, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line in duple meter
1= *
'
' '' N N
*
N
* * * *
N N N N N N
O küh - ler Wald, wo rau - schest du, in
2 2 2 2 etc.
'' * N N* N
*
' ' N N K K
*
dem mein Lieb - chen geht?
Example 1.18b. “O kühler Wald,” op. 72, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line in triple meter, with elongation of all stressed syllables
'
' '' N N
*
3
* * * *
3 N 3 N 3
O küh - ler Wald, wo rau - schest du,
3 3 3 3
Example 1.18c. “O kühler Wald,” op. 72, beginning, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line in triple meter with elongation of alternate stressed syllables
' N{ A A* A N{
' '' A N{
A
* *
N{ @
* * * * * *
A A A A A
O küh - ler Wald, wo rau - schest du, in dem mein Lieb - chen geht?
2 1 2 1 2 1 2
an echo that understands the poet’s song—but these images are presented as
goals of desire rather than actualities. The second stanza renders these images
even more elusive. The forest where the beloved walks exists only within the
poet’s heart, not in the external world. The echo is silenced by pain, and the
wind disperses the poet’s songs.33 The dissonance between poetic and musi-
cal rhythm throughout the song subtly reinforces the predominantly pessimis-
tic tone of the poem. More specifically, the music’s apparent inability to join
comfortably with the poem suggests the poet’s incapacity to reach the place of
understanding and love for which he longs.
Murphy.indd 40 5/17/2018 1:26:20 AM

Example 1.18d. “O kühler Wald,” Brahms’s vocal line
' A{
' '' A A{
+ * A + *
*
@ @
* *
A N A N A
O küh - ler Wald, wo rau - schest du, in
1.25 1.75 1.25 1.25 [.5] 2
' * A A* A
4
' '' N{ + * A
*
N K @ A N @
* *
A A{
dem mein Lieb - chen geht? O Wie - der - hall, wo
1 1.5 [1.5] 1.25 1.75 1.25
'' * + * @ A N{ -A N* A -A N* 'A A N*
7
' ' A{ A N
* * *
A @ K
*
lau - schest du, der gern mein Lied, mein Lied ver - steht?
1.75 2 2 2 2
''
A{ A N
11
+ * @ A
*
' ' K K 3
* * *
N 'N '3 -N
Im Her - zen tief, da rauscht der Wald, da
3 3 1.75 1.25 [.5] 1.25
' ' A{ A N
'' * + * A A* @ A N{ A A{
15
A
* *
@ A N{ K
* * * *
'A N
rauscht der Wald, in dem mein Lieb - chen geht, in Schmer - zen schlief der
1.25 [.5] 2 1 1.5 [1.5] 2 2.5 2
' ' 'A { A N{

'' * @ A A A A A A A
19
A A -A N A A N
* * * *
K
* * * * * * *
Wie - der - hall, die Lie - der sind ver - weht, die Lie - der sind ver -
1.75 1 2 1.5 [1.5] 1 1.5
' N{
23
' '' N{ 3* A @
* *
-A -A K <
* *
weht, sind ver - weht.

3
Murphy.indd 41 5/17/2018 1:26:36 AM

42 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.19a. “In Waldeseinsamkeit,” op. 85, hypothetical BRD-conformant

vocal line
1= /
A* A A* A A * @ K
( A* A A* A A* A -A A
* * *
@ A
* *
A A A A
Ich sass zu dei - nen Fü - ssen in Wal-des - ein - sam - keit; Win - des - at - men,
2 2 2 1 [1] 2 2 2 [3] 2 2
A -A A A -A A A A A -A A -A A @ A
* * *
A @ @ @ A
* * * * * * * *
A A
Seh - nen ging durch die Wip - fel breit. In stum - mem Rin - gen senkt ich das
2 [1] 2 2 2 [2] 1.5 2 2 1 [1] 2
A* -A A* A -A* @ @ A 'A* A -A* 'A* + *

-A @ A A A A A
* * * *

* *
A A
Haupt in dei -nen Schoss, und mei - ne be - ben - den Hän - de um dei - ne Knie ich
2 2 [2] 2 2 1 2 [1] 2 2 2
* A* A A* A A* A A* A A
* *
A @ @ A A @ A
*
A
schloss. Die Son - ne ging hin - un - ter, der Tag ver - glüh - te
[2] 2 2 2 1 [1] 2 2 2
A* A A A A* A @ @ -A* A A A* A
* *
A @ K A @ K
*

all, fer - ne, fer - ne fer - ne, sang ei-ne Nach - ti - gall.
[3] 2 2 2 [2] 2 3
A Final Example: “In Waldeseinsamkeit”
I conclude with a discussion of a song that uses a number of the declama-

tory devices mentioned earlier with consummate artistry. The first stanza of
“In Waldeseinsamkeit,” op. 85, no. 6, begins by outlining the situation: the
poet sits at his beloved’s feet in the lonely forest, the wind breathing through
the trees. But the emotional intensity increases sharply with the statement
that yearning breathes through the trees along with the wind. Brahms sets
the matter-of-fact beginning with primarily BRD-conformant declamation;
a comparison of the opening of his vocal line, shown in example 1.19b, to
the hypothetical BRD-conformant line in example 1.19a, reveals only minor
differences. The irregularities in foot durations in Brahms’s setting result
from his occasional use of dotted rhythms, and from his use of a half-note at
“Füssen” instead of the expected quarter-note. At measure 8, there is a more
significant deviation from the BRD: the word “Sehnen” (longing)—precisely
Murphy.indd 42 5/17/2018 1:27:10 AM

the word that projects the poem into a more emotion-laden realm—is sub-
stantially elongated.
The setting of the second stanza (mm. 10–19) departs even more drastically
from the BRD. The shorter note values in measures 11–12 do not in them-
selves disrupt the BRD; because Brahms uses melismas, the rate of declamation
remains unchanged. These faster note values, however, render the subsequent
three quarter-note duration of the word “Haupt” (m. 12) all the more striking.
It is appropriate that this word be linked durationally to the earlier elongation
at “Sehnen,” for the protagonist’s placing of his head in the beloved’s lap is a
gesture that grows out of his longing.34
After the elongation of “Haupt,” the sudden increase in declamatory pace at
“und meine bebenden Hände” (and my trembling hands) is shocking. Here, the
eighth-note rhythm does have a direct impact on the BRD, for the declamation
is syllabic rather than melismatic; notice the dramatic reduction in foot duration
during the line “und meine bebenden Hände.”35 The declamation remains quick
throughout the description of the protagonist’s encircling the beloved’s knees
with his trembling hands. During his setting of this portion of the poem, Brahms
also several times presents strong stresses on beats other than the downbeat.
The final stanza of the poem describes the quiet of evenfall. Brahms begins
his setting of this stanza (mm. 20ff) with the slow, BRD-conformant declama-
tion of the opening, which is then further slowed during the threefold state-
ment of the word “ferne” (distant)—an indescribably melancholy effect, truly
evocative of great distance.
The deviations from the BRD in the central section effectively highlight the
agitation of the protagonist, in such marked contrast to the peace of nature
that surrounds him. Here, as always, Brahms attunes his declamation in a mas-
terly manner to the emotional content of the poem.
Conclusion
We have seen that Brahms declaims poetry in many different ways. Sometimes
he stays close to the expected rhythm of declamation; at other times he ven-
tures far from it. Two diametrically opposed categories of settings are espe-
cially common: those in which the bulk of the vocal line is BRD-conformant
and deviations (usually in the form of elongations) occur only occasionally;
and those in which the majority of the vocal line does not conform to the
BRD, but in which there are occasional allusions to the BRD so that the poetic
rhythm is not entirely absent from the setting (recall the refrain “wonnevoll” in
“Wie bist du meine Königin,” the hemiolas in “Mädchenfluch,” and the BRD-
conformant moments in “O kühler Wald”). Brahms’s declamatory choices
can invariably be explained with reference to the text; his unusual, unpredict-
able declamation or, conversely, his progressions from BRD-conformant to
Murphy.indd 43 5/17/2018 1:27:24 AM

44 ❧ chapter one
Example 1.19b. “In Waldeseinsamkeit,” op. 85, Brahms’s vocal line
A* { A A* A N* A* { A A* A A * @ K
3
( A -A A
* * *
A A
* *
A A A
Ich sass zu dei - nen Fü - ssen in Wal - des - ein - sam keit; Win - des - at - men,
2.5 1.5 3 1 [1] 2.5 1.5 1.5 [3] 2 2
/
* A -A A -A * { -A* + * A* A
8
A A A A @ @ I A A A A A -A A -A A A A
* * *
A
* * *

Seh - nen ging durch die Wip - fel breit. In stum - mem Rin - gen senkt ich das Haupt
3.5 [1]
/ 2 1.5 2 [2.5] 1.5 2 2 .5 [1] 3.5
/
A -A A* A -N* I A 'A* A -A* 'A* + *+ + IA -A* A *+ + * I A -A* A
13 * * * *
A A -A A A A

in dei - nen Schoss, und mei - ne be - ben -den Hän-de umdei - ne Knie ich schloss, und meine
2 3 [.5] 1 .83 .66 1 [.5] 1 1 1.5 [.5]
@ A A{ A A A
* *+ + + * + *
17
A -A A+ A+ A IA EA+ A A N

* * *
A N K K
* * * *

be - ben - den Hän - de um dei - ne Knie ich schloss. Die Son - ne ging hin-
3 3 (as in m. 3)
* A* { A A* A A * @ K A A A
22
N* @ N @ -N
* * *
N A A @
* *
A
un - ter, der Tag ver - glüh - te all, fer - ne, fer - ne, fer - ne
4 4 4
A A A { A A N* {
/
[2]
-N* N* A A N{
28

* *
A @ @ <
* *
sang ei - ne Nach - ti - gall, sang ei - ne Nach - ti - gall.

4 3 [1] 4 7
non-conformant declamation (and vice versa) adds a significant expressive

dimension to his lieder.
In his essay “The Relation to the Text,” Arnold Schoenberg wrote, “In all
music composed to poetry, the exactitude of the reproduction of the events
is as irrelevant to the artistic value as is the resemblance of a portrait to its
model.”36 Brahms is not always a realistic portraitist, but with his distinctive
declamation, he often captures elements of the character of his “model”—the
poem—that an exact reproduction of the poetic rhythm would have missed.
Murphy.indd 44 5/17/2018 1:27:32 AM

Notes
1. Elisabeth von Herzogenberg to Johannes Brahms, March 1, 1878; in Johannes
Brahms: The Herzogenberg Correspondence, ed. Max Kalbeck, trans. Hannah
Bryant (New York: Da Capo Press, 1987), 48. Cited in Heather Platt, “Text-
Music Relations in Lieder of Johannes Brahms” (Ph. D. diss., City University of
New York, 1992), 63. Another source that implies dissatisfaction with Brahms’s
declamation on the part of someone from his circle is a manuscript of “Die
Kränze,” op. 46, no. 1, in which someone has penciled in a revision of the dec-
lamation in m. 12; see Jürgen Thym, “Johannes Brahms’s Autograph of “Die
Kränze,” Moldenhauer Archives at the Library of Congress, http://memory.
loc.gov/ammem/collections/moldenhauer/2428116.pdf (accessed 3 April
2015).
2. “Hugo Wolf and the Reception of Brahms’s Lieder,” in Brahms Studies 2, ed.
David Brodbeck (Lincoln: The American Brahms Society and University of
Nebraska Press, 1998), 97–99.
3. See Wilhelm Kienzl, Die musikalische Declamation dargestellt an der Hand der
Entwickelungssgeschichte des deutschen Gesanges (Leipzig: Verlag von Heinrich
Matthes, 1885), 77–80; Hugo Wolf, letter to Melanie Köchert, August 20,
1890, in Hugo Wolf Briefe an Melanie Köchert, ed. Franz Grasberger (Tutzing:
Schneider, 1964), 11–12; Ernest Newman, “Brahms and Wolf as Lyricists,” The
Musical Times 56, nos. 871–72 (September and October 1915): 523–25 and
585–88 respectively, and “Hugo Wolf and the Lyric,” The Musical Times 56,
nos. 873–74 (November and December 1915): 649–50 and 718–22 respec-
tively. These sources are cited and discussed in Heather Platt, “Jenner Versus
Wolf: The Critical Reception of Brahms’s Songs,” Journal of Musicology 13, no. 3
(1995): 381–82.
4. Platt discusses these accusations in “Hugo Wolf and The Reception of Brahms’s
Lieder,” esp. 104–5.
5. See Gustav Jenner, “Johannes Brahms as Man, Teacher, and Artist,” trans.
Susan Gillespie, in Brahms and His World, ed. Walter Frisch (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1990), 197.
6. Richard Heuberger, Erinnerungen an Johannes Brahms, 2nd ed., ed. Kurt
Hofmann (Tutzing: Schneider, 1976), 14.
7. George Bozarth, booklet for Johannes Brahms Lieder (Berlin: Deutsche
Grammophon Gesellschaft, 1983), 42–43; cited in Platt, “Text and Music
Relations,” 29.
8. Compare, for example, mm. 5–8 of Brahms’s two settings of Hoffmann von
Fallersleben’s “Liebe und Frühling I,” op. 3, nos. 2a and 2b: Brahms tries out
two different metrical placements of the lines “wie sich weiße Winden schlin-
gen / luftig . . . ,” beginning on the downbeat in the first setting and mid-
measure in the second.
9. Wilhelm Kienzl, Die musikalische Declamation, 77.
10. Hugo Riemann, “Die Taktfreiheiten in Brahms’ Liedern,” Die Musik 12, no. 1
(1912): 11.
Murphy.indd 45 5/17/2018 1:27:54 AM

46 ❧ chapter one
11. George Bozarth, booklet for Johannes Brahms Lieder, 42–43.

12. “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas: Rhythm, Text Expression, and Form in the Solo
Lieder” (Ph. D. diss., University of Rochester, 1997).
13. Malin, Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German Lied (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2010), 153.
14. See Rohr, “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas: Rhythm, Text Expression, and Form in
the Solo Lieder” (PhD diss., Eastman School of Music, 1997), 44, 149–53, and
Malin, Songs in Motion, 154. Heather Platt refers to the possibility of “program-
matic declamation” (“Text-Music Relations,” 80). She cites Rufus Hallmark and
Ann Fehn’s article “Text and Music in Schubert’s Pentameter Lieder,” 223–44,
and Jürgen Thym’s “The Solo Settings of Eichendorff’s Poems by Schumann
and Wolf” (PhD diss., Case Western Reserve University, 1974), 317–22, as ear-
lier treatments of this topic with reference to other composers.
15. I discuss the concept of BRD at greater length in “Fancy Footwork: Distortions
of Poetic Rhythm in Robert Schumann’s Late Songs,” Indiana Theory Review
28 (2010): 69–73. See also “Motion and Emotion: The Expressive Use of
Declamatory Irregularity in the Lieder of Richard Strauss,” Music Theory and
Analysis 1 (October 2014): 8–11.
16. Deborah Rohr warns against these notions in “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,” 7.
17. The idea of multi-level stress in verse is propounded in numerous contempo-
rary sources, for example, Nigel Fabb and Morris Halle, Meter in Poetry: A New
Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).
18. My multi-level asterisk notation is adapted from the notation developed by
Morris Halle, who employs it in all of his writings on poetic stress, including
the work cited above. Not all poems require two layers of asterisks.
19. Musical notation of poetic rhythm has frequently been used in the analysis
of poetic rhythm. Poets who had some musical knowledge have attempted
to capture aspects of poetic rhythm with musical notation: in his intriguing
poem Concerto dramatico, for instance, Goethe assigned appropriate time signa-
tures to the various rhythmically contrasting sections. For recent examples of
the use of musical notation in discussions of poetic rhythm, see R. T. Oehrle,
“Temporal Structures in Verse Design,” in Phonetics and Phonology, Rhythm and
Meter, ed. Paul Kiparsky and Gilbert Youmans (San Diego: Academic Press,
1989), 87–119 (esp. p. 91), and John Halle and Fred Lerdahl, “A Generative
Textsetting Model,” Current Musicology 55 (1993): 3–23.
20. I restrict the square-bracket notation to rests at line ends (in poems in which
line ends are articulated by silences), and to unexpected rests within lines. I
absorb less salient, regularly occurring rests within lines into the poetic feet.
21. George Bozarth makes this argument in “The Lieder of Johannes Brahms,
1869–71: Studies in Chronology and Compositional Process” (PhD diss.,
Princeton University, 1978), 98.
22. Malin discusses such changes and their possible expressive motivation in
Brahms’s “Liebestreu,” op. 3, no. 1, in Songs in Motion, 156–57.
23. The very opening of the poem is not strictly iambic; “Wie wenn im” would be
declaimed as a dactyl. Brahms sets “Wie wenn” as an iamb, thus maintaining
Murphy.indd 46 5/17/2018 1:28:01 AM

rhythmic consistency at the opening of his vocal line; this forced regularity
functions as a foil for the latter irregularities.
24. This line departs from the prevailing iambic tetrameter, thus constituting an
irregularity in this mostly rhythmically regular poem: it consists of three feet—
an iamb and two amphibrachs. The surprising brevity of this line accounts in
part for the three-measure duration of Brahms’s setting—but had Brahms so
desired, he could have elongated it by applying in m. 36 the melismatic setting
used for “schauert” in m. 35. He was clearly aiming for an unpredictable decla-
mation at this point of the song.
25. Deborah Rohr briefly discusses the irregular vocal rhythm of “Meerfahrt,”
“Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,” 29–30.
26. Scott Murphy pointed out to me that the unexpectedness of this hemiola in
the vocal incipit is mitigated by the last two measures of the piano introduction
(mm. 5–6), where each of three harmonies occupies a half-note duration.
27. Deborah Rohr mentions this practice in “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,” 249; she
cites the Daumer settings “Wenn du nur zuweilen lächelst,” op. 57, no. 2, and
“Unbewegte laue Luft, op. 57, no. 8, as examples of duple-meter texts set in
triple meter.
28. Walter Hammermann provides a hypothetical vocal line in 42 time, albeit a
less regular one, in “Brahms als Liedkomponist: Eine theoretisch-ästhetische
Stiluntersuchung” (PhD diss., Universität Leipzig, 1912), 66.
29. Konrad Giebeler discusses the aptness of Brahms’s vocal rhythm at “deini-
gen” in Die Lieder von Johannes Brahms: Ein Beitrag zur Musikgeschichte des 19.
Jahrhunderts (PhD diss., Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, 1959), 36.
30. Deborah Rohr gives one example: she suggests that the conflict between duple
poetic meter and triple musical meter in “Wenn du nur zuweilen lächelst,” op.
57, no. 2, is linked to the irony in the poem (see “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,”
249).
31. In a setting by Nicholas Rubinstein of what can only be conjectured as a dif-
ferent translation of the same anonymous Serbian poem, the ambivalent,
conflicted remarks of the maiden are split between the mother and daughter:
the mother does the cursing, and the daughter does the positive recasting.
Perhaps Brahms’s translator, Siegfried Kapper, got it wrong and fused what was
originally a dialogue into the daughter’s speeches. If so, this was a felix culpa;
the ambivalence in the daughter’s speeches inspired interesting conflicts in
Brahms’s setting.
32. Rohr mentions this passage as a significant turning point in both poem and
music, but does not comment on its conformance with the poetic rhythm; see
“Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,” 95.
33. Rohr discusses alternatives for the performance of this unexpected vocal
rhythm, “Brahms’s Metrical Dramas,” 97–98.
34. The two moments are also linked by the use of the highest vocal register; I
thank Scott Murphy for this observation.
35. Some hastening of the declamation is built into the poem: the word “beben-
den” contains an “extra” syllable, which must be pronounced quickly (so that
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48 ❧ chapter one
“trembling” is suggested even by the poetic rhythm). Brahms’s introduction of

triplet rhythm, however, renders the hastening much more prominent than it
needed to be (see m. 15 of ex. 1.19a for a more leisurely option).
36. Arnold Schoenberg, “The Relation to the Text,” in Style and Idea, ed. Leonard
Stein, trans. Leo Black (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 144.
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Chapter Two
Temporal Disruptions
and Shifting Levels of
Discourse in Brahms’s Lieder
Heather Platt
In his articles on Brahms’s lieder in the 1915 Musical Times, Ernest Newman
maligned the composer’s rhythm as “primitive,” and opined that many
instances of supposed rhythmic subtlety are merely manneristic “metrical fidg-
etiness.”1 Although a century has passed since these aspersions were cast, only
in recent decades have music theorists developed the types of analytical tools
needed to refute criticisms such as Newman’s, and to fully grasp the complex-
ity and expressive power of the rhythms in Brahms’s lieder. Yonatan Malin has
offered one of the most significant contributions to this endeavor.2 Drawing on
the rhythmic theories developed by Harald Krebs and Richard Cohn, he parses
lieder using the types of syncopations and hemiolas that Krebs labels as dis-
placement and grouping dissonances, respectively. Notwithstanding the acuity
and sensitivity of Malin’s analysis, these are not the only rhythmic techniques
that contribute to the expressiveness of Brahms’s lieder. In this article I will
explore the types of abrupt temporal disruptions and subsequent slowing of the
prevailing pulse that Frank Samarotto has termed changes in temporal plane.3
The most startling of these types of shifts occur in shorter songs, which do not
include other strongly contrasting passages, and the new pulse is maintained
for a brief time before the initial pacing is restored. These contrasting planes
are not accompanied by notated changes in tempo or labels such as recitative,
but they are paired with dissonances that usually create a harmonic diversion.
Despite their disruptive character, the rhythms and harmonies of the slower
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50 ❧ chapter two
temporal plane are tightly integrated with the surrounding phrases. Moreover,
their expressive or dramatic power is a significant element in Brahms’s percep-
tive interpretations of his songs’ texts, and in many cases their relationships to
the sections in the prevailing faster pace (including the conflicts they might
create) are crucial to a song’s dramatic trajectory.
I will focus on two songs, “O kühler Wald” (op. 72, no. 3) from 1877 and “Mein
Herz ist schwer” (op. 94, no. 3) from 1883–84, in which the appearance of unex-
pected elongated pulses is coordinated with changes to other elements, includ-
ing harmony, phrase structure, texture, or dynamics. In both songs, the arrival of
the slower temporal plane is preceded by an abrupt discontinuation of the estab-
lished pacing. As Robert S. Hatten has noted, these types of interruptions to the
unmarked or expected flow of events are very much like “the way a stream of con-
sciousness may shift from present to past event or imagined future.”4 That is, the
new temporal plane creates a shift in the level of discourse. “O kühler Wald” and
“Mein Herz ist schwer” are characterized by some of the most dramatic temporal
disruptions in all of Brahms’s lieder. By contrast, many of his other lieder employ
changes in pacing to underscore less dramatic changes in voice or emphases. In
order to further highlight the unusual aspects of “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz
ist schwer,” I will conclude by briefly describing works demonstrating these types of
less pronounced shifts in the level of discourse.
“O kühler Wald” (Op. 72, No. 3)
Brahms excerpted two stanzas from Clemens Brentano’s four-stanza poem “O

kühler Wald,” and arranged them so that the first stanza’s question “Where do
you murmur, O cool forest?” is answered by the second stanza’s “deep in my
heart.”5 As the score in example 2.1 shows, the two-measure segment setting
this answer strongly contrasts with the surrounding phrases (mm. 12–13). It is
the most chromatic in the song, it has longer notes and softer dynamics, and it
begins after a cadence in which the concluding dominant seventh slowly fades
away to silence. It is as if time has been suspended, and the protagonist jour-
neys deep into his heart—to an earlier time—where he adoringly gazes at his
beloved. The distance of this memory is clearly marked by the sudden appear-
ance of ♭VI and the concomitant turn to the darker, pianissimo tonic minor.
O kühler Wald,
Wo rauschest du,
In dem mein Liebchen geht?
O Wiederhall,
Wo lauschest du,
Der gern mein Lied versteht?
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Example 2.1. “O kühler Wald,” op. 72, no. 3
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Example 2.1.—(concluded)
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temporal disr uptions ❧ 53
Im Herzen tief,
Da rauscht der Wald,
In dem mein Liebchen geht,
In Schmerzen schlief
Der Wiederhall,
Die Lieder sind verweht.
Where do you murmur, O cool forest in which my darling walks? Where do

you listen, O echo that gladly understands my song?
Deep in my heart, there murmurs the forest in which my darling walks;
the echo has fallen asleep in sorrows; the songs are dispersed.6
This type of momentary recollection of a lost love is of course the topic of

numerous lieder: “Nachtigall” (op. 97, no. 1) is just one of Brahms’s other lie-
der in which such a bittersweet memory is set to changes in pacing, dynamics,
and texture. William Kinderman describes similar instances in Schubert’s lie-
der as representing a change in perspective from the external to the internal—
“from emotional desolation to the consolation of the imagination, the memory
of the beloved.”7 Of the passages he mentions, the recollection of the kiss in
Schubert’s “Gretchen am Spinnrade” is the most similar to this segment in “O
kühler Wald” in that it involves an abrupt change in pacing.
While Brahms could have been influenced by the temporal nuances in
Schubert’s lieder, he may also have been influenced by the types of abrupt
and dramatic changes in pacing that characterize the instrumental works of
Beethoven, as for example in the first movement of the String Quartet op.
130 (see m. 55ff.). Samarotto developed the concept of the temporal plane
in response to these types of shifts. He defines temporal plane in an abstract
manner “as a segment of relatively stable conditions”; and a change in plane
as a sudden “change of several attributes at once and subsequent maintenance
of the new set of attributes.”8 These contrasting segments and phrases, there-
fore, are not only characterized by a new level of pacing, but also by changes
in other parameters, such as dynamics and phrase structure, and, most nota-
bly, by the introduction of chromatic harmonies. As a result of these changes
occurring simultaneously a fissure with the preceding phrases is created; a
break that Samarotto terms a disjunction.
Samarotto proffers measures 89–116 of the first movement of Beethoven’s
Sonata for Violin and Piano, op. 47, as an example of this type of abrupt
change in plane.9 Like the excerpt in “O kühler Wald,” the new temporal
plane is aurally marked by an abrupt shift in pacing, from eighth-notes to
whole- and half-notes, coordinated with changes in dynamics, texture, and key.
In both pieces, we have entered a state of suspension, an altered state of exis-
tence. Some of the other changes in plane in Beethoven’s works are somewhat
less marked, but they are nevertheless highly effective. Musical recollections or
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54 ❧ chapter two
quotations, for instance, may be underscored by a change in plane. Samarotto

notes that Beethoven’s quotation of Florestan’s aria in the Leonore Overture
no. 3, op. 72b, creates a new temporal plane, characterized by a change in pac-
ing and the introduction of a chromatic pitch. As Schenker observed in Free
Composition, this passage conveys a sense of distance, as in a dreamlike vision.10
It is this idea of a vision from another time or place that is similar to the effect
Brahms creates in “O kühler Wald.”
In some instances, a phrase in a new temporal plane can be understood
as a parenthetical insertion: it could be excised and the harmonies of the
surrounding measures would nevertheless form a logical structure. The two-
measure segment in the Brahms song functions this way. Even without mea-
sures 12–13 (as shown in ex. 2.2) it is possible to set all of the original text
of stanza two. This could be done by excising Brahms’s repetition of the sec-
ond line and placing the words of line 1, which he used in measures 12–13,
with the tonic chords of measure 14.11 By omitting these two measures the
song’s compound period form becomes clear. The initial antecedent and
consequent (mm. 1–5 and 6–11) create a grand antecedent, which is fol-
lowed by a grand consequent (mm. 14–25), comprising measures 14–17 as
antecedent and measures 18–25 as consequent. The consequent in measures
6–11 is an expanded four-measure phrase (see ex. 2.3) that is substantially
recomposed and extended in measures 18–25. This large-scale antecedent-
consequent arrangement is a perfect match for the question-answer formu-
lation of the text. In effect, the turn to the tonic minor in measures 12–13
interrupts the large-scale harmonic progression and, along with the slower
pacing, it removes us from the time of the ongoing discourse, rather like
a dream sequence in a movie. The significance of the switch to the minor
mode is emphasized by a motivic repetition. Whereas the song’s opening and
closing measures present a descending A-flat major triad in the bass, the low-
est bass notes in measures 11–13 span an A-flat minor triad.
The slower temporal planes in the Leonore excerpt and “O kühler Wald”
involve ♭VI, a chord whose expressive power has been noted by numerous
other writers. In particular, Susan McClary concludes that although the specific
Example 2.2. Hypothetical beginning of stanza 2 of “O kühler Wald”
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Example 2.3. Four-measure prototype of “O kühler Wald,” mm. 6–11
meaning of any particular ♭VI chord or passage ultimately depends on its

context, most instances “articulate central 19th-century problems of discon-
tinuity, loss of confidence in the individual’s ability to determine his or her
fate, and the turn from rational processes to the irrationality characteristic of
Romanticism. A dual perception of external versus internal realities and an
inability (or reluctance) to reconcile them adequately is at the root of these
compositions.”12
While McClary focuses on discursive and parenthetical passages that employ
♭VI, my analysis of “O kühler Wald” goes beyond the slower pacing of the cen-
tral “Im Herzen tief” segment to explore the manner in which its pitches and
rhythms are connected to the surrounding sections of music, and the ways in
which these connections are related to the protagonist’s plight. Ultimately, I
will suggest that the protagonist’s struggle to come to terms with the past, or—
to use McClary’s terminology—with his internal realities, are not only depicted
by the slower temporal plane and its use of ♭VI, but also by the ways in which
Brahms manipulates related pitch and rhythmic material throughout the song.
Brahms’s question-and-answer layout of the text is marked not only by the
“Im Herzen tief” segment but also by a contrasting mood for the grand con-
sequent (mm. 14–25). This new mood implies that the protagonist is not in
the same place or same state of mind as he was at the beginning of the song:
the parenthetical plane in measures 12–13 has been transformative. The new,
more active accompaniment, in which the tenor part transforms the bass’s
descending tonic arpeggio of measures 1–2 into ascending eighth-note figures,
depicts the rustling trees. But even more than this, the continuous arpeggia-
tions loosen up the plodding chords, as if widening our vista as well as our
metrical space. Imagine the rhapsodizing narrator opening up his entire rela-
tionship to the listener or reaching his arms out to embrace the image of his
beloved. This opening of a broader metrical space is supported by the sub-
sequent melodic phrases, which unlike those of stanza 1, remain in the high
register and mostly employ stepwise motion.
Scott Murphy interprets the transformation in stanza 2 as the site of a fasci-
nating reversal: “The narrator’s subtle but provocative spatial metaphors open
up a dual space where a forest can literally contain a human heart (as the heart
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56 ❧ chapter two
of the ‘Liebchen’ of the first stanza), but . . . [can also] figuratively be ‘Im
Herzen.’” He notes that a similar reversal occurs metrically, where the tonic
meter (mm. 1–10) contains the “thinner” meter of measures 12–13, but then is
itself contained by the “thicker” meter in measures 14–22.”13
The transformative character of measures 12–13 is also suggested by the
somewhat unconventional treatment of the unusually voiced augmented sixth
in measure 13, which leads from the two-measure segment into the beginning
of the main part of the new stanza. The resolution of this dissonance comes as
something of a shock, as the augmented sixth moves directly to the tonic, A-flat
major. Commentators have noted the striking effect of this type of unusually
voiced common-tone augmented sixth in some of Brahms’s other composi-
tions, though some of these instances, including the entry into the recapitu-
lation in the first movement of the Clarinet Sonata in F minor, op. 120, no.
1 (mm. 136–39), involve a resolution to a minor tonic. In “O kühler Wald”
the return of the major tonic is all the more startling because the harmonies
preceding the dissonance are in the tonic minor.14 Schubert used the same
augmented sixth-to-major tonic progression, with the common tone in the bass
voice to frame “Am Meer,” a song that Max Kalbeck claimed Brahms alluded
to in the first version of his op. 8 Piano Trio. Like the protagonist in “O kühler
Wald,” the narrator in Schubert’s song speaks of times past and the woman he
still loves.15
Despite the striking contrasts of measures 12–13, and notwithstanding
the related rhythmic and psychological transformations, the harmonies and
rhythms of this central plane (mm. 12–13) are woven into the fabric of both
stanzas. The slower temporal plane begins with an F-flat chord followed by a
C♭7, and both F♭ and C♭ pitches reappear in the augmented sixth that con-
cludes the segment (m. 13). Although measure 12 is the song’s first use of F♭,
a C-flat chord had already appeared, in measure 8, at the center of a six-mea-
sure phrase. As the prototype in example 2.3 suggests, this phrase is based on
a four-measure model.16 In Brahms’s version the third measure of this model
is expanded by the insertion of a chromatic progression in which the C♭ first
inversion chord and the melody’s momentary ascent to the high E♭ color the
word “Lied.” But the C-flat first inversion chord, with its reintroduction of the
piano’s lowest register, arrives after the high E♭, undercutting its strength and
evoking the protagonist’s wistful mood. This phrase expansion, with its word
repetitions, slower declamation rate, and hemiola, also creates a slight deceler-
ation that subtly prepares for the cessation of motion on the dominant seventh
in measure 11, which in turn provides a more immediate transition into the
slower rhythmic plane.
During the second phrase of stanza 2, C♭, F♭, and G♭s return as part of
the tonicization of the tonic minor, which portrays the sorrowful sleep (mm.
17–19). And although C♭ does not return again, F♭ and G♭s reappear during
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the song’s last phrase (see the annotations in ex. 2.1). At the same time the
melody repeats the descending minor third, E♭ to C, which had first appeared
on the words “mein Liebchen” (m. 4), the bass line descends A♭–G♭–F–F♭,
a chromatic variant of the falling third that had set “Herzen tief.” In this way
measure 22 brings together the main themes of the piece: the lost beloved, the
heartache, and the songs. The melody’s following, final gesture chromatically
ascends a major third, from A♭ to C. As well as contrasting with the descending
motions that characterize so much of the piece, including the melody of the
“Im Herzen tief” segment, this rising third contrasts with the bass’s subsequent
final arpeggiation down to the tonic. In this way, these contrasting vectors in
the outer voices graphically depict the dispersion of the protagonist’s songs.
Aside from these pitch relationships, the rhythms of the “Im Herzen tief”
segment are also connected with those of the encircling stanzas. The type of
whole- and half-note rhythms that characterize this segment had appeared in the
bass line in measure 1, and in the tenor line at measures 4–5 as well as during
the phrase expansion in measures 8–11. Nestled in these low registers with the
thick, tree-like chords, these sustained rhythms are associated with the woman
whose image is bought into focus as the tenor line of measures 10–11 ascends
and leads into the “Im Herzen tief” segment (mm. 12–13). After this segment,
however, half-note rhythms only reappear in the bass in measures 18–19, during
the echo’s minor-mode sleep, and at the final alla breve cadence (mm. 23–25).
As the voice begins its final ascent to C (m. 23), the piano seems to falter
halfway through the word “verweht” (scatters), creating a low level disjunction.
The eighth-note pulse of stanza 2 breaks off and the piano remains silent for
the downbeat of measure 23. When it recommences on the second beat, the
piano initiates a new half-note syncopated pattern, alternating notes and rests,
that works against the melody’s adherence to the notated meter. As a result
of the rests, the return of the A-flat chordal motif from measures 1–2, with
its drawn out bass arpeggiation of the tonic triad, is displaced (perhaps in an
analogous way to the lovers’ songs). But the dynamic markings above the right-
hand chords, which were not present during the repeated chords in measure
1, indicate a peak on the third half-note pulse of the measure, suggesting that
this motif, unlike the bass’s descending arpeggio, is meant to align with the
notated meter, albeit in a contrasting way to measure 1. These various rhyth-
mic dissonances correlate to the contrary motion between the melody and bass
line. It is as if the memories bought to the surface in measures 12–13 are once
again dispatched to the very depths (in mm. 18–19) and then finally scattered
in various directions and pacings (in mm. 23–25). But one wonders whether
this represents a complete resolution of the protagonist’s anguish. Owing to
the syncopated rhythms, the voice sounds its last note alone, without the piano.
Moreover, its conclusion on 3^ rather than the more definitive 1,
^
along with the
return of measures 1–2 in the piano, suggest continued disquiet: this is likely
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58 ❧ chapter two
not the last time that the throbbing quarter-note chords (or heart) will quietly
surge and subside.17
In many ways “O kühler Wald” matches Yonatan Malin’s description of
reflective moments paired with rhythmic irregularities in Schubert’s lieder:
“The poetic-cum-musical persona realizes the true intensity of his or her pain
and longing. This may lead to catharsis, but it then typically becomes another
moment in the journey, and the journey itself cycles back to song, memory,
and trauma.”18 In Brahms’s “O kühler Wald,” the “Im Herzen tief” segment
forms the dramatic crux, but it is the manipulation of this segment’s pitch and
rhythmic components throughout the rest of the song that convey the psycho-
logical journey.
“Mein Herz ist schwer” (Op. 94, No. 3)
Brahms’s setting of Emanuel Geibel’s “Mein Herz ist schwer” is in ternary

form, with the start of the long inner section (mm. 10–34) being marked by
an abrupt change in temporal plane at measure 10 (ex. 2.4). As in “O küh-
ler Wald,” this new sustained plane is short lived, and the song soon resumes
its faster pacing; indeed, the resumption of the initial eighth-note pacing is
accompanied by the instruction Nach und nach lebhafter.
Mein Herz ist schwer, mein Auge wacht,

Der Wind fährt seufzend durch die Nacht;
Die Wipfel rauschen weit und breit,
Sie rauschen von vergangner Zeit.
Sie rauschen von vergangner Zeit,

Von großem Glück und Herzeleid,
Vom Schloß und von der Jungfrau drin –
Wo ist das Alles, Alles hin?
Wo ist das Alles, Alles hin,

Leid, Lieb’ und Lust und Jugendsinn?
Der Wind fährt seufzend durch die Nacht,
Mein Herz ist schwer, mein Auge wacht.
My heart is heavy, my eyes enjoy no sleep, the wind rides sighing through the
night; the treetops rustle on all sides; their rustling speak of times past.
Their rustling speak of times past, of great happiness and heartache, of the
castle and the maiden inside—where did all that go, all that go?
Where did all that go, all that go—sorrow, love and pleasure, and youthful
thoughts? The wind rides sighing through the night, my heart is heavy, my
eyes enjoy no sleep.19
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Example 2.4. “Mein Herz ist schwer,” op. 94, no. 3, mm. 7–15
At first glance the piano’s half-note chords in measures 10–13 could be

interpreted as representing the tall trees cited in the text.20 But this is a some-
what superficial interpretation: indeed, there seems to be a contradiction
between the poem’s description of the rustling of the trees and the sustained
rhythm of the chords. The sound of rustling trees, whispering of love, is refer-
enced in numerous Romantic poems; as noted above, the murmuring forest of
“O kühler Wald” is represented by eighth-note figurations. Measures 23–27 of
Brahms’s “Meine Lieder” (op. 106, no. 4), however, afford a somewhat more
interesting comparison with “Mein Herz” (though this is an example of a lower
level shift in temporal plane, and is not preceded by an abrupt disjunction).
Here the voice and right hand of the piano have sustained half-note chords
but the bass retains the eighth-note pacing of the surrounding phrases and
adds a new displacement figuration. In this way Brahms conveys the height
and breadth of the cypress trees described in the text, while simultaneously
evoking the shadows thrown by the movement of the branches. By contrast, in
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60 ❧ chapter two
“Mein Herz” only the crescendo–decrescendo in each measure suggest the trees’
whispered sighs.
It would seem, therefore, that the passage in the slower temporal plane in
“Mein Herz ist Schwer” is not just about trees. Equally—perhaps even more—
importantly, the slower pacing suggests the oppressive nature of heartache.
Rather than moving on and recovering, the protagonist is held captive, frozen
in a past time. The emotional drag of the longing for a lost time is produced
not only by these slow-moving chords but also by the melody’s rhythm: mea-
sures 10 and 11 each comprise two repeated dotted half-notes. Whereas previ-
ous two-syllable words are set so that the first, accented syllable has a longer
value, in these measures both syllables of each word are accorded a dotted half,
producing a stilted, flat-footed effect. In measure 12, the word “weit,” which
is set to the highest note of the song, is sustained for four quarter-note beats,
making it one of the song’s longest notes. This extra length, combined with
the piano’s dissonance, imparts a sense of yearning.21 An approximate aug-
mentation of the rhythmic dyad (half-note tied to an eighth, followed by an
eighth) that pervades the melodic line of the song is created when this long
note on “weit” is followed by a half-note. This dyad employs the falling third
that is often paired with the shorter rhythm (see, for example, mm. 7 and 14).
Throughout the song, these rhythmic patterns convey the emotional tension
of the poetic persona because the first note seems to be held for too long and
the second rushes into the next beat. (Compare, for instance, the more regu-
lar half-note and quarter-note patterns in the melody of Brahms’s springtime
love song “Geheimnis” (op. 71, no. 3), in 46 meter—yet another song featuring
whispering trees.)
Throughout the sustained phrase in “Mein Herz” the piano’s chordal pat-
tern enters after the downbeat. Initially, in measure 10 the right hand’s high-
est G could be heard as echoing the voice, or as beginning a displaced layer
(though this secondary layer never materializes). The piano’s half-note pattern
and its dynamic shadings, which accentuate the second half-note, are reminis-
cent of the right-hand chords in the middle section of Brahms’s Capriccio in
C major, op 76, no. 8. Ryan McClelland interprets the Capriccio’s dynamics
as indicating that the pattern conforms to the notated 46 meter; by contrast,
Amanda Trucks acknowledges that the pattern can also be interpreted as sug-
gesting “a 23 meter that has been delayed from the notated downbeat by a quar-
ter-note value.”22 That a 23 meter may be likewise heard in measures 10–13 of
“Mein Herz” is confirmed at the end of the song, in measure 40, where the
piano’s bass part divides the measure into three half-notes, against which the
right hand creates a displaced layer by repeating the pattern from measure 10
(see ex. 2.5). Thus measures 10–13 are not only marked by a change in pacing
and displaced rhythms, but also by a 23 grouping dissonance, in that the voice’s
two dotted-halves in 46 contrast with the piano’s three half-note groups.
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Example 2.5. “Mein Herz ist schwer,” mm. 37–43
There is nothing in the structure of Geibel’s poem to suggest Brahms’s iso-

lation of the line “Die Wipfel rauschen weit und breit.” Indeed, in creating this
four-measure phrase Brahms almost negates the poem’s original structure. He
could have retained the rhythmic patterns he had been employing in the vocal
line and set the words to a two-measure segment in 46 meter. It might also have
been possible to use the existing harmonies, or alternatively to use a pedal
point on A to coordinate with the subsequent phrases. Although this hypo-
thetical structure would have articulated Geibel’s stanzas, it probably would
not have alluded to the physicality of the poem’s trees or their rootedness in a
past time in the same forceful manner as Brahms’s setting. Ultimately, despite
the disruptive nature of measures 10–13, to which I will refer as the “frozen
measures,” the passage is intricately tied to the dramatic trajectory of the piece.
Somewhat similar changes in pacing permeate the entire song, and, as in
the Beethoven compositions that Samarotto discusses, the resulting conflicts
between frenzied motion and abrupt halts account for the song’s dynamism
and expression.23
These contrasts between motion and stillness map onto the Romantic era’s
understanding of a certain type of melancholy. Wilhelm Griesinger, in Mental
Pathology and Therapeutics (1867), states that melancholy may take a variety
of forms and that in some cases absence of will or energy may alternate with
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62 ❧ chapter two
extreme restlessness.24 Goethe’s Werther, who passed “from sweet melancholy

to destructive passion,”25 may be seen as an example of this type of melan-
choly: at times he undertook energetic hikes, but at other times he reported
restless listlessness, when nothing was accomplished. Brahms was quite famil-
iar with Goethe’s work and specifically associated it with his Piano Quartet op.
60. But whereas this quartet relates to the disconsolate, introverted states that
are typically associated with melancholy, “Mein Herz ist schwer” explores the
swings to more agitated moods.26
Let us turn now to the structure of the entire song. Brahms begins with
a refrain that is subsequently varied and restated at the song’s close. These
refrains, which are separated from the longer internal section by rests, set the
first two and last two lines of Geibel’s poem, respectively (see above). Although
separating these two couplets from their original stanzas in such a clear man-
ner disturbs the poetic structure, Geibel’s repetition of the first two lines at the
end of the poem, and the way in which he structured the first and last stanzas,
may have prompted Brahms’s organization. The first two lines of the last stanza
form one syntactic unit, ending with a question mark. The subsequent restate-
ment of the poem’s first two lines results in a change in voice, as the narrative
persona shifts from reflecting on past to present woes. Although the second
line of stanza 1 does not end a sentence, there is a similar change in voice, with
the first couplet focusing on the protagonist’s present restlessness and the sec-
ond on the trees, and perhaps also the past.27
The opening and closing refrains, which are marked Unruhig bewegt, doch
nicht schnell, are characterized by rapid motion that contrasts strongly with
the sustained rhythms of the frozen measures. While the left hand moves in
regularly placed quarter-notes, the right-hand’s quarter-notes are displaced by
an eighth-note (see example 2.6 for the first refrain). This rhythmic tension
is enhanced by the piano’s wide-ranging arpeggio figuration, which quickly
ascends and descends, the right and left hands moving in contrary motion.
Just as the figuration in measures 10–13 can be interpreted both graphically
and symbolically, so too these swirling motions can be heard as representing
the wind, which sets the treetops rustling, and the protagonist’s anxiety.28
Moreover, the moto perpetuo character of this figuration perhaps suggests the
protagonist’s obsessive nature. In some ways, the mood Brahms creates is
similar to the “friction” that Malin hears in the displacements in Schumann’s
“Intermezzo” (op. 39, no. 2).29
The tension between motion and frozen time is immediately evident in
the juxtaposition of the two temporal levels in the prelude. After the initial
three-and-a-half measures, the constant but soft agitation abruptly ceases and
is replaced by sustained V7 chords, which anticipate the rhythms of measures
10–13. Aside from the unprepared change in pace, this repeated-note motif is
somewhat disruptive in that, like the patterns in measures 10–13, it is displaced
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Example 2.6. “Mein Herz ist schwer,” mm. 1–6
so that it begins on the second quarter pulse of the measure.30 Moreover,

although the A (II) chord on the downbeat of measure 4 resolves to the first
V7 chord of this half-note pattern, the leaps to the higher and lower registers
and the sudden change in pacing create a disjunction. But rather than starting
a phrase that continues the new pacing, these chords are followed by a slight
silence, signaling the imminent entry of the voice.
While the piano recommences its original quarter-note pacing, repeating
measures 1–4, the voice moves more slowly. Perhaps taking their cue from the
half-note chords in measure 4, but also anticipating the pacing of measures
10–13, the melody’s short segments change pitch on each dotted-half pulse. As
suggested in relation to the frozen measures, this slow motion aptly depicts a
heavy heart, and the protagonist specifically references this with his first four
words—“Mein Herz ist schwer.”31 These segments add an additional dissonant
rhythmic layer as the agogic and pitch accents do not align with the notated
meter, but rather fall on the second dotted-half pulses of measures 5 and 6.
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64 ❧ chapter two
Figure 2.1. Rhythmic layers in “Mein Herz ist schwer,” op. 94, no. 3, mm. 5–6
(These emphases might be interpreted as being subtly related to the dynamic

stresses on the second dotted-half pulse that occurs during the half-note pat-
terns in measures 4, 10–12, and 32.) The various rhythmic layers of this first
phrase are shown in Figure 2.1.32
By contrast with the voice’s initial slow moving segments, the reference to
the wind in measure 7 elicits a faster rate of declamation: most of the poem’s
second line is compressed into just one measure (example 2.4). Unlike the
end of the prelude (m. 4), this phrase ends on a D-major chord; this toni-
cized harmony is then prolonged through two 46 measures, which retain the
faster pacing.33 Despite these agitated rhythms and the right hand’s ascent into
the upper register, the harmonies go nowhere; rather the double-neighbor
motions in the outer voices of both measures hover around D. This conflict
between the movement of pitches and rhythms and the underlying stagna-
tion of the harmony is emblematic of the entire song, and of the protagonist’s
anguished state, which likewise mixes agitation and torpidity.
After the parenthetical phrase in measures 10–13, the right-hand’s dis-
placed quarter-note pattern and the vocal line’s slower, dragging rhythms
return, and are applied to the 46 meter. This new section, which does not use
the wide-spanned broken-chord figuration of the refrain, begins with the last
line of stanza 1 and continues through the second line of stanza 3. Another
change in the piano’s figuration at the start of the last line of stanza 2 subdi-
vides this section into two parts (mm. 14–25 and 26–33). The former leads to a
recollection of happier times with the beloved, while the latter portrays yearn-
ing for the associated joy and love.
As the diagram below demonstrates, Brahms sets the four lines of Geibel’s
repetitive structure to two sequences that are based on the same melodic figure.
As a result, measures 14–27 form a quasi-symmetrical structure—a type of con-
struction that is quite unusual for Brahms. The bass line progresses from D (mm.
14–16) via E♭ and A♭ (mm. 17–20) to A and a two-measure prolongation of A
major (mm. 20–22). Then it retraces these steps moving from A (via G) to A♭,
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E♭ (mm. 24–25), and finally back to D (m. 26). The melody of measures 19–24
is also inspired by symmetry: from a high E♭ in measure 19 it descends to its
lowest notes at the start of the A-major segment, measure 21, and then ascends
to recapture its high E♭ in measure 24. This trajectory mimics the protagonist’s
emotional journey as he travels to a past time, where he sees an image of his
beloved, and then returns to the present. Perhaps the gradual stepwise ascent,
with the repeated notes of measure 21 contrasting the descending leaps of mea-
sures 19–20, alludes to his reluctance to leave the past and his “Jungfrau.”
Quasi-symmetrical Structure of "Mein Herz ist schwer, mm. 14–27
Happiness, Heart and “Jungfrau” (mm. 19–22)
Sie rauschen von vergangner Zeit, Wo is das alles, alles hin?

B (mm. 17–18) * Bʹ (mm. 23–25)
Sie rauschen von vergangner Zeit. Wo is das alles, alles hin?

A (mm. 14–16) Aʹ (mm. 26–27)
*Each two-measure segment is based on the same melodic figure. B (and Bʹ)
is a transposed version of A (and Aʹ).
The central A-major segment, with its somewhat more consonant harmo-
nies, underscores the image of the beloved. That we have moved to a different
time is indicated by the clear contrast between this key and the surrounding
flat keys. A major arrives and departs through quick enharmonic modula-
tions, and, to further highlight the significance—perhaps even magical/unreal
nature—of these journeys to and from the past, the enharmonic turns are
emphasized by louder dynamics. (See the placement of the center points of
the hairpin dynamic signs in measures 20 and 23.) But the measures leading
into this key area, with their mention of both great happiness and heartache,
suggest that even this time was not free from anxiety. In addition to the unre-
solved dissonances and the piano’s displaced chords, this tension is conveyed
by a new type of rhythmic dissonance, which is nonetheless related to the fro-
zen measures. Most of this section subdivides each 46 measure into two dotted
half-notes. Although the vocal line in measure 19 retains this arrangement,
the tenor line of the piano part comprises three half-notes, and the displaced
right-hand chords are similarly grouped into three pairs of quarter-notes. The
half-notes recall both the piano’s chords from the prelude and the frozen mea-
sures of measures 10–13, but unlike those rhythmic motives this pattern is not
displaced: indeed, the start of this rhythmic motif is emphasized by a sforzando
on the downbeat. The resulting 23 grouping dissonance is the same type as that
which is subtly implied in measures 10–11 of the frozen phrase.
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66 ❧ chapter two
The harmonic progressions surrounding the centrally positioned image of

the beloved are not precisely symmetrical. While the segment that had initi-
ated this quasi-symmetrical unit (mm. 14–16) prolonged D as dominant of G
minor/major, the concluding segment begins with this dominant chord (m.
26) but then immediately heads toward B-flat major. It is as though the memo-
ries of the maiden have provoked a new, more reflective mood, rather than an
exact return to the restlessness of measure 14.34
This interpretation is supported by the appearance of new figuration in the
piano. Although the sequential structure and word repetitions connect mea-
sures 23–24 to measures 26–27, the changes in the piano’s figuration mark
measure 26 as the start of the second part of the song’s central section. The
sudden cessation of the constant quarter-note motion in both parts of the
piano creates a noticeable change, a weak version of a disjunction, which,
along with the changes in the other parameters, suggests that this next subsec-
tion could be interpreted as a type of low-level change in temporal plane (and
concomitant change in psychological state). Characterized by a lighter and
more conventional piano figuration, with fewer harmonic and rhythmic dis-
sonances, this second subsection is somewhat more relaxed than the rest of the
song. This reflects the sonic properties of the poem itself: the hard sounds of
“Herz” and “schwer” are replaced by the liquid “Leid,” “Lieb” and “Lust.” The
displacement on the word “Leid,” so that it anticipates the downbeat, conveys
a gently yearning quality, which contrasts with the agitated post-downbeat dis-
placements that permeate the rest of the song. As the poem confirms that the
happier times were in the protagonist’s youth, the music gradually moves to
B-flat major. Ultimately, however, the voice cadences without the piano: rather
than reaching a root-position B-flat chord, the piano enters after the voice’s
last note with a weaker second-inversion (46) chord.
This B-flat triad brings back the chordal half-note motif, but this time its
iterations are marked poco ritardando. Furthermore, the first statement of the
motif (m. 32) does not create the same type of abrupt disjunction as it did in
measures 4 and 10 because the left hand has already been employing a slower
pacing, rather than the agitated, displaced quarter-note patterns. But whereas
the chords at the end of the frozen phrase resolve into the start of the song’s
central section (m. 14), these B-flat chords abruptly break off. This break is
particularly surprising because Brahms had initiated a harmonic progression
in which a passing augmented triad could have resolved directly to a tonic (G
minor) chord. But instead Brahms leaves the augmented triad unresolved and
the section dissolves into a long silence.35 Because we have twice heard the pia-
no’s displaced rhythmic pattern of measures 32–33, with its downbeat rest, the
silence on the downbeat of measure 34 is not surprising, but the continuation
of that silence creates great suspense. When will the music recommence? Will
the sustained chords be restated yet again? When the voice re-enters, it uses
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the same unaccompanied upbeat D as it had to initiate the song. Upon hearing
this upbeat one might suppose that the original refrain will return and that a
tonic root-position chord will accompany the voice on the next downbeat. But
when the piano begins the 49 refrain with the original tempo, the tonic pitch
(G) is not recapitulated. Rather the voice repeats its D, on the downbeat, with-
out accompaniment, and when the piano re-enters on the second quarter-note
of the measure it is with a bass B♭. Delaying the re-entry of the piano figura-
tion destabilizes the recommencement of the refrain, denying the final section
a strong launching point. That the Gs of measure 5 are now absent adds to the
tension of this moment. It is as though the protagonist is forever caught in the
past, and no new beginning or “start over” is possible.
Measures 5–8 are varied in measures 35–38, with the final cadence ending
on a G major chord, which is set to a varied repetition of the original broken-
chord figuration. The following final five-measure phrase is in a slowing 46 (see
example 2.5). The tonic major is retained throughout these closing measures,
providing the customary stronger close than the minor would have given, and
perhaps also referring back to G major harmonies on “rauschen von vergang-
ner Zeit” (mm. 14–15). Despite the major mode, the displacements in the
piano continue, but the ritardando and the change from quarter-note pacing
to half-notes results in a lessening of the agitation. In measure 40 the piano’s
right-hand pattern is displaced by a quarter-note; in measure 41 both hands
are displaced by a quarter (as in measures 4, 10–13, and 32–33); and in mea-
sure 42 the song’s penultimate chord is displaced by half the measure; as a
result the voice’s last note is mostly unaccompanied. It is as though the quarter-
note pacing is transformed into the half-note patterns, and in this way the ten-
sion between the two temporal planes is eased. Nevertheless, the continued
rhythmic dissonances and the absence of a leading tone in the final cadence all
suggest the continued restlessness of the poetic persona.36
Just as the “Im Herzen tief” measures in “O kühler Wald” are harmonically
and rhythmically related to the surrounding stanzas, so too there are connec-
tions between the frozen phrase in “Mein Herz ist schwer” and the rest of the
song. I have already noted the most significant recurrences of the half-note
rhythms, but there are also some salient harmonic connections. The harmo-
nies of the frozen phrase are chromatic intensifications of the prelude. The
prelude begins on a G minor triad; the displaced quarter-note figuration ends
on an A major triad, and the slower paced D7 chords punctuate the end of the
phrase. Along somewhat similar lines, the frozen phrase begins with a G7 and
moves via an E7 to a repeated A7, which ultimately resolves to a D7 as the fast
pacing returns. This E7–A7 progression anticipates the A major in measures
21–22, at the fleeting happy memory of the maiden in the castle. The contour
of the voice’s first phrase likewise bears a resemblance to that of the frozen
phrase. The high points of each segment in the first phrase are G, B♭, and
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68 ❧ chapter two
E♭ (mm. 5–7), while the melody of the frozen measure comprises G, B♮, and
E♮. After reaching their peaks, both phrases quickly descend, with measure 13
cadencing on A and measures 7–8 passing through A to fall to D. At a more
abstract level, the G♯ and C♯ of the frozen chords are enharmonic harbingers
of the A♭ and D♭ that appear during the modulation to A-flat major at the
start of stanza two (m. 17). This move to the Neapolitan coincides with the
recollection of past times.
A♭s are subsequently featured throughout the final seven measures of the
song, where they contribute to the avoidance of a conventional, stable close,
and as such are a reminder that the protagonist continues to be haunted by the
past (ex. 2.5). These A♭s create a tonally ambiguous close, in which C-minor
tendencies seem to be stronger than the expected G minor. In the lead into
the penultimate cadence in measures 37–38, the bass doubles the voice in
octaves and traces the tetrachord C–B♭–A♭–G.37 The last two notes of the tet-
rachord are harmonized with an augmented sixth chord moving to a G major
triad, which could easily be heard as V of C minor. The following measures,
with their repeated A♭–Gs, likewise could be heard in C minor rather than
G minor. More significantly, A♭ and F♮ recur in the final cadence. The voice
concludes by slowly intoning the neighbor G–A♭–G, imparting a Phrygian,
morose quality to the song’s conclusion.38 Moreover the A♭ is so important
that it shapes the accompanying harmonies: Brahms replaces the dominant of
a conventional authentic cadence with a half-diminished seventh on D, which
includes the A♭. The resulting cadence may be heard as a half cadence in C
minor, rather than a weakened authentic cadence in G minor. Robbed of a
conventional strong close, the music mirrors the protagonist’s final words:
“mein Auge wacht.”
These various harmonic and pitch connections work in conjunction with the
recurring half-note rhythms. The conflicts that these sustained patterns create
with the pervasive displaced quarter-note figuration lay bare the emotional ten-
sions experienced by the type of melancholic person who endures uncontrol-
lable mood swings. In Geibel’s poem, this condition is merely alluded to by the
contrasting images of a heavy heart and the restlessness of someone who can-
not sleep (the latter being represented by the endless winds). Brahms’s music,
by contrast, forces us to confront these competing forces.
In some respects “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz ist schwer” have com-
mon elements, such as their syncopated final cadences in which the voice
sounds its last note while the piano is silent. Both songs begin with repeated-
note melodic segments that subsequently emphasize their second beats with
a rise in pitch and a long duration. Similar emphases on second beats recur
in measure 6 of “Mein Herz” and at the start of the second phrase of “O küh-
ler Wald” (m. 6). Deborah Rohr notes that in “O kühler Wald” the melodic
peaks assist in the formation of patterns that “weaken the role of the measure
as a temporal foundation for the phrase, and leave the half-note tactus as the
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only constant element.”39 Thus the half-note is of crucial importance to the

entire song, and not just to the central “Im Herzen tief” measures. The same
types of connections occur between the frozen measures (mm. 10–13) and the
slow moving melody of the refrains in “Mein Herz ist schwer.” From a vantage
point further removed, these songs share another feature: both employ highly
unusual meters, as the major nineteenth-century lied composers tended to
avoid 23, 49, and 46. In Brahms’s output of some two hundred solo songs only one
other, “O Tod, wie bitter bist du” (op. 121, no. 3), uses the same meters (23 and
alla breve) as “O kühler Wald.” (Although “Nicht mehr zu dir zu gehen,” op.
32, no. 2, also uses 23 it does not include a change to a duple meter.) Similarly,
9
4 is also quite unusual: “Während des Regens” (op. 58, no. 2) is one of only a
small number of Brahms’s songs to employ this meter, and like “Mein Herz ist
schwer,” its 49 phrases alternate with ones in 46.40
Despite these similarities, however, these songs have distinctive affects and
employ contrasting temporal planes to different ends. The faster tempo and
constant displacements in “Mein Herz ist schwer” create a much more frenetic
mood than that of the reflective “O kühler Wald.” Moreover there is much
greater tension between the two main types of temporal planes in “Mein Herz
ist schwer,” in part because the slower figuration is not confined to the frozen
phrase. In contrast to the tussle between the competing psychological states of
agitation and stasis, which these contrasting rhythms bring to life, the slower
temporal plane in “O kühler Wald” facilitates a psychologically transformative
moment, which leads the protagonist to acknowledge that the love he feels is
from a past time, and that the associated songs are now forever lost.41
Other Shifts in the Level of Discourse
Although “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz ist schwer” both portray the pain of
a lost love, changes in temporal plane are not confined to songs on this theme.
“Unüberwindlich” (op. 72, no. 5) deploys the same type of shifts to a humor-
ous end. Goethe’s text compares the dangers of wine with those of a seductive
woman. At the start of the second strophe, just before the protagonist acknowl-
edges he has repeatedly sworn not to trust a particularly lovely woman, Brahms
unexpectedly halts the piano’s interlude and inserts a full measure rest. As
example 2.7 shows, the piano recommences with a low, hesitant version of the
song’s initial repeated-note motif and then the voice answers in canon. Instead
of the usual eighth- and quarter-note pacing, Brahms augments the rhythms
of the initial motif, and the canon proceeds in half-notes. As a result of these
changes, the song’s initial six-measure phrase is extended to ten measures.
Further underscoring this phrase, the dynamics rise to forte, and, although the
harmonies begin and end on the dominant of A major, in between they veer
from the key of B minor to A minor, via a hint of C major. The phrase ends
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70 ❧ chapter two
with the words “Falschen nicht zu trauen” (not to trust that false one), set to
empty parallel octaves. In all, the effect is analogous to similar grandiose ges-
tures in eighteenth-century comic opera.
The conclusion of the song’s first phrase, where the words “Flasche nicht
zu trauen” (not to trust this bottle) are also set in parallel octaves, prepares for
the later hyperbole. While the rhythms of this earlier phrase are only slightly
longer than those in the surrounding phrases, the importance of the words is
underscored by a prolongation of the dominant of C-sharp minor, which had
unexpectedly arrived at the end of the first phrase (m. 8), and by the switch
in attack, from staccato to legato. Ultimately, the elongated pacing of the con-
trasting plane at the start of the second strophe is derived from the half-note
motion at the end of the piano’s prelude.42 The gradual expansion of this ini-
tial half-note segment into a pronounced ten-measure temporal plane is typi-
cal of the types of large-scale development of low-level disjunctive gestures that
more commonly occur in longer instrumental works, and Samarotto describes
similar procedures in the works of C. P. E. Bach, Haydn, and Beethoven (all of
whom were greatly admired by Brahms).43 Unlike the other temporal planes
that I have discussed so far, the slower paced “Falschen nicht zu trauen” phrase
portrays an increased rhetorical emphasis, but does not represent a substantial
shift in the level of discourse.
The opera buffa style of exaggeration in “Unüberwindlich” is highly unusual
for a Brahms lied, but some of his songs do employ other types of operatic
gestures and, as in “Unüberwindlich,” they are occasionally associated with a
change in temporal plane. This is especially common in songs such as “An eine
Aeolsharfe” (op. 19, no. 5) that employ phrases in recitative style. Typically, rec-
itatives that are inserted into the body of a song (rather than at the very begin-
ning) underscore a shift in the level of discourse. In “An eine Aeolsharfe,”
the second recitative phrase occurs at the beginning of the last stanza (ex.
2.8). Here the text suddenly changes focus from melancholy yearning for a
loved one to the increasingly forceful winds that accompany intensified grief.
Brahms abruptly stops the piano’s gentle arpeggios on a dominant seventh,
and uses a recitative style melodic line, accompanied by sustained chords, to
set the description of the wind. At the same time, the harmonies veer off track,
and instead of resolving the dominant seventh, Brahms inserts and prolongs a
diminished seventh. That this phrase functions as a parenthesis is confirmed
by the subsequent return of the dominant seventh (in first inversion) and by
a repeated E♭–D♭ melodic figure that likewise encloses the recitative (com-
pare measures 70 and 78). Because the melody moves at a faster pace than the
piano, and because the song had opened with a recitative, this parenthetical
phrase does not create the same sort of dramatic disruption as the slower tem-
poral planes in “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz ist schwer.” In general, this
type of contrasting temporal plane in which one part retains the faster-paced
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Example 2.7. “Unüberwindlich,” op. 72, no. 5, mm. 38–51
Example 2.8. “An eine Aeolsharfe,” op. 19, no. 5, mm. 69–78
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72 ❧ chapter two
rhythms established in the preceding phrases is far more common in Brahms’s

lieder than the temporal planes in the later two songs, where the pacing slows
in all parts.44
In “An eine Aeolsharfe” the shift in discourse, which is emphasized by
the contrasting plane, is clearly indicated by the structure of Mörike’s poem.
The corresponding lines are prominently placed at the beginning of the last
stanza, and the first of these lines, “Aber auf einmal,” is one of the shortest
in the entire poem. Changes in temporal plane may also be used to set off
other types of strategically marked poetic lines, as, for instance, emphatic
lines such as the oath Peter swears in the third song of Brahms’s Magelone-
Lieder, “Sind es Schmerzen” (op. 33, no. 3). Much of this song tells of Peter’s
strange mixture of feelings as his love for Magelone begins to blossom. During
the final sections, he moves from addressing the stars and meadow to swear-
ing an oath: “If I remain far from her, I will gladly die” (mm. 82–85; ex. 2.9).
The phrases immediately preceding this had been dominated by eighth- and
sixteenth-notes that reached a climactic conclusion in D-flat major, but as the
oath begins Brahms switches to whole-notes and commences a prolongation of
A♭, the dominant. This new temporal plane begins on the type of V6 “recita-
tive chord” that, according to Hatten, typically initiates a change in tonal focus
and in so doing announces “a shift in thought or utterance.”45 Like the slower
temporal planes in “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz ist schwer,” the plane set-
ting Peter’s oath is marked by chromaticism: in this case the bass line descends
a chromatic tetrachord, D♭ to A♭, underscoring the text’s image of death. But
unlike the shifts in temporal planes in these later songs, this phrase and the
recitative in “An eine Aeolsharfe” are labeled as existing in a realm different
from that of the surrounding phrases. Brahms labeled the recitative in “An
eine Aeolsharfe” as such; in “Sind es schmerzen” the oath is indicated “ad libit.”
Furthermore the following phrases in each song are labeled with instructions
to return to tempo—a clear cue that after a section in some other mode, we
are to return to the world of the song’s opening.
Like many of the Tieck settings in op. 33, “Sind es schmerzen,” is quite long,
comprising some 115 measures, and it includes notated changes in tempo and
meter as well as phrases that end with the piano changing to elongated rhythms
for rhetorical emphasis.46 In general such substantial lieder allow for more fre-
quent and dramatic shifts in pacing than shorter works. Schubert’s ballads and
longer lieder that are characterized by multiple changes in piano figuration
(including “Schäfers Klagelied,” D.121) occasionally also include clear changes
in temporal plane. In some instances, such as Schubert’s “Der Neugierige” (D.
795) and the first song of Brahms’s op. 121 Vier ernste Gesänge, an entire stanza
may be set to a contrasting plane. Similarly, refrains, such as that of Brahms’s
“O Tod, wie bitter bist du,” may also employ a different temporal plane to the
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Example 2.9. “Sind es Schmerzen,” op. 33, no. 3, mm. 81–85
main stanzas.47 These types of slower paced stanzas and refrains belong to
the category that Samarotto labels as unmarked changes in temporal plane
because they align with major divisions of a composition and comprise a sub-
stantial number of measures, and thus create significant periods of stability.48
The marked temporal shifts in “O kühler Wald” and “Mein Herz ist schwer”
are both dramatically and analytically more significant because they occur in
much shorter works, which do not include numerous contrasting sections, and
because the slower planes are not maintained for a substantial amount of time.
❧ ❧ ❧
The temporal shift in “O kühler Wald” effects a change in the level of dis-
course: the music of this passage is so intense that it draws us into the deep-
est interiority of the protagonist’s life. Such contrasting temporal planes are
somewhat analogous to the moments in opera that Carolyn Abbate describes
as reflexive rather than narrative. These are “moments of peculiar force,”
when “beyond reporting events past, the narration conjures up its own con-
tent, demonstrating that while it enables us to imagine events, it can also pro-
duce them as the narrator speaks.”49 In “Mein Herz ist schwer,” the frozen
measures 10–13 also represent the reflections of the protagonist, but the con-
flict between the recurring slow motif and the frantic pacing of the other
phrases is more significant because it re-enacts the alternating moods of the
severely melancholic character. Despite the compelling nature of the sus-
tained temporal planes in both songs, they are just one aspect of Brahms’s
text setting techniques. Their various relationships to the surrounding
phrases and sections are just as important in imparting the psychological
depths of Brahms’s interpretations of the texts.
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74 ❧ chapter two
Notes
I would like to thank Peter H. Smith and Scott Murphy for their insightful
readings of preliminary versions of this article, and Frank Samarotto for his
generous critique of an earlier analysis of “O kühler Wald.” This chapter is
dedicated to Frank Samarotto.
1. Ernest Newman, “Brahms and Wolf as Lyrists,” Musical Times 56, no. 872
(October 1915): 587.
Oxford University Press, 2010).
3. Frank Samarotto, “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music: An
Extension of the Schenkerian Approach to Rhythm with Special Reference to
Beethoven’s Late Music” (PhD diss., Graduate Center of the City University of
New York, 1999), chapter 4.
4. Robert S. Hatten, “The Troping of Temporality in Music,” in Approaches to
Meaning in Music, ed. Byron Almén and Edward Pearsall (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2006), 68; and Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures,
Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 2004), 269–70. Hatten cites the end of the last movement of Beethoven’s
String Quartet op. 132 to demonstrate the concept of shifts in discourse.
5. Whereas Heinrich August Marschner (1795–1861) set the entire poem (op.
132, no. 2), Brahms chose to set only stanzas 1 and 3. Eric Sams is particularly
critical of this procedure; he suggests that this excision may have had its roots
in Brahms’s own experiences, in that it rejects the lines holding out hope for
the renewal of love. Sams, The Songs of Johannes Brahms (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 2000), 242n2. The other stanzas are given in Lucien Stark,
A Guide to the Solo Songs of Johannes Brahms (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1995), 237.
6. Translation by Stark, A Guide to the Solo Songs of Johannes Brahms, 237.
7. William Kinderman, “Schubert’s Tragic Perspective,” in Schubert Critical and
Analytical Studies, ed. Walter Frisch (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
1986), 72. The other songs Kinderman discusses include “Dass sie hier
gewesen” and “Ihr Bild.”
8. Samarotto, “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 129, 141. Justin
London examines somewhat similar temporal phenomena, though he devel-
ops contrasting terminology and uses the term “thin meter” to denote the
types of temporal planes that I focus on in this paper. Nevertheless, he also
observes the expressive changes that moving from one pulse to another cre-
ates, stating that “shifts from thick to thin meters may be as dramatic, if not
more dramatic, than changes in the basic pattern of beats.” London, Hearing
in Time: Psychological Aspects of Musical Meter (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2004), 89. Like Samarotto’s analyses, London’s discussion of these types
of changes focuses on the music of Beethoven, and both authors explore the
first movement of the Fifth Symphony. Unlike Samarotto, however, London
does not explicitly consider ways in which the harmonic structure is coordi-
nated with the rhythmic/metric structure.
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9. Samarotto, “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 131–33.

10. As cited by Samarotto, ibid., 135. Samarotto likewise observes that a contrast-
ing temporal plane in the first movement of Mahler’s Symphony no. 2 in C
Minor imparts “to the passage a special quality of distance from the ongoing
discourse” (139).
11. By contrast, Marschner’s 1840 setting of the same Brentano poem does not
begin this stanza with word repetitions. However, he also moves to a slower
temporal plane that begins on ♭VI, but unlike the Brahms song, the slower
pacing continues throughout the stanza. Also unlike Brahms, Marschner fol-
lows this stanza with a setting of Bretano’s fourth stanza, which returns to the
original triplet rhythms and a repetition of the music used to set Brentano’s
second stanza.
12. Susan McClary, “Pitches, Expression, Ideology: An Exercise in Mediation,”
1983; rpt. in Reading Music: Selected Essays (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 4, 9.
Thomas Nelson provides an extensive discussion of some of the meanings ♭VI
chords convey in Schubert’s songs: see “The Fantasy of Absolute Music” (PhD
diss., University of Minnesota, 1998), chapters 3 and 4, and Appendix 1. Of the
songs he discusses, “Die Liebende schreibt” (D. 673) offers the most apt com-
parison to “O kühler Wald” because the tonicization of G-flat major is coordi-
nated with a change to sustained chords in the piano, and a sudden drop in
dynamic level. Although the change in pacing is not as marked as the one in
the Brahms song, a shift in the level of discourse is nonetheless effected.
13. Here Murphy draws on the dualist language Moritz Hauptmann uses to
describe how tonic can both be a dominant and have a dominant. I am most
grateful to Murphy for this insightful reading, which he shared via an email
of December 15, 2009. He discusses the concepts of logical and rhetorical
metric tonics and some of the issues associated with pitch-rhythm analogies in
Brahms’s music in “On Metre in the Rondo of Brahms’s Op. 25,” Music Analysis
26, no. 3 (2007): 323–53.
14. The following publications discuss the passage in the clarinet sonata from some-
what contrasting points of view. Peter H. Smith, “Brahms and the Neapolitan
Complex: flat II, flat VI, and Their Multiple Functions in the First Movement
of the F-Minor Clarinet Sonata,” Brahms Studies 2, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln:
The American Brahms Society and University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 197–99;
Walter Frisch, Brahms and Principle of Developing Variation (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1984; repr. 1990), 149; Richard Bass, “Enharmonic Position
Finding and the Resolution of Seventh Chords in Chromatic Harmony,” Music
Theory Spectrum 29, no. 1 (Spring 2007): 84–85, 89.
15. Unlike Brahms’s song, however, “Am Meer” ends with an agonizingly bitter
image in which the poetic persona cries “that ill-fated woman has poisoned
me with her tears.” Translation from Susan Youens, Heinrich Heine and the Lied
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 65.
16. That my model for these lines has validity is demonstrated in part by Marschner’s
setting of the same text. His version also fits these same lines of text, without any
repetitions, into four measures of music, but he stretches out “gern” (half-note
plus an eighth in 44) and then compresses “Lied” (eighth-note).
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76 ❧ chapter two
17. Brahms employed the resigned tone of these measures in a number of other
songs that similarly portray unrequited love, and like “O kühler Wald” their
^
melodies do not settle on 1. Some of these songs, including “Es schauen die
Blumen” (op. 96, no. 3), end by portraying endless yearning, and a number
substitute a plagal cadence for the expected final authentic cadence. By con-
trast, “O kühler Wald” ends with an authentic cadence in which the bass tonic
is delayed by an arpeggiation. This cadence suggests that although the poetic
persona continues to yearn for his loved one, some degree of closure has been
reached. See my “Unrequited Love and Unrealized Dominants,” Intégral 7
(1993): 119–48.
18. Malin, Songs in Motion, 97.
19. Translated by Stark, A Guide to the Solo Songs of Johannes Brahms, 281.
20. Sams, for example, interprets the chords as deep-rooted trees (The Songs of
Johannes Brahms, 277).
21. By contrast, a shorter half-quarter pattern only occurs when the text explicitly
references youthful times, in mm. 21, 28–29, and 31.
22. Ryan McClelland, “Brahms’s Capriccio in C major, op. 76, no. 8: Ambiguity,
Conflict, Musical Meaning and Performance,” Theory and Practice 29 (2004):
88; Amanda Louise Trucks, “The Metric Complex in Johannes Brahms’s
Klavierstücke, op. 76” (PhD diss., Eastman School of Music, University of
Rochester, 1992), 237.
23. The Vivace in Beethoven’s String Quartet op. 135 is characterized by some of
the same rhythmic techniques as “Mein Herz ist schwer.” Samarotto explores
the rhythmic complexities and conflicts that characterize the Beethoven move-
ment in “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 254–66.
24. See Jennifer Radden, The Nature of Melancholy: From Aristotle to Kristeva (New
York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 15–16, 225. Radden provides a historical
overview of the understanding of melancholy in her introduction to an anthol-
ogy of writings on this topic.
25. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther, trans. Michael
Hulse (London: Penguin, 1989), 28, 67, 69.
26. For a study of the relationships of Goethe’s Werther and Brahms’s op. 60 see
Peter H. Smith, Expressive Forms in Brahms’s Instrumental Music: Structure and
Meaning in His Werther Quartet (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005).
Reinhold Brinkmann’s monograph on the Second Symphony is one of the
seminal studies of the melancholy character of Brahms’s music, but unlike
my analysis of “Mein Herz ist Schwer” Brinkmann (like most other scholars)
concentrates on the gloomy downhearted type of melancholy, rather than on
the erratic changes in mood: Late Idyll: The Second Symphony of Johannes Brahms,
trans. Peter Palmer (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), esp. 125–44.
27. Similarly, as I will show, Brahms’s creation of a long inner section (mm. 14–32)
that subdivides into two parts also contradicts Geibel’s stanzaic structure. Once
again, however, the ways in which Geibel repeated lines, tightly integrating the
stanzas, may in part justify the composer’s procedure.
28. Scholars have often cited the advice on song composing that Brahms gave to
Gustav Jenner and Richard Heuberger, highlighting in particular Brahms’s
Murphy.indd 76 5/17/2018 1:29:47 AM

emphasis on the relationship between the melody and bass, and to a lesser
extent his comments on the importance of pauses. What has been ignored,
however, is that Heuberger also recalled Brahms critiquing the piano figuration
of one of his songs, and his advice on its correct rhythmic placement. Richard
Heuberger, Erinnerungen an Johannes Brahms: Tagebuchnotizen aus den Jahren 1875
bis 1897, 2nd ed., ed. Kurt Hofmann (Tutzing: Schneider, 1976), 14.
29. Malin goes on to state that the Eichendorff poem, which Schumann sets, por-
trays “no objective self; the poet identifies entirely with his longing, and gives
himself over to its dynamics.” Perhaps not coincidentally, Brahms’s “Mein Herz
ist Schwer” has the same type of text. More generally, Malin has demonstrated
that lieder composers throughout the long nineteenth century often used dis-
placement dissonances to convey the key Romantic concept Sehnsucht. He dis-
cusses Brahms’s “Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer” (op. 105, no. 2) along
with songs by Schubert, Schumann, and Schoenberg: “Metric Displacement
Dissonance and Romantic Longing in the German Lied,” Music Analysis 25,
no. 3 (2006): 259–61.
30. Some performers minimize the change in pacing by gradually slowing down
during m. 3.
31. In this way the song’s first phrase uses the two temporal planes simultaneously,
a technique that Samarotto explores with examples from J. S. Bach’s Saint
Matthew Passion and the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 57:
see “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 146–48.
32. In Figure 2.1, I have used downward arrows above the “voice” line to indicate
the stress created by the highest pitches in mm. 5 and 6. However, these stresses
are not strong enough to contradict the notated meter entirely. Rather, they
function as counter stresses, a term that Channan Willner employs to denote
“a rhythmic cross-accent that comes about through an unexpected gesture—a
sudden leap, a textural intensification, a change in figuration—that falls on a
weak beat within the measure.” Willner, “Stress and Counterstress: Accentual
Conflict and Reconciliation in J. S. Bach’s Instrumental Works,” Music Theory
Spectrum 20, no. 2 (Autumn, 1998): 280.
33. Although mm. 8–9 are clearly marked as the conclusion of the song’s first
refrain, they introduce the 46 meter that is maintained throughout the song’s
following central section. The 46 meter more readily lends itself to two-measure
segments and four-measure phrases. It also avoids consistent cadences ending
on downbeats, which would have worked against the continuity that Brahms
created by near constant phrase overlaps.
34. This change in mood partially masks Brahms’s sequential repetition (which
parallels the repeated words), and it may well reflect a highly nuanced reading
of the poem in which a speaker would intone the line that starts stanza 3 in a
different way to its first statement as the final line of stanza 2. By contrast, the
first sequence, in mm. 14–17, does not have equivalent changes.
35. The breathtaking climax of Brahms’s “Es träumte mir” (op. 57, no. 3) demon-
strates a similar strategic use of silence. The phrase in which the poetic per-
sona acknowledges he has only dreamt the image of the beloved ends with an
unresolved augmented sixth that trails off into silence.
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78 ❧ chapter two
36. Just as the material in the sustained measures in “Mein Herz ist schwer” is
subjected to variation, including changes in length and different harmonies,
so too similar sustained measures are developed in Brahms’s longer instru-
mental compositions, including the Allegro giocoso of the Fourth Symphony.
In some cases, as for instance the coda in the Presto non assai of the Piano
Trio op. 101, material from the slower-paced phrases may be synthesized
with elements from the primary sections of the movement. This is somewhat
akin to the ending of “Mein Herz ist schwer”; in both pieces this synthesis of
materials does not lead to definitive resolutions of the rhythmic tensions. For
sensitive analyses of these instrumental movements, see Ryan McClelland,
Brahms and the Scherzo: Studies in Musical Narrative (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010),
202–15, 287–94.
37. This cadence is a transposed variant of the one in mm. 7–8, but the bass in
the earlier cadence does not double the voice in octaves; rather it starts the
progression on G as a strong tonic. Scott Murphy has described a somewhat
similar instance of transpositional and inversional symmetry in the tumultuous
“Der Strom, der neben mir verrauschte” (op. 32, no. 4): see “Brahms’s Op. 32,
No. 4 with a Twist,” American Brahms Society Newsletter 27, no. 2 (Fall 2009): 1–5.
38. Schumann also used ♭2^ as neighbor to 1^ to signify death in the final phrases of
“In der Fremde” (op. 39, no. 1), but Brahms’s setting is more radical because
it negates a final authentic cadence and conventional structural close, whereas
Schumann’s neighbor motions take place over a tonic pedal point after the
structural close.
39. In addition to these changes in pulse, Deborah Rohr perceptively draws atten-
tion to the metrical tensions created by the placement of half-notes on the sec-
ond beats of many measures, including mm. 2 and 3, and also by the registral
accents on weak syllables such as the high C in m. 2: Rohr, “Brahms’s Metrical
Dramas: Rhythm, Text Expression, and Form in the Solo Lieder” (PhD diss.,
Eastman School of Music, 1997), 95.
40. Scott Murphy employs metric cubes to explore the variety of ways Brahms
manipulates 46 and 49 in the exposition of the Third Symphony’s first movement:
“Metric Cubes in Some Music of Brahms,” Journal of Music Theory 53, no. 1
(2009): 7–18. Perhaps not coincidentally Brahms wrote this work around the
same time (1883) as he wrote “Mein Herz ist schwer.”
41. The change in temporal plane that occurs on the words “hier nicht” in “Mit
vierzig Jahren” (op. 94, no. 1) represents a similarly transformative moment
when the protagonist realizes the age of forty does not signify the end of life.
I discuss some of the other expressive gestures in this song in “Jenner Versus
Wolf: The Critical Reception of Brahms’s Songs,” Journal of Musicology 13, no. 3
(1995): 394–403.
42. The entire prelude, including these half-notes, quotes the opening theme of
Domenico Scarlatti’s Sonata in D Major (K. 223), a borrowing that Brahms
publically acknowledged. Despite this borrowing, the pieces have little else in
common, and the Sonata does not transform the half-note pattern into the
type of rhetorical gestures that characterize Brahms’s song. Paul Berry proffers
a brilliant hermeneutic reading of Brahms’s allusion in Brahms among Friends:
Murphy.indd 78 5/17/2018 1:29:55 AM

Listening, Performance, and the Rhetoric of Allusion (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2014), 221–24.
43. Samarotto, “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 157.
44. Samarotto discusses similar types of passages in which the melodic line of the
contrasting temporal plane includes shorter durations than the slow-paced
accompaniment. See, for instance, his analysis of the transition from the first
movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 2, no. 1 (“A Theory of Temporal
Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 150). In this passage, as in the recitative in “An eine
Aeolsharfe,” the shift to longer pulses in the accompanying parts creates a
temporal disjunction.
45. Robert S. Hatten discusses the significance of these types of chords in
Beethoven’s instrumental works, including the third movement of the String
Quartet op. 130: Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and
Interpretation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 175.
46. In this song, as in many other nineteenth-century lieder, elongated rhythms
frequently underscore the last lines of stanzas. While they may be used to
emphasize particular words or to intensify the rhetorical tone, they do not nor-
mally connote a significant change in the level of discourse. Nor do they create
the type of extreme disjunction that I have discussed in relation to “Mein Herz
ist schwer” and “O kühler Wald,” in part because the piano might introduce
sustained notes while the melodic line retains its preceding rhythmic patterns.
Moreover, rather than being characterized by chromaticisms that create har-
monic digressions, these phrases often complete progressions begun in the
preceding measures and end on the dominant or tonic.
47. Along similar lines, I interpret the repeated measures that recur as the piano’s
prelude, interlude, and texted postlude in Brahms’s “Mädchenlied” (op. 85,
no. 3) as slight temporal shifts marking a change in psychological state. See
my article “Brahms’s Mädchenlieder and Their Cultural Context,” in Expressive
Intersections in Brahms, ed. Heather Platt and Peter H. Smith (Bloomington, IN:
Indiana University Press, 2012), 102.
48. Samarotto, “A Theory of Temporal Plasticity in Tonal Music,” 148.
49. Carolyn Abbate, Unsung Voices: Opera and Musical Narrative in the Nineteenth
Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 64. Lawrence Kramer
expresses a somewhat similar idea in relation to the ♭VI contrasting plane in
Schubert’s “Der Neurierige.” He writes that “the accompaniment . . . consists of
a continuous flowing stream of richly textured, widely spaced chords, a lyrical,
indeed rapturous, efflorescence that seems to re-enact the lyricism of the brook
on a higher level.” (My italics.) Kramer, Franz Schubert: Sexuality, Subjectivity,
Song (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 141. Steven Laitz traces
the ways in which the ♭VI harmonies of this passage are related to chromatic
elements throughout the song and also how these elements reflect the mean-
ing of the text, in “The Submediant Complex: Its Musical and Poetical Roles in
Schubert’s Songs,” Theory and Practice 21 (1996): 146–48.
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Murphy.indd 80 5/17/2018 1:30:02 AM
Part Two
Measuring Phrases
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Murphy.indd 82 5/17/2018 1:30:06 AM
Chapter Three
Phrase Rhythm and the

Expression of Longing
in Brahms’s “Gestillte
Sehnsucht,” Op. 91, No. 1
Jan Miyake
Brahms’s “Gestillte Sehnsucht” [“Satisfied Longing”] opens with an undeni-

ably warm and lush atmosphere. The score is marked adagio espressivo, and roll-
ing sextuplets immediately provide a sense of motion and an aura of comfort.
The harmonic language also contributes to the rich soundscape: dissonant
harmonies regularly occur in metrically accented positions—the downbeats
of measures 1, 3, and 5 are respectively ii7, vi7, and IV7 chords—and suspen-
sions decorate almost every chord. Finally, the combined timbre of mezzo-
soprano, viola, and piano (often with both hands notated in bass clef) is
low and rich. The instrumentation reflects the function of the op. 91 songs:
they were written to be played by Brahms’s good friends Joseph and Amalie
Joachim, who were a world-class violinist and amateur singer. Perhaps Brahms
chose to write for viola (over violin) because the timbre would better blend
with Amalie’s voice; or, perhaps Brahms simply wanted to write for one of his
favorite stringed instruments.1 Opus 91, no. 2 (1864) “Geistliches Wiegenleid,”
was written to commemorate the birth of the Joachims’ child.2 Opus 91, no.
1 (1884), “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” was Brahms’s contribution to the Joachim’s
(unsuccessful) marital reconciliation; he presumably hoped that performing
this piece together would help them smooth over their differences.
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84 ❧ chapter three
One needs only to read the first line of Rückert’s text to understand
Brahms’s careful creation of the atmosphere: “In gold’nen Abendschein
getauchet” [“Dipped in the golden evening glow”]. In addition to numer-
ous other instances of clear and beautiful text painting, less obvious connec-
tions between text and music permeate the piece at deeper structural levels.
Expression of a text can occur in ways other than basic text painting, unusual
modulations, or form. Phrase rhythm can also be added to this list of tech-
niques. For this analysis, it is, arguably, the primary technique for expressing
the essence of the poem: longing. A detailed examination of phrase rhythm
reveals metric manipulations of unusually long twelve-measure basic phrases.
The musical material within these twelve-measure phrases unfolds at a luxuri-
ous pace that contributes greatly to the general sense of longing permeating
“Gestillte Sehnsucht.”
Phrase rhythm, which encompasses both phrase structure and hypermeter,3
is commonly employed in analyses of instrumental music and larger scale vocal
music, but is used only rarely in analyses of lieder. Most analyses that address
text-music relationships in lieder focus on declamation and poetic form. While
a small group of writers have explored hypermeter or phrase structure in lie-
der, fewer have related their explorations to the text, and none have forwarded
the notion that phrase rhythm can be a primary device for expressing the text.4
Brahms sets three stanzas of Rückert’s four-stanza poem, which is provided
with translation below. Overall, the poem traces how the speaker deals with
his desires [“Wünsche”] and longing [“Sehnen”].5 The first stanza describes a
beautiful evening and introduces the image of wind and birds whispering the
world into slumber. The second stanza directly addresses the speaker’s long-
ings and desires, asking when they will sleep. The third stanza, which Brahms
does not set, establishes that the longings cannot be put to sleep by the wind
and birds. The final stanza answers the second stanza’s question: the cessation
of longings will coincide with the cessation of life.
We do not know why Brahms chose to omit Rückert’s third stanza. Several
advantages, however, arise from its absence. Brahms’s three-stanza form omits
the digression between the original second stanza’s question and fourth stan-
za’s answer: Rückert’s third stanza furthers the drama at a significantly slower
rate than other stanzas. The ease of mapping three stanzas onto an over-
arching ABA form, a popular form in Brahms’s songs, may also have been
advantageous.
In gold’nen Abendschein getauchet,

Wie feierlich die Wälder stehn!
In leise Stimmen der Vöglein hauchet
Des Abendwindes leises Weh’n.
Was lispeln die Winde, die Vögelein?
Sie lispeln die Welt in Schlummer ein.
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phrase rhythm and the expression of longing ❧ 85
Ihr Wünsche, die ihr stets euch reget

Im Herzen sonder Rast und Ruh!
Du Sehnen, das die Brust beweget,
Wann ruhest du, wann schlummerst du?
Beim Lispeln der Winde, der Vögelein,
Ihr sehnenden Wünsche, wann schlaft ihr ein?
Ach, wenn nicht mehr in gold’ne Fernen

Mein Geist auf Traumgefieder eilt,
Nicht mehr an ewig fernen Sternen
Mit sehnendem Blick mein Auge weilt;
Dann lispeln die Winde, die Vögelein
Mit meinem Sehnen mein Leben ein.
[Dipped in golden evening glow,

how solemnly the forests stand!
Mingled with the soft voices of the little birds
is the soft breath of the evening wind.
What are the winds and the little birds whispering?
They are whispering the world into slumber.
You desires of mine, always stirring

in my heart without let-up!
You longing of mine that makes my breast heave,
When will you rest, when will you slumber?
To the whispering of the winds and little birds,
you longing desires, when will you fall asleep?
Ah, when my spirit no longer hastens toward golden

faraway places on the wings of dreams,
when my eyes no longer gaze at eternally
distant stars with longing looks;
then the winds and little birds
will whisper my life away together with my longing.]
The final line (“Mit meinem Sehnen mein Leben ein,” “[will whisper my
life away together with my longing”]), which sets the text answering how
the longings are to be satisfied, provides an appropriate entry-point to the
song’s analysis because it is the moment when a change to a phrase heard
twice before results in the growth of a ten-measure phrase to a eleven-mea-
sure phrase. As twelve-measure basic phrases consistently appear through-
out song, this final phrase—which could be the first eleven measures of a
twelve-measure basic phrase—both opens an analytical door to understand-
ing all three phrases as versions of a twelve-measure basic phrase, and offers
a deftly prepared moment of “satisfied longing.” (I am employing William
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Rothstein’s definition of a basic phrase as the “original, unexpanded [or

uncontracted] phrase.”6) A version of this final cadence occurs three times
over the course of the lied (mm. 32–37, 59–64, and 86–92). The melodic
rhythm of the first two cadences is identical despite being in opposite modes
(exx. 3.1a and 3.1b). Four significant changes, however, distinguish the final
cadence from the previous ones and cause it to be drawn out to an almost
excruciatingly difficult length—chronologically, psychologically, and dynami-
cally (ex. 3.1c). First, the note values from measures 36 and 63 of the earlier
cadences are doubled in the final cadence (mm. 90–91). Second, the rhythm
in the piano returns to a sextuplet texture in the previous cadences (mm.
36 and 63) but adopts the most static surface rhythm of the lied in the final
cadence (mm. 90–91). Third, in the final cadence, Brahms asks for a swell
over the word “Leben” that is absent from the previous cadences. Finally, the
rate of text declamation is twice as slow because Brahms does not repeat any
of the text in the third stanza’s last cadence.7 From the perspective of phrase
rhythm, the dissimilar settings of this cadence call into question which ver-
sion (if either) is the basic phrase, the ten-measure phrases of the first two
stanzas or the eleven-measure phrase of the final stanza.
Exploring answers to that question provides an impetus for an analytical
journey through the piece’s phrase rhythm, a journey that reveals the central
role phrase rhythm plays in the setting of this text. This investigation often
requires an analytical choice between an eight- or twelve-measure basic phrase.
Eight measures would seem to be the simpler and more normative analyti-
cal choice, exhibiting a pure duple division that promotes symmetry and bal-
ance (eight measures divide into two equal four-measure parts, which further
divide into two equal two-measure parts).8 Mathematically, this structure can
be expressed as 2 x 2 x 2. Throughout this analysis, however, I argue for the
conceptual primacy of the less frequently encountered twelve-measure length.
Twelve-measure phrases have a greater number of possible subdivisions into
equal parts, a potential that Brahms explores. A twelve-measure phrase will
have a subdivision into three equal parts at some level; these possible subdivi-
sions can be expressed as 3 x 2 x 2, 2 x 3 x 2, or 2 x 2 x 3 (where the first num-
ber represents the largest division into thirds or halves and the final number
represents the smallest division).9 Figure 3.1 displays schematic diagrams of
these possible subdivisions. These unusually long twelve-measure phrases are
essential to the expression of longing in this lied.
After a brief discussion of the form, I will investigate the phrase rhythm
of each formal section and relate my findings to the overarching drama of
Rückert’s poem. In short, I will show how an exquisitely nuanced manipulation
of phrase rhythm parallels the structure of the text, acts as an important device
for expressing longing, and arises as the primary agent for achieving closure
in “Gestillte Sehnsucht.” I will then close with a few comments on metrical
Murphy.indd 86 5/17/2018 1:30:10 AM

Example 3.1. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” op. 91, no. 1. Three versions of the same
cadence, mm. 32–37, 59–64, and 86–92
Verse 1
# j
& # 42 ‰ Jœ œ
D
œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ. œ Œ
32
Mezzo J œ œ œ J œ
œ œ œ.
Sie lis - peln die Welt in Schlum - mer, in Sclum - mer ein.
œ œ
B # # 42 œ œ œ œœ ‰ #œ œ œ ‰ œ
œ #œ ‰ œ #œ œ‰
œ
# œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œJ ‰ Œ ∑ J
3 3
œœ p n œœ
Vla.
œœ œ. œœ œ
œœ j œœ
3
## j œœ
3 3 3
œ j ‰ # œœ .. œ
3 dim.
4 ‰ œJ ‰ Jœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœœ ‰ # œœ ‰ # œœ Œ
2 ‰ œ
J‰ J ‰ J‰
?
& J
p J œ #œ
j
# ‰ j ‰ j‰ ‰ œœ ‰ œj ‰ j Œ ‰
Piano dim.
& # 42 n œ œœœ j? œ œ œ ˙ œœ œœ‰ œœ‰ œœ‰ œœ‰

3
œ.
3 3 3
œ
œ œ œ œœ ˙ œ œ œ œ
j
Verse 2
œ œ j
E
& b ‰ J œ œJ œ œ #œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ. œ Œ
59
Mezzo J œ J œ
œ œœ œ
ihr seh - nen - den Wün - sche, wann schlaft ihr, wann schlaft ihr ein?
B b œ #œ œ œ œ œ
‰ bœ# œ ‰ œ# œ œ ‰ bœ# œnœ ‰ n œ ‰ ‰ œ œJ ‰ Œ ∑ œ. bœ
3 3
Vla.
œ #œ œ p
J
œ. œœ # œœ œœ b # œœ
# œœ œ
3 3
‰ b œj‰
3 3
‰ b Jœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ # œœ .. œ
3 dim.
& b ‰ œJ œœ œœ
j ‰
œ
jŒ ? ‰ œ
J‰ J ‰
œ‰ # œ
J J
p J #œ
‰ j ‰ j‰ ‰ œj‰ œœ
j ‰ jŒ ‰
Pno. dim.
& b œ # œœœ j œ #œ œ n œœ œ
œ œ‰ œ ‰ œ œ‰ œ œ ‰
3
œ ?
œ.
3 3 3
œ b # œœ œ œœ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ
F
#Verse 3 86 œ œ j j j
Mezzo & # ‰ J J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ ˙ œ œ œ
Œ
œ œ œ.
mit mei - nem Seh - - - nen mein Le - ben ein.
B ## œœœœœ œ œ ‰ #œ œ œ ‰ œ
œ #œ ‰ œ œ ‰ Œ
œ
J
œ #œ œ ‰ #œœ ‰ ‰ ∑ ∑
3 3
Vla. œœ J p
œ œ j œ. œœ ˙˙ n œœœ
œ
œœ
3
##
‰ Jœœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œj ‰ # œj Œ
3 3 3
‰ # œœ .. Œ œ ˙
3 dim.
&
? ‰ J‰ J
J J # œœ œ
#œ
p j j p
## ‰ j ‰ j‰ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ j Œ ‰
Pno. dim.
œœœ j? œ œœ œ. ˙˙ œ‰ œ‰
3 3
& œœ œ ˙
nœ œ œ
œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ œœ œœ
Murphy.indd 87 5/17/2018 1:30:13 AM

(a) 3x2x2
ͳʹ
Ͷ Ͷ Ͷ
ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ
ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ ͳ
(b) 2x2x3
ͳʹ
͸ ͸
͵ ͵ ͵ ͵
(c) 2x3x2
ͳʹ
͸ ͸
ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ ʹ
Figure 3.1. Schematic diagrams of possible equal subdivisions of a twelve-measure

phrase: (a) 3x2x2; (b) 2x2x3; (c) 2x3x2
stretching as a primary characteristic of this lied, and Brahms’s diversity of

hypermetrical organization.
Form
“Gestillte Sehnsucht” consists of three sections (ABA); the moods of the A

and B sections parallel the calm–imploring–calm moods of the three stan-
zas set by Brahms. The stanzas are segmented into a verse and refrain based
Murphy.indd 88 5/17/2018 1:31:20 AM

on the rhyme scheme abab (verse) and cc (refrain).10 This segmentation

seems particularly apt since the rhymed couplets (cc) all draw on the same
set of images of whispering, wind, birds, longing, and sleep [Lispeln, Winde,
Vögelein, sehnen, and schlafen/schläft/Schlummmer] in the same order,
despite the contrasting moods.11
The work also includes a substantive introduction, coda, and smaller linking
passages between each pair of stanzas. In the introduction the viola presents
the song’s main melody, which recurs as a countermelody during the verses of
the A sections and as the mezzo-soprano’s melody during all refrains. In fact,
this melody is absent only from the middle verse and from the coda. I choose
to call all occurrences of this recurring melody the refrain (r) because the term
represents its most structurally important function. Recognizing the extent to
which r saturates the musical surface, the form could also be described as “r |
V1r r | V2 r | V3r r | Coda.” (Vertical lines delineate the three stanzas, V1, V2,
and V3 refer to the three verses, r denotes the refrain, and the superscripts rep-
resent the refrain’s alternative function as countermelody; the lack of a super-
script reflects the lack of a countermelody.) The focus on the presence and
absence of r reveals that countermelodies are present only when r adopts that
function.
On a smaller scale, the majority of the music is organized as Schoenbergian
sentences. The three versions of r (the introduction, the outer verses’ counter-
melody, and the refrain to all three verses) are connected by their shared basic
idea. The prevalence of sentences in this piece would seem to support readings
that identify eight-measure basic phrases, since eight-measure sentences are far
more common than twelve-measure ones. Yet I will demonstrate that a reading
of longer basic phrases for all sections that include r is stronger, for reasons
that vary phrase by phrase and will be elucidated below. The diversity of ways in
which twelve-measure basic phrases emerge adds strength to the analysis: there
is a sense of the inevitability of a commitment to this longer phrase length.
The basic idea plays an important role in setting up an expected hyperme-
ter and basic-phrase length. Since the presentation (usually a basic idea and
its repetition) and continuation (a destabilization of the prevailing formal
context and drive to the cadence) have equal durations in prototypical sen-
tences, the length of the former projects a length for the latter.12 Examples
3.2a and 3.2b provide sentences of different lengths annotated to empha-
size these proportions. The creation of hypermeter in a presentation is thus
strongly supported by two factors: its division into equally long repetitions of
the basic idea, and the melodic parallelism that identifies these repetitions.13
“Gestillte Sehnsucht” has instances of four-measure and six-measure presen-
tations, although neither leads to an eight-measure basic phrase. In fact, all
phrases organized as sentences function within a twelve-measure basic phrase.
While it is expected that a six-measure presentation leads to a twelve-measure
Murphy.indd 89 5/17/2018 1:31:50 AM

Example 3.2a. Sentence with a four-bar presentation: Ludwig van Beethoven,

Piano Sonata op. 2, no. 1, I, mm. 1–8
presentation phase (4 bars) continuation phase (4 bars)
. . œ. . . œ . œ œ œ œ. ˙˙ œ œ œ
bb . œ. œ œ œ n œ œ. Œ . n œ. œ œ œ œ œ Œ œj œ œ œ n œ œ. ˙ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ U
& b b C œ. œ. œ œ. œ Œ Œ ˙ ŒŒ
j
œ
œ.
p basic idea repeated S S ƒ p
3 3 3 3
œœ œœ œœ n œœœ nœ œ œ œ œœ œœ n œœ œœ œœ œœ œœœ œ
œU
œ œ n œ Œ Ó Œ n œœœ œœœ œœœ Œ œœ œ œ ŒœŒ
basic idea
? bb b C Œ
b ∑ Œœ œ œ Œœ Œ Œ
œ.
Example 3.2b. Prototypical sentence with a six-bar presentation: Joseph Haydn,

Piano Sonata Hob. XVI:6, II, Trio, mm. 1–12.
presentation phase (6 bars)
.
b 3 œ^ mœ œ mœ œ # œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ # œ^ mœ œ mœ n œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ Jœ. n œ^ mœ œ mœ b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
&b 4 ‰ œ
p basic idea
3 3 3 3 3 3 3
3 3
Piano basic idea repeated basic idea repeated
b
& b 43 œœ. œœ. œœ. œ.œ œ.œ œ.œ # œœ. œœ. œœ. n œ. œ œ.œ œ.œ n œœ œœ œœ b œœ œœ œœ
. . . . . .
b œ.
continuation phase (6 bars)
& b œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. n œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ Œ
7
œ.
. . œ. ˙
f j
b j j
& b œœ Œ ‰ œ
? œ Œ ‰ n œ œ Œ ‰ # œ œ Œ ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ.
. œ. œ n œ. œ # œ. œ J œ. œ. œ. œ
.
basic phrase, it is notable that every four-measure presentation in “Gestillte

Sehnsucht” also leads to twelve-measure basic phrases. This less common and
longer phrase length, which features 150 percent of the time span of a stylisti-
cally conventional eight-measure basic phrase, contributes to the general sense
of longing that permeates the piece.
Introduction (Measures 1–13)
The introduction consists of one thirteen-measure phrase organized as

a sentence (ex. 3.3): the first four measures present the basic idea, with its
expected repetition, and the remaining nine gradually liquidate this basic idea
down to its smallest motif, x, a rhythmic motif that typically has a function of
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Example 3.3. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” introduction, mm. 1–13

Y

anacruses. Example 3.3 labels a few occurrences of x and interprets this

phrase’s hypermeter using Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s dot notation.14 The
first eight measures move from tonic to a secondary dominant (V56/V), and
the remaining five measures prolong the dominant—the phrase’s harmonic
goal. Metrically, the phrase projects a clear four-measure hypermeter for its
first eight measures, but the final five measures are more complicated. Even
though unstable harmonies are consistently placed on stronger beats of the
hypermeter (those with four or more dots), the first eight measures are metri-
cally stable. A pure duple span, these measures also resemble a sentence with
Murphy.indd 91 5/17/2018 1:34:12 AM

four-measure presentation and continuation units. Through the process of

fragmentation, the latter four measures (mm. 5–8) are further divided into
a 1 + 1 + (1/2 + 1/2 + 1) mini-sentence, a common characteristic of many
continuations.15 A change in harmonic rhythm also delineates the division
between these two four-measure groups; at measure 5, there is one harmony
per measure instead of two. These eight measures, however, do not constitute
the entire phrase because they do not end with a cadence; rather, they prepare
the phrase’s harmonic goal and eventual cadential arrival with a secondary
dominant that occurs at the peak of the phrase (measure 8).
The final five measures continue the fragmentation process initiated in
the mini-sentence (measures 5–8) by dissolving the basic idea down to a basic
motif: the three-sixteenth-note anacrusis, x, that originally preceded each of
the first seven measures.16 After a measure of absence (measure 8), x returns
as the anacrusis to measure 9, after which it occurs eight additional times con-
secutively. Since no rests separate the nine occurrences of x, its three-sixteenth-
note length conflicts with the notated meter. This saturation of the phrase’s
end with a motivic fragment is typical of a sentence.
These final five measures are metrically complex. In particular, three factors
indicate a metric disturbance. At measure 9, the piano’s sextuplet gestures are
initiated every three eighth-notes instead of every two, the harmonic rhythm
moves at a slower rate, and the grouping structure in the melody emphasizes
the dotted eighth-note (expressed as three sixteenth-notes). Since the metri-
cally regular first eight measures have developed an expectation for four-mea-
sure units, it makes sense to entertain an underlying four-measure prototype
to explain this metrically irregular five-measure prolongation of the dominant
(measures 9–13).
This use of the three-sixteenth-note unit implies a change in meter. The
song opens in a clear simple duple hypermeter with the strongest hypermetri-
cal downbeats occurring in measures 1, 5, and 9. Beginning in measure 9, the
groupings of sixteenth-notes change the music’s pattern of accents from 42 to
6 17
8. Example 3.3 illustrates this change by placing the smallest level of accent
three eighth-notes apart instead of two. Three (or more) dots designate down-
beats of the perceived meter. This notation assists us in articulating why the
five measures of music between measures 9 and 13 feel like four measures of
stretched out music: two measures of 86 meter occupy three measures of notated
meter (mm. 9–11).18
The overall basic length of the phrase, which can be calculated by counting
the number of perceived downbeats (three or more dots), is twelve measures
divided into four measures of presentation followed by eight of continuation.
These twelve measures are thus divided into three groups of four (each group
begins with a five-dot marking), and the hypermetric organization can be
described as 3 x 2 x 2 (as in fig. 3.1a).
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Outer Verses (Measures 14–26 and 68–80)
The melodic similarities between the organization of the introduction and

the outer verses provide a high degree of motivic unity. Example 3.4 provides
the first verse. The clearest similarity is the presence of the introduction’s
melody, played by the viola; as noted previously, its new function is to pro-
vide a countermelody to the mezzo-soprano’s melody. The setting maintains
the basic idea that has already been heard, but modifies it in a significant
way: it is three, instead of two, measures long. The added measure is easily
identified as the first measures of the basic idea and its repetition because
these initial measures are distinctly stagnant: all sextuplet motion ceases, the
texture thins out to a dominant pedal for the first eighth-note, and the viola
part states the first measure of its original basic idea in the phrase’s second
measure. Since the first measure (and likewise the fourth) is inserted, the
stronger measures of the viola’s hypermeter are the second and fifth mea-
sures of the phrase.
An additional similarity between the introduction and outer verses is the
uncertainty as to how the sense of expansion impacts the basic phrase. In the
introduction, the phrase structure of the continuation phase was ambiguous
owing to a change in the pulse from quarter-notes to dotted quarter-notes. In
the outer verses, the ambiguity concerns the lengths of the basic idea. In these
verses, the vocal part reveals that the seemingly removable insertions in the
countermelody—two beats of rest across measures 13–14 and 16–17—are actu-
ally an essential measure of the phrase. Since the mezzo-soprano part carries
the primary melody and text, its phrase structure takes priority over the viola’s
countermelody. Thus, while the countermelody is clearly an altered version of
the refrain, its three-measure basic idea is necessary in order to align it with the
mezzo-soprano’s three-measure basic idea.
While the viola and piano’s basic ideas in these verses are expanded to
accommodate the three-measure basic idea necessary for the mezzo-soprano, a
hypermetrical dissonance arises between the melody and accompaniment. The
mezzo-soprano’s line has strong hyperbeats on the phrase’s first and fourth
measures (mm. 14 and 17). This reading is supported by two factors. First, its
melody implies a I–V–I harmonization for the first three measures, a progres-
sion that traditionally aligns with a strong–weak–strong (or in this case strong–
weak–weak) hypermeter at a phrase’s beginning. Second, it is easier to hear a
strong hyperbeat on the first measure of a phrase instead of the second.19 The
hypermetrical conflict arises because the mezzo-soprano has strong hyperbeats
on measures 14 and 17 while the viola and piano have strong hyperbeats on
measures 15 and 18. Overall, the viola and piano’s hypermeter best describes
the combined effect of the parts owing to the hypermetric parallelism with the
introduction, increased surface rhythm on stronger measures of the hypermeter,
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Example 3.4. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” verse 1, mm. 14–26

and durational accent in the second measure of the mezzo-soprano’s melody.

This hypermeter in the voice melody is, at best, a weak shadow meter.20
The outer verses’ continuation (mm. 20–26) fulfills the expectation for
a twelve-measure phrase initiated by a six-measure presentation. These final
seven measures begin in measure 20 with an extended anacrusis that parallels
measures 14 and 17, followed by a move to the dominant through a descending
7–6 suspension pattern and fragmentation of the basic idea into one-measure
units (mm. 21–23). The phrase then concludes with a traditional harmonic
progression to an imperfect authentic cadence in the dominant (mm. 24–26).
The hypermetric structure of this continuation is unclear. Certainly, mea-
sures 21 and 22 form a strong-weak pair because of the melodic parallelism
with measures 5 and 6 and the direct sequencing of melodic material from
measure 21 in measure 22. Measures 23 and 24, however, are far more difficult
to interpret. In the voice, a new melodic event begins in measure 23, which
makes it feel like a strong measure. In the viola, however, a new melodic event
Murphy.indd 94 5/17/2018 1:35:07 AM

begins in measure 24, conversely making that measure feel like a strong mea-
sure. Our predilection toward hearing binary hypermeters further plays into
this conflict. Since the viola’s basic idea and its repetition are clearly expanded
versions of the original two-measure basic idea, we are left with the sense that a
two-measure hypermeter is being thwarted in the opening six measures. When
the continuation begins (m. 21) and the empty measures are removed, we are
almost predisposed to hear this moment as a resumption of duple hypermeter
and measures 21 and 23 as strong measures in the viola, despite the continu-
ation of a melodic pattern in measure 23 and the start of a new one in mea-
sure 24. Measure 24 is accented—drawn to attention—in two further ways. The
apex of the melodic line occurs over these two measures (mm. 23–24) as the
soprano climbs to d3, the chordal seventh of the dominant, which resolves to
the new tonic and c♯3 on the downbeat of measure 24. This measure also fea-
tures an acceleration of harmonic rhythm. After considering the entire phrase,
I find measure 24 the stronger of the pair. As this phrase unfolds in time, how-
ever, its metrical status is very unclear, owing to the clear pairing of measures
21 and 22 and our desire to hear two-measure units. This ambiguity is part
of the benefit of a six-measure continuation—it has the potential to express
a regular hypermeter as three two-measure hypermeasures or two three-mea-
sure hypermeasures. As continuations of sentences are often less tightly-knit, it
makes sense that ambiguity would occur. This obfuscation leads to a momen-
tary suspension of regular hypermeter, which, in this song, contributes to the
sense of longing.
The overall thirteen-measure length of the phrase is an interesting by-prod-
uct of these hypermetrical conflicts. Since the mezzo-soprano’s phrase—and
the shadow meter it articulates—starts one measure before the viola and pia-
no’s phrases, these staggered entries add one measure to the overall length of
the combined phrases and additional hypermetric ambiguity in the phrase’s
continuation. Similar to the introduction, but for different reasons, the outer
verses occupy thirteen measures of notated music.
In the introduction and outer verses, the sense of longing is present in
two ways. First, the phrases’ basic length of twelve measures—rather than
the more normative eight—arises from easily perceived changes to the pro-
totypical sentence structure. In the introduction, the four-measure presen-
tation phase leads to an expectation of an equally long continuation phase.
The continuation, however, is twice the expected length (eight, rather than
four, basic measures). In the outer verses, the basic idea that has been heard
in a two-measure form now occupies three measures and carries forward this
larger proportion through the remainder of the phrase. Second, an extra
measure—the thirteenth—arises through different metrical devices in both
phrases. In the introduction, the pulse changes from a quarter-note to a dot-
ted quarter-note during the continuation phase—the shift from notated 42 to
Murphy.indd 95 5/17/2018 1:35:36 AM

heard 86. This change causes two perceived measures of music to occupy three
notated measures. In the outer verses, the presence of a shadow meter creates
a hypermetrical dissonance, an offset of one measure for the voice and accom-
paniment. These twelve-measure basic phrases are hypermetrically organized
and stretched so that they exploit the variety of ways that twelve measures can
be metrically divided and contribute to the general sense of longing that per-
meates the song.
Refrains (Measures 28–37, 55–64, and 82–93)
The refrain, which concludes each of the three verses, is the last type of formal
unit to utilize the opening viola melody, r. Following the pattern established
by the introduction and first verse, the presence of r in the refrain leads to a
sentential organization for the phrase. The refrain’s first four measures, the
presentation portion of the sentence, repeat the melody and metric organi-
zation of the introduction’s first four measures. The continuations of these
phrases, however, proceed differently. Metrically, none contain disruptions of
meter below the level of the tactus. Harmonically, instead of moving to and
prolonging the dominant, these sections complete the motion to the cadence
through a four-measure prolongation of the supertonic harmony, followed
by an almost-perfect authentic cadence that occupies two (first and second
refrain) or three measures (final refrain). Finally, there is a significant differ-
ence in how the entire melody is used. Instead of functioning as an introduc-
tion or countermelody in the viola, it occurs in the mezzo-soprano and thus
claims the poem’s text.
Even though the refrains clearly correspond to the introduction, the first
two occupy only ten measures: a four-measure presentation followed by a six-
measure continuation (example 3.5a provides the continuation). Several fea-
tures within the continuation suggest irregularities in the hypermeter. First,
the rate of bass-note change shifts to from twice to once a measure during
measures 34 and 35. Second, the weak hyperbeat placement of the cadence is
immediately reinterpreted as a strong hyperbeat of the melodic echo in mea-
sures 37 through 41. Finally, this echo shifts the melody and harmony by a
half-measure. Within the first beat of measure 38, the final tonic is transformed
into V7/IV by the addition of C♮ on the weak eighth-note. This harmony corre-
sponds to the second beat of measure 31, which is the anacrusis to the continu-
ation phase. The metric shift is maintained throughout the echo of measures
31 (beat 2) through 33 (beat 2).
Even for this ten-measure phrase, I argue for a basic phrase that maintains
a four-measure hypermeter. The following analytical question then arises: how
does a six-measure continuation phase line up with a four-measure hypermeter?
Murphy.indd 96 5/17/2018 1:35:36 AM

Example 3.5a. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” refrain and continuation, six‐measure surface
realization

Example 3.5b. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” refrain and continuation, possible five‐

measure prototype

Example 3.5c. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” refrain and continuation, possible seven‐

measure prototype

Murphy.indd 97 5/17/2018 1:35:40 AM

One possible answer is that the two measures containing the change in har-
monic rhythm (mm. 34–35) represent one measure of a basic phrase that has
been stretched to two in its surface realization. This reading would imply that
the continuations are based on a five-measure basic phrase functioning within
an four-measure hypermeter, a common occurrence that could take the form
shown in example 3.5b. An alternative answer could accept the decelerated
harmonic rhythm as part of the basic phrase, and propose that the phrase’s
conclusion should maintain that rhythm. In other words, measures 36 and 37
are a contracted version of the basic phrase hypothesized in example 3.5c. The
final two measures of the surface phrase (ex. 3.5a) are a contraction of the
final four measures of the hypothetical prototype given as example 3.5c.
The crux of the issue concerns the change of pacing in measure 34: is the
change part of the basic phrase, or is it an expanded version of an underly-
ing basic phrase? Several aspects of the texture support a reading that inter-
prets these measures as an expansion (ex. 3.6b): the bass rhythm slows from a
quarter-note to a half-note pace; the viola’s triplets occur once instead of twice
a measure; and the mezzo-soprano part uses quarter-notes instead of eighth-
notes. Combined with a diminuendo dynamic marking and the piano part’s dra-
matic descent into the bass register, the entire effect is one of slowing down. In
the first two refrains, this effect lasts only for two measures, after which every-
thing but the dynamic and register returns to its previous state (mm. 36ff).
This seeming return to normalcy after two measures of lugubriousness sup-
ports a reading of an eight-measure underlying phrase, and supports the ongo-
ing expression of longing through phrase expansion.
Changes to the final refrain (ex. 3.6) add an additional layer of ambiguity
to decisions about the basic phrase. In the final measures of its continuation
(mm. 90–92), the doubling of values that created a sense of expansion in the
first two refrains continues for an additional two measures. This version closely
parallels the hypothetical prototype in example 3.5c, carrying the slower har-
monic rhythm through the cadential 46 and its resolution. Even before the
change of harmonic rhythm, the text is presented twice as slowly as in the pre-
vious refrains, resulting in the syncopations in measures 86–88. Brahms states
a portion of the sixth line of the first two stanzas twice. By contrast, the lon-
ger last stanza contains no text repeats. Brahms accomplishes this by chang-
ing the text underlay at measure 86 (see ex. 3.1c). Previously, each beat had
received a syllable, even if the pitch was a reiteration of the immediately pre-
ceding note. In this last iteration, only pitch changes receive new syllables. This
deceleration of text presentation adds to the finality of the third stanza and
sets up the slower harmonic rhythm of measures 88–91. Maintaining this pace
of harmonic change also projects a length of two measures for the final tonic.
As is common at formal boundaries, however, the onset of a coda overlaps with
the final tonic. If this phrase were considered without the length of its final
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Example 3.6. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” final refrain, mm. 86–92

# 2 œ œ j j j
& # 4 ‰ œ Œ œ œ Œ
86
J J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙
Mezzo
œ
œ œ œ.
mit mei - nem Seh - - - nen mein Le - ben ein.
B # # 42 œœœœœ œ œ ‰ #œ œ œ ‰ œ œ
œ #œ ‰ œ #œ œ ‰ œ
#œœ ‰ ‰
œ ‰Œ ∑ ∑ J
3 3
Vla.
œœ J p
œœ œ œ. œœ ˙˙ n œœœ œ
j œœ
3
# 2 j
3 3 3
‰ œJ ‰ œœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœ ‰ œ ‰ # œj Œ ‰ # œœ .. Œ œ ˙
3 dim.
& # 4 J œ # œœ œ
? ‰ J‰ J
p J #œ p
‰ j ‰ j‰ j ‰ j dim.
# 2 ‰ œœ œœ ‰ œj Œ ‰
Piano
& # 4 œœ j? œ œ. ˙ œœ‰ œœ‰

3 3
œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙
nœ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ
tonic being obfuscated by onset of the coda, it would be twelve measures long,
divided evenly into three four-measure groups. This reading is certainly pos-
sible, as the final note could be perceived as lasting for two measures, much
like the final note at a symphony’s end might be allowed to ring in order to fill
the expected hypermetrical space.
Given that the introduction and verses are based on twelve-measure basic
phrases, how does the meaning of the phrase rhythm change if we consider
the refrain as contracted versions of twelve-measure basic phrases rather than
expanded versions of eight-measure basic phrases? As expanded versions, we
can use the obvious analysis that phrase expansion expresses longing; the
greater phrase expansion of the final refrain adds additional gravity and extra
expression of longing to the song’s conclusion. While there may seem to be
something Procrustean about hearing the first two refrains as contracted ver-
sions of a twelve-measure basic phrase, this analysis creates strong parallels with
the introduction and provides a more meaningful connection between phrase
rhythm and expression of the poem.
The parallelism with the introduction occurs in two ways. First, the sense
of stretching within these basic phrases’ continuation units—albeit achieved
through completely different techniques—is integral to their surprisingly long
eight-measure continuations. Second, both phrases have the same harmonic
rhythm, devoting the first four-measure unit to tonic, the second to pre-dom-
inant, and the final (mostly) to dominant. In other words, both phrases share
a 3 x 2 x 2 hypermetrical organization with similar harmonic timing (see ex.
3.2b). More important, though, is the additional meaning a twelve-measure
basic phrase provides to expression of the text. Only in the final refrain do
we hear a basic phrase with no internal complications such as echoes, shadow
meter, or metric modulation.21 Finally—just as the poem’s speaker receives his
answer about when his longings will be satisfied—we hear a simple phrase, as
though to express a state of quietude. The contracted versions in the previous
Murphy.indd 99 5/17/2018 1:37:02 AM

stanzas still express longing through the stretched feeling within the continua-
tions, but return to a more restless—unstilled—state for their cadential domi-
nants and tonics. In other words, we still feel the presence of the unsatisfied
longings. The ambiguity of how to interpret the changes in harmonic rhythm
contributes to the unsettled feeling that matches the speaker’s restless long-
ings. Due to the deeper analytical meaning and parallelism with the introduc-
tion, I prefer a reading of twelve-measure basic phrases for the refrains.
Summary of Preceding Analysis
Overall, I have argued that all passages that draw on the opening melody
have twelve-measure basic phrases. In the introduction and refrains, these
basic phrases exist within a four-measure hypermeter; in the verses, the
basic phrases work within a three-measure hypermeter. None of these basic
phrases occupy twelve measures of music. Instead, they draw on a variety of
techniques to expand or contract the phrase. The introduction expands a
twelve-measure basic phrase to thirteen through a metric change, and the
outer verses occupy thirteen measures owing to a long anacruses and a
shadow (hyper)meter. Perhaps most notable, the first two refrains contract
the basic phrase to ten measures (although an argument can also be made
for expanding an eight-measure basic phrase to ten measures), and the last
refrain is the only formal section to present an almost unhindered version of
a twelve-measure basic phrase. Only the entrance of the coda that overlaps
the final harmony prevents this phrase from literally occupying twelve mea-
sures of music. The sense of completion and simplicity that emerges from
this unmodified twelve-measure phrase adds an additional layer of closure to
the ending of “Gestillte Sehnsucht.”
Middle Verse (Measures 42–53)
In this middle stanza, the text describes longings that stir without rest or peace,
move the heart, and will not sleep. In short, these restless desires that were
not even present in the first stanza—which simply set the atmosphere—now
rival the narrator in dramatic importance. The change in mode, busier surface
rhythms, and more active dynamics reflect the new mood. Even though this
section of the form does not include r, which permeates all other important
formal sections, the phrase rhythm continues to be an agent of text setting.
The middle verse is the only section of the form that actually occupies
twelve measures on the musical surface (ex. 3.7). This is misleading, however,
because its basic phrase is eight measures long. This eight-measure phrase is
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Example 3.7. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” verse 2, mm. 42–53

disguised in three ways. The first two expansions are easily perceived: a one-
measure echo across measures 46–47 and a doubling of note values in mea-
sures 52–53 add two measures of length to the surface version of the phrase.
The two remaining “extra” measures do not arise from an expansion. Rather,
like the introduction, the notated barlines do not coincide with the perceived
bar-lines. The (perceived) meter in this verse alternates between 42 and 43 mea-
sures for eight (perceived) measures. The four 43 measures contribute four
additional quarter-notes to the overall length, thus accounting for the final two
“extra” measures. These alternating meters help portray the restless longings
featured in Rückert’s second stanza. Example 3.9 shows a re-barred version
of the ten-measure basic phrase. It deletes the echo across measures 46 and
47, undoes the durational expansions in measures 51 and 52, and re-measures
the twenty beats of the basic phrase into eight measures of alternating 42 and 43
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Example 3.8. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” ten-measure notated basic phrase re-barred as

the eight-measure perceived basic phrase
subphrase 1 subphrase 2
j œ 3 bœ. œ œ œ
& b 42 ‰ œj œ . œR œJ . R 4 ‰ œj 42 œ . œ œ œ 43 œ . œ œ ‰ j 42
42 43 44 45 46
Mezzo
œ
Ihr Wün-sche, die3 ihr stets euch re - get im Her - zen son - der Rast und Ruh’! Du
œ# œ 3 œœ œœ bœ # œœ œœ œœ 2
B b 42 Œ œ bœ œ 42 43 Œ # œœ
3
Vla. #œ œ
œ 4
œ
œ œœ œœ‰ ∑ ≈ 4
f
j œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ
poco
j j
2 j bœ
œœ ‰ # œœ 43 ‰ b œœ ‰ œœ ? ‰ œœ 2 œ œ œ 3 œ œ œ #œ œ œ #œ ≈ œ 2
&b 4 Œ ‰
œ 4 œ œ #œ 4 œ œ & 4
p poco f
3
œ œ œ œ j
Piano
? 42 Œ ‰ # œJ ‰ œ 43 ‰ œ ‰ Jœ ‰ œ 24 œ œ 43 œ 42
b J J œ œ œ Œ
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
subphrase 3 subphrase 4
j œ.
& b 42 œ
œ
43
œ
nœ #œ œ œ œ ‰ 42 œ . œ œ 43 œ . œ Œ
48 49
Mezzo
J J J J œ œ
Seh - nen, das die Brust be-we - get, wann ru - hest du, wann schlummerst
- du?
œ œ
œ œ 43 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ j
3
B b 42 # œ b œ n œ œ 42 43 Œ
3 3 3
∑ ‰ œ #œ
Vla. œ œ œ bœ œ
f
œ œ œ œœ œ œ #œ œ j
® œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œœ œœ # œœ œœ 3 ≈ œ ≈ œ # œ œ œœ œ # œœ œ
& b 42 ®b œ œ œ ® b œ œ œ ®œ n œ œ ®œ œœ œ 43 ® œ œ # œœ œ œœ
?
42 4 œ œ
œ #œ œ œ
? 2 ≈ # œœ ≈ n n œœ ≈ b œœœ ≈ œœœ 3 ≈ b œœœ ≈ œœœ ≈ œ ≈ œ ≈ œœ
Pno.
2 3 Œ
b 4 R R R R 4 œ œ 4 œ œ 4 œ
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
meters. The original measure numbers are provided to ease comparison

between examples 3.7 and 3.8.
The ten-measure basic notated phrase divides into two five-measure phrases
that conclude with half cadences. A fascinating aspect of this verse concerns
the next level of subdivision, where the five-measure phrases are divided into
two equally long subphrases. This creates an overall grouping structure of 2 x
2 x 2.5 (!!). Several beautiful details support this reading. The first subphrases
of each phrase (subphrases 1 and 3) are almost the same; the second one
reaches a slightly higher apex owing to a more complex harmonization. The
second subphrases (2 and 4) are also almost identical, although Brahms’s use
of invertible counterpoint disguises the similarities. Example 3.9 shows how
these subphrases feature invertible counterpoint between the outer voices. It
also shows how subphrase 4 inverts the entire bass and melody lines from sub-
phrase 2 (with augmentation at its end).
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Example 3.9. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” invertible counterpoint in mm. 44–46 and

50–53
y z
j r j
(2 beats)
j œ
(3 beats)
& b ‰ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ Œ
44
Mezzo œ J J R
j
im Her - zen son - der Rast und Ruh’!
?b ‰ œ œ j
œ œ
œ œ œ œ œ ‰ Œ
œ
Pno.
œ œ œ œ
z y
j
z (based on a two-beat prototype)
& b ‰ œ œ. œ œ ‰ œj œ. œ œ Œ
50
Mezzo J
wann ru - hest du, wann schlum - merst du?
?b ‰ j j
œ œ œ. ˙
œ. œ œ œ
Pno.
œ œ ˙
y z
While aurally clear, the hypermetrical organization of these four subphrases

is visually obfuscated because their meter conflicts with the notated meter. For
example, the first five-quarter-note subphrase concludes in measure 44. The
second beat of measure 44 is hypermetrically stronger than the first beat, which
sounds—in retrospect—like an extra upbeat. Three musical factors, however,
point to a shifted barline in subphrases 2 (mm. 44–46) and 4 (mm. 50–52).
First, since the first and second subphrases share similar rhythms at the outset,
interpreting the second beat of measure 44 as a downbeat creates a parallel
metrical structure. Second, the latter beats of measures 44 and 45 have dura-
tional accents that further enforce the second notated beat as stronger than
the first. The viola echo in measure 47, which is not part of the basic phrase,
provides a third iteration of this durational accent. Third, the accents in the
text (“Her-[zen]” and “Rast,” as opposed to a rest and “son-[der]”) land on the
perceived downbeats. The perceived and notated meters realign in measure
48 owing to the second “extra” upbeat (second beat of measure 47) of this
verse. In fact, the presence of extra upbeats starts to create a predictable pat-
tern of quarter-note groupings: 2 + 2 + 1, 2 + 2 + (2) + 1, where (2) refers to the
echo in measure 46. This pattern continues in measures 48 through 51, where
Murphy.indd 103 5/17/2018 1:40:27 AM

the expected invertible counterpoint occurs, but with augmentation at its end.
The y motif in measure 51 (ex. 3.9) has been expanded from its four-eighth-
note prototype to four quarter-notes.
Variety in Brahms: Stretching

Techniques and Divisions of Twelve
Stretching phrases is an exceptional way to express longing (“Sehnsucht”)
in music.22 This aspect of the phrase structure in “Gestillte Sehnsucht”
occurs so frequently that it becomes a defining feature of the piece. Even
the basic-phrase lengths of twelve and ten measures seem long compared
with the eight-measure basic phrases encountered far more frequently in
the wider repertoire. Table 3.1 summarizes the use of stretching techniques
throughout the piece. The varied ways that stretching occurs are a testament
to Brahms’s rhythmic creativity: they include the meter change in the intro-
duction, which slows the rate of hypermetrical downbeats by fifty percent,
frequent augmentation by one hundred percent, the use of static texture in
the accompaniment, and echoes. The latter two of these techniques warrant
more discussion.
Static texture first occurs as a stretching technique in the opening verse.
The use of static texture creates the sensation of time stopping. The voice
enters in a state of suspension—all rhythmic motion ceases and the mezzo-
soprano declaims her text over a dominant pedal tone. Motion returns when
the violist enters with its countermelody, but everything halts again with the
entrance of the second statement of the basic idea. This cessation of motion
combined with the unusually late hypermetrical downbeats creates the sense of
waiting—in other words, time in being stretched in those long anacruses.
The regular cessation of motion in the outer verses creates a pattern of
stretching that does not disturb the hypermeter. However, this pattern estab-
lishes the groundwork for a later stretching that does affect the hypermeter: the
link between the first verse and its refrain. In this verse, a three-measure basic
idea begins over a stationary texture in measures 1, 4, and 7 of the phrase. This
pattern could have continued, but instead it is absent in the phrase’s tenth
measure, which parallels the formal function of this measure as part of the
continuation unit—a place of forward motion. Measure 13 of the phrase, how-
ever, returns to the motif of waiting. This measure differs from the previous
ones in that the sense of stretching is created through a two-measure link in
the viola that delays the next hypermetrical downbeat by a measure. In other
words, this stretching impacts a sense of hypermeter while the previous ones
did not.
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Table 3.1. Summary of stretching techniques.
Form Description
Introduction perceived bars become longer
Verse 1 three 1.25-measure anacruses
small link chromatic, outside of the hypermeter for two bars
Refrain continuation has sense of half-timing
large link echoes continuation, hypermeter peters out
Verse 2 echo in between the two phrases and augmentation of the cadence
small link chromatic, outside of the hypermeter for two bars
Refrain continuation has sense of augmentation
large link hypermeter and texture peter out
Verse 3 three 1.25-measure anacruses
small link chromatic, outside of the hypermeter
Refrain sense of half timing is extended
Coda extra iterations of a one-bar segment
Echoes offer an additional stretching technique. Two sizable echoes follow

the outer stanzas, functioning in the first case as a link between the first pair
of stanzas, and in the second case as the coda. Their pitch material repeats the
melody of the previously heard continuation unit. Example 3.10 provides these
two echoes. As with the metric differences between the refrains, where the
final refrain was longer than the previous ones, the echoes share the same first
four measures, but the final measures of the latter echo—the coda—occupy
more space: instead of a five-measure link, we hear a seven-measure conclu-
sion, extended further through a fermata on the final note. While the first
echo may not seem to be an example of stretching, it serves as a prototype for
the second echo, which clearly utilizes the stretching motif one final time.
Metrical structures in “Gestillte Sehnsucht” also display Brahms’s interest
in exploring a range of hypermetrical structures within one phrase. Twelve-
measure phrases have more ways of being subdivided into equal parts than do
eight-measure phrases. Eight, as a perfect cube (23), can only be divided into
equal parts in one way: 4 + 4, which is further divided into {2 + 2} + {2 + 2}. As
discussed earlier, twelve measure phrases can be equally divided in three ways,
offering more potential for variety: 4 + 4 + 4, 6 + 6 subdivided into [3 + 3] + [3
+ 3], and 6 + 6 subdivided into [2 + 2 + 2] + [2 + 2 + 2].23
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Example 3.10a. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” echo after the first stanza, mm. 37–41
œ. œ œ
B # # 42
37
J J œ œ œ œ j j j Œ
Vla. J J œ œ œ œ œ
p
n œœ
dim.
j j j œ œ
? ## 2 ‰ œ ‰
4 J &œ
j ‰ œ ‰ œœ ‰ œ ‰ ? œœ
œ ‰ œœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœ Œ
œœ œœ œ œ J J J J
p3 b œ œ
? ## 2 œœ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰
Piano
4 œœ‰ œ‰ bœ ‰ œ‰ j ‰ j‰ Œ
dim.
œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ
Example 3.10b. “Gestillte Sehnsucht,” echo after the third stanza, mm. 92–98
œ. œ œ œ j U
B # # 42 J J œ œ œ œ œ œ
92
J J bœ œ bœ œ œ œœ
Vla.
J J œ œ œ œ œ
p
gUœ
dim.
# j j j j
j
& # 42 ‰ œœj ‰ œ ‰ œœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ j ‰ œj ‰ ? œ œ œ œ œœ gggg œœ
œœ œ œ œ œ œ g
p 3 nœ œœ œ
b œ
œ œ U
œ
? # # 42 œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ bœ ‰
Piano
œ‰ ‰
dim.
œœ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ gg œ
œ œ œ œ œ ggg œ
Brahms clearly uses two of these metrical structures: the introduction and
refrains are organized as 4 + 4 + 4, and the outer verses as 6 + 6, which further
subdivides into [3 + 3] + [3 + 3]. Oddly enough, the ten-measure basic phrase
of the middle verse is divided into two equal parts at both levels of subdivision
(as though it were an eight-measure phrase): its two phrases have a 5 + 5 struc-
ture, which is further subdivided into [2.5 + 2.5] + [2.5 + 2.5]. This variety of
subdivisions exploits the possibilities of the basic-phrase lengths and supports
the formal divisions of the piece.24
Conclusion: Trajectory of Text and

Phrase-Rhythm Relationships
The tight correlation between the poem’s content and the nuances of the
phrase rhythm clearly demonstrate how phrase rhythm can be a powerful tech-
nique for text setting. While deep engagement with the interaction between
the poetry and other facets of the music will assuredly yield supporting details,
only through this narrow focus on phrase rhythm can we learn that its jour-
ney to clarity mirrors the text’s journey to completion. The three stanzas that
Murphy.indd 106 5/17/2018 1:42:07 AM

Brahms set have a clear trajectory of (1) setting the ambience, (2) introducing
longing as a character and asking a question, and (3) answering the question.
Like the text, the phrase rhythm is unsettled until the final refrain. Various
obfuscations of the twelve-measure basic phrase include augmentation
through a metric modulation (introduction), contraction at the cadence (first
two refrains), and out-of-phase hypermetric and grouping structures (outer
verses). Furthermore, twelve-measure units in the minor-mode section result
from simple expansions of an unusually uneven ten-measure basic phrase
(middle verse). The clear presentation of a twelve-measure basic phrase is
withheld until the last refrain, where its unambiguous and simple statement
provides a finality and “rightness” to this lusciously long cadence. Examining
the careful manipulation of phrase rhythm throughout the entire song reveals
a profoundly beautiful compositional aspect. Brahms’s setting of “Gestillte
Sehnsucht” musically expresses the point of Rückert’s poem: the sense of ful-
filled longing only arrives with the finality that accompanies death.
Notes
1. Geiringer advances the idea that the viola is Brahms’s favorite stringed instru-
ment in Brahms: His Life and Work, 3rd ed. (New York: DaCapo, 1982), 285.
2. These songs were published in reverse compositional order—no. 2 was written
twenty years before no. 1.
3. See William Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer
Books, 1989), 12.
4. Analyses that include descriptions of how aspects of phrase rhythm (hyperme-
ter or phrase structure) express the text include Charles Burkhart, “Departures
from the Norm in Two Songs from Schumann’s Liederkreis,” in Schenker Studies,
ed. Hedi Siegel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 146–64; Harald
Krebs, “Hypermeter and Hypermetric Irregularity in the Songs of Josephine
Lang,” in Engaging Music: Essays in Music Analysis, ed. Deborah J. Stein (New
York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 13–29; David Lewin, “Die Schwestern,”
in Studies in Music with Text (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 233–66;
Yonatan Malin, “Metric Displacement Dissonance and Romantic Longing in the
German Lied,” Music Analysis 25 (2006): 251–88; Malin, Songs in Motion: Rhythm
and Meter in the German Lied (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010); Heather
Platt, “Text-Music Relationships in the Lieder of Johannes Brahms” (PhD diss.,
City University of New York, 1992); and Stephen Rodgers, “Thinking (and
Singing) in Threes: Triple Hypermeter and the Songs of Fanny Hensel,” Music
Theory Online 17, no. 1 (2011), accessed July 13, 2011.
5. All translations come from those provided by Stanley Appelbaum in Johannes
Brahms, Complete Songs for Solo Voice and Piano, series 3 (New York: Dover, 1980),
xv.
6. Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music, 64.
Murphy.indd 107 5/17/2018 1:43:59 AM

7. As Scott Murphy has pointed out (email communication, August 17, 2010),
this change appropriately causes the “Seh-” of “Sehnen” to be the longest
sounding syllable up to this point; it will soon be trumped—also appropri-
ately—by the “Le-” of “Leben.”
8. This description of pure duple refers to the equal subdivision at each level of
the hypermeter into two equal parts. See Richard Cohn, “The Dramatization
of Hypermetric Conflicts in the Scherzo of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,”
Nineteenth Century Music 15 (1992): 188–206, esp. 194–95.
9. Cohn, “The Dramatization of Hypermetric Conflicts,” 194–95.
10. Incidentally, this form is called a sextilla, and is Spanish in origin. See Lewis
Turco, The Book of Forms (Hanover: University Press of New England, 2000),
251 and Travis Lyon, Forms of Poetry (Pittsburgh: TeaLemon Publications,
2004), 231.
11. Interestingly, the poetic meter in this couplet also differs from the rest of the
poem. The first four lines of each stanza are predominantly in iambic tetram-
eter while the concluding couplet prominently features amphibrachs and a
tri- or tetrameter form (depending on whether the final syllable of each stanza
is an accented “ein”).
12. William Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental
Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press,
1998), 254.
13. Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s Metrical Preference Rule 1 supports this claim:
“Where two or more groups or parts of groups can be construed as parallel,
they preferably receive parallel metrical structure.” Fred Lerdahl and Ray
Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1983), esp. 74–75. Caplin (Classical Form, 85) also points to symmetrical group-
ing structures as a feature that one might expect to find in tight-knit forms
such as a sentence.
14. Lerdahl and Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music; see esp. chapter 2,
“Rhythmic Structure.”
15. This grouping structure is commonly found when a continuation phase fea-
tures liquidation, which Caplin describes as the “systematic elimination of
characteristic motives” (Classical Form, 11). Liquidation can also be observed in
the continuation phase of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 2, no. 1, mvt. 1, mm.
1–8, shown in example 3.2a.
16. While the basic idea does not literally have a three-sixteenth-note anacrusis,
each syncopated anacrusis lasts for three sixteenth-notes.
17. The grouping slurs on the score imply a 16 6 meter, not the 6 reading I advo-
8
cate, because they highlight the three-note characteristic motive. However, the
anacrusis to measure 9 arises from a metric texture of a binary alternation of
strong and weak sixteenth-notes. This accent pattern is maintained through-
out measures 9 through 11. Furthermore, the shared attacks with the piano’s
sextuplets on two out of every three eighth-notes accents eighth-notes rather
than the dotted eighth-notes emphasized by the violist’s slurring.
18. An alternative interpretation could ignore the effect that the different group-
ing pattern has on the meter and argue instead that the expansion to thirteen
Murphy.indd 108 5/17/2018 1:45:12 AM

measures from twelve occurs in measures 12 and 13. I prefer the metric modu-
lation analysis because it conforms to the grouping structure of the extended
continuation. It interprets measure 12 as a strong measure of the hypermeter
(measure 3 of a four-measure unit) while the alternative interpretation fights
the grouping structure of measures 9 through 12 and interprets measure 12 as
a weak measure of the hypermeter (measure 4 of a four-measure unit).
19. See Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s Metrical Preference Rule 2 (Strong Beat Early)
in A Generative Theory of Tonal Music, 76–78.
20. In Rothstein’s definition, “A shadow meter is a secondary meter formed by
a series of regularly recurring accents, when those accents do not coin-
cide with the accents of the prevailing meter (or hypermeter).” William
Rothstein, “Beethoven with and without Kunstgepräng’: Metrical Ambiguity
Reconsidered,” in Beethoven Forum, vol. 4, ed. Christopher Reynolds (University
of Nebraska Press, 1995), 167.
21. I am considering the overlap of the phrase’s final tonic with the onset of the
coda as occurring on the phrase boundary, rather than within the phrase.
22. Yonatan Malin (“Metric Displacement, Dissonance and Romantic Longing”)
has beautifully argued for metric displacement as a symbol of longing through-
out the Romantic era. The connection between phrase expansion and longing
occurs in some of the pieces he discusses, but not to the extent to which it
occurs in this piece, where it assumes a primary role for expressing longing.
23. In order to preserve a regular three- or two-measure hypermeter, I am omit-
ting the possibility of mixing a 3 + 3 six-measure unit with a 2 + 2 + 2 six-mea-
sure unit within the same twelve-measure phrase.
24. The missing subdivision of twelve into [2 + 2 + 2] + [2 + 2 + 2] could be argued
for in the continuations of the outer verses (see ex. 3.4, mm. 21–26). In par-
ticular, the similar content of the continuation’s first two measures (mm.
21–22) encourages a strong-weak hearing, and the presence of a new idea in
the third measure suggests a strong-measure reading. One analytical payoff
for that reading is that Brahms would then have all three possible hypermetric
structures for twelve-measure hyperbars in play within a single piece. I found
the [3 + 3] + [3 + 3] hypermeter more salient in the continuation owing to
the strongly accented return to tonic in measure 24 where the bass pattern
changes, the phrase starts its motion away from the climax, and the surface
rhythms are altered.
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Chapter Four
On the Oddness of Brahms’s

Five-Measure Phrases
Samuel Ng
In a letter dated August 10, 1893, Clara Schumann expresses her approval of
Brahms’s Rhapsody in E-flat, op. 119, no. 4 in a somewhat cryptic manner: “But
now to return to the allegro, how powerful the first motif is and how original
and I suppose Hungarian, owing to the five-measure phrases. It is strange, but
otherwise this five-measure arrangement does not disturb me here at all—it
just has to be so.”1 While five-measure organization is hardly a defining feature
of style hongrois,2 Schumann’s depiction of it as “strange” and demonstrative
of exoticism highlights the entrenched music-theoretical postulate that irregu-
lar phrase lengths—especially odd-numbered ones—are exceptional, or even
deformational.
Despite, or maybe because of, this view, composers and theorists of Western
art music have for centuries been fascinated by these irregular constructions,
and have explored their use in practice. Heinrich Koch shows in Versuch einer
Anleitung zur Composition (Rudolstadt and Leipzig, 1782–93) that five-measure
phrases may be derived from four-measure basic phrases (by adding a one-mea-
sure extension to a four-measure phrase, for example), or may alternatively be
understood as basic phrases when combining two- and three-measure incises.3
Nineteenth-century writers, generally more concerned about symmetry and
organicism than their eighteenth-century counterparts, are rather more cir-
cumspect in their approach.4 For instance, while advocating the use of irregu-
lar phrases, François-Joseph Fétis nevertheless warns that five-measure phrases
are “the weakest for the ear” because of the asymmetrical juxtaposition of
two- and three-measure units.5 He mandates that five-measure phrases must be
organic, not merely as a sum of disparate components, but also as one seamless
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brahms’s five-measure phrases ❧ 111
construction that conceals its intrinsic asymmetry. Anton Reicha echoes this
sentiment, positing that a five-measure phrase is legitimate only when it is an
inevitable manifestation of the musical idea.6 Both theorists thus advise that
five-measure phrases should be “true” rather than derived, and their inherent
imbalance must be remedied by a larger sense of periodicity that arises from
their repeated occurrences. In other words, as Clara Schumann says of the
opening of Brahms’s Rhapsody, a five-measure phrase “just has to be so.”
In this chapter, I will examine Brahms’s treatment of five-measure phrases
in three late piano works: the Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, no. 3, the
Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3, and the Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119,
no. 4. While abundant examples of irregular phrase lengths can be found in
his earlier works, nowhere else does Brahms seem as engrossed in the potential
of five-measure phrases as in these late piano pieces. I will argue that “true”
five-measure phrases not only establish the periodicity of the opening themes
of these pieces, but they also provide impetus for further phrase-rhythmic
development, instigate expressive and formal trajectories, and adumbrate
important impulses that guide tonal and discursive schemes. In discussing the
inevitability of the five-measure phrases, I shall compare them with their poten-
tial four-measure models to reveal the necessity of the form and content of
Brahms’s creation. A variety of musical and extra-musical factors invite such
construction and comparison, and in at least two cases Brahms has provided
explicit and significant insights into the analytical process.7
Example 4.1 shows the formal plan of the G-minor Ballade, op. 118, no. 3,
as well as the themes that open the A and the B sections of the ternary form.
The contrast between the themes is striking: Edward T. Cone has described the
theme of the A section as “forthright” and its accompaniment “spasmodic,” and
the corresponding elements of the B section as “sinuously smooth” and “flow-
ing.”8 The distant move from tonic minor to major ♯III further underscores
the contrast. Even more remarkable, however, is the intrusion of the opening
theme into the B section in measures 53–56, which is shown in example 4.2.
As Cone points out, despite the intruder’s melodic and rhythmic resemblance
to the original theme (a), its articulation and phrase length have been altered
not only to fit into the context of the B section, but also to make a retrospective
connection with the legato (b) material of the opening A section. We subse-
quently hear Aʹ in a new light, having recognized the intermediary role of (b)
in the radical contrast between A and B.
I contend that an equally important connection occurs between the intruder
in measures 53–56 and the opening five-measure phrase—a point that Cone
has perhaps taken for granted. Example 4.3 juxtaposes the two materials to
show the essential parity in their sentential and harmonic structures.9 In this
light, the intruder retrospectively serves as a possible four-measure model of
the opening phrase, implying that the descending-fifths sequence in measure 3
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112 ❧ chapter four
Example 4.1. Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3: formal plan and themes
originates from a phrase expansion. Built upon a <5–10> linear intervallic pat-
tern,10 the sequence elaborates the basic harmonic framework through insert-
ing the harmonic step iv between VI and II, and it prolongs melodic control of
the top-voice B♭1 in measure 3 with a motion into the inner-voice g1.
Despite the apparent elaborative function of measure 3, a closer look at the
opening phrase shows that it is actually indispensable to the expressive char-
acter of the primary theme. The opening dynamic level and articulations cer-
tainly exude the forthrightness that Cone has described; yet, as example 4.4
shows, the expansion engenders multiple strands of tension between structure
and design, such that the initial boldness of the theme is unnervingly held
in check. To begin, notice that the sequential expansion doubles the ongo-
ing harmonic rhythm from two to four harmonies per measure, thus signaling
the normative harmonic acceleration at the continuation unit of the sentence.
The buildup toward the cadence, however, is thwarted by a return to slower
harmonic rhythm in measures 4–5. In other words, an unusual sense of decel-
eration toward the cadence is induced by the faster pace of the sequence in
measure 3. Comparatively, the intruder theme in example 4.3 contains little,
if any, suggestion of cadential deceleration without the added sequential accel-
eration in measure 3 of theme (a). The distortion of normative sentential
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Example 4.2. Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no.3: intruder theme “a” in section b
rhetoric in measures 4–5 creates a feeling of resistance and renders the path
toward the cadence an unexpectedly strenuous one.
Several melodic details in the alleged expansion further intensify this fric-
tion against forward motion. As shown in example 4.4, an échappée motif
introduced at the beginning of the continuation unit undergoes two stages of
rhythmic augmentation in measures 3–5. The duration of the ascending sec-
ond of the motif expands from a quarter-note in measure 2 to a half-note in
measure 3 and a whole-note in measure 4. Attention to the échappée expan-
sion thus suggests that the sequence in measure 3 proceeds with a melodic
deceleration despite its harmonic acceleration. Another more subtle melodic
elongation involves a G–F–E♭–D descending tetrachord, which first appears in
the top voice in measures 1–2, counterpointed a sixth below by B♭–A–G–F♯.
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Example 4.3. Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3. Comparison between opening
five-measure phrase (mm. 1–5) and intruder theme “a” in mm. 53–56
As example 4.4 shows, an augmented statement of the tetrachord G–F–E♭–D

is found in an inner voice in measures 3–5, with B♭–A–G–(F♯) now appear-
ing a third above in invertible counterpoint.11 The slower pace of the replica
is orchestrated again by the descending-fifths sequence, which regulates the
motion from G down to E♭ at the tactus level of half-notes.
The convergence of the échappée and the descending tetrachord onto d1
in measure 5 occasions yet another conflict between surface and structure. In
example 4.4, I show that the arrival on d1 completes in the top voice an over-
all downward arpeggiation of the tonic triad from g2 in measure 1. Although
all the notes in the arpeggiation do not belong to the same structural level
from a Schenkerian perspective, their surface connection is fortified by their
metrical placement on the downbeats.12 The plummet further undercuts the
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Example 4.4. Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3. Voice-leading reduction of

mm. 1–5
potency of the linear structural descent from B♭ to A, which is already hidden

in the four-measure model; consequently, the battered candidacy of B♭ as the
potential Kopfton becomes even more problematic. As the deep-middleground
sketch of the A section in example 4.5 shows, the undermining of the potential
Kopfton here motivates an important alteration in the last statement of theme
(a) in the A section in measures 28–32: the beginning of this phrase surges to
B♭2—the melodic peak of the entire piece—finally asserting 3^ as the Kopfton
after its lengthy suppression. The outburst of energy here expresses a deter-
mined overcoming of (and perhaps also an impulsive overcompensation for)
earlier frustrations. The Kopfton is attained, but only at the price of displacing
it to a higher octave, which proves to be unsustainable when the energy that
attains B♭2 promptly dissipates, and the structural descent in the Urlinie falls
back to the more modest register of a1 and g1. The volatility of the Kopfton
thus prevents the Urlinie from completing its journey in what Schenker calls
the “obligatory register.”13
In these conflicts, we see that the sequence in measure 3 is much more than
a phrase expansion; it induces the central tension of the whole five-measure
phrase, and is therefore discarded from the intruder (a) theme in measures
53–56 for it to be integrated into the flowing B section. Cone’s description of
the opening theme as forthright and spasmodic is fitting; I would add, however,
that ferocious determination and pathological spasms are in fact conceived
in opposition against one another to delineate the main expressive element
of the Ballade. Following the thematization of these conflicting forces in the
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Example 4.5. Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3. Deep-middleground sketch of

opening A (mm. 1–32)
first five measures, the overall narrative unfolds as one of prolonged suppres-
sion of audacity. The “eruption” of the Kopfton at measure 28 and the immedi-
ate slip back to the lower register have already given us a glimpse of the failed
urgency to break free from the domineering gravity. The monotony of the (b)
material in the A section—confined largely within a fourth between g1 and c2,
as well as the menacing disturbance of the B section by the intruder theme
in the arcane D♯ minor, further stifles the already faltering will to transcend.
All these elements, foreshadowed by the effect of measure 3 on the very first
phrase, culminate in a withdrawn submission to fate in the last measures,
where even the sinuous and flowing B theme is summoned to appear one last
time in the anguished G minor.
Unlike the G-minor Ballade, the C-sharp minor Intermezzo, op. 117, no.
3, presents no four-measure rendition of its five-measure opening. Brahms’s
conception of the main musical theme based on a silent text, which was first
discussed by Max Kalbeck14 and more recently expounded by Dillon Parmer,15
nevertheless divulges the pertinence of a four-measure model. Kalbeck’s illus-
tration of the hidden text-setting of the opening five-measure phrase is shown
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Example 4.6. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, no. 3. Kalbeck’s illustration of
hidden text in mm. 1–5
in example 4.6. Although the iambic tetrameter of the poem lends itself to
four-measure units, Brahms chooses to set the first two lines to a five-measure
phrase, which, as Kalbeck demonstrates, requires repetition of “den Berg
hinan” at the end of the second line.
In example 4.7, I propose a possible four-measure model that more closely
reflects the poetic meter of the text. To preserve the essential formal and con-
trapuntal structures of Brahms’s five-measure sentence, I begin in example
4.7a with a voice-leading reduction of measures 1–5. Despite Brahms’s mono-
phonic setting of measures 1–4, harmonized restatements of the theme help us
reconstruct an “imaginary” harmonic structure of the opening statement, as I
show in my reduction. From this underlying harmonic/contrapuntal structure,
I deduce in example 4.7b a four-measure rhythmic blueprint that preserves the
essential harmonic, contrapuntal, and rhetorical structure of the phrase. In
example 4.7c, I elaborate this framework into a four-measure phrase with the
same rhythmic and melodic cells as in Brahms’s original. The proposed text
setting shows a tighter connection between the poetic meter and the overall
phrase structure.
A comparison between the voice-leading sketch of Brahms’s phrase in
example 4.7a and my four-measure model in example 4.7c reveals an apparent
expansion similar to that in the G-minor Ballade. At the beginning of Brahms’s
continuation unit in measure 3, a structural descent from G♯1 is delayed by
the insertion of a linear third progression up to B1. In both the Ballade and
the Intermezzo, the third-progression is similarly initiated by the Kopfton, and
proceeds at the tactus level to add one measure to the four-measure prototype.
Yet again, the linear progression bestows on the five-measure phrase a radi-
cally different expressive profile than the four-measure model. Example 4.8
illustrates the central aspects of this transformation. To begin, the ascending
progression in measure 3 may be seen as motivated by a subtle but important
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Example 4.7a. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, voice-leading of mm. 1–5
Example 4.7b. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, tonal-rhythmic framework of

four-bar model
Example 4.7c. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, hypothetical four-bar model
of mm. 1–5
detail in measure 2—that is, the addition of an F♯ to the repetition unit of the
sentence. As the melodic structure of measures 1–2 hinges on a sigh motif’s
E–D♯ descent, the leap up to F♯ in measure 2 embodies the first and pivotal
ascending impulse of the theme. Aside from being the only ascending leap in
the entire phrase (and, as a matter of fact, the only real ascending leap in the
entire A section),16 its placement on the downbeat of measure 2 also hints at
an apparent E–F♯–G♯ ascent from measure 1 to measure 3.17 Contextualized
by this faint suggestion of an initial climb toward G♯, the linear progression
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Example 4.8. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, no. 3. Melodic analysis of
mm. 1–5
in measure 3 may be heard as a more determined attempt to break from the

confinement of the sigh motif.
Unfortunately, the transient F♯’s role as an appoggiatura (which becomes
clearer in subsequent harmonizations of the theme) means that it must fall
immediately back to the more stable E. At the phrase level, the surge in mea-
sure 3 is similarly held back by the dominating downward pull expressed in
measures 1–2. Peaking only at the subtonic in measure 4, the melody plunges
at the cadence, dropping even past D♯ toward the leading tone—perhaps as
a consequence of a more drastic fall in pitch than in the four-measure model.
Significantly, the descent from B4 to B♯ outlines an ominous diminished
octave, giving the half cadence a tragic undertone. Tension between the two
pitch classes continues to plague the rest of the piece, and finds temporary
solace only in the more soothing B section.
We may perhaps construct further expressive meanings of the open-
ing phrase by interacting with the poetic imageries of the hidden text. As
Parmer has discussed at length, the poems associated with op. 117, nos. 1 and
3—“Schlaf sanft, mein Kind” and “Wehgeschei der Liebe” respectively—share
the common theme of an abandoned woman lamenting for her lost love. In
both poems, the protagonist struggles between acknowledgment and denial of
her pain. This ambivalence pervades “Wehgeschei der Liebe” by juxtaposing
the woman’s grief with her nostalgia for happier days. The constant struggle to
avert her fate is reflected initially in ascending third-progression in measure 3,
which symbolizes her attempt to arise from the depression, and the subsequent
fall of the diminished octave at measure 5, which confirms her inability to
escape. The incessant reharmonizations of the main theme further underscore
the unyielding turmoil of the protagonist as the world continues to evolve
around her. This interpretation finds corroboration in the concluding phrases
of the A sections of the overall ternary form, which are shown in example 4.9.
The first of these—a five-measure construction at the end of the first A sec-
tion—is interestingly derived from protracting the presentation and repetition
units of the opening theme and joining them directly to the cadence in the last
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Example 4.9a. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, conclusion phrase of A

(mm. 41–45)
Example 4.9b. Intermezzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 117, conclusion phrase of A’

(mm. 103–108)
measure. With the continuation function of the original sentence deleted, the
ascending progression in measure 3, which I associate with the protagonist’s
longing for redemption, is altogether buried in this concluding statement. The
very last phrase of the piece, which reharmonizes the first conclusion phrase,
even more emphatically seals her fate by adding an extra measure to the final
C-sharp minor triad.18 The added weight on the tonic triad perhaps signifies
the death of all hopes and reflects the despondency in the last lines of the
poem: “if only I were dead and on the way out: for what I was, I never will be!”19
In both the Ballade and the Intermezzo, I have shown that the integrity of
the opening five-measure phrase depends on an apparent phrase expansion
that plays a crucial part in the theme’s structure and meaning. An even more
radical intertwining of tonal, rhythmic, metrical, and expressive elements is
found in the opening five-measure phrases of Brahms’s last published piano
composition—the E-flat major Rhapsody, op. 119, no. 4—on which Clara
Schumann’s comment is cited at the beginning of this chapter. I will argue that
the opening five-measure phrases in the Rhapsody are not only irreducible,
but their metrical idiosyncrasies also contain the seed for further formal and
expressive development in the course of the piece.20
In example 4.10, I offer two preliminary observations on the tonal and
rhythmic dispositions of measures 1–5 that will help unpack my thesis.21 First,
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example 4.10a shows that the five-measure phrase is constructed on a five-note

contrapuntal framework. Schenker theorizes that irregular phrases may organ-
ically emerge from an odd number of principal tones under what William
Rothstein has called the “principle of equilibrium.”22 In brief, the principle
prescribes a preference for distributing the structural tones of a phrase as
evenly as possible in time; a common example is to have each tone controlling
the span of a measure. A five-note tonal structure—such as the one in exam-
ple 4.10a—may be seen as the organic source of an irreducible five-measure
phrase. Nevertheless, as Carl Schachter later comments, tonal patterns that
contain an odd number of principal tones in practice often conform to a duple
ordering, resulting in “the necessity of unequal pacing in metrically patterned
music.”23 The question for us, then, is whether the five-note framework of the
Rhapsody’s opening could be effectively situated within a four-measure span.
Before we answer this question, let us consider my second preliminary
observation in example 4.10. The five-note framework, as I show at example
4.10b, undergoes a strategic diminution not only to give structural promi-
nence to the principal tones, but also to bring forth a sense of acceleration
and liquidation. Acceleration is perceived in the shrinking of each principal
tone from a half-note to a quarter-note. I interpret the E♭s as separate dura-
tions because they do not cohere as an expansion of a structural note with
tonal diminution. Instead, each E♭—individually accented—has its own rhyth-
mic life, perhaps conjuring the sound of the Hungarian spondee discussed in
Jonathan Bellman’s lexicon of style hongrois.24 A more subtle aspect of accelera-
tion resides in the decrease of the number of notes associated with each princi-
pal tone—from three for G, A♭, and G in measures 1–3 to two for F in measure
4, and only one for repeated instances of E♭ in measures 4–5. This gradual
reduction of “set cardinality” creates a sense of motivic liquidation.
The above observations regarding example 4.10 suggest that the tonal
structure of measures 1–5 may not be reduced without interfering with the
intended rhythmic and rhetorical effect. Consequently, the only way to
hypothesize a four-measure model is to pack the entire tonal content into a
four-measure unit. example 4.11 explores the theoretical possibilities. On the
left hand side, I show all feasible four-measure configurations of the five-note
contrapuntal framework that maintain relative rhythmic equilibrium. From
these, I derive on the right hand side their surface rhythms by reincorporating
Brahms’s tonal diminutions. As it can be seen, cases 1 and 2 are too radically
different from Brahms’s phrase to serve as viable models. Not only do their
angular rhythmic surface undermine the risoluto character of the opening, but
their deceleration toward the cadence also contradict the built-in acceleration
of the tonal diminution, thereby subverting the sentential rhetoric implied in
Brahms’s rhythm. Case 3 avoids these pitfalls, and its anapest figure in measure
3 arguably enhances the Hungarian character of the phrase.25 One drawback,
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Example 4.10a. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, five-note framework of the
opening five-bar phrase
Example 4.10b. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, diminution of the five-note
framework
however, is that the sixteenth-notes may not be harmonized individually with-

out creating an awkward spasm in the music (and in the hands); this compro-
mises the rigor of Brahms’s accompaniment, which contributes substantively
to the resoluteness of the opening. Case 4 seems to best approximate Brahms’s
phrase among the four-measure models. Nonetheless, without the added mea-
sure, the tonic in the second half of measure 4 is too flimsy as the cadential
goal, especially when 3^ and 4^ in measures 1–2 have both received full-measure
diminutions.26 Finally, let us consider case 5, which is a five-measure realiza-
tion of the theme that more closely adheres to Schenker’s principle of equilib-
rium than Brahms’s version. The five-note framework on the left-hand side is
spaced out evenly, while the tonal diminution on the right-hand side preserves
this underlying distribution. Obviously, the resulting rhythm is plagued by the
same cadential deceleration as in cases 1 and 2. Comparing cases 4 and 5—
the two preferred scenarios for various reasons discussed above—we can see
that Brahms’s five-measure version circumvents their weaknesses by combining
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Example 4.11. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, no. 4. Hypothetical models of
opening phrase
the best of both versions: putting the cadential arrival in the second half of
measure 4 helps maintain forward momentum toward the cadence, whereas
the fifth measure then grants the cadential resolution appropriate durational
emphasis.
Most importantly, Brahms’s rhythmic treatment here results in a metrical
idiosyncrasy—shown in example 4.12—that becomes a central issue in the rest
of the Rhapsody. As famed pianist Richard Goode points out, measures 3–5
sound as if they comprise two 43 measures because of the strong tonal accent
on the second beat of measure 4.27 This results in a reverse hemiola,28 or what
Harald Krebs calls a G23 grouping metric dissonance.29 I shall, however, con-
ceptualize the phenomenon of these measures in terms of their effect within
a hypermetrical context. To that end, example 4.13 shows my hypermetrical
reading of measures 1–20, the first subsection of the opening A section of the
Rhapsody’s ternary form. Although each of the hypermeasures consists of five
notated measures, the hypermeter is nonetheless not quintuple, but an asym-
metrical quadruple because of the implied 43 measures. Each hypermeasure is
thus characterized by metrical expansion: the basic hyperbeat of a half-note
in the first two measures is expanded to a dotted half-note in the next three
measures.
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Example 4.12. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, no. 4. Hypermeter of mm. 1–20
This metrical expansion by a 3:2 ratio becomes a central factor in subse-

quent temporal and formal developments. Example 4.13 provides a glimpse of
its various transformations proceeding through the principal thematic materi-
als of the ternary form of the entire Rhapsody (which is shown in example
4.13a) Following the unsettling metrical surface in measures 1–20, the expan-
sion impulse is normalized—thus stabilizing the metrical surface—in two
progressive stages before reaching the midpoint of the ternary design. First,
as I show in example 4.13b, the middle digressive passage of the opening A
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Murphy.indd 125
Example 4.13a. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, formal diagram
A B A
mm. mm. mm.
Main theme 1–5; 6–10; 11–15; March (vi) 65–72; 73–84 Main theme 153–7; 158–62; 163–7; 168–72;
(I-V) 16–20 Transition 85–92 (VI) 173–77; 178–86
Digression (V)* 21–25; 26–30; 31–35; Grazioso 93–100; 101–8; 109–16; Digression 187–91; 192–96; 197–204;
Main theme 36–40 (IV) 117–24; 125–32 (V)* 205–16
(I-vi) 41–45; 46–50; 51–55; March (vi) 133–40; 141–52 Main theme 217–21; 222–6; 227–31; 232–6;
Transition 56–60 (I-i) 237–41; 242–7
61–64
CODA (i) 248–62
* The digressions in the A sections are harmonically unstable, although their main tonal function may be understood as dominant prolongation
between their surrounding statements of the main theme.
5/17/2018 1:46:58 AM
Example 4.13b. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, phrase rhythm of middle
passage of opening A section (mm. 21–30)
Example 4.13c. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, phrase rhythm of C-minor
“march” (mm. 65–72)
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Example 4.13d. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, phrase structure of A-flat major
“grazioso” (mm. 93–108)
section (mm. 21–40) maintains five-measure constructions, but uncoils the two
implied 43 measures back to three measures of 42. The asymmetrical four-mea-
sure hypermeter is thus normalized here as a normative five-measure hyper-
meter,30 although one could alternatively hear a neutralized four-measure
hypermeter with extended fourth beats, as annotated in the example. Example
4.13c then shows that regular four-measure subphrases and hypermeasures
form the basic units of the C-minor march-like passage at the beginning of the
B section; thus, metrical expansion and its resulting temporal asymmetries are
gradually subverted.31
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This progressive suppression of expansion and asymmetry, however, is

reversed in the middle portion of the B section. As shown in example 4.13d,
the A-flat major grazioso theme, which is enveloped within the C-minor march
in the B section, artfully resuscitates the pertinence of five-measure units and
some elements of the opening metrical expansion. As I have bracketed in
the example, Brahms subdivides the eight-measure phrases of the grazioso
theme into 3 + 2 + 3, where the last three-measure unit clearly projects a
sense of 3:2 expansion of the previous two-measure unit.32 Although there
is no expansion of the basic hyperbeat comparable with the opening, the
irregular undercurrents of an ostensibly regular surface hint at an ongoing
potency of metrical anomalies.
Indeed, the return of the A section not only reintroduces metrical expan-
sion in the opening materials, but also brings forth a deeper manifestation of
the impulse in larger constructions. Example 4.14 shows the first part of Aʹ
(mm. 153–91). Cast in the “wrong” key of C major (thus maintaining the key
center of the C-minor march), a lower register and dynamic level, and accom-
panied by a much lighter texture than the opening theme, the passage is often
noted for its tonal and expressive departures from the first A section. Rarely
discussed, however, is its fundamentally different temporal shape from that of
the original passage. Compared to measures 1–20, the return is clearly more
protracted, as if to compensate for its more subdued character. Further exami-
nation of the passage reveals that extra phrases in the return help elaborate
the original’s hypermetrical structure in an intriguing way. As we saw in exam-
ple 4.12, the five-measure phrases in measures 1–20 are presented in two pairs
of what Samarotto calls Vordersatz and Nachsatz.33 The coupling of these phrases
and their alternation between tonic and non-tonic help project a large duple
hypermeter comprising two ten-measure hypermeasures. The beginnings of
the Vordersätze in measures 1 and 11, which provide tonic anchors and large
group onsets, are heard as strong; the beginning of the Nachsätze in measures 6
and 16, which occupy mid-group positions, are heard as weak.34
As I show in example 4.14, this opening phrase-rhythmic structure is then
transformed by significant revisions in the return.35 To begin, the reappear-
ance of the opening four phrases in Aʹ (mm. 1–20) is curtailed at the end
of the third phrase in measure 167. At measure 168, a new passage presents
three iterations of a variant of the principal theme. As a result, the two pairs of
Vordersätze and Nachsätze have been expanded to two groups of three phrases:
the first group corresponds to measures 1–15 of the original, while the second
group develops the main theme sequentially on a dominant lock in the local C
major. Although measure 163—the counterpart of measure 11 (the beginning
of a Vordersatz)—is first heard as hypermetrically strong, the sharp distinction
between the two three-phrase groups at measure 168 resets the hypermeter,
and this shift prompts us—at least retrospectively—to reinterpret measure 163
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Example 4.14. Rhapsody in E-flat major, op. 119, no. 4. Hypermeter of mm.
153–87
Murphy.indd 129 5/17/2018 1:47:09 AM

as hypermetrically weaker than measure 168. As a result, the two groups of

three phrases create a large-scale triple hypermeter made up of two fifteen-
measure hypermeasures (with a two-measure internal expansion in measures
183–84 of the last hyperbeat).
Figure 4.1a juxtaposes the temporal structures of measures 1–20 and mea-
sures 153–86, and reveals organic connections between these passages and the
metrical expansion at the beginning of the Rhapsody.36 Each number in the
diagram indicates the number of quarter-notes within a measure or hypermea-
sure at some level. It can be seen that the temporal structure of Aʹ is derived
from that of A via a 3:2 expansion—the same ratio as that of the opening met-
rical expansion—of each duration. Reference to the opening phrase, however,
does not end here. Figure 4.1b presents the metrical hierarchy of the first
five-measure phrase in terms of the number of quarter-note beats. A compari-
son between (a) and (b) reveals an isomorphism between the two temporal
structures. In the opening phrase, two measures of half-note (each subdivided
into two quarter-notes) in measures 1–2 are expanded to two measures of
dotted half-note (each subdivided into three quarter-notes) in measures 3–5.
Isomorphically, two hypermeasures of ten notated measures (each subdivided
into two groups of five notated measures) in the opening A are expanded to
two hypermeasures of fifteen notated measures (each subdivided into three
groups of five notated measures) in Aʹ. The larger structure (i.e., the com-
posite of A and Aʹ) thus represents a tenfold expansion of the smaller (i.e.,
measures 1–5); this means that the five-measure span in the larger structure
is equivalent to the quarter-note beat in the smaller structure, betraying at a
deeper level the strategic significance of the five-measure duration. Even more
remarkable is the analogous tonal profile between the accented quarter-notes
(i.e., the molossus) in each of the opening theme’s five-measure phrases and
the last group of three five-measure phrases in measures 168–86: the former
repeats a single pitch-class with other voices descending chromatically, while
the latter features a bass pedal on G, against which upper voices ascend diaton-
ically. In this connection, the repeated Gs in measures 168, 173, and 178 can
be heard as constituting a 10:1 expansion of the opening theme’s molossus,
clarifying the temporal relationship between figures 4.1a and 4.1b by a distinc-
tive tonal feature that recurs at different hierarchical levels.37
The hypermetrical structure of the coda may similarly be understood
as another deep-level realization of the metrical expansion. Samarotto has
offered an insightful reading of the coda as a rhythmic normalization of the
first five measures.38 I propose in this chapter a complementary rhythmic inter-
pretation of the coda by comparing it not with the opening theme, but also the
C-minor march in the B section, which, as we saw earlier in example 4.13b, is
a regular duple structure. A kinship between the coda and the march is pal-
pable on three fronts: they are the only two sections that employ the minor
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Figure 4.1a. Rhapsody in E-flat major, op. 119, hypermetrical structures of A

and A’
Figure 4.1b. Rhapsody in E-flat major, op. 119, hypermetrical structure of mm. 1–5
mode; they utilize triplet figurations, and their main melodic motives bear some
resemblances.39 The coda, which is shown in example 4.15, begins with a three-
fold presentation of a two-measure motif in measures 248–53. The motif clearly
puts measures 248–49 in a strong-weak hypermetrical configuration; its three
iterations thus articulate three two-measure hypermeasures.40 Repetitions of
the two-measure motif are then broken at measure 254, where the second mea-
sure of the motif, appearing above much heavier accompaniment, begins the
approach to the final cadence at measure 258. While maintaining two-measure
hypermeasures from the preceding passage, the new melodic and textural pro-
file of measures 254–58 also clarifies a deeper hypermeter: measures 248 and 254
are heard as hypermetrical downbeats as they delineate the formal subdivisions
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Example 4.15. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, no. 4. Hypermeter of mm. 248–62
of the coda. Finally, following the cadence at measure 258, the last four measures
recycle the plagal embellishment from measures 5–6. Its inclusion here not only
reveals a relationship between the coda and the opening phrase, but it also helps
materialize a latent triple hypermeter that was adumbrated by the downbeats at
measures 248 and 254. As figure 4.2 shows, the six-measure span between the two
downbeats articulates a triple hypermeasure in which each iteration of the two-
measure motif spans one hyperbeat. Another six-measure hypermeasure seems
at first unlikely, as the structural accent at the cadence in measure 258 may be
heard as the next hypermetrical downbeat, implying a four-measure hypermea-
sure in measures 254–57. Yet, the perception of a downbeat here is weakened
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Figure 4.2a. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, hypermetrical structures of C-minor
march and coda
Figure 4.2b. Rhapsody in E-flat Major, op. 119, hypermetrical structure of mm. 1–5
not only by the bare octaves (and thus sparser texture) of the cadential tonic, but
also by the reinvigorated plagal embellishment, which helps delay the downbeat
to measure 260.41 Construed in this manner, the entire coda is made up of two
six-measure hypermeasures in triple time, followed then by what I would call an
“extended downbeat” in measures 260–62 to conclude the composition with the
weightiest metrical phenomenon of the entire work.
Recall that the coda and the C-minor march share substantive similarities
that warrant their consideration in tandem. As shown in example 4.2, the
temporal relationship between the two sections engages once again the metri-
cal expansion of measures 1–5. In example 4.2a, the hypermetrical structure
of the basic phrase in the march is juxtaposed with the triple hypermeasures
in the coda to reveal a 3:2 expansion of all durations. Their composite is then
compared with the temporal structure of the opening five-measure phrase
in example 4.2b to divulge a four-fold magnification. This organic temporal
relationship, which deepens the formal connection between the two areas,
Murphy.indd 133 5/17/2018 1:47:33 AM

bears significant ramifications regarding the highly unusual collapse of the

piece into the minor mode in the coda. Modal change in this direction
(i.e., from major to minor), as is often remarked, occurs extremely sparsely
at the end of compositions. The surprise of such a move seems especially
marked in the Rhapsody, considering the close ties between the coda and the
opening theme discussed in Samarotto’s analysis. Yet the slippage to E-flat
minor, though hardly expected, is by no means accidental. The gravity of
the C-minor march, which earlier coerced the return of A to go tonally awry,
has perhaps foreshadowed the ultimate downfall of the piece into the tragic
tonic minor. That the temporal connection between the march and the coda
refers us back to the metrical properties of the opening phrase suggests that
the fateful ending may even have been premeditated at the conception of
the first five measures. The expansion in measures 3–5, which will regulate
the hypermetrical relationship between the march and the coda, has planted
the seed for the former to exert its influence on the latter, forcing it to suc-
cumb to the minor mode as a realization of something that the march itself
had failed to achieve.42
Conclusion
In response to the many surprising twists and turns in the tonal structure of
the Rhapsody, Samarotto proposes in his analysis what he calls “retrospec-
tive incipience” to model the unusual kind of determinacy in the piece. He
describes the experience of retrospective incipience as this: “an earlier span
not apparently causative of an unexpected event is heard as having latently
determinative qualities.”43 I have shown in this chapter that this provocative
understanding of teleology may well apply to the wonderfully strange five-mea-
sure phrases in Brahms’s late piano works. While we would probably agree that
five-measure phrases are in general odd, we may not invariably consider them
as the immediate catalyst for subsequent tonal and metrical developments. Yet,
as I have shown in this chapter, five-measure phrases in Brahms’s late works are
no accidents or afterthoughts; their oddness disturbs, intrigues, and captivates;
and they cause us to ponder and wonder. The curious G-minor return of the
sinuous B theme at the end of the Ballade, the extra measure at the end of the
Intermezzo, and the shocking modal change at the end of the Rhapsody all
seem to transport our consciousness back to the oddities of the opening five-
measure phrase. In Brahms’s hands, pieces that open with irregular phrases
may require an analytical orientation that meanders through musical time
within an intricate web of determinacy. Strange as these phrases and their ram-
ifications may be, we could still find ourselves agreeing with Clara Schumann’s
simple and yet profound statement, “es muß so sein.”
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Notes
1. Berthold Litzmann, ed., Letters of Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms 1853–
1896 (New York: Vienna House, 1973), 234. The original German reads: “Nun
wieder auf das Allergo zu kommen, wie kräftig ist schon das erste Motiv, durch
die 5 taktigen Phrasen so originell, wohl ungarisch!—Merkwürdig, sonst
geniert mich die 5 taktige Einteilung, hier aber gar nicht—es muß so sein!”
Litzmann, ed., Clara Schumann Johannes Brahms: Briefe aus den Jahren 1853–1896
(Leipzig: Drud und Verlag von Brietkopf & Härtel, 1927), 522. Several later
commentators have made similar comments about the alleged Hungarian
character of the opening five-measure phrase, including William Murdoch,
Brahms (London: Rich & Cowan, 1933), 280; Anthony Hopkins, “Brahms:
Where Less is More,” in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music: Essays in Performance
and Analysis (New York: Garland, 1997), 271; and Malcolm MacDonald, Brahms
(London: Dent, 1990), 361.
2. In his comprehensive treatment of style hongrois, Jonathan Bellman addresses
the prevalence of duple meter, but makes no reference to five-measure phrases
or hypermeters. Bellman, The Style Hongrois in the Music of Western Europe
(Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1993). Joel Sheveloff discusses the
presence of irregular hypermeter in Brahms’s Hungarian Dances, but makes
no mention of five-measure units as a defining feature of the style. Sheveloff,
“Dance, Gypsy, Dance!,” in The Varieties of Musicology: Essays in Honor of Murray
Lefkowitz, ed. John Daverio and John Ogasapian (Warren, MI: Harmonie Park,
2000), 151–65. Ralph Locke finds correlation between exoticism and irregu-
lar phrases in the Hungarian Dances, but again, the phrases in question are
six measures long, not five. Locke, Musical Exoticism: Images and Reflections
3. See Heinrich Christoph Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition, trans.
and ann. by Nancy Baker (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 14–17,
42–43, 133–39.
4. On the increasing awareness of symmetry and organicism in nineteenth-cen-
tury discussions of form and rhythm, see Justin London, “Phrase Structure in
18th- and 19th-Century Theory: An Overview,” Music Research Forum 5 (1990):
22; and William Caplin, “Theories of Musical Rhythm in the Eighteenth
and Nineteenth Centuries,” in The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 674–75.
5. François-Joseph Fétis, La Musique mise à la portée de tout le monde: Exposé succinct
de tout ce qui c’est nécessaire pour juger de cet art, 2nd ed. (Paris: E. Duverger, n.d.),
52; Fétis, “Cours de philosophie musicale et d’histoire de la musique,” Revue
musicale 12 (1832): 163. See discussion in Mary I. Arlin, “Metric Mutation and
Modulation: The Nineteenth-Century Speculations of F. –J. Fétis,” Journal of
Music Theory 44, no. 2 (2000): 293–95.
6. Anton Reicha, Treatise on Melody, trans. Peter Landey (Hillsdale, NY:
Pendragon, 2000), 28: “With regard to rhythms consisting of uneven numbers
of measures (and many people, through prejudice, do not approve of them),
it should be noted that if they do not produce the expected effect, this is not
Murphy.indd 135 5/17/2018 1:47:38 AM

the fault of the rhythms (which nature has reserved for certain melodies),
but rather the fault of composers who force the melody into uneven rhythms
which nature requires to be even, and vice versa.” Another similar comment
is found in Gottfried Weber’s Theory of Musical Composition, Treated with a View
to a Naturally Consecutive Arrangement of Topics: “even [a five-measure phrase’s]
peculiar oddness, irregularity, and strangeness find in music at one time or
another their appropriate place” (trans. John Bishop; London: R. Cocks and
Co., 1851), 107.
7. Scott Murphy argues for an irreducible seven-measure background in the
third movement of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in A major, Hob. XVI:12. Murphy,
“Septimal Time in an Early Finale of Haydn,” Intégral 26 (2012): 91–121. In his
analysis, Murphy ingeniously combines his own readings of Haydn’s motivic
design, harmonic structure, and hypermeter with Heinrich Koch’s formal the-
ory to demonstrate the organic Siebentaktigkeit in the movement. My approach
overlaps with Murphy’s, although I spill more ink over expressive ramifications
of Brahms’s five-measure phrases.
8. Edward T. Cone, “Music and Form,” in What is Music: An Introduction to the
Philosophy of Music (University Park, PA: Haven Publications, 1987), 42.
9. In William Caplin’s well-known taxonomical scheme regarding the sentence
structure (“Satz”), the five-measure phrase here is strictly speaking not a sen-
tence, but only sentential. This is due to Caplin’s requirement that the basic
idea in what he calls a “sentence proper” must be a two-measure unit. In
this present chapter, I relax this restriction as long as the sentential rhetoric
is clear. Obviously, in five-measure phrases, the basic idea in the sentential
structure cannot be two measures in length, or there will be no room left for
the continuation function. For Caplin’s discussion of the distinction between
sentential and sentence proper, see Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal
Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1998), 51.
10. The term “linear intervallic pattern” (usually abbreviated as LIP) is intro-
duced in Allen Forte, Tonal Harmony in Concept and Practice, 2nd ed. (New York:
Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1974); and later used in Forte and Steven Gilbert,
Introduction to Schenkerian Analysis (New York: Norton, 1982), in their discus-
sion of harmonic sequences.
11. I thank the editor for pointing out the presence of invertible counterpoint in
this passage.
12. Richard Cohn discusses at length, from a Schenkerian perspective, the valid-
ity of motives that combine tones from different structural levels. Cohn, “The
Autonomy of Motives in Schenkerian Accounts of Tonal Music,” Music Theory
Spectrum 14, no. 2 (1992): 150–70.
13. Heinrich Schenker explains the concept of obligatory register in Free
Composition: “No matter how far the composing-out may depart from its basic
register . . . it nevertheless retains an urge to return to that register. Such depar-
ture and return creates content, displays the instrument, and lends coherence
to the whole.” Schenker, Free Composition, trans. and ed. Ernst Oster (New York:
Longman, 1979), 107. The undermining of B♭1’s Kopfton potential and the
Murphy.indd 136 5/17/2018 1:47:43 AM

feeble attempt to transfer the entire Urlinie up an octave prevent realization

of the coherence described by Schenker, thus further underlining the sense of
frustration I glean from the first five measures.
14. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms, vol. 4 (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft-
mbH, 1914), 280.
15. Dillon Parmer, “Brahms and the Poetic Motto: A Hermeneutic Aid?,” Journal of
Musicology 15, no. 3 (1997): 376–79.
16. There are several other apparent ascending leaps in the B section in mm.
11–14. Yet all these leaps are clearly “contrapuntal” in nature—they either
arise from arpeggiating a local harmony (in mm. 11–13) or serve to connect
an inner voice to the top voice (from m. 13 to m. 14). The leap in m. 2 to
F♯, however, is more genuinely melodic in that it serves neither of these two
purposes.
17. Again, this apparent linear gesture cuts across different structural levels from
a Schenkerian perspective, but its cogency is enhanced by the metrical place-
ment of its elements on the downbeats of the first three measures. See also
note 12 above.
18. Carlton Gamer also discusses the temporal importance of non-five-measure
phrases—including two six-measure phrases in mm. 76–81, 87–92, and the six-
measure coda—in the context of the piece (Gamer, “Busnois, Brahms, and
the Syntax of Temporal Proportions,” in A Festschrift for Albert Seay: Essays by
His Friends and Colleagues, ed. Michael D Grace (Colorado Springs: Colorado
College, 1982), 201–15.
19. For further discussions of connections between the last lines of the poem and
the last phrase of Brahms’s Intermezzo, see Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms, 280–81,
and Parmer, “Brahms and the Poetic Motto,” 378–79.
20. Cohn offers one way to view the irreducibility of the opening five-measure
phrases: he compares the first twenty measures of the piece, comprising four
five-measure phrases, with the first twenty measures of the B section, compris-
ing five four-measure phrases. He calls the two parsings of the twenty-measure
span “a kind of higher-level hemiola.” Cohn, “Inversional Symmetry and
Transpositional Combination in Bartók,” Music Theory Spectrum 10 (1988): 32.
In my analysis, I will focus more on the internal properties of the opening
five-measure phrases as well as their impact on phrasal proportions in the Aʹ
section.
21. A well-known complication with the opening five-measure “phrases” is that an
inner-voice cadential decoration (i.e., the E♭–D–C–B♭ motion from m. 4.5 to
m. 6) creates a sense of elision at the downbeat of m. 6. However, the strong
melodic parallelism between mm. 1–5 and mm. 6–10 clarifies that these five-
measure units are indeed phrases—an understanding which Clara Schumann
clearly espouses. As Frank Samarotto states, “In retrospect we understand
that both [mm. 1–5 and mm. 6–10] are five-measure phrases, but the effect is
that the solidity of the opening is undermined, ironically, by the very decora-
tions that would normally reinforce the cadences.” Samarotto, “Determinism,
Prediction, and Inevitability in Brahms’s Rhapsody in E-flat major, op. 119, no.
4,” Theory and Practice 32 (2007): 85.
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22. Rothstein reconstructs Schenker’s ideas on rhythmic equilibrium in chap-

ter 1 of his dissertation, “Rhythm and the Theory of Structural Levels” (PhD
diss., Yale University, 1981). In his later book on phrase rhythm, he further
explains the derivation of irregular phrases from tonal configurations; see
Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer, 1989), chapter
1. For Schenker’s own illustrations of how irregular phrases may be organically
derived from tonal progressions, see Schenker, Free Composition, 120.
23. Carl Schachter, “Rhythm and Linear Analysis: Aspects of Meter,” Music Forum 6
(1987): 41.
24. For a brief discussion of Brahms’s use of spondee in style hongrois, see Bellman,
Style Hongrois, 207.
25. Bellman discusses the use of anapest in style hongrois (ibid., 54).
26. At the presentation of an earlier version of this chapter at the annual meeting
of the Society for Music Theory, Minneapolis, October 2011, William Rothstein
insightfully commented that this four-measure version simply sounds too
Russian. He proceeded to play for the audience the opening twenty measures
of the Rhapsody without the cadential elaborations (i.e., rewriting the five-
measure phrases as my case 4). I concur with his assessment. Scott Murphy also
graciously points out, in a personal communication, that the cramming of V–I
into the last measure happens occasionally in Brahms’s Hungarian Dances.
In either scenario, my case (4) in example 4.11 shows that the exotic (be it
Hungarian or Russian) character of the phrase may be variously enhanced
by surface rhythmic gestures, suggesting again that five-measure organization
accounts only partially for any exotic character of this opening.
27. Richard Goode, liner notes to Richard Goode Plays Brahms (New York: Elektra
Nonesuch, 1986).
28. For discussions of the so-called reverse hemiola, see Marcia Citron, “Rhythmic-
Metric Conflicts in the Brahms Duos” (MA diss., University of North Carolina,
1968), 11; and Yonatan Malin, Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German
Lied (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 63.
29. Harald Krebs, Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 31–34.
30. One could argue that the registral accents in the second half of m. 24 (both
at the beginning of the right-hand sixteenth-note gesture and the left-hand
octaves) imply a mid-measure metrical accent, thus adumbrating the 43 in
the opening phrase. Yet, I hear the harmonic accent on the downbeat of m.
24—created by the return to the tonic following I–vi–IV progression in mm.
21–23—as a much stronger event, which overpowers the registral accents on
the next beat and subsumes them within a normalized 42 meter. The equivalent
position at the downbeat of m. 4 does not have a comparable harmonic accent
to help preserve the notated 42. In fact, the harmonic accent at the downbeat
of m. 24 carries such marked weight that it may even be read as the downbeat
of a shadow five-measure hypermeter. I discuss this conflict in my dissertation
and show an interesting connection to the middle A-flat major section of the
Rhapsody; see Ng, “A Grundgestalt Interpretation of Metric Dissonance in the
Music of Johannes Brahms” (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 2005).
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31. As mentioned above, Cohn argues that the beginning of the C-minor march is
still characterized by twenty-measure periodicity, albeit parsing the span differ-
ently than in mm. 1–20 (Cohn, “Inversional Symmetry”). In other words, tem-
poral asymmetry is still present at a deep metrical level. Yet, at metrical levels
closer to phrases and subphrases, the C-minor march is clearly dominated by
symmetrical four-measure hypermeasures.
32. I base my reading of the 3 + 2 + 3 division on a number of observations. The
most immediately apparent (although by no means sufficient on its own) is
Brahms’s own slurring of the phrase. The divisions are further clarified by
registral/textural design of the left hand, which separates mm. 96–97 from the
previous three measures as well as the following three. Motivically, a descend-
ing fourth (found in the right-hand eighth-notes) underlies each group:
A–G–F–E♭ in mm. 93–95; D♭–C–B♭–A♭ in mm. 96–97; and G–F–E♭–D♭ in
mm. 98–100. It is interesting to note that in a manuscript Stichvorlage for op.
119, prepared by the copyist William Kupfer, the letters “a b c d e” are penciled
in above mm. 96–100, seemingly to draw attention to the occurrence of a sub-
unit formed by those measures. The letters then reappear in mm. 120–4, where
the right hand is left blank on the staff. Further, m. 99 was originally engraved
in ink as a repetition of m. 98. Changes in the melody were then made in pen-
cil. The original repetition in mm. 98–99 reveals a stronger sense of subgroup
division between m. 97 and 98, which, as I have argued, is largely preserved
by other musical parameters despite the melodic changes. The manuscript is
accessible on the internet in The Juilliard Manuscript Collection (http://www.juil-
liardmanuscriptcollection.org/composers.php#/works/BRAH).
33. Samarotto, “Determinism, Prediction, and Inevitability,” 85.
34. This hypermetrical interpretation is corroborated by Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s
“Strong Beat Early” metrical preference rule, which prescribes a preference
for “a metrical structure in which the strongest beat in a group appears rela-
tively early in the group.” Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff, A Generative Theory
of Tonal Music (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983), 76.
35. Although the return of the opening theme is in the wrong key here, I consider
it a true return rather than a false one because of the resulting attractiveness of
the overall thematic design and formal proportions—i.e., all of the three large
sections of the ternary form are in this interpretation roughly equal in size and
similarly divided into a “small ternary” (using Caplin’s term). The appearance
of the (a) theme in C major thus marks the true beginning of the return to “A”
of the overall ternary form.
36. David Smyth provides an earlier example of exploring connections between
temporally remote passages and their formal implications, in “Large-Scale
Rhythm and Classical Form,” Music Theory Spectrum 12, no. 2 (1990): 236–46.
My design of the temporal structure diagrams in example 4.15 is inspired by
similar ones in Gamer, “Busnois, Brahms.”
37. Again, I thank Scott Murphy for pointing out this interesting connection
between the opening molossus and the repeated Gs in mm. 168–86.
38. Samarotto, “Determinism, Prediction,” 93.
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39. The march begins with two four-note gestures: C–D–E♭–D in mm. 65–66 and
G–F–E♭–D♭ in mm. 67–68. Features of these are combined into the four-note
motive that forms the basis of the opening of the coda: E♭–F–G♭–A♭: the first
three notes echo the first three of C–D–E♭–D, while the overall ascending
fourth inverts the descending fourth of G–F–E♭–D♭.
40. The strong-weak interpretation here is again supported by Lerdahl and
Jackendoff’s “Strong Beat Early” rule (A Generative Theory of Tonal Music, 76);
see note 33 above.
41. Notice that in the original plagal embellishment in mm 5–6, the arrival at the
tonic in m. 6 articulates a hypermetrical downbeat at the beginning of the sec-
ond five-measure phrase. The analogous gesture here in the coda thus locates
the corresponding downbeat at m. 260. This analytical observation may have
ramifications in performance decisions: I would recommend that any ritard in
the last measures must be delayed until mm. 259–60 so as to avoid creating a
sense of metrical resolution at m. 258. This interpretation concurs with how
mm. 1–5 are usually rendered: rarely do I hear a pianist slowing the tempo
before the tonic chord in m. 4. Any stretching of the beats occurs mostly dur-
ing the plagal embellishment in m. 5.
42. In my dissertation, I offer further observations regarding relationships between
metrical, tonal, and expressive properties of the Rhapsody (Ng, “Grundgestalt
Interpretation,” 274–359).
43. Samarotto, “Determinism, Prediction,” 77.
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Part Three
Recasting Hemiolas
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Murphy.indd 142 5/17/2018 1:48:06 AM
Chapter Five
Hemiola as Agent of
Metric Resolution in
the Music of Brahms
Ryan McClelland
In recent scholarship on nineteenth-century music, metric dissonance has

received considerable and worthy attention.1 Analysts have revealed how
varying types and intensities of metric dissonance produce structural narra-
tives not unlike tonal ones. Foremost among these studies is perhaps Harald
Krebs’s virtuosic book-length exploration of metric dissonance in the music
of Robert Schumann.2 Krebs’s categories of “grouping dissonances”—those
resulting from layers of motion whose cardinalities are not multiples/factors of
one another—and “displacement dissonances”—those resulting from layers of
motion whose cardinalities are congruent but which are nonaligned—as well
as his nomenclature for distinguishing among different dissonances of each
type are useful and widely employed.
Throughout the tonal repertoire and especially including the music of
Brahms, the most frequently encountered metric dissonance is hemiola, a
grouping dissonance that substitutes duple for triple groupings of pulses at
some level(s) of the metric hierarchy.3 With its analogy to pitch structure, the
term metric dissonance implies a state of tension that resolves when the con-
trametric elements recede. Yet despite its classification as a metric dissonance,
hemiola often performs a stabilizing role. A frequent interaction of hemiola
with tonal structure is well-known: hemiola sets up many important tonal arriv-
als and cadences; this is its characteristic usage throughout the Baroque reper-
toire and in Classical minuets, and one can quickly call to mind many similar
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144 ❧ chapter five
instances in Brahms’s oeuvre.4 Hemiola’s ability to exert a stabilizing role on

metric design, however, has not been as widely acknowledged. This paper
explores hemiola’s restorative metric function in the music of Brahms. After
some introductory remarks on hemiolas, the paper demonstrates the potential
of hemiola to facilitate the resolution of displacement dissonances and its abil-
ity to clarify or alter the relative hypermetric strength of adjacent downbeats.
The paper’s final section speculates on possible implications of hearing hemio-
las that do not readily appear to perform a metrically restorative function as if
they do.
Hemiola in Historical and Theoretical Contexts
The most extensive English-language treatment of hemiola occurs in Channan

Willner’s studies of the music of Handel and J. S. Bach. In his initial articles,
Willner defines four types of hemiolas: cadential, expansion, contraction, and
overlapping.5 Willner’s principal interest lies in the relationship between the
pacing of underlying tonal events within a hemiola and that within the pre-
ceding music. In a cadential hemiola, the arrival of a structural melodic tone
is displaced—usually delayed by one beat of the notated triple meter—while
the bass line still lends considerable support to the downbeat in the middle
of the hemiola. An expansion hemiola, which is commonly found in Baroque
cadences, takes two notated measures to present tonal material that would
have occurred within a single measure if the preceding pacing of tonal events
had been maintained. From the perspective of hypermeter, a topic outside of
Willner’s focus and admittedly not always pertinent to the repertoire he dis-
cusses, these hemiolas preserve ongoing duple (or quadruple) hypermeter.
Thus, although one can imagine ways to recompose these phrases so that
periodic hypermeter results without the presence of hemiola, these hemiolas
facilitate higher-level meter even as they disrupt the tonal pacing. It is worth
noting, however, that these hemiolas can span either the third and fourth or
the second and third hyperbeats in a quadruple hypermeter, depending on
the relationship between the boundaries of phrases and hypermeasures. In the
latter alignment, the hemiola pushes against the accentuations internal to the
four-measure unit (assuming one endorses the generally accepted view of an
alternation of strong and weak hyperbeats). The contraction hemiola, which is
relatively rare in Baroque music, places within one notated measure tonal con-
tent consistent with three measures in the established tonal pacing yet in doing
so tends to support a broader periodicity of hypermeter or phrase length.6 The
same is true of Willner’s overlapping hemiola, where competing aspects of the
musical texture project two-measure hemiolas offset by a single measure. This
construction occurs in the first three measures of a four-measure unit, and
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hemiola as agent of metric resolution ❧ 145
Willner does point out this consistent relationship between the placement of
overlapping hemiolas and phrase structure.
In these various situations, hemiola contributes to a sense of closure or direct-
edness within larger metric units, but in general it does not resolve any preced-
ing hypermetric instability, much less any metric dissonance.7 However, in a
recent essay, Willner does locate a few instances where hemiola can be viewed,
at least in part, as an agent of resolution at deeper metric levels.8 In the fugal
gigue from Bach’s English Suite in E Minor, for example, Willner exposes a shift
from “even-strong” to “odd-strong” accentuation patterns that arises from the
elision of an abbreviated subject statement with the onset of an episode.9 After
this eight-measure episode stabilizes the odd-strong pattern, the subject returns,
extended by one measure through hemiola (mm. 42–43). This extra length
causes the subject to restore the initial even-strong organization at the cadential
arrival. Since the stabilizing impact of hemiola has been so rarely observed, it
seems worth quoting from Willner’s concluding comments at length:
Disjunctive and even anarchic in effect, the hemiola in the larger scheme
of things conveys the very opposite message: the suggestion that a metrical
order of sorts—topsy-turvy but at the same time closely controlled—prevails
throughout the Gigue after all. Like the other metrically dissonant hemio-
las we encountered in this study, the Gigue’s hemiola, when heard within a
larger perspective, embodies not only the developmental turbulence of the
surface but also the measured calm that prevails below, the equilibrium that
rules at the deeper layers of durational structure. Its intervention, however
dissonant metrically, may be read as a call to order, and its metrical disso-
nance as a means to that end.10
This chapter similarly explores the restorative metric function of hemiola

in the music of Brahms. In what follows I will limit my purview in three ways.
First, I will generally restrict myself to hemiolas that are strongly articulated,
and for the most part supported by multiple, or all, lines of the musical tex-
ture. Second, I am interested in hemiolas that occur at or near the level of the
tactus. In other words, I will not consider examples where the change in group-
ing is readily taken as a shift between duple and triple subdivisions rather
than an event with metric or hypermetric impact. Submetric changes are, no
doubt, an important aspect of Brahms’s language, and they frequently cohabi-
tate with hemiolas at higher levels of the metric hierarchy, as Richard Cohn
has explored in his treatment of complex hemiolas.11 Third, I have chosen to
exclude pieces where hemiola serves as a primary compositional idea, such as
the first movement of the Violin Sonata in G Major, op. 78, the slow movement
of the Piano Concerto in B-flat Major, op. 83, or the Capriccio in C Major, op.
76, no. 8.12 In pieces where hemiola is so pervasive, it is difficult to disentangle
a metrically stabilizing function from a purely thematic one.
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Hemiola as Resolution of Displacement Dissonance
Hemiola can resolve displacement dissonances in various meters and with dif-
ferent lengths of displacement. In Brahms’s music, by far the most frequent
scenario is a hemiola that spans a single measure within 86 meter and resolves
a preceding mid-measure displacement dissonance, as shown schematically in
example 5.1. I will illustrate this situation with examples from two expressively
contrasting movements: the finale of the Piano Trio in C Minor, op. 101, and
the slow movement of the Fourth Symphony, op. 98. Following this, shorter
examples will illustrate the operation of hemiola subsequent to other types of
displacement dissonances.
From the C-minor Piano Trio, I will consider two passages where hemiola
provides a stabilizing role within the finale’s sophisticated metric narrative.13
The first passage involves the second theme, the opening of which appears in
example 5.2. The theme’s broad harmonic changes suggest 86 meter, but one
that places downbeats at notated second beats. As no elements support the
notated meter, the initial materials of the second theme (mm. 34–49) present
what Krebs refers to as subliminal dissonance.14 The theme then embarks on
an antecedent-consequent construction (mm. 49–66), wherein the second half
of each of its component sentential phrases resolves the subliminal displace-
ment dissonance. Example 5.3 provides the antecedent phrase, along with the
immediately preceding measure. A metrically displaced hearing is encouraged
by the periodic returns to E-flat; only the cello’s entry marking the downbeat of
the phrase’s fourth measure (m. 53) points to the notated meter. The suddenly
angular melodic leaps and hemiola in the phrase’s fifth and sixth measures pro-
vide a decisive jolt back to the notated downbeats, and the cadential progres-
sion in the phrase’s final measures restores full metric consonance. However,
without the preceding hemiolic intervention, the relationship between beats
in measure 56 would be much less clear, given the chord change in the middle
of the measure and the exact repetition of durations within the measure.
Even more striking is the metric resolution earned through hemiola near
the end of the movement’s lengthy coda. Example 5.4 provides the coda’s
initial measures, which are a major-mode transformation of the movement’s
opening theme. While the version heard at the movement’s outset has some
displacement dissonance, the coda’s transformation presents a full subliminal
displacement dissonance. A fragment from the second theme elides with the
phrase’s conclusion (m. 198) and continues the subliminal displacement disso-
nance. After incorporating nearly all of the movement’s main thematic ideas,
the coda arrives at a root-position C-major harmony in measure 228 (see ex.
5.5). Note the melodic content of the two-measure arpeggiation through this
harmony, as this melodic line will be recalled in the ultimate metric resolu-
tion. The phrase that begins in measure 228 only concludes at the end of the
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Example 5.1. Hemiola as resolution of metric displacement in 86 meter
Example 5.2. Piano Trio in C Minor, op. 101, IV, mm. 34–41
movement—twenty-eight measures later—and resolution of the displacement

dissonance does not occur until the movement’s fifth-last measure (m. 253).
Example 5.6 shows the phrase’s final segment, which is based directly on the
material that launched the coda. Preceded by a violent mid-measure dimin-
ished-seventh chord, the segment embellishes the cadential 46 harmony, which
literally sounds on the perceived downbeats that are hypermetrically strong
at the two-measure level (see the “1” annotations in mm. 246, 248, and 250).
When the cadential 46 sounds for the third time (m. 250), it no longer yields to
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an embellishing harmony after a single beat. Instead, the arpeggiated melodic

line that began the phrase (see ex. 5.5) is recalled. But the two-measure length
of that arpeggiation is expanded by half of a measure due to a hemiola in mea-
sure 252. This hemiola, strongly projected by the strings and the left hand of
the piano part, re-articulates the notated downbeat and prepares for a final
reiteration of the cadential 46, which this time resolves. There is an undeniable
jolt in the surface rhythmic flow when the hemiola occurs, but at a deeper level
its metric function is a restorative one.
Somewhat more complex is the deployment of hemiola within the transi-
tions of the sonata-form slow movement of the Fourth Symphony. In the
exposition, the transition proceeds in two parts, the first of which is a celestial
modulating variation of the opening theme, and the second of which is the
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more menacing passage shown in example 5.7. The sharp contrast between
the transition’s two parts lends considerable emphasis to the middle of mea-
sure 36, and this moment launches a pair of one-beat alternations between
winds and strings (see brackets in ex. 5.7). Within the first pair, which spans
the notated barline, there is no change of harmony; the second pair of utter-
ances, also without internal harmonic motion, is strongly set off from the first
pair by the brightening shift to D-major harmony. These factors, allied with
the slow tempo, create a relatively strong mid-measure displacement disso-
nance. Strictly speaking, one might argue that this dissonance resolves when
the strings and winds come together at the downbeat of measure 39, an inter-
pretation further promoted by the emptiness of the second half of that mea-
sure save for the murmurings of the horn. These murmurings are themselves
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Murphy.indd 150
5/17/2018 1:49:00 AM
metrically dissonant, although their setting as a distant and coloristic backdrop

minimizes their metric impact. Nonetheless, it is only the hemiola in the transi-
tion’s final measure (m. 40) that fully clarifies the downbeat location and pro-
vides the necessary calm for the hymn-like second theme. To be sure, several
of Brahms’s sonata-form transitions end with hemiola—the first movement of
the Second Symphony is a well-known instance—but there does seem to be a
special role for this hemiola in the Fourth Symphony. Of course, from a the-
matic perspective, the augmentation of the melodic line draws attention to the
second theme’s origin as a lyrical transformation of the transition’s turbulent
triplets of rising and falling thirds.
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Example 5.7. Symphony No. 4 in E Minor, op. 98, II, mm. 36–41
In the recapitulation, the transition retains its terminal hemiola but is oth-
erwise completely recomposed. The transition emerges from a developmental
treatment of the middle section of the first theme, and here includes only its
second part with the surging triplets (see ex. 5.8). This material now begins
on a notated downbeat (m. 84), and the preceding context does nothing to
undermine this metric status. In the exposition, the broader outlines of the
triplet passage were articulated by a tonal move to D-major harmony, as previ-
ously noted. A similar hearing in the recapitulation, however, places emphasis
in the middle of measure 85 when the bass pedal shifts from B to E. In other
words, across three notated measures (mm. 84–86) there is a large grouping
dissonance that articulates a binary division, and this passage therefore exhib-
its both grouping and displacement dissonances. The grouping dissonance is
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Example 5.8. Symphony No. 4 in E Minor, op. 98, II, mm. 84–88
somewhat undermined by the subsequent bass motion to C in measure 86, but

the melodic parallelism leaves at least a certain degree of displacement disso-
nance. Unlike in the exposition, there is no intervening measure between the
end of the triplets and the transition-ending hemiola. Thus, whatever metric
dissonance is present in the recapitulation is resolved entirely by the transi-
tion’s final measure and its hemiola.
Hemiolas can operate as restorative agents following other types of dis-
placement dissonances and in meters other than 86. I include only two brief
illustrations of such hemiolas within 43 meter. In the first instance, from the
Intermezzo in E Major, op. 116, no. 4, the hemiola comes after a quarter-note
displacement dissonance. In the second passage, from the String Quartet in
A Minor, op. 51, no. 2, the hemiola follows an eighth-note displacement dis-
sonance. In Brahms’s practice, a displacement involving less than half of a
measure typically resolves in one of two ways. In the first, the displacement
is removed by the intervention of an abrupt, too-early arrival of a structurally
significant harmony often at an important formal boundary.15 The other char-
acteristic technique involves the arrival of a sustained chord, whose onset con-
tinues the displacement but whose length is such that the subsequent event
articulates the notated meter. The expressive effects of these two techniques
differ, as the former involves an obvious jolt whereas the latter does not. In the
present context, I mention these techniques only to clarify that hemiola is not
characteristically found subsequent to Brahms’s displacement dissonances.16
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Example 5.9. Intermezzo in E Major, op. 116, no. 4, mm. 19–25
In the first example, the Intermezzo op. 116, no. 4, both the initial quarter-
note displacement dissonance and the subsequent hemiola are weakly pro-
jected.17 As indicated by the solid brackets on example 5.9, the displacement
dissonance arises from a repeated long-short melodic motif. At the outset of
the intermezzo, a simpler rendition of this melody was heard, and the mem-
ory of that initial and less metrically dissonant version further attenuates the
sense of displacement dissonance. In the phrase’s third measure (m. 22), the
bass resumes its articulation of notated downbeats and thereby largely resolves
the preceding displacement dissonance. Yet a careful listening to the melody,
which had carried the displacement dissonance, reveals the presence of hemi-
ola, as shown by the dotted brackets on example 5.9. The hemiola is strongest
in the phrase’s fourth and fifth measures, where it is reinforced through pitch
repetition. The three-note descent C♯–B–A♯ sounds twice and is altered on
its third statement through transposition and elongation. This final iteration
leads conclusively to the phrase’s cadence. At a lower level, duple and triple
subdivisions are in conflict, and the resolution of this submetric grouping dis-
sonance coincides with the cadential arrival. Rather than viewing the return
of the bass downbeats in the phrase’s third measure (m. 22) as a complete
resolution of the preceding displacement dissonance, I prefer to hear a more
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gradual metric process throughout the phrase’s third, fourth, and fifth mea-
sures, where the gentle rubbing of duple and triple groupings at two levels of
the metric hierarchy forestall metric resolution until the cadential arrival. The
sensitively judged intricacy of this passage enriches but does not disturb the
atmosphere of this “Notturno,” Brahms’s original title for this intermezzo.18
Much less subtle, and debatable, is the intervention of hemiola near the
end of the C-major section within the finale of the String Quartet in A Minor,
op. 51, no. 2. As Scott Murphy has explored in detail, this is a movement where
duple and triple elements appear at various levels of the metric hierarchy.19
The hemiola considered below emerges from the movement’s most metri-
cally dissonant passage, shown in example 5.10. Most evident is the eighth-
note displacement dissonance of the violins and violas throughout measures
91–97. Less immediately apparent but much more striking is the simultaneous
grouping dissonance shown by the brackets on example 5.10. The 43 meter is
supplanted by a four-quarter-note grouping dissonance, meaning that a pure
duple organization exists throughout the metric hierarchy.20 Given the elabo-
rate displacement and grouping dissonances, the ongoing duple hypermeter
is suspended; in looking at the score, one can observe that odd-numbered
measures are hypermetrically strong in the preceding music (i.e., mm. 83, 85,
87, 89, 91) whereas even-numbered ones are strong subsequent to this passage
(i.e., mm. 100, 102, 104, etc.). In this musical context, the hemiola of mea-
sures 98–99 hardly seems metrically dissonant. Rather, it resolves the eighth-
note displacement and reasserts duple hypermeter. Even though it does not
articulate the notated 43 meter directly, its coordination with the return to the
phrase’s structural dominant harmony—the launching point of the metrically
dissonant digression—is easily heard, at least retrospectively, as a hemiola in its
quintessential function as preparation for a cadential arrival. The relationship
of hemiolas to hypermeter, raised briefly in this last example, is explored at
length in the next section.
Hemiola as Resolution of Hypermetric Instability

or Agent of Hypermetric Reinterpretation
From a certain perspective, one can argue that hemiola’s interaction with
hypermetric displacement dissonance is no different than that with metric dis-
placement dissonance. The most frequent scenario where a hemiola resolves
hypermetric dissonance occurs in 43 meter with a hemiola that spans two
notated measures; a schematic representation of this would be isomorphic to
the one in example 5.1 above. The hemiola simply operates at the level of the
tactus rather than at the level of the pulse. The distinction between meter and
hypermeter is more than a notational one, although there exist pieces where
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Example 5.10. String Quartet in A Minor, op. 51, no. 2, IV, mm. 87–100
hypermeter serves as the perceived meter (and a much smaller number of

pieces in extremely slow tempi where the notated meter serves as the per-
ceived hypermeter).21 The various musical parameters differ in their relative
importance in projecting meter and hypermeter, and certain deviations from
periodicity occur hypermetrically that are not found in common-practice
meter, such as the reinterpretation that often happens when phrases (or sub-
phrases) are elided.
The following discussion proceeds through short excerpts from the first
movements of the Second Symphony, op. 73, the Piano Trio in C Major, op.
87, and the Piano Quartet in A Major, op. 26. Hemiola can be understood to
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perform a hypermetrically stabilizing role in different ways, as represented

schematically in example 5.11. In the first two situations, the hemiola emerges
from a passage in which there has been some lack of clarity about hyperme-
ter—adjacent downbeats have been competing for hypermetric priority. Most
often, the hemiola reinforces the stronger hyperbeats as shown at (a), but
it can lend definitive support to an expected weaker hyperbeat as shown at
(b). In the latter scenario, the hemiola might be viewed as the final stage in a
hypermetric transition, to adopt David Temperley’s useful term.22 In the sce-
nario shown at (c), the hemiola enters in a hypermetrically consonant passage
but prepares a hypermetric reinterpretation. The hemiola alone performs a
hypermetrically transitional function. In the examples below, some of these
distinctions are difficult to assert with absolute certainty, but they are worth
pondering. The interconnectedness of metric and hypermetric events of so
many different kinds contributes enormously to Brahms’s individual musical
language. An additional complication, which arises in the discussion of the
piano trio and the piano quartet movements, is the relationship between sur-
face and underlying hypermeters and how hemiola in the surface might nego-
tiate between these levels.
A straightforward and well-known instance of a hemiola bringing hyper-
metric clarity occurs at the end of the pseudo-introduction (mm. 1–44) of the
first movement of the Second Symphony, op. 73. Carl Schachter has explained
in detail how the expansion of dominant harmony across measures 14–43
involves a breakdown of both hypermeter and meter into pure quarter-note
pulse and then a reconstitution of the notated 43 meter and quadruple hyper-
meter.23 The reconstitution of quadruple hypermeter is marked as minimally
as possible; only a pianissimo timpani roll sounds (see ex. 5.12). As Schachter
notes, the conductor must already become aware of the reemergence of qua-
druple hypermeter in order to shape the neighbor-note wind figures so that
they possess the same anacrustic hypermetric quality as at the start of the move-
ment. Although Schachter’s reading of hypermeter is without question the
best interpretation available, there remains a certain hypermetric hesitancy
to the passage. Combined with the lack of subdivisions and the dark color
of the trombone chords, this hypermetric tentativeness creates considerable
suspense but no clear mechanism for launching the second, and more asser-
tive, component of the first theme at measure 44. The hemiola in measures
42–43 fulfils this role by reinforcing even-numbered measures as hypermetri-
cally strong. The hypermetric parallelism between measures 42 and 44 (at
the two-measure level) is reinforced by the repetition of the neighbor-note
motif on A. While a fully retrospective view of the passage reveals a recon-
stitution of hypermeter as early as measure 32, the hemiola at the end of
the pseudo-introduction consolidates the hypermetric situation and points
toward measure 44 as a moment of initiation.
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Example 5.11. Three interactions of hemiola and hypermeter in 43 meter
Example 5.12. Symphony no. 2 in D Major, op. 73, I, mm. 32–44
In the opening of the Piano Trio, op. 87, hemiola participates in a hyper-
metric reinterpretation.24 As shown in example 5.13, an overlap at the sub-
phrase level in measure 4 corresponds to a first hypermetric reinterpretation.
The overtly sequential design of measures 4–7 leaves little doubt that a hyper-
metric reinterpretation has occurred and gives hypermetric priority to even-
numbered measures. However, a similar sequential progression begins at
measure 13. The intervening passage presents a strongly articulated hemiola
(mm. 9–12), and this so-called dissonance seems to play a crucial role in shift-
ing the hypermetric priority back to odd-numbered measures. Precisely how to
represent these multiple events is not entirely clear, and some explanation of
the hypermetric annotations on example 5.13 is in order. If one had to pick a
single instant where the hypermetric reorientation occurs, the best candidate
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is the onset of the hemiola in measure 9. Due to the suppression of the second
measure of the expected sequential repetition in favor of the new hemiolic
material, there is again an overlap at a subphrase level. The simplest represen-
tation for hypermeter in measure 9, therefore, would be 2 = 1. Yet there seems
to be something digressive about the hemiolic material, as it draws out the
dominant seventh harmony to a length considerably greater than the harmo-
nies in the preceding sequence. The feeling of expansion is heightened since
the latter pair of hemiolic measures (mm. 11–12) are an embellished repeti-
tion of the initial pair. In my view, the most sensitive hypermetric analysis—and
the one shown in example 5.13—is a multi-leveled one, where the hypermea-
sure comprised of hemiolic material provides a surface hypermeter that tem-
porarily suspends the phrase’s underlying hypermeter. This shift in level, an
admittedly subtle and speculative distinction, seems to capture the dual sense
in which there is some sort of hypermetric adjustment at measure 9, but the
full reinstatement of odd-numbered measures as hypermetrically strong comes
only when the phrase resumes forward tonal motion at measure 13. In other
words, a shifting of hypermetric level acknowledges the hypermetrically transi-
tional function of the hemiola.25
A few other passages from this movement place hemiolas in metrically sta-
bilizing roles, and I will consider two of these, both from the development
section. As in several of Brahms’s sonata forms, the development begins with
a tonic-key restatement of the first theme, shown in example 5.14. Like at
the opening of the movement, the phrase’s fourth measure has an overlap
at a subphrase level that corresponds to a 4 = 1 hypermetric reinterpretation
and shifts hypermetric attention to even-numbered measures. The sequence
is altered by comparison with the exposition, but it still initially proceeds in
two-measure modules. Starting at measure 136, the sequential unit fragments
to a single measure, and the eighth-note pulses are grouped in threes rather
than in twos. In the first measure of this grouping dissonance, there is only a
weak change of harmony, but in measures 137–38 the mid-measure harmonic
change becomes stronger, which strengthens the metric grouping dissonance.
The increasing metric tension and rising dynamics culminate at measure 139,
which breaks the ongoing sequence by sounding a 46, rather than a 36, sonority.
The 46 sonority is cadential in function, and its impact is enhanced through
the presence of hemiola. As at the start of the movement, the hemiola also
participates in switching of hypermetric priority from even-numbered back to
odd-numbered measures.
The annotations on example 5.14 suggest that the hemiola arises from
expansion; given that the immediately preceding measures present two harmo-
nies each, the spreading of the cadential 46 and its resolution across two mea-
sures can be viewed as an expansion. The recomposition in example 5.15 shows
how easily the cadential 46 and its resolution could fall within a single measure.
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Example 5.13. Piano Trio in C Major, op. 87, I, mm. 1–15
Removing the hemiola allows the quadruple hypermeter to flow without inter-
ruption, but one feels the cadential arrival on G minor less strongly. The single
measure of metric consonance after the intense grouping dissonance of mea-
sures 136–38 is less effective—less stable—than Brahms’s pair of hemiolic mea-
sures. If one accepts that this is the structural-expressive effect of this hemiola,
then its function as a metric dissonance is called into doubt.
The final passage to be examined from this movement comes immedi-
ately afterward. This next part of the development section consists of an
eleven-measure module (mm. 141–51) that elides with its repetition a fifth
lower (mm. 151–61, expanded externally by cadential repetitions to m. 165).
Example 5.16 provides the second module, whose first eight measures are
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based on parallel descending tenths (C/E♭–B♭/D♭–A♭/C). The pacing

of these tenths is irregular: five measures, two measures, and one measure
respectively. At the outset, duple hypermeter is strongly projected through the
quasi-sentential beginning; it is in the fifth measure (m. 155) where the hyper-
metric situation becomes complicated. The downbeat is not articulated by the
expected dotted-note motif but by an ascending scalar figure. The newness of
this scalar figure could support the beginning of a hypermeasure developing
this thematic idea, but in the next measure the first move within the underly-
ing parallel tenths occurs. This tonal motion combined with the return of the
dotted-note motif suggests a hypermetrically strong identity for measure 156.
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Example 5.15. Recomposition of mm. 139–40 as a single measure
As a result, the ensuing return of the scalar motif occupies a hypermetrically

weak measure (m. 157), a context inherently suited to its placid rhythms and
articulation and a placement confirmed by the move to the A♭/C tenth in the
following measure. Thus despite the complications of the preceding measures,
the final arrival in the underlying tenths (m. 158) emerges as a hypermetrically
strong event. The hypermetric analysis on example 5.16 continues the duple
patterning to the deceptive cadence at measure 161, which elides with a phrase
expansion that twice echoes the cadential gesture.
Close inspection of the two measures preceding the hypermetric reinter-
pretation at measure 161 reveals the presence of a hemiola. This hemiola
is undoubtedly not as strong as most others mentioned in this essay, as the
melodic emphasis on A♭ on downbeats in the piano part along with the over-
all melodic parallelism between measures 159 and 160 reinforce the notated
meter. The outer voices, however, do articulate a hemiola, though it would be
even stronger if the dominant harmony arrived on the second beat of measure
160 rather than an applied diminished seventh chord. Yet despite the middling
nature of this hemiola there are a couple of ways in which it performs a stabi-
lizing metric function. First, by beginning two measures before the end of the
phrase, the inherent emphasis at the outset of the hemiola foreshadows the
hypermetric reinterpretation that will occur at the end of the phrase. This is
especially apt given that the post-cadential expansion reiterates the two mea-
sures that preceded the cadence. By their formal placement, these two echoes
(mm. 161–62, 163–64) have a strong-weak hypermetric identity, and this rever-
sal compared to their initial weak-strong occurrence before the cadence (mm.
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159–60) is wonderfully facilitated by their hemiolic nature. Second, the de-

emphasis of the notated downbeat in the middle of the pre-cadential hemi-
ola shifts attention away from a measure that is hypermetrically strong at the
two-measure level. This de-emphasis, coupled with the continuity of thematic
material in measures 158–60, suggests a resurgence of quadruple hypermeter
after several measures where hypermeter beyond the two-measure level seems
highly speculative. Although I consider it at a surface level, the hypermeter
within the post-cadential expansion is easily viewed as quadruple due to the
literal repetitions. This regeneration of quadruple hypermeter sets the stage
for the next part of the development, where the movement’s opening four
measures are augmented to eight measures and treated to sequential repeti-
tion. Once again, hemiola eases a shift between hypermetric states, revealing a
fluidity in Brahms’s metric language that is not fully celebrated when hemiolas
are considered exclusively as dissonant entities, without consideration of their
functions in individual musical contexts.
A passage from the exposition of the first movement of the Piano Quartet
in A Major, op. 26, serves as a final illustration of hemiola’s interaction with
hypermeter. The excerpt provided as example 5.17 includes the terminal mod-
ule of the second theme and the start of the closing theme (mm. 106ff.).26 The
second theme concludes with a parallel period that consists of a four-measure
antecedent (mm. 95–98) and an expanded eight-measure consequent (mm.
99–106). The phrase expansion includes a pair of hemiolic measures (mm.
104–5), and the relationship of these measures to surface and underlying
hypermeters, and the precise metric configuration of the boundary between
the second and closing themes, warrant close scrutiny.
In order to appreciate the role of the hemiola in Brahms’s expanded conse-
quent, it is productive to imagine what a four-measure consequent would have
looked like. The underlying phrase is easily reconstructed given the four-mea-
sure antecedent. The recomposition, which is shown as example 5.18, simply
removes the extra measures (mm. 102–5), since they begin with a deceptive
substitution for the expected tonic harmony. Very minimal recomposition is
required because, unusually, the antecedent ended on tonic harmony (with
incomplete melodic closure) rather than dominant harmony, and thus the
consequent can follow the antecedent and close within its four-measure hyper-
measure rather than spilling over onto the downbeat of the next hypermeasure
or having an acceleration in harmonic rhythm preceding the cadence. Since
the recomposed consequent ends on a fourth hyperbeat, a 4 = 1 hypermet-
ric reinterpretation is necessitated by the phrase design of the closing theme.
Although the repetitiveness of the start of the closing theme might admit more
than one hypermetric reading, the passing nature of the harmony in mea-
sure 109, and especially the melodic parallelisms within measures 110–11 and
112–13, make perfectly clear the hypermetric placement of the closing theme.
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Example 5.17. Piano Quartet in A Major, op. 26, I, mm. 95–114
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Example 5.18. Recomposition of mm. 99–106 as a four-measure consequent
In the recomposed consequent, there is something awkward about the 4 = 1

hypermetric reinterpretation at the outset of the closing theme. Hypermetric
reinterpretation generally coincides with an overlap at some level of group-
ing structure, but the melody emphatically articulates a grouping boundary
between the measure’s first and second beats. The burden of the overlap falls
entirely on the cello, which does have a genuine overlap given the repetition
of its arpeggiated pattern in subsequent measures. Since the constraints on
hypermetric structures are less strict than those on meter or harmony in the
common-practice period, the recomposed version is certainly not a musical
impossibility, but it is difficult to audiate the hypermetric reinterpretation
simultaneously with the sharp melodic grouping boundary.
The hemiola in Brahms’s expansion participates in a relationship between
surface and underlying hypermeters. The passage is quite similar to the one
from the beginning of the C-major piano trio (see ex. 5.13 above), except
simpler in that the expansion is plainly apparent due to the preceding ante-
cedent phrase; the hemiola occurs only at the end of the expansion rather
than throughout. As shown in the hypermetric annotations on example 5.17,
in the surface hypermeter there is a 4 = 1 reinterpretation at the onset of the
phrase expansion. The expansion itself constitutes a four-measure hypermea-
sure, and this periodicity is reinforced through the hemiolic measures 104–5
that conclude the expansion. Falling in their most common hypermetric loca-
tion, these hemiolic measures assuredly prepare a hyperdownbeat at measure
106, the downbeat where the second theme ends and after which the closing
theme’s melody begins. In the surface hypermeter, there is no reinterpretation
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at this point; in fact, due to the preceding hemiola the hyperdownbeat is ren-
dered even stronger than usual.
This excerpt from the piano quartet provides a salutary reminder that in a
musical passage involving phrase expansion “the” hypermeter—to the extent
one is able to refer to a definitive interpretation—is not equivalent to the
hypermeter of the underlying phrase. The latter is the underlying hyperme-
ter, here the hypermeter shown on the recomposition in example 5.18. In the
expanded phrase, there exists surface hypermeter, which does not represent
“the” hypermeter either. Rather, “the” hypermeter is the interaction between
underlying and surface hypermeters; it is a relationship between two distinct
entities. This relationship allows for different qualities of musical time; in this
instance, the difference between the quick harmonic changes of the start of the
consequent and the broad expansion of the dominant harmony via repeated
motions to a chromatic upper neighbor supporting a German sixth chord. Yet
this relationship between surface and underlying hypermeters also allows for
transformations between strong and weak hypermetric identities. In this case,
the renegotiation of the hypermetric identity of the phrase’s final measure by
the expansion’s surface hypermeter is facilitated and highlighted through its
incorporation of hemiola.27
Hearing Hemiolas Consonantly
This final section turns to hemiolas that, from a metric perspective, do not
perform an obviously restorative function. I pose a speculative question: What
might be the consequences of viewing such hemiolas as if they have an overtly
stabilizing role? To offer some possible responses to this question, I return to
the C-minor Trio, but this time to its first movement. Asserting greater struc-
tural value to some of its hemiolas might reveal somewhat hidden aspects of
phrase rhythm and motivate more vibrant dialogues between musicians in
performance.
Even given its 43 meter, the first movement of the Piano Trio in C Minor, op.
101, seems unusually endowed with hemiolas. Many of these are typical caden-
tial hemiolas, setting up powerful tonic arrivals, as at the end of the first theme
(mm. 18–19) and related passages in the coda (mm. 206–7, 213–14, 221–22).
In the lengthy coda’s last moments, its antepenultimate and penultimate mea-
sures outline a hemiola, preparing the final low, thickly-scored C-minor chord.
As in the slow movement of the Fourth Symphony considered above, the tran-
sition ends with a hemiola, but the situation is much more complex due to a
hypermetric ambiguity within the second theme. I will explore this perplexing
boundary later on, but before then I turn to the movement’s initial engage-
ment with hemiola during the first theme.
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This initial involvement with hemiola is subtle and easily overlooked even by
acute listeners reading the score. After the opening four-measure motto, there
follows the seven-measure expansion of dominant harmony shown in example
5.19. In the fourth measure of this harmonic stasis, the piano’s gestures lose
their terminal quarter-notes, meaning that these gestures fall only two beats
apart from one another. The resulting hemiola is very slightly obscured through
the lack of articulation of the hemiolic beats themselves by the piano, but these
beats are consistently articulated by the lowest G available on the violin and
cello, both open strings. In fact, in her commentary on a private 1887 reading
of the work by Brahms, Joseph Joachim, and Robert Hausmann, British pianist
Fanny Davies specifically noted the great importance laid on these iterations of
G.28 More relevant to the hemiola’s lack of maximal strength than the piano’s
suppressed attacks is the further fragmentation that follows the hemiola. In
fact, the fragmentation to three sixteenth-notes already occurs during the last
hemiolic beat, and in the following measure the piano not only reduces the
gestures to two sixteenth-notes but then introduces faster rhythms as well. The
hemiola dissolves; its projection decreases notably within the last beat of mea-
sure 9, and from the perspective of measure 10 it provides an intermediate
stage in a larger process of motivic fragmentation and rhythmic acceleration.
If one takes this hemiola seriously, the measure in which it begins (m. 8)
accrues additional emphasis. In the string parts, the downbeat of this measure
is also marked due to the change in rhythmic pattern. Unlike in the preceding
three measures, the downbeat is not set apart by a sustained pitch. Although
the change in pattern by itself distinguishes this measure, the string parts also
exhibit considerable flow across this downbeat due to the continuous stepwise
ascent traced by their uppermost pitches. The larger implication of the strings’
new rhythmic pattern and the piano’s hemiola lies in a refinement in hyper-
metric understanding. The downbeat thus emphasized is a fourth hyperbeat,
an unlikely location for the inception of a new and sustained rhythmic pattern
and an even less frequent site for the onset of a two-measure hemiola. The
implication is a 4 = 1 hypermetric reinterpretation, a reading that rationalizes
the seven-measure dominant expansion as a pair of overlapping four-measure
units. While one does not wish to diminish the sense in which these seven
measures represent an unexpectedly long harmonic stasis, the recognition of
underlying quadruple spans gives the passage a strength that fits nicely with
the powerful chords of the preceding four-measure motto and with the follow-
ing eight measures of dotted-rhythm material. More broadly, the clarity gained
by promoting this hemiola tempers the otherwise bewildering rhythmic bold-
ness of this passage compared with the movement’s overall straightforward
construction, a feature consistently noted in contemporary reviews.29
As has often been observed, the only segment of the first theme that returns
at the outset of the recapitulation is this seven-measure dominant expansion,
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Example 5.19. Piano Trio in C Minor, op. 101, I, mm. 5–13
Murphy.indd 169 5/17/2018 1:51:21 AM

which originally occurred in the middle of the theme.30 Restricting the the-
matic recapitulation in this way enables the return of root-position C har-
mony to fall later in the recapitulation; the second theme attains C major
while the coda reverts to C minor. Thus, this seven-measure dominant expan-
sion becomes a pivotal moment in the form, providing a smooth connection
between development and recapitulation. Example 5.20 begins at the hemiolic
measures, thus giving the final four measures of the seven-measure thematic
reminiscence and the start of the following new thematic module, which serves
as a transition to the second theme.
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The hypermetric annotations on example 5.20 suggest that the hemiolic

element sets up a potent conflict of competing hypermeters between piano
and strings in the ensuing new transitional module. Recall that it is only the
piano part that articulates the hemiola; the lack of differentiation within the
strings’ material diminishes the distinction between hyperbeats, drawing one
closer to the surface levels of the metric hierarchy. Thus, the 4 = 1 reinterpre-
tation at the onset of the transitional module in measure 140 is immediately
sensed. In the piano part, this downbeat corresponds to the middle of a sweep-
ing arpeggio and is not particularly marked. Moreover, the preceding hemiolic
element in the piano part in measures 137–38 keeps some attention on the
two-measure level of the metric hierarchy, providing additional disincentive for
a 4 = 1 metric reinterpretation. Rather, by pointing the pianist to the distinc-
tion between strong and weak hyperbeats, the hemiola encourages the same
understanding of the following two measures, indicating that measure 140
fully remains a weak hyperbeat. Instead of hypermetric reinterpretation, the
piano part has a competing shadow hypermeter, which comes into alignment
with the main hypermeter of the strings when the dominant harmony is reart-
iculated at measure 146.31 Acknowledging the ability of hemiola to project two-
measure hypermeter facilitates an independent hypermetric life for the piano
part and promotes a more active hearing of the relationship among the instru-
ments in the transitional module.
I return now to the hemiola that concludes the transition and sets up the
lyrical second theme, which begins with a sixteen-measure sentence (see ex.
5.21). As mentioned above, several of the transitions in Brahms’s sonata expo-
sitions in 43 meter feature a hemiola across their final two measures. In opus
101, however, the measure following the hemiola (m. 38) is not hypermetri-
cally strong. The quarter-notes of measure 38 clearly belong to the second
theme and not to the transition; a cursory glance through the second theme
reveals multiple recurrences of this motif, which is derived from an augmenta-
tion of the bass line from measures 1–2. Given the presence of open octaves,
the rising melodic motion from 5^ to 1, ^
and the extension of the preceding
dominant harmony, the quarter-notes of measure 38 are easily taken as hyper-
metrically weak, as shown in hypermeter A in example 5.21. In other words,
the second theme begins with a hypermetric and gestural upbeat (to use ter-
minology I have developed elsewhere32). The grouping boundaries within the
presentation of this sentence are therefore a full measure out-of-phase from
the hypermeter, something not extremely unusual in a sixteen-measure sen-
tence (compared to an eight-measure one) but worth noting nonetheless.
In the sentence’s continuation, hearing odd-numbered measures as hyper-
metrically strong becomes increasingly difficult. Despite the conceptual
separation between hypermeasures and phrase groupings, it is challenging
to maintain a hypermeter that is significantly out-of-phase from grouping
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structure, as William Rothstein has noted in his “rule of congruence.”33 To illus-

trate this tension, hypermeter A (in ex. 5.21) maintains odd-strong hypermeter
until the elided restatement of the theme begins at measure 54. In this read-
ing, the preceding hypermeasure has several awkward elements: the violin’s
ascent to A♭ culminates on a hypermetrically weak measure (m. 52), the sub-
sequent embellished repetition is therefore hypermetrically stronger, and the
piano’s restatement of the rising quarter-notes from the theme’s outset no lon-
ger constitutes a hypermetric upbeat. Hypermeters B and C suggest an earlier
hypermetric reinterpretation, at the onset of the theme’s continuation (m. 46)
or at its midpoint (m. 50) respectively. In either location, rising quarter-notes
similar to those in the theme’s first measure occur. Herein lies a connection to
a consonant hearing of the hemiola at the end of the transition. A consonant
hearing of the hemiola in measures 36–37 brings somewhat more accentuation
to the downbeat of measure 38 than the above-mentioned open-octave texture
and tonal context would otherwise indicate. Thus, the reinterpretation of this
motif’s hypermetric identity, which is eventually necessary during the theme, is
subtly prepared at the theme’s outset.
Hemiolas and Beyond
Some of the interpretations advanced in this essay will not be convincing to all
readers. Analysis that moves beyond description necessarily incorporates the
analyst’s musical intuitions and aesthetic preferences, and about such analy-
ses musicians sometimes disagree. While this hardly seems necessary to point
out, I acknowledge that responses by musically informed listeners to many
rhythmic-metric phenomena are considerably more varied than are those to
many pitch constructs. Accentuating this perceptual difference is the compara-
tively more comprehensive encoding of pitch information in score notation.
Although I do hope that most of my interpretations are either consistent with
readers’ current ones or offer welcome ways of enriching their experiences of
these musical passages, an even more important goal is to highlight once again
the depth and variety of reflection that can be brought to bear on temporal
aspects of Brahms’s music and the payoffs from doing so.
Throughout I have argued for recognizing the potential of hemiola to
restore metric consonance or to stabilize the metric situation after a period of
flux. In no way do I mean to suggest that hemiola never has a dissonant metric
function or that it does not disturb the ongoing musical flow. Taken in the
larger context of writings on hemiola, this essay aims to emphasize the varied
functions that hemiolas can perform. Due to the accepted naming of hemio-
las as metric dissonances, especially in regards to nineteenth-century music,
functions other than a purely dissonant one have received less comment. In
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addition, the recent literature has paid less attention to the function of hemio-
las in their individual musical surroundings and more attention to detecting
variations in the projected strength of hemiolas or to specifying how hemiolic
durations relate to the notated meter or meters of a given piece and how these
relationships might be represented visually.
As noted near the outset of this essay, hemiola is the simplest of the metric
grouping dissonances. Brahms deployed more complex grouping dissonances,
albeit less frequently. An obvious question arises: Can more complex group-
ing dissonances, such as a conflict between triple and quadruple groupings,
ever have a stabilizing metric function? Brahms’s music occasionally presents
sesquitertian elements in advance of an important tonal arrival. A straightfor-
ward instance appears early in the finale of the Cello Sonata in F Major, op.
99. In the transition, the modulation to the secondary key of A minor (m. 23)
is achieved through a circle-of-fifths sequences in which each pair of chords
spans three quarter-notes of the cut-time meter. Four groups of three quarter-
notes are articulated across the three notated measures leading to the tonal
arrival; this construction is analogous in function to the hemiolas in Baroque
cadences. Later in the movement, groupings of three quarter-notes perform a
function that might approach the types of metrically stabilizing roles explored
in this essay. The rondo’s last episode concludes with a quarter-note displace-
ment dissonance (mm. 122–25), and the ensuing retransition (mm. 125–28)
makes use of three-quarter groupings as part of its preparation for the final
rondo refrain. Such situations are admittedly very rare, and their immediate
impact is even more unsettling than hemiolas. Nonetheless, they do suggest
that the notions explored above might be extended to more complex group-
ing dissonances, if not to any meaningful degree in Brahms’s music perhaps in
relation to other repertoire.
Notes
1. Throughout this essay, I will employ the frequently encountered term “met-
ric dissonance” even though these contrametric accentuations often do not
undermine our sense of meter and perceived downbeat. For theorists who
consider meter to incorporate all layers of periodic motion, such as Harald
Krebs, the term “metric dissonance” is fully satisfactory. For writers who view
meter as comprised only of the layers of periodic motion that align with the
perceived overall meter, contrametric accentuations would more logically be
referred to as “rhythmic dissonances.” This paper was read at Brahms in the
New Century (New York, 2012), and I would like to acknowledge the feedback
received at that time, especially from Richard Cohn, as well as the numerous
suggestions offered subsequently by Scott Murphy.
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2. Harald Krebs, Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1999).
3. As Richard Cohn has noted, current usage of the term hemiola admits situations
where triple groupings of pulses substitute for duple ones. In this essay, I use the
term hemiola only in its narrower sense (in any case, this interchange is the one
that occurs most frequently in Brahms’s music). See Cohn, “Complex Hemiolas,
Ski-Hill Graphs and Metric Spaces,” Music Analysis 20, no. 3 (2001): 295.
4. Two instances of long-awaited arrivals of tonic harmony emphasized by
a preceding hemiola occur in the coda of the first movement of the Piano
Quartet in C Minor, op. 60 (m. 313) and at the end of the first theme in the
initial movement of the Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, op. 115 (m. 25). In some
pieces, hemiolas emphasize the endings of phrases quite consistently (e.g., the
Andante grazioso from the Clarinet Trio in A Minor, op. 114 and the Romanze
in F Major, op. 118, no. 5).
5. Channan Willner, “The Two-Length Bar Revisited: Handel and the Hemiola,”
Göttinger Händel-Beiträge 4 (1991): 208–31, and “More on Handel and the
Hemiola: Overlapping Hemiolas,” Music Theory Online 2, no. 3 (1996).
6. An example, cited by Willner, is Edward T. Cone’s discussion of the first
four measures of Brahms’s Intermezzo in A Major, op. 118, no. 2. Cone
reads a hemiola across measures 2–3, and this pacing of tonal events results
in a four-measure phrase. See Cone, “Musical Form and Musical Performance
Reconsidered,” Music Theory Spectrum 7 (1985): 155–56.
7. It should be noted that many of Willner’s hemiolas—as he acknowledges—are
weakly projected, and a large number involve only the upper melodic line.
David Schulenberg questions the presence of hemiola in some of Willner’s
examples; see Schulenberg, “Commentary on Channan Willner, ‘More on
Handel and the Hemiola,’” Music Theory Online 2, no. 5 (1996).
8. Channan Willner, “Metrical Displacement and Metrically Dissonant Hemiolas,”
Journal of Music Theory 57, no. 1 (2013): 87–118.
9. Ibid., 109–14. The terms “odd-strong” and “even-strong,” which refer to con-
sistent hypermetric accentuation of odd-numbered and even-numbered mea-
sures respectively, come from David Temperley, The Cognition of Basic Musical
Structures (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 212.
10. Willner, “Metrical Displacement,” 114.
11. Cohn, “Complex Hemiolas.”
12. Cohn has discussed certain hemiolic aspects of the opening movement of
opus 78 (Cohn, “Complex Hemiolas,” 304–7). The Capriccio op. 76, no.
8 is the focus of articles by David Lewin and the present author; see Lewin,
“On Harmony and Meter in Brahms’s Op. 76, No. 8,” 19th-Century Music 4,
no. 3 (1981): 261–65, and McClelland, “Brahms’s Capriccio Op. 76, No. 8:
Ambiguity, Conflict, Musical Meaning, and Performance,” Theory and Practice
29 (2004): 69–94.
13. For a complete discussion of this movement (as well as the work’s second
movement), see McClelland, “Metric Dissonance in Brahms’s Piano Trio in C
Minor, Op. 101,” Intégral 20 (2006): 1–42.
14. Krebs, Fantasy Pieces, 46–52.
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15. This technique for resolving displacement dissonances is explored at length

in Walter Frisch, “The Shifting Bar Line: Metrical Displacement in Brahms,”
in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. George Bozarth
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 139–63.
16. For another different scenario in which hemiola resolves a displacement span-
ning less than half of a measure, see measures 23–24 in variation 6 of the
Variations on a Theme by Robert Schumann, op. 9. In 86 meter, this variation falls
into a D6–2 displacement (measured in eighth-notes), and the reconciliation
with the notated meter comes after a G3/2 dissonance. This passage is men-
tioned in Frisch, “The Shifting Bar Line,” 142–43.
17. Indeed, in his study of hemiolas in opus 116, John Rink does not list this pas-
sage as among those with hemiolas; this example is by far the most weakly pro-
jected hemiola I entertain in this essay. See Rink, “Playing in Time: Rhythm,
Metre and Tempo in Brahms’s Fantasien Op. 116,” in The Practice of Performance:
Studies in Musical Interpretation, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge
18. “Notturno” appears in the autograph (held at the Staats- und
Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg), a facsimile of which was published by Henle
in 1997.
19. Scott Murphy, “Metric Cubes in Some Music of Brahms,” Journal of Music Theory
53, no. 1 (2009): 40–53.
20. The characterization “pure duple” to refer to a metric hierarchy governed
by duple relations at all levels originates in Richard Cohn, “Dramatization of
Hypermetric Conflicts in the Scherzo of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,” 19th-
Century Music 15, no. 3 (1992): 188–206.
21. The slow movement of the Fourth Symphony, discussed in the previous sec-
tion, might in fact be an instance where the notated 86 meter is perceived as a
hypermeter. (In that case, the perceived meter would be 83.) Brahms’s tempo
marking is Andante moderato, but many conductors adopt a less flowing tempo.
In all cases, when I refer to “meter” and “hypermeter” I refer to the levels as
indicated by the score notation.
22. David Temperley, “Hypermetrical Transitions,” Music Theory Spectrum 30, no. 2
(2008): 305–25. None of Temperley’s examples employs hemiola in a hyper-
metric transition.
23. Carl Schachter, “The First Movement of Brahms’s Second Symphony: The
Opening Theme and Its Consequences,” Music Analysis 2, no. 1 (1983): 55–68.
24. For a thorough discussion of metric dissonance in this work, see William
Bosworth, “Metrical Dissonance in Brahms’s Second Piano Trio, Opus 87 in C
Major” (MM diss., University of Birmingham, 2012). Bosworth notes the pres-
ence of hemiolas proximate to hypermetric shifts.
25. Temperley represents gradual hypermetric shifts by suspending hypermeter
with the annotation “transition”; in many of his examples, I would represent
this phenomenon through an interaction of surface and underlying hyper-
meters. To cite one instance: in Temperley’s analysis of Mendelssohn’s Song
Without Words op. 30, no. 4 (his ex. 12), I would view measure 18 as a weak mea-
sure in the underlying hypermeter that spawns a six-measure phrase expansion
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due to the extension of the dominant arrival. This expansion (mm. 18–23)
comprises six measures with surface hypermeter in a strong-weak pattern,
thereby effecting a strong measure when the underlying hypermeter resumes
at measure 24. See Temperley, “Hypermetrical Transitions,” 320–22.
26. Frisch discusses this passage in “The Shifting Bar Line,” 143–44. Frisch’s analy-
sis differs considerably from mine since he focuses solely on melodic design,
proposing a series of shifting meters that respond to melodic emphases and
preserve the metric identity of recurrent motives. Frisch notes that his analysis
“is not really adequate, for it fits only the melody”; one important point on
which we agree, though, is the grouping boundary between the first and sec-
ond beats of measure 106, meaning that the closing theme begins only on the
second beat of that measure.
27. For another discussion of hemiola and phrase expansion, see my discussion
of the quasi-minuet movement from the Cello Sonata in E Minor, op. 38, in
Brahms and the Scherzo: Studies in Musical Narrative (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010),
113–19.
28. Fanny Davies, “Some Personal Recollections of Brahms as Pianist and
Interpreter,” in Cobbett’s Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music, ed. Walter Willson
Cobbett, vol. 1 (London: Oxford University Press, 1929), 183. Davies’s essay is
discussed and reprinted in full in George Bozarth, “Fanny Davies and Brahms’s
Late Chamber Music,” in Performing Brahms: Early Evidence of Performance Style,
ed. Michael Musgrave and Bernard D. Sherman (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003), 170–219.
29. For a discussion of contemporary reception observing a simplification in
Brahms’s language in opus 101 see Margaret Notley, Lateness and Brahms: Music
and Culture in the Twilight of Viennese Liberalism (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2007), 45–56.
30. As in some of Brahms’s other movements that bypass the opening of the first
theme at the start of the recapitulation, the development begins with a (var-
ied) home-key restatement of the first theme’s initial measures.
31. The term “shadow meter” comes from Frank Samarotto, “Strange Dimensions:
Regularity and Irregularity in Deep Levels of Rhythmic Reduction,” in Schenker
Studies II, ed. Carl Schachter and Hedi Siegel (Cambridge: Cambridge
32. I explore the distinction between gestural and hypermetric upbeats in
“Extended Upbeats in the Classical Minuet: Interactions with Hypermeter and
Phrase Structure,” Music Theory Spectrum 28, no. 1 (2006): 23–56.
33. William Rothstein, “Beethoven with and without Kunstgepräng’: Metrical
Ambiguity Reconsidered,” Beethoven Forum 4 (1995): 173.
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Chapter Six
Brahms at Twenty
Hemiolic Varietals and Metric
Malleability in an Early Sonata
Richard Cohn
Brahms’s career does not fit a standard early/middle/late paradigm, in part

because it had not two but three significant points of internal articulation:
the death of Robert Schumann in 1856, which triggered a four-year publica-
tion hiatus; the success of the German Requiem in 1868, which thrust Brahms
permanently into the public eye; and his premature retirement in 1890,
which preceded an unanticipated final compositional burst. The terms with
which musicologists reference these four stages fluctuate, yet one marker has
achieved some measure of permanence. It was evidently Donald Francis Tovey
who attached “first maturity” to the compositions of the 1860s. The term was
appropriated by James Webster and Walter Frisch, and eventually canonized in
George Bozarth’s contribution to the New Grove Dictionary in 2000.1
The canonized term casts a shadow on the earlier music, as it leaves little
room to escape its cardinal implication: that the music of the 1850s is imma-
ture, premature, juvenile, or some other similarly deprecatory term. That
response is in acute tension with Robert Schumann’s famous judgment that
the twenty-year old Brahms, “like Minerva, sprung fully armored from the head
of Zeus.” The same tension is internal to a claim of Michael Musgrave: “the
early works presage virtually all of the elements of the mature style.”2 If the
elements are present, then why does Musgrave sense the absence of the qual-
ity constituted by them? Perhaps Brahms had acquired the armaments by age
twenty, but not yet mastered their deployment in compositional combat.
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brahms at twenty ❧ 179
This paper seeks to stimulate a re-evaluation of these implications, focus-

ing on the first movement of the early composition that has the best claim to
an enduring position in the concert repertory: the Piano Sonata no. 3 in F
minor, op. 5. Composed at the Schumann home in Dusseldorf during October
1853, just a few weeks after Johannes first met Robert and Clara, this move-
ment evinces five characteristics that were integral to Brahms’s compositional
personality throughout his career. More than local elements, features, or
“devices,” each of these five characteristics involves some measure of ordering,
pacing, and large-scale planning. To that extent, the characteristics are worked
into the bones of the movement.
1. Grundgestalt. Example 6.1a presents the opening four measures of the

movement, circling the first seven highest pitches. Example 6.1b shows
that these tones, in this order, blueprint the tonal plan of the movement:
A-flat, the tonic of the second theme; D-flat, the tonic at the close of the
exposition and most of the development; G-flat, the key in which the
initial theme returns near the end of the development; and B-flat, the
target of the tonal discharge in the coda (as discussed below).3 Arnold
Schoenberg coined a term, Grundgestalt, for the relationship of detail to
larger shape, one of the features that he most admired in the music of
Brahms. The term has been a keyword for analysts of Brahms’s music
during the last half-century.4
2. Blurred recapitulatory boundary. Peter Smith has catalogued a number of
strategies by which Brahms attenuates the impact of the classical sonata’s
characteristic “double return,” postponing its structural and rhetorical
impact toward the end of the movement.5 In opus 5, the tonic return
of the initial theme sneaks in after an eight-measure phrase that begins
off-tonic and terminates on the dominant. Continuities in thematic
material, texture, and dynamic level contribute to the sense that the
beginning of the reprise, at measure 131, is a response to the previous
phrase, rather than a point of articulation and initiation. It is only
upon hearing the fortissimo counter-statement at measure 137 that one
retrospectively apprehends the stealthy double return characteristic of
a reprise.
3. Subdominant conservation. Brahms often holds the subdominant in
reserve, and brandishes it at a late point of rhetorical focus. In the
movement at hand, an expectation for subdominant discharge at the
end of the reprise is stimulated by the treatment of analogous events
at the end of the exposition. There, A-flat major was initially presented
as the key for the secondary material, but was ultimately converted to
a dominant, eventuating in a D-flat cadence twenty measures later, in
the exposition’s final measure. At the analogous point of the reprise,
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180 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.1. Piano Sonata, op. 5, opening measures, juxtaposed with a tonal plan
of the movement
the tonic-to-dominant conversion of F major prepares a cadence in

B-flat. In the event, the cadence is deceptively deflected into a murky
extension, only to return and resolve triumphantly to B-flat at measure
205, seventeen measures before the final cadence.
4. Hemiola. The first movement of opus 5 often presents triple divisions
of two-bar hypermeasures, initiating a 𝅗𝅥 pulse that supplants the 𝅗𝅥.
pulse indicated by the 43 meter signature. Some of these hemiolas are
audible on first encounter (e.g., measures 49–50, 58–59). Others are
more concealed, emerging as secondary possibilities that grow in
presence and significance through prolonged exposure. Among these
are hypermetrically displaced hemiolas, which begin and terminate on
weak downbeats (after Willner); expanded hemiolas, whose progress is
suspended for later completion (after Ng);6 and some as yet un-named
varietals to be explored in this paper.
5. Ambiguity, leading to forked paths of interpretation. “Ambiguity” is another
keyword in Brahms analysis. Here I rely on recent work of Peter Smith,
who has argued in support of “ambiguity as an irreducible component of
Brahms’s aesthetic,” and has shown (after David Epstein) how the term
applies to issues of metric as well as tonal interpretation. In an assessment
that penetrates to the heart of Brahms’s art and craft, Smith writes:
Ambiguity may arise within an initial context in which there is not

enough information to signal a univalent metric or harmonic
interpretation. The initial context instead plants the seeds for the
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bivalence that is to become the source for musical development. . . .

Repeating [material] in shifted positions and in varied musical con-
texts heightens the overall sense of ambiguity such that the ambigu-
ity itself becomes a narrative thread in a Brahms work. . . . Brahms
helps to balance the scales of ambiguity by tipping his formal pro-
cesses toward those very meanings that may at first have seemed less
weighty, only to tip back and forth again and again.7
These final two features will serve as the focus of this analysis. I shall argue
that the principal materials of the movement are metrically malleable: they
straddle two distinct interpretations, one normalized to the meter signature
and the notated barlines,8 the other metrically unstable and incorporating
some combination of the hemiolic techniques itemized above. The first three
features cited above shall provide a broader frame for my metric narrative. I
shall revisit them in the final section, which returns to the question of how
good a composer was Brahms at age twenty.
The Opening Measures and Their Consequences
The bass opens with a familiar formula: a chromatic descent from tonic to
dominant (ex. 6.2a). Initially, the bass tones occur every three beats, suggest-
ing a 𝅗𝅥. pulse that aligns with the notated barlines and clearly projects the
movement’s 43 meter signature. D♭ arrives a beat early, clearing space for the
dominant arrival on the hypermetrically strong downbeat of measure 5.
Since the bass descends in triple octaves, the pianist’s hands are free to
occupy the upper register only on the complementary “weak” beats. This cre-
ates a registral alternation that suggests the oom-pah-pah profile of a waltz.
Yet this comparison hardly seems appropriate, for the music is more aggres-
sive than lilting. The upper voice vaults progressively upward, covering almost
two octaves from initial a♭2 to terminal f4.9 Contributing to the gnarly effect
is the dissonant relationship between proximate tones in the melody: G♭, for
example, forms a dissonant seventh, uncushioned by stepwise resolution, with
both a♭2 and f4. Focused on the upper register, our ear has difficulty fusing
successive tones into prolonged harmonies. In contrast to the bass, the upper
voice challenges us to continually reorient our tonal position.
Inherent in the oom-pah-pah of a waltz is the projection of a mild agogic
counter-accent on the third beat of each measure. Three factors intensify this
upbeat counter-accent in the opening three measures of opus 5. New melodic
tones arrive on beat 3, as the target of vaults initiated from beat 2. Each vault is
prepared by a thirty-second-note anacrustic figure that throws accentual weight
toward beat 3, where new harmonies arrive. Bass notes on downbeats repercuss
harmonies already present. The accumulation of these three factors causes
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182 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.2a. Piano Sonata, op. 5, opening measures, with durational intervals
(unit = 𝅘𝅥)
the notated beat 3 to compete with beat 1, as a candidate for the perceived
downbeat.
This competition, however, is quickly concluded. The bass C at measure 5
initiates a new harmony on the notated downbeat for the first time since mea-
sure 1. Both registers sound together for the first time, at their extremes from
the center. (This “togetherness” is notional rather than literal, due to the grace
notes that precede the eight-voice chord in the upper register.) In measures 5
and 6 and beyond, the perceived downbeat is normalized to the notated one.
At this point, there is considerable motivation to relinquish the provisional
contra-metric hearing, and retrospectively normalize the phrase to the notated
barlines and the descending bass.
Yet a second possibility arises. If we have latched onto the upper voice
accents and the harmonic changes as the primary determinants of metric
induction, then we have motivation to hear the final four beats preceding the
dominant arrival as an acceleration. If we invest accentual energy in b♭3 at the
end of measure 3, then we are likely to invest an analogous energy in f4 two
beats later. Conditioned to hear the bass notes as echoes of harmonies already
present, we hear the bass D and D♭ in measure 4 as completions of major
and minor subdominants initiated a beat earlier. Accordingly, the final four
beats of the twelve-beat span are heard as a bisection, momentarily project-
ing a 𝅗𝅥 pulse and accelerating the 𝅗𝅥. pulse of the preceding measures. Heard
now across the entire twelve-beat span, and focusing on harmonic changes and
high-register accents, what is suggested is an irregular division, 2 + 3 + 3 + 2 + 2,
as indicated in example 6.2a.
In this respect, the opening of this early piano sonata bears a strong affinity
with that of the Sonata in F Major for Cello and Piano, op. 99, which Brahms
composed thirty-three years later, in 1886. Like its predecessor, the cello sonata
begins with a twelve-beat phrase that leads to a prolonged dominant. The bass
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Example 6.2b. Cello Sonata, op. 99, opening measures, with durational intervals
is normalized to the 43 meter signature, with new pitches on beats 1 and 3 of

each measure. But melodic initiations, energized by sixteenth-note anacruses,
occur on third beats, supported by new harmonies that carry across the bar-
line. As in opus 5, melodic and harmonic rhythm accelerate at the end of the
phrase, replacing the 𝅗𝅥. pulse with a 𝅗𝅥 pulse, so that the dominant arrival is posi-
tioned at the hypermetrically strong fifth downbeat.10 The cello sonata thus
also can be heard to begin with an irregular 2 + 3 + 3 + 2 + 2 division, as indi-
cated in example 6.2b. In a detailed analysis, Samuel Ng shows that this man-
ner of irregularly dividing twelve beats serves as a metric motif that structures
thematic materials throughout the movement.11
Ng derives the example 6.2 template by means of what he terms an expanded
hemiolic cycle. In this instance, the cycle is composed of a six-beat span, hemioli-
cally divided into three 𝅗𝅥 spans, and the engine of expansion is another six-beat
span, normatively divided into two 𝅗𝅥. spans. The template is generated by open-
ing up the hemiolic 𝅗𝅥 𝅗𝅥 𝅗𝅥 division at one of its two internal junctures, in this case
the initial one. The initial 𝅗𝅥 span is thereby separated from its 𝅗𝅥 𝅗𝅥 successors,
and the gap is filled by the normative 𝅗𝅥. 𝅗𝅥. division. The resulting template can
now be seen as consisting of three distinct stages: (1) a partial hemiola, (h)
suspended one-third of the way through; (2) a complete pair of 𝅗𝅥. spans (𝅗𝅥. 𝅗𝅥.)
normalized to the movement’s meter signature but not to its notated barlines;
and (3) the completion of the suspended hemiola (𝅗𝅥 𝅗𝅥).12
Ng’s analysis relies on two moves that might at first seem counter-intuitive.
When followed by a series of three-beat spans, a listener might interpret an ini-
tial two-beat span as an extended upbeat. That listener would only synthesize
Ng’s proposal in retrospect, having heard an accent on the downbeat of mea-
sure 5, subconsciously calculated its distance from prior events, and observed
that a twelve-beat span is more normative than the ten-beat span that would
be consistent with the initial hypothesis.13 A second complicating factor is that
a hemiola substitutes a series of 𝅗𝅥 pulses for a set of projected 𝅗𝅥. pulses; at the
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184 ❧ chapter six
beginning of a composition, there is no such projection for which to substitute.

In order to accommodate this complication, we need to entertain the possibil-
ity of a “pre-hemiola” that is understood to perturb a pulse that is projected
retrospectively, rather than in prospect as in the standard case. There is a body
of nineteenth-century music that begins in exactly this way, the prototype of
which is Schumann’s Third (“Rhenish”) Symphony of 1850.14
The expanded hemiola resembles the parentheses that arise in the writings
of the late eighteenth-century melodic theorist Heinrich Christoph Koch,
and that have emerged with some prominence among Schenkerian analysts.
In written language, a parenthesis is formed when a secondary utterance is
inserted inside a primary one. The reader suspends the primary utterance,
prolongs it in memory, and then reengages it, synthesizing its temporally sepa-
rated components. The coherence of the sentence depends on the coherence
of its primary utterance, which in turn requires that the sentence remain well
formed when the secondary utterance is excised.
Example 6.3a applies this conception to the opening of the cello sonata. The
primary segment (labelled A), sutures the initial two-beat tonic prolongation to
the first-inversion tonic chord on the third beat of measure 3. The secondary
one (labelled B), consists of the first six beats of the cello melody, with barlines
shifted one beat to the left. To derive the four measures of the cello sonata, open
the primary segment at the point of suture, introduce the secondary segment,
shift the barlines of the latter rightward by one beat, and otherwise adjust the
notation to accommodate that shift. Example 6.3b applies an analogous concep-
tion to our primary object of attention, the opening measures of the F-minor
Piano Sonata. Here the primary segment is formed by joining a two-beat tonic
prolongation to the four-beat subdominant one that directly precedes the hyper-
metrically strong dominant arrival, and the secondary segment consists of two
three-beat prolongations of diminished-seventh chords.
How can we tell whether the primary segments in example 6.3 are “well
formed?” In natural language, judgments of this nature are primarily secured
with reference to the langue, which exists prior to any specific utterance. Such
judgments are more fragile in music, as they rely in greater part on “contex-
tual” features specific to a composition. In its opening measures, a composi-
tion is in the process of constructing its context, and hence provides no prior
features to consult. It is only when the context has been fully constructed that
one may listen back to the opening measures and verify the well-formed status
of the structures that were initially hypothesized. The interpretation of a pas-
sage as an expanded hemiolic cycle gains in credence if there are associated
passages of music in which the primary segment appears intact, with parenthe-
sis excised and components sutured together into a single continuity.
The first movement of opus 5 contains two such passages, both rhetori-
cally marked: they involve fortissimo presentations of the principal theme after
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Example 6.3a. Cello Sonata, op. 99, opening measures, generative model
Example 6.3b. Piano Sonata, op. 5, opening measures, generative model
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186 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.4. Piano Sonata, op. 5, retransition (mm. 119–23)
extended ruminations at a quieter dynamic level. Example 6.4 presents the first
passage, which occurs near the end of the development: a pair of two-measure
hypermeasures, each of which moves through a tonic-predominant-dominant
harmonic cycle, generating a 𝅗𝅥 pulse that cuts against the indicated 𝅗𝅥. pulse.15
The upper-register predominant chord at beat 3 of each hypermeasure, pre-
ceding its bass note on the following beat, creates a particularly strong affinity
with the hypothesized model at example 6.3b.
The same music reappears at the beginning of the coda, transposed to the
tonic major. Example 6.5 partitions the final nineteen measures into ten two-
measure hypermeasures, one of which Brahms notates as a single 46 measure.
The first two hypermeasures project half-note spans, as at example 6.4. That
pulse is carried by inertia into the beginning of the subsequent, otherwise met-
rically neutral, hypermeasure, initiating a third hemiolic hypermeasure that is
extended into the most ambitious hemiolic expansion of the movement.16 The
expansion is triggered by the subdominant triad on the second beat of mea-
sure 205, which (as observed earlier) discharges tonal tension that has been
building since the second half of the reprise.17 That subdominant is prolonged
for two hypermeasures, through a series of 𝅗𝅥. spans normalized to the meter
signature but displaced from the barline, before the hemiolic cycle initiated at
204 is brought to completion at the downbeat of measure 210.
The 𝅗𝅥 spans are continued for three further hypermeasures, the final one
of which is notated as a single 46 measure. This measure 214, which initiates the
final cadential phrase, recasts the metrically neutral quaver stream of measure
204 in augmentation. Following Krebs, who interprets this measure as a “finely
sculpted ‘modulatory’ measure,”18 I have assigned it a pivot function. As the
final of six hemiola “hypermeasures,” it projects the 𝅗𝅥 spans of its predecessors
by inertia. As the initiator of the movement’s final phrase, it initiates a new 𝅗𝅥.
pulse, finally recuperated, or normalized to the barline, for the first and only
time in the coda.
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Example 6.5. Piano Sonata, op. 5, coda (mm. 200–218)

hemiola 1 hemiola 2
T S D T S D
hemiola 3
1 2
parenthesis: normalized 3/4, displaced
Examples 6.4 and 6.5 present strong evidence for the autonomous status of
the music that was hypothesized to bear “primary status” in example 6.3b, and
hence for interpreting the opening four measures of the movement in terms
of a hemiolic cycle expanded by parenthetical insertion. It may be tempting at
this point to make a stronger claim: that the generative prototype of example
6.3 is in some sense definitive, that the opening four measures of opus 5 are
“nothing but” an expanded hemiola. But that would be incautious, for Brahms
complicates matters in the passages to which we now turn.
Example 6.6 presents the counter-statement (mm. 17–26), which returns to
the principal theme after a ten-measure contrasting episode in C minor. The
vaulting soprano is transferred down two octaves into the tenor register, free-
ing the right hand to enter into a rough inversional canon at one beat’s delay.
(The canon is true to rhythm and contour, but to neither chromatic nor dia-
tonic interval.) One result of this alteration is that the third-beat counter-accent
is partly neutralized: the vaulting figure is no longer registrally prominent, and
beat 3 is no longer uniquely prepared by anacruses. The only remaining factor
that supports a rhythmically abnormal hearing is the harmonic rhythm, which
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188 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.6. Piano Sonata, op. 5, counter-statement of principal theme (mm. 17–21)
initially replicates that of the opening measures. Even here, though, a subtle
change tips the scale in a telling way: at measure 20, the major subdominant is
extended by an extra beat. The result is that the harmonic rhythm is converted
from an expanded hemiola cycle [2 (3 3) 2 2] to a simpler contra-metric struc-
ture: an extended instance of displacement [2 (3 3 3) 1].
Example 6.7 gives the principal theme as it is next presented, at the open-
ing of the development (mm. 75–78). Brahms restores the melody to the
upper register, and withdraws the imitative voice with its competing ana-
cruses. Nonetheless, this version is even more normalized to the notated
downbeats than the counter-statement at example 6.6, because the points of
harmonic change are shifted to the notated downbeats. The harmony is also
metrically normalized at the reprise (mm. 131–34), where the vaulting theme
is withheld altogether, and anacrustic rhythms proliferate, eventually attach-
ing to every beat.
Table 6.1 summarizes the treatment of the principal theme across the entire
movement, with respect to those properties that most determine its metric
interpretation. The nine presentations of the theme are referenced along
the top row, by initial measure number. What unifies these presentations, and
defines them as a thematic class, is their incorporation of anacrustic thirty-
second-note figures that fill a diatonic third.19 Although anacrustic figures are
continuously present from measure 119 to measure 143, the table sub-divides
this segment in order to account for subtle changes distributed across it. Listed
at the heads of the rows are six features that contribute to the interpretation
of the principal theme as an expanded hemiola. The first four features pertain
specifically to activity on the third beat of the initial measure of the thematic
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Example 6.7. Piano Sonata, op. 5, beginning of development (mm. 75–78)
presentation. In cases where those same features are replicated at analo-

gous positions in subsequent measures, the table cites only the first mea-
sure of the series.
• The first feature is present if the anacrusis precedes a melodic leap

upward on the third beat (of the initial measure).
• The second feature, a sub-class of the first, is present if the anacrusis/
leap combination is in the highest register.
• The third feature is present if the anacrustic weight thrown onto the
third beat (of the initial measure) is not matched by comparable weight
on directly adjacent beats.
• The fourth feature is present if the harmony changes on the third beat
(of the initial measure), but not on directly adjacent beats.
• The fifth feature is present if the harmony changes at the eleventh
(penultimate) beat in the twelve-beat segment.
• The final feature indicates the absence of a chromatically descending
bass, whose presence would constitute a strong motivation to hear the
theme as metrically normalized.
The most striking aspect of this table is that no two presentations are iden-
tical. Brahms evidently took a combinatorial attitude to the bundle of fea-
tures that together constitute the principal theme of this movement. One can
imagine him, anachronistically, sitting at a board with six switches, each of
which controls a light that shines on some aspect of the principal theme. If
all switches are in off position, we hear the theme as metrically normalized, by
default. As the switches are turned on, one by one, the meter becomes increas-
ingly deformed, and we become progressively aware of the potential for the
theme to be heard in terms of an expanded hemiola cycle. Surveying the 26 =
64 possible combinations, Brahms rebalances the scales, tipping the interpre-
tation in one direction or the other. These are the tools of his alchemical art.
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Murphy.indd 190
Table 6.1. Treatment of the principal theme across the Piano Sonata, op. 5
Exposition Development Recapitulation Coda
1 17 75 119 123 127 131 138 200
Vaulting figure on beat 3 × × × × × × × ×
Vaulting figure in highest register × × × × ×
Anacrusis unique to beat 3 × × × × ×
New harmony unique to beat 3 × × × × ×
New harmony two beats from end × × ×
No chromatic descending bass × × × ×
5/17/2018 1:54:07 AM
The C-minor Theme
The C-minor period that separates the first two presentations of the principal
theme, at measures 7–16, is also metrically malleable, and the script to which
it is subject is analogous.20 But only to some degree: because this theme is
less frequently present on the surface of the movement, its potentials are not
exploited to the same extent as the F-minor principal theme. Moreover, as we
shall see, to the degree that they are worked out at all, the approach to them is
fragmentary, indirect, and elliptical. They are nonetheless worth pursuing, as
they enrich our understanding of Brahms’s metric craft at age twenty.
The period consists of two five-measure phrases, the first of which is pre-
sented at example 6.8. Each phrase can be heard as a sentence, with a two-
measure presentation, a two-measure continuation, and a cadential measure.
The entire period is accompanied by a funeral-march ostinato in the left hand,
whose alternation of triple-stroke beat divisions and sustained beat-spans cre-
ates a half-note pulse that cuts against both the three-beat measures and the
fifteen-beat phrases. The entire ten-measure unit thus manifests a 15:2 group-
ing dissonance: two fifteen-beat phrases in the right hand, and fifteen two-beat
ostinato cycles in the left. This hemiolic ostinato pulse undermines the paral-
lelism of the first two measures, and in so doing, throws the sentential reading
into doubt. In the theme’s initial measure (m. 7), the two registral streams
present complementary divisions of the spans that separate adjacent beats: left-
hand triple divisions after beats 1 and 3, and a right-hand duple division after
beat 2. In the second measure (m. 8), the streams come into partial alignment:
the chords struck on beats 1 and 3 sustain in both hands, while mid-measure
features the gentle rubbing of a sub-tactus 3:2 dissonance. The two streams
remain aligned in the theme’s third measure (m. 9), although here it is the
first and last beat-spans that are assigned the sub-tactus rubbing, and mid-mea-
sure that sustains the attack on beat 2. The fourth measure (m. 10) reengages
the complementarity of the first measure, but again with assignments reversed:
it is the first and third beat-spans that feature the duple division in the right
hand, while the mid-measure bears the ostinato triple stroke.
Example 6.9 summarizes the rhythmic profile of measures 7–10, partitioning
its twelve beats into three groups. A circle indicates the division by one hand, a
rectangle indicates simultaneous division and 3:2 rubbing, and a double-headed
arrow indicates that both hands sustain their initial attack. This information is
replicated beneath the score, indicating that the beat-span is divided by left (L),
right (R), both (LR), or neither (ø) hand.21 The horizontal alignment of these
symbols suggests a parenthetical structure: a six-beat primary process, alternat-
ing L and R, is placed into suspension; a six-beat secondary segment, alternating
LR and ø is inserted; the primary six-beat process is completed; and the domi-
nant arrives at the thirteenth beat, which is the fifth notated downbeat.
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192 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.8. Piano Sonata, op. 5, C-minor theme (mm. 7–11), analyzed as
a sentence
Example 6.9. Piano Sonata, op. 5, durational patterns in C-minor theme
That description also applies to the opening measures of the movement,

but with a significant difference. Here, I shall argue, the normative (3 3) divi-
sion takes the role of primary segment, into which the parenthesis is inserted,
and the hemiolic (2 2 2) division is the secondary segment, the parenthesis
inserted into the juncture between primary-segment attacks. This reverses the
roles in the opening four measures, where the hemiolic (2 2 2) segment held
the primary position, and the normative (3 3) one served as the parenthesis.
The hypothesized metric structure of measures 7–10 has a precedent in
early eighteenth-century music, where hemiolas frequently begin on the weak
second downbeat of a four-measure hypermeasure, in anticipation of a caden-
tial tonic that arrives on its fourth downbeat.22 The point of hemiolic initiation
confers an accent that contradicts that downbeat’s notionally weak status with
respect to the hypermeter. Conversely, the hemiola suppresses the projected
attack on the notionally strong downbeat of the third measure, or withholds
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Example 6.10. Piano Sonata, op. 5, C-minor theme, generative model
it entirely. The energy initiating from the hypermetric downbeat is held open
through the hemiola, and receives its terminating complement only when the
cadential tonic arrives.
Example 6.10 presents a generative model of the C-minor subsidiary
theme. The conjectured two-measure hemiolic segment is removed, and the
initial measure of the phrase is sutured directly to its fourth measure. As in
example 6.3b, which bore an analogous relationship to the F-minor primary
theme, we will want to assess the plausibility of this generative scheme by
asking whether the primary segment is well-formed on its own, without the
interpolated secondary span. One factor in support of this conjecture is its
internal motivic parallelism: the long tones, circled in the score, expand the
section’s head motif. But example 6.10 also contains two features that com-
plicate the interpretation. First, the primary segment has an extra third mea-
sure, which has consequences whose exploration I defer for the moment.
Second, although measures 7 and 10 project normative triple meter in the
score, when juxtaposed in the generative model they form a two-measure
segment that projects a hemiolic half-note beat. This suggests that the two-
measure spans from which the four-measure phrase is assembled consist not
of one hemiolic and one normative division, as in the principal theme, but
rather two hemiolic divisions. Moreover, the spans are not fitted together by
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194 ❧ chapter six
inserting the secondary segment at an attack-juncture that is already present

in the primary one. Rather, the primary segment must be “cracked open” at
the center-point of its internal half-note span, in order to create a space into
which the secondary segment is inserted. Whereas the F-minor theme can be
erected out of the box by an amateur at home, the C-minor theme requires
intervention of a musical carpenter.
In order to guide our exploration of this anomaly, example 6.11a provides
an underlying scheme for the analysis of the opening F-minor theme that was
offered at example 6.3b. The primary segment is a hemiolic six-span, into
whose initial gap is inserted a normative six-span. Example 6.11b presents an
analogous scheme for the C-minor theme. Here the insertion space is created
by breaking open an integral 𝅗𝅥 span, separating its initial 𝅘𝅥 span from its final
one. Since metric units cannot remain isolated,23 the orphaned 𝅘𝅥 spans attach
by default to the 𝅗𝅥 spans that flank them, as at example 6.11c. Accordingly,
those spans are augmented, converting from 𝅗𝅥 to 𝅗𝅥. segments, as indicated
through the normalized notation at example 6.11d. The interpolation “mends”
or “cures” the two-measure hemiola, causing it to default to a normalized triple
meter. It is in this cured form that the C-minor theme is susceptible to inter-
pretation as a hypermetrically displaced hemiola, along the lines that Willner
has recognized in Baroque music.
“Cracked and mended hemiolas” have the aura of mythical beasts, and their
status in this Brahms composition is equivocal at best. In order to persuade
skeptical readers to reserve a position for them in the bouquet of hemiolic
varietals, I turn briefly away from the Brahms sonata for a brief examination
of the opening section of Dvořák’s Slavonic Dance, op. 46 no. 1. Its principal
theme, presented at example 6.12a without accompaniment, is metrically mal-
leable. Its initial presentation, at measures 2–17 of the Dance, is accompanied
by cymbal whacks at two-beat intervals, conditioning an unmistakably hemiolic
interpretation with respect to its notation. A later presentation, at measures
57–64, presents the same theme as a waltz, accompanied by oom-pah-pah cello,
and triangle attacks on each downbeat. What is of particular interest here is
the way that Dvořák primes the transformation between two radically differ-
ent, equally convincing hearings of the same theme: each six-beat unit is seg-
mented into two autonomous three-beat segments and cycled independently
of one another.
Example 6.12b presents the music that immediately follows the initial pre-
sentation of the theme. The cycling of the rhythmic pattern for the first three
beats persuades us to attach beat 3 backward as an unaccented extension of
the previous tone, whereas we had previously been inclined to attach it for-
ward as the accented onset of an upper-neighbor figure. Example 6.12c pres-
ents music that directly precedes the reprise of the principal theme. Here the
cycled rhythmic pattern is that of the theme’s second measure, whose initial
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Example 6.11. Parenthetical model for F-minor theme (a) and C-minor theme (b–d)
Example 6.12a. Dvorak, Slavonic Dance, op. 46, no. 1, mm. 2–9
Example 6.12b. Dvorak, Slavonic Dance, op. 46, no. 1, mm. 18–21
attack had been attached backward as an unaccented upper neighbor when

the theme was first presented. The cycling causes the same beat to attach for-
ward, as an accented appoggiatura.24 When the theme returns as a waltz, we
recognize that the third beat of the theme, which had previously been heard
as the accented onset of a neighbor figure, had potential to be heard as the
unaccented echo of the G on the previous beat, in parallel with the unstruck
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196 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.12c. Dvorak, Slavonic Dance, op. 46, no. 1, mm. 39–43
extension of the same tone in the following measure. Similarly, the fourth beat
accrues an accent of registral zenith and melodic change that was latent when
the same tone was initially heard as an unaccented neighbor.
These comments on the Slavonic Dance are meant to suggest that example
6.10 is plausible and worth entertaining, not that it is necessary or correct. We
still have to confront the second anomaly by reintegrating the C-minor theme’s
extra fifth measure, which is the extra third measure of the primary segment
conjectured in example 6.10. This cadential measure has a three-beat exten-
sion, and thus it denies the hemiolic pulse projected by the previous measures
in the model. The attachment of the six-beat hemiola to a three-beat span pro-
duces a non-isochronous 2 + 2 + 2 + 3 division. Such asymmetrical divisions of
a nine-beat span are well formed, even normative, in various musics of south-
eastern Europe, but can they be regarded as such in the musical traditions in
which Brahms participates? They are not unheard of in the west. Lully used
them in his 1670 ballet Le bourgeois gentilhomme as a marker of Turkish style.25
The insertion of a six-beat hemiola into a nine-beat span, what we might call
a “Balkan hemiola,” occurs prominently at the opening of the minuet from
Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G Minor, K. 550, without other topical indicators
of Orientialism.26 Brahms cultivated them frequently. They occur as marked
moments in his first two piano sonatas,27 and thematically in his String Quartet
in A Minor, op. 51, no. 2 (fourth movement) and String Quintet in G Major,
op. 111 (first movement). Yet it is difficult to make the case that “Balkan hemi-
olas” are ever stylistically normative in the West, where even a century later
they were heralded as a marvelous innovation in Dave Brubeck’s “Blue Rondo
à la Turk.” A case for establishing their well-formation in a particular composi-
tion would need to rely on emerging motivic considerations unique to it.
As noted earlier, the C-minor theme plays a far more attenuated role in the
movement than its predecessor. After its initial presentation at measures 7–16,
it only appears once again, near the beginning of the development, in C-sharp
minor, where it is varied in some particulars that do not affect metric interpre-
tation. More pertinent to our inquiry is the transition, where a fragment of the
C-minor theme is broken off, and presented in isolation. That theme, given
at example 6.13, consists of two parallel eight-measure phrases ending in half
cadences. The fore-phrase is evidently a sentence whose first two continuation
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measures (mm. 27–28) are extracted from measures 9 and 10, where they
served as measures 3 and 4 of the C-minor theme. Example 6.10 isolated those
two measures from each other: measure 9 was heard to complete the paren-
thetical hemiola, while measure 10 was heard to complete the six-beat primary
segment that the hemiola placed into suspension. The sentential hearing of
the transition reunites these two measures and evidently launches them from a
position of hypermetric strength.
Yet Brahms undoes the sentential status of this eight-measure unit, just as
he did the earlier five-measure one, by stretching a hemiola across the junc-
tion between its presentation and continuation. Far from metrically strong,
the downbeat of measure 27 is quite understated: while the left hand is tacit,
the right hand restrikes a chord (adding a sixth) sustained from the previous
downbeat, initiating an anacrusis that transfers accentual weight to the follow-
ing beat, which leaps up to g♭2. That anacrusis/leap combination parallels one
in the bass two beats earlier. It is this parallelism that most saliently suggests the
hemiola across the sentence’s mid-section, undercuts the unification of its fifth
and sixth measures, and by extension undercuts the prospective unity of the
C-minor theme’s third and fourth measures.
What is suggested but undone in the fore-phrase is consummated in the
after-phrase by three changes that retract the hemiola and convincingly unite
their fifth and sixth measures (and, by extension, the third and fourth mea-
sures of the C-minor theme): 1) Throughout the phrase, the octave leaps
in the left hand are delayed by a half-beat, so that the upward leap at the
phrase’s fourth measure no longer bisects the space between the preced-
ing downbeat and the subsequent melodic accent; 2) an octave hike at the
downbeat of the fifth measure, together with bass support, confers an accent
that was absent at the analogous position of the fore-phrase; 3) rather than
continuing to a cadence as in the fore-phrase, the final two measures of the
after-phrase repeat the previous two measures, liquidating into a high-regis-
ter ritardando, and reifying their status as a unity. Thus Brahms, in a subtle
and indirect way, tips the balance toward the metrically normalized hearing
of the C-minor theme.
In the development, he just as subtly and indirectly rebalances in the other
direction. The core of the development is dominated by an extended dream
fantasy in D-flat major, which immediately follows and liquidates the final
presentation of the C-minor theme (transposed to C-sharp minor). Example
6.14 presents the opening measures of that fantasy, which extends until the
climactic return of the principal theme in measure 119. These measures are
dominated by the sub-tactus displacement of the right hand, which occurs
nowhere else in the movement. This beat-displacement causes the music to
be drawn perpetually forward across its hypermetric and phrase boundaries,
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198 ❧ chapter six
Example 6.13. Piano Sonata, op. 5, transition (mm. 23–38)
Example 6.14. Piano Sonata, op. 5, developmental dream fantasy, opening mm.
(mm. 91–96)
accumulating significant momentum toward the climax at measure 119.28 This

seamless quality is particularly prominent in contrast to the sectionalized, stop-
and-start phrase rhythm of the exposition.29
The seamlessness is regulated by a series of melodic incipits that preserve
the rhythm and contour of the directly preceding presentation of the C-minor
theme. The periodic spacing of these incipits fashions the flow into three-mea-
sure hypermeter, which endures from measures 88–103. (A harmonic change
sustains the hypermeter at measure 100, where the incipit is absent.) The
melodic energy of the first two incipits dissipates at the subsequent downbeat
(mm. 92 and 95), where the projected melodic attack is delayed until the sec-
ond beat, converting the projected three-span into a two-span, and initiating a
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hemiola that is completed with the change of bass at the downbeat of the third
hypermeasure. According to this hearing, these three-measure hypermeasures
are irregularly divided 2 + 2 + 2 + 3. This is the Balkan hemiola structure to
which we referred earlier, bringing to the surface the rhythm of the example
6.10 model that was hypothesized to underlie the C-minor music initiated at
measure 7 of the movement. That rhythm is thereby reified as motivic to the
movement, lending support, if indirectly and abstractly, to the hearing of those
measures as parenthetically structured.
What Kind of Composer Was Brahms at Age Twenty?
In a wide-ranging and frequently cited assessment of metric techniques in

Brahms, Walter Frisch observes that indirect 3:2 grouping dissonance is perva-
sive in the finale of the op. 1 Piano Sonata, and calls attention to an expanded
hemiolic cycle in the Schumann Variations, op. 9.30 Frisch nonetheless cau-
tions that “passages like those from Opp. 1 and 9 remain relatively rare in
the early instrumental works. It is not really until the early 1860s . . . that the
composer begins to explore such ‘progressive’ techniques in a more system-
atic and thoroughgoing fashion.”31 Frisch’s judgment has been consolidated
into received wisdom in the Brahms literature, to the extent that it has been
repeated uncritically even by scholars whose analyses of Brahms’s music of the
1850s present a motivation to nuance it, if not challenge it altogether.32
The first sentence of Frisch’s cautionary claim is essentially a statistical mat-
ter, which Ryan McClelland paraphrases as “Brahms’s earliest works tend to be
relatively free from the metric dissonance that is characteristic of his mature
style.” The evidence that has accumulated since 1990 stands against this claim.
To Frisch’s observations about opp. 1 and 9, we can add Frank Samarotto’s
analysis of op. 2 in this volume, Yonatan Malin’s approach to the op. 3 songs,
Harald Krebs’s analysis of the op. 5 Sonata, and McClelland’s work with the
early F-A-E Scherzo, all of which indicate a central role for metric dissonance
in at least one movement.
The second sentence could be interpreted along similar lines, as a claim
about the “systematic and thoroughgoing” nature of Brahms’s developing
compositional habits. Yet, on its own, the sentence could also be interpreted
as applying to matters of depth rather than breadth: Brahms may introduce
metric dissonance into early works, but only as isolated “devices” that goose
up the music here and there; it is only in the later works that he explores the
potential of these elements to spread across an entire movement in a more sys-
tematic way. This interpretation is consistent with claims elsewhere in the same
article: that the piano quintet takes up “metrical procedures . . . on a much
more ambitious scale” than its predecessors, that in the Third Symphony the
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200 ❧ chapter six
technique is more refined, and that in the Vier ernste Gesänge Brahms “deploys
his characteristic devices with unprecedented fluidity.”33 This is ultimately a
more difficult claim to assess, since its scale of measurement is unstable. It
might pertain to statistical density of metric conflict, to the complexity of tech-
niques, to the rhetorically or formally nodal moments at which they occur, or
to their persistence or continuity within a given movement.
The analysis presented in this article presents a motivation to reassess this
claim about depth as well. In the hands of the young Brahms, hemiola is far
more than an inert device that can be applied here and there to a composition
in triple meter. It amounts to an entire field of varietal possibilities, through
which any number of paths can be pursued. On its own, in counterpoint with
harmonic fields, and in dialogue with the traditions of sonata form, these
hemiolic paths are worked deeply into the composition, from which depths
they are available for retrieval by the adventurous performer or the transfixed
listener. In positing matters in this way, I do not intend to imply that Brahms
laid out this field explicitly or systematically, nor that performers or listeners
must retrace those paths by bringing them to consciousness, much less to artic-
ulation in the form in which they are presented here. I merely want to suggest
that Brahm’s unarticulated sensibilities toward the possibilities of and relations
among hemiolic varietals were deeply ingrained and extraordinarily complex.
At the same time, I do not sense that they ever hijack his compositional tech-
nique, as, for example, his experiments with fugal and canonic writing some-
times can. From the beginning, Brahms’s technical command of the field of
hemiolic possibilities was balanced and integrated with his command of har-
mony and form.
Whence did the young Brahms acquire this craft? Frisch conjectures that
his acquaintance with the music of Handel and of earlier Renaissance masters
was instrumental in freeing up Brahms’s metric sensibilities. Certainly Brahms
took extraordinary inspiration from his extensive exposure to early music, and
many aspects of his later compositional technique can be traced directly or
indirectly to that source. Yet the evidence of the op. 5 Sonata suggests that his
metric mastery had a different origin, as there is no evidence that Brahms had
been exposed to pre-Classical music to any unusual degree before the summer
of 1854.34
Where else could Brahms have acquired the technical command of such a
rich field of possibilities? From Beethoven, whose music he knew from an early
age? From Schumann, whose music he only began to study early in 1853? From
Reményi, his first Hungarian musical companion at age seventeen, who might
have served as a vector of any number of musical traditions from lands to the
southeast of Hamburg? These are open questions that can only be answered by
researchers in possession of a full knowledge of an encyclopedia of hemiolic
varietals that is only now being assembled, and the sensibility to apply them to
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a variety of nineteenth-century repertories. It is also possible that the metric

techniques documented here, and the sensitivity to their fields of relation and
possibility, are to a large degree sui generis.
Whatever inspired the young Brahms to master hemiolic varietals and their
compositional deployment, it is likely that Robert Schumann’s early enthusi-
asm for his young colleague was in part prompted by his recognition of that
mastery, which Schumann was uniquely equipped to appreciate. Forty years
of concentrated research in music theory has resensitized music scholars and
critics to the compositional possibilities of meter, and furnished a model suf-
ficiently nuanced to track responses to those possibilities in all their breadth
and richness. Thus attuned, we are positioned to see in the young Brahms’s
best work an original aesthetic vision fully formed and expressed through
the metric malleability of his materials. This perspective, in turn, ought to
prompt a reconsideration of Edwardian aesthetic judgments, which we are
not compelled to accept by mere virtue of their orotund aura of authority. It
is probably too late to undo the label of “first maturity” in order to eliminate
the shadow it implicitly casts on the music of the 1850s. But perhaps we can
learn to ironize it, to understand it as a product of a historical moment whose
truths need not be ours.
Notes
1. James Webster, “Schubert’s Sonata Form and Brahms’s First Maturity (II),”
19th-Century Music 3, no. 1 (1979): 53; Walter Frisch, Brahms and the Principle
of Developing Variation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983); George
Bozarth, “Brahms, Johannes,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and
Musicians, 2nd ed. (London: MacMillan, 2000), 4:183.
2. Michael Musgrave, The Music of Brahms (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul,
1985), 9.
3. This observation leads to a different view of the piece than that of Frisch, who
criticized this movement in part because it fails to “integrate detail and whole”
(Developing Variation, 42).
4. Regarding the history of this term and its application to the music of
Brahms, see Brent Auerbach, “The Analytic Grundgestalt: A New Model and
Methodology based on the Music of Johannes Brahms” (PhD diss., Eastman
School of Music, University of Rochester, 2005), chapter 1; and Samuel Ng,
“A Grundgestalt Interpretation of Metric Dissonance in the Music of Johannes
Brahms” (PhD diss., Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester, 2005),
chapter 2.
5. Peter Smith, “Brahms and Schenker: A Mutual Response to Sonata Form,”
Music Theory Spectrum 16 (1994): 77–103, and Expressive Forms in Brahms’s
Instrumental Music: Structure and Meaning in his Werther Quartet (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2005), chapter 5.
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202 ❧ chapter six
6. Channan Willner, “Metrical Displacement and Metrically Dissonant Hemiolas,”

Journal of Music Theory 57, no. 1 (2013): 87–118; Samuel Ng, “The Hemiolic
Cycle and Metric Dissonance in the First Movement of Brahms’s Cello Sonata
in F major, Op. 99,” Theory and Practice 31 (2006): 65–95.
7. Peter Smith, “You Reap What You Sow: Some Instances of Rhythmic and
Harmonic Ambiguity in Brahms,” Music Theory Spectrum 28 (2006): 58, 95.
8. “Metric malleability” is a useful term introduced in Justin London, Hearing in
Time (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 15. In referring to “normaliza-
tion” here and elsewhere in this article, I mean to acknowledge my debt to the
writings of William Rothstein, particularly his “Rhythmic Displacement and
Rhythmic Normalization” in Trends in Schenkerian Theory, ed. Allen Cadwallader
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990), 87–113.
9. Brahms may have modeled these initial four measures after the Lebhaft:
Marschmässig movement from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 101, where a chro-
matic descent from F down to C is accompanied by a vaulting upper-voice that
positions a1, d2, g♭2, and b♭2 on successive downbeats.
10. Unlike its predecessor, the Cello Sonata prolongs the asynchrony of melody
and accompaniment beyond the downbeat of measure 5, through a series of
consequent phrases that disunite cello and piano attacks throughout the expo-
sition. Indeed, it is only at measure 48 that the two instruments first synchro-
nize attacks.
11. See Ng, “The Hemiolic Cycle.” Many of these aspects of the Cello Sonata were
initially brought to my attention by Carmel Raz, in a seminar paper given at
the University of Chicago in 2005.
12. Ruth Deford indicates an earlier origin in the fifteenth-century conception
of syncopation, which “applies to complete time units that are interrupted by
other complete time units on the same mensural level.” Tinctoris, for example,
defines syncopation as “the division of any note into parts by an interposed
larger [note].” It is only in the sixteenth century that syncopation affiliated
with the modern idea of displacement. See Ruth Deford, Tactus: Mensuration
and Rhythm in Renaissance Music (Cambridge University Press, 2015), 42–43.
13. Such an evidently complicated calculation might seem beyond the capacities
of the listening ear, yet it is consistent with what is understood about our pro-
cesses of metric induction. See Danuta Mirka, Metric Manipulations in Mozart
and Haydn (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 20.
14. See also the openings of the Scherzo to Schubert’s Piano Sonata D. 850,
Brahms’s Symphony no. 3, and of several Dvořák movements in Furiant style,
including the first Slavonic Dance of opus 46, and the third movement of
his Symphony no. 6. These pre-hemiolas are extensions of the Baroque
Anfangshemiole, as discussed in Wilhelm Gloede, “Schlusshemiole und
‘Anfangshemiolen’ bei Handel,” Göttinger Handel Beiträge 14 (2012): 215–28, to
which Channan Willner helpfully drew my attention.
15. Krebs, Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 221.
16. It is also plausible to interpret the agogic accent on the downbeat of measure
205 as back-propagating a 𝅗𝅥. pulse from the previous downbeat. Yet Brahms,
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who liberally allocates accents to every attack in m. 204, withholds one at the
downbeat of m. 205, suggesting that he wishes the performer to neutralize
the accent that it would ordinarily accrue by virtue of its notated downbeat
position.
17. Thus an instance of “unfinished business” characteristic of the nineteenth-cen-
tury sonata-form coda: see Edward T. Cone, “Schubert’s Unfinished Business,”
19th-Century Music 7 (1984): 222–32.
18. Krebs, 224.
19. The table thus does not reference measure 23 and similar passages, where
anacrustic third-fills are presented as sixteenth-notes, not thirty-second-notes.
These figures are clearly derived from those in the principal theme, but when
presented in these slower values, they are always attached to transitional or
S-theme material.
20. The principal theme of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in F minor, op. 2, no. 1, like-
wise ends on C major and turns directly to C minor.
21. Because the two-beat ostinato dissonates against the fifteen-beat theme, the
details of the consequent phrase are different, but the take-away point remains
the same: the both/neither alternation occurs in measures 1 and 4, and the
left/right combination in the inserted measures.
22. Willner, “Metrical Displacement,” 93ff.
23. Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983), 69.
24. A fuller analysis of this music would note that the motivic circulation in the
music of examples 6.12b–c creates agogic accents, in the latter case supple-
mented by accents of tonal stability, that exert pressure to displace the heard
downbeat to the notated beat 2. This complicating factor exists independently
of the mending process that I wish to foreground here.
25. Gloede, “Schlusshemiole und ‘Anfangshemiolen’ bei Handel,” 218.
26. Richard Cohn, “Metric and Hypermetric Dissonance in the Menuetto of
Mozart’s Symphony in G Minor, K. 550,” Intégral 6 (1992): 15.
27. In the opus 1 finale, the Balkan hemiolas are fitted within a series of 89 mea-
sures (e.g., mm. 103–4). In first movement of opus 2, the pattern is stretched
across a series of three-measure hypermeasures (170–79).
28. On the association of sub-tactus displacement and Romantic Sehnsucht, see
Yonatan Malin, “Metric Displacement, Dissonance and Romantic Longing in
the German Lied,” Music Analysis 25, no. 3 (2006): 251–88.
29. Walter Frisch calls attention to this sectional quality, which he criticizes as the
deficiency of a composer who could do no better at this stage of his composi-
tional development (Developing Variation, 37). Frisch also notes that the D-flat
major music is noteworthy for its position in the arc of the entire sonata,
although that position can only be realized in retrospect: it reappears three
times in the Andante movement, including in its rhapsodic concluding seg-
ment (ibid., 50).
30. Walter Frisch, “The Shifting Bar Line: Metrical Displacement in Brahms,” in
Brahms Studies, ed. George Bozarth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 139–63.
Much of the material from the article is also present in his Developing Variation,
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204 ❧ chapter six
87–95. My account of Frisch’s observations is updated to conform to termino-

logical conventions that consolidated more recently.
31. Frisch, “The Shifting Bar Line,” 142–43.
32. Krebs, Fantasy Pieces, 220; Ryan McClelland, Brahms and the Scherzo (Burlington,
VT: Ashgate, 2010), 27–28.
33. Frisch, “The Shifting Bar Line,” 144, 159, 160.
34. Styra Avins, Johannes Brahms: Life and Letters (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1997), 38.
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Part Four
Shifting Perspectives
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Chapter Seven
Containment and Wave

Temporal Experiment in Brahms’s Opus 2
Frank Samarotto
Brahms’s Piano Sonata in F-sharp Minor—his opus 2, but composed before

opus 1—begins with a splash (see ex. 7.1). A splattering arpeggio ripples
up the keyboard; its force (Brahms marks it energico) rebounds into rising
melodic octaves whose surge is abruptly halted, as if hitting a wall. Another
splash and another surge brings another lurching slap against that wall—
and this time an even greater swell rises up, slowly gathering force, hitting its
registral peak and cascading downward to crash against the rock of the open-
ing arpeggio once more.
More technically: the opening tonic chord secures the downbeat, the
upward arpeggiando providing the hint of an upbeat to the staccato-wedged top
note. There follow rising thirds in octaves, but those thirds cut across notated
beats; the meter remains unclear until the sudden accent on beat 3. Thus only
beats one and three are clearly articulated; in between is only energetic for-
ward impulse. The second measure sequentially repeats the first but on III,
initiating an apparent sentence structure. The third leg of that sentence, on V,
is cast differently: above a tremolando bass, agitated two-note figures rise higher
and higher. The continuous motion has now fully obscured the beat level: we
hear only forward impulse, nearly ametrically. The peak D (an implied ninth
above the still-assumed dominant seventh) resumes the octave doublings and
gives weight to a notated downbeat (m. 7), but the chromatic cascade down-
ward moves relentlessly past any metric markers. Only at the poco ritardando is
there a containment of this motion (both in the marking and in the slowing
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208 ❧ chapter seven
Example 7.1. Piano Sonata, op. 2, mm. 1–15

Allegro non troppo ma energico.
{ { {
{ { { { {
D
D
D { { { { DDD
{
DD
DDDD DDD
D ( O
D
DDDD { DDDD { { { M
D
DDDD
{ {
{ { { DD
DD { { {

Æ Æ
Æ
4

cresc.
Æ Æ Æ
Æ Æ Æ
Æ Æ Æ
{ { {
7 {
{ K { { @ { { { K { { { @ { { K { { { { K { { { { DDD { { { { {
K @ K K @ K K DD
K
{ poco rit.

{ K { { @ { { K
K @ K K @ K K
K DDD
¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ @ ¦ ¦ ¦ K ¦ ¦ K ¦ ¦ DD
¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦
¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦
10
O 3 3 3

{ {

( ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦
¦¦

¦¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦rit. ¦ ¦
{ { { ¦ ¦ {G {G 3
{ { { { { { { { {
pesante
{ { { { { { ÆÆ
0 ± ± ± ±
( ¦ ¦ ¦ ÆÆ
3 3 3 ¦ ¦ ¦ ( (
q ¦ ¦ R
of downward motion by alternating the chromatic steps and the repeated C♯s;
see measure 8), suggesting a half cadence might be at hand. Too late: the for-
ward impulse cannot be curtailed and the phrase overflows into its repetition
(m. 9), creating an elision. Its energy is contained only by the return of the
opening’s articulated downbeat; the counterstatement manages a stop on V
only through a lurching (written-out) decelerando (see ex. 7.1 above).
These two passes through this powerful opening sharpen our awareness of
how music moves through time, and the metaphors we find useful to describe
that awareness.1 This passage vividly enacts a contrast between two aspects of
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containment and wave ❧ 209
musical time, a contrast that I will argue is fundamental to musical experience.

The first aspect I will call containment; this concretizes a metaphor underly-
ing most conventional conceptions of meter: that meter begins with precisely
demarcated points in time that contain and measure (usually) equal divisions
of time.2 Containment is essential to coordinating and clarifying musical mate-
rial: counterpoint and clear harmonic progression would be impossible with-
out defined temporal segments.3 However, by its very nature containment is
inert; it says nothing about movement within its boundaries or about how one
traverses the boundary between one container and the next.
For this, a second aspect can be teased out: I use the term wave to encompass
the ubiquitous metaphor of musical motion, the sense of the fabric of music as
a continuous sweep of energetic motion. A wave is an accumulation of events,
be they rhythmic, tonal, or textural, by which we infer a directness of motion.
More properly it is what takes place between events, a moving toward becoming
a moving away, the impulse that binds discrete events into arcs of motion.4 Waves
are the antithesis of containers; they know no division but only reversal, forming
a peak, which may diminish in energy or begin to surge toward another wave.
(One may recognize a resonance with Hugo Riemann’s notion of Auftakt.5)
Wave and containment necessarily interact: the peak of a wave may coincide
with a metric container, while the beginning and ends of wave are by nature less
clearly defined.6 Musical time is shaped by the properties of both containment
and wave. Containment, whether of temporal units, tonal spaces or formal plans,
is grounded in actual sounding events; wave is a listener’s imagination of motion
filling, transcending, or overflowing those events.7
One more pass through Brahms’s splashy debut. The first measure strongly
foregrounds containment. The first and third beats act as firm anchors, enclos-
ing a tonic triad. The sense of containment is made acute by the reckless waves
of motion that threaten to burst that container; we attend to these waves as
pure motion because of their rapid attacks, their stepwise filled thirds, their
shifting metric placement cutting across the second beat. This measure enacts
a conflict of functions, its opening and closing attacks tightly containing a
wave of turbulent motion encased in tonic harmony.8 It announces an explicit
experiment in shaping the different functions inherent in musical time.
Function may not be strong enough a word. The distinction between con-
tainer and wave is more like that of matter and energy, at least as a metaphor.
Containment renders material a duration space between two articulated
boundaries; it enables us to compare these durations and perceive them as
equal (or not). Wave is energized activity moving through that material space,
or better perhaps, it is the energy we imagine to pass between notes.9 (This
also distinguishes these concepts from the traditional meter/rhythm divide.)
Obviously, these metaphors are basic to musical experience, but, as we have
seen, there are moments when they seem particularly foregrounded.10
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Returning to our score brings us another such foregrounded moment, this

time at a somewhat larger level. I have already described how the phrase seems
to expand from within, spilling over a possible half cadence to elide with the
next one. Phrases are containers, delimiting durational and tonal spaces, and
many factors can secure their boundaries.11 In this case the containing bound-
ary is insecure; the continuous wave of motion that starts to well up in measure
3 overwhelms the potential containing boundary, yielding only to the re-strik-
ing of the opening chords more forcefully than before. Here containment
gives way to the force of wave, again actualizing the potential conflict. (More
details of this passage will be shown later.) I will argue that the tension between
containment and wave can extend itself to even broader levels, perhaps even to
entire movements.
As I have said, I mean these metaphors to be fundamental to our experi-
ence of time (at least within this musical tradition). Without motion, there is
no music; without boundaries, that motion is meaningless.12 Brahms did not
need any special cues to find himself coming to grips with these elements while
composing; nonetheless, I am arguing that this first effort represents a particu-
larly explicit confrontation between container and wave. It may also be instruc-
tive to locate precedents for this duality, or rather for the recognition of wave
as an independent—and essential—element.13
❧ ❧ ❧
That first recognition seems to have arrived fully formed in the thought of
Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny (1762–1842). Almost a half-century before
Brahms published his opus 2, Momigny’s Cours complet d’harmonie et de composi-
tion14 introduced a novel model of musical motion.15 I say “musical” because
for Momigny tonal and rhythmic motions are inextricably linked (an assump-
tion that is equally foundational to my notions of containment and wave). His
most basic syntactical unit is the proposition musicale or cadence harmonique; sig-
nificantly, these terms are used interchangeably. Expressed tonally, this unit
comprises a dissonant (or conceptually dissonant) pitch or chord moving to
consonant one. (This much resounds clearly of Rameau.) The proposition musi-
cale also has a rhythmic profile: it invariably takes the form of a levé (an upbeat
or antecedent) leading to a frappé (a downbeat or consequent); if an upbeat is
lacking, it is because of an ellipsis. The rhythmic impulse from weak to strong
is the most basic syntactical unit of music, part of its natural language.16 This
rhythmic motion is so strong that it can override the notated meter; Momigny
distinguishes between meter for the eye (as written) and meter for the ear
(as heard).17 He construes the shape of the metric unit in a novel way: “The
real rhythmic unit is therefore not imprisoned: it should not be considered as
enclosed within two barlines, as it does not start with the downbeat and end
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with the upbeat. Rather it straddles the barline, with its first beat to the left and
its second to the right.”18
In this passage (and in many others), Momigny explicitly minimizes the tra-
ditional role of a metric unit as container, and thus opens the door to recast-
ing the metric unit as a wave. To be sure, there are differences: Momigny’s
metaphors are linguistic and logical, not physical, as mine are.19 Further, his
proposition/cadence is unidirectional and comprises a single phase of motion;
he says nothing about a continuation after the frappé. And, as seen above, he
rejects the notion of barline as container entirely, which, I would argue, omits
an essential aspect of temporal experience.20 Nonetheless, it will be useful to
examine one of his most telling analytical examples.
In the Cours, Momigny examines the opening of an Allegro by Handel,
and presents that passage in a variety of different ways.21 He first presents the
passage “as notated in the works of Handel”22 (see ex. 7.2a.) Momigny next
annotates the same passage to reveal the propositions, numbering them con-
secutively and grouping them into two verses (ex. 7.2b; the letter H stands
for hémistiche, a subdivision of a vers).23 The next stage (ex. 7.2c) is a genuine
reduction that reveals the logic of the rhythmic impulse: like the harmonic
cadence, the rhythmic cadence should proceed from a dissonant or unstable note
to a more stable. If this is not the case, an ellipsis must be assumed. Example
7.2d rewrites Handel’s music to remove the need for ellipses; the first G is
understood to come from an antecedent D, the second to come from its own
antecedent G, and so on.24 Examples 7.2e and 7.2f present two versions of a
further simplification that include only a single cadence per measure, presum-
ably rendering the underlying propositions in their most basic form.25
These examples seem to be Momigny’s only instance of a multi-leveled pre-
sentation, and they are suggestive. On the one hand I would not endorse the
requirement that every downbeat requires a preceding upbeat even when not
literally present. On the other hand I do find that Momigny’s analysis captures
well the sense of forward momentum coursing through Handel’s Allegro.26
Compare the Andante that precedes it in the suite: similar motivic material is
set in afterbeat phrasing rather similar to the slurring in Momigny’s reading
(see ex. 7.3a and compare ex. 7.2b.) Equally important is that Momigny’s units
of rhythmic motion have a tonal motivation, the impulse to move toward more
stable pitches. This is revealed most clearly in examples 7.2e and 7.2f; every
second note of the slurred pairs is a local tonal goal. This aspect of Momigny’s
approach was not one he was able to render at deeper hierarchical levels, but it
is one that we can pursue with more recent methodologies.
To engage Handel’s complete Allegro, two complementary approaches are
needed. First, a hypermetrical analysis: the Allegro falls easily into four-mea-
sure groups (even eight-measure groups are feasible). This is clear enough for
the first twenty-four measures that compose the first reprise and for the first
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Example 7.2. Momigny’s presentations of Handel, Suite in G Minor (HWV 432),
III: (a) the passage as notated; (b) the propositions revealed; (c) the passage
simplified
D +$1'(/
38
$OOHJURFRPPHLOHVWJUDYpGDQVOHVRHXYUHVGH+DQGHO
38
E $OOHJUR +
38

HU9HUV VLF
38
VLF

H9HUV
F /HPrPH$OOHJURVLPSOLILp
38

38

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Example 7.2. Momigny’s presentations of Handel, Suite in G Minor (HWV 432),
III: (d) the passage rewritten without ellipses; (e) the passage further simplified;
(f) an alternative to the previous simplification
G /HPrPHpFULWjGHX[WHPVHWVDQVHOOLSVHV
24

24

H /HPrPH$OOHJURpFULWDYHFXQHVHXOHFDGHQFHSDUPHVXUH
38

3
8
I

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Example 7.3. Handel, Suite in G Minor (HWV 432): (a) II, mm. 1–3; (b) III, mm.
45–54
D

E A

A

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Example 7.3. Handel, Suite in G Minor (HWV 432): (c) analysis of movement III
Murphy.indd 215

A A A A A A
F 11 UG
A WK OHDGV WK OHDGV

² ²
HWF ³
³³³
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9 , % 9 , 9 ,
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A A DUS A
11 UG
11
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,9 ,
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A A
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5/17/2018 1:58:37 AM
twenty-three (!) measures of the second reprise. However, measure 48 is

anomalous: it should have trailed off into the last measure of the prevailing
hypermeter, but the emphatic arrival at the high B♭ and the initiation of a new
sequential pattern bring about an elision, reinterpreting that fourth measure as
the first measure of a new group (see ex. 7.3b). The music preceding this rein-
terpretation takes on the character of a levé leading to a frappé. The hypermeter
is now offset by a measure, and a similar reset takes place a few measures later
at the re-arrival on the high B♭ (m. 53); note also the similarity in approach to
these highpoints. With these observations I mean to transfer Momigny’s propo-
sition musicale to the hypermetric level. I would suggest that the proposition can
operate at even larger formal levels, through shaping of tonal processes. This
can occur when focal moments in the hypermeter are implicated in the tonal
design as well, and this is the second aspect I will consider.
A voice-leading analysis of the entire Allegro is given in example 7.3c. Many
of the details follow very naturally from Momigny’s examples: the opening ris-
^ 27
ing third (mm. 1–2) leads, as a small Anstieg, to 3. Going beyond Momigny,
^
I infer that the opening rise to the goal 3 sets in motion a series of ascents to
highpoints. In retrospect, the 3^ in measure 2 seems like a weaker representa-
tive of the Kopfton, as it is superseded by the rise to 5^ and to 8^ (mm. 5 and 9
respectively). The higher B♭ is achieved in measure 18 but in a weaker har-
monic and hypermetric context. It falls to the second reprise, which begins
^ ^
with a focus on 5, to drive decisively toward 3, securely above tonic harmony;
it arrives in precisely that emphasized measure 48, and then again in measure
53. The Kopfton ultimately caps off the tonal container, and its delay naturally
creates impulse toward it as a goal. All that follows has the quality of dénoue-
ment, reversing the Allegro’s registral arc. The piece as a whole takes on the
character of an impulse toward a goal, a levé leading to a frappé.28
To summarize: meter and hypermeter act as a container, organizing the
surface design, while rhythmic figures may overlap the barlines. Tonal struc-
ture acts a container as well, providing boundaries and goals for more active
tonal motions within the global tonic enclosure. This may occur very locally,
as Momigny describes, but it may also happen at larger levels: in the Handel
example, the ascending trajectory of the upper voice is a wave motion shap-
ing a broad swath of the piece; the closure of the Urlinie finally contains it.
Thus, temporal and tonal structures, both small and large, may foreground
the aspect of stability, of containment, or of movement, of wave. I see, in prin-
ciple, no limit to the variety of interactions possible. This is what I mean by
Brahms’s temporal experiment in opus 2: in this sonata, the tension between
containment and wave is stretched, perhaps, to its limit. On the one hand, we
will find a synthesis of rhythmic and tonal elements, aligning wave-like and
container-like features. On the other hand, wave and container easily—indeed,
naturally—conflict with each other, and Brahms finds a myriad of ways to let
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these clash, sometimes quite extremely. The conflict plays itself out through-
out the first movement, and increasingly at larger levels in later movements of
the sonata, finally overwhelming containment in the extraordinarily open end-
ing of the final movement. To reenter our path through this sonata, I need to
touch base again with foundational concepts.
❧ ❧ ❧
Consonant intervals are like containers. As simultaneities they snap together to

form easily measurable spaces. They guide the motion of passing tones, absorb
neighbor notes back into themselves, attract suspensions back to consonance.
Dissonances (and conceptual dissonances) are like waves energizing these con-
sonant containers. These waves have definite points of origin and closure but
they still are in effect pure motion, motion between the points in musical space
that are specific pitches.
When bounded by the perfect fifth, the triad is the most ready container
of all.29 It is so ubiquitous that it might seem dubious to assign it a special role
in a particular piece. But consider again our Brahms sonata. The rising thirds
that crackle through the first measure are encased in the span of the F-sharp
minor triad, striking against the fifth and third of the chord. This constricted
motion achieves a measure of expansiveness by sequencing up a third from I to
III (m. 2), but quickly becomes fixed on a dominant pedal, in effect traversing
the tonic’s root and third, and halting on the boundary of its fifth. I would sub-
mit that this design starkly foregrounds a foundational building block of tonal
music—the triad as container of motion.
Then how do waves animate this container? Passing tones, to be sure, but
there is a more special feature, revealed when an agitated struggle ensues
to break free of the dominant pedal: a ninth is introduced, more and more
insistently and independently reiterated, until there is nothing but that ninth,
quadruple-octave Ds (m. 7), the fullest tension of an energetic pull against the
^
C-sharp container. This ninth, 6, is the first of a pair of half-step neighbor notes
that will surround scale degree five; B♯ will be introduced presently (see m.
16 and ex 7.4b). These neighbors are wave-like in that they are energetic, not
in the distance they traverse, but rather in the degree of tension they exert as
by half steps they pull against the solidity of the triad container.30 The motivic
neighbors, (flat) 6^ and (sharp) 4, ^
are elements that seek to deform the triad’s
perfect fifth. They provide a means of overcoming the boundaries of the con-
tainer, even to break through them.
To return once more to the opening of the sonata: example 7.4a is an
attempt to capture graphically the turbulence of this passage. In deference to
Momigny (and with a nod to Riemann), the first chord is prefixed by a small
arrow, energy ex nihilo. (Curved arrows will indicate waves; rectangular brackets
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Example 7.4a. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 1–15

D
ZDYHRYHUZKHOPVFRQWDLQPHQW
FRQWDLQPHQW YD
ZDYH HORQJDWLRQWREDUV

, ,,, 9 ZDYH SRWHQWLDO+&VSLOOVRYHUWR ,
FRQWDLQPHQW

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' &

ULWDUGDQGR
PHWHUGLVSODFHG HFKR HFKR
, 9, 9,, 9
+&
FRQWDLQPHQW ZDYH FRQWDLQPHQW

will mark containment.) The arpeggiando supports this, but perhaps only in
retrospect can one imagine an actual upbeat.31 As noted, the first measure is
treated as a container: the tenuto-like first and third beats enclose the parenthe-
sized waves of sixteenths. But the repetition of quadruple-octave As across the
barline provides a small energetic link, an attempt for levé to seek frappé. The
next measure repeats this with C♯, and that is the cue for the repeated C♯ in
measure 3 to set in motion agitated two-note figures. It is as if that incipient
link between measures sets off a surge of activity.32
And here the conflict becomes acute. The sentence-like formation (1 + 1)
of the first two measures calls forth a two-measure continuation (+2). But with
measure 3, the metric hold is loosened; nothing after the first beat allows one
to discern metric location within the measure. This is a stretching out of unde-
fined activity, pure wave cresting on the high D, which grates harshly against
Murphy.indd 218 5/17/2018 1:59:56 AM

Murphy.indd 219
Example 7.4b. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 16–30
E
K\SHU A A A A P
PHWHU UHSHDWV
EHORZ
A A
YE
FRQWDLQHU ZDYH FRQWDLQHU ZDYH FRQWDLQHU ZDYH VLPLOH

HWFGRPLQDQW
UK\WKP SHGDOZLWK
VLPLOH
H[SDQVLRQ
A A A
DVVXVS DVVXVS
A
WR
5/17/2018 2:00:33 AM
the now implicit root C♯. The container, F♯, A, C♯, has been laid out as sche-
matically as possible; the wave, 6^ as ninth above V, deforms the container, and,
as already noted, undermines a potential half cadence, causing the phrase to
collapse back on itself.
The counterstatement at measure 9 is less a repeat and more of a recovery
(see ex. 7.4a above). It is barely underway when the tie across measures 9–10
allows wave to loosen metric constraint; on cue, 6^ infiltrates again, this time
in the form of a VI harmony (understood as arising from 5–6 exchange from
I). However, like the aftermath of a wave, this VI quickly loses energy, feebly
repeating its latter rising third. It is somehow heavier than before (Brahms
marks it pesante) and it lurches back to its containing dominant.33
The moody bridge that follows (mm. 16–39; see ex. 7.4b) is a long slow
arc that rises out of the work’s lowest register. Its first low murmurings make
^ ^ ^
the triadic container explicit, doing little more than spelling out 1– 3–5 (mm.
16–17); even the eighth-note C♯ anticipation recalls the repeated notes across
the barline in measures 1–2 and 2–3. The two wave elements that seek to dis-
^
lodge this triad are laid bare as well: the B♯ delays 5, pushing it across the
^
barline; 6 again appears as a ninth above V, and in the corresponding metric
position, in the next measure. As before, 6^ asserts itself as its own harmony
(m. 21), this time incorporating the just-heard E♯ as its third, F♮. This D is
persistent: it remains suspended in the bass even as a recollection of the open-
ing gesture flutters (leggiero!) above it. The pace of events—seemingly slower
than Allegro—is set by the bass, and these sixteenth-note bursts seem enclosed
in its Moderato container. Gradually, it becomes clear that the bass is executing
^
a slow-motion turn around 5; C♯ rises to D (m.21), passes through C♯ (m. 24)
to B♯ (m. 28), which is maintained as part of V of C-sharp minor up until the
arrival of the second theme (m. 40). Thus, the bridge gives equal weight to the
F-sharp minor triad and to its half-step neighbors, as the latter do the work of
preparing the dominant key. It is an uneasy equilibrium.
Not so for the second theme. Here containment tightens, approaching the
quality of constriction, and wave struggles to achieve a breakthrough. It does
but only briefly; containment soon reinforces its grip. This is brought about by
structuring the second theme in a highly unusual, perhaps unique, tonal design.
The second theme begins in the dominant minor, apparently with an
introductory vamp, a four-note motif recurring in the left hand (m. 40). I say
apparently because it is not at all clear where the theme as such begins. The
four-note motif derives, of course, from the morose opening of the bridge
passage (cf. m. 16) but now its character is very different. Equalized and in
triplet eighths, it thrashes about within its metric container.34 Just at the point
that the four-note pattern would recycle, the motif, assisted by the added right
hand, writhes free and becomes a melodic peak. Does the melody begin at the
crest of that wave, or at some point before? The transition from accompani-
ment figure to melodic upper voice has an indefinable beginning, enacting
Murphy.indd 220 5/17/2018 2:00:58 AM

the key characteristic of a wave. However, the peak is not a downbeat, but the
second beat of the second measure; the quasi-tenuto on that beat implies a
hemiola, as if a slow 23 measure. That suggests a call back to the very opening
gesture. Example 7.4c shows that the hemiola is an augmentation of the shape
of measure 1 (see the inset above measures 40–41), with waves contained
within three-beat units.35
These second-theme waves build up enough force to spill over into a third
measure (m. 42). One expects a four-measure completion, but the return of
the four-note motif shuts out that possibility (m. 43), leaving an oddly lopsided
three-measure group.36 With this as premise, things proceed normally, through
standard harmonic cycles, at least for a while. The group beginning at measure
49 calls for a return to I, but the tense balance between container and wave
gives way at the climactic B♮ in measure 50, contradicting the harmony and
making a pointed cross-relation with the B♯ that started the measure (see the
score and ex. 7.4c). The new key and the new theme that forcefully emerges is
a wave breaking through; there is a palpable sense of escaping the encasement
of the constricted three-measure groups.
And there is a remarkable thematic transformation: What had been a trail-
ing off of the wave in the previous three-measure groups becomes an exul-
tant initial gesture, expansively celebrating its release. (Compare measures
42 and 51, the latter an elision at the thematic level.) However, escape is not
complete. This new theme, otherwise commonplace in its expected cantabile,
has one highly unusual feature: it is in E major, emerging as III of the minor
dominant and not directly related to the opening tonic.37 It is an outgrowth
of V, and fated to be dependent on it. Indeed, this theme never cadences in
E; a slightly curtailed antecedent (breathlessly contracted to seven measures;
see example 7.4c with the indicated compression of measures) is followed by
a consequent whose path goes awry (see ex. 7.4d). Minor-key inflections lead
to a feint toward C major (see m. 62) The rising bass pushes instead to A, on
which it hesitates, teeters unsteadily, and—at the last minute—transforms its
seventh into an augmented sixth (see mm. 65–67 and ex. 7.4d).
With almost violent emphasis, the goal is made clear: the cadential 46 in mea-
sure 69 confirms a return to C-sharp minor. The container now reveals itself:
C♯, E, G♯. The E major theme, which emerged as a wave breaking through the
constricted C-sharp minor theme, is inexorably pulled back to that key, impelled
forcefully against the accented 46. The entire second theme area, ultimately in
C-sharp minor throughout, is constructed as a container enclosing a wave, an
even larger gestural augmentation of the sonata’s opening triadic premise.
The overall picture is confirmed by the details. The containing C-sharp
minor triad is entangled with the same motivic half-step neighbors previously
in play against the tonic triad. The augmented-sixth harmony, the agent that
enforces the return to C-sharp minor, is realized by 6^ and ♯4^ (both moving to
^
5), the scale degrees that acted as wave elements in the key of F-sharp minor.
Murphy.indd 221 5/17/2018 2:00:58 AM

Example 7.4c. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 40–57
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Murphy.indd 222 5/17/2018 2:01:03 AM

Example 7.4d. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 58–83
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Murphy.indd 223 5/17/2018 2:01:45 AM

The pull against 5^ of C-sharp minor persists into the prolongation of the 46,
shifting G♯ to A and even A♯ (see the sforzandi in m 71).38 Even at the last
moment, the wave motives resist the bounds of their container. The pro-
longed dominant seeks its release in measure 75; however, provoked by the
return of the four-motif (from m. 40), 6^ and ♯4^ persist above the tonic bass,
frustrating resolution. (Note the rhythmic elongation of ♯4^ in comparison to
the original four-note motif.) The presence of 6^ on the first beat delays the
pure tonic triad.39 Remarkably this pitch was a late addition: Brahms’s hand-
written copy shows a G♯, and the change was made only in the printing of the
first edition.40 This suggests a careful calibration of the tension between con-
tainer and wave.
This tension is heightened in the development, as one might expect. At
first, the conflict is temporal. The slow measured pace of dotted half-notes,
associated with containment, is set against agitated sixteenth-note waves; com-
pare the slow-paced enclosure of waves in measures 1–2. The pacing of the bass
continues unfazed; it executes a slow descent from C♯ (m. 79) to C♯ again (m.
92).41 In the course of this, a modulation to A major is prepared, and the espres-
sivo theme reappears (now dolce), this time less a breakthrough than an easy
release. The ease is deceptive: the A major rests on a bass C♯, and the larger
context shows that this apparent A major results only from 5–6 exchange over
C♯ (see ex. 7.4e). Once again C-sharp minor is the container and the wave 6^
tugs against it (as was the case at m. 75). The A-major espressivo theme is just as
caught within the containing C-sharp triad as was its predecessor in E major
within the key of C-sharp minor.
Not that this dolce theme seems aware of it.42 Its consequent phrase seems
headed for closure, repeating its cadential 46 in measure 105 (compare m. 97
and ex. 7.4f). But two measures of hesitant repetition lead to a most extraordi-
nary moment. First, open conflict erupts in measure 108. The measure begins
as a cadential 46—i.e., an A major triad—but a wave of sixteenth-notes in rising
thirds vehemently asserts C-sharp minor. This is much more than an abrupt
change of harmonic rhythm; it is a genuine clash of harmonies, and the precise
nature of that clash resides in the motion from the pitch-classes A to G♯, spe-
cifically revoking the 5–6 exchange by which the A major was instated. C-sharp
minor is attempting to break through, but the roles are reversed: That triad is
the wave trying to escape the (too easily!) established A major. These measures
(108–11) are genuinely ambiguous; it is not clear who is winning, and only
gradually does the main harmony shift from the first chord to the second (see
ex. 7.4f). As the focus sharpens (mm. 112–13) the dolce theme makes a quick
appearance on the dominant seventh of F-sharp minor—role reversal again,
as the container would seem to be closing. The espressivo theme never closes
tonally; examples 7.4e and 7.4f reveal the overall bass of the development to
^ ^ ^
be C♯ (mm. 79 and again 92), E (m. 108) and G♯ (m. 112), that is, 1– 3–5 of
Murphy.indd 224 5/17/2018 2:02:22 AM

Example 7.4e. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 79–99
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the prolonged C-sharp minor triad. The triadic container quickly falls back to
root position V (m. 114); it is ready to resume its place as 5^ of the home key
F-sharp.
Wave is not so easily suppressed. To be sure, there follows a build-up of
dominant-pedal energy—almost too much energy. We await the next contain-
ing boundary, a recapitulation in F-sharp minor. What happens next is explo-
sive: Instead of the tonic triad, a furioso B-sharp diminished-seventh chord
usurps the opening material (see ex. 7.4f and mm. 123–24). B♯ is♯4^ of F-sharp
minor, of course; the wave element ♯4^ has disrupted the formal container at
the largest level of the movement thus far.43 This overlap between develop-
ment and recapitulation would be striking enough,44 but Brahms elevates the
intensity by stabilizing the B♯ as its own major-minor seventh harmony (written
as C♮; see mm. 125–26), as if to truly abandon the containing F-sharp tonality.
Through half-step adjustments (see the inset in the lower right in ex. 7.4f) the
real V7 is regained (on the upbeat to m. 129); adding the ninth replicates the
Murphy.indd 225 5/17/2018 2:02:22 AM

Example 7.4f. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: analysis of mm. 100–125
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first theme’s characteristic sonority (in mm. 7–8). In effect, the tonal recapitu-
lation actually begins with the original counterstatement. The rebound off the
tonic arrival sets another wave in motion, one requiring even more ponder-
ous deceleration than that of the exposition.45 The half cadence allows a cut
directly to the second theme group; with tonic key as container, this section
now proceeds mostly as before.
There is no coda as such, but its dramatic function is taken by the hyper-
bolic expansion of the second theme’s cadence. (The new material begins at
m. 176.) As before, it is the cadential 46 (of m. 173) that is prolonged, but in a
Murphy.indd 226 5/17/2018 2:02:59 AM

Example 7.4g. Brahms, Piano Sonata, op. 2, I: (g) analysis of mm. 173–98
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way that verges on harmonic contradiction (see ex. 7.4g). The bass outlines
C-sharp (with 46; m. 173), then E (also with 46; m. 176), then G-sharp (again
with 46; m. 179), a highly anomalous way to prolong a 46. A slice of the omnibus
progression (mm. 179–81) and that 46 is regained. Against a swirling cadenza the
bass circles to 6^ and then 4^ and ♯4,
^
all of these in metrically accented position
with respect to their resolving dominants (see ex. 7.4g.) These motivic wave
elements appear at the cadence as before (mm. 191–92; see also note 36), and
they are not quite done. At the last moment, ♯6^ and ♯4^ embellish the closing
tonic chords as common-tone diminished sevenths. The suppressed dynamic
una corda at the last chords sounds as one last attempt to tamp down wave and
to seal the container.
❧ ❧ ❧
The first movement certainly feels contained, as would any tonal piece con-
cluding on the tonic, but it does not seem to me to be fully closed. The
last-minute cadence is too perfunctory, so that closure is enforced but not
accepted. Against this backdrop, the second movement is a dark rumination
on closure, or rather the lack of it.46 It opens with a muted echo of the rising
Murphy.indd 227 5/17/2018 2:03:45 AM

thirds that set off the first movement. That first measure includes an element
of wave as well: the last eighth-note, A♯, is tied across the barline, faintly
loosening the hold of the bounding meter.47 One can easily imagine a hypo-
thetical version that surrenders to metrical containment and symmetry (see
ex. 7.5a.) Brahms’s actual rhythm, and his dynamics, lend a parenthetical air
to the even-numbered measures; his biographer Max Kalbeck imagined an
antiphonal response in these measures.48
The movement is a theme and variations, but the theme is strangely con-
figured. The first reprise (mm. 1–8), closes on the tonic B minor, but almost
as weakly as possible. The second reprise is expanded to ten measures but suc-
ceeds only in a halt on a V9; the rising gestures in the right hand bespeak more
question than answer. This theme is thus tonally open, quite unexpected for a
piece of this type. There is a tonal undertow that runs deeper than the double
barlines visually setting off the surface design, a slow wave of tonal tension that
flows from the theme into the first variation, with closure held in abeyance.
The theme has more subtle tonal disturbances as well. The second reprise
begins conventionally on III, but takes an odd turn to G minor, and then E-flat,
keys of dubious relation to the tonic (see mm. 10–13 and ex. 7.5b). The E-flat
brings a melodic figure, marked dolce, that is both lyrical but also uncertain:
Where are we? The way back is deliberately made awkward. Given the E-flat
tonicization in measures 13–15 we must hear the B♭ of measure 17 as just that;
however, a measure later, it is forcibly reinterpreted as A♯. The pitches E♭ and
B♭ conflict with their enharmonic equivalents D♯ and A♯, both much more
native to B minor. The flat pitches are foregrounded as disturbances marked
for our attention.
What do they disturb? Let us recall my image of the triad as container of
tonal activity. A B triad could easily contain D♯ within its function; an F-sharp
triad normally utilizes A-sharp to express leading-tone function, as it does
here. However, E♭ and B♭ do not belong in these containers; they unsettle the
stability of tonic and dominant triads. Each of their boundary fifths is being
divided incompatibly: for the B–F♯ fifth, the E flat heard as such, is at odds with
triadic division; similarly the B♭ within the F♯–C♯ fifth. These tonal conflicts
act analogously to wave impulses, undermining triadic stability not from with-
out but from within.49
The open-ended structure of the theme, together with the tonal instability
just described, propels us past the limits of the eighteen-measure theme. The
first variation begins on the tonic but with the pitch G suspended from the
prior V9 (m. 19); surprisingly, that G does not resolve until seven measures
later. A larger trajectory is being shaped; ex. 7.5c traces the path of the upper
^
voice. Scale degree 3, barely enunciated in its low register, is coupled up an
octave (m. 8) and transferred in register to the high C♯ (in m. 18). It initiates
a third progression in that high register in mid-variation (m. 26). The upward
Murphy.indd 228 5/17/2018 2:04:04 AM

Example 7.5. Piano Sonata, op. 2, II, analysis of mm. 1–44: (a) comparison with a
hypothetical, contained version; (b) analysis of the theme alone; (c) analysis of the
theme in relation to the first two variations
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tion two, marked by a cascade (repeating the motivic G to F♯) back to the
original register. The tonal processes spill over the boundaries of theme and
variation; they form a large-scale levé-frappé, a wave overflowing conventional
formal containers.
There is overflow at the level of this entire movement as well. The final
variation—in B major, thus bringing the hint at D♯ to fruition—is as open-
ended as the others (see mm. 68–88). Its final measures are not so much a half
cadence as a preparatory dominant. What that dominant prepares is the third
movement, which commentators rightly consider to be a continuation of the
variation process of the second movement.50 There is a critical difference in
closure, however. Even within the rather brief first scherzo section, cadential
^ 51
closure is quite secure, with an open and explicit descent from 5. In its tonal
Murphy.indd 229 5/17/2018 2:04:18 AM

trajectory, the relationship between the second and third movements is one
of levé-frappé, the latter quite definite indeed. It is clear that force of wave has
begun to permeate the boundary between movements, setting the stage for the
final movement.
❧ ❧ ❧
Compared with the sharply-etched intaglio of the Scherzo, the Introduzione to

the final movement is a landscape whose horizons fade off in mist.52 We enter
it in soft focus; whence comes that F♯, and what does it betoken? Too slight to
be an enunciation of tonic, the F♯ nonetheless sets off the movement’s motivic
impetus: the first two notes are a levé-frappé rhythmic figure that propagates
throughout the main themes.53 It is as if this introduction begins in the sona-
ta’s past and only gradually ushers us into the present.
An attempt to concretize this narrative is detailed in example 7.6a. The ini-
tiating F♯ is understood to originate in the common-tone F♯ implicit in the
first three movements.54 At the same the bass/tenor F♯ (stemmed up in the
bass clef) will pursue a descending tetrachord to V, a motif echoed on the sur-
face in many places in the finale.55 The upper voice takes a less direct path,
but nonetheless culminates in the levé-frappé pair D–C♯, a recreation of the
dominant ninth so salient in the first movement (see mm. 23–24 and ex. 7.6a).
And here again, with the energetic dissonance D, the levé, is placed firmly (and
insistently) on the downbeat, as if the wave has reached its crest.
Through the D-C♯ pair we enter the Allegro,56 and there we encounter
a container that is quite differently disposed. An octave span from 5^ to 5^ is
framed by half steps: 6^ (accented!) as a seemingly unprepared ninth,57 and
♯4^ as an actual semitone collision with the upper voice (see ex. 7.6b and mm.
24–26.) That octave span is filled by falling fifths, the first implying tonic, the
latter dominant. However, the tonal context is unequivocal: it is a prolonged
dominant harmony that is enclosing an apparent tonic. The more mobile
dominant conveys the effect of an uneasy container, even as the stability of the
framing melodic octave is disturbed by the motivic wave elements 6^ and ♯4. ^
^
Scale degree 6 exerts an influence here that recalls its role in the first theme
of the first movement, but now even more forcefully. Example 7.6c shows
that underlying voice leading of the first phrase of the Allegro (mm. 25–32)
^ ^ ^
includes prominent neighbor notes 5– 6–5 in both upper voice and bass, a hair
away from parallel octaves (see especially mm. 28–29). This first theme does
not lack tonic closure: example 7.6c and the continuation up to measure 60
^
shown in example 7.6d both plausibly read fifth progressions closing on 1.
However, those closural gestures are hardly salient, being covered repeatedly
^ ^ ^
by 5– 6–5. As in the first movement, the neighbor note motif C♯–D–C♯ seeks to
spill over the boundaries of phrases, of formal containers.
Murphy.indd 230 5/17/2018 2:04:54 AM

Example 7.6. Piano Sonata, op. 2, IV: (a) analysis of mm. 1–23, with connection
to prior movements; (b) analysis of mm. 25–26; (c) analysis of mm. 25–32; (d)
analysis of mm. 32–55
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Murphy.indd 231 5/17/2018 2:04:55 AM

Example 7.6. Piano Sonata, op. 2, IV: (e) analysis of mm. 68–212; (f) analysis of
mm. 249–78
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The loosening of containment is the plan for this finale as a whole. Some
context is needed. Example 7.6e summarizes the middleground activity of the
movement up to the recapitulation.58 Compared to the exposition, the reca-
pitulation seems tonally less defined. Some of the most stabilizing passages
(mm. 51–60) are omitted later on (see mm. 224ff.). Nor is there a clear Urlinie
descent (despite the culminating cadence in mm. 247–49). Scale degree 5^
remains unresolved as the closing material unexpectedly dismantles itself (see
mm. 253ff). And the tonic is dismantled as well: a bizarre and hyperbolic excur-
sion to the dominant of C major wrests control of the coda, and the bass rises
to an anomalous G♮. The sostenuto tempo returns, bringing with it material
from the introduction. Quite conspicuously, the bass descends G♮–F♯–E♯; for
the first time the motivic half-step neighbors, embodying wave, surround the
tonic pitch, and not 5^ (see the voice-leading analysis in ex. 7.6f). The aspect
of tonic harmony as tonal container is being dissolved—the tempo seems to
evaporate as well. Finally, the movement, as container of its own activity and as
completion of the whole sonata, gives up its ultimate closure to the tonal and
Murphy.indd 232 5/17/2018 2:05:51 AM

temporal impulses that simply overwhelm it. The piece ends with 5^ unresolved
and ♯3^ prominently superposed above it (see the breathtaking registral sweep
in m. 278). At its deepest level the movement is structurally unbounded, its
final wave dissipating back into the mist.
❧ ❧ ❧
This exceptional ending makes plain the extreme range of Brahms’s experi-
ment. The sonata as a whole has enacted a trajectory in which wave gradually
challenges the bonds of containment, finally attaining a kind of apotheosis. It
may surprise the reader to learn that I do not regard this experiment as com-
pletely successful: the first movement is perhaps too schematic; the final coda
too diffuse. However, it is precisely the extent of failure that allows the contrast-
ing forces of container and wave to be so clearly set in relief. Brahms would
soon learn to calibrate their interplay with far more subtlety, leaving this early
work as an especially valuable object of study. To be sure, containment and
wave are metaphors; more importantly, however, they are metaphors necessary
to understand music as music. This study of Brahms’s opus 2 has allowed the
distinction between these two to be laid bare and closely inspected. It opens
the door to more subtle understanding of Brahms’s temporal mastery.
Notes
1. It is trivial, of course, to note that performed music must take place in time.
The notion that music moves purposefully through time, however, is much
more complex, and it is what concerns me here. Compare Suzanne Langer’s
claim “Music unfolds in virtual time created by sound,” in Problems of Art (New
York: Scribner, 1957), 41.
2. But compare the well-known concerns about the spatialization of time by
Henri Bergson, in The Creative Mind (New York: Philosophical Library, 1946),
esp. 149.
3. See also Janna Saslaw, “Forces, Containers, and Paths: The Role of Body-
Derived Image Schemas in the Conceptualization of Music,” Journal of Music
Theory 40, no. 2 (1996): 217–43.
4. Processes of growth and decline, termed progression and recession, are essential
to the thinking of Wallace Berry; see especially Structural Functions in Music
(New York: Dover, 1987).
5. For an excellent introduction, see William E. Caplin, “Criteria for Analysis:
Perspectives on Riemann’s Mature Theory of Meter,” in The Oxford Handbook
of Neo-Riemannian Music Theories, ed. Edward Gollin and Alexander Rehding
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 419–39.
6. Compare Victor Zuckerkandl, Sound and Symbol: Music and the External World
(New York: Pantheon Books, 1956), esp. 171. It is harder to think of wave
Murphy.indd 233 5/17/2018 2:06:22 AM

motion as a “straight-line” impulse, neither growing nor diminishing. An

accumulation of events leads us to infer an increase in intensity, which must,
at some point, peak and decline in energy (hence, the upbeat-downbeat for-
mation typical of waves). Curiously, the point at which decrease gives way to
another surge need not be so well-defined: the wave can be heard as emerging,
as it were, from nothing.
7. Of course, meter, once entrained by a listener, does not require an event at
every metric division; nonetheless, a lack of such events will gradually cause a
listener’s sense of meter to dissipate. Analogously, structural tones must often
be inferred from gaps in the pattern of sounding pitches.
8. The functions will overlap, even while they remain distinct. Thus, the chord on
beat 1 is the boundary of the container (at the attack of the staccato F♯s) but
the arpeggiando hints at a wave preceding this attack and flowing on into the
first measure. (This would recall Riemann’s frequent inference of an Auftakt
leading into a first downbeat.) Further, the wave motion concludes with the
final A octave in the measure, which is simultaneously the containing bound-
ary. More precisely, the listener does not recognize it as boundary until after it
has passed. I sense a kind of recoil in the space of the third beat, during which
the energy of the wave dissipates in the sustained quarter-note A.
9. This strongly resembles the thought of Ernst Kurth, insightfully summarized in
Lee Rothfarb, “Energetics,” in The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, ed.
Thomas Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 927–55.
10. Compare how Rothfarb describes Kurth’s understanding of form as the “tran-
sition between mold and process.” Kurth’s language on form resonates well
with my containment-wave distinction: “Form is neither movement nor its syn-
optically grasped rigidity, neither flux nor outline, but rather the lively strug-
gle to grasp something flowing by holding on to something firm.” Bruckner
I (Berlin: Hesse, 1925), 234; quoted in Lee Rothfarb, Ernst Kurth as Theorist
and Analyst (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988), 190–91.
Compare also Berry: “Musical structure may be said to be the punctuated shap-
ing of time and ‘space’ into lines of growth, decline, and stasis hierarchically ordered.”
Structural Functions, 5 (italics original).
11. Many eighteenth-century theorists, most elaborately Heinrich Koch, identify
a resting point (Ruhepunkt) to demarcate the ends of phrases or subphrases
(Einschnitte), implying a contained cessation of motion. See Koch, Introductory
Essay on Composition: The Mechanical Rules of Melody (1787–93), trans. Nancy
Kovaleff Baker (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), sections 3 and 4.
12. One is reminded of Hanslick’s “forms moving in sound” (Tönend bewe-
gte Formen), which includes both notions of containment (form) and wave
(motion). See Eduard Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen (Leipzig, 1854).
13. My notion of container is sufficiently similar to traditional formulations of
meter as to need no precedent, though its conceptual emphasis changes once
the idea of wave is introduced. The notion of wave has some basis in the fre-
quent application of poetic feet to rhythmic motives, but this is more a matter
of grouping and accent than of energetic motion.
Murphy.indd 234 5/17/2018 2:06:22 AM

14. Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny, Cours complet d’harmonie et de composition, d’après

une théorie neuve et générale de la musique, 3 vols. (Paris: L’Auteur, published seri-
ally 1803–6). The rhythmic theories appear mainly in vol. 2; musical examples
are found in vol. 3.
15. A clear exposition of this aspect of Momigny’s theory can be found in George
Fisher, “System and Impulse: Three Theories of Periodic Structure from the
Early Nineteenth Century,” Current Musicology 49 (1992): 29–47. Another use-
ful summary is William S. Newman, Beethoven on Beethoven: Playing his Piano
Music his Way (New York: Norton, 1988), 171–74.
16. Fisher comments that “it would be hard to overemphasize the role that this
concept plays in Momigny’s thinking.” “System and Impulse,” 46.
17. This would seem to lead Momigny to a conflation of rhythm and meter, a dis-
tinction more strongly enforced in modern theory (as in the separation of
grouping and meter in Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of
Tonal Music (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983); but see the challenge to this
separation in Christopher Hasty, Meter as Rhythm (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1997). Hugo Riemann, who seems to have been influenced by Momigny,
takes the full step of redefining meter as a weak-strong phenomenon at mul-
tiple levels; see Caplin, “Criteria for Analysis.”
18. “La mesure véritable n’est donc pas cette prisonnière que l’on voit renfermée
entre deux barreaux, & qui commence en frappant & finit en levant; mais c’est
celle qui, à cheval sur la barre, a le premier de ses temps à gauche de cette
barre, & l’autre à droite.” Encyclopédie méthodique; Musique, vol. 2, ed. Nicolas-
Étienne Framery, Pierre-Louis Ginguené, and Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny
(Paris: Veuve Agasse, 1818), 134. Translation by Jean Mongrédien, “Momigny,
Jérôme-Joseph de,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, www.oxfordmusi-
conline.com, accessed May 17, 2013. I am grateful to Nicholas Meeùs for his
help in finding the source of this quotation.
19. However, I agree with Fisher (“System and Impulse,” 32) that “the proposition
. . . is the primary agent of impulse.” I reconstrue “impulse” as wave.
20. However, the notion of frappé does imply an attack point that—at least poten-
tially—demarcates a metric unit.
21. Momigny discusses this passage in Cours complet, 2:275–85; the examples are
found in 3:95–97. My example 7.2 reproduces Momigny’s examples as closely
as possible. The Handel movement is found in the Suite in G Minor, HWV 432,
but was first published separately in Pieces à un & deux clavecins (Amsterdam:
Roger, c. 1721).
22. Momigny omits a quarter-note G in the left hand, measure 1. It is not clear
whether this stems from a faulty edition or is a deliberate omission, perhaps to
bolster his upbeat interpretation.
23. Not significant here but interesting is the different placement of the first
double bar (marking the hémistiche), presumably responding to the imitation
between the parts.
24. Note that the “upbeat” low D was removed in example 7.1c as mere embellish-
ment (broderie); the notated upbeat D in example 7.1d is not a restoration of
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this D but the inference of another one necessary to provide an antecedent to

the actual downbeat G.
25. In example 7.2f, all pitches are included in complete propositions; in 7.2f
there are singletons at either end, again requiring that ellipses be inferred.
26. Of course Momigny would intend his approach as de rigueur for any piece of
music.
27. A critical difference in methodology is that Momigny’s proposition is fundamen-
tally a two-note figure that begins with an unstable pitch; a linear progression
(in Schenker’s sense) must encompass at least a third.
28. A similar analysis viewing a complete piece as an impulse to a goal is
found in John Rink, “Authentic Chopin: History, Analysis and Intuition in
Performance,” in Chopin Studies 2, ed. John Rink and Jim Samson (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 214–44; see especially 226–35 and the cita-
tion of Momigny in fn. 45, p. 228.
29. One might compare this metaphor with Schenker’s notion of Diatonie, which
he derives from passing tones filling the space of the triad: see Heinrich
Schenker, Free Composition, ed. and trans. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman,
1979), 5 and 11.
30. Half steps surrounding 5^ were to become a nearly obsessive motivic usage
for Brahms, with examples too numerous to cite. For a particularly striking
instance at the later end of his career, see Frank Samarotto, “Brahms the
Autumnal: Cyclical and Progressive Structures and Meanings in Im Herbst, Op.
104, No. 5,” International Choral Bulletin 29, no. 3 (2010): 24–35.
31. See note 8 above. The exposition has no repeat, and the recapitulation is
drastically recomposed, so this passage does not recur exactly as at the begin-
ning. Only the counterstatement at measure 9 (and at m. 131) provides a close
analogy.
32. Note that this sixteenth-note C♯ preceding the two-note figures is the only
note in this measure and those following to have a staccato dot. This small
detail aurally connects it to the staccato-wedged C♯ immediately prior (at the
crest of the arpeggiated chord).
33. There may well be influence from the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano
^ ^ ^
Sonata op. 57 (“Appassionata”), most notably here in the 5– 6–5 motive.
34. By this point the notated meter is sufficiently established to allow its persis-
tence without explicit articulation. In Harald Krebs’s terms this type of metric
dissonance could be classed as subliminal; see Fantasy Pieces (New York: Oxford
35. The hemiola overlays another level of metric dissonance to that already
mentioned.
36. I would understand each of the first three of these three-measure groups as
arising from the elision of a hypothetical fourth measure.
37. I am not aware of any other second theme groups configured quite like this
one.
38. I interpret the cadential 46 to be prolonged from measure 69 through the first
two beats of measure 74.
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39. It can be understood as a Leittonwechselklang in Riemann’s original sense of an

apparent consonance (Scheinkonsonanz) displacing a tonic Klang; this is indi-
cated in example 7.4d by the notation I+6.
40. As noted by Eusebius Mandyczewski in his editor’s preface to vol. 13 of Johannes
Brahms: Sämtliche Werke; Ausgabe der Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien (n.d.,
editor’s preface dated Autumn 1927); reprinted with English translation in
Johannes Brahms: Complete Sonatas and Variations for Solo Piano (New York: Dover,
1971), vii. Mandyczewski also notes that a corresponding change was made in
the parallel passage in measures 191–92.
41. Note that Brahms places the double bar partway through this octave “descent”
(that is, before m. 83), but that I take the tonal structure of the development
to issue from measure 79.
42. Ironically, the accompaniment in measures 92ff. derives from the C-sharp
minor constricted theme first heard in measures 40ff., as if that key were
still lurking in the background. Measure 92 even includes an explicit G♯–A
motion, echoing the implicit 5–6 motion undergirding this development’s
opening.
43. A local detail: the rising sixteenth-note figures are first tied across the barline
and then held with a fermata, thus effacing the metric container as well. Note
also the suppressed downbeat in measure 125.
44. Again this is reminiscent of Beethoven’s opus 57, first movement.
45. Though this passage hints at IV and ♮II, the bass emphasis remains mainly on
6^ (see mm. 132–34), as in the exposition.
46. The key of this movement, B minor, has a sub rosa linkage to its predecessor.
In the first movement, B and D (whether diatonic or chromatic) repeatedly
neighbored C♯; in this movement B and D become stabilized in the minor key,
but, as it turns out, only precariously.
47. There is a curious detail of articulation found in the first edition: The last
eighth-notes of measures 1, 3, 9, and 11 each include a portato dot, even though
they are tied across the barline. Kalbeck reproduces the same articulation in
the citation below.
48. The Andante is well-known to be based on a Minnelied poem by Count Kraft
von Toggenburg; for a full discussion of the documentary evidence and com-
plete analysis of the movement in light of the poem, see George S. Bozarth,
“Brahms’s Lieder ohne Worte: The ‘Poetic’ Andantes of the Piano Sonatas,”
in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. Bozarth (Oxford:
Oxford Univerity Press, 1990), 345–78; see especially 353–59. Kalbeck shows
a possible setting of that poem in Johannes Brahms (Berlin: Deutsche-Brahms
Gesellschaft, 1910–14), 1:222.
49. A comparison with the first movement may be helpful. There the tonic and
dominant triads were prolonged by neighbor notes around their respective
fifths, which I characterized as wave impulses. In the second movement, it is
the third of the chord that is disturbed, by its enharmonic equivalents.
50. See Bozarth, “Brahms’s Lieder ohne Worte,” 358, and Ryan McClelland, Brahms
and the Scherzo: Studies in Musical Narrative (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010). The lat-
ter includes a full analysis of the third movement; see pp. 29–33.
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51. The intensified repeat of the scherzo (after the trio) is even more definite in
its closure, reinforcing the stepwise descent in a four-octave doubling; see mm.
108–9.
52. It may be significant that this page is marked both “Finale” and “Introduzione,”
as if the performer might not immediately recognize its function. “Sostenuto”
is also not typical for slow introductions.
53. See, for example, mm. 24–25, 28–29, 32–33, 36–37, 43–44, 60–61, 70–71, etc.
54. The unisono texture provides a ready aural connection to the opening of the
first movement.
55. Most notably in mm. 99–103, inner voices; the longer note values here simu-
late the pacing of the Sostenuto.
56. The full marking is Allegro non troppo e rubato; could the latter qualification indi-
cate a loosening of metric hold?
57. This D-C♯ is, in effect, a repetition of that at the end of the introduction,
where the ninth was at least locally prepared.
58. Not discussed here but notable is the return of the Sostenuto in measures 197–
203, which recreate the dominant ninth sonority, nearly effacing the structural
interruption.
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Chapter Eight
Rhythmic Displacement
in the Fugue of Brahms’s
Handel Variations
The Refashioning of a Traditional Device
Eytan Agmon
In recent years we have come a long way in appreciating the complexities of

rhythm in tonal music.1 This development is in part an outgrowth of our
enhanced understanding of the complexities of tonal music itself: for example,
our awareness of hierarchical structure as postulated in the theories of Heinrich
Schenker. Tonal structure and rhythmic structure are closely intertwined. In
a loose, informal sense, one may even say that tonal structure implies rhythmic
structure, for such tonal entities as motives, linear progressions, phrases, and so
forth carry with them a durational component at any given level.2
In studying the rhythmic aspect of tonal music, fugues and related genres
pose a special challenge. One of the main reasons for this is that tonal struc-
ture in fugal genres—even at a foreground level—is extremely complex. For
example, fugal writing demands motivically and thematically independent
An earlier version of this chapter appeared as “Rhythmic Displacement in the

Fugue of Brahms’s Handel Variations: The Refashioning of a Traditional Device” in
Studies in Music from the University of Western Ontario 13 (1991): 1–20. I would like to
thank James Grier, editor of the journal, for kind permission to reprint.
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240 ❧ chapter eight
parts; the rhythmic implications of this independence (which can sometimes

be far-reaching) appear not to have been yet systematically studied.
A frequently encountered “symptom” of rhythmic complexity in fugal
genres is rhythmic displacement, where corresponding thematic statements
do not correspond in terms of notated metric position. Broadly speaking,
one may distinguish between two main categories of rhythmic displacement
in fugal genres. The first category consists of half-measure displacements in
common time. In the 1760 Anhang to his Handbuch bey dem Generalbasse und
der Composition, Marpurg addresses the issue of half-measure displacement
with reference to the three fugal excerpts given here as example 8.1. Evoking
a prevalent eighteenth-century conception of common time, Marpurg states
that the 44 measure consists of two equally “good” parts, and therefore there
is no essential difference between its first and third beats.3 It should be noted
that half-measure displacements occur frequently in eighteenth-century music
notated in common time, whether in fugal or non-fugal genres.4
The second category of rhythmic displacement is a more specifically fugal
one. In this category the non-correspondence in notated metric position
between corresponding thematic statements is considerably more acute than
is the case with half-measure displacement in common time. For example, the-
matic statements may occur on successive beats in some given meter, as is typi-
cally the case in fugal strettos. Marpurg uses the locution “per arsin et thesin”
to refer to this type of rhythmic displacement.5
The subject of the present article is rhythmic displacement in a nineteenth-
century fugue, namely the fugue that concludes Brahms’s Variations and Fugue
on a Theme by Handel, op. 24. Rhythmic displacement in this fugue will be seen
as a remarkable refashioning of eighteenth-century practice. Difficult as it is to
determine the extent to which this refashioning was a conscious decision on
the composer’s part, there is ample evidence to suggest that Brahms was fully
aware of the eighteenth-century fugal practice of rhythmic displacement.
First, Brahms’s profound interest in music and compositional techniques
of the eras prior to his own are well known.6 This interest naturally included
the eighteenth century, and particularly the music of Johann Sebastian Bach
(Brahms performed a Bach fugue on his very first piano recital). Second,
Brahms owned two copies of Marpurg’s aforementioned Handbuch; Brahms
and Joachim had agreed to study Marpurg’s text at the beginning of their
counterpoint project in 1856.7 Third, many of Brahms’s fugal compositions
dating or originating from the late 1850s contain rhythmic displacements of
the types described by Marpurg.8 In particular, Brahms’s canon O bone Jesu, first
performed in 1859 and eventually published as part of op. 37, originally bore
the inscription “canone, per arsin et thesin, et per motum contrarium.”
Finally, indirect evidence may be found in Brahms’s annotated scores and
Abschriften of early music. On the one hand, Brahms was aware of rhythmic
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rhythmic displacement ❧ 241
Example 8.1. Fugal extracts from Marpurg, Handbuch bey dem Generalbasse und der
Composition, 1755–60
flexibilities in Renaissance and Baroque music, as he often took note of devia-

tions from the notated meter, such as hemiolas, triple-meter patterns in duple
meter, and so forth.9 On the other hand, Brahms was deeply interested in fugal
structure. In his Breitkopf & Härtel edition of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, for
example, Brahms made numerous markings, annotations, and corrections,
especially in the fugues. In almost every fugue he noted subject entries, key
areas, and formal divisions.10 It seems unlikely that Brahms would have failed
to note such an obvious rhythmic feature as displacement, even though an
explicit reference to rhythmic displacement in a fugal context is apparently
lacking in his analytic annotations.11
In the fugue of the Handel Variations the subject in its entirety is never dis-
placed from its original notated metric position. However, the subject’s notated
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Example 8.2. Brahms, Handel Variatons: three possible metrical interpretations of

the subject
metric interpretation (ex. 8.2a) is by no means the only such interpretation

possible. As shown in examples 8.2b and 8.2c, it is possible to hear the subject
as displaced in relation to the notated meter by either a quarter-note or an
eighth-note.
As it happens, the subject’s first half is more readily perceived in terms of
quarter-note displacement, while its second half is more readily perceived in
terms of eighth-note displacement (see the framed portions of ex. 8.2). In
the subject’s first half the sixteenth-notes sound like upbeats leading to the
quarter-notes on the second and fourth beats. In the subject’s second half the
D following E♭ sounds as a downbeat, since a tonic resolution of some domi-
nant-type harmony is implied. The notated metric interpretation, on the other
hand (ex. 8.2a), derives primarily from the relationship between the fugue’s
subject and Handel’s theme (ex. 8.3). The subject’s first half is clearly based on
the theme’s initial structural melodic tones, B♭–C–D(–E♭) (see the rounded
bracket in ex. 8.3), where B♭ and D represent strong or relatively strong beats.
In a quarter-note displacement of the subject, as in example 8.2b, this impor-
tant relationship is obscured. The subject’s second half contains the five-note
figure D–C–B♭–C–D, an important figure throughout Handel’s theme (see
the square brackets in ex. 8.3). In an eighth-note displacement of the subject,
as in example 8.2c, this figure practically ceases to exist, as the grouping of
sixteenth-notes is profoundly altered. Incidentally, the five-note figure D–C–
B♭–C–D plays an important role in several of Brahms’s variations, as may be
seen in example 8.4.12
From a purely rhythmic point of view it may appear somewhat odd that
the reality of a notated metric interpretation is established primarily through
association with an “external” source (Handel’s aria), whereas alternative
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Example 8.3. Handel, Suite no. 1 in B-flat Major, HWV 434, “Air,” mm. 1–4
interpretations are inherent in the music as given. Later I shall suggest that
Brahms may have had some plan in mind in creating such an unusual rhythmic
situation. Be that as it may, as the fugue unfolds, there is hardly any doubt that
the predominant meter is the meter as notated; important harmonic points of
arrival, for example, almost invariably coincide with the notated downbeats.
The status of the notated downbeats, however, is repeatedly challenged by one
or the other of the displaced alternatives. Indeed, the inherent metric insta-
bility of the fugue’s subject becomes an important compositional issue, to be
resolved only in the fugue’s closing measures.
In the fugue’s opening twenty-four measures the eighth-note-level conflict
seems more prominent than the quarter-note-level conflict. In the exposition,
for example, with each statement of the subject following the initial statement
in the alto voice, an eighth-note displacement of its second half is strongly sug-
gested (ex. 8.5). Note that the dominant-tonic harmonic implication of the
^ ^
melodic succession E♭–D (4– 3) of measure 2 is realized in subsequent state-
ments of the subject, where additional voices are available.
Of special interest in this connection are measures 13–17 (ex. 8.6). These
five measures are part of an extended transitional episode connecting the sin-
gle subject entry of measures 11–12 with the new group of entries beginning in
measure 25. The episode divides into two parts. The first part (mm. 13–19) is
based on the subject’s second half, while the second part (mm. 20–24) is based
on the subject’s first half.
In measure 12, as in all previous appearances of the subject’s second half, an
eighth-note displacement takes place; this displacement is carried over into the
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Example 8.4. Brahms, Handel Variations, five-note figure
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Example 8.5. Handel Variations, mm. 3–8
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Example 8.7. Handel Variations, mm. 12–14, as in Brahms’s autograph
following measure (m. 13), where the transitional episode begins. Note that, as
a consequence of the eighth-note displacement, the new rhythmic idea intro-
duced in the outer voices is not heard as notated, namely a syncopated figure
𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮; rather it is heard as an unsyncopated figure 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥. By controlling the vari-
ous musical parameters in the following four measures, Brahms effects a fasci-
nating process whereby the downbeat gradually assumes its notated position.
In measure 14 the harmony changes from tonic to dominant on the sec-
ond eighth-note of the measure; as a result, the eighth-note displacement
established in the previous measures prevails. A glance at the autograph score
(ex. 8.7) reveals that Brahms originally retained the upper voice’s B♭ (m.
13) through the first eighth-note of measure 14, exactly as the bass has it two
octaves lower. His subsequent decision to have the upper voice anticipate the
bass’s downward leap to F by a quarter-note was probably due to the unpleas-
ant effect of parallel octaves. Also interesting in the autograph is Brahms’s slur-
ring. In measures 12 and 13 Brahms extends his original slurs to the downbeats
of the following measures (mm. 13 and 14 respectively); he thus gives the per-
former no opportunity to articulate the downbeats of those measures.13
Measures 14 and 15 are nearly identical. In fact, with the exception of the
first and last sixteenth-notes, measure 15 is an exact replica in minor of mea-
sure 14 (that is, A♭ and D♭ replace A♮ and D♮, respectively). Had Brahms
introduced the shift from major to minor on the second eighth-note of measure
15 (see the hypothetical ex. 8.8), or had he simply not introduced such a shift
at all, the metric reality of eighth-note displacement would still have prevailed.
However, Brahms introduces the modal shift on the downbeat of measure 15
and thus initiates a process of metric reorientation.
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The modal shift of measure 15 is followed by a more radical harmonic

change on the downbeat of measure 16: over a dominant pedal point, the
F-minor chord of measure 15 moves to a dominant seventh on G. Finally,
in measure 17, the downbeat is asserted both harmonically and melodically,
for the seventh F in the upper voice resolves to E♭. Thus, not only are the
downbeats of successive measures expressed by progressively stronger means,
but the correspondence between successive measures becomes progressively
weaker. Measures 14 and 15 correspond most closely; measures 15 and 16
correspond melodically (that is, in terms of the upper voice) but not har-
monically; and measures 16 and 17 correspond neither melodically nor
harmonically. As a result, our tendency to retain the eighth-note displace-
ment established in measures 12–14 through the so-called Principle of
Inertia diminishes as well.14 Ironically, no sooner is the notated downbeat
established than an eighth-note displacement once again occurs in measures
18–19 (see ex. 8.6 above).
Given that the tendency to effect eighth-note displacement is inherent in
the subject’s second half, the lack of such a displacement in measure 26 (ex.
8.9) is striking (see also mm. 28 and 54). Upon closer examination, one finds
that Brahms has in fact altered the subject to prevent the eighth-note displace-
ment from taking place. The alteration is seemingly minor (E♭–D♭ becomes
F–E♭ at the beginning of the subject’s second half); however, since a change
from dominant to tonic is no longer implied on the second eighth-note of the
measure, but rather on the second quarter-note, a sense of eighth-note dis-
placement no longer exists. It is as though Brahms has decided to set aside the
eighth-note-level conflict for a while, in order to allow the quarter-note-level
conflict to become the focus of attention.
The shift of attention from the eighth-note to the quarter-note-level conflict,
however, does not take place immediately. On the contrary, metric tensions
seem to subside as we move to the sensuous realm of D-flat major in measure
31 (the overall sense of a lower level of intensity is reflected in the texture,
which assumes a more homophonic character). Like the calm before a storm,
however, the surface tranquility is deceptive. The metrical conflicts inherent in
the fugue’s subject have not disappeared; rather they lie dormant, awaiting the
appropriate moment to unleash their full force.
This moment is not long in coming. Beginning in measure 37 (ex. 8.10),
Brahms alters the subject again, and this time the alteration affects its first half.
Originally the subject’s first half traversed the melodic span of an ascending
fourth. Appearing now in inverted form, the subject does not traverse the span
of a descending fourth, but only that of a descending third: F♯–E–D♯ in mea-
sure 37; B–A–G♯ in measure 38, and so on. The melodic change entails a har-
monic change by which a tonic resolution of dominant harmony takes place
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Example 8.8. Handel Variations, hypothetical version of mm. 13–15
on the fourth beats of measures 37 and 38; the tonic resolution leads in turn to
the rhythmic sense of a displaced downbeat. The quarter-note displacement
continues in measures 39–44, where the subject’s first half is consistently pre-
sented in its altered form.
Of particular interest in this imposing passage (mm. 39–44) is the lack of
metric coordination among the two hands. This lack of coordination is more
than just a natural corollary to the common fugal device of complementary
rhythm, for it involves the harmony as well. For example, in measure 39 the
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dominant resolves to the tonic on the fourth beat in the right hand, while in
the left hand the resolution is postponed to the downbeat of the following
measure (see also measures 41, 42, and 44). It is as though the two hands are
engaged in a heated debate as to the location of the downbeat.
A point of utmost metric disorientation is reached in measures 45–46 (ex.
8.11a). Not only is there metric disagreement between the two hands, but
each hand by itself fails to project a consistent metric pattern. Rather, the pat-
tern projected is of a series of progressively shorter durational values: from
half-notes (m. 44), through dotted quarter-notes and quarter-notes, to eighth-
notes (ex. 8.11b). Schenker writes that in measures 45–46 the performer, like
the composer, “strives for metric stability”; for Schenker, the performer’s joy
in attaining metric stability two measures later is successfully expressed in
Brahms’s forte.15
In measures 49–66 the issue of eighth-note and quarter-note displacement
is set aside as the subject undergoes rhythmic augmentation. A transitional pas-
sage beginning in the second half of measure 66 (ex. 8.12a) prepares for the
subject’s climactic return (simultaneously in its original and inverted forms)
in measure 75. As with the preceding D-flat major episode, the surface rhyth-
mic tranquility of the present passage is deceptive. Quarter-note displace-
ment is hinted at in the imitative interplay between the right and left hands
in measures 66–71; beginning in measure 72, and especially in the second half
of measure 74, eighth-note displacement is hinted at as well. Example 8.12b
shows an earlier version of measures 72–74;16 note the more exact imitation at
an eighth-note distance between the two hands in measures 72–73. In the final
version, an exact imitation at an eighth-note distance may be found only in the
second half of measure 74, where the subject’s head motif undergoes further
fragmentation in the right hand.
A complete statement of the subject appears for the last time in measures
75–76 (ex. 8.13; the statement in measures 77–78 is also complete, but the
subject is altered to fit the harmonic scheme). This statement of the subject,
with its four-part rhythmic unison, recalls the surface rhythm of measures 1–2;
moreover, the appearance of the subject simultaneously in its original and
inverted forms constitutes a summary of sorts of the thematic process through
measure 48. Note that in measure 75 (the subject’s first half) quarter-note dis-
placement is strongly suggested; in measure 76 (the subject’s second half) the
diminished-seventh chord’s resolution on the second eighth-note of the mea-
sure suggests eighth-note displacement. It is interesting that Brahms’s articula-
tion in measure 76 supports the notated meter. This is given further support in
measure 77, where the harmony changes (with a sforzando) on the downbeat.
However, the altered restatement of the subject in measures 77–78 prevents
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Example 8.11. Handel Variations: (a) mm. 44–47; (b) grouping analysis of
mm. 44–46
the meter from stabilizing until two measures later (m. 79), from which point
harmonic changes consistently correlate with the meter as notated.
The climactic pedal-point passage beginning in measure 82 (ex. 8.14a)
seems to announce that metric stability has at long last been attained. The
notated meter, holding steady since measure 79, is now supported by a strong-
weak pattern of descending octave leaps in the right hand. However, metric sta-
bility does not last for long. As soon as the subject’s first half enters in measure
83, the effect of quarter-note displacement recurs; indeed, the strong-weak pat-
tern of descending octave leaps in the right hand yields to the subject’s metric
implications and becomes an ascending pattern, displaced to the second and
fourth beats of the measure. The notated meter is reconfirmed in measure 87,
and once again in measure 91, which are important harmonic and textural
points of articulation (ex. 8.14b); this confirmation only enhances the sense of
metric conflict.
The downbeat of measure 94 (ex. 8.15a) is another important harmonic
and textural point of articulation: the prolonged dominant finally resolves to
tonic, albeit in second inversion and with an added flattened seventh (A♭).
Brahms deliberately avoids a B♭ bass on the downbeat of measure 94. As
Schenker notes, he wants the left hand to outline the subject in inversion
(F–E♭–D–C) in measures 94–95.17 Brahms may also have wanted to reserve
the low B♭ for the fortissimo bass entry in measure 96. In example 8.15b, a
voice-leading sketch of measures 94–95, B♭ is added as an implied bass on the
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Example 8.12. Handel Variations: (a) mm. 66–74; (b) earlier version of mm. 72–74
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Example 8.13. Handel Variations, mm. 75–82.
downbeat of measure 94; the implied B♭ continues to C in measure 95, which

continues in turn through D to E♭ in measure 96. Thus the incomplete subject
entry in measure 96 is nested within the enlarged statement of the ascending
fourth idea. From the rhythmic point of view there exists a particularly strong
sense of quarter-note displacement in measures 96–97. This is due, of course,
to the syncopated chords of mm. 94–96; however, the lack of harmonic support
for the subject’s B♭s in measure 96 is also significant, for the subject’s first and
third tones seem subservient to the second and fourth, rather than the other way
around. Although the subsequent sequence, measures 98–99 (ex. 8.15a), does
eventually restore metric stability (mm. 100–103), tension between the notated
and displaced downbeats persists through measure 103, due to the continued
presence of the rhythm of the subject’s first half.
Finally, in the brief coda (mm. 104–9), Brahms introduces a remarkable
rhythmic twist: he displaces the subject’s first half from its original notated metric
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Example 8.14. Handel Variations: (a) mm. 82–84; (b) mm. 86–88 and 90–92
position (ex. 8.16). It is hardly an accident that two rhythmic displacements

occur: a quarter-note displacement (mm. 104–5) and an eighth-note one (mm.
106–7). These two displacements correspond, of course, to those implicit
within the subject, as initially discussed (see ex. 8.2 above).
Since the quarter-note and eighth-note displacements no longer conflict
with the notated meter, one may say that in the coda the metric conflicts inher-
ent in the fugue’s subject are resolved, or at any rate dissolved. Quite possibly
the coda thus fulfills a symbolic role in the cycle as a whole. As noted above,
an unusual rhythmic situation prevails in this fugue, as the subject’s notated
metric interpretation derives primarily from an association with an “external”
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Example 8.15. Handel Variations: (a) mm. 93–104; (b) voice-leading sketch of
mm. 94–96
source (Handel’s theme). It follows that, in shifting the subject’s opening

rhythmic figure from its original notated position, Brahms relinquishes in
the coda an important relationship between the fugue’s subject and Handel’s
theme. That Brahms loosens the connection with his Baroque model as the
composition draws to an end is of course wholly appropriate; perhaps this is
even his way of suggesting that, as far as he is concerned, the compositional
resources inherent in Handel’s aria have been fully tapped.
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From an eighteenth-century perspective, Brahms has in a sense inverted

the fugal practice of rhythmic displacement. Unlike traditional displace-
ment, where the subject is shifted from its original notated metric position, in
Brahms’s fugue an effect of rhythmic displacement is created while the subject
maintains its original notated position. Moreover, when Brahms does eventu-
ally shift the subject (or at least the subject’s opening motif) from its original
notated position, as in the coda, reconciliation with the notated meter, rather
than conflict, results. No less innovative from an eighteenth-century perspec-
tive is the logic and persistency with which the issue of rhythmic displacement
is pursued in the fugue, practically from beginning to end. In particular, unlike
rhythmic displacement in the eighteenth century, which often (though by no
means always) may be described as a mere “notational accident,” the experi-
ence of rhythmic displacement in Brahms’s fugue is real and leaves a lasting
impression on performer and listener alike.
According to Imogen Fellinger, “In absorbing himself in earlier music and
the values it enshrined, . . . [Brahms] was able to reinterpret it in his own com-
positions with a new and individual spirit.”18 According to a well-known anec-
dote, Brahms performed the Handel Variations for Richard Wagner when they
met in early 1864; Wagner is reported to have responded with enthusiasm, and
to have complimented young Brahms for showing “what still may be done with
the old forms.”19 While it is doubtful that by “old forms” Wagner had in mind
rhythmic displacement in the fugue, the remark is nonetheless appropriate.
Brahms has certainly shown that a traditional device in a traditional form can
assume, in the hands of a great composer, a new and unexpected meaning.
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Notes
1. Among the studies that have altered our conception of rhythm in tonal
music, we note in particular Carl Schachter’s “Rhythm and Linear Analysis:
A Preliminary Study,” Music Forum 4 (1976): 281–334, “Rhythm and Linear
Analysis: Durational Reduction,” Music Forum 5 (1980): 197–232, and “Rhythm
and Linear Analysis: Aspects of Meter,” Music Forum 6, no. 1 (1987): 1–59;
William Rothstein’s “Rhythm and the Theory of Structural Levels” (PhD diss.,
Yale University, 1981), and his book Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York:
Schirmer, 1989); Fred Lerdahl and Ray Jackendoff’s A Generative Theory of
Tonal Music (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983); and Joel Lester’s The Rhythms
of Tonal Music (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1986).
2. For a more detailed consideration of the relation between tonal and rhyth-
mic structures see Eytan Agmon, “Music Theory as Cognitive Science: Some
Conceptual and Methodological Issues,” Music Perception 7, no. 3 (1990): 293–
306 (especially 299–306).
3. Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Handbuch bey dem Generalbasse und der Composition
(Berlin, 1755–60; facs. ed. Hildesheim: George Olms, 1974), 315. Example 8.1
corresponds to Marpurg’s Figures 123–25.
4. For a detailed discussion of half-measure displacement in the eighteenth cen-
tury see Floyd K. Grave, “Metrical Displacement and the Compound Measure
in Eighteenth-Century Theory and Practice,” Theoria 1 (1985): 25–60.
5. Marpurg, Handbuch, 300. Note that the example to which Marpurg refers (fig.
109a) is notated in cut time (two beats per measure, rather than four).
6. See, for example, Imogen Fellinger, “Brahms und die Musik vergangener
Epochen,” in Die Ausbreitung des Historismus über die Musik, ed. Walter Wiora
(Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1969), 147–63; Siegmund Helms, “Johannes Brahms
und Johann Sebastian Bach,” Bach-Jahrburch 57 (1971): 13–81; and Virginia
Hancock, Brahms’s Choral Compositions and His Library of Early Music (Ann
Arbor: UMI Press, 1983).
7. Hancock, Brahms’s Choral Composition, 75. See also Alfred Orel “Johannes
Brahms’ Musikbibliothek,” in Die Bibliothek von Johannes Brahms, by Kurt
Hoffman (Hamburg: Wagner, 1974), 159.
8. See, for example the fugues from the preludes and fugues in A minor (1856)
and G minor (1857) for organ; the second movement, “Verwirf mich nicht,”
from the motet Schaffe in mir, Gott, op. 29, no. 2, of which the third movement
probably originated in 1857; and the first movement “Warum ist das Licht
gegeben,” from the motet of that name, op. 74, no. 1, based on the Agnus Dei
from the Missa canonica of 1856.
9. Hancock, Brahms’s Choral Compositions, 85, 158–63 and passim.
10. Helms, “Johannes Brahms und Johann Sebastian Bach,” 73–74.
11. Beethoven, by comparison, has used the words “anderer Takt” to refer to
rhythmic displacement in the Kyrie Fugue of Mozart’s Requiem. See Bathia
Churgin, “Beethoven and Mozart’s Requiem: A New Connection,” Journal of
Musicology 5 (1987): 457–77.
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12. The five-note figure in Handel’s theme, and its recurrence in Brahms’s varia-
tion, is noted in Edwin Evans, Handbook to the Pianoforte Works of Johannes Brahms
(New York: Burt Franklin, 1912; rpt. New York: Lenox Hill, 1970), 144–50.
13. There are two autographs for Brahms’s op. 24. The first, dated September
1861, is available in facsimile together with autographs for opp. 23, 18, and
90 (New York: The Robert Owen Lehman Foundation, 1967); a second auto-
graph, undated, was the Stichvorlage prepared by Brahms for Breitkopf & Härtel
and is not yet available in a full facsimile edition. Example 8.7 is reprinted,
with permission, from the 1967 facsimile edition of the first autograph.
14. A “Principle of Inertia” (Gesetz der Trägheit), applied to the perception of har-
monic progressions, was proposed by Gottfried Weber in his Versuch einer geord-
neten Theorie der Tonsetzkunst (1817; rev. eds. 1824, 1832). See Elizabeth West
Marvin, “Tonpsychologie and Musikpsychologie: Historical Perspectives on the
Study of Music Perception,” Theoria 2 (1987): 59–84; Janna Saslaw, “Gottfried
Weber and Multiple Meaning,” Theoria 5 (1990/91): 74–103; Saslaw, “Gottfried
Weber’s Cognitive Theory of Harmonic Progression,” Studies in Music from the
University of Western Ontario 13 (1991): 121–44. Andrew Imbrie’s “conservative”
(as opposed to “radical”) mode of hearing a shift in metrical structure is essen-
tially Weber’s principle applied to the rhythmic domain. See Imbrie, “‘Extra’
Measures and Metrical Ambiguity in Beethoven,” in Beethoven Studies, ed. Alan
Tyson (New York: Norton, 1973), 45–66.
15. “In T. 45–46 ringe man, wie der Komponist, um den Ausgleich im Metrum,
. . . und gebe endlich im f der T. 47–48 gewissermassen der Freude über das
Gelingen glücklichen Ausdruck.” Heinrich Schenker, “Brahms: Variationen
und Fuge über ein Thema von Händel, op. 24,” Der Tonwille 8 (1924): 45.
16. The source for example 8.12b is the first autograph; see note 13 above.
17. Schenker, “Brahms: Variationen und Fuge,” 35.
18. Imogen Fellinger, “Brahms’s ‘Way’: A Composer’s Self-View,” in Brahms
2: Biographical, Documentary and Analytical Studies, ed. Michael Musgrave
19. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms 2 (Berlin, 1921; rpt. Tutzing: Hans Schneider,
1976), 117–18.
Murphy.indd 259 5/17/2018 2:08:47 AM

Chapter Nine
Durational Enharmonicism
and the Opening of Brahms’s
“Double Concerto”
Scott Murphy
At least three features are peculiar about the opening of Brahms’s Concerto
for Violin and Cello, op. 102. Example 9.1 provides a two-staff reduction of
the cello’s opening cadenza, plus the orchestral introduction that precedes it
and a couple of measures of orchestral music that follow it. Two of these three
peculiar features are found as prescriptions for the cello soloist’s entrance in
the fifth measure. One of these two is the relatively rare notation of a half-note
triplet. The other is the direction to play the music “in the style of a recita-
tive, but always in tempo,” which is remarkable for the apparent exclusivity of
its two constituent phrases. The first part of this chapter explores these pecu-
liarities a little further, and investigates how cellists, at least as portrayed in
multiple commercial recordings of the concerto, appear to respond to their
co-occurrence. The second part of this chapter explicates a third peculiarity,
which resides in the four-measure introduction and resists easy summary here.
It then combines this third feature with the first two, giving rise to one form
of what I will call “durational enharmonicism,” which in turn suggests one pos-
sible resolution to the paradox of an in-tempo recitative. The third part of this
chapter deals with theoretical ramifications of durational enharmonicism.
A biographical connection concludes the chapter. Clara Schumann
referred to this concerto as one of Versöhnungswerk or “reconciliation,” because
Brahms wrote it, at least in part, for Joseph Joachim, a distinguished violinist
and long-time friend, with whom he had fallen out of favor due to a rather
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Example 9.1. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, mm. 1–28, in reduction
Murphy.indd 261 5/17/2018 2:08:58 AM

262 ❧ chapter nine
unfortunate turn in the proceedings of Joachim’s divorce from his wife Amalie
(née Schneeweiss). This divorce arose from Joachim’s mistrust of Amalie, which
in turn arose from—as Brahms described it—Joachim’s absurd self-deceptions
regarding Amalie’s inclinations toward other men. Durational enharmonicism
can also perpetrate convincing deceptions, and in so doing conjure experi-
ences similar to those that Brahms claimed were vexing the work’s dedicatee.
Performing the “Third Notes” in the Fifth Measure
The prescription of a notated half-note triplet occurs in the cello’s first and
fourth measures (mm. 5 and 8) but then never again, in any part, in the con-
certo. Compared to many other notated durations, the duration of a “third
note,” as Henry Cowell preferred to call it, is scarce both in common-practice
music overall and in Brahms’s music in particular.1 From here on, I will use
“third note” to refer to the single duration, except in those cases where the
adjective might be misinterpreted as an ordinal. I will use “half-note triplet,”
as is customary, to refer to a series of three successive “third-note” durations.
Example 9.2 catalogues the six other instances of half-note triplets, or their
durational equivalents, in the music of Brahms (of which I am aware).2 (In
the case of the excerpts from opus 60 and opus 120, no. 1, a pulse of a half-
note-triplet frequency—as indicated by the durational annotations—is clearly
projected, even though it deviates from a visually or rhythmically undisguised
isochrony.) However, compared with these instances, the half-note triplets of
the concerto are particularly unusual because they are unaccompanied: no
onsets from another line are present to nudge a listener who is ignorant of, or
averse to, the score toward one certain durational understanding of the cello’s
entrance and away from another.
A second prescription is Brahms’s instruction to the cellist to play the music
“in the style of a recitative, but always in tempo.” I suspect that many musicians
would concur with Paul Mies’s conclusion that “this is odd because, with the
removal of the flexibility of tempo, the most important relationship with genu-
ine vocal recitative falls away.”3 To be sure, such a self-contradictory statement
enjoys some degree of precedent. First, this Italian instruction in Brahms’s
last orchestral work is nearly identical to a French instruction in Beethoven’s
last orchestral work: the cellos’ and double basses’ “selon le caractère d’un recita-
tive, mais in tempo” in the eighth measure of the fourth movement of his Ninth
Symphony. Second, performers routinely come across similarly contradictory
tempo indications in Brahms’s music, such as Allegro non troppo, ma con brio in
the last movement of his First Symphony, op. 68, and the first movements of
the string quintets opp. 88 and 111. However, at least in the case of the two
antithetical elements in Allegro non troppo, ma con brio, either “con brio” cancels
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durational enharmonicism ❧ 263
Example 9.2a. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms:

Serenade no. 1, op. 11, I, mm. 135–42, in reduction
or more finely adjusts “non troppo” within the single dimension of tempo,
or these two directives make their prescriptions within two different musical
dimensions; in this case, tempo and character.4 In spite of Mies’s caveat, is
either kind of reconciliation possible—or even preferable—for the two anti-
thetical elements in the Beethoven/Brahms directive?
The evidence of many recordings suggests not. Figure 9.1 summarizes the
cellist’s first three note durations in forty different recorded performances
ranging over eighty years, from Casals in 1929 to Capuçon during a live perfor-
mance at the BBC Proms in 2011. The diamond point represents the first dura-
tion, the square point the second, and the triangular point the third; these
recordings along the horizontal axis are ordered by the length of time of the
first note. However, these values are not absolute durations; rather, they are
relative to the tempo of the preceding orchestral introduction. Therefore, the
vertical axis is measured in fractions of measures with traditional musical nota-
tion rather than fractions of seconds. An × indicates the average duration of a
recording’s three notes.
This graph affords multiple observations. For example, the fact that the tri-
angular points en masse are generally higher than the other points represents
how cellists generally take a little more time on the third of the three notes, in
a delayed anticipation of the downbeat of the sixth measure. Allowing for this
delay, many performances do not seem to come even close to the isochrony—
the particular notated durations aside—that the score prescribes, as shown
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Example 9.2b. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms:
Variations on a Theme of Haydn, op. 56b, Finale, mm. 40–45
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Example 9.2c. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms: Piano
Quartet no. 3, op. 60, IV, mm. 161–65
Example 9.2d. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms:

Rhapsody, op. 79, no. 1, mm. 118–22
Example 9.2e. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms:

Clarinet Trio, op. 114, I, mm. 16–23
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Example 9.2f. Instances of half-note triplet pulses in the music of Brahms: Clarinet
Sonata no. 1, op. 120, no. 1, I, mm. 42–51
by how, in many sets of three vertically aligned points, the points in each set
are relatively far from one another. (Figure 9.1’s logarithmic vertical axis—by
which two of the same vertical distances represent the same rhythmic ratio, as
Western notation essentially notates pitch—permits such visual comparisons
regardless of absolute differences.)
Furthermore, only twenty-eight of these 120 durations fall within figure
9.1’s shaded band, which represents a generous 10 percent just noticeable
difference from the third-note duration. (The mottled band will be discussed
later.) And only seven of these twenty-eight durations, from recordings marked
with an asterisk, are the initial duration (the diamond point), whose primary
position establishes for a listener the measuring unit with which subsequent
timespans are gauged, and to which similar subsequent timespans are likely to
conform categorically.5
One could interpret the “in tempo” component from Brahms’s directive as
“in tempo rubato,” in which, to co-opt Fanny Davies’s observations of Brahms’s
own performance practice, one feels a fundamental rhythm underlying a con-
trasting surface rhythm.6 Within the purview of the cellist’s first four onsets, it
would be possible to achieve a tempo rubato by maintaining the whole-note
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Figure 9.1. Durations of first three cello notes (diamond, square, triangle) from
forty recordings of Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102. × represents the
average duration. Shaded and mottled bands indicate a 10% difference from a
triplet-half and dotted-quarter durations, respectively.
periodicity, that is, the downbeat pulse. Again employing a liberal 10 percent
just noticeable difference, seven of the forty recordings initially perpetuate
a whole-note pulse, as can be seen when the average duration (the ×) falls
within figure 9.1’s shaded band. Figure 9.1 marks each of these seven with a
dagger; four of these were already marked with an asterisk.
A great majority of the recordings remain unmarked with asterisk or dag-
ger, signifying that the average recorded cadenza opening is able to be heard
more as projecting “the style of a recitative” and less as projecting both “but
always in tempo” and the notated rhythm of a half-note triplet. These perfor-
mances, therefore, collectively appear to choose a more normative interpre-
tation befitting an instrumental recitative, complete with the personalized
fluidities and felicitous indeterminacies that a listener would expect from a
cadenza. This makes sense: the rhythms of spoken recitations tend to use
both less isochrony than music and, consequently, fewer commonplace rhyth-
mic patterns.7 An isolated third-note duration, given its relative rarity, would
help to meet the latter, but an accurately played measure-filling half-note
triplet might detract from the former. Perhaps overlooking the latter toward
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a concern about the former explains why a cellist’s standard approach to the
first four onsets of opus 102—if there is such a standard approach and if my
sampling reflects it—is to privilege “in modo d’un recitativo” over “ma sem-
pre in tempo.” Yet the third-note duration is not simply rare. In the context
of the concerto’s four-measure orchestral introduction, the third-note dura-
tions of the fifth measure, when played “in tempo,” are especially positioned
to invoke what I call “durational enharmonicism,” which may provide other
ways to achieve the style of a recitative.
The First Five Measures and Durational Enharmonicism
To prepare this engagement with durational enharmonicism, which has at its

core a tension between sight and sound, let us turn away from the notation of
Brahms’s score, and toward a particular performance of this score that, of the
forty surveyed, is one of the most faithful to Brahms’s half-note triplet in the
fifth measure: a 1964 recording of the concerto with Yehudi Menuhin, Mstislav
Rostropovich, and Sir Colin Davis leading the London Symphony Orchestra.
Although I will not be able to abstain from referencing notational labels com-
pletely (as disclosed by parenthetical interspersions, as well as continued ref-
erences to measure numbers), the deliberate act of closing the score keeps
the trappings of time signatures and traditional durational symbols at bay,
thus both facilitating a less biased interpretation of each moment’s metrical
potential and giving my notion of durational enharmonicism a better chance
to emerge.
The first five snapshots in figure 9.2 correspond to metric interpretations
of the first five measures of Brahms’s concerto. Rather than using images of
dotted quarter notes, triplet quarters, and the like, durations in seconds rep-
resent note lengths, rounded to the nearest tenth of a second: a serendipitous
2 percent change from the average durations of the LSO recording. (I will
refer to the sixth snapshot—figure 9.2f—only when citations of notated dura-
tions pick up again.) Each snapshot of figure 9.2 arranges its durations into a
two-dimensional grid, where durations in duple ratios fall along a southwest-to-
northeast axis and durations in triple ratios parallel a northwest-to-southeast
axis. In 2001, Justin London called this general design a Zeitnetz, a reference
to the Tonnetz, a two-dimensional arrangement of pitch classes that rose to
prominence in nineteenth-century Europe.8 The orientation of figure 9.2’s
axes matches that of Richard Cohn’s Zeitnetz-equivalent “ski-hill graphs,” pub-
lished around the same time as London’s.9 This orientation also allows, again
serendipitously, the meters of figure 9.2’s slideshow to move, Muybridge-like,
roughly from left to right.
Murphy.indd 268 5/17/2018 2:09:41 AM

!

$ $ #

! !

$ # ! $ # !

"

!

# !

Figure 9.2. Zeitnetz interpretations of Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, mm.
1–5. Numbers indicate the number of seconds, rounded to the nearest tenth,
of Rostropovich’s recording from 1964. Enclosures include durations that are
metrical, or at least potentially metrical. Crossed-out numbers are not present, but
implicit or previously engaged: (a) first measure; (b) second measure; (c) third
measure; (d) fourth measure; (e) fifth measure; (f) conservative (left triangle) and
radical (right triangle) hearings of m. 5+
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Figure 9.2a displays the two durations between adjacent onsets in the first
measure: the first is approximately 0.9 seconds (the dotted quarter note), and
the second around 0.3 seconds (the eighth note). Since the 0.9-second duration
occurs first, it has the projective potential—afforded to all initial durations—to
become a periodicity within the work’s primary meter—represented by figure
9.2a’s enclosure—perhaps in the manner of the recomposition of example 9.3.10
However, it does not; with its repetition of the opening three-note motif—modi-
fied in pitch but not in rhythm—the second measure initiates 1.2- and 2.4-second
(half- and whole-note) periodicities. As shown in figure 9.2b, these periodicities
further imply the inclusion of the 0.6-second duration (the quarter note) into
the prevailing metric grid, since it duply mediates between the 0.3- and 1.2-sec-
ond durations; the crossed-out number indicates this pulse’s absence during this
measure. This gives the listener the best candidate for a tactus thus far, although
it is not present on the surface of the music: the frequency of the implied 0.6-sec-
ond pulse is nestled snugly within the range (0.5–0.7 seconds) in which listeners
prefer to find music’s beat.11
However, the third measure, graphed in figure 9.2c, complicates metric
matters. It introduces the 0.4-second periodicity (the triplet quarter notes).
Not only does this create an indirect dissonance with the implied 0.6-second
pulse from the previous measure, but also it vies for the title of tactus.12 It may
be slightly quicker than what is preferred for a listener’s most referential pulse,
but, thus far, it is the pulse closest to this range with constant reinforcement,
in stark contrast to a beat that has, up to now, only existed by implication. The
third measure presents a fork in the road of metric perception: to adopt well-
established language by Andrew Imbrie, the listener could either “conserva-
tively” cling to the 0.6-second tactus, or “radically” defect to the 0.4-second
tactus.13 But, in this case, Imbrie’s terms belie the viability of either option: it
seems hardly radical to replace an implied tactus with one that has perpetual
material support.
As illustrated in figure 9.2d, the 0.6-second pulse materializes for the first
time in the fourth measure, turning the third measure’s metric dissonance
from indirect to direct. But, of the two incompatible periodicities of 0.4 and
0.6 seconds in this direct dissonance, which is “the dissonant one”? With dura-
tions as well as pitches, the qualifier “dissonant” can be applied to individual
frequencies as well as to ratios, but only within a context. If one follows the
“conservative” branch of the fork in the third measure, then the 0.4-second
pulse is the dissonant one, and the disparateness of this pulse becomes even
more tangible. If, however, one follows the “radical” branch of the fork—that
is, one changes from a 0.6-second tactus in measure 2 to a 0.4-second tactus in
measure 3—then the 0.6-second pulse is the dissonant one in the fourth mea-
sure. This gives rise to an unusual situation, which Douglas Hofstadter might
call a compact instance of a “strange loop”: the 0.6-second periodicity, which
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Example 9.3. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, recomposition of mm. 1–4.
is now outside the metric grid and grating against it, served as the most pri-
mary pulse merely two measures earlier!14 Arithmetic dictates that these two
periodicities must be equivalent: the 3/2 increase in tactus speed into measure
3 should be negated by the 2/3 direct hemiola set against this new tactus in
measure 4. Yet, owing to a change in metric orientation, these two periodicities
are perceived as no more equivalent to another as the tonic triad is equivalent
to the subdominant triad ensconced within the dominant key.
To summarize: Brahms’s fifth measure may be peculiar, for aforementioned
reasons, but the four measures that precede it are also peculiar through their
compressed surfeit of conflicting metrical options. Seldom does one find at
the very beginning of a common-practice musical work by even such a notori-
ously metrically elaborate composer as Brahms such a wide array of potential
but incompatible metrical pulses in such a short span of time. Furthermore,
the experience of a tactus in the fourth measure, and, by extension, the
entire experience of meter at this point, is unusually convertible, as if it were
designed to make the two possible tactus periodicities almost equally optional,
while not simultaneously optional. In this it is not unlike psychology’s rabbit-
duck illusion, of which one version is provided at http://mathword.wolfram.
com/Rabbit-DuckIllusion.html.
The orchestral introduction’s peculiarity sets the stage for various enact-
ments of the aforementioned oddities of the fifth measure. Figure 9.2e repre-
sents approximations of Rostropovich’s first three durations not with points but
with lines, because they represent a collection of metric possibilities. A point
on the line that comes close to a point on the Zeitnetz represents a probable
durational interpretation: a durational categorical perception. With regards to
previously experienced potential pulses, the lines, especially the one represent-
ing the cello’s first note, appear to come closest to the 0.9-second duration—
the first span of the music. Hence, in this recording, the first duration in the
orchestra and the first duration in the cello are categorically, prototypically,
the same.15 However, the cello’s durations also come close to a duration that
has not been heard between adjacent onsets, let alone been made metrical,
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but is only one vertex away on the current Zeitnetz: 0.8 seconds. This graphical
proximity reflects the fact that it can be readily measured in terms of what has
already been heard, even though it has not been heard itself.
Through conducting, singing, or both, I invite the reader to hear and
experience in these two considerably different ways Rostropovich’s first three
durations in general, or at least his first duration in particular, which, in terms
of pure durational quantity, is the one of the three to most clearly come in
between 0.8 and 0.9 seconds. The metrical intricacies and amenabilities of
Brahms’s introduction allow us to push this precariously balanced duration
one way or another off the fence, similar to how I can take the rabbit-duck
picture and encourage one of the two readings, by, for example, grafting
the ambiguous head onto the unambiguous body of a rabbit or a duck. As I
describe and then compare these two hearings, the peeks back at the score will
gradually become more frequent and less parenthetical, beginning in earnest
by replacing the numerical points of figure 9.2e with the durational symbols of
figure 9.2f.
First, the right side of figure 9.2f depicts an option provided by the “radi-
cal” hearing, which adopts in the third measure a 0.4-second tactus (a notated
quarter-note triplet) that is clearly grouped in threes into a 1.2-second pulse
(a notated half note), as shown by the solid line. Conducting a somewhat
brisk 3-pattern starting with the third measure and into the fourth, despite the
pulses dissonant against this, conveys this experience. In this metric context,
the cello’s entrance best fits a 0.8-second interpretation (a notated half-note
triplet). This goodness-of-fit is displayed on the right side of figure 9.2f by the
proximity of the 0.8-second pulse to the 0.4-second pulse with which is it conso-
nant, shown by the dashed line, and to the 1.2-second pulse with which it forms
a 3-against-2 grouping dissonance, shown by the dotted line.
Second, the left side of figure 9.2f depicts an option provided by the
“conservative” hearing, which adopts by the second measure, if not before,
a 0.6-second tactus (a notated quarter note) that is clearly divided in twos
into a 0.3-second pulse (a notated eighth note), as shown by the solid line.
Conducting a moderate 1-pattern in the arm with slight duple subdivisions in
the hand starting in the first or second measure and into the third and fourth,
despite the pulses dissonant against this, conveys this experience. In this metric
context, the cello’s entrance best fits the 0.9-second interpretation (a dotted
quarter note, which Brahms did not notate). This goodness-of-fit is displayed
on the left side of figure 9.2f by the proximity of the 0.9-second pulse to the
0.3-second pulse with which is it consonant, shown by the dashed line, and to
the 0.6-second pulse with which it forms a 3-against-2 grouping dissonance,
shown by the dotted line.
The triangles on the two sides of figure 9.2f are vertical mirror images of one
another, symbolizing the similarity of the two processes that lead to these two
Murphy.indd 272 5/17/2018 2:10:25 AM

interpretations, even if the two interpretations themselves are quite different.16

This symmetry also can be seen verbally in the parallel construction of my two
previous paragraphs. One important interferer of this symmetry is the 2.4-sec-
ond pulse (the whole note), which is the length of the common-time measure,
and which has been manifest and uncontested since it began with the second
downbeat. This pulse’s proximity to the triangle on the right side signifies that
attention to the downbeat pulse supports a duration of 0.8 seconds more than
0.9 seconds, because three of the former add up to the 2.4-second measure.
However, at least two factors mitigate this interference. First, a hearing “in
the moment” of the cello’s first duration as a dotted quarter note makes no stip-
ulations for this duration’s isochrony. In line with this, if one returns to all forty
of the recordings mentioned above, fifteen of the recorded cadenzas begin
with a duration that is at most 10 percent away from a dotted-quarter duration,
represented in figure 9.1 by the number of diamond points in the mottled
band. This is more than twice the number of cello entrances that begin with a
duration that is at most 10 percent away from a third-note duration.17 Second,
cadenzas and recitatives routinely omit barlines, perhaps more often than in
any other type of common-practice music, in part to reflect less support for
consistent pulses slower than the tactus. A focus on submetrical discrepancies
with less concern for how they impact metrical discrepancies particularly befits
music playing a double role of cadenza and instrumental recitative.
To be sure, in the fifth measure, Brahms wrote third-note durations and
not dotted-quarter durations. Knowledge of the score unquestionably permits
a kind of disambiguation of the complexity I have sown, and this knowledge
may even embolden some to say that a dotted-quarter interpretation of the
cello’s entrance is simply wrong. However, notational markers, even if they may
inform and bias our interpretation, should not prevent alternate interpreta-
tions, however short-lived, from becoming a part of the text, especially when
a distinctive context makes such alternate interpretations viable and perhaps
even preferable. Musicians negotiate this territory rather often in the realm of
pitch enharmonicism. In an important exploration on this subject by Daniel
Harrison, he submits that an enharmonic event may “occur without its being
notated” or “be notated without being heard.18 I propose that, with prudence,
this language may apply to special cases involving duration as well as pitch.
An enharmonic investigation of the cello’s first chromatic event in the
concerto—the downbeat of measure 6—provides a particularly appropriate
pitch analogy for the durational ambiguity in measure 5. Notated as D♯, this
pitch class earlier sounds in measure 3 as part of a sharpward turn toward the
double dominant. The orchestral introduction then moves progressively flat-
ward through dominant, tonic, and subdominant functions. The Knüpftechnik
of the cello’s entrance not only motivically links the beginning of the cello
cadenza with the ending of the orchestra’s music (D–E–F), but also continues
Murphy.indd 273 5/17/2018 2:10:25 AM

the subdominant function. Then the D♯ returns, now in the cello, in mea-
sure 6. If this D♯ were harmonically accompanied by other notes—as the D♯
in measures 9 and 10 is accompanied by B and A—then these other notes,
through pitch-based linkages of their own, would better communicate a nota-
tion of measure 6’s chromatic pitch as D♯. Analogously, if the cello’s first half-
note triplet in measure 5 were accompanied by a continuation of some pulse
from the first four measures, then this metric reference would better commu-
nicate a certain notation of measure 5’s durations. But neither occurs. Rather,
the monophony of measure 5, and that of the downbeat of measure 6, each
enable a significant degree of durational and pitch enharmony, respectively,
accommodating both “conservative” and “radical” hearings. It is unsurprising,
therefore, that this particular type of enharmonic game is played out during
a cadenza, one of the few types of common-practice music of significant dura-
tion easily justified as monophonic.
With regards to pitch, a conservative hearing of measure 6 could default
to what was established at the outset: the opening’s standing on the dominant
and pitch-class-3’s clear harmonic role as leading tone to that dominant; that
is, D♯. The cello’s continuation to E as the bass of the weak arrival 46 endorses
this conservative hearing, and vindicates its notation. A radical hearing could
attend both to the foreground flatward progression and the cello’s immedi-
ately preceding F, and prefer a diatonic interval—that is, a relatively simple
ratio—from this note, thus hearing an E♭ and potential continuations either
like the recomposition in example 9.4a, or the more daring recomposition of
example 9.4b. Although what follows in Brahms’s music declines the E♭ in
favor of the D♯, the E♭ interpretation is nonetheless reasonable during this
note’s timespan—which has been the longest sustained timespan heretofore—
just as any augmented-sixth chord, particularly a relatively protracted one, has
the potential to function as a dominant seventh chord, even though it may not
activate this potential.19
With regards to duration, a radical hearing could attend to the dotted-
to-tripleted progression—that is, roughly left to right in figure 9.2—and the
immediately preceding quarter-note triplets and desire a simple ratio from this
pulse, thus hearing Rostropovich’s first duration as a third note. A conservative
hearing of measure 5 could return to what was established at the outset—the
opening two measures’ use of dotted durations, implied eighth-note subdivi-
sions, and the absence of tripleted durations—and hear Rostropovich’s first
duration as categorically equivalent to Davis’s first duration: a dotted quarter
note. But, more so than in the aforementioned pitch scenario, one’s chosen
hearing—whether radical or conservative—has a good chance of persisting
into one or more of Rostropovich’s ensuing onsets, as his durations are nearly
the same.
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Example 9.4a. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, recompositions of
mm. 5–9
More and more, I have been liberally referring to notated duration during
this analysis, even though, at the outset of this section, I invited the reader to
“turn away from the score” with me. How can I claim that a radical listener
incognizant of Brahms’s score will nonetheless have an experience of half note
triplets in the fifth measure of this recording? For this purpose in particular,
and to explore connections between pitch and durational enharmonicism in
general, I find an analogy between the flat-sharp pair and the dot-triplet pair
useful. Figure 9.3 shows how a rotation ninety degrees clockwise of a judiciously
chosen portion of the Tonnetz in a recent orientation, when compared to a por-
tion of a Zeitnetz, brings these analogous pairs into visual alignment, although,
in doing so, I am not necessarily advocating one mapping over the other.20
Both elements in each pair are inverses of one another: the flat or sharp low-
ers or raises a pitch a semitone, respectively; the dot or triplet increases or
decreases a duration by a factor of 1.5 respectively. Both modify a basic set of
notational signifiers, around seven in each set, which represent quantities that
are generated and serially ordered by a single ratio: notationally unmodified
durations (𝅘𝅥𝅰𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥 𝅗𝅥 𝅝, perhaps more or less, depending upon the work) ordered
by duple ratios and notationally unmodified pitch classes (FCGDAEB, perhaps
more or less, depending upon the work and one’s language) ordered by per-
fect fifths. In common-practice music, the frequency in which these modifiers
are singly applied is typically distributed unevenly over both series: 𝅗𝅥. is more
common than 3 𝅗𝅥, 3 𝅘𝅥𝅯 is more common than 𝅘𝅥𝅯. (at least as a periodicity), E♭ is
more common than E♯, and C♯ is more common than C♭. For all basic values
save perhaps one at the end of a series, a double application of one of these
modifiers, while extremely rare, creates the enharmonic equivalent of another
pitch or duration in the series immediately higher or lower in frequency:
C 𝄪 = D, and (𝅘𝅥.). ≈ 𝅗𝅥; C = D♭♭ and 𝅗𝅥 ≈ 3 (3 𝅝). I intend my parentheses to clarify
Murphy.indd 275 5/17/2018 2:10:36 AM

Figure 9.3. A comparison of Netze : (a) a portion of a Tonnetz; (b) a portion of

a Zeitnetz
the iterative application of a modifier, and, in particular, to distinguish nested

dots from the much more unexceptional double dots. I will claim the phrase
“twice dotted” for situations such as (𝅘𝅥.).; 𝅘𝅥.. remains double dotted.
This equivalence helps to establish a set of boundaries for the durational
equivalent of what Harrison has called “pressure zones,” which discourage a
multiply altered pitch from gaining considerable perceptual traction.21 Still,
within these zones—indeed, because of them—an absolute nominal and per-
ceptual distinction between flat and sharp can still arise. For example, no
matter to what key one transposes the concerto, the second melodic note in
measure 3 (the G♯ in Brahms’s original key of A minor), will both sound and
undoubtedly be notated as sharper, or less flat, than the first melodic note of
measure 2 (the C). This is due both to these two notes’ peripheral placement
within an expansive but still asymmetric distribution of the concerto’s opening
pitch classes along “the line of fifths” (C---D-A-E-B-F♯---G♯-D♯) and to brevity,
which removes any risk of a formal key change that invokes a cosmetic enhar-
monic shift.22 Moreover, one could wager with reasonable confidence that, for
any randomly chosen key, the second melodic note of measure 3 uses at least
one sharp, given how few and increasingly rare the key signatures that would
withhold it are: three flats, four flats, five flats, and apprehensively so on.
Sharper and flatter, or less flat and less sharp, on the Tonnetz analogously cor-
respond with more tripleted or more dotted, or less dotted and less tripleted,
(or vice versa) on the Zeitnetz. As depicted in figure 9.2f, the first four mea-
sures of the concerto durationally cover a lot of northwest-to-southeast (that is,
dotted-to-tripleted) ground on the Zeitnetz. The 3:2 ratio from a 0.9-second first
duration to the 0.6-second tactus obliges the former to be more dotted than
the latter, and the 2:3 ratio from the 0.4-second durations of the third measure
to the 0.6-second tactus obliges the former to be more tripleted than the latter.
When these two ratios chain together, their endpoints barely squeeze into the
available notational space between the pressure zones of “twice dotted” and
“twice tripleted”; therefore, the 0.9-, 0.6-, and 0.4-second durations best fit the
notations of dotted, unmodified, and tripleted, respectively, independent of
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what the base durational notation may be. It is still technically possible for the
music’s notation to push up particularly against the “twice dotted” pressure
zone, but this requires a rare time signature with 12 or 24 above and 16 (or,
less likely, 32) below as in example 9.5. (𝅘𝅥. 𝅘𝅥𝅮. = (𝅘𝅥.).) This matches my refer-
)
ence to rare key signatures in the previous paragraph. The notation of the rad-
ical listener’s interpretation of the first cello’s duration would therefore be an
unmodified value. But far more likely for the radical listener is an interpreta-
tion of the cello’s first duration as tripleted. Coupled with the sensible assump-
tion that the unmodified tactus from the first two measures is a quarter note,
this interpretation leads to a radical listener’s inference that Rostropovich’s
first duration is a third note. (Other tactus durations are, of course, conceiv-
able; for example, a tactus of a half note would lead to a whole-note triplet.
However, each possibility suggests a work of a certain tempo and character for
which the resulting tripleted duration would be no less rare.)
I hope this long, technical argument certifies that my initial fervor about
the rarity of Brahms’s first prescription—the notation of a half-note triplet in
measure 5—is not yet another example of a naïve music theorist misguidedly
substituting notation for perception. In the context of Brahms’s quick perme-
ation of Zeitnetz space inside its pressure zones, and for a radical hearing of a
notationally faithful, “in tempo” performance, the notation of a rare triplet can
well represent the temporal experience. Thus, a notationally literate hearer with-
out knowledge of the cellist’s notated durations—for example, a performer in
the orchestra—can then well apperceive the peculiarity of the cello entrance’s
durations. However, for a conservative listener, who could more easily opt for a
dotted-quarter duration over the third-note duration, the fifth measure is no less
peculiar. In a conservative hearing of a notationally faithful, “in tempo” perfor-
mance, the dotted-quarter durations—perceived stand-ins for the notated third
notes—repeat, constituting a pulse. While dotted-duration pulses inhere in
compound time signatures, they are unusual in pure duple time signatures like
4
4; while a 3-against-8 metric dissonance occurs sporadically in Brahms’s music,
it never occurs monophonically without subdivision.23 Further defamiliarizing
this interpretation is its anachronistic kinship with certain idiomatic metric dis-
sonances of twentieth-century American popular music.24
For one caught in conscious or unconscious acts of counting, experiencing
the performance of other durations besides those Brahms specified (or, as I’ve
argued, their enharmonic equivalents) could result in remarkable encounters
with this music, and the experience of dramatic durational shifts as reflecting
“in modo d’un recitativo” is arguably one such encounter. In work that stud-
ies how some twentieth-century cellists approach, sometimes rather extrava-
gantly, other choice moments in Brahms, Roger Moseley concludes that there
lie in wait “inexhaustible riches of his music by ‘playing Brahms’ in ways that
the venerable composer could not have anticipated.”25 But, if the set of forty
recordings I have surveyed for this research serves, albeit far from perfectly, as
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Example 9.5. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, recomposition of mm. 1–8
representative of a general twentieth-century performance practice of the cel-

lo’s entrance, then I believe that still lying in wait are some relatively untapped
riches that come from playing Brahms in a way that the venerable composer
actually prescribed.
On the one hand, this is well-worn and oft-repeated advice when it comes
to Brahms: his scores “dictate aspects of temporal flow that typically fall in the
hands of the performer.”26 On the other hand, my analysis of the fifth mea-
sure of the Double Concerto suggests that this is a special case of this dictum.
Interpreting the durations of the fifth measure as straddling a durational-
enharmonic fence comports with the indeterminacies and variability called for
in a recitative, but on a different level from what we might initially expect.
The rhythms of ordinary speech eschew not only the constancies of periodic-
ity, but also the constancies of notation: orators do not typically rehearse or
perform their art using musico-durational symbols. Even from one talk to the
“same” talk later, we expect this sameness to adhere more to the syllables and
words themselves and less to the way they precisely divide time. Likewise, the
enharmonically “same” playings of the concerto’s fifth measure, each “ma sem-
pre in tempo,” can be heard and interpreted in durationally divergent ways:
one tripleted, the other dotted, each atypical as a pulse but still rational and
mensural, yet, in relation to one another, each signifying a very different tem-
poral experience. This music can sound “in modo d’un recitativo” not only
because of a temporal variability heard among the notes of a single rubato-
indulgent performance, but also because of a temporal variability among dif-
ferent hearings of multiple “in tempo” performances, or, courtesy of recording
technology, of even the same “in tempo” performance, like Rostropovich’s
Murphy.indd 278 5/17/2018 2:10:55 AM

1964 recording. This last option is one that Brahms, who himself did not make
a recording until two years after composing this concerto, may well not have
anticipated, but seems quite relevant ex post facto in this era of the musical
recording as the dominant listening medium.
Ramifications
The notion of durational enharmonicism brings a set of consequences and

opportunities to contemporary music theory and composition, and also affords
different, perhaps fresh, experiences of other portions of the cello cadenza.
In the realm of pitch, the late twentieth-century invocation of equal tempera-
ment and enharmonic equivalence upon the nineteenth century’s just-tuned
Tonnetz wreaked a topological metamorphosis, transforming this network of
pitch classes connected by thirds and fifths from an infinite two-dimensional
plane into a finite four-dimensional torus.27 In part, this increase in dimen-
sionality persuaded Justin London, in the aforementioned article that unveiled
his Zeitnetz and coined this term, to cast suspicion over analogies between pitch
and time, because the appreciable difference in the number of dimensions of
their respective underlying spaces renders them incommensurable.
Using only a planar portion of the toroidal Tonnetz offers one way around this
incommensurability, as various analyses that propose mappings between pitch
and time networks have done.28 But another way, at least a partial one, around it
is to invoke durational enharmonic equivalence on the Zeitnetz. Each tuning sys-
tem has its commas: intervals near unison—numerically, ratios close to 1—that
represent the difference between two pitch spans each generated using intervals
fundamental to the system. For example, the syntonic comma 81:80 (1.0125) is
the difference between four pure perfect fifths and a pure major seventeenth
(two octaves and a pure major third); tempering the syntonic comma to uni-
son adds one of the two extra dimensions that distinguishes the equal-tempered
toroidal Tonnetz from the just-tuned planar Tonnetz. The other dimension comes
from tempering the Pythagorean comma, the difference between seven octaves
and twelve pure perfect fifths, which also creates enharmonic equivalence. The
durational comma in my Brahms analysis is 9:8 (1.125), which is the difference
between any duration and half of this duration twice dotted (or double the dura-
tion twice tripleted), or, equally, the difference between the two durational inter-
pretations of the cellist’s entrance I have proposed: Brahms’s notated third note
and an unnotated dotted quarter note.29
When tempering the 9:8 durational ratio to enharmonic equivalence, the
planar Zeitnetz curls into a narrow cylinder, as shown in figure 9.4: not quite the
four dimensions of a torus, but more than the two dimensions of a plane. Here
the Zeitnetz has been turned 60 degrees from my previous orientations, such
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Figure 9.4. A cylindrical Zeitnetz. Numerals refer to measure numbers in which the
duration is potentially metrical.
that duple ratios connect durations that are side by side, and triple ratios con-
nect durations that above or below one another. This graph reflects enhar-
monic equivalence in two ways. First, equivalent durations occupy the same
node, like the dotted quarter note and the third note of the concerto’s first
and fifth measures.30 Second, triple ratios in the form of spline curves con-
nect the top and bottom parts of the Zeitnetz. From the right side of figure
9.4’s cylinder looking in, a “tripletward” (analogous to “sharpward”) trajectory
is clockwise, and a “dotward” (analogous to “flatward”) trajectory proceeds
counterclockwise. Arabic numerals represent the measures in Brahms’s con-
certo when a certain duration’s metric potential is either actualized as a pulse
or at least not denied by pulses, if any, that precede it. A single node represents
durations in both measure 1 and measure 5. To simulate the concerto’s open-
ing, one moves away from this node and through the Zeitnetz by following the
numbers in sequence, as directed by the larger arrows. In the first four mea-
sures, the progression begins unambiguously with two tripletward (or, equiva-
lently, less dotward) moves: first from the dotted quarter to a set of unmodified
durations, then around the “Bering Strait” part of the cylindrical Zeitnetz to the
triplet quarter. However, to connect to measure 5, either one moves, now in a
dotward direction, backward through the path of larger arrows (as facilitated
by the conservative hearing and the return of quarter notes in measure 4) or
one completes the cylinder’s full circle by following the smaller arrow (as facili-
tated by the radical hearing).
However, “full circle” is perhaps a misnomer, as demonstrated through an
analogy with the pitches used for the first four measures of the cellist’s next
entrance in the concerto, as shown in example 9.6. A♭ and G♯ may be equiva-
lent pitches under equal temperament in this music, but they are kept distinct
through respective sequestration within the dominant chord (E major) of the
main key (A minor), and the borrowed subdominant chord (F minor) of the
main key’s relative major (C major).31 Likewise, the dotted quarter of measure
1 and the third notes of measure 5 are kept distinct. The generally smooth,
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Example 9.6. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, mm. 112–15
generally tripletward, durational progression of 𝅘𝅥. -𝅘𝅥𝅮 - 𝅘𝅥 - 𝅗𝅥 - 3 𝅘𝅥 - 3 𝅗𝅥 during the first

five measures keeps separate the two enharmonically equivalent durations at
its endpoints not only by interposing a series of durations but also by toniciz-
ing these intervening durations—the 𝅘𝅥 and 𝅗𝅥 durations are vital to Brahms’s
time signature—and notating the entire passage safely inside pressure zones. If
the performer holds onto the quarter-note tactus during the fifth measure and
retreats dotward back toward this tactus after playing the half-note triplet, the
music has not truly come full circle.
While this is both sensible and proper, there is another way to perform and
hear this measure, one that takes its inspiration from pitch. Example 9.7 pro-
vides a reduction of some music from the retransition of the concerto’s first
movement, a progression now famous in music-theoretic circles as the locus
classicus of a “maximally smooth cycle.” One begins the cycle with a tonicized
harmony—A-flat major—and ends with a dominantized harmony—E major,
and the smooth harmonic progression treks incessantly flatward instead of
sharpward, quickly exiting the safe area demarcated by pressure zones and
requiring enharmonic renotation to allow re-entry. In this scenario, any dis-
tinction between A♭ and G♯, although ultimately related by consonant major-
third intervals as in the previous scenario, is much more precarious.
The durational analogue for this scenario is accomplished by dividing one
or more of the cello’s third notes in measure 5 not into two parts, to which a
radical hearing would default, but into three parts, into “ninth notes.” This
technically encroaches upon a durational pressure zone, as this subdivision
uses a twice tripleted duration. Just as importantly, this hearing summons the
enharmonic equivalent of a duration that not only was heard in the opening
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Example 9.7. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, mm. 270–78, in reduction
without soloists
two measures but was also implicitly periodic, metric, and thus referential in
the opening two measures: the eighth note, a duration enharmonically equiva-
lent to a third of a third note, using the 9:8 comma.
This may strike the reader as excessively fanciful. However, eighth notes
dominate the cadenza’s next two measures. I submit that a listener to a perfor-
mance of this cadenza “ma sempre in tempo” could hear the notated eighth
notes of measures 6–7 just as easily as ninth notes than as eighth notes. A con-
servative performer or hearer who clings to the opening quarter-note tactus
and uses a triple subdivision of this tactus to play the half-note triplet (the stan-
dard instruction for the performance of this rhythm) will need to convert the
tactus subdivision from triple to duple to play the notated eighth notes. The
radical performance or hearing that leads to unnotated ninth notes requires
no greater of a conversion: the quarter note triplet tactus, initially duply divided,
is then triply divided at some point after the downbeat of measure 5 to set up
ninth notes in the next two measures.
In other situations, surface-level groupings of this pulse might bias the lis-
tener toward one enharmonic equivalent or another: gather these relatively
quick notes in threes and they make more sense as ninth notes, gather them
in twos or fours and they make more sense as eighth notes. However, such
groupings are noticeably absent, and almost seem suppressed: the notes sim-
ply arpeggiate upward, one note per bow, without any harmonic change. If
^ ^ ^
anything, only with the ninth-note hearing would the recurring 1– 3–5 pattern
in this arpeggio would occur at the same frequency as the durations in mea-
sure 5. Furthermore, the D♯ beforehand is five notated eighth notes long. Not
only does this length in general further strain a precise comparison between the
preceding notated third notes and subsequent notated eighth notes, but also its
particular duration is the shortest that is coprime with 2 or 3. This means that
the onset following the D♯ is unbiased between the two options offered above.
This lack of strong partiality toward one durational interpretation or
another produces yet another kind of enharmonic scenario. Up to this point,
the scenarios in both pitch and duration have in common a general smooth-
ness as chords (sets of mutually consonant pitches) or meters (sets of mutually
consonant pulses) progress from one to the next, displaying a preponderance
Murphy.indd 282 5/17/2018 2:12:19 AM

of mutually common elements between adjacent sets. A maximally smooth

cycle, with its incremental pitch turnover, epitomizes this gradualism in pitch.
The sharing of 𝅗𝅥 and 𝅝 pulses between the different meters of measures 2 and
3 in Brahms’s concerto demonstrates this gradualism in duration. A series of
smooth relationships can slowly but inexorably lead to an inevitable enhar-
monic reckoning: some frequency is considerably more flat, sharp, dotted,
or tripleted than some other frequency, and yet the two are equivalent. But
enharmonicism can also be discretionary or fickle: a disjunctive relationship
between two frequencies or sets of frequencies leaves an orthographic or per-
ceptual choice between two options relatively equal and underdetermined.32
In terms of pitch, a good example is an unaccompanied tritone where one
note is white (that is, unmodified by accidental) and the other black (that is,
modified by accidental): outside of a clear context, either flat or sharp on the
black note will do. Another example is a chromatic scale, of which musicians
tolerate a great deal of variety in the spelling.
In terms of duration, the rhythmic and metric design of Brahms’s cello
cadenza permits an abundance of this fickle kind of enharmonicism. Example
9.8 shows five more junctures in the cadenza, in addition to that preceding
fifth measure, at which I believe a durational enharmonic shift of the fickle
type is feasible, although some more feasible than others. Each of these junc-
tures stands between an unmodified duration and a modified duration, like the
chromatic scale’s white and black notes. Moreover, there are very few, if any,
common supported periodicities between the meters on either side of each
juncture, resulting in a disjuncture. For example, Juncture #2, between mea-
sures 5 and 6, follows supported periodicities of 3 𝅗𝅥 and 𝅝, and precedes music
that supports 𝅘𝅥𝅮 but neither 3 𝅗𝅥 and 𝅝; the undifferentiated arpeggio sees to the
latter. Each juncture is designated in example 9.8 by a “metric modulation”
that replaces tripleted note values with dotted note values, or vice versa, effect-
ing a 9:8 or 8:9 alteration. In the chromatic-scale analogy, this is the equivalent
to rewriting a sharped pitch as a flatted pitch, or vice versa.33
To opt out of every metric modulation indicated at each of these junctures
would mean to perform and experience the cadenza as written. But, the dis-
junction of these junctures means that opting out is minimally less, no less, or
even more conceptually taxing than opting in. An “in tempo” performance or
perception of the notated durations requires mentally changing the subdivi-
sion of the quarter note pulse between duple or triple, or perhaps also the
subdivision of the half note pulse between triple and quadruple, at each of
these six junctures. Such submetric shifts are complicated by the cadenza’s
complete shunning of these referential quarter-note and half-note durations
before measure 19, which also throws into sharp relief their prevalence in the
concerto’s second theme, foreshadowed by the orchestra immediately after the
cello cadenza, as shown in examples 9.1 and 9.8.
Murphy.indd 283 5/17/2018 2:12:26 AM

Example 9.8. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, mm. 1–28, in reduction,
with six metric–modulatory junctures
Murphy.indd 284 5/17/2018 2:12:26 AM

To opt in to every indicated metric modulation is not as extravagant as one

might initially think: because each modulation undoes each adjacent modu-
lation, the result of a complete “opt-in” is a simple replacement of the third
notes with dotted quarter notes, and the “sixth notes” with dotted eighth
notes, as in the renotation of the cadenza in example 9.9. In a chromatic scale
written entirely with sharps, this would be like replacing all of the “black notes”
with their flatted enharmonic equivalents: the unmodified notes remain
unchanged. This replacement makes the metric modulation from measure 7
to measure 8 considerably more straightforward than that into measure 5: the
earlier transition requires a tight conservative grip on the eighth-note pulse
from measures 1–2, whereas the later transition is spoon-fed eighth notes from
measure 7.
With metric modulations placed at six junctures, each of which may be
potentially opted into or out of, there are theoretically 32 (26) possible dura-
tional understandings of this cadenza; perhaps more or less if one includes,
or excludes from, this set of six certain junctures one finds persuasive or tenu-
ous.34 These 32 options are visualized in figure 9.5. On the left of figure 9.5 is a
compression of the planar Zeitnetz excerpted in figure 9.2 from two dimensions
down to one, whereby all durations separated by some power of 2 cluster into
a single “duration class.” These duration classes, designated with a label like
“tripleted,” “twice dotted,” “unmodified,” have been abbreviated using the par-
enthetical form, and the stemless quarter represents all possible unmodified
durations.35 These duration classes are organized into a “line of triples,” math-
ematically equivalent to the “line of fifths” for pitch classes, to form the vertical
axis of figure 9.5’s graph. Its horizontal axis clusters timepoints of the opening
of the concerto into seven time spans; thus, each vertex in this two-dimensional
space is a particular duration-class interpretation of a certain time span relative
to a common-time opening of the work. The two lines extending diagonally to
the right from each vertex symbolize the two choices at each juncture: either
use the given notation (the solid line), or actualize the suggested metric modu-
lation (the dashed line). Each of the 32 left-to-right paths corresponds to one
of the 32 durational understandings of the cadenza mentioned earlier: the
path of continuous solid thick lines is as Brahms notated the music, the path of
continuous dashed thick lines represents example 9.9.
I encourage the reader to try a variety of these paths, first with a perfor-
mance that is sempre in tempo. Some are easier to perform than others. In gen-
eral, a path is easier to perform if all of it or a stretch of it stays along the same
horizontal stratum, because, although each juncture is locally disjunctive, a
relatively horizontal path is globally less disjunctive than one that is not. More
specifically, unvarying the eighth-note (or sixteenth-note) pulse and varying
the duple or triple grouping of this note leads one fairly smoothly along a con-
tinuous dashed-line portion of a path, while unvarying the quarter-note (or
Murphy.indd 285 5/17/2018 2:12:38 AM

Example 9.9. Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, I, renotation of mm. 1–17
half-note) pulse and varying the duple or triple subdivision of this note leads
one fairly smoothly along a continuous solid-line portion of a path.
Many of these paths use durations within pressure zones, shown in figure
9.5 with gradated shading; the two most audacious of them end with a sextuply
modified duration. In performance, one can feel the tug either of a tripletward
accelerando or a dotward ritardando when the path angles upward or downward
through a metric modulation, but these tempo changes can be tempered. This
temperament can also be reflected categorically, where the original notation
serves as an enharmonic stand-in for multiply modified durations. For exam-
ple, consider any path that begins with two tripletward motions, represented
as the two leftmost lines that hug the top side of figure 9.5b’s fan. (I find this
opening gambit considerably easier than starting with two dotted motions,
perhaps due in part to the orchestral introduction’s tripletward momentum,
which is not shown on figure 9.5b.) Conceptually switching the last one or
two third notes in measure 5 not only from doubly divided to triply divided,
but also from a third note to a dotted quarter note, allows the performer to
continue using the given notation. Here, the alteration of “more tripleted”
Murphy.indd 286 5/17/2018 2:12:38 AM

a. b.

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

Figure 9.5. (a) portion of a linear Zeitnetz; (b) possible paths through linear Zeitnetz
in Concerto for Violin and Cello, op. 102, mm. 1–26.
equates to “less dotted,” and one has come full circle back to unmodified dura-
tions. This circle, shown in figure 9.6, is the smallest Zeitnetz version of the four
used in this chapter, as it imposes both enharmonic equivalence on the linear
Zeitnetz of figure 9.6 and “octave” (2:1) equivalence on the cylindrical Zeitnetz
of figure 9.5, reducing the duration classes of the former down to two and flat-
tening the cylinder of the latter into a two-step toggle.
I also encourage the reader, who is divorced from the score, to try a variety
of these paths as a listener to a single sempre in tempo performance. The more
the performance is sempre in tempo, the more multiple paths from figure 9.5
are equally available as viable candidates for a durational understanding of the
performance. However, the performance does not have to be metronomically
rigid to accomplish this multivalence: clearly performed tempered ratios are
needed only at the junctures, whereas smooth changes in tempo between junc-
tures are welcome, and could temper changes in tempo that result from excur-
sions into pressure zones. But even with a sempre in tempo performance, some
paths, as symbolic of certain notational understandings, are easier to imag-
ine as representative of what is heard than others. Yet, in spite of this fact, my
larger point is that, while some paths are more far-fetched, some are quite rea-
sonable; for example, eight paths never enter the pressure zones, and several
Murphy.indd 287 5/17/2018 2:12:52 AM


Figure 9.6. A circular Zeitnetz.
paths parallel Brahms’s notation for part of their span. However, only one of
these paths bears the notational truth.
Fancies, Errors, and Imagination
The slippery slopes of truth, and the conflict between different vantage points
on truth, sparked the controversy between Brahms and Joachim that led to
their estrangement and ultimately to this concerto’s composition as an olive
branch. During Joachim’s divorce proceedings, Brahms publicly sought to
maintain some trace of their friendship, but he privately wrote a letter to Frau
Joachim rejecting Joachim’s rash conclusions, based on misleading observa-
tions, that she was having an affair with Brahms’s publisher Fritz Simrock. The
letter became public when Amalie submitted it as part of her testimony, enrag-
ing Joachim and driving him away from Brahms.
In his 1936 biography of Brahms, Karl Geiringer first published portions
of this letter; the omissions were restored twenty-three years later by Artur
Holde.36 Early in the letter, Brahms makes his allegiances clear: “Let me say
first and foremost: with no word, with no thought have I ever acknowledged
that your husband might be in the right—I mean, of course, I could never
acknowledge that he was.”37 In the next paragraph, Brahms touts the depend-
ability of his statement: “I do not believe that anyone else can have so clear and
accurate an insight into your situation as I have. This may seem to you dubious,
though you know that my friendship is older than your marriage.”38
Later, he presents a psychological analysis: “Through Joachim’s miserable
prying here and there, the simplest matter is so exaggerated, so complicated,
that one scarcely knows where to begin in it and how to bring it to an end.
He then twists around so stubbornly in that very small circle, just as—unfor-
tunately—he also does in that great circle of fancies and errors, which can
Murphy.indd 288 5/17/2018 2:12:58 AM

deprive him of all his happiness.”39 Holde interprets Brahms’s metaphor as

symbolizing Joachim’s deleterious obsession with minutiae. The last of the sup-
pressed language culminates Brahms’s argument:
In short, I am afraid it has gradually become such a web of fancies, discov-

eries, assumptions, and also lying and cheating, that I do not know how
Joachim wishes to rescue his life’s happiness from it. I would like to distrust
my view of things. But Joachim, stimulated by my opposition, has again
raked up everything to convince me. And finally, if he were right, if I were
the only one of his friends who was wrong—then indeed everything must
have been over long ago! It is weirdly comical that he himself does not
think of drawing the only correct conclusion—that he should call every-
thing by its right name. Either error, imagination, or—! To me that has
always been a sufficient indication that only his passionate imagination is
playing a sinful and inexcusable game with the best and most holy thing
that fate has granted him.40
This biographical account and my analytical account correspond at several

points. Aligning the cello cadenza’s recitation with a critical character study of
the concerto’s apparent dedicatee may seem harsh.41 However, Brahms told
Clara Schumann that, if the concerto “is at all successful it might give us some
fun,” and she could “well imagine the sort of pranks one might play” in this
concerto.42 Surely this is another example of Brahms’s habitual self-depreca-
tion or nonchalance, but, as Jan Swafford tells us, “he did not ordinarily use
words like ‘fun’ and ‘pranks.’”43 In the context of this analysis, these words are
also not so immediately dismissed; Brahms, after all, found Joachim’s inability
to see the truth “weirdly comical.”
The movement’s initial four-measure introduction, with its two possible
tactuses and its density of duration classes, saturates the listener with metri-
cal information. This profusion of information collaborates with a “passionate
imagination” in tempting a listener unaware of the “right name” of the notes
in the fifth measure to call them by something else that, while on the one hand
consistent with the apparent facts, is quite wrong on the other. This ambiva-
lence opens the door to a “web” of more potential realizations. However, each
realization comes about not through an incremental and deductive series of
logical steps that culminates in a contradiction either portentous or deceit-
ful, but through labile flights of fancy. These flights either spin the listener
around enharmonic “circles” large and small, or shunt the listener onto a fic-
tional track that nonetheless runs parallel with the notation; a deception that,
once slipped into, is hard to slip out of. Moreover, it is the cellist and not the
violinist—not Joachim—who is entrusted with this cadenza and enlightened
by Brahms’s notational verities. In short, the ways in which, and the degree to
which, a renotation like example 9.9 feels wrong echoes the ways in which, and
Murphy.indd 289 5/17/2018 2:13:45 AM

one possible degree to which, Joachim’s rationalization of his wife’s behavior

feels wrong, to Brahms as well as to other outsiders.
Echoes subside, however. Writing this concerto seven years after writing the
letter, I imagine that Brahms was looking to move beyond this bygone, cheer-
less episode. Likewise, the cello’s only unaccompanied passage in the concerto
is a soliloquial recitation placed at the beginning of the work, rather than the
usual virtuosic cadenza placed more customarily toward the end of a move-
ment. It is a disaffiliated prologue not only in terms of form, as it precedes
the proper opening ritornello that begins in measure 57, but also in terms of
durational enharmonicism, for neither its half-note triplets, nor the particular
vagaries of durational understanding that they and other metric situations like
them can elicit, occur again in the concerto. As with Beethoven’s instrumen-
tal recitative, which, as aforementioned, shares the same two prescriptions as
Brahms’s cadenza, this moment may be understood to embody in musical time
both a recognition of a more troubled and shadowy past—“O Freund[e], nicht
diese Töne!”—and an aspiration for a more sanguine and unclouded future.
Notes
1. Henry Cowell, New Musical Resources (New York: Knopf, 1930), 54.
2. The half-note triplets of opus 56b are not present in opus 56a, which instead
uses opus 56b’s ossia rhythm. To use the forthcoming analogy in this chapter,
Brahms “tuned” the rhythm of this line to a different durational component of
the texture.
3. Paul Mies, Das Instrumentale Rezitativ von seiner Geschichte und seinen Formen
(Bonn: H. Bouvier und Co. Verlag, 1968): “Das ist seltsam, denn mit der
Aufhebung der Tempofreiheit fällt die wichtigste Beziehung zum echten voka-
len Rezitativ,” 15.
4. Sean Yung-hsiang Wang, “Lost in Time: The Concept of Tempo and Character
in the Music of Brahms” (PhD diss., Stanford, 2008), 9, cites Joachim in lean-
ing toward the first option in interpreting Allegro non troppo, ma con brio.
5. A comparison of Mstislav Rostropovich’s three recordings of the concerto
reveals a remarkable contrast. His 1964 recording with Sir Colin Davis and his
1979 recording with Bernard Haitink are rather close, both to one another and
to an in-tempo half-note triplet, with only a ritardando on the FF in the 1979
recording significantly setting them apart. His 1969 recording with George
Szell, on the other hand, is the most extreme outlier among these forty record-
ings, as his first two notes are nearly twice as long as prescribed, and in fact can
be heard as whole-note triplets!
6. Fanny Davies, “Some Personal Recollections of Brahms as Pianist and
Interpreter,” in Cobbett’s Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music, ed. Walter Willson
Cobbett, vol. 1 (London: Oxford University Press, 1929), 182–84.
Murphy.indd 290 5/17/2018 2:14:13 AM

7. Anniruddh D. Patel, “Musical Rhythm, Linguistic Rhythm, and Human

Evolution,” Music Perception 24 (2006): 99–104: “In every culture there is some
form of music with a regular beat, a periodic pulse that affords temporal coor-
dination between performers and elicits a synchronized motor response from
listeners. Although early theories of speech rhythm proposed an underlying
isochronous pulse based on stresses or syllables, empirical data have not sup-
ported this idea, and contemporary studies of speech rhythm have largely
abandoned the isochrony issue” (100).
8. Justin London, “Some Non-Isomorphisms between Pitch and Time,” Journal of
Music Theory 46, nos. 1–2 (2002): 127–51.
9. Richard Cohn, “Complex Hemiolas, Ski-Hill Graphs, and Metric Spaces,”
Music Analysis 20, no. 3 (2001): 295–326.
10. This recomposition highlights one characteristic rhythm—the Lombard
rhythm—of the style hongrois, a style that, as John Daverio argues, this concerto
sublimates. Daverio, Crossing Paths: Schubert, Schumann, and Brahms (New York:
11. London, Hearing in Time: Psychological Aspects of Musical Meter, 2nd ed. (New
York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 31.
12. Harald Krebs coins metric dissonance’s descriptors of “direct” (simultaneous)
and “indirect” (successive) in Fantasy Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of
Robert Schumann (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 45.
13. Andrew Imbrie, “‘Extra’ Measures and Metrical Ambiguity in Beethoven,” in
Beethoven Studies, ed. Alan Tyson (New York: Norton, 1973), 45–66.
14. Douglas Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop (New York: Basic Books, 2007). If
Brahms had started the quarter-note pulse in the third measure instead of the
fourth, as he does in the third measures of the opening ritornello (m. 59) and
recapitulation (m. 292), this strange loop would have never arisen.
15. The cellist’s first two notes span essentially both the same duration and the
same D–E notes that the first two notes of the orchestral introduction span.
16. The visualization of these two meters (as triangles), as well as their relation (as
reflected around a vertical axis) owes a debt to Daphne Leong’s “Humperdinck
and Wagner: Metric States, Symmetries, and Systems,” Journal of Music Theory
51, no. 2 (2007): 211–43. With Leong’s approach, these two meters would
relate either by translation or reflection—imagine the dashed lines in figure
9.2f as solid. However, differentiating among constituent durations through
some means could help choose between equally applicable relations, like the
acknowledgment of register could help choose between transpositional or
inversional relationships among pitch-class sets.
17. The first notes from three recordings are no more than 10 percent different
from both third-note and dotted-quarter durations: Rostropovich’s two record-
ings from 1964 and 1979, and Heinrich Schiff’s recording from 1996.
18. Daniel Harrison, “Nonconformist Notations of Nineteenth-Century
Enharmonicism,” Music Analysis 21 (2002): 117.
19. A better example where both pitch and duration enharmony occur, and occur
nearly simultaneously, is the “Von der Wissenschaft” theme from Richard
Murphy.indd 291 5/17/2018 2:14:19 AM

Strauss’s Also Sprach Zarathustra, with its dual commixtures of half-note triplets
with eighth notes, and sharped notes tied to flatted notes.
20. Richard Cohn’s orientation of the Tonnetz in Audacious Euphony: Chromaticism
and the Triad’s Second Nature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012) puts
perfect fifths east-west, major thirds northeast-southwest, and minor thirds
northwest-southeast. The spatial mapping between figures 9.3a and 9.3b aligns
duple groupings with minor thirds, and triple groupings with major thirds, a
mapping I find useful in “Metric Cubes in Some Music of Brahms,” Journal of
Music Theory 53, no. 1 (2009): 1–56.
21. Harrison, “Nonconformist Notions,” 141. Steven Rings claims “it is not clear
whether we can authentically experience a multiply altered scale degree, even
one that is doubly raised or doubly lowered.” Rings, Tonality and Transformation
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 74.
22. David Temperley, “The Line of Fifths,” Music Analysis 19, no. 3 (2000): 289–
319. I intend “cosmetic enharmonicism” to be the opposite of Cohn’s “essen-
tial enharmonicism”: instances of the former “arise as artifacts of notational
pragmatics,” whereas the latter requires a “conver[sion] between sharps and
flats in order to retain global diatonic logic.” Cohn, Audacious Euphony, 9.
23. Measures 16–18 of example 9.1 do not contradict this, as the dotted-quarter
pulse is subdivided into eighths.
24. Richard Cohn, “A Platonic Model of Funky Rhythms,” Music Theory Online 22,
no. 2 (2016).
25. Roger Moseley, “Between Work and Play: Brahms as Performer of His Own
Music,” in Brahms and His World, ed. Walter Frisch and Kevin C. Karnes, rev. ed.
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 159.
27. Daniel Werts, “A Theory of Scale References” (PhD diss., Princeton University,
1984), 19; and Brian Hyer, “Tonal Intuitions in ‘Tristan und Isolde’” (PhD
diss., Yale University, 1989), 210. The tempering of a pitch-based comma does
not necessarily lead to notational discrepancies and the notion of enharmonic
equivalence: for example, two pitches separated by a syntonic comma are tra-
ditionally notated the same. However, my preference for the term “enharmon-
icism” rather than, say, “temperament” in constructing an analogy to duration
is that notational discrepancies appear to be a necessary consequence of tem-
pering durational commas.
28. Analyses of this sort occur in David Lewin, “On Harmony and Meter in
Brahms’s Op. 76, No. 8,” 19th-Century Music 4, no. 3 (1981): 261–65; Cohn,
“Complex Hemiolas,” and my “Metric Cubes,” as well as other places.
29. Paralleling how the Greek word hêmiolios and its linguistic derivatives changed
from signifying the 3:2 ratio between pitches to signifying the same between
durations, one could venture to call the 9:8 durational comma “epogdoon,”
the word for “whole tone” (epi- + octo-) misspelled as the header for the tablet
held in front of Pythagoras in Raphael’s School of Athens.
Murphy.indd 292 5/17/2018 2:14:25 AM

30. Vertically aligning enharmonically equivalent durations within the same node
in the Zeitnetz imitates one of Cohn’s methods of displaying enharmonically
equivalent pitches on a Tonnetz; see Cohn, Audacious Euphony.
31. Cohn would say that this equivalence “feels like a trick” (Audacious Euphony, 72).
32. Extending the analogy, durationally enharmonic music that best fits this third
scenario, like this cello cadenza, is most like atonal music, in that “the notation
thus attains an arbitrary status,” caused by “having too little information within
the given context” (Harrison, “Nonconformist Notions,” 127).
33. The expression “metric modulation” implies that the new tempo or meter will
remain in place for longer than one or two measures, so it may not be the best
choice of term, in spite of its relative recognizability.
34. Of the six, Juncture #5 is my preferred choice to be excluded.
35. Unlike “pitch class,” where the 2:1 octave that assigns equivalence is standard
for the term, there is no such standard for the term “duration class.” For exam-
ple, Edward Pearsall, in his textbook Twentieth-Century Music Theory and Practice
(New York: Routledge, 2012) uses the term (171ff.) when any ratio reveals a
proportional relationship between a series of durations.
36. Artur Holde, “Suppressed Passages in the Brahms-Joachim Correspondence
Published for the First Time,” Musical Quarterly 45, no. 3 (1959): 312–24. This
letter is also translated in full in Johannes Brahms: Life and Letters, selected and
annotated by Styra Avins, translated by Josef Eisinger and Styra Avins (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 572–74.
37. Ibid., 319.
38. Ibid., 319.
39. Ibid., 320.
40. Ibid., 320.
41. Brahms gave the concerto’s manuscript, inscribed with the dedication “To him
for whom this was written,” to Joachim.
42. Jan Swafford, Johannes Brahms: A Biography (Knopf: New York, 1997), 539.
43. Ibid., 539.
Murphy.indd 293 5/17/2018 2:14:31 AM

Murphy.indd 294 5/17/2018 2:14:36 AM
Contributors
Eytan Agmon is professor of music theory at Bar-Ilan University in Israel. He
specializes in tonal theory and analysis, including Schenkerian theory and analy-
sis, aspects of rhythm, and the music of Chopin. He is the author of The Languages
of Western Tonality (Springer, 2013). He has held the positions of visiting scholar
at the Franke Institute for the Humanities, University of Chicago, 1997–98, and
Visiting Slee Professor, University at Buffalo, 2003–4. He is a founding member
of ESCOM (European Society for the Cognitive Sciences of Music).
Richard Cohn is the Battell Professor of the Theory of Music at Yale University.
He specializes in chromatic harmony, musical meter, and transformational
analysis. He is the author of Audacious Euphony: Chromatic Harmony and the
Triad’s Second Nature (Oxford University Press, 2011). In preparation is a general
model of musical meter with applications for European, African, and African-
diasporic music. Cohn’s articles have twice earned the Society for Music Theory’s
Outstanding Publication Award. In 2004, he founded the Oxford Studies in
Music Theory series, which he edited for Oxford University Press for ten years.
Harald Krebs is Distinguished Professor of Music Theory at the University of

Victoria, Canada. He has published widely on the tonal and rhythmic structure
of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century music. He is the author of Fantasy
Pieces: Metrical Dissonance in the Music of Robert Schumann (Oxford University
Press, 1999), and Josephine Lang: Her Life and Songs (Oxford University Press,
2007) with coauthor Sharon Krebs, for which the coauthors also recorded
thirty of Lang’s songs. He was president of the Society for Music Theory from
2011 to 2013, and is a fellow of the Royal Society of Canada.
Ryan McClelland is professor of music theory at the University of Toronto.

His research interests include rhythmic-metric theory, Schenkerian analysis,
and performance studies. He is the author of Brahms and the Scherzo (Ashgate,
2010) and Analysis of 18th- and 19th-Century Musical Works in the Classical
Tradition (Routledge, 2012), with coauthor David Beach. A prizewinner in the
Eckhardt-Gramatté National Music Competition, McClelland has performed
as pianist in numerous premieres. Prior to joining the University of Toronto in
2004, he served for two years as visiting lecturer at Indiana University.
Murphy.indd 295 5/17/2018 2:14:36 AM

296 ❧ list of contributors
Jan Miyake is associate professor of music theory at the Oberlin College and
Conservatory. Her current research explores issues of sonata form in late eigh-
teenth- and early nineteenth-century works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven.
She has presented her work at numerous regional, national, and international
conferences, and is published in Engaging Students: Essays in Music Pedagogy, the
Journal of Schenkerian Studies, Theory and Practice, Music Theory Online, and Essays
from the Fourth International Schenker Symposium. She was elected treasurer of the
Society for Music Theory from 2015–19.
Scott Murphy is professor of music theory at the University of Kansas. His

research interests include new conceptions of meter and film music analy-
sis. His research appears in several scholarly journals, including the Journal
of Music Theory, Music Analysis, and Music Theory Spectrum. He received the
Emerging Scholar Award from the Society for Music Theory in 2009, and he
was the founding editor of SMT-V: Videocast Journal of the Society for Music Theory.
Samuel Ng is associate professor of music theory at the Cincinnati College-

Conservatory of Music. He specializes in tonal phrase rhythm, classical instru-
mental forms, metrical issues in Brahms’s music, Schenkerian studies, and the
relationship between analysis and performance. His research has appeared in
Music Theory Spectrum, Indiana Theory Review, Theory and Practice, Music Theory
Online, and Intégral. In 2005, Ng was the recipient of the Patricia Carpenter
Emerging Scholar Award from the Music Theory Society of New York State.
Heather Platt is professor of musicology at Ball State University. Her

primary areas of interest are Brahms, nineteenth-century lieder, and
Schenkerian analysis. With Peter H. Smith she coedited Expressive Intersections
in Brahms: Essays in Analysis and Meaning (Indiana University Press, 2012).
The revised edition of her annotated Brahms bibliography appeared in
2011 as Johannes Brahms: A Research and Information Guide (Routledge). Her
dissertation on Brahms’s lieder won the inaugural Karl Geiringer Award
for Dissertation Research from the American Brahms Society, of which she
served as president from 2007 to 2011.
Frank Samarotto is associate professor of music theory at the Indiana

University Jacobs School of Music. His research interests include aspects of
Schenkerian theory and its application to rhythm and temporality in music.
He has publications in Schenkerian collections and international congress
reports, and is a former editor of Theory and Practice and an editorial board
member of the Journal of Schenkerian Studies. He was a workshop leader at the
Mannes Institute for Advanced Studies as well as at the first conferences in
Germany devoted to Schenkerian theory and analysis.
Murphy.indd 296 5/17/2018 2:14:42 AM

Index
Abbate, Carolyn, 73 op. 57/3, 77n35; op. 57/8, 47n27;
Avins, Styra, 204n34, 293n36 op. 58/7, 27, 29; op. 59/1, 28; op.
60, 62; op. 60/i, 174n4; op. 60/
Babbitt, Milton, 3 iv, 265; op. 63/2, 14–15; op. 63/6,
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 77n31, 144, 19–21; op. 68, 5; op. 68/iv, 262; op.
145, 240, 241, 258n6 84/1, 20–22; op. 69/6, 28; op. 69/9,
BaileyShea, Matthew, 8n6 37, 39; op. 71/3, 60; op. 72/3, 38,
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 5, 61, 70, 40–41, 50–58, 68–69; op. 72/5, 69,
79n15, 200, 258n11; op. 1, 3; op. 2/1, 71; op. 73/i, 156, 157; op. 75/4,
79n44, 90, 203n20; op. 47, 53; op. 57, 13; op. 76/8, 145, 175n7; op. 78/i,
77n31, 236n33, 237n44; op. 72b, 54; 145; op. 79/1, 265; op. 83/iii, 145;
op. 101, 202n9; op. 106, 2; op. 125, op. 85/2, 22–23; op. 85/3, 79n47;
262; op. 130, 53; op. 135, 76n23 op. 85/6, 42, 44; op. 87, 176n24;
Bellman, Jonathan, 121, 135n2 op. 87/i, 158–64; op. 88/i, 262;
Berry, Paul, 8n5, 78n42 op. 90/i, 78n40; op. 91/1, 83–107;
Berry, Wallace, 233n4, 234n10 op. 91/2, 83; op. 94/1, 78n41; op.
Bozarth, George, 14, 46n21, 178, 94/2, 28; op. 94/3, 58–69; op. 95/4,
237n48, 237n50 22–23; op. 96/2, 14–15; op. 96/3,
Brahms, Johannes: op. 1/iv, 199, 24–25; op. 96/4, 30–32; op. 97/1,
203n27; op. 2/i, 203n27, 207–27; 53; op. 98/ii, 148–53; op. 99/i,
op. 2/ii, 227–30; op. 2/iii, 229–30; 182–85; op. 99/iv, 174; op. 101/i,
op. 2/iv, 230–33; op. 3/1, 46n22; 167–73, 175n13; op. 101/iv, 146–48;
op. 3/2a, 45n8; op. 3/2b, 45n8; op. 102/i, 260–90; op. 106/4, 59;
op. 5/i, 179–201; op. 6/2, 24, 26; op. 111/i, 196, 262; op. 114/i, 265;
op. 8, 3, 56; op. 9, 176n16, 199; op. op. 114/iii, 175n4; op. 115/i, 175n4;
11/i, 263; op. 19/5, 70–71; op. 24, op. 116/4, 153–55; op. 116/6, 4; op.
240–57; op. 26/i, 164–67; op. 32/4, 117/3, 116–20; op. 118/2, 175n6;
78n37; op. 32/9, 34–36; op. 33/3, op. 118/3, 111–16; op. 118/5,
72–73; op. 37/1, 240; op. 38/ii, 175n4; op. 119/4, 120–34; op.
177n27; op. 39/1, 78n38; op. 46/1, 120/1, 56; op. 120/1/i, 266; op. 121,
45n1; op. 47/1, 25, 27; op. 47/4, 200; op. 121/1, 72; op. 121/3, 72;
27–28; op. 48/7, 29, 31; op. 49/5, Scherzo from the FAE Sonata, 199;
32–33, 34; op. 51/2/iv, 153, 155, WoO 32/10, 16; WoO 33/13; WoO
196; op. 56b, 264; op. 57/2, 47n27; 33/19
Murphy.indd 297 5/17/2018 2:14:42 AM

298 ❧ index
Caplin, William: form, 108n12, 108n13, hemiola: Balkan, 196, 203n27; com-
108n15, 136n9, 139n15; historical plex, 145; consonant, 167–73;
studies of rhythmic theories, 135n4, cracked and mended, 194;
233n5, 235n17 expanded, 180, 183–84, 187–89, 199;
Citron, Marcia, 138n28 higher-level, 137n20; identification
Cohn, Richard, 9n16; autonomy of with Brahms, 5–6, 200; in op. 5, 178–
motives, 136n12; pitch theories, 201; pre-hemiola, 184; as resolving
292n20, 293n30, 293n31; pure and displacement dissonance, 146–55; as
mixed meters, 108n8, 176n20; rhyth- resolving or reinterpreting hyperme-
mic theories, 9n10, 49, 145, 175n3, ter, 155–67; reverse, 123, 138n28; in
203n26, 268; transpositional combi- vocal music, 33–34, 38, 39, 56; Will-
nation applied to rhythm, 137n20, ner’s four types, 144
139n31 Herzogenberg, Elisabeth von, 13
Cone, Edward T., 2, 3, 111–12, 115, Hofstadter, Douglas, 270
136n8, 175n6, 203n17 Holde, Arthur, 288–89
Cowell, Henry, 262
Imbrie, Andrew, 259n14, 270
Davies, Fanny, 168, 266
Davis, Sir Colin, 268, 274, 290n5 Jenner, Gustav, 45n3, 45n5, 76n28,
declamation, basic rhythm of (BRD), 78n41
defined, 17 Joachim, Amalie, 83, 262, 288
durational enharmonicism, 260, Joachim, Joseph, 83, 168, 240, 260, 262,
273–90 288–90
Dvořák, Antonin, 194–96, 202n14
Kalbeck, Max, 56, 116–17, 228,
expanded hemiolic cycle, 183, 187–89, 237n48
199 Kienzl, Wilhelm, 13
Kinderman, William, 53
Fétis, François-Joseph, 110 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 110, 136n7,
Forte, Allen, 136n10 184, 234n11
Frisch, Walter, 75n14, 176n15, 176n16, Korsyn, Kevin, 2
177n26, 178, 199–200, 201n3, Kramer, Lawrence, 79n49
203n29, 203n30 Krebs, Harald: on Brahms’s op. 5,
186, 199; contributions to rhythmic
Gamer, Carlton, 137n18, 139n36 theory, 49, 143; on developments
Geiringer, Karl, 107n1, 288 in rhythmic theory, 7; direct and
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 46n19, indirect metric dissonance, 291n12;
62, 69 displacement dissonance, 49, 143;
Goode, Richard, 123 grouping dissonance, 49, 123, 143;
Griesinger, Wilhelm, 61 subliminal dissonance, 146, 236n34
Handel, George Frideric, 144, 200, Laitz, Steven, 79n49

202n14, 211–16, 235n21, 243 Lerdahl, Fred: with John Halle, 46n19;
Harrison, Daniel, 273, 276 with Ray Jackendoff, 91, 108n13,
Hasty, Christopher, 10n21, 235n17 109n19, 139n34, 140n40, 203n23,
Hatten, Robert S., 50, 72 235n17, 258n1
Murphy.indd 298 5/17/2018 2:14:48 AM

index ❧ 299
Lewin, David, 3; on phrase rhythm, of equilibrium, 121; rule of congru-

107n4 ence, 173; shadow meter, 109n20
London, Justin: Hearing in Time, 10n21,
74n8, 202n8; Zeitnetz, 268, 279 Samarotto, Frank, 177n31, 236n30;
reading of op. 118/4, 128, 130, 134;
Malin, Yonatan: analyses of specific temporal plane, 49, 53, 61, 70, 73
lieder of Brahms, 14, 16, 77n29, Sams, Eric, 74n15, 76n20
199; analyses of lieder of Schubert, Saslaw, Janna, 233n3, 259n14
58; analyses of lieder by Schumann, Scarlatti, Domenico, 78n42
Robert, 62, 77n29; Songs in Motion, Schachter, Carl, 7, 121, 157, 258n1
5, 6, 24, 49, 58, 107n4, 109n22, Schenker, Heinrich: Free Composition,
138n28, 203n28 54, 236n29; general theory, 7, 114,
Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, 240–41 137n17, 184, 239; obligatory register,
McClary, Susan, 54–55 115; on op. 24, 251–52; principle of
McClelland, Ryan, 60, 78n36, 175n12, equilibrium, 121–22, 138n22, 239
199, 237n50 Schubert, Franz, 53, 56, 58, 72,
metric modulation, 9n19, 99, 107, 283, 202n14
285–86, 293n33 Schumann, Clara, 110–11, 120, 134,
metric tonicization, 9n19 137n21, 179, 260, 289
Mies, Paul, 262–63 Schumann, Felix, 17, 19
Mirka, Danuta, 10n21, 202n13 Schumann, Robert: influence on
Momigny, Jérôme-Joseph de, 210–13, Brahms, 5; Krebs’s analysis of, 6,
216–17 46n15, 77n29, 178, 179, 200, 201;
Moseley, Roger, 277 op. 39/1, 78n38; op. 39/2, 62; op.
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 2, 196 97, 184
Murphy, Scott, 55, 78n37, 136n7, 155 Seaton, Douglass, 5, 7
Musgrave, Michael, 178 Sehnsucht, 77n29, 104, 203n28
sentence (form), 136n9; in op. 2, 207,
Newman, Ernest, 13, 49 218; in op. 5, 191, 196–97; in op.
Ng, Samuel, 138n30, 140n42, 183 91/1, 89–92, 95–96; in op. 101, 171;
Notley, Margaret, 8n3, 177n29 in op. 117/3, 117–18, 120; in op.
118/3, 112
Pascall, Robert, 8n7 shadow hypermeter, 138n30, 171
Platt, Heather, 13, 16, 107n4 shadow meter, 94–96, 99–100; sources,
109n20, 177n31
Reicha, Anton, 111 Simrock, Fritz, 288
Riemann, Hugo, 14, 209, 217, 234n8, Smith, Peter H., 9n19, 75n14, 76n26,
235n17, 237n39 179, 180
Rink, John, 176n17, 236n17 Smyth, David, 139n36
Rohr, Deborah, 14, 16, 47n25, 68, Strauss, Richard, 46n15, 291n19
78n39 style hongrois, 110, 121, 135n2, 138n24,
Rostropovich, Mstislav, 268–69, 271–72, 138n25, 291n10
274, 277–78, 290n5, 291n17 Swafford, Jan, 289
Rothstein, William, 138n26, 202n8; Swinkin, Jeffrey, 8n4
definition of basic phrase, 86; Phrase
Rhythm in Tonal Music, 6; principle Taruskin, Richard, 5, 7
Murphy.indd 299 5/17/2018 2:14:54 AM

300 ❧ index
Temperley, David, 157, 175n9, 176n22, Willner, Channan, 77n32, 144–45, 180,
176n25, 292n22 194
Toussaint, Godfried, 10n21
Trucks, Amanda, 60 Zeitnetz: circular, 287–88;
cylindrical, 279–80; linear, 285,
Wagner, Richard, 3, 5, 6, 13, 257 287; planar, 268–72, 275–77,
Weber, Gottfried, 2, 8n5, 136n6, 259n14 279
Murphy.indd 300 5/17/2018 2:15:08 AM

Edited by Murphy
Brahms and the Shaping of Time brings together essays by leading music scholars,
each of which analyzes the music of Brahms with a particular focus on the mu-
sic’s temporality. The volume reveals numerous ways in which Brahms manipulates
such basic elements as rhythm and phrase structure in pieces ranging from the
Third Piano Sonata and the Double Concerto to a number of his most important
and beloved songs.
The first two essays examine aspects of rhythm and meter in Brahms’s lieder, rec-
ognizing his meaningful deviations from temporal norms. The second two pick up
the mantle from William Rothstein’s landmark text Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music.
brahms and th e shaping of time

Rothstein’s study focused on the music of other composers, but suggested how a
future study might explore the music of Brahms; these essays contribute to such a
study while also pivoting the book’s focus from vocal to instrumental music. Each
of the chapters of the third pair cross-examines and expands our understanding of
the hemiola. The concluding trio of essays promotes, through further analysis of
individual works, ways of hearing that encourage the reader to breach the confines
b rahms
of the score’s metric notation.
Together, the essays in this volume offer fresh approaches to the life and music of
the beloved nineteenth-century composer and incorporate significant new ways of
thinking about rhythm, meter, and musical time.
“Brahms and the Shaping of Time deals intensely with all conceivable aspects of
phrase rhythms, distortions, and dissonances, well embedded in the current and
ever-growing field of analytical approaches to Brahms, meter, and meaning in
nineteenth-century music. Within this manifold musical discourse one learns
about the function of hemiolas in Brahms’s music and about various ‘levels of dis-
course’ as well as poetic meanings and metrical displacements in Brahms’s songs,
and th e
shaping
culminating in a fascinating study of ‘durational enharmonicism.’ The well-writ-
ten (and well-edited) chapters engage in very different topics and perspectives,
but they complement each other by their depth and consistency. A must-read for
all theorists and performers of nineteenth-century music.”
—Frank Heidlberger, University of North Texas
CONTRIBUTORS: Eytan Agmon, Richard Cohn, Harald Krebs, Ryan McClelland,

Jan Miyake, Scott Murphy, Samuel Ng, Heather Platt, Frank Samarotto
Scott Murphy is professor of music theory at the University of Kansas. of

time
Cover image: Johannes Brahms (1833–97) engraving, 1908, by unknown artist. Published in The World’s
Best Music: Famous Songs, volume 8, by the University Society, New York, 1908. Courtesy of CanStock-
Photo.com.
668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620-2731, USA

PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK
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Murphy.indd i 5/17/2018 1:13:15 AM

Additional Titles of Interest

Bach to Brahms: Essays on Musical Design and Structure

The Dawn of Music Semiology:

Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis

Formal Functions in Perspective:

Liszt’s Transcultural Modernism and the Hungarian-Gypsy Tradition

The Music of Luigi Dallapiccola

Of Poetry and Song: Approaches to the Nineteenth-Century Lied

Performative Analysis: Reimagining Music Theory for Performance

Rethinking Hanslick: Music, Formalism, and Expression

Schubert in the European Imagination Volumes 1 and 2

Murphy.indd ii 5/17/2018 1:15:24 AM

Edited by Scott Murphy

Murphy.indd iii 5/17/2018 1:15:25 AM

Copyright © 2018 by the Editor and Contributors

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no

First published 2018

University of Rochester Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Murphy, Scott (Musicologist), editor.

This publication is printed on acid-free paper.

Printed in the United States of America.

Murphy.indd iv 5/17/2018 1:16:05 AM

Introduction: Brahms, Analysis, and Time 1

Part One: Setting Texts

1 Expressive Declamation in the Songs of Johannes Brahms 13

2 Temporal Disruptions and Shifting Levels of Discourse in

Part Two: Measuring Phrases

3 Phrase Rhythm and the Expression of Longing in Brahms’s

4 On the Oddness of Brahms’s Five-Measure Phrases 110

Part Three: Recasting Hemiolas

5 Hemiola as Agent of Metric Resolution in the Music of Brahms 143

6 Brahms at Twenty: Hemiolic Varietals and Metric Malleability

Murphy.indd v 5/17/2018 1:16:05 AM

Part Four: Shifting Perspectives

7 Containment and Wave: Temporal Experiment in Brahms’s Opus 2 207

8 Rhythmic Displacement in the Fugue of Brahms’s Handel Variations:

9 Durational Enharmonicism and the Opening of Brahms’s

List of Contributors 295

Murphy.indd vi 5/17/2018 1:16:05 AM

Murphy.indd vii 5/17/2018 1:16:13 AM

Murphy.indd 1 5/17/2018 1:16:16 AM

The Tradition of Analyzing Brahms

Murphy.indd 2 5/17/2018 1:16:16 AM

comes in the form of a substantial comparative analysis of the two versions of

The Need for Time-Based Analysis

Historiography has paid heed to how distinctively Brahms manipulates musi-

Murphy.indd 3 5/17/2018 1:16:21 AM

Murphy.indd 4 5/17/2018 1:16:27 AM

cross-rhythms,”12 “frequently using syncopated rhythms,”13 and abounds in

Brahms’s treatment of rhythm possesses special interest. Taking up hints

Murphy.indd 5 5/17/2018 1:16:41 AM

and important study on temporal processes in German art song.17 In his

Murphy.indd 6 5/17/2018 1:16:41 AM

Murphy.indd 7 5/17/2018 1:16:43 AM

Murphy.indd 8 5/17/2018 1:16:46 AM

Murphy.indd 9 5/17/2018 1:16:48 AM

Murphy.indd 10 5/17/2018 1:16:51 AM

Murphy.indd 11 5/17/2018 1:16:53 AM

There has been extensive discussion of declamation in the songs of Johannes

Murphy.indd 13 5/17/2018 1:16:56 AM

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