In June 1941 the Germans invaded Russia, and the siege of Leningrad (formerly and presently, St. Petersburg) became a galvanizing exemplar of the valiant resistance of the noble Russian people. Shostakovich’s seventh symphony is the symbol of that remarkable siege, and has been since its composition. The date of the origin of the first movement—originally conceived as a kind of tone poem/requiem, not a symphony—is still controversial, with some evidence that it was completed well before the invasion. In any case, the remaining movements were completed as the horrific siege unfolded. The scope of human suffering and loss of life was enormous; all those who visit St. Petersburg today are obliged to stand before endless acres of the mass graves of the citizenry who perished. Finished in December of 1941, the symphony was given its premiere in March of 1942 safely in the Ural Mountains, some 500 miles away. Later, in August, a pathetic, rag-tag, starved band of the few musicians left alive in the city gave a performance of the symphony after being given enough food to sustain their energies. Musical instruments had to be rounded up, and even an artillery barrage on German positions was ordered to silence their guns for the broadcast performance. That performance established this tragic work as a major piece of war propaganda around the world. The full score was sneaked out around German lines on microfilm, and leading conductors vied to lead the first performance outside of Russia, including Toscanini and Stokowski. Shostakovich’s picture even appeared on the cover of Time Magazine, wearing the helmet of a Leningrad fire warden. The composer and his heroic symphony were all the rage in the western democracies, which were practically obsessed with both as symbols of their alliance with all who fought the Nazis—especially our friends the noble communists. Not all were so enthusiastic. Major music critics in the US, as well as composers such as Béla Bartók and Rachmaninoff, panned the symphony. After the war—well, we all remember America’s quick turnabout on all things “Red.” For years, the work was one of controversy; it was seen in the West as an emotional, over-wrought paean to our cold war enemies, full of antiquated romantic imagery and heavily tinged with socialist realism. Not modern, not intellectual, and definitely not avant-garde, it was simply an embarrassment.
Times have changed. Now, Shostakovich’s seventh symphony is widely held to be one of the best efforts of probably the most popular composer of the middle of the twentieth century. Cast in the usual four movements, it is quite long, but no more so than the composers that Shostakovich saw as heavily influential upon his own work: Mahler and Bruckner. And, like many of those composers’ works it calls for a large orchestra: double size brass sections, alto flute, and even three snare drums if you wish to use them!
The first movement is perhaps the most notable one, starting with a majestic theme in the strings, followed by a quiet section in the flutes and low strings. And then comes the gripping “invasion” theme, a simple tune redolent of a melody from Lehar’s Merry Widow combined with a snatch of Deutschland über Alles. Most listeners don’t catch this, but it doesn’t matter, it is yet another example of the composer’s famous sarcasm. This is simply a smashing section as the theme softly builds through twelve repetitions, rather like Ravel’s Bolero, until the trumpets noisily intrude. The original titles for the second and third movements were “Memories” and “Our Country’s Wide Spaces,” respectively. One may make of them what seems appropriate, but the composer did admit at one time that the latter movement was inspired by the stillness of the Neva River in St. Petersburg at twilight. The last movement is a sprawling one, with allusions to melodies from the previous movements. The almost overwhelming ending is yet another example (Beethoven’s fifth symphony and Brahms’ first come to mind) of a triumphal C major ending, although in this case Shostakovich’s dark nature, the awful privations of the war, and the tragic realities of life under Stalin cast a pall over the superficial optimism. A checkered work this symphony may be, but it is a powerful and evocative document of a pivotal point in the history of the twentieth century by one of its most gifted composers.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2015 William E. Runyan