When it comes to enthusiasm for Mahler, two groups emerge: those who can’t get enough and have listened to everything, and those for whom Mahler has a steep on-ramp. I’ve often wondered what could be done to bring audiences into Mahler in an accessible and reasonably achievable way, and just recently an answer emerged. As I prepared for a season that included performances of Mahler’s First and Ninth symphonies in close proximity, forcing me to prepare both works simultaneously, I began to see how bringing together these distinct but related perspectives of Mahler – one from early in his career, and one at the end – form the accessible entry point into this composer’s music that I had sought.

I will always remember my first experience with the opening of Mahler’s First – as a 14-year-old clarinettist performing this symphony with a local semi-pro orchestra. I felt Mahler pulling me into a sound world that was not only incredibly striking, but that evoked my own childhood, sitting outdoors while observing the enormity and power of nature, and feeling that I was tapping into something way beyond me. The note A generated from combination of the highest harmonics in the violins to the lowest A in the contrabass defined a vast space for this sound world, before leading to the introduction of an A-E open fifth. I became immediately aware of the connection of this experience to the opening of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. While Beethoven uses a string tremolo, rather than Mahler’s combination of harmonics and melodic winds, the result is the same – a powerfully mysterious ambiguity on the open fifth A to E. I had always taken Brahms’s First as ‘Beethoven’s Tenth’, but at that moment I felt the connection between Beethoven’s Ninth and Mahler’s First was far more substantial and meaningful.

Mahler was obsessed with achieving this effect on his listeners, speaking of his desire to have his audience ‘enveloped in sound’, requiring more forces to achieve his sonic vision and to ‘build a world with all technical means available’. Tracing the evolution of Mahler’s First from its modestly orchestrated origins to the gargantuan orchestra of four of each winds, seven horns, five trumpets and four trombones, with every possible percussion instrument, I can clearly see the fingerprints of Mahler continually innovating to achieve what I experienced that day.

Continuing, after experiencing a 61-bar meditation on my place in the universe and the world, I felt Mahler introducing me to his childhood – walking, rolling down hills, exploring nature. This is an innocent, optimistic and somewhat idealistic view, but also incredibly immersive.

The opening of the Ninth Symphony's first movement also clings to A and E, but instead of ethereal effects that convey eternity, this work opens in full voice with a few disjointed statements and awkward rhythms that lead us to another stroll with the young Mahler, this time after only six bars. This is no idealised view of Mahler’s youth; instead I see the young Mahler in high resolution, with all of his flaws, blemishes, exuberance and brilliance, without the distraction of nature and the universe. I feel Mahler’s teenage-like ‘Sturm und Drang’ expressed through stormy episodes that always lead back to those peaceful walking moments, but with each return, the music seems to gain more clarity and introspection, as though Mahler was taking me on his own journey of self-discovery. With the final walking moment, Mahler reveals everything, infusing intense chromatic gestures, grating dissonances and grotesque gestures, all within a flowing/walking pulse. I can’t help seeing Mahler’s childhood demons and personas proudly processing in a fantastic choreographed pavane offering a complete and knowing view of his younger self, and in doing so signalling his acceptance of it.

In the dance-centric second movements of both the First and the Ninth symphonies, I feel Mahler sharing his warmth and love for his cultural heritage. In the First Symphony, the Ländler emerges with an almost naive directness – a young composer embracing his roots with uninhibited joy. But in the Ninth, these same dance forms become a kaleidoscopic fantasia. The simple triple-time rhythms fragment and overlap, creating a complex tapestry where multiple versions of the past seem to exist simultaneously.

The First Symphony’s third movement is a shock. I found myself drawn to how Mahler juxtaposes death and celebration. From the haunting double bass introduction of ‘Frère Jacques’ in a minor key, to the sombre lyrical melodies and the klezmer band interruptions, Mahler seems to convey how life itself refuses to be denied. We move in a series of dreamy episodes where time seems suspended, only to be pulled back into the inexorable tread of the funeral march. It’s as if Mahler is showing us how life persists even in the shadow of death – something that would become a recurring theme throughout his symphonies. I’ve often felt how Mahler’s obsession with funeral marches wasn’t so much morbid as deeply human, where death doesn’t feel like an ending but is instead part of life’s great procession.

With the Ninth Symphony’s Rondo-Burlesque, we are hit with a shocking divergence. There is no funeral march or klezmer band – just counterpoint. Riveting, brilliant and raucous counterpoint that reveals everything Mahler has to bring as a composer. I find this movement absolutely breathtaking – he creates counterpoint that serves the heart as much as the mind. My pulse quickens with every hearing of the sublime lyrical middle section, appearing like a vision from heaven. I can’t help being brought back to my counterpoint studies at Juilliard and Curtis, trying to balance the need to follow the rules, yet also somehow express our musicianship. Mahler evidently struggled with counterpoint during his studies, recalling being ridiculed. But while this movement of the Ninth is often cited as Mahler’s answering his critics by proving he could write counterpoint, it is much more than that; it’s Mahler showing us how counterpoint can actually move us.

I’ve come to see the Ninth as something far richer than merely a ‘more mature’ First or Leonard Bernstein’s ‘Four Ways to Say Farewell’. I feel Mahler taking us through a gallery of his life’s work seen through his most accomplished lens – here’s Mahler’s best vision of his youth, here’s Mahler’s best treatment of those rustic dances he loved, here’s Mahler’s best way elevate counterpoint to moving music, all leading to that profound final movement where he seems to contemplate what it all meant. It reminds me, surprisingly, of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique – another work where I hear a composer putting everything he’d learned and loved on display, from that Romeo and Juliet-like passion to the transformed ballet rhythms in the 5/4 waltz to his brilliant symphonic finales. Both composers chose to end these deeply personal works not with triumphant grand gestures, but with moments of introspection.

Mahler’s First and Ninth symphonies, taken together, remind us that growing doesn’t mean rejecting our younger selves – it means understanding them better, seeing both their beauty and their limitations with kinder eyes. Through these symphonies, we find not just an accessible entry point into being immersed in Mahler’s work, but a profound meditation on artistic growth and human experience. The First Symphony’s youthful exuberance and the Ninth’s mature reflection don’t oppose each other – they complete each other, offering listeners a comprehensive view of both the composer's journey and, perhaps, their own.

David Bernard is the music director of New York’s Park Avenue Chamber Symphony, the Massapequa Philharmonic Orchestra, the Eglevsky Ballet and artistic director of InsideOut Concerts. The “Beginnings and Endings” festival, offering an exploration of Mahler’s First and Ninth Symphonies through performances of the Massapequa Philharmonic and Park Avenue Chamber Symphony, is being held in October and November 2024 in New York. davidbernard.com