Today’s smile…stress buster

None of us likes to be told to calm down. When we’re feeling anxious, irritable or stressed, it is probably the worst advice anyone can give us. But here’s an alternative solution: if you ever find yourself in a state, a few doses of this three-minute clip will restore peace more effectively than any patronising waffle. The piece has nothing whatsoever to do with Shakespeare, but it was hearing Prospero’s line “Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill” a few days ago which directed me straight to this trio from Mozart’s opera Cosi fan Tutte (All women are like this). I know that the context and meaning are quite different: it was the line at face value alone which was the prompt.

Cosi fan Tutte, first performed in 1790, the year before his death at the age of just 35, is one of Mozart’s comic operas, even if it has quite a serious undertone. It is an opera about love, exploring the joys and heartaches that it brings, to which Mozart sets truly beautiful and tender music. In summary, it is the tale of two engaged couples, Dorabella to Fernando and Fiordiligi to Guglielmo, and a bet which the mischievous bachelor, Don Alfonso, has with both men that their respective fiancés would be incapable of being faithful to them if they were away. To test this, he arranges for them to be summoned away to war, but also for them to reappear disguised as Albanians and flirt with eachother’s halves – with somewhat alarming success, to the extent that a double wedding to the ‘wrong’ women is about to proceed, whereupon Alfonso has won his bet and their true identities are revealed. Perhaps a little surprisingly, all is forgiven and the status quo ante is restored!

This exquisite trio is sung by Dorabella, Fiordiligi and Alfonso, as they see the men sail away into the distance. From the very first notes, you can instantly sense a gentle breeze on calm waters, as they wish them safe travels. ‘Soave sia il vento, tranquilla sia l’onda…’, meaning ‘May the wind be gentle, may the waves be calm…’, brings three voices together in a few minutes of harmonic bliss and ranks as one of Mozart’s very finest passages in all his operas. I’ve no doubt it will be recognised by almost everyone, having been used in the film ‘Sunday, Bloody Sunday’ and countless commercials since, but only a heart of stone could not be moved by the melody and the way the voices mingle with eachother over a gently rocking orchestration.

Here is a recording from the production at Glyndebourne in 2006, the first time I really enjoyed this opera. A dose of calm. And with your eyes shut on a second hearing, allowing the sounds to just waft over you, as good as a short meditation.



Something sublime… Beethoven’s Emperor

Occasionally it can be hard to find the right words about a piece of music, and today’s choice is one such example. So apart from a little background and a few thoughts, I will let the music speak for itself: when you’ve listened to it, I am sure you will see why I struggled. But the urge to share my love of this with you was more important than the need to discuss it at any length.

Beethoven (1770-1827) wrote five concertos for piano and orchestra. In its entirety, the fourth is my personal favourite, but the slow movement of his fifth, known as the ‘Emperor’, is surely amongst the loveliest of all slow movements of any piano concerto. Although the longest of the slow movements in Beethoven’s five (stay with me), it is not a minute, even a second, too long. Composed around 1809, the piece is deserving of its name by virtue of its length and magnitude, even if Beethoven would probably not have approved the term: at the time he was writing it, he was taking shelter in the cellar of his brother’s house while Vienna was being bombarded by the French under the self-crowned emperor Napoleon. It is believed Beethoven was about 60% deaf by now, so he was unable to play its first performance in 1810 as he had done with his previous four – and his attempt to perform it in 1811 had to be aborted.

And so to the music, which can only be described as sublime, one simple definition of that word being ‘of very great excellence or beauty’. It has a dreamy, introspective quality about it, unlike the majestic first movement and galloping jubilant last. It’s as if a deliberate reflective passage, by way of a rest, is needed between them. The two tunes are gorgeous, with lovely interaction between piano and orchestra, especially in its closing moments with flute and gentle strings, and in the opening I always find myself thinking of  “There’s a place for us” from the song “Somehere” in Leonard Bernstein’s West Side Story. Bernstein was certainly a Beethoven fan, so maybe the idea is not so crazy.

The recording here is played by one of the great romantic interpreters, Alfred Brendel, who retired from public peformances a few years ago, and I don’t think it comes much better than this. As this second movement finishes, Beethoven unusually heads straight into the third (a device later used by Schumann in his only piano concerto) by letting the oboe drop a note to allow the piano to introduce the opening of a final romp…I hope your enjoyment of the previous six or seven minutes is not spoiled by being left tantalised at the end!


Today’s smile…Bach and the cello

Of all the instruments in the orchestra, the cello is my favourite; perhaps because it  has often been observed that it is the one which comes closest to the human voice. The renowned cellist, Pablo Cassals (1876-1973), likened it “to a beautiful woman who has not grown older, but younger with time, more slender, more supple, more graceful.” Ever the wit, Sir Thomas Beecham, whom I quoted in an earlier post, once remarked to a lady in rehearsal “Madam, you have between your legs an instrument capable of giving pleasure to thousands – and all you can do is scratch it.” The cello is an essential member of the orchestra, not only for underlying accompaniment, but frequently as an introducer of melodies – and, as such, a perfect candidate for solo pieces and concertos alike.

There are countless works to choose from, but I can’t resist starting with the cello suites of J S Bach (1685-1750), not least because it is about time we had something from this composer; and also because these works not only explore the full virtuosity of the instrument, but demonstrate how close the cello really is to the human voice. Composed around 1720, they are based on different baroque dances and technically very difficult to play. As a result, they only really came to get wider recognition during the last century, when a host of top players added them to their recording output. The prelude, opening the first suite, is probably the most instantly recognised, but none the less beautiful for its familiarity, so that is what I have chosen. I have gone for a recording by the popular cellist, Yo Yo Ma, who has done as much as anyone to acquaint us with these suites. He takes it at a good pace, but the separate voices are clearly articulated, and builds it up to a lovely conclusion. Brimming with feeling, it’s under three minutes, but I hope it may whet your appetite to hear more of them, they are the best company when you have time on your own.

The genius of these pieces is that just one instrument seems to be playing several parts at the same time. Legend has it that amongst themselves, the heavenly hosts play Mozart; but when performing for God, they turn to Bach. Not hard to see why.




La Diva alla Puccini

Maria Callas (1923-77) is a name known to all who love opera – and perhaps to just as many who don’t. Her colourful lifestyle ensured that she was a frequent focus of media attention, especially later in her life, when she became associated with Aristotle Onasis. She possessed all the qualities you might expect for a true diva: amongst them a soprano voice with enormous range; but, equally important, a stage presence which totally held the attention of her audience – as well a reputation for the occasional tantrum. Music lovers are divided about the quality of her voice, (and her technique was certainly found wanting from time to time),  but its power is beyond dispute, until it waned in the ’60s after a sudden weight loss, bringing her career to an early end. Of the roles she made her own, few were more dramatic than the doomed Tosca in the opera of that name by Puccini (1858-1924).

Today’s aria “Vissi d’arte”, taken from the second act, is a moving plea, in which she concludes “Oh, Lord, why do you reward me like this?” She can hear as her lover, Cavaradossi, is being tortured by the henchmen of Scarpia, the chief of police in Rome, to reveal the whereabouts of an escaped convict. Scarpia, a thoroughly unpleasant individual, has lyingly promised Tosca that if  she allows him to have his wicked way with her, he will ensure Cavardossi’s safety. Well, she’s having none of that. In a nutshell, the aria says “I’ve lived for art and love, I’ve been a good girl and said my prayers, so why, Lord are you rewarding me like this?” Sadly her pleas fall on deaf ears, as it all goes horribly wrong for everyone.

If you’ve not heard this before, you’re in for a treat. Puccini is another of those top tune writers! Be patient, it’s a slow lament, but at only just over three minutes long, it’s worth the wait. It’s all about the build up to a wonderful high Eb, a note Callas reaches without the slightest strain, as she was actually capable of going a few higher.There are obviously many renditions of this piece (a close second for me is sung by Kiri de Kanawa). I chose Callas for two reasons: first, if you asked any opera lover to name a famous Tosca, Callas would undoubtedly feature more than anyone else; and secondly, it is not just the peak which is tremendous here, but also the way Callas sings the two glorious notes which immediately follow it on the way down. The power of her voice is quite extraordinary.

When the opera was first performed in 1900, it led one critic to describe it as a “shabby little shocker”, but with its cocktail of love, passion, jealousy, murder and revenge, it has now become one of the repertoire’s favourites and most widely performed. The ending sees Tosca realise that her lover has not participated in a fake execution, but that Scarpia, whom she has previously stabbed, has ensured that it’s the real thing. The curtain falls as Tosca flings herself off the parapet in despair. The opera has a number of stories linked to it, amongst the most famous of which, probably attributed to many divas in the role, relates how one stage crew became royally fed up with the antics of the leading lady. Instead of placing a thick mattress to await her fall, they replaced it one night with a tightly strung trampoline – ensuring that the helpless hysterical heroine was seen a few more times before the curtain fell.


Today’s smile…a ray of Mozart sunshine.

It is time for some Mozart (1756-1791). There is very little that an amateur enthusiast such as myself can add to the millions of words which have been written about this child prodigy, who was composing whilst others his age were learning to read. His output was truly prodigious, covering every possible field in music. Many of his pieces, such as the clarinet concerto, the horn concertos, Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the Jupiter symphony, piano concerto no.21 (Elvira Madigan music)  – to name just a handful – are now so overplayed and so familiar to us that we risk overlooking a great amount which gets less coverage. Obviously I will have lots to post on him over time.

In 1788 Mozart composed what were to be his last three symphonies, 39, 40 and 41 (The Jupiter). Of these, 41 is unquestionably the most famous (first heard by many of us as backing for the Wombles!), but it is 39 which stands out as my personal favourite of all his symphonies. Today’s piece is the final movement of that symphony, written the year after his father had died, his wife was ill, his daughter had also died recently, and Mozart was deeply in debt. And yet this movement, a Rondo, is a passage of unalloyed optimism and sheer love of life. It is a perfect example of how the real genius, in whatever art form, is the creator who can evoke any mood or emotion without necessarily having to be either a miserable geezer or a stand-up comedian.

There is only one theme in this peace, even if varied slightly, and it is a ray of sunshine which just makes you want to dance. It has a wonderful momentum, with occasional breathers, but to me it almost feels like a whistle-stop ride on a fast steam train. I don’t know who made this recording, which is why you’ve only got a picture of the man himself, but I chose it for its tangible and controlled vibrancy. One more thing: have you ever thought, as I often have, “I  wish he’d have ended it like this, rather than the way he actually did”? If you have, be sure to wait to the end – Mozart does not finish this symphony in the conventional manner of a few affirming final chords, but in the way you might hope he would dare to do.

Tip: for best results, turn volume right up  and don’t bother to sit down, because you may feel the urge to move. Then see, whatever you are doing, how quickly you can stop after the music does. Bet you’re still going.



Today’s smile … a surreptitious tear from Donizetti

In my last post, I alluded to the difficulty of getting a good tune out of your head, and ever since selecting my next piece, I have fallen victim to just that! But this is entirely natural: I happened to stumble upon a quotation by the conductor Sir Thomas Beecham (1879-1961) the other day, who said, perhaps rather grandly, in a BBC broadcast in 1953 that, “Good music is that which penetrates the ear with facility and quits the memory with difficulty.” Well, he’s right enough on this one. It’s also a good way to end the day.

One of Donizetti’s  (1797-1848) most famous and widely performed operas, ‘L’elisir d’amore’ (‘The Elixir of Love’) had its first performance in 1832. I don’t think we need trouble ourselves too much on a lengthy synopsis, but setting the context very briefly for today’s choice is helpful. Nemorino, a peasant, is madly in love with Adina; who, being well-off and well-read, is, frankly, also well out of his league. This doesn’t dissuade him from trying, to no avail, to win her over – indeed she initially accepts the proposal of someone else. But the arrival of a quack doctor comes to his aid. Having overheard Adina reading about a magic potion which Tristan used to capture the heart of Isolde, Nemorino asks the doctor to sell him some. What he downs in one is, in fact, cheap plonk, but it has the effect of giving him Dutch courage, for he is confident he will soon be irresistible to Adina; so much so, that his flirting with other girls upsets Adina, and she realises she loves him after all. (The fact that he unexpedetly inherits a fortune from an uncle comes as a late bonus.)

On noticing a tear in her eye, Nemorino sings one of opera’s most tender romances ‘Una furtiva lagrima’, here performed by the Peruvian tenor, Juan Diego Florez. It starts in the minor key, perhaps to suggest his regret at Adina’s apparent sadness, but listen to how Donizetti opens it up into the major key when Nemorino affirms his knowledge that Adina loves him – it is a statement of pure happiness. The melody is repeated, but this time unfolding with even more confidence. It is measured, rather than overtly ecstatic, but the message is clear. There are few things in life better than to know we are loved, especially by those we love ourselves; and there are few better examples in music of that feeling being conveyed.

One last observation. I don’t want to diss the bassoon, but the reality is that its sound is not the most instantly appealing. Although many of you will know it as the instrument which Prokofiev chooses to represent the curmudgeonly grandfather in ‘Peter and the Wolf’, its solo repertoire is not all that extensive. And yet, inspirationally, it is the bassoon, with a little harp backing, which Donizetti uses to introduce this most romantic of arias. Once heard, you really can’t imagine it being achieved with anything better. Genius choice.

I’m conscious that my first vocal piece was also a tenor, so I shall redress the balance next time, but in the meantime I hope Beecham’s words ring true…



Today’s Smile is about…Verdi

Singing. Where to start on such a huge topic as this?

Do you play a musical instrument? Maybe you do – but maybe your instant reply was ‘no’. And yet we have all sung at some stage in our lives, even if not professionally.

So you do, in fact, play an instrument; and not only that, you possess the most versatile and wide-ranging of all, in your human voice. So when many of us bemoan the fact that we don’t play one, we often forget that we may be more talented than we think, by having access to an instrument we can take anywhere, and without the need for an extra seat – as in the case of the double bass player, for example! As well as being portable, the voice has a vast range, which I look forward to demonstrating in future posts.

Happily there is no shortage of pieces to share in this particular field. Whether solo, duets, or in greater numbers, music which includes the human voice does have an extra dimension. I was a very late convert to the extraordinary qualities and beauty of classical singing: I vividly recall giggling as a child at warbling noises from bellicose performers, quite unable to take it seriously. It just sounded silly to me. And then my parents took me to my first, and one of Verdi’s most popular operas, Aida, at Covent Garden. Within minutes of the curtain rising, Verdi gives Radames this testing little aria, in which he sings of his adoration of Aida. I was astonished. It helped that the part was sung, as it is here, by Placido Domingo, one of the very greatest tenors of all time. Don’t take too much notice of his strange attire (the opera is set in Egypt), just feast your ears on the sound. And imagine  having to come out and sing this almost straightaway, having done barely anything before: for the singer, its success is crucial for holding his audience for the rest of the evening. A brief, triumphant opening with some trumpets, and then straight into this gorgeous tune.

Sometimes I just want to be sung to. What a choice there is! I could not think where to start on this one, so my personal experience seemed an obvious introduction: the wonders of the human voice are limitless. There will be no obvious chronology in what I choose, simply a deep-rooted love of the piece, which I hope you will also enjoy.


Everyone knows Beethoven’s Fifth


The opening chords of Beethoven’s fifth symphony are perhaps the most recognisable in all music, seeming to spread doom. Its minor key adds to the despair.

But hold on a moment. It is sometimes easy to gloss over one of the most uplifting few minutes ever scored. Go to this link attached .

These are the  third and fourth movements. After four and a half minutes, you will encounter the genius transition of dark to light. I wonder where it will take you when you listen to it. Whenever I hear it, I see myself tucked up in a dark room, as my mother comes in to wake me up. She tiptoes towards the curtains, and for a split second pauses before opening them vigorously to let in a blaze of morning sunshine. It is a moment of joy and glory.



Today’s Smile…a great Schubert tune.

Here is my next attempt to lure you a little into the joys of classical music. It is, of course, a matter of personal taste; but, despite very stiff competition, my own view is that Franz Schubert was, without exception, the finest tunesmith of all time – and yes, that includes Mozart in my book. You know those times when you just can’t get a tune out of your head, and it starts to irritate you a bit? The truth is, research has proved that this is actually because we love it. As an introduction, try this Impromptu for piano, one of eight written in 1827 – and see if you can resist playing it again, or, better still, listening to the entire set: I promise you will not be disappointed! It has a beautiful melody, slightly melancholic, but the tune will grab you from the start.

I will share lots more of Schubert’s melodies with you in time. It is amazing to think how much this man achieved in his tragically short life, dying shortly before his 32nd birthday, having been a pallbearer at Beethoven’s funeral in 1827. And to put it into context, as I think it sometimes does help, George IV was on the throne in England; one of our great animal artists, Edwin Lansdeer, was active in the UK; while painters Goya, Delacroix and Ingres were all making their marks in Europe; poets Edgar Alan Poe and Tennyson were busy, as was author Sir Walter Scott.

And finally, a brief word about the pianist here, Vladimir Horowitz, who was born in 1903 and married the daughter of the great conductor, Toscanini (despite him speaking no Italian, and she no Russian!) He is widely regarded as one of the all time greats for his interpretations of Liszt, Chopin, Schumann and the Russians. His virtuosity is almost unparalleled, but just look at the lack of body movement and histrionics: whatever he plays, be it dramatic or soothing, this is a pianist who does not get in the way.

Apparently, his preferred performance time was a Sunday afternoon, as he believed his audiences were more relaxed then. So if you haven’t got the time today, maybe try it later in the week – but please do try it!