The Symphonies by Alexander Glazunov (Born on August 10, 1865)

Alexander Glazunov, born on 10 August 1865, was Russia’s greatest symphonist in the generation immediately following Tchaikovsky, and he subsequently passed down his legacy to his most famous student, Dmitri Shostakovich.

A prodigious musical talent, Glazunov began his studies with Rimsky-Korsakov at age 15, and his teacher wrote, “His musical development progressed not by the day, but literally by the hour.”

After a short period of study, Glazunov completed his First Symphony at the age of 16. It is said that when Glazunov walked onto the stage to receive the audience’s cheers, the crowd was shocked to see a 17-year-old boy in a school uniform.

In all, Glazunov composed eight symphonies and left a ninth unfinished. A master of his craft, Glazunov blends Russian nationalist spirit with classical structure and brilliant orchestration. To celebrate his birthday, here is a beginner’s guide to his eight symphonies and the unfinished ninth.   

Symphony No. 1: Triumphant Debut

Alexander Glazunov

During a time when composers were indulging in all kinds of experiments, Glazunov continued the symphonic tradition of Tchaikovsky. He composed his first pieces at the age of 11, and Tchaikovsky immediately recognised a remarkable talent.

Nicknamed “Slavonic,” the Symphony No. 1 is a remarkable achievement for a teenager that impressed Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Liszt, and Belyayev. It is full of youthful energy and folk influences, including Russian and Polish elements, and radiates bright optimism.

Cast in a traditional four-movement structure with sonata-form outer movements, it also features a lyrical Adagio and a lively Scherzo. Critics were sceptical that such a work could have come from a mere boy, but Balakirev kept assuring the public that the symphony had indeed been written by the young composer.

For Rimsky-Korsakov, “this symphony was the first of a series of original compositions by the highly gifted artist and indefatigable worker, compositions which gradually spread also to Western Europe and came to be the finest adornments of contemporary musical literature.”

Symphony No. 2: A Lisztian Tribute

Alexander Glazunov with Mily Balakirev

Glazunov completed his Symphony No. 2 in 1886, when he was 21 years of age. It is dedicated, like Saint-Saëns’s contemporaneous Third Symphony, to the memory of Franz Liszt.

The main theme, announced in a commanding unison statement at the beginning of the first movement, appears in all four movements in various guises. This marks a transition towards greater maturity in larger symphonic forms and exhibits great dramatic sensibility, particularly in the outer movements.

We find plenty of ear-catching tunes, as well as Lisztian brass climaxes and tender Romantic lyricism, all mixed with dramatic intensity. Glazunov was transitioning beyond pure nationalism and towards a more personal, European-influenced voice.

As Igor Stravinsky writes, “Glazunov reigned supreme in the science of the symphony. Each new production of his was received as a musical event of the first order, so greatly were the perfections of his form, the purity of his counterpoint, and the ease and assurance of his writing appreciated.”  

Symphony No. 3: Sunny Lyricism

The Symphony No. 3 in D Major dates from 1890 and is dedicated to Tchaikovsky. Often considered one of his most attractive early works, it is full of lyrical and sunny melodic writing. Yet, it took him some years to complete this work, having sketched ideas as early as 1883.

In this symphony, Glazunov was looking to break away from the nationalist style of the compositions of “The Mighty Handful,” then the most important musical influence in Russia. For Glazunov, symphonic composition went beyond localised influences and strove towards universal forms, moods, and themes.

In essence, the work looks back to Tchaikovsky’s internationalism and shows a growing confidence in thematic development and orchestration. The first performance took place in St Petersburg in December 1890, conducted, because of the composer’s illness, by Lyadov.

Tchaikovsky approved of Glazunov’s effort, and the work’s lyrical episodes are clearly influenced by him. Glazunov reports that he often played the symphony’s scherzo to Tchaikovsky on the piano. Apparently, the only weakness that Tchaikovsky found was “some longueurs and the lack of pauses.”   

Symphony No. 4: Cosmopolitan

Alexander Glazunov composed his Symphony No. 4 in 1893, and it represents a departure from his earlier three symphonies. For the composer, this symphony allowed him to give personal, free, and subjective impressions of himself.

It is dedicated to Anton Rubinstein, a fellow composer and pianist who was long considered persona non grata to Balakirev and his friends. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov conducted the premiere on 22 January 1894, and he found the orchestration cumbersome in places, particularly in the third movement.

The work is unusual because it features only three movements and lacks direct Russian folk influences in its thematic material. It almost seems to take its bearings from Tchaikovsky’s abstract ballet music. Interestingly, the Scherzo movement unfolds like a tone poem, supposedly depicting the painting “Diana’s Chase” by Symbolist painter Arnold Böcklin.

In essence, this symphony reconciles both the Nationalist and Cosmopolitan styles, and the work was very popular in Europe. Glazunov was looking for a way to artistically present a reconciled and open-minded musical Russia, something he achieved through impeccable craftsmanship and his powers of invention.    

Symphony No. 5: Heroic Masterpiece

Alexander Glazunov by Ilya Repin

Glazunov’s Fifth Symphony is nicknamed the “Heroic Symphony,” and it is dedicated to his friend and fellow composer Sergei Taneyev. It might well be Glazunov’s most popular work, especially in America.

Glazunov frequently described this symphony as an architectural poem, with thematic transformation across the entire symphony guiding an unbroken continuity. The dance-like first subject grows from the opening maestoso, and the triumphant animato at the end of the final movement combines material used earlier in the work.

The delicate “Scherzo” was always an audience favourite, with the third movement exposing lush melodies that are constantly interrupted by brass chorales. With this monumental structure, Glazunov presents a wealth of details, shifting rhythms, and dazzling orchestration that all contribute to making this one of Glazunov’s finest symphonies.

Sadly, this symphony is rarely performed, as Shostakovich called it “old-fashioned.” At the end of the 19th century, music had to break boundaries relating to conventional harmony and tonality for it to be held in high regard. Today, we recognise it as his symphonic masterpiece.  

Symphony No. 6: Organic Whole

At the Hall of the Nobility in St. Petersburg, two world premieres took place on 15 March 1897. On offer were Glazunov’s Sixth Symphony and Rachmaninoff’s First, with both works conducted by Glazunov himself.

At this time Glazunov was enjoying overwhelming success on account of his Fifth Symphony and the ballet Raymonda, which were among the most popular works by a contemporary composer. On the other hand, Rachmaninoff’s symphony was a complete failure and the composer developed a profound neurosis.

Rimsky-Korsakov called Glazunov’s Sixth Symphony the highest point in his development. It is not as optimistic as the Third nor as confident as the Fifth, but it might be the most typically Russian of his symphonies. We find plenty of Tchaikovsky’s colourful woodwind writing in the central movements, and the powerful yearning quality characteristic of Russian symphonies at the turn of the century.

The Finale might well be one of Glazunov’s most successful closing movements, with the chorale theme introducing contrasting themes. He turns them into an organic whole, and the overall tone is powerful and very positive.   

Symphony No. 7: Pastoral Grace

Alexander Glazunov at Bertramka, 1928

Alexander Glazunov composed his Symphony No. 7 between 1902 and 1903, when he was at the height of his reputation as both composer and conductor. At that time, his mature style had fully crystallised, with lyricism and structural clarity taking precedence over dramatic or nationalist statements.

It is dedicated to the City of St. Petersburg in celebration of its bicentennial in 1903, but in its association with the rustic sound of Beethoven’s own Pastoral, it musically harkens back to Germanic music and classical thought.

As Glazunov writes, “More by instinct than by premeditated intention I wanted to combine variation form, which latterly I have come to love passionately, with sonata and rondo forms and to build my music more on contrapuntal than harmonic bases.”

The work throughout favours a serene and classical balance over high drama. It certainly represents the composer’s ideal of the symphony as an uplifting and noble art form, and while it lacks the tension and release of the Sixth Symphony, it provides melodic richness and an atmosphere of confident maturity.  

Symphony No. 8: Majestic Summit

Glazunov’s Symphony No. 8, premiered on 21 December 1906, represents the summation of his career as a symphonist. It combines complete mastery of ideas with a darker, more unsettled mood, one that has been a feature of some of his finest works.

It was composed at a time of great political turmoil, as Russia’s defeat in the Russo-Japanese War was followed by a wave of protests, political assassinations, and strikes. The events of the day may well reflect the sombre tone of the work, but as always in Glazunov’s symphonies, there is no extramusical programme.

It was Glazunov’s final completed symphony, and the opening movement engages in a wistful and yearning melancholy. The second movement presents an ominous three-note motif throughout, and its despairing outbursts are unique for Glazunov. A lighter-hearted scherzo leads the symphony to a majestic finale.

Symphony No. 9: Unfinished Mystery

Glazunov started work on his Symphony No. 9 in D minor in 1910, but it was still unfinished by the time of his death in 1936. Glazunov had only sketched the first movement and had given the score to Rimsky-Korsakov’s son-in-law Maximilian Steinberg in 1928. It was then orchestrated in 1947 by Gavriil Yudin.

The movement grows from the first four notes played by the viola in the slow introduction, reaching a dynamic climax. This process is followed in the “Allegro,” with the clarinet introducing a meandering second theme. The movement returns to the slow introduction and gradually fades away.

The nine symphonies by Alexander Glazunov trace his evolution from folk-infused optimism through his confident mastery of form and orchestration to a more introspective personal voice. Together they represent a musical bridge between Tchaikovsky’s emotional directness and the future Russian symphonic tradition.

𝐌𝐎𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐓’𝐒 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐘 𝐍𝐎. 𝟒𝟎 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝟏𝟕𝟖𝟖

Mozart’s 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟎 𝐢𝐧 𝐆 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫, 𝐊. 𝟓𝟓𝟎, completed on 25 July 1788, stands at the centre of one of the most astonishing bursts of creativity in the history of music. Within only a few weeks Mozart produced his final three symphonies: No. 39 in E-flat major, completed on 26 June; No. 40 in G minor on 25 July; and No. 41 in C major, the “Jupiter,” on 10 August.

The speed of composition can be misleading. Nothing about the Fortieth sounds careless or provisional. It is an extraordinarily concentrated work in which 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦, 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 are made to serve an emotional argument of remarkable continuity.

Unlike many eighteenth-century symphonies, it does not begin with a ceremonial gesture or a grand orchestral proclamation. The listener seems instead to enter a drama already in progress.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟕𝟖𝟖

Mozart was living in Vienna and experiencing considerable financial pressure. He repeatedly sought loans from his friend and fellow Freemason Michael Puchberg during this period. Yet it would be too simple to interpret the G-minor Symphony as a direct musical diary of personal misery.

Mozart's music rarely allows such straightforward biographical equations.

What can be said with certainty is that the symphony emerged during an extraordinary creative concentration. Mozart entered it in his own thematic catalogue on 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟓, 𝟏𝟕𝟖𝟖, giving us an unusually precise completion date.

The original orchestration called for flute, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns and strings. Mozart subsequently produced a second version that added 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐬, rewriting parts of the wind scoring accordingly. That revision is an important clue to the work's performance history: Mozart was not treating the score as an abstract testament intended only for posterity.

𝐀 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐝-𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

The opening of the first movement, Molto allegro, is one of the most radical gestures in Mozart’s symphonic writing.

There is no slow introduction and no orchestral chord announcing the beginning. The violas establish an agitated accompaniment almost immediately, and above it the violins introduce the famous sighing theme.

The effect is extraordinary: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Its restless repeated figures and falling semitones generate almost all the movement's tension. Mozart does not require huge orchestral forces. The drama comes instead from the manipulation of small motives, harmonic instability and an astonishing control of expectation.

The exposition eventually offers contrast in B-flat major, but the relief is never complete. The minor-mode atmosphere remains psychologically present beneath the apparent elegance.

The development intensifies fragmentation and modulation, while the recapitulation refuses to provide the kind of uncomplicated return that a listener might expect.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 — 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞

The Andante, in E-flat major, initially appears to offer repose.

Yet Mozart fills it with chromatic details, suspensions and quietly insistent rhythmic figures. Beneath its graceful surface there is continual motion.

This is characteristic of the entire symphony: 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭.

The movement is especially revealing when comparing the two versions of the symphony, because Mozart's later revisions of the wind writing suggest that he continued to reconsider instrumental colour after the initial composition.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐭 — 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

The third movement is formally a minuet, but almost nothing about it feels comfortably aristocratic.

Its accents are forceful, its phrases tense and its contrapuntal writing unusually concentrated.

The movement transforms a familiar social dance into something severe and almost combative.

The G-major Trio provides temporary relief, with warmer woodwind writing and a more pastoral character, but the return of the Minuet restores the darker world of G minor.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞 — 𝐌𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥

The Allegro assai begins with a sharply rising figure followed by an answering descent.

At first the language seems conventionally Classical. But the development section contains one of the most startling passages Mozart ever wrote.

The opening idea is fragmented and hurled through a sequence of harmonic regions with an almost deliberately destabilizing effect. For a moment the music seems to dismantle the tonal system on which the symphony itself depends.

The remarkable point is that Mozart achieves this without abandoning Classical form. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭.

And unlike many later Romantic symphonies, there is no victorious transformation into the major mode.

The work ends in G minor.

There is 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞?

Yes — but it needs to be understood carefully.

Symphony No. 40 is emphatically a Classical symphony, not a return to Baroque style. Its sonata structures, orchestral balance and thematic organization belong squarely to late eighteenth-century Viennese Classicism.

However, by 1788 Mozart had absorbed important aspects of 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐥.

Beginning around 1782, Mozart regularly attended the Sunday gatherings of Baron Gottfried van Swieten in Vienna, where the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann Bach and Handel was studied and performed. Mozart even arranged or transcribed fugues for performance at these meetings.

This encounter had a lasting effect. Mozart did not simply imitate Baroque counterpoint; he gradually absorbed it into his own mature language.

That distinction is essential.

In Symphony No. 40 the Baroque inheritance is visible less in quotation than in 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬.

The Minuet provides especially clear examples of contrapuntal tension, while the finale demonstrates Mozart’s increasingly sophisticated ability to make several musical lines participate in the argument simultaneously.

The culmination of this Bach-inspired tendency comes even more spectacularly only sixteen days later in the contrapuntal finale of the “Jupiter” Symphony, K. 551.

So the answer is not that Symphony No. 40 “sounds Baroque.” Rather, 𝐌𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐡’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲.

𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐭’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞?

For many years, a romantic legend claimed that Mozart composed his final three symphonies without ever hearing them performed.

Modern scholarship has made that view increasingly difficult to maintain.

No securely documented public premiere of Symphony No. 40 has been identified. That is important: 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

However, evidence strongly suggests that Mozart heard the symphony.

A letter discovered by scholar Milada Jonášová refers to a performance of the G-minor Symphony at Baron van Swieten’s home, with Mozart present; according to the account, the performance was so poor that Mozart left before it was finished.

There were also concerts in Dresden in April 1789, Leipzig in May 1789, Frankfurt in October 1790 and Vienna in April 1791 in which Mozart symphonies were performed, although surviving programs do not always identify which symphony by key or catalogue number.

The strongest practical evidence is Mozart's revision adding clarinets.

A composer normally does not undertake such substantial reorchestration unless 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬. Mozart scholar Neal Zaslaw has emphasized precisely this point.

𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

The work did not immediately acquire the canonical status it possesses today.

Its emotional ambiguity created very different responses during the nineteenth century. Some listeners heard grace and refinement; others heard anxiety, tragedy or even terror.

This disagreement is revealing.

The symphony's expressive power lies precisely in the fact that 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦.

Its G-minor world can certainly be related to the eighteenth-century Sturm und Drang tradition, although Mozart's mature harmonic and formal sophistication makes the Fortieth far more than a late example of that style.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐌𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧

The most important future consequence of the Fortieth lies in the way Mozart turns a short, restless motive into the driving force of a large symphonic movement.

That method would become central to 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧.

It would be simplistic to say that Beethoven merely copied Symphony No. 40, but the affinity is important: concentrated motives, dramatic developments, minor-key tension and the transformation of thematic fragments into structural forces all became defining features of Beethoven’s symphonic language.

In that sense Mozart's Fortieth stands at a historical threshold.

The symphony still belongs unmistakably to Haydn and Mozart’s Classical world, but 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚.

Later composers including Schubert, Mendelssohn and Brahms inherited a symphonic tradition in which Mozart's late works had become indispensable models of formal concentration and expressive depth.

There is a particularly beautiful historical irony here: Johannes Brahms later owned the autograph manuscripts of both versions of Symphony No. 40, before donating them to the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna.

𝐀 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Mozart’s Fortieth is sometimes described as “Romantic” before Romanticism.

That description is useful only if treated cautiously.

Its formal discipline is intensely Classical; nothing is allowed to become shapeless or merely confessional. But inside that discipline Mozart created an emotional world of unusual unease.

The first movement begins in agitation.

The Andante offers reflection but not complete serenity.

The Minuet transforms dance into struggle.

The finale drives forward with increasing instability and closes uncompromisingly in minor.

There is 𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, 𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

That may be its most modern feature.

In the summer of 1788 Mozart took the impeccable machinery of the Classical symphony, enriched it with a contrapuntal discipline partly nourished by his encounter with 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐥, and made it express something far more unstable and troubling.

The result was not merely one of Mozart’s greatest symphonies.

𝐈𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦.

Music Quiz: Colors in Classical Compositions

 

Music Quiz: Colors in Classical Compositions

by Maureen Buja  August 7th, 2026

Forgotten Pianists: Sergio Fiorentino

 by Anson Yeung  April 10th, 2021

Sergio Fiorentino
© bach-cantatas.com

“The only other pianist” – Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli

“Recently I listened to a pianist on the radio who impressed me very much: Sergio Fiorentino, do you know him?” – Vladimir Horowitz

It takes a musical genius to be such highly commended by great pianists like Michelangeli and Horowitz – he is Sergio Fiorentino (1927-1998). Fiorentino is highly esteemed among pianophiles for his technical mastery and musical understanding, but his name has remained rather obscure outside the circle.

His career was indeed an unusual one. Born in Naples, he studied at the San Pietro Majella Conservatory under Luigi Finizio and Paolo Denza and graduated with a diploma in 1946. The 1940s and early 1950s had seen a flourishing career, but an airplane accident in 1954 brought his concert engagements to a halt. Severely injured in the accident, Fiorentino took up a teaching post at the Naples Conservatory of Music and had to re-learn some of the techniques to overcome the disabilities. He returned to a performing life after several years, actively concertising in the UK and Italy and producing recordings. Enigmatically, he later resumed his teaching activities and faded away from the concert stage until 1993, when he came back with the same uncompromising technique. In the last few years of his life, he again launched an international career and recorded extensive discography under Appian Publications & Recordings.

© bach-cantatas.com

Some of his earlier recordings were issued under the pseudonym Paul Procopolis. He was unfortunately involved in the scandals revolving around Concert Artists label, alongside the infamous Joyce Hatto fraud. Fiorentino’s posthumously published recording of Chopin Mazurkas was found to contain tracks from three other albums.

Fiorentino wasn’t the kind of pianist who followed the score strictly. Instead, he remained loyal to the composers by internalising the music, extracting its meaning and displaying deep understanding with interesting ideas. His recording of Chopin Etudes is an exemplary combination of poetry, ferocious technique and creativity. For example, listen to his Chopin Etude Op. 10 No. 2 in A minor and observe how he brought out the hidden line. Liberties were taken without sounding self-indulgent (e.g. 39:00, 55:37).   

Here’s a clip of Fiorentino improvising before a studio recording session. One would be captivated by the warmth of his sound right away. He was a true romantic at heart – his playing had absolute freedom, sensitivity in touch and enticing tone production. Everything came so naturally without any histrionics.  

Fiorentino’s technical prowess gave his playing a sense of ease even in the midst of difficult passagework. Technique was not used merely for show off but at the service of music per se. Note the beautiful legato and inner voices in his performance of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, which asked for fine control of the keyboard and dexterity. This justifies the saying that a great pianist would sound well even on subpar pianos by transcending the “physical” limitations.  

Excelling in transcriptions as well, Fiorentino captured the essence of the original compositions and incorporated some refined pianistic writing. Take his beautiful transcription of Fauré’s Aprés un rêve as an example – its intricate emotions are simply spellbinding!  

Having shunned the limelight in his lifetime, he never achieved the fame that he deserved. On a par with legendary pianists like Richter, Cortot and Gilels, Fiorentino possessed the qualities expected of a great pianist – remarkable artistry, devotion and genuine love for music. His sudden, untimely death in 1998 was undoubtedly a tremendous loss to the classical music world. Fortunately, we were blessed by the substantial amount of studio recordings and audience-made tapes by his admirers (most notably Ernst Lumpe). Fiorentino shall remain in our memory, and his artistic legacy will continue to prevail.

Singing in the Shadow: Introducing the Song Pianist

 by Isaac Chan  August 13th, 2026

‘You must have played well today, for I did not notice you.’

In his memoirs titled Am I Too Loud?, pianist Gerald Moore recalls the remark of famed (and famously egotistical) British singer John Coates, among many an anecdote from the singers of yesteryear. Such an insinuating ‘compliment’ is emblematic of the outdated expectations of accompanists as subservient, even mechanical labourers – expectations which, thanks to Moore’s advent of the collaborative musician, are confined to the past. Across Europe and America, collaborative piano emerges increasingly as a practice in its own right, with the vocal-piano dimension often at the fore.

Pianist Gerald Moore rehearses with treasured singer-partner, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.

Today, art song finds itself at a disadvantaged junction in time. Its forebear, Liederabende, has morphed into the colloquial ‘karaoke with friends’, while those lovers of classical music often tend towards symphonic concerts in colossal venues. The miniature art song finds itself shadowed today, in the concert hall or at home. Nonetheless, the enthusiastic discourse on song from scholars and connoisseurs alike keeps the genre alive. Being at a place like Cambridge places me in the heart of this culture: as an active and eager performer, I have had the fortune to work with the crème de la crème of young singers, almost all of whom bring exciting, novel ideas and repertoire to my own musical maturation. Beyond university, such institutions as Leeds Song, Oxford Lieder, as well as the year-round Wigmore Hall concert series, enable these precious songs of (often) a foreign tongue to survive in an Anglophone world.

It is inevitable, however, that the nuances of accompaniment are subtle compared to the singer’s texted expression. In reality, the pianist takes on the role of a chameleon – changing one’s musical colour and stance constantly but seamlessly. The role of a song-pianist varies between composers, between songs, and even between subsections of a song. In this piece I divulge three less-considered roles that often highlight a ‘shadowed’ pianist; it is essential to remember that each song often sees a mixture of roles, and often beyond what I have but tersely prescribed here.

The Pianist as Dramatist – Benjamin Britten’s Canticles

A setting of Friedrich Klopstock’s Das Rosenband by Carl Friedrich Zelter, one of the earliest composers of the modern-day lied. This simple setting is shadowed by famous settings by Schubert and Strauss.

When looking at an early Lied (before the fully-fledged Romantic idiom of the 1800s), one could be pardoned for understating the role of the piano. Composers often resort to stock Alberti or block-chords, in strophic form that seem to limit a song’s expressive variety. As the Romantic aesthetic emerged (pioneered by Schubert’s iconic lieder), it marked the start of generations of composers who insisted on the piano’s contribution to the drama. As the singer serves as actor, the pianist provides the set, sounds and spectacle that the actor acts upon.

Britten’s songs prove my point most succinctly – in particular, the Canticles that span his career serve as optimal examples. There is an unencumbered honesty and directness to Britten’s songs, especially those that depict jarring, tragic episodes. Take his third Canticle, Still falls the rain – one where Edith Sitwell excruciatingly negotiates pain and faith amidst the ‘raining’ bleakness of the London Blitz: partnering with a solo French horn, the piano not only dramatises the vocal recitative effectively, but extends to a number of variations that preface and segue into the new verse. Whether it be the ‘”pulse” of the heart’, the ‘”worm” with the brow of Cain’, the “Rain” [bullets], or the ‘”leaps” of the hunted hare’, a preceding horn-piano variation enacts the metaphor to the maximum, barren potential of tragedy. (The opening to the second Canticle, Abraham and Isaac, is a prime example of how the piano can portray the divine and the angelic!)   

Some works, in turn, negotiate that engagement with drama with a lyrical Romantic essence. Out of his vast repertoire, Goethe’s Ganymed is perhaps the poem that Schubert treats with the most dramatic variety. The beauteous spring is revealed to be a means of seduction from Zeus to the titled boy, as he gradually submits to the god’s embrace. Schubert’s textures change literally every two lines, and so does the momentum in which the music flows. The pianist must act here as ‘enabler’: not so much narrating the drama directly but providing the canvas on which the singer can narrate their story – thus goes the mantra of ‘following’ and ‘being with’ the singer. As the embodied young boy sees the layer of clouds ‘surging upwards and upwards’ (hinauf, strebt’s hinauf!), the song goes into what is possibly the most exciting and expansive accelerando in all of lyric repertoire, all the while demanding an endless act of absolutely perfect coordination.

The Abduction of Ganymede (1638), by Peter Paul Rubens

Other examples include: Rachmaninoff’s In the mysterious silence of the night, where the piano diligently (in Rachmaninoff-esque fashion) underscores both a soundscape of churchbells, and of infatuated desire; Rebecca Clarke’s The Seal Man, which tells of a girl’s infatuation with a sea creature that leads to her fatal drowning, with the piano’s ever-haunting depictions of water; and Olivier Messiaen’s Doundou Tchil (from the cycle Harawi), where the pianist extensively narrates a male lover’s courtly, increasingly ecstatic serenade, while the voice’s syllabic utterances play mock-Peruvian bells.  

The Pianist as Orchestra – Strauss’ Four Last Songs

The mid-19th-century advent of the orchestral song has left many loved gems in the concert-hall repertoire. In recital, performers adapt these orchestral songs into popular piano arrangements, in which pianists take on the imaginative task of convincing the listener that there is an orchestra stalled somewhere in, on, and between their ten fingers. Some composers, most notably Richard Strauss, take this one step further: between the youthful adventurism of his early songs and the aged pensivity of the late ones, he constantly wrote with an orchestral backdrop in mind. There are often instances where an accompanist’s sixth sense allows one to simultaneously realise ‘that’s an oboe solo’, ‘that’s a cello line’ etc. The resultant piano part is hence often virtuosic for one reason: (to quote Hermann Hesse in Beim Schlafengehn, Strauss’ third Last Song) because the texture is ‘profoundly thousandfold’ (Tief und tausendfach).  

Take September, the second of Strauss’ Four Last Songs: this is, by comparison, the most practical (or least impractical, perhaps) song to perform in recital. The multilayer filigree is largely playable across the fingers, without the obligation to emulate any fifty-voice harmonies. But Strauss’ hallmark richness in texture is never forgiving. Regardless of the lines the pianist plays, there will always be some aspect in the sparkling canvas that remains uncaptured. There will be the most mellifluous figures on a cello that outrageously bend the rules of physics on the keyboard, or flittering flute trills that seem only arduous to the fingers. Not to mention, the infamous horn solo in the coda, which, when played on the piano, will leave most listeners thinking: ‘But that doesn’t sound like a horn…‘ As a pianist on the deep end of such all-encompassing textures, one can but imagine, and one can but try.

The expansive opening (in orchestral score) to Im Abendrot, the last of the Four Last Songs

Other examples include: Berlioz’s Le spectre de la rose (from the cycle Les nuits d’ete) – oft-considered the ‘original’ orchestral song. With roots from an unpopular piano version, Berlioz then morphed it into a dazzling, liquid orchestral palette that tells a melancholy tale of princely love; another is the second of Mahler’s Songs of a Wayfarer, which paints an uninhibited colour-palette of joy, was adapted into his First Symphony, and has been overshadowed by its orchestral counterpart (capable of convincingly imitating all kinds of ‘cuckoos’) ever since .

Michel Fokine’s ballet (1911), adapted from the same text by Theophile Gautier that Berlioz set to music.

The Pianist as Ironist – Mahler & Schumann

This is perhaps the rarest of those listed, and the one where the mantra of the accompanist ‘following’ the singer is called into question. The dissenting (and rather innovative) relationship between voice/text and texture finds itself in late 19th-century songs, at a time when all modes of art looked to explore more colours and timbres. Take Mahler’s Das himmlische Leben (The Heavenly Life): (this song from Des Knaben Wunderhorn was adapted into the final movement of Mahler’s 4th Symphony – yet another example of the ‘pianist as orchestra’!) With a poem that takes the perspective of a child enjoying ‘heavenly pleasures’ (die himmlischen Freuden), one would expect an ever serene idyll. But it’s never that simple: the jarring sleigh-bell figure (at the start of the Symphony) is reprised continuously – one which is fuelled with preternatural, even malicious hints. The ‘shopping list’ of pastoral, heavenly scenes is confronted with explicit, almost grotesque paintings of donkey and lamb sounds. Perhaps, in a way, the effect of starkly different sound worlds in combat provides something more memorable than a warm texture of ‘pure sensory candy’. A more humorous example is from Hugo Wolf’s Italienische Liederbuch: in Wie lange schon war…, the lady sings (when in duo-recital form, often feigning oblivion to a jealous partner) of having a musician-lover, and sings sensuously as she is approached by a fine, well-dressed violinist (one could imagine the signature ‘British restraint’!). Yet he is not exactly ‘Prince Charming’ – far from it, actually. His limping figures are sprinkled with accents in the most random moments (is our timid violinist tripping over?) – pianists often relish their moment to portray the most comical ‘Grade-1’-violinist impressions imaginable, and not least with a long trill that is anything but agile and smooth! Today we know Wolf as the poster ‘tormented artist’, but once every now and then he would put in his score: ‘Nicht ohne Humor’!  

The irony works vice versa: when sentiments of negativity are relentlessly overwritten by delightful-sounding music. In Schumann’s Dichterliebe (set to Heine poems), the serenade Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen musters all elements of folksy rhetoric, with some humorously limping syncopations. Yet by the end of the poem, when that eternal story of affair and heartbreak would ‘break your heart in two’ (bricht das Herz entzwei), the piano goes on limping (for uncomfortably long) in that overtly optimistic and earthy dance. Much discography of yesteryear abides by a cheery, ‘force-smiled’ irony in the play-out, but ideas diverge more recently; in particular, the Erl Kings’ uncanny reimagination lets the song ridiculously dash to oblivion. Such is the artistic licence of the ‘accompanist’ – one who plays Interpreter.  

Coda: The Pianist as Poet – the ending to Dichterliebe

“I’m always telling students, ‘Don’t slouch like that; the song is not over yet!'” Samuel Sanders

The ‘play-out’, as commonly known, reveals another facet of a performer’s persona. Fast-forwarding to the epilogue of Schumann’s Dichterliebe (or mutatis mutandis, the epilogue of his Frauenliebe und -leben). An unexperienced singer may curtail the magnificent drama by going into ‘screensaver mode’ or leaving the song world entirely, while an impressive performer may conclude an ever-gripping act by performing the ‘loudest silence’. The pianist becomes the centre of this narrative – after a most jarring final line, where he ‘buries his love and his sorrow’ (senkt’ auch meine Liebe und meinen Schmerz), the pianist gets the last word. In an elegiac, musing reprise of a previous tune, is there a hint of optimism beyond this streak of intoxicated love? Perhaps there is a degree of fulfilment as the music states, but, with the lingering, illusory tune of the poet’s love ultimately haunting his persona, is that fulfilment in any way genuine?

(P.S. lieder is not all doom-and-gloom: listen to the ending of the final song of the Italian Songbook, as the pianist theatrically flourishes from the woman’s glorious exit. Every accompanist has to strum repeated chords regularly, but there are certain moments when the flamboyant side comes into good use!)  

A playlist of great variety – suitable for accompanying summer downtime, or a pleasant commute! Creating this playlist was far from an easy task: I had endeavoured to feature as many piano-singer duos, with as much variety of composers as possible – and yet there are portions of the repertoire that scream out for appreciation beyond this list!  

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Isaac Chan is an orchestral conductor currently pursuing Master’s studies at the Juilliard School. He recently graduated top-of-the-class from the University of Cambridge (Clare College) with triple starred-first-class honours in Music, and was awarded the University’s Holgate-Pollard Prize, as well as the William Barclay Squire Prize in musicology and the Donald Wort Prize (x2).

He was Conducting Scholar at Cambridge, in whose capacity he conducted the University’s Symphony Orchestra, and studied at the Royal Academy with Sian Edwards. He was also a pianist-scholar on the flagship Instrumental Award Scheme and Sir Arthur Bliss Lieder Scheme, and has performed/conducted at venues such as the Wigmore Hall, Bridgewater Hall, Ely Cathedral etc. In 2024, he was made conductor of the Hong Kong Youth Philharmonia, as well as having founded his own orchestra jointly affiliated with Trinity and Clare Colleges, Cambridge. He was formerly the Artistic Director of Cambridge’s West Road recital series, and, when in Hong Kong, is an associate artist on the James Legge Cultural Scheme at Ying Wa College, where he gives seminars and coaching on music and literature.