FAIL! – Onstage kind!

 by Janet Horvath  July 12th, 2014

Before we enter that hallowed space—the concert stage— there are the ritual last minute precautions—men: fly zipped, check; women: hooks and buttons fastened especially in the front, check; string players: extra strings, check; oboe and bassoon players: good reeds soaking in water, check; music, check; brass players: valve oil, check; flute and clarinet players: swabs, check.

But no matter how prepared we are, unforeseen calamities can and do occur in performance. Batons, mutes and bows slip out of hands clattering and careening down the stage and sometimes into the audience.

Usually we are prepared for the inevitable string snapping. If it is the soloist or concertmaster, someone will hastily trade violins and then a musician at the back will as unobtrusively and quickly as possible change the string. When it comes to a cello that is easier said than done. My six-foot-four stand partner had a knack for breaking even the thickest string—the C string causing an exploding sound, throwing the entire instrument out of whack. How did cellists react to broken strings on stage?

Guy Johnston BBC Young Musician of the Year 2000   

Midori Goto

A famous “fail” occurred in 1985 when the then fourteen-year-old Midori had to swap her violin twice due to two broken strings during a performance with Leonard Bernstein. It was her Tanglewood debut with the Boston Symphony. She was performing the 5th movement of Bernstein’s own Serenade After Plato’s Symposium. In the heat of the action Midori broke the uppermost string—the E string. She quickly traded violins with the concertmaster. A few moments later she broke that violin’s E string. This time she was passed the associate concertmaster’s violin—all without missing a beat!

Midori “string fail”   

Certainly I’ve witnessed some startling equipment failures. Yuri Bashmet, world-renowned violist, had a spectacular “fail” during a concert. He was playing his 1758 Testore viola. Suddenly the entire bridge, which holds up all the strings, literally exploded. Dazed, all he could do was shrug.

Yuri Bashmet’s 1758 viola falls apart during performance!   

We musicians are often worried about falling: we might trip dodging all the onstage clutter of chairs, stands, microphones, instrument stands, and risers. Sadly, there have been several well-publicized falls of Maestros falling of their podiums James Levine included. Our principal guest conductor in the 1980’s, Klaus Tennstedt, who was a large man, once came tumbling off the podium toward me. I jumped up with my cello, and grabbed Tennstedt to steady him with the cello between us!

Conductor falls off podium   

It was particularly horrifying when Itzhak Perlman fell in front of our eyes. Fortunately he was not hurt. Another violinist had carried Perlman’s violin. Perlman refused anyone’s help, got up, and then played brilliantly.

Conductor “fails” are more common. They are known to lose their tempers but rarely do the sparks fly as they did with Arturo Toscanini the great Italian conductor of the NBC Orchestra, who threw temper tantrums regularly. There are two famous stories of him actually causing bodily harm. Once, trying to mediate between two feuding musicians, Toscanini started pummeling one of the players with a ferocious intensity. Another time in Turin, in 1919, Toscanini snapped a musician’s bow near the violinist’s face causing injuries and narrowly missing the player’s eye. Despite apologies and some financial compensation the musician sued. Toscanini was acquitted.

Audiences cause concert “fails” too. Recently at a Toronto Symphony concert an elderly gentleman turned up his hearing aids to better hear the mesmerizing opening of the Shostakovich Violin Concerto played by Julian Rachlin. The cellos and basses begin very softly and in a low register. Then the violinist entered playing without vibrato—starkly. A very loud high-pitched squealing ensued. The conductor stopped the soloist and the orchestra, as the ushers scrambled to find the perpetrator. We sat quietly waiting until finally the gentleman was located and led out of the hall saying, “What’s going on? I can’t hear anything!”

An orchestral concert is not usually the site of fistfights, but there have been two of late. In March of 2012 Maestro Riccardo Muti was conducting a performance of Brahms Symphony No. 2. One usually sits motionless and restrained in symphony concerts, but that evening two men started fighting in one of the boxes. A 30-year-old man started punching an older man over a disagreement regarding their seats. Muti continued the concert during the melee, turning around to throw irritated glares at the perpetrators until they could be subdued. No one was charged.

During the first twenty minutes at the Boston Pops’ opening night of 2007, a scream was heard. Conductor Keith Lockhart gave the signal for the orchestra to stop. A scuffle had broken out in the balconies apparently after one man told another to be quiet. “House security and Boston police stopped the fight, and the audience members were escorted out of the hall,” the Boston Symphony Orchestra said in a statement. The concert resumed with cheers from the audience.

Ildebrando D’Arcangelo in Carmen © ROH/Catherine Ashmore, 2009

Opera patrons more often witness “fails.” One occurred during a performance with Sir Thomas Beecham who was known for his quick wit. In a 1930s production of Carmen at Covent Garden, live animals were part of the action. One of the horses proceeded to ‘do his business’ on the floor. “My God what a critic!” said Sir Thomas Beecham.

We try very hard to keep the show going on no matter what happens. The audience often is unaware of any mishaps onstage and they can enjoy the glorious music uninterrupted. But audiences do love the drama. Anything can happen at a concert hall!

Elgar’s Choral Music: Light out of Darkness

 by Maureen Buja,  March 23rd, 2026

English choral music is one of the crowning glories of the English vocal tradition. From his earliest days, Edward Elgar (1857–1934) was associated with church music, albeit Roman Catholic, rather than Anglican church music. His father, William, was organist at Worcester’s St George’s Church from 1853 until 1885, and Edward Elgar was appointed organist from 1885, but was little associated with the church after 1889 when he moved to London and later Malvern.

Edward Elgar

The young Edward Elgar’s first involvement with the organ was as a bellows boy, supplying the air for his father’s performances. Later, he would sit in for his father during services. When sermons were being read, he was composing music up in the loft. His first compositions for St George’s were three hymn tunes in 1878. He had already started by setting the hymn ‘O salutaris Hostia’ in 1877. He eventually made 7 different settings of this one hymn, dedicating his 1880 setting in E flat major to his father.

Eventually, his work with the publisher Novello got him involved in writing music for Anglican occasions, and he was an active contributor to the Anglican New Cathedral Psalter Chants, although his 1909 contributions were not published at that time.

It was in choral song that Elgar came to the fore. He set texts by the leading British poets, including Byron, Shelley, and Tennyson, although he rarely set their finest poetry. One example is his 1907 ‘How calmly the evening’. Written at the request of the editor of The Musical Times, the setting is simple but effective.   

This recording, made by the Chapel Choir of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, features five works in their debut. We can hear choral works from Elgar’s earliest years as a choral composer and from his experienced hand. Through the recording, we get an education in the development of a composer.

After Elgar’s death in 1934, his music gradually faded away from the concert and cathedral halls. The Elgar Society was formed in 1951 at the behest of the conductor Sir Adrian Boult to encourage the promotion of the great composer’s works. In 2026, the Elgar Society celebrates its 75th anniversary of its creation and will hold a number of events throughout the year in commemoration.

Light out of Darkness: Choral Music by Edward Elgar

Chapel Choir of the Royal Hospital Chelsea; Callum Knox, organ; William Vann, director
SOMM Recordings SOMMCD0714

Official Website

ABSOLUTE HARMONY

 

💥ABSOLUTE HARMONY - what we all lack in today's world. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23, II. Adagio unfolds with intimate lyricism in Khatia Buniatishvili’s hands. Her delicate touch and expressive phrasing illuminate the movement’s serene melancholy, creating a deeply poetic and introspective atmosphere. https://www.ganjingworld.com/s/yEXjA9GY1A 

Khatia Buniatishvili and Renaud Capuçon

Wilhelm Taubert (Born on March 23, 1811) Berlin’s Hidden Romantic

 by Georg Predota  March 23rd, 2026

The German conductor, composer and pianist Wilhelm Taubert (1811–1891), born on 23 March 1811, was part of a Berlin circle of musicians that included Felix Mendelssohn, Giacomo Meyerbeer, and the singer and writer Eduard Devrient, the librettist of two of his operas.

Wilhelm Taubert

Mendelssohn and Taubert studied piano with Ludwig Berger, and they exchanged a number of letters. In one of these letters, Mendelssohn identifies “the lack and impetus of spirit which, for all of Taubert’s musicianship, refined taste and great industry, nevertheless hindered him from achieving complete success as a composer.” (Lindeman, Grove Music Online, 2001)

On the occasion of Taubert’s birthday on 23 March, let’s explore the life and works of a capable yet eclipsed composer whose prolific output was ultimately overshadowed by his more illustrious contemporaries.

Childhood Promise

Carl Gottfried Wilhelm Taubert was born into a middle-class family. His father may have held an administrative or civil service position, and he was exposed to Berlin’s vibrant musical and theatrical scene at an early age.

Taubert showed great early promise on the piano, and his first structured lessons came from August Neithardt and, most significantly, Ludwig Berger. Berger was a student of Muzio Clementi and even went with him to Russia.

Ludwig Berger

A capable composer and piano virtuoso, Berger built his reputation as a teacher, counting Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn, Dorn, August Wilhelm Bach, and Wilhelm Taubert among his most distinguished students.

Dual Path in Berlin

Bernhard Klein

Under Berger’s guidance, Taubert progressed rapidly, and he was allowed to perform publicly as early as age 13. Taubert also studied composition with Bernhard Klein, himself a student of Luigi Cherubini, who held the professorship of composition at the Royal Institute for Church Music and served as music director at the University of Berlin.

Alongside music, Taubert also pursued philosophy studies at the University of Berlin, preparing for a dual path that shaped his refined taste and intellectual approach to music. Among his first compositions were small instrumental pieces and sets of songs which attracted favourable comments from Mendelssohn.

Mendelssohn and Taubert engaged in a busy exchange of letters that discussed various aspects of musicianship and artistry. When a critic highly praised the uniqueness of the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Mendelssohn wrote to Taubert, “…the first obligation of any artist should be to have respect for the great men and to bow down before them…and not try to extinguish the great flames in order that his own small candle can seem a little brighter.” (Green, Biography as Ethics, 2006). 

The Working Musician

Wilhelm Taubert

At the age of 20, Taubert was appointed assistant conductor and accompanist for the Berlin court concerts. He would subsequently become associated with the Berlin Königliche Schauspiele under Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, and served as Generalmusikdirektor there from 1845 until 1848.

Taubert also held the appointment of court Kapellmeister until 1869, and in this position, he would conduct the royal orchestra until 1883. As far as we can tell, Taubert was highly regarded as a teacher, instructing Theodor Kullak, among others, at the Royal Academy of Arts.

Taubert composed in a graceful and popular style, and he soon attracted the attention of Robert Schumann. As the editor of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, Schumann reviewed a great many of Taubert’s compositions, indicating his high regard. He even asked Taubert to contribute to the journal.  

Encounter with Schumann

In his early twenties, Taubert composed his Piano Concerto No. 1, dedicated to his piano teacher Ludwig Berger. Schumann heard the concerto performed by the composer in 1833, and three years later, after the score was published, he remembered many of the positive aspects of his first impression.

As Schumann writes in his 1836 review, “Without waxing lyrical, I could call this Concerto one of the most excellent.” (Lindemann, Hyperion, 2010) However, Schumann also found too many similarities to Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 25. In the end, Schumann credits Mendelssohn as the original.

Challenges in Complexity

Wilhelm Taubert composed five symphonies that reveal the challenges of writing longer, more complex music. He also composed six operas that were all staged at the Königliches Theater in Berlin. “Although these works seem not to have stood the test of time, they were well received and often highly admired when written.” (Smith, Naxos, 2024)

In his compositional style, Taubert stayed close to the traditional models offered by Mendelssohn and Carl Maria von Weber. His music is highly diatonic and cadential, with chromaticism primarily reserved for modulatory passages.

As has been noted, Taubert’s music is full of graceful and gentle melodies of light lyrical charm, and therefore well adapted to smaller and more intimate musical forms. As such, it is hardly surprising that Lieder form an important part of his output.  

A Forgotten Footnote

For much of the 20th century, Wilhelm Taubert was little more than a forgotten footnote in music history. Overshadowed by Mendelssohn and Schumann, his extensive oeuvre was quickly forgotten after his death.

Mendelssohn’s assessment, quoted at the beginning, might well have played its part. While he praises Taubert’s technical skill and competence, and acknowledges his diligence and productivity, he pinpoints a core deficiency.

What Mendelssohn misses in Taubert’s music is the inner fire and passion, or, in other words, originality and creative energy. This isn’t just a mild criticism but a clear statement that Taubert might well have been a capable composer, albeit one without genius.   

21st-Century Revival

Wilhelm Taubert

Fortunately, the 21st century has engaged in a quiet rediscovery that finally gives listeners a chance to hear this forgotten voice. Initially, Hyperion Records released Taubert’s two piano concertos as Volume 51 of its acclaimed “Romantic Piano Concerto” series.

However, the real breakthrough arrived in September 2025 when pianist Lucas Wong released the world-premiere recording of Taubert’s Piano Sonatas. Praising its pastoral charm, light virtuosity and intimate storytelling, critics have found great delight in the discovery of a once-neglected composer.

In an age hungry for fresh repertoire, the works of Wilhelm Taubert remind us of the vast untapped 19th-century music. While his symphonies and operas still await full revival, Taubert is finally restored to the broader narrative of 19th-century Romanticism.

10 of the Saddest Piano Pieces in Classical Music History

 by Emily E. Hogstad,  March 23rd, 2026

Although it’s a fool’s errand to create an objective list of the ten saddest piano pieces ever written, we’re going to try our best today to come up with a subjective list.

In addition to the inherent sadness of the music itself, we’re also going to look at what was happening in the lives of the composers around the time they wrote each of these pieces.

As you’ll see, many of the saddest piano pieces in classical music history were shaped by grief, upheaval, illness, exile, or personal crisis.

From Bach’s years in mourning, to Mozart’s frightening leap into independence, to Chopin’s terminal illness, to Brahms’s late-in-life loneliness, and to Rachmaninoff’s experience of the Russian Revolution, every piece on this list – whether deliberately or not – captures a composer’s reaction to a time when life got overwhelming.

J.S. Bach – Prelude in B-minor, arranged by Alexander Siloti (1722)   This piece has a unique background.

Nineteenth-century Russian pianist Alexander Siloti took Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E-minor from the Well-Tempered Clavier and rearranged it in B-minor: a darker and more mysterious key.

Alexander Siloti

Bach wrote the Well-Tempered Clavier in 1722, a pivotal year in his life.

It’s hard to say exactly what he was feeling emotionally at this time, because none of his personal letters or diaries has survived.

But his wife Maria Barbara had died shortly before, in the summer of 1720. She was only 35 years old and had given birth to seven of his children.

Maybe he drew on his grief when writing this particular movement. We’ll never know. But it’s certainly one of the most melancholy piano pieces ever written.

Mozart – Fantasy in D-minor, K. 397 (1782)   

This unfinished fantasy comes from 1782, the year after Mozart disobeyed his loving but controlling father’s wishes and relocated to Vienna to start a hugely risky freelance career.

To help support himself, he taught aristocratic patrons and wrote works to play in glittering salons to entertain them. There was no guarantee his plan was going to work.

Mozart at the piano

The D-minor Fantasy captures emotions one might feel in a moment of transition: worry, restlessness, and a willingness to improvise.

If it seems unfinished, that’s because it is. We don’t know why, but Mozart abandoned the piece before completing it.

Another composer tacked on ten measures after Mozart’s death, making the work playable in concert and bringing the work to a close – albeit an abrupt one.

The fragmentary quality that results mirrors the unsettled, transitional quality of Mozart’s life in 1782…and the unsettled quality of any listener going through a similar life change.

C.P.E. Bach – Fantasia in F-sharp-minor (c. 1787)   

The melancholic, virtuosic Fantasia in F-sharp-minor was written near the end of C.P.E. Bach’s career, while he was serving at the court of Frederick the Great.

By the mid-1780s, C.P.E. Bach had spent his entire career in the shadow of his father J.S. Bach, the greatest giant of the Baroque Era. (His mother, by the way, was the wife that Bach had lost in 1720.)

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

Meanwhile, his students would become well-known composers during the Classical Era.

He was one of the composers who had built a bridge between the two generations.

It’s very possible that he was reflecting on his life and legacy around the time he wrote this confessional fantasia, with its unpredictable surging sighs that ultimately all collapse into melancholy meanders.

Chopin – Nocturne No. 13 in C-minor, Op. 48, No. 1 (1841)  

In 1841, Chopin was at the height of his artistic maturity, but facing increasing physical frailty, thanks to his tuberculosis diagnosis.

He and his lover, authoress George Sand, had settled into a domestic rhythm in Paris and at her family home in rural France.

Portrait of Frédéric Chopin and George Sand by Eugène Delacroix

But their relationship, and the relationship between Sand and her two teenage children, were all starting to show cracks.

Chopin was also deeply homesick for his Polish homeland, continually distressed by Polish politics and his status as a permanent exile.

The C-minor Nocturne is one of his darker pieces for solo piano: elegant and melancholy, but bitterly so.

Its quiet, contrasting middle section is a cry from the heart of a man who was feeling increasingly sick, isolated, and vulnerable.

Grieg – Lyric Pieces, Book I, Op. 12, No. 1, “Arietta” (c. 1866)  

Over the course of his career, between 1867 and 1901, Edvard Grieg published 66 “Lyric Pieces” for solo piano.

This brief “Arietta” was the very first one, written around the time of his marriage to his wife, soprano Nina Hagerup.

In 1901, a few years before his death, he reused the theme in his very last Lyric Piece, “Efterklang” (“Remembrances”).

Edvard Grieg | “Remembrances” Op. 71 No. 7 from “Lyric pieces” (by Vadim Chaimovich)   

Was he remembering a sad thing in particular? It’s possible: in 1868, the year after the lullaby-like Arietta was written, he and his wife had their only surviving baby, Alexandra.

Alexandra died of meningitis when she was still an infant, and the couple never had any more children.

That was just one of the many struggles that he and Nina survived as a married couple.

Edvard Grieg and Nina Hagerup Grieg

Although their relationship was occasionally rocky, they were married until he died.

Maybe turning a 35-year-old theme into a quiet waltz was his way of communicating that he – and they – had made it through decades of marriage, despite the troubles and tragedies they’d endured to get there.

Scriabin – Prelude in E minor, Op. 11, No. 4 (1888)   

Alexander Scriabin was born into a noble Russian family in 1871. His mother was a concert pianist but, tragically, died when he was just a year old.

After he was widowed, Scriabin’s father decided to follow his own family’s tradition of joining the military, leaving his baby son with his grandmother, great-aunt, and aunt.

His aunt played piano, which little Alexander loved. As a child, he begged to be played with. He grew up to play the piano himself, studying under Rachmaninoff’s infamously strict teacher Nikolai Zverev.

Alexander Scriabin

At one point, Alexander tried to assemble an orchestra of local children to try his hand at conducting, but the venture ultimately failed, leaving him in tears.

In short, he was a wounded loner during his childhood, and you can perhaps hear some of that in this early Chopin-inspired prelude, written in 1888, the year he turned seventeen.

Rarely has teen angst been so elegantly channeled.

Brahms – Intermezzo in E-flat-minor, Op. 118, No. 6 (1893)   

The Op. 118 set of piano pieces is a product of Brahms’s final years: a period in which he was preoccupied with nostalgia and mortality. By 1893, Brahms was nearing sixty and contemplating retirement.

To make matters worse, pianist Clara Schumann, his musical soulmate who was thirteen years his senior, was in failing health. And they’d found themselves in a quarrel.

Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms

Brahms wrote his Op. 118 and 119, in part, as a gruff but meaningful olive branch to her.

The E-flat-minor Intermezzo is one of his most despairing creations for solo piano. Many of Brahms’s works can feel emotionally subdued compared to more demonstrative contemporaries like Tchaikovsky or Dvořák, but this one is unusually frank about expressing sadness.

Happily, after receiving the scores for his Ops. 118 and 119, Clara Schumann wrote back to him, and they resolved their differences before their deaths, which would occur in 1896 and 1897, respectively.

Janáček – In the Mists: I. Andante (1912)   

Janáček composed In the Mists during an agonising period of professional stagnation.

He was 58 and felt deeply alone. His beloved daughter Olga had died in 1903, and his marriage had been deeply strained ever since.

He was also having trouble getting his work performed. He feared that his composing career was coming to a close and that he hadn’t fulfilled his potential.

Leoš Janáček

The first movement of In the Mists drifts through blurry, seemingly improvisatory harmonies.

It captures the emotions of a man facing professional disappointment and wandering through obscurity.

Rachmaninoff – Étude-tableau in E-minor, Op. 39, No. 5 (c. 1917)   

Rachmaninoff wrote his Op. 39 between 1916 and 1917, right as the world seemed to be collapsing around him.

World War I was ongoing, and revolution was coming. By 1917, it became clear to Rachmaninoff that the genteel aristocratic world he’d been born into was doomed – and never returning.

While writing this piece, he was struggling with fears about the safety of his family and friends, the necessity of exile and the loss of property and possessions, the end of his Russian career, and the fear of starting over in another country while in his mid-forties.

When he fled Russia later that year, he took these etudes with him. They are some of the last works he ever wrote on Russian soil, and they sound like an unhappy, unwilling goodbye.

Glass – Etudes: No. 5 (1994)   

Philip Glass’s official description of his first ten etudes is very matter-of-fact:

Book 1 (Etudes Nos. 1 through 10) had a twin objective – to explore a variety of tempi, textures, and piano techniques. At the same time, it was meant to serve as a pedagogical tool by which I would improve my piano playing. In these two ways, Book 1 succeeded very well. I learned a great deal about the piano, and in the course of learning the music, I became a better player.

Philip Glass

The first six etudes – including the fifth – were commissioned by conductor and pianist Dennis Russell Davies for his fiftieth birthday.

This piece was written during a difficult period in Glass’s life. His wife, artist Candy Jernigan, died of liver cancer in 1991, just weeks after being diagnosed. She was only 39.

“She was going to live forever, as far as I was concerned. It was a big shock for everybody, particularly the kids,” he told The Guardian in 2001.

It’s unclear whether Glass deliberately meant to portray this feeling in his fifth etude, but he captures the quiet repetitive numbness that a person can feel after the sudden death of a loved one.

Conclusion

Whether you’re searching for heartbreaking piano music, reflective pieces for difficult days, or just music to set a melancholy mood, these ten pieces stand apart. They are some of the saddest in the entire piano repertoire.

They all remind us of the humanity we share with the great composers, and testify to how music will always be one of the most powerful ways a person can process change, loss, disappointment, and grief.

𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞

 

𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞

There are conductors whose careers are defined by prestige, and there are others whose greatness comes from a rarer combination of 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, and 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩. 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 belongs unmistakably to that second order. He was born in 𝐍𝐚𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝟐𝟖 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟏, studied at the Conservatory of San Pietro a Majella in Naples and later at the Giuseppe Verdi Conservatory in Milan, won the 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐨 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 in 1967, and went on to hold major posts in Florence, London, Philadelphia, Milan, Salzburg, and Chicago. From 2010 to 2023 he served as 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 of the 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚, and since 2023 he has held the title 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 there. He is also closely associated with the 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐨𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐠𝐢 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐢, which he founded in 2004.

What makes Muti especially fascinating is that his public image has always combined two things that do not often coexist so powerfully: 𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 and 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞. He has long been regarded as one of the great Verdian conductors of modern times, but his career has never been limited to Verdi alone. It extends from Mozart and Cherubini to Beethoven, Schubert, Bruckner, Tchaikovsky, and major 20th-century repertory, always filtered through a style that prizes line, rhythm, clarity, and dramatic truth. Even official and institutional biographies emphasize not only his positions, but the sense of mission that runs through them: the defense of Italian operatic culture, the revival of neglected repertoire, and the training of younger musicians.

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐍𝐚𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐌𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧

Although born in Naples, Muti’s early memories and family roots are also connected with 𝐌𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚, in Apulia, a place he has repeatedly recalled with affection in later life. His formal training began in Naples at 𝐒𝐚𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐣𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚, where he studied piano, and then continued in Milan, where he studied conducting and composition at the Giuseppe Verdi Conservatory. His own official biography also highlights the importance of 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐭𝐚 as a mentor figure in his musical formation. This background matters enormously, because Muti did not emerge as a merely instinctive podium talent. He was formed through the old Italian path of conservatory rigor, compositional seriousness, and profound respect for craft.

That seriousness remained one of the constants of his art. He has never projected the image of a casual genius who simply waves a baton and produces results. Even when the results seem spontaneous, they rest on preparation, structural thought, and an almost moral insistence on exactitude. 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐩

The decisive early public breakthrough came in 1967, when Muti won first prize by unanimous vote at the 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐨 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 in Milan. That victory immediately changed his trajectory. It marked him out not just as a promising young conductor, but as a figure worthy of major institutional trust. The very next phase of his career confirmed that judgment: in 1968 he became principal conductor of the 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨, a post he held until 1980.

This Florentine chapter was crucial because it established Muti as more than a prizewinner. Florence gave him a real operatic and symphonic base, and it connected him to one of Italy’s great musical institutions. It was there that he first developed the profile of a conductor who could unite Italian dramatic instinct with a stricter, more structural command than many expected from the operatic tradition. 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧; 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞.

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

In 1973 Muti succeeded 𝐎𝐭𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫 as principal conductor of the 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚 in London, remaining principal conductor until 1979 and then music director until 1982. This was a major symbolic transfer of authority. Klemperer’s shadow was immense, and to step into that position required more than talent. It required seriousness, command, and the ability to stand within a great Central European tradition without being swallowed by it. Britannica’s summary gives these dates plainly, and they remain one of the key foundations of Muti’s international stature.

The Philharmonia period deepened his relationship with the Austro-German symphonic repertoire while sharpening his public profile outside Italy. It also contributed powerfully to the image of Muti as an 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 who remained unmistakably Italian. He did not become a pale imitator of Germanic weight; rather, he brought rhythmic precision, lucid phrasing, and dramatic tautness into music that could otherwise become ponderous. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐞.

𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚: 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐞

Muti became principal guest conductor of the 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚 in 1977 and then music director from 1980 to 1992. This was the phase that established him as a dominant presence in American orchestral life long before Chicago. Britannica and standard summaries agree on these dates, and the discographic legacy of the period includes major cycles and recordings of Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Scriabin, and others.

Philadelphia mattered because it gave Muti a large American platform at the height of the modern recording era. It also showed that he could command not only opera houses and European orchestras, but one of America’s great ensembles. Yet this period also contributed to his image as a demanding and exacting conductor. He was admired for results, not for easy sentiment. 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

𝐋𝐚 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐚: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲

If any one operatic institution stands at the center of Muti’s historical image, it is 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐚. Britannica summarizes that he served as music director there from 1986 to 2005, one of the most important and controversial chapters of his life. At La Scala he became not only a conductor of prestige but a central arbiter of Italian operatic standards. His years there were marked by high musical achievement, major productions, repertorial seriousness, and also by institutional tensions that eventually led to his departure.

This chapter is crucial because it brought out Muti’s deepest artistic convictions. He was never content with lazy tradition, approximate style, or routine performance habits merely because they were accepted. At La Scala he sought textual fidelity, rhythmic rigor, and theatrical truth, especially in 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢, 𝐌𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐢, and early Italian repertoire. He also championed works outside the most overplayed core, exploring repertories that many institutions neglected. 𝐀𝐭 𝐋𝐚 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐚, 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧; 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐢𝐭.

One of the striking characteristics of his La Scala period is that it intensified both admiration and opposition. Great authority often does that. He was not universally easy, but he was never artistically casual. That tension—between exacting standards and institutional politics—is part of what makes his biography compelling rather than merely decorative.

𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐳𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠, 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Muti first conducted at the 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐳𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 in 1971 and became one of its recurring major conductors over the decades. His official biography notes that 2020 marked fifty years of artistic collaboration with Salzburg. He later became artistic director of the 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐳𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 from 2007 to 2011, where he pursued projects devoted especially to the rediscovery of operatic and sacred music of the 18th-century Neapolitan School, often with the Luigi Cherubini Youth Orchestra.

His relationship with the 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 also became central to his profile. He conducted at Salzburg repeatedly with the orchestra and, after Karajan’s death, took over the important 15 August concert long associated with Karajan and Vienna. This did not make him Karajan’s successor in any formal institutional sense, but it underlined the degree to which he had become one of the most trusted custodians of the Austro-Italian symphonic and operatic heritage in the German-speaking world.

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨: 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲

From September 2010 to June 2023, Muti served as 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 of the 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚. The CSO’s own biography states this plainly and confirms that he was named 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 beginning with the 2023–24 season. His continued appearances with the orchestra in 2025 and planned residencies in 2026 show that this relationship remains active and honored, not merely historical.

The Chicago years added something important to his public image: late-career gravity without artistic decline. Rather than becoming a merely ceremonial elder, Muti remained central, active, and musically serious. Chicago gave him an orchestra with enormous power and discipline, and he used it not only for standard symphonic repertoire but also for Italian opera-in-concert, sacred works, and culturally framed programs linked to his deepest convictions. 𝐈𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟; 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐠𝐢 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚: 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

One of the most admirable aspects of Muti’s later life is his work with the 𝐎𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐨𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐠𝐢 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐢, founded in 2004. The orchestra’s official biography states that Muti founded it to unite a strong Italian identity with a broader European vision of music and culture. This is not a decorative side project. It goes to the heart of his sense of mission: that musical tradition must be transmitted actively, rigorously, and generously.

This teaching and mentoring dimension completes the portrait beautifully. Muti has always projected authority, but with the Cherubini Orchestra he also appears as a guardian of continuity, a conductor who knows that institutions alone do not preserve culture unless younger musicians are formed in depth. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 𝐒𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞: 𝐑𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦, 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲

What, finally, defines Muti as a conductor? The most consistent answers are 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲, and a refusal of indulgence. He does not generally court lush vagueness or generalized emotional fog. Even in highly charged repertoire, he prefers line to blur, architecture to inflation, and dramatic truth to sentimentality. This is one reason he is so often called a supreme Verdian: he understands that Verdi’s power depends not on noise or excess, but on pulse, proportion, and vocal-dramatic inevitability.

He is also a conductor of unusual moral seriousness in public life. One famous example came in Rome in 2011, when after “Va, pensiero” from 𝐍𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐨 he spoke against cuts to culture and invited the audience into an encore, saying that killing culture in a country like Italy was a crime against society. Whatever one thinks of the theatricality of the moment, it perfectly fits the larger Muti profile: 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐮𝐱𝐮𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

Riccardo Muti still matters because he represents a form of musical greatness that has become increasingly rare: greatness built not on branding or spontaneity alone, but on 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐨𝐫, 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞, and 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. He matters because he has held major institutions at the highest level without becoming generic. He matters because he has defended Italian music not provincially but universally. He matters because he has kept reminding audiences and musicians alike that the conductor’s task is not just to animate the notes, but to protect the dignity of the music itself.

For followers of classical music on Facebook, that may be the most compelling way to remember him. 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐢 is not merely an eminent Italian conductor, not merely a La Scala titan, and not merely a former music director of Chicago. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝.