Friday, July 10, 2026

Creating Your Own Schubertiade: George Fu’s Solitude with Schubert

Rising young American pianist George Xiaoyuan Fu releases his third album, Solitude with Schubert, in the form of an evening of Franz Schubert (1797–1828). Just as in Schubert’s time, when the eponymous ‘Schubertiade’ hosted by the composer for his friends was an evening of piano music and song, Fu has created a similar collection on his debut Schubert album.

Gábor Melegh: Franz Schubert, 1827 (Budapest: Hungarian National Gallery)

Gábor Melegh: Franz Schubert, 1827 (Budapest: Hungarian National Gallery)


George Fu (Photo by Raphael Neal)

George Xiaoyuan Fu (Photo by Raphael Neal)

The project began during COVID when Fu was drawn to Schubert’s late works, filled with the anxieties of the composer’s final year. Following the death of his father, Fu connected with a bereavement group in London and created a recital for them based on Schubert’s last works, and this album is the result of that recital. Fu found the switches between music filled with ‘bleakness and despair, which is bewilderingly followed by sunniness and hope’, and its juxtaposition of light and dark, to be something he was feeling in his own life.

Fu opens and closes the album with two short pieces, the Allegretto in C minor, D. 915, and the Hungarian Melody, D. 817, that bookend the entire collection. What Fu regards as Schubert’s most ‘Beethovenian essay’, the Piano Sonata No. 19 in C minor, D. 958, forms the core of the recording. Fu notes the work’s structure, key, and thematic elements can be traced to two works by Beethoven32 Variations in c minor, WoO 80, and the Pathétique Sonata, Op. 13, Schubert adds his own unique sound to the final movement, which the pianist declares gives anyone a workout similar to the demands of Erlkönig.  

No Schubert evening would be complete without a song. Schubert had the baritone Johann Michael Vogl (1768–1840) as his close collaborator. Fu brings Australian mezzo-soprano Lotte Betts-Dean to perform 2 songs (Liebesbotschaft and Die Taubenpost) from Schubert’s final printed collection, Schwanengesang, D. 957, and a six-verse song, Einsamkeit (Solitude), D. 620. The latter song was set to a text by Johann Baptist Mayrhofer (1787–1836). Each verse takes us through the life of a young man, with each new phase asking for a new action: ‘Give me my fill of solitude’, ‘Give me my fill of action’, ‘Give me the pleasure of company!’, ‘Give me my fill of bliss’, ‘Give me my fill of gloom’, and at the end of his life, ‘Give me the consecration of solitude.’ Fu sees it as a parallel with Beethoven’s An die ferne geliebte, Op. 98, which came out two years before Schubert’s work.

Lotte Betts-Dean

Lotte Betts-Dean


Just like his hero Schubert, Fu moves seamlessly from soloist to accompanist and gives us an album that would make an evening of beauty in piano music and song.

The album is scheduled to be released on 10 July and on 13 July in conjunction with Fu’s recital at Wigmore Hall.

solitude with schubert george fu album cover


Schubert: Solitude with Schubert

George Xiaoyuan Fu, piano; Lotte Betts-Dean, mezzo-soprano
Platoon PLAT 31197
Release date: 10 July 2026
www.georgefupiano.com

Official Website

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Credit: NPR Classical on Facebook

10 Inspirational & Thought-Provoking Quotes From Musicians and Composers

 by Frances Wilson  December 17th, 2023


– Mitsuko Uchida, pianist   

“I am interested in music as ecstasy, as something that transports you away from the every day to another place.”
– Terry Riley, composer

James MacMillan

James MacMillan © Hans van der Woerd

“Perhaps many a composer of the past would be astonished at how over-cautious we are when we play their works.”
– Helmut Deutsch, pianist

“Be open to the possibility of your ears and soul being challenged, be curious about how that may be done, be hungry for new sounds, be thirsty for what you don’t know yet”
– James MacMillan, composer and conductor   

“The purpose of art is the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.”
– Glenn Gould, pianist  

Leon Fleisher

Leon Fleisher © The New York Times

Schnabel said Mozart is the most inaccessible of the great masters because, with the fewest number of notes, he accesses the deepest levels of human awareness and experience.”
– Leon Fleisher, pianist

“As you grow up, communicate more with scores than with virtuosi”
– Robert Schumann

Arthur Rubinstein playing the piano

Arthur Rubinstein

“At every concert, I leave a lot to the moment. I must have the unexpected, the unforeseen. I want to risk, to dare. I want to be surprised by what comes out. I want to enjoy it more than the audience. That way, the music can bloom anew.”
– Arthur Rubinstein, pianist  

“If you play music with passion and love and honesty, then it will nourish your soul, heal your wounds, and make your life worth living. Music is its own reward.”
– Sting (Gordon Summer, pop musician)

“Keep searching for that sound in your head until it becomes a reality”
– Bill Evans, jazz pianist

Gustav Mahler (Born on July 7, 1860) A Symphonic Survey

As you make your way around the musical world, you start with the easy ones – a bit of Haydn, some Mozart, a venture into Beethoven. Then what? As your tastes mature and you desire something more, there’s Mahler. Each of his symphonies is interesting in its own unique way, and they have been described as ‘full of iconic moments, larger-than-life (and fervently argued) stories, and innovations (formal, conceptual, and in their approach to instrumentation)’. In addition, they are filled with as much emotion and life as with death. Explore Mahler’s 10 with us in celebration of Mahler’s birthday on 7 July.

As with so many composers’ first symphonies, Mahler’s First Symphony was some time in the making. And his concept, with two folk dance movements followed by a funerary movement, was problematic for its first audience. Symphony No. 1 in D major, given the nickname of Titan, started life in some early compositions, but it wasn’t until late 1887 that he worked on the body of the symphony and brought everything together. It was completed in March 1888 and was given its premiere in Budapest, Hungary, in 1889.

After the lacklustre reception of the premiere, Mahler went back and revised it and brought it back to the stage in October 1893 in Hamburg. Before the work was published in 1898, Mahler made further revisions.

For the first 3 performances of the work (Budapest, Hamburg, and Weimar), an additional movement, Blumine, was inserted between movements 1 and 2. This was dropped and wasn’t used after the 1894 Weimar performance, and wasn’t found until 1966. Some performances include this additional movement, but most do not; they may play it separately. It’s important to know about Blumine because Mahler includes references to its main theme in the second movement and in the final movement.

Mahler gave the work the name Titan, taken from a novel of the same name by Jean Paul. He applied it only to the 1893 Hamburg and 1894 Weimar versions of the work; by the time of its publication in 1898, that title had been dropped.

Leonard Berlin: Gustav Mahler, 1892

Leonard Berlin: Gustav Mahler, 1892


Mahler started work on his Symphony No. 2 in C minor in 1888 and worked on it after the premiere of Symphony No. 1. He completed work on it in 1894, and it was given its premiere in 1895. The drama is inherent in the work from the first note.

Known as the Resurrection symphony, the work ‘contemplates life and death on a cosmic scale, culminating in an ecstatic hymn of resurrection’. Even Mahler, after the early rehearsals, modestly noted its effect: ‘One is battered to the ground and then raised on angel’s wings to the highest heights’.

The first movement began as the sequel to Symphony No. 1, a symphonic poem titled Todtenfeier (Funeral Rites). If Titan was the musical portrait of a hero, then Todtenfeier was the music for his funeral. However, when he played it for his mentor, Hans von Bülow, von Bülow’s reaction to its overly histrionic qualities (it made Tristan und Isolde sound like a Haydn symphony!) made Mahler reconsider it as a separate work and fold it into his Second Symphony.

Already in his 2nd symphony, Mahler was looking for additional material and so included sung texts, requiring 2 soloists (a soprano and an alto) and a chorus for later movements.

By Symphony No. 3, Mahler was finding his place in the symphonic world. He started work on the sketches in 1893, spent most of 1895 putting most of it together, and completed it in 1896. At six movements, it’s already beyond the normal 4-movement symphony, and he again adds a soprano soloist and choir to the orchestra. At the end, the symphony is the longest written by a major composer, with a giant first movement that, luckily, is followed by shorter movements.

The work was written to a programme that he described in 1896 as ‘A Summer’s Midday Dream’ with movements entitled

I. Pan Awakes, Summer Marches In

II. What the Flowers in the Meadow Tell Me

III. What the Animals in the Forest Tell Me

IV. What Man Tells Me

V. What the Angels Tell Me

VI. What Love Tells Me

A final movement, VII. What the Child Tells Me was dropped and made its way into his next symphony.

All of these titles were dropped before the work was published in 1896.

Gustav Mahler, 1896

Gustav Mahler, 1896

After the solemnity of Symphony No. 3, the next symphony is a delicate dancing delight. He composed the work from 1899 to 1900 and included the child’s view of heaven that was first intended for Symphony No. 3. He returns to standard orchestral forms: a first movement sonata form, a second movement scherzo, and theme and variations for the third movement and then his innovative final movement, for solo voice and orchestra, a symphonic first.

The final movement is a set of strophic variations, with the soprano singing the verses with orchestral refrains. The text describes the joys of heaven, using the text ‘Das himmlische Leben’ (The Heavenly Life) from Des Knaben Wunderhorn. The bells come from the opening of the first movement, and the whole work seems filled with a curious innocence.

At the end, our child falls asleep, knowing that ‘all things awake to joy’.

Symphony No. 5’s opening trumpet call (which originated in Symphony No. 4) tells us immediately that we’re in a new world. Rhythms reminiscent of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 are everywhere.

This symphony was written in the summers of 1901 and 1902 in his lakeside villa in Carinthia, Austria. His new country villa provided him with a place of rest and relief from his duties in Vienna, and a ‘composing’ hut for working.

Thomas Ledl: Mahler's piano in his composing hut, Maiernigg, Austria, 2013

Thomas Ledl: Mahler’s piano in his composing hut, Maiernigg, Austria, 2013

Symphonies 5, 6 and 7, all composed during his summers out of Vienna, have certain similarities, the most striking of which is the lack of a vocal voice. What is also striking is Mahler’s study of the works of J.S. Bach, which shows an increasing emphasis on counterpoint, i.e., ‘the relationship of two or more simultaneous musical lines (also called voices) that are harmonically dependent on each other, yet independent in rhythm and melodic contour’.

The fourth movement, the Adagietto, was written in honour of his new wife, Alma Schindler, whom he met in November 1901 and married in March 1902. Their first child, Maria Anna, was born in November 1902.

Alma Mahler and the daughters Maria (at left) and Anna (at right), c. 1906

Alma Mahler and the daughters Maria (at left) and Anna (at right), c. 1906

The fourth movement, given the unusual title Adagietto, is often performed on its own, a signal honour for a symphonic movement. It’s been described as ‘an exquisitely poetic meditation on the deepest sensations of feeling alive in the universe, of having a place in the boundlessness and beauty of divine creation’. It’s also been called a ‘love song without words’, to be delivered to Alma’s ear alone.

Emil Orlík: Gustav Mahler, 1902

Emil Orlík: Gustav Mahler, 1902

Symphony No. 6 was another of his summer projects, written in 1903 and 1904. It bears the nickname Tragic, although the source of the name is unclear.

At work, Mahler was facing increasing difficulties. He was appointed director of the Hofopera (Vienna State Opera) in October 1897, and immediately the criticism started: he’s too young (38 years old), his first opera was Smetana‘s Dalibor, and immediately questions arose from the nationalists asking why he was ‘fraternising with the anti-dynastic, inferior Czech nation’. His conducting style was seen as histrionic and dictatorial (forgetting the fact that he had vastly improved standards).

Hans Schließmann: Caricature of Mahler's conducting style at the Vienna State Opera, 1901 (Fliegende Blätter)

Hans Schließmann: Caricature of Mahler’s conducting style at the Vienna State Opera, 1901 (Fliegende Blätter)

His Jewish background was also suspect, ignoring the fact that he had converted to Catholicism. The anti-Semitic press wondered if he was truly capable of performing true German works.

Alma Mahler, in her book of Memories and Letters, associated the last movement with tragedy, saying that Mahler himself saw the movement as depicting ‘…the hero on whom fall three blows of fate, the last of which fells him, as a tree is felled’.

The final symphony of this period was his Seventh, composed in 1904 and 1905, sometimes titled Lied der Nacht (Song of the Night).

By 1904, Mahler’s reputation as a composer was starting to rival his reputation as a great conductor. He again returned to his composing hut for the summer’s work on this piece, completing the score in August 1905 and the orchestration in 1906. The work was given its premiere in Prague with the Czech Philharmonic on 19 September 1908.

Moritz Nähr: Gustav Mahler, 1907

Moritz Nähr: Gustav Mahler, 1907

When he started the work, he was the director of the Vienna State Opera. When the work had its premiere, he had resigned from Vienna and taken up a four-year appointment in New York to conduct at the Metropolitan Opera. He made his Met debut on 1 January 1908 with Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde. He shared conducting duties with Arturo Toscanini. He also conducted three concerts with the New York Symphony Orchestra, a rival to the New York Philharmonic. This return to orchestral conducting convinced him to take up the position of principal conductor with the New York Philharmonic in 1909. With new support from a group of Guarantors, the Philharmonic’s season was expanded from 8 to 54 concerts and included a tour of New England. Mahler led the Philharmonic until his unexpected death in 1911.

Mahler’s Symphony No. 8  was composed in a single writing burst during the summer of 1906. It was given its premiere by the Munich Philharmonic in September 1910, with the composer conducting.

With this work, he brings the voice back to the orchestra. The performing forces are enormous, and it was quickly dubbed ‘Symphony of a Thousand’; Mahler hated the name. This return to song and symphony, as we saw in his early symphonies, and, like those symphonies, this work breaks all the rules. It’s not in 4 movements but in 2 parts, covering 24 movements. The first part is based on the Latin hymn Veni creator spiritus (“Come, Creator Spirit”), a ninth-century hymn for Pentecost, and Part II takes the distinctly secular theme from Goethe‘s Faust, setting the words from the play’s closing scene. The parts are joined by the shared idea of love’s power and its role in redemption.

The work was Mahler’s expression of confidence in the human spirit, and one critic views it as equivalent to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 as the ‘defining human statement for its century’.

The opening of the first part is a glorious declaration from the chorus.

Dupont: Gustav Mahler, 1909

Dupont: Gustav Mahler, 1909

The opening of Part II takes us to a much darker world.

This was the last of Mahler’s works to be given its premiere in his lifetime. Two more works were to follow.

Symphony No. 9 was written between 1908 and 1909. While he has returned to 4-movement form, he breaks the rules by making the first and last movements slow (Andante and Adagio) rather than the normal Allegro.

In the second movement, Mahler returns to the Austrian countryside with a movement based on the ländler. However, as the movement continues, our happy and optimistic folk dance changes and distorts. A big-city waltz interrupts, and at the end, we return to our countryside dance, but not with the same opening innocence.

Mahler began writing his 10th symphony in 1910 and, at his death in 1911, left the work unfinished. The work was substantially complete but had not been elaborated or orchestrated. It wasn’t performable as it was left, and early attempts to create performing editions were unsatisfactory.

British musicologist and Mahler expert Deryck Cooke started working on his edition in 1959 and completed it in 1976. Alma Mahler at first forbade him to work on the material, but was eventually persuaded to change her mind after seeing his score and hearing a recording.

The work received its premiere at the BBC Proms on 13 August 1964, after which the family gave Cooke access to more of Mahler’s sketches, and he revised his version twice more, completing a final version in 1976.

Mahler had been diagnosed with heart problems in 1907, shortly after his first daughter died of scarlet fever and diphtheria. Mahler was supposed to avoid over-fatigue, but how much he could do this as an active conductor remains a question. He held his last concert in New York at Carnegie Hall on 21 February 1911, whereupon he was confined to a hospital with bacterial endocarditis, common in people with cardiac problems. He returned to Europe by boat and arrived in Paris 10 days later. He entered a French clinic in Neuilly, France. On 11 May, he was at the Löw sanatorium in Vienna, where he developed pneumonia and died on 18 May 1911, at the age of 50.

We celebrate his birth on 7 July 1860 and recognise that Mahler changed our concept of symphonic music forever by expanding its horizons from simply orchestral to one that encompasses the world.

10 Best Short Works by the Great Composers

  

The greatest composers have an uncanny ability to compress entire worlds into small spaces: a prelude that feels like a cathedral, a motet that suspends time, a piano miniature that captures an entire universe of grief.

Today, we’re looking at some examples. Here are some of the best short works by the great composers.   

Few pieces are as deceptively simple as this opening prelude from Bach‘s Well-Tempered Clavier.

Built almost entirely from flowing broken chords, the music unfolds with a serene inevitability. There are no fireworks, just harmonies moving forward with quiet confidence.

Elias Gottlob Haussmann: Johann Sebastian Bach, 1748 (Leipzig: Bach-Archiv)

Elias Gottlob Haussmann: Johann Sebastian Bach, 1748 (Leipzig: Bach-Archiv)

Yet within two minutes, Bach creates a sense of architectural balance so complete that another composer, Charles Gounod, later layered a melody on top to create his famous “Ave Maria.”

It’s a reminder that profundity doesn’t require complexity – or length.  

Written just months before his death, this four-minute motet distills Mozart‘s sacred style to its essence.

The harmonies are gentle but luminous, unfolding with serene inevitability.

In a scant 46 measures, Mozart achieves a spiritual awe that many composers spend entire masses trying to find. 

Beethoven is often associated with titanic symphonies and stormy sonatas. But this brief rondo shows his mischievous side.

Virtuosic, breathless, and slightly unhinged, “Rage Over a Lost Penny” feels like a comic outburst. Sudden dynamic contrasts and tumbling passagework make the piece feel barely contained.

Christian Horneman: Ludwig van Beethoven, 1803 (Beethovenhaus Bonn)

Christian Horneman: Ludwig van Beethoven, 1803 (Beethovenhaus Bonn)

The title wasn’t Beethoven’s, but it fits: the music whirls and sputters with the manic energy of someone being driven mad by an inconvenience.  

At barely two minutes long, this prelude feels like a confession.

The left hand descends in quietly desperate, repeated chords. Meanwhile, the right hand sings a restrained, sorrowful melody. The climax is dark but resigned.

Chopin compresses an entire Romantic emotional arc into a miniature: intimate, fragile, and devastating.  

Late in his life, Brahms wrote some of his most personal music, and this Intermezzo is among those pieces.

This solo piano work is tender without being sentimental. Its rocking rhythm and warm harmonies create a feeling of nostalgic reflection.

Johannes Brahms, c. 1872

Johannes Brahms, c. 1872

Beneath the surface, subtle inner voices shift and color the mood, creating different gorgeous gradations of bittersweet emotion.

In five minutes, Brahms captures the ache of memory – as well as the comfort of it. 

Despite its title, Ravel insisted that this was not a lament for a dead princess, but rather a pavane that such a princess might have danced to.

Whether melancholy or nostalgic, the piece shimmers with a truly regal elegance.

Its slow procession, delicate orchestration, and restrained melody show Ravel’s extraordinary command of colour: French refinement distilled into its purest musical form.  

Few arias have achieved the global recognition of “Nessun dorma.”

Beginning in hushed anticipation and building toward the triumphant “Vincerò!” (“I will win!”), Puccini crafts a miniature drama in just a few minutes.

Giacomo Puccini

Giacomo Puccini

The orchestration swells, the tenor line climbs, and the emotional payoff is immediate and overwhelming.

This aria proves that even within the context of a major opera, just a few minutes can make a major impression.   

Composed as part of a patriotic pageant protesting Russian censorship, Finlandia became a national symbol.

The opening brass erupts with defiance, and the central hymn section unfolds with noble calm.

In just eight minutes, Sibelius moves from protesting oppression to joyful affirmation. It is a political statement and a symphonic poem intertwined.  

Few works have become so synonymous with public mourning as Barber’s Adagio for Strings.

Built from a single rising phrase that gradually intensifies before collapsing into silence, Barber’s Adagio seems to stretch time itself.

The harmonic language is modern but accessible. The emotional trajectory – from sorrow to despair to resignation – is unforgettable.   

To end, we jump into the late 20th century.

John Adams

John Adams

Adams’ four-minute orchestral burst is sheer rhythmic exhilaration. A relentless woodblock pulse drives shimmering harmonies and bright brass fanfares.

It’s propulsive, witty, and unapologetically modern: a flash of brilliance and orchestral virtuosity.

Conclusion

Short pieces reveal something essential about great composers. Without the scaffolding of large forms, there’s nowhere to hide. Every note must matter.

From Bach’s poised architecture to Adams’ kinetic brilliance, these works prove that genius does not depend on duration. Sometimes the smallest forms leave the deepest impression.

The History of the Waltz: From Folk Dance to Symbol of Imperial Collapse

  

No one could have predicted that it would become a metaphor for imperial glamour, psychological instability, and even civilizational collapse.

Today, we’re looking at the evolution of one of the most beloved genres in classical music: the waltz.

The Waltz

The Waltz

Tracing its generations-long transformation reveals how composers turned a social dance into one of the most symbolically charged genres in European music.   

The Ländler – a rustic Austrian dance in triple meter – was a direct ancestor of the waltz.

This set of six ländlers by Beethoven, dating from 1802, remains firmly grounded in the genre’s nascent conventions.

The result is a set of communal dances with regular rhythms and conventional harmonies that are pleasant and easy to dance to.  

We see a change with Weber.

His piece Invitation to the Dance is not simply a waltz; it’s an entire narrative scene.

The introduction depicts a gentleman approaching a lady and asking to partner with her. She accepts. The waltz proper portrays their dance, and the coda their farewell.

Importantly, this piece was written for the concert stage, not the ballroom. Here, the dance becomes part of a broader narrative: Weber has moved beyond writing dance music and has begun writing music about dancing.   

By the 1820s, the waltz had begun spreading beyond communal spaces. It became refined, aestheticised, and increasingly divorced from its folk origins, evolving into music meant to be played in domestic spaces at the family piano.

Schubert‘s version of the waltz is intimate and elegant, and much less rustic than its predecessors, with a new and striking poignancy.

In this slender piece, a listener can hear how the waltz genre is coming into its own as something separate from – and more sophisticated than – the ländler.   

In his Symphonie fantastique, composer Hector Berlioz tells the fictional story of a gifted young artist who becomes obsessed with an unattainable love interest.

In the second movement of the symphony, the protagonist attends a glittering ball and imagines seeing his beloved there.

The beloved’s theme – known as idée fixe – interrupts the swirling waltz, revealing the young artist’s single-minded obsession.

Here, the waltz becomes a tool for a composer to use while crafting a programmatic, extramusical narrative.  

Chopin‘s waltzes are harmonically adventurous, emotionally volatile – and famously undanceable. These aren’t works meant to accompany physical movement; they’re vehicles for emotional expression, not dance music.

This waltz is beautiful, but also tinged with bitterness and a touch of ennui.

It is magnetic listening, but its tempo is tugged around so much that it would be impossible for amateur dancers to actually dance a waltz to.   

As a young man, Johann Strauss II took over his composer father’s dance orchestra. As he became successful, his orchestra grew in size, popularity, and prestige – and so did his waltzes.

As his waltzes gained popularity among the elite, they became potent symbols of Austrian wealth and power, solidifying Vienna’s reputation as the capital of 19th-century European elegance.

Tales from the Vienna Woods includes a zither part, a reference to the dance’s folk roots, especially those found in the zither-playing rural population that lived in the Vienna Woods, just outside the capital city.

Two decades later, he wrote the Emperor Waltz, composed to celebrate a friendly, politically important visit between the emperors of Germany and Austria-Hungary: a diplomatic event between imperial powers, about as far removed from the dance’s humble rustic origins as it is possible to get.

Strauss helped to broaden and cement the extramusical connotations of the waltz. By the late 19th century, waltzes were no longer merely soundtracks for a population’s social life; they were also celebrations of wealth, political power, and imperial identity.     

In the third movement of his Fifth Symphony, Mahler took the waltz and turned its grandeur into something darker than it had ever been before.

Here, the triple meter lurches, with accents landing awkwardly. The joy feels manic, the nostalgia strained.

One gets the impression of aristocratic musicians determined to keep playing their dance, even as something strange and sinister lurks just outside their door.  

In 1910, composer Richard Strauss (not to be confused with Johann Strauss) wrote a comic opera called Der Rosenkavalier (The Knight of the Rose), starring aristocratic Viennese characters from the 1740s.

For this work, Strauss wrote lush, nostalgic, theatrical waltzes that were more emotionally evocative than historically accurate.

In fact, the music is knowingly anachronistic, given that the story is set half a century before waltzes became popular. It’s all winking historical fiction.

These waltzes aren’t just beautiful music. They also give us, as modern listeners, a glimpse into how Viennese audiences of the early 20th century perceived themselves and their culture.  

During World War I, French composer Maurice Ravel drove an ambulance on the front lines as his country fought against Austria and Germany.

After the war ended, one of the first major pieces he completed was the ballet La valse, employing a famously Austrian genre for his own creative purposes.

The work begins with a misty mood. Fragments eventually coalesce into a glittering Viennese waltz before spiralling out of control in truly apocalyptic fashion.

Many listeners hear in La valse a metaphor for the 20th-century collapse of Old Europe after the conflagration of World War I. Ravel denied this interpretation, writing that it was his homage to Johann Strauss and that he envisioned the piece set in 1855, long before the war.

Regardless of the interpretations that the composer or his listeners have brought to the table, it’s clear that this is not a normal waltz. We have come a long and dizzying way from the genre’s humble beginnings in the early 19th century. The waltz is now a symbol for something bigger than itself.

Conclusion

Over a single century, the waltz became a musical genre beloved the world over – and one weighed down by a variety of fascinating extramusical connotations.

Of course, the waltz didn’t take on all that baggage in just one go with one work. Instead, that change relied on a long line of great composers to build on each other’s work, until the dance could no longer be effectively separated from the connotations surrounding it.

What began in rural Austrian villages as a communal dance ended, a century later, as music haunted by nostalgia, empire, and ruin.

Few genres in Western music have taken on so much cultural meaning in so little time.

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