The Best Performances “Nessun dorma” by Giacomo Puccini

by Hermione Lai 

Poster of Puccini’s Turandot, 1926

Talk about a strange story. Calaf is one of three suitors for the hand of the prickly Princess Turandot. Her suitors must solve three riddles, with any single wrong answer resulting in execution. Calaf manages to solve all three riddles but Turandot still refuses to marry him. So Calaf comes up with a bizarre challenge. If the Princess is able to guess his name before dawn the next day, she may execute him. However, if she can’t guess his name correctly, she must marry him. That puts the Princess in bit of a bind, and she declares “Nessun dorma” (None shall sleep) in the entire kingdom until Calaf’s name is discovered. If her minions are not able to come up with the correct name by morning, everybody will be executed. Calaf is rather hopeful that he will win this strange little wager, and begins to sing one of the best-known tenor arias in all of opera.  

Franco Corelli

Luciano Pavarotti called Franco Corelli “the greatest dramatic tenor that ever lived.” So it is only fitting that we start this selection of best performances with him. Franco Corelli (1921-2003) was closely connected with the dramatic tenor roles of the Italian repertory. In his heyday he was called the “prince of tenors,” celebrated for his “powerful voice, electrifying top notes, clear timbre, and passionate singing style.” Audiences just loved him for his charismatic stage presence and his handsome features. Whenever audiences are enthralled, critics are not far behind. They found him “self-indulgent in terms of phrasing and expression,” acknowledging however, that “his performance possessed its own kind of logic.” And that’s certainly true of his drawn-out rendition of “Nessun dorma,” which I personally consider one of the best performances ever.   

Luciano Pavarotti

Speaking of Luciano Pavarotti. Regardless whether or not you enjoy his rendition of “Nessun dorma,” he is single-handedly responsible for making the tune as popular as it is today. There is no arguing about the fact that his voice has a remarkable quality, and it’s a sound that is instantly recognizable. In his best performances, he produces a remarkable security throughout his entire range, and Pavarotti is beautifully capable of producing the most delicious cantabile lines. Of course, his diction is flawless and his “vincero” at the end of “Nessun dorma” is simply spectacular. Some critics have suggested that in concerts of operatic arias and lighter materials that have become his principal activity in his later years, Pavarotti “makes much the same sound in whatever role he sings.” That may well be the case, but let’s not forget that by that time Pavarotti had become a brand. And he certainly turned “Nessun dorma” into cultural shorthand for opera.   

Mario Lanza, 1950

Pavarotti clearly wasn’t the first pop star tenor. That distinction probably belongs to the American tenor Mario Lanza (1921-1959). He studied to be a professional singer but did not appear on operatic stages with any kind of frequency. However, he had the looks, the voice and great acting talent and signed a multi-year film contract with a Hollywood studio. As such, Lanza was the first tenor to break through into popular consciousness. He was dubbed the “new Caruso,” and José Carreras paid tribute to Lanza during a worldwide concert tour, saying, “If I’m an opera singer, it’s thanks to Mario Lanza.” His rendition of “Nessun Dorma,” as part of the film “Serenade,” gives us a taste of his magnetism and vocal ability. At the time of his death in 1959 Lanza was still considered “the most famous tenor in the world.”   

Beniamino Gigli, 1914

Beniamino Gigli (1890-1957) is widely regarded as one of the greatest operatic tenors of all time. He came to international prominence after the death of Enrico Caruso in 1921. Audiences called him “Caruso Secondo,” but he said that he much preferred to be known as “Gigli Primo.” While Caruso had a most powerful and heroic voice, Gigli’s voice, particularly during his early career, was known for “its beautifully soft and honey-like lyrical quality.” As he grew older, his voice developed some dramatic qualities, which enabled him to tackle heavier roles. Gigli was said to be overemotional during his performances, “often resolving to sobbing and, in some cases, exaggerations.” In the featured studio recording of “Nessun dorma” there is none of this exaggeration or theatricality. The focus is purely on the music, as a matter of fact, and I absolutely love the immense beauty and technical facility of his unique voice.

“Nessun dorma” (Placido Domingo)    

Placido Domingo

Placido Domingo (b. 1941) really doesn’t need any kind of special introduction. He has been around operatic and other stages for decades, and recorded over a hundred complete operas in Italian, French, German, Spanish, English and Russian. Astonishingly, his repertoire includes a massive 151 different roles. He sang his first Calaf in 1969 at Verona with Birgit Nilsson, and following his voice’s natural progression he has now turned towards the baritone repertoire. In fact, Domingo did start out as a baritone as he had always had a rich lower register. Throughout his career, Domingo’s “voice has been extremely attractive and quite individual in timbre, having considerable liquidity… The bottom sometimes has a trace of huskiness, which he often turns to coloristic effect.” There can be no doubt that Domingo possesses a combination of lyrical flexibility and dramatic power that allowed him versatility across the entire tenor repertory. And such is certainly the case in the featured performance of “Nessun dorma.”   

Jussi Björling

Puccini could definitely write a great melody full of growing passion and reaching for the stars; in a word, perfect tearjerkers. And for me personally, Jussi Björling (1911-1960) delivers the best performance of “Nessun dorma.” His vocal timbre had remarkable clarity and warmth, and his sound “excelled in its rare plasticity, suavity, and flexibility, and was at the same time saturated with succulent ardor.” His upper register was shining and resonant, the middle captivated with great flexibility. It’s no wonder that Björling was considered “the living embodiment of the bel canto tradition,” but without the usual emotional exaggeration. In his “Nessun dorma” he never interrupts the beauty of the phrase with declamation, exaggerated accents or a sense of melodrama. There is simply a concentrated narrative tone tinged with the emotions of a sleeping volcano. Everybody it seems has had a go at “Nessun dorma;” which performances do you like best?

Six Composer Children Overshadowed by Their Parents

 by Emily E. Hogstad 

For many people, the names of Bach, Mozart, and Wagner evoke feelings of gratitude and awe for their musical works.

But for the children of these composers, their names – and the growing legacies that became associated with them – could become overwhelming to be associated with.

Today, we’re looking at the stories of six composer children who, at one point or another, found themselves overshadowed by their famous composer parents.

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–1788)

Son of: Johann Sebastian Bach

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

Over the course of his life, composer Johann Sebastian Bach had twenty children. He outlived all but nine. Of those nine, four were sons who became professional composers.

In the eyes of history, none of them measured up to their father.

Of the Bach children, the most successful was Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, often remembered as C.P.E. Bach today.

His father has emerged as a pillar of the Baroque era. In contrast, C.P.E. Bach became a bridge between the Baroque era and the Classical and Romantic eras.

He is especially well-known for his contributions to the Empfindsamer Stil, or “sensitive style.” This style of music emphasised expressing “true and natural” emotions, rather than adhering to the carefully contrived structures celebrated in his father’s generation.   

Franz Xaver Wolfgang Mozart (1791–1844)

Son of: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Franz Xaver Wolfgang Mozart

Franz Xaver Mozart was just four months old when his father, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, died at 35.

When he died, Franz Xaver’s mother, Constanze, became an impoverished widow. She understood two things well: her economic vulnerability as a young single mother in 1790s Vienna, and the value of her husband’s genius.

She marketed her son as “W.A. Mozart Jr.,” hoping to continue the mythology of her husband.

Franz turned into a capable pianist and a refined composer, but his music never reached the heights of his father’s. (Few composers did!)

When he died in 1844, his tombstone was inscribed with “May his father’s name be his epitaph, as his veneration for him was the essence of his life.”   

Siegfried Wagner (1869–1930)

Son of: Richard Wagner

Richard and Siegfried Wagner

The only son of Richard Wagner and Cosima Liszt (herself the daughter of Franz Liszt), Siegfried Wagner was born into a multigenerational musical dynasty.

Born in 1869, he began composing around 1882, but didn’t commit to music until a decade later.

In 1908, he officially succeeded his strong-willed mother, Cosima, as head of the Bayreuth Festival, but her influence weighed heavily on him until she died in 1930…which happened just a few months before his own.

Over the course of his career, he wrote around a dozen operas in a style similar to his father’s, but they never achieved a permanent foothold in the repertoire.

When it came to continuing the Wagnerian dynasty, Siegfried felt both personal and societal pressure. He was a queer man and had important romantic relationships with men throughout his life, but his mother wanted him to marry to continue the dynasty.

At 45, he finally succumbed to her wishes and got married…to an 18-year-old, with whom he had four children in quick succession. The Wagner name would continue.  

Felix Schumann (1854–1879)

Son of: Robert and Clara Schumann

Felix Schumann

The love story of Robert and Clara Schumann is famous in classical music history: two seemingly star-crossed lovers who had to take Clara’s controlling father to court in order to be together.

But the drama of their love story didn’t end with their marriage in 1840.

They had eight children together. Read more about “what happened to Robert and Clara Schumann’s children?”

The youngest, Felix, was born in 1854, after his father, Robert, had suffered a suicide attempt and moved to a mental hospital. Robert would die just a few years later.

Felix grew into a gifted poet with a measure of musical talent, but he was also constantly compared to Robert.

As if that wasn’t enough pressure, his perfectionist mother, Clara – one of the greatest pianists of her generation, male or female – constantly fretted over all her children. She asked him if he ever published his poetry, to do so under a pseudonym, so if the work failed, it wouldn’t bring shame on his father’s name.

His surrogate father figure, Johannes Brahms was impressed enough by Felix’s poetry that he set some of it to music.

Felix came down with tuberculosis during his adolescence. After great suffering, he died in 1879 at the age of twenty-four, leaving open the question of whether his work could ever have competed with his parents’.   

Imogen Holst (1907–1984)

Daughter of: Gustav Holst

Imogen Holst

Imogen Holst was a gifted composer, conductor, and musicologist. However, much of her career was spent preserving and amplifying her father’s legacy.

She also became an invaluable assistant and creative partner to Benjamin Britten, with whom she worked closely at Aldeburgh.

The work she did on behalf of her father and Britten was incredibly important, but it also often overshadowed her own considerable accomplishments.

During her lifetime, her works, which include chamber music, choral pieces, and educational writing, were often overlooked.

As the priorities of audiences and presenters evolve and the works of women composers are re-examined, perhaps her works will be performed more often and contribute to her own legacy instead of just her father’s.   

Soulima Stravinsky (1910–1994)

Son of: Igor Stravinsky

Soulima and Igor Stravinsky

Soulima Stravinsky’s father, Igor, redefined twentieth-century music with The Rite of Spring when Soulima was just a toddler.

He studied piano with Isidor Philipp (who taught Aaron Copland) and Nadia Boulanger (who taught almost every important twentieth-century composer), and appeared in Paris in 1934, performing piano and orchestra works by his father. (He would record them with him in 1938.)

During World War II, Soulima joined the French army. After the war was over, in 1948, he joined his father in America and restarted his musical career there.

He taught at the School of Music of the University of Illinois between 1950 and 1978.

He wrote a number of pieces, but he is known professionally for his pedagogical works. Of course, generally speaking, he’s best remembarence.

Pablo Picasso (Born on October 25, 1881) Fragmented Melodies

by Hermione Lai 

Can you imagine a world where jagged geometric shapes dance to the swelling strings of a symphony orchestra? That’s the unlikely yet captivating intersection of Pablo Picasso and classical music.

Picasso, the Spanish maestro of modern art, revolutionised painting with his Cubist explosions, but his life was equally tuned to the rhythms of Stravinsky, the melodies of Satie, and the operatic arias of his era.

Pablo Picasso

Far from a mere backdrop, music was Picasso’s muse, collaborator, and even co-conspirator in defying artistic norms. To celebrate his birthday on 25 October, let’s explore how his canvases echoed symphonic structure and what composers inspired his brushstrokes.   

Erik Satie: Parade

Cabaret Rhythms and Salon Symphonies

Picasso’s relationship with music began in his bohemian youth in late 19th-century Barcelona and Paris. Born on 25 October 1881, he grew up in a Spain where flamenco guitars twanged alongside Wagnerian operas seeping in from Europe.

As a young artist in the Montmartre cabarets, Picasso immersed himself in the sounds of his time, listening to the ragtime jazz creeping from America, but more profoundly to the classical repertoire that filled Parisian salons.

He was no passive listener as music shaped his creative process. Friends recalled him humming arias while sketching, his studio often alive with phonograph records spinning Debussy’s impressionistic waves or Mozart‘s playful minuets.   

Montmartre Rag – Mitchell’s Jazz Kings (1922)

Fractured Harmonies

Pablo Picasso: Three Musicians, 1921

In his own words, “Music is something I mistrust intensely. It goes too fast, or perhaps my mind can’t keep up,” yet he could not stay away and doodled musical instruments in notebooks and painted violinists as alter egos.

Around 1907, together with Georges Braque, Pablo Picasso stumbled upon the idea of cubism. This wasn’t just a visual disruption, but it mirrored the fractured harmonies of contemporary music.

Picasso attended the premiere of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, and the primal rhythms and dissonant clashes are captured in his canvases. Just take his “Three Musicians,” with an angular guitar and clarinet fragments pulsing like atonal motifs.   

Visual Echoes

Self portraits of Pablo Picasso

Picasso painted the sound of disruption itself, turning harmony into controlled chaos. He was fascinated by the fusion of art, dance, and music into grand spectacles, and he collaborated with Erik Satie in Parade and with Igor Stravinsky in Pulcinella.

Despite his deep immersion in musical culture, designing sets for various ballets and depicting guitars, harps, and musicians, there is no evidence of Picasso playing a musical instrument.

His engagement with music was primarily auditory, visual, and collaborative rather than performative. And in his own statement, he emphasised his role as a listener and visual   y

Synesthetic Rebellion

Pablo Picasso: Mandolin and Guitar

He once described music as “another dimension” of creativity but deferred to specialists, saying in a 1935 interview, “I paint what music sounds like.” Picasso’s instrument was the canvas, as he claimed to hear colours and forms as musical equivalents. As he related to his friend Guillaume Apollinaire, “music and art are the same thing… I start a painting with a rhythm in my head, like a jazz tune.”

There is no evidence that Picasso had a liking for the structured counterpoint of Bach, the elegant gallantries of Mozart, or the heroic symphonism of Beethoven. These impressions clashed with his preference for raw emotion and fragmentation.

He did draw on ancient Greco-Roman forms visually, but musically he stuck to contemporaries over the “old masters.” He certainly did dislike traditional classical ballet and prioritised Spanish vitality over high European canon.    

Visceral Visions

Scene design for Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, 1920

Both Picasso and classical music were rule-breakers in eras craving change. Their innovations of dissonance and fragmentation demanded that audiences reassemble the pieces, much like a Rubik’s Cube of sound and sight.

In Picasso’s synesthetic vision, music wasn’t mere accompaniment but a structural force. He orchestrated forms on canvas, layering auditory echoes into visual polyphony. Picasso’s dislike for conventional classical giants like Beethoven stemmed not from disdain but from irrelevance. For him, they lacked the visceral disruption he craved.

Instead, he championed music’s revolutionary edge, suggesting that true creation thrives in sensory rebellion. As Picasso once quipped, “I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them,” much like composers hearing inner symphonies. Picasso didn’t just appreciate classical music; he repainted its soul.

Ten Saddest Works Written by Grieving Composers

by Emily E. Hogstad

When composers grieve, they often turn to music to express what words can’t.

Some of the most powerful works of classical music ever are connected to the deaths of loved ones: spouses, siblings, friends, and others.

From Johann Sebastian Bach’s Chaconne, composed after the sudden death of his wife, to John Corigliano’s Symphony No. 1, a searing response to the AIDS crisis, all of these works demonstrate how grief has inspired composers over generations.

Today we’re looking at just a few of these unforgettable classical compositions.

Johann Sebastian Bach: Chaconne (c. 1720)

For his wife, Maria Barbara Bach  

Given the limited amount of documentation that survives about his life, there is a lot we don’t know about Johann Sebastian Bach.

However, we do know that Bach’s monumental Chaconne – the final movement to his Partita No. 2 for solo violin – was written around the time of the death of his first wife, Maria Barbara Bach.

A silhouette of Maria Barbara Bach

Her death occurred in the summer of 1720 while Bach was traveling to Carlsbad with his employer, Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen. After two months away, he returned home to find her dead and buried.

The theory has been floated that the Chaconne was Bach’s response to her death: a heartbreaking outcry for solo violin that is technically demanding and lasts for a full quarter of an hour.

We’ll never know for sure, but it’s tempting to believe that this was his musical response to his grief.

Felix Mendelssohn: String Quartet No. 6 (1847)

For his sister, Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel   

Felix Mendelssohn and his older sister Fanny were artistic soulmates. Both were astonishing child prodigies who aided in each other’s musical development. But because of their gender, Felix was encouraged to pursue a career as a composer, while Fanny was prevented from doing so.

Felix Mendelssohn

Fanny’s sudden death in 1847 from a stroke devastated Felix. In response, he composed this fierce, raw quartet in the throes of grief, clearly trying to find a way to make sense of a world without her. The music veers manically from fury to heartbroken lamentation.

This is Felix’s last major work. He died just a few months later…also from a stroke.

Fanny Mendelssohn

Johannes Brahms: A German Requiem (1865-68)

For his mother   

Johannes Brahms was famously tight-lipped about what specific events inspired his music. However, it is widely accepted that at least portions of his German Requiem were a response to the death of his mother in 1865, as well as the death of his mentor Robert Schumann in 1856.

When writing his Requiem, Brahms chose not to use the text of the traditional Latin Requiem Mass. Instead, he compiled passages from the German Bible, focusing on passages that provide comfort to the living.

Johannes Brahms

As a result, this Requiem is less about the wrath (or beauty) of the afterlife, and more about addressing the emotional needs of the mourners left behind.

Modest Mussorgsky: Pictures at an Exhibition (1874)

For his friend Viktor Hartmann   

Composer Modest Mussorgsky met artist Viktor Hartmann in 1868. Both men were passionate about the idea of creating overtly Russian art, and they became good friends.

Tragically, Hartmann died in 1873 of an aneurysm. After his death, Mussorgsky visited a massive tribute exhibition of Hartmann’s artwork. The experience inspired him to recreate Hartmann’s art in a piece of music.

Modest Mussorgsky

The piano suite that resulted, Pictures at an Exhibition, took just three weeks to write.

Every movement in Mussorgsky’s piano suite portrays a different piece of art. In between, variations on a “Promenade” theme appear again and again, symbolising Mussorgsky walking from one image to the next, contemplating the work of his dead friend in a new way each time.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky: Piano Trio (1881-82)

For his friend and colleague Nikolai Rubinstein   

Tchaikovsky initially resisted composing a piano trio, doubting his ability to write for this particular instrumentation.

Despite those doubts, he began writing one in December 1881, nine months after the death of his friend and colleague, pianist Nikolai Rubinstein.

Nikolai Dmitrievich Kuznetsov: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, 1893

The first movement begins with one of Tchaikovsky’s most melancholy melodies.

The second movement is a set of variations, each passing by like pages of a photo album. In the end, the last variation fades into a heartbreaking version of the opening theme, now cast as a funeral march.

Tchaikovsky inscribed the score with “À la mémoire d’un grand artiste” (“To the memory of a great artist”).

It was premiered at a private performance on 23 March 1882, the first anniversary of Rubinstein’s death.

Franz Liszt: La Lugubre Gondola I (1882-85)

For his son-in-law Richard Wagner   

Franz Liszt had a complex relationship with Richard Wagner, who married his daughter Cosima in 1870. (Both Richard and Cosima had been married to other people when they began their relationship.)

Hermann Biow: Franz Liszt, 1943

Despite occasional personal friction between them, Liszt’s respect for Wagner’s music predated the marriage by many years.

In late 1882, Liszt came to visit Wagner and his daughter at their home in Venice. The first version of his piece “La lugubre gondola” (“The Gloomy Gondola”) was written that December. It’s a grim work that seems to portend catastrophe.

Catastrophe struck a couple of months later, when Richard died suddenly. His death sent shockwaves across the European music world.

Richard Wagner

After Richard’s death, Liszt returned to “La lugubre gondola” and rewrote it. This version is known as “La lugubre gondola I.”

The music is strange, dark and stark, and filled with an uneasy, uncomfortable sense of dread.

Maurice Ravel: Le Tombeau de Couperin (1914-17)

For six friends who died in World War I    

Each movement of Le Tombeau de Couperin is dedicated to a different friend lost in the war, but you’d never guess it: this is light, airy, seemingly carefree music.

Ravel believed that paying tribute to the fallen with joyful music was the best way to honour them.

Maurice Ravel

The suite was premiered by pianist Marguerite Long, the widow of the man portrayed in the work’s Toccata movement.

By writing in a style reminiscent of French Baroque composer François Couperin, Ravel promoted French cultural identity during wartime…while also creating an emotional outlet for pianists and audiences struggling during the epidemic of wartime grief.

Dmitri Shostakovich: Piano Trio No. 2 (1943-44)

For his friend Ivan Sollertinsky     

Critic, musicologist, and all-around polymath Ivan Sollertinsky was a dear friend of composer Dmitri Shostakovich. Reportedly, he spoke around thirty languages.

In February 1944, Sollertinsky died in his sleep at the age of 41. Officially, the cause was heart trouble, but dark rumours have circulated suggesting that he was murdered by the Soviet secret police.

Dmitri Shostakovich

Shostakovich wrote to his widow:

“I cannot express in words all the grief I felt when I received the news of the death of Ivan Ivanovich. Ivan Ivanovich was my closest and dearest friend. I owe all my education to him. It will be unbelievably hard for me to live without him.”

Shostakovich had begun working on his second piano trio in December 1944. He turned the second movement into a dance both exuberant and macabre (Sollertinsky’s sister thought it was a musical portrait of her late brother). That was followed by a Largo: a heartbreaking goodbye to a beloved friend.

John Corigliano: Symphony No. 1 (1988-89)

For his friends who died of AIDS    

John Corigliano’s searing first symphony is a monument to the lives lost during the AIDS crisis.

In the program notes for the premiere, he wrote:

“During the past decade, I have lost many friends and colleagues to the AIDS epidemic, and the cumulative effect of those losses has, naturally, deeply affected me. My First Symphony was generated by feelings of loss, anger, and frustration. A few years ago, I was extremely moved when I first saw ‘The Quilt,’ an ambitious interweaving of several thousand fabric panels, each memorialising a person who had died of AIDS, and, most importantly, each designed and constructed by his or her loved ones. This made me want to memorialise in music those I have lost, and reflect on those I am losing.”

John Corigliano

The first movement (called “Apologue: Of Rage and Remembrance”) is dedicated to a pianist friend, the second to a music executive, and the third to a cellist.

Anna Clyne: Within Her Arms (2008-09)

For her mother   

In 2008, composer Anna Clyne’s mother died. That same year, she began a fifteen-part string work she’d call Within Her Arms.

The work received rave reviews from critics across America. The New Yorker’s Alex Ross described it as “a fragile elegy for fifteen strings; intertwining voices of lament bring to mind English Renaissance masterpieces of Thomas Tallis and John Dowland, although the music occasionally breaks down into spells of static grief, with violins issuing broken cries over shuddering double-bass drones.”

Anna Clyne

In the work’s official program notes, Clyne chose not to write any explanation herself, but rather to quote a poem by the poet Thich Nhat Hanh. That fragment includes the lines:

Earth will keep you tight within her arms dear one—
So that tomorrow you will be transformed into flowers-
This flower smiling quietly in this morning field—
This morning you will weep no more dear one—
For we have gone through too deep a night…