The Dactylion

by Georg Predota  June 20th, 2018

The opening decade of the 21st century is once more gripped by a passion for musical virtuosity. Countless young and aspiring musicians—frequently supported and driven by overzealous parents—are vying to study at the most prestigious conservatories and with the most esteemed teachers around the world. To the music historian, this kind of narcissistic frenzy is nothing new, as the rage for keyboard instruments at the beginning of the 19th century reached ever-new levels of insanity. Teacher invented a whole series of mechanical devices—more reasonably called torture devices—that could supposedly help a budding virtuoso achieve even greater finger agility. And Henri Herz patented one such contraption, called the Dactylion in 1836. Mind you, Herz was one of the most famous virtuosos and popular composers in Paris of the 1830s and 40s. He engaged in extended concerts tours to Russia, the United States and South America, and to supplement his income he kept an enormous stable of willing piano students.

The dactylion was specifically designed to loosen and strengthen the fingers of would-be virtuosos. It was made up of two parallel wooden bars. The first was fixed to the front of the keyboard and guided the hands. The second wooden bar, placed parallel to the first, had ten rings. These rings, one for each finger, were attached to springs that could be adjusted to give greater resistance. Apparently, the device just flew of the shelves!

A good number of musicians, however, were rather skeptical from the beginning. The pianist Friedrich Kalkbrenner introduced François-Joseph Fétis, the first director of the Brussels Royal Music Conservatory, to the Dactylion. “It seems,” Fétis remarked, “that the Dactylion is only good for catching mice.” No, replied Kalkbrenner, “Monsieur Henri Herz made it for catching fools.” Robert Schumann was highly critical of Herz’s compositions, claiming that this music “exemplified the hollow state of the Parisian virtuosos.” But we also know that Schumann developed rather severe hand problems in the mid 1830s. Nobody knows if he actually bought a Dactylion, but he certainly made a contraption, probably based on the Dactylion that isolated one finger at a time. All that venom and spite against the Parisian virtuosos might, after all, have been the result of having been made a fool!

François Couperin (Died on September 11, 1733) The Art of Touch

 by Georg Predota  September 11th, 2026

Over 300 years ago, in 1716, the great French harpsichordist François Couperin published his famous treatise L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin (The Art of Playing the Harpsichord). It is, by all accounts, the main Baroque text on playing the instrument, and its importance was acknowledged for decades both within and outside France.

François Couperin

Couperin died on 11 September 1733 at the age of sixty-four, and the early music expert Jordi Savall suggests that Couperin was the “poet musician par excellence” who believed in “the ability of Music to express itself in prose and poetry.”

To commemorate his passing, let’s have a look at his most famous book, which contains suggestions for fingering, touch, ornamentation, and various features of keyboard technique. It also contains eight preludes and an Allemande that demonstrate his ideas about keyboard playing. 

Teaching Good Taste

L’art de toucher le clavecin

Couperin’s reasons for writing his L’Art de toucher le Clavecin are detailed in the preface. “This instrument,” he writes, “has its own peculiarities, just as the violin has its own. If the harpsichord cannot swell its notes, if the rapid repetition of the same note does not particularly suit it, then it has other advantages: accuracy, clarity, brilliance, and its greater range.”

“Above all, one must develop a sensitive touch for the keys and always have a well-feathered instrument. However, I understand that there are people for whom this may be irrelevant, because they play equally badly on any instrument.”

Although Couperin presents his treatise as something new and unique, it belongs to a growing tradition of instrumental methods. As amateur music-making became an important part of fashionable French society, learning an instrument was considered essential to education and good taste.   

When Music Learns to Speak

As Couperin suggests in his preface, the most important aesthetic idea is the comparison between musical performance and rhetoric. Reading musical notation is not the same as performing music, as it does not tell us how the music should speak. As such, the author spends much time on phrasing, punctuation, articulation, and expression.

Couperin begins with the player’s physical position and hand position. He soon turns to matters of touch, stressing “la belle souplesse” (suppleness) and the soft, flexible hands required for harpsichord playing. The search for the most perfect touch was the holy grail of harpsichordists of his time.

Feathery touch aside, Couperin demonstrates how expressive possibilities can be created through means other than simple dynamic pressure. Essentially, the performer shapes music through a subtle hierarchy of gestures and the character of individual phrases.   

Grammar of Ornament

Couperin: The Art of Playing the Harpsichord

Couperin devotes considerable space to ornaments as part of the musical language. This includes the manner of fingering and execution, and his explanations demonstrate the close relationship between fingering and musical expression. The elegance of performance is inseparable from expression.

To demonstrate his didactic and theoretical ideas, Couperin included eight preludes and one Allemande. In his 1717 revision, Couperin explains why he composed the eight preludes himself. “I must not forget to explain, before finishing this little discourse, that the method entitled L’Art de toucher le clavecin, which I have just mentioned, contains, among other things, eight preludes suitable for all ages and for all kinds of hands.”

“The fingers with which they are to be played are marked there by numbers, and I have even composed these preludes expressly in all the keys of my pieces, both those of my first book and those with which this second is filled.”  

Beyond the Bar Line

François Couperin

The first prelude in C Major serves as an instruction, while No. 2 is particularly rich in ornamentation and expressive inflexion. No. 3 in G minor is darker and rhetorically charged, with No. 4 in F Major presenting a flowing and lyrical discourse. No. 5 in A Major is bright and expansive, while No. 8 becomes more concentrated.

These preludes belong to a tradition in which the music is written without conventional bar lines. As such, they accord the performer considerable freedom in determining the rhythmic flow. They are not to be taken as improvisations, but as music that is fundamentally free in form.

The inclusion of the Allemande allows Couperin to demonstrate how technique becomes musical expression. Every individual section of the treatise is now combined in a fundamental dance of the French keyboard suite. It contains everything Couperin has been discussing, and it also serves as a demonstration of the differences between French and Italian styles.

L’Art de Toucher is the most important Baroque text on playing the harpsichord, and Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach still acknowledged it in his treatise of 1753. At that time, 37 years had elapsed, and the musical world had undergone a radical change of taste and style.

An Italian: Tragedy Giuseppe Verdi and Margherita Barezzi

by Georg Predota  March 30th, 2013

Giuseppe Verdi

Giuseppe Verdi was a painfully private individual. Details about his romantic encounters are sketchy, and for the most part rely on his own and somewhat inconsistent recollections later in life. We do know, however, that Verdi went to live in the house of the grocer and wine merchant Antonio Barezzi in 1831. Barezzi was the president of the Philharmonic Society in Busseto, and many of its performances and rehearsals were held in a large room in his house. He was also the proud father of three daughters. The eldest, Margherita was only five months younger than Verdi and said to be pretty, gentle and fond of music. Encouraged by her father, Margherita took voice and piano lessons from the young maestro Verdi, and soon the romantic sparks started to fly. For over a year, the young lovers managed to keep their relationship a secret, but all that four-hand piano practice eventually aroused the suspicions of Margherita’s parents. Margherita was, after all, approaching marriageable age and the presence of a penniless musician might easily have compromised her reputation. Although Mummy and Daddy did not fundamentally object to the relationship, a solution had to be found nevertheless.

And so it came to pass that Daddy Barezzi financed Verdi’s first year of study in the far-away city of Milan. Promising to pay back the parental scholarship and to marry his “Ghita” once he had secured a job, Verdi sets off in July 1832. Besides providing an exciting musical and artistic environment, the big city also held attractions of a different nature. Verdi lodged with Professor Giuseppe Seletti and his absolutely stunning daughter Dorina. Seletti would complain bitterly to Barezzi about Verdi’s behavior. “You must understand that being a good musician does not make him an honest man. I found him rude, proud, and acting like a scoundrel in my house. I cannot tell you how much damage he has done to my family, because it is too indecent to write about.”

Margherita Barezzi

Once Verdi returned to Busetto in 1833, he took Dorina with him. It is hard to tell how Margherita reacted — Daddy Barezzi would have been suitably embarrassed — but the local clergy was outraged. When Verdi applied for the job as the town’s “maestro di musica,” a rival candidate was quickly nominated, leading to an extended and heated town quarrel, which included street brawls, arrests and prosecutions. The matter was finally settled in 1835 — by then Dorina had gracefully exited stage right — and Verdi received the official town contract on 20 April 1836. Having finally secured a proper job, Verdi wasted no time and married Margherita on 4 May 1836 in the Church of the Holy Trinity in Busseto. After a lavish lunch, the couple departed for a short honeymoon to Milan, and subsequently returned to settle in the Palazzo Tedaldi. Margherita was not merely a highly attractive woman she also was a decisive advocate of her husband’s career. By September 1836 Margherita was expecting, and Virginia Maria Luigia — the middle names chosen in reference to her two grandmothers — was born on 26 March 1837. Although happy in his family life, Verdi was determined to make his name in Milan. Margherita wrote, “Never, absolutely never, would he [Verdi] settle in Busetto. Having dedicated himself to theatre music, he would succeed in that and not in music for the church.”  

In 1838, Verdi publishes his first book of Sei Romanze (Six Romances), and his son Icilio Romano Carlo Antonio is born on 11 July. In August of that year, tragedy struck and little Virginia died of an unnamed childhood disease. Now more than ever, Verdi was determined to leave Busetto and he left for Milan with the manuscript score of Oberto in his back bag. Margherita and his young son soon followed. During rehearsals for Oberto, Icilio Romano unexpectedly fell ill and despite immediate medical intervention suddenly died on 22 October 1839. Verdi was devastated and soon lay ill himself for several weeks. Once he had recovered in May 1840, it was Margherita’s turn. According to medical opinion, she had contracted encephalitis and instead of getting better she was getting worse. Verdi sent for his father-in-law who barely managed to arrive hours before his daughter died aged 27. “From a dreadful disease, in the arms of her father, my beloved daughter, Margheretha, in the very flower of her youth. She was a faithful companion of the excellent young man, Giuseppe Verdi. I weep over this tragic loss.” And Giuseppe later recalled, “A third coffin goes out of my house. I was alone! Alone!”

Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts (Born on August 25, 1918) Making Classical Music Irresistible

 by Georg Predota  August 25th, 2026

Can you name the longest-running series of family concerts of classical music in the world? If you grew up in the second half of the 20th century, this is probably not a really difficult question.

The answer, of course, is “The Young People’s Concerts” with the New York Philharmonic. That particular series dates back to conductor Frank Damrosch, who directed a concert aimed at a younger audience in 1898. It developed steadily over the decades, but it was Leonard Bernstein who transformed this series into a cultural phenomenon.

Leonard Bernstein (photo by Jack Mitchell)

As music director of the New York Philharmonic, Bernstein wrote, conducted, and narrated a total of 53 episodes from 1958 to 1972. Broadcast by CBS and syndicated in over 40 countries, the concerts brought classical music into the living rooms of the world. To celebrate Bernstein’s birthday on 25 August, let’s take a quick look at this extraordinary series that won five Emmy Awards and shared Bernstein’s excitement for music with generations of young people.   

When Bernstein Took the Stage

Leonard Bernstein, 1950s

We all know that Leonard Bernstein was the first American-born conductor to lead a major American symphony orchestra. He served as music director and chief conductor of the New York Philharmonic from 1958 to 1969. During his tenure, he did much more than conduct an orchestra. He basically opened the doors of the concert hall to millions of listeners and viewers.

In 1993, when Bernstein was looking back on the concerts, he wrote, “These concerts are not just concerts, not even in terms of the millions who view them at home. They are, in some way, the quintessence of all I try to do as a conductor, as a performing musician.”

“There is a lurking didactic streak in me that turns every program I make into a discourse, whether I utter a word or not; my performing impulse has always been to share my feelings, or knowledge, or speculations about music – to provoke thought, suggest historical perspective, encourage the intersection of musical lines.”

Lorne Munroe and Leonard Bernstein

“And from this point of view, the “Young People’s Concerts” are a dream come true, especially since the sharing is done with young people—that is, people who are eager, unprejudiced, curious, open, and enthusiastic. What more could an old incorrigible pedagogue ask for?” (Behind the Scenes, prelude, fugue & riffs, 1993)   

Music for Millions

Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts

One of the most popular events in the history of classical music, the Young People’s Concerts greatly benefited from the relatively new medium of television. This new technology greatly transformed the reach of classical music, and the series became so popular that CBS moved it to prime time.

Bernstein’s charisma and teaching method were central to the success of the series. He never talked down to his young audience. Instead, he introduced genuine musical ideas but slightly aimed above what he assumed they could already understand.

Essentially, his goal was to make young people listen and enjoy themselves. He certainly never talked down to them, but he always approached them as serious listeners. And to be sure, the subjects were intellectually serious, including titles such as “What Does Music Mean?” and “What is American Music?”  

Making them Curious

Leonard Bernstein with a television camera

The primary reason Bernstein was so successful as a teacher and educator is that he did not make music easy for his listeners; he made them curious. Bernstein had a natural ability to remove all complexity and make it accessible through musical examples and direct engagement with the audience.

Instead of talking down to his audiences, he made them part of the process. Above all, Bernstein strongly believed that children were capable of understanding music on a variety of levels, and rather than watering down his introductions to classical music, he issued invitations to think about it.

Bernstein had a deceptively wonderful spontaneity in his appearances, but everything took an enormous amount of preparation. Regular evening subscription concerts of the Philharmonic frequently followed his Young People’s Concerts. Essentially, Bernstein would be in the hall in the early morning for television filming, demonstrations, and script revisions, and then conduct again in the evening.   

Music as Naturally as Food

Over 14 years and 53 performances, Bernstein’s celebrity, charisma, and zeal for learning transformed the series into a far-reaching phenomenon. Bernstein was certainly passionate about integrating music into children’s education from an early age.

He testified before the House Subcommittee on Select Education in 1977, saying, “I propose that the reading and understanding of music be taught to our children from the very beginning of their school life,” he said, “and that they learn to participate with enthusiasm in the study of music from kindergarten through high school.” Every child possesses a natural ability to understand music, he continued. Young people can and should engage with music “as naturally as food.”

Young People’s Concerts

For several generations, people heard an orchestra for the first time at the Young People’s Concerts. And to be sure, it laid the groundwork for countless remarkable musical journeys. It also showed Bernstein at his absolute best as a passionate conductor and teacher.

He was a symbol of the merger between high art and pop culture, and Bernstein viewed Western music as a larger continuum, a tapestry between the academic and the everyday. To be sure, Bernstein was an eccentric who desperately pined for respect as a composer in both popular and concert idioms. He was a classical figure who behaved like a rock star, making the stuffy world of classical music approachable to all.

Claude Debussy and the Poetry of Sound Settings by Verlaine, Baudelaire, and Mallarmé

 by Georg Predota  August 22nd, 2026

In a career lasting the better part of forty years, Claude Debussy composed nearly ninety art songs, also known as mélodies. He was not especially well educated in literature, but his mélodies became a vehicle for the development of a new musical language.

Always guided by the particular requirements of the French language, Debussy abandoned the expressive conventions of the nineteenth century and attempted to capture ambiguity and fleeting emotional impressions.

As we celebrate Debussy’s birthday on 22 August, let us explore his remarkable mélodies through the poetry of three writers who profoundly shaped his imagination: Paul Verlaine, Charles Baudelaire and Stéphane Mallarmé.   

Between Speech and Song

If you are listening to the Debussy melodies for the first time, it’s important to understand that the requirements of the French language always guided Debussy. Stressed syllables are never strongly accentuated, but treated with suitable discretion in order not to betray the spirit of the text.

The vocal lines are full of rhythmical innovations that free them from symmetrical regularity. Essentially, we hear melodic recitatives created in a flexible framework that generally avoids large intervals. This flexibility gives rise to the wonderful nuances so highly valued in French art.

His piano accompaniments, which probably shouldn’t be called accompaniments at all, are basically self-sufficient compositions. Actually, we can follow the harmonic development in Debussy’s musical language all the way to the most daring refinements in his last years.   

Music Melting into Air

Paul Verlaine

Without doubt, Paul Verlaine was Debussy’s favourite poet. His statement that “music comes before all else, and for that chose the irregular, vague, and melting better into the air,” also became Debussy’s focal point.

Paul Verlaine published his Fêtes galantes in 1869, and it was immediately compared to the enchanted world of the divine master of amorous plays, the great and sublime painter Watteau.

Claude Debussy set “Mandoline” from the Fêtes galantes collection in 1882. It is one of the first Verlaine texts he set to music. It is a work of juvenilia, but Verlaine’s text is precisely what would have appealed to him at this time in his life. Debussy’s amorous ventures were well known, and the light-hearted text pokes fun at wild exchanges of vows and luxuriates in a good lifestyle.

The idea of using the piano as a mandolin substitute is not new, but Debussy introduces a new realism in the opening call to attention. The opening fifths allow for limitless possible continuations, and the initial vocal line sets out wonderfully floating chromatic phrases that won’t be repeated until the final verse. In this early mélodie, we get a sense of what Debussy’s piano part would later become.    

When Love Became Music

Claude Debussy, 1893

The aesthetic kinship between Verlaine and Debussy has been amply discussed, and Debussy took two stabs at Clair de Lune, with the first setting dating from 1882. It conjures up a magical moonlit world in which commedia dell’arte figures linger without a clear purpose.

It is a dream world in which sense is abandoned before the senses, and no story is told. However, there is a clear subtext to this particular setting. The 18-year-old Debussy was an accompanist for Mme Moreau-Sainti, a professional singer who operated a singing school for the ladies of Parisian high society.

And thus, Debussy’s gaze fell upon a red-haired beauty with green eyes, blessed with a beautiful high soprano voice. As his passion grew, he wrote songs that resembled an amorous diary of dreams and desires of infinite sweetness. In all, Debussy composed around forty songs for Madame Vasnier.

Before he left for Rome, he assembled thirteen in a bound album and added the following dedication. “To Mme Vasnier, these songs which have lived only through her, and whose enchanting grace would be lost if they no longer passed through her fairylike melodious lips.”   

A New Language of Song

Debussy composed his next set of mélodies to Verlaine’s texts in Rome and Paris between 1886 and 1887. These settings were re-published in 1903 under the official title Ariettes oubliées. Inspired by subtlety and nuance, Debussy began to move in a new direction, towards a recitative-like style that would become a trademark of his vocal writing.

His earlier lover and muse, Marie-Blanche Vasnier, was still in his mind, and it is certainly possible to see the entire set as a declaration of love. However, both Verlaine and Debussy sought to innovate song by using rhythm and tone colour as the basis for a new form of art.

For Debussy, this set established the tone for his future vocal compositions in terms of musical and attention to poetic detail. In Ariettes oubliées, he found a new and heightened level of understanding of Verlaine’s poetry. He composed in a highly chromatic, tonally ambiguous language, which he would make his own over the next couple of years.

Both artists essentially freed language and music from conventional restrictions. Verlaine employed uneven rhythm and rhymes, and Debussy was breaking away from traditional tonal concepts. Both were reaching out in new directions by seeking guidance from the other arts.   

The Poetry of Inner Exile

Claude Debussy, 1879

Paul Verlaine certainly lived an extremely troubled life. He lived as a closeted gay man and was suffering from wild swings of emotions and possibly bipolar disorder. Drug dependence and alcoholism took a horrific toll on his life, and he died in Paris at the age of 51.

Incarcerated for shooting his fellow poet and lover Arthur Rimbaud, Verlaine composed what many literary critics consider to be his finest poetry. He was aware that his time away from the Parisian cafes probably saved his life, and he converted to Roman Catholicism in the summer of 1874.

It was during this period in his life that Verlaine penned most of the poems in Sagesse, poetical expressions of simple Catholic Christianity as well as of his emotional odyssey. Debussy’s setting of three poems from this collection dates from 1891, but they were not published together until 1901.

Dedicated to Ernest Chausson, the “Trois mélodies” find Debussy moving away from the intimate and psychologically charged aspects of his earlier Verlaine settings towards something more purely atmospheric. The music dissolves the distinction between foreground and background, with the piano creating the environment in which the voice exists.   

Echoes of Lost Loves

In June 1904, Claude Debussy said goodbye to Verlaine by composing three additional songs from the Fêtes galantes. This set is dedicated to Emma Bardac, his future second wife, and he summons once more the familiar spirits of Verlaine from the commedia dell’arte.

Composed two years after he had completed Pelléas et Mélisande, Debussy reached a new height of daring and innovation in his musical language. “Les ingénus” presents an example of purely French atonality, expressing the poem’s veiled irony.

“Le faune” makes use of courante and saraband rhythms, yet the piano does not provide the customary rich background of colour. Instead, the right hand imitates the arabesques of a flute in free counterpoint with the voice. Meanwhile, the left hand, in the lowest register, beats out the accompaniment like a tambouring.

The cycle reaches its climax with “Colloque sentimental,” a rather nostalgic goodbye to his old loves. A searing sadness fills the conversation as Debussy gives “the poem the dimensions of an inner dialogue, remembrances of the kind one murmurs privately to oneself. It is a supreme example of the perfect freedom of recitative alternation with arioso.” 

Beauty in the Darkness

Étienne Carjat, Portrait of Charles Baudelaire, circa 1862

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), according to TS Eliot, was the first modern poet, “the greatest exemplar in modern poetry in any language.” He produced unprecedented expressions of a complex sensibility and modern themes within the structures of classical rigour and technical artistry.

He wrote his best poetry against a backdrop of financial constraint, alienation, and legal strife. And let’s not forget exceedingly complicated personal and family relationships. He set himself apart from other writers by cultivating an eccentric image.

He lived an unconventional life by writing poetry in verse that used romantic topoi to upset them, and by launching a new form. While he did seek recognition, “Their distinct individuality defines Baudelaire and his poetry.”

His Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil) was considered the most important and influential poetry collection published in all of Europe in the 19th century. As a critic wrote, “Into his poetry he poured all the dark pessimism of his own soul, all the bitterness and agony of his despair.” Composers loved Baudelaire’s poetry, as it so closely resembled music.   

The Shadow of Bayreuth

Claude Debussy, ca. 1908, photo by Félix Nadar

Composed between 1887 and 1889, Debussy’s Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire hurls us into the sensual worlds of Baudelaire’s words and Richard Wagner’s harmonies. In fact, Debussy made two pilgrimages to Bayreuth, and he responded positively to Wagner’s sensuousness, mastery of form, and striking harmonies.

It has been suggested that while Debussy was no traditional heir to Wagner in Pelleas and Melisande, “his possession and transformation of Wagner give him substantiality, signification, and depth.”

These were Debussy’s only settings of Baudelaire, and despite his ambivalent view of Wagner, the shadow of Bayreuth is not far away. “Le Balcon” is conceived on an unusually large scale, and it is the longest of Debussy’s songs.

As Roger Nichols wrote, it “shows how sensitive Debussy was to the double need of recapitulation, confirmation, and forward movement.” “Harmonie du soir” is probably the most popular song in the set, as Debussy closely mirrors Baudelaire’s poetic structure. It opens with a brief prelude and then develops into an evolving structure. Maybe you also recognise it from his fourth Prélude for piano, which is titled “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir,” after a quote from “Harmonie du soir.”   

Music of the Unspoken

Portrait of Stéphane Mallarmé (Manet)

Debussy had set verse by the French Symbolist poet Stéphane Mallarmé in 1884. Still, when the first complete volume of his poetry was published in 1913, both Debussy and Ravel quickly began independently setting several verses.

Debussy was annoyed that Ravel had chosen two of the same poems, and Ravel was annoyed that the poet’s heir did not refuse Debussy’s request. In the event, to render the poet’s dense symbolism into a compelling musical language, Debussy created an unprecedented degree of boldness and refinement.

As Roger Nichols writes, “To be sure, the air one breathes here is dangerously rarefied, and, matching the world of the poetry, of all the songs Debussy wrote, these are the most difficult to approach.”

How does one musically convey a desire for longing, which cannot be fulfilled for lack of an object to focus on? Debussy forged an ingenious atonal language with an unreal weightlessness, all remaining suspended in mid-air. These three songs are a great achievement, but an exception among Debussy’s mélodies.

Debussy’s mélodies never attempted to illustrate poetry in music. Verlaine gave him atmosphere and ambiguity; Baudelaire opened the door to a darker, more sensual musical world; and Mallarmé pushed him towards an almost weightless language. Yet, Debussy’s greatest achievement is probably the fact that it hovers between what is said and what is suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 1: Triumphant Debut

Alexander Glazunov

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 2: A Lisztian Tribute

Alexander Glazunov with Mily Balakirev

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 3: Sunny Lyricism

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 4: Cosmopolitan

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 5: Heroic Masterpiece

Alexander Glazunov by Ilya Repin

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 6: Organic Whole

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 7: Pastoral Grace

Alexander Glazunov at Bertramka, 1928

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

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

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

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

Symphony No. 8: Majestic Summit

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

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

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

Symphony No. 9: Unfinished Mystery

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

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

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