E.T.A. Hoffmann at 250 (Born on January 24, 1776)

On 24 January, we mark the birth of one of the most remarkable figures of the German Romantic era. Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1776–1822), better known by his pen name, E.T.A. Hoffmann is known as the master of the fantastic and supernatural in literature.

However, Hoffmann was far more than a storyteller. He was a true artistic polymath, an accomplished composer, music critic, and visual artist whose life and work exemplify the Romantic fascination with the intersection of imagination, emotion, and intellect.

E.T.A. Hoffmann

As J. Zipes notes, “his fantastic tales epitomize the Romantic fascination with the supernatural and the expressively distorted or exaggerated.”

On the occasion of his 250th birthday, let’s explore the life, art, and the enduring legacy of a man whose creative ambitions spilled across multiple disciplines.   

E.T.A. Hoffmann: Sonata in A Major, “Andante”

Between Law Books and Lyres

Hoffmann was born in Königsberg, present-day Kaliningrad, into a family of jurists. His early education was shaped by his uncle Otto Doerffer, described as “an unimaginative, mechanical and strict disciplinarian.”

Although Hoffmann was obliged to study law, he pursued music and painting with equal vigour. He studied piano with Carl Gottlieb Richter, thoroughbass and counterpoint with the Königsberg organist Christian Wilhelm Podbielski, and violin with choirmaster Christian Otto Gladau.

These early studies laid the foundation for his later career as a composer and music critic. Hoffmann completed his law degree in 1795 and took up a clerical position in Berlin. Yet, even as a young lawyer, his life was saturated with artistic engagement.

He attended Italian operas, composed piano pieces, and studied composition under J.F. Reichardt. His first operetta, The Mask, was even sent to Queen Luise of Prussia, reflecting Hoffmann’s early ambition to intertwine his legal career with a public artistic presence.   

Setbacks, Satire, and Survival

Drawing by E.T.A. Hoffmann

Hoffmann’s career was far from linear. After passing his final law examinations, he was appointed assistant judge at the high court in Posen. However, his boldness and wit sometimes landed him in trouble. Hoffmann drew caricatures of military authorities in the Posen garrison, and as a result, he was exiled to southern Prussia.

During this period, he struggled to have his compositions performed publicly. Several of his piano works submitted to publishers, including Nägeli and Schott, were rejected, and his comedic play The Prize, written for a literary competition, won only the judges’ commendation, not the prize money.

Despite these setbacks, Hoffmann’s musical ambitions persisted, and in 1804 he was transferred to Warsaw. There, he rebuilt his career from the ground up, conducting, performing, and composing. Within a year, he had an opera successfully staged, completed a D-minor Mass, and published a piano sonata in a Polish music magazine.

Hoffmann’s refusal to submit to Napoleon’s authority when the French entered Warsaw led to his expulsion, but he eventually settled in Berlin and later became music director at the theatre in Bamberg, as well as a music critic for the influential Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in Leipzig.

E.T.A. Hoffmann: Mass in D Minor, AV 18 – Kyrie (Jutta Böhnert, soprano; Rebecca Martin, mezzo-soprano; Thomas Cooley, tenor; Yorck Felix Speer, bass; Cologne West German Radio Chorus; Cologne West German Radio Symphony Orchestra; Rupert Huber, cond.)

Where Imagination Meets Longing

E.T.A. Hoffmann

Hoffmann’s literary breakthrough came in 1809 with the publication of Ritter Gluck, a story about a man who believes he has met the composer Christoph Willibald Gluck decades after Gluck’s death. This story, like much of Hoffmann’s work, highlights the Romantic fascination with the supernatural and the interplay between reality and imagination.

Throughout his life, Hoffmann’s literary endeavours were deeply intertwined with his personal experiences. Scholars have noted that “the mastering of unfulfilled passion remained Hoffmann’s poetic mission to the end of his life.”

He himself hinted at the close connection between his “hopeless love for his young pupil Julia Mark, the crucial experience of his Bamberg years, and the impetus of his literary production.”

His collection Fantasiestücke in Callots Manier, as well as the tales of Johannes Kreisler and Don Juan, were instant literary successes, cementing Hoffmann’s reputation as a writer of uncanny and psychologically complex stories.   

Sounding the Fantastic

Yet literature was only one aspect of Hoffmann’s creativity. He also pursued music with vigour, composing operas, symphonies, piano sonatas, and chamber music. His opera Undine, premiered in 1816, exemplifies his musical style and dramatic sensibility.

Carl Maria von Weber praised the opera for its “swift pace and forward-pressing dramatic action” and admired Hoffmann’s restraint in avoiding “excessive and inapt melodic decoration.”

Unfortunately, after the 14th performance, the Königliches Schauspielhaus in Berlin burned down, and Undine was never staged again during Hoffmann’s lifetime. Nevertheless, his music continued to influence generations of composers, most notably Robert Schumann.

Hoffmann was central to Schumann’s Romantic aesthetic. He even borrowed titles from Hoffmann’s works for his compositions, including Fantasiestücke, Nachtstücke, and Kreisleriana.

The Unity of the Arts

Memorial to E.T.A. Hoffmann, 2014 © Leopold Röhrer

Hoffmann’s dual identity as a writer and musician reflects his belief in the unity of the arts. He considered composition and literary creation equally vital, and he understood music as a deeply Romantic form capable of expressing the ineffable.

His writings on Beethoven, particularly the Fifth Symphony, urged readers and fellow writers to regard music as the most Romantic of all arts. Hoffmann’s music criticism was sharp, insightful, and often provocative, demonstrating his profound understanding of harmony, structure, and expressive power.

He treated music not merely as entertainment but as a vehicle for imagination and emotion, prefiguring later Romantic thought on the synthesis of music and literature.

Brief Life, Long Shadow

E.T.A. Hoffmann’s satirical drawing

Hoffmann also left a mark as a visual artist, producing sketches and caricatures that captured both humour and social commentary. These visual works reveal a playful, observant mind and an enduring engagement with the human condition.

In this sense, Hoffmann embodied the Romantic ideal of the polymath, pursuing excellence in multiple artistic domains, all while navigating the challenges of a professional life constrained by law, politics, and censorship.

Despite his wide-ranging talents, Hoffmann’s life was marked by personal struggles and early death. He fought bureaucracy, suffered unrequited loves, and contended with financial instability throughout his career.

His life ended tragically in 1822 when he died of syphilis at the age of 46. Yet his legacy has only grown in the two centuries since his death. Today, Hoffmann is celebrated not only as a foundational figure of Romantic literature but also as a pioneer in music criticism and a creator of enduring works in multiple media.   

Hearing Hoffmann Anew

Hoffmann’s music is increasingly appreciated alongside his literary achievements. His Piano Trio in E Major and Keyboard Sonata in C-sharp minor are fine examples of early Romantic chamber music, combining lyricism with structural inventiveness.

His Symphony in E-flat Major demonstrates his skill in orchestral writing and his sensitivity to dramatic pacing, qualities that mirrored his literary narrative techniques. Hoffmann’s compositions are characterised by both technical mastery and an imaginative, sometimes whimsical, sensibility that parallels the fantastic worlds of his stories.

The Afterlife of Imagination

E.T.A. Hoffmann’s 4 volume set

The influence of E.T.A. Hoffmann extends well beyond his own era. Writers such as Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley absorbed elements of his fantastic and psychologically complex tales, while composers like Schumann, Chopin, and Mendelssohn drew inspiration from the narrative structures and expressive intensity of his music criticism.

Hoffmann’s insistence on the importance of imagination, emotion, and artistic integrity continues to resonate today. His works remind us that creativity is often most powerful when it crosses the boundaries between genres, disciplines, and even the ordinary and the supernatural.

On January 24, as we mark the anniversary of Hoffmann’s birth, it is fitting to revisit his music, his tales, and his art. His life was short, but his vision was vast, and his influence continues to shape the landscape of literature and music alike.

Hoffmann’s legacy encourages us to pursue our own creative ambitions with the same fearless curiosity, artistic ambition, and devotion to imagination that defined his extraordinary life.

Mendelssohn: The Hebrides Overture Premiered Today in 1833

 by Georg Predota  January 10th, 2019

Exterior of Fingal’s Cave

Described as one of the natural wonders of Scotland, Fingal’s Cave is located on the uninhabited island of Staffa, in the Inner Hebrides. Formed from hexagonally jointed basalt columns it became known as “Fingal’s Cave” after the hero of an epic poem by the Scottish historian James Macpherson. It was part of his highly influential Ossian cycle of poems supposedly based on old Scottish Gaelic verse.

Fingal’s Cave

And when the novelist Sir Walter Scott visited the cave, he wrote, “it is one of the most extraordinary places I ever held. It exceeded in my mind, every description I had heard of it…. as high as the roof of a cathedral, and running deep into the rock, eternally swept by a deep and swelling sea”. Other famous visitors to the cave included the author Jules Verne, poets Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson, the painter J.M.W. Turner and Queen Victoria. And then there was Felix Mendelssohn, who visited the cave in 1829 during his tour of Scotland.

Mendelssohn’s sketch of Scottish Landscape

In July and August 1829, Mendelssohn and his poet friend Karl Klingemann visited Edinburgh and Abbotsford. He began to draft the opening of his Symphony No. 3—eventually to be subtitled “Scottish”—and he wrote to his sister Fanny. “In order to have you understand how extraordinarily the Hebrides affect me, the following came to my mind.” And that postcard contained the opening phrase of what would eventually become his Hebrides Overture. It is been suggested that the echoes Mendelssohn experienced in the cave inspired this particular theme, although there is no definitive proof that Mendelssohn ever got close enough. The first complete draft of the work was completed on 16 December 1830 and entitled “The Lonely Island.” Not entirely satisfied with the work, Mendelssohn embarked on a series of revisions. The final version, now titled “Hebrides Overture,” was completed on 20 June 1832, and it premiered on 10 January 1833 in Berlin with the composer conducting. Richard Wagner subsequently called the work “one of the most beautiful pieces we possess.”

Melodies of Myth and Majesty - Exploring the French Cantata

 by Georg Predota  

The French cantata, emerging in the late 17th century and flourishing through the early 18th century, represents a distinctive musical form that blended Italianate influences with the expressive and refined aesthetic of French Baroque music. Originating around 1700, the French cantata was heavily influenced by the Italian cantata, introduced to France through composers like Marc-Antoine Charpentier, who studied in Rome under Giacomo Carissimi.

Louis-Nicolas Clérambault: Orphée   

Blending Elegance and Innovation

French composers adapted the form to suit national tastes, emphasising clarity of text, elegant melodic lines, and a more restrained emotional palette compared to the dramatic intensity of their Italian counterparts. Typically written for solo voice with continuo and sometimes additional instruments like violins or flutes, French cantatas were often performed in intimate settings, such as salons or private concerts, reflecting the cultural emphasis on refinement and intellectual discourse.

Composers like Louis-Nicolas Clérambault, André Campra, and Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre crafted cantatas that drew on mythological, pastoral, or moral themes, aligning with the French preference for narrative clarity and poetic sophistication. The development of the French cantata was also tied to the cultural politics of the time, as “composers navigated the tension between Italian musical innovation and the conservative preferences of the French court under Louis XIV,” which favoured the tragédie en musique of Jean-Baptiste Lully.

By the mid-18th century, the French cantata began to wane in popularity as musical tastes shifted toward larger-scale operatic works and the emerging galant style, which prioritised simplicity and accessibility over the intricate counterpoint and formal complexity of the Baroque cantata. Nevertheless, the genre remained a significant vehicle for compositional experimentation, particularly in its integration of French lyricism with Italian virtuosity.

Clérambault: Orphée

Louis-Nicolas Clérambault

Louis-Nicolas Clérambault (1676–1749) was born into a musical family in Paris, and he served as organist at the prestigious Saint-Sulpice and held posts at the French court. Primarily celebrated for his contributions to the French cantata and sacred music, Clérambault infused Italianate virtuosity with the elegant clarity of the French style. In all, he composed a total of 25 French cantatas that stand as the pinnacle of his compositional output.

His works, often set to mythological or pastoral texts, reflect the refined tastes of the Parisian salons where they were performed. The Orpheus myth, with its themes of love, loss, and the transformative power of music, provided Clérambault with a compelling narrative canvas. In Orphée, Clérambault sets a French text that traces Orpheus’s descent into the underworld to retrieve Eurydice, his beloved, emphasising his anguish and fleeting hope through poignant airs and dramatic recitatives.

The cantata’s structure alternates between recitative, which advances the narrative, and lyrical airs, which delve into emotional reflection. A striking feature is the “Air tendre” where Orpheus pleads with Pluto, marked by a lilting, almost hypnotic melody that mirrors Orpheus’s legendary musical charm. Clérambault’s use of chromatic harmonies and suspensions heightens the sense of longing, while his instrumental writing echoes the vocal line, creating a dialogue that feels intimate yet expressive.

The cantata also subtly engages with contemporary cultural currents, as Orpheus symbolised the artist’s divine gift, a theme resonant with the French court’s self-image as a patron of the arts under Louis XIV and beyond. The work reflects the French Baroque’s fascination with emotional depth, rhetorical clarity, and refined artistry. Clérambault’s Orphée stands out for its emotional directness and compact form, making it ideal for the salon setting where aristocratic patrons valued subtlety over spectacle.

Campra: Arion

André Campra

André Campra (1660–1744) was born in Aix-en-Provence and initially pursued a career in the church, serving as maître de musique at Notre-Dame in Paris. He gained fame for his opera but also applied his skill to the cantata genre by merging national traditions. As he writes in 1708, “As cantatas have become fashionable, I thought I should, at the request of many people, provide some for the public in my own way.”

“I have tried, as far as I could, to combine the delicacy of French music with the liveliness of Italian music: perhaps those who have completely abandoned the taste for the former will be satisfied by the way in which I have treated this little piece. I am as convinced as anyone of the merits of the Italians, but our language cannot tolerate certain things that they get away with. Our music has beauties which they cannot help admiring and try to imitate. I have endeavoured above all to preserve the beauty of the singing, the expression, and our way of reciting.”

Arion is a secular French cantata from his Cantates françoises of 1714, and it draws its story from the classical tale of Arion, a legendary Greek musician. In the story, Arion’s lyrical prowess saves him when sailors attempt to murder him for his wealth, as dolphins, enchanted by his song, carry him to safety.

Campra’s setting of this myth uses the narrative to showcase the power of music, a theme that resonated deeply with the aristocratic audiences of early eighteenth-century France. Structurally, Arion follows the typical French cantata form, with alternating recitatives and airs accompanied by a small ensemble. The opening prelude establishes a pastoral tone, while the recitatives narrate Arion’s plight with dramatic shifts in tempo and dynamics. The airs, particularly those depicting Arion’s song to the dolphins, feature ornate vocal lines with agréments, reflecting the French emphasis on expressive nuance.

de Montéclair: Pan et Syrinx

Michel Pignolet de Montéclair

The French Baroque composer and theorist Michel Pignolet de Montéclair (1667–1737) was known for his contributions to opera, cantatas, and music pedagogy. Born in Andelot, he moved to Paris, where he joined the orchestra of the Paris Opéra and later became a respected teacher. A versatile musician, he also authored influential treatises on music theory and performance, and his compositions bridged the refined tastes of the French court with the innovative trends of the early 18th century, leaving a lasting impact on the Baroque repertoire.

The cantata Pan et Syrinx draws on Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which recounts how Pan, enamoured with the chaste nymph Syrinx, chases her until she transforms into reeds to escape him, from which Pan crafts his iconic panpipes. This tale of desire, transformation, and the origins of music provided Montéclair with a rich narrative for a cantata performed with a small ensemble in salon settings.

Alternating between recitatives that narrate the story and airs that explore the characters’ emotions, Montéclair’s music vividly captures the drama. The sprightly, dance-like melodies in the opening prelude evoke Pan’s playful pursuit, contrasted by lyrical, flowing airs for Syrinx’s pleas for freedom.

His use of text painting is particularly striking, such as in passages where the flute mimics the sound of Pan’s reeds or where chromatic harmonies underscore Syrinx’s fear. The structure reflects the French Baroque’s emphasis on clarity and emotional directness, while Montéclair’s inclusion of pastoral elements, like the lilting rhythms and flute obligatos, ties the work to the era’s fascination with idyllic nature.

Dornel: Le Tombeau de Clorinde

Cover page Louis-Antoine Dornel’s Le Tombeau de Clorinde

Louis-Antoine Dornel (c. 1680–1765) was a composer, harpsichordist, organist, and violinist, active in Paris during the early 18th century. Likely born in Béthemont-la-Forêt or Presles, he served as organist at Sainte Madeleine-en-la-Cité, a position he secured over Jean-Philippe Rameau, and later as maître de musique at the Académie Française. Dornel’s compositions include chamber music, harpsichord suites, and a number of cantatas that contributed to the vibrant cultural exchange of the French Baroque.

Le Tombeau de Clorinde dates from 1723 and draws on the tragic story of Clorinde, a character from Torquato Tasso’s epic Jerusalem Delivered. It tells the story of Clorinde, a Saracen warrior-princess, who is tragically killed in combat by her Christian lover Tancred, who was unaware of her identity.

This narrative of doomed love and mourning provided Dornel with a dramatic framework. Typically performed by a solo voice, most often a baritone with a small ensemble including violin and continue, Le Tombeau alternates between recitatives and airs to convey the story’s emotional arc.

The opening recitative, “Dans l’horreur d’un combat,” sets a sombre tone, depicting the horror of battle, while subsequent airs, such as “Ô vous, Manes sacrées,” express Tancred’s grief with lyrical depth and ornamented vocal lines. Dornel’s music employs a good amount of text painting, with descending melodic figures and chromatic harmonies evoking sorrow, and the violin’s obbligato lines intertwine with the voice to heighten the lament’s intimacy.

de La Guerre: Judith

Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre

Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre (1665–1729) was a French Baroque composer, harpsichordist, and singer, celebrated as one of the most gifted musicians of her time. Born into a musical family in Paris, she performed as a child prodigy at the court of Louis XIV, earning royal patronage. Trained by her father, she excelled in composing across genres, and while her output consists largely of harpsichord music, she was the first woman to have an opera performed at the Académie royale de musique (the Opéra) in Paris. She was also the first composer in France to publish sacred cantatas, including Judith of 1708.

The cantata is rooted in the Book of Judith, recounting Judith’s heroic act of seduction and assassination of the Assyrian general Holofernes to save her people. The music for Judith emphasises spiritual depth, aligning with the period’s growing interest in sacred music for private settings during the Regency of Louis XV. The cantata’s structure, with its compact yet expressive form, highlights Jacquet de La Guerre’s innovative approach to text setting, using subtle dynamic shifts and harmonic progressions to convey Judith’s transformation from supplicant to victor.

Her instrumental writing, particularly for the violin, anticipates the more integrated textures of later Baroque music. The opening recitative sets the scene with vivid imagery of the Assyrian threat, using declamatory vocal lines to evoke urgency. The subsequent airs, such as those depicting Judith’s prayer of triumph, feature lyrical melodies adorned with French ornaments. Her use of text painting is notable, with rising melodic lines for Judith’s resolve and darker, chromatic harmonies for Holofernes’s menace.

The work also holds cultural significance as a product of a female composer navigating a male-dominated field, with Jacquet de La Guerre’s dedication of her cantatas to the Elector of Bavaria reflecting her ambition to gain recognition beyond France. Judith thus stands as a testament to her compositional skill and the French cantata’s role as a vehicle for both artistic and moral expression in the early eighteenth century.

Clérambault: Medée

Louis-Nicolas Clérambault’s Médée, a secular French cantata from his Cantates françoises of 1713, showcases his mastery of dramatic vocal music and emotional intensity. Drawing on the mythological tragedy of Medea, the sorceress who exacts vengeance on her unfaithful lover Jason, this cantata captures the raw passion and turmoil of its protagonist in a form designed for intimate salon performances.

This tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance provided Clérambault with a dramatic narrative ideally suited to the French cantata’s expressive capabilities. Performed typically by a solo soprano with a small ensemble of violin, flute, and continuo, Médée alternates between recitatives and airs to convey the protagonist’s emotional descent.

The opening recitative, “Ingrate, tu trahis,” sets a tempestuous tone, with declamatory vocal lines and shifting harmonies that mirror Medea’s rage. The airs, such as “Dieux cruels, dieux vengeurs,” feature florid melodies and French ornaments, which emphasise her anguish and resolve. Jagged melodic contours and chromatic dissonances evoke Medea’s tormented psyche, while the instrumental parts amplify the drama.

The text, crafted with elegant prosody, allows Clérambault to balance rhetorical clarity with intense emotion, creating a vivid portrait of a woman consumed by betrayal. Performed in the refined setting of Parisian salons, Médée appealed to aristocratic audiences who valued the French Baroque’s blend of mythological storytelling and musical sophistication, reflecting the era’s fascination with strong and complex female figures.

Closing Thoughts

The French cantata was a major poetic and musical genre of the 18th century. Born in the 17th century and originally imported from Italy, it took many different forms in France. Initially it was simply transplanted in its original language and form but soon translated and developed to accompany the French poetic style, undergoing a dialectic change.

The decline of the French cantata by the 1740s coincided with the rise of public concerts, such as the Concert Spirituel, “which favoured orchestral and sacred music over chamber genres.” Scholarly analysis has highlighted the French cantata’s role as a cultural artefact, reflecting the tensions between tradition and innovation in French music, as well as the social dynamics of patronage and performance in the aristocratic salons of the period. Its legacy endures in the way it shaped the development of French vocal music, influencing later genres like the opéra-comique and the mélodie.

Thunder and Trembling Vladimir Horowitz’s Battle with Performance Anxiety (Born October 1, 1903)

by Georg Predota

Vladimir Horowitz, the titan of 20th-century pianists, could silence a hall with a single chord, his fingers conjuring tempests from the keys. Yet, for all his mastery, he was a prisoner of performance anxiety, this crippling dread that drove him to the edge of collapse and forced four dramatic exits from the concert stage.

Vladimir Horowitz

“To tell you the truth, sometimes I’m frightened of myself,” he confessed in 1975, revealing the paradox of a genius who ruled Carnegie Hall but trembled at its threshold. This torment, born of revolution-scarred youth and relentless perfectionism, didn’t just haunt Horowitz.

Performance anxiety actually shaped his volcanic artistry, forging a legacy where fear and brilliance were inseparable. To celebrate his birthday on 1 October, let us honour the legacy of a pianist who transformed terror into transcendence.   

Paradox of Genius and Fear

Born on 1 October 1903 in the shadowed streets of Berdichev, near Kyiv in what was then the Russian Empire, Horowitz emerged as a prodigy whose fingers danced across the piano with a ferocity that could coax thunder from ivory. His mother, Sophie, a conservatory-trained pianist, recognised his gift early, and by age 12, he was enrolled at the Kyiv Conservatory under masters like Felix Blumenfeld, a student of Tchaikovsky himself.

Felix Blumenfeld

Horowitz’s early career was a blaze of triumphs. Debuts in Leningrad and Kharkov in 1920, a European tour that stunned audiences in Berlin and Paris, and a New York recital in 1928 that prompted The New York Times critic Olin Downes to hail him as displaying “most if not all the traits of a great interpreter.”

Yet, beneath this virtuosic facade lurked a profound vulnerability. Stage fright, that spectral adversary, would hound him for decades. That insidious cocktail of adrenaline and dread afflicted Horowitz like a recurring fever. It manifested not as mere butterflies but as a paralysing panic.   

Rituals of Dread

As biographer Glenn Plaskin recounts in Horowitz: A Biography, the pianist often arrived at venues in the eleventh hour, demanding silence from all around him, his anxiety so acute that aides sometimes had to physically nudge him toward the stage.

“Such was his stage fright that he often had to be pushed physically onto the stage,” notes music historian Robert Greenberg, underscoring how this neurotic ritual became as much a part of Horowitz’s lore as his octave-spanning arpeggios.

Incredibly, this man who commanded sold-out halls and fees that made him the highest-paid artist of the 1940s chronically doubted his own adequacy, whispering to himself that he was “inferior and inadequate” even as ovat

Murmurs of Assurance

The roots of Horowitz’s affliction might well be traced back to his tumultuous youth.

The 1917 Russian Revolution ravaged his family, as his father’s electrical engineering firm was seized, and relatives were imprisoned or executed. By 1925, the family had fled to Paris, leaving Vladimir to perform ragtime in silent-film theatres for survival.

This upheaval instilled a deep-seated insecurity, compounded by his innate perfectionism. “His consistent need to be perfect… drove his stage fright in a big way,” observed a scholar, also noting that the young pianist’s early acclaim only amplified his fear of failure.

Horowitz himself hinted at this inner turmoil in rare interviews, though direct quotes on stage fright are elusive. Instead, he channelled it into mantras of reassurance. Before performances, he would murmur, “I know my pieces,” a self-soothing litany affirming his meticulous preparation as a bulwark against the void.   

A Vanishing Act

Vladimir Horowitz in 1931

This ritual, born of desperation, revealed a man wrestling not just with notes but with the terror of exposure. Horowitz’s first major retreat came in 1936, a seismic event that rippled through the music world. At the peak of his powers, fresh off collaborations with Toscanini and recordings that refined the Rachmaninoff concertos, he succumbed to “nervous exhaustion.”

Married since 1933 to Wanda Toscanini, daughter of the imperious conductor Arturo, Horowitz faced mounting pressures. The stormy union was marked by Wanda’s infidelities and Vladimir’s alleged homosexuality, with colitis twisting his gut.

Vladimir and Wanda Horowitz

He vanished from the stage for 13 months, retreating to Italy and then New York, where therapy and rest barely quelled the storm. Biographer Harold C. Schonberg, in Horowitz: His Life and Music, describes this period as one where “the heartbreaking destruction of his family combined with… professional frustrations to bring on the first of several breakdowns.”   

Electric Return and Enduring Shadows

Upon return in 1938, his playing was electric, but the fright lingered like a shadow. The post-World War II years amplified the torment. By 1953, after a separation from Wanda and rumours of institutionalisation, Horowitz hit rock bottom.

He underwent electroshock therapy for depression, a brutal intervention that left him catatonic at the piano. “For months, for years, he was incapable of performing in public,” recounts author Lea Singer in a 2021 interview about Horowitz’s hidden life.

The mere thoughts of the stage triggered panic attacks so severe that rumours started to fly that he could no longer touch the keys. This hiatus lasted 12 years, the longest of his four periods of retirement. During these silences, Horowitz turned to recordings, a much safer harbour where he could edit out imperfections.

A Phoenix Rises

Vladimir Horowitz in 1986

Yet, from these ashes rose phoenix-like comebacks, each a testament to resilience. The most mythic unfolded on 9 May 1965, at Carnegie Hall. Backstage, Horowitz paced like a caged tiger, his wife and daughter, Sonia, imploring him to move forward. When he finally emerged, the ovation was deafening.

His program, scarred on showpieces and heavy on Bach, Clementi and Mozart, unleashed a Horowitz reborn. His playing was introspective, crystalline, with rubato that breathed like wind through willows. Pianist André Watts captured the onstage atmosphere, stating, “Horowitz was like a demon barely under control.” (Read more about “Vladimir Horowitz’s Legendary 1965 Carnegie Hall Comeback Concert“.)

The eminent musicologist Charles Rosen elaborated further, dubbing performance anxiety “a divine ailment, a sacred madness. It’s a Promethean curse where the artist suffers to deliver the divine spark.”    

Imperfect Perfection

Horowitz transmuted performance anxiety into daring, as the fear of errors became the edge that sharpened his interpretations. As he explained in 1975, “I must tell you I take terrible risks. Because my playing is very clear, when I make a mistake, you hear it… Never be afraid to dare.”

Yet, Horowitz disdained mechanical perfection. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he quipped, instead favouring “a little mistake here and there” to infuse music with human warmth.

Lea Singer described his offstage demeanour as a “shy penguin”, noting his 1986 Moscow bow tie, and grinning through “great sadness.” Pianist Oscar Levant, another anxiety-plagued musician, jested that Horowitz should advertise “for a limited number of cancellations.”   

Tears and Triumph

Vladimir Horowitz in 1986

Critics and peers dissected Horowitz’s affliction with awe and empathy. In The Guardian, a 2015 reflection on overcoming anxiety likened stage fright to “an untamed horse. We have to try to harness it, let it out, pull it back,” an apt metaphor for Horowitz’s volatile command.

Even in later years, as recordings supplanted tours, his influence endured. His late-career resurgences, in 1978 in Cleveland after a nine-year absence, and the 1986 historic Moscow return amid Gorbachev’s glasnost, were defiant rebuttals to his demons.

As he plays Schumann’s Träumerei with tears in his eyes, an encore that bridges across 61 years of exile, he once declared, “without false modesty, I feel that, when I’m on the stage, I’m the king, the boss of the situation.” Yet, as Classical Music magazine reflected in 2025, his “success… came at a heavy price, with electroshock scars and pill bottles as collateral.”  

Chasing the Sublime

Vladimir Horowitz died on 5 November 1989, in New York, felled by a heart attack at the age of 86. His legacy, etched in 25 Grammys and the Presidential Medal of Freedom, transcends the man. Performance anxiety for Horowitz was no mere malady but the crucible of his art.

It forced retirements that honed his depth, risks that electrified his touch, and returns that redefined triumph. In an era when beta-blockers offered chemical relief, as proposed in a 1979 Times article, Horowitz reminds us that the raw edge of fear can give birth to the sublime.

As Joan Acocella, in her 2015 The New Yorker essay on performance anxiety, wrote, “Horowitz played from the other side of the score, looking back.” And maybe that’s how we should gaze at him as well. A demon tamed, a king enthroned, forever chasing the music behind the notes.

John Rutter - Celebrating 80 Years of Choral Legacy

by Georg Predota  October 3rd, 2025

On the occasion of John Rutter’s 80th birthday on 24 September 2025, choral communities across the globe join in a formal celebration of his extraordinary contributions to the world of music. His compositions have enriched the repertoire of choirs worldwide, gracing sacred spaces, concert halls, and festivals with their profound beauty and emotional depth.

John Rutter

Rutter’s artistry has inspired generations of singers, conductors, and audiences, fostering a shared sense of unity and reverence through the power of choral music. As we reflect on this milestone, it is fitting to explore Rutter’s life, his artistic contributions, and the enduring impact of his work 

Igniting a Lifelong Passion

John Rutter’s early life was steeped in the sounds of London’s vibrant cultural landscape. Growing up above the Globe pub on Marylebone Road, the son of an industrial chemist, he discovered music’s enchanting world through an out-of-tune upright piano.

His formal education at Highgate School, where he sang as a chorister alongside future luminaries like John Tavener, ignited a passion for composition. At just 18, Rutter penned his “Shepherd’s Pipe Carol,” a piece that captured the ethereal innocence of pastoral imagery and foreshadowed his affinity for Christmas carols.

This early work, published during his undergraduate years at Clare College, Cambridge, marked the beginning of a prolific output that blended English choral traditions with innovative textures. At Cambridge, Rutter not only studied music but also served as Director of Music at Clare College Chapel from 1975 to 1979, elevating the choir to an international standing.  

Crafting Choral Classics

John Rutter

John Rutter played a pivotal role in the Carols of Choir series, particularly from 1970 onward. As co-editor alongside Sir David Willcocks, Rutter contributed original works and arrangements, which blended traditional folk elements with vibrant rhythms and luminous harmonies.

Earning praise for their “joyful qualities” and “musical polish,” Rutter’s work on subsequent volumes further showcases his versatility. In fact, Willcocks called him “the most gifted composer of his generation.”

Rutter decided to leave Academia in 1979 to focus on composition. This decision was pivotal as it allowed him to establish the Cambridge Singers in 1981. This professional choir became his creative laboratory, recording sacred repertoire on his Collegium Records label and touring globally.   

Mourning and Majesty

Yet, Rutter’s path was not without adversity as he battled health problems from 1985 to 1992, a period that curtailed commissions and forced a re-evaluation of his creative process. Emerging from this trial, Rutter’s music gained deeper emotional layers, as evident in works like the Requiem, which balances mourning with consolation.

Rutter’s sacred choral music is rooted in a harmonic language that favours modal shifts and lush tertian sonorities to facilitate emotional accessibility. Demanding vocal precision, these works blend simplicity and sophistication, appealing to both amateur and professional ensembles alike.

John Rutter’s influence extends to secular realms as well. His “This is the Day,” composed for the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton, fuses psalmic joy with contemporary resonance. We also find orchestral works, such as the Suite Antique, stimulated by Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, and two Beatles-themed piano concertos inspired by the American songbook tradition. 

Uniting Voices

John Rutter with the Cambridge Singers

John Rutter’s contributions to choral music have left an enduring mark on the global choral landscape, blending accessibility with harmonic sophistication to create works that resonate across sacred and secular contexts.

Rutter’s ability to infuse traditional texts with modern sensibilities, often through luminous tonal palettes and subtle rhythmic vitality, has been praised as “a gift for melody and an instinctive understanding of the voice.”

As we celebrate his 80th birthday, we honour John Rutter’s enduring legacy as a defining figure in contemporary choral music. His lasting impact stems from his unique ability to craft music that is both emotionally immediate and technically refined. In other words, Rutter’s music unites singers and listeners in shared emotional experiences.