In 1961, he appeared as Ford in a Naples production of Verdi’s valedictory opera. The cast was remarkable for its all-around excellence. Tito Gobbi sang the title role. In addition to the two baritones, Renata Tebaldi, Mirella Freni, and Fedora Barbieri also appeared.

Capecchi’s interpretation of Ford’s aria is notable for the intensity with which he depicts Ford’s belief that his wife has succumbed to Falstaff’s ardor and betrayed him. Of course, the audience knows this is not true, but Ford is convinced of his wife’s unfaithfulness. It is the only serious moment in Verdi’s comedy. In style and emotional impact, it harkens back to the Verdi of Rigoletto. Capecchi’s performance is the best I’ve heard of this aria. The excerpt below continues after the aria with the reappearance of Falstaff (Gobbi) and lasts until the make their joint exit to conclude the scene.

Now jump ahead 31 years, and Capechhi has become a basso buffo. He’s still as effective as ever, but in a different category. ‘A un dottor della mia sorte’ is Dr Bartolo’s great patter song from Act 1 of Rossini’s Barber. Capecchi was an artist whose greatness was not as fully recognized as his talent deserved.

The main reason for the reappearance of this production is soprano Asmik Grigorian. The Lithuanian singer is an artist whose stage presence matches her vocal artistry. Thus, it’s impossible to adequately review her performance from just listening to it. She needs to be seen as well as heard. Nevertheless, her performance was the highlight of the afternoon. Her voice is a lirico-spinto. It’s perfect for Tatiana. She produced the youthful ardor of the first two acts and the mature emotional control required in the final act. She has Salome and Turandot in her repertoire. It’s hard for me to imagine that she has the vocal heft required for those killer roles, but perhaps she does.

The title role was sung by the Ukrainian baritone Iurii Samoilov. He did a credible job, but could have benefited from a bit more forward thrust. The same could be said of French tenor Stanslas de Barbeyrac. He has a lyric tenor that is well produced and that he can modulate with ease. His reading of Kuda, Kuda (Lensky’s Aria) showed his voice at its best.

Prince Gremin is in the opera solely to sing the fine bass aria given to him in the first scene of Act 3. Alexander Tsymbalyuk delivered a competent, if somewhat woolly, rendition of the famous piece.

Conductor Timur Zangiev has received some bad notices for his leading of Onegin. This run was his Met debut. I thought he did a fine job delivering both Tchaikovsky’s beautiful melodies as well as realizing the moments of great dramatic intensity, especially in the last scene.

The rest of the cast was up to the Met’s standard. I’ll comment more about this performance after I’ve seen it next week.

Eugene Onegin…………Iurii Samoilov
Tatiana………..Asmik Grigorian
Lensky………..Stanslas de Barbeyrac
Olga………..Maria Barakova
Prince Gremin………..Alexander Tsymbalyuk
Larina………..Elena Zaremba
Filippyevna……….Larissa Diadkova
Triquet………..Tony Stevenson
Captain…………Ben Brady
Zaretsky…………Richard Bernstein
Offstage voice………..Remy Martin

Conductor……….Timur Zangiev

An essential part of Michael Tilson Thomas’s artistic inheritance lay in his remarkable family background. His grandfather, Boris Thomashefsky, was a legendary figure in the Yiddish-speaking world of early 20th-century New York City. Boris, an immigrant from Eastern Europe, helped establish Yiddish theatre as a major cultural force in New York at the turn of the 20th century – actor, impresario, and entrepreneur in equal measure. His grandmother, Bessie, a celebrated actress and singer, brought glamour and emotional depth to the stage, becoming one of the era’s most beloved performers.

Their son, Ted Thomas (born Theodore Thomashefsky), was a producer and writer in Hollywood. He worked in film and television, moving the family into the mainstream of American entertainment. He shortened the family name from Thomashefsky to Thomas. The change reflected a common impulse among immigrant families seeking assimilation and wider acceptance in mid-20th-century America, particularly in the film industry, where names were often streamlined for broader appeal.

MTT studied at the University of Southern California. Still, his true education came early and dramatically when, at just 25, he stepped in for William Steinberg with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This debut instantly marked him as a conductor of rare authority and charisma. From that moment forward, his career unfolded, going from success to success as he moved up the symphonic ladder.

He held important posts with the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra and the London Symphony Orchestra, but it was in San Francisco that Tilson Thomas found his artistic home. As music director of the San Francisco Symphony from 1995 to 2020, he transformed the ensemble into one of the most adventurous and polished orchestras in the world.

Mahler, in particular, became a defining pillar of his legacy. Tilson Thomas’s recordings of the complete Mahler symphonies with the San Francisco Symphony stand among the most compelling cycles of recent decades – performances notable for their clarity and emotional directness. He found in Mahler not just a composer, but a spiritual companion: a figure who bridged past and future, intellect and emotion, rigor and freedom.

MTT was one of the great musical communicators of our time. His Keeping Score series and his work with the Young People’s Concerts carried forward the tradition of Leonard Bernstein, but with a voice entirely his own. He possessed the rare ability to speak about music without diminishing its mystery, to illuminate without condescension.

His pedagogical commitment, most notably through the New World Symphony in Miami Beach, which he founded in 1987, fostered generations of young musicians, teaching them that technical mastery was only the beginning of an artist’s responsibility.

He leaves behind a vast discography and a transformed landscape for the American orchestra. In his final years, even as he navigated significant health challenges, his dedication to the transformative power of music remained undimmed.

His extraordinary gifts as a musician, teacher, and communicator are shown in the documentary Keeping Score, which he made about the life and music of Gustav Mahler’s Symphony #1.

Few finales in the symphonic literature generate the kind of visceral exhilaration produced by the closing movement of Symphony No. 7 by Beethoven. Premiered in Vienna in 1813 to tremendous acclaim, the symphony as a whole was immediately recognized for its rhythmic vitality, prompting Richard Wagner to later describe it as the “apotheosis of the dance.” Nowhere is that characterization more apt than in the finale, an Allegro con brio that seems less a conclusion than an unstoppable force of kinetic energy.

From its first bars, the movement launches with explosive urgency. The strings burst forth with a rapid, swirling figure – almost a perpetual-motion device – that sets the tone for everything that follows. Unlike the more measured grandeur of Beethoven’s earlier symphonic finales, this movement dispenses with rhetorical buildup and plunges directly into motion. It is as if the music had already been underway before we began listening, and we have been thrust into its whirlwind.

Rhythmic drive is the defining feature. Built largely on a relentless two-note pattern, the movement sustains an extraordinary intensity from beginning to end. Syncopations, accents, and sudden dynamic contrasts create an atmosphere of overwhelming excitement. Beethoven’s genius lies in his ability to take what might seem like a simple rhythmic cell and transform it into an engine of propulsive power. The effect is cumulative: each repetition adds to the sense of inevitability, drawing the listener deeper into the music’s momentum.

Equally striking is the movement’s economy of thematic material. Rather than presenting a wide array of contrasting ideas, Beethoven focuses on a small number of motifs, developing them with extraordinary inventiveness. The main theme, introduced by the strings, is not so much a melody as a gesture – short, urgent, and compelling. A contrasting idea appears in the winds, offering a momentary sense of breadth, but it too is quickly absorbed into the prevailing current. The result is a musical texture that feels tightly coiled, every element contributing to forward motion.

The orchestration plays a crucial role in sustaining this energy. The strings, often driving the action with rapid repeated notes, provide a shimmering, almost frenetic backdrop. The winds add color and brightness, while the brass punctuates the texture with emphatic declarations. Particularly notable is Beethoven’s use of dynamics: sudden shifts from soft to loud, and vice versa, create a sense of unpredictability that heightens the excitement. Even quieter passages feel charged with tension, as though they might erupt at any moment.

Structurally, the movement adheres to sonata form, but Beethoven treats this framework with remarkable freedom. The development section intensifies the rhythmic drive, fragmenting and recombining motifs in ways that increase the music’s urgency. The recapitulation does not so much resolve the tension as amplify it, pushing the material to even greater extremes. By the time we reach the coda, the music has achieved a level of intensity that seems almost unsustainable.

And yet, Beethoven goes further. The coda is one of the most electrifying in all symphonic literature – a final surge of energy that propels the movement to its blazing conclusion. Repeated chords hammer out the rhythm with unyielding force, while the orchestra drives forward with an almost manic insistence. It is not merely an ending but a culmination, a release of the accumulated energy that has been building throughout the movement.

Contemporary audiences were astonished by the effect. Reports from the premiere describe listeners demanding encores – an unusual occurrence for a symphony at the time. The second movement famously had to be repeated, but the finale, too, left an indelible impression. Its sheer vitality and exuberance seemed to capture something elemental, something beyond the realm of polite musical discourse.

What makes this movement so enduringly compelling is its balance of control and abandon. On the one hand, it is meticulously constructed, every note serving a clear purpose within the overall design. On the other hand, it conveys a sense of wild, unrestrained energy that feels almost improvisatory. This duality is at the heart of Beethoven’s achievement: the ability to create music that is both rigorously organized and profoundly immediate in its emotional impact.

In the context of the entire symphony, the finale serves as a kind of divine summation – not only of the dance-like qualities that pervade the work, but of rhythm itself as a driving force in music. It transforms the orchestra into a vast, unified instrument of motion, carrying the listener along in its unstoppable surge. More than two centuries after its premiere, the final movement of Beethoven’s Seventh remains one of the most thrilling experiences in all of concert music – a testament to the composer’s unparalleled ability to harness the raw power of rhythm and shape it into something unforgettable.

While, as mentioned above, Wagner thought the symphony the “apotheosis of the dance”, the final movement seems to me closer to the God of the Old Testament showing his face to humanity.

I listened to a number of performances of this movement led by conductors of international renown. Of course, I could only monitor just a few of the very many recordings of the great work. The one that seemed to me most apposite to the demands of the last movement was Toscanini’s recording with the NBC Symphony Orchestra. The entire last movement under the Italian maestro’s baton is below.

Thus, Archimedes’ great work in physics and mathematics, even if it were centuries ahead of everyone else, would eventually have been discovered by others. Similarly, Newton’s optics and celestial mechanics would eventually have been formulated by others had Newton not lived. Indeed, his discovery of the calculus was independently made by Leibniz a short while after Newton’s.

Einstein’s work starts to show the narrowing of the creative difference between science and art. Doubtless, the discoveries of his Annus Mirabilis (1905), during which he published his discoveries on the photoelectric effect, Brownian motion, special relativity, and mass-energy equivalence (E=mc²), would have eventually been formulated by several other physicists. His general theory of relativity is a different order of science.

As keen a scientist as Richard Feynman, who obviously understood the nuances of general relativity, said he couldn’t understand how Einstein had conceived the theory. Widely acknowledged as a theory of extraordinary mathematical beauty, general relativity has often been described as the most beautiful of all existing physical theories. It approaches the unique. It’s a legitimate question whether any other scientist would have formulated the theory. There was an “element of revelation” in the manner in which Einstein arrived at his theory, said the great astrophysicist Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar.

The concept I’m suggesting is that the deeper one goes into nature and the universe, the greater the demand on the intellect. Eventually, the problems that remain to be solved may be so difficult that the equivalent of a Beethoven is required to solve them. This idea is a continuation of the argument I made in my recent article on the photon. I will not introduce the role of advanced AI here, but stick to the convergence of human genius in the arts compared to that in the sciences.

Reconciliation of general relativity with the laws of quantum physics remains a problem, as no self-consistent theory of quantum gravity has been found. Both theories pass experimental testing, yet they remain unreconciled. It is also not yet known how gravity can be unified with the three non-gravitational forces: strong, weak, and electromagnetic. The solution to these problems may test the limits of human thinking and, if solved, require the scientific equivalent of Michelangelo or Verdi. Absent the appearance of such a scientific genius, these problems may never be solved by a human.

If Verdi had not written Falstaff, no one else would have produced his dazzling score. Whether Einstein’s general theory of relativity falls into the same creative category as Falstaff is uncertain and likely unknowable – but it’s at least close. The next great scientific theory almost certainly will be as great a creative accomplishment as Falstaff or the Eroica Symphony. Ironically, this convergence of artistic and scientific genius is occurring at the same time as machine learning is threatening to overtake human accomplishment.

Do art and science have limits beyond which humans cannot go? Regardless, they seem to be heading toward a creative juncture. You do not have to be a genius to appreciate works of art and science far beyond what you can do on your own. The counterpoint of JS Bach is beyond the compositional capacity of virtually any musician, yet the layman can fully appreciate it.

The idea that information is more fundamental than the matter that conveys the information has slowly become a central concept in physics, according to the great physicist John Archibald Wheeler (Feynman’s teacher). This belief is hard to wrap your head around, but if its accurrate than there’s little difference between art and science. They are both about information.

Physics has reached the point where it seems almost certain that the next revolutionary discovery in the field will require a genius on the order of Beethoven or Verdi. Chemistry is a little bit behind, and biology is even a short distance behind chemistry. It seems likely that the distinction among all the sciences will be increasingly blurred as our knowledge expands. While Feynman thought the universe was stranger than one could imagine, every facet of nature likely fits into his view of the cosmos. The coming generation of great scientists will need the level of genius previously reserved for the artist. The distinction between art and science will cease to exist.

American Salute

Composed in 1942 at the height of World War II, American Salute by Morton Gould stands as one of the most exuberant and enduring expressions of American musical patriotism. The work is based on the well-known Civil War tune ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’. Gould transforms this familiar song into a brilliant orchestral showpiece, combining symphonic craft with popular appeal.
Originally written for orchestra and later adapted for band, American Salute reflects Gould’s unique ability to bridge classical and vernacular traditions. The piece opens with a bold, attention-grabbing statement, quickly establishing a festive and energetic atmosphere. As the music unfolds, Gould subjects the tune to a series of imaginative variations.

Rhythmic vitality is a hallmark of the work. Syncopations, shifting accents, and crisp percussion writing infuse the music with a distinctly American character, evoking jazz and popular idioms of the early 20th century. Gould’s orchestration is deft and sophisticated, allowing different instrumental sections to shine in turn. Brass fanfares, woodwind flourishes, and sweeping string passages all contribute to the work’s vibrant character.

Despite its celebratory surface, American Salute also carries a deeper resonance. Written during a time of global conflict, it can be heard as both a morale-boosting tribute and a reaffirmation of national spirit. The familiar tune, reimagined through Gould’s inventive lens, becomes a symbol of continuity and resilience.

Today, American Salute remains a concert favorite, admired for its brilliance, accessibility, and unmistakable sense of occasion. It captures, in just a few minutes, a vivid portrait of American musical optimism and ingenuity.

Variations on America

Charles Ives’s Variations on America is a quintessential slice of Americana – irreverent, virtuosic, and deeply prophetic. Composed in 1891 when Ives was just 17 years old, the work was originally written for a 4th of July celebration in Brewster, New York. It serves as a vivid window into the mind of a young composer who was already stretching the boundaries of traditional harmony while remaining firmly rooted in the core of American life.

The piece is based on the tune of ‘My Country, ‘Tis of Thee’ (set to the melody of ‘God Save the King’). At its surface, it is a traditional set of variations, showcasing the technical brilliance of the organ – Ives’s primary instrument. Each variation explores a different stylistic texture; some are charmingly Victorian, others display a Mendelssohnian lightness, and some lean into the bombastic show-stopper style typical of late 19th-century organ recitals.

However, it is the two Interludes that reveal the true Ives. In these brief moments, Ives introduced bitonality – playing in two different keys simultaneously – decades before it became a staple of European modernism. Legend has it that his father, George Ives, encouraged these experiments but suggested the young Charles not play them at the official concert, as they might prove too dissonant for the local congregation.

In 1962, William Schuman’s orchestration brought the work to a wider symphonic audience, translating the organ’s registrations into vivid brass fanfares and swirling woodwind lines. Whether heard in its original organ form or Schuman’s brassy arrangement, the Variations remain a brilliant paradox: a respectful tribute to a national anthem and a mischievous subversion of musical expectations. It is a work of youthful exuberance that captures the spirit of an emerging American voice – one that is at once traditional, experimental, and unswervingly bold.

The other parts of Ives’ life are as unique as his music. At Yale, he studied composition with the noted pedagogue Horatio Parker. He was also an outstanding athlete. He and his friend Julian Myrick formed their own insurance agency, Ives & Co (which later became Ives & Myrick), where he remained until he retired. During his career as an insurance executive and actuary, Ives devised creative ways to structure life-insurance packages for people of means, which laid the foundation of modern estate planning.

At the same time he was working as an insurance agent, he composed four numbered symphonies, several works with the word ‘Symphony’ in their titles, as well as The Unanswered Question (1908), written for the unusual combination of trumpet, four flutes, and string quartet. The Unanswered Question was influenced by the New England writers Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. His Symphony #3 won the Pulitzer Prize for music in 1946. He gave the money away saying, “Prizes are for boys, and I’m all grown up.”

Leonard Bernstein championed Ives’ music. He conducted the New York Philharmonic in the world premiere of Ives’s Symphony No. 2 in a broadcast concert in 1951. Ives is one of the most creative and innovative composers in American musical history.,

The Entertainer

When Scott Joplin published The Entertainer in 1902, he subtitled it ‘A Rag Time Two Step’, envisioning it as the height of American classical elegance. However, by the mid-20th century, the nuanced classic ragtime Joplin championed had largely faded into the kitsch of “honky-tonk” saloons. The sophisticated architecture of the piece – its syncopated stop-time patterns and melodic grace – was often buried under out-of-tune upright pianos played at frantic tempos.

The revival of Joplin’s true intent began in earnest with Gunther Schuller, a polymath composer, conductor, and jazz historian. In the early 1970s, Schuller discovered a collection of period arrangements known as the Red Back Book. These were the original orchestrations used by itinerant ragtime orchestras at the turn of the century. Schuller’s realization of The Entertainer for his New England Ragtime Ensemble stripped away decades of stylistic exaggeration, returning the work to its intended chamber-music proportions.

In Schuller’s arrangement, the piano no longer carries the burden alone. Instead, the melody is passed with conversational wit between the flute, clarinet, and cornet, underpinned by the steady oom-pah of the tuba and the crisp rhythmic punctuation of the snare drum. Schuller insisted on Joplin’s own directive: “It is never right to play Ragtime fast.” By adhering to a relaxed, strutting tempo, Schuller allowed the listener to appreciate the harmonic sophistication and the wistful, almost melancholic undercurrents of the “C” section. In ragtime music, the “C” section (often called the Trio) is a formal structural element that provides a distinct shift in mood, key, and texture. While the first two sections of The Entertainer are bright and percussive, the “C” section acts as a melodic heart to the piece.

This specific arrangement became a cultural phenomenon when it was featured in the 1973 film The Sting. Beyond its cinematic fame, however, Schuller’s work serves as a vital bridge between the conservatory and the jazz club. It reminds us that Joplin was not merely a songwriter, but a meticulous architect of sound, who remains a cornerstone of the American musical identity.

An American in Paris

George Gershwin was born in 1898 in Brooklyn to Jewish immigrant parents from the Russian Empire. He grew up in Manhattan, where he spent most of his life. His birth certificate identified him as Jacob Gershwine. His family name had transitioned from Gershovitz to Gershwine after his older brother Ira was born. Yiddish was his first language. He soon became known as George. He changed the spelling of his name to “Gershwin” around the time he became a professional musician. Ira followed his example and became one of the best lyricists of the 20th century.

George’s first interest in music occurred when he was 10 years old. His family bought a piano, and he started to play it. He studied with various piano teachers for about two years (circa 1911) before finally being introduced to Charles Hambitzer, the pianist in the Beethoven Symphony Orchestra. Until he died in 1918, Hambitzer remained Gershwin’s musical mentor, taught him conventional piano technique, introduced him to music of the European classical tradition, and encouraged him to attend orchestral concerts.

In 1913, Gershwin left school at the age of 15 to work as a song plugger on New York City’s Tin Pan Alley. He soon began writing songs, some of which appeared on Broadway. His first big success was Swanee, with words by Irving Caesar. Al Jolson heard it and added it to one of his shows.

In 1924, Gershwin composed his first major work, Rhapsody in Blue, for orchestra and piano. It was orchestrated by Ferde Grofé and premiered by Paul Whiteman’s Concert Band in New York. It subsequently became his most popular work and established Gershwin’s signature style of blending vastly different musical styles, including jazz and classical music, in unique ways. In the same year, he began to collaborate with his brother Ira on a musical comedy, Lady Be Good. The show included such future standards as ‘Fascinating Rhythm’ and ‘Oh, Lady Be Good!’ From this year forward Gershwin was a world famous composer.

Eager to expand the scope of his work, he went to Paris in 1926, where he asked to study composition with Nadia Boulanger, who, along with several other prospective tutors such as Maurice Ravel, turned him down, afraid that rigorous classical study would ruin his jazz-influenced style. When Ravel heard how much money Gershwin earned in a year, he said he should study with Gershwin rather than the other way around.

During this visit, he began to sketch his An American in Paris. He returned to Paris in early 1928 to continue composing the piece. The work was largely inspired by his experiences in the city and was premiered in December 1928, at Carnegie Hall, conducted by Walter Damrosch.

“My purpose here is to portray the impressions of an American visitor in Paris as he strolls about the city, listens to the various street noises, and absorbs the French atmosphere.” – George Gershwin

This was the first piece that Gershwin orchestrated himself. Perhaps the most famous technical aspect of the score is Gershwin’s use of real taxi horns. During his second stay in Paris, Gershwin scoured automotive shops to find horns with just the right pitches – specifically tuned to A, B, C, and D. He brought them back to New York for the premiere, ensuring that the din of the city was not merely a musical approximation, but a literal slice of Parisian life. These horns punctuate the opening section, creating a playful, chaotic energy that mirrors the bustling traffic of the 1920s.

The second section represents a sudden wave of le mal du pays – homesickness. The solo trumpet wails a quintessential American blues, reminding the listener that no matter how beautiful the Seine may be, the protagonist is still a stranger. It is a moment of profound vulnerability, bridged by a violin solo that suggests a romantic encounter or perhaps a fleeting conversation with a fellow traveler.

The finale of the work is a brilliant technical feat. Gershwin doesn’t leave his traveler in a state of melancholy; instead, the blues theme is transformed. It is sped up, infused with the syncopation of the Charleston, and married to the bustling energy of the opening walking themes.

The structure of the work is a large-scale A-B-A form, but it functions more like a cinematic montage. Gershwin utilizes the full palette of the orchestra, from the lush strings to the exuberant woodwinds, to illustrate a final, vibrant celebration of the city. The American has found his footing. He has embraced the Gallic spirit without losing his American identity.

Gershwin’s premature death at 38 from a malignant brain tumor was a blow to American music from which it has yet to recover. Irving Berlin, another American musical great who, like Gershwin’s parents, emigrated from Russia to America, summed up Gershwin’s career: “George is a composer, the rest of us are songwriters.” Gershwin should have been the American Verdi had not fate decided otherwise.

Copland’s Variations and Hoe-Down

Aaron Copland’s music has long been synonymous with an idealized American sound. Two of his most performed works, Variations on a Shaker Melody and the exuberant Hoe-Down from Rodeo, reveal opposite sides of his style: one contemplative and lyrical, the other rhythmic and electrifying.

The Variations on a Shaker Melody is drawn from Copland’s ballet Appalachian Spring (1944), composed for choreographer Martha Graham. Copland uses the Shaker hymn ‘Simple Gifts’ in Section 7 of the Appalachian Spring Suite, which he made from the ballet. The section follows a theme-and-variation structure that builds from a single solo to a powerful, full-orchestral climax. Even as the orchestration broadens and the music swells, there remains a sense of openness, as though the vast American landscape were being translated into sound.

If Appalachian Spring represents Copland at his most serene, Rodeo (1942) captures his flair for energy, humor, and rhythmic vitality. Commissioned for the choreographer Agnes de Mille, the ballet depicts scenes of ranch life in the American West. Its final section, the ‘Hoe-Down’, has become one of Copland’s most recognizable pieces, often performed independently in the concert hall.

The ‘Hoe-Down’ is built on traditional American fiddle tunes, most notably ‘Bonaparte’s Retreat’. Copland transforms these folk materials into a dazzling orchestral showpiece, marked by driving rhythms, sharp accents, and brilliant instrumental color. Syncopations snap with percussive force, while the orchestra alternates between lean, transparent textures and full-bodied climaxes. The music’s infectious momentum evokes the energy of a frontier dance, complete with stomping feet and exuberant celebration.

Together, these works demonstrate Copland’s unique ability to elevate vernacular materials into art of great sophistication. Whether in the quiet unfolding of a Shaker hymn or the raucous excitement of a Western dance, his music speaks with a distinctly American voice, direct, expressive, and unmistakably his own.

Tchaikovsky 1812 Overture

The 1812 Overture (full title: The Year 1812, Solemn Overture, Op. 49) was composed in 1880 by Pyotr Tchaikovsky. He was commissioned to write a grand piece for the All-Russian Arts and Industry Exhibition. The work was intended to serve three purposes: The completion of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour (built to commemorate Russia’s victory over Napoleon), the silver jubilee of Tsar Alexander II, and the opening of the exhibition itself.

Tchaikovsky’s friend and mentor, Nikolai Rubinstein, suggested he write something “on a grand scale.” Tchaikovsky obliged, though he complained in letters that he was “not a conductor of festivals” and felt the task lacked “warmth and love.”

Tchaikovsky conceived the piece as a programmatic spectacle, not a symphonic poem. He wove into it the Russian hymn God Save the Tsar, French references like La Marseillaise, Orthodox liturgical chants, and cannon fire and bells for the climactic effect.

The overture is programmatic; it tells a specific story through sound – specifically, the 1812 French invasion of Russia and the subsequent retreat of Napoleon’s Grande Armée. Tchaikovsky uses specific musical motifs to represent the opposing forces.

The Russian People are represented as the piece opens with the somber Eastern Orthodox chant God Preserve Thy People, played by four cellos and two violas. This represents the Russian prayer for divine intervention. As the battle begins, Tchaikovsky introduces the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. It sounds aggressive and dominant at its first appearance. Folk melodies represent the Russian spirit, which begins to clash with the French anthem. As the piece nears its end, the music depicts the Battle of Borodino. The La Marseillaise begins to fragment and falter.

Then come the effects that made the piece famous. Tchaikovsky wrote 16 literal cannon shots into the score. A chaotic peal of church bells symbolizes the liberation of Moscow. The piece concludes with a thunderous rendition of God Save the Tsar!, completely drowning out the French theme.

Tchaikovsky held a remarkably low opinion of the 1812 Overture. In a letter to his patroness, Nadezhda von Meck, he wrote: “The overture will be very loud and noisy, but I wrote it without any feeling of love, and so it will probably be of no artistic merit.” He viewed it as a “hack job” written for a paycheck and a public spectacle rather than a piece of high art like his symphonies or his ballets. He was genuinely surprised (and perhaps a bit annoyed) when it became one of his most successful works.

Giuseppe Verdi (opera’s greatest composer ) decisively declared that the only critic whose opinion counts is the audience. The audience has decided. They love the “hack job”.

Why has music depicting the victory of one European emperor over another become a staple of the 4th of July? American orchestras (notably the Boston Pops Orchestra under Arthur Fiedler) began pairing it with fireworks and cannon blasts. Spectacle and its patriotic tone (even if Russian) cemented the tradition of performing the piece on America’s Independence Day.

The 1812 Overture endures not because of structural brilliance, but because it is immediately intelligible, emotionally direct, and perfectly suited to large-scale public celebration. It is a triumph of spectacle over self-criticism – a piece its composer doubted, but the public never stopped loving.

Armed Forces Salute

Bob Lowden’s Armed Forces Salute is one of the most familiar patriotic medleys in the American band repertoire. Written in 1980 and lasting about 4 minutes, it was conceived as a compact tribute to the nation’s military services. The medley incorporates the official or long-associated songs of the armed services in succession: “The Caisson Song” for the Army, “Semper Paratus” for the Coast Guard, “The Marines’ Hymn” for the Marine Corps, “The U.S. Air Force”(“Wild Blue Yonder”), and “Anchors Aweigh” for the Navy. There are also a few bars of “America”, “When “Johnny Comes Marching Home”, and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”. They are used to frame the brief piece and as connective tissue.

The Stars and Stripes Forever

Few works in the American orchestral repertoire are as instantly recognizable – or as enduringly beloved – as The Stars and Stripes Forever by John Philip Sousa. Composed in 1896, shortly after Sousa learned of the death of his longtime manager David Blakely, the march is often said to have come to him fully formed during a transatlantic voyage back to the United States.

The Stars and Stripes Forever exemplifies Sousa’s mastery of the march form. It follows the traditional structure: an opening fanfare-like introduction, followed by contrasting strains that balance lyrical grace with rhythmic precision. Yet it is the final section – the famous trio – that elevates the piece to iconic status. Here, the piccolo obbligato soars brilliantly above the ensemble, while the brass introduces a bold countermelody, creating a thrilling interplay of textures that builds to a rousing conclusion.

Sousa once remarked that this march was about the “onward march of destiny.” Since its first performance in Philadelphia in 1897, it has transcended its origins as a patriotic rally cry to become a masterpiece of orchestration. In 1987, it was officially designated by Congress as the National March of the United States. Some have even suggested that it become the National Anthem. More than a century after its creation, The Stars and Stripes Forever continues to stir audiences and characterize the American spirit.

To understand why, we have to look at how time changes as an object moves faster. As an object with mass approaches the speed of light (c), time slows down relative to a stationary observer. This isn’t just a mechanical error in clocks; it is a fundamental stretching of the fabric of spacetime. The formula for time dilation is:

In this equation, as the velocity (v) gets closer and closer to c, the denominator approaches zero, causing the time interval (t’) to stretch toward infinity. At least that’s the inference, as dividing by zero is meaningless in all but a few very unusual forms of mathematics beyond my ken.

The time interval measured by an observer who is at rest relative to the event being timed is t. If you are on a spaceship traveling at 90% the speed of light and you check your watch, you are measuring t. To you, time feels perfectly normal; one second still feels like one second.

The time measured by an observer who is moving relative to the event is t’. If you are standing on Earth watching that spaceship zoom past, you use t’ to describe the spaceship’s clock. Because of the high velocity, you will see the traveler’s clock ticking much more slowly than your own.

Because a photon travels exactly at the speed of light, the math leads to a mathematical singularity. For a photon, the time measured by its own hypothetical clock is zero. If a photon were “conscious,” it would experience being emitted and being absorbed at the same instant, regardless of whether it traveled across a room or across billions of light-years of intergalactic space. Similarly, the dimension of space in the direction of travel contracts to zero. To a photon, the distance between its starting point and its destination does not exist; they are effectively in the same place. I’m stretching things a bit, as the above equation is for objects that have mass, and a photon does not.

While time doesn’t “pass” for the photon, it obviously passes for us. When we look at a star that is 100 light-years away, we are seeing photons that have been traveling for 100 years according to our clocks. The photon travels a distance of zero and a time of zero, while the observer measures a journey of trillions of miles and an entire century. Both perspectives are mathematically correct within their own frames of reference. Anything with rest mass (like a human, a grain of sand, or an electron) requires an infinite amount of energy to reach the speed of light. Because photons are massless, they are required by the laws of physics to travel at c, and only c, in a vacuum.

The above is an example of why Richard Feynman said the universe is not only stranger than you think; it’s stranger than you can imagine. I haven’t touched on quantum mechanics mainly because I know so little about the subject. Feynman also said that if you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don’t understand quantum mechanics.

The point I’m trying to make, is that the deeper one goes into the basic nature of the universe, the more complex nature becomes, and the greater the difficulty in understanding it is. We may soon reach a point where our brains are unable to understand the core concepts of reality, just as a dog cannot understand long division.

The new thinking machines we are building may understand all of nature. Whether they will tell us or whether we’ll understand what they reveal if they do tell us is uncertain. As I said above, beware of physics presented by a physician.

A major figure of 20th-century opera, Gobbi combined vocal distinction with an acting ability rarely equaled among singers of any vocal category. His career, which spanned the late 1930s through the 1960s, included numerous recordings that, along with his stagecraft, have ensured his reputation endures.

Born in Bassano del Grappa in 1913, Gobbi did not initially train as a singer; he studied law at the University of Padua before turning to music. He enrolled at the Accademia di Santa Cecilia in Rome, where he studied with Giulio Crimi. He made his stage debut in 1935 in Gubbio as Count Rodolfo in Bellini’s La sonnambula, and within a few years, he had established himself in Italian houses, including La Scala, where he first appeared in 1942.

From the outset, Gobbi’s artistry was marked less by sheer vocal opulence than by a penetrating intelligence. His baritone was not conventionally “beautiful” in the plush, velvety sense associated with singers like Ettore Bastianini; instead, it was a highly malleable instrument capable of a wide range of color and inflection. What distinguished him was his ability to inhabit a role completely – through diction, phrasing, and physical gesture, creating fully realized dramatic portraits.

This quality made him an ideal interpreter of the great Verdi and Puccini roles. His Rigoletto was a landmark portrayal, notable for its tragic inwardness and sharply etched characterization. In Tosca, his Baron Scarpia became perhaps the definitive modern interpretation: urbane, sadistic, and chillingly controlled. His association with Maria Callas – particularly in the famous 1953 and 1964 recordings of Tosca – produced performances of extraordinary dramatic intensity, with Gobbi’s Scarpia providing a perfect foil to Callas’s volatile heroine.

Gobbi’s repertoire focused on Verdi and Puccini. He was an outstanding Falstaff, capturing both the comedy and pathos of Shakespeare’s knight, and a compelling Simon Boccanegra, where his gift for portraying inner conflict found ideal expression. In Mozart, he brought unusual dramatic specificity to roles such as Don Giovanni, emphasizing the character’s aristocratic menace rather than mere charm.

International recognition followed the Second World War. Gobbi became a regular presence at the Royal Opera House, where he was particularly admired for his acting, and he appeared sporadically at the Metropolitan Opera. However, his greatest triumphs were in Europe. His collaborations with conductors such as Victor de Sabata and Herbert von Karajan yielded recordings that remain benchmarks.

Gobbi’s recorded legacy is central to any assessment of his career. The 1953 EMI recording of Tosca under de Sabata alongside Callas and Di Stefano is often cited as one of the greatest opera recordings ever made, with Gobbi’s Scarpia a masterclass in vocal acting. Equally notable are his recordings of Rigoletto, Falstaff, and Otello (as Iago), in which he demonstrates an unmatched ability to color the voice to reflect shifting emotional states. His Iago, in particular, avoids caricature, presenting instead a chillingly rational embodiment of evil. And, as you’ll hear below, he doesn’t laugh at the end of the Credo. The laughter typically heard is an invention of baritones and is at odds with Verdi’s instructions that, after the final words, he shrugs his shoulders, turns away, and moves upstage.

In later years, Gobbi turned increasingly to stage direction, bringing the same dramatic insight to his productions that had characterized his singing. He also wrote an autobiography, My Life, which offers valuable insight into his artistic philosophy – especially his conviction that opera is, above all, a form of theater.

If Gobbi had a limitation, it lay in the relative lack of sheer tonal luxury compared with some contemporaries. Yet this was ultimately secondary to his interpretive gifts. He was not merely a singer of roles but a creator of characters, and his performances often give the impression of spoken drama heightened by music rather than singing adorned by acting.

Today, Tito Gobbi stands as one of the supreme singing actors of the recorded era. His legacy resides not only in the notes he sang but in the meanings he uncovered within them – meanings preserved in recordings that continue to define how these roles are understood and performed.

Below are examples of his singing that show both his dramatic excellence and the unique sound that characterized his singing.

I’ll start with the role that was as close to him as a tattoo – Baron Scarpia, the fiendish embodiment of evil in Puccini’s Tosca. He made his Met debut in that role. I was at that performance (January 13, 1956). Zinka Milanov was Tosca, and Giuseppe Di Stefano was Cavaradossi. It was the only time I heard Gobbi in performance. He was darkness personified. The excerpt below is the conclusion of Act 1. It’s the part where Scarpia claims that Tosca makes him forget God – as if he had any relationship with the deity.

Next two Rossini arias. Largo al factotum (from The Barber) needs no further details. Everyone knows it.

Resta immobile (in the Italian version of William Tell) occurs just before Tell shoots the apple off his son’s head. In it he tells him to be still and confident in his father’s skill at archery.

Another Puccini gem – Nulla silenzio comes near the end of Il Tabarro. Michele knows his wife has a lover, but lacks his identity. In it, he tries to deduce who it might be. Events just after the aria reveal that it’s Luigi, a young stevadore.

Next, a few Verismo standards. Nemico dell Patria is in Act 3 of Giordano’s Andrea Chenier. Carlo Gerard muses on how the French Revolution went wrong.

The Prologue to Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci is the reason leading baritones sing the role of Tonio, who doesn’t have much to do after the famous introduction to the opera.

The same composer’s Zazà is rarely done. Its baritone aria Zazà, piccola zingara is often done as a recital piece. It’s a fine number.

Gobbi often appeared in the title role of Don Giovanni. Leporello, posing as Don Giovanni (Act 2), leads Elvira away to keep her occupied while Don Giovanni serenades her maid with his mandolin. Deh, vieni alla finestra – (Ah, come to the window).

Despite Gobbi’s identification with Baron Scarpia, he was really a Verdi specialist – to the extent that a singer with such a vast repertoire could be said to specialize in anything.

Pieta, rispetto, amore is sung by Macbeth just before he is killed by Macduff. It’s another example of Verdi having his villains sing like angels. The melody is so beautiful that one can’t help feeling pity for the benighted Macbeth.

Eri tu is sung by Renato, who is convinced he has been betrayed by his best friend Riccardo; he thinks the tenor has seduced his wife. The recitative is better than most arias. This piece is one of Verdi’s great creations.

Verdi’s Rigoletto is the baritone’s summa. The deformed jester’s two arias are below. First Pari siamo, then Cortigiani, a scene of such dramatic impact that it stands at the summit of Italian opera. Gobbi’s acting skills were so nuanced that his Rigoletto was one of the best of the last century.

Gobbi was a renowned Falstaff. Here is the Honor Monologue that conludes the opera’s first scene.

Finally, opera’s acme of villainy – Iago. In performance, Gobbi, at the conclusion of the Credo, followed Verdi’s instructions exactly.

Tito Gobbi was the embodiment of the singing actor. He is to baritones what Maria Callas was to sopranos.

He did not return to the Met until 1975 by which time he had changed the arc of his career from conventional Italian baritone to one based on a light, flexible voice with clean legato and diction and a strong affinity for Mozart and Rossini. His singing was characterized by intelligence rather than vocal opulence. His performances showed natural comic timing, but still within classical restraint. This was the period in which Capecchi built his reputation in Italy and internationally as a stylish Mozart and Rossini baritone in the post-war Italian tradition.

Altogether, he gave 305 performances at the Met, mostly during his second sojourn with the company. In the second phase, Capecchi transitioned into a full character baritone, emphasizing theatrical personality over vocal beauty. His core repertoire included Falstaff (Falstaff and Ford), Dr Bartolo, Don Pasquale, Gianni Schicchi, and Dr Dulcamara (L’elisir d’amore). He also appeared regularly as the Sacristan in Tosca and Fra Melitone in Forza.

His voice darkened and lost some flexibility, but gained weight and character as he focused more on buffo and semi-buffo roles. His mastery of timing, diction, and stagecraft made him known for larger-than-life portrayals, especially in Verdi and Donizetti comedies. This phase shows Capecchi evolving into a true singing actor, where personality, irony, and theatrical intelligence were paramount. Capecchi’s dramatic insights made him one of the most intelligent and insightful performers of the last quarter of the 20th century.

Below are a few excerpts recorded during the two phases of the singer’s career. The first is from Bellini’s’ I Puritani. Set during the English Civil War, the action opens on a fortress near Plymouth where Puritan soldiers anticipate victory over the Royalists. Riccardo has been promised Elvira’s hand in marriage by her father, Lord Walton, commander of the Puritan fortress. However, when he returns to Plymouth, Riccardo learns that Elvira is in love with the Royalist, Arturo (Lord Arthur Talbot). Troubled by his loss of Elvira, he confides in his comrade Bruno in the aria, “Ah! Per sempre io ti perdei” (“Have I lost thee indeed forever?”).

Capecchi was a notable Ford before he became an acclaimed Falstaff. This performance is from Naples in 1962.

A role not usually associated with Capecchi was Iago in Verdi’s Otello. In 1958, he made a film of it under the direction of Tulio Serafin, featuring Mario Del Monco in the title role. Capecchi’s performance is unique in that it captures the ordinariness that Verdi wanted Iago to project. The composer did not want the arch-villain to appear that way. He wanted him to seem like a harmless fellow, making his venom that much more potent. Capecchi manages this effect to perfection. Despite the lip-synch issues, this is perhaps the most effective rendition of the opera’s famous Act 2 conclusion. Del Monaco was, of course, the greatest Otello of the 20th century.

Recoreded in1959, Capecchi’s version of Rigoletto’s great Act 2 aria shows how effective he was as a conventional Verdi baritone before his career change.

Here is Capecchi singing Falstaff’s first act Honor Monologue. He’s in civies and performing in an outdoor concert venue. Yet notice how effectively he brings the piece to life. Only a performer of genius could bring off the seldom excerpted piece with the verve and life that he does under the most unusual of conditions.

Gianni Schichi was one of Capucchi’s best roles. Era uguale la voce? This line is spoken/sung by the character Gianni Schicchi himself, just before he begins to impersonate the deceased Buoso Donati to dictate a new will. He is asking the assembled, anxious relatives if his imitation of Buoso’s voice was accurate enough to fool the notary who is about to arrive. 

Dr Dulcamarra from L’elisir d’amorre was one of Capecchi’s signature roles. Travelling on a cart, he sells fake medicines to villagers, most famously selling Bordeaux wine to the gullible Nemorino as a “love potion” to win Adina’s affection.

Finally, one of Capecchi’s most famous roles – Dr Bartolo from Rossini’s Barber – A un dottor della mia sorte.

Capecchi was agreat artist who understood and expressed singing and acting at the highest level. A performer like him comes along very rarely. We are lucky to have so many of his recordings.