It was truly incredible to me that one of the most prolific American composers, and at the same time one of the most performed in the fifties and sixties of the last century, has almost completely disappeared from being programmed by American orchestras: Alan Hovhaness.

I am rediscovering Alan Hovhaness because his music seems to speak with a particular clarity to our own time. There is in it a serenity, a purity of line, and an almost ritual sense of stillness that sets him apart from much of the music written around him.

What fascinates me most is how Hovhaness brings together distinct musical worlds. His language is unmistakably American, yet it is deeply informed by Armenian and broader Eastern traditions: modal writing, long melodic lines, drones, bells, chant-like gestures, and a conception of time that is often contemplative rather than dramatic. He did not simply borrow exotic colors; he created a genuine synthesis of East and West.

Listening to Mysterious Mountain today, one can also hear something remarkably prophetic in his music. Its spaciousness, repetition, luminous harmonies, and sense of spiritual contemplation seem to anticipate qualities later associated with minimalism, ambient music, and even what came to be called “New Age” music—although Hovhaness’s language has far greater structural and spiritual depth than most actual “New Age” labeled works.

Perhaps this is why his music deserves to be heard again with fresh ears. Hovhaness offers neither irony nor complexity for its own sake. Instead, he seeks simplicity, transcendence, and a direct relationship among sound, nature, and the spiritual imagination. For me, returning to his music today feels less like reviving a forgotten composer than like discovering how modern he has remained.

Grafenegg Festival and many beautiful memories

Tomorrow, the Danish National Symphony Orchestra will perform a concert under my direction at the wonderful Grafenegg Festival in Austria (Nielsen, Beethoven – with my friend Rudolf Buchbinder – and Brahms/Schönberg). I have been to the Grafenegg Festival several times, including once with the DNSO from Copenhagen and a couple of times with my beloved Tonkünstler Orchestra.

Grafenegg, with its romantic (unfortunately fake Gothic) castle and the still-authentic “Grafenegger Schlosstaverne” (now a Mörwald Hotel Restaurant), holds a special, important place in my life.

In 1979, when I was twenty, I applied to participate in a masterclass led by Adam Harasiewicz. Mr. Harasiewicz, who is now all but forgotten, won the Chopin Competition in 1955, and the masterclass focused on Chopin interpretation. I had completed my diploma in piano at the Paganini-Conservatorium in Genoa the year before, in 1978, and I was still pursuing a career as a pianist (my first contacts with singers, which led to a change in my goals, i.e., wanting to become a conductor, had started in 1979 and were deepened the next year, 1980, especially through meeting Leyla Gencer and Luciana Serra).

The Summer of 1979 was my first experience outside of Italy, aside from studying with Aldo Ciccolini in Orange in 1978, and I was very nervous but also very excited.

 

Mr. Harasiewicz was very sweet and kind during that Masterclass. By contrast, my (and, in general, all students’) encounters with another teacher at that Masterclass at Schloss Grafenegg, Ms. Halina Czerny-Stefanska (who won the Chopin competition in Warsaw in 1949), were less pleasant and less kind. She was an excellent teacher, but extremely strict.

I had prepared Chopin’s h-moll Sonata for this course, and I could work on it with both teachers, Mr. Harasiewicz and Ms. Czerny-Stefanska. They, of course, had different, and at times opposing, opinions about its interpretation, but I could benefit musically from both of them. Unfortunately, another participant, a young Japanese girl, had also brought the same piece to the course, and she was without a doubt better than me. Nevertheless, both teachers wanted me to play at the final students’ concert, so I had to prepare something different in a week. I chose Chopin’s g-moll Ballade, but since I had never studied it, I had to practice day and night.

 

We, the students, all lived in the Grafenegger Schlosstaverne, and the organizer of the Masterclass, the wonderful Dr. Grossberger (together with the Austrian Chopin Society, then led by Dr. Prilisauer), allowed us to study at night in the Castle. We had a key (a real, big old key) to open the main door, and we could practice and play whenever we wanted. A real paradise for pianists.

Today, I am at the Grafenegger Schlosstaverne in the very room (Room 7) I stayed in during my 1979 visit. It brings back many beautiful memories: my “former” life as a pianist, many friendships I made during the Masterclass, my first contact with Austria and its musical life – I later spent many years in Austria, studying in Graz and living there, and later in Vienna – and a musical “awakening,” working with great artists and teachers.

At that time, Grafenegg was very isolated, a forgotten castle with a small cultural life. Now, it is one of the major European festivals.

I am fortunate to have experienced Grafenegg at its beginning and now.

 

 

In the chapter of this extremely interesting book entitled “Stylistic and Synonymity,” we encounter the very funny-enigmatic figure of Humpty Dumpty from “Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll. One of Humpty Dumpty’s sentences, related to the three hundred and sixty-four days in which Alice could get her un-birthday present, says, “There is glory for you.”

About that word, “glory,” intended by Humpty Dumpty’s utterance rather as “a glorious argument” than “glory” itself, the author, Eric Donald Hirsch Jr., starts a very erudite digression that, through the explanation of the real meanings of synonymity and authenticity (I will come to this subject in a later content), brings us to the idea that language might influence our way of thinking.

The theory is not new, and, rightly, Mr. Hirsch names it the so-called “Sapir-Whorf hypothesis,” debunked in its strong form but considered possible in the weak form (linguistic determinism vs. linguistic relativism). In short, the theory claims that a person’s way of thinking is shaped by the language he (or she) speaks. Thus, cultural differences among populations are not only caused by tradition and behavioral background but also by the very structure of the language they speak.

This brings us to one of the best science fiction movies of the last few years (based on Ted Chiang’s short story “Stories of Your Life”): “Arrival,” by Denis Villeneuve, starring Amy Adams (one of my favorite actresses) and Jeremy Renner.

No spoilers here, but finally a sci-fi movie in which the main theme is not confrontation but communication. The aliens’ “circular thinking” (beautifully expressed in images of their language) is the key to – as is often the case in sci-fi movies – saving the world, but, more than that, to a personal introspection of the movie’s central figure, the linguistic professor and expert Dr. Louise Banks (Amy Adams), which leads her to accept and embrace her life.

 

 

 

Legato singing, and how to sing consonants

Not many singers can sing real legato. This, unfortunately, is a fact, and in many masterclasses with students and even in rehearsals with professional singers, I have to ask for a real legato. But what is legato (in English: tied) actually? It is the ability to sustain the sound of the vowels in a word without interrupting the flow of sound through the consonants. This brings us to the next problem and to a “trend” in today’s preparation for opera productions.

Many coaches, and, unfortunately, also many conductors, place great importance on articulation. Articulation is, per se, important, but the context needs to be examined. Coaches of the past stressed the fact – as I personally also do – that the sound of the consonants must also be “sung” and not only made through soundless noises. An example of this trend is very current, especially in the German repertoire, where many singers (also some of a glorious past) overarticulate, producing strong, exaggerated gutturals, bilabials, labiodentals, and alveolars, and making all of them plosive (this happens when the flow of the air is blocked and the result is a voiceless sound). The old singing school incorporated consonants into the flow of sound.

My wife Yulia, a coach in Zurich, Salzburg, Amsterdam, Italy, etc., has a good image for the successive consonants so often found in German words: the letters and syllables should be pronounced in a row, and given time and space, not jammed together like a traffic jam, and the consonants should “dance” in the mouth. I think these images are very helpful for understanding the concept, and this is crucial for beautiful legato singing.

But more than an explanation, a singer from the past (and a German one) makes clear how perfect pronunciation and expressive legato can be combined.

It is a joy, as it always is when I hear him sing, to listen to Fritz Wunderlich singing Lenski’s Aria from Tchaikovsky’s Eugen Onegin. I only wish more singers today would listen to such singers of the past; they have a lot to teach.

 

By the way: Mr. Wunderlich’s “non-acting” is the highest art of acting. With no unnecessary gestures, his simple posture illustrates Lenski’s despair, loneliness, and hopelessness, and the stage behind him, in its simplicity and squalor, helps us understand – without “teaching” us – what is happening in this scene.

About some German singers’ overarticulation (no names here) the great Otto Schenk made a joke, imitating them and saying – in perfect Italian – “si mangia la voce.”

 

Me, waiting for today’s Tina’s online lesson

A sedentary lifestyle, frequent travel, time zone changes, stress, professional and personal pressures: all of these things impact energy and physical and psychological well-being. The passage of time and aging reduce the body’s automatic response, which requires a boost. I’ve always tried to compensate for this with a fitness program, which I included in the hotels I stayed in. A turning point came thanks to Yulia, my wife, who started a program with the amazing Tina Cahova, a personal trainer who comes to my home but also offers fitness classes via FaceTime. Tina is not only excellent at demonstrating exercises, but she tailors them to each person’s needs: Yulia’s series of exercises is different from the one Tina has created and is creating for me. The body immediately feels the benefits of these exercises—and so does the spirit. Thank you, Tina!

 

Tina in action (more…)

When I have a performance…

In my bag, I have not only my shirts, bowties, tails, and shoes, but also some important accessories.

The most important ones are probably the buttons for my shirts. White shirts for tails don’t have buttons; they need some, what is called “Frackgarnitur,” in English “dress coat set,” composed of matching cufflinks and studs.

I had one set made by Maja Bjørnsten at her wonderful store in Copenhagen.

They are in brushed gold with a yellow raw diamond in the middle. Maja’s diamonds are, of course, certified and coming from legitimate sources. Maja also made beautiful wedding rings for Yulia, my wife, and me.

But I also have a wonderful vintage set by Boucheron, made of Moonstone with a blue sapphire in the middle.

Other important accessories are a small bottle of perfume (right now it is Knize Ten, one of my favorites)

a comb (by Officine Buly)

a bowtie by Hermès (not for tails, but for my Dinner Jacket)

and, of course, my reading glasses, made by Micromega in Venice.

Kathrin Brunner interviews Fabio Luisi about the Opera “Cardillac” by Paul Hindemith, currently at the Zurich Opera

Fabio Luisi, in Zurich, you’re conducting your third new production of “Cardillac,” following productions in Dresden and Florence. What fascinates you about this piece?

It’s this very unique musical language. “Cardillac” isn’t an opera that draws its power from the drama of the text or the situations. Instead, it’s genuinely a musical opera: the music carries everything; it develops independently. It doesn’t illustrate or explain. Hindemith deliberately moves away from Wagner’s idea of a through-composed music drama, leaning toward older forms. There are clearly self-contained numbers like arias, duets, and scenes with distinct endings. Hindemith works with individual musical blocks, with hardly any motivic references. He emphasizes pure musical form. That’s a clear aesthetic statement. That might sound very abstract. Is this music also emotionally detached? Hindemith actually aimed not to evoke emotions, especially in this opera. In later works, such as “Mathis der Maler,” he moved away from this approach to some extent. In “Cardillac,” he only partly achieved this goal — but I won’t judge him for it. Some of the most beautiful moments in this opera sound distinctly romantic or even impressionistic: the lady’s song, for example, or the duet between daughter and father. The latter is also strictly composed as a fugato… and both sing completely different texts… This, in turn, is influenced by the pre-Wagner era and the tradition of 19th-century Italian opera. Maybe the emotion in this piece is simply conveyed differently through the many rhythmic accents in the score. To me, this rhythm signifies the piece’s modernity and connects it to its era. We are in the 1920s: jazz is spreading across Europe, and you can sense the age of big cities, machines, and railways. These pounding rhythms, along with the instrumentation featuring the saxophone, closely associated with Cardillac’s character, clearly place the piece in the Weimar Republic era, the period between the wars. “Cardillac” is a revolutionary opera. It doesn’t surprise me that the Nazis later had issues with Hindemith.

 

Paul Hindemith

The orchestra in “Cardillac” has an unusual instrumentation. Where does this sonic concept come from?

It has a lot to do with Hindemith’s close relationship with Kurt Weill. The two even co-wrote an opera later, “Lindberghflug.” The “Cardillac” orchestra is relatively small and particularly emphasizes wind instruments—almost like a big band with some strings, plus piano and a lot of percussion. Is there a general mood for you in this score? The story of a murderous goldsmith is inherently dark… There isn’t a single, unified mood here. This is partly because Hindemith mainly links individual lines rather than creating truly expansive soundscapes. However, the low instruments play a key role. The string section alone—six violins and four double basses—is anything but perfectly balanced. Add to that the tuba, bass clarinet, and English horn, all from the bass family. In contrast, brighter colors appear, especially at the end when Cardillac confesses. Suddenly, the flute and piccolo come into play. This feels like a glimpse into Cardillac’s idealized, secluded world, into which no one else is allowed entry. You can definitely hear both the light and dark sides of Cardillac. The other characters are intentionally less individually developed musically. They serve as types, fulfilling specific functions: the daughter or the lady, whose beautiful aria is almost overwhelmed by too much Art Deco, or the cavalier, as an ironic parody of a tenor hero. This latter character, by the way, has nothing to do with a true cavalier but is a reckless daredevil of the worst kind.

A unique feature of this opera is the peculiar love scene between the lady and the cavalier: he presents her with the coveted jewel and is subsequently murdered by Cardillac.

It is a purely instrumental scene in which, as in a silent film, detailed stage directions specify what happens on stage alongside the music. This pantomime—as Hindemith himself calls it—is a magnificent and sometimes ironic moment. It marks Hindemith’s most radical departure from traditional music, drama, and vividly embodies his principle of stylization. The love scene between the lady and the cavalier, which might be sung as a duet in other operas, is here, in a sense, “muted.” Formally, this piece is a kind of canonized divertimento in ABA form. At first, only a few instruments are heard. Two flutes circle each other, lose themselves as if in a labyrinth, and then entwine again. The music, in parallel with increasingly dramatic stage directions, takes on increasingly grotesque qualities until it abruptly halts, almost like a question mark. During the general pause, the murder occurs. The full orchestra returns and crashes into an abyss.

How does Hindemith shape the tonal space in “Cardillac”?

It’s a unique, complex tonal landscape that Hindemith employs in “Cardillac.” He utilizes techniques of multitonality. We see this in the works of Stravinsky and Debussy as well; it’s not revolutionary in itself, but Hindemith makes it highly distinctive. He’s a composer you always recognize immediately; he has an extremely rigorous musical language. He’s often compared to Max Reger. Hindemith himself mentioned Reger, saying he couldn’t imagine his music without him. However, Reger, unlike Hindemith, remains closely tied to late Romanticism—Hindemith is a 20th-century composer. He’s a composer you can instantly recognize; his musical language is very rigorous.

How free is a conductor in such a complex, detailed score as “Cardillac”?

Is there room for interpretation?

I generally avoid using the term “interpretation” in relation to my profession. I see myself as a performing musician; the score is my top priority. Since the form of this opera is very strictly defined, there is limited room for interpretation. However, when the music departs from the “New Objectivity” style, I intentionally allow myself a hint of Romanticism. These deviations are part of this opera—and they need to be made audible.

As a conductor, are you familiar with the “Cardillac” syndrome? You have to detach yourself from your art every night…?

We conductors are not creators but performers. Of course, we add energy, but the work doesn’t belong to us. Still, I understand well when composers or visual artists develop such a close connection with their works that they struggle to let go. I’ve seen this often with several contemporary composers. Some insist on having complete control over the performance. But music only truly comes alive during the performance, not in the composer’s mind. It depends on the musicians’ artistic personalities, who are not machines and don’t just play by the book. It depends on everyone collaborating—the space, the performers, and the audience. Each performance, therefore, creates something new.

 

Why Alexander Zemlinsky’s The Little Mermaid Is Not a Soundtrack

I recently watched an interview with a colleague, a talented and knowledgeable conductor, who claimed that Zemlinsky’s The Little Mermaid was comparable to the works of Korngold, who composed extensive film music during his exile in Hollywood and became known as the first great composer of this genre. The colleague considered Zemlinsky’s symphonic poem to be a predecessor of the modern soundtrack because it depicts every part of Andersen’s fairy tale through music, illustrating each scene.

While I highly respect my colleague, I found this statement very disappointing because I believe Zemlinsky’s The Little Mermaid is the complete opposite of a soundtrack. Of course, a soundtrack can serve as a source of inspiration and help us understand the action of a movie by heightening tension, supporting pacing, or emphasizing characters. Think of Maurice Jarre’s unforgettable music for Doctor Zhivago or Lawrence of Arabia, John Williams’ extraordinary scores for the Star Wars and Harry Potter films, or Hans Zimmer’s music for Gladiator or Interstellar.

Zemlinsky starts from a very different premise. His goal isn’t merely to describe an action or situation but to explain it: like Richard Wagner’s operas, his music not only follows the story but also allows us to enter the emotional world of the Little Mermaid, helping us understand her intentions, motives, and thoughts. In this way, he follows Andersen in his fairy tale: the story isn’t just about tracking a plot but about exploring the protagonist’s inner journey, celebrating her personality and her pursuit of a unique personal identity beyond conventional patterns—the dichotomy of “human” and “non-human,” and the quest for a soul—culminating in her transcending these and ascending to a higher realm.

The Little Mermaid has no name: she searches for one, transcends it, and becomes a spirit of the air.

In this, Zemlinsky, with this masterpiece, does not present us with a precursor to Hollywood soundtracks but with one of the defining achievements of the Wagnerian symphonic poem. In this inward exploration, the outer story or plot serves merely as a pretext. Just as Schönberg takes us into the psychoanalytic depths of Pelléas et Mélisande, and Richard Strauss surprises us with the emotional intimacy and wordless wonder of reaching the summit of a mountain in his Alpensinfonie, Zemlinsky accompanies the Little Mermaid’s search for self by depicting not her actions, but her feelings and sensations, and therein lies his greatness.

 

 

Perché “La Sirenetta” di Alexander Zemlinsky non è un soundtrack.

Ho visto di recente un’intervista di un collega, direttore d’orchestra, peraltro bravo e preparato, che affermava che “La Sirenetta” di Zemlinsky fosse paragonabile alle opere di Korngold, che durante il suo esilio a Hollywood scrisse molta musica per il cinema, passando alla storia come il primo grande compositore di questo genere.

Il collega considerava Zemlinsky ed il suo poema sinfonico come i predecessori del soundtrack moderno, perché descrive ogni passaggio della favola di Andersen tramite la musica, illustrando ogni scena.

Stimando molto il mio collega, sono rimasto molto deluso da questa sua affermazione, perché ritengo che “La Sirenetta” di Zemlinsky sia esattamente l’opposto di una colonna sonora. Certo, una colonna sonora può essere fonte di ispirazione e può aiutarci a capire le azioni di un film, favorendone o addirittura aumentando la tensione, aiutando il ritmo delle scene o sottolineandone il carattere. Pensiamo alle indimenticabili musiche di Maurice Jarre per “Il Dottor Zhivago” o “Lawrence d’Arabia”, allo straordinario John Williams con i film di “Guerre Stellari” o di “Harry Potter”, o ad Hans Zimmer per “Gladiator” o “Interstellar”.

Zemlinsky parte da un presupposto completamente diverso. Il suo intento non è esclusivamente descrittivo di un’azione o di una situazione, ma esplicativo: come nelle opere di Richard Wagner, la sua musica non ci spiega la trama della favola, ma ci fa entrare nel mondo dei sentimenti della “Sirenetta”, facendoci capire intenzioni, motivi e pensieri.

In questo procede esattamente come Hans Christian Andersen nella sua favola: la storia non è solo il seguire una trama, ma è penetrare nel viaggio interiore della protagonista, esaltandone la personalità e il perseguimento di un’identità personale ed unica, al di fuori da schemi delineati (la dicotomia di “umano” e “non umano”, quindi la ricerca finalizzata ad avere un’anima), che termina con il superamento di questa, assurgendo a una sfera superiore. La Sirenetta non ha un nome proprio: lo cerca e lo supera diventando spirito dell’aria.

In questo, Zemlinsky, con questo suo capolavoro, non ci presenta quindi il prodrome del soundtrack hollywoodiano, ma piuttosto uno dei coronamenti della categoria del poema sinfonico in senso wagneriano: un’esplorazione interiore per la quale l’esteriorità, o se vogliamo, la “storia” o la “trama” è solo pretesto. Come Schönberg ci fa entrare in meandri psicanalitici di “Pelléas et Mélisande”, come Richard Strauss ci sorprende con l’emozione intima e la meraviglia senza parole dell’arrivo in vetta nella sua “Alpensinfonie”, Zemlinsky accompagna la ricerca di sé della Sirenetta descrivendone non le azioni, ma le sensazioni ed i sentimenti, ed in questo sta la sua grandezza.

 

 

 

 

Since I am sort of his successor at the helm of the Danish National Symphony Orchestra in Copenhagen, it was extremely interesting for me to know more about this almost forgotten conductor, who was very active and well known in Europe and America (where to he eventually emigrated) after the Second World War, but whose roots went far back in the years before the Russian Revolution. This book is about his Mémoires, put together by his son Georg after his death. Nicolai Malko, born in 1883 (he died in the US in 1961), strongly shaped the musical life of Russia, especially in his “Alma Mater” opera house, the Marinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg, where he soon rose as a crucial conductor under the tutelage of the legendary Eduard Napravnik. A student under Rimski Korsakoff and Glazounov, Malko tells us in an elegant language, never putting himself in the center of attention, about his years at the Music Conservatory in Saint Petersburg (with interesting stories about Rimski Korsakoff, Glazounov, Liadov, and other famous Russian composers of the time), his years at the Marinsky Theater (where he even worked with Fokine and Riccardo Drigo), the great influence of Felix Mottl, and the shifting of the musical culture in Russia after the Revolution. And, of course, his early relationship with the young Shostakovich, recognizing his vast talent, but also his singular vanity, and, in general, his contradictions. Not only is this book a precious source of information about those years, but it is also a portrait of a musician without any allure, a conductor deeply rooted in the great tradition of Russian music, always dedicated to quality and art. An inspiring book; I couldn’t stop reading—and learning.

 

I have, strangely, rarely conducted Mendelssohn’s “Italian” Symphony. Maybe because I have been asked so many times, and I regularly refused. It seemed to me, as an Italian conductor, to be invited to conduct an “Italian” symphony (which, in reality, doesn’t have so much to do with Italy, although Mendelssohn allegedly wrote it after his “Grand Tour” to Italy in 1830 and 1831), a bit of a cliché, like being asked to conduct “Fontane di Roma” or any Respighi, or “Capriccio Italien” by Tchaikowsky. Of course, all these works are great music (with some doubts from my part about “Capriccio Italien”). After a very long hiatus – the last time I conducted Mendelssohn’s Fourth Symphony was in Geneva with the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande in 2000 or 2001 – I accepted the request from the NHK Orchestra in Tokyo. Therefore, this week we will be playing this symphony, together with Beethoven’s Violin Concerto and my first collaboration with María Dueñas, which I am very pleased and excited about.

Of course, I love ALL Mendelssohn, I conducted all his major symphonies (and even some string symphonies), and his great Choral works “Elijah” and “Paulus,” so this is a real pleasure to do the “Italian” symphony with this wonderful orchestra!