The Dallas Symphony Orchestra (DSO) and I are proud to announce the May 22nd release of our landmark live recording of Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen on Delos, the American label of Outhere Music. The project represents a rare undertaking for an American orchestra and is being released during the DSO’s 125th anniversary season, 150 years after the first performance of the complete Ring cycle at the Bayreuth Festival in 1876. The DSO and I recorded our live performances of the four operas – Das Rheingold, Die Walküre, Siegfried, and Götterdämmerung – at the Morton H. Meyerson Symphony Center in Dallas across the year in 2024, culminating in full-cycle opera-in-concert performances that October. The cast includes Mark Delavan (Wotan), Lise Lindstrom (Brünnhilde), Sara Jakubiak (Sieglinde), Daniel Johansson (Siegfried), Christopher Ventris (Siegmund), Deniz Uzun (Fricka), Tómas Tómasson (Alberich), and Michael Laurenz (Mime), among many others.

This is music that demands everything from you – technically, emotionally, spiritually – and I am very thrilled and proud of the orchestra for embracing it with me. Wagner’s Ring cycle has been one of the most important and meaningful projects of my time with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. Being the first American symphony orchestra in recent history to perform the entire cycle was a moment of great pride, made possible by the courage and commitment of the musicians and the entire DSO organization. The Ring holds a special and profound place in the history of music, and for me it has always been a deeply personal, transformational experience. I am thrilled that we have captured this in a recording and look forward to sharing the results with the world when it is released later this year.

Preorder the album and listen to the recently released single from Die Walküre here.

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.

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.

Zemlinsky with Schönberg in Prague, 1917

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!

A visionary work ahead of its time, only relying on pure sound layers, perception of absolute time, and devoid of melody or harmony. Ligeti? No, Rued Langgaard, in 1916 (this piece was finished in 1918). Ligeti, after reading Langgaard’s score, defined himself as “Langgaard’s epigone.” Studying this score is pure sensual pleasure, but also an intellectual one, thinking about how this composer, for this very piece, rebuked all rules of the time and devoted himself – and his piece – to pure sound immersion. Astonishing…. and fascinating!

I will conduct this singular work in October in Copenhagen with my beloved Danish National Symphony Orchestra at the Koncerthuset.

If you want a book from which you can learn art history as well as the reality of the times in which it happened, this book is for you. A rich, amusing, astonishing book with a lot of stories about the most important, and also the least important, artists of their times, about their vices, their idiosyncrasies, and their addictions. Michelangelo, Raffaello, Leonardo, Caravaggio, Guido Reni, Rubens, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Dürer —under a different light, the light of their demons and weaknesses – or strengths. It also illuminates how artists have been perceived by society in various times and environments, how corporations and later academies developed, how artists’ singularities persisted, and why. Written by two eminent art historians, this book is never academic, nor overly technical. A pleasure to read – and to learn from.

Some musicians of the RAI Orchestra in Turin organized a small outdoor concert in front of the Auditorium Toscanini, right in the car park space. They wanted to attract attention to the Pride Happening on June 7.

This happened just before a concert we played together at the Auditorium (Schubert Unfinished Symphony and Bruckner 7).

A  beautiful idea to express their support for LGBT rights. I observed them from my dressing room.

I read Philip K. Dick’s “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” for the first time in its entirety. I remember starting it many years ago but putting it aside. Passionate about science fiction as a boy, I preferred the clarity of Isaac Asimov, the scientific passion of Robert Heinlein, and the pure adventure of Jack Vance. Philip K. Dick is now considered one of the most visionary authors of science fiction, tackling themes—such as artificial intelligence and genetic research—that remain relevant today. I don’t particularly like Dick’s lighthearted style, but the theme is certainly pressing. This book was adapted into the cinematic masterpiece “Blade Runner” by Ridley Scott, which surpasses the novel in atmosphere, focus, and suspense, featuring a sensational soundtrack by Vangelis and starring Harrison Ford alongside the enchanting Sean Young. Also worth mentioning is its sequel, “Blade Runner 2049,” which, though not as groundbreaking as the original, expands and deepens its themes without losing its essence, utilizing excellent actors like Ryan Gosling, Harrison Ford, returning as the original Deckard, and Jared Leto.