Le petit palais de Chaillot - Rebecca Chaillot - Schubert & Bach - 07/04/25

Franz Schubert: Impromptu No. 3, Op. 90, D. 899 

Johann Sebastian Bach: The Goldberg Variations, BWV 988 

Rebecca Chaillot: Piano 

After a few weeks filled with decadently rich and surprisingly almost crowd-free traveling experiences in Italy and France — never mind the persistent heat, the occasional hideous scaffolding and the time-honored Italian railroad workers’ strike — as I was working my way North from Naples, I at last made it to my final summer destination of Dieulefit, Drôme Provençale, in late June to spend most of summer with my mom. 

By then I was ready for some good, or even just decent, live music, the only thing I sorely missed throughout my many exciting peregrinations, especially in Modena, where I wistfully passed the Pavarotti-Freni opera house in Modena and serendipitously met the legendary soprano’s delightful grandson, and in Parma, where the presence of Giuseppe Verdi, who was born in nearby Roncole, which is apparently close enough, is felt at every corner. 

And then, before we knew it, we had four concerts lined up for the extended following weekend, starting last Friday evening, which happened to be the Fourth of July (AKA Independence Day) in the United States, even though there is obviously little to celebrate about the good old U.S. of A. these days. 

That’s when adventurous French pianist Rebecca Chaillot had scheduled one of her high-quality, pay-what-you-can recitals inside the intimate courtyard of her beautifully restored home that doubles as a performance space in Colonzelle, a sleepy little village in which the glorious sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations would soon resonate on this perfect summer evening. 

As we took our seats among the small but dedicated audience, I could not help but notice that the background noises, a relatively small price to pay for outdoors concerts, came from a wide range of sources: A few vehicles discreetly whizzing by outside the gate, many loquacious birds that would not be denied, gravel shuffled under the feet of concert-goers, and the creaking sound from the rusty steeple compass of the church next door, which was regularly manifesting itself according to the intensity of the otherwise welcome breeze. 

And still, after the bells of said church had rung 7:00 PM, our hostess and entertainer for the evening had greeted us with her usual warmth, and we heard the first notes of Schubert’s Impromptu No. 3, Op. 90, all else became insignificant detail as we got pulled slowly but surely into the limpid clarity, tender embrace and meditative power of the piece. Right before starting to play, Chaillot had confessed that she loved Schubert, and sure enough, now she was proving it in spades. 

She had also informed us that she would transition into Bach’s hypnotic Goldberg Variations right away, so we all remained quiet as she silently switched gears and then confidently took us on their extraordinary journey with impeccable technique and refined expressiveness. Even the ubiquitous feathered singers eventually gave it up to the human competition. I was lucky enough to have a close and personal view over her hands as they were working the keyboard with incredible dexterity and unabated stamina, and I found the visual display to be truly as dazzling as the music itself.  

There was no encore, and none was expected, because, seriously, what can you play after such a masterful performance of such a masterpiece? There was a respectful silence, a grateful ovation, and the ringing of the nearby church bells at 8:00 PM as we were walking towards the gate. Not your typical Fourth of July party, just a much better substitute.

Coro Sinfonico e Orchestra dell’Accademia Amadeus of Milan - Scarlatti, Salieri & Mozart - 05/17/25

Coro Sinfonico e Orchestra dell’Accademia Amadeus di Milano 

Conductor: Marco Raimondi 

Maria Barattiero: Flute 

Pier Angelo Prandoni: Flute 

Alessandro Scarlatti: Sinfonia di Concerto Grosso No. 1 in F Major 

Antonio Salieri: Concertino da Camera in G Major, Ang 656, for flute and strings 

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Mass in C Major, K. 167 (in honorem Sanctissimae Trinitatis)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Ave verum corpus, K 618 

Times have been tough lately when it comes to live music in my life, mostly owing to the heart-breaking loss of a couple of juicy opportunities back in Rome and Naples last month due to a nasty cold followed by spring allergies (Sometimes when it rains, it does pour). But then again, there was no way I was going to risk being that coughing person everybody in the venue is secretly and — let’s face it, legitimately — cursing, especially in concert halls and opera houses I was planning to return to. 

And then, lo and behold, a couple of weeks ago I came across posters advertising a free concert in the Cattedrale di San Lorenzo of Perugia just as I was making my first foray in the stunningly preserved hill town (Sometimes it is really in the last place you look, isn’t it?). My excitement was kind of dampened by the ungodly 9:00 PM starting time, but beggars cannot be choosers, and at least going back to my temporary pied-à-terre would be a short walk that would also give me a chance to experience Perugia by night. 

Organized as part of the international music festival Musica dal Mondo and performed by the Orchestra dell’Accademia Amadeus of Milan, a resolutely eclectic and highly talented ensemble made of the Accademia Musicale Amadeus’ students, alumni, mentors and teachers, the concert was meant to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the famous Università per Stranieri di Perugia, whose mission is to promote everything Italian to, well, non-Italian students. 

But then, on that Saturday evening, an originally smallish group of like-minded music lovers and I had a fleeting moment of panic when the cathedral’s doors were still obstinately closed at 8:45 PM, although we did not give up hope and kept busy shuffling between the massive front doors and the smaller side doors. And then the miracle happened: All doors flung open, and we were warmly invited into the fancily lit cavernous space. 

Because the concert marked a special anniversary, speeches by various luminaries from the university, the cathedral, and let’s not forget our maestro, Marco Raimondi, would be interspersed between the various pieces and the two encores, but that was a small price to pay. After all, the performance started almost on time, the program was engaging and the atmosphere festive, so all was well in the world, or at least in Perugia, on that lovely spring Saturday night. 

As Raimondi pointed out in his opening remarks, this year commemorated not only the centennial of the Università per Stranieri di Perugia, but the centennial of Scarlatti’s death as well. And sure enough, the musical part of the evening got eventually going with a short and light-hearted frolic by the Neapolitan composer (Ciao Napoli!) in his Sinfonia di Concerto Grosso No. 1 in F Major, which turned out to be the perfect savory amuse-bouche to prepare our palates for the more substantial fare to come. 

The second work on the program was by Salieri, who, as Raimondi emphasized while also mentioning an article by maestro Riccardo Muti that had appeared in the Corriere della Sera that day, was one of the most gifted composers of his times, not only in Vienna or Italy, but in all of Europe. In a cruel twist of fate and a perfect example of disastrously bad timing, he had the great misfortune of having to compete with Mozart and his outworldly genius, and just could not win. 

As his Concertino da Camera in G Major for flute and strings proved beyond any reasonable doubt, Salieri was in fact totally worthy of his high position at the Habsburg court. Here again, we got to bask in pretty melodies that could not help but lift our spirits even further as the orchestra and solo flutists successfully joined forces for a delightful performance. I think it is a safe bet to assume that Salieri would have loved this respectful yet fun nod at the 200th anniversary of his death. 

Last, but not least, came the headliner of the program, not that Scarlatti’s or Salieri’s names could be found on the advertising poster anyway, in Mozart and the solemn Mass in C Major, K. 167 (in honorem Sanctissimae Trinitatis) he wrote as a young, but already extraordinarily gifted and mightily ambitious, composer after a few years spent traveling and studying, but regrettably not landing a position, in Italy. 

For this brilliant piece, with adroitly combined religious sternness and Italian warmth, the small orchestra was joined by a sizable choir — And, unusually enough, no soloists — that added significant depth and complexity to the instrumental composition, even if the voices tended to wander off into the immensity of the cathedral. Hearing such expressive music in such an awe-inspiring setting was nevertheless a truly memorable experience that was much appreciated by all. 

And we were not done. Just as I was desperately trying to emulate other audience members who were leaving discreetly while another speech was getting underway, I quickly realized that my premium spot would unfortunately preclude an inconspicuous exit. But then Raimondi bestowed upon us another delectable Mozartian treat, the short but gorgeous motet Ave verum corpus K 618, and suddenly the other inadvertently stuck members of the audience and myself did not feel so bad about having to stay a little longer. 

Even better, two speeches later, the concert finally concluded with an ethereally beautiful "Ave Maria", which the maestro rightfully dedicated to the Madonna delle Grazie, whose painting was gracing an elaborate neo-gothic pillar standing smack in the middle of the cathedral. Barefoot and pregnant — but fancily dressed too — Mary was a serene presence that clearly inspired musicians and singers to deliver what may very well have been the highlight of the evening. Ave Maria indeed.

Joshua Bell & Solisti di Santa Cecilia - Brahms & Mendelssohn - 03/17/25

Johannes Brahms: Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, Op. 115 

Felix Mendelssohn: Octet 

Joshua Bell: Violin 

Alessandro Carbonare: Clarinet

Andrea Obiso: Violin 

Alberto Mina: Violin 

David Romano: Violin 

Simone Briatore: Viola 

David Bursack: Viola 

Luigi Piovano: Cello 

Diego Romano: Cello 

Just as March has been leisurely unfolding with the vivid memory of the superlative singing I heard last month in Naples, I have also been slowly but surely preparing myself for some superlative instrumental music-making in Rome as a few distinguished members of the Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia were about to welcome no less than American superstar violinist Joshua Bell, the orchestra’s current artist in residence, for a chamber music concert that would include one of my all-time favorite classical music pieces in Felix Mendelssohn’s flawlessly polished and irresistibly uplifting Octet. 

The first half of the program would be dedicated to Johannes Brahms’ Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, Op. 115, a work that I was not familiar with, but since the composer was my beloved Brahms, I was more than willing to give it a shot. Just because I do not particularly care for the sound of the clarinet does not mean that I cannot appreciate it. 

So last Monday evening, after a protein-filled dinner and a reasonable amount of caffeine, I eagerly headed to the Sala Sinopoli of the Auditorium Parco della Musica at the ungodly hour of 8:30 PM to find quite a few empty seats in the admittedly sizable concert hall, which was a surprise considering the line-up and the program. That said, the concert-goers occupying seats easily made up for it with sheer excitement and staunch dedication, and ended up being richly rewarded for it. 

When it comes to star wattage in the world of classical music, it is hard to beat Joshua Bell, who has been one of the genre’s most popular representatives and advocates for decades now, and who is thankfully showing no signs of slowing down his non-stop globe-trotting and virtuosic playing. And there he was on Monday night, occupying the position of first violin and yet effortlessly blending in with four musicians of Rome’s home orchestra as the ensemble was expertly working its way through Brahms’ exquisitely melancholic Clarinet Quintet. 

The composer was 58 years old when he wrote this outstanding piece, and it is not a far stretch to assume that he was contemplating the autumn of his life, or at least of his youth, as he was putting it together. The quintet is unabashedly romantic and does not shy from expressing complex emotions, but it also steers clear of any sentimentality or grand gestures. On Monday evening, the heartfelt performance of it was not only a pleasure to the ear, but also an insightful glimpse into the undeniable sensitivity of the reputedly grumpy old man. 

After Brahms’ thoughtful musing on middle age (Tell me about it) and the intermission, the time had come to indulge in Mendelssohn’s brazenly sunny outlook on life via the octet he came up with when he was a mere 16-year-old youngster. And sure enough, maybe because of its sprightly verve, maybe because of its compositional brilliance, the boldly assertive work immediately electrified the atmosphere and kept everybody’s attention for the following half-hour or so. Let’s face it, who does not need a little pick-me-up nowadays? 

On Monday evening, the cheering-up capacity of the Octet was on full display as the eight musicians bringing it to life delivered a dynamite performance of it, adroitly using their technical expertise to convey happy-go-lucky insouciance and unbridled joie de vivre. Here again, Bell proved to be a confident and respectful leader, his fellow stringers proved to be supremely talented, and the outcome was gloriously satisfying. Even the bunch of coins that suddenly fell on the floor from a nearby pocket and temporarily distracted my section during the lovely Andante were not enough to damper our totally elevated spirits. 

After such a resounding success, what more could be done? Well, Bell could have done a solo encore, of course, but he had clearly decided to share the limelight until the very end, and without further ado, quickly led the other seven musicians into another go at the Octet’s dazzling Scherzo to everybody’s delight.

Teatro di San Carlo - Roméo et Juliette - 02/23/25

Composer: Charles Gounod 

Librettist: Jules Barbier and Michel Carré 

Conductor: Sesto Quatrini 

Producer/Director: Giorgia Guerra 

Javier Camarena: Roméo 

Nadine Sierra: Juliette 

Gianluca Buratto: Frère Laurent 

Alessio Arduini: Mercutio 

Marco Ciaponi: Tybalt 

Caterina Piva: Stefano 

Annunziata Vestri: Gertrude 

There are quite a few musicians and singers who are on my short list of priorities when it comes to live performances, but who, despite my best efforts, have proven challenging to nail down, especially now that I no longer live in the more or less obligatory stop in an artist’s career that is New York City. 

Mexican tenor Javier Camarena is one of them. I became acquainted with his stupendous vocal talent when he starred in Bellini’s I Puritani at the Metropolitan Opera several years ago, but we regretfully never crossed paths again. I therefore was ecstatically happy when I saw his name on the Teatro di San Carlo’s 2024-2025 season in Charles Gounod’s Roméo and Juliette, even if I was not sure he was quite the right fit for the ill-fated dashing adolescent, being now middle-aged and all. But then, I also noticed that meteorically rising American soprano Nadine Sierra had been tapped to be his Juliette, at the semi-tender opera age of 37, and I signed up. 

So last Sunday, after a fantastic trip to Eastern Sicily that had been planned around the opera’s performance schedule (Priorities, priorities) and a quick stop at the San Carlo’s cafe for a mercilessly strong cappuccino and a divine slice of freshly baked caprese al limone, my Naples opera buddy Vittorio and I settled in our ideally located box, from where we could enjoy a premium view of the stage and the audience, including a young woman who showed up in snakeskin shorts and jackets, stiletto heels, and not much else. You gotta love Naples. 

The only performance of Roméo et Juliette I had attended previously featured Diane Damrau and Vittorio Grigolo, in which she was refreshingly the older half, at the Met several years ago. While I had found it lovely (How can you go wrong with those two?), I probably would not have bothered seeing it again without such exciting leads as Camarena and Sierra. On the other hand, it had just been too long since I had experienced the magic of live opera and I was more than ready to take it all in, especially once I had shut up the chatty Spanish tourists we were sharing our tight space with. 

Roméo may come first in the title, but on Sunday, it was hands-down Juliette who stole the show via a star-making turn by a terrific Nadine Sierra, who owed the part in every possible way and then some. From her first irresistibly endearing appearance as a carefree young girl to her poignant death scene that would seal the tragedy, she had full control of her character’s complex emotional journey and consistently expressed it with utmost precision, nuance and, maybe most important of all, heart. 

The evening’s highlight displayed the full range of her coloratura virtuosity when, in Act 4, she fiercely belted out the unforgivingly taxing poison aria “Amour, ranime mon courage” as a rapidly growing young woman suddenly taking charge of her destiny with steel determination. This show-stopping moment of gripping intensity was rightfully rewarded by a thunderous and seemingly endless ovation, which in turn was rewarded by… another thrilling rendition of it! 

Not to be outdone, Javier Camarena was an unmistakenly ardent, if slightly more measured, Roméo. Besides the splendidly ringing high register that has been his calling card, he too made good use of his full vocal range to convey not only the romantic hero’s impetuosity, but also his dreaminess and elegance. Camarena’s unabated youthful energy and ageless cherubic face (How on earth does he do it?) combined with the solid experience that comes from a long career have obviously given him the technical, emotional and physical tools he needed to come up with an effortlessly relatable Roméo. Add to that plenty of palpable chemistry with his leading lady, and we had a winning couple. 

It must have been hard to keep up with the fired-up duo, but the rest of the cast managed to make very good impressions as well, starting with Gianluca Buratto as a brilliantly multi-faceted Frère Laurent, Marco Ciaponi and Alessio Arduini as highly effective Tybalt et Mercutio respectively, Caterina Piva as a charming Stephano, Annunziata Vestri as an remarkable Gertrude, and Mark Kurmanbayev as an dignified Capulet père. The chorus came through with assertiveness and subtlety, efficiently contributing to the excellent quality of the musical performance. 

Of course, it was all the easiest for us to focus on the superior singing as the visual production was not much to look at. The stage was essentially occupied by huge gray brutalist walls and a square tower that would be used for various purposes, the main one being as backdrops for video projections that were mostly abstract and did not amount to much, except for the large white drawings of Byzantine windows that were probably meant to evoke Renaissance-era Verona. At least this hopelessly dreary look made the sumptuous costumes deservedly stand out, and the fight scene was well-choreographed and cleverly pointed out the sheer insanity of extreme polarization (You don’t say). 

The versatile tower became transparent during the night-time balcony scene — which, by the way, did not feature an actual balcony — and allowed us to see Juliette getting ready for bed with her nurse. At that point, the contrast of the warm candlelight from the indoor scene with the blue light bathing the stage created a simple yet beautifully atmospheric tableau. However, when that same tower slowly descended upon the lovers’ death bed in what had to be an effort to symbolize how the oppressive climate of hatred had won, the move felt claustrophobic, which was not necessarily a bad thing, and gratuitous, which was definitely not a good thing. 

While the score may not be an undisputed masterpiece of the opera repertoire, it is still attractive enough to keep the audience engaged in the story, even if everybody probably knows about the unhappy ending. On Sunday, under Roman maestro Sesto Quatrini’s muscular conducting, the ever-reliable orchestra may have occasionally played with a hot-bloodedness that was more Italian than French, but the pace was good and the sound compact, and everybody kept up. There were a lot of moving parts in this busy production, and Quatrini kept everything under relatively tight control all the way to the narratively and visually dreadful conclusion. Thank God for the music.

The Hagen Quartet - Schumann & Schubert - 01/29/25

Robert Schumann: String Quartet, Op. 41, No. 3 

Franz Schubert: String Quintet in C Major (D. 956, Op. 163) 

 Enrico Bronzi: Cello 

Who said January was quiet in Rome? Well, I may have, but I was quickly proved wrong lately with not only a terrific performance by the orchestra and chorus of the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia a couple of weeks ago, but also by the endlessly globe-trotting Austrian Hagen Quartet last Wednesday night at the same Parco della Musica Ennio Morricone, whose close proximity to my apartment was particularly appreciated for the latter since the concert was scheduled to start at the ungodly hour of 8:30 PM. 

But how could right-minded music afficionados resist a double bill featuring Schumann and Schubert? Turned out not many did, as I found out a week or so before the concert, when I was informed by email that it had been moved from the small Sala Sinopoli to the medium-sized Sala Petrassi. The heart-warming change was not without its challenges though, as many audience members apparently had not realized that a different venue meant a different seat, or had not checked the message at all. But thanks to the ever-patient ushers, everybody eventually found their seat and the performance finally got underway. 

Schumann’s String Quartet, Op. 41, No. 3 has probably one of the dreamiest openings of the entire chamber music repertoire, and as expertly played by the as-tight-as-ever Hagen Quartet (Practice does make perfect, and they’ve had over four decades of it), it certainly had a wonderfully calming effect on the audience who just a few minutes before was still in the throes of utter confusion. And it only got better from there. 

Although Schumann dedicated his Op. 41 to his friend Felix Mendelssohn, the influence of the usual suspects that are Mozart and Beethoven were clearly felt as well, and in the best possible way, of course. The work’s infinite complexity and its wide variety of ideas, as well as its inherent attractiveness, makes it a joy to hear it over and over again, and Wednesday’s glowing performance was no exception. 

Since Schumann’s half of the program was only about 30 minutes, it felt like the intermission came a bit early, but then again, it was needed for audience and musicians since the Schubert’s half would clock in at about 50 minutes. And what 50 minutes! I think that neophytes and connoisseurs would all agree that only one listen to the String Quintet in C Major explains why it has been called “epic” and “extraordinary”, among many other superlatives. Moreover, the fact that it was written shortly before Schubert’s untimely death, and neglected for 25 years, makes you wonder how many other classical music masterpieces lie somewhere in undeserved obscurity, but let’s not get side-tracked.

Back to the Sala Petrassi on Wednesday evening, the sense of awe routinely produced by a live interpretation of the work quickly filled the concert hall as the Hagen Quartet and their special guest cellist Enrico Bronzi confidently delivered a technically flawless, emotionally gripping and, maybe even more important in this case, seamlessly unified, performance of Schubert’s masterpiece. I mean, it cannot be an easy task for an Italian musician to fit in so well into such a highly Germanic affair, but Bronzi nailed it. 

One of the most striking characteristics of Schubert’s stunning composition, besides its unusual length and the bold addition of a cello, is the seemingly bottomless well of ideas the tireless composer drew inspiration from. As it was coming to life in front of us on Wednesday night, the quintet’s expansive range of moods, from exquisite Viennese gemütlichkeit to irrepressible death-related terror to infectious folk-music exuberance, not to mention its sheer beauty, made it an exciting ride as well as a poignant swan song. And a priceless gift to us.

Orchestra e Coro dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia - Schubert & Rossini - 01/18/25

Franz Schubert: Symphony No. 8 in B minor, D. 759 (The Unfinished) 

Gioachino Rossini: Stabat Mater 

Conductor: Myung-Whun Chung 

Bass: Adolfo Corrado 

Mezzo-soprano: Teresa Iervolino 

Soprano: Chiara Isotton 

Tenor: Levy Sekgapane 

After some wonderfully laid-back holidays and a quiet first half of January – Apparently most of the hordes expected for Rome’s 2025 Jubilee are charitably holding back for now – things perked up a little bit last weekend when the brilliant Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia and its equally brilliant chorus went to work on an exciting program featuring Schubert’s perennially popular Unfinished symphony and Rossini’s less well-known but definitely worth-knowing Stabat Mater at the nearby Parco della Musica Ennio Morricone. 

The link between the German and the Italian composers may not have been obvious at first, at least to me, except that anything having survived from their respective œuvres would probably satisfy even the pickiest music lover. But then our listening guide Stefano Catucci helpfully pointed out in his introduction that both artists, while fully aware of the Zeitgeist they lived in, were also wistfully looking back into the recent past in which the ubiquitous melody reigned supreme and, having learned their lesson, eventually used it as not just a significant ingredient, but the core, of their compositions. Et voilà.

So last Saturday, after the rain stopped and the sky cleared up, it was in this enlightened state of mind that I sat down in the packed Sala Santa Cecilia to become reacquainted with an old Schubertian friend and make the acquaintance of what was about to become a new Rossinian favorite. 

For some reason that I have never been able to explain, I was not really won over by Schubert’s Unfinished when I first heard it many years ago. But I have inevitably come to my senses since then as it has slowly grown on me, and I am now one of its biggest fans. And seriously, what’s not to love about an ambitious tour de force that offers the best of both worlds, the intense lyricism of the budding Romantic movement and the rigorous structure of the late Classical era? It is not by chance that it is routinely considered the first Romantic symphony. It is just too bad that Schubert never got around to, well, finishing it. 

But finished or not, Schubert’s eighth symphony is still a glorious experience for anyone undertaking it, as Korean maestro Myung-Whun Chung and the orchestra proved last Saturday in a very satisfying performance that felt both grand and intimate, and did not leave any detail to chance. Conductor and musicians indeed made sure that the abrupt shifts of mood of the highly contrasted first movement were vigorously conveyed but not off-putting, before giving us priceless opportunities to indulge in a bit of high-quality Weltschmerz in the quieter second movement. And then it was over before we knew it. 

After intermission, we stayed in the early 19th century but jumped from Germany to Italy for the Stabat Mater that Rossini was commissioned to write several years after retiring from opera composition. Fact is, the Latin medieval hymn describing the Virgin Mary’s suffering as her son Jesus Christ was being crucified has been adapted plenty of times throughout the centuries, but after being totally carried away by its dazzling power last Saturday, I would err to guess that Rossini’s flamboyant take on it is probably the most terrifically entertaining version of them all. 

Besides the orchestra, which effortlessly transitioned between the two wildly different genres, the superb chorus of the Accademia Nazionale of Santa Cecilia impeccably came through as well. Among the four soloists saddled with mercilessly challenging parts, the fearless ladies, mezzo-soprano Teresa Iervolino and soprano Chiara Isotton, fared better, but tenor Levy Sekgapane and bass Adolfo Corrado got the job done efficiently too. In the end, this Stabat Mater may have sounded a bit colorful and down-to-earth – in a word, a bit “secular” – for such elevated liturgical text, but it also was seriously uplifting, which is after all not a bad way to kick off the New Year. Onward and forward.