As kids, many of us received home-made presents: a sweater or pair of socks, perhaps, or — if you were unlucky — a crocheted bow tie you were forced to wear when Auntie came to visit.

On today’s date in 1720, Johann Sebastian Bach started a home-made present for his 9-year old son, Wilhelm Friedemann. It was a collection of little keyboard pieces designed to teach him to play the harpsichord, pieces now known as Bach’s Two- and Three-Part Inventions.

Here’s how J.S. Bach himself described these pieces: “Straightforward Instruction, in which amateurs of the keyboard, and especially the eager ones, are shown a clear way not only of learning to play cleanly in two voices, but also, after further progress, of dealing correctly and satisfactorily with three … all the while acquiring a strong foretaste of composition.”

In the case of little Wilhelm Friedemann, it did the trick. Not only did he master the keyboard, he became a composer himself.

Even just attentively listening to Papa Bach’s inventions can have its rewards, according to the late music critic Michael Steinberg, who wrote, “Bach has done such a good job at instilling 'a strong foretaste of composition’ that… they will make the hearer a better, … a more aware and thus a more enjoying, listener as well.”

J.S. Bach (1685-1750): Two-Part Invention #6; Simone Dinnerstein; Sony 79597

The Piano Concerto No. 1 by Brahms received its premiere public performance on today’s date in 1859 with the Hanover Court Orchestra under the direction of Brahms’ close friend Joseph Joachim and its 25-year composer as soloist.

That first night audience had never heard anything quite like it. In his biography of Brahms, Jan Swafford describes what was expected of a piano concerto back then, namely “virtuosic brilliance, dazzling cadenzas, not too many minor keys, [and nothing] too tragic.”

“To the degree that these were the rules, [Brahms] violated every one of them,” wrote Swafford.

His concerto opens with heaven-storming drama, continues with deeply melancholic lyricism, and closes with something akin to hard-fought, even grim, triumph. Rather than a display of flashy virtuosity, Brahms’s concerto comes off as somber and deeply emotional. A second performance, five days later in Leipzig, was hissed.

“I am experimenting and feeling my way,” Brahms wrote to his friend Joachim, adding, “all the same, the hissing was rather too much."

Now regarded a dark Romantic masterpiece, it’s important to remember how long it took audiences to warm to Brahms’ music. American composer Elliott Carter recalled that even in the 1920s, Boston concert goers used to quip that the exit signs meant, “This way in case of Brahms.”

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897): Piano Concerto No. 1 - I. Maestoso - Poco più moderato; Maurizio Pollini, piano; Berlin Philharmonic; Claudio Abbado, conductor; DG 447041

On today’s date in 1961, French composer Francis Poulenc was in Boston for the premiere of his new choral work. It was a setting of a Latin text “Gloria in excelsis Deo“ or “Glory to God in the Highest.”

These days Poulenc’s Gloria is regarded as one of his finest works, but back in 1961, some critics shook their heads and tut-tutted about the perceived irreverence of sections of the new work which to them came off as too light-hearted and out of place in a presumably “serious” religious work. Poulenc’s setting of the Latin text “Laudamus te, Benedicimus te” (We praise you, we bless you), seemed downright giddy to those critics.

In his defense, Poulenc said: “I was thinking when I composed it of these frescoes by Gozzoli with angels sticking out their tongues, and of Benedictine [clergy] I once saw playing soccer.”

In retrospect, it seems odd that anyone should have been surprised by the coexistence of the serious and the silly in the music of Poulenc, since both moods had been evident in his music for decades. In 1950, critic Claude Rostand described the composer as “A lover of life, mischievous and good-hearted, tender and impertinent, melancholy and serenely mystical, half monk — and half delinquent.”

Francis Poulenc (1899-1963): Gloria; Tanglewood Festival Chorus; Boston Symphony Orchestra; Seiji Owaza, conductor; DG 427304

Each January, Martin Luther King Day is observed on the third Monday of the month, and in 2009, MLK day fell on January 19.

To celebrate, the director of the Boston Children’s Chorus commissioned and premiered a new work from the American composer Trevor Weston. Rather than set words spoken by King, Weston took a different course:

“[Dr. King’s] speeches speak to … the beauty of living in a society where the truth of equality is actually realized and often demonstrate a broad historical perspective, so I celebrated King by using texts from the African Saint Augustine and the African-American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar,” he said.

From Saint Augustine’s Confessions, Weston includes the line, “O Truth, you give hearing to all who consult you … you answer clearly, but all men do not hear you,” and from a Dunbar work, The Poet, this line: “He sang of life, serenely sweet/With now and then a deeper note.”

Musically, Weston echoes works both medieval and modern, specifically the 12th century composer Hildegard von Bingen and the 20th century composer Morton Feldman, with a variation on the spiritual “Wade in the Water” tossed in for good measure.

The result is Truth Tones, a haunting, inward-looking choral work.

Trevor Weston: Truth Tones; Trinity Youth Chorus; Julian Wachner, conductor; Acis 72290

On today's date in 1958, Leonard Bernstein asked, “What does music mean?” He posed the question to an audience of kids assembled at Carnegie Hall for the first of his Young People’s Concerts — but since the concert was televised, it was a question he posed as well to a nationwide audience of all ages.

That 1958 concert opened with Rossini’s William Tell Overture — music that meant The Lone Ranger to TV audiences back then, or as Bernstein put it: “Cowboys, bandits, horses, the Wild West.”

But, Bernstein argued: “Music is never about anything. Music just is. Music is notes and sounds put together in such a way that we get pleasure out of listening to them, and that's all it is.” Bernstein then demonstrated how the same music could plausibly be the soundtrack to any number of different stories.

Bernstein concluded his first Young People’s Concert with Ravel’s La Valse and these comments: “Every once in a while we have feelings so deep and so special that we have no words for them. Music names them for us, only in notes instead of in words. It’s all in the way music moves and that movement can tell us more about the way we feel than a million words can.”

Giaocchino Rossini (1792-1868): William Tell Overture; New York Philharmonic; Leonard Bernstein, conductor; CBS/Sony 48226

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937): La Valse; New York Philharmonic; Pierre Boulez, conductor; CBS/Sony 45842

In Rochester, New York, on today’s date in 1957, there was a concert at the Eastman School of Music, conducted by the school’s famous director Howard Hanson, showcasing new works composed by Eastman graduate students. Included on the program was a brand-new Trombone Concerto by George Walker.

Back then, Walker was better known as a remarkable pianist. He was a graduate of the prestigious Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, after all, a student of Rudolf Serkin, and an impressive recording exists from his Eastman days of Walker as soloist in the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2. But for Walker, as an African-American, a successful career as a concert pianist in a still-segregated America was not possible — it would be 10 years before Andre Watts broke that taboo, remember, so he opted for a musical career as a composer and educator, and proved remarkably accomplished at both. 

Walker’s early Trombone Concerto was a hit from the start. “The composer evidently had a soloist of superior ability in mind in writing this difficult and complex work,” wrote a reviewer at the premiere. “It is music of sound and fury, with lots of dissonance and imaginative drive. Soloist and composer shared in prolonged applause.”

George Walker (1922-2018): Concerto for Trombone and Orchestra; Denis Wick, trombone; London Symphony; Paul Freeman, conductor; in Sony Black Composers Series CD set 19075862152

In 1916, Imperial Russia was still using the old Julian calendar. In Russia, as Hamlet might have put it, “time was out of joint,” lagging 13 days behind the Gregorian calendar used everywhere else.

Well, Saint Petersburg’s January 16 might have Paris’s January 29, but on that date Russia’s Mariinsky Theatre premiered a wild, decidedly forward-looking orchestral work with its composer, Sergei Prokofiev, conducting.

The music had been commissioned in 1914 by another Russian, the Paris-based ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev, who had asked Prokofiev for “a ballet on a Russian fairy tale or a primitive prehistoric theme,” hoping for something along the lines of Igor Stravinsky’s colorful Firebird or scandalous Rite of Spring, both earlier Diaghilev commissions.

Thinking of those two successful ballets perhaps, Prokofiev set to work on one set in ancient Russia about a forest princess rescued from an evil ogre by a Scythian prince, with a big orgy of evil spirits tossed in as well just to spice things up. But Diaghilev nixed the ballet even before Prokofiev had finished it, so its composer reworked the music into a wild concert hall score, Scythian Suite. Even today it remains — for some — a strongly spiced cup of Russian tea!

Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953): Scythian Suite; Chicago Symphony Orchestra; Claudio Abbado, conductor; DG 447 419

In the fall of 1784, Mozart and his wife moved into an elegant apartment near St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna. The house belonged to the Camesina brothers, whose father made ornamental rococo plasterwork, and the ceiling of one of the larger apartments in the house was decorated in a lavish style as a kind of show room for prospective clients.

In that apartment on today’s date in 1785, Haydn heard a few of the new string quartets Mozart had recently completed and would eventually dedicate to the older composer. It’s likely Mozart performed the viola part on that occasion.

A month later, when Mozart’s father paid a visit to Vienna, the rest of the new quartets were performed, again with Haydn present. That was the occasion that Haydn turned to him and said: “Before God and as an honest man, I tell you that your son is the greatest composer known to me either in person or by name.”

It was probably the most deeply appreciated compliment Mozart ever received, but one the following evening wasn't too shabby either. After a performance of one of his Piano Concertos, his majesty the Austrian emperor waved to Wolfgang as he left the stage and called out: “Bravo, Mozart!”

Wolfgang Mozart (1756-1791): String Quartet No. 14; Juilliard Quartet CBS/Sony 45826

Wolfgang Mozart: Piano Concerto No. 18; Richard Goode, piano; Orpheus Chamber Orchestra; Nonesuch 79439

On today’s date in 1900, Tosca, a new opera by Giacomo Puccini had its premiere at the Teatro Costanzi in Rome. Rome was, in fact, the opera’s setting and those in the audience would have instantly recognized the real-life landmarks depicted on stage.

Puccini composed Tosca at the height of the “verismo” or “realism” craze in opera. It might seem downright silly that a theatrical form as unreal and stylized as opera could ever be described as “realistic” – but the idea was to depict “a slice of real life” – even if that slice includes melodramatic characters like a sadistic, lecherous police chief and a beautiful opera diva he lusts for.

To be as realistic as possible, Puccini visited Rome to listen to the early morning church bells from the ramparts of the Castel Sant’Angelo, the setting of his opera’s third act and to consult with a Roman priest on the details of the liturgy for the “Te Deum” that concludes Act I.

Some early audiences for Tosca thought Puccini had taken this realism thing way too far. One proper British reviewer wrote: “Those who were present were little prepared for the revolting effects produced by musically illustrating torture ... or the dying kicks of a murdered scoundrel.”

Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924): Tosca; Soloists and Philharmonia Orchestra; Giuseppe Sinopoli, conductor; DG 431 775

Today’s date in 1904 marks the birthday of Richard Addinsell, a versatile British musician who became one of the most famous film score composers of his generation.

Addinsell was born in London, studied music at the Royal College of Music, and pursued additional studies in Berlin and Vienna before heading off to America in 1933 for some practical education at Hollywood film studios. He put both his theoretical and practical learning to good use when he returned to England, where he began composing for a series of successful British movies, like the Oscar-winning 1939 film Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

Addinsell also became a popular songwriter and accompanist for British comediennes and cabaret singers of the day.

But Addinsell is best known as the composer of the Warsaw Concerto, a piano concerto consciously modeled on the big Romantic scores of Rachmaninoff. This music originally appeared in the 1941 British adventure film Dangerous Moonlight, retitled Suicide Squadron when it was released in the U.S. in 1942.

After that mega-hit, Addinsell’s fluent and versatile writing continued to grace a goodly number of Post-War British films and TV dramatizations, ranging from historical epics to psychological thrillers, gritty “slice-of-life” dramas, and whimsical, light-hearted comedies.

Addinsell died in London at 73 in 1977.

Richard Addinsell (1904-1977): Goodbye, Mr. Chips; BBC Concert Orchestra; Kenneth Alwyn, conductor; Marco Polo 8.223732

Richard Addinsell (1904-1977): Warsaw Concerto; Cristina Ortiz, piano; Royal Philharmonic; Moseh Atzmon, conductor; London 414 348