Nineteenth-century Russian composer Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka founded a distinctive national style of Russian classical music, and he wrote first great Russian opera, which premiered in St. Petersburg on today’s date in 1836.

That opera tells the story of Ivan Susanin, a folk hero of the early 17th century, who gave his life to protect the newly elected Tsar Mikhail, the first of the Romanov dynasty. Glinka’s original title for his opera was Ivan Susanin, but after the then-current Tsar Nicholas I attended a rehearsal, Glinka changed it to A Life for the Tsar, to honor — and frankly flatter the current ruler in the Romanov line. 

After the Bolshevik Revolution deposed Tsar Nicholas II in 1917 and executed his whole family, any opera praising the Romanovs, no matter how culturally significant, was unperformable in the Soviet Union. But in 1939, Glinka’s opera returned to Russian stages under its original title Ivan Susanin, thanks to a Soviet poet who removed all references to the Tsar from its libretto and adjusted its storyline to be “politically correct” for Stalinist Russia.

These days, when Glinka’s landmark opera is staged, it’s under its original title and with its original, pro-Tsarist storyline restored.

Mikhail Glinka (1804-1857): A Life for the Tsar Overture; USSR State Symphony; Yevgeny Svetlanov, conductor; Regis RRC 1142

Great Finnish composer Jean Sibelius was born on this date in 1865.

In 1990, on Sibelius’ 125th birthday, Finnish conductor Osmo Vänskä led the Lahti Symphony in the belated world-premiere of a previously unknown work by the composer, a Suite for Violin and Orchestra that Sibelius finished around 1929, but never published.

Now, Sibelius was a prolific composer through his fifties, but during the last 30 years of his life, he wrote very little. He had completed his Symphony No. 7, his last, in 1924, and the world waited in vain for an eighth. Perhaps it was due to depression, perhaps it was due to drink — or maybe, creatively speaking, Sibelius had just dried up. In any case, what works he did complete as a senior citizen were either revisions of much earlier pieces, or minor incidental works.

Which makes this genial little suite rather interesting. It’s landscape music, evoking the Finnish countryside, but in a less bleak and abstract manner than usual. It may not be top-drawer Sibelius, but even so, we’re grateful that he decided to put his Suite for Violin in a bottom drawer — and not in the fireplace!

Jean Sibelius (1865-1957): Suite for Violin and Orchestra; Dong-Suk Kang, violin; Lahti Symphony; Osmo Vänskä; BIS 1125

It’s perhaps not surprising that a solitary, iconoclastic 20th century composer should identify with a solitary, iconoclastic 18th century poet. Ultra-modernist American composer Carl Ruggles took as the title for one of his most famous orchestral pieces, a phrase from a motto by early Romantic British poet William Blake which ran, “Great things are done when men and mountains meet.”

On today’s date in 1924, Ruggles’ Men and Mountains received its premiere performance at a New York concert of the International Composers’ Guild.

The music critic of the New York Times was in attendance and wrote: “Mr. Ruggles … leaps upon the listener with a yell. There is a wild shriek of the brass choir, and thereafter no rest for the wicked. It is as if the irate composer had seized a plump, disparaging critic by some soft and flabby part of his anatomy, and pinched him blue, crying the while, ‘You will hear me and you’ll not go to sleep, either!’”

By the time of his death in 1971, at 95, Ruggles was seldom performed, yet he was still revered as the craggy, last-standing survivor of the craggy ultra-modernist movement of the early 20th century.

Carl Ruggles (1876-1971): Men and Mountains; Buffalo Philharmonic; Lukas Foss, conductor; Vox 8155

Two famous pieces of chamber music had their premieres on today’s date, both at private readings prior to their first public performances.

On today’s date in 1842, German Romantic composer Robert Schumann arranged for a trial reading of his new Piano Quintet at the Leipzig home of some of his friends. Schumann’s wife, Clara, was supposed to be the pianist on that occasion, but she took ill, and Schumann’s friend and fellow composer Felix Mendelssohn stepped in at the last moment for the informal performance, reading the work at sight.

After this preliminary reading, Mendelssohn praised the work, but offered some friendly suggestions concerning part of the trio section in the new work’s Scherzo movement, which prompted Schumann to write a livelier replacement movement for the work’s first public performance.

About 100 years later, on today’s date in 1949, a cello sonata by Soviet composer Sergei Prokofiev received a similar private performance in Moscow, for an invited audience at the House of the Union of Composers. Two of the leading Soviet performers of the day, cellist Mstislav Rostropovich and pianist Sviatoslav Richter, gave the work its first performance. The following spring, it was again Rostropovich and Richter who gave the Sonata its public debut at the Moscow Conservatory.

Robert Schumann (1810-1856): Piano Quintet; Menahem Pressler, piano; Emerson String Quartet; DG 445 848

Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953): Cello Sonata; David Finckel, cello; Wu Han, piano; Artist Led 19901

“Snuff” is a finely pulverized tobacco that can be, well, “snuffed” through the nose. In the 19th century, taking snuff was a common practice, and on today’s date in 1837, the most notorious example of snuff-taking in music history occurred — or didn’t, depending on who you believe – during the premiere in Paris of the massive Requiem Mass of the French composer Hector Berlioz.

As Berlioz tells it in his Memoirs, the conductor of the performance, Francois-Antoine Habeneck, decided to take a pinch of snuff during an especially tricky passage, at the very moment he should have been giving an important cue to the orchestra. To avert disaster, Berlioz jumped up, gave the cue, and afterwards accused Habeneck of sabotage. Some eye-witnesses are on record saying, “Yes, that’s just how it happened,” while others, equally emphatic, state, “Preposterous! Nothing of the sort occurred.”

Whom to believe? 

Well, it is known that once the basic tempo was set, Habeneck was in the habit of putting down his baton to let the orchestra play on by themselves. He would then calmly take a pinch of snuff. Sometimes, it’s said, he even offered snuff to his neighbors, so perhaps those performances were indeed sabotaged — by an especially loud sneeze!

Hector Berlioz (1803-1869): Requiem; French Radio Chorus and Orchestra; Leonard Bernstein, conductor; Sony 47526

On today’s date in 1885, at a public rehearsal at the Old Metropolitan Opera House, the New York Symphony, led by fresh-faced 23-year-old conductor Walter Damrosch, performed 61-year-old Austrian composer Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 3 for the first time in America.

The New York Times critic, in fairness to this unfamiliar composer, attended both the rehearsal and concert before venturing an opinion:

“As to form and workmanship, it is a highly commendable achievement,” he wrote. “The composer’s motives are distinct and fluent, the instrumentation is rich, though not cloying … Unfortunately, there is not in the whole composition a measure in which a spark of inspiration, or a grain of inventiveness is discernible.” 

Other New York papers were more blunt: “A dreary waste of sound … formless, weird, flimsy, uncongenial and empty” according to The Sun.

The Post observed, “The first movement is marked ‘misterioso’, but the only mystery about it is how it ever came to be written, printed and performed.”

In fairness to those critics of 1885, it would take many decades before American audiences started to acquire a taste for Bruckner’s particular blend of music and mystery.

Anton Bruckner (1824-1896): Symphony No. 3; BBC Scottish Symphony; Osmo Vänskä, conductor; Hyperion 67200

In many denominations, the Christian calendar or liturgical year begins with the season of Advent, the four Sundays preceding Christmas. The word “advent” comes from the Latin “adventus,” which means “arrival” or “coming,” because Advent celebrates both the joyful anticipation of the arrival of the baby Jesus and the need for believers to prepare for the second coming of their Savior at the Last Judgement.

In 1724, a devout German Lutheran church musician named Johann Sebastian Bach crafted a cantata, a work for a small instrumental ensemble with solo voices and chorus, to be performed on the First Sunday of Advent, which fell on today’s date that year.

At Bach’s church, the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, there would have been readings from Luther’s translation of the Bible appropriate for the day, so Bach asked a poet friend for a text meditating on them, and took for his musical inspiration Luther’s Advent hymn, Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland, which in English means Now Come, Savior of the Heathens.

That hymn appeared as the first in the Thomaskirche’s hymnal, which meant the church year was off and running once again. Now, it was Bach’s responsibility to provide a cantata for performance each Sunday, and during his time in Leipzig he would write over 200 of them — which no doubt made him a favorite customer with anyone in Leipzig selling music manuscript paper!

J.S. Bach (1685-1750): Cantata No. 62 Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland; Monteverdi Choir; English Baroque Soloists; John Eliot Gardiner, conductor; Archiv 463 588

On today’s date in 1949, Leonard Bernstein conducted the Boston Symphony in the first complete performance of Olivier Messiaen’s ten-movement, 75-minute long Turangalila Symphony.

“Turangalila” is the Sanskrit word for love, and Messiaen’s score is meant to be a voluptuous evocation of the emotion at its most exalted state.

Messiaen had spent the summer of 1949 as composer-in-residence at Tanglewood at the invitation of Russian conductor and new music impresario Serge Koussevitzky, who was also Bernstein’s mentor. Before arriving in Tanglewood, Messiaen had written to Bernstein as follows: “I have put into my symphony all of my strengths of love, of hope and of musical research. But I know you are a man of genius and that you will conduct it the way I feel it.” 

The exotic French score was a modest success in Massachusetts. At least it provoked no riot, but then, as The Christian Science Monitor noted, “If Bostonians suffer, they suffer in silence.”

When Bernstein and the Boston Symphony took the new score to New York’s Carnegie Hall, however, critical reaction ranged from “a really rousing experience” to the view that “the trashiest Hollywood composers have met their match.”

Olivier Messiaen (1908-1992): Turangalila Symphony; Concertgebouw Orchestra; Riccardo Chailly, conductor; London 436 626

On today’s date in 1957, the New York City Ballet staged a new collaboration between great Russian-born composer Igor Stravinsky and great Russian-born choreographer Georges Balanchine. 

The ballet company had been asking Stravinsky for nearly a decade to write a third ballet on a classical subject to make up a trilogy that would include his two earlier dance works on Greek mythology, Apollo from 1928 and Orpheus from 1948. Just as they were about to despair that Stravinsky would ever do it, he unexpectedly obliged — if not with a Greek myth, at least with a Greek word: his new ballet was titled Agon, the Greek word for contest or struggle.

On a more modern note, by the 1950s, as Stravinsky’s assistant Robert Craft recalled, “Something called twelve-tone music was in the air, and Agon is about 12 dancers and 12 tones.”

Agon is also set in 12 scenes, and some of its movements were consciously laid out in multiples of 12 bars. Balanchine himself said in working on the ballet, “Stravinsky and I constructed every possibility of dividing 12” — which in dance terms, meant abstract solos, duets, trios and quartets to match the abstract, if eminently danceable, nature of Stravinsky’s score.

Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971): Agon Ballet; Zurich Tonhalle Orchestra; Michael Stern, conductor; Denon 78972

Ever wonder how composers choose the stories for their operas? Here’s one answer, courtesy of the American composer Tobias Picker: “My sister was dusting her bookshelf in 1998, and a copy of Emile Zola’s novel Thérèse Raquin fell off. She picked it up, read it and then recommended it to me for my next opera.”

And so three years later, on today’s date in 2001, the Dallas Opera premiered Thérèse Raquin, a new opera by Tobias Picker. Zola’s novel is a clinical examination of adultery, murder and a double suicide. “The novel exudes ‘opera’ from every page,” Picker said.

In his setting, traditional harmonies spiral off into atonality, just as the ordered world of the opera’s characters gradually falls apart. Picker has written successfully in both styles, so combining the two seemed only natural. “That tension has always been there in my music,” he said.

“I think the opera made some people uncomfortable,” Picker said. “It affected people strongly and in different ways. One woman came up to me at the third and final Dallas performance and said: ‘I just love this. It’s the third time I’ve seen it.’ Perhaps she had experienced the same catharsis that I had when I composed it!”

Tobias Picker (b. 1954): Thérèse Raquin; Dallas Opera Orchestra; Graeme Jenkins, conductor; Chandos 9659