In a letter to Tchaikovsky's nephew Vladimir Davydov, Tchaikovsky wrote: "I'm very pleased with its content, but dissatisfied, or rather not completely satisfied, with the instrumentation. For some reason it's not coming out as I intended. It would be typical and unsurprising if this symphony were torn to pieces or little appreciated, as that wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened. But I absolutely consider it to be the best, and in particular the most sincere, of all my creations. I love it as I have never loved any of my other musical offspring."

I'm returning to that word sincere this week for Part 2, because it's the through line that makes Tchaikovsky's music so immediately arresting. You always know exactly where you stand with Tchaikovsky, since he always seems to be speaking so honestly in his music. Well, almost always.

The last two movements of Tchaikovsky's 6th Symphony are among the most fascinating in the entire Western classical repertoire, and the reason for their fascination (beyond simply being wonderful movements) is the order in which Tchaikovsky places them. In a typical symphony, the third movement would be either a fast scherzo or a slow movement, depending on what the second movement had been. Since the second movement of this symphony was a waltz, audiences would have expected a slow third movement followed by a fast finale to send them home with some energy. But that is not what Tchaikovsky does. Instead, we hear a thrilling, exhilarating scherzo followed by a devastating slow movement, a choice that completely upended the form of the symphony as a genre, and was revolutionary for its time.

Why did Tchaikovsky do this? And why did this decision, in part, fuel massive controversy surrounding his death, just nine days after the symphony's premiere? We're going to explore all of that today, including the many theories about Tchaikovsky's death, before examining the 3rd and especially the 4th movements of this masterpiece in detail, unpacking the nuances of these profoundly contrasting movements.

The great and somewhat controversial conductor Leopold Stokowski said this about Tchaikovsky: "His musical utterance comes directly from the heart and is a spontaneous expression of his innermost feeling. It is as sincere as if it were written with his blood." I couldn't agree more with Stokowski, because I think he hits on a word that has made Tchaikovsky's music so powerful to almost every audience that encounters it: sincere. Tchaikovsky's music is so profoundly moving because you feel as if there is no gap between the music and Tchaikovsky's emotions. It's as if he is earnestly speaking to you through his music. But paradoxically, this ability that Tchaikovsky had made him a punching bag of critics and cynics throughout his career and even into today. Even though Tchaikovsky remains one of the most popular composers in the Western Classical canon, his name is still not treated with the respect of a composer like Beethoven or Brahms or other luminaries. I understand that, but I also think Tchaikovsky's skills as a composer are extremely underrated, which brings me to Tchaikovsky's 6th and final symphony, nicknamed the "Pathetique."

Tchaikovsky's 6th symphony essentially rewrites the traditional symphonic form. It is one of the few 19th century symphonies that end quietly, and that ending is one of the most extraordinary and daring in the entire repertoire. It is a piece of remarkable complexity and brilliant construction, and it packs an emotional wallop that leaves you walking out of the hall slightly changed from the way you walked in. In fact, this piece is so multi-layered that I wanted to devote some extra time to it, so I've decided to make this a two-part episode. This week, we're going to talk about the controversies over Tchaikovsky's emotional state as he composed this symphony, and the first two movements of the piece: a massive, 17-minute first movement that ingeniously melds multiple different symphonic forms into one long breath, and a waltz with a twist. We'll get into a lot more detail than we usually do, giving us a chance to really give Tchaikovsky the respect he deserves.

I'm always tickled by composer trivia questions, like which standard canon works begin in a major key and end in a minor key? I'll give you one, but please comment others below: Mendelssohn's 4th Symphony. Well, how about this one: how many of Beethoven's 16 string quartets end in a minor key? The answer? Just one, Op. 59, No. 2, the subject of today's show. And that minor key is hugely important to this darkest of the three Op. 59 quartets, three towering achievements that changed the string quartet repertoire for good.

Beethoven, as I've said many times on the show, was a revolutionary within limits, always expanding, rethinking, and reshaping what was possible without breaking anything beyond repair. But make no mistake: the Op. 59 quartets were revolutionary works. No one had written anything like them before in terms of scope, emotional intensity, difficulty, and complexity. In fact, like a few of Beethoven's greatest works, they were received with confusion and, in some cases, anger by musicians, audiences, and critics. Famously, the cellist of the first string quartet to receive the parts of Op. 59, No. 1 saw the Morse code-like, one-note theme of the second movement, threw the music aside, and stomped on it!

These quartets were Beethoven going out on a limb, applying the intensity and drama of his Middle Heroic Period to a genre that had been at least partly the province of amateur musicians, but not anymore. Op. 59, No. 2, as I said, is the darkest of this group: four movements all centered around the key of E, and with the exception of the glorious second movement, all in minor, presenting a seriousness and directness of purpose that is powerfully compelling. This might be my favorite of the Op. 59 quartets, and so I'm very excited to dig into it with you today. We'll discuss the enigmatic and ecstatic aspects of this quartet, as well as Beethoven's own philosophical views on life, which come to light in the second movement, one of Beethoven's greatest creations.

Recording: Cleveland Quartet

Brahms spent much of his adult life battling with his ambition to write the next great symphony and his terror at the shadow of Beethoven standing behind him. Brahms tortured himself for 14 years with his first symphony, and only published it when he was 49 years old. But when that symphony finally came out, it was a relative success for a new work, and with immense relief, Brahms quickly turned out another symphony in just 4 months. Brahms' first symphony was quickly dubbed "Beethoven's 10th" something that annoyed Brahms to no end. When told that the main theme of the last movement resembled the Ode to Joy, he notoriously responded, "any ass can see that!" But all the same, Brahms had been re-anointed as Beethoven's successor with the symphony, and so therefore his second symphony would also be given a Beethovinian name, Pastoral. The question since the symphony has been written has been this: just how pastoral and idyllic is this symphony? Many commentators see an unadulterated joy and gentleness in the piece, with some melancholy moments to be sure. But overall, the piece is as sunny as it seems on its surface, with just the typical battles between happiness and sadness that mark every symphony. But there's another school fo thought with this symphony, and that is that it is marked by shadows and tremors that go way beyond simple sadness and happiness, and that these shadows and tremors leave a mark that can't be ignored. I tend to believe in the second theory, but we're going to discuss this symphony with this framework in mind; whether this piece is as sunny as some people would have you believe, or if the shadows are the lasting impression we get as we walk away from the concert hall. We'll also discuss Brahms' innovations with form, and his evergreen ability to write some of the most stunning melodies on the planet. Join us!

The story of Alexander von Zemlinsky's The Mermaid begins with a passionate love affair and ends in heartbreak of the most unabashedly big-R Romantic kind. In 1900, the young, fabulously talented, and famously beautiful Alma Schindler came to Zemlinsky's home to study composition. Wildly passionate feelings soon developed between them, and Alma wrote the following in her diary: "I would gladly be pregnant for him, gladly bear his children. His blood and mine, commingled: my beauty with his intellect. I would gladly serve him in his professional life, live for him and his kith and kin, breathe [for him], attend to his every happiness, serve him with a gentle hand. God give me the strength and the willpower to do so."

The relationship lasted a little over a year, until one night when Schindler attended a party that happened to be frequented by a brilliant conductor and composer twenty years her senior: Gustav Mahler. The rest is history.

Zemlinsky was devastated and poured his energies into a tone poem based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid. The source may seem surprising, but as we'll see later on, it proved to be the perfect vehicle for Zemlinsky to exorcise the tortured memories of this turbulent relationship. For a long time, however, the score was lost. It wasn't until the 1980s that the full work was reconstructed, and it has since become one of Zemlinsky's most frequently performed pieces.

And it's not hard to see why. The Mermaid is a forty-minute tone poem that, from start to finish, overflows with fin-de-siècle romanticism, very much in the vein of Schoenberg's Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night). It is a work of irresistible beauty and passion, and it is being played more and more as Zemlinsky's name begins to take its rightful place in the standard canon of composers.

Today on the show, I'll tell you a bit more about Zemlinsky in case you're not familiar with him, read more of the unbearably passionate letters and diary entries from both Zemlinsky and Alma Schindler, and, of course, walk you through the heartbreakingly beautiful music of The Mermaid, showing how Zemlinsky balances narrative and abstract form, and how he created this opulent, lush, and profoundly moving score. Join us!

Many aspects of Giovanni Battista Pergolesi's life seem relatively normal when it comes to composers of the Baroque era. He was prolific, died young, and his music became very famous only after his death. However, all three of these facts are complicated by the unique circumstances of Pergolesi's life.

He was somewhat prolific, but dozens of pieces that were once attributed to him are no longer considered authentic, including much of the music that Igor Stravinsky made famous in his ballet Pulcinella. Pergolesi did not just die young; he died remarkably young, at the age of twenty-six, from tuberculosis. And the idea that he became famous only after his death actually made him unusual among composers of his time, when popularity during one's lifetime was the primary mark of success. Most composers quickly fell into obscurity after they died.

In Pergolesi's case, the opposite occurred. There was a massive surge of interest in his music immediately after his death, which in some ways contributed to the museum-like atmosphere that classical music has today. Pergolesi was ahead of his time in many ways, and that brings us to the piece we are going to talk about today, his Stabat Mater.

We will discuss what the Stabat Mater is in more detail later, but simply put, it is a musical setting of the poem Stabat Mater Dolorosa, which, in a rather clumsy translation, means "the sorrowful mother stood." This thirteenth-century Christian hymn and poem focuses on the Virgin Mary's suffering as she witnesses the crucifixion of Jesus. The text has been set to music by many composers, but Pergolesi's version, surprisingly given his relative obscurity today, has endured in a way that many settings by more famous composers have not.

Today, on this Patreon-sponsored episode, we will learn a bit about Pergolesi's life, or at least what we know of it, and talk through this Baroque-era masterpiece. Join us!

We humans seem to love comeback stories, and there is no comeback quite as compelling in the classical music world as Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto. It was written three years after the disastrous premiere of his First Symphony, a premiere so catastrophic that it lives on in the annals of musical history, and is the essential starting point for understanding the Second Piano Concerto and how it came to be.

The concerto revived both Rachmaninoff's career and his spirits, and it remains his most famous orchestral work. It is a towering masterpiece of Romanticism, overflowing with glorious melody after glorious melody, supported by virtuosic and sumptuous writing for the solo piano, and a deeply satisfying orchestral part that continues to make audiences swoon around the world.

Today on the show, we'll begin with the story of Rachmaninoff's First Symphony, and then walk through this extraordinary concerto, highlighting what truly makes Rachmaninoff's music so special. Hint: it's not just the pretty melodies.

Recording: Vladimir Ashkenazy with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, Kirill Kondrashin cond.

A piece that I have been asked to cover probably a dozen times is Handel's Messiah. It's a piece I love, but a piece that I've never conducted or played, and so therefore I don't know it incredibly well. There are plenty of pieces like this in the repertoire, and so I've decided to start a new series on Sticky Notes, which will be to take pieces that I don't know very well and to bring on experts to help me learn about them. This series will be a bit sporadic, and won't disrupt the but I'm really excited to share the first episode in this series, all about the Handel Messiah, featuring my good friend and the wonderful conductor Aram Demirjian, the Music Director of the Knoxville Symphony! I really hope you enjoy this episode and that you have a Happy Holidays and New Year!

Mr. Holst, wherever you are, I apologize in advance for what I'm about to say. From my research, I know you resented this fact, but unfortunately, I think it's true. Here it is: despite the large catalogue of music Gustav Holst composed, much of it wonderful, he is essentially a one-hit wonder in the classical music world, à la Pachelbel, Dukas, Mascagni, and others. His one hit is a big one, though: an epic, seven-movement suite entitled The Planets.

As I said, Holst was not happy about this in the slightest. He was a prolific composer and someone who devoted himself fully to his subjects. He considered other works he wrote better than The Planets, and yet, in the end, we hear very little of his other music, though since the 1980s some of it has been performed more frequently, particularly in the UK.

But The Planets is truly a hit: the reason we know Holst's name today, and one of the most frequently performed pieces in the entire Western classical canon. Holst took a novel approach to his depiction of the planets. They are not ordered by their astronomical distance, but by musical cohesiveness. Nor do they depict the planets in a scientific sense; instead, they present a deeply personal astrological interpretation, something we'll explore as we discuss the piece.

The orchestration is massive yet subtle, with colors unique both to the work itself and to Holst's output more broadly. It is easy to listen to and straightforward, while also somehow intensely complex and varied. It is powerful, Romantic, thrilling, joyous, mysterious, terrifying, and ultimately cosmic in both conception and execution.

This is one of those pieces that people love without necessarily giving it the full respect it deserves. So today on the show, we'll learn a little about Holst's life, what led him to write The Planets, and why this piece grabs hold of us and doesn't let go throughout our journey through the stars. Join us!

In the 1960s, Leonard Bernstein famously helped to popularize the music of a then relatively obscure composer, Gustav Mahler. His work, as well as the work of other conductors, made Mahler into a classical-music household name. Mahler's symphonies are played every year all over the world, and he is firmly ensconced in the so-called canon of standard orchestral repertoire.

Would it surprise you to know that Franck's D Minor Symphony once had the same reputation? It was played almost every year by most major orchestras, it was recorded by all the great conductors, and it was a fixture of the canon just like a Brahms symphony. Nowadays you would be lucky if, outside of France and Belgium, you hear Franck's Symphony once every five years, if that.

The truth is that, other than a short golden period for this symphony, it has either been controversial (around the time it was premiered) or ignored (nowadays), which is a real shame, since it is a glorious piece that I would argue is drastically underrated in our modern world. The symphony was radically innovative for its time, which probably explains some of the more virulent criticism it received, but even though those innovations now sound completely normal to our ears, they are still at the heart of what makes this symphony so profoundly satisfying to listen to.

Ahead of my performances of the symphony in Lille this December, I wanted to dive in and explore this unfairly ignored masterpiece. In about 40 minutes of music in three grand movements, Franck pours his soul into this work. That phrase sounds a bit cliché, I know, but I really mean it; there is an earnestness about this music that I find deeply moving, and it is something we will explore together today.

We will talk about Franck's late entry into the world of composition, his reputation as an organist, and the challenges he faced in finding acceptance as a composer. Along the way, we will discuss this gorgeous piece in all of its passion and intensity. Join us!