#harp concerto

[mikrokosmos]

Mozart - Masterpost

For his birthday today (1/27) I compiled all of the blog posts I've written about his music over the years on this blog. There's so much more to write about for a composer with as significant an output as Wolfgang...I hope you enjoy anything you haven't heard yet!

Opera

Abduction from the Seraglio

Masses

Requiem in d minor

Symphonies

Symphony no.25 in g minor

Symphony no.36 in C Major, “Linz”

Symphony no.38 in D Major, “Prague”

Symphony no.41 in C Major, “Jupiter”

Concertos

Piano Concerto no.15 in Bb Major

Piano Concerto no.20 in d minor

Piano Concerto no.24 in c minor

Piano Concerto no.25 in C Major

Violin Concerto no.1 in Bb Major

Violin Concerto no.3 in G Major, “Strasbourg”

Violin Concerto no.5 in A Major “Turkish”

Clarinet Concerto in A Major

Double Concerto for Flute and Harp in C Major

Horn Concerto no.1 in D Major

Piano

Adagio in b minor

Piano Sonata no.8 in a minor

Piano Sonata no.11 in A Major

Piano Sonata no.18 in D Major, “The Hunt"

Sonata for Two Pianos in D Major

Sonata for Piano, Four Hands in F Major

Chamber Music

Clarinet Quintet in A Major

Clarinet Trio in Eb Major, “Kegelstatt”

String Quintet no.1 in Bb Major

String Quintet no.2 in c minor

String Quintet no.4 in g minor

String Quintet no.6 in Eb Major

Piano Quartet no.1 in g minor

Piano Quartet no.2 in Eb Major

Serenade no.10 in Bb Major, “Gran Partita

Divertimento for 2 Horns and String Quartet, “A Musical Joke"

Violin Sonata no.21 in e minor

Misc.

17 Church Sonatas

[lesser-known-composers]

Einojuhani Rautavaara (1928-20160 - Harp Concerto: I. Pesante ·

Marielle Nordmann, harp

Conductor: Leif Segerstam with the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra

[dreamysdelight]

Cello, Harp, Theremin, and Flute Music >>>>

[sleepinginmygrave]

save me harp concertos

[supercantaloupe]

YESSSS VIOLIN CONCERTO BRACKET START FISTFIGHTS !!! also more generally a concerto bracket would be so fun. rach piano 2 vs shostakovich cello 1. fight -lexi

the thing is if you tried to do a concerto bracket for all instruments the violins would sweep anyway no matter what LOL. so much of it is a numbers game in this case. like i remember the music festival i played one summer with a concerto competition with separate sections for "violins" "young violins" "lower strings" "literally everybody else"...maybe someone could run a bracket like that, do separate prelim brackets for violins, pianos, lower strings, and wind/brass, and then put the winners from those individual brackets together in a final? no matter what i think it would be Hilarious to see the violin players of tumblr ripping each other to shreds over like. brahms vs tchaikovsky or whatever

[weirdo-daylist]

[egaskell]

waking up and listening to bbc radio 3’s Sunday morning classical music programme…. i am hurtling towards 80

[cassowary-rapture]

I've listened to piano concertos and cello concertos and violin concertos but

FUCKING HARP CONCERTOS

[noonthemoon]

actually now that I'm thinking about it. If svsss characters had themes what would be the most prominent instrument in those themes?

I feel like the most obvious one is shang qinghua with really buzz-y quickly moving upper strings- think the main melody of flight of the bumblebee. mobei-jun with the glockenspiel OR jingle bells that'd be funny. liu qingge has trumpets, liu mingyan has trombones or french horns, both of them are very forte and come in in bursts with sharp enunciation. I don't have the vibes for Chinese traditional instruments down enough for anyone EXCEPT mushroom sqq specifically is a 葫芦丝 or a bamboo flute-obviously normally he's a very calm guqin. shen jiu is a pedal harp (and a guqin) and I think his theme should be in a sharp minor. yue qingyuan has a very sonorous double bass or cello, and his theme is a concertino! I'm so tempted to just give all the demons bells lol- sha hualing has the name for it! She's probably got a clarinet, and a very staccato feel. ning yingying could have a upright piano, and her theme is a etude disguised as a waltz. zhuzhi-lang is a flute but specifically a flute theme that doesn't go two ledger lines above the staff(pretty midrange for a flute!) tianlang-jun has a proper orchestral symphony (very long...) su xiyan has a violin concerto but one with very minimal backing I think. luo binghe has a ukulele(luo bingge is an electric guitar)

[imakemywings]

Spotify | Youtube

i. Exploration Amy Turk, Julia K ii. Les Sylphides VII. Waltz No. 7 in C-sharp Minor Ludwig van Beethoven, Berliner Philharmoniker iii. Mal di Luna Summer Watson iv. Little Bird The Weepies v. Shenandoah Hayley Westenra vi. Hope in the Air Laura Marling vii. Concerto for Flute and Harp, K.299; 2nd Movement Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Academy of St. Martin in the Fields viii. Wasting My Young Years London Grammar ix. La Folia - Madness Antonio Vivaldi, Apollo's Fire x. Paradise Coldplay xi. The Tower Ramin Djawadi xii. Henry in Solitude Trevor Morris xiii. Greenpath Christpher Larkin xiv. Noble Maiden Fair Emma Thompson xv. The Journey Home John Doan xvi. Women of Ireland Joanie Madden xvii. Sacred Stones Sheila Chandra xviii. The Sixth Station Joe Hisaishi xix. Lullaby for a Stormy Night Vienna Teng xx. A Day Without Rain Enya xxi. Snow Loreena McKennitt xxii. When the Sun Rises in the West Ramin Djawadi

Track explanations and headcanons under the cut. Photo credit to Alice Alinari on Unsplash.

Exploration - Chenelo at home in the Barizheisei court. Her father, Great Avar Maru, wants his second daughter to be an empress and many in the Ethuveraz want more trade between the Ethuveraz and Barizhan. With the help of the Barizheisei, the Corazhas push recently-widowed Emperor Varenechibel towards a marriage alliance between them.

Mal di Luna - Marriage to Varenechibel. On the day of her wedding the Barizheisei spare no expense to make 16-year-old Chenelo one of the most visually memorable royal brides in their house's history, including a spectacular hand-laced veil to hide the underbite not uncommon in the Barizheisei royal house. Nevertheless, when the time comes, Verenechibel hesitates so long in giving his vows the goblins begin to shift in their seats, worrying he has changed his mind and will reject her at the altar. The relief Chenelo feels when they exchange their vows will turn to wistful irony in later years, for his last-minute change of heart might have spared her a great deal.

Shenandoah - Chenelo misses her home. She has never traveled to the Elflands before her marriage and no one is particularly keen to help her see and understand her new home.

Hope in the Air - Alone in the Untheileneise court, wed to a man who plainly did not and does not want her and with her letters home infrequently returned (and never from her father), Chenelo begins to feel she had been sacrificed by her father and her homeland, the lamb to bind them closer to the Untheileneise no matter how little the Untheileneise actually wanted her. As a dutiful daughter of the house, Chenelo feels this is a poor payback for her loyalty.

Wasting My Young Years - The joy of Chenelo's youth is slowly drained away by the stress and loneliness of the court. When the extent of Varenechibel's displeasure with his goblin bride becomes clear, the rest of the court is disinclined to show her any favor either, choosing instead to either ignore her or treat her with petty cruelty. Varenechibel’s sons and their families act as if she does not exist, and many of lower rank in the court take delight in tormenting an empress who seems ill-equipped to fight back. “The Hobgoblin” becomes a common nickname to address her in the court, sometimes to her face. The more Chenelo tries to make peace with them, the more dismissive and cutting their behavior becomes.

Concerto for Flute - Chenelo spends a great deal of time in the gardens of the palace, where she can wander alone and not have to hear the unfavorable comparisons to the late Empress Pazhiro being made about her. Outside of the chapel, where she can be found praying for hours a day, this is the most reliable place to find her.

Paradise - Chenelo continues to dream of a more hopeful future, even if it feels increasingly unrealistic. The discovery of her pregnancy gives her more confidence, as she feels certain that this, at least, is something of her duty she has done right--she can bear an heir for Varenechibel, even if he already has heirs and spares aplenty. However, when her announcement over dinner is met with Varenechibel throwing his wine glass at the wall and stalking out of the room without a word, she grasps that there is nothing she can do to please him or win his favor. Alone with the palace guards and servants--for she had requested a private dinner with her husband that night--she weeps for her failure.

The Tower - Exile from the Untheileneise court. The last effort Chenelo makes to connect with Varenechibel is to inquire as to his thoughts on names for the baby. When he tells her it doesn't matter, because the child will never inherit, and he doesn't care what she calls it, Chenelo gives up on the idea that even this might someday please her husband. Days after an uneventful birthing, Varenechibel's head of staff informs her she is to be confined at Isavorë. Misunderstanding this as a confinement merely during her recovery from the birth, Chenelo politely goes. If she had understood the truth--that Varenechibel was setting her aside, that he never meant for her to return to court--she would have fought harder to stay, but by the time she realized what had happened, she was miles away from the court and isolated from anyone who might have the political power to aid her. She had spent less than a year at the Untheileneise court.

Henry in Solitude – Alone in Isavorë. As weeks turn to months, and Maia’s first birthday approaches, Chenelo begins to understand there will be no messenger from Varenechibel welcoming her back to his side. There are no visitors to Isavorë, and the servants maintain a polite distance in the face of Chenelo’s best efforts to befriend them. She realizes they have been relegated along with her, that she has damned them with her own fate, and she despairs of failing everyone around her. Desperate, she writes to her father back home in Barizhan, but this letter goes unanswered with all the rest. She fears this will be the end of efforts to mend relations between Barizhan and the Ethuveraz, and she is as painfully lonely as she has ever been.

Greenpath - Settling in at Isavorë. As an honored daughter of the royal house of the Barizheisei, it had been impressed on Chenelo how critical it was that she win over the Untheileneise court, and she had worked as hard as she could to be charming and knowledgeable of their history and culture and open to adopting the customs of her new home, and this rejection cuts to the core to think of how she had failed in her duty. However, away from Varenechibel's constant disapproval and cutting indifference, away from the cruelty of the court, Chenelo had the freedom to do as she liked. One of her first decisions after deciding to make Isavorë more of a home is on how to arrange the gardens to please her, and so that a child might find them a suitable playground.

Noble Maiden Fair - Lullaby with Maia. While Chenelo privately does consider that without her pregnancy, life in the court might have gone smoother for her, and she might have had more time to win allies, or at least not to alienate Varenechibel, she cannot bring herself to regret her newborn son--nor is she sorry he will grow up far away from either royal court. Although a wet nurse and a governess are provided for her use, Chenelo chooses to raise Maia largely by herself, in part simply to occupy herself—Isavorë does not provide a wealth of entertainment options.

Sacred Stones – In Isavorë, Chenelo is free to engage in the piety and religiosity that earned her scorn in the Untheileneise court. She passes on these thoughts and meditations to her son, Maia.

The Sixth Station - Chenelo continues trying to write her family and the few acquaintances she made at the Untheileneise court, but even those rare responses never even entertain the idea of coming to visit her. Her older sister replies with a scolding letter, chiding Chenelo for trying to rely on her old family rather than making allies among the Utheileneise. Spurned by her family, Chenelo spends even more time at prayer, and burns through candles at quite the rate. She continues to hope that Varenechibel will relent, and allow her and Maia to return to court, in spite of its unlikeliness—and privately, the even less likely event that her father will invite her to return to Barizhan with her son.

Snow – Long winter nights in Isavorë. Although Chenelo has found some peace away from Varenechibel and his family and allies, it is still a deeply isolated place. Although she has her son for company, Chenelo longs for adult friends and connections which she believes are impossible with the servants who were exiled to Isavorë with her and whom, she feels, resent her for their position, though they are never cruel. There are no similarly-aged friends with whom Maia might play—someone in Varenechibel’s staff made an effort to send primarily unwed or widowed servants—and the effort of keeping up the appearance of her spirits for his sake weighs on Chenelo. She spends long hours looking out at the horizon.

When the Sun Rises in the West – Death of Chenelo. After a long wasting illness, a thin shadow of the version of her who had arrived in Isavorë, her formerly plump figure worn away to almost nothing, Chenelo passes away. Only in the final weeks of her illness does she speak at all to Maia of her marriage to Varenechibel and her time at court, though she claims she does not regret it, as it gave her Maia, and the precious years they spent together. When it becomes clear to her that she will not survive her illness, she is consumed with fear for Maia, seeing that with her gone, he will have no protectors, and his father has never even troubled to meet him. She writes a letter to Varenechibel on Maia’s behalf to plead that her son be given just a minor position in court, nothing to compete with his older half-siblings, or be permitted to maintain the Isavorë estate, but Varenechibel’s staff who come to collect Maia from Isavorë throw the letter out without ever delivering it to the emperor, presuming it will only irritate him to receive it. Chenelo is 26.

[lesser-known-composers]

Reinhold Glière (1874-1956) - Concerto for Harp and Orchestra in E-flat major, Op. 74 (1938)

I. Allegro moderato II. Tema con variazioni (11:13) III. Allegro giocoso (23:20)

Claire Jones, harp and the English Chamber Orchestra conducted by Paul Watkins

[chairofchaos]

51 pls bestieee - maybe a neschei 👀👀 or azris

(hehhehehe)

This does contain prompt 1, but prompt 51 had too much potential with Azris for me to let it go. Since you have given me such latitude in what I write for you, I offer you a work with two of my favorite pieces of music. This is what I listened to (and imagined them dancing to!) while I wrote this drabble. Also, it is slightly over 1000 words but I'm still counting it as a drabble. Enjoy!

xxx

Still, They Dance | Azris Drabble

The music of the chamber orchestra drifted out to meet them on the front steps of the event hall. The last of the guests had trickled out the door, but Eris Vanserra still wanted one thing out of his mating ceremony.

“May I have this dance?” he turned to offer a hand to the male standing at his side. Azriel turned, lowering his hand raised in parting to their guests, and smiled. 

“You’ve had many,” Azriel grinned, placing his hand in Eris’. “And I would never deny you another.”

Eris turned, guiding Azriel back inside. “I lied when I told you I hired them for four hours. They’re here until midnight, or until we get tired.”

Azriel’s shadows swirled about their hands, but their master said nothing, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

“Did you enjoy it all?” Eris broke the silence as they approached the ballroom’s doorway.

“Yes,” Azriel nodded. “More than I even thought I would. Did you?”

Eris grinned as they stepped into the candlelit hall. “More than I can express.”

As they returned, the harpist’s opening arpeggio led the instrumentalists in a beautiful, arching piece of music. Eris placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder and smiled. Azriel leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Eris’ temple as the music grew and breathed about them. “Ready?” he whispered. One of his hands settled at Eris’ waist, the other lifting Eris’ free hand into position.

 Eris smiled, though Azriel couldn’t see him. “Always.”

They began to dance, Azriel leading them through the steps of the dance they had first danced publicly the previous spring at Nyx’s fifth birthday party. The music was over far too soon, but when the couple continued the steps, the conductor queued the musicians to begin the piece again. 

Three, then four times, they danced around the room, losing themselves in the music and the harmony of each other, a quiet camaraderie that had built between them in secret over the last seven decades. 

No words were said. None were needed. This, the arching give and take of the violin and the harp, the longing of their music come to fruition at last, said all they needed to say.

Once the piece had been played until each time had bled together into an extensive, living thing, they stilled in the center of the room. The music’s final cadence faded, and the musicians hesitated a moment before continuing with a new piece. 

Azriel’s hand at Eris’ hip had slowly moved to his lower back, pressing them closer and closer as they danced. Now, they stood, facing each other with chests brushing as they simply breathed in, and out, and in once more. 

Eris broke their stillness, moving to pull his hand from Azriel’s, but Azriel gripped his hand tight with a broad smile. “One more.”

Eris nodded, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. “One more.” 

Azriel pulled him closer, resting his cheek against Eris’ before beginning to lead him in a slow dance, hardly moving at all beyond the gentle swaying of their bodies. 

Eris willed the flames of the candles to dim slightly, casting the room in a fainter glow. His thoughts wandered. He and Azriel were mated, pure and simple. The bond was accepted. They would never be separate again. And Eris was filled with an immense gratitude with the male who recognized that Eris would dance until the end of time, if he could.

The dates of their courtship had been varied, but steadily, one thing had become a tradition. On Saturday nights, Azriel would take Eris dancing. It didn’t matter where, or what kind, but Azriel would dance with Eris in taverns, dance halls, alleys outside restaurants they ate at where a quartet played, even rooftops, when they had been courting in secret. They danced.

After their first night spent together, instead of going to sleep, Azriel had all but insisted that they dance ‘just one dance’, and so they had, one, then another, and another, dancing in embers of firelight kept alive only through Eris’ will until dawn broke. 

“I love you,” Eris whispered. He felt Azriel’s smile against his cheek before he heard the answering “I love you.” 

He pulled back, just enough to see Azriel’s half hooded gaze fixed on him, before drawing Azriel in for a kiss. Azriel held him, swaying all the while. Shadows drifted lazily about their shoulders, a physical manifestation of the bond which tied them together.

“To the rest of our lives,” Azriel whispered.

“Forever,” Eris answered. Azriel’s smile grew wider, and he reached up to his neck to grab Eris’ left hand. He pulled it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to Eris’ wrist, then a longer one to his palm. All the while, he held Eris’ eye contact. Eris could feel the flush growing on his cheeks, the temperature between and around them slowly starting to warm as his blood stirred. 

It had been a long day, and it would be a long night. Azriel pressed a kiss to Eris’ mating ring before pressing one last long kiss to his palm and stepped back, tilting his head. ‘Time to Go?’ his gaze asked.

Eris nodded. “Thank you.” 

Azriel smiled.  “You never need to thank me for loving you.” 

Eris smiled in return. Azriel swept Eris into his arms, wrapping them in his wings and kissing him. Eris leaned into his muscular mate, hands fisting in his tunic. Azriel cradled his face in his hands, tilting his head to deepen their kiss before they broke apart, panting.

“I love you,” Eris said.

“I love you, too,” Azriel grinned, kissing him again. Then he began to slowly walk them towards the door, pressing kisses all over his mate’s face as he did so.

“Thank you!” Eris called in the direction of the musicians. They said nothing, but Eris could hear them begin to talk quietly among themselves. It sounded as though they were amused.

“Let them talk,” Azriel murmured. “Let’s go.”

Eris laughed. “Alright, alright. Come on, you big Illyrian baby. Let’s go to bed.”

Azriel pulled back, his darkened eyes filled with affection. “To bed.”

It was not an end, but a beginning. The ceremony had been the end of a movement in an orchestration that would last centuries, through the phrases and phases of life. And all the while, come high or low, they would dance.

xxx Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian @c-starstuff-man0 @dusk-muse @lilah-asteria

[lahija-del-molinero]

Mozart Concerto for Flute Harp and Orchestra in C major, K 299 - complete

[devoraqs]

Duet (Concerto Re Maggiore)

Pairing: Ilyacha (Julian/Alexander)

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: Alexander by his own admission is more magician than musician, but a chance meeting with a handsome vielle-wielding sailor in Venterre leads to quite a special performance indeed.

—

Over the hubbub of a crowded marketplace floated the glassy, sweet timbre of harp strings, glittering and filtering through the noise like the sunbeams that streamed through the trellises and awnings of the surrounding shops. Alexander was decidedly a bit out of practice when it came to playing in public, musical showmanship was not something that had ever come particularly easily to him, but he was stuck in this city (Sableblanc-sur-Mer, he reminded himself, a port on the eastern coast of Venterre) overnight while waiting for the next ship across the Golden Gulf and back to Zadith. Stuck here, with only a satchel full of books and his old knee harp. The books had long since been read, and reread, cover to cover, and so he had turned instead to the instrument.

He had found himself a shaded little alcove a ways off from a cluster of cafés and wine shops, propping himself against the wall with the harp a surprisingly comforting weight across his lap. Slowly, methodically, he picked at the strings. His fingers were stilted, the rhythm of scales and arpeggios retained through muscle memory disjointed and staccato from lack of attention. His brows knit at a wrong note here, his lower lip set at a pout at a clumsy run there. Halfway through a passage he noticed a few people watching, he completely slipped his fingering and an accidental sounded with a calamitous twang.

Glowering, he quickly stoppered the strings before the duff note could travel too far, and refrained from doing anything until the onlookers had lost interest and melted back into the masses.

How annoying it was, knowing that he could only get better through practice and any natural talent within him had run its course. Practice would make perfect, he knew that much from years of perfecting magic work, experiments, but it was this practice that he never really found time for, admittedly.

Not that that had stopped him ever enjoying the actual act of music making, it was something different from spellwork and science and swordplay, something to get lost in. He flexed his hands, righted his position, and strummed a few glissandi from the thicker, rumbling lower strings to the thin twinkling high register. He tried an arpeggio, a run of a short melody from a half remembered song.

Neglect of practice aside, a decade and some of musicianship had set a certain dexterity in him, in his hands, that bit by bit began to flow with each pluck of string. It was not wholly unlike the weaving of a spell, learned precision slowly becoming familiar til in a breath it is second nature.

Alexander wove this spell, became blissfully lost at last, and played.

The notes dropped through the air like beads of crystalline water into a pond. He still hit a few wrong notes, forgot to change a lever, misplaced his fingering, but it didn’t matter. He found he could ignore the crowded square, ignore any eyes and ears that had turned his way. He went on whatever whim swayed him, flitting from the Nalban and Cumbran folksongs he’d grown up with, to new Vesuvian concerti, to snatches of street songs he’d heard over in Zadith and here in Venterre, and all the way back round again.

Halfway through the energetic last movement of a concerto, his reverie was broken.

“Is that Albiviozza’s violin concerto?”

Alexander jumped, his hands twitched and fumbled, and clumsily tangled in the strings with a discordant clatter.

Gods strike it all.

“It was,” he muttered indignantly, his frown cutting a deep, displeased line into his forehead.

He looked up to where the accosting voice had come from. There was a man standing there, a little older perhaps than Alexander himself, clad in well worn travelling garb that Alexander could just about place as being mostly from the salt flats near the southern sea, but with an eclectic mix of other clothes and accessories from around the world piled on top of the patterned cloth, all coated with a layer dust and sea-fresh salt. His curly auburn hair flowed loose and long, perhaps a touch longer than Alexander’s own unruly mane scraped into a ponytail, and across his broad shoulders was slung a slightly battered-looking case of some sort.

“So sorry, my good fellow,” the man continued brightly, “didn’t mean to disturb you,”

“I’m sure.”

“But it’s a magnificent concerto, and it’s good to hear it played with such gusto.”

Alexander glanced him up and down quizzically; he seemed to be genuine. There was something just so about the man’s easy smile, the twinkle in his grey eyes, the warm joviality in his tone that made Alexander’s ire, and the cleft between his brows, dissipate.

“Thank you,” he said, “it’s a favourite of mine, especially that last movement, with the call and response passage towards the end. I can’t quite do it justice on my own, I’ll admit, I’m not a proper musician and it’s not meant to be for harp at all, let alone a little knee harp like this-” he cut himself off before his tongue could run away with him into a tirade of nervous babble, “uh. Um. Anyway, yes. Thank you. Again.”

The man tilted his head,

“You know, I know the movement well too. Back of my hand, from memory. I wonder,” he shrugged the case off his back, “may I play with you?”

Alexander eyed the case, eyed the man, eyed his own fidgeting fingers that were itching to play more. The stranger’s enthusiasm was infectious,

“Alright then.”

His grin was radiant as the midday sun.

He made quick work of setting the case down and flipping the latches open. Inside was a large, old-looking, yet clearly lovingly well maintained string instrument. There was a pattern in the wood, carved delicately into the body and the five pegs that adorned the headscroll. It was a vielle. With a flourish, the man lifted the instrument under his chin and produced a sleek, arcing bow from the case. Alexander watched as, with practised ease, he briskly tuned each string. Even with those simple open strings, Alexander couldn’t help but marvel at the rich sound. It suited the man, he thought, it matched the vibrancy and timbre of his voice. The deep russet wood complemented his hair, too, as did the bold curves of the body of the instrument to the wide set of the man’s shoulders, the strong, flowing lines of his arms and Alexander was suddenly, painfully aware that he was staring, so dropped his eyes quickly back to his own strings to reset the levers.

“Re maggiore, yes?” the man asked. Alexander nodded.

A moment of eye contact, an unspoken connection. A shared breath in, a preparation. Fingers poised over strings, twitching around the heel of a bow. Exhale.

Then, in perfect tandem, the downbeat.

The last movement of Leonato Albiviozza’s Concerto in Re Maggiore per Violino e Orchestra was vivace, lively. It pulsed with energy from the first quaver, a furious yet triumphant arpeggiated run with an energetic basso continuo line that drove the action forward. The true, full orchestration here would have featured a cembalo and theorbo filling out the depths of that bass, and the rest of the string family assembled to provide strength and texture with a solo violin soaring over the top. Alexander had heard it performed once in some concert hall in Vesuvia, it had been thrilling.

Notably, there was no provision for a Cumbran knee harp and a vielle, and yet the arrangement of this impromptu performance worked. The glistening thrum of harpstring and the rich voice of the vielle blended seamlessly as Alexander took on the continuo and accompaniment while the stranger flew through the solo line.

Alexander had not played in ensemble for a good long while, let alone experienced the trust and nigh intimacy needed for a duet, but he didn’t feel any apprehension, any hesitation. He’d never met this man before, he didn’t even know his name, yet they had found an instant synergy through this music. It was as though there was a thread formed of silvergold starlight and heartstring linking them from hearts and lungs and minds, like it was their souls in wordless conversation alongside their instruments. When one of them coloured a phrase, the other was able to pick up on it in an instant, their articulation was synchronised, reciprocal push-pull, give and take. Each little cue, each little detail.

It was truly playing together, rather than merely two people playing the same piece at the same time. With a deal of hindsight Alexander might have chastised himself as being too fanciful, overly invested in random streetside busking with a complete stranger. But in the moment he gave little regard to the logic of that reasoning, there was no room for it amidst the music.

The man’s thick brows were arched in concentration, similarly to how Alexander’s own must be, yet his face was the picture of determination and of the joy of sheer relishing the sound, the connection, the all-encompassing feeling of shared musicality. Wordlessly, Alexander shared in that joy too, the ostinato of his pounding heartbeat a further addition to Albiviozzi’s score, one that could only be felt rather than heard; he didn’t know it but the stranger’s racing pulse was a perfect match, feeling each striking drumbeat reverberate through his own veins.

They had attracted a small audience of passersby and cafe patrons, intrigued by the sound. Street performers were commonplace in big port cities like this, there was usually a handful littered around a street corner, but the gusto with which the two ad hoc buskers were playing and the sparkling, wordless rapport that was flying between them seemed to reel people in. As loath as Alexander usually was to have an audience, he found he rather didn’t mind this time, any doubt or self-consciousness had long been eclipsed by concentration on the music. The music, and the man he was playing it with.

They had by now reached the section that Alexander had mentioned previously, where the soloist and accompanist played antiphonally. But here, with two people, it had become less of a ‘call and response’ and more a conversation. A declaration. Two voices speaking to each other through melody. It wasn’t especially technically tricky, but what got lost when trying to play solo was the intent, the colour, the nuance. The stranger played the call phrase, a vigorous major ascending scale that sprung into an arpeggio,

We’re nearly at the end now, what a triumph,

And Alexander the response, an answering run of arpeggios tumbling down his strings and back up again,

We play well together,

Then the two phrases joined together in polyphony, circling each other like partners on a dancefloor, whirling joyously until they hit the final phrase. Alexander felt his actual partner’s rallentando like it were his own breath, his own thought, and in deliberate tandem, they hit the final, perfect cadence.

A flicker of silence. A pause, a spell.

Then, a burst of applause. Alexander breathed out a heavy, satisfied sigh. He caught the man’s eye and smiled. The man’s face had gone a touch red from exertion, but he returned Alexander’s grin roguishly, before throwing his head back and laughing,

“Now, it’s not every day you get to do that.”

“Definitely not.”

The crowd began to disperse, a handful congratulated them on a job well done for which Alexander, now once again very self aware, sheepishly thanked them. His partner basked in the praise,

“And would you believe it, I’ve known this fellow all of twenty minutes!”

Alexander’s cheeks flushed hot, and he dipped his head to try and hide it. Then, they were left alone, cloaked by the hustle and bustle of the city around them.

“Well then,” the man said exuberantly, stretching his shoulders out, “I have to say, my friend, we make quite the team.”

Alexander quirked his lips,

“I’d have to agree. And… well, thank you for asking me to play.”

“Thank you for obliging. Though I did think at first, from the look on your face, you were going to tell me to piss off.”

“Well… I did consider it. But when else will a stranger be so brazen as to ask me to play a violin concerto in broad daylight with a fiddle and a harp?”

“When indeed,” he said, cocking an eyebrow and holding out his hand, “Julian.”

Alexander shook it, warm and calloused and still brimming with energy,

“Alexander. You know… in all seriousness, I haven’t played like that in a while. It was good. We play well together.”

The man smiled again, different now, taking in the details of Alexander’s face and lingering on his eyes, his mouth,

“We do.”

A few people had flipped some gold pieces into the open vielle case; Julian eyed them, then flicked his gaze back up to Alexander’s, eyes lidded and shapely lips teased upward into a knowing smile,

“Perhaps, Alexander, I might buy you a drink with our spoils?”

[weirdo-daylist]

[sgiandubh]

Sunday sounds: a change of heart

When Haendel wrote his Organ Concerto in B-flat, Op. 4, No. 6, around 1738, little did he know its posterity would likely be a bit different, and for the better. What was originally planned as a simple interlude to more serious works, turned into pure magic, with the help of a clever change of heart and solo instrument.

From organ to harp and tailored for the Welsh virtuoso William Powell. Here, in a splendid rendition by the Spanish TV and Radio Orchestra. Featuring the Basque Nicanor Zabaleta, perhaps the best harpist who ever graced this Earth: