Here! Now! Imperative: not to be avoided: necessary. In a typical week, the show will cover not only all the big news stories, but also the stories behind the stories, or some of the less crucial but equally intriguing things happening in the world.
Here! Now! Imperative: not to be avoided: necessary. In a typical week, the show will cover not only all the big news stories, but also the stories behind the stories, or some of the less crucial but equally intriguing things happening in the world.
Leonard Bernstein was in a fix. The man he’d supported for the presidency of the United States was to be inaugurated the next day, and he was to launch a gala celebration at the White House with his own newly composed fanfare. But Washington’s streets were nearly impassable, choked by a blizzard.
It took a police escort, but Bernstein made it to the White House. Under the circumstances, a side trip to his hotel for a change of clothes was out of the question, so on the evening of 19 January, 1961, Leonard Bernstein conducted the 30-second Fanfare for JFK without his tails. The best he could do was a borrowed, outsize dress shirt as he led an orchestra assembled from musicians who’d plowed their way through the daunting weather.
Not that a lack of formal wear was going to exclude Leonard Bernstein from the Kennedy White House. He and John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been friends for years. Both were Harvard graduates; they’d met while appearing in a mid-1950s television special about life at the school. Politically, Bernstein had deeply held progressive leanings, so backing Kennedy was natural for him. He was also close to first lady Jacqueline Kennedy.
Leonard Bernstein conducts, 24 Nov 1963 (Columbia Broadcasting System)
Two years and 10 months later, Leonard Bernstein – with all Americans – recoiled in shock and horror as the news reached him: an assassin’s bullet had ended the dynamic young president’s life.
Two days after those harrowing events of 22 November 1963, Bernstein took to television’s CBS network to deliver a musical memorial to his friend. He led the New York Philharmonic in a work he’d recorded just that year – Gustav Mahler’s transcendent, transformative "Resurrection" Symphony. Assisting him were soloists Lucine Amara and Jennie Tourel, and the Schola Cantorum of New York.
Bernstein’s hastily arranged concert was not the first classical music broadcast to honor the nation’s fallen president.
In times of deep public mourning, America has, since at least the 1945 death of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, almost universally turned to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Despite its emotional intensity, the work projects both simplicity and strength. Even those unfamiliar with it find that it helps them compose their minds and hearts. The major US television networks aired the Barber Adagio when the president’s death was announced.
Their choice was apt, and not just because of tradition. The Adagio was one of President Kennedy’s favorite works. His widow Jacqueline Kennedy requested that the National Symphony Orchestra perform it on Monday the 25th, the same day as the president’s funeral mass. They played to an empty hall, but the concert was broadcast.
The first known classical music concert broadcast in the late president’s memory took place in Boston much earlier – just minutes after his death had been announced.
On the afternoon of the 22nd, the Boston Symphony was set to play a concert to air live over Boston public radio station WGBH. Minutes before the scheduled 2:00pm start of the program – 1:00 Dallas time – Boston Symphony librarian William Shisler received an urgent message from music director Erich Leinsdorf.
Shisler already knew that the president had been shot. He’d been working in the library, and his wife had called with the news. Now Leinsdorf told him to locate and distribute the music for Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. The musicians were already onstage. Quickly, Shisler explained to each what had happened.
The WGBH announcer introduced the first scheduled work, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Le Coq d’Or suite. The engineer brought up the microphones.
But instead of raising his baton, Leinsdorf turned to the audience and spoke: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a press report over the wires – we hope that it is unconfirmed, but we have to doubt it – that the president of the United States has been the victim of an assassination. We will play the funeral march from Beethoven’s third symphony."
Isaac Stern, 1963 (University Musical Society)
That same fateful Friday afternoon in November, violinist Isaac Stern was at the Dallas airport. He was en route to a Saturday concert date with the San Antonio Symphony when he too learned that the president had been murdered.
Stern was slated to play the Sibelius concerto, but at the next morning’s rehearsal, he found that he simply couldn’t. It wasn’t in his heart. That evening, Stern wept as he played the Bach Chaconne in tribute to his fallen friend. The orchestra sat, silent.
The president’s funeral mass was on Monday at Washington’s St Matthew’s Cathedral. It was a low mass, so no complete requiem setting was performed. However, the St Matthew’s Choir presented excerpts from Lorenzo Perosi’s requeim; and tenor Luigi Vena sang several sacred works, including Schubert’s Ave Maria. (Almost 46 years later, soprano Susan Graham sang the same Ave Maria at Senator Edward Kennedy’s funeral mass.)
Georges Bizet and Ernest Guiraud (Wikimedia Commons)
According to William Manchester, author of The Death of a President, Jacqueline Kennedy also requested that Vena sing a work that he had performed at her wedding.
What we usually call the Bizet Agnus Dei is indeed Bizet’s music, but it’s not really his setting. After Bizet’s death, his publisher asked Bizet’s friend, the American-born Ernest Guiraud, to arrange a second suite from Bizet’s incidental music for the play L’Arlesienne. Guiraud went further, fitting the sacred Agnus Dei text to the intermezzo from the suite.
The First Lady’s request wasn’t honored that Monday, but we’ll honor it this evening through a performance by tenor Luciano Pavarotti.
The full Requiem Mass for President Kennedy took place at Boston’s Holy Cross Cathedral almost two months later, on 19 January 1964 – exactly three years after Bernstein had conducted his fanfare at the president’s inauguration. Cardinal Cushing officiated.
The Requiem setting was Mozart’s. At Jacqueline Kennedy’s request, Erich Leinsdorf led the Boston Symphony along with the Chorus Pro Musica, the Harvard and Radcliffe Glee Clubs, and the Seminarians of St John’s. Soloists were soprano Saramae Endich, alto Eunice Alberts, tenor Nicholas DiVirgilio, and baritone Mac Morgan.
The performance was recorded and originally issued in 1964 as a 2-record set. A recent CD release was timed to coincide with this 50th anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination.
Warren Benson (Louis Ouzer)
Web exclusive: When percussionist and composer Warren Benson (1924-2005) began work on a new piece in 1963, his goal was simple: to create a wind band composition with a broad range of expression. The unrelenting energy of most existing band works "just wore you out by the time it was over," Benson said.
But then came November, and everything changed. "The news really devastated us," he said. "I guess it was on the next Monday that one of my percussion students brought in [the poem] Autumn by Rainer Maria Rilke. The first line captivated me because it seemed like everything was going to pot … the upbeat spirit of the Kennedy Administration had just been blown away."
Benson married his earlier musical ideas with the Lutheran hymn Ein Feste Burg to complete The Leaves Are Falling in honor of the late president’s legacy.
Listen to Warren Benson’s The Leaves Are Falling:
("The President’s Own" US Marines Band conducted by Colonel Michael J Colburn – courtesy USMC)
As we reflect on President Kennedy’s life and death, it’s worth remembering the part that music plays in helping us through our darkest moments.
At its core, music is organized sound. If we’re to bring order and peace to this disordered, violent world, the place to start is inside our own hearts, where music’s quiet rigor raises a bulwark against chaos. As Bernstein said the day after his 1963 memorial concert, "This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before."
Urlicht (Primal Light) From the German folk poetry collection Des Knaben Wunderhorn (The Youth’s Magic Horn)
O Röschen rot!
O little red rose!
Der Mensch liegt in größter Not!
Mankind lies in greatest need!
Der Mensch liegt in größter Pein!
Mankind lies in greatest pain!
Je lieber möcht’ ich im Himmel sein!
I would much rather be in Heaven!
Da kam ich auf einen breiten Weg;
Then I found myself on a broad path;
da kam ein Engelein und wollt’ mich abweisen.
Came then an angel who would divert me.
Ach nein! Ich ließ mich nicht abweisen!
No, no, I will not be diverted!
Ich bin von Gott und will wieder zu Gott!
I’m from God, and intend to return to God!
Der liebe Gott wird mir ein Lichtchen geben,
The loving God will grant me a small light,
wird leuchten mir bis in das ewig selig Leben!
will light me to blessed eternal life!
Herbst (Autumn) Rainer Maria Rilke
Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
The leaves fall, fall as if from afar,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
as if distant gardens withered in the skies;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.
they fall and shake their heads "no."
Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
And in the nights, the heavy earth falls,
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.
desolate, away from all the stars.
Wir alle fallen. Diese Hand da fällt.
We all fall. This hand falls.
Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.
And look at the others: it is in them all.
Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
And yet there is one who holds this falling
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält.
Endlessly, softly, in his own hands.
Translations: David Roden – Creative Commons 3.0 BY/NC/SA
The trumpet goes back a long, long way. Trumpeters are depicted in art from ancient Egypt, dated in the 14th century BCE.
For most of its centuries of existence, the trumpet was an instrument of royalty, used for playing fanfares. Frankly, that’s about all it was good for. These early trumpets couldn’t play all the notes of the scale. They played only the first few notes from the harmonic series, which is already a subset of the scale’s notes.
By the 16th century, instrument makers had figured out how to make trumpets play more of the notes from the harmonic series. Now, the further up you go in the harmonic series, the closer together the notes get. If you could push your trumpet far enough, and fudge the pitch of some notes a bit, you could play all the notes of the scale. By the 17th century, trumpets could actually be used to more or less play melodies.
I say "more or less" because they still didn’t do a very good job of it. It took a really talented (and fit!) player to get all the notes in tune. (Many of today’s period instrument specialists use trumpets with tiny, inconspicuous, and inauthentic "cheater holes" that help them with this challenge.) Even then, the timbre (tone quality) of the notes varied radically.
In the 15th century, a few instrument makers had experimented with adding slides (like a trombone’s) to trumpets. We have pictures! But given the design – they were straight trumpets – it’s hard to see how a player could’ve flung that slide around fast enough to play any but the slowest music. He might well have knocked his own front teeth out trying. For centuries more, trumpet players had to pretty much depend only on skill and lungs to coax a real tune from their instruments.
In the 17th century, Vienna became something of a Mecca for trumpet players. The very earliest trumpet players had been little more than vagrants, but Viennese trumpeters were given a place of honor. On high feast days the court’s string orchestra was augmented by a choir of trumpets, playing sonatas composed by the likes of Schmelzer and Biber.
But by the late 18th century the trumpet was going out of style, giving way to more agile and tonally consistent instruments. A few trumpeters, determined to salvage their careers, scrambled to develop a trumpet that could compete with the violin, flute, and oboe. Some of them achieved a measure of success by adding keys to the trumpet, so it could play all the notes of the scale, even in its lowest register.
Enter Anton Weidinger (1767 – 1852). Weidinger was a Viennese court trumpeter. Around 1793, he began experimenting with some of these keyed trumpets, refining them and practicing with them. By 1796 he was making enough progress that he convinced Haydn to write a concerto for his Klappentrompette (keyed trumpet). He took that concerto on the road in 1803, playing it in France, Germany, and England. Weidinger caught the interest of composer Johann Nepomuk Hummel, who composed yet another concerto for him and his curious keyed trumpet.
The critics had good things to say about Weidinger’s trumpet and his playing. But it was too late. By 1820 the valved trumpet had appeared in Vienna and was rapidly taking over. Weidinger’s keyed trumpet hung on for a little longer; some musicians and composers preferred its tone to the valved trumpet’s. But by 1840 the Klappentrompette was forgotten – obsolete.
Although the Baroque natural trumpet has no shortage of proponents (and makers and players), not many musicians have shown much interest in reviving the Klappentrompette. Who can blame them? After all, what’s the point of reviving an instrument for which only two major concertos were ever written? (See also the arpeggione.) Rainer Egger has built modern reproductions, as has Christopher Monk, but they don’t seem to have had many customers. The few recordings that have been made with their instruments have quickly gone out of print, presumably for lack of interest.
But if you’d like to see and hear the keyed trumpet, here’s a rare opportunity: David Guerrier playing the first movement of the Haydn, recorded at the Festival de l’Epau in May of 2009. He’s accompanied by the chamber orchestra "Les Siècles."
When Whoopi Goldberg moved into the convent as Sister Mary Clarence in the 1992 film Sister Act, the abbey was forever changed – or at least changed until Sister Act 2 a year later.
The music world might have seen a similar revelation and revolution, if not for society’s limitations on women in centuries past.
Consider two highly musical sisters, Maria Anna Mozart and Fanny Mendelssohn. Both received outstanding musical instruction. Both impressed thoughtful, unbiased contemporaries as immensely talented – equal to or perhaps even superior to their more famous brothers.
Maria Anna Mozart
As a child, Maria Anna Mozart (Nannerl) studied with her father Leopold. She and younger brother Wolfgang were both on show as prodigies, touring Western Europe and Vienna with their father.
Maria Anna developed into a thoroughly capable composer, an accomplished keyboardist, and a fine improviser. Her father proudly touted her talents: "My little girl plays the most difficult works with incredible precision … although she is only 12 years old, [she] is one of the most skillful players in Europe."
And yet, as little brother Wolfgang rapidly progressed, Papa Leopold put the brakes on his big sister’s career.
Despite her father’s restrictions, Maria Anna served as Wolfgang’s agent, inviting Haydn to her home and playing some of Wolfgang’s quartets for the older composer. And in one of her letters, Maria Anna said that she had been Wolfgang Mozart’s only music advisor. Indeed, Wolfgang sent her most of his piano concertos, at least up to #21. He expressed amazement at Maria Anna’s skill as a composer, and – despite Leopold’s admonitions – encouraged her to write more. Alas, none of her compositions survives.
As the decades passed, although no radical changes developed, the climate improved somewhat for women musicians.
In the early 1800s, another dynamic sister-brother duo appeared on the scene. Both prodigiously talented siblings in the prominent Mendelssohn family, Fanny and Felix, studied with the finest instructors that Berlin could offer, thanks to their father’s encouragement (and his substantial financial resources).
Fanny Mendelssohn wrote a significant amount of music. But if her brother Felix encouraged her to compose, he drew the line at publication. He wrote that publishing her music "would only disturb her" in her "primary duties" of managing the home.
Of course, he was just echoing the cultural norms of the day – and papa Abraham’s exhortation to his 14 year old daughter: "You must become more steady and collected, and prepare more earnestly and eagerly for your calling, the only calling of a young woman — that of a housewife … music will perhaps become [Felix’s] profession, but for you it can and must only be an ornament, never the root of your being and doing."
Despite these restraints, Fanny persevered. Her surviving works include over 250 lieder, a string quartet, an overture, a piano trio, 125 solo piano works, and four cantatas.
In one of her late songs, Dein ist mein Herz, Fanny Mendelssohn quotes the poet Nikolaus Lenau. She bares her soul to many of those who held her back – perhaps most pointedly to her brother, whom she adored: "The dearest thing I may acquire in songs that abduct my heart is a word to me that they please you, a silent glance that they touch you."
Elbe Watershed (Wikimedia Commons) Click to enlarge
In 2017, the North German Radio Orchestra will have a new home: they’ll move into the Elbphilharmonie (Elbe Philharmonic Hall), now under construction high above the banks of the Elbe River in Hamburg.
The Elbe is one of Europe’s most important rivers. Its source is in the Czech Republic, in the Krkonoše Mountains. It flows from there through Germany to the North Sea at Cuxhaven. Its many tributaries include the famous Moldau.
The city of Hamburg traces its origins to the 9th century. The confluence of the Elbe with the Alster – another of its tributaries – was the perfect place to locate a city.
Not surprisingly, Hamburg became a major European trading center. A vital, bustling industrial region grew up round its port. Even in this grim post-industrial 21st century, even with its once-thriving shipbuilding business in a free-fall, Hamburg is still Europe’s second busiest port.
The Elbphilharmonie will extend Hamburg’s musical heritage out to the Elbe River. But the Elbe has had centuries of links to music, and it can thank Baroque composer Georg Philipp Telemann for at least part of that.
Telemann moved to Hamburg in 1721 to become the city’s music director. He was in charge of teaching singing, theory, and music history to the boys at the Johanneum Lateinschule (Latin School), and served as composer and music director for the city’s 5 largest churches. (And you thought you had a full plate at work. Imagine all that and classrooms full of adolescent boys too.)
Although he once came close to defecting to Leipzig because of a dispute over his rights to publish his own music, Telemann remained in Hamburg for the rest of his life.
Hamburg’s prosperity was dependent on the trade rolling in and out of its bustling port. With Europe unstable and war-torn in those days, the city developed its own admiralty for defense. Every year Hamburg paid tribute to her fleet with a celebration. Yet another part of Telemann’s endless job was to compose the Kapitänsmusik (Captains’ Music) for that festival. It comprised a sacred oratorio and a secular instrumental piece.
Alas, most of the Kapitänsmusik pieces are lost. Fortunately, a few have survived. Probably the most famous survivor is the one Telemann wrote for the admiralty’s centennial in 1723. It includes the suite Hamburg’s Tides (also called Telemann’s Water Music). If you’re a regular Baroque Era listener, you may remember hearing Hamburg’s Tides.
Although we don’t have a definite date for it – far too few of Telemann’s pieces have come down to us as dated manuscripts – it’s possible that he composed the Alster Overture for another of these Kapitänsmusiken. He also might have written it for a 1725 Hamburg visit by the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg.
The Alster Overture is a mildly chaotic mix of images. Greek mythology kicks in Pallas, Pan and Peleus. Nature and the works of humanity make appearances through the Alster Echo and Hamburg’s church bells. Sailors and nymphs dance through, and a band of village musicians marches by. A swan sings its song and, infamously, a chorus of frogs and crows makes its presence known:
In 2013, the Elbe River is still a vital part of life, musical and otherwise, in Germany and the Czech Republic. But living near any river has its risks, and earlier this month (June 2013) spring rains swelled the Elbe beyond its banks. The flooding drove several thousand residents from their homes. Ten villages had to evacuate everyone.
The Elbe is back in its banks now. Below you can see how it looks today, courtesy of the webcam at Opentopia.com.
If you don’t see anything below, maybe your computer or tablet doesn’t understand Flash. See other viewing options here.
Cover to sheet music for "Song of Love" from Blossom Time (Patricia Burton & Associates)
NOTE: This In Performance broadcast (9 June 2013) will begin at 3pm, one half hour earlier than usual.
From his childhood in Hungary at the end of the 18th century, Zsigmond Romberg had clearly displayed his musical promise. This, his parents thought, would never do! Zsigmond should study something that would guarantee him a solid, stable income. Music, they were certain, was the route to privation. Thus, they sent him away to school to study engineering.
Maybe they’d never been to the city where they sent him. If they had, they might have known that someone with a love of music wouldn’t long resist its pull in Vienna.
Sure enough, young Zsigmond quickly fell under the spell of Johann Strauss Junior and Franz Lehar. He signed up for composition lessons with Richard Heuberger, creator of the operetta Der Opernball – who, coincidentally, had also given up engineering to become a composer. After serving in Hungary’s army, Romberg headed for the States, hoping that the Land of Opportunity would be kind to an aspiring composer. When he arrived here in 1909, Romberg, now calling himself Sigmund, was just 22 years old.
Romberg’s first opportunity wasn’t as auspicious as he’d hoped: he found himself working in a pencil factory. However, it wasn’t long before he was playing piano in a cafe. That led to a gig leading the house orchestra at Andre Bustanoby’s tony New York restaurant. Romberg soon expanded the orchestra’s repertoire with his own waltzes and other compositions.
Bustanoby’s was at 39th and Broadway, so it was inevitable that Broadway would discover Romberg’s talent. Sure enough, producers JJ and Lee Shubert hired Romberg as a staff composer for their shop. In 1914 Romberg composed his first musical for the Shuberts, The Whirl of the World.
Three years later, Romberg had 17 musicals and revues to his name, and his first major hit on the stage: Maytime, an English adaptation of Walter Kollo’s Viennese operetta Wie einst im Mai (As Once in May).
In 1916, at the height of the Great War, the Hungarian composer Heinrich Berté had filled theatres in Vienna (and later Germany) with his long-running nostalgic (and utterly fictional) portrait of composer Franz Schubert’s love life, Das Dreimäderlhaus (The House of Three Maidens). Largely at the insistence of his producer, Berté had borrowed most of his musical themes from Schubert’s compositions. As it turned out, that was the right choice. The familiar tunes – and the sentimental subject – resonated strongly with audiences worn down by war. Das Dreimäderlhaus was, in a way, the opera stage success that had eluded Franz Schubert in his lifetime.
The US was on the other side in WW I, but by 1921, American listeners were again ready to embrace Austrian culture. In that year, Romberg applied his 1917 Maytime formula to Das Dreimäderlhaus. Blossom Time opened at Broadway’s Ambassador Theatre on 29 September.
In creating Blossom Time, Romberg didn’t just fit Das Dreimäderlhaus‘s melodies to Dorothy Donnelly’s English libretto. He effectively recomposed the operetta’s music, changing the rhythms of many tunes, and adopting a theme from Schubert’s Unfinished symphony as Blossom Time‘s love theme.
The result was Romberg’s biggest hit yet. Blossom Time‘s legs carried it for almost 600 performances – one of the longest first runs in Broadway history.
Act 1 opens at Domayer’s, an outdoor cafe in Vienna. It’s May, 1826. Composer Franz Schubert’s friends Kuppelweiser, Vogl, and Schwind reveal that their better-heeled friend Baron Franz Schober is carrying on an affair with the married singer La Bellabruna. Bellabruna enters with her husband Count Scharntoff, who wonders what she finds so extraordinary about artists. She asks him, "Can you write a song?"
Sharntoff can’t, but he knows someone who can. He offers Schubert the astronomical sum of 250 Gulden (about 66,500 of today’s US dollars!) for a love song he can pass off as his own work.
We meet Mitzi Kranz and her sisters Fritzi and Kitzi. The latter two are secretly engaged, against their father’s wishes, and are here for a rendevous with their fiancees – Schubert’s friends Binder and Erkmann respectively.
Schubert joins his friends. He pays their bill – and tips the waiter. This is the eternally penniless composer? Schubert reveals his good fortune.
Herr Christian Kranz arrives, looking for his daughters, soon followed by Bellabruna’s wealthy lover, Baron Schober. Schober fears Count Scharntoff will challenge him to a duel over Bellabruna’s affections. He promises the Kranz sisters that he will persuade their father to accept Fritzi’s and Kitzi’s fiancees.
Mitzi reveals that she sings Schubert’s songs. Schubert is smitten. Schober tells Kranz that his daughters are at the restaurant so Mitzi can arrange to study singing with Schubert. Binder and Erkmann ask Herr Kranz for Fritzi’s and Kitzi’s hands. Tipsy with Schober’s wine, he agrees to consider the proposal.
Act 2 takes place 3 months later. We are at the Kranz home for Fritzi’s and Kitzi’s wedding. La Bellabruna realizes that Schober has fallen for Mitzi Kranz, and they agree to end their affair. In a duet, Mitzi and Schubert wonder about each other’s feelings.
Bellabruna tells Mitzi that "F S" is in love with her, and warns her that this "F S" is a cad. Bellabruna means Franz Schober, but Mitzi thinks she is speaking of Franz Schubert! Bellabruna’s warning thus confounds her intent: Mitzi, believing her trust in Schubert betrayed, falls under the romantic spell of her childhood friend, Schober.
The shy, quiet Schubert, unaware of Schober’s feelings for Mitzi, asks him to intercede on his behalf with Mitzi, taking Schubert’s love songs to her. The effort works, but not as Schubert intended: it further intensifies Mitzi’s attraction to Schober.
Act 3 finds us in Schubert’s apartment. Schubert has been accepted as a member of the Music Society, but he is despondent over his lost love. His Unfinished symphony is to be performed, but he is too ill to attend.
Count Scharntoff returns the song that Schubert composed for him; Bellabruna, he says, is unworthy of it. He will duel with Schober tomorrow. Despite his own unrequited love for Mitzi, Schubert tells Scharntoff that Schober loves Mitzi, not the Count’s wife Bellabruna. He persuades Scharntoff to cancel the duel, for Mitzi’s sake.
Mitzi apologizes to Schubert for her confusion and offers to help him through his illness. Recognizing that she and Schober are meant for each other, he urges her to follow her heart.
Danielle McCormick Knox
OHIO LIGHT OPERA
WORKS BY SCHUBERT USED IN BLOSSOM TIME
Rosamunde: Incidental Music
Three Little Maids
Ecossaise D735 #2 & Trauerwalzer D365 #2
My Springtime Thou Art
Love’s A Riddle
Symphony #8 "Unfinished"
Tell Me Daisy
Die Forelle D550 & Piano Sonata in Eb D568
Only One Love
Die schöne Müllerin D795: "Ungeduld"
Thou Art My Love
Ave Maria D839 (Liederzyklus vom Fräulein vom See: "Ellens dritter Gesang")