(While yes, I know this is not exactly a car commercial per se – you get the idea)

Nine years ago, I was walking down the street in New York City when my cell phone rang.  It was the general director from Wolf Trap Opera who wanted to know if I would be interested in singing Carmina Burana with the National Symphony Orchestra at their summer home, the Filene Center, when I got to Wolf Trap in a few weeks.  The funny thing is, when she called, my knowledge of the piece was limited to the following two facts: The opening movement was in, like, every car commercial, and I would have to sing three high D’s. Aside from that, I really didn’t know anything else about it.

At the first rehearsal for the piece a few weeks later, I realized that I actually knew more of the piece than I thought I did at the time – I’d heard bits and bobs of it here and there on various recordings and in, yes, car commercials. It occurred to me that the main reason I wasn’t so familiar with the piece was a result of the car commercial thing; I just assumed it wasn’t “serious” music. But these really beautiful and fascinating moments of music that were new to me kept occurring left and right in rehearsal, and I found myself completely charmed and moved by the piece.

Nine years and many performances later, as I prepare to perform the piece with the New York Philharmonic in a couple of weeks, I marvel at how Orff’s music has never gotten old for me.  While my own responsibilities in the piece are quite extreme and challenging, I don’t actually have much to sing in this piece, so I end up spending most of the concerts listening. After all these times doing it, “In Trutina” still makes my eyes water up a little, “Ego sum abbas” still makes me chuckle, and “Blanziflor et Helena” still gives me gooseflesh.  It’s just extraordinary music – I guess that accounts for its popularity.  It’s obvious that the reason it has bled so pervasively throughout our culture is not because it is cheesy, but because it is so extraordinarily exciting and beautiful.

“In Trutina” from Carmina Burana:

Nicholas Phan will be the featured tenor soloist for the New York Philharmonic’s performances of Carmina Burana on May 31, June 1 and 2. For more information, and to purchase tickets, click here.

I can’t begin to discuss dance music without first waxing poetic about the group L’Arpeggiata. Led by lutenist Christina Pluhar, the group’s mission statement, as it were, is to take music — primarily from the Baroque, but source material can be found anywhere from there to the 1970s — and perform it in a way that emphasizes the improvisational qualities of the work. They have an entire album exploring the tarantella and composers who were inspired by the rhythms found in that dance. And, in perhaps my favorite thing ever done to a piece of classical music, they realized that the bass line in Monteverdi’s “Ohime, ch’io cado” sounded suspiciously like a walking bass line, the likes of which can be found in just about any jazz tune from the past 70 years. The result?

And lest one thinks that is just too far from the original (as far as one can really guess, four hundred years out), this is another performance, sung by Emmanuelle Haïm; admittedly, there is a little less swing, but that walking bass line is intact.

Of course, it’s one thing when a modern ensemble takes a piece and jazzes it up, but it’s another thing entirely when the composer him (or her!)self puts a dance break right in the middle of a piece. Enter Georg Philipp Telemann. He often gets overlooked in the Baroque canon, and none of his pieces have achieved any of the fame that Bach’s, Handel’s or Vivaldi’s have, but just a little digging reveals a keen sense of humor, immense musical knowledge, and a deep love of the music he heard and created — and he was never above a good surprise. The suite “Les étudiants gaillards” spends a good amount of time sounding for all the world like a somewhat run-of-the-mill Baroque suite, but then, halfway through the second movement, Telemann apparently couldn’t take it anymore and stuck in a hornpipe. A minute later, the piece continues as though nothing ever happened. In this recording, performed by Il Fondamento, the surprise hornpipe can be heard at 10:40:

In a busy work day, there isn’t usually time for dancing; but a little surreptitious desk-grooving never hurt anyone, and perhaps these pieces will give others opportunities to do so as well.

Being in this Mozart frame of mind, I thought this might be a good opportunity to share some of my favorite Mozart arias here.  Incidentally, they are also some of my favorite operatic arias, period.

As I am currently in rehearsals for Don Giovanni, why not start with one of my favorite moments – Leporello’s aria, Madamina, il catalgo è questo.  At this point in the opera, Donna Elvira, a Spanish noblewoman who has been seduced and then dumped by Don Giovanni, has followed (stalked?) Giovanni all the way from Spain.  Giovanni manages to evade her, leaving his servant Leporello to tell her the truth – that she is just one of thousands of women who fill his little black book of conquests.  Listening to Leporello, Don Giovanni sounds like quite the impressive stud…or a sex addict.

LEPORELLO:

My dear lady, this is a list
Of the beauties my master has loved,
A list which I have compiled.
Observe, read along with me.

In Italy, six hundred and forty;
In Germany, two hundred and thirty-one;
A hundred in France; in Turkey, ninety-one;
But in Spain already one thousand and three.

Among these are peasant girls,
Maidservants, city girls,
Countesses, baronesses,
Marchionesses, princesses,
Women of every rank,
Every shape, every age.

With blondes it is his habit
To praise their kindness;
In brunettes, their faithfulness;
In the white-haired, their sweetness.

In winter he likes fat ones.
In summer he likes thin ones.
He calls the tall ones majestic.
The little ones are always charming.

He seduces the old ones
For the pleasure of adding to the list.
His greatest favourite
Is the young beginner.

It doesn’t matter if she’s rich,
Ugly or beautiful;
If she wears a skirt,
You know what he does.

Next, let’s move to perhaps one of Mozart’s most famous arias: “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” from The Magic Flute.  I’d venture to say that it’s one of his most favorite compositions simply because it is fierce music – it’s insanely dramatic and when you hear a woman sing it (or a boy), its just simply astonishing that a human voice can make those sounds.  At this point in the opera, the Queen of the Night is imploring her daughter Pamina to murder the high priest Sarastro, threatening to disown her if she doesn’t follow through.  Whenever I see this, I always hope for Pamina’s sake that she has a good therapist waiting for her in the wings, so she can work through all the inevitable mommy issues she is bound to have after hearing that aria being screamed in her face.  Here’s my favorite recording of this aria, sung by soprano Edda Moser:

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT:
Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart;
Death and despair blaze around me!
If Sarastro does not feel the pain of death because of you,
Then you will be my daughter nevermore.

Disowned be forever,
Forsaken be forever,
Shattered be forever
All the bonds of nature
If Sarastro does not turn pale [in death] because of you!
Hear, gods of vengeance, hear the mother’s oath!

My third favorite aria is perhaps my favorite aria that Mozart ever wrote, “Un’ aura amorosa” from Così fan tutte.  At this point in the opera, the soldiers Ferrando and Guglielmo have placed a bet with Don Alfonso on their girlfriends’ fidelity – in order to test their girlfriends’ faith and love, they disguise themselves as traveling Albanian soldiers and attempt to seduce each others’ lovers.  Sure that Don Alfonso is going to lose, Ferrando daydreams about what it will feel like when this prank is over, and enjoys the beauty and strength of the love he feels.  It’s perhaps one of the most tender and sweet moments ever composed in opera.

FERRANDO
A breath of love
From our treasures
Will afford our hearts
Sweet sustenance.
A heart nourished
On the hope of love
Has no need
Of greater inducement.

Nicholas will be performing the role of Don Ottavio in Atlanta Opera’s production of Don Giovanni on April 28 and May 1, 4, and 6. For more information, and to purchase tickets, click here.

When it came to classical pieces I hadn’t yet listened to, I only had one hope: that there would be one movement, aria, or even motif that would make me stop whatever I was doing and pay attention. With that, the idea for “Tune In, Turn Up” was born. This will be a series that runs parallel to the other Ecstatic Living Room posts that documents pieces I discover on my journey through my iTunes library where I check in from time to time to see what’s made me, well, tune in and turn up.

The first moment that really made me sit up and take notice also made me laugh out loud, not out of humor but out of sheer joy. Adolphe Adam’s opera Le Toreador — and not even all of it — is arguably the only recognition the composer has these days. The overture is one that has, for one reason or another, made it into the public consciousness, but the rest of the opera isn’t particularly known or cared about. It isn’t the world’s most moving piece of art, but it does have one extraordinary scene in which Coraline, a former Parisian opera singer, sings variations on “Ah! Vous dirai-je, Maman,” a French folk song that eventually became “Twinkle, twinkle little star.” Mozart is well-known for his piano variations on the melody, but the fact that Adolphe Adam had the chutzpah to arrange the variations for voice — and to incredibly charming and impressive effect — is really just fantastic. Here’s a recording of the incredible Beverly Sills singing the variations:

Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman

My second big “Tune In” moment came while I was immersed in Bach’s cantatas. Though some of the most well-known pieces of classical music have come from Bach cantatas (“Jesu, joy of man’s desiring”, I’m looking at you), it’s an unescapable fact that Bach had to compose a cantata a week for several years as part of his church job. And so, I dutifully listened through the many cantatas I’ve amassed over the years, enjoying some more than others, until I got to Wie zittern und wanken from his Cantata #105, Herr, gehe nicht ins Gericht mit deinem Knecht. The cantata wasn’t written for a specific occasion (having been first performed on July 25, 1723), but Bach must have been feeling particularly inspired that week. The oboe and soprano gracefully duet over a whispered string accompaniment, and for a six-minute slow burn, it is really nothing short of transcendent. Here is my favorite recording of the aria, performed by Bach Collegium Japan:

As I continue to make my way through my music collection, I will be occasionally documenting these discoveries here as part of this new series. Until the next installment, I hope everyone reading this finds a piece of music that makes them tune in and turn up.

At the center of the film is a wild but extremely smart and extraordinarily determined 11-year-old boy who has been abandoned by his father. The plot involves his painful, almost disastrous search to find his father, and when reunion with him seems impossible, at least a suitable father figure. With so few connections to his absent parent, the boy is determined to find and keep the bike that his father has given him. It is a symbol, but it is also the one way that Cyril – played by the remarkable young actor Thomas Doret – can take flight from the troubled world he finds himself in. As fate would have it, he crosses paths with a young, attractive hairdresser named Samantha – appealingly played by Cécile De France – who takes an almost mysterious interest in the boy. Apparently unsatisfied by her own experiences with relationships, the woman takes the young boy on as if he were her own, but he fights her and kicks up several storms along the way as the possibility of a new life together hesitantly takes shape. Their dual fates are in question until the very end of the film, when a violent act undertaken by the boy threatens to sink him – and their barely-rooted relationship – entirely.

Coming of age stories are a dime a dozen in the world of film, but this one, with its fine acting and unobtrusive direction, packs a considerable punch. The simplicity of the story, its unsentimental view how life rains its hardships even on the most vulnerable children, and its depiction of the transcendent power of love, create many heart-tugging, even heartbreaking moments, but there’s no maudlin emotion here.

Which brings me to the remarkable soundtrack to the film: there’s simply very little of it. Apparently the Dardennes brothers tend to avoid using much music in their films. Here in The Kid with A Bike, they use, as mentioned above, a scant few measures of the sublime “Adagio” from Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto. Although I found myself wanting to hear more of this quietly rapturous music, I can understand why the directors let those unresolved chords hover above the visuals. At key moments in the plot, the return of this same musical snippet heightens the tension of the drama and creates an atmosphere of beauty mixed with ominous uncertainty. The phrase “less is more” has rarely been illustrated to greater effect than the Dardennes brothers’ enlistment of Beethoven.

During the closing credits, you finally hear Beethoven’s beautiful “Adagio” unfurl in its entirety, and what a quietly glorious sensation it creates – like water in a stopped up stream that has finally begun to flow. I noticed other music credits, but couldn’t remember hearing anything other than the Beethoven. As to the concerto performance used in the film, it was the great Austrian pianist Alfred Brendel with the London Philharmonic.  Thankfully the movement can be heard on YouTube, but if you want to own the whole work, there are still a number of used copies of Brendel’s performance available at Amazon.

Beethoven had a complex relationship with his young nephew Karl, whom the composer fought to have removed from the custody of his sister-in-law Johanna after the death of Beethoven’s brother Carl. Beethoven considered Joanna an unfit mother, and he wanted to raise his nephew himself (in the film, Cyril’s struggling father seems more unwilling than unfit, but perhaps that’s too generous a distinction to make). Beethoven’s longing for the son he never had is something of a mirror image to Cyril’s quest to know and be loved by his own father. I wonder if the Dardennes brothers made this connection when they selected the music? Regardless, it works.

First in my pantheon of musical pats on the back, there is the “Gavotte and Variations” from Igor Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, a ballet commissioned by Sergei Diaghilev and premiered in 1920. Diaghilev, a long-time collaborator of Stravinsky’s — and the reason Firebird, Petrouchka, and The Rite of Spring were ever premiered — had taken a shine to music from the 18th century, and asked Stravinsky to arrange pieces he had found by Pergolesi, Gallo and other lesser-known composers of the era as the musical backdrop to a new ballet. In true Stravinskian fashion, he played and futzed with the original source material in ways Diaghilev did not always find amusing (to wit: he turned a perfectly respectable cello sonata into this), but there was one movement in which he really showed his genius.

In the “Gavotte with Two Variations,” Stravinsky takes a harpsichord “air with doubles” (or theme with variations) — and not a necessarily groundbreaking one at that — and makes it absolutely sublime. The textures and colors of the woodwinds from the very beginning create a calm, soothing atmosphere, and even though the tempo picks up with the other two variations, there is always this overriding feeling of security and contentment.

Next, going back in time a bit, we have Claudio Monteverdi’s “Zefiro torna e di soavi accenti,” published in 1632 as part of his “Scherzi musicali,” or musical jokes. “Zefiro torna” is a ciaccona, or a piece based off a repeating bass pattern, and it gives the feeling that the two tenors (here, Jean-Paul Fouchécourt and Mark Padmore) are just dancing over the instrumental accompaniment, and perhaps, even indulging in a bit of good-natured one-upmanship.

And finally, the piece that has always inspired me to keep going, even when things are the toughest: the finale of Stravinsky’s Firebird. Firebird was the first real success for Stravinsky, and with a finale like that, it’s not hard to imagine why: by the end of the piece, you really feel like you can do anything. It’s just one line of melody, originally taken from a Russian folk tune, but it repeats like a mantra, getting tossed from one section of the orchestra to another (and getting more and more impassioned and strong along the way) until, at the very end, it feels like it’s the most important, life-affirming thing you’ve ever heard. Stravinsky himself — not one often known for emotional excesses of any kind, to say nothing of joy — marked this finale as depicting “General rejoicing.” And if only for a moment, after the final note dies, everything will be okay.

Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, just passed by us, so for much of the world, now that the copious alcohol consumption, Paczki eating, parading, and bead-necklace tossing is over, and Guys/Girls Gone Wild has enough flasher footage to finish their 19th installment in their series, Lent has begun. I was raised Greek Orthodox, and as a result, our Easter often tends to fall at a slightly different time each year, so I actually wasn’t raised with the tradition of Fat Tuesday. Instead, while the ideas behind the holidays are the same, Lent for us always began on Clean Monday – which entailed a day of strict fasting, and was much less fun than Mardi Gras, I assure you.

On the few times my mother insisted that we strictly fast in observance of Clean Monday, it was explained to my younger brother and I that the reason for enduring the throbbing headaches caused by our hunger pains was so that we could understand the sacrifice that Jesus made for our sins by allowing himself to be crucified. It was then explained to us that the idea of giving something up for Lent continues the meditation on this particular theme. Of course, this was lost on me as a child, and I just continued to whine about not being able to eat Chicken McNuggets for 40 more days.

For singers, the Lenten and Easter season (which I can hardly believe has arrived already – where does the time go?) proves to be a time in which there is a lot of extra work singing about the Passion of Jesus Christ, as well as the Easter Story in general. The pieces that seem to get the most traction around this time of year are Bach’s two Passions. While it is pretty clear that he wrote or at least drafted four versions of the Passion story (one for each gospel – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John), only two seem to have survived in a complete form to the present day: the Passions according to St. Matthew and to St. John. The way Bach conceived of both pieces is pretty extraordinary, and while they are clearly pieces of sacred church music that was not meant to be staged, both works are quite theatrical in scope. Each piece has a narrator – the Evangelist – who is like the voice of an angel, narrating the action of the story in a very simple, speech-like musical form called recitative. A baritone plays the role of Jesus in these recitatives in both pieces, and the chorus members play the other various characters in the story through their many choruses. Yet, for me, what are most compelling about both passions are the four soloists (a soprano, an alto, a tenor, and a bass) who comment on the action of the story as timeless, human observers with haunting and meditative arias. This story is one that many have heard told yearly in church – Jesus was arrested and tried under Pontius Pilate, sacrificed himself for our sins, was crucified, and was buried. The commentary of the soloists, though, is heartbreaking – relating the story to us as believers, meditating on what the various aspects of the story mean. It’s like listening to sermonizing on the lessons of the Gospel, but in a way that actually compels us to listen, and can actually move our hearts — unlike when we tune out the priest’s homily in church, patiently waiting for the offering tray to be passed our way and the post-church-service fellowship hour to begin.

In the St. John Passion, one of the most dramatic moments is right after the Evangelist tells the part of the Passion story where Peter, Jesus’ disciple, denies being associated with Jesus for the third time, turning his back on him in his hour of need out of cowardice. Right after the Evangelist tells of Peter suddenly realizing that Jesus’ prediction of his three denials has come true and that he has abandoned him, the tenor soloist who sings the Arias gets up to sing one of the most dramatic arias in the piece, “Ach, mein Sinn.” The piece gives voice to Peter’s anguished guilt – it’s an an incredibly thorny piece with crunchy harmonies, jagged rhythms, and wide ranging leaps that require the tenor to jump from lower notes to dramatic high notes repeatedly.

Ach, mein Sinn,
Wo willt du endlich hin,
Wo soll ich mich erquicken?
Bleib ich hier,
Oder wünsch ich mir
Berg und Hügel auf den Rücken?
Bei der Welt ist gar kein Rat,
Und im Herzen
Stehn die Schmerzen
Meiner Missetat,
Weil der Knecht den Herrn verleugnet hat.

Ah, my mind,
Where wouldst thou go at last,
Where shall I find refreshment?
Stay I here,
Or choose to place
Hills and mountains far behind me?
In the world there is no help;
And my bosom
Keeps the sorrow
For my evil deed,
Since the servant hath denied his Lord.

Perhaps the most stunning moment for me in the St. Matthew (it’s hard to choose a favorite, as there are just so many of them) is actually the exact same moment in the story, right after Peter’s third denial. In the St. Matthew, the alto soloist’s response is much more plaintive and mournful – with slightly quieter, more inner drama. The alto (or sometimes a countertenor) soloist at this point sings the plaintive aria “Erbarme dich” with a solo violin. The piece is full of yearning and a different kind of heartache – somewhat regretful and slightly sad, with soaring, aching long lines, that somehow musically communicate the flow of tears and the ache of a regretful heart.

Erbarme dich,
Mein Gott, um meiner Zähren willen!
Schaue hier,
Herz und Auge weint vor dir
Bitterlich.

Have mercy Lord,
My God, because of this my weeping!
Look thou here,
Heart and eyes now weep for thee
Bitterly.

A few years ago, I stepped in for some performances of the St. John Passion with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and my aunt, who lives nearby, brought a friend from church to come hear me sing. The most memorable thing about that concert was listening to her and her friend talk about the piece together. They had never seen it and had no idea what to expect, as I didn’t really have much time to explain it to them since I was hired at the last minute to replace a sick colleague, and they made the trip into Chicago on the spur of the moment. They had absolutely no idea what the piece was about; they just thought they were going to see me sing with a fancy symphony orchestra. While they were waiting for me to change out of my tails in my dressing room after the show, I listened to them talking about how much they enjoyed the performance, and their surprise at hearing this familiar story told in this musical way, and how the music brought the story across in a whole new light, with added poignancy and drama. My aunt’s friend exclaimed, “Why can’t church be more like this? This is SO much better!”

Those two moments are just two of my personal favorite moments from the two Passions. At some point this Easter/Lenten season, it’s worth it to take a few hours on a Saturday afternoon to listen to a recording of one of them, or (even better) go see one live if one is being performed near you. Make sure you have a libretto with a translation to follow along, because while the music is fantastic, it is the combination of the words and the music that really makes the piece special. You can check out my favorite recordings of the pieces here and here, and librettos with a good English translation can be found online here for the St. Matthew and here for the St. John. If you haven’t ever experienced one of these pieces from top to tail yet – I promise you, it’s a transformative experience, no matter what you believe.

Nicholas Phan joins Bernard Labadie and Les Violons du Roy for performances of Bach’s St. John Passion in Canada (March 20, 21, & 23) and at New York’s Carnegie Hall (March 25). He also sings the role of the Evangelist in the Chicago Bach Project‘s St. John Passion (Apr 4). Find out more about Nicholas at http://www.nicholas-phan.com/

I usually don’t chat with anyone on the train, preferring to read and listen to music and enjoy some time to myself, but that morning I found myself in a lovely conversation with a nursing student from Ohio named Alex, who bore a vague resemblance to the actress Juilet Lewis.  She told me about her studies, her recent trip to New York City (“there’s no place to park!” was one comment I heard her make to a friend over her iPhone), and her current eight-hour train trip to Buffalo to see her boyfriend’s family – the boyfriend, I learned, was in culinary school, but she felt that she was still the better cook, especially when it came to homemade Italian fare.   We talked for a while about lots of different subjects, and for whatever reason we just connected. “ Isn’t it ridiculous that I’m studying to be a nurse and I still smoke cigarettes?”  She rolled her eyes and chuckled.  “I’m a bit strange,” she told me. “I don’t really fit in anywhere.”  To myself I thought, “You’re just adorable.”

She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I promote classical music – from opera stars and conductors, to pianists and record companies.  I also told her that I write about it for a few on-line outlets.  “That’s so cool,” she said to me.  “I really like classical music, but I need to learn a lot more about what to listen to, especially when I’m doing certain things – like reading.”

Bingo!  I couldn’t wait to tell her about the Ecstatic Living Room, where the whole point of the website is to recommend to people who don’t know classical music what to listen to and when.  I called up our website on my iPad, and was quickly embarrassed.  We’ve not been updating it.  What a wasted opportunity!

Still, she looked over my shoulder and said, “That looks interesting – let me write down the address.”  And it was then and there that I said, “I really have to make a commitment to this website because I think it could really serve a good purpose.”

And so, Alex, I dedicate the “re-launched” Ecstatic Living Room to you.  We’re going to have at least a weekly update from now on, and sometime in the not too distant future I’m going to finish a book I started several years ago named — you guessed it — The Ecstatic Living Room!

For now, Alex, I share with you the photo I took on the train, and that you watched me to post to Facebook (see above).  As my Facebook friend and co-worker Devon Estes quickly pointed out, Sir Colin Davis and the London Symphony Orchestra used a very similar photo for a cover of a Sibelius album in their series of discs dedicated to the Finnish composer’s seven symphonies.  And I often listen to Sibelius symphonies on the train to Hudson, especially on a moody morning like that one.

You had another six hours on the train after I get off in Hudson, and I wish I had a set of Sibelius Symphonies to just hand to you that moment.  But if you read this post one day, download Sibelius’s Second Symphony before you head back on a train to New York. Here’s a Youtube video featuring Sir Colin with the amazingly talented Gustav Mahler Youth Orchestra performing the closing pages of the symphony at the BBC Proms:

And this collection of four Sibelius Symphonies – including the 2^nd – feature Sir Colin with the Boston Symphony Orchestra is a classic.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000VHKICW/ref=sr_1_album_14_rd?ie=UTF8&child=B000VHN30Q&qid=1330880148&sr=1-14

And thanks, Alex, for the motivation!

We live in a very silly world. We’ve watched Republican primary candidates quote from the Pokémon movie, a former Poet Laureate get beaten by police while protesting the excesses of our greediest fat cats, and an eleven year old get touted as Opera’s Next Big Star (before damaging her vocal cords, of course). Reality TV shows now feature  psychological disorders (“Hoarders”) and taxidermists (I can’t make this up – it’s called “American Stuffers”), and even the History Channel has succumbed to airing programs about ancient aliens. In a world like this, sometimes it seems that the only thing anyone can do is laugh. And — contrary to conventional wisdom — even the greatest composers of the most breathtaking, serious works could not suppress their musical giggles.

Perhaps the most famous musical punch line comes from Joseph Haydn, father of the symphony as we know it. There is a famous story that recounts the German Haydn’s frustration at his British audiences’ tendencies to fall asleep during the slow movements of his symphonies. As a bit of revenge, Haydn wrote the second movement of his Symphony no. 94 with the express design to lull the audience off before awakening them with a crash. This is Janos Ferencsik and the Hungarian State Orchestra playing the ‘Surprise’ movement, though if you have the chance to listen to Marc Minkowski’s 2010 recording, do so immediately. He adds several surprises that add to the joyful, slightly devilish mood that Haydn so perfectly created.

The ‘Surprise’ Symphony proved to be such a hit that Haydn was able to make another joke out of it, this time in his oratorio The Seasons. Right at the beginning of the piece, a countryman is heard singing along to the Surprise Symphony’s melody — quite a bit of mileage for a piece designed as a prank.

Composers did not limit their musical tittering to audiences, of course: the nineteenth-century master Claude Debussy, with demented glee, took a bit of a pot-shot at Richard Wagner in his piano piece “Golliwog’s Cakewalk.” Wagner, whatever else he may have been, was a musical genius, and the harmonies he used in his compositions were absolutely groundbreaking. However, he also had a rather high view of his own importance in the grand scheme of things, and Debussy couldn’t resist putting in a small joke at the composer’s expense. At 1:10 in this video (performed by Scott Price), the theme from the opening of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde can be heard, followed by what can only be described as a piano chuckling.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QMLA5o0Az8

My favorite, however, is a piece that does not use laughter to poke fun at anything; instead, the laughter is a reaction to being filled with joy. George Frideric Handel, a composer I truly believe has no equal when it comes to writing joyful music, wrote an English-language oratorio, L’Allegro, il penseroso e il moderato in 1740. In the air with chorus “Haste, thee nymph,” both the soloist and chorus are overcome with laughter. The result is what may be the most delightful piece of music I have ever heard (performed by John Eliot Gardiner and the English Baroque Soloists):

In a world where things seem to be getting more and more ridiculous by the day, sometimes it’s best to just sit back and laugh at everything. From practical jokes to jabs in the side to pure, unbridled glee, laughter has been central to music for hundreds of years, and I sincerely hope that is not forgotten in the years to come.