Classical Explorations — March 2026

Richard Strauss
Salome: The Dance of the Seven Veils
Richard Strauss liked to flirt with danger. Born in 1864 and raised in the respectable world of Munich’s musical elite, he spent his early career writing lush, brilliant orchestral works that dazzled without quite disturbing. But around the turn of the century, something in him twisted towards the shadows. He grew fascinated by stories where erotic desire and death walk hand in hand, where the beautiful is inseparable from the grotesque. Salome, premiered in 1905, was his lightning strike: a single-act opera so steeped in lust, prophecy and blood that early audiences staggered out in outrage or awe, or sometimes both! In it, Strauss discovered how far music could push into the psyche – how orchestral colour, dissonance and obsessive leitmotifs could strip away polite society’s last veil and leave raw appetite exposed. The Dance of the Seven Veils is the poisonous heart of Salome. On the surface, it is a fun dance to entertain a bored king; underneath, it is a ritual of seduction, humiliation and premeditated cruelty. Strauss scores it with perfumed, oriental sonorities, weaving sinuous melodies through thick, glittering orchestration that feels at once intoxicating and airless. As the music coils and tightens, Salome removes each veil, not merely as a striptease, but as a calculated peeling back of restraints, a public weaponisation of her own body. The harmony slides chromatically, often queasily, constantly destabilised, as if the floor under Herod – and under us – were tilting towards the abyss.

Francis Poulenc
Mélancolie
I unashamedly feature Francis Poulenc’s music again and again on my listening blog, simply because I adore it: the turn of phrase, the gorgeous harmonies, and the honesty of expression. Poulenc was a composer whose individuality shone through everything he wrote. A member of Les Six, he balanced humour with melancholy, sophistication with simplicity. Behind his charm and wit lay a deeply sensitive man who often wrestled with questions of faith, love, and identity. As a gay man in conservative twentieth‑century France, he poured unspoken emotions into his music – Mélancolie (1940) being one of the most touching examples. Written for solo piano, Mélancolie seems to emerge from silence and dissolve back into it, its poignant phrases and shifting harmonies suggesting both longing and acceptance. It is as if Poulenc were revealing something of himself, quietly but unmistakably – a private, heartfelt cry from the depths of his soul.

Nino Rota
Concerto for Strings: i. Prelude
Italian composer Nino Rota may be best known for his film scores to Fellini and The Godfather, but he was also a prolific writer of concert music, including symphonies, operas and the popular Concerto for Strings. Born in Milan in 1911, he was a child prodigy who went on to study in both Italy and the United States, later teaching for many years at the conservatory in Bari. His style blends clear classical forms with lyrical melodies and an often bittersweet, nostalgic character, shaped by his deep immersion in both cinema and the concert hall. This featured movement unfolds with poised, almost neoclassical clarity, yet the lines sing with a direct, vocal warmth, as if the string orchestra were narrating something. Listen for the way Rota balances restless, driving rhythms with tender, song‑like phrases, the harmony shifting just enough to colour the emotions without ever becoming harsh. It is a compelling invitation Rota’s concert music: not the soundtrack composer in the cinema, but a distinct and engaging voice in 20th‑century string writing.

Maurice Ravel
Miroirs: iv. Alborada del gracioso
Ravel needs no introduction, but Miroirs still has the power to catch us off guard. Among its reflections, the fourth movement, Alborada del gracioso, bursts into view like sunlight. Ravel’s orchestral version transforms the original piano jester into a full colour character, all snapped rhythms, guitar-like flickers and mocking fanfares, offset by a languorous central song that seems to suspend time. You can almost feel the heat rising from the score as its Spanish inflections dance and smoulder. This new Royal Liverpool Philharmonic release from October last year bottles that warmth in vividly detailed sound, giving us all the sunshine we need for a warm orchestral treat. The direction under Venezuelan Domingo Hindoyan is gorgeous. The players lean into the work’s playful, razor-sharp edges without ever losing its elegance, relishing the punch of the tuttis and the smoky glow of the quieter pages. It is music that smiles, teases and dazzles, yet always with Ravel’s trademark refinement. In a world that often feels grey, this Alborada del gracioso is a bright, witty splash of colour – and the perfect way to light up your listening!

Victor le Masne
Il est bon, l’enfant, il est sage (from the album Ravel Recomposed)
Flowing on naturally from Ravel’s orchestral sparkle, Il est bon, l’enfant, il est sage offers a very different kind of Ravel glow. Where Alborada del gracioso dazzles, this track from the new Deutsche Grammophon album Ravel Re-composed turns the lights down. It is a gentle segue into a more modern, re-imagined Ravel that still feels rooted in his world. The idea of “re-composing” a classic can sound provocative, but here it plays more like a loving update than a disruption. The familiar lullaby line is still there, soft and reassuring, yet wrapped in fresh colours and textures that feel very 21st century. You hear the bones of the original – the poise, the tenderness, the understated charm – while the new sonorities nudge your ear in unexpected directions. This kind of treatment doesn’t replace Ravel; it reframes him. It asks what happens if we let his music breathe in today’s soundworld, with its different rhythms, palettes and production values. The answer, in this case, is something both modern and disarmingly sincere. Do take a few minutes to watch the video to see Victor le Masne gyrating around all manner of keyboards and synthesisers – what great fun!

Józef Koffler
Ukrainian Sketches, Op. 27
Józef Koffler’s Ukrainian Sketches stand at a poignant crossroads in twentieth‑century music and history. Written in 1941, they are believed to be his last surviving work, composed in Soviet‑occupied Lviv as the political climate closed in on him and his family. Koffler had been a pioneering modernist, the first Polish composer to embrace Schoenberg’s twelve‑tone technique, admired in the inter‑war years for the originality with which he fused dodecaphony, folk elements and neo‑classical clarity. By the early 1940s, however, ideological demands forced him to abandon such “formalist” experimentation and turn outward to more openly accessible, folk‑coloured language. This wonderful release on the Onyx label sings with immediate lyrical warmth, yet the harmony and pacing reveal a composer steeped in Central European modernism, hearing far beyond simple pastiche. This single is taken from a wonderful album entitled Jewish East, featuring the Jewish Chamber Orchestra Munich. Its well worth a listen to the whole album!

Sergei Rachmaninoff (Transcr. Volodos)
How Fair This Spot, Op. 21 No. 7
I’ll admit, I haven’t always been swept up by the publicity surrounding Nobuyuki Tsujii – the blind, largely self-taught pianist who famously learns everything by ear. The narrative has sometimes felt a little over‑curated, one of those “against the odds” stories we’ve heard before. But then, quite unexpectedly, this recording stopped me in my tracks. Released only in December, it’s a transcription by Arcadi Volodos of a Rachmaninov song for voice and piano. Volodos reimagines the vocal line and accompaniment as a single, richly textured solo‑piano piece – the melody sung through the hands, the harmony and inner voices coloured from within. In Tsujii’s performance, it becomes a deeply lyrical, emotionally charged interpretation that captures the full sweep and tenderness of Rachmaninov’s music.

Kevin Puts
Emily – No Prisoner Be
Kevin Puts’ Emily – No Prisoner Be circles around Emily Dickinson’s poetry with music that feels personal and colourful, and No. 23, There is another sky, is one of its quiet heartbeats. The song lets Dickinson’s gentle hope unfold in long, vocal lines over harmonies that glow rather than shout. Kevin Puts is a Pulitzer Prize and Grammy-winning American composer who has hugely grown in popularity, particularly in his homeland. It seems that Americans roll their eyes and say, “Kevin Puts again?”, but his music is highly effective and its not hard to se why it is so popular.

Wynton Marsalis
Meelan for Bassoon and String Quartet
You never quite expect the bassoon to swing, do you? Yet here it is – Meeelaan by Wynton Marsalis, a work that proves the noble woodwind of Peter and the Wolf fame can strut its double‑reed stuff alongside a string quartet. It’s as if the bassoon suddenly discovered a sharp suit, slicked back its hair, and announced, “Right lads, we’re doing jazz tonight.” There’s rhythm, sass, and more than a hint of eyebrow‑raising mischief – definitely the sort of thing I could imagine British bassoonist Laurence Perkins tackling with a knowing grin. Marsalis, ever the genre‑jumper, has handed the bassoon a martini and an invitation to the coolest jam session in town. So, if you thought the bassoon was destined only for comic moments and melancholy laments, think again. It’s time to let it swing.

Enrique Granados
Twelve Spanish Dances: viii. Sardana
The music of Enrique Granados shimmers in the warm Spanish sun. His Twelve Spanish Dances, composed in 1890, capture the soul of his homeland through rhythm and folk charm. Among them is this wonderful dance, lyrical yet full of Spanish rhythm. Having studied some of the piano works by Granados, successive teachers always told me to play them like a guitar – so whilst these pieces aren’t written for guitar, there is a sense of them coming home – not on one but two guitars! On the Naxos catalogue, this transcription glows, allowing the natural resonance of the guitar duo to illuminate Granados’s melodic lines. This characterful dance is beautifully played by the Azulejos Guitar Duo comprising Eugenio Della Chiara and Pietro Locatto.

Witold Lutosławski
Dance Preludes
It’s strange how certain pieces from our student days remain quietly in the background of our musical lives until one day they reappear and stir something deep within. For me, Witold Lutosławski’s Dance Preludes for clarinet and piano does exactly that. I first learned the preludes during my first year as an undergraduate – more concerned then with fingerings and rhythm than any deeper musical awareness. Yet, some twenty years later, it feels newly alive. Listening again, I’m struck by how much genuine emotion lies within those restless, folk‑inspired lines. Lutosławski’s writing seems to dance between irony and tenderness – the clarinet’s quirky twists and turns always poised against the piano’s rhythmic undercurrent. What once felt like a technical study now reveals itself as a portrait of contrasts: angular yet graceful, humorous yet heartfelt. A recent recording by the German clarinettist Anastasia Schmidlin, released in December, captures this duality beautifully. Her playing is full of character – light and playful, yet shaped by a sensitivity that brings out the music’s underlying warmth. It reminds me that truly great teaching pieces are never merely exercises; they prepare us not just for performance but for rediscovery. Hearing this familiar work through Schmidlin’s fresh interpretation rekindles that early affection – proof that the music we first met as students can keep speaking to us, long after we’ve stopped counting the bars.

David Dubery
Clarinet Sonatina: i. Moderato poco scherzoso
Discovered much more recently, the first movement of British composer David Dubery’s Clarinet Sonatina makes a fascinating companion to Lutosławski’s Dance Preludes. Born in Durban in 1948 and long based in Manchester, Dubery is a composer, pianist and vocal coach whose music is rooted in clear melody and a keen sense of character. His output has tended to favour song and chamber music, often written for friends and colleagues, which perhaps explains the sonatina’s instinctive feel for the clarinet’s voice. In this new recording on the Prima Facie label, released in November, the opening movement unfolds with an easy, singing lyricism, the piano a genuinely equal partner rather than mere accompaniment. Hearing Dubery’s warm, idiomatic writing so late in my own listening journey is a reminder that there are still “student” works waiting to become lifelong companions.

Matheus Araújo
Marés de Sizígia
Marés de Sizígia by Matheus Araújo is a striking discovery, all the more delightful for having surfaced via algorithmic recommendation rather than deliberate search! The title evokes the powerful pull of spring tides, and the piece feels similarly governed by invisible gravitational forces, drawing its three instruments into ever-shifting alignments. The instrumentation of cello, vibraphone and contrabassoon creates an unusually dark soundworld. The vibraphone’s sustained, shimmering resonance acts almost like a halo around the other two instruments, softening their edges and blurring barlines. Above this, the cello sings with an understated lyricism, sometimes emerging as a solo voice, sometimes creating rhythmic pizzicato accompaniments. The contrabassoon provides a deep but sonorous roar which is never crude or purely theatrical; instead, Araújo places it lyrically, so that even the lowest register lines feel like part of a long, expressive phrase. The result is a trio texture that is both grounded and weightless, rooted in the contrabassoon’s depth yet constantly illuminated by the interplay of bow, mallet and breath. A really interesting discovery – thanks Spotify!

Amy Beach
Four Sketches for Piano: iii. Dreaming
Amy Beach’s Dreaming, from her Four Sketches for Piano, is an achingly beautiful meditation that seems to hover between yearning and repose. A leading figure in early American composition, Beach forged her path amid the pervasive limitations placed on women in music, composing at a time when her male contemporaries often overshadowed her. Yet Dreaming reveals the quiet strength and refinement of her voice – tender harmonies unfurl like sighs, evoking both personal longing and serene acceptance. Its flowing lines and delicate tonal shifts feel introspective but never sentimental, inviting the listener into an emotional landscape where restraint heightens intensity. As a palate cleanser from the last track, Dreaming restores calm and introspection – a reminder of beauty found in stillness and resilience.

Tomás Luis de Victoria
Jesu Dulcis Memoria 
There’s something endlessly fascinating about Leopold Stokowski’s way with music – how he could take something as delicately woven as Tomás Luis de Victoria’s Jesu Dulcis Memoria and, through orchestral colour, give it new life without losing its devotional heart. I often wonder how he managed it. To translate polyphony into orchestral texture that still breathes and prays takes deep understanding, not just technique. What strikes me most is how naturally the music moves. Stokowski builds from those dark, sonorous woodwinds – the sense of an ancient choir – then layers smooth, vocal string lines above them. The result feels radiant, almost like light filtering through stained glass. Nothing is overstated or sentimental; the richness is spiritual, not indulgent. Listening again to the BBC Philharmonic’s recording under Matthias Bamert – now 25 years old – I was struck by its contemplative stillness. Bamert’s pacing is patient and unforced, and the orchestra plays with a restrained warmth that perfectly suits the reflective mood of Lent. For all Stokowski’s reputation as a showman, this piece shows something deeper: empathy. He understood how to let colour serve expression. Jesu Dulcis Memoria reminds us why his artistry endures: he could bridge centuries and still make the music feel utterly present.

Pēteris Pahks
Te Deum
From one cathedral sound to another – Stokowski’s orchestral devotion leads beautifully into the utterly stupendous Te Deum by Pēteris Pahks. The opening chords are, astonishingly, identical to those in Victoria’s Jesu Dulcis Memoria – yet what a transformation follows. Where Victoria hints at quiet reverence, Pahks launches us into something monumental, radiant and full of modern intensity. This new Berlin Classics recording captures it superbly. Recorded in the Konzerthaus Berlin, the engineering is nothing short of breathtaking – every resonance of the hall caught in perfect balance, the organ sound vivid yet never harsh. You can feel the air move in the room, that glorious mix of energy and stillness only a great acoustic can give. Pahks’s writing is mercurial, both warm and unpredictable, reaching moments of ecstatic power before falling back into tender simplicity. The performance matches it with total assurance and imagination – beautifully poised, never rushed. It’s one of those recordings that reminds you why organ music can move both heart and soul. I don’t usually give star ratings, but this one’s an easy five – outstanding in sound, spirit and sheer musical vision.

Marie Awadis
Étude No. 8 (Through the Window)
Marie Awadis’s Étude No. 8 (Through the Window) gently lifts the mood. It’s calm, clear and quietly hopeful – like watching sunlight move across a wall. Awadis is a Lebanese‑Armenian pianist and composer living in Germany. Her music is thoughtful and unhurried, shaped by her classical roots but full of feeling. She often writes pieces that sound personal, as if they belong to a quiet moment at home. This étude feels simple yet glowing. The melody unfolds softly, inviting peace rather than demanding attention. It leaves a sense of warmth – the kind that lingers after the piano fades. A lovely way to end a listening session on a bright note.