Visitors to the Royal Palace of Aranjuez outside Madrid, Spain, are inevitably wowed by the exquisite 16th-century palace and the foliage, sculptures, and fountains of the surrounding gardens. The palace and adjacent grounds are a feast for the eyes, and generations of Spanish royalty enjoyed it as their springtime residence. It might be assumed then that Joaquín Rodrigo had this visual grandeur in mind when he composed the Concierto de Aranjuez in 1939. In reality, however, Rodrigo never saw any of it. Having lost his sight at the age of three after a bout with diphtheria, Rodrigo experienced the world through his other senses and was drawn to music at a young age. He began studying piano, violin, and solfege (ear training) at age eight, then harmony and composition as a teenager, utilizing a Braille system of music notation. Every one of his works required transcription into standard notation before it could be performed or published. The process was painstaking and required the composer to dictate an entire work, note by note and instrument by instrument, to a copyist. Despite these challenges, Rodrigo went on to produce more than 200 works, including 11 concertos for various instruments.

By far his most well-known work, the Concierto de Aranjuez was the result of a wine-fueled dinner conversation with the Spanish guitarist Regino Sáinz de la Maza. Rodrigo wrote: “In September of 1938, I was in San Sebastián on my return to France. It was during a dinner organized by the Marqués de Bolarque with Regino Sáinz de la Maza and myself. We ate well and the wine was not bad at all; it was the right moment for audacious fantasizing. All of a sudden, Regino, in that tone between unpredictable and determined which was so characteristic of him, said: ‘Listen, you have to come back with a Concerto for Guitar and Orchestra.’ And, to go straight to my heart, he added in a pathetic voice: ‘It's the dream of my life’ and, resorting to a bit of flattery, he continued: ‘This is your calling, as if you were the chosen one.’ I quickly swallowed two glasses of the best Rioja, and exclaimed in a most convincing tone: ‘All right, it's a deal!’”

Returning to Paris, where he and his wife had been living during the Spanish Civil War, Rodrigo composed the work during the first half of 1939. He intended it to be an evocation of the sounds and perfumes of the palace gardens he and his wife had visited on their honeymoon. When he returned to Spain in September 1939, he carried with him the original Braille manuscript of the concerto. Regino Sáinz de la Maza and the Orquesta Filarmónica de Barcelona gave the premiere in November 1940. The concerto’s popularity has never waned, and it is today considered a cornerstone of the classical guitar repertoire. Rodrigo became a hero in his native country, eventually being elevated to Spanish nobility by King Juan Carlos I in 1991. Today the Marqués de los Jardines de Aranjuez and his wife Victoria are buried in the cemetery at Aranjuez.

The first movement begins joyfully with an introduction for the solo guitar, strumming in a flamenco style, leaving little doubt that we are in Spain. The orchestra answers the guitar, staccato strings imitating the Spanish rhythmic figures. There follow two charming themes, balanced beautifully between the solo guitar and orchestra. Rodrigo’s ear for orchestration is exceptional, and the chirping woodwinds and splashes of color from the strings and brass serve as the perfect complement to the guitar without ever overwhelming it.

The Adagio is the soul of the concerto and the movement that inevitably draws a sigh of recognition from audiences. A plaintive melody is introduced by the English horn, accompanied by soft strumming from the guitar. The soloist takes over the melancholy tune, embellishing it like a Spanish troubadour. The movement spins out as a dialogue between soloist and orchestra and concludes with an extended cadenza for the guitar. Much has been made over the years about the inspiration for the movement, whether it was a reaction to the Spanish Civil War, or to Rodrigo’s wife having suffered a recent miscarriage, or to some other sad memory. Regardless, it is a deeply personal movement that continues to affect even modern-day audiences profoundly.

The sunshine returns in the final movement as a jaunty, Renaissance-style theme in an irregular meter brightens the mood considerably. Quirky orchestral writing underpins virtuosic passages for the soloist. As if to brush the whole thing off as just a bit of fun, the piece concludes with three simple repeated notes in the guitar, inevitably eliciting an audience chuckle.

There are certain pieces of music in the standard orchestral repertoire that have, for any number of reasons, become “iconic.” Instantly recognizable by virtually anyone in the Western world, these works gained enormous popularity, in many cases centuries after their composers were gone. Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D, composed around 1680, had disappeared from history until it was resurrected in a 1968 recording and grew to become the “must-have music” at countless weddings. Ravel’s 1928 Bolero was an instant hit (a fact that mystified the composer), but was elevated to pop culture icon when it was utilized in the 1979 romantic comedy 10. Samuel Barber’s wrenching Adagio for Strings has become permanently associated with mourning, having been broadcast over radio at the announcement of Franklin D. Roosevelt's death, following the funeral of President Kennedy, and at Last Night of the Proms in 2001 to honor the victims of the September 11 attacks. Add to this list of musical icons a quirky tone poem based on a 1797 ballad by the great German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Paul Dukas’ extraordinarily well-crafted, colorful, and permanently “Mickey Mouse-associated” The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Dukas was an exceedingly private man whose life was devoid of controversy. He made his living as a music critic, later teaching at the Paris Conservatory. As a composer, he was an extraordinary perfectionist. This resulted in a tiny compositional output; besides The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, he published only one symphony, an overture, two works for piano, one opera, one ballet, and a few additional smaller works for instruments and voice throughout his life. A notorious critic of his own music, Dukas also destroyed the manuscripts of several early works as well as the score of a second symphony and a violin sonata shortly before his death.

Premiered in May 1897, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice was immediately well-received. Its popularity skyrocketed, however, after the conductor Leopold Stokowski, in conjunction with Walt Disney, utilized it as the centerpiece of the 1940 film Fantasia. Even if you have never heard of Paul Dukas, you have likely watched as Mickey Mouse, the sorcerer’s apprentice, gets himself into a real bind after casting a spell on a broom in hopes of having the broom take over the arduous chore of hauling water. By now, we all know the outcome, as the broom (and then many brooms after Mickey chops the first broom into pieces) performs the task too well, flooding the sorcerer’s home while Mickey desperately tries to stop the mayhem. Eventually the sorcerer returns and puts an end to the bedlam, leaving an exhausted Mickey chastened and immensely relieved.

Opening with a single pizzicato from the strings, there is an immediate fog of mystery as quiet woodwinds intone the main theme. Searing trumpets break the mood as the apprentice casts his spell. Bassoons take over as the broom sputters to life and begins the work the apprentice assigns. All is going well for a bit, as the other woodwinds and brass join in the comic march, but the fun is short-lived, and the music grows increasingly agitated as the overachieving broom begins flooding the sorcerer’s workshop. The brass blare as the apprentice tries in vain to reverse the spell he cast. Finally, in desperation, the apprentice grabs an ax and chops the broom into pieces. Everything stops for a moment, but the bassoons, aided now by the contrabassoon, slowly recover and resume the march, this time with added forces! Manic woodwinds, swirling strings, and malevolent brass churn away as bedlam ensues. At the apex of the mania, the sorcerer reappears, and the brass scream out the incantation music from the opening. The broom and the bassoons have been silenced, and the mysterious music returns as the apprentice sheepishly slinks away.

Because Dukas and Disney both followed the text of Goethe’s ballad so closely, we can view Fantasia not as an unwelcome adaptation of Dukas’ music, but rather as an enhancement to it. Dukas’ brilliant imagination and compositional skill had already done the work of bringing Goethe’s story to life; Disney’s added visual element simply ensured that the music of this quiet perfectionist has now been heard by millions around the world and remains among Western culture’s most beloved “icons.”

The music of the “common folk” has long been a source of inspiration for composers. As far back as the 1700s, Baroque composers like J. S. Bach composed music based on the rhythms of German folk dances. Chopin and Liszt continued that tradition into the 19th century, composing mazurkas, polonaises, and rhapsodies based on the rhythms and spirit of Polish and Hungarian folk music. Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky evoked the sounds of Slavic folk music in their compositions, while Bartók traveled extensively throughout Eastern Europe, researching and recording folk tunes, then using them as inspiration for his own compositions. Antonín Dvořák, whose Slavonic Dances were among his earliest and most successful publications, famously advised American composers to look to the music of the “new world” for inspiration. His “New World” Symphony, composed in 1893 during his stint as the director of a newly established National Conservatory of Music in New York, was heavily influenced by both Native American and African American folk music.

It was not unusual, therefore, that early-20th-century composer William L. Dawson turned to the folk music of Black Americans for inspiration for his first symphony. What was unusual was that Dawson himself was a Black American, composing in an era where the color of his skin would have disqualified him from consideration as a “serious composer” by all but the most progressive members of the art music community. Fortunately, famed conductor Leopold Stokowski was such a member, and it was through his advocacy that Dawson’s Negro Folk Symphony was premiered by the New York Philharmonic in 1934. Dawson thereby became the third Black composer to have their music performed by a major American Orchestra in only a few short years, following William Grant Still, whose Afro-American Symphony was premiered by the Rochester Philharmonic in 1931, and Florence B. Price, whose Symphony in E Minor was performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1933.

Born in 1899 in Anniston, Alabama, Dawson was the first of seven children and showed an early aptitude for music and academics. He was educated at Booker T. Washington’s famed Tuskegee Institute, graduating in 1921. He went on to become the first Black student to receive a bachelor’s degree from the Horner Institute of Fine Arts in Kansas City, Missouri, and then earned a master’s degree in composition from the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago. He returned to the Tuskegee Institute in 1930 as a faculty member, where he served for 35 years. Under Dawson’s leadership, the Tuskegee Institute Choir quickly achieved national acclaim, and in 1932, the choir spent six weeks in New York City, performing in gala concerts marking the opening of Radio City Music Hall. It was there that Dawson met Stokowski, who expressed an interest in performing Dawson’s music. The symphony that he had begun during his time in Chicago in the 1920s was completed, and in 1934, Stokowski conducted four performances of the work, three at Philadelphia’s Academy of Music and one at Carnegie Hall, with one concert broadcast nationwide on the radio. At each performance, the reception was extraordinary, with audiences breaking protocol to applaud at the end of movements and giving a standing ovation at the conclusion of each performance. Black and white critics alike gave the work glowing reviews, and it seemed as if the symphony would quickly find a home among the standard orchestral repertoire. Unfortunately, that was not to happen. The excitement over the work faded, it lapsed into obscurity, and Dawson never composed another symphony, despite living to age 91. It is only in the 21st century that the work has been resurrected, finding new and equally enthusiastic audiences.

Giving each of its three movements a descriptive title, Dawson wrote that his symphony was “symbolic of the link uniting Africa and her rich heritage with her descendants in America.” In his own program note, he wrote, “The themes are taken from what are popularly known as Negro Spirituals. In this composition, the composer has employed three themes taken from typical melodies over which he has brooded since childhood, having learned them at his mother’s knee.” Interestingly, the spirituals he chose are not among today’s most well-known: “Oh, My Little Soul Gwine Shine Like a Star,” “O Le’Me Shine,” and “Hallelujah, Lord, I Been Down into the Sea.” Yet, they were clearly dear to Dawson’s heart and infuse the symphony with the musical DNA of 1930s Black America. They are not the whole story, however, as the extraordinary work is primarily original material that paints a vivid and often searing portrait of the African American experience.

The powerful first movement, The Bond of Africa, opens with a solemn horn solo. Despite utilizing syncopated rhythms commonly found in spirituals, there is a somewhat ominous tone to the introduction. Dawson wrote, “a link was taken out of a human chain when the first African was taken from the shores of his native land and sent to slavery.” The tragedy of this “missing link” is front and center in this searing music. The solo horn returns to introduce the main body of the movement, upbeat music that vacillates between agitation and jubilation with nods to the rhythms of ragtime. Chattering woodwinds trade tunes, punctuated by lively brass and percussion, until the brass section shuts down the party with the opening “missing link” music, as if to remind us of the tragedy of slavery. The solemn music and the upbeat music trade off as the movement continues, constantly interrupting each other and culminating in a ferocious, full-orchestra statement of the “missing link” theme. A final burst of full-orchestra energy brings the fierce movement to a stunning close.

Opening with ominous harp and percussion, the second movement, Hope in the Night, features plodding strings underpinning a plaintive solo for the English horn. Dawson wrote that he intended to depict the “atmosphere of the humdrum life of a people whose bodies were baked by the sun and lashed with the whip for two hundred and fifty years; whose lives were proscribed before they were born,” adding that “the English horn sings a melody that describes the characteristics, hopes, and longings of a Folk held in darkness.” The heartbreaking melody builds to a searing climax, before, as in the first movement, a contrasting, carefree section begins. Dawson wrote, “The children, unmindful of the heavy cadences of despair, sing and play; but even in their world of innocence, there is a little wail, a brief note of sorrow.” If this is the “hope” in the movement’s title, the respite is short-lived, as the remainder of the powerful movement is devoted to the enormous weight of “the night,” with closing moments that are positively shattering.

The final movement, O Le’Me Shine, Shine Like a Morning Star!, offers a rebirth of sorts. Introduced by solo oboe, bassoon, and clarinet, the music quickly grows agitated, as if we are being propelled upward from the darkness of the previous movement toward a lighter place. Snippets of melody are tossed back and forth in a complex rhythmic texture that is constantly gaining momentum. Dawson revised this movement substantially after a trip to West Africa in 1952, and the intricate rhythms of African percussion inspired the highly virtuosic writing. The restless movement careens relentlessly forward, culminating in a thunderous finale.

Today, as this powerful work is finally garnering the attention it deserves, we can acknowledge not only Dawson’s extraordinary gifts as a composer but also the unique impact of his Black American experience on the music. Prior to its premiere in 1932, Dawson was interviewed about the work, noting, “I’ve not tried to imitate Beethoven or Brahms, Franck, or Ravel—but to be just myself, a Negro. To me, the finest compliment that could be paid my symphony when it has its premiere is that it unmistakably is not the work of a white man. I want the audience to say: ‘Only a Negro could have written that.’”

Indeed—and 21st-century audiences are grateful for the opportunity to hear it at last.

Long before Aaron Copland penned his ballet music to Appalachian Spring and Rodeo, well-known works that critics lauded as having established a uniquely “American” sound in music, there was another American composer growing up in rural Connecticut—listening to the village bands playing in the town square and singing hymns and Civil War-era songs around the campfire. The son of a Union Army bandmaster, Charles Ives was born in 1874, two years before Brahms finished his first symphony. His earliest exposure to music came via his bandmaster father, a full-time musician who played, taught, conducted, and organized virtually every musical endeavor in the town of Danbury. Ives’ father was an unorthodox innovator who was known to mount various musical “experiments,” such as stationing bands at opposite ends of the town square and having them play different pieces in different keys as they marched toward and past each other—just to see how it sounded. He also embraced amateur musicians. Ives remembered he and his father hearing an old stonemason singing hymns off-key, and his father advising him to "Look into his face and hear the music of the ages. Don't pay too much attention to the sounds—for if you do, you may miss the music.” It was an open-minded approach that embraced the idea that anyone and everyone could make music, and that music played on a poorly tuned country fiddle in the town square was just as legitimate as music played on a Stradivarius in a gilded concert hall. Ives grew up believing that music was for everyone and that no sounds were “off limits,” and during his almost 80 years, alongside a steady output of more traditional songs, he produced some of the most unique, unexpected, experimental, forward-thinking, fearless, and thoroughly “American” music the world had ever seen.

Beginning music lessons with his father at the age of five, Ives would eventually turn his attention to the organ as his primary instrument, becoming the youngest salaried church organist in Connecticut at age 14. It was also around this time that he began composing—marches, church songs, fiddle tunes—the type of music he had grown up with. At age 17, he composed a larger-scale work for organ, the innovative Variations on “America”, which he penned for a Fourth of July celebration by his employer, the Methodist church in Brewster, New York. Ives performed the variations in local churches while still a teen and continued tinkering with them throughout adulthood. Variations on “America,” which Ives later described as "but a boy's work, partly serious and partly in fun,” is a witty, somewhat irreverent set of variations on the popular tune “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” which was at the time considered the de facto national anthem of the United States. It is a precocious work, showing that even at the age of 17, Ives was already experimenting with polytonality (composing music in two different keys simultaneously). Although incredibly proud of his son’s work, his father apparently once forbade Ives to perform some of the polytonal variations in church, saying, “They upset the elderly ladies and make the little boys laugh and get noisy!” Variations on “America” was not published until 1948, after the organist E. Power Biggs discovered and recorded it. In 1962, the composer William Schuman transcribed the work for orchestra, and the orchestral version was premiered by the New York Philharmonic in 1964.

The work opens with a jolly introduction that incorporates snippets of the famous tune. Not long into it, Ives takes a few surprising “left turns” harmonically, as if to give us a hint of what is to come. The introduction is followed by a solemn presentation of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” in the brass, accompanied by pizzicato strings. We are then treated to five wildly disparate variations on the tune. Like circus acts following one after the other, we are treated to frenzied woodwinds, barbershop quartet-style writing, a variation that veers far astray into polytonality before morphing into a quirky waltz, Spanish castanets, cornet acrobatics, and a rousing conclusion. The writing is flamboyant, grandiose, charming, and above all, incredibly creative and skillful. The short work ends before we’ve had time to fully digest what we’re hearing and inevitably leaves the audience wanting more.

Ives would go on to compose over 700 works, including six symphonies, smaller orchestral works, chamber music, keyboard music, and choral music, all while enjoying a highly successful career in the insurance business. (Ives & Myrick would become the largest insurance agency in the country, generating enormous profits.) Despite his enviable business success, however, Ives’ music remained virtually unknown. In the late 1920s, composers Henry Cowell and Aaron Copland began to promote Ives’ music, but live performances were rare. Finally, in 1947, Ives was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in Music for his Third Symphony, a work that he had finished in 1910, and in 1951, Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic gave the world premiere of Ives’ First Symphony, a work he had begun in 1898. Broader recognition had just begun when Ives died in 1954.

In many ways, the music world is still getting to know Charles Ives, whose wildly creative approach to composing was decades ahead of its time. Undeterred by years of toiling in obscurity and having his music rejected as incomprehensible, Ives had soldiered on, showing what Aaron Copland called “the courage of a lion.” He is perhaps best summed up in the words of composer Arnold Schoenberg, whose music was known worldwide. After Schoenberg’s death in 1951, his widow found a note in his desk where Schoenberg had written, “There is a great Man living in this Country—a composer. He has solved the problem of how to preserve one's self-esteem and to learn. He responds to negligence by contempt. He is not forced to accept praise or blame. His name is Ives.”