If imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, then few composers have been more posthumously flattered than Modest Mussorgsky. Unfortunately, the career civil servant and part-time composer died at age 41, never anticipating that the solo piano piece he wrote in 1874, in memory of a dear friend, would eventually go on to be among the most beloved and frequently arranged works in the entire classical repertoire. Even prior to Maurice Ravel orchestrating Pictures at an Exhibition in 1922, three other composers had made arrangements, and the list of great conductors who have since taken their own stab at orchestrating the colorful work is impressive. Ormandy, Stokowski, Toscanini, Ashkenazy, and Slatkin each created their own versions of the piece for full orchestra, and it has also been arranged for a huge variety of other ensembles, including brass ensemble, percussion ensemble, saxophone choir, tuba quartet, and heavy metal bands. Obviously, Mussorgsky’s evocative writing has struck a chord with countless musicians over the decades, and his vivid depictions of chickens, gardens, catacombs and castles continue to charm audiences in the 21st century.

Born into a noble Russian family, Mussorgsky’s early training was as a pianist. Although he studied music throughout his childhood, he followed the family tradition and enlisted in the military at a young age. Unlike Tchaikovsky and other conservatory-trained composers of the era, Mussorgsky was never a “full-time” musician. He was however, part of a circle of extraordinary “amateur” musicians dedicated to composing what they felt was more “authentically Russian” music. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, César Cui, Mily Balakirev, Alexander Borodin, and Mussorgsky, often referred to as “the Russian Five,” spent over a decade as friends, colleagues, and drinking buddies. Of the five men, Mussorgsky was generally derided as the least sophisticated, with even his friends criticizing his music as lacking cohesion. Rimsky-Korsakov wrote that Mussorgsky's scores included “absurd, disconnected harmony, ugly part-writing, sometimes strikingly illogical modulation, sometimes a depressing lack of it, and unsuccessful scoring of orchestral things ...” Despite the rough edges, however, no one doubted Mussorgsky’s talent, and his contemporaries acknowledged that what he lacked in technical mastery was more than made up for by his extraordinary ability to evoke enchanting scenes and magical atmospheres through his music.

Pictures at an Exhibition, in its original solo piano version, consisted of ten movements, each depicting a work of art created by Mussorgsky’s friend, the architect and painter Viktor Hartmann. The two men had been friends for several years, and when Hartmann died suddenly at age 39, Mussorgsky was profoundly affected. The following year, a memorial exhibition of Hartmann’s works was mounted at the Imperial Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg. Mussorgsky attended the exhibition and, a few weeks later, was inspired to compose Pictures at an Exhibition commemorating the experience. He composed rapidly, completing the entire work in under three weeks. Mussorgsky wrote to his friend that the work was “boiling” and that “sounds and ideas hang in the air. I am gulping and overeating, and can barely manage to scribble them on paper.” Although the work was never published during Mussorgsky’s lifetime, Rimsky-Korsakov eventually took the manuscript and “cleaned it up” for publication in 1886. Naturally, Rimsky-Korsakov attempted to “fix” some of his friend’s musical “mistakes” in the publication. It was not until 1931 that Mussorgsky’s original manuscript was published. Nine years prior to that, however, Maurice Ravel had taken pen to hand and transcribed the work for full orchestra. Of all the different orchestrations that have been made over the succeeding decades, Ravel’s is still the most often performed, primarily because of his unrivaled ear for orchestral color. With his uncanny ability to combine instruments in unexpected ways, creating perfectly balanced, exquisitely crafted colors, Ravel brings Mussorgsky’s music into 3-D brilliance. Although Ravel’s nature as a detail-oriented perfectionist is sometimes seen as being at odds with Mussorgsky’s more primitive compositional style, there can be no doubt that Ravel’s version of the work has brought an increased appreciation for the piece and for the power and intensity of Mussorgsky’s music.

The work opens with the Promenade theme, which will be heard repeatedly throughout the piece and is meant to be a depiction of Mussorgsky walking into the exhibit, then strolling from picture to picture. A solo trumpet, accompanied by brass choir, plays the melody in a commanding, self-confident version as the piece begins. The irregular meter of the melody is meant to imitate walking. This Promenade theme will change in character throughout the work as Mussorgsky’s frame of mind is altered by each picture he views.

The Gnome: This movement depicts a sketch Hartmann made of a ghoulish gnome, clumsily running about on crooked legs. It is thought that Hartmann intended the sketch as the design for a nutcracker with large, grotesque teeth. A fast, scampering idiom alternates with slower, more grandiose music, as if the gnome were strutting about grandly, then running quickly away so as not to be caught.

Promenade: A more subdued Promenade in the horns and woodwinds suggests Mussorgsky is already feeling more nostalgic.

The Old Castle: Two sketches of medieval castles were the inspiration for this movement, which is a troubadour song. In a stroke of brilliance, Ravel gives the haunting melody to the saxophone, an instrument not normally seen within the orchestra, but whose sound Ravel admired.

Promenade: Renewed energy characterizes this brief stroll to the next two pictures.

The Tuileries: Hartmann’s depiction of a group of children and their nannies in the gardens of the Tuileries is the inspiration for this movement. The woodwinds dash around with a theme clearly intended to mimic children taunting each other, then racing away.

Bydlo (Oxen): Ponderous low strings and solo tuba begin this movement, designed to depict a Polish cart on huge wheels, drawn by oxen. The slow-moving cart appears in the distance, lumbers past the viewer, and quickly recedes from view.

Promenade: The woodwinds offer a wistful version of the Promenade theme before the viewer’s attention is caught by the next quirky picture.

Ballet of the Chicks in Their Shells: Hartmann had created the design for an eggshell costume to be worn by children in a new ballet production. Chirping woodwinds and high strings mimic the children scampering around the stage, pecking at their shells.

Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle: The two drawings upon which this movement is based were actually gifted to Mussorgsky by Hartmann. Mussorgsky supplied the names for each character, with Samuel Goldenberg, a wealthy Jewish man, represented here by a full, resplendent string section. Schmuÿle, the poor Jewish man in the second drawing, is brilliantly depicted by Ravel as a loud, whining, muted trumpet.

The Market at Limoges: Hartmann did over 150 watercolors of scenes around the French city of Limoges. In this movement, Mussorgsky depicts the women gossiping and arguing while they shop. In the margin of the score, Mussorgsky wrote: “Great news! M. de Puissangeout has just recovered his cow … Mme de Remboursac has just acquired a beautiful new set of teeth, while M. de Pantaleon’s nose, which is in his way, is as much as ever the color of a peony.” Frantic, brilliant string writing builds dramatically but is suddenly interrupted by a dark, foreboding chord in the low brass, signaling an abrupt change of mood.

The Catacombs: Hartmann had done a watercolor showing himself and a guide exploring the Paris catacombs by lamplight, a pile of skulls in one corner. Ravel evokes the vast emptiness of the space via huge brass chords, which are echoed by soft, low strings in a terrifying, lonely setting. This leads directly into the following movement:

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua (With the Dead in a Dead Language): Mussorgsky is himself drawn into the picture. He wrote: “The creative spirit of the departed Hartmann leads me to the skulls and invokes them: the skulls begin to glow faintly.” Here, trembling violins underscore a mournful version of the Promenade theme in the oboes, echoed by low strings. The entrance of the harp and flutes brings perhaps the most poignant moment in the entire piece, as Mussorgsky calmly and lovingly remembers his dear friend.

The Hut on Fowl’s Legs (Baba Yaga): This movement evokes the child-eating witch Baba Yaga of Russian folklore, who was said to live in the woods in a hut on hen’s legs. Hartmann had sketched a clock of bronze and enamel in the shape of the hut. Screaming brass dominate this muscular, terrifying music, as Baba Yaga chases her victims through the forest. A mystical slow section seems to indicate that perhaps she has fallen asleep, but she quickly reawakens, and the reign of terror continues. The final measures of the movement sweep brilliantly into the first measure of the next movement:

The Great Gate of Kiev: Perhaps the most recognizable movement of the work commemorates Hartmann’s design for a massive gate at the entrance to the city of Kiev. Hartmann believed it was his finest work, and although the gate was never constructed, Mussorgsky’s music stands as a monument to Hartmann’s vision. Ceremonial brass sing out the main melody, which will later be taken up by the strings. Interspersed with the tune are two delicate moments in which the clarinets and bassoons quietly invoke a Russian Orthodox baptismal chant. This leads to the final return of the Promenade music, this time in a triumphant version. Ravel’s brilliant orchestration of the ending includes pealing church bells and ample percussion, marking the joyous conclusion of Mussorgsky’s homage to the power of friendship.

Pulitzer Prize-winning American composer Michael Abels’ music has reached worldwide audiences via his GRAMMY®-nominated scores for the Jordan Peele films Get Out, Us, and Nope. The score for Us won multiple critics’ awards and was named “Score of the Decade” by TheWrap. Both Us and Nope were shortlisted in the Oscars' Best Original Score category. His score for the HBO docuseries Allen v. Farrow received two Emmy nominations for Outstanding Score and Main Title. Most recently, he scored the 2024 Lucasfilm series The Acolyte for Disney+.

Abels’ orchestral music is no less acclaimed, with his 2023 opera Omar, co-composed with Rhiannon Giddens, having won the Pulitzer Prize for Music. Omar was hailed by The New York Times as "an ideal of an American sound" and among the ten best classical music performances of 2022. Abels’ works have been performed by major American orchestras for more than 30 years, and he co-founded of the Composers Diversity Collective, an advocacy group whose goal is to increase the visibility of composers of color in film, gaming, and streaming media.

Amplify was co-commissioned by the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, Virginia Symphony Orchestra, Colorado Music Festival, and Sarasota Orchestra, and was premiered by the Detroit Symphony on June 5, 2025. The work was inspired by Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture and explores the idea of music’s power as propaganda. Tchaikovsky’s Overture was originally composed to celebrate the completion of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, which had been constructed to commemorate Russia’s defense against Napoleon’s army in the war of 1812. Yet the work is now performed by orchestras across the United States to celebrate Independence Day and other patriotic American events. Abels melds the style of Tchaikovsky with some recognizable American melodies to create a similar patriotic propaganda work reflecting today’s world. Described by Abels as “a fun way to look at some complex ideas,” Amplify explores the power of music to stir our thoughts and emotions and influence the perspective and beliefs that we hold about the world in which we live.

Italian composer Ottorino Respighi was “an old soul.” A lifelong book collector who was said to have been fluent in 11 languages by adulthood, he pursued interests in science and history as well as music. In particular, he held a lifelong fascination with the history and music of ancient Italy and was drawn especially to the sounds of medieval church music. The hypnotic sounds of Gregorian chant were a special source of comfort to him, and his wife, Elsa, herself a composer and soprano, would often sing the soothing, single-line melodies to Respighi for hours. He composed numerous works that were based on the modal harmonies of ancient church music and also transcribed works by 16th and 17th-century Italian composers Monteverdi, Tartini, Vitali, Vivaldi, and Rossini. His popular suites titled Ancient Airs and Dances were based on Baroque lute music.

Respighi’s fascination with history was not limited to ancient music, however. His three most celebrated works are orchestral tone poems based on landmarks and festivals in Rome. Fountains of Rome, written in 1916, was followed by Pines of Rome in 1924 and Roman Festivals in 1928. These three compositions brought Respighi lasting fame, and of the three, Pines of Rome, with its brilliant orchestration and exhilarating ending, is without a doubt the most popular.

When composing Fountains of Rome, Respighi had noted that his prime motivation was to depict the “sentiments and visions” that were inspired in him by four exquisitely sculpted Roman fountains, viewed “at the hour in which their character is most in harmony with the surrounding landscape.” In Pines of Rome, however, nature was the primary focus of the work, with Respighi remarking that his inspiration had been “the centuries-old trees which so characteristically dominate the Roman landscape” and which had “become witnesses to the principal events in Roman life.” This romantic idea of the massive Roman pines standing like sentries, bearing witness to centuries of human activity, proved the perfect inspiration for Respighi, combining his affection for nature with his fascination with the history of his beloved homeland. It also proved an inspiring image for audiences, with dozens of recordings and thousands of performances having enchanted listeners worldwide for almost 100 years.

For the world premiere of the work on December 14, 1924, in Rome, Respighi provided the following descriptions of the four movements, which are played without pause:

The Pines of the Villa Borghese (Allegretto vivace); Children are at play in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese, dancing the Italian equivalent of “Ring around a Rosy.” They mimic marching soldiers and battles. They twitter and shriek like swallows at evening, coming and going in swarms. Suddenly the scene changes.

The Pines Near a Catacomb (Lento): We see the shadows of the pines, which overhang the entrance of a catacomb. From the depths rises a chant, which echoes solemnly, like a hymn, and is then mysteriously silenced.

The Pines of the Janiculum (Lento): There is a thrill in the air. The full moon reveals the profile of the pines of Gianicolo’s Hill. A nightingale sings.

The Pines of the Appian Way (Tempo di Marcia): Misty dawn on the Appian Way. The tragic country is guarded by solitary pines. Indistinctly, incessantly, the rhythm of unending steps. The poet has a fantastic vision of past glories. Trumpets blare, and the army of the Consul bursts forth in the grandeur of a newly risen sun toward the Sacred Way, mounting in triumph the Capitoline Hill.

In addition to Respighi’s extraordinarily colorful orchestration, there are several unusual moments in the work, including an extended offstage trumpet solo in the Pines near a Catacomb movement and a recording of a nightingale, which Respighi indicated should be played at the conclusion of The Pines of the Janiculum. Recording technology was very new in 1924, and Respighi’s having incorporated it into the movement reminds us that he was not just a composer who lived in the past.

There are few moments more thrilling in live performance than the finale of this work. With six extra brass players heralding the arrival of the ancient Roman army on Capitoline Hill, along with celebratory percussion and an orchestra at “full throttle,” it is among the most exhilarating moments in orchestral music—all courtesy of a composer with an “old soul,” but also the very modern skills necessary to bring his vision to life.

Human beings love to categorize things. Putting things into “boxes” designated as this or that is a skill that develops early in childhood and allows us to make sense of a confusing world. Cats are different than dogs; squares are different than circles. Adults continue categorizing: Introverts are different than extroverts; type A people are different than type B; and, for decades, film music was different than art music. Composers were put into boxes as writing music that was either media-related or for the concert hall, with the unspoken assumption that “concert music” was somehow superior. As with everything, though, the truth is always messier than we like to admit, and the number of composers whose music can be heard in both arenas is continually growing.

Filmmakers have coopted art music to use in their films for decades. Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey utilized music from Johann Strauss, Jr., Richard Strauss, and György Ligeti. Director Oliver Stone used Samuel Barber’s searing Adagio for Strings in Platoon in 1986, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 plays a major role in director Tom Hooper’s 2010 film The King’s Speech. Then, some “classical” composers began to tinker with composing film music—Leonard Bernstein, Aaron Copland, and Erich Korngold top that list. Today, we are blessed with a new group of film composers whose music is breaching traditional boundaries and providing audiences with exhilarating and deeply moving experiences, both in the theater and the concert hall. Chief among these “boundary smashers” is the legendary John Williams.

Today, it is not only the striking 13 concertos and other orchestral works that Williams has composed, but also his film music that is increasingly being heard and appreciated in the concert hall. Williams’ extraordinary score to the 1977 film Close Encounters of the Third Kind was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Score in 1978 (losing to another Williams score, the original Star Wars), and the Los Angeles Philharmonic first recorded a condensed orchestral suite that same year. The score quickly attained special admiration for the skillful way Williams contrasts the alien world with our own, positioning atonality and dissonance opposite tonality and melody, until the two tonal worlds merge. At the center of both the complete film score and the suite is an iconic five-note motif that Williams penned as the film’s signature theme. Even if you have never watched the film or have not seen it in decades, chances are that this five-note “calling card” will be instantly recognized. The motif was designed to serve as the method of communication between the aliens and humans in the film. Ending on the fifth degree of the scale, it was purposefully structured to sound “unfinished,” as if to invite a response from the alien visitors.

The orchestral suite opens with eerie, dissonant tone clusters in the violins, leading to menacing rumbling in the brass and low strings. Danger is most definitely lurking, and Williams uses atonality to enhance the sense of terror. The anxiety grows as woodwinds and percussion dart frantically overhead and the brass continue to growl. The strings begin racing as if to escape, and a thunderous gong adds to the melee as the alien ship lands. Dissonant music and seemingly random bursts of sound eventually give way to a lush string melody as the grandeur of the spacecraft is revealed. The first statement of the five-note motif is heard in majestic horns and harp as the first attempt at communication is made. This leads to a glorious melodic sequence of the kind that has become a John Williams trademark. Celebratory brass intone the five-note theme, heralding the dawn of a new era. Eventually the celebration subsides as the craft departs, and we are left with only the five-note motif rising into the heavens alongside.

However you want to categorize this music, it is most assuredly profoundly moving. The sonic battle between the “dangerous” world of atonality and the reassuring comfort of Williams’ soaring melodies is food for thought, even without a giant spaceship. Perhaps we are best served, however, to abandon the idea of categorizing music at all and just revel in the genius of an extraordinary composer who has gloriously refused to “stay in his lane” for over 60 years.