There are few words in 21st-century English that are more overused than “iconic.” A term that used to be reserved for things that were so well-regarded as to be worthy of veneration, say, the Statue of Liberty or a Gothic cathedral, is now regularly used for things like sneakers or chicken recipes. Despite the complete dilution of the term in its modern context, there is perhaps no better way to describe a piece of music that has become so ingrained in our culture that its opening four notes are instantly recognized almost anywhere. Ludwig van Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, premiered when the composer was 38 and nearly completely deaf, is, in every sense of the term, iconic.

No one would be more surprised than Beethoven to learn that this work, especially the first movement, would grow in popularity to become synonymous with classical music as a whole. From cartoons to television commercials, we still turn to the opening of this symphony when we want to convey that something is sophisticated or important—its first four notes commanding our immediate attention and implying that something consequential is happening. The night of its premiere, however, the work was barely noticed, having been buried in the middle of an over-four-hour-long, all-Beethoven marathon that also included his Sixth Symphony, the Choral Fantasy for Piano, Orchestra and Chorus, three movements from his Mass in C Minor, the Concert Aria “Ah, perfido!,” a keyboard improvisation, and the Piano Concerto No. 4. A freezing cold theater and an under-rehearsed and angry orchestra didn’t help matters, and the exhausted audience likely left the hall that night just happy to have survived the event. Despite the inauspicious premiere, the work quickly gained traction after the score was published 18 months later. An extraordinarily effusive review in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, the most important German-language music periodical, brought welcome attention to many of the symphony’s unique innovations, and by the end of the 19th century, the Fifth Symphony had already ascended to the throne as perhaps the most revered orchestral work ever composed.

The impetuous opening movement erupts like a tightly wound spring. Three forceful short notes lead to a dramatic long note, then the sequence is repeated. There is no genteel introduction, no easing the listener into the work. From the moment the conductor moves, the orchestral energy is released, and there is no turning back. This four-note rhythm serves as the overarching “theme” of the entire movement. This is what made the music so unique—rather than composing a melody and using that as the glue that binds the music together, Beethoven uses a simple rhythm. Only a composer as gifted as Beethoven could manage to create something so powerful out of something so simple. As the movement progresses, there are snippets of melodies that emerge, but underpinning everything is the same four-note rhythm. It is always there, lurking in the background before reemerging center stage. There is a frequently cited anecdote wherein Beethoven supposedly told a friend that the rhythm represented “fate knocking at the door.” While the idea of Beethoven writing a movement about fate while simultaneously wrestling with his worsening hearing loss can be appealing from an emotional perspective, modern music historians have come to question whether Beethoven ever actually said anything of the kind. We know that the four-note rhythm had preoccupied him for a while, and there are other stories about it having been inspired by a bird call he heard on one of his long walks in nature. Whether it is fate, or a bird, or just a rhythmic “ear worm” that he couldn’t shake, the compact movement (the shortest first movement of any of his symphonies) is a marvel of creativity.

The second movement opens with the cello section offering a sweet song. After the rhythmic intensity of the first movement, we are reminded that Beethoven could also write beautiful melodies. A second gentle tune in the woodwinds follows. In typical Beethoven fashion, however, this woodwind melody is suddenly interrupted by a brash march featuring trumpets and timpani. The movement vacillates between variations on these two tunes, with Beethoven flexing his melodic muscles before bringing the movement to an emphatic close.

The third movement scherzo opens mysteriously, the low strings playing the first part of a melody that the upper strings and woodwinds then finish. Anyone wondering what is coming next doesn’t have to wait long, as the horn section forcefully announces the main theme of the movement—another four-note motif. This time the four notes form the foundation for a swaggering melody that builds in intensity. In the middle of the movement, Beethoven injects a pompous fugue into the mix, beginning in the low strings and rapidly spreading through the entire orchestra. The mysterious opening music returns, followed by a barely audible, swagger-less reprise of the four-note melody, arriving at perhaps the most innovative aspect of the entire symphony. Rather than simply ending the movement, Beethoven surprises us again by composing a mesmerizing bridge to connect the scherzo with the final movement. Hushed strings hover over the timpani, which repeats the four-note rhythm over and over. The tension is palpable as the music slowly increases in intensity and volume before suddenly surging into the glorious final movement.

The effect is nothing short of spectacular as the brass announce the triumphant main theme of the last movement. It is clear that we have emerged from darkness to light, or from struggle to victory—the analogies are endless, but the feeling is the same. Elation. To give even more oomph to the orchestra, Beethoven adds three trombones into the mix, as well as a contrabassoon and a piccolo, adding depth and majesty at both ends of the sonic spectrum. Just when it seems that the celebration has reached its peak, everything suddenly screeches to a halt, and we hear the same four-note melody from the scherzo repeated, quietly and mysteriously, like a dim memory from the past. The diversion is brief, however, and the celebration resumes. The heroic conclusion features an unapologetic eight “final” notes, putting a dramatic exclamation point on this groundbreaking, historic, revolutionary, and decidedly “iconic” work of art.

Antonín Dvořák did not want to write another cello concerto. He had already tried his hand at it as a young composer, writing—but never finishing—a concerto in A major that was intended for a cellist in the theater orchestra in which Dvořák also played. Frustrated, he had eventually abandoned the piece, deciding that the cello was an “insufficient” instrument for which to write a concerto. Complaining about the cello’s “nasal high register and mumbling bass,” he vowed not to waste any more time writing for what he considered to be such an ineffective solo instrument. This well-known reluctance, however, did not stop Dvořák’s friend and colleague Hanuš Wihan from continuing to badger the composer to try again. The Czech cello virtuoso had become friends with Dvořák, and the two had toured together as part of a piano trio in 1892. Dvořák knew Wihan’s playing well, and the cellist had actually premiered Dvořák’s Rondo in G Minor and his “Dumky” Piano Trio. Despite his appreciation for Wihan’s abilities, however, Dvořák did not wish to revisit the challenges of writing a cello concerto and continued to decline the request. Undeterred, Wihan persisted. It was not until Dvořák heard the premiere of Victor Herbert’s Cello Concerto in E Minor while in his third year serving as director of the National Conservatory in New York that he was inspired to finally reconsider. He began work on a new concerto for Wihan in November of 1894 and completed it in February of 1895, approximately 14 months after the premiere of his “New World” Symphony. It would be the last solo concerto Dvořák would compose.

After returning to Europe the following spring, Dvořák and Wihan met to read through the work. Wihan made several suggestions for changes, including the addition of two cadenzas. Dvořák stood his ground, however, adopting a few of the more minor changes but refusing to consider the cadenzas. He even went so far as to write to his publishers, stating, “I give you my work only if you will promise me that no one—not even my friend Wihan—shall make any alteration in it without my knowledge and permission, also that there be no cadenza such as Wihan has made in the last movement; and that its form shall be as I have felt it and thought it out.” Despite being its dedicatee, Wihan was unable to play the premiere, which was given in London in March of 1896 by the English cellist Leo Stern. Wihan gave his first performance of the work in January 1899 and had great success performing it thereafter. Today, the concerto remains one of the most beloved and often-performed works in the cello repertoire.

The opening Allegro begins quietly, with low clarinets offering a subdued first theme that gradually grows into a grand orchestral exposition. One of Dvořák’s main concerns about writing for the cello as a solo instrument was the fear of it being overpowered by the orchestra. He avoids that pitfall by utilizing the orchestra at its fullest only when the soloist is not playing and reducing the accompaniment to primarily soft strings and woodwind solos when the cello is present. Soloist and orchestra take turns in the spotlight as Dvořák’s soaring melodies are put through various incarnations, showcasing the cello’s rich baritone voice, while also requiring some extraordinary technical wizardry. Dvořák finally lets the brass section free at the end, providing a highly dramatic, bold conclusion.

While in New York working on the second movement Adagio, Dvořák received word that his sister-in-law, Josefina Kaunitzová, was seriously ill back in Europe. Years prior, Dvořák had been quite infatuated with Josefina, but she had not returned his affection, and he had eventually married her sister Anna. Josefina had remained an important part of his life, however, and the news of her illness hit Dvořák hard. As the Adagio opens, a gentle woodwind choir offers a peaceful, almost hymn-like melody, which is joined by the soloist. Suddenly, a powerful outburst erupts from the orchestra, as startling and unexpected as the news of Josefina’s illness must have been. Dvořák then offers a tribute to his sister-in-law by means of a central section in which he quotes one of her favorite works, his song “Lasst mich allein (Leave Me Alone),” which he had written in 1888. A gentle choir of horns eventually reprises the opening music as the cellist and woodwind solos bring the movement to a wistful conclusion.

The Finale begins quietly, with low strings providing the rhythm for a march-like theme in the horns and woodwinds. The soloist offers their own bravura version of the tune, which will return, interspersed with more tranquil, contemplative sections. Dvořák could have continued this alternating rondo pattern for the entire movement, but instead, he chose to close the work with a lengthy coda section that gently revisits tunes from the first two movements with touching nostalgia. It was only a month after his return to Europe that Josefina died, and her passing prompted him to include another reprise of her favorite song from the Adagio. It was here that Wihan had wanted to include a virtuosic cadenza, but Dvořák would have none of it, insisting to his publisher that the finale should close gradually with a diminuendo, “like a breath ... then there is a crescendo, and the last measures are taken up by the orchestra, ending stormily. That was my idea, and from it I cannot recede.” Indeed, the final, lingering cello note carries a bittersweet poignancy, which is then overtaken as the force of the orchestra rises up to a fierce conclusion. Dvořák may have been hesitant to write another cello concerto, but when he did, he was steadfast in his vision for the work as one of substance, not glitz. Cellists and audiences for the past 125 years have been equally steadfast in their gratitude.

It was P.T. Barnum who legendarily said, “There is no such thing as bad publicity.” The 19th-century circus magnate understood that anything that draws attention to your enterprise, whether it’s public adulation or public scorn, is positive, since the ultimate goal is garnering the public’s attention. Today, we frequently hear other aphorisms about apathy being society’s greatest evil—that indifference is worse than scorn. Measuring by these standards, the Paris premiere of the ballet Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring) was nothing less than a stunning triumph. All eyes were on the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées on the evening of May 29, 1913, where the audience was buzzing with excitement at the premiere of a new ballet by the Ballet Russes. With their charismatic impresario Sergei Diaghilev, matinee-idol choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky, and young, hot-shot composer Igor Stravinsky having joined forces to produce a new ballet, expectations were high that the evening would be memorable. And it was. Within seconds of the music beginning, the patrons began to grumble, and before the performance concluded, the decidedly unapathetic audience had rioted. If the goal was public attention and audience engagement, the performance was a spectacular success.

The details of that spring evening are now firmly ensconced in classical music folklore, and much has been written about Stravinsky’s score and Nijinsky’s choreography opening the door to modernism (while simultaneously pushing a startled audience through it). The two-part ballet, enacting pagan rituals of ancient Russia, featured not only primal, gyrating dancers, but music that was itself primal—undomesticated, unwashed, visceral. Gone was any notion of gentility, order, or predictability. In its place was raw, unfiltered music that refused to behave. Half of the audience was aghast, the other half was exhilarated, and the history of music was forever changed.

The idea for The Rite of Spring had first surfaced in Stravinsky’s mind while he was still composing his score to the ballet The Firebird, also for Diaghilev and the Ballet Russes. In the 1959 book Conversations with Igor Stravinsky, he noted, “One day, when I was finishing the last pages of The Firebird in St. Petersburg, I had a fleeting vision which came to me as a complete surprise, my mind at the moment being full of other things. I saw in imagination a solemn pagan rite: sage elders, seated in a circle, watched a young girl dance herself to death. They were sacrificing her to propitiate the god of spring.”

He mentioned the idea to Diaghilev, who suggested Stravinsky work with the painter and ethnographer Nicholas Roerich, who not only created the sets for the Ballet Russes, but was also a well-known expert on the rituals of ancient Russia. The resulting ballet depicts the return of spring and the renewal of the Earth through the ritual sacrifice of a virgin. Stravinsky described his score as “a musical choreographic work. It represents pagan Russia and is unified by a single idea: the mystery and the great surge of the creative power of spring …” The score was completed on March 29, 1913, and, a mere two months later, the storied premiere occurred. That the production was mounted in so short a time is amazing, considering that the orchestra was on tour until two weeks before the premiere and then required 17 rehearsals just to learn their parts prior to rehearsing with the dancers. The orchestra numbered 99 players, many more than usually play in an orchestra pit, and they struggled to all fit. The music was more difficult than anything any of the musicians had ever encountered, and even the conductor, Pierre Monteux, was not 100% sold on it.

Although there is general consensus today that Nijinsky’s unexpectedly “primal” choreography was likely the cause of much of the pandemonium in the theater, it is recorded that the unrest began within seconds of the orchestra beginning to play, before the curtain was raised. A lone bassoon, playing in its highest register, caused a stir, as the audience did not recognize what instrument was playing. When the curtain did go up, the pagan costumes and wild gyrations of the dancers only fanned the flames as the traditionalists in the audience rebelled, only to have the progressives in the audience angrily tell them to pipe down. Apparently, at some point, Stravinsky became concerned enough to leave the hall and rush backstage. The audience had grown so loud that the dancers could no longer hear the orchestra. When he arrived backstage, he found Nijinsky standing on a chair in the wings, frantically shouting the counting to the dancers. Monteux, who had been instructed by Diaghilev to keep conducting, no matter what, somehow kept the orchestra together, as the dancers struggled to hear above the din in the theater. At some point, patrons began throwing things into the orchestra pit, yet they played on. Whether or not the police were called is a matter of debate, but we do know that approximately 40 of the worst offenders were ejected from the theater during the performance. Apparently, the height of the melee had subsided by the end of the 35-minute ballet, and there were traditional curtain calls for the dancers, orchestra, Stravinsky, and Nijinsky. Incredibly, there was another ballet still to come on the program, as The Rite of Spring had been the second of three scheduled for performance that night. Diaghilev, Nijinsky, and Stravinsky had dinner together afterward, during which Diaghilev remarked that he was completely satisfied (perhaps even pleased) with the outcome of the evening.

It did not take long for the music to The Rite of Spring to begin being performed as a concert work without dance. On February 18, 1914, the first concert performance was given in St. Petersburg with conductor Serge Koussevitzky on the podium. Monteux conducted it again six weeks later, on April 5, with Stravinsky in the audience. The enormous success of these performances made it clear that The Rite had a bright future as a concert piece. Today, it is among the most frequently recorded works, and a live performance is still considered a “must-see” event. The enormous orchestral forces, extraordinary difficulty of the score for both orchestra and conductor, and the primal energy of the music continue to inspire and amaze, over 110 years after its auspicious premiere.

The Rite is structured in two broad parts, The Adoration of the Earth and The Sacrifice, with each part containing several separate scenes. Stravinsky and Roerich provided the following descriptions of each part.

First Part: Adoration of the Earth, the Spring Celebration

“It takes place in the hills. The pipers pipe and young men tell fortunes (Augurs of Spring), the old woman enters. She knows the mystery of nature and how to predict the future. Young girls with painted faces come in from the river in single file. They dance the Spring Dance. Games start (Dance of Abduction) and the Spring Khorovod (Spring Rounds), the people divide into two groups opposing each other (Ritual of the Rival Tribes). The procession of wise old men (Procession of the Sage) follows. The oldest and wisest interrupts the spring games, which comes to a stop. The people pause, trembling before the great action. The old men bless the earth. The Kiss of the Earth (The Sage) follows and the people dance passionately on the earth, sanctifying it and becoming one with it (Dance of the Earth).”

Second Part: The Great Sacrifice

“At night the virgins hold mysterious games, walking in circles (Mystic Circles of the Young Girls). One of the virgins honors her, the chosen one, with a martial dance (Glorification of the Chosen One). They invoke the ancestors and entrust the chosen one to the old wise men (Ritual Action of the Ancestors). She sacrifices herself in the presence of the old men in the great hold dance, the great sacrifice (Sacrificial Dance).”

Although there is a complete break between the two parts, within each part, the music flows seamlessly from one scene to the next, and it is not necessary to try to keep track of which scene is being portrayed. Indeed, trying to keep track can distract from the visceral impact of a live performance. Better to simply allow the extraordinary music to wash over you. Let the mystic woodwind incantations, heaving volcanic brass, otherworldly strings, and heart-stopping percussion transport you to a place where the raw energy of the Earth is both celebrated and feared, and where humans ultimately surrender to its power.

While today’s audiences frown on rioting during performances, there is no doubt that the communal experience of a live performance of The Rite of Spring remains an exhilarating way to spend 35 minutes. Hearing Stravinsky’s music, as compelling today as it was a century ago, continues to provide an opportunity for listeners to shed apathy, to be amazed at the incredible musical talent needed to bring it to life, and to be reminded of the unique power of music to reconnect us with our shared humanity.

There is perhaps nothing that tickles audiences more than watching those they hold in high esteem show their humorous sides. Whether it’s a CEO opening a speech with a self-deprecating joke or the Pope wearing a baseball cap, people love to feel that their heroes have a sense of humor. The music world has its own share of jokesters. Consider Mozart’s “A Musical Joke” for string quartet and two horns, purposefully composed with compositional “errors,” or Haydn’s “Farewell Symphony,” where the players were told to slowly leave the stage one by one (in hopes of gently alerting the king that the court orchestra was tired and wanted to go home), or Erik Satie’s Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear, which legend says were composed as a response to Debussy telling Satie that he needed to “pay more attention to form” in his music. Add to this list one of Brahms’ most beloved overtures. Faced with composing a work for the most pompous of university ceremonies, Brahms responded with a boisterous survey of student drinking songs, the Academic Festival Overture.

Although Brahms never attended university, he did spend one glorious summer at age 20 in Göttingen, where he joined his friend, the violinist Joseph Joachim, and enrolled in the local university’s classes on philosophy and history. For two months, Brahms and Joachim immersed themselves not only in their academic studies, but also in the rowdy camaraderie of the local students. Beer-fueled debates and late-night song fests complemented their intellectual pursuits, and Brahms reportedly thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of his “university experience.” Those memories resurfaced 26 years later, when Brahms received notice that the University of Breslau intended to award him an honorary doctorate, proclaiming him “the foremost composer of serious music in Germany.” Flattered, Brahms sent a casual note of thanks to the university faculty, remarking that he hoped to get to Breslau soon to enjoy a few “doctoral beers.” Shortly after sending his note, he was contacted by a friend at the University who strongly suggested that the appropriate way to express his gratitude would be for Brahms to compose something fitting for the occasion. The following summer, while on vacation, Brahms finally sat down to write his musical thank you. Although the University had unabashedly asked for a full symphony, what they got was a glorious ten-minute overture that anyone in attendance would certainly have recognized as a tongue-in-cheek tribute to the “after-hours” joys of student life.

There is an atmosphere of anticipation as the overture opens with hushed strings presenting a rhythmic statement drawn from one of Brahms’ favorite marches, the Rákóczi March. This introductory material grows in intensity, culminating in a bold, full-orchestra statement. There is a sudden pause, then the trumpets announce the first of the student songs, “Wir hatten gebauet ein stattliches Haus (We Have Built a Stately House).” This tune originated in the East German town of Jena as a protest song after the student union there was forcibly disbanded 60 years prior. The tune was still considered quite controversial and would definitely have been perceived as a somewhat “pro-student” and “anti-establishment” statement by Brahms. A return to the opening march music provides an interlude before the introduction of another student song, “Alles schweige! Jeder neige (Everyone Be Silent).” This tune was traditionally sung by students as part of a ceremony where they pledged their loyalty to Germany. Brahms excerpts part of the melody in a lush presentation by the upper strings. The atmosphere takes a decidedly rowdier turn when the bassoons suddenly announce the third student song, a freshman hazing tune called “Fuchslied (Song of the Fox).” Similar to the English tune “A-Hunting We Will Go,” it is a boisterous melody that would have been immediately recognized by the full student body, as well as the faculty in attendance. What follows is a magnificent development section where all three tunes are interspersed with the opening march music in a gorgeous amalgamation that could only have been conceived by Brahms. This glorious mélange leads directly to the grand finale, a magisterial presentation of “Gaudeamus igitur,” a traditional graduation day melody (and common drinking song) whose opening line is, "Let us rejoice, therefore, while we are young." With ceremonial brass, swirling strings, and powerful percussion, Brahms puts a triumphant exclamation point on this humorous homage to youth, student life, and those glorious early years where anything and everything seems possible.