It was 1750. For nearly a century, Baroque piety and gravity weighed heavily on European aristocrats. “Hey, enough of this square, complex music that makes me think about death and stuff. Don’t you know anything, you know, hummable? Something light and upbeat? We just want to party.” Poor aristocrats. What was there to do? The colonies were colonial, the soldiers were soldiering, the peasants were peasanting. They desperately needed a new entertainment – something their parents and grandparents would despise.

Thankfully, the tides were about to change, and the classical era was about to explode. Complex musical patterns gave way to simple, transparent forms. Rich harmony gave way to (essentially) three or four chord functions. Serious, “what is the meaning of life” oratorio gave way to light “let’s see how many people I can sleep with in three hours” opera. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times (quite literally, too.) And, generally speaking, it didn’t end well for those poor aristocrats.

Perhaps it was more “worst of times” than “best of times”. Even so, plenty of real treasures of astounding beauty remain from the classical era, including this well-loved dance from the opera Orfeo ed Euridice by Christoph von Gluck.

Don’t ask me, I didn’t come up with that.

Maybe from boredom, maybe from drinking, or maybe from a sudden burst of creative energy at 4am – whatever the cause, sometimes people write wacky lyrics to instrumental pieces. Sometimes they’re very clever – for example, I’ve heard these words sung to the opening bassoon solo in Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring:

“I am not an English horn, I am not an English horn, this goes too high for me, I am not an English horn.”

Another one which is hilarious (albeit on an esoteric level) is this text for the secondary theme in the slow movement of Franck’s Symphony:

“Cesar Franck composed the best he could; his music sounds like Brahms, but not as good.”

But then there’s this one, which is used primarily as a mnemonic device for music students to remember the melody of the minuet from Mozart‘s Symphony in g minor:

“Insane men, ripping out their hair.” Wat?

I can almost rationalize these lyrics: the melody of this movement is somewhat in 2/4 time, while the dance itself is in 3/4 time. It’s like trying to dance a polka when you’re supposed to be dancing a waltz. If you feel the melody in 2/4, then you’ll find yourself adding a beat here or there to compensate, and it can make you insane, possibly causing you to rip out your hair. Whatever, I didn’t come up with it.

Hector Berlioz is his name.

To an untrained ear, his music sounds like much of the music of the Romantic Era. To a seasoned ear, he is in a class all unto himself.

I am especially fond of Berlioz’s romantic sensibilities. He writes in his memoirs about a visit to the Paris opera. During a particularly moving aria, Berlioz overheard a conversation between two men behind him:

“Good Lord, sir, calm down! Control yourself!”
“I can’t! It’s too beautiful!”
“You silly ass, don’t let the music affect you so!”
“Just leave me alone!”
“It’s only music, you fool. Get over it! Here, have a piece of this orange, it will make you feel better.”
“It’s wonderful!”
“It’s fresh and imported from Spain!”
“I was talking about the music, you nincompoop!”
“Oh, yes, the music – it’s alright.”

Soon after this, Berlioz himself begins to weep at the overwhelming beauty of the music. At the end of the aria, he is lifted from his seat by the man behind him, who is overjoyed to have found someone who was equally moved. They embrace and share a moment together, and never see each other again.