The Hungarian Radio Symphony Orchestra and I are always delighted to be guests at the prestigious Budapest Zeneakadémia and now we are about to return there. On 19th October, I’m conducting an all-Brahms concert which I know will be lyrical and passionate thanks to the sound of our orchestra and the skills of pianist Simon Trpčeski. On the programme are the Concerto no. 2 in B flat major op. 83 and the Symphony no. 4 in E minor op. 98, two monuments of immense musical, historical and interpretative value. Moreover, they are two works of perfect beauty, amongst those that have all of Brahms in them and, as a result, are milestones in the catalogue of the composer, and of virtuoso piano and symphonic performance, and amongst the works most well-loved by enthusiasts worldwide.

For my part, the fact that they were composed within such a short time of each other inspires reflection on the essential unity of intentions in that phase of Brahms’s creativity, representing a crucial landmark for understanding the Maestro from Hamburg and the century’s musical landscape and background. The two works also have in common the not-insignificant fact that the first performance of the Concerto was given with Brahms himself at the piano, and the first performance of the Fourth Symphony (on 25th October 1885, so in Budapest it will be almost exactly its 139^th anniversary) with the composer himself conducting the Meiningen Court Orchestra. Here then, even more than in his other masterpieces, everything speaks of Brahms right to the core, centred around dense, robust symphonism and irresistible, impeccably managed play on rhythm and timbre, capable of daring exploration of each of the wonderful themes. This is particularly true of the Fourth Symphony which, besides being one of the most awe-inspiring symphonies of the nineteenth century, is in many ways, and thanks to its Finale, the extreme epilogue of the symphony born in the classical style.

Attila, like other early Verdi operas, has always sparked my interest. It’s a ‘patriotic opera’, but careful analysis reveals a certain scepticism behind the composer’s patriotism. The opera was received from the outset with some ambivalence, and was later undervalued and performed infrequently, only recently deemed worthy of opening opera seasons. It is the quintessential Venetian opera because it embraces the legend of the city’s birth, set as it is in ‘Rio-Alto, in the Adriatic Lagoons’.

From an orchestral perspective, Attila conforms to tradition, with a medium-sized orchestra, but it’s innovative at the same time. I’m thinking of its use of colour for expression, which we can find in the description of the storm, and the depiction of the sun rising over the lagoon, with the boats gently rocking on its waves. In Attila, Verdi demonstrated his ability to turn away from operatic tradition if it failed to match the dramatic context, seeking original ideas and inspiration even outside Italy.

Besides that, the choice of subject matter was in itself ambitious, because Verdi set to music the tragedy published in 1809 by the German, Zacharias Werner, – Attila, König der Hunnen – having been struck by the eponymous role, but also that of Azzio (Ezio in the opera) and of Ildegonda (renamed Odabella).

Attila remains Attila, but his emotions and deeds are reinvented, firstly in the libretto, but above all in the music: the Hun who descends from the north to conquer southern Europe will face something much more treacherous than military obstacles: the supernatural. Attila is terrified of Leone and his God. What came before (Giovanna d’Arco) and afterwards (Macbeth) in the same vein emphasises Verdi’s interest in everything that goes beyond the bounds of human reason. As a result, I agree with Budden in thinking that Attila is a fascinating work of consolidation