This week, I attended a concert at the Gewandhaus Leipzig: an impressive building and performance space that felt just as important to the experience as the music itself. The hall is designed in a way that draws you in: the stage is central, and the audience surrounds it from every side. Our seats were directly in front of the conductor, and we were close enough to read the musicians’ sheet music. That kind of proximity made it easy to feel connected to what was happening on stage, which almost felt like being a part of the music-making process.
The program featured three works:

Johann Sebastian Bach – Concerto for Three Pianos and Orchestra in D minor, BWV 1063

Arthur Honegger – Symphony No. 2 for Strings and Trumpet, H. 153

Johannes Brahms – Symphony No. 4 in E minor, Op. 98

Bach’s concerto opened the evening with an unusual and exciting setup: three grand pianos in a triangular formation. After the performance, one of the pianos was lowered from the stage through what I could only describe as a trap door, which made for a theatrical (and unexpected) moment. Beyond the visuals, the pianists themselves were deeply expressive. It can be hard to physically convey emotion through a seated instrument like the piano, but all three performers found a way to make their interpretations visible through body language and phrasing. It was very engaging and fun to watch.
The Honegger piece stood out for me as the most striking part of the program. The string writing was rich and layered, with a tension that slowly built throughout the piece. From the beginning I felt captivated, like there was something I was waiting for, but I did not want it to end. I didn’t know much about Honegger before this performance, but now I want to learn more. This work was absolutely beautiful.
The final piece, Brahms’ Fourth Symphony, was powerful and beautifully performed. The brass section played with warmth, and the entire orchestra felt very unified. It’s crazy to think that a band and orchestra, two very different sounds, can come together into such a harmonious body. It’s easy to hear why this work is so well-known—its balance of complexity and emotion is something I’ve come to appreciate more the deeper I get into performance and analysis.
Overall, this concert reminded me how much more I notice in live performances now than I used to. Being a musician and leaning more into my ear for music when attending a performance has changed the way I listen. There’s more awareness of detail, effort, and nuance. Watching professionals perform at such a high level was both inspiring and motivating, and it’s definitely a night I’ll remember.

Sunday, June 22nd — I finally heard Bach’s Mass in B Minor live, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

I should start by saying I wasn’t emotionally prepared. I knew it was going to be breathtaking — it’s Bach — but I didn’t expect to be sitting there, score open on my iPad, feeling dizzy because the sound was coming from behind me. I had no idea the ensemble would be positioned that way, and trying to follow along while the music surrounded me in reverse stereo was… disorienting at first. But once I settled in, I was locked in. The acoustics were incredible, (I feel that 415 carries better than 440 or 442 and I don’t know why, it just resonates more) — every line rang out with this resonant clarity, and the voices cut through the space in a way that made it feel like the soloists were right beside me. I couldn’t believe how powerful and immediate the vocal projection was in such a huge space.

But what really moved me was the Sanctus.

I was teary-eyed. That movement already holds a strange place in my heart. The first time I ever heard the Sanctus was a few months ago, during the announcement of the new Pope on television. (For the record, I’m not Catholic — I just knew the chances of witnessing a papal election again in my lifetime were slim, especially since the current pope is relatively young. But I’m getting off topic.)

They (the Vatican ensemble) played the Sanctus during that moment — this overwhelming, cosmic-sounding chorus erupting as the new Pope stepped out onto the balcony. Even without context, that music hit something in me. And hearing it again now, live, with that same transcendent force — in a church, no less — was honestly too much. I was holding back tears while pretending to casually scroll through IMSLP so that Lucien or the older lady next to me wouldn’t see.

It was holy in a way that goes beyond religion. It felt like the heavens cracking open for a second. Bach somehow found the sound of awe itself and wrote it down.

That moment alone would’ve been worth the entire concert. But the truth is, the whole Mass was full of moments like that where time slowed, and where music spoke louder than language, where I remembered exactly why I love baroque music and Bach.

Tuesday, June 17th — This concert of all six of Bach’s cello suites took place in the Thomaskirche, and this was my first time seeing the interior. I found it to be much more rustic and plain than the beautiful and fancy-looking Nikolaikirche. The patterns on the ceiling of the church were very unsettling to me (see below) and I much prefer the aesthetic of the Nikolaikirche.

Moving on to the performance, though Jean-Guihen Queyras is a cellist whom I have never heard of before, his performance was compelling and beautiful.

It was a night full of surprises — First of all, I expected to enjoy the latter three suites much more, however that was not the case. I think that he played the first three suites much better than he did the latter three — not only were they more technically accurate, but also the phrasing was more convincing for me.

A few musical choices that I want to highlight:

In the D minor (2nd) suite Menuet I, Queyras chose to pizzicato the first half, the first time he played it. The second time through he played it normally (arco). This is (at least for me) completely unheard of and I must say, I was not the biggest fan. Now, I will say that because of the nature of the concert (the continuous performance of the suites and the amazing resonance of the church),  in some ways it worked and at the very least, definitely added a great deal of contrast.

Also in the D minor (2nd) suite but this time the Sarabande, I heard some strange notes near the end of the movement, the second time through. At first I thought it might be possible that he just played the wrong notes, but after discussing with Ruth, I realize now that it was a melodic choice — again, not necessarily one that I agree with, but definitely interesting.

Lastly, I was more than anything curious about Queyras’s choices regarding repeats. He took some and not others — there was no detectable pattern and seemingly no clear reason why he took some and not others. For reference, when performing the suites, it is standard and acceptable to play all the repeats, none of the repeats, or sometimes just the first or just the second repeat. However, in the case of last night’s concert, for some movements, Queyras took both repeats, some he took none, and others he took one of the two. If I had gotten to talk to him after (which I could of, but I was hungry :\ ) I definitely would have asked him about his choices. It is even a possibility that he simply decided on the spot if he would take a given repeat based on how he felt, how tired his hands were, or even if he felt like he wanted another chance at a section of the music.

This was a performance full of interesting and unexpected choices. Overall, I enjoyed the concert and learned from it — though in some cases I learned what I do not like.

Having the opportunity to scrutinize, analyze, and appreciate the musical and textual choices made by Bach before each concert has enhanced my experience as an audience member astronomically: I have come away with a much better understanding of how to be an engaged listener and an enhanced appreciation for musical interpretation.

Moments that were of particular note to me in the Canata concert were the way in which the words“Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen” extended into each other for a little longer than Bach wrote in his score, perhaps to prolong the sense of grief evoked in the listener. I was surprised at the choices made with the words “Angst and Not” – initially more tentative, but, when repeated, more aggressive. I was impressed, later in the same Cantata, at how the singer was able to make the wavering “ei” melisma in “alle Pein”sound so much like great suffering, a feature that can only be realized during live performance. I also enjoyed the duets I could hear between the picollo and the soprano during BWV103, which was more playful than I had expected given the theme of pain and suffering that pervaded the three Cantatas (although, notably, this aria was about healing!).

I was a little surprised by the more dramatic interpretation given of the St. John Passion. For instance, the bass singing the part of Jesus was more expressive than I expected, using his hands and facial expressions to enhance his performance. The tenor who sang the aria following Jesus’ condemnation to death was incredible, although again more dramatic than I expected him to be – I in fact appreciated this break from the more sombre, less expressive mood of the piece. It was also interesting to notice the movements for which the soloists would come out front as opposed to staying with the rest of the chorus (which I thought was possibly linked to Professor Heller’s proposition on the role of time in the St. John Passion, although this was not always the case – at one point, the singer voicing Jesus came out to the front). I was also interested to notice that the theme from the initial soprano aria kept returning in the chorus’ line — perhaps Bach was trying to blur the boundary between what it means to be a good believer versus how easy it was to fall into the trap of condemning Jesus to death.

Finally, it is so cool to be able to attend these performances in the places Bach might have come up with many of his ideas!! It felt particularly awesome that I had been in Weimar the very same day as I attended the “Art of Dying” cantatas alongside Ruth and Vito — BWV161 was initially written and performed there!!

In all, having had the opportunity to go over the music before the concert greatly enhanced my listening experience, and I am looking forward to putting this skill to use in my future concert-going endeavours.

If you told me a few months ago that one of my favorite mornings in Leipzig would involve opera-style improvisation, free croissants, and a dive into 18th-century caffeine politics….I probably would’ve believed you, honestly. But I definitely wouldn’t have imagined it would all come together as beautifully as it did at the (numerous) Cantatas performance this Saturday. Specifically, the performance of Bach’s Coffee Cantata (BWV 211) was one of those rare events where every element, music, space, staging, and even the breakfast, came together in a way that made the whole thing feel both special and surprisingly current.

The program featured Bach’s Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht (or Coffee Cantata for those uninterested in authenticity) is basically a mini comic opera, complete with a dramatic father-daughter standoff over….coffee. It was performed with wit, energy, and a creative sense of staging that made the music feel incredibly alive. The tenor(Fridolin Wissemann), who served as the narrator, delivered his part from a balcony ledge a story above and off to the side, while the soprano (Yumi Tatsumiya, playing the daughter) and bass (Lucas Reis, the father) performed at ground level in front of us. That spatial dynamic made the piece feel like it was unfolding in real time. I sat there with a cup of coffee in hand, watching this hilarious drama unfold (I even watched Vito fearfully say “nein” when the father asked him to marry his daughter. Guess he wasn’t interested in letting his potential wife drink coffee three times a day).

And speaking of the potential wife, she was brilliant. Yumi’s voice was clear and expressive, but what really stood out was her presence. Her acting was both playful and grounded, completely in sync with the tone of the piece. Afterward, I had a chance to speak with her and was amazed to hear that much of the acting was improvised. It’s one thing to perform Bach well; it’s another to bring humor, spontaneity, and emotionality to a centuries-old piece with such confidence and timing.

Even though I’m not much of a coffee drinker myself, I found the cantata’s subject unexpectedly interesting. Written at a time when coffee culture in Europe was still developing, and when women in particular were mostly discouraged from drinking it, the story becomes more than just a musical joke. The daughter’s love for coffee became a stand-in for something bigger: autonomy, desire, and resistance. It wasn’t just about caffeine, it was about access and control wrapped in clever writing and expressive music. This made watching this piece (as a woman in 2025 casually sipping coffee) feel both funny and empowering. On top of that, watching it performed by young musicians who brought their own interpretations to the roles made that dynamic feel even more layered.
There’s something delightful about starting the day with a performance like this: lighthearted, beautifully sung, and historically rich. It reminded me just how much personality and humor there is in Bach’s secular music, something that can often get overlooked next to his larger sacred works.
If this performance is any indication, Leipzig mornings are best spent with live music, coffee, and a bit of theatrical flair.

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This past Saturday was one of the most meaningful days of my time in Leipzig so far. With Princeton, I had the opportunity to attend a performance of three Bach cantatas at St. Nikolai Church — the same church where Bach once served as music director. Even more surreal was the fact that the concert was conducted by Sir John Eliot Gardiner, someone I’ve admired deeply as a baroque conductor for years. Hearing his interpretation of Bach’s music in that historical setting was truly unforgettable.

After the concert, I had a conversation with the bassist from the orchestra, and what followed was something I never imagined would happen: she handed me her instrument and invited me to play it. It was an incredibly generous gesture — and one that meant the world to me.

What I didn’t realize at first was just how special that bass was. She told me it was 356 years old — even older than the average Stradivarius — and had been used to perform Bach’s cantatas and orchestral suites during his lifetime, when he was music director at St. Nikolai. It’s very likely that Bach not only saw this bass, but also heard it in the very works he composed. I was completely stunned.

At Princeton, I’m not even allowed to touch the original manuscript of BWV 33 — and yet here I was, unsupervised, holding and playing an instrument that once existed in Bach’s sound world. It was a moment that reminded me why I chose to study this music in the first place.

Later, I met Jenna, a violinist in the ensemble who also happens to be from the U.S., and coincidentally from the South, like me. Talking with her about life as a professional baroque musician was incredibly inspiring. She reminded me that pursuing a life in music — especially early music — is not only possible, but full of joy, curiosity, and community.

To end the evening, I had a slice of cake and an impromptu grammar lesson from Professor Rankin. His explanation of several German language points helped clarify things I had been struggling with all week. Learning German has not been easy, but I’m so grateful to have support from the Princeton German Department while I’m here — it makes all the difference.

I left the day feeling energized and thankful. So much so, in fact, that I decided to arrange a short excerpt from the third movement of Brandenburg Concerto No. 6 — just as a small way of reflecting on the joy I felt.

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Upon my arrival in Leipzig, I noticed the ‘great man’ everywhere – from the street names, like Karl Liebknecht Straße and Bernhard Göring Straße, to the statues of figures like Leibniz, Bach, and Mendelssohn that towered over me as I walked past. It seemed to me that Bach was being used as a marketing tool: a ‘great man’ who was being used to attract tourists (for an example, see the Bach fest banner at the Hauptbahnhof). Until fairly recently, biography writing similarly struck me as a ‘great man’ venture (as discussed by Marshall, p.12). Despite the fact that I have taken several literature, history, and music classes, where I have been taught that interpretation is quite possibly the furthest thing from what can be described as ‘static,’ I could not fully grasp the idea that biographies evolve. But reading Heller’s “Postlude and Prelude: Bach and the Baroque” and particularly Marshall’s “Young Man Bach: Toward a Twenty-First Century Bach Biography” changed my mind. Both articles brought to the surface considerations that have formerly been left out of Bach studies – Marshall encouraging a psychological interpretation of Bach’s troubled childhood (which perhaps went a little too far) and Heller emphasizing the way in which humour wove its way into Bach’s life and music. The latter was further illuminated by our visit to the Bach archive during which Peter Wollny told us a fascinating anecdote about the letter of recommendation penned by Bach’s daughter! I was particularly fascinated by Heller’s attention to the coffee cantata. I have since listened to several recordings that have shifted my interpretation of humor in music, much in the same way as I have recently come to notice moments of humor in texts I formerly perceived as serious. Biography, I have realized, is not static: in the same way as we continue to interpret and re-interpret music, our understanding of the lives of the ‘greats’ evolves and adapts in different contexts. Walking around Leipzig and considering the way in which Bach is marketed over the past week, I have had time to pay attention to Bach’s shifting legacy. He is no longer imagined as a stern, overpowering figure – at the Bach Archive shop, bags of coffee are being sold with the Bach brand (see below). The very theme of the Bach festival – ‘Transformation’ – gets to the heart of this observation, lending itself to a renewed and evolving understanding of Bach’s life and works. One concert that embodies this is the Queerpassion – I would have loved to have gone to see it, but it unfortunately would likely have overlapped with our concert tonight. It seems fair to say that Bach no longer lives in my imagination as the stern, serious figure who once captured my attention. I look forward to continuing my exploration of biography as I begin reading the book Quartet by Leah Broad, which tells the stories of four overlooked female composers from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It is exciting to think that formerly overlooked historical figures are beginning to receive the attention they really deserve – I look forward to learning more about the women including Bach’s wives and daughters, and Christiana Mariana von Ziegler who played important and yet underappreciated roles in his life!

Next on my Leipzig dessert quest is the Leipziger Lerche. This pastry was originally filled with lark – that is, until the saxonian King banned hunting songbirds in 1876! Now, it’s baked with almonds, nuts, and a cherry. Unfortunately, although it has a fascinating history, I wasn’t a huge fan of the pastry itself.

[see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leipziger_Lerche]

(Side note: I would highly recommend Quarkkeulchen, a Saxonian speciality, which I tried at Barthel’s Hof – delicious!)

Going to see Handel’s Agrippina last Friday was such a fun experience! This was only the second opera I have ever seen, the first being the Magic Flute, so it was quite a contrast from what I was expecting. As I’m sure the others who saw the opera will agree, it was a very interesting (and entertaining, I might add) interpretation. At the very start, the scene opens to reveal the setting of a Las Vegas casino. For an opera composed in the early 1700s, before Las Vegas existed, that was certainly quite unexpected. I was also expecting the scene to change, but it stayed on that setting for the entire opera.

Having read the synopsis beforehand and now having seen the opera itself, I wish I could go back and watch it again! I feel the first time around I spent a lot of the time trying to understand the plot (which was difficult, as the opera was in Italian with German subtitles, and unfortunately my German knowledge is not yet at the level of being able to read that quickly), but if I were to have another opportunity to see it, I would love to do more research on Handel’s original intentions when composing the opera and think about what might have inspired the directors of the production to put on this interpretation of it. It makes me think, how much of this comes from Handel himself? What does this show about who he was as a composer, and a person?

This opera is unusually NOT dark with the lack of any character deaths, but it still has a curiously light-hearted tone to it. There is a lot of anger and heartbreak and betrayal in the story, which would lead one to expect the viewer to feel more negative emotions when watching. However, the casino setting and the excessive and potentially unrealistic use of drugs and other not… kid-friendly scenes, I suppose, add a sense of comedy that does not match the usual emotions conveyed in similar stories. Going back to the questions I asked earlier, about what this opera reveals about Handel, we can also view the massive love triangle (or hexagon?) as adding a large comedic effect to the story. Perhaps the director of this specific performance saw the humor in this unrealistic situation and chose to add more elements in the story that would further exemplify the humor.

Having seen the Magic Flute last year and now Agrippina, it makes me want to go see more operas, and explore the different personality traits of various composers revealed by their works. I am also intrigued by something I hadn’t thought much about before, which is how the opera can change just based off the directors’ interpretations. In the future, I’d like to see different performances of the same opera, to compare the level of difference in various performances of the opera, and I want to consider what that reveals about what the composer intended to be portrayed in every performance.

So far I have been loving Leipzig–I came in with few expectations and have been really impressed by the city.  My two favorite things: the city center and public transportation. The city center is quite beautiful and so gloriously car-free! There is so much to look at when walking around–cute bakeries, clothing shops, nice restaurants–and because of the goth festival that occurred this weekend, there have been a lot of food/drink carts, and there’s been live music playing.  I also love how there is little pattern and uniformity to the city center–there are often little alleys that lead to other shops. In terms of public transportation, I am so jealous! I wish that Chicago, or more broadly America, had public transportation that was this convenient. I especially like the street cars (Straßenbahnen).

The Bach Archive was such a cool experience. Herr Wollny did an excellent job of giving us the context of each artifact that he showed us. I thought it was fascinating that when he showed us the journals of Bach, the signature displayed on the pages was originally Bach’s, but changed from Bach’s to someone else’s at a certain date, since he had someone else interact with clients as he became more well-known. The building that we were in, especially the rising hole in the ceiling that gave way to a tiny performance space, was very cool and really indicated the wealth that the owners had at the time. Seeing the manuscripts and the crossed out music notes was really neat as well. Everything we have learned about Bach so far has indeed changed my perception of Bach. I will try to approach Bach slightly differently when playing it henceforward.

Over the weekend I also went to Berlin (for a pretty short time). I arrived late Saturday afternoon and went to see the Berlin wall briefly. I had seen a piece of it in Chicago before–there’s a small segment of the wall in Lincoln Square—but this was obviously a very different experience. A lot of what I assume used to be the wall has been reduced to a line of rusted metal rods (shown below). At the monument there was also a structure that contained the portraits and names of individuals who died at the Berlin Wall or in connection with the East German border regime. I left Berlin the next day in the early afternoon, so I did not see that much of Berlin, but from what I experienced, I think that I actually enjoy Leipzig more. It is a newer, cleaner city–Berlin was somewhat dirty, messy, and chaotic, though I was happy to see it again after so many years. One very cool thing happened to me as I arrived at the Berlin Central Station to return to Leipzig: I saw this famous cellist whom I recognized from Instagram. Her name is Anastasia Kobekina and she was carrying her cello and walking with her boyfriend. I really wanted to talk to her, so as I mustered up the courage to go up to her, I followed them around and eventually into a Pret a Manger. This story is really anticlimactic because I ended up being too scared to talk to her. I am really mad at myself though because seriously what is the worst that could have happened?! Anyway, that was my weekend. I look forward to the rest of our time in Leipzig together; there is still so very much to do and see!