Weekly SpinOn: Interlude

This week’s topic is interlude — a word that has several meanings but always points to something that happens in between. The term comes from Latin: inter means “between” and ludus means “play” or “performance.” Originally, it referred to short theatrical or musical scenes placed between the main acts of a play. Over time, it took on a broader use in music and everyday language. In classical music, an interlude can be a short piece between scenes in an opera, a lyrical moment inside a larger symphony, or even a stand-alone work that offers contrast or reflection. In all cases, the interlude serves as a pause — not an interruption, but a space that connects, softens, or shifts what comes before and after.

Herbert von Karajan had a special affinity to interludes or intermezzi (Italian). There are several reasons for that. Intermezzi — with their transparent textures, slow pacing, and lyrical lines — gave him room to shape sound with precision. He could focus on colour, phrasing, and the seamless blending of orchestral sections, which was central to his style.

Secondly, Intermezzi are about musical transitions. They don’t just sit still; they gently move the listener from one mood or scene to another. Karajan was a conductor who always thought in long musical arcs, even within short pieces. He saw intermezzi not as fillers but as integral parts of the dramatic or emotional structure. Unlike overtures or finales, intermezzi often explore quiet, internal emotions: nostalgia, sorrow, tenderness. This introspective quality appealed to Karajan, especially in his later years, when he turned more and more toward lyrical, reflective repertoire.

And lastly, Karajan used intermezzi to bring attention to lesser-known gems. His famous Opera Intermezzi recordings (including works by Wolf-Ferrari, Cilea, and Giordano) reveal a conductor deeply interested in the emotional depth of music that often goes unnoticed in the broader repertoire. All of this can be explored in this week’s playlist:

 

Track 1: Cavalleria rusticana – Intermezzo, Mascagni

Pietro Mascagni (1863–1945) remains best known for his contribution to the verismo movement through his one-act opera Cavalleria rusticana. Composed in 1888 and premiered the following year, the work became a landmark of late 19th-century Italian opera, defined by its raw emotional directness and local color. At the heart of this brief but intense opera lies the Intermezzo, a purely orchestral passage that functions as a reflective pivot between scenes of escalating tension and drama.

Verismo opera emerged in Italy in the late 19th century as a reaction against idealized, aristocratic drama, focusing instead on the lives of ordinary people and their raw, often violent emotions. The term “verismo” comes from vero, meaning “truth,” and the style aimed to portray life realistically — with unfiltered passion, social conflict, and intense, short narratives. Composers like Pietro Mascagni and Ruggero Leoncavallo were central to the movement, using direct, dramatic musical language and compact forms. Cavalleria rusticana (1890) is often considered the first true verismo opera, and set the tone with its rural setting, moral intensity, and emotional immediacy.

The Intermezzo appears between the main dramatic action and the final tragic scene of the opera. It follows the moment when Alfio learns of his wife’s affair with Turiddu and vows revenge. The Intermezzo acts as a reflective pause before the fatal resolution — a silent emotional commentary placed between betrayal and bloodshed. It’s a rare moment of pure lyricism in an otherwise highly charged work. Musically, it gives the audience space to absorb the tension and foreshadows the opera’s tragic end.

Herbert von Karajan’s interpretation brings extraordinary sensitivity to this work. With the Berlin Philharmonic, he emphasizes the transparency of the orchestration and the purity of the melodic line. Karajan’s reading avoids sentimentality; instead, it reveals the structural elegance and quiet dignity of this brief musical moment, fully embodying the idea of an interlude as a place of inward pause.

 

Track 2: Siegfried Idyll, Richard Wagner

Our next track in the playlist “Interlude” is Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll, which was originally not even intended to be one but was written as a stand alone instrumental piece for a very private occasion.

Composed in 1870, the Idyll was a birthday gift from Richard Wagner to his wife Cosima, written to celebrate both her 33rd birthday and the birth of their son, Siegfried. It was first performed on Christmas morning in their villa near Lucerne, played by a small ensemble Wagner had secretly gathered. The musicians performed it on the staircase outside Cosima’s bedroom — an act of quiet intimacy rather than grand public gesture.

Although its themes later appeared in Act III of Wagner’s opera Siegfried, the Idyll was never conceived as part of the opera itself. It exists on its own terms, drawing on similar motifs but without narrative function. Its role is reflective, not dramatic — which makes it an ideal example of a musical interlude: self-contained, introspective, and richly expressive.

Over the years, the Siegfried Idyll found its place in the concert hall, often performed in its original chamber version or slightly expanded for a small orchestra. Its calm tone and seamless structure stand in contrast to Wagner’s larger, more theatrical works, offering a moment of quiet lyricism in an otherwise monumental catalogue.

Herbert von Karajan had a special connection to this piece. In contrast to his commanding interpretations of Wagner’s operas, his Siegfried Idyll is subtle and unhurried, focusing on balance, phrasing, and clarity. He lets the music breathe, without overstatement — transforming the Idyll into a kind of sonic reflection. For Karajan, this was not background music. It was a distilled moment of stillness — a true interlude.

 

Track 3: Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90 – III. Poco allegretto, Johannes Brahms

From Wagner’s private lyricism, we move to another kind of reflection — this time from within the symphonic repertoire.
Our third track is the third movement of Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90 — a piece Karajan conducted in concert more than 50 times between 1936 and 1988. This extraordinary continuity speaks to Karajan’s close and evolving relationship with Brahms, whom he revered not only as a master of form but as a composer of deep emotional complexity. For Karajan, Brahms was never academic or abstract. He treated his music as organic, architectural, and full of inner movement.

 

The movement itself is often referred to as a kind of symphonic intermezzo. Unlike the energetic scherzos typical of third movements in 19th-century symphonies, this one is quiet, understated, and melodic. It opens with a gently sighing theme in the cellos and floats forward with a sense of thoughtful melancholy. The texture is lean, the mood reserved — qualities that stand in contrast to the dramatic outer movements and give the listener space to pause.

Karajan’s recordings of Brahms’ symphonies are considered landmarks, but this particular movement — the Poco allegretto — stands out. In concert and studio alike, he approached it not as a mere interlude between outer movements, but as the emotional centre of the symphony. His 1980s recording with the Berlin Philharmonic is particularly striking for its clarity and restraint. The pacing is unforced, the phrasing warm but unsentimental — a perfect expression of what Karajan once called the “inner motion” of Brahms.

Karajan’s approach to this movement remained remarkably consistent across decades: slow but never static, warm but never indulgent. In his later Berlin recordings, you hear an interpretation that has been distilled to its essentials. The dynamic range is narrow, the tempo moderate, the phrasing deeply connected. He avoids any romantic overstatement, instead presenting the movement as a kind of extended breath — not passive, but searching.

Karajan instinctively understood this kind of atmosphere. His reading of the Poco allegretto is not just about interpretation — it’s about perspective. He doesn’t simply conduct the music; he lets it exist in time, quietly, calmly, and with total focus. That’s what makes it one of the most compelling interludes in the symphonic repertoire — and a natural fit for this week’s theme.

 

Track 4: I gioielli della Madonna – Intermezzo (Act II), Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari

We close our Interlude playlist with a richly colored and rarely heard gem: the Intermezzo from Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari’s opera I gioielli della Madonna.
Despite the striking name, Wolf-Ferrari has no relation to the Ferrari car company. The composer was born Ermanno Wolf in Venice in 1876, to a German father and an Italian mother (née Ferrari). He later adopted the double surname Wolf-Ferrari to reflect both sides of his cultural identity — and in many ways, his music reflects this dual heritage: lyrical and dramatic like Italian opera, but with a structural clarity and orchestral richness more typical of the German tradition.

Wolf-Ferrari was celebrated in the early 20th century, particularly for his witty operatic comedies based on Carlo Goldoni. But I gioielli della Madonna (The Jewels of the Madonna), premiered in 1911, is a different kind of work — darker, more intense, and emotionally charged. The Intermezzo from Act II offers a moment of repose in the middle of the opera’s drama, filled with sweeping strings and cinematic atmosphere. It functions like a Verismo-style tone poem: vivid, expressive, and standing easily on its own in a concert setting.

Despite early success, Wolf-Ferrari’s music fell out of fashion after World War I. His commitment to melody and traditional form seemed old-fashioned in the era of modernism. By the mid-20th century, most of his operas had disappeared from the repertoire — not because of poor quality, but because they simply no longer fit the musical trends of the time.

Herbert von Karajan, however, had an ear for forgotten beauty. In his recording Opera Intermezzi, he included Wolf-Ferrari’s Intermezzo alongside pieces by Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and other early 20th-century composers. This was not just a nostalgic gesture — Karajan’s inclusion of such works reflects his belief that even lesser-known music, when crafted with care and feeling, deserves a place on the concert stage. He recorded several such pieces, especially in his later years, and treated them with the same seriousness and refinement as the central canon.

This fourth and final track completes our playlist on the theme “Interlude” with a lesser-known but finely crafted orchestral passage. The four selected works highlight how interludes can take many forms — from reflective instrumental episodes in opera to lyrical inner movements within a symphony. Each offers a brief suspension of action or energy, drawing the listener into a quieter, more introspective space. Rather than serving as mere transitions, these interludes become moments of their own: musically self-contained, emotionally open, and rich in atmosphere. Together, they offer a reminder that what happens between the major scenes is often just as meaningful.