A few days ago I talked with another twitterer about whether a new recording of Die schöne Müllerin was needed; my interlocutor wondered if it contribute anything new. As I told him, I welcome a new, good recording of Die schöne Müllerin, because there are always new details to be found; One of the things that defines the classics is their timelessness; they are always new, they are always valid, and they always teach us something new.

If Die schöne Müllerin were a film, all the scenes (each scene, one song) would be exterior shot. All but one: Pause. We see the wanderer between fields, in the forest, by the stream, at the foot of the window of the maid of the mill... But at Pause, the twelfth song, he's in his room. The last verses of the previous one, Mein!, hints at why he takes refuge: Ach, so muß ich ganz allein / Mit dem seligen Worte mein / Unverstanden in der weiten Schöpfung sein! [Ah, so I must be all alone / With my blissful word, / Incomprehensible to all of Creation!]. So far, he has relied on nature, but the emotions that [...]

If the Schubertíada is programming the three great Schubert's cycles sung by three baritones, I have to start with this, even if it is not the beginning. Three works that I never get tire of listening, performed by three voices that I would never miss. The young Konstantin Krimmel, who amazed me at his Schubertiad debut in December 2019 (and I wasn't the only to be amazed) will sing Die schöne Müllerin accompanied by Daniel Heide; Florian Boesch, one of the most beloved singers in this place, made his debut in Vilabertran last year precisely with this cycle, and he will be back this year, with the great Malcolm Martineau, to perform Schwanengesang.

My friend Irene doesn't like winter at all. Darkness saddens her, and she can't stand the cold. There are many places in Europe darker and colder than Barcelona, but we all get used to what we know and Irene finds our winter unpleasant enough to count the days until it's over. I say to her every year that light slowly returns after New Year, and that to notice the sun on our faces during the cold days of February it's delightful. And I talk her about the January shrinks or the almond blossoms, and I tell her that some days later the mimosas will also bloom, and the buds will [...]

There are songs that suggest despair, there are desperate songs, and then, there is Du liebst mich nicht, one of the most unusual Lieders in Schubert's huge catalogue. The poem is by August von Platen, a poet a year older than Schubert who also died young, at 39; as was often the case, the composer knew his poetry through a mutual friend, Franz von Bruchmann.