#historically informed performance

Timothée Chalamet dropped a truth bomb during a town hall with Matthew McConaughey back in late February 2026. He casually declared, "I don’t want to be working in ballet or opera, or, you know, things where it’s like ‘hey, keep this thing alive,’ even though it’s like, no one cares about this anymore.”

Meant as commentary on cinema’s struggle for relevance, it instead ignited a firestorm — proving, ironically, that some people do care about those art forms that have been performed for centuries.

But let's dive deeper into the educational backgrounds of people who - like him - ACTUALLY DON'T.

With the help of music educator Jarrod Richey.

Jarrod Richey — along with a battalion of other music educators in classical Christian charter schools across the USA — operates under the radical notion that education isn’t just about stuffing facts into brains like Thanksgiving turkeys. It’s about formation, molding young minds like warm Play-Doh into something resembling musical humanity.

Now, while some educators are gleefully diving into the neon-lit trenches of pop, hip-hop, rap, and EDM — as well as those AI-generated trap remixes of the digital age — this isn’t some sad consolation prize for those who missed their big break at the Grammys.

This is the contemporary cinematic arts of sound, where short, musical equivalents of the "loud and proud" cultural titans like Barbie and Oppenheimer reign supreme, and where Chalamet’s crusade against bloated "act ones" finds its musical parallel.

But Richey? Oh, he’s over here playing 4D chess, whispering to Christian music educators via The Classical Music Thistle, "The Christian educator who wants to live big must die to self and take up a cross."

Because why follow the crowd when you can lead a hymn sing-along - or rather, teach the choral parts of a masterwork via the Kodaly Method (most effective when used alongside Soft Mozart) in a quiet rebellion of your own making?

Richey's vision of music literacy isn't just about deciphering those little black dots on a page. His definition ambitiously stretches to include the "formation" of students into fully-fledged "musical beings." Richey makes the case that music education should aim for nothing less than "cheerful music literacy for all God’s people."

And this, my friends, is where poor Chalamet stumbles into the conversation, guffawing on CNN about opera being a "dying art." The tragedy here isn’t so much the supposed death of opera, but rather the fact that he — and, let’s be fair, most of us — are tragically under-formed musical beings.

Blame the school boards and administrations who, in their infinite wisdom, had decided that school budgets were best spent on… well, not arts and music.

"We’ve lost sight of the big picture and how music is actually central to the flourishing of man as he seeks to be whole," Richey lamented, "Additionally, many of our schools are blind to the galvanizing effects that music making can have on our culture and growth of the school as a whole.

And even before our children could spell "metronome," their tiny eardrums had been being assaulted (lovingly, of course) by the autotuned warblings of pop stars, the bass-heavy thumps of hip-hop, and whatever unholy fusion of the two is currently trending on TikTok.

Richey once posited that most people are simply too content wallowing in the shallow end of the musical gene pool. Why strain your ears with the soaring crescendos of Giuseppe Verdi's Aida when you can bop along to lyrics about breakups, sparkly dresses, and the existential dread of being 22? (Looking at you, Messr. Swift.)

The masses, bless their rhythmically challenged hearts, have traded the intricate harmonies of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Don Giovanni for the primal satisfaction of a "drop." And let’s be honest, nothing gets the dopamine flowing like a bassline that sounds like it’s being played by a robot with a grudge.

The modern music star isn’t built on vocal acrobatics or compositional genius. Their empire is erected on relatability.

Did your boyfriend ghost you? There’s a song for that. Did you finally embrace your villain era? There’s an anthem for that. Are you questioning your place in the universe while simultaneously craving a blended coffee drink? Believe it or not, there’s a Spotify playlist for that. Emotional expression trumps technical excellence every time, because let’s face it: nuance is exhausting.

And thus, the "liturgy" of contemporary culture has become a never-ending loop of instant gratification. The slow, deliberate beauty of Jean-Baptiste Lully's Le Bourgeois gentilhomme? Too much commitment. The moral weight of a Francesco Cavalli's Giasone? Too heavy.

Give the people beats, give them drama, give them lyrics that rhyme "Karma" with "drama" (again, Messr. Swift, I see you), and watch as the beauty in slow art forms dissolve faster than a sugar cube in espresso.

C.S. Lewis nailed it in The Abolition of Man: “We are halfhearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

And oh, how easily pleased we are!

Why subject yourself to the grandeur of Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen when you can mainline the adrenaline rush of the soundtrack from Marty Supreme? Why ponder the existential depths of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s Les Indes galantes when you can lose yourself in the cinematic chaos of Barbenheimer?

Chalamet, for all his brooding charm, is no exception. He’d rather make those mud pies in his glittering slum in Hollywood — where every plot skips Act I like it’s an unpaid bill and where storytelling is measured in decibels — than take that metaphorical holiday by the azure seas of high art.

But can you blame him? The sea is vast, it’s deep, and frankly, it requires swimming lessons. Meanwhile, mud pies are fun, messy, and—most importantly—immediately satisfying.

And Richey is neither wrong NOR alone.

Enter Veronica Greenan — harpist and the mad genius behind Magical Music Method — who, like some kind of musical anthropologist, has traced society's indifference toward opera back to the same roots of the opera (and classical music) indifference that Chalamet pointed out on CNN (and Richey lamented).

Greenan’s theory? Modern culture has been "slowly duped into thinking that popularity and wealth equals relevance and worth," a belief so pervasive it might as well be sold in vending machines next to the Diet Coke. It starts young, she argues, during the "critical window" for aural development — that magical time when children’s brains are sponges, eagerly soaking up whatever nonsense we throw at them.

Instead of filling that window with the rich, complex harmonies of Mozart or the soaring arias of Giacomo Puccini, we’ve crammed it full of the "liturgy" of brand logos, influencers hawking detox tea, and celebrity gossip so vapid it could float away on a light breeze. The result? What Greenan dramatically calls "neural neglect" — basically, brains so understimulated they might as well be binge-watching paint dry.

But here’s where Greenan parts ways with Chalamet’s defeatist logic — the idea that if "no one cares," the art form is effectively dead. Oh, please. That’s like saying a diamond loses its value because a toddler would rather play with a plastic spoon.

Greenan’s method boldly asserts that beauty "does not lose its value because it is overlooked," a statement so profound it deserves to be engraved on a plaque and hung in every middle school music room next to the dented xylophone.

Opera, ballet, jazz — these art forms, "will always be relevant… Even if not one person sits in the audience," because their worth is intrinsic, untouchable, and impervious to the whims of TikTok trends.

And Chalamet? According to Lewis, he is in ways a snob.

A "chronological snob."

In his essay "On Reading Old Books," Lewis delineated what Chalamet's comments revealed in the first place: every age is "specially liable to make certain mistakes," not because we’re dumber than our ancestors (though the existence of TikTok turn challenges might suggest otherwise), but because we’re all marinating in the same cultural Kool-Aid.

Call it the "contemporary diet" of ideas — a buffet where everyone’s reaching for the same intellectual (and musical) junk food, utterly convinced it’s haute cuisine.

The cure? A literary detox. Lewis prescribes "old books" like some kind of literary physician, arguing they’re the antidote to our era’s myopia. Why? Because the past’s mistakes are blessedly obvious to us now — like powdered wigs or the belief that leeches cured depression — while our own blunders remain invisible, hidden under the veneer of "progress."

The beauty of old art is that it doesn’t just whisper, "You might be wrong;" it affirms, "Let's see how we can make the present RIGHT." Which brings us to Chalamet’s unfortunate "12-second spot" comment — a confession that he, too, has chugged the zeitgeist’s energy drink.

Imagine, for a moment, a world where he’d traded his date at the movies for, say, a performance of George Frideric Handel's Rodelinda. With period instruments. With countertenors playing the roles of Bertarido and Unolfo. (Seriously, Michael Chance CBE did a MEAN ROFL in the Bavarian State Opera 2003 production!)

Not only would he have discovered that it lasts longer than some relationships, but he might’ve inhaled that "clean sea breeze" Lewis promises — the one that blows away careerist panic and replaces it with the humbling realization that art isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon run by snails with impeccable taste.

Lewis wasn't wrong when he wrote: "It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between. If that is too much for you, you should at least read one old one to every three new ones."

This principle isn’t just bibliophilic gospel — it’s, for instance, practically encoded in the DNA of every decent wind ensemble conductor worth their salt.

Picture it: a sweaty high school auditorium, trumpet players fidgeting, the percussionist accidentally dropping a mallet mid-rehearsal… and yet, the programming philosophy remains steadfast. Three flashy new works balanced by one old warhorse like Alfred Reed’s Bach transcriptions.

Or Lucien Cailliet’s arrangement of Wagner’s chorus being sung as Elsa processes to the cathedral in Act II of Lohengrin into something a slightly inebriated euphonium section can manage after three energy drinks.

The ratio is sacred: three parts "look what we can do" to one part "remember where we came from." It’s the musical equivalent of eating kare-kare after mainlining Lucky Me! instant pancit.

Now, before my fellow Disney adults start lighting torches and storming my metaphorical castle, let me as an emeritus Walt Disney World Annual Passholder clarify: nobody’s suggesting they torch their MagicBands.

But imagine, if you will, a life where "There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow" isn’t the only sacred music you hear annually. Central Florida boasts wonders beyond animatronic presidents — like the Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Queen of the Universe, where its 2019 Schoenstein pipe organ (4 manuals of pure bliss) turns every Sunday Mass into a legit E-Ticket experience.

Richey posits that classical Christian charter schools cultivate students who don’t just recognize virtue when they see it, but actively crave it like a Bach cantata addict chasing their next fix. In an era where school boards slash arts budgets with the reckless abandon of a tone-deaf lumberjack attacking a Stradivarius, Richey’s educators toil away like tireless gardeners, irrigating the cultural deserts of young minds.

To borrow Lewis’s delightfully botanical metaphor, these teachers aren’t just sprinkling — they’re flooding the Sahara (and building stormwater permaculture catchments to capture said water "irrigating their students' deserts") with the musical equivalent of an Alpine spring.

Richey himself puts it rather elegantly: "If your family playlists seem dry, decide that you’re going to water them with richer, deeper music."

Dr. Jeff Lee similarly wrote on Seattle's Child, "I don’t think you need to fling all your Raffi CDs out the car window. I just think we should introduce our kids, right from the beginning, to music we really love. And that same principle applies to more than music. Just because they like McDonald’s, can’t they develop a taste for great gumbo, too?"

"Even though they love video games, does that mean they won’t love kick-the-can?  Our job is to do more than give them the stuff that the childhood industrial complex is marketing to their demographic. Our job is to introduce them to the wonderful things in the world."

Now, before anyone assumes I’m advocating for some kind of musical Jacobinism — where we storm the Spotify accounts of innocent parents and purge all traces of Pinkfong's "Baby Shark" like revolutionary censors — let me clarify: this isn’t about prohibition. No one’s suggesting you hit "delete" on "Opalite" from a playlist of a devoted Swiftie or force-feed a toddler Wagner's "Parsifal" before naptime.

This is about balance. A harmony, if you will.

Consider Lewis’s "old books" principle but applied to music. My modest proposal? For every three children's music tracks (or g-rated pop tunes if children are old enough), why not treat your children's and your eardrums to something from the classical repertoire?

After enduring "Baby Shark’s" relentless "doo-doo-doo-doo," wouldn’t "Aquarium from Camille Saint-Saëns's Le Carnaval des animaux — with its shimmering, otherworldly arpeggios — feel like plunging into a cool, celestial lagoon? Or follow up 3 tracks of Hap Palmer’s bouncy didacticism for the sweeping drama of Bizet’s L'Arlésienne Suite No. 2, and suddenly, snack time feels like a scene from a French period film.

And let’s not overlook the unspoken influence of classical music in the unlikeliest of places — video games. Would Mario & Sonic at the Rio 2016 Olympic Games carry the same grandeur without Princess Rosalina doing a perfect ring pivot with a hoop in her hands to "Farandole?" Unlikely. That piece turns rhythmic gymnastics into high art, proving that even Ninty's CGI athletes deserve a soundtrack worthy of the Vienna Philharmonic.

Speaking of unexpected venues, who could forget Konami’s slot machines? The moment you hit a mega win on Lotus Land, what greets you? Not some tinny electronic fanfare, but the fiery, triumphant overture from Carmen.

It’s as if Bizet himself is cheering you on from beyond the grave, shouting "Viva les richesses!" (Or at least, "Viva les quarters!") Ask any casino regular with a fondness for nickel slots — they’ll confirm that a payout feels infinitely more glamorous when underscored by operatic brass.

Richey makes an observation so profound it could shake the foundations of the Thomaskirche itself: Bach wasn’t composing for casual elevator music enthusiasts who just want something pleasant to drown out the sound of their existential dread.

No, dear reader, Bach was engaged in something far more subversive — crafting divine puzzles in D minor, hiding theological Easter eggs in fugal structures so dense they make Riemann’s head spin. This man didn’t just write music; he encoded the mysteries of the universe into partitas, like some baroque Dan Brown but with infinitely better wigs and zero questionable Latin.

Take St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244, where Christ’s agony unfolds in a chromatic descent so wrenching it makes Wagner sound like Raffi.

Bach’s genius lies in his refusal to spoon-feed meaning. Like Jesus dropping parables that left even the disciples scratching their heads, Bach composes multilayered labyrinths where the more you listen, the more you’re haunted by the sneaking suspicion that there’s still another hidden canon in the bass line you missed.

It’s the musical equivalent of that moment in Inception when you realize the top was never the real totem — except Bach’s totem is a chorale tune buried under twelve invertible counterpoints, and Hans Zimmer wishes he could soundtrack half as intelligently.

Bach didn’t just read the Bible; he marinated in it like a theological sous-vide, extracting flavors of Lutheran doctrine so rich they’d make Calvin blush. His Clavier-Übung III isn’t just a collection of organ pieces — it’s a liturgical year in miniature, with fugues that unpack the Trinity more eloquently than any seminary textbook (and with better cadences).

This is why Richey’s students at Geneva Academy in Monroe, LA, don’t merely admire Bach because he wrote “SDG” ("Soli Deo gloria," because almost all his works signed with those initials were dedicated to God and nobody else).

No, they revere him as the ultimate overachiever: a man who could simultaneously write a six-part ricercar and raise twenty children without losing his peruke. As the Good Book posits: "It is the glory of God to conceal a matter, and the glory of kings to fathom a matter." (Proverbs 25:2, NABRE.)

Similar things ring true for other classical music, opera included. Greenan chimes in: "If you teach your children about (classical music), expose them to the music, sing along, show them art, and read books, get excited about it, an make memories, then you are setting the stage."

"And one day when you can finally bring them to see The Magic Flute, it will be the most magical night of their life because they will know it, understand it, and love it already. And every child deserves to know great art and have the chance to be shaped by it, inspired by it, moved by it, and strengthened by it."

And she’s right. As Cherubino Ferrari gushed after seeing the premiere of Claudio Monteverdi's L’Orfeo in 1607, "Both poet and musician have depicted the inclinations of the heart so skillfully that it could not have been done better… The music, observing due propriety, serves the poetry so well that nothing more beautiful is to be heard anywhere."

So here’s the takeaway, served allegro con brio: classical music - opera included - isn’t a relic. It’s the secret sauce — the umami of sound. And if Richey’s vision holds, maybe, just maybe, the next generation won’t need a YouTuber to explain why "Forêts paisibles" from Rameau's Les Indes galantes slaps even 50 years later.

Olivia Organ has a thing for Renaissance through Classical sacred vocal music. But she also loves instrumental music composed in the timeframe, specifically pieces originally written for churches. Her jams are Italian Renaissance motets and German Baroque cantatas.

If you don't know, here's her disposition:

The idea of Study Halls Gone HIP - my Spotify playlist series of classical music composed pre-1800 by historically-informed performance (HIP) groups and individual instrumentalists - stems from my vacation in South Korea in October 2024.

I learned that the country takes a few hours of pause on the day of the national high school exit examination, the College Scholastic Ability Test or CSAT. In Korean, it's called the Daehak Suhak Neungnyeok Siheom, or Suneung.

Floridians who attended 3rd-10th grade between 1998 and 2014 (me notwithstanding) might be familiar with the Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test (FCAT). In the 2000s, 10th graders were obliged to pass the reading and math portions of it in order to obtain a diploma.

Being more rigorous than the FCAT, the CSAT's scoring has been an indicator of Korean teen examinees' adulthoods, from the colleges they'd attend after graduating high school to their job prospects. Those with the highest scores are most likely to be enrolled in the top post-secondary institutions, namely either the Seoul National, Korea or Yonsei universities.

Once they graduate from them, those successful adults would snag jobs with family-owned business conglomerates called chaebols.

On the day of the CSAT, airports - including Incheon International outside of Seoul - would reschedule flights to afternoons and evenings and delay the rest of the morning flights as much as 35 minutes so the din of overhead aircraft won't detract examinees' attentions. Cars refrain from honking for the same reason.

In contrast, FL businesses - even within 3 miles of a school - would do business as usual on FCAT examination dates.

While most FL millennials would increase vocab and drill on algebra problems to the strains of, well, Flo Rida, South Korean teens studying for the CSAT wouldn't only stay from Flo Rida. They compiled blacklists of songs that severely detract their concentration, usually K-pop earworms.

Songs they have blacklisted through out the years, during the weeks and days leading up to the date of the CSAT, include Aespa's "Next Level," BTS's "Go Go," Momoland's "Bboom Bboom," Pinkfong's "Baby Shark" (patooie), Red Velvet's "Dumb Dumb" (ironically a smart move to blacklist it), SHINee's "Ring Ding Dong," PSY's "Gentleman," and Super Junior's "Sorry Sorry."

In 2024, the determined South Korean teens annexed to the pre-CSAT music blacklist the infectious duet between Blackpink lead singer Rosé and Filipino-American pop star Bruno Mars: "APT." (Aptly, my Cebu Pacific flight from Manila landed in Incheon on the first day of the tour around Seoul, on the day after it was released.)

"I’m worried the song might pop into my head during the exam," student Nam, then 18, groaned to The Korea Bizwire, "Adults might laugh at such concerns, but when you’re facing such a crucial test, it becomes a real source of anxiety."

"I avoid cafes playing pop music and stick to quiet study spaces," Choi, also 18, remarked, "I’ve even deleted music apps like YouTube Music and plan to stay away from songs until after the CSAT."

But South Korean teens weren't the only ones fearing for their concentrations - and exam marks - via trying to keep "APT." out of their systems and minds. In Malaysia, a student wrote the song's lyrics instead of an essay about the novel Tawanan Komander Caucasus (English: The European Commander's Prisoner).

"We have tried our very best to provide an excellent educational platform for the children," the teacher bewailed on the onscreen captions of her TikTok reel, "but this is how they'd repay us. I'm very disappointed."

"If only you were as diligent in writing essays as you are in writing the full lyrics of this song, your teacher would be proud of you," she admonished her students.

That got this classical music fanatic thinking: as well as those do-not-play lists, why not ALSO compile playlists for not only students in Korea studying for the CSAT, but for ALL STUDENTS AROUND THE WORLD?

Hence, the Study Halls Gone HIP Spotify playlist series was born on Christmas 2024.

Many experts agree that classical music is THE BEST genre to listen to whenever youths would study. The best forms of them are instrumental excerpts (like overtures from operas) and whole pieces (like sonatas). For instance, a 2023 French study found that university students who listened to a one-hour lecture where classical music was played in the background scored significantly higher on a pop quiz than those who only listened to the lecture itself.

In my series of playlists, my selections span between the Medieval and pre-1800 Classical eras. Think not only the Mozart piano sonatas (played on replica fortepianos, no less) and a ton of Johann Sebastian Bach played by period orchestras. (I even included the Brandenburg Consort's take on the Air from his Orchestral Suite in D Major, BWV 1068, in the first one!) You'll encounter some John Dowland, William Byrd, Francois Couperin, and Luigi Boccherini, too.

And here's a taste of what you'll hear in my studying-friendly playlists:

Now that we ironed out the inherent problems with the 24 Italian Songs and Arias and the Suzuki Violin School regarding historical practices, let's hear it from respectively vocal and violin pedagogy experts (as well as Poe).

"(Those chordal edits of late Renaissance and Baroque music) was common in 19th century editions because (Alessandro Parisotti and G. Schirmer's editors) had very little exposure to and experience with Renaissance and Baroque music, since only then-recently-composed music was in fashion," harpsichordist and musicologist Alice M. Chuaqui Baldwin explained.

"The editors were just making guesses about what the music was supposed to sound like, and those guesses were based on Romantic music."

Plus, one of the pieces in the 24 Italian Songs and Arias was composed by Parisotti. He ascribed his aria, "Se tu m'ami," to Giovanni Battista Pergolesi. A good comparison is the Henry Lane Wilson English-language air, "Shepherd! Thy demeanour vary." He ascribed it to Early Classical composer, Thomas Brown Jr. He included it in his publication, Old English Melodies, in 1899.

Will Crutchfield of opera organization Teatro Nuvo, described the practice of not only editing Baroque and classical music pieces to suit Romantic Era mores, but also compose in the style of them, as Pseudo-Baroque for School and Parlor.

"It flourished in the later 19th century, when quite a few composers felt the urge to write gavottes, minuets, and little da capo arias - more or less in 18th-century styles, but always with telltale traces of the present day intermixed," he explained, "This went hand-in-hand with adaptations of actual Baroque music."

It's any wonder why Shinichi Suzuki based the edits and piano-violin arrangements of Baroque pieces off those published in the 19th century and the turn of the 20th century when developing the Suzuki Method.

"The question of authenticity in a composition is a valid question," A. Brown remarked on MaestroNet. "The words 'edited by' indicate that you are seeing a version and not necessarily an original. Depending on the editor, many versions can be totally unfaithful to the original. Some can be very useful and good."

"For the music of many composers, there are urtext publications that profess to present a printed text of the composer's intention. This could be taken from the earliest example or a manuscript in the composer's hand. Often there may be several versions, maybe all in the composer's handwriting."

"Editions of some of the more standard repertoires such as (the JS Bach concertos and GF Handel sonatas) are very old-fashioned, likely to be old German editions from the turn of the 20th century," Toscha added, "Suzuki allegedly studied with Karl Klingler (a student of Joachim) of Berlin during the 1930s, and seems to have had an almost blind faith in old German editions."

"But the fact was, (the Romantic-era German school of violin playing) was already out-of-date in the 1930s (Russian and Franco-Belgian school were very much in vogue already). And today, I don't think any serious professional violinists will likely to use those fingerings and bowings found in the Suzuki books."

Neither would pianists very likely play the figured basses of, say, Solfege No. 128 composed by Francesco Durante fresh off the 1772 transcript of Solfèges d'Italie as opposed to from the piano part written on 24 Italian Songs and Arias whenever a vocal student would perform "Vergin, tutt'amor" at a college vocal recital or state solo and ensemble MPA any time soon. The former keyboard part would work historically best on an organ alongside a monophonic bass instrument like a cello or bassoon.

Poe explained why:

Infusion of Romantic stylistic elements might overshadow Baroque and Classical sensibilities, leading to interpretations that felt more modern and less true to the original contexts. The aggressive use of dynamic contrasts in the piano scored could overshadow subtle nuances, potentially masking the delicate interplay that defined the original works. Excessive variations in dynamics might lead to a lack of clarity in conveying the specific moods (aka "affects") the composers aimed for, disrupting the emotional flow of the pieces. Allowing for significant rubato and personal expression might result in performances that diverged too far from the composers’ original pacing, creating interpretations that felt disjointed or overly interpretative. Performers might prioritize individual expression over fostering the intended narrative of the song, leading to varied interpretations that could confuse the piece’s emotional essence. In some arrangements, the dense piano textures could obscure the vocal line, making the lyrics less discernible and diluting their emotional significance. Alterations in accompaniment could lead to mismatches between musical phrasing and lyrical content, disrupting the emotional connection between text and music. By reinterpreting pieces for contemporary performance contexts, the historical and cultural significance of the original works may be diminished, leading to a detachment from the composers’ intents.

As Howard Goodall explained in the documentary Big Bangs, this was all because by the time Parisotti published Arie Antiche in 1885 - the piano already bore 88 notes. "It gained an iron frame, tougher wire strings, and a bigger range to fill big concert halls with sound, like an orchestra of one," he remarked.

"So, whenever a student of mine reaches around Book 4," Toscha recommended, "I'd start encouraging them to get more modern or urtext editions. For the pieces that don't have alternative modern editions, I'd try to 'update' fingerings and bowings for my students."

For those who already accomplished all airs of the 24 Italian Songs and Arias and are aspiring to be classical vocalists (with more and more of them collaborating with period instrumentalists), Poe suggests:

Performers should study the historical and cultural context of the pieces, including the composer’s life, style, and the music's original performance practices. This knowledge will inform their interpretations and help maintain authenticity. Working directly from original manuscripts or historically informed editions can help performers understand the nuances intended by the composer. While honoring traditional practices, performers can incorporate subtle contemporary elements—such as slight dynamic adjustments or varied tempos—that enhance emotional expression without straying too far from the original intent. Exploring new interpretation styles can engage audiences. However, these should be rooted in a clear understanding of the piece's essence to avoid diluting its authenticity. Whenever possible, use period instruments or replicas to achieve a more authentic sound. For example, using a fortepiano (or at least a digital piano hooked up to a PC with the fortepiano patch from a VST like Pianoteq) instead of a modern piano can enhance the period feel of Classical music (e. g. "O del mio dolce ardor" from Christoph Willibald Gluck's 1770 opera Paride ed Elena). Incorporating historical performance techniques, such as ornamentation specific to the era or appropriate articulation styles, can bring a fresh yet authentic character to the music. Providing audience members with insights into the piece’s background, including its emotional and historical significance, can enhance their appreciation and connection to the music. Collaborating with musicians who specialize in historically informed performance can enrich interpretations and ensure that the performance remains authentic while exploring new expressive possibilities. Seeking input from musicologists, educators, and other performers can provide valuable perspectives and help refine interpretations.

And vocalists shouldn't forget to listen to period instrument versions of the works represented in the 24 Italian Songs and Arias (and subsequent versions) wherever and whenever possible.

The same questions that pianist and composer Mark Polesky imagined arising whenever Suzuki Method students would listen to the pieces they are working in their original forms (especially those involving historically-informed performance, or HIP, ensembles) would apply similarly to vocal students.

Similarly, they'll likely ask, "Why is the soloist singing something different from what’s in the score? Can I add embellishments too? When and how? Why is everything tuned flat? Where is the harpsichordist getting all those notes from? Why are there so few dynamics, articulations, etc. in the original score? Do I have to play it the way it’s written in my score?"

And here's another thoughtful question they are likely going to ask: "Why is the male soloist singing in an alto (read: countertenor) or soprano (read: sopranist) voice in the recording?"

*I insert rightly a TW for countertenor haters, as this is the rendition of "Delizie, contenti," an aria from the 1649 opera Giasone featured in Parisotti's Arie Antiche, as Francesco Cavalli intended. Accompaniment by Rene Jacobs's Concerto Vocale Gent? You bet. The delightful alto voice of Michael Chance making it authentic? Check and double-check.*

"(An advantage) of listening to the (original versions of pieces in the 24 Italian Songs and Arias and the Suzuki Violin School) is the exposure to baroque performance practice," Polesky remarked, "And students who see the original manuscripts and early editions can learn to read the modern interpretive editions with a more critical eye (and to listen to the originals with a more critical ear)."

With the early music realm ever-expanding, maybe someday an HIP performance involving said countertenors of the megillah of the entirety of Antonio Caldara's 1710 opera La costanza in amor vince l'inganno would someday come to fruition. Audiences will soon enough be treated to hear a rendition of "Sebben, crudele" - either sung by a female soprano or sopranist - that is true to his intent.

Some early music lovers and historically-minded musicians only can dream...

As someone who partook in many spring concerts, I for one have encountered at least one instance of a classmate performing a chestnut from the 24 Italian Songs and Arias.

That instance occurred in 8th grade, in 2004, when I was clarinetist in the concert band and violist in the orchestra. One of my classmates - who previously played Ti Moune in my middle school's production of Once on This Island to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka ruling - sang Giovanni Bononcini's "Per la gloria d'adoravi."

Fast forward 20 years later - to March 29, 2024. Beyonce Knowles made an allusion to another selection from the 24 Italian Songs and Arias in her gripping, country-infused ballad about domestic violence, "DAUGHTER." That time, it was Giuseppe or Tommaso Giordani's early Classical concert vocal piece, "Caro mio ben:"

Several vocal studio students, voice coaches, voice major undergrads, and pro classical vocalists took to social media upon the song's release and shared memories - both good and traumatizing - of singing excerpts from "that yellow book."

"(I'm looking forward to hearing and seeing) impressionable young singers trying to work those melismata into their renditions at a local National Association of Teachers of Singing festival," a voice teacher sarcastically commented on Facebook.

"('Caro' was) The very first aria I heard in an American theater camp," another vocalist recalled, "and they made us sing it! Mmm, flashbacks."

"(Sing 'O Del Mio Dolce Ardor' from Christoph Willibald Gluck's Paride ed Elena) next, Bey," soprano Josephine Shaw beseeched in her caption of her video on TikTok, "I'm begging you."

Unsurprisingly, Beyonce herself was an alumnus of the Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts in her native Houston, TX. Thus, she and her sister Solange had their fill learning and reciting "Caro" and other chestnuts from the "yellow book" as voice students.

For this early music and historically informed performance (HIP) hound since 5th grade, "DAUGHTER" unlocked that very core memory of hearing my classmate sing Bononcini's "Per la gloria d'adoravi" in person, accompanied by piano, at a middle school spring concert, despite me being in band and orchestra as opposed to choir.

But Beyonce's "DAUGHTER" wasn't the only time the 24 Italian Songs and Arias was referred to in pop culture. Terri Fletcher (portrayed by Hilary Duff) struggles through "Caro mio ben" in her voice lessons in the 2004 musical film Raise Your Voice.

BuzzFeed ranks "Caro" as a topper for their list, "A Definitive Ranking Of 24 Italian Songs And Arias." Nina Mohan described it as the "bread and butter of classical singers. Everyone's done it, and everyone loves it." (Notably and wryly, the subheading in the article plays a pun on "Tu lo sai," an aria from a lost Giuseppe Torelli cantata.)

Photo via The Drunken Tenor on FB.

But the iconic yellow book has some thorns. Some alumnus vocal students call it a "source of torture." Some others criticized the use by students who are especially tyros in Italian diction. Some musical theater majors who are forced to trudge through it to hone and improve their vocal skills love to set it in a pit with other fuel and kindling and roast their whole sucking pigs (aka mga lechon) over it. (After all, they must be proficient in dancing, acting, AND singing.)

"My problem," a Redditor said, "is that I just don't like the songs. It's not like I haven't tried them either - I started my training with 'the 24' during my first stage of voice lessons when I was 11-14 years old. I've also sang a few of them in recitals. As I'm discovering my musical preferences, though, I'm realizing that I strongly prefer the German and French song repertoire, especially Richard Strauss, Francis Poulenc, Claude Debussy, Gabriel Fauré, and Cecile Chaminade, as well as German Volkslieder."

For many early music and historically-informed practice scholars, the issues with the 24 Italian Songs and Arias musicologically and historically run MUCH deeper than mere indifference and animosity.

To better understand how they are problematic, let's make an analogy to a similar pedagogical set of books for violin students: the Suzuki VIolin School. But before that, let's look at the "yellow book's" parent predecessor, Alesandro Parisotti's Arie Antiche.

"Parisotti collected these antique arias in what was the 19th century vogue for discovering forgotten old or antique music from the classical and baroque eras," reads a Wikipedia article.

"The taste for rediscovered music was de rigueur among musicians and audiences of the nineteenth century, with composers lesser than Mendelssohn and Brahms participating as well. Parisotti found forgotten scores and arranged their arias (or duets) for solo singer and piano accompaniment. Parisotti romanticized the pieces by altering word placement, chordal structure and/or adding ornamentation to the vocal line."

It's worth noting at the time of Arie Antiche's publication by Ricordi in 1885 and G. Schirmer's American edition, Anthology of Italian Song of the 17th and 18th Centuries', publication in 1894 that those arrangements of the airs were pieces of a Romantic Era umbrella music subgenre: parlor music.

"Parlor music," a Library of Congress article reads, "became very fashionable as increased importance was placed on musical proficiency as a hallmark of good taste and moral reputability. Musical prowess, particularly keyboard playing, was highly prized, and a commonly-held value was that a proper education was incomplete without the study of music."

"Parlor music repertoire frequently included sentimental songs about romantic and maternal love, odes and tributes to historical figures and leaders of the day, and patriotic songs."

Arrangements of ancient airs - as it was the case with Arie Antiche and Anthology of Italian Song of the 17th and 18th Centuries - were also included in the parlor music canon.

Around the same time when parlor music was on the rise, editors of instrumental music also romanticized Baroque music for especially amateur string players. "When Johann Sebastian Bach's Cello Suites received their first publications in Paris in the 1820s," cellist Sarah Freiberg wrote in Strings Magazine, "they were renamed 'Sonatas (or Solos).' Heavily edited with tempo markings and dynamics, essentially they were updated for the mostly budding cellists who were likely to buy them."

"There was not another edition until 1866, when Friedrich Grützmacher tried his hand at it. He’s now remembered for 'updating and improving' a Luigi Boccherini cello concerto to make it more palatable for the Romantic era, and he did something similar for the cello suites. He thought his revisions would allow hopelessly old-fashioned, otherwise forgotten works to remain in the repertoire—and his Boccherini edition is still performed today."

"Grützmacher’s 'performer’s edition' of the Bach Cello Suites is so heavily edited, arranged, and re-harmonized that it is listed under arrangements and transcriptions on the IMSLP website. His objective, as quoted in Bradley James Knobel’s 2006 dissertation on the suites, was 'to reflect and to determine what these masters (Schumann and Mendelssohn) might have been thinking, and to set down all they, themselves, could have indicated.'"

"As to Bach, Grützmacher pointed to successful performances of his own edition as 'something that would have been impossible with the bare original in its primitive state.'"

It wasn't surprising that violin and piano transcriptions of Baroque music were heavily edited at the time. Even more unsurprising was that those were the pieces pedagogue Shinichi Suzuki based the pieces of the Suzuki Violin School on.

One of them was Arthur Bent's and Norman O'Neill's violin-piano transcription of the 10th movement of the first suite from Joseph-Hector Fiocco's Pièces de clavecin, Op. 1. Perhaps Dr. Suzuki might had learned the above 1928 recording by Yehudi Menuhin and Louis Persinger by ear or read the score while he studied violin in Germany in the 1920s before teaching it in turn in his native Japan.

Just as Parisotti and the G. Schirmer publications initially pandered to amateur singers, most of whom domestic entertainers with occupations outside the music fields, Dr. Suzuki's Violin School initially pandered to student violinists who intended to make music solely for recreational purposes. "What I intend is not education for creating prodigies, but rather a mode of cultivating the abilities of children by means of the violin," he stated.

Though the intentions of edits of Baroque music in Arie Antiche; Anthology of Italian Song of the 17th and 18th Centuries; 24 Italian Arias and Songs; and the Suzuki Violin School are beneficial for respectively budding vocalists and violinists, they often deviate from the original manuscripts.