As every classical music lover must do at least once in their life, I’m attending Wagner’s complete Ring over two years. Because one does not simply walk into a world of gods, giants, dwarfs, dragons, and incestuous relationships, I’ll do my homework before every installment – and share it here. Part 3: Siegfried.

Another 17 years have passed since the events depicted in Die Walküre. Giant-turned-dragon Fafner sits contently on the gold that was stolen in Das Rheingold. But in the same forest, not too far from his cave, there grows a menace to his carefree existence.

That menace is Siegfried, son of Siegmund and Sieglinde, grandson of Wotan and Erda, and one of the most unlikeable people to ever set foot on an operatic stage.

The first action hero

That Siegfried is such a disappointing character is not a minor defect. After all, Wagner’s Ring project started as a single opera named Siegfried’s Tod, which later became Götterdämmerung. The other three instalments were tacked on because Wagner felt Siegfried’s backstory could use some fleshing out.

Siegfried was, therefore, supposed to be the main hero of the Ring. In Wagner’s imagination, he is the “man of the future”, “the most perfect human being”.

He wasn’t only referring to Siegfried’s personality. Wagner described him as:

“a beautiful young man, in the shapeliest freshness of his power, the real naked man in whom I was able to discern every throbbing of his pulse, every twitch of his powerful muscles.”

Unsurprisingly, Siegfried was something of an icon for the fin-the-siècle gay scene, of which, fittingly, Wagner’s son Siegfried was a closeted member.

The problem is that people with such a level of perfection are inevitably boring. Why should we care about the ‘heroic’ deeds of a guy who’s not only borderline invincible but also knows no fear? Without fear, there’s also no bravery. Siegfried just goes around killing foes and dragons left and right without a second thought – like a less entertaining Chuck Norris.

But before you think Siegfried is no more than a cardboard action hero, let me assure you that his personality also harbors a dark undercurrent.

Siegfried and Mime

The opera’s first act is set in the workshop of Mime, the brother of Alberich, whom we met a mere seven hours ago. Mime has taken up the role of single father since Siegfried’s birth. His plan is to use the strong and fearless Siegfried as his tool to kill Fafner and steal the gold.

Siegfried, however, isn’t aware of this plan, which makes his behavior towards Mime rather troubling. He’s constantly belittling him and even brings a live bear into the house just to sadistically scare his pants off.

You kind of agree with Mime expecting more gratitude from his adoptive son.

It gets worse when you consider the reason for Siegfried’s vileness. He’s not rebelling because of Mime’s actions, his thoughts, or even his character. At this point in the story, he’s unaware of all of that. He simply despises the dwarf for how he looks.

It’s when Siegfried first admires the reflection of his own ripped body, strong jawline, blond curls and baby-blue eyes in a forest pond, that he first realizes he cannot be Mime’s real son. Mime is small, ugly, and talks with a high-pitched whiny voice. He’s also constantly busy making dinner and doing laundry, instead of doing manly stuff like catching bears.

For Wagner, Siegfried’s hate for this effeminate and ugly dwarf is natural and just; it needs no further justification. It’s the dramatization of a racist worldview that’s as unambiguous now as it was then. In the words of Gustav Mahler: “I know only one Mime, and that is me!”

Mime and Wotan

We immediately witness what a loser Mime is at the beginning of Act 1. Accompanied by the hammering Nibelungen music we remember fondly from Das Rheingold, he’s trying to forge a sword strong enough to butcher Fafner with. But Siegfried effortlessly breaks it in two.

Siegfried forces Mime to tell him who his real parents are. After he tells the story of Siegmund and Sieglinde, Mime shows Siegfried the pieces of Siegmund’s sword Nothung. Siegfried orders Mime to reforge it. Mime fails again; Siegfried leaves angrily.

Another old acquaintance enters, cleverly disguised’ as an old wanderer.

Wanderer Wotan asks Mime for some hospitality. After Mime refuses, he challenges the dwarf to play a game. He’s allowed to ask three questions. If Wotan is unable to answer them, the god will promptly lose his head.

These pitiful questions are all Mime can come up with:

1. What race lives beneath the ground?
2. What race lives on the earth?
3. What race lives in the skies?

With a resounding ‘duh’, Wotan answers each question correctly: the dwarves, the giants, and the gods. He then turns the tables and demands that Mime answers three questions correctly or face death. Despite having nothing to gain and everything to lose, Mime agrees with the wager.

Wotan’s questions, however, are slightly more challenging:

1. What race does Wotan love most but nonetheless treat very unfairly?
2. Which sword can destroy Fafner?
3. Who can repair that sword?

Mime knows the answer to questions one and two: the Wälsungs and Nothung. But he draws a blank on question three. Wotan reveals that Nothung can only be reforged by someone who knows no fear and – spoiler alert! – he leaves it up to that person to take Mime’s head.

Swordforger

Having received the news about his upcoming decapitation, Mime is understandably upset. But when Siegfried returns, he sees a simple way to escape his fate. Obviously, Siegfried is the fearless hero destined to kill him. So just teach him fear, and problem solved.

What better way to teach Siegfried how to fear than to introduce him to Fafner? As a bonus, he can steal the gold while he’s there and give it to Mime. Brilliant!

Although you might say this whole detour has been stupid because that was Mime’s plan for the last 17 years anyway. And you would be completely right.

The first act ends with Siegfried successfully reforging Nothung. Meanwhile, Mime brews a drink to poison Siegfried once Fafner is killed.

This so-called ‘forging song’ is the first musical high point of the opera. While the orchestra evocates the quivering flames and the rhythms of the anvil and the bellow, and Mime schemes in the background, Siegfried goes in all-out hero mode with relatively simple, repetitive melodies with a lot of leaps to showcase his boundless energy.

Not for the first or last time during the Ring, the music lends credibility to the story’s dubious claims. Here, Siegfried transforms into a hero before our eyes and ears, not through his actions or words, but through the musical magic wand that God somehow allowed Richard Wagner to wield.

Dragonslayer

Who’s that whining in front of the entrance to Fafner’s cave at the beginning of the second act? It’s Alberich the evil dwarf, Mime’s brother, and the original thief of the rhinegold. He’s waiting for the dragon to perish so he can take back the ring.

He’s joined by Wanderer Wotan, for no better reason than to tease his arch enemy a bit. He tells Alberich he’s not there to steal the gold, just to witness the events to come: not Wotan, but his own brother Mime will be Alberich’s contender for the gold. In typical Wagnerian fashion, he comes to warn the dwarf, then leaves the stage with a ‘que sera sera’ – events will unfold no matter what.

On the next daybreak, Siegfried and Mime arrive at Fafner’s lair. Mime wishes Siegfried good luck. Siegfried tells Mime to get lost. Then, our hero lays himself under a tree to wait until the dragon comes out for a drink.

We now encounter another aspect of Siegfried as the ideal romantic man: his close connection to nature. While the orchestra conjures up a tapestry of babbling brooks and rustling leaves – known as the Forest Murmurs – Siegfried tries to communicate with birds by blowing on a reed, although ultimately failing.

He immediately speaks Fafner’s language, though. When the dragon comes out of his lair, the two engage in a minimum of conversation (“I’m going to eat you.” – “No, you’re not.”) before their fight. Unsurprisingly, Siegfried effortlessly slays his foe with a stab through the heart.

Fafner is surprised and impressed by this “boy’s” courage and strength. With his dying breath, he gives a final warning: “Whoever blindly put you up to this, is also plotting your own death.” Is he talking about Mime, or is it possible that this key moment in the tetralogy holds a deeper meaning? Could the “blindly” refer to a one-eyed friend who foolishly created Siegfried to fulfill his own selfish desires?

Dwarfslayer

Although killing a dragon always looks nice on a pseudo-medieval résumé, it brought Siegfried no closer to understanding fear. He’s about to learn something else though. Some of Fafner’s blood has landed on Siegfried’s finger. When he licks it off, he’s suddenly able to understand the language of birds. One of them urges him to enter the cave where he will find the gold of the Nibelungen. However, the Tarnhelm will prove far more useful, and the ring would make him lord of the world.

When Siegfried goes into the cave, Mime reappears. He’s immediately joined by his brother Alberich, and they start a kind of rap battle about who’s more entitled to ‘rightfully steal’ the treasure.

As Siegfried reappears with the tarnhelm and the ring, the two dwarfs immediately flee and hide. The bird warns Siegfried that Mime wants to kill him. Luckily, the same dragon blood magic that enables Siegfried to understand birds will also allow him to hear the true meaning behind Mime’s treacherous talk.

Just like the previous encounter of Alberich and Mime, the next dialogue between Mime and Siegfried is an example of great musical comedy. While the music expresses the dwarf’s groveling tone, the words betray his murderous intentions. It’s a mismatch that will certainly put a smile on your face, as long as you don’t think too hard about how Wagner’s depiction of a two-faced dwarf rhymes with his views on certain members of the human race.

Siegfried, in any case, doesn’t appreciate the joke much. He kills Mime as foretold by Wotan, and buries him in Fafner’s cave, both forever united with their precious gold.

This afternoon of double murder leaves Siegfried anything but content. He still hasn’t learned fear and is now totally alone in this world. Luckily, his feathered friend knows the solution: a beautiful woman sleeping on a rock, encircled by flames and waiting to be woken by a hero who knows no fear.

Spearshatterer

The third act of Siegfried starts with two scenes of the kind that are seriously testing my patience as the Ring goes into its final hours. First, Wotan wakes up earth-goddess Erda to ask him how “the cruel wheel of fate can be stopped.” Apparently, he means the end of the Gods, but it’s not clear where he got that idea from. Erda tells him destiny is fixed, something that Wotan reproaches her for (although he said this himself to Alberich barely thirty minutes ago).

He then says that, because Siegfried knows fear nor envy, Alberich’s curse has no power over him and he will, with Brünnhilde by his side, redeem the world, even though this will entail the downfall of the gods. As was Wotan’s plan all along.

Nevertheless, when Siegfried shows up in the next scene, Wotan tries to stop him. First, with a barrage of inane questions: where are you going, where do you come from, nice sword – made that yourself? Then, when Siegfried gets understandably annoyed, he tries to block the road by holding up his fabled staff which Siegfried splits in two.

Again, while this scene logically makes no sense (at least not to me, but libraries of books disagree), dramatically it’s another high point. It symbolizes the new order obliterating the old and plays out the universal concept of generational conflict. Wotan’s solemn musical motifs, by now well-known to the listener, are ironically subverted by the young upstart Siegfried. Then the tension rises, and the actual spear-shattering comes with amusing thunder and lightning. Nothing now stops Siegfried from claiming his female companion.

Siegfried and Brünnhilde

Nothing to stop Siegfried except a ring of fire, that is. But as you would expect by now, he effortlessly walks through that. When he reaches the top of the mountain, he notices a person sleeping in full body armor.

He first removes the helmet and sees a man with beautiful long hair. It’s only when he also cuts away the breastplate that he finds out it’s a woman – the first one he ever lays his eyes on. Apparently, Mime didn’t neglect the sexual education of the boy in his care.

Finally, here’s a creature that Siegfried is genuinely afraid of. To be more precise, he panics because of the feelings she stirs up inside him. He calls out to his mother, which gives the whole thing a creepy Freudian touch.

Assembling his courage, Siegfried kisses Brünnhilde from her sleep. They immediately start to profess their love at first sight, both elaborately praising Siegfried’s mother – which should be a red flag on a first date.

However, while Siegfried is getting hornier by the minute, Brünnhilde is starting to have second thoughts. Because of Wotan’s punishment in Die Walküre, she’s now a mere, and virginal, mortal. Her armor is now literally taken away, leaving no defense against desires that rage both in Siegfried and herself.

It’s hard to miss the sexual subtext of this scene. This is, after all, written by the composer who had just finished Tristan and Isolde. But the final musical highlight of this opera is something that comes very close to a traditional aria that could have featured in The flying Dutchman. Brunnhilde pleads with Siegfried to leave her in peace and preserve her immaculate image in his memory:

However, the flames of love have already spread beyond control. With a generous portion of ecstatic vocalizing, Siegfried and Brünnhilde declare each other their undying love. The ring is in the hands of a couple that should be able to withstand its corrupting power.

Who first created classical music? Ask ChatGPT, and you’ll get a correct but boring answer. Something about classical music having “a rich and diverse history, shaped by numerous composers and musical developments.” Big snore.

Beethoven and AI: the battle of the superhumans

Ask Google, and the answer will be decisive but wrong.

The equally entertaining and correct answer is Joseph Haydn (1732-1809). Here are four reasons why.

1. He had an actual classical music lab

Many world-changing inventions, from penicillin to Keanu Reeves, originated in a laboratory. Classical music is no exception.

In 1761, then barely 30 years old, Joseph Haydn entered into the service of Prince Esterházy. He would remain there more or less until the end of his life.

Fans of the ‘free artistic spirits’ of the following generations (Mozart, Beethoven, and so on) often look down on Haydn for his position as a mere servant – with a livery and all. And they’re right that Haydn wasn’t free to follow his muse. He had to cater to the whims of his master, such as writing 175 pieces for an obscure instrument that the count happened to like.

On top of that, poor Haydn didn’t live in the bustling musical metropolis of Vienna. He spent most of his days in a remote palace erected on top of a mosquito-infested swamp. How was he supposed to keep up with the latest trends?

He didn’t. And his music benefited from it. Or as Haydn himself said in this famous quote:

“I was cut off from the world. There was no one to confuse or torment me, and I was forced to become original.”

In other words – more Doc Brown than Steve Jobs – Haydn preferred tinkering around in his basement above hobnobbing with the musical jet set and stealing their ideas.

It helped that this proverbial basement was excellently equipped. Haydn had one of Europe’s finest orchestras at his disposal for performances and rehearsals. He could test what worked and what didn’t, make changes, and try again. It was a musical test lab that folks like Mozart and Beethoven could only dream of. And it certainly makes you wonder who enjoyed the most artistic freedom.

2. He (sort of) invented the classical style

Haydn is often called the ‘father’ of the symphony and the string quartet. Admittedly, that’s a bit of an overstatement. He obviously wasn’t the first to write a large piece for an orchestra or to come up with the idea of combining two violins, a viola, and a cello.

More to the point, he used these two genres to explore new ways of composing. And that’s where things get a little bit technical, I’m afraid.

Listen to music by Baroque composers like Bach and Handel, and you’ll find that a single piece of music usually explores one emotion: sad, triumphant, melancholy, and so on. Sometimes two, such as in the ubiquitous Da Capo arias with a contrasting middle section, but that’s about it.

The following generation of composers wanted to combine multiple emotions in one piece. So you quickly go from sad, to angry, to resigned, to happy. The trick is to do this without the whole thing sounding like a toddler with mood swings.

That’s what Haydn mastered through the dozens of symphonies and string quartets that poured out of his musical lab. He found a way to build musical structures that combined a variety of emotions with a sense of balance and logic.

Haydn wasn’t the only one to do that, but he was the best. Without his innovations, Mozart wouldn’t have written his famous operatic finales, nor Beethoven his dramatic symphonies. In this respect, Haydn can truly be considered the inventor of classical music.

Admittedly, this is only true for what late nineteenth-century critics labelled the ‘Viennese classical school’ around Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Not for what we now call classical music, which is everything from Gregorian chant to Ludovico Einaudi.

Nevertheless, it’s no coincidence that this ‘classical’ label first awarded to Haydn gradually stuck to ‘all music that aspires to do more than divert’. Or ‘all music that’s worth to be remembered’. And this brings us to his other great innovation.

3. He invented the classical music ‘masterwork’ culture

Although Haydn stayed in one place for most of his life, his music travelled to all corners of Europe. Unauthorized prints of his scores were in high demand. Soon, the ‘brand’ Haydn was tacked to other people’s works to jack up sales.

You could write an entire article about how the business-savvy Haydn gradually took matters into his own hands. Through hard bargaining with publishers – and some downright fraud – he managed to slice out a nice piece of the pie for himself. In a time, remember, when there was no such thing as copyright.

But for the history of classical music, what happened at the end of his life is more interesting. First, take a look at this graph:

That giant bar is Haydn’s musical output during his lifetime. Others don’t come near, and after his death, productivity evidently declined.

Did those young upstarts lack Papa Haydn’s work ethic?

Actually, they followed in his footsteps.

There’s a whole story behind that giant bar. While Haydn wrote a ton of music – 106 symphonies alone – he wrote considerably less during his later years. Because he was tired? Perhaps. But also, because the new Prince Esterházy didn’t ask for as many compositions, while still paying him a generous allowance.

Instead, Haydn started to value quality over quantity.

Wait, that might imply that his former work was bad.

A better way to put it, is that he became more ambitious. Like the rock bands back in the day that started to churn out concept albums once they were rich, bored, or both.

In his later works, including The creation and the Mass in time of war, Haydn is no longer trying to please his master or cater to the whims of the market, he’s writing for posterity.

Happily, this long-term goal didn’t hurt his short-term cash flow. It turned out people were prepared to dig a little deeper in their pockets for such ‘masterworks’. The earnings for The creation started rolling in before the work was even printed, because Haydn used a subscription model where supporters paid in advance for copies of the score. That’s right, he also invented crowdfunding.

At the same time, people were using the Saint Matthew passion manuscripts to wrap fish ‘n chips, The creation was the first composition that was deemed of ‘eternal value’. It immediately popped up on all concert programs and stayed there forever. It was the first entry of what we now call – for better or worse – the standard repertoire.

4. He doesn’t get the recognition he deserves

Joseph Swan invented the light bulb, John Blankenbaker the personal computer. Yet it’s Thomas Edison and Steve Jobs who ended up in the history books. Uncredited pioneers are everywhere.

Haydn isn’t exactly forgotten, of course. But he’s also not in the superstar league of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, or Chopin. Do you, doubtlessly a classical music connoisseur, disagree with that assessment? Then please whistle a Haydn tune for me.

Now.

I’ll wait.

If you finally came up with the andante of the surprise symphony – congratulations. Also, how predictable.

That famous andante is a good example of why Haydn gets more respect than love. Let’s be honest: the melody is incredibly bland and silly. Compared to the countless Mozart melodies you know by heart, it sounds uninspired. And (divine) inspiration is what we expect from an artistic genius – like Paul McCartney waking up with the tune of Yesterday fully formed in his head.

In some ways, Haydn was more an artisan than an artist. His main drive was to systematically explore the possibilities of music – almost in the scientific spirit of enlightenment. Trivial melodies are actually better suited for that purpose, as they offer a lot more opportunities for development.

Beethoven also knew that. You can’t say that the opening theme of the fifth symphony, for example, is a great find. We cherish it because we know what comes after those 4 notes. What sets Beethoven apart, is that he used these techniques to write pieces of music with an incredible emotional drive. And that, alas, is what’s often missing from Haydn. His music is often a lot more interesting than moving.

Is Haydn still worth listening to?

Has this article convinced you of Haydn’s historic importance but also weary of listening to his music? You’re not alone. And that’s a pity, because there’s a formidable oeuvre waiting for you to – trust me – enjoy. Here are some tips for appreciating Haydn:

Start with works from his middle period

Haydn was very much into Sturm und Drang, an artistic emo movement that was fashionable during the 1760/70s. Many of the works he wrote then are a lot more passionate than his later compositions, and therefore easier on the modern ear.

Examples are symphonies such as the Trauer (no. 44), Farewell (no. 45), and La passione (no. 49); and the six string quartets opus 20 (a big influence on Beethoven).

After that, learn to take pleasure in being amused rather than moved

Haydn is often called the master of humor in music. Unfortunately, that makes him sound like some silly prankster uncle.

But the ‘humor’ in his most mature instrumental works is a lot more sophisticated than the insertion of ‘practical jokes’ like the loud surprise chord in the aforementioned andante. It’s about constantly thwarting your expectations, playing with the conventions that he helped to establish, essentially parodying himself.

Because this is music that actively refuses to ‘pull you in’, it requires a different listening attitude compared to Mozart or Beethoven. You can’t disappear into it; you have to enter into a conversation with it. Even though your part of the discussion will mostly be: “I see what you did there, ol’ chap. Well done!”

Put The creation on your lifelong playlist

Just like J.S. Bach, Haydn was a devout man. His most ‘personal’ music is not about his internal struggles, but about his relationship with God.

But while Bach was a somewhat creepy and antisemitic fundamentalist, Haydn had a more tolerant and optimistic view of religion, and of life. One that illuminates every note in his magnum opus: The creation.

The creation, based on the book of Genesis and Milton’s Paradise lost, is an incomparable celebration of God through the evocation of the beauty of nature and of human love. Its music depicts the cosmological transformation from chaos to order, the separation of heaven and earth, the first sunrise, roaring lions and buzzing insects.

In the hands of a lesser composer, this would sound like sequence of cheap sound effects. But thanks to Haydn’s musical innovations, it all amounts to a coherent whole.

In The creation, there’s no room for doom and damnation. Early on, ‘hellish spirits’ are quickly thrown into the abyss, never to be heard again. Magnificent choirs, inspired by the Handel performances that Haydn heard during his trips to London, beam their joyous and hopeful messages into the world.

Haydn intended for the creation to be his eternal message to the humanity. Paradoxically, no other work is so steeped in the optimism of the Enlightenment. That optimism proved to be less timeless (and warranted) than he had hoped. But it should never completely disappear from view. And neither should classical music’s greatest inventor.

As every classical music lover must do at least once in their life, I’m attending Wagner’s complete Ring over two years. Because one does not simply walk into a world of gods, giants, dwarfs, dragons, and incestuous relationships, I’ll do my homework before every installment – and share it here. Part 2: Die Walküre.

At the end of Das Rheingold, we say goodbye to Wagner’s mythical world with a view of the gods stately entering Walhalla. In stark contrast, Die Walküre opens with a humble house in the forest. Restless cellos and double basses announce that a storm, and trouble, is brewing.

If you were dying to find out how Wotan, Fafner, or even Alberich were doing, you must be patient. The first character we meet in Die Walküre is no god, giant or dwarf, but a measly man named Siegmund. He’s looking for refuge from his enemies.

Act 1: the Volsung twins

Siegmund is found by Sieglinde, who’s waiting for her abusive husband, Hunding, to come back from the hunt. Taking pity on the stranger, she offers him some water.

Hero or not, Siegmund comes over as a bit of a sourpuss. He won’t say his name but calls himself ‘Woeful’ – a ‘born loser,’ as the kids would say – and entertains Sieglinde with an account of his many misfortunes.

Sieglinde immediately sympathizes with this sadsack. When hubby Hunding enters the house, he’s understandably suspicious. He asks Siegmund about his past, who says he’s a ‘Volsung’ whose mother was killed by ‘Neidings’ who kidnapped his twin sister. Later, he was also separated from his father, Wälse (listen for the Walhalla music in the orchestra for a tip into who this is). Right before he fled to Hunding’s hut, he killed some Neidings in a fight.

Unfortunately, Hunding happens to be a Neiding. Not wanting to be inhospitable, he offers Siegmund a bed for the night. But breakfast will be a round of mortal combat.

After Hunding and Sieglinde go to bed, Siegmund wallows some more in his self-pity. Then, Sieglinde returns to tell him that an old man visited her house a while ago. He buried a sword in a tree, from where only a true hero can extract it. She’s convinced that Siegmund is this hero.

Suddenly, the doors open, revealing a beautiful spring after a harsh winter. Flowers bloom, birds sing, and Siegmund and Sieglinde realize they are brother and sister. Siegmund draws the sword from the tree, they sing a beautiful duet, and have great sex.

Wait, what?!

That’s right: an incestuous relationship is at the heart of Die Walküre and the whole Ring cycle. If you listen closely during this scene, you hear the melody accompanying Alberich’s renunciation of love in scene 1 of Das Rheingold. What we see with Siegmund and Sieglinde is nothing less than the rebirth of love.

Of course, incest is a common ingredient of the old myths and legends that were Wagner’s source material. What’s shocking about Siegmund and Sieglinde is not their incestuous relationship but the way Wagner refuses to condemn it and even revels in it. The end of Act 1 is a precursor to the big finish of Tristan und Isolde: a musical depiction of intercourse – the female orgasm in particular. It’s as if the Lannister twins were the true heroes of Game of Thrones, and we were treated to countless scenes of their explicit yet tender lovemaking.

Act 2: meet Brünnhilde

After this strange and sordid miniature opera, the beginning of Act II feels like stepping onto firmer ground. We hear the Valkyrie theme for the first time in the Ring but for the hundredth-or-so time in our lives.

Moreover, we meet an old acquaintance: Wotan, king of the gods. He’s instructing his daughter Brünnhilde – a Valkyrie whose usual job description is to escort fallen heroes to Walhalla – to assist Siegmund during his upcoming fight with Hunding.

Brünnhilde expresses her gung-ho attitude with a “Hojotoho Heiaha!” Then she makes herself scarce because she sees Fricka approaching in her ram-drawn chariot – and her stepmother is not exactly in a good mood.

As the divine protector of marriage, Fricka is understandably vexed by the brother-and-sister hanky-panky under Hunding’s roof. She condemns Wotan for tolerating this transgression of his own laws. And casually reminds him – not for the first time, one imagines – of his philandering over the years.

Wotan has been a busy boy indeed since Das Rheingold, conceiving:

• The Volsung twins with a mortal woman
• Brünnhilde with Erda, the earth goddess whom we briefly met during Das Rheingold
• The other eight Valkyries with other mortal women

Demanding justice for Hunding (and for herself), Fricka insists that Wotan remove his protection of (his son) Siegmund. In reply, Wotan explains his plan: he sired Siegmund as a man of free will to steal the ring from Fafner before Alberich could get his greedy little hands on it. After all, he can’t do it himself because then he would (again) violate his own laws.

It sounds like a flimsy excuse for tomcatting around, and that’s precisely how Fricka takes it. Moreover, she points to the apparent hole in Wotan’s logic: if he helps Siegmund, the latter is no longer solely acting according to his free will.

Wotan gives in to his wife. When Brünnhilde returns, he orders her not to help Siegmund in his battle with Hunding. He also confides in her by telling her about all that’s happened during and after Das Rheingold. Now that his plan is failing, he bemoans his fate – “Alas, I only sire servants” – and predicts a doomed future for the gods.

Wotan leaves Brünnhilde alone, and then Siegmund and Sieglinde turn up. Sieglinde goes into a lot of unnecessary details on how good the sex with her brother was. At the same time, she’s ashamed because she was ‘tainted’ by Hunding before and is therefore not worthy to sleep with Siegmund.

This might be where you conclude you’re fed up with this nonsense. Every sane person has that feeling at least once during any Wagner opera. But that’s when it typically happens: a moment so heartbreakingly beautiful and simply human that you cannot fathom how it could have been written by the same person who moments ago served you that pseudophilosophical drivel.

I’m talking about the scene popularly known as the ‘Todesverkündigung.’ Brünnhilde informs Siegmund that he won’t survive the battle with Hunding. But this cloud has a silver lining: she will take him to Walhalla, where he will live the life of a prince, meet his father, and enjoy the company of countless ‘wish-maidens.’

All good and well, says Siegmund, but if Sieglinde is not there, I’ll pass.

This simple declaration of love is set to some of the most moving music ever conceived. No need for anvils or other shenanigans to wow the audience here, just some low wind instruments like trombones to paint a solemn and haunting atmosphere.

Then, Siegmund says he’d rather kill his wife than die without her, which is weird again. But it does convince Brünnhilde to defy Wotan’s order.

Now it’s time for the big action scene! When Hunding shows up, the duel ensues. First, Brünnhilde intervenes to help Siegmund, but then it’s time for the true deus ex machina. Wotan shatters Siegmund’s sword, so Hunding can deliver the fatal blow.

Hunding is not allowed to enjoy his triumph for long. Wotan orders him to tell Fricka the ‘good news,’ strikes him down, and resolves to have his revenge on his disobedient daughter Brünnhilde.

Die Walküre, Wagner and Women

This is how you likely picture Brünnhilde:

It’s a photo of Lillian Nordica, a famous American soprano who, as a suffragette, also used her voice to loudly call for women’s right to vote. It’s a cause that Wagner wouldn’t have approved of. It won’t surprise you that he wasn’t – even by the standards of his time – a feminist.

And yet, as Alex Ross explains in his book Wagnerism, many proponents for women’s rights were inspired by Wagner’s works – and Die Walküre in particular. While the men – Wotan and Siegmund – constantly whine about how powerless they are, the women take action and change the course of events.

Without getting ahead of ourselves too much, it’s undoubtedly Brünnhilde who’s the true hero(ine) of the complete ring cycle. And so it’s only fitting that the most popular installment of the four is named after her. And that she gets the most bitchin’ theme music before Darth Vader.

For now, though, she won’t be rewarded for her bravery.

Act 3: Wotan’s punishment

Is that napalm you smell? Do you hear the helicopters whirring? Yes, the third act opens with the famous Ride of the Valkyries. They come galloping home from their job as battlefield cleaning ladies, taking away the fallen heroes.

One carries a different cargo: Brünnhilde whisked Sieglinde away from the crime scene and hopes to hide her from Wotan. At first, Sieglinde – in true romantic fashion – insists that she’d rather die than face a future without her brother/lover. But when Brünnhilde informs her that she’s carrying Siegmund’s child, she quickly changes her tune.

Brünnhilde hopes for some sisterly solidarity in the wake of a wrathful Wotan. But Gerhilde, Helmwige, Ortlinde, Waltraute, Rossweise, Siegrune, Grimgerde and Schwertleite go into instant panic mode. Luckily, their exquisite ensemble singing more than makes up for their cowardness.

Brünnhilde tells Sieglinde to flee to the eastern forest where Fafner, now transformed into a dragon, sits on his hoard – and Wotan would not dare to go. She also gives Sieglinde the fragments of Siegmund’s sword. Her child, Siegfried, will one day forge it again.

Brünnhilde faces Wotan alone. The disappointed father refuses to listen to her pleas for mercy and comes up with a cruel punishment: she will be put to sleep and at the mercy of the first man who wakes her.

After some more protests by Brünnhilde – “Anything is better than marrying a worthless man” – he agrees to circle her body with a ring of fire. Only a true hero can get to her, and it’s obvious who she has in mind for that role. In true operatic fashion, Wotan says goodbye to Brünnhilde 57 times, calls on Loge to start a nice blaze, and so ends Die Walküre.

On May 12, 1809, Vienna was under siege by the French, who would soon capture the city. One cannonball had the nerve to fall into the courtyard of Austria’s most famous composer: Joseph Haydn. But while his household was understandably scared out of their wits, the bed-ridden 77-year old exclaimed dryly (and a bit smugly):

“Children, don’t be frightened. Where Haydn is, nothing can happen to you.”

This anecdote perfectly fits the popular image of good old ‘Papa’ Haydn. He might be an old bore, but at least he offers you comfort when you most need it.

But maybe there’s a more universal message to this story as well. One about the power of art withstanding the barbary of war. Which is hard to believe in – much as I do wish a Papa Haydn in the garden of everyone who falls victim to present-day Napoleons (or worse).

Click to find out why Haydn is the one-and-only inventor of classical music.

The military roots of classical music

Born in a continent continually ravished by armed conflict, it’s no wonder that classical music was partly shaped by the ritual of warfare. Apart from the church, royalty and nobility were the main sponsors of music. And few things get their juices flowing like the musical praise of their glorious deeds on the battlefield.

Such military music rarely excels in subtlety. What it does have in abundance are trumpets and timpani. Their typical musical gestures – drum rolls and fanfares – found their way to the standard language of classical composers. Sometimes to evoke the battlefield, sometimes just for the fun of it – like in Mozart’s Jupiter symphony.

In Haydn’s Missa in tempore belli (Mass in time of war), there’s no doubt that the drumming and tooting are meant to evoke military conflict. What’s less clear, is what Haydn was trying to say.

Haydn’s mass in time of war: pacifist or belligerent?

At least since World War One, we’re used to music echoing pacifist sentiments. Examples range from Benjamin Britten and Leonard Bernstein to Bob Dylan. In the 18th and 19th centuries, however, composers more often glorified war. When that results in awful music such as Beethoven’s Wellington’s victory or Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812, we don’t need to worry about a clash between or conscience and our good taste.

But what about Haydn’s war mass? When he wrote the work in the summer of 1796, his homeland was under attack from the French on two fronts. There’s little doubt that he was literally praying for an Austrian victory. Is his Missa in tempore belli the musical evocation of that? Or a streaming indictment of war itself?

“Can we please have peace?”

Although the whole mass is of course worth your listen, you have to wait for the military-themed part until the last movement, the Agnus Dei:

The text is important here:

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi	Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world
miserere nobis	have pity on us
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi	Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world
dona nobis pacem	give us peace

The piece starts in an uneventful F major with three repetitions of ‘Agnus Dei’ – rising in intensity – and ‘Qui tollis peccata mundi’. But then, after about one minute, there’s a soft drum roll. In his memoires, Haydn stated that this “should sound as if one heard the enemy approaching in the distance.”

The choir starts the ‘miserere’ part. At first hesitantly, but as the war drums rise in volume, the music turns to a woeful C minor. At about two minutes into the piece, the trumpets join in, and the choir sounds ever more despairing.

At about 3 minutes, everything calms down again. Against the continuing backdrop of the timpani, the choir for the first time takes up the ‘dona nobis pacem’. Although the text is an order (Give us peace!), Haydn musically turns it into a hesitant question (Can we please have peace?) – ending on the unstable chord of G7.

“Give us peace!”

The answer to the question follows immediately after that: a glorious fanfare! But then comes the true message of this Mass in time of war. Instead of joining in the triumph, the chorus overrules it by shouting at the top of its lungs (the longest note in the whole mass): we don’t want victory, we want peace!

A few bars later, the victory march comes to a halt. After a full bar of complete silence, the soloists start a – weirdly unsynchronized – chromatic descent that completely stops the momentum.

A very short fanfare kicks everything back in gear. What follows borders on an anti-war chant. The four voices mostly pound on the ‘dona nobis pacem’ in the same rhythm – as if they’re holding banners on the streets instead of scores in a concert hall. Then there’s this exhilarating moment when the tenors and basses sing the exact same note and are answered by the altos and sopranos:

The orchestra backs that up with drum rolls and trumpets. The musical language of war is being used to aggressively demand its banishment from this world.

What’s in a name?

There’s a fine line between interpretation and fabrication. Maybe I’ve just crossed it. Nevertheless, there’s one undisputed fact that points to the message that Haydn wanted to convey with this mass: the name itself.

Most of the well-known nicknames for Haydn’s works – like the Farewell and the Surprise symphonies – stem from the 19th century. But the name for this mass came from the man himself. He could have named it War mass, Victory mass, Glory of Austria mass, or whatever. After all, Haydn was a staunch patriot, who wrote the Austrian (and later German) national anthem. He played it incessantly on the piano during the siege of Vienna that this article started with.

In that light, Mass in time of war is an oddly unspecific title. It illustrates the universal aspirations typical of late Haydn – maybe the first composer who was truly aware of the fact that his legacy would outlive him. With this title, he subtly moves the focus from the conflict itself to what it means to those who must endure its consequences – who understand what it means to live in a time of war. He offers them comfort. But also a clear message: don’t settle for the lie that is victory – enduring peace is the only thing worth fighting for.

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