We often speak about “popular music,” “folk music,” and “classical music” as though they belong to completely separate worlds. In reality, the boundaries between them have never been stable. Throughout history, composers have continually drawn on dance traditions, folk materials, and contemporary styles that originally lived outside the concert hall.

One of the clearest examples appears in the Baroque suite. Composers such as Johann Sebastian Bach and George Frideric Handel filled their instrumental collections with movements titled allemande, courante, sarabande, and gavotte. These were not abstract musical inventions. They were dance types that had circulated through European courts and social life. By the time Bach wrote his suites, these dances had become stylized forms rather than music people actually danced to, but their rhythmic character and phrasing still carried the imprint of their social origins.

Composers also borrowed sounds that audiences associated with particular cultures or musical traditions. In the eighteenth century, European composers became fascinated with the sound of Ottoman Janissary military bands. Percussion instruments such as cymbals and bass drum, along with distinctive rhythmic figures, found their way into operas and orchestral works. What began as the sound of foreign military music became part of the European orchestral palette.

In the nineteenth century, many composers turned their attention to folk traditions. Antonín Dvořák, Béla Bartók, and others saw folk music not as something primitive or inferior, but as a source of vitality and identity. Bartók went so far as to travel through rural regions collecting and documenting thousands of melodies. These materials were not simply quoted in their original form; they were transformed into the language of symphonies, quartets, and piano works.

The twentieth century brought another kind of exchange. Jazz emerged from African American musical traditions and quickly became one of the most influential musical languages of the century. Its rhythms, harmonies, and gestures attracted composers who were working in concert music. George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue is perhaps the most famous example of this encounter, blending the sound world of jazz with the structure of a concert piece.

Cross-cultural influences also became more visible. When Claude Debussy heard Javanese gamelan at the Paris Exposition of 1889, he encountered a musical system that differed radically from European harmony and rhythm. The experience left a lasting impression, and echoes of gamelan sonorities can be heard in pieces such as Pagodes.

None of these examples represent a simple merging of genres. The exchanges are more complicated than that. Sometimes composers stylize dances that once belonged to social life. Sometimes they transform folk materials into highly developed compositions. Sometimes they absorb the sound of contemporary popular styles, translating them into a different musical context.

What they all reveal is that the categories we use today—popular, folk, and classical—are not fixed walls. They are better understood as overlapping traditions that have constantly shaped one another.

The exchange has never flowed in only one direction. Popular musicians have also drawn on the language and prestige of classical music.

Rock musicians in the twentieth century frequently borrowed directly from the classical repertoire. The band Rainbow built its song Difficult to Cure around the famous theme from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Other artists turned to orchestral forces to expand their sound world. Queen recorded with full orchestra on several occasions, and bands such as Guns N’ Roses incorporated orchestral arrangements into their recordings and performances.

These gestures were not merely decorative. They reflected a long-standing curiosity about what happens when musical traditions meet. Popular musicians borrowed the dramatic scale and color of the orchestra, while classical composers continued to absorb rhythms, sounds, and idioms from the musical life around them.

Seen from this perspective, the history of music is less a story of separate genres than a continual exchange of ideas. Styles move across boundaries, are reshaped, and eventually become part of new traditions.

When I was eighteen, I decided to major in cello.

I knew I wanted to be a commuting student, so I chose Wayne State University. I was excited to study with a teacher there and eager to begin what felt like a serious musical life. I also knew, quite clearly, that I was not competitive for places like the University of Michigan or Michigan State. That wasn’t self-pity. It was simply true at the time.

Early in my sophomore year, I began thinking about transferring. With my teacher’s support, I arranged to take a lesson with a legendary cellist who had recently retired after a long career at Juilliard. My father and I flew to New York, buying a third plane ticket for the cello, full of anticipation and nerves.

I still remember riding the elevator up to his apartment in a high-rise building in Manhattan. It wasn’t what I imagined a “legend” would live in, which already should have told me something about how little I understood at the time.

I sat down to play the first movement of the Dvořák Concerto. He offered my father a whiskey, which he declined. I played perhaps twenty bars. He listened kindly, without interruption. Then he took the cello and worked with me on the opening. Even in his eighties, his sound was beautiful.

I did not appreciate what was happening.

I couldn’t really tell what he was doing, and I wasn’t able to respond in a meaningful way. After a few minutes, he told me plainly that I wouldn’t even be able to get on the doorstep of Juilliard. At nineteen, that was hard to hear. I was hurt and embarrassed.

The lesson lasted maybe ten minutes. He didn’t charge us anything. He was far kinder than I realized.

What’s striking to me now is not what he said, but how I responded afterward. Instead of taking his words as information, I treated them as a verdict. I went home and continued practicing, but without direction, without clarity, and without truly understanding what I was missing.

It took years for me to see that moment differently.

What I understand now is how generous so many of my teachers were, especially when I was stubborn, unfocused, or simply not ready to hear what they were offering. They met me where I was, even when I couldn’t meet them halfway. They invested time, patience, and care that I didn’t yet know how to receive.

If I could speak to my nineteen-year-old self, I wouldn’t tell him to be less ambitious. I would tell him to listen more carefully and to understand that kindness in teaching sometimes comes in forms we don’t immediately recognize.

I’m deeply grateful to the teachers who stayed with me long enough for that understanding to arrive.

My first introduction to Servais was an old copy of Souvenir de Spa that I bought when I was around eighteen, I believe at an estate sale.

It is the Peters edition, no. 2236, plate 8345, edited by Friedrich Grützmacher. Grützmacher has a reputation for heavily altering some of the music he edited, but this is not one of those editions. The cello part is a faithful transmission of Servais’s music, with only a few added performance directions such as fingerings and bowings.

I never learned the piece. At the time, I also had no idea that this particular copy had a history of its own.

The name Stanislas Bem is stamped in four places: on the cover of the piano score, inside the cover, and on the first page of the cello part. Someone later scratched out three of the stamps in pen. The one on the outer cover is much lighter than the others and may have escaped notice, since it is still fairly easy to read.

There may also be an old price written by hand on the cover: “1.50.”

At the bottom of the piano score is a music-shop stamp, arranged in this order:

E. Wende i Ska
Skład Nut
Warszawa

In other words, the score passed through the sheet-music department of E. Wende and Company in Warsaw. An advertisement from 1913 gives the same business as “Skład Nut, E. Wende i Ska, Warszawa,” then located at Krakowskie Przedmieście 9. The shop sold concert and salon music and regularly received new foreign publications.

The stamp does not date the Peters printing itself. Peters could continue printing from the same plates for years, and a Warsaw dealer could sell copies printed earlier. But it does place this particular copy in the Warsaw music trade, probably during the first decades of the twentieth century.

That becomes more interesting because Stanislas Bem was himself from Warsaw.

Bem was born there on December 17, 1887, and died in Berkeley, California, on December 9, 1956. By the 1916–1917 season, he was well established in San Francisco as a professional cellist and teacher. He taught cello and chamber music at the Arrillaga Musical College, played in the Minetti String Quartet, and appeared in the Shavitch-DeGrassi-Bem Trio. Contemporary advertisements simply identify him as “Stanislas Bem, violoncellist,” available for concerts, recitals, and instruction.

He later taught cello at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Bonnie Hampton remembered that one of her early teachers had studied with Bem and recalled his studio upstairs at the Conservatory.

Bem also became a conductor and orchestra leader. During the 1920s and early 1930s, the Stanislas Bem Little Symphony Orchestra played regularly at the Hotel Whitcomb in San Francisco and was frequently broadcast over the radio. In 1924, he was described as the musical director of KFRC and as already known to listeners through earlier broadcasts on KGO.

So this was not merely a score with the stamp of an unknown amateur. It belonged to a working Polish-born cellist, teacher, chamber musician, and conductor.

The Warsaw shop stamp and Bem’s Warsaw background raise an obvious possibility: perhaps he bought the score there and later brought it with him to California. That would provide a very natural explanation for the combination of the Wende shop stamp and Bem’s ownership stamps.

But it is still only a possibility. He could have acquired an older Warsaw-stamped copy from another musician after coming to the United States. The handwritten “1.50” might be a Warsaw retail price, an American secondhand price, or something added much later. The copy gives us clues, not a complete travel itinerary.

The really unusual feature of the copy is not the pencil writing in the cello part. It is what someone did to the piano score.

The piano score was permanently altered with glued pasteovers. These are not simply suggested cuts marked in pencil. Sections of printed music were covered up, and handwritten replacement passages were pasted into the score so that the shortened version could be played directly.

The first cut goes from Variation 1 to Variation 3, the F-major variation. A short passage was recomposed to connect the two sections.

This particular cut was not unique. Nikolay Yusupov’s arrangement of Souvenir de Spa, published by B. Schott’s Söhne in 1855 as plate 13640, also goes from Variation 1 to Variation 3. The transition in Yusupov’s version is entirely different, however. His arrangement also includes so many other cuts and alterations that it feels more like the “greatest moments of Souvenir de Spa” than an arrangement of the complete piece.

The similar cut does not prove that the person who altered the Peters score knew Yusupov’s edition. It may simply have been an obvious place to shorten the piece. Still, it shows that the omission of Variation 2 already had a published nineteenth-century precedent.

The second major cut in my copy comes near the end. It begins in the transition leading to the recapitulation of the finale and jumps directly to the final seventeen measures. Once again, whoever made the pasteover wrote a short new passage to connect the two sections.

What is especially strange is that neither cut is marked in the separate cello part.

The pianist was given a permanently reconstructed score, but the cellist was apparently expected to know where to jump. Perhaps the cuts had been rehearsed often enough that no markings were needed. Perhaps Bem or another cellist simply memorized the two places. It is also possible that the piano score and cello part were altered or used at different times.

I do not know who made the pasteovers. The copy belonged to Bem, but an ownership stamp does not prove that every pencil mark, cut, or recomposed passage is his. The alterations could have been made before he acquired the score, during his ownership, or after it left his library.

I have also not yet found a concert program showing Bem performing Souvenir de Spa. He performed widely and appears frequently in San Francisco musical and radio sources, but none of the indexed programs I have found connects him directly with this piece.

So I cannot say, at least for now, that this is the version of Souvenir de Spa that Stanislas Bem performed. What I can say is that it was a working musician’s copy and that someone went to considerable trouble to turn the complete Peters score into a practical shortened performance version.

At eighteen, I knew none of this.

I did not know who Stanislas Bem was. I did not recognize the Warsaw shop stamp. I knew nothing about the differences among the original edition, Grützmacher’s edition, or Yusupov’s arrangement. I did not examine the pasteovers as evidence of performance practice. I just bought an old cello score, probably at an estate sale.

And I never learned the piece.

My next encounter with Servais came through the caprices in Alwin Schroeder’s 170 Foundation Studies, Volume 3. Then came Airs russes, partly because of its connection to “The Red Sarafan.” Later, when I was in graduate school, I encountered the Barber of Seville fantasy.

Eventually, Servais became one of the central figures in my research, editing, and publishing work.

Looking back, it is funny that my first Servais score already contained so many of the questions I would later spend years dealing with: faithful and unfaithful editions, added performance markings, provenance, old music shops, performing cuts, recomposed transitions, and the difference between a piece as published and the version musicians actually placed on their stands.

I bought it when I was around eighteen and never learned Souvenir de Spa.

But in another sense, this is where my Servais project began.

Ukraine’s musical heritage offers a rich source of inspiration for performers, composers, and arrangers. For cellists in particular, this repertoire remains surprisingly underexplored. Folk melodies, lyrical salon pieces, sacred chant traditions, and late Romantic compositions from the region all adapt naturally to the expressive range of the cello.

Rather than treating this music only as cultural history, performers today have an opportunity to bring it into active repertoire through performance, arrangement, and thoughtful programming.

Historical Layers in Ukrainian Musical Culture

Music from the lands that are today part of Ukraine developed within a complex historical landscape. Over the centuries, the region was connected to various political and cultural spheres, including the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Russian Empire, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In earlier periods, the people of these regions were often referred to by names such as “Rus’” or “Ruthenian,” reflecting older historical traditions.

Because of these overlapping influences, musical life in the region developed through many channels: folk traditions, church music, urban salon culture, and the broader European classical tradition. These different streams helped shape a musical language that feels both familiar and distinctive to modern listeners.

For performers today, understanding this layered background enriches the experience of exploring the repertoire.

Ukrainian Composers and the Classical Tradition

Among composers associated with Ukrainian musical culture, Mykola Lysenko remains one of the most influential figures. A pianist, composer, and folklorist, Lysenko devoted much of his work to collecting and developing Ukrainian folk melodies within classical forms. His music combines lyricism, dance rhythms, and dramatic character in ways that translate beautifully to string instruments.

Several of his works have become particularly appealing for cellists through arrangement and transcription. Pieces such as the Elegy or Carpathian Rhapsody offer expressive material that fits naturally within the instrument’s range and character.

Other composers connected to Ukrainian musical life also deserve greater attention. Viktor Kosenko is well known for his piano works, but the melodic richness of his music lends itself readily to transcription. Kyrylo Stetsenko contributed important choral and chamber works that reflect the influence of both liturgical and folk traditions.

For performers interested in expanding their repertoire, these composers offer many possibilities.

Folk Traditions and the Cello

Folk music has long been central to the musical life of the region. Songs and dances were passed down through generations, preserving stories, local styles, and characteristic rhythms.

The cello’s vocal quality makes it especially well-suited to interpreting these melodies. Many Ukrainian folk songs adapt naturally to the instrument, allowing performers to highlight their lyrical and expressive character.

Instrumental dances also offer exciting possibilities. Forms such as the hopak or the kozachok feature lively rhythms and energetic character that translate well to the cello when thoughtfully arranged. These pieces provide opportunities for both virtuosity and musical storytelling.

Sacred musical traditions offer another avenue for exploration. Elements drawn from chant traditions, including kontakions and psalm settings, can be adapted effectively for solo cello or chamber combinations, bringing a reflective and meditative dimension to performance.

Arranging and Reviving Repertoire

One of the most rewarding ways to explore Ukrainian musical traditions is through arrangement and transcription. Many works originally written for piano, voice, or chorus contain melodic material that adapts beautifully to the cello.

Arranging this repertoire requires sensitivity to the instrument’s natural voice. Rather than simply transferring notes from one instrument to another, the goal is to allow the cello to sing in its own idiomatic language.

For performers interested in expanding their programs, this repertoire offers a wide range of possibilities: lyrical miniatures, dramatic rhapsodies, folk-inspired dances, and contemplative sacred pieces.

A Personal Perspective

As a musician born in Kyiv during the final years of the Soviet period, I feel a personal connection to Ukrainian musical culture, particularly to its language and folk traditions.

In my own compositions, I often draw on elements of Ukrainian melody and rhythm while also reflecting my Jewish heritage. These influences sometimes appear together, creating a dialogue between different cultural traditions that shaped my upbringing.

Exploring this repertoire as a performer, arranger, and composer has been both musically rewarding and personally meaningful.

Continuing the Exploration

For cellists and musicians looking for new repertoire, Ukrainian musical traditions offer a remarkable range of material waiting to be explored. From the works of composers like Lysenko to the rich world of folk melodies and dances, these traditions provide expressive and compelling music that deserves a wider place in modern performance.

Through performance, arrangement, and continued study, musicians today can help bring this repertoire to new audiences while preserving the musical voices that shaped it.

The cello world has no shortage of great players.

That is not the problem.

The level of playing today is astonishing. Young cellists can play pieces that would have terrified entire studios a few generations ago. Competitions are full of polished, accurate, intense, intelligent performances. Conservatories produce players with phenomenal technical command. Recordings are clean. Bach is everywhere. The standard concertos are played beautifully. The instrument has never had more visibility.

And yet I keep coming back to an uncomfortable thought:

The cello world used to produce more repertoire-makers. Now it mostly produces repertoire-curators.

That is not meant as an insult. Curatorship is valuable. A great curator preserves, organizes, explains, and presents a tradition. A great performer can make us hear a familiar piece differently. That matters.

But a repertoire-maker does something else.

A repertoire-maker changes what future cellists are able to play.

That may happen through composing, arranging, commissioning, editing, publishing, teaching, recovering forgotten works, or repeatedly bringing unfamiliar pieces into serious public life until they stop feeling unfamiliar. Some cellists do one of those things. Some do several. A few do almost all of them.

That used to be much more normal.

Think of Luigi Silva, Maurice Eisenberg, Maurice Maréchal, André Navarra, Paul Tortelier, Gaspar Cassadó, Diran Alexanian, Emanuel Feuermann, Gregor Piatigorsky, Pierre Fournier, Leonard Rose, Zara Nelsova, János Starker, and many others. These were not all the same kind of artists, of course. Some were more creative as arrangers. Some were more important as teachers. Some were editors. Some were composers. Some were closely connected to new works. Some helped codify what later generations accepted as standard.

But that is exactly the point.

They were not merely standing inside a finished cello museum, choosing which room to visit.

They were helping build the museum.

Maurice Eisenberg is a wonderful case study because his concert schedule gives us a glimpse of a cellist living in a repertoire world that was still being formed. It would be easy to look at his programs and say, “Well, he played Bach, Brahms, Dvořák, Elgar, and the other standard repertoire.” But that would miss the historical point.

Eisenberg lived from 1900 to 1972. Dvořák’s Cello Concerto had premiered only four years before he was born. Brahms’s F major Sonata was written in 1886. For Eisenberg, that music was not old in the way it feels old to us. It was closer to what a cellist today might feel about music from the 1980s or 1990s.

Even Bach was not “Bach” in the modern cello-recital sense. Today, a complete Bach suite on a serious recital feels almost inevitable. In the early twentieth century, that was not yet true. The Suites were still in the process of becoming public monuments rather than pedagogical or private treasures. Casals changed that world, but the change was still fresh.

So when Eisenberg programmed Bach, Brahms, Dvořák, Elgar, Hindemith, Debussy, Cassadó, Turina, Bax, Bloch, Villa-Lobos, Prokofiev, transcriptions, short character pieces, and contemporary-to-him works, he was not simply mixing “standard repertoire” with “extras.” He was living inside a much more fluid musical ecology.

The canon was not finished.

That is the thing we forget.

We talk about “the cello repertoire” as if it arrived fully formed: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Dvořák, Schumann, Elgar, Haydn, Shostakovich, Britten, Ligeti, Lutosławski, maybe a few approved modern works, and then a little tasteful rediscovery on the side. But the canon did not descend from heaven. Cellists made it.

They repeated pieces. They taught them. They put them on serious programs. They brought them into conservatories. They played them with orchestras. They recorded them. They edited them. They arranged around them. They convinced audiences, publishers, institutions, and students that certain works belonged.

The canon is not just a list of great music. It is the residue of choices.

That is why the older cellist model interests me so much. Many major cellists were not only interpreters. They were artistic agents. They moved repertoire from one place to another. They changed the supply of available music.

Cassadó is the obvious example. He was not simply a great cellist who happened to write a few pieces. He composed, transcribed, arranged, transformed, borrowed, adapted, and mythologized. His musical personality did not stop at the edge of the printed page. Whether one admires every choice or not, the result is unmistakable: he left later cellists with more material than he inherited.

Tortelier composed. Starker edited and arranged. Alexanian shaped cello pedagogy and editions. Feuermann’s repertoire choices and transcriptions still echo. Nelsova was tied to important twentieth-century repertoire. Rose, despite his reputation as a king of standard repertoire, helped define and transmit an institutional inheritance through teaching, editions, recordings, and taste. Fournier may read more as an aristocratic interpreter than a repertoire-builder, but even there the picture is not simple. Poulenc’s Cello Sonata was dedicated to him and shaped with his help.

The older landscape was messy, personal, and alive.

Then there is Rostropovich, who makes any simple “before 1950” argument impossible. If anything, he may be the greatest repertoire-expanding cellist in history. Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Britten, Lutosławski, Dutilleux, Schnittke, and many others are part of the modern cello world partly because Rostropovich made the cello impossible for major composers to ignore. He did not simply play new music. He caused music to exist.

Victoria Yagling belongs in this larger conversation too, as a cellist-composer. Yo-Yo Ma also belongs, though in a different way. His career is not primarily about composing or publishing cello pieces, but he has expanded the imaginative geography of the cello through commissions, collaborations, Silkroad, cross-cultural projects, and a willingness to place the cello in worlds where conservatory training alone would not have placed it.

And there are serious examples today.

Giovanni Sollima is plainly a cellist-composer. Andrea Casarrubios is a cellist-composer whose works are now performed widely beyond her own instrument. Fedor Amosov also fits the cellist-composer category. These artists are not simply arranging the furniture in an inherited room. They are adding rooms.

There are also modern cellists who commission, recover, document, or advocate in important ways. That needs to be said clearly because the point is not to flatten living artists into caricatures.

Alban Gerhardt has been closely associated with major contemporary works, including Unsuk Chin’s Cello Concerto. Gautier Capuçon’s Gaïa project brought together a large group of contemporary composers around the cello. Sol Gabetta has championed Francisco Coll’s Cello Concerto, written for her. Camille Thomas has had Fazil Say write a cello concerto for her. Raphaela Gromes has made women composers central to major recording projects. Raphael Wallfisch has documented large areas of neglected British cello repertoire. Anner Bylsma, though not a repertoire-maker in the Cassadó or Rostropovich sense, changed how many cellists thought about Bach, sources, rhetoric, gut strings, and historical performance.

These things matter.

But they also help clarify the distinction.

Recovering neglected repertoire is valuable. Commissioning a concerto is valuable. Recording a thoughtfully curated album is valuable. Changing performance practice is valuable. But these are not always the same thing as being a cellist-author, a person whose work materially changes the available substance of the instrument’s literature.

There are degrees.

A curator says, “Look at this overlooked room.”

A commissioner says, “Let us build a new room.”

A performer-composer says, “I will build it myself.”

An editor-publisher says, “I will make sure others can enter it.”

A teacher says, “I will train people to live in it.”

The greatest repertoire-makers often do several of these things at once.

This is where I think the modern cello world has changed. Not because today’s cellists lack imagination. Many do not. Not because they lack ability. That would be absurd. The problem is that the professional ecosystem now rewards different things.

It rewards polish.

It rewards competition repertoire.

It rewards clean recordings.

It rewards marketable concepts.

It rewards the familiar concerto played at a terrifyingly high level.

It rewards the recital that says, “Here is Bach, here is a major sonata, here is one contemporary work, here is something charming, and here is a familiar encore.”

It rewards the performer who can prove mastery of the inherited language.

Again, that is not worthless. The inherited language is worth mastering.

But something is lost when mastery becomes the whole job.

Earlier cellists often seemed to assume that being a serious artist included some responsibility for the repertoire itself. Not every cellist had to compose. Not every cellist had to edit. Not every cellist had to commission. But many of them did something that pushed the literature forward, sideways, backward, or outward.

Today, too many cellists are trained to behave as caretakers of a completed inheritance.

The inheritance is beautiful. But it is not complete.

This matters especially because the cello has always depended on intervention. Our repertoire is not like the piano repertoire. We do not have endless mountains of major original works by the central composers of every generation. We have gaps, transcriptions, lost opportunities, rediscoveries, compromises, and pieces that became central only because cellists fought for them.

The cello repertoire is not a stable continent. It is an archipelago.

Someone has to build bridges.

That is why I find the old cellist-arranger, cellist-composer, cellist-editor, cellist-commissioner model so compelling. It treats the repertoire as a living responsibility rather than a museum assignment.

And yes, museums are important.

But if all we do is curate, the museum becomes smaller than the art.

This is also why I do not think “rediscovery” alone solves the problem. Rediscovery can be wonderful. I have spent a lot of my own life working with neglected repertoire, manuscripts, editions, arrangements, and historical cello literature. I believe deeply in that work.

But there is a difference between recovering a forgotten work and expanding the instrument’s future.

Both matter. They are not identical.

Some projects restore memory. Others create possibility.

The healthiest cello culture needs both.

It needs people who play Bach with depth. It needs people who play Dvořák with conviction. It needs people who can make Brahms sound newly spoken. It needs people who recover forgotten women composers, neglected national schools, unpublished manuscripts, and lost concertos. It needs people who commission living composers. It needs people who write, arrange, edit, publish, teach, and persuade. It needs people who are not embarrassed to make things.

That last point is important.

Somewhere along the way, classical training made many performers strangely hesitant to be artist-makers. We became very good at fidelity, but sometimes suspicious of authorship. We learned to respect the score, which is good. But we also learned to treat the repertoire as if it were someone else’s property, someone else’s responsibility, someone else’s finished object.

The older cellists did not always think that way.

They respected tradition, but they also touched it.

They arranged. They adapted. They wrote cadenzas. They made editions. They fixed passages. They commissioned friends. They performed new pieces before anyone knew whether those pieces would survive. They put transcriptions on serious programs. They allowed their musical personalities to leave fingerprints.

That is not automatically better. Some of the results were bad. Some were tasteless. Some were historically questionable. Some deserve to be forgotten.

But the posture was generative.

And that is what I miss.

The modern cello world has many brilliant interpreters. But I wonder whether we have too few artists who see the repertoire itself as part of their artistic calling.

Not just, “How beautifully can I play what I inherited?”

But also:

“What am I adding?”

“What am I making available?”

“What piece exists because I cared?”

“What edition exists because I did the work?”

“What arrangement exists because I heard a possibility?”

“What composer wrote for the cello because I asked?”

“What student will inherit more than I inherited?”

Those are not secondary questions. They are central questions.

Because the cello repertoire was made by cellists who asked them.

If earlier generations had only curated what they received, we would not have the cello world we now treat as standard. Bach would not occupy the same place. Dvořák might not have become inevitable. Elgar might not have risen in the same way. Countless transcriptions, sonatas, concertos, studies, editions, and traditions would not have circulated.

The inheritance exists because earlier artists did more than inherit.

That is the hot take, if there is one:

The cello world does not need fewer curators. It needs more builders.

We need great interpreters. We need thoughtful programming. We need recovered repertoire. We need beautiful recordings. We need historically informed performance. We need the museum.

But we also need artists who are willing to make the museum bigger.

Not every cellist has to be Cassadó. Not every cellist has to be Rostropovich. Not every cellist has to compose, publish, or commission. But the field should not train us to think that the highest form of seriousness is simply to polish the same inheritance forever.

The repertoire is not finished.

It never was.

And if we treat it as finished, that will be our failure, not the repertoire’s.

Over the past decade, I’ve noticed a steady increase in pedagogical content circulating in online cello communities. Videos, short lessons, practice tips, technique demonstrations, and teaching philosophies appear daily across platforms. Much of this material is thoughtful, widely shared, and clearly valuable to many players and teachers.

At the same time, I’ve come to realize that not all pedagogical material is meant to serve the same audience, and that’s a healthy thing.

In the early stages of study, students naturally look for clear guidance: how to hold the bow, how to shift positions, how to practice scales efficiently. Short instructional content can be extremely effective for those questions. Teachers who address those topics are providing an important service.

But as our own experience develops, the questions we ask often begin to change.

A player who has spent years with the instrument may become more concerned with issues that are harder to summarize in short demonstrations: how different traditions approach sound production, how repertoire reflects particular technical schools, how editorial decisions shape interpretation, or how historical context influences performance practice.

Those questions do not replace the earlier ones. They simply belong to a different stage of development.

As teachers, the questions we engage with tend to reflect our own formation and professional environment. The things I find myself thinking about now, both as a cellist and as a pedagogue, often differ from the questions addressed in short-form instructional material online. That doesn’t make one approach better than another. It simply means they are serving different needs.

I’ve found it helpful to think about this the way we think about stores in a city.

There are far more shops than the ones I personally visit. Some specialize in things I don’t need. Others serve customers with different interests or at different stages of life. Their presence doesn’t diminish the value of the places I frequent, and my not shopping there doesn’t diminish their purpose. They simply exist for different people at different moments.

Pedagogical conversations function in much the same way.

Some discussions focus on foundational skills. Others explore historical traditions, repertoire research, or long-term artistic development. Each has its place, and each serves a particular community of musicians.

Recognizing this has been clarifying for me. It has reminded me to engage more intentionally with the pedagogical conversations that align with my current work, while appreciating that other forms of teaching and learning continue to serve important roles for others.

Discernment about audience, rather than reaction, has been a helpful posture for me, both online and in the studio.

Not every pedagogical conversation is meant for everyone.

And that is perfectly fine.

Over time, I have noticed how easily we encourage one another to think of jobs as interchangeable, especially when looking from the outside.

Someone loses a position and immediately hears a familiar refrain: Why not just do something adjacent? Surely the skills transfer. Surely adaptability will take care of the rest.

In some fields, that assumption can work reasonably well. But in highly trained professions, music among them, the reality is more complicated.

Specialized work is cumulative.

A cellist does not simply wake up one morning able to perform a concerto. The skill reflects years of training, repertoire studied, teachers encountered, ensembles played in, and traditions absorbed. Each stage builds on the previous one. The environment in which that work happens matters as much as the work itself.

Organizations understand this well. When an orchestra hires a principal player, or a university hires a faculty member, they are rarely searching for “general musical ability.” They are looking for a very specific combination of training, experience, and perspective that fits the institution’s needs at that moment.

From the outside, however, it is easy to overlook that specificity.

Much of the pressure to “just take something adjacent” does not come from employers. More often it comes from well-meaning friends, family members, or observers who believe that talent alone should make adaptation straightforward.

Sometimes that is true. Many people successfully move between related roles over the course of their careers. But the assumption that all specialized work is interchangeable can quietly miss something important.

Expertise is shaped not only by ability but by context.

The repertoire a musician studies, the students a teacher works with, the institutional mission of a school, the artistic culture of an ensemble—all of these things form the environment in which professional judgment develops. Over time, that environment shapes how a person works and where their experience is most useful.

Recognizing this is not a form of entitlement.

Discernment about fit is something different. It is simply an honest assessment of where one’s training, experience, and responsibilities align most naturally with the work being offered.

A good institution benefits from that clarity just as much as the individual does. When people work in places where their preparation and the organization’s needs genuinely meet, both tend to function better.

In music, we instinctively understand this principle. An orchestra would not solve a vacancy in the cello section by inviting the clarinetist to move over because both musicians are talented. The training is specific, the experience is specific, and the work demands that specificity.

Yet outside the rehearsal room, we sometimes forget that the same logic applies to many other forms of professional life.

Over time, I have come to believe that respecting work means respecting its specificity. The more clearly we recognize where particular kinds of experience belong, the better we serve both the institutions we care about and the people who work within them.

Clarity about fit is not a limitation.

Often, it is simply honesty about what the work actually requires.

Early in our careers, it is natural to think, “If I were in charge, I would do things differently.”

A first-year music major may feel ready for a major audition. A new faculty member may feel confident about how they would run a department, a college, or even an entire university.

From the outside, leadership often appears straightforward. Problems look obvious. Solutions seem equally obvious.

Why not program different repertoire?
Why not restructure the curriculum?
Why not simply make the decision that seems best for the students?

Early in our careers, we see things clearly from the vantage point we occupy. We notice our own needs, frustrations, and ambitions. And those concerns are not unreasonable. Institutions should always be attentive to the people they serve.

But perspective changes over time.

As the years pass, it becomes easier to see the constraints that leaders navigate every day. Decisions that once looked simple turn out to sit at the intersection of competing responsibilities: enrollment realities, institutional mission, faculty needs, accreditation requirements, donor relationships, board expectations, and long-term sustainability.

A decision that satisfies one constituency may create difficulties for another. What appears inefficient from the outside may be the result of compromises that keep an entire system functioning.

This realization does not mean that institutions always make the right decisions. They often do not. Universities, orchestras, and arts organizations are human institutions, and human institutions are imperfect.

But experience can temper the early impulse to say, “I could do better.”

Over time, I have found it more valuable to be a thoughtful sounding board for the person in charge than to assume the role myself. Leadership is not simply about having ideas. It is about carrying responsibility for the consequences of those ideas across an entire community.

Responsibility changes perspective.

And sometimes the most useful contribution we can make is not taking the podium, but offering clarity and support to the person who already stands there.

From time to time, while editing old scores or preparing repertoire from the nineteenth century, I find myself wondering what the great cellists of the past might say if they could address players today.

We often encounter them only through printed notes on a page. Yet these figures were not abstractions. They were performers, teachers, experimenters, and sometimes stubborn personalities who pushed the cello into places it had never gone before.

What follows is a small imaginative exercise: brief fictional monologues in which several influential cellists reflect on the instrument they helped shape. The voices are imagined, but the musical concerns are very real.

Luigi Boccherini

You think of the cello as a serious instrument, perhaps even a solemn one. But you must remember where I lived.

Madrid was full of dance.

The guitar, the castanets, the rhythm of feet on the floor. If the cello wishes to speak in such a world, it must learn to move.

In my quintets, I gave the cello room to dance. Not just one cello, but two. Why should the instrument remain hidden in the bass when it can speak in conversation with itself?

Do not forget this. Elegance is not softness. It is control.

And when you play high on the instrument, do not struggle. The cello should not climb. It should float.

Bernhard Romberg

In my time, people spoke often about expression. They still do.

But expression without discipline is merely noise.

When I began teaching, I discovered that most players wanted the rewards of virtuosity without its foundation. So I wrote exercises. Not to torment students, but to show them the structure beneath the music.

The cello must be organized. The hand must know where it lives on the fingerboard. Positions are not guesses. They are geography.

You cannot speak poetry in a language you do not control.

Learn the instrument. Learn where every note lies beneath your hand. When the technique becomes secure, expression will follow naturally.

The cello rewards order.

Friedrich Dotzauer

Students often assume that studies exist only for the practice room.

That is not quite true.

When I wrote my studies and caprices, I wanted to solve practical problems of the instrument, yes. The cello demands balance of the hand, clarity of the bow, and patience in shifting. These things must be learned deliberately.

But technique alone is never the goal. A study should also teach the player how to shape a phrase, balance voices, and sustain a line even through difficult passages.

If you treat a study as merely an exercise, it will sound like one.

But if you listen carefully, some of them contain real music waiting to be discovered.

François Servais

In my day, audiences loved spectacle.

They wanted brilliance, fire, danger. And the cello, I believed, was capable of all of it.

Audiences began to call me the Paganini of the cello. I never objected.

Why should the violinists have all the fun?

So I wrote music that pushed the instrument further than polite society expected. Harmonics that shimmer, leaps that seem almost impossible, passages that force the cello to roar like an opera singer.

But do not misunderstand me. Virtuosity is not decoration.

It is drama.

The cello must sometimes whisper, but sometimes it must also shout.

David Popper

People remember my etudes, which is fair enough. They were written to solve problems that every cellist encounters.

But the cello is not only an instrument of problems. It is an instrument of imagination.

In Budapest, I spent many years teaching young players who believed the cello could do anything. I encouraged that belief.

When I wrote pieces like Im Walde or Elfentanz, I was thinking in pictures. The forest at dusk, the light steps of a dance, the rustic character of a village song.

The cello is wonderfully suited to such scenes because it can change character so easily.

One moment it sings warmly like a human voice. The next it sparkles with mischief.

If you play these pieces, do not think only about the notes. Think about the scene behind them.

The cello is capable of painting with sound.

Alfredo Piatti

When I was young, the cello was still finding its voice.

Many believed it belonged quietly inside the orchestra. I disagreed.

In London, I learned that audiences valued refinement above all else. The cello must speak clearly, without exaggeration.

My caprices were written partly for this reason. An instrument must prove that it can sustain a musical conversation without assistance.

But the real secret of the cello is not virtuosity. It is patience.

Play with clarity. Play with dignity.

The cello will do the rest.

These imagined voices are, of course, only reflections.

But the problems these musicians wrestled with remain the same ones we face today: how to balance technique and expression, how to make the instrument sing, and how to allow the cello’s voice to emerge naturally through the player.

Two centuries later, the conversation continues.

Gaspar Cassadó: Improvisation on The Blue Danube by Johann Strauss II
Yuriy Leonovich, cello
Kristin Leonovich, piano

Gaspar Cassadó composed and arranged a remarkable amount of music for the cello, but many of his works remain almost entirely unknown outside the instrument’s historical repertoire. Some pieces are hidden in archives. Others survive in recordings but have not entered regular performance. Still others are known primarily through a recording that preserves only one of several possible forms of the work.

His Improvisation on The Blue Danube, based on Johann Strauss II’s famous waltz, belongs to that last category.

Cassadó recorded the piece with the pianist Otto Schulhof. For a rare work by a great cellist-composer, a recording by Cassadó himself naturally carries considerable authority. It allows us to hear his timing, elegance, flexibility, and sense of style in his own music.

But the version my wife Kristin and I performed in the recording above differs significantly from the one Cassadó and Schulhof recorded. It is longer, includes some different piano writing, and, most noticeably, comes to an entirely different conclusion.

In Cassadó and Schulhof’s recording, the work seems to recede at the end, closing with an alternate ending that trails off on a dominant chord. In the source used for our performance, the return of the opening material leads instead into a brief but brilliant virtuoso coda. The difference is only eleven measures, but it changes the character of the whole piece.

A Blue Danube in D-flat major

Cassadó was not the only composer to hear Strauss’s Blue Danube as material for a substantial concert work. In 1898, Max Reger composed an Improvisation über den Walzer “An der schönen blauen Donau” for solo piano. The connection is especially striking because Reger’s improvisation and Cassadó’s paraphrase are both in D-flat major.

In Cassadó’s case, that choice is anything but obvious. Strauss’s principal waltz is in D major, a beautifully resonant and comfortable key on the cello. Cassadó moves the selected Strauss material down by a semitone, placing the work in D-flat major instead. This is not a transposition that simplifies the cello writing. On the contrary, it often makes the instrument work harder, replacing the natural resonance and open-string possibilities of D major with a darker and less immediately convenient tonal world.

Whether Cassadó knew Reger’s improvisation or whether the shared key is simply a remarkable coincidence, the parallel is fascinating. Two very different virtuoso musicians took the same celebrated Strauss waltz and recast it in the same unexpected key.

The musical results, however, are very different. Reger’s work transforms Strauss into something unmistakably Reger-like: dense, chromatic, expansive, and pianistically elaborate. Cassadó’s piece retains far more of the grace, sweep, and sparkle associated with the waltz itself. Yet the move to D-flat subtly alters its color. On the cello, the familiar music acquires a warmer, more veiled, and slightly more luxurious sound, even as the transposition increases its technical difficulty.

In that sense, Cassadó’s musical language also looks backward. Heard beside the Strauss paraphrases of Eduard Schütt or the Strauss metamorphoses of Leopold Godowsky, the piece feels less like a modern response to Strauss than a continuation of an older concert-paraphrase tradition. By the early 1950s, that language already belonged to an earlier world: lush chromatic turns, grand transitions, ornamental figuration, and virtuoso theatricality point far more naturally to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries than to Cassadó’s own decade. But that is part of the piece’s charm. Cassadó was not trying to modernize Strauss. He was entering the vanished world of the Strauss paraphrase and making it speak through the cello.

More Than a Familiar Waltz for Cello

At first glance, a cello paraphrase on The Blue Danube might seem like a natural encore: a famous melody transformed into something elegant, charming, and recital-friendly. Cassadó’s piece has all of that surface appeal, and it is beautifully suited to the cello. But it is considerably more ambitious than a straightforward arrangement of Strauss’s best-known waltz.

The work does not simply present Strauss’s material in its original sequence with cello figurations added on top. Cassadó begins with an atmospheric introduction based on material from the fourth waltz, creating an expectant opening before the familiar first waltz appears. From there, he selects, reorders, and combines passages from Strauss’s original, moving among different waltz ideas with a freedom that makes the piece feel newly shaped rather than merely transferred from orchestra to cello and piano.

The middle of the work is especially revealing. Instead of simply continuing from one recognizable tune to the next, Cassadó expands the material into a developmental passage of his own. Familiar gestures are reshaped, extended, and placed into a new dramatic progression. The piece still belongs unmistakably to the world of Strauss, but it is no longer simply The Blue Danube reduced or decorated for cello. It has become a real concert work with its own pacing, architecture, and sense of arrival.

That is one of Cassadó’s great strengths as an arranger. He understood that a successful transcription is not always a matter of reproducing the original as faithfully as possible. Sometimes it means discovering what the music can become on another instrument. His cello writing does not merely sing Strauss’s melodies. It dances, ornaments, accompanies, launches into passagework, and takes on the physical theatricality of a virtuoso cello piece.

The Return of the Opening

Near the end of the version heard here, the music returns to the atmosphere of the opening. The gesture is immediately effective: after the motion and variety of the waltz episodes, the introductory material comes back as a point of recognition and return.

That could have been an entirely satisfying conclusion. The music has come full circle, and the return of the opening material gives the work a clear formal shape.

But in this version, Cassadó does not stop there.

After the return, the piece breaks into a final virtuosic coda. It is compact, sparkling, and unmistakably theatrical. Suddenly, the work is no longer simply looking back at the elegance of Strauss’s ballroom. It is standing at the front of a concert stage, asking the cello and piano to finish with brilliance and command.

That ending matters because it confirms what the rest of the piece has already suggested: this is not merely a graceful arrangement of a familiar waltz. It is a fully conceived concert paraphrase, written for performers who can carry charm, lyricism, wit, and virtuosity in one continuous arc.

The Ending Cassadó and Schulhof Recorded

Cassadó’s recording with Otto Schulhof presents another version of the piece. It is shorter than the source used for our performance, with apparent cuts and differences in the piano writing. Most strikingly, it does not use the same concert ending. Rather than proceeding from the return of the introduction into the brilliant final coda, their recorded performance concludes with an alternate ending on a dominant harmony, leaving the sound unresolved.

There is something attractive about that ending, too. It leaves the piece suspended, almost as though the waltz has drifted out of view rather than arriving at a formal curtain call. It may have suited the recording, Cassadó’s conception at that moment, or a later performing revision of the piece. Without further source evidence, it would be unwise to claim exactly why the two versions differ.

But the musical effect is unmistakable.

The recorded ending makes the work feel lighter, more fleeting, perhaps more improvisatory. The ending preserved in the source used for our performance makes it feel more substantial and public: not a waltz memory disappearing into the distance, but a concert piece reaching its final flourish.

Neither ending erases the other. Instead, the difference reveals something valuable about Cassadó as a performer-composer. His own recorded performance does not exhaust the possibilities of the piece. The surviving source preserves another conclusion, one that shows just how fully he could turn Strauss’s familiar waltz into a brilliant recital work for cello and piano.

A Rare Piece Worth Hearing Again

Cassadó’s major transcriptions and original works deserve far more attention than they receive. His arrangements of Albéniz, Chopin, Debussy, Granados, Paderewski, and others reveal an extraordinarily imaginative musical personality: a cellist who did not merely borrow music from elsewhere, but understood how to make it live naturally through the cello.

His Improvisation on The Blue Danube offers a particularly appealing glimpse of that art. Strauss’s melodies are familiar, but Cassadó’s handling of them is anything but routine. The piece belongs to a tradition that includes Reger’s piano improvisation on the same waltz, as well as the late-Romantic Strauss paraphrase world of Schütt and Godowsky. Yet Cassadó’s solution is entirely his own: elegant, agile, theatrical, and inseparable from the possibilities and challenges of the cello.

The performance above adds another layer to that story. Cassadó and Schulhof’s recording allows us to hear the piece in the composer’s own hands, but it does not preserve the brilliant concert ending found in the source used for our performance. Hearing that ending changes the work. It gives the final return a different purpose, transforms the last moments into a true virtuoso arrival, and makes clear just how confidently Cassadó imagined the piece as a recital showpiece.

For a work that has remained so little known, that difference is not a footnote. It is part of the reason the piece deserves to be heard again.