Johann Strauss Jr.
An der schönen, blauen Donau

I wish I could know entire works in their nuances, I wish I could comment on the masterpieces of Rossini and Verdi without limiting myself to the famous overtures of the former and the wonderful albeit overplayed pieces of the latter.
I wish I could weave a fluid and knowledgeable discourse on Beethoven's symphonies or Bach's orchestral suites.
I wish I could even just go beyond the outward perfection of Vivaldi's seasonal concerts.
I wish; but I do not have the knowledge, it's useless to deny it.

What follows is not meant to be a page of classical culture.
It is intended to be just a declaration of affection, nothing more than the personal consideration of an immortal piece, created from the heart and the humility of my classical knowledge which lives on sporadic collections of "Famiglia Cristiana", of vinyl and CDs unfortunately never listened to enough, and New Year's concerts, a certainty every year just like midnight mass at Christmas and rain on Ferragosto.

 
"An Der Schönen, Blauen Donau" (Op. 314; literally, "On the Beautiful Blue Danube", dated 1867) is the most famous and celebrated waltz by that phenomenal Austrian composer known as Johann Strauss, born on October 25, 1825, and a prominent member of a family that owes much to music and to which music perhaps owes even more.
The Vienna concerts teach us that his father, from whom Johann inherited his name, composed, among other innumerable works, the famous "Radetzky-Marsch," while his brother Josef (two years younger and growing up unfortunately in the shadow of the formidable Johann) also wrote beautiful works, among which I fondly remember the sweetness of "Die Libelle" (The Dragonfly).

Although Johann Strauss's production often transcends the short form (often with happy results, operettas like "The Bat" and "Princess Ninetta" above all), it was precisely the composition of many marches and especially pieces thought for the dance in its forms then prevalent, the waltz and the polka, that made the composer from Neubau's work immortal or at least memorable.

 "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" is a perfect piece in its structure and intriguing in its development, able to hold the tension created by the initial crescendo for its ten-minute course. The frequency of its performances has made it, similarly to what happens for certain pieces extracted from works of much greater complexity (think, for example, of "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's "Turandot"), a sort of popular success even in contemporary times. However, let it be clear; this does not detract from the value of a marvelous work, even though its author may not keep pace with far more prominent authors of Central European classical opera.

 
I do not intend to write further about an absolutely well-known work, and besides, I would not know what more to add.
Such is what I could: I ask you to consider what is written with this perspective, despite knowing first-hand how a poorly written piece on classical music, poorly concealed behind some knowledge of a field that is certainly not mine, is not easily forgiven.

If all this is indeed true, and so it is, why have I written what you read? 

There are moments when a few notes, even just whistled while making the bed or washing the coffee cup in the morning, are enough to make you close your eyes.
Then you imagine holding the girl of your dreams, beautiful in her blue satin dress, her pale shoulders freshly scented, her shiny hair gathered behind her delicate nape.
Then you imagine dancing with her even if you can’t, you imagine twirling to the songs of the violins, the joyful laughter of the horns, the booming caresses of the timpani.

It doesn't matter if, in moments of instrumental quiet, you open your eyes to avoid the kitchen table and door frames.
It doesn't matter if what you hold is only air and what you smell is breakfast and still sleep.
It doesn't matter if the t-shirt and jeans you have just donned are not precisely an elegant uniform of a colonel of the Austro-Hungarian Army.
It doesn't matter if your whistling is just a raw lament.

 What matters is that, at least for a few minutes, that dance and that emotion of a time that is not this have indeed occurred, in some way, thanks to an immortal art.

In the end, what matters is knowing that I can still dream.

Dedicated to the loved ones who, like a sweet dream, make me emotional.