A touch of 1930s nostalgia for today’s #UriPosteJukeBox: one of the most beguiling songs we know, Cole Porter’s Begin the Beguine, an early JukeBox request. Porter wrote this song on an ocean liner between Indonesia and Fiji in 1935, and it was quickly dubbed “the longest popular song ever written”. In case you’re worried, this doesn’t refer to its overall duration, which is fairly standard, but to the fact that almost every popular song ever written (and indeed a huge number of classical songs) are in “strophic” form — the same music (typically 32 bars) repeats through multiple verses and/or choruses. However, Begin the Beguine comprises 112 bars of “through-composed” music — for each stanza of text, Porter takes the melody somewhere new. As with all great music, it’s not necessary to know any of this to be swayed by its magic. But Cole Porter’s own lyrics, in which the strains of the beguine — a slow, sensual dance from the islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique — stir memories of a lost love, are so evocative that it seemed a shame not to share them too (you can find them on Tom’s Facebook post!). So please let Tom and three Elenas lead you back in time for some Porter, arr. Poster…

A bit of sunshine (with matching shirt!) for today’s #UriPosteJukeBox: one of the most radiant pieces we know, the second of Robert Schumann’s Romances Op. 94. Originally intended for oboe and piano, this was a Christmas present for his beloved Clara. A request from the wonderful Penny Adie, who recently stepped down after 19 amazing years at the helm of the Two Moors Festival.

For today’s #UriPosteJukeBox, the utterly charming Sérénade Espagnole by Cécile Chaminade. We were delighted to have a request for Chaminade’s music — though she was among the most successful pianists and composers of the turn of the 19th/20th century, Chaminade’s exquisite salon music gradually fell out of fashion. Neither Tom nor I knew this little miniature — it’s irresistible music, originally written for voice and piano (as Chanson Espagnole), but here rearranged by Fritz Kreisler with his trademark elegance.

Yesterday was a tough, beautiful, achy day. At 2:30 p.m., Tom and I had a chat about performance anxiety with 70 music conservatory students from around the world, organized through the Benedetti Foundation’s virtual sessions. We were joined by Nicky herself, as well as Laura van der Heijden and Rachel Cooper, and for 80 minutes we had one of the most open, honest, heartbreaking conversations about music I have ever experienced. A few students spoke up about issues that have been plaguing them — going blank onstage, constant put-downs from teachers, wondering why we put ourselves through all of this — and I just fell apart, right there on Zoom. I have dreamt for years about classical music (particularly the education sector) shifting towards a place of honesty and compassion, and yesterday’s conversation showed me that it’s happening now, right before our very eyes. WE are all responsible for the shift, by refusing to gloss over the tougher aspects of this life, by holding space for each other to speak from the heart, and by having kindness at the root of all that we do. Needless to say, I was still quite weepy as we headed into recording afterwards. This combination of simple Irish folks melodies — The Lark in the Clear Air, which looks forward with hope (in a translucent arrangement by Phyllis Tate); and The Salley Gardens, which looks back with regret (in the poignant arrangement by Benjamin Britten) — was just what my soul was craving; however, my fingers refused to obey, jerking through shifts, flailing about as they missed the intonation bullseye time and time again. This seemingly uncomplicated music took us 6 tries to get presentable, and with each do-over I found myself in a fresh flood of tears. Someone mentioned on the Zoom call the idea that as performers, we’re expected to be inspiring whenever we set foot onstage, an act which is not often on our terms — we don’t usually set the times or locations or moments of being “in the zone” for our performances (#UriPosteJukeBox aside, but even that holds no guarantees!). I’d like to add to that that not only are we expected to be artistically inspiring, we’re also somehow expected to be technically flawless, magically juggling a total command of the instrument and musical material with that indescribable “extra” thing, all while acting cool as a cucumber. This stuff is HARD, y’all. So why *do* we put ourselves through this? Because when it’s good, when we do manage to find that zone, it’s the best feeling in the world: floating in a sea of melody and harmony and tradition and goosebumps, connecting to other humans from all walks of life without having to utter a single word.

To mark Day 70 of #UriPosteJukeBox, one of Mendelssohn’s best-known melodies: On Wings of Song (Auf Flügeln des Gesanges), once ubiquitous in Victorian and Edwardian drawing rooms. The text is a poem by Heine, a beautiful depiction of India, complete with lotus flowers and gazelles, which inspired Mendelssohn to this seductive setting. Unfortunately, no wings were available for this recording (we think Hedwig made off with them), so we figured the most logical substitutions were a beaked masked and some baby chick-printed pajama bottoms.

And just when we’d gotten you settled into a refined comfort zone with the life-affirming music of Bach and Schumann, we’re here to destroy it all with a mildly ridiculous 80s medley for #UriPosteJukeBox Day 69. We tried to cram in as many classics as we could from a sometimes musically wayward decade, honoring listeners’ requests for Careless Whisper, You Can Call Me Al, and the oeuvres of Whitney Houston and Queen, alongside our own nods to Uptown Girl and Don’t Stop Believin’. Shimmy into those netted tanks, Hammer pants, and shoulder pads and bust a move with us... that is, until our analog “fade-out”...