Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770–1827)

Variations in G Major on “Ich bin der Schneider Kakdu,” Op. 121a,
for piano, violin, and cello

Composed ca. 1803–24 | Vienna, Austria

In a career filled with monumental string quartets, symphonies, and piano sonatas, Beethoven’s Kakadu Variations might seem like an outlier—a lighthearted set of variations on a catchy tune from a forgotten comic opera. But there’s more going on here than meets the ear.

The theme—“Ich bin der Schneider Kakadu”—comes from Wenzel Müller’s wildly popular 1794 opera Die Schwestern von Prag (The Sisters from Prague). The word Kakadu means cockatoo in German, but in this context likely refers not to a parrot, but to a flamboyant pompadour hairstyle fashionable in Vienna at the time. The character Kakadu is a tailor and comic braggart, who tells of his misadventures: traveling the world, getting hauled before the French Convention, mistakenly conscripted into the military, and finally escaping home to Germany. The tone is satirical, irreverent, and delightfully absurd.

Beethoven's decision to use this tune in a variation set—especially one introduced by a brooding, minor-key Adagio assai—was almost certainly tongue-in-cheek. The contrast between the tragic weight of the introduction and the perky theme that follows would have been both surprising and hilarious to contemporary listeners. But this isn’t just musical slapstick. The variations that follow range widely in character and craft: from graceful elegance to brilliant virtuosity, from lyrical charm to contrapuntal sophistication.

Though published in 1824—during the same period Beethoven was finishing the Diabelli Variations, the Missa Solemnis, and the Ninth Symphony—the Kakadu Variations likely originated much earlier, perhaps as early as 1803. Beethoven returned to the piece in 1816, revising it substantially, and likely made final touches before publication. Scholar Lewis Lockwood has traced the work’s layered evolution and sees it as a “nostalgic” act by an older Beethoven looking back on a youthful sketch and dressing it in the denser textures and expressive power of his mature style.

This is especially evident in the remarkable double fugue that bridges the final variation to the Allegretto coda—a compact burst of counterpoint that recalls the architectural fugues of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations and even the Ninth Symphony. Its presence adds weight and surprise to a work otherwise full of charm, wit, and theatrical flair.

The Kakadu Variations may be playful on the surface, but they show Beethoven working at multiple levels: parodying convention, experimenting with form, and relishing the act of transformation. And transformation is, after all, the essence of variation. On a program called Count Me In, where rhythm, variation, and ensemble interplay are key themes, Beethoven’s witty, richly layered work makes a fitting and fascinating entry point.

Astor Piazzolla
(1921–1992)

ESCUALO
for flute and bayan

Composed ca. 1979 | Buenos Aires, Argentina

Astor Piazzolla’s Escualo—Spanish for “shark”—lunges into the musical waters with stealth, speed, and bite. Composed around 1979 and named after one of Piazzolla’s favorite sport-fishing adversaries, this piece captures the predator’s sleek menace through jagged rhythms, swift shifts in mood, and flashes of virtuosic intensity. Originally written for violin and his own bandoneon, Escualo has since been adapted for many instrumental pairings, including tonight’s evocative version for flute and bayan.

Piazzolla was the fearless inventor of nuevo tango, a style that fused the soulful dance rhythms of Argentina with jazz improvisation and classical structure. In Escualo, the pulse of the tango is unmistakable—but this is no ballroom number. The music darts and weaves, daring the performers to follow its unpredictable path. Sharp attacks, lyrical digressions, and percussive interplay give the impression of something both dangerous and mesmerizing circling just below the surface.

Piazzolla’s music demands precision and passion, but above all, it demands commitment. There’s no room for hesitation in Escualo—you seize the rhythm, dive into the danger, and declare your presence with every phrase. It’s music that asks: are you in or out? And once you say yes, there’s no turning back.

Gabriela Lena Frank
(b. 1972)

FOUR FOLK SONGS
for piano, violin, and cello

Composed 2012 | United States

Gabriela Lena Frank’s music lives at the intersection of cultures. Born in Berkeley, California, to a mother of Peruvian-Chinese heritage and a father of Lithuanian-Jewish descent, Frank has long explored questions of identity through sound—drawing on her diverse ancestry to create music that is vibrant, layered, and deeply personal. Trained as a pianist and composer in the Western classical tradition, she has carved out a space that is uniquely her own: one that fuses folk traditions, storytelling, and classical forms with stunning clarity and imagination.

Her Four Folk Songs for piano trio (2012) is a prime example of this synthesis. Written for the relatively traditional instrumentation of piano, violin, and cello, the piece infuses the concert hall with the colors, rhythms, and gestures of Peruvian music. But these are not arrangements or transcriptions—they are reimaginings, composed from the inside out. Each movement draws on a different facet of Peruvian culture, translated into a musical language that’s unmistakably Frank’s.

Canto para La María Angola opens the set with solemn resonance. Inspired by the legendary María Angola church bell in Cusco, the music evokes tolling sonorities and a sense of ritual gravity—both reverent and mythic.

Children's Dance captures the joy and unpredictability of children at play. With darting rhythms and quick, playful exchanges, this movement dances in miniature, full of curiosity and delight.

Serenata is a love song in the style of the traditional serenades performed by guitarists in Peruvian eateries. Gentle, swaying rhythms and lyrical lines create a mood of nighttime warmth and quiet devotion.

Chasqui, named after the swift-footed messengers of the Inca Empire, brings the piece to a propulsive close. The rhythms are driving, the textures lean and agile, and the sense of motion is relentless—music in perpetual forward stride.

Frank’s music invites performers and audiences alike into a kind of musical conversation, one that is at once intimate and expansive, rooted in cultural memory and alive in the present moment.

John Williams
(b. 1932)

devil's dance from the witches of eastwick
for violin and bayan

Composed 1987 | Hollywood, California

John Williams may be best known for the sweeping grandeur of Star Wars and Harry Potter, but in Devil’s Dance from The Witches of Eastwick (1987), he lets loose with wicked flair. This electrifying showpiece comes from the film’s climactic ballroom scene, where supernatural mischief takes center stage. Originally written for violin and orchestra, it’s a dazzling blend of classical virtuosity and cinematic sorcery—equal parts Paganini and pyrotechnics.

In this arrangement for violin and bayan, the music crackles with even more edge and agility. The violin cackles, teases, and seduces, dashing through fiendish runs and sudden leaps. The bayan—an orchestra in a box—adds slithering harmonies, rhythmic bite, and bursts of infernal laughter. Together, the duo conjures an atmosphere both gleeful and unhinged, as if dancing on a wire over some delicious abyss.

Gabriela Lena Frank
(b. 1972)

La Cumparsita
for violin, cello, piano, and bayan

Composed 1916 | Montevideo, Uruguay

No tango is more iconic—or more instantly recognizable—than La Cumparsita. Composed in 1916 by a teenage Gerardo Matos Rodríguez, a Uruguayan architecture student with a gift for melody, the piece began life as a march before being transformed into a tango with lyrics by Pascual Contursi and Enrique Maroni. Over time, it became the unofficial national anthem of tango, closing milongas across the globe and evoking a heady mix of nostalgia, longing, and romance.

This arrangement for violin, cello, piano, and bayan reveals the piece’s operatic sweep and emotional depth. The bayan lends a breathy elegance and expressive shading, while the strings sing and sigh, alternating between lush phrasing and pointed rhythmic snaps. The piano anchors the ensemble with classic tango pulses and surging harmonies. Far from a museum piece, this Cumparsita lives and breathes—it’s both dance and drama, heartbreak and heat.

Astor Piazzolla
(1921-1992)

Verano Porteño from The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires
for violin, cello, flute, bayan, and piano

Composed 1965 | Buenos Aires, Argentina

Astor Piazzolla’s Verano Porteño—or Summer in Buenos Aires—simmers with sultry heat and the restless energy of a city that never stops moving. Composed in 1965 as a standalone piece (well before it became part of his Four Seasons of Buenos Aires), Verano captures both the sweltering weather and the simmering tension of a Buenos Aires summer: languid afternoons, restless nights, and the charged pulse of urban life. Like much of Piazzolla’s music, it blends Argentine tango with classical structure and jazz-inflected freedom.

This version, arranged for violin, cello, flute, bayan, and piano, teems with colorful interplay and rhythmic bite. At times the flute soars like hot wind off the pavement, while the violin and cello take turns smoldering or slicing through the texture. The bayan adds both breath and bite—whispering, snarling, or anchoring the ensemble’s swagger—while the piano steers with percussive authority. Melancholy lyricism rubs up against streetwise edge, and sudden shifts in tempo or texture keep the music alert and alive. Verano Porteño doesn’t ask you to sit back and watch the season unfold—it pulls you into its heat and motion.

Bohuslav Martinů
(1890–1959)

TRIO 
for Flute, cello, and piano, h. 300

Composed 1944 | New York City, United States

Composed in 1944 in New York City, Bohuslav Martinů’s Trio for flute, cello, and piano is a compact gem—bright, rhythmically vital, and full of life. Written during his wartime exile in the United States, the piece reflects Martinů’s signature blend of neoclassical form, Czech folk character, and modern harmonic language. Though far from home, Martinů retained the buoyancy and inventive spirit that marks so much of his best chamber music.

The instrumentation itself—flute, cello, and piano—is somewhat unusual, but Martinů handles it with brilliant balance and conversational grace. Each instrument has a distinct voice, and their interplay often feels like an intimate and witty dialogue. The music is lean and elegant, never showy, and filled with the kind of spontaneous energy that gives chamber music its unique charm.

The first movement, Allegretto, opens with syncopated rhythms and playful exchanges between the instruments. Czech folk music is never directly quoted, but its dance rhythms and light-footed spirit clearly inform the style. The textures are transparent, and the mood is immediately engaging—music that smiles without needing to raise its voice.

The second movement, Adagio, offers a lyrical contrast. Here, the cello and flute share a singing, introspective melody while the piano lays down gentle harmonic support. The tone is wistful and still—an inward breath between the more extroverted outer movements.

The finale begins in dreamy ambiguity before launching into a whirling, folk-tinged rondo. Rhythmic surprises and sly harmonic shifts keep players and listeners on their toes. The music gathers momentum toward a ending full of sparkle and dash—a joyful sprint forward.

Though composed in exile and wartime uncertainty, Martinů’s trio feels anything but heavy. It affirms, rather than reflects, and speaks in tones of resilience, wit, and vitality.

Gabriel Fauré
(1845–1924)

PIANO TRIO in d minor, op. 120 
for piano

Composed 1922-23 | Paris, France

In 19th-century France, musical life revolved around three great institutions: the Paris Conservatoire, the Opéra, and the Opéra-Comique. These were all part of a single ecosystem—singers singing opera, instrumentalists playing in opera orchestras, composers writing opera, and the results performed on subsidized stages. Instrumental concert music, especially chamber music, had little place in this system. What few concerts were mounted often featured operatic paraphrases or other light fare, and serious instrumental music was viewed as peripheral to the musical milieu.

Composers who wished to work outside opera—particularly in the realm of chamber music—had two options: cultivate connections through the salons of Parisian high society, or join grassroots initiatives like the Société Nationale de Musique, founded in 1871 under the banner Ars Gallica to promote French instrumental art. Gabriel Fauré, educated not at the Conservatoire but at the École Niedermeyer (a school for church musicians), would travel both paths. He became a regular at the salons of Camille Saint-Saëns and Pauline Viardot, where he met many of France’s leading musical figures. With Saint-Saëns and others, he co-founded the Société Nationale, which would premiere many of his early works and provide a platform for the revival of French instrumental music.

Fauré eventually came full circle: in 1905, after a series of musical-political upheavals, he was appointed director of the very Conservatoire that had once excluded him. As director, he initiated sweeping reforms and championed modernist voices—earning the nickname “Robespierre” for his thorough house-cleaning. But the toll on his health was great. Beset by worsening hearing loss, emphysema, and declining vision, Fauré retired in 1920. That retirement was, ironically, the most fruitful compositional period of his life. In just four years, he produced a final cluster of masterpieces: the Second Piano Quintet (Op. 115), the String Quartet (Op. 121), and the Piano Trio in D minor, Op. 120, composed in 1922–23.

Fauré worked on the Andantino in the summer of 1922 in Annecy-le-Vieux, completing the outer movements the following winter in Paris. The trio was premiered in May 1923 by a group of young Conservatoire prizewinners and received a second, star-studded performance the next month by Thibaud, Casals, and Cortot. Fauré dedicated the score to Madame Maurice Rouvier, though a glowing letter from Queen Elisabeth of Belgium, who believed the piece had been dedicated to her, captures its impact: “This work is so great and full of the charm of poetry… I was enveloped by that inexpressible exaltation which emanates from your compositions.”

Despite calling it “a little trio,” Fauré imbued the work with grace, contrapuntal detail, and harmonic subtlety—hallmarks of his late style. The first movement, Allegro ma non troppo, opens with a long-spun melody marked cantando—“singing.” The line unfolds with quiet assurance, drifting through distant harmonic realms while maintaining its internal logic and clarity. There’s a sense of inevitability in how the music moves forward—its momentum is not urgent, but irresistible. Beneath the surface calm lies a current of energy that never lets go.

The second movement, Andantino, is deeply inward and tender, with the melody entrusted to the strings, while the piano lays down a foundation of simple, pulsing chords. The result is music of hushed intimacy, almost meditative in its restraint. This is one of Fauré’s most quietly poignant movements—expressive without ever becoming indulgent. The atmosphere is one of suspended time, a kind of luminous stillness.

The finale, Allegro vivo, erupts with rhythmic vitality. Originally conceived as a scherzo, the movement retains the lightning-fast reflexes and taut energy of that form—everything is charged with urgency. Moments of quiet function not as repose, but as springs coiled for release. The interplay between instruments is agile and precise, yet the emotional arc is expansive: exhilaration, tension, release. It’s a remarkable fusion of formal grace and visceral drive.

Fauré lived well into the age of Schoenberg, Stravinsky, and Bartók, but he remained a classicist in spirit. “All those who seem to create new ideas,” he once wrote, “are only expressing, through their own individuality, what others have already thought and said.” That spirit of continuity and refinement is on full display in this trio—written not in defiance of the modern world, but as one of his parting gifts to it. It is music of introspection and light—an expression not of farewell, exactly, but of final clarity.

Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750),
arr. Andrei Golsky

gypsy invention
based on two-part inventions

Composed 2006 | United States 

Arranger Andrei Golsky reimagines one of Bach’s pedagogical masterpieces through the lens of Eastern European folk dance. This virtuosic adaptation of Bach’s Two-Part Invention in D minor injects syncopation, ornament, and rhythmic asymmetry into the composer’s clean counterpoint. The result is something that feels both reverent and mischievous—a spirited blend of structure and freedom that captures the thrill of transformation. Bach, filtered through folk rhythm, invites us to rethink what it means to “count”—not merely to keep time, but to infuse it with joy.

Efrem Podgaits
(b. 1949)

Ave maria, op. 195 
for cello and bayan

Composed 2005 | Russia

Efrem Podgaits, born in 1949 in Vinnytsia, Ukraine, is one of the most prolific and stylistically versatile composers in contemporary Ukrainian music. A graduate of the Moscow Conservatory and a professor at the Ippolitov-Ivanov State Musical College, Podgaits has written across virtually every genre—operas, symphonies, choral works, concertos, and an expansive catalog of chamber music. His works are marked by expressive lyricism, rhythmic complexity, and a gift for illuminating unexpected instrumental pairings.

Composed in 2005 and designated as his Opus 195, Ave Maria was written for two of Russia’s most celebrated performers: bayan virtuoso Friedrich Lips and cellist Vladimir Tonkha. It’s a work of restrained intensity and spiritual reflection, using the deep, singing voice of the cello and the rich tonal spectrum of the bayan to evoke a timeless sense of devotion. The piece unfolds in slow waves, at once contemplative and emotionally charged. Podgaits doesn't set a sacred text here, but the music carries the weight of a prayer—personal, searching, and resonant with silence.

Angél Villoldo
(1861–1919)

el choclo
for flute, cello, piano, and bayan

Composed 1903-05 | Buenos Aires, Argentina

Angél Villoldo is widely credited as one of the founding fathers of Argentine tango. Born in Buenos Aires, he was a singer, guitarist, and composer who brought the tango from its roots in urban dance halls and street corners into mainstream popularity at the turn of the 20th century. His most famous work, El Choclo (“The Corn Cob”), is one of the earliest tangos to gain international recognition.

First performed in Buenos Aires around 1905, El Choclo has been arranged for countless ensembles and performed in settings ranging from smoky cafés to grand concert halls. Villoldo’s original melody is instantly catchy—bold, syncopated, and tinged with both swagger and sentimentality. Its enduring popularity speaks not only to the strength of the tune but to the tango’s remarkable adaptability.

In this version for flute, cello, piano, and bayan, El Choclo takes on new textures and colors. The bayan brings earthy pulse and rhythmic clarity, the flute dances above with sparkling embellishments, and the cello and piano anchor the harmonic and percussive drive.

Astor Piazzolo
(1921-1992)

Ave maria, op. 195 
for flute, cello, and bayan

Composed 1984 | Buenos Aires, Argentina

While best known for the rhythmic fire and daring spirit of nuevo tango, Astor Piazzolla also had a deeply lyrical side—nowhere more evident than in his Ave Maria. Originally composed in 1984 as incidental music for a film (Enrico IV, based on Pirandello’s play), the piece was later published under the title Tanti anni prima (“So Many Years Ago”) and eventually became known as Piazzolla’s Ave Maria.

Unlike the more famous Ave Maria settings of Schubert or Gounod, Piazzolla’s version contains no sacred text. Yet its quiet intensity and sustained melodic lines evoke an unmistakably prayerful atmosphere. The music unfolds slowly and tenderly, a meditation on memory and longing, shaped by Piazzolla’s unique blend of tango melancholy and classical restraint.

In this arrangement for flute, cello, and bayan, the piece glows with warmth and intimacy. The bayan lends breath and depth, the cello provides a resonant core, and the flute traces the melodic arc with quiet radiance.

Carlos Gardel
(1890–1935)

Por una cabeza
for flute, cello, piano, and bayan

Composed 1935 | Buenos Aires, Argentina

Few songs in the tango repertoire are as beloved—or as cinematic—as Por una cabeza. Composed in 1935 by tango icon Carlos Gardel with lyrics by Alfredo Le Pera, the song’s title is a horseracing phrase that means “by a head.” The lyrics speak of a compulsive gambler who compares his addiction to horseraces with his attraction to women. Gardel’s lilting melody and Le Pera’s poignant lyrics made the piece an instant classic, and its legacy has only grown thanks to countless recordings and memorable film appearances, from Scent of a Woman to Schindler’s List.

Gardel, born in France and raised in Argentina, was the golden voice of tango’s golden age—a singer, composer, and actor whose music helped elevate tango from dance hall entertainment to national art form. Por una cabeza is one of his most elegant creations: wistful, seductive, and heartbreakingly brief, like the flicker of a memory or a final glance goodbye.

Jacob Gade
(1879-1963)

Jalousie (“Tango Tzigane”)
for violin, cello, piano, and bayan

Composed 1925 | Copenhagen, Denmark

Written in 1925 by Danish composer and conductor Jacob Gade, Jalousie—subtitled “Tango Tzigane” or “Gypsy Tango”—quickly became one of the most recognizable tangos of the 20th century. Originally composed as accompaniment to a silent film, the piece soon took on a life of its own, sweeping across ballrooms and concert halls with its potent blend of fiery rhythm and lush, romantic lyricism.

The piece unfolds in two dramatically contrasting sections: a brooding, restless tango theme that smolders with suspicion and desire, followed by a soaring, expansive melody that seems to plead for reconciliation. Gade, then the principal conductor of the Palads Cinema in Copenhagen, brought a sense of cinematic flair and orchestral drama to this tango, elevating it far beyond dance music.

In this arrangement for violin, cello, piano, and bayan, Jalousie becomes an intimate theater of emotion. The bayan lends both rhythmic propulsion and expressive shading, while the strings and piano navigate the piece’s sweeping mood swings with elegance and flair.

Ukrainian Traditional

Rozpryahayte, khloptsi, koni (“Unharness the Horses, Lads”)
for flute, strings, piano, and bayan

Composed in the 19th Century | Ukraine

A beloved staple of the Ukrainian folk tradition, Rozpryahayte, khloptsi, koni (“Unharness the Horses, Lads”) is a Cossack ballad that tells a timeless tale of longing, rest, and romantic intrigue. Sung across generations and regions, this song begins with a pastoral image: young men returning from their travels, unhitching their horses, and settling in for the evening. But beneath the calm lies anticipation—one of the lads has other plans.

The lyrics spin a gently unfolding story of courtship, jealousy, and reconciliation, all grounded in the rhythms of village life. Its most famous refrain—“Marusya, one, two, three viburnums”—is both a poetic image and a cultural touchstone, representing beauty, the cycles of nature, and the bittersweetness of love remembered or lost.