Music Comes Alive

This is the first of what I hope to be a series of 25 podcast episodes regarding some of the most influential and creative musicians prior to the 1900s - all ranked chronologically - then the following month, I will deal to some of the most influential musicians after the 1900s.  It somehow didn't seem right to have Beethoven and the Beatles compete with each other in a list of the greats. Both Bach and Beyoncé are extremely influential in their own ways, but how can you possibly compare the two?

Each episode is a conversation across time: we’ll explore their lives, their work, and their personalities, with anecdotes, playful commentary, and yes—sometimes a little mischief. You’ll hear the human side of genius, the struggles, the bold choices, and the moments of brilliance that made them unforgettable And we begin our journey with the man who changed the very sound of music: Claudio Monteverdi.

Transcript

Musical attributions at end of transcript

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity - Episode 378 - Music Comes Alive

This is the first of what I hope to be a series of 25 podcast episodes regarding some of the most influential and creative musicians prior to the 1900s - all ranked chronologically - then the following month, I will deal to some of the most influential musicians after the 1900s.  It somehow didn't seem right to have Beethoven and the Beatles compete with each other in a list of the greats. Both Bach and Beyoncé are extremely influential in their own ways, but how can you possibly compare the two?

Each episode is a conversation across time: we’ll explore their lives, their work, and their personalities, with anecdotes, playful commentary, and yes—sometimes a little mischief. You’ll hear the human side of genius, the struggles, the bold choices, and the moments of brilliance that made them unforgettable And we begin our journey with the man who changed the very sound of music: Claudio Monteverdi.

And before we begin our conversation with maestro Monteverdi, I want to point out that it is an appropriate that he was the first ghost - or if you will - spirit of a musician to understand how to use a microphone for this podcast series - just as he built a bridge from the harmony of the Baroque era into the emotional sweep of what we would call Romantic music - but more about that later. In other words, he was the first musician to understand how to bring a singer close to the listener, almost as if a microphone were already in the room. Every sigh, every trembling note, he knew how it could reach the heart directly.

Born in Cremona in 1567, Claudio Monteverdi was the bridge between the Renaissance and Baroque eras, the master of madrigals and operas, and a composer who dared to put emotion above rules. In this first episode, we’ll explore his revolutionary approach to music, his dramatic storytelling, and his lasting influence—essentially, why he made history sing.

So, let’s step back four centuries and speak with the ghost of - or if you will — the spirit of Maestro Monteverdi himself… And perhaps the maestro well tell us why we should still listen to his music.

GHOST SOUND

As you know, Maestro Monteverdi , my name is Mr. Bartley and I would like to welcome you to my humble broadcast. I hope to explore your music and your life with care. In my humble broadcast, I hope to explore your music and your life with care.  Perhaps you could tell us about your early existence in Italy.

Ah si, Senior Bartley,  I was born in Cremona in 1567. 

Maestro, would you tell us why Cremona was so important to your musical development?

Ah, Senor Bartley,  Cremona es famous for its violin makers—the Amati, Stradivari, and Guarneri families were all based there. I grew up in that rich musical environment, studied with (the cathedral’s maestro di cappella), and eventually became what many have said was one of the most influential composers bridging the Renaissance and Baroque eras.

Even before my earthly birth, Cremona was already world-renowned for its string instrument makers—the Amati family was active during my youth, laying the groundwork for Stradivari. Music filled both sacred and civic life: church choirs, instrumental ensembles, and courtly entertainments - all these gave me rich material to absorb when I was just a youth. The city’s religious establishments were key centers of learning, and I received rigorous training in counterpoint and liturgical music. But at the same time, Cremona’s atmosphere encouraged experimentation. The blend of sacred tradition, instrumental innovation, and humanist thought helped shape quite many people perceive as my gift for merging old polyphonic styles with the expressive new language that would become the Baroque.

So when we say that you, Monteverdi, were from Cremona, we mean more than just a birthplace—we’re pointing to the musical seedbed where a revolution in sound quietly took root.

Ma certo, but of course!  But though the city smelled of sawdust and strings, for it was famed for violins. My father taught me music, and I devoured it, not as a task, but as hunger. By my teens, I was already singing and composing, but even then I had a restless heart, an ambition that would not be confined to madrigals or church choirs. I wanted drama, movement, passion, something that could make the listener feel the pulse of life itself.

Maestro Monteverdi, most historians believe that Venice was extremely important to your development. Could you address your feelings regarding Venice, Italy.

Ah, Venice—my beloved Venice. The city that cradled me for decades, that allowed me to test my audacity. I recall with both pride and irritation the times I upset the traditionalists. They accused me of violating counterpoint, of daring to let dissonance speak the truth of passion rather than the pedantic rules of harmony. And I smiled, Señor Bartley—what were rules if they could not serve the human heart? I was always a little rebel, a little provocateur. I admit it. But also a servant: a servant to emotion, to drama, to music itself.

Maestro Monteverdi, I understand that you also spent time in Mantua.  Could you tell us a little regarding the works you composed there.

Ah, Señor Bartley, In Mantua, I served the Gonzagas, writing L’Orfeo and other works. The court was a lively, perilous place. I had patrons who loved me and critics who despised me. I learned to navigate that delicate dance: please the powerful without killing the art. Oh, Señor Bartley, you would be amused by the intrigues! There were musicians who envied me, singers who overstepped, and nobles who thought themselves arbiters of taste. And yet, amidst the gossip, the drama, the risk, the music flourished. That tension—the risk—is what you hear in my compositions. It is real, it is human, it is life.

Ah, si, Maestroi Monteverdi, from what I understand, L’Orfeo is widely regarded as the first great opera — a landmark in music history, bringing together drama, emotion, and orchestral brilliance. Imagine… the first great opera being named after an Oreo cookie!

Monteverdi (indignant, dramatic Italian flair):

Mamma mia!  "Not to be harsh, but such a comment shows an extremely uncultured attitude — you turn divine music into a bourgeois dessert!

Well, Monteverdi, you might be right about that… but let’s get back to the Vespers of 1610, a masterpiece that changed the course of music forever.

Señor Bartley. I remember writing the Vespers of 1610 in a fever of devotion and innovation. I labored over every line, every voice, every instrumental color. The first time I heard it performed, the sound lifted the ceiling of the chapel, if you imagine it, and my heart lifted with it. And yet, Señor Bartley, it was not just pride—it was a prayer, a reaching, an experiment in the eternal dialogue between God, humans, and music. That sense of daring devotion, that mixture of audacity and reverence, that is why I matter today: I believed that music could do both, simultaneously.

Vespro

I delighted in surprise—the joy of invention, of discovering that something I wrote on a page could take on a life I never anticipated. Your 21st-century listeners, Señor Bartley, who are accustomed to remixing, sampling, bending music to new purposes, they are my spiritual descendants. They will understand me if they listen carefully.

So, Señor Bartley, tell your listeners this: when they play Monteverdi, when they immerse themselves in Orfeo or the Vespers, or even a single madrigal, they are not studying history—they are conversing with a ghost who still has something urgent, tender, and unignorable to say. I may have lived four hundred years ago, but I am here, now, in every dissonance, every sigh, every resolution. I am alive in the music, and that is why I endure.

Ah, Maestro Monteverdi - I must admit that I very much enjoy your discussions of Venetian musical life.

Ah yes, Señor Bartley, it was a life full of splendor, folly, and occasional absurdity.

Please tell me more about it, Maestro Monteverdi

Certainly! First, there were the singers! Ah, what joy and exasperation they brought me. Some were gifted beyond measure, voices that seemed kissed by the angels themselves. And yet, Señor Bartley, so many had temperaments worthy of a tempest. One day a soprano refused to sing a note unless I promised her a better lunch than usual. Another, a young tenor, fell in love with a patron’s niece and refused to rehearse, staring dreamily out the window as though Orfeo himself had enchanted him. And I, Monteverdi, had to balance genius with human weakness, coaxing, pleading, sometimes threatening, always hoping the music would survive intact. Your listeners might chuckle, Señor Bartley but these were real lives, real drama, not unlike the behind-the-scenes tales of any modern opera house.

And the instruments! Señor Bartley,, you must understand that in my time, instruments were alive in an almost literal sense. The violins sang like human voices, the cornets cried and soared, the harpsichord whispered secrets. I experimented endlessly, pairing instruments in ways that seemed scandalous, demanding that they respond to emotion, not merely play notes. I recall a rehearsal where the strings refused to match the sudden, jagged rhythm I demanded—they looked at me as if I were mad. But in that chaos, the music found a new life. I would have your listeners imagine that sense of unpredictability—the thrill of sound as a living, breathing thing, not a static decoration.

Maestro Monteverdi, the school itself certainly seemed dynamic. What about the city of Venice?

Ah, Señor Bartley, Even the city itself played a role. Venice, with its canals, its morning fog, its bells, its market cries, its distant thunder, shaped the way I wrote. I could hear a gondolier’s song echoing through the water and imagine a bass line to match. The voices of the city became instruments of inspiration, an unending symphony of life that I sought to capture in compositions. Your listeners, when they hear me, might close their eyes and feel the same: the music is Venice, Venice is music, and time collapses.

Those are beautiful words, Maestro Monteverdi

Ah si, Señor Bartley,, let me share a small, mischievous secret. I loved a subtle joke hidden in music. A cadence might resolve unexpectedly, a dissonance might linger just long enough to make a listener squirm, a text might emphasize a word in a way that made the clergy gasp. These little winks were my delight. In your era, listeners may catch these surprises more easily with repeated listens or recordings, and that is precisely why I am still relevant: my humor, my cunning, my human playfulness is timeless.

In this way, you are listeners will not merely hear Monteverdi—they will live in Monteverdi. They will feel the passion, the drama, the humor, and the unpredictability of a life devoted entirely to music. And in doing so, they will understand why a man from the 17th century still whispers to the ears of the 21st: because art, when born from the depths of human experience, never dies.

That is fascinating, Maestro Monteverdi - but I would like to address the actual process of composing from your standpoint.

Ah si, Senor Bartley, Composing was never a quiet, solitary affair for me. Even in the hush of my study, I imagined the voices, the instruments, the singers. I would hum lines to myself, tap rhythms on the table, and sometimes startle my household by leaping up to try a sudden idea on the lute or organ. Inspiration was alive, capricious, and demanding. I recall one evening, after a long day of rehearsal, I suddenly realized the solution to a madrigal’s most vexing harmony—it came from the sound of rain on the roof. I leapt to write it down immediately, afraid it would vanish if I did not. That is the life I want your listeners to feel: that music is not mere craftsmanship, it is sudden revelation, it is a conversation with the divine, with nature, and with the human soul.

Maestro Monteverdi, would you address your feelings regarding your colleagues?

I must admit that I lived with passion for my colleagues. I mentored younger musicians, encouraged improvisation, and celebrated ingenuity. And yet, Señor Bartley, there was envy, rivalry, and occasionally betrayal. Some tried to mimic me, others sought to sabotage me. But in all of it, I learned something enduring: music, like life, thrives on tension. Conflict, disagreement, challenge—these are the currents that push the artist to new heights. For your 21st-century listeners, this is more than history—it is a lesson: creativity does not exist in calm waters alone; it is forged in the whirlpools of human experience.  Ah, bellisimo!

Señor Bartley… to hear my name spoken centuries after my mortal life, in a world so different from Venice, so different from the courts and chapels where I first sang my visions into being—ah, that alone is something remarkable. You ask why the people of the 21st century should listen to me? Sit with me a moment, and I will tell you in the language of my own heart.

Well, Maestro Monteverdi - in a sentence or two - and I know Italians can sometimes be rather verbose - how would you describe yourself?

I am Claudio Monteverdi, si, the man who straddled the old and the new, the man who turned the polyphonic elegance of Palestrina into something that could move the soul, that could make music not just heard but felt. Why is that important today? Because in your modern age—so full of technology, of noise, of fleeting distractions—music must do more than amuse; it must penetrate. I was one of the first to write music that could speak the truth of human emotion: love, fear, longing, rage, joy. I believed that music should be a mirror of the human soul, not just a decoration for a ceremony or a spectacle for a court. And this… this is timeless. Emotion does not age, George. Passion does not age. The tension of lovers, the mourning of a lost soul—these things do not change. People of the 21st century, with your headphones and streaming services, can still hear what I heard in my heart, if only they will listen.

Maestro Monteverdi, could you make a few comments regarding your importance as a composer?

Ah, I dared to bend the rules of my time. I took the sacred and made it dramatic. I took the dramatic and made it sacred. I invented new ways to make voices dance and instruments speak; I explored the basso continuo, the expressive power of harmony to move the listener as words alone could not. Today, when you see composers pushing the boundaries of sound, when you feel music shaking you unexpectedly, that is my legacy. I was an architect of emotional revolution in music, and revolution is never outdated.

Well, Maestro, could you address some of the differences in music of your time and the music of today?

Do not forget, Señor Bartley, that I lived in a time when the distinction between art and life was alive and raw. Music was dangerous. Music could seduce, uplift, scandalize, and convert. To listen to Monteverdi is to remember that music is not mere entertainment—it is persuasion, it is rhetoric, it is spirit made audible. If the people of your age can embrace that, can allow themselves to be carried away, then my work is as relevant now as it was when I first heard the strings hum in my Venetian mornings.

So, why listen to me? Because I remind you that the human heart has always been the same. That our joy, our sorrow, our desire for transcendence—these are eternal. I was a bridge between worlds, between eras, between the rational and the emotional. And if your world today seems sterile, overly rational, or too distracted, perhaps the ghost of Monteverdi can guide you back to what it means to feel deeply through music.

Please, Maestro Monteverdi continue.

Ah, Señor Bartley, - let me show your listeners how I am not merely a figure in a dusty book, but a living pulse for 21st-century ears.

First, take my Opera, L’Orfeo. Ah, Orfeo! A story as old as song itself—the lover, the lost beloved, the journey into the underworld, the triumph and failure of human will. You might think: “Yes, a story from 1607—surely it is quaint!” But listen closely - how Orfeo’s longing vibrates in every interval—is not different from the music that today moves people to tears in a cinema or a concert hall. Modern listeners, with your digital sophistication, can now hear the subtleties of emotion I encoded in every dissonance, every hesitation, every cadence. You will find that Orfeo’s grief is your grief, his desire your desire, even if the costumes are archaic, even if the language is Italian, even if the instruments are shaped differently from your synthesizers or pianos. Emotion translates; passion does not expire. Do you not hear the voice from L’Orfeo?

L’Orfeo

Then consider my sacred music—Vespro della Beata Vergine, my great Vespers of 1610. Some say it is overwhelming, chaotic even - But listen with modern ears, George, and you will hear something startling: the same techniques that today composers use to shock or awe—dynamic contrasts, sudden shifts, text painting—were already alive in my work. You could argue that every modern film score, every dramatic orchestral moment owes a shadow of itself to me. Your listeners might not even realize it, but when their hearts leap at the swell of strings, the lament of a soprano, the majestic power of choral harmony—they are feeling Monteverdi’s hand, as if it stretched across four centuries to touch them. 

VESPRO

Pardon me, Maestro Monteverdi, could you explain to our listeners what a madrgial is?

Certamente, Señor Bartley - Madrigals - usually perform by a small ensemble of singers - showcase how music can reflect and amplify human emotion, even without instruments or large orchestras. Madrigals are an intimate, almost conversational way to experience music from the past.

In your era, Señor Bartley, you have the luxury of hearing recordings that capture the subtle inflections of voice and instrument. My madrigals were experiments in human expression. I wrote them so that the instruments and voices were not mere accompaniment—they were characters, speaking and acting with the words - my madrigals were drama without stage, story without props. In your century, where podcasts, film scores, and even video games rely on music to convey inner turmoil, I was doing this four hundred years ago. You may think of me as “old-fashioned,” but I am in fact a master of subtle storytelling through sound.

Maestro Monteverdi, what would you say to the critics of your day who savagely criticized your works?

Ah, señor Bartley, Even my - how you say - “mistakes” or my controversies were instructive. The critics accused me of breaking the rules of counterpoint. But, Senior Bartley, that audacity is exactly why I remain relevant. In an age where musicians and creators are continually testing limits, bending genres, and hybridizing styles, I am proof that artistic risk can endure. My errors—or, more truthfully, my experiments—are lessons in bravery for any composer, performer, or listener willing to embrace the new.

Finally, George, consider the very nature of listening today. In the 21st century, your attention is fragmented: short videos, podcasts, alerts, streams of ephemeral content. I offer something opposite: immersion. My music demands focus, patience, emotional investment. To hear Monteverdi is to practice listening deeply, to slow down, to feel acutely. For your listeners, that is not only art—it is therapy, it is humanity preserved, it is a bridge from your hectic, digital present to the raw, unmediated experience of life as I knew it: flesh, breath, longing, and wonder.

That sounds most intriguing, Maestro Monteverdi - 

Ah, Señor Bartley, then let me take you—and your listeners—by the hand and lead you into Venice of my time, not as a tourist, but as a participant in the very soundscape I created. Picture this:

It is early morning. The city is waking. Gondolas drift silently along the canals, mist rising from the water. Bells toll in the distance. You step into a chapel or a court, or perhaps a private chamber, and the air vibrates with anticipation. A singer begins——and you are immediately caught. The voice is not just a sound: it is a living creature, breathing, trembling, yearning. The strings respond like sympathetic nerves, pulling at your chest. You feel the tension before the resolution, the sigh before the cadence, as if the music knows your own hidden emotions better than you do.

Now imagine listening to music expressing grief and longing sweep over you in waves. In your 21st-century terms, it is cinematic: the music tells a story that your mind sees as clearly as any film. And yet there are no images, no special effects—only voice, instruments, and the subtle interplay that I crafted with all my heart. You notice the small dissonances, the suspensions that hang in the air, making you hold your breath. That is my technique, Señor Bartley: I build emotional suspense not through spectacle, but through sound itself.

Then, perhaps, the Vespers begin. Choral voices explode in polyphonic splendor, and the organ trembles beneath them. The sacred texts are old, but the feeling is immediate: awe, reverence, humility, and exaltation all in one breath. Your listeners might compare it to a modern cathedral concert or a symphonic masterpiece—but this is not recreation. This is invention, the first time such contrasts were possible. The juxtaposition of soloist and choir, of loud and soft, of instrument and voice, is like a conversation across space and time, between humans and the divine. And in that moment, your 21st-century mind may forget the date of composition, the distance of centuries. You are transported.

Señor Bartley, imagine my music taking your audience by the hand, moving them from chamber to chapel, from madrigal to Vespers, feeling everything as I intended. They do not just learn about Monteverdi—they experience me. And in that experience, I become not a ghost in the archives, but a living presence, timeless, visceral, urgent.

And finally, Señor Bartley, I must tell your audience this: never forget joy. Even in the most sacred Vespers, the most dramatic opera, there is delight. The thrill of a perfect cadence, the pleasure of a voice soaring, the subtle wit hidden in a madrigal—all of this was my heartbeat, my laughter, my life. That sense of joy, of discovery, of love for the impossible made real through sound—that is the gift I offer to your era.

So, Señor Bartley, when your listeners hear Monteverdi, they hear not a distant ghost, not a relic of the past, but the living pulse of Venice, the audacity of human emotion, the thrill of invention, and the quiet, unending joy of music itself. If one listens—and truly listens—that person will understand why my music matters now, more than ever: because it reminds one that passion, ingenuity, and beauty transcend time.

Ah, Señor Bartley, when the voices rise and the instruments speak, my music… it comes alive. Not just on the page, not just in memory, but in the very hearts of those who listen.” La musica è la vita!

Yes, music IS life!

Join us the following episode in this podcast series where we have a conversation with the ghost - or if you will - the spirit of the great English composer Henry Purcell.

And let us end with a very brief section of Monteverdi’s Magnicant. from the Music Vespro Della Beata Vergine.

Musical attributions:

Spring from The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi, Performed by John Harrison,. Source: Wikimedia Commons - CC BY-SA <//commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vivaldi_ _Four_Seasons_1_Spring_mvt_1_Allegro_-_John_Harrison_violin.oga>,License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording)

“Signor, quell’infelice”, from L’Orfeo SV 318 , by Claudio Monteverdi, Performed by Anna Simboli. Source: https://musopen.org/music/4319-lorfeo-sv-318/#recordings, License Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording)

“Vespro Della Beata Vergine/ Deus In Adiutorium - Domine Ad Adiuvandum”, by Claudio Monteverdi, Performed by Schwäbischer Singkreis; Hans Grischkat, Source: https://dn721902.ca.archive.org/0/items/lp_vespro-della-beata-vergine_claudio-monteverdi-schwabischer-singkredisc1/01.01.%20Vespro%20Della%20Beata%20Vergine%3A%20Deus%20In%20Adiutorium%20-%20Domine%20Ad%20Adiuvandum.mp3. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording)

“Vespro Della Beata Vergine/ Magnificat,” by Claudio Monteverdi, Performed by Schwäbischer Singkreis; Hans Grischkat, Source: https://dn721902.ca.archive.org/0/items/lp_vespro-della-beata-vergine_claudio-monteverdi-schwabischer-singkredisc1/01.01.%20Vespro%20Della%20Beata%20Vergine%3A%20Deus%20In%20Adiutorium%20-%20Domine%20Ad%20Adiuvandum.mp3. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording)