Ottorino Respighi (1879 – 1936) was an Italian composer, violinist, and musicologist. Respighi produced a strong catalogue of operas, ballets, orchestral suites, chamber music, and choral works. Respighi’s talent was generally well received during his lifetime; his lead instructor at the Liceo Musicale called Respighi not a pupil, but a master of the art form.

Respighi was able to cement his success with a lucrative professorship at an Italian conservatory which he held for decades. It was there he would deepen and expand his love for the traditional; by 1932 Respighi was co-signing treatises with his colleagues at the Conservatory condemning the likes of Schoenberg, Stravinsky, and other atonal tinkerers. Respighi believed music should return to a model similar to the Italian tradition: strong tonal harmony, with bold and skilled performers carrying the torch for the art form, not lofty chemistry on art and expression resulting in what he saw as a bastardizing of history. Much of Respighi’s art, then, channels a focus on Italian history and nationality. Namely, his tonal poems for orchestra “Fountains of Rome,” “Roman Festivals,” and today’s “Pines of Rome,” all reference the ancient Italian city with loosely-used title to group these pieces together, “Roman Triptych” — at surface level, an immortalization of Italy through art.

For all the harkening back to the past Respighi spearheaded in his philosophical product, it was his tone poems for orchestra — works in a form undeniably modern, almost pop-like for the time — which have earned him his strongest praise. “Pines of Rome” is one of these tone poems for orchestra, pieces that are essentially full symphonic bodies, but shorter than standard Romantic symphonies, and often inspired directly by a text, story, or poem.

During a brief stint as a violist in a Russian orchestra, Respighi benefited from direct tutelage under Russian compositional great Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov, a composer Respighi greatly admired. With the love and support of his instructors, and a deep and profound love for the traditional masters of classical music, Respighi was hard wired to achieve within the industry.

It’s hard not to hear Rimsky-Korsakov’s influence on Respighi’s music. Bold voicings for solo instruments, colorful pairings of tone and timbre — it was clear Respighi knew exactly what he liked, and wanted to model his music after the excellent Russian practice while unequivocally and proudly branding his works as Italian products.

Thankfully an artist composing with such strong records of his thoughts and processes provides ample roadmaps for the listener. Respighi provided a significant amount of detail to pepper his listeners’ understandings of each unique movement.

Lastly, it is important to note that even though Respighi vocally supported more conservative compositional practices, “Pines of Rome” was actually quite progressive in one specific way: in the third movement, Respighi specified that a recording of a nightingale should accompany the music on stage. This was the first instance of this sort of musical direction from a composer, infused with technology, and the story goes that Respighi himself recorded the immortal nightingale which accompanied the work’s premiere. It’s hard to divorce Respighi from the massive amount of change occurring in art during his lifetime, and this detail is a fabulous complication of his character and philosophy— that the hand that can both dial the clock back can also press record on the future.

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The Pines of the Villa Borghese (Allegretto vivace)—Children are at play in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese, dancing the Italian equivalent of “Ring around a Rosy.” They mimic marching soldiers and battles. They twitter and shriek like swallows at evening, coming and going in swarms. Suddenly the scene changes.

The Pines Near a Catacomb (Lento)—We see the shadows of the pines, which overhang the entrance of a catacomb. From the depths rises a chant, which echoes solemnly, like a hymn, and is then mysteriously silenced.

The Pines of the Janiculum (Lento)—There is a thrill in the air. The full moon reveals the profile of the pines of Gianicolo’s Hill. A nightingale sings.

The Pines of the Appian Way (Tempo di Marcia)—Misty dawn on the Appian Way. The tragic country is guarded by solitary pines. Indistinctly, incessantly, the rhythm of unending steps. The poet has a fantastic vision of past glories. Trumpets blare, and the army of the Consul bursts forth in the grandeur of a newly risen sun toward the Sacred Way, mounting in triumph the Capitoline Hill.