The Troubled Angel — Mozart and the Music of Miracles English translation of #37 for Non-Japanese readers

Hello everyone.
This time, I would like to speak about Mozart.
As I hardly need to point out, this “greatest genius in the history of music” can also, without question, be described as “the most beloved composer in the history of music.”
Just as Bach is an object of reverence, and Beethoven a figure we gaze upon with awe, Mozart has always been a presence to be loved—and will surely continue to be so.
A. Music That Feels Like a Miracle
My encounter with Mozart’s music is inseparable from my encounter with classical music itself.
Before that, I was simply someone who enjoyed playing the guitar and singing popular songs of the time. The decisive moment that led me toward classical music—and toward Mozart—was a single concert ticket given to me by my mother.
My mother was not someone who disliked music, but neither was she particularly passionate about it. I doubt she had any deep intention.
Most likely, she had received a ticket from someone she knew, had no desire to go herself, and thought that her son seemed to have time on his hands—sending him instead would not be rude.
I do not remember the program precisely. I have completely forgotten the first piece.
I believe the final work may have been Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, though I am not entirely confident.
What I remember clearly is the second piece: the “Coronation”—Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 26 in D major, K.537.
Nothing dramatic happened. I do not recall being especially moved.
And yet, somehow, it lingered in my heart.
That was the beginning of my love for classical music.
In the decades since, I have lived closely with Mozart’s music. While I cannot claim to know everything, I still remember the melodies and harmonies of several of his major works, and can recognize most famous passages almost immediately.
Quite some time ago, I even entered several symphonies and orchestral works into MIDI—a long-forgotten endeavor now, as I am not a conductor and many details have faded from memory.
What never fails to strike me whenever I listen to Mozart is the naturalness of his music.
It feels as though every note was destined to be exactly where it is from the very beginning—so much so that one cannot imagine the act of revision having taken place at all.
While it seems that the notion that “Mozart never revised his scores” is a myth, what truly matters is the sound that rises from those scores.
Because of this extraordinary completeness, Mozart’s music is filled with a profoundly human charm. Beneath its classical attire—its elegance and brilliance—true emotion lies hidden.
Peel away the surface of the smiling exterior, and one glimpses a human being who struggled with relationships, experienced love and betrayal, endured financial hardship, and yet continued to pour everything into sound.
Perhaps perfection is nothing other than “the crystallization of effort that never reveals its scars.”
B. Concerto for Flute and Harp in C Major, K.299
— The Weight of the Soul Within Lightness
This is a personal view, but I hold this work in exceptionally high regard.
Overshadowed by the towering reputation of Mozart’s later works—especially those written in the few years before his death—I nevertheless believe this concerto deserves to be called a “divine work” fully equal to them.
Written during his stay in Paris and bearing an early Köchel number, it is often dismissed as “youthful music.” Its distinctly French, gallant brilliance has led some to categorize it as salon music.
Moreover, because it is neither a symphony nor a concerto for heavyweight solo instruments such as piano or violin, it is frequently undervalued.
One might almost suspect that someone decreed, “Music without gravitas cannot be a masterpiece.”
In Japan in particular, the enthusiastic importation of German cultural thought since the Meiji era created a strong bias toward symphonies and piano or violin works, especially those associated with Beethoven. This has resulted in a curious hierarchy within classical music.
I believe that the limited appreciation for historically informed performance practices, early music, and instruments such as recorder, flute, and oboe is a lingering aftereffect of this hierarchical mindset.
As an aside, Mozart was only 22 years old in 1778, and during this very stay in France, his mother—who had accompanied him—passed away suddenly.
This concerto was likely written before that tragedy, yet it reminds us that even behind music we casually enjoy, the turbulent waves of life are always present.
Musically, this work seems to embody the paradox that “what is light sinks, and what is heavy floats.”
The second movement is particularly exquisite. The opening, where the flute begins to sing atop the harp’s broken chords, unites breathtaking beauty with deep emotion.
Later, in the middle section, as the flute sustains a high note and gradually descends while the harp takes over the melody, we encounter what may be one of Mozart’s finest musical moments.
Here, the seemingly trivial, lightly played melodies of flute and harp reach deep into the heart, while the string accompaniment behind them sounds as weightless as feathers—so light as to feel almost nonexistent. A miracle of music unfolds.
It is also noteworthy that although the standard flute of the time had a lowest note of D, Mozart uses a low C in this work.
This was possible because the Duke de Guînes, who commissioned and premiered the piece, was an accomplished flutist and owned a newly designed flute that, through a lever mechanism, extended the instrument’s range down to C.
(The flute is originally a D instrument, and in fact, all flute concertos and quartets Mozart wrote after this work adhere to a lowest note of D.)
C. Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Major, K.488
— Music of Murmuring, Lament, and Hesitation
Among Mozart’s piano concertos—each a masterpiece in its own right—this work enjoys particularly devoted admiration.
This is likely due in large part to the poetic beauty of its second movement.
This Adagio is famously mentioned in an anecdote from Landscapes with White Horses, the celebrated art book by the late painter Kaii Higashiyama.
Although the work is not from Mozart’s final years, its Köchel number notwithstanding, it already expresses an emotional depth that could be called proto-Romantic.
In this movement, music whispers, hesitates, takes a step forward only to stop again, laments, and resigns itself—capturing a wide spectrum of emotion.
Yet it never becomes stagnant, nor does it cling to excessive sentimentality. It is a finely wrought inner drama, and at the same time, could function beautifully as a soundscape—one that might depict a white horse slowly approaching, drinking water, neighing softly, and lowering its head.
From these examples alone, the essential nature of Mozart’s music becomes clear:
a miraculous coexistence of exterior and interior—music that is pleasing to the ear while containing unparalleled emotional depth within.
One might say, “All good music is like that.” But this is not entirely true.
Throughout history, there have been countless excellent works that require time to grow familiar. And there is no shortage of music that is pleasant at first hearing but shallow, quickly becoming tiresome.
Kaii Higashiyama painted silence and stillness through color. Landscapes with White Horses is filled with such works.
Was Mozart attempting to express the same thing through sound?
Seen this way, Mozart’s music truly is miraculous.
It is as though an angel, endowed with a human heart, reveals—beneath a serene exterior—the anguish, doubt, and suffering of the human soul through sound.
When one tries to recreate the atmosphere of this movement using Suno, the first obstacle is breathing.
Generative AI such as Suno cannot yet express “time without sound”—silence that carries meaning beyond mere rests.
At least, not at present.
One inhales deeply, then holds the breath. In that moment, sound ceases, and silence flows.
Yet even in silence, the emotions awakened by the preceding sounds continue to move within us.
How much “emotional temperature” can be infused into such moments where sound stands still?
That is the greatest question Mozart’s music poses to performers—and perhaps the ultimate touchstone for AI.
Despite understanding all this, my desire to approach Mozart’s world, even by a single step using Suno, remains unchanged.
It may be an eternal game of “come closer,” where the distance never truly shrinks—but the longing to approach only grows stronger, never weaker.
With that in mind, I would like to present the following admittedly humble works created in that spirit.
(I will refrain from commentary and ask for your understanding.)


Mozart of last year – Piano concerto movement

Flute Concerto in the style of Mozart

Serenade

That brings us to the end of this essay.
Thank you very much for reading.