Incanti Musicali
Translated article
FOGLIO QUOTIDIANO SATURDAY 2 AND SUNDAY 3 AUGUST 2025
Listening to The Trout (meaning Schubert’s quintet) in the courtyard of an Arab castle in the middle of a suggestive nowhere, right on the border between Portugal and Spain? Done. Under the heading: music festivals where you least expect them—welcome to Marvão, with 99 inhabitants in winter, a few more in summer thanks to second-home owners. Two and a half hours by car from Lisbon, perched on a rocky spur from which one is tempted to recite Leopardi’s L’infinito, because from that lonely hill the gaze stretches across endless kilometers, with no hedge to block the view. On one side the Alentejo, on the other Extremadura, and not as parched as clichés suggest—seen from up here, quite green, in fact.
The village of white houses is completely enclosed by walls, like an Umbrian or Tuscan hamlet fit for radical chic holidays. But with two radical differences: almost no tourists, and such dense silence that you can practically hear it. And here perhaps comes a reflection: immersed as we are in the generalized din of our noisy modernity, to truly appreciate music we paradoxically need, above all, silence. And here, silence abounds.
The history of the Festival Internacional de Música de Marvão begins in 2014, when two musician spouses from Munich arrived on bicycles: he, Christoph Poppen, celebrated violinist and conductor; she, Juliane Banse, an equally celebrated soprano. Like everyone else, they fell in love with this place suspended in space and time. In fact, at one point during their visit, he disappeared; when he reappeared hours later, he announced to her that he had bought a house. The festival was born of that lightning strike. The couple began inviting friends, colleagues, and students; what was at first a pioneering experiment gradually gained structure, sponsors, and an international team, with an efficient Portuguese executive director and a French press officer who looks like Inès de la Fressange with even more allure. Incredible, but true. Thus what started as an expanded Hausmusik gathering became a true festival, with its own loyal public—or, as King Victor Emmanuel III would have put it, its “revenants,” returning year after year.
The just-finished edition was the eleventh: nine dense days of concerts, usually at least two per day, up to four on weekends—a veritable feast of music, sometimes too much, because if you have four concerts in a day, none can last two hours. But many performers are young and musically insatiable. There is no auditorium, of course. The most important concerts are held in the castle courtyard, a 12th-century Arab building with a turbulent frontier history. The acoustics are quite good, since the space is not huge—about 500 seats. But when the wind blows it can get chilly, even freezing, and volunteers distribute fleece blankets branded by sponsors, like at the Archbishop’s Palace in Aix-en-Provence when the mistral roars down the Rhône Valley.
Otherwise, concerts are held in local churches, rustic and poor baroque, full of sorrowful Madonnas and dramatic Christs for Holy Week processions. Not acoustically perfect, but highly atmospheric. The program also included concerts in the castle cistern, underground, bare, and beautiful, or sunrise concerts—fittingly featuring Haydn’s Sunrise Quartet, Op. 76 No. 4.
The audience is mixed: some locals, but many cosmopolitan visitors who have discovered this still-untouched corner and return every summer. Predominantly Germans and French, many now habitués, with recognition and embraces at the opening cocktail, where one appreciated the unusually brisk greetings from local authorities (at least until the undersecretary of culture launched into an endless harangue). Fortunately, the local wine is excellent. The festival is little known in Italy—this very article attempts to make amends—but quite well known in Portugal. Last year the President of the Republic, Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa, attended; this year, he wrote a delightful and witty greeting in the program, announcing he had invited the diplomatic corps. (Note for Italian politicians: take lessons.)
After last year’s bold attempt at opera—Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail—this year’s program was limited to chamber music, often in enormous monographic programs. In two and a half days, I heard seven concerts. The level seemed very high to me: the average quality of young instrumentalists, who form the majority here, has never been so strong, much to the dismay of nostalgics. The question remains whether younger generations combine technical impeccability with interpretative awareness and imagination—I’m not entirely sure. But at least three young musicians here impressed me deeply.
What began as an expanded Hausmusik among friends has become a true festival, with loyal audiences who return every year like revenants.
One was Chinese violinist Kevin Zhu, much talked about already. Unfortunately, I missed his performance of Paganini’s 24 Caprices, but I did hear him play Tchaikovsky’s Trio Op. 50 and, above all, Debussy’s Sonata in G minor—not the hazy, blurry Debussy of bad tradition, but sharp, sparkling. Then there were two French cellists: Aurélien Pascal, heard in Schumann’s Quintet and the Tchaikovsky Trio; and Bruno Philippe, who thrilled me with a passionate, fiery (yet perfectly controlled) interpretation of Debussy’s Sonata in D minor, with pianist Connie Shih bravely holding her ground.
The ensembles are either established, like the excellent Malion Quartet, or specially assembled for the festival—recognizable because they watch each other more intently. For instance, in Tchaikovsky’s Souvenir de Florence, the Malion players were joined by violist Nicolas Garrigues and Pascal, for a brilliant, refined yet fiery performance. Still, it did not eclipse a truly wild rendition I once heard in Mantua’s “Trame sonore” festival from an Italian-Russian sextet that risked everything with crazy tempos and dynamics—yet always emerged victorious.
Another distinctive feature of Marvão is the mix of instrumental and vocal music. Here, with some exceptions, the vocal level was lower, though I must mention young Spanish baritone Unai de la Rosa Hernández, with a keen stylistic sense and genuine interpretive gifts, equally convincing in German (Brahms, Schumann) and French (Ravel, especially).
There were also unusual concerts, such as one by the Portuguese polyphonic group Officium Ensemble, led by Pedro Teixeira, performing rediscovered 16th–17th century works from Évora Cathedral archives. Unknown composers like Estevão Lopes Morago, Duarte Lobo, Filipe da Magalhães, Manuel Cardoso, and Estevão de Brito proved anything but dull: the concert was marvelous, with warm, precise voices and no shrillness typical of some Anglo-Saxon choirs.
The same choir sang Schubert’s Mass in G Major with the festival’s string orchestra, conducted by Poppen, with soloists Banse and Christoph and Julian Prégardien (father and son). A true Mass, with Eucharistic celebration at Nossa Senhora da Estrela church—unfortunately in Portuguese and Vatican II form. Latin and Tridentine rite would have been far more fitting. Still, the Mass—Biedermeier charm evocative of Viennese baroque chapels—was moving, even for skeptics.
Another curious evening was titled “Pai e Filho” (Father and Son): the German tenors Christoph and Julian Prégardien, 69 and 41 years old. Hearing two tenors, father and son, in a Liederabend is rare. Some duets were original, others arranged—like Schubert’s Auf dem Wasser zu singen. With pianist Silke Avenhaus, the result was delightful. Father, a bit tired but still a master; son, with a luminous, angelic timbre reminiscent of early Romantic tenors. Their voices blended beautifully, with shared phrasing and sensitivity—perhaps inherited like blue eyes or an aquiline nose. A unique, unforgettable evening: who would have imagined hearing Brahms’ Feldeinsamkeit sung together by father and son in a tiny Portuguese church?
Marvão, 99 inhabitants in winter, a few more in summer, perched between Alentejo and Extremadura, where one is tempted to recite “L’infinito.”
CHRISTOPH POPPEN
CONDUCTOR