Notes of Pride
A Pride weekend playlist of composers, singers, and musicians who changed the game.
It’s Pride weekend in London, and last night I was at the Barbican for Classical Pride - a concert by the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Oliver Zeffman, with soloists Jamie Barton (mezzo-soprano and force of nature) and countertenor Cameron Shahbazi. The hall was packed. The audience was diverse, excited, full of life. People cheered between movements. Sequins and stilettos mingled with concert blacks (and several flip flops too). You got the feeling some of them had never been to a classical concert before , and loved every minute of it.
Classical Pride is more than a concert. It’s a festival, curated by Zeffman, that celebrates the enormous (and often under-acknowledged) contributions of LGBTQ+ composers, musicians, and artists across classical music. One friend I went with said it’s the only classical concert they go to (it’s their second year). Another hadn’t set foot in a concert hall in ten years. These events matter, not just because they’re joyful, but because they open doors.
The truth is, queer musicians have always been here. Some were hiding in plain sight. Others lived more openly, if not loudly. So this week, I’ve put together a small selection of LGBTQ+ classical musicians - past and present - who’ve shaped the way we listen. Some you’ll know. Others might be new. All of them belong.
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Tchaikovsky’s music is often described as emotional, lush, and deeply romantic, and much of that intensity came from an inner life he could never live out loud. Though he was never publicly out (not that he could have been safely), his letters and diaries reveal a man fully aware of his homosexuality, and completely at odds with the social and legal norms of 19th-century Russia. He channelled that tension into music that feels grand and fragile at the same time, often on the edge of confession. There’s a kind of intimacy and lyricism in his work that resonates with so many people.
This morning, I’ve chosen a piece of Tchaikovsky that isn’t one of the obvious hits, but the second movement of his ‘String Quartet No. 1’ really captures his essence in miniature. Tchaikovsky reportedly saw a janitor cry the first time he heard it played, and later said it was one of the most moving responses to his work he’d ever witnessed. Built on a simple, folk-like theme, this Andante cantabile (this is the speed marking of the movement which translates roughly to ‘At a walking pace, in a singing style) breathes with melancholy and beauty. It’s tender, private music, like someone singing to themselves.
Benjamin Britten & Peter Pears
British composer and conductor Benjamin Britten and tenor Peter Pears were musical and life partners for nearly four decades - a relationship that was unusually open for the otherwise closeted mid-20th century. Britten composed with Pears’s voice in mind, and their partnership shaped much of his vocal writing. More than muses, they were collaborators: Pears’s musical instincts influenced interpretations, premieres, and recordings, while Britten’s compositions elevated the tenor voice in new, lyrical ways. Their relationship is one of classical music’s great love stories, quietly radical, based on mutual artistry.
Their recording of ‘Down by the Salley Gardens’, an arrangement of a Yeats poem set to a traditional Irish melody, is heartbreakingly simple. Pears sings with restraint and clarity, while Britten’s piano part gently supports from beneath. The piece - about missed chances and unspoken love - gains extra poignancy when you consider how many LGBTQ+ relationships, past and present, have existed between the lines.
Jennifer Higdon
Jennifer Higdon is one of today’s most performed living composers. Raised in rural Tennessee and largely self-taught in her early years, she brings an intuitive, emotionally direct approach to music. Her work blends lyricism with bold colour, often drawing inspiration from landscape and memory. She’s won the Pulitzer and multiple Grammys, and her presence signals a shift: being queer, being female, being untraditional - it’s no longer an obstacle.
‘All Things Majestic II’ is the second movement of a sweeping orchestral work inspired by the natural beauty of the American West. But this isn’t just pretty scenery, there’s awe, weight, and a kind of internal stillness to the music. The second movement feels expansive but not empty. It’s a reminder that majesty isn’t only about height or scale, it’s also about how you see and listen.
Jamie Barton
I’ve been aware of mezzo-soprano Jamie Barton for many years - ever since watching The Audition, a documentary about the Metropolitan Opera’s 2007 singing competition, where she competed (and won, alongside other finalists including tenor and fellow LGBTQ+ artist Michael Fabiano).
Barton has been just as bold about identity as she is about sound. Her voice is rich, generous, and last night, it brought the house down. Whether championing women composers, advocating for LGBTQ+ rights, or breaking body stereotypes in opera, Barton brings intelligence, ease, and rare relatability to everything she does.
‘Liebst du um Schönheit’ (If you love for beauty) is a short, perfect art song by Gustav Mahler, setting a poem that quietly flips the usual romantic script. It asks: do you love someone for beauty, for wealth, for youth, or for love itself? Barton’s interpretation is warm and personal, resisting drama in favour of sincerity. This miniature becomes a quiet manifesto: love me not for who you think I am, but for who I truly am.
If you love beauty,
then please - don’t love me.
Love the sun -
it’s the one with golden hair.If you love youth,
then please - don’t love me.
Love the spring -
it’s young again every year.If you love riches,
then please - don’t love me.
Love the mermaid -
she’s got pearls to spare.But if you love for love’s own sake -
then yes, love me.
Love me always,
as I’ll always love you.
You can also see Jamie Barton give an outstanding performance of Camille Saint-Saëns’s ‘Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix’ from his opera Samson et Dalila - a piece she also sang last night. And I can safely say, it’s even more thrilling live.
Leonard Bernstein
Leonard Bernstein was many things: composer, conductor, educator, cultural figure. He was also a man who lived with both the privileges and contradictions of being homosexual in public life during the mid-20th century. Though he married and had children, his attraction to men was widely known, and his personal letters reveal a life filled with longing and internal conflict. Despite - or perhaps because of - this tension, Bernstein’s music is often full with duality: sacred vs. profane, structure vs. chaos, private vs. public.
I’ve mentioned before that most people know Bernstein through West Side Story, but in the classical world, he’s equally famous for his electric conducting style, and especially as one of the great interpreters of Mahler. His recordings of Mahler’s symphonies with the New York Philharmonic are iconic. For years, I had Mahler down as a “serious, grand” composer and didn’t really engage, but this movement from his First Symphony changed that for me.
It begins with a minor-key version of Frère Jacques - slow, march-like, almost ironic. Then suddenly, in comes this klezmer-like dance music: a little haunted, slightly ecstatic, strangely joyful. It’s all familiar but not quite right, and that’s what makes it so fascinating. Bernstein leans into every contrast, drawing out both the sarcasm and the sorrow. It’s a brilliant introduction to Mahler, and a masterclass in expressive conducting.
There’s also this wonderful video of Bernstein ‘conducting’ the Vienna Philharmonic - an orchestra he was deeply connected to - using only his facial expressions. No hands, no baton, just total trust, love, and theatre. A perfect snapshot of everything he was.
That’s all for this week. Whether you’re discovering these pieces for the first time or hearing them with new context, I hope they set the mood for your morning.
Happy Pride!