Conductor at Imperial Classical Ballet, violin extra player at Royal Ballet And Opera and violinist at Oxford Philharmonic Orchestra Nikita Sukhikh told us about Tchaikovsky's work in his final years (1890-1893), which demonstrates a significant evolution of musical thinking.

Credits - Tania Naiden

I stepped into a cozy restaurant perched on the edge of Swansea Bay, its walls steeped in history, housed in a former observatory. The entrance — a black door adorned with large seashells — invited you into a spacious, sunlit circular room. The ceiling, an art piece in itself, hung with a kayak and slender tree trunks, each detail subtly evoking the spirit of the sea, travel, and adventure, all while maintaining a sense of warm, homely comfort.

It was there, at the bar, that my eyes caught sight of an antique tray. Hanging on the rack, it seemed to radiate a quiet aura of history. Curious, I lightly tapped its surface with my finger. The deep, resonant hum sent a shiver through me. This was it. Exactly what I needed. 

Turning to the barista, I said, "Could you call the manager for me please?"

Moments later, the owner himself emerged. "Hello, I have got a really odd request. Could you let me borrow this tray for tonight?" My words were spilling over with enthusiasm. "The point is that it produces a sound remarkably similar to an instrument featured in The Nutcracker, and unfortunately we don't have it in our touring orchestra setup."

To my surprise, he not only understood but was thrilled by the concept. "You're welcome to take it," he said with a smile. "But please, handle it with care — it was crafted in 1890."

"Incredible," I replied, marveling at the tray. "That makes it two years older than The Nutcracker!"

And so, on that enchanted evening in Swansea, a tam-tam joined the orchestra, its voice rising to announce the battle between the treacherous mice and the brave toys.

This battle episode is remarkable for one defining moment: here, in Tchaikovsky's ballet, the "childlike" music ends. Though the composer mentioned, a child's drum, not a military snare, shall be used. The contrast is all the more striking, even surreal, when placed against the preceding music.

What you see here is literally the musical language of the 20th century being born. It reminds one so much of Mahler's Symphonies' fast movements, with distinctive crow-like screeching clarinets, harsh almost aggressive grace notes played by violins and woodwinds.

They really remind me of screams of pain or sarcasm. Or rather both. Here is also an obsessive fixation on a single chord paired with intense, often fractured melodic, polyrhythmic and contrapuntal development. Before your very eyes, a new aesthetic of the 20th century is emerging — late Romanticism and Expressionism.

The brisk military march morphs into an infernal chase; evil is no longer a joke. It is real. For the first time in music history, evil is depicted not as a magical force (Mozart, Weber, Berlioz, or Wagner), but as pure destruction. Isn't it astonishing, given that Tchaikovsky appreciated the beauty of music above all else, and Mozart remained his eternal idol all his life? The idea of destructive force reaches its zenith in the episode's ending. The melody disintegrates into seemingly unrelated fragments — destruction in its literal manifestation—and sinks into the depths.

Funeral chords from the trombones are echoed by the muffled strikes of basses and cellos. A similar conclusion is found in Tchaikovsky's most tragic work, composed just months later — the Sixth Symphony. Here, the fading pizzicati and slowing pulse of the double basses symbolize nothing less than a heart gradually ceasing to beat. And then it stops. Beyond lies only silence, an incomprehensible "nothingness."

In the ballet, however, the composer takes quite an opposite path. From the abyss of destructive forces, love brings salvation. And after the grim motif of trombones and basses emerges a beauty of extraordinary power, blossoming into a hymn to life, love, and nature. This concept would later be realized constantly by Mahler — look at the Scherzo and Adagio of the Fourth Symphony or the Burlesque and Finale of the Ninth Symphony.

And again, this episode in the ballet that comes after the battle between the mice and the toys is far from being "children's music" — it is one of the most stunningly epic symphonic masterpieces ever created. Every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of revealing an utter beauty, a final redemption, an enormous spiritual healing. You've guessed it right — here's another parallel to Gustav Mahler's music.

Slow movements in his Symphonies are portals to another dimension, a source of unspeakable light. Well, one could mean darkness, considering their complex nature and looking through Jungian psychology's lenses. As if their influence is hidden not only in artistic qualities but also reveals almost psychotherapeutic effect. If you dig deeper in further discovering of Tchaikovsky's influence on the Austrian composer, look at the second theme in Adagio from Mahler's Fourth Symphony. It is as close to the German's air from "The Queen of Spades" as it possibly can be.

Perhaps no other composers could so profoundly express a reverence for supreme beauty. It unfolds slowly, step by step, like a magical flower blooming before one's eyes. An utter beauty which is both majestically still and profoundly dynamic, like an archetype of a divine, caring and loving Mother, which yet possesses a force capable of wiping everything off the face of the earth. 

It's a beauty of the Universe; an infinite expanse of stars and planets, somehow frozen in time yet expanding at unimaginable speeds — speeds beyond our perception. And it's fragile, like glass, or like a world teetering on the brink of destruction, besieged by countless forces of evil, poised to plunge into the abyss of war, as we witness so vividly these days.

Indeed, in Tchaikovsky's music — and Mahler's too — this extraordinary beauty often comes entwined with tragic shadows, even with the feeling of hidden catastrophe. Yet their music offers a powerful message: supreme beauty has the power to save humanity from annihilation.

I am incredibly happy to see how the exceptional musicians of Imperial Classical Ballet — that I have the honour to conduct for about ninety performances in England, Wales, Scotland and Germany — succeed in capturing all the nuances of this concept.

Noah Redfern, the owner of Swansea Observatory at Maritime Quarter, came that night with his friends to see the Nutcracker and met his rare 19th-century tray in the orchestra pit. Dmitry Larkov conjured magical sounds from it using a soft timpani mallet, evoking the ethereal tones of a tam-tam.