La Traviata: Libiamo ne' lieti calici (Brindisi)

The clink of glasses is almost audible before the music begins — Verdi writes a brindisi, a drinking toast, that feels genuinely festive rather than performed, the strings bouncing with waltz-time effervescence that seems to lift the room temperature. The tenor and soprano trade the melody back and forth like a volley, each phrase an invitation met with acceptance, the entire ensemble eventually joining in the refrain with the warmth of a crowd that has decided to be happy for the evening. But Verdi was too great a composer to write pure confection: beneath the celebration there is something slightly desperate, the pleasure of people seizing a moment because they sense it cannot last. La Traviata is a tragedy about a dying woman, and this opening number contains, if you listen for it, the faintest shadow beneath the glitter. The melody itself is so shapely and diatonic that it feels like something you've always known. It belongs to the Italian grand opera tradition of the 1850s, when Verdi was beginning to move from conventional formula toward psychological realism. You'd play this while cooking for people you love, letting it fill the kitchen with something warm and bright.