A classical pilgrimage through Eastern Germany delights, surprises and shocks

If you love classical music, I can’t think of a better holiday destination than the Berlin–Dresden–Leipzig triangle. These cities are steeped in musical history, were home to some of the greatest names in the canon, and still boast a rich performance scene playing to packed houses of people who know their stuff. We were both amazed and delighted to see the diversity of ages in the audience. Younger people are rare at operas and orchestral concerts in England, but not here.

If you can only visit one place, history probably demands that it’s Leipzig. Bach called it home for more than 25 years, and Schumann and Mendelssohn also lived here. Wagner was born here, and Handel entered the world just up the road. But if your goal is to pack in the most performances in the shortest time, Berlin is your best bet. For opera, however, I’d head to Dresden’s sumptuous venue—even if the acoustics are, sadly, a bit dodgy.

Since this trip revolved around celebrating my husband’s birthday, we built in a lot of music. He was a good sport about agreeing to Tosca as one of our operatic choices, despite his antipathy towards Italian opera. (Performance schedules suggested that modern Germans are far keener on Verdi and Puccini than my husband is.) Here’s a round-up of what we saw. And where we saw it, since for me the venue is as important as the music.

Bach’s Easter Oratorio in the Frauenkirche, Dresden
There’s nothing quite like hearing music in the setting for which it was composed, and I doubt it gets much better than experiencing Bach’s Easter Oratorio on Easter Sunday in a church he both knew and performed in. The Frauenkirche’s stunning architecture—essentially a circular tower with three tiers of seating looking down on the altar—is as much a performance space as a house of worship.

But it is very much a church. And a very special one. Completely levelled in the bombing of Dresden, its ruins stood as a silent protest against DDR modernism for 45 years. Locals refused to let them be swept away. After unification, the church rose again, meticulously reconstructed using salvaged pieces where possible, like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Sitting inside this symbol of resilience, listening to Bach’s soundtrack for a holiday centred on hope and rebirth, brought tears to my eyes.

Tosca at the Dresden Semperoper
This is one of the buildings in the world actually named for its architect, and Gottfried Semper earns the honour. While the Sächsische Staatsoper Dresden is one of the world’s leading companies, it’s the building that elevates the experience to something truly special.

Outside, it’s a palace: a bit like the Colosseum given a Baroque makeover. Inside, soaring neoclassical corridors are held aloft by marble columns and painted with frolicking gods and grotesqueries. It’s a common decorative scheme for an opera house, but Semper’s genius was restraint. High ceilings, giant windows and subtle colour make the space feel light and expansive.

All the famous opera houses have grand staircases, but here there are two, cleverly tucked to the side to make room for a magnificent reception hall curving around the front of the building. Its windows frame glorious views of Dresden’s historic centre. The auditorium features stalls and four horseshoe-shaped tiers. I liked the formality of ushers unlocking the door to your section when it was time to sit down.

The performance? A traditional, visually bold Tosca, with a standout soprano. But from our seats—second tier, right side, near the pit—the orchestra usually overwhelmed the singers. As glorious as the music was, it’s a pity not to hear Scarpia’s baritone in all its villainous grandeur.

Bach Cello Suites, Berlin Kammermusiksaal
This, unexpectedly, was my favourite performance of the trip. I’ve always considered the cello a mournful instrument. Bach’s suites are known as academic exercises for virtuosos; they have a reputation as being more admirable than enjoyable. But three things conspired to create a magical evening.

First, the performer: Jan Vogler, one of the world’s finest cellists, playing an early 18th-century Stradivari. (Top photo) He was electric. Second, the venue: Berlin’s Kammermusiksaal, a purpose-built chamber music venue built in the 1980s specifically to show off this quite intimate style of music. It only seats 1,136 maximum and combines excellent acoustics with a striking, futuristic design. The seating bays jut into the space at angles, giving it a sci-fi aesthetic. The lobby continues the look, with walls of coloured glass circles casting cathedral-like light into broad white plazas.

Third, I had my AI concert buddy—ChatGPT—on hand. With no one nearby and lights dimmed but not dark, I could quietly use my screen to get context. It told me about the venue, Vogler, and the pieces. When I confessed I sometimes struggle with instrumental concerts because there’s nothing to look at, my digital companion suggested scenes I could imagine for each movement, aligned with Bach’s intentions. It transformed the evening.

Don Giovanni, Berlin Komische Oper at the Schillertheater
When I booked this, I was unaware of two key facts: First, the Komische Oper’s usual jewel-box theatre is closed for renovation. (I had been more interested in getting inside than in seeing yet another production of a very familiar opera, much as I like it.) Second, Berlin’s opera scene is infamous for avant-garde, often bizarre reimaginings of the classics.

I was sad to miss the regular venue, though the Schiller Theater’s late art deco vibe had its charms. And this was Don Giovanni, after all—surely one of the most reliably entertaining operas ever written. It couldn’t push the envelope more than the challenging production we’d pushed through at Longborough Festival Opera. Ha!

It wasn’t just Giovanni, but an edited and re-arranged Giovanni mashed up with the Requiem. Instead of the usual finale, where the ensemble reflects on the villain’s fate, we skipped directly from the Don’s descent into hell (on an acrobatic harness, with flames) into the Requiem. Musically magnificent, dramatically muddled. Giovanni started off on a hospital gurney and was resurrected … making me wonder if he’d already died and the whole thing … not just the famous dinner scene with the ghost … was his journey to hell. There was a lot of nudity, including blurry visuals of orgies. Donna Elvira was a man, thus turning the Don into a pan-sexual predator. Zerlina was heavily pregnant already when meeting the Don, who developed a disturbing fascination with her baby. There were dancing skeletons. Strange interpretive dance, some naked with luxuriant pubic hair. A narrarator wandering about injecting poetry from Far Eastern philosophy, and occasionally showing up in a box as some kind of Zen priest.

I could spot brilliance in the madness. I suspect fragments of this production will be recycled elsewhere. But as a whole, it left us dazed—and in need of a stiff drink. The DJ spinning retro ‘80s classics in the rooftop Monkey Bar gave me a much-needed safe space that night.

Brahms and Elgar at the Gewandhausorchester, Leipzig
These composers aren’t our favourites. We’d have preferred more local fare: Leipzig hero Bach or a night of Wagner overtures. But Piers was keen to hear the Gewandhausorchester— the oldest civic symphony orchestra in the world—and this was the most appealing concert on offer across our three nights.

Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 and Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B minor are lushly romantic, string-heavy works dripping with emotion. But to my ears, they’re classical music’s equivalent of binging on empty calories: rich while consuming, forgettable afterwards. Other than one theme in the Brahms, nothing lingered in your ears.

What did stick was the building. The Gewandhaus is, hands down, the ugliest concert hall I’ve ever seen. The performance space is fine. It’s the public areas that stun—for all the wrong reasons.

A brutalist relic of the East German era, it’s a steel-and-glass shell with no warmth. You enter to find yourself in a vast lobby, faced with an enormous three-storey curtain wall. Upon it, a German Expressionist mural depicting the power of music. But to me, it looked like a gallery of goblins: instruments menacing, faces twisted in anguish, colours evoking night, mud and blood. I know the cultural ideals of communism viewed art as duty, not joy. And I support preserving the past. But honestly, the best thing Leipzig could do to improve this venue would be to whitewash the dementors and paint something cheerful.

Over two weeks in Germany, the variety of music we experienced—and the places we experienced it—was magnificent. We could have done more, but we needed to leave some time for dinners and quiet evenings. Tickets were about 30% cheaper than similar events in England, which made indulging even easier.

If you’re a classical music fan, this part of Germany is well worth the trip. Go to Dresden for old-world opulence, Berlin for the avant-garde, and Leipzig for a bit of everything. Just… if you choose the last, walk briskly through the Gewandhaus lobby without looking up.