Clapping Along on Cue with Johann Strauss I's Radetzky March
The Backstory

Choosing the crown over the crowd

Back in the summer of 1848, Vienna was turned upside down by the Revolutions of 1848, and people were arguing on every street corner. As the Imperial-Royal Court Ball Music Director, I stayed firmly loyal to the Habsburg monarchy throughout the whole mess. My eldest son, Johann Strauss II, decided to side with the revolutionaries instead, which made our family dinners rather tense. Before long, that political disagreement turned into a serious professional rift between the two of us.

Writing a tune for a general

Even with all that tension at home, my real job that August of 1848 was writing music for a public charity festival in Vienna. The event was organized to raise money for wounded soldiers and the Vienna National Guard, so it needed something upbeat. It also celebrated Field Marshal Joseph Radetzky von Radetz, who had just won the Battle of Custoza against Italian forces in July. I named my new piece Radetzky March in his honor, though I promise the music is much friendlier than a battlefield.

Borrowing from myself and the streets

When you have a tight deadline in August, you do not always wait around for brand-new inspiration to strike out of thin air. For the main tune, I quietly helped myself to some lively ideas I had already used in my earlier Jubel-Quadrille. Then, for the gentler middle section, the story goes that I heard soldiers returning from Milan singing an old Viennese song on the streets. Whether it happened quite like that or not, that old tune in three beats fit nicely once I taught it to march in two.

A modest night in the park

At the very end of August 1848, I took my Strauss Orchestra out to the Wasserglacis park in Vienna to give the piece its premiere. Legend says the Austrian officers in the crowd immediately started clapping and stamping their feet to the beat. To be completely honest with you, nobody knows for sure if the clapping tradition really started that way on the first night. The local newspapers at the time simply reported a polite reception and noted that we played two encores before packing up.

Taking a step down with a friend

Right after that premiere in the park, I sat down for a chat with my colleague Philipp Fahrbach Sr. to talk over how it went. We both felt the music was sitting a little too high and moving just a touch too fast for its own good. Taking his advice to heart, I lowered the main key from E major down to a warmer D major and slowed the pace slightly. It is a bit like loosening a tight collar after a long dinner, and the march immediately breathed much better.

Hot off the press for the parlor

With those adjustments in place, my publisher Tobias Haslingers Witwe und Sohn brought the piece out in Vienna in September 1848. Before the full orchestral and military band scores were even ready, we released it in piano arrangements so people could play it at home. In that published score, the main march steps out in D major, while the softer middle section shifts over to G major. After that middle bit finishes, the players simply jump right back to the beginning and play the main march all over again.

Leave the heavy metal at home

If you look at my original 1848 orchestral manuscript, you might be surprised by how light I kept the band. While standard orchestral versions today bring in woodwinds, brass, strings, drums, and crashing cymbals, I actually left the cymbals out. For decades, the famous version everyone heard was actually a heavy 1914 arrangement by Leopold Weninger rather than my own light scoring. I wanted a cheerful bounce rather than a deafening racket, though later conductors clearly enjoyed making a bit more noise.

A sudden curtain call

Sadly, I did not get to enjoy the success of my new march for very long after that busy autumn. In September 1849, just a year after the piece was published, I caught scarlet fever and my time in Vienna came to an end. Because my eldest son became so famous as the Waltz King, plenty of people later assumed he was the one who wrote my march. I am naturally proud of the boy, even with our disagreements, though I do like getting credit for my own tune.

Marching off to Britain and into books

Long after I was gone, my little charity piece began turning up in places I never would have expected. In 1896, the British Army adopted it as the quick march for the 1st King's Dragoon Guards, now 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards. Later on, in 1932, the writer Joseph Roth even borrowed the title Radetzky March for his novel about the decline of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It is funny to think that a brisk tune written for a summer park festival ended up standing in for a whole empire.

Clapping into the New Year

The biggest second life for my march began on New Year's Day in 1946, when conductor Josef Krips played it with the Vienna Philharmonic. Since then, it has become the traditional final encore at their annual New Year's Concert, watched by people all over the world. When the music starts, the conductor actually turns around to face the seats and leads the audience in rhythmic clapping. After using that heavier arrangement for years, the orchestra finally switched in 2020 to a newly edited version closer to my lighter touch.