In 1721, the six pieces we now know as the Brandenburg Concertos were sent by Bach to Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg-Schwedt, as a sort of job application. They were probably not conceived as a formal set; more likely, they were simply a collection of pieces for various ensembles that Bach felt best represented his abilities. That is essentially all we know about these iconic works. The Margrave appears never to have responded, and the works were lost for nearly 150 years. The only other piece of information we have is a letter that Bach enclosed with the manuscripts, a portion of which reads as follows:

“I have then in accordance with Your Highness’ most gracious orders taken the liberty of rendering my most humble duty to Your Royal Highness with the present concertos, which I have adapted to several instruments; begging Your Highness most humbly not to judge their imperfection with the rigor of the fine and delicate taste that the whole world knows Your Highness has for musical pieces; but rather to infer from them in benign consideration the profound respect and the most humble obedience that I try to show Your Highness therewith.”

My, how times have changed—but perhaps we might all try throwing a little “benign consideration” into our next cover letters and see where that gets us. I digress. It’s no wonder we now tend to think of the Baroque era as an extravagant parade of powdered wigs and formal bows, where feelings were cinched up as tightly as the corsets. But do not let Bach’s gilded prose fool you into thinking that Baroque music is a prim affair. No, in stark contrast to the nearly comical propriety offered by its composer, this music practically sizzles off the page.

Likely the most recognizable of the set, Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 opens with a stately theme that has become emblematic of our modern perception of Baroque court life. Its frequent use in film and television has rendered it a caricature of the era, but Bach’s familiar opening quickly sheds its pretenses, becoming a fiery, virtuosic tour de force—an energy it maintains for nearly the entire work. The relentless motion pauses only for an unusually brief adagio before dashing off to the races once again.

The concerto is full of Bach’s characteristically complex craftsmanship, with solo lines that dart around the ensemble, overlapping and interlocking like pieces of a tightly cut jigsaw puzzle. Three hundred years later, Bach’s apologies for his work’s “imperfections” seem almost absurd, given that we now consider his music to be the pinnacle of compositional perfection.