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In the hushed anticipation before a concert, <\/span>Grammy-nominated violinist Cho-Liang Lin’s<\/span><\/a> fingers dance across the strings of his 1715 “Titian” Stradivarius, coaxing forth notes that seem to breathe life into the air. Hours later, in the quiet comfort of his home, those same fingers might delicately cradle a glass of Bordeaux, tilting it slightly to observe the wine’s ruby depths before taking a thoughtful sip. For Lin, these seemingly disparate worlds, the concert hall and the wine cellar, share a profound kinship that few have articulated as eloquently as he has.<\/span><\/p>\n “It’s really weird,” Lin confesses with characteristic candor. “I try to dissect each wine and its background and its complexity, its components like I do with violin.” The admission comes during a recent interview where <\/span>Lin, who has devoted nearly six decades to his musical craft<\/span><\/a>, reveals how his analytical nature creates unexpected bridges between his vocation and avocation.<\/span><\/p>\n When<\/span> Cho-Liang Lin<\/span><\/a> settled into his role as professor at Rice University’s Shepherd School of Music after years at Juilliard, he brought with him an approach to teaching informed by his own mentor, Dorothy DeLay. “It is very important that as a teacher, I can analyze somebody’s playing and do so very quickly,” he explains, describing a methodology that relies on forensic listening, breaking down performances into constituent elements to identify exactly what makes a passage sing or stumble.<\/span><\/p>\n This same meticulous deconstruction follows him from practice room to wine room. “I read wine articles and reviews of wines very much like I would read a review of a concert,” Lin says. When he encounters a new bottle, he doesn’t merely taste it, he interrogates it, peeling back layers of flavor much as he might dissect a complex violin sonata.<\/span><\/p>\n The relationship makes sense to those who understand both worlds. Like music, wine demands a certain temporal patience. A great Burgundy, like a Bach partita, doesn’t reveal all its secrets at once. Both require attentive presence, developing on the palate and in the ear over time, shifting impressions as they unfold.<\/span><\/p>\n Lin’s instrument itself mirrors this philosophy. His “Titian” Stradivarius, crafted during what luthiers consider Stradivari’s golden period, requires profound understanding from its player. “A great violin like a Strad did open up whole new horizons and also taught me how to be extremely astute in getting the sound out,” Lin reflects. “It’s like a person, a very special person. You have to get to know it before it’s willing to reveal its special qualities to you.”<\/span><\/p>\n Perhaps most revealing is <\/span>Cho-Liang Lin’s curiosity about origins <\/span><\/a>and context. In conversation, he frets about young musicians disconnected from their historical roots. “Young musicians start to forget… the tradition of playing,” he laments. “They’re not aware, these young players, they don’t know who Fritz Kreisler was. They don’t have any idea who Jacques Thibaud was.”<\/span><\/p>\n This same concern for provenance appears when Lin discusses wine. He peppers conversations with incisive questions: “Was that a good vintage? Is that a good area? Did they suffer from drought or did they have flooding?” For Lin, a wine without its history is like a piece of music divorced from its composer’s intent, technically correct perhaps, but missing essential context that gives it meaning.<\/span><\/p>\n Lin’s advocacy for new music demonstrates this historical consciousness in practice. During his 18-year directorship of La Jolla SummerFest, he commissioned and premiered 54 new works, creating musical “vintages” that future generations might study and appreciate. Just as he values understanding how climate change affects vineyard production, he recognizes how cultural environments shape musical expression across eras.<\/span><\/p>\n “You never know whether a piece will endure the test of time, but you have to give the piece a chance,” Lin says of his commissioning efforts. “It’s like a baby. The piece is there as a baby, but you have to deliver it. I’m the doctor who brings the baby out to the public and show it to them.”<\/span><\/p>\n The social dimension of Lin’s dual passions reveals yet another parallel. His eyes brighten when he extends an impromptu invitation during his interview: “You guys are all welcome to come over and help me drink some.” This generous impulse reflects the communal joy he finds in both worlds.<\/span><\/p>\n As a chamber musician who has shared stands with legends like Isaac Stern, Yo-Yo Ma, and Emanuel Ax, Lin understands that certain magic emerges only in community. A string quartet requires each player to listen intensely to the others, adjusting in real time. Similarly, a wine tasting among friends generates dynamic conversation as each participant notices different characteristics, building upon collective observations.<\/span><\/p>\n Lin’s colleague, violinist William Fedkenheuer<\/span><\/a>, has described spending time with him as “an adventure filled with food, wine, stories, and jokes,” painting a portrait of an artist whose warmth extends beyond the concert stage. This conviviality has made Lin not just a respected performer but a beloved mentor whose influence ripples through generations of musicians.<\/span><\/p>\n “Playing violin is an all consuming matter,” Lin admits, leaning slightly forward as if sharing a secret. “You have to devote so much time to practicing, to study and to teach.” This recognition of music’s relentless demands transforms his other passions into something more vital than mere diversions. Wine, tennis, baseball become necessary counterweights in a life that might otherwise tip toward obsession.<\/span><\/p>\n At a summer camp in Taiwan, Lin gathered young musicians under the shade of his accumulated wisdom. “Regardless what your career path is,” he told them, eyes bright with conviction, “I hope you learn from these two weeks here that you learn how to work with other people.” The words hang in the air like perfectly sustained notes, revealing how Lin values human connection as much as technical brilliance.<\/span><\/p>\n This philosophy infuses his mentoring with uncommon honesty. When a talented but technically limited student confessed dreams of joining the Boston Symphony, Lin gently redirected her gaze toward paths that might still bring her into orbit around that cherished world. “Perhaps as an administrator,” he suggested, “or a board member.” Years later, spotting her in a bank, he offered affirmation rather than judgment: “I don’t mind that you quit the violin. You could always play in an amateur orchestra. But now if you become a very successful banker, you can do a lot of good in the music world.”<\/span><\/p>\n This wisdom, that passionate engagement comes in many forms, reveals itself most clearly in an unexpected encounter. Lin once guest <\/span>performed with an amateur orchestra <\/span><\/a>in New York, arriving with the polite expectations of a world-class soloist preparing to meet weekend enthusiasts. Instead, he found himself surrounded by formidable musicians who had simply chosen different lives. “Actually they are not necessarily untrained musicians,” the conductor explained, gesturing toward her players, “but they actually all attended top music schools except after graduating, they all opted to do something else.” Some worked at Google, others on Wall Street, yet their fingers remembered. “There’s nothing wrong with changing career path after you finish a good music school,” Lin concluded, his voice softening with realization.<\/span><\/p>\n Lin’s own journey<\/span><\/a> embodies this philosophical alchemy. From that neighborhood in Taiwan where he first sat transfixed listening to a neighbor practice, abandoning cartoons and toys to absorb every note, to the carefully curated wine cellar he maintains today, his life reveals how seemingly disparate passions can nourish rather than compete with one another. The little boy who “dropped everything” to hear violin music now approaches both Stradivarius and Syrah with the same reverent curiosity, each glass of wine dissected with the same attentiveness he brings to a Brahms sonata.<\/span><\/p>\n He carries this integrated sensibility into everything he touches. The violin bow and wine glass become twin instruments of discovery in his hands, tools for plumbing the depths of human expression through entirely different vocabularies. His approach reminds us that life’s most profound pleasures often emerge in the borderlands between our formal disciplines, where categories dissolve and the analytical mind finds itself dancing with the passionate heart. In <\/span>Cho Liang Lin<\/span><\/a>‘s world, there is no contradiction between the concert hall and the wine cellar, only complementary spaces where beauty reveals itself to those who are patient enough to listen.<\/span><\/p>\n Wine, like music, is meant to be shared. They are both a gift to us all. Musicians perform to an audience. We often play concerts with beloved colleagues. Like music making, a tasting or enjoyment of a great wine must not be a solitary journey. There is far greater joy in sharing<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\nThe Art of Deep Listening<\/b><\/h2>\n
Curator of Histories<\/b><\/h2>\n
Communion Through Shared Experience<\/b><\/h2>\n
Finding Balance Beyond the Practice Room<\/b><\/h2>\n
Harmonies Beyond the Concert Hall<\/b><\/h2>\n