I knew something was up. The sign next to the refrigerator read: "white wine in the frig". (Perhaps: the frigging fridge? the frigate?) On a nearby shelf, my newly acquired Mozart action figure was lifting his left hand dramatically up to pounce upon a Quaker Oatmeal Bar, balanced cleverly upon a pair of Sunmaid raisin boxes to simulate a piano. Though unsettled by these backstage oddities, I went bravely onstage to deliver a delicate Mozart duet, and then an impassioned Piano Quartet of Joseph Suk. Well, not all the notes were there, but... something was communicated. Meanwhile, all my ill-sorted, bulging bags were outside in the car, saying take me! take me! check me in at baggage claim! And then, too suddenly, I was whisked--no, I whisked myself?--away to the airport, and without setting my head down again on a real bed I have managed to eke out 40 hours or so, split between Seattle and Vermont. A giant pair of plastic woman's breasts stood at the gateway to my Vermont destination... as you may have guessed, now I am in a dubious dorm in Marlboro, in a warm dusty barren room, with nighttime's bugs pressing at my window screens, and two empty suitcases, and I am sitting on a metal folding chair, at a student's industrial desk, next to two army cots--and a copy of the Mozart Wind Quintet is lying open on the desk, like a reminder of civilization. (Outside, I hear "do you know where the hooch went?" And off the hooch-seekers go.) I am not tired, because Seattle is back 3 hours and I am still partly there... but I cannot address myself fully to Mozart either; he is too demanding.
I am thinking about my transition from place to place, and the whole summer already, and all the little things that strike the memory. Pitiful, hapless details: the detritus of festivals. In my bag, now veteran of several festivals this summer, I find:
1) a scrawled note (perhaps by Unabomber disciple?): "Tuned 7-8-05"
2) the business card of Cathy L., "Professional, Limo-Style Taxi Service"... the card does not mention her propensity for cannabis, easily sensed upon proximity
3) deodorant (thank goodness, that's where it is)
4) USB and other adapter cables of unknown usage or origin
5) the business card for "Pho of Aurora" (i.e. Crazy Pho Lady of earlier post)
6) twelve wadded-up Starbucks credit card receipts
7) the email address, scrawled on the back of a program, of the lovely bartenderess from Boone
8) fifteen used boarding passes and a partridge in a pear tree
What a bizarre thing it is to pack up your mini-lives (for that is what festivals are, summer camps for adults, where your roots grow in and you tear them out), and set off for others... Enough uprootings in a row, and you have, voila! the monotony of difference. Somehow between hello and goodbye you should be able to say something different, to take another path. (Roland Barthes: "those who never reread are condemned to read the same story over and over again...") How to tie it all together? How not to be overwhelmed by the accumulation of these bizarre facts, the history of your life?
This all sounds very overdramatic and kind of contemplative in a dark way, which is only understandable given my redeye flight and my long lazy swimming session in the afternoon and two beers and probably also the sun and heat which got to my head today... But the point being I have left Seattle and now I am in a whole other Petri dish of people and situations (Marlboro) and it will be an effort to dip myself in, commit myself, and get out while the getting's good. I can distinguish certain brain states: like the totally involved, fairly carefree state when I am working on a piece --because you really NEED the whole brain to play the piano, to make a piece work... in fact you need more, you need at least all you've got... and then, when I come out of the glare of the work, my brain is a deer in the headlights of contingencies, of these bizarre, strung-together, random events, emergences and subsidences of people/ things/concerns... of "normal life," which is so much less organized than music. The brain is underused, and prone to pick up on peculiar details. And perhaps I don't have a strong enough balance right now of real, non-musical concerns, so that these transition moments and their salient details can make me feel odd, bizarre... my mind's a bagful of neglected boarding passes... Right now, that's where I am: I am one unmoored ship, heading off to crazyland, and I hope to drag my blog readers down with me! Hooray!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
The Meaning of Chorale
Yet another coffeeshop: students finishing papers behind me, a couple finishing (amicably?) their divorce settlement to my right, three men forming a start-up on the patio, and to top it all off: some man continuously clearing his throat, an act which produces a bizarre sound, quasi Fat Albert (It is a four-part chorale: studential giggle, strained financial discussion, business bravado, and finally the Fat Albert basso continuo: ahhh, the counterpoint of coffeeshops!) Oh, and it's a barista's birthday, they are lifting a cake over the counter and singing and cheering. Grrrr. I have had a rough couple days, with the onset of some cold/flu thingy and yet--no rest for weary pianists--the concerts continue to come on, every two days... I'm industrial-strength miffed.
I've played many pieces since getting here--Dvorak D major Piano Quartet, Strauss Piano Quartet, Shostakovich Quintet, Schubert Adagio and Rondo--but the piece that is still sticking in my mind, making me happy, is the Brahms A major Piano Quartet, which I played in North Carolina. As I drove, the last night, over back mountain roads, towards Greensboro (my birthplace)... I found myself needing comfort, which Christian and right-wing talk radio did not seem to provide (to each his own). Instead, then, I played over and over in my head passages from the A major Piano Quartet. The entire black, curvy drive was surreally lit by this sunny piece.
For me, this is one of the holiest, most sacred of pieces, perfect in every detail. But very serious, intelligent musicians have suggested that the opening theme of this piece is evidence of Brahms' mediocrity... an aberration, a mess. It is true, it is an odd opening theme... made of chords more than melody (there are too many chords for the melody). And yet it would be "fine," except for an odd move to F#-major in its fourth bar, sounding a little forced, ill-prepared, artificial... the A# jangles like a "mistake" against the A, the main note of the piece... of course this artificial (let's say "extraordinary") event, once accepted, clearly poses itself as a premise for the whole piece, as a protagonist. Perhaps the piece, its vast structure, requires an initial suspension of disbelief. Perhaps any vast structure does.
I remember thinking, when I first looked at the score, what a stupid theme it was... what an idiot.
It is a very difficult theme to play because you want to keep the legato of the melody, and yet each chord must have its integrity, must be beautifully voiced, entire. But when it feels good, it feels GOOD; your hands move from chord to chord, as if running over, caressing, the roots of harmony ... and the best feeling, the real satisfaction, comes at the recapitulation, when you play the same theme down an octave... the lower, richer register making it sound like a chorus of horns or a men's chorus, something deep, the root, basis, the fundament. There has been much Romantic angst in the development, and now... harmony.
The four-part harmony of Bach chorales is, in a sense, an "archaic" item, an anachronistic insertion in the more homophonic world of Romantic music; but, paradoxically, can also be seen to underly everything, the whole of Western classical composition (the art of counterpoint, etc.) In the Mendelssohn C Minor Trio, which I also happily played in North Carolina, a chorale makes two entrances in the last movement, and in that case the chorale stands out as an "other," as a symbol, a triumphalist religious moment which Charles Rosen (I think unfairly) labels "kitsch."
I was listening in my car to some Bach chorales I played on a recital with the Ives "Concord" Sonata (!) and even though I theoretically played the damn thing, I was stunned at how beautiful the harmonies were, at how they illuminated the simplest notes: going up and down the same old (in this case, G major) stupid scale seemed like a magical journey.
In the A major Piano Quartet, the chorale element intervenes not in order to give the music some "plot." It is not triumphalist at all (unlike the Mendelssohn), and if it is religious it is utterly nondenominational. When you hear the chorales in that piece, you hear pure voicings; the chords are objects of contemplation; the piece suddenly becomes communal, "harmonious;" the basic building blocks of Western harmony are beautiful for their own sake (and not for the sake of where they are going)... harmony as solace, as shelter (from the storm of rhetoric, of musical plot). This is made clear in one of the piece's most extraordinary moments: in the slow movement, after the pianist "lets loose" with an anguished, full-throttle outburst, the height of Romantic direction and pouring-over... after this, the strings play the only thing "they can," a quiet, intensely beautiful chorale. Opposed to Romantic outcry... but somehow also its answer and source, its vanishing point.
I've played many pieces since getting here--Dvorak D major Piano Quartet, Strauss Piano Quartet, Shostakovich Quintet, Schubert Adagio and Rondo--but the piece that is still sticking in my mind, making me happy, is the Brahms A major Piano Quartet, which I played in North Carolina. As I drove, the last night, over back mountain roads, towards Greensboro (my birthplace)... I found myself needing comfort, which Christian and right-wing talk radio did not seem to provide (to each his own). Instead, then, I played over and over in my head passages from the A major Piano Quartet. The entire black, curvy drive was surreally lit by this sunny piece.
For me, this is one of the holiest, most sacred of pieces, perfect in every detail. But very serious, intelligent musicians have suggested that the opening theme of this piece is evidence of Brahms' mediocrity... an aberration, a mess. It is true, it is an odd opening theme... made of chords more than melody (there are too many chords for the melody). And yet it would be "fine," except for an odd move to F#-major in its fourth bar, sounding a little forced, ill-prepared, artificial... the A# jangles like a "mistake" against the A, the main note of the piece... of course this artificial (let's say "extraordinary") event, once accepted, clearly poses itself as a premise for the whole piece, as a protagonist. Perhaps the piece, its vast structure, requires an initial suspension of disbelief. Perhaps any vast structure does.
I remember thinking, when I first looked at the score, what a stupid theme it was... what an idiot.
It is a very difficult theme to play because you want to keep the legato of the melody, and yet each chord must have its integrity, must be beautifully voiced, entire. But when it feels good, it feels GOOD; your hands move from chord to chord, as if running over, caressing, the roots of harmony ... and the best feeling, the real satisfaction, comes at the recapitulation, when you play the same theme down an octave... the lower, richer register making it sound like a chorus of horns or a men's chorus, something deep, the root, basis, the fundament. There has been much Romantic angst in the development, and now... harmony.
The four-part harmony of Bach chorales is, in a sense, an "archaic" item, an anachronistic insertion in the more homophonic world of Romantic music; but, paradoxically, can also be seen to underly everything, the whole of Western classical composition (the art of counterpoint, etc.) In the Mendelssohn C Minor Trio, which I also happily played in North Carolina, a chorale makes two entrances in the last movement, and in that case the chorale stands out as an "other," as a symbol, a triumphalist religious moment which Charles Rosen (I think unfairly) labels "kitsch."
I was listening in my car to some Bach chorales I played on a recital with the Ives "Concord" Sonata (!) and even though I theoretically played the damn thing, I was stunned at how beautiful the harmonies were, at how they illuminated the simplest notes: going up and down the same old (in this case, G major) stupid scale seemed like a magical journey.
In the A major Piano Quartet, the chorale element intervenes not in order to give the music some "plot." It is not triumphalist at all (unlike the Mendelssohn), and if it is religious it is utterly nondenominational. When you hear the chorales in that piece, you hear pure voicings; the chords are objects of contemplation; the piece suddenly becomes communal, "harmonious;" the basic building blocks of Western harmony are beautiful for their own sake (and not for the sake of where they are going)... harmony as solace, as shelter (from the storm of rhetoric, of musical plot). This is made clear in one of the piece's most extraordinary moments: in the slow movement, after the pianist "lets loose" with an anguished, full-throttle outburst, the height of Romantic direction and pouring-over... after this, the strings play the only thing "they can," a quiet, intensely beautiful chorale. Opposed to Romantic outcry... but somehow also its answer and source, its vanishing point.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Symposium
I would really like to post right now, but it is a beautiful, searingly clear Seattle morning and out there in the wider world there are coffeeshops and parks and pines and blue shining bays. I mean, really, which would you choose? Unfortunately, today, I have some five hours of rehearsal, during which I will NOT be sailing across Elliott Bay to some distant island and watching the Olympic mountains come closer and closer, and drinking rosé. (Yes, I have a standing offer, which I have to refuse). The coffeeshops here ... I just stepped out of one, with a large Americano in my slightly singed hands (no java jackets!) ... and the people in them seem to be perfectly typecast for coffeeshop-people: a blondish, late twenties fellow with a pensive look and a Hawaiian shirt, smoking in his flipflops on the entrance ramp, probably contemplating his next short story for workshop; a dark-haired fellow with an intense face, looking like a hipster evolving into a therapist; a pert woman with red hair, numerous piercings, a blue t-shirt and a Red Sox cap, joining a much larger table of pert, sassy ladies... They are like extras, hired by some producer (God perhaps, the God of the Pacific Northwest) to appear charming and fascinating (though indigenous), grungy yet sexy, to make you want to sit over a big creamy dark cup of espresso and stare at them, and write silly blog entries.
Anyway, I said I wouldn't post, but here are some bits from The Symposium that I am really enjoying:
...
"No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom.
Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself: he has no desire for that of which he feels no want...
Who then ... are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?...
They are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them. [Emphasis shamelessly added] For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant."
...
Love itself (a "great spirit... intermediate between the divine and the mortal") is just one (!) of the myriad lovers of wisdom? I "love" that. I'm sure this translation is mangled, but somehow I don't care. (How often do you read one translation of a poem and you go to another and the line you loved is suddenly totally flat? This happens to me a lot. Which do I prefer... my own happiness or an accurate translation?) At one moment, also, Love seems to be a great spirit, at another, a kind of poor relative of the other gods, at another, Love transmutes from person to principle. Love is one of us! But not.... This business of love as a mean, as an intermediary, not as an absolute ("neither mortal nor immortal"), but something in between, relative, connecting, is opposed to this (more expectedly Platonic) conception of beauty: "beauty absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and without increase, or any change, is imparted to the ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other things." Another extraordinary, paradoxical image. I'm a sucker for paradoxes. I am now looking out the window longingly from the computer/piano room: through the window, the beauty of the sun outside and Seattle waterscapes; to my right, the piano, the beauty of (for example) the slow movement of the Mendelssohn d minor Trio; and if I jump in the car, the beauty of the people happening to be in the coffeeshops, their ever-changing congregation. How can I possibly choose?
One more quote:
All creation or passage of non-being into being is poetry.
Why do I feel that even my choice, what to do today, how to relate to the sunlight, what coffee to drink and how to savor it, how to play certain Andante tempos, how to quell my jealousy that my computer illiterate hosts just bought a 17-inch Apple Powerbook ... all of this passes from non-being to being, is being created every second (against, or with, my will)... all of this could be my poem of the day.
Anyway, I said I wouldn't post, but here are some bits from The Symposium that I am really enjoying:
...
"No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom.
Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself: he has no desire for that of which he feels no want...
Who then ... are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?...
They are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them. [Emphasis shamelessly added] For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant."
...
Love itself (a "great spirit... intermediate between the divine and the mortal") is just one (!) of the myriad lovers of wisdom? I "love" that. I'm sure this translation is mangled, but somehow I don't care. (How often do you read one translation of a poem and you go to another and the line you loved is suddenly totally flat? This happens to me a lot. Which do I prefer... my own happiness or an accurate translation?) At one moment, also, Love seems to be a great spirit, at another, a kind of poor relative of the other gods, at another, Love transmutes from person to principle. Love is one of us! But not.... This business of love as a mean, as an intermediary, not as an absolute ("neither mortal nor immortal"), but something in between, relative, connecting, is opposed to this (more expectedly Platonic) conception of beauty: "beauty absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and without increase, or any change, is imparted to the ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other things." Another extraordinary, paradoxical image. I'm a sucker for paradoxes. I am now looking out the window longingly from the computer/piano room: through the window, the beauty of the sun outside and Seattle waterscapes; to my right, the piano, the beauty of (for example) the slow movement of the Mendelssohn d minor Trio; and if I jump in the car, the beauty of the people happening to be in the coffeeshops, their ever-changing congregation. How can I possibly choose?
One more quote:
All creation or passage of non-being into being is poetry.
Why do I feel that even my choice, what to do today, how to relate to the sunlight, what coffee to drink and how to savor it, how to play certain Andante tempos, how to quell my jealousy that my computer illiterate hosts just bought a 17-inch Apple Powerbook ... all of this passes from non-being to being, is being created every second (against, or with, my will)... all of this could be my poem of the day.
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