Conversations from Rehearsal

"Pianists are crazy; I don't know how they do all that stuff they do. They changed the way I thought about music. My first roommate was one, and he'd be like, 'I'm gonna go drink some wine, take a bubble bath, and play some scales.' I was like, 'WTF?' And then I went to his recital. You know what I did when I got home? I drank some wine, took a bubble bath, and played some scales."

Advocating for the Composer

For my Medieval and Renaissance Music History class we're keeping a listening journal for the various pieces we're studying. Following is an excerpt regarding the song in the below video.



How might a performer approach interpreting this piece? Sure, we have scholarly research in the field, but there is still the problem that there are no aural records from that time, and the written records are ambiguous at best. The two versions we listened to as a class seemed so different from each other, and yet the performers were interpreting the same 'score.' On searching Youtube I even found a New Age rendition of this song.


Which one is the most faithful? This is such a hard question, especially for a conductor (I've heard the profession described as the "composer's advocate"). Musical meaning--or however we might term this concept--is an instantaneous creation between the performer and the audience. Just like in conversation, books, or any other kind of communication, lasting impressions (or deeper connections, if you will) are fortified by understanding, which is enhanced by many things (intelligence, familiarity, passion/interest, background knowledge, and more). So we might argue that informed performance practice makes a more faithful performance, meaning our New Age friends are doing some kind of disservice to our Comtessa de Dia. But this is only more meaningful if the audience is on the same level of understanding.

So, what if the audience is so unfamiliar with what is going on that they do not understand (as is common in both performances of medieval and contemporary music)? Is that a faithful service to the composer? Or better yet, not only is this composer long dead, but this culture has evolved into something so far removed that it could also be thought of as dead. In this sense it might be more faithful for there to be a strong connection between the performer and audience--after all, the theme of this song is absolutely contemporary and therefore relevant--meaning that in the right setting the New Age version is a more faithful service to the music, because the connection between the audience and the performer is faithful to the intention of the music (with music from this era it is so difficult to determine intention with absolute certainty). This is a topic that bothers me restlessly as I prepare to embark on a career which focuses on bridging the gap between notes on a page and meaningful performance, especially in a post-canonic era. No longer does the concert stage occupy a central part of the public life. How do we remain faithful not just to our composers, but also to our audiences?

How much more true is this when we think about teaching in a primary or secondary school! Our audiences there are so young, so full of curiosity, and so full of the post-canonic culture.

Blossoms

In a life-long search of the essence of Beauty, I have realized that I am rather searching for the Divine, the Sublime, the Eternal. What is it that sifts the Beautiful music from the music that is not? How, as composers, do we reveal the Sublime? How do we know when we see it? How do we record it?

And that's it. We can't record it. It just happens, and we have to be ready to catch it with our senses, our spirits.

I was in a piano lesson once working on the second movement of Ravel's Sonatine. There is an incredible moment when the first theme returns, blossoming out of the previous key. Here Ravel makes every part of that theme the same, except for the ostinato in the left hand, which continues the Db, Cb, Ab (C#, B, G#) progression from the previous four bars (this is all in the second stanza in the image below).

Below, I would suggest listening to the entire movement for the full effect, but the moment happens between about 1:40-2:00.



It's an incredible few seconds for me. Every single time I play that I am overcome with astonishment, longing, and embracing, like returning home after traveling abroad. What makes this work musically is how Ravel brings that theme back in the home key, and yet still manages to retain that piece of melody from the distant key of a few measures before.

And here's the rub; you'll notice that right before that key change Ravel writes a simple command: Sans ralentir. In English, "Don't you dare slow down." And that goes against all of my musical instinct! The moment is beautiful, let me cherish it, let me savor it, let me ponder it. No! Keep going. We're done here!

And so back in my piano lesson, I stubbornly slowed down anyway. That invited a rebuke from my teacher, "Why in the world would you do that? Ravel explicitly says not to do that." My lame responses were heartfelt, but not thorough. My teacher then revealed what truly makes that moment beautiful, the fact that it's passing. It's effervescent, like a flower blooming. It comes, it's beautiful, and then it's gone.

I have been stunned ever since that lesson a year ago. This book helps with the thought of finding eternity within a single moment, the "always within never" (again with the French!). But I think herein lies the power of human expression, of human discernment of the Sublime, that is, that we are passing away.

Man who is born of woman is few of days and full of trouble. He comes out like a flower and withers; he flees like a shadow and continues not.

This begs our attention. We don't have long to observe the wondrous creation of the world as we know it here, broken as it is. We don't have long to wrestle with the eternal questions, to wrestle with God.

And this is why music is so important to me. Therein we find the Sublime, as in most other disciplines. This is simply the one I've chosen, or perhaps the one chosen for me. And so we keep practicing, keep exploring, keep going, sans ralentir; right now I'm not sure of what fruitful other options we have.

Infinite Resignation, or, Something More?

It was suggested to me some time ago to tackle Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, especially regarding my more recent obsession with Paradox, Irrationality, and the Absurd to find the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. I've heard many different things from different people about Kierkegaard, and it has intrigued me even more. And so last night I began.

What I've appreciated so far is the deeply meditative way he has approached a very well-known, and possibly simple, story, that of Abraham and Isaac. And it hits especially home with Believe It Anyway!. I thought I was doing well when I was reading last night and this morning (I felt especially from the 19th century sitting in a park with my coffee and philosophy in the morning freshness--that is, until neighbors started playing disc golf over my head). And then I read the Sparknotes for some contextual help and realized that I have apparently been reading the thing entirely incorrectly.

But that's the point of the man isn't it? Even though he didn't call himself an existentialist, and I would be first inclined not to call him that either, his point is about the experience, right? And so though I wasn't reading at first with half a mind for Hegel and friends, and gleaned my own experience, meditation, and conviction from it, was I reading it incorrectly?

Anyway, like dear Søren, I digress, but simply for rhetorical impact...maybe (but how would you know the difference?). Besides his deeply meditative approach to Abraham's story, I have found myself helped regarding a distinction he makes between the highest faith of Abraham and the lesser faith of infinite resignation. He sees in Abraham a paradox of faithfully trusting our loving God's command (and I don't mean that ironically) to sacrifice his only son, that culmination of God's covenant to make out of Abraham a nation of people more countless than the stars. Kierkegaard then notes that what makes Abraham's faith astonishing is that it is a leap that is un-understandable--what Christ might call "child-like" for it is unassuming, it is humble, it is awe-ful. Others might appear to have a similar faith, but it is one Kierkegaard calls a faith of "infinite resignation." It is a faith that says, "Well, God commands it of me, so even though I hate this and it causes me great sorrow (for how could patricide be joyful), I will go forth and perform my commanded duty." It is the story of a tragic hero. Abraham is not a tragic hero; he is the Father of Israel.

This is astonishing! I thought to myself, how often do I count my resignation to God as faith?

This is so different than the faith that Christ describes and models. I have been convicted. I need to finish reading Fear and Trembling I suppose in order to have a better, fuller reaction to it, but at least this one moment has made it worthwhile, whether or not I hate or love Kierkegaard's approaching ideas. I must pray the centurion's prayer, "I believe, help my unbelief!"

Serkin and Friends

A big move takes time, which means even lest posting than usual. But here is a snapshot of a great meeting the other day.

When I was taking out the garbage I waved to Ralph, our 82 year old, vegetarian, perpetually shirtless neighbor who made it his job to line all of the street's trashcans (and recycling bins) up in a central area to make it easier on waste management when they came through in the morning. He takes a special pride in it; he says he is the only one in the city who does it, and the WM crew love him for it. He also says its one of the few ways he can feel useful at 82 years old.

And so I waved to him as he was meticulously wrestling each can into place. He smiled a huge smile and returned the wave, this time waving me toward him. 

We greeted each other warmly and then he said, "I hear that you're a music major."

"Yes sir."

"Master's student?"

"Yep."

"What's your focus?"

"Conducting for my master's."

He nodded and complimented my choice, and then he added, "Listen, you're a music guy, so you'll appreciate this." He leaned on the trash can and folded his hands, "You know what they say about getting into Carnegie Hall, practice practice. Well let me tell you how I got to Carnegie Hall." 

He was right, my interest piqued.

He then told this story about a record that he owned, Rudolph Serkin playing Beethoven's 4th Piano Concerto with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. When he had been discharged from the military he had no mode of transportation home, so he hitchhiked his way across the country (this was in the early sixties). All he had with him was this vinyl recording, and so he would hold the vinyl in his left hand, holding it across his torso while his right thumb jerked out across the highway. Thusly he traveled home.

When he finally got home he got a summons from Ursula Serkin (Rudolph's daughter). Somehow she had found out about the hitchhiking trip with her father's recording, and she was interested in introducing this young classical music aficionado to the rest of the family. He talked to her on the phone and she asked if he would be interested in seeing her father live in Carnegie Hall.

"Of course," he replied. "How much are the tickets?"

"Don't worry about that," she said. "Just come on down to will call and we'll take care of you."

So the evening of the performance he went down to Carnegie Hall and made his way to the will call booth when he heard his name being shouted from down the corridor. Ursula Serkin hurried over to him and grabbed his elbow and then led him into the hall. She sat him with the rest of the Serkin family in the presidential box at the center of the first balcony. He said he was so amazed from start to finish that he can actually hardly remember the performance.

Afterward the Serkins invited him over for dinner at their home. He said he was so entirely nervous that he hardly spoke a word, but they were so very gracious anyway. He showed them the vinyl he carried across the country and he said that they were incredibly humbled by his fandom for Rudolph. 

"And that's how I got into Carnegie Hall," he said with a slight smile. He waved a knobby finger toward me, "Come here inside. There's something I want to show you." 

He led me into his studio apartment and pulled a vinyl off of the shelf. There before me was the hitchhiking recording, Rudolph's hands folded right there in front of my eyes. It was an old album and he held it gingerly. I thought he was holding it out for me to take, but when I took hold of one side he did not let go of the other, and so we both stood for a moment holding the record and taking in its history.

Then Ralph opened it, letting several different notes and newspaper clippings fall free. All of the clippings were about Serkin and his performances, and there was an obituary for Serkin at the bottom. I was not able to catch what was on the notes.

"How did you come by this album?" I asked.

"Oh, that's another story," he sighed. But he launched into it anyway.

When he was working in the military his job was to manage top secret files. There were twelve safes he was in charge of, and he had to memorize all of the lock combinations, unable to write any of them down. He said that all his military terms and memorization was driving him crazy and he went to a friend and complained about it.

His friend told him to shut up and listen. He turned the record player onto that recording, and in Ralph's own words,

"For the next three, four, five minutes, I was transported. The arpeggios, the trills, it was all amazing."

And then his friend interrupted the moment, lifted the needle, took out the record, put it in its sleeve, and then handed it to Ralph, "Listen to it whenever you need to. Now go on, I have work to do."

And so Ralph would listen to that record every single night before he went to bed. However, the morning after his friend gave him the record he went to work, but could not remember any of the codes to open the safes.

"The music had pushed them clean out!" he said, eyes wide.

And so he took a day off (he was a good worker so he said they allowed him to do it whenever he needed), but when he came back the next day he still could not remember the codes. He went to his friend in a panic and explained the whole situation to him. His friend pointed to the album in Ralph's hand and asked him, "What do you see?"

Ralph looked at it, "It says Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 4, Rudolph Serkin, Eugene Ormandy, etc, etc."

"No, Ralph. Look at it! What do you see?"

Ralph said he was perplexed. "I guess I see Rudolph's hands."

"Exactly," his friend said. "Look at those hands. Do you think Rudolph tells his hands how to play the music? No, he just tells them to play the music. It's in his hands. No go on, I have work to do."

So Ralph went on, confused by what his friend had just told him. He said he made his way through the day faking it until finally he had no choice but to get into one of the safes. He put his hand on the nob, and then like Serkin's hands, it just moved. The door opened. He went one by one down the row and opened all twelve safes that same way, and he did not remember a single number! It was all in his hands, just like his friend said, just like Serkin. And thusly Ralph said he was able to fill his head with music instead of numbers and military terms. And that is why he shipped all of his things home when he was finally discharged, except for this album. This album he had to keep close to him.

And so he put the clippings back into the sleeve with the record, and then moved to put it back on the shelf. He stopped and held up another album, "Do you know this one?"

"Of course!" I remarked. "That's Van Cliburn winning the Tchaikovsky piano competition back in the sixties."

"Yes," he said. "An amazing musician. This here is an original. You don't really find this laying around anymore. Who would have thought that such an uneducated young person such as me would have had this sophisticated of a taste in music back then? I had no idea when I was that age, I just like it. I had no idea the impact of Cliburn; I had no idea what it meant to sit in Carnegie Hall with the Serkins and watch Rudolph play. But you're a musician, so I thought you might appreciate that."

Then he told one more story about how a neighbor a few years back finally got him on stage at an open mic event. He said he was so very nervous, and he shook uncontrollably. However, the microphone he held gave a certain power to his old gravelly voice, and he was able to do things he never imagined. 

"After all," he said, "Where would Mick Jagger be without a microphone?" He smiled. Then Ralph steadied his stance and took off his thick glasses. "You're a musician, you'll appreciate this."

And then Ralph launched into a riveting performance of slam poetry. He rapped about writing, just getting it done and having the courage to write when you don't want to. He rapped about Beethoven and Nirvana and Van Halen and Depeche Mode. About the Beastie Boys and Tchaikovsky. It was a slam dedicated to the power of determined artists, writers that had what it took. I was floored by this 82 year old man who could not only find clever ways to weave music into prose, but he could also throw out "dawg" and "yo" and "word" and make it sound right.

He finished, put his glasses back on, and shrunk back into the Ralph I had met before. His eyes got really wide, "Did you like that?"

"I loved it!"

He smiled and chuckled, "Well good. You're a musician, so we'll have to share with each other sometime." And then he got suddenly serious. "You're moving into a community here. I've lived here 15 years and we're a community, and you and your wife are part of it now. This community, we look out for each other. And there's musicians here, so you get to be part of that too. We look out for each other here."

"Now go on," he said, smiling and moving back outside to the trashcans, "I have work to do."

Affections

My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day

Afford thy drowszy patience leave to stay

One hower longer: so that we might either

Sate up, or gone to bedd together?

But since thy finisht labour hath possest

Thy weary limbs with early rest,

Enjoy it sweetly: and thy widdowe bride

Shall soone repose her by thy slumbring side.

Whose business, now, is only to prepare

My nightly dress, and call to prayer:

Mine eyes wax heavy and ye day growes cold.

Draw, draw ye closed curtaynes: and make roome:

My dear, my dearest dust; I come, I come.

-The widow Katherine Dyer to her late husband in 1641.

Don't tell me the Puritans weren't romantic in the right moments.

How swiftly the indefatigable eagle flies! How he hovers and balances in his harmonious sky! He dives into it, loses himself in it, soars, descends again, disappears, then returns to his starting place, his eye more brilliant, his wings stronger, intolerant of rest, quivering, athirst for the infinite.

/Berlioz, on Beethoven's C-minor Piano Trio

I wish this still counted as legitimate criticism, as a legitimate response to aesthetic experience.

Unfortunately if I turned in anything to my professors that read like that, I think I'd find crusted to it their dried mucus from their scoff as they gave me an "F."

Separate, but Equal

H and I took a trip across town chasing what looked like a fire, and then once we found it, decided to continue further across town to take a look around at neighborhoods we don't often get to see. We found the community's old school elementary school first (now out of commission), and then crossed the tracks into what I've always felt to be an almost completely different community. While we were there, we took some pictures of the old school (also now out of commission) over there.

This is an area that is not unfamiliar to me--I take my bike through here regularly--and yet it is not a place that feels like home. Sure, it's the 'Merce, but this is not the community I live in. And the most upsetting factor is that it is the year 2014. Brown v. Board of Education was 60 years ago.

We're not supposed to be a segregated society anymore; I guess, at least not a state-sponsored segregated society. And, somehow, to my dumbfoundedness over the past five years, this little town of 9,100 people remains separate...and unequal.

It was really just brought home today as H and I went through the ruins of this school. It was an erie place--not really much different from the white school we visited first, and yet inside these abandoned rooms echoed the pains of segregation and societal oppression. They echo because this still exists. It was as if this school was not just a ruined memory, but a ruined nightmare that keeps coming back.

I am pained because the Gospel paints a picture of diversity. Even so, God describes diversity as all tribes, tongues, peoples, and nations. Not all colors. Even acknowledging colors as defining to race is absurd, especially in this era. We all bleed the same color; we are all born the same way; we all die the same way. How absurd it is that we used to live this way! How much more absurd that we still continue to live this way!

As I went through this monument to a time past and not really forgotten I couldn't escape the feeling that I just didn't belong. Here I felt separate and not at all equal. We ought to be groaning for the unification of our society for the sake of our joy in the Lord who sees all equal by His Son. All I heard through these broken windows was silence.

To Affect

The act of hearing music, of listening to ordered sound, is to resonate with Creation, of which the individual is a part. When the human ear perceives the various musical harmonies, it involuntarily recognizes the reality of the Creator's work. The human desire to participate in musical activity is not, therefore, so much a need for self-expression, as the humanists would have it, as it is a longing for and a reflections of a relationship with the Creator. This recognition also has affective and formative power on the human mind and body. Luther's views on music reflect Augustine's synthesis of Greek music theory with Christian dogma: music not only mirrors the order of the created universe through its own numerical order but can positively affect individuals by audibly "putting them in touch" with the greater order of Creation. The order or "music" through which God created the universe thus becomes a means of spiritual growth.

/Dietrich Bartel, Musica Poetica on Martin Luther

Studying Hindemith has proven to help me better understand what Luther seems to know (though he did not necessarily have all of the understandings of the overtones like Hindemith did). Hindemith essentially explains the reason music is created the way it is as a result of the naturally occurring overtone series, and then proceeds to develop a system of redefining how we think about tonality based off of this observation (though at its core it is simply a more scientific framework through which to understand what we already know about how music works).

My point is that we need a more whole concept of music, its effects, its affects, its nature, and its purpose. I think Hindemith took a big step forward that appears to really be a big step backward--it seems Pythagoras somehow understood this centuries ago.

At any rate, we ought not be lax about the musical education of our young. It so so much more important than we even realize. I quote Luther,

To you, my dear young man, I commend this noble, wholesome, and joyful creation, through which the feelings of your heart may at times be helped, especially when withstanding shameful lusts and bad company.

No matter what you might think about Luther, we cannot deny the powerful affect music has upon the soul. There is a reason it is ubiquitous. And yet we still don't seem to get it.

It is necessary indeed that music be taught in the schools. A teacher must be able to sing; ...We should always make it a point to habituate youth to enjoy the art of music, for it produces fine and skillful people.

Briefly On Contemporary Expression

I am not sure there could be progress in art...Many art objects of the past appear to be more contemporary than our present art. How do we explain it? The secret to its contemporaneity resides in the question: How thoroughly has the author-composer perceived, not his own present, but the totality of life, its joys, worries and mysteries? ...Art has to deal with eternal questions, not just sorting out the issues of today.

/Arvo Pärt

These are the things I have been obsessed with lately as my undergraduate career draws to a close (and it is closing so quickly!). Who had it figured out? Did anybody have it figured out? I pray incessantly for disciplined faith.

Our culture is increasingly fragmented. Detached.

And from the beginning, the design of the universe was as a whole. We have broken it up physically, spiritually, and psychologically (that phrase itself is a measure of the fragmentation of our language and psyche). I wish there was one word to describe the oneness of the human being(s).

Serialism is a product of a fragmented society (one that might have even been less fragmented than ours). My problem with 12-tone serialism Pärt finally termed for me. I knew there was something inherently ineffective with serialism when we studied it in our advanced theory course but I haven't been able to put my thumb on it until now.

I think if the human has conflict in his soul and with everything, then this system of 12-tone music is exactly good for this. But if you have no more conflict with people, with the world, with God, then it is not necessary. You have no need to have a Browning in your pocket, or a dagger.

Appreciation

It is quite possible to enjoy flowers in their colored form and delicate fragrance without knowing anything about plants theoretically. But if one sets out to understand the flowering of plants, he is committed to finding out something about the interactions of soil, air, water, and sunlight that condition the growth of plants.

/John Dewey, Art as Experience

There is a great appreciation that comes with knowing. This is why we must keep learning, seeking, thinking, growing, and creating (which is itself a kind of research). Considering the depth of something as simple as a blade of grass or the taste of an apple leads us to greater appreciation, revealing to us more humility.

But you weren't looking for a musing pedant necessarily. Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Teaching children has been fun and insightful. We're almost to the summer! Don't forget to enjoy spring.