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Category: in search of truth

December 11, 2011

Brahms Piano Concerto no 2 in B flat major, opus 83‏

though I’d no intention of presenting a piano concerto
quite yet I’d been trolling Celibidaches on the Internet,
after marvelling at his wondrous “Boléro”, and couldn’t
hold back this gem I found of his, Brahms’ Piano 
 
same venue, same Münchner Philharmoniker, same
starched ceremonial ruffles, I thought, same even age
of the conductor, to the very minute, it appeared, in 
his unchanged eye and perspective, wise, serene,
omnipotent, perhaps the very same concert as in the
illustrious Ravel, I said to myself, though later I couldn’t
especially recognize individual instrumentalists
 
Daniel Barenboim, who conducted earlier the speedy
“Boléro”, wears another hat here, he’s the pianist, but
in this incarnation he is transcendental, carried aloft,
I think, notably, by the Olympian Celibidache, who
cedes his fire and glory to the younger Barenboim
throughout, who supremely is up for the challenge,
a ready and rearing Apollo, taking on the treacherous
musical task, defying obstreperous planets, perilous
astrological constellations in nefarious conjunctions, 
stray or fleeting stars, to foster safely home to its
final hearth his solar chariot, in a towering sunset,
a finale of apocalyptic proportions, each purveyor
casting unutterable light, god and mere immortal, 
from his own particular perch, upon our beholden
world
  
Celibidache, as would Zeus, cedes serenely to his 
younger avatar his bow, his deserved adulation,
safe in his own unquestionable omnipotence
 
 
this concerto has four movements incidentally, greater
length always suggests more gravitas, more substance 
 
is it warranted
 
you be the judge 
 
 
Richard
 
psst: in another mythological context, note the hand of
         Celibidache resting on air, intermittently fluttering,
         at the beginning of the slowest movement, the
         andante, the third, the hand of God ministering, 
         according to Michelangelo, in the “Creation of 
         Adam”, should you not yet be convinced of the 
         maestro’s august and unequivocal stature
   
 
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December 7, 2011

Celibidache‏’s Ravel’s “Boléro”

Sergiu Celibidache is the granddaddy of conductors, 
a Methuselah, a patriarch, a high priest, a cardinal, 
a very ayatollah, Olympian, no less imposing on
Olympos than Zeus, god of everything, in his
majesty 
 
here he delivers the “Boléro” of Ravel, I think,
definitively, at a pace that would have made the
composer, I’m sure, exultant, proud, at an imposing
longer than 22 minutes, the most extended I’ve ever
heard, it is nevertheless the most imperious, mighty,
authoritative, a wall of adamant and ritualistic sound 
put in mesmerizing motion, indeed ignited, by the 
lascivious demands of the luxurious, undulating  
bolero
 
the slower pace seems to suggest a further distance,
an incidence, by the noteworthy by, of the expression
of spatial dimension through the manipulation of sound, 
fashioned precisely here by the measured increase in
volume throughout, becoming louder as it nears, settling
in your very face at its conclusion, like an apotheosis,
massive, unflinching, remarkable
 
 
it is not uninstructive to compare for metre the two
previous “Boléro”s I mentioned, the moderate Dudamel,
the galloping Barenboim, to gauge the impact of their
choice of tempo on your preference, the one you like is
the one you’ll want to return to, leaving the other two
in the evanescent dust, no fuss, no muss, just instinct 
 
it is also instructive then to wonder why, which’ll say
much more about who you are, you’ll be surprised to
note, who you still aspire to be, than anything you
might ever have imagined
 
 
Richard
  
psst: every advance in taste, quality, comfort, could
         only have taken place ever through comparison,
         the sum of two is greater always than its meager,
         even arid, parts
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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November 28, 2011

a haiku by W.H. Auden‏

 
He has never seen God
but once or twice he believes
he has heard Him
 
 
                    W.H. Auden  
 
 
in trying to find this poem on the Internet after I’d come
upon it in the New Yorker, November 14, 2011, I settled
upon this unlikely site which gave the work enormous 
context
 
Colin Keenan pays heartfelt tribute to his friend, Wes
Wehmiller, both of them to me unknown
 
 
in preparing us for the poem Keenan says, 
 
                  “Auden came to understand that the essence
                   of prayer is not to talk to God, or to ask for
                   something, but to listen. I think that faith is
                   simply the ability to understand the language
                   that is spoken.” 
 
 
I think it is a profoundly insightful comment, it’s how I
listen in fact to music, for its easier access to the too
often too evanescent otherwise sublime, the mystical,
the miraculous
 
 
Richard
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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November 23, 2011

a couple of Mozart sonatas

if a symphony is a concerto without a soloist, a sonata
is a concerto without an orchestra, the soloist plays
alone, must deliver the same enchantment 
 
there are nevertheless always therefore the prerequisite
several movements, otherwise no sonata
 
 
the sonata, as we know it, originated in the mid-18th
century with more or less Mozart, earlier the term
applied to other structural notions in music
 
to still my consternation they were often not continuous,
movements were performed indiscriminately among other
eclectic acts in an evening of diverse entertainments, it
was Beethoven who put a decisive stop to that, though
the fame and popularity of Haydn and a few other
contemporaries, Clementi, Salieri, as well of course as
himself Mozart, had probably settled the matter for all
practical purposes somewhat earlier
 
Beethoven among his other theoretical principles codified
that, indeed wrote the book on it, like Moses delivering
the commandments, except that Beethoven presented
horizons in his mythology, miraculous and infinite,
instead of castigation and luxurious sin
 
his understanding of music, still now unsurpassed, is
demonstrable in his works through all the musical
innovations that have since, through all the very ages,
transpired, down to even his bagatelles, musical trifles,
which I’ll approach later, if you’ll stick around
    
 
but it starts essentially with Mozart 
 
Mitsuko Uchida, who is unsurpassed in Mozart, plays
Ludwig von Köchel, who catalogued finally, in 1862,
nearly a hundred years after Mozart’s death, in 1791,
the complete works of the master, other works have
been intermittently added since so that several
revised editions have dutifully followed, lettered a, b,
c according to the revision, the last Köchel number is 
626 
 
 
Mozart’s music is sprightly, effervescent, magical, but
not especially intellectually challenging, I think of toy
soldiers and candy cane, innocence and a child’s delight
in the infinite possibilities of creation, Creation  
 
 
Alfred Brendel  who stands shoulder to shoulder with
the iconic Glenn Gould when it comes to Beethoven,
 
of 18 piano sonatas, the D major K.576 above, was
his last 
 
 
Brendel is too commanding to play authentic Mozart,
though his technique is irreproachable, admirable,
spotless, wonderful 
 
he is Beethoven playing Mozart however, an uneven
fit 
 
comparing the two interpretations is instructive, Brendel
will dazzle, inevitably, but Uchida will make you fly
 
don’t believe me, count on it 
 
 
Richard 
 
 
 
 
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November 17, 2011

an original composition‏

here‘s an aria, a musical composition for one voice, of
great tonal and rhythmic complexity, with an equally
challenging part for the piano
 
totally 21st century 
 
you’ll love it
 
 
Richard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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November 16, 2011

Ravel’s “Boléro”, somewhat deconstructed‏

where the players, one by one, take up their positions out
of the crowd and deliver their unexpected and exhilarating
music
 
it was of course a hit, but at only under five minutes it
had been severely truncated 
 
 
 
it should last between 15 and 18 minutes according to the 
composer’s not quite determinate instructions, Tempo di
Bolero, moderato assai, he wrote, bolero tempo, very
moderate, though he preferred ever, it is reported, an
especially moderate, assai, pace    
 
here’s Barenboim conducting it, to my mind too fast, 
while remaining exhilarating nevertheless throughout,
rousing and bombastic, incontrovertibly thrilling, for
the person on the move perhaps just the ticket, but
for me it’s like speeding up the “Minute Waltz” to
anywhere under a minute, it isn’t the point
 
 
like Strauss’ “Burleske“, the “Boléro” has only one movement,
therefore it is not called a symphony, but by it’s own generic
name, this is Ravel defining the bolero, a bolero according
to him, which with his authority he’s defined for us, and
for very history, as it turns out, as well, indeed nearly
patenting the word itself to mean his own music, much
as Strauss did for his “Burleske“, both maintaining,
incidentally, individual cultural spellings and lingual
contexts 
 
 
it’s essence is in its rhythm, unremitting, unyielding, unerring,
it is the rhythm of the heart, thumping, insistent, primordially
ever present, a Classical conception, a throwback to the
standards, the musical expectations, of Beethoven, Haydn, 
Mozart, which nevertheless remain never defunct despite
their unmodern though always relevant antiquity   
 
rhythm talks  
 
 
it is first of all sensuous, I am reminded of houris, any one of
the harem of virgins provided believers in their anticipated
heaven, shimmering in silks and translucent veils, languidly
seducing, undulating   
 
later it seems a march of Caesar’s legions coming irrepressibly
forth unto their final, decisive, confrontation 
 
the second movement of Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, has the
same particular dichotomy, the link between seduction and
war 
 
 
this piece could have been a tattoo structurally were it not
for the melodious instruments, the drums, timpani, their
incontrovertible throb, press irrepressibly onward, their
final surge valiant, military, against the sinuosity of the
accompanying lyrical step 
 
but it is indeed a bolero, a dance of seduction and love 
 
I think the connection is in the pulsations, rhythmic,
throbbing, persistent, of a comparably palpitating 
heart
 
love, passion, ambition, depend on the fervour of their 
common vibration 
 
 
this could have been also a mystic chant, compelling,
insidious, entrancing, rhythmically hypnotic, verily
like a swelling mass, were it not for the more carnal 
associations with blood, lust and war  
 
what does that say, would you think, about rites around
religious reverence
 
 
Richard        
 
psst: thanks Norm
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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November 12, 2011

Brahms Violin Concerto – Kyung-Wha Chung‏

if, may the gods forbid, you see one concerto only ever in
your lifetime, let it be this one, Kyung-Wha Chung does the
Brahms Violin Concerto incontrovertibly, such performances 
as this one are why composers write music, for interpreters
such as she to narrate their musical thought, to speak it
nearly verbally, indelibly, to bring it to unmistakable and 
categorical life, to transcendence then even perhaps, as in
this case, to our ineluctable, ineradicable consciousness,
and thereby then to our stars 

Kyung-Wha Chung sets the standard here to be achieved for
all artists, in my lifetime she has been the one to displace,
no one, not even the greatest, with the sole exception of
the inimitable of course Glenn Gould, has had the authority,
the brilliance, to outpace her, to outpace them, she is
Minerva, goddess of wisdom, poetry, magic, in outright
and unequivocal command, she is unquestionably and
irrevocably empress here, awesome, she is the highest
expression of music, utterly and irrevocably iridescent, 
incontestably and utterly sublime  
 
André Previn, with the Kölner Rundfunksinfonie Orchester,
the Radio Symphony Orchestra of Cologne, December, 1996,
supports ably, even admirably, he will make me eat my
earlier not especially flattering about him words 
 
watch 
  
 
Richard
 
 
 
 
 
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November 4, 2011

Beethoven’s Symphony no 6, in F major, opus 68, “Pastoral”‏

symphonies are not my preferred musical form, they are
generally too broad, grand, impersonal, they are nevertheless
the other most impactful order of presentation among musical
instruments, along with the concerto
 
a symphony is a concerto without a soloist, or it might be more
appropriate to say that a concerto is a symphony accommodating
a soloist, or soloists, in either case the musical elements remain
the same, you don’t have a symphony without movements   
 
a symphony is also of course another name for that very orchestra,
just to confuse you
 
 
despite my indifference to that particular form of entertainment 
some symphonies are nevertheless still for me impressive, some
even meaningful, poignant, several of Beethoven’s, most of the
works of the transcendental Bruckner, Brahms’ magnificent Fourth,
most others you can keep, as far as I’m concerned, I need a firm
anchoring principle, not the amorphous peregrinations of an
unbridled, often cacophonous crowd 
 
 
those that I love however have touched me deeply, Beethoven’s 
Sixth for instance, wherein through its second movement a loved
one spoke to me unmistakably from heaven, there and then made
me believe in an afterlife and angels, I remember the day clearly
and cherish still that powerful metaphysical moment  
 
 
in the “Pastoral” Beethoven apotheosizes nature, the movements
themselves, of which there are an unconventional five, are named
after rural settings, like paintings
 
     
I imagine Beethoven channeling the idyllic Classical Fragonard, or
prefiguring the bucolic and more Romantic Constable, Beethoven
straddles triumphally both epochs 
 
you will hear the birds sing, the rippling of the brook, it is as fresh
as ever springtime, as profound and expansive as itself time
 
Beethoven here speaks as clearly as actual language, and thereby
suggests that music is indeed itself an expressive tongue, earlier
it had been, though moving and undeniably evocative, essentially
an entertainment, a courtly device, though often enough sublime,
see Haydn, Mozart
 
Beethoven is not courtly, he is bold, assured, and mighty, of a new
breed of colonizers of the new and exhilarating democracy, the
French Revolution had just happened and their aristocracy was
dead and gone, indeed guillotined, a new day had dawned for
the common people, the idea of human rights
 
Beethoven spoke to these as a prophet, Moses at a secular Mount,
declaring the ideals of the Age of Reason, of which we still carry
the torch, to the multitudes and to their ensuing spawn
 
 
Klemperer at first seemed slow to me, nearly tired, but little by
little established a mesmerizing solemnity
 
by the end of the piece I’d again been touched by heaven 
 
 
Richard
 
 
 
 
 
 
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October 31, 2011

Sergei Prokofiev’s piano concerto no 3, opus 26‏

Yuja Wang in many ways isn’t Martha Argerich, but in 
many ways she’s just as extraordinary
 
here she is with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra
under Daniele Gatti in Amsterdam, October 3, 1910

disregard the written advice that you are watching
Strauss’ “Don Juan” at the beginning of the second
movement, this is Prokofiev’s piano concerto no 3, 
opus 26, throughout  
 
 
Sergei Prokofiev is the mad boy of music, a Harlequin,
a Pinocchio, the fool in Shakespeare, the court jester,
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”‘s Puck, unpredictable,
effevescent, mercurial, irrepressible
 
in art I would compare him to maybe Miró, fanciful
though much more electric, with a touch of, say, the
more impish, mischievous Hieronymus Bosch     
 
try not to be jolted, try not to be projected from your
seat, this is 1921, this is the Twentieth Century,
Prokofiev turns the heat on it right up  
 
 
Richard
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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October 31, 2011

happy Hallowe’en

this poem by Longfellow requires no introduction, apart
from to say that it’s perfect
 
 
happy Hallowe’en 
 
Richard  
 
              _________________   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Haunted Houses

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses.Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,–

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

        
                                  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

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