We had the privilege of hearing the Bach Sonata in A minor (BWV 1003) twice. It is a piece which profits from repeated hearings, and from the different approaches taken to it by the two musicians.
Samantha played first, opening with Mozart and finishing with the Brahms Sonata, Op. 100. “Brahms is my favorite composer,” she said, before playing it with passionate intensity.
After a reception, it was Carrie's turn: Bach, Ernest Bloch, and, to my delight, the Franck Violin Sonata. Like Samantha, I love Brahms. But at this stage of my life, I love Franck even more, and his Violin Sonata is one of his finest works. Carrie's splendid rendition of it took me back into the imaginative world where I dwelt as I prepared the Grand Piece Symphonique last month, a world where it was still possible to believe in goodness and truth. I think that Romanticism succeeded better in music than in literature or any of the other arts, with poetry perhaps a close second to music. It succeeded so well that to a large degree the world of classical music continues to cling to its repertoire almost a century after its idealistic spirit died in the trenches of the Great War.
Except its spirit did not entirely disappear, thanks to composers such as Brahms and Franck. Every time we perform their music, their ideas are once again set loose in the world, visions of hope to carry us through the dark days of our new century.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
(Emily Dickinson)
As I grow older, it is increasingly important to me that there are people like Sam and Carrie to keep the Song alive. Blessings be with them.
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