In 2006, there appeared a worthwhile cinematic telling of "The Nativity Story." I loved it: I watched it at the cinema about a half-dozen times that December, and donated a copy of the DVD to the public library.
One of my favorite scenes is the portrayal of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth:
Part 3 of 10
The clip begins with the Annunciation. The part about the Visitation begins at 6:30 in the clip. If I remember rightly, the actress who plays Elizabeth, Shohreh Aghdashloo, is herself a Palestinian Christian. She well portrays this great and holy woman.
The story continues in the next clip, part 4 of 10, which recounts the Birth of St. John Baptist and his Circumcision.
Here is the whole movie.
------------
The office hymn for this Feast is number 271 in the Hymnal 1982, Ut queant laxis (The great forerunner of the morn).
It from this hymn that the master teacher and Benedictine monk Guido of Arezzo (born 991 or 992, died after 1033) derived what we now know as solfege, and as a corollary invented the modern system of musical notation. Both innovations were aimed at making it easier for choristers to learn the plainsong chants of the Church.
Guido noticed that the six scale steps are clearly outlined as the first note of the first six phrases of this tune, and he assigned the text syllables from these points to the scale degrees: Ut - Re - Mi - Fa - Sol - La. Here is a little YouTube clip that perfectly illustrates what is happening: it shows the plainchant with the appropriate syllables outlined in boxes.
To appreciate Guido's leap of imagination, one must recall that the song was not written down for him to look at, not in a form like this. What he had was a text with squiggly lines above it, which very roughly indicated the shape of the tune, and the tune which he had learned by ear. All of the tunes, the enormous mass of Chant for the liturgical year, had to be transmitted by ear from generation to generation.
Guido realized that if one extracted these six pitches and named them, the pitches would have the same name in any chant, any musical composition, and they could then be written down in a clearly indicative manner, including the relationships of half steps and whole steps (the half step is always between Mi and Fa). Further, the entire corpus of chant could be notated with these syllables (and the use of Hexachords, which are multiple overlapping sets of these six pitches).
This changed the world.
(Well, at least the world of music.)
"Ut" was changed to "Doh" some five centuries later because the vowel was thought to sound better in the voice, and "Si" was added about that same time for reasons that are too complex to here recount; in part, it allows one to dispense with the system of overlapping hexachords. In English-speaking countries, "Si" was changed to "Ti" in the nineteenth century so that each syllable would begin with a different letter.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Friday, June 14, 2013
Thou shalt not bear false witness
[This began as an essay for the church newsletter. It grew into a much longer essay, herewith presented.]
What makes music good or bad? Or is there no criterion beyond individual taste? Does it become a matter where artistic judgment is a popularity contest?
A better question than "is it good?" might be "is it true?" Does a musical work reflect what is true in the universe, whether in large degree or small? Does it make a difference if it does not? Is the musical work within its own confines a successful "Secondary World which your mind can enter"?
The Roman Catholic catechism discusses art and music under the Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness. If this is appropriate, then it does make a difference. Music which is "not true" becomes a moral issue; it is a false witness.
Good music is not always "pretty," because if it is only that, it cannot be true. Nor can music be true if it is altogether ugly, all sharp angles and despair. This has become more of a challenge in the last century or so, when the atmosphere of Western culture has become increasingly hostile to faith. Music that grows from this soil and has no place in it for God does not correspond with the nature of the universe; it is a "false witness." This applies to the work of musicians who themselves are persons of faith just as much as it does to those without faith. Believers or not, our music springs from our culture. We may question and challenge the cultural tradition, but we cannot entirely escape it.
Still, being ugly (or for that matter, pretty) is not as great a risk as being superficial. Much of the music one hears in public spaces or on the radio sounds as if it is made by musicians who are going through the motions, with no connection to what they are playing. It is often technically polished in the manner appropriate to its genre, but at heart it is facile, slick, commercial.
It is very difficult to be absolutely truthful in music, or literature, or art. It is easier to say something that is conventional, the same as others have said. It is easier, and often more profitable, not to challenge the listener. But one way or another, truth always challenges us, whether composer, performer, or listener.
In the novel "My Name is Asher Lev" by Chaim Potok, the protagonist faces a difficult artistic choice. He has made a painting, and
The matter is further complicated by the fact that no music or musical performance is altogether true. How is one to judge? If the work in question is something that I am playing on the organ, or teaching to the choir, or a congregational song, one indication for me is whether it "wears well." As I return to it time after time in rehearsal, does it become more meaningful? Or less? Sometimes I have scheduled an organ or choral piece and begun its preparation, and have only gradually come to realize that it is not wearing well. By then, it is often too late to replace it with something better.
A musician, and especially a church or synagogue musician, has a duty to exercise his best judgment in these matters, with the awareness that even our best judgment is often mistaken. For this, we must call upon the Lord for mercy.
After each church service where I have played or conducted, I pray this, a little prayer from the RSCM:
Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.
... we make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made: and not only made, but made in the image and
likeness of a Maker. (J.R.R. Tolkien, "On Fairy-Stories": p. 18)
Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the story-maker's art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called "willing suspension of disbelief." But this does not seem to me a good description of what happens. What really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful "sub-creator" He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is "true": it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it, while you are, as it were, inside. (ibid., p. 12)
What makes music good or bad? Or is there no criterion beyond individual taste? Does it become a matter where artistic judgment is a popularity contest?
A better question than "is it good?" might be "is it true?" Does a musical work reflect what is true in the universe, whether in large degree or small? Does it make a difference if it does not? Is the musical work within its own confines a successful "Secondary World which your mind can enter"?
The Roman Catholic catechism discusses art and music under the Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness. If this is appropriate, then it does make a difference. Music which is "not true" becomes a moral issue; it is a false witness.
Probably every writer making a secondary world, a fantasy, every sub-creator, wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it. If he indeed achieves a quality that can fairly be described by the dictionary definition: "inner consistency of reality," it is difficult to conceive how this can be, if the work does not in some way partake of reality. The peculiar quality of the "joy" in successful Fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. It is not only a "consolation" for the sorrow of this world, but a satisfaction, and an answer to that question, "Is it true?" The answer to this question that I gave at first was (quite rightly): "If you have built your little world well, yes: it is true in that world." That is enough for the artist (or the artist part of the artist). But in the "eucatastrophe" we see in a brief vision that the answer may be greater— may be a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium in the real world.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, "On Fairy-Stories": p. 23)
Good music is not always "pretty," because if it is only that, it cannot be true. Nor can music be true if it is altogether ugly, all sharp angles and despair. This has become more of a challenge in the last century or so, when the atmosphere of Western culture has become increasingly hostile to faith. Music that grows from this soil and has no place in it for God does not correspond with the nature of the universe; it is a "false witness." This applies to the work of musicians who themselves are persons of faith just as much as it does to those without faith. Believers or not, our music springs from our culture. We may question and challenge the cultural tradition, but we cannot entirely escape it.
Still, being ugly (or for that matter, pretty) is not as great a risk as being superficial. Much of the music one hears in public spaces or on the radio sounds as if it is made by musicians who are going through the motions, with no connection to what they are playing. It is often technically polished in the manner appropriate to its genre, but at heart it is facile, slick, commercial.
It is very difficult to be absolutely truthful in music, or literature, or art. It is easier to say something that is conventional, the same as others have said. It is easier, and often more profitable, not to challenge the listener. But one way or another, truth always challenges us, whether composer, performer, or listener.
In the novel "My Name is Asher Lev" by Chaim Potok, the protagonist faces a difficult artistic choice. He has made a painting, and
The painting did not say fully what I had wanted to say... Within myself, a warning voice spoke soundlessly of fraud. I had brought something incomplete into the world...Asher Lev knows that if he goes more deeply into this and completes his work, he will hurt his parents and others of his community. He knows also that should he leave it as it stands, only two or three people in the world would sense that something was wrong. "By itself it was a good painting. Only I would have known."
In the morning, I woke and prayed and knew what had to be done. Yes, I could have decided not to do it. Who would have known? Would it have made a difference to anyone in the world that I had felt a sense of incompleteness about a painting? ...It is as difficult for the listener as it is for the composer or performer to judge "the difference between integrity and deceit in a created work." This is because we cannot entirely rely on our tastes; they are corrupted, like every other aspect of our fallen nature. I can think of many occasions where I have thought well of a piece of music and only later come to realize that I was wrong. Or vice-versa; my first impression was poor, and understanding came slowly. The judgment of others can be helpful: if something is considered a masterpiece but one does not at first hear it to be so, it is usually worth the time to listen to it again, perhaps many times over a period of years.
But it would have made me a whore to leave it incomplete. It would have made it easier to leave future work incomplete. It would have made it more and more difficult to draw upon that additional aching surge of effort that is always the difference between integrity and deceit in a created work. (p. 328)
The matter is further complicated by the fact that no music or musical performance is altogether true. How is one to judge? If the work in question is something that I am playing on the organ, or teaching to the choir, or a congregational song, one indication for me is whether it "wears well." As I return to it time after time in rehearsal, does it become more meaningful? Or less? Sometimes I have scheduled an organ or choral piece and begun its preparation, and have only gradually come to realize that it is not wearing well. By then, it is often too late to replace it with something better.
A musician, and especially a church or synagogue musician, has a duty to exercise his best judgment in these matters, with the awareness that even our best judgment is often mistaken. For this, we must call upon the Lord for mercy.
After each church service where I have played or conducted, I pray this, a little prayer from the RSCM:
Pardon, O Lord, all the faults of our prayers and praises, and help us to worship thee more worthily; for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.At the end of a church service, I am often acutely conscious of the wrong notes I have played; all the errors of musical shape, tempo, articulation; the wrongness and incompleteness of anything I have improvised. All of these faults weaken the integrity and communicative potential of the music. But deeper than all this, the presentation of a "false witness" to the Gospel by inappropriate selection of music lies always in the background.
Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Scaling Back
(Friday) The sonata-form was definitely not working. The hymn tunes now seemed wrong for it, demanding a much larger time scale than is available in order to be worked out in this form. Nor am I yet capable of controlling a development section. But what I find, to my delight, is that I can indeed play a decent sonata-form exposition, controlling the key centers and presenting two thematic groups in an interesting manner. I am much closer to being able to work in this large and important Form than I had thought. But not yet.
I decided to scale back to an A-B-A form plus coda - simply my "exposition" with a direct return to the A section (the Intercessor tune, in B minor), without any explicit development. This plan worked much better, and I was comfortable with it after two hours or so of practice.
(Saturday) Just a bit of work today on the improvisation; I played through the Form twice (with, of course, differences in detail), and I think that I am ready for tomorrow. If all goes well, the piece will be about ten minutes long, and provide a good setup for the opening hymn as well as (hopefully) the liturgy as a whole.
For that is the purpose: a Prelude sets the context for the day. It should join other artistic work such as the liturgical colors and the architecture to communicate what is at hand as people arrive, and to do so more specifically than those other forms, for the Prelude should to a large degree indicate the ethos of this particular day's Collect, Lessons, and their intersection with this congregation and this time and place in the world. Sermons do that too, and more effectively, but the Prelude can lay the groundwork without people realizing it in a conscious manner.
When the Prelude is hymn-based, as this one is, it also brings the hymn tune to the mind of the congregation so that when the time to sing the tune arrives, people sense that they have heard this before.
It is important to me that these improvisations are ephemeral. They are not recorded, and I throw away any written notes or plan after the service. Music is perhaps the most ephemeral of arts. That applies to written compositions, too; they exist only when someone performs them.
My postlude is a setting of St. Anne (Our God, our help in ages past) by the composer Kenton Coe. I knew Mr. Coe when we once lived in neighboring cities; one of my choristers introduced us, and said to me: "You must know, he is a Real Composer." He studied with Nadia Boulanger and Paul Hindemith, both of them among the finest of teachers, and Kenton Coe is indeed a Real Composer. Some of his music appeared on the programmes of symphony orchestras; he has had at least three operas appear on the stage; he composed a number of soundtracks for PBS documentaries, and a goodly amount of choral music. He may still be writing; I am sure that he is, if he is able.
But most of his organ music is unpublished, as is this setting of St. Anne. As I practiced it this week, I was much in mind that there are not many people playing this, or any of his organ music. I know of one organist, Stephen Hamilton, who has championed Mr. Coe's music, but I suspect that there are not many others of us, and fewer as the years pass. I see that there is no entry for him on Wikipedia; that is not a good sign. He does, however, have his own website. Stephen and I, and others who may have gotten this music from the composer, are no longer young. What will happen to this music in another twenty years? Will it be gone, as ephemeral as tomorrow's improvisation on Intercessor and London New?
But, I realized as I worked on his setting of St. Anne, that some of my musical language has come from him, some very directly into this week's improvisation. Whether or not any of his compositions remain in the repertoire, he has contributed to the Tradition, through me and through others who have played and listened to his music and perhaps written music of their own.
----
Afterword:
I have written these three essays to illustrate my "compositional" process in the preparation of an improvised organ voluntary. What shows up on Sunday is only a small fraction of what happened during the preparation; most of the ideas have been discarded, including some of the best parts. The ideas that remain are not necessarily the best, but rather the ones that fit the piece as it comes to fruition.
Today finished with a doctoral recital in trombone, played in our church. It is the final recital on the Steinway before it heads to the shop. Afterwards, the pianist agreed with me that the action needs work, but he added that "it is a great-sounding piano." I was pleased to hear that.
I decided to scale back to an A-B-A form plus coda - simply my "exposition" with a direct return to the A section (the Intercessor tune, in B minor), without any explicit development. This plan worked much better, and I was comfortable with it after two hours or so of practice.
(Saturday) Just a bit of work today on the improvisation; I played through the Form twice (with, of course, differences in detail), and I think that I am ready for tomorrow. If all goes well, the piece will be about ten minutes long, and provide a good setup for the opening hymn as well as (hopefully) the liturgy as a whole.
For that is the purpose: a Prelude sets the context for the day. It should join other artistic work such as the liturgical colors and the architecture to communicate what is at hand as people arrive, and to do so more specifically than those other forms, for the Prelude should to a large degree indicate the ethos of this particular day's Collect, Lessons, and their intersection with this congregation and this time and place in the world. Sermons do that too, and more effectively, but the Prelude can lay the groundwork without people realizing it in a conscious manner.
When the Prelude is hymn-based, as this one is, it also brings the hymn tune to the mind of the congregation so that when the time to sing the tune arrives, people sense that they have heard this before.
It is important to me that these improvisations are ephemeral. They are not recorded, and I throw away any written notes or plan after the service. Music is perhaps the most ephemeral of arts. That applies to written compositions, too; they exist only when someone performs them.
My postlude is a setting of St. Anne (Our God, our help in ages past) by the composer Kenton Coe. I knew Mr. Coe when we once lived in neighboring cities; one of my choristers introduced us, and said to me: "You must know, he is a Real Composer." He studied with Nadia Boulanger and Paul Hindemith, both of them among the finest of teachers, and Kenton Coe is indeed a Real Composer. Some of his music appeared on the programmes of symphony orchestras; he has had at least three operas appear on the stage; he composed a number of soundtracks for PBS documentaries, and a goodly amount of choral music. He may still be writing; I am sure that he is, if he is able.
But most of his organ music is unpublished, as is this setting of St. Anne. As I practiced it this week, I was much in mind that there are not many people playing this, or any of his organ music. I know of one organist, Stephen Hamilton, who has championed Mr. Coe's music, but I suspect that there are not many others of us, and fewer as the years pass. I see that there is no entry for him on Wikipedia; that is not a good sign. He does, however, have his own website. Stephen and I, and others who may have gotten this music from the composer, are no longer young. What will happen to this music in another twenty years? Will it be gone, as ephemeral as tomorrow's improvisation on Intercessor and London New?
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.
But, I realized as I worked on his setting of St. Anne, that some of my musical language has come from him, some very directly into this week's improvisation. Whether or not any of his compositions remain in the repertoire, he has contributed to the Tradition, through me and through others who have played and listened to his music and perhaps written music of their own.
----
Afterword:
I have written these three essays to illustrate my "compositional" process in the preparation of an improvised organ voluntary. What shows up on Sunday is only a small fraction of what happened during the preparation; most of the ideas have been discarded, including some of the best parts. The ideas that remain are not necessarily the best, but rather the ones that fit the piece as it comes to fruition.
Today finished with a doctoral recital in trombone, played in our church. It is the final recital on the Steinway before it heads to the shop. Afterwards, the pianist agreed with me that the action needs work, but he added that "it is a great-sounding piano." I was pleased to hear that.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
An untidy mess
I began today after Matins by raising the lid on the Steinway, something I almost never do. But the sound is better.
Today, there is an enormous mass of ideas, far too many. I worked at the Steinway for a half-hour or so, and it was good. But now, perversely, the piece wanted to be at the organ. So I took it across the room and tried it. Again, it was good; lots of material, lots of good sounds. Among other things, I found that motives from the two tunes combine in interesting ways.
- Step one of improvisation: Know the Tune. That was yesterday's work.
- Step two: Speak the Language. That was much of today's work.
I need a time like this morning to work around with the thematic material, to harmonize it in many ways, to make counterpoint with and against it, to see what is there, to work with the theme in my musical language, which is of course not mine, but what I have inherited from the Tradition. I find that I must spend some time doing this, without writing anything down or making any plans as to what to do with the material. But that is far from enough. The hardest part of improvisation (and, I suspect, composition) is the discipline of form. Untidy masses of sound are self-indulgent and meaningless. Thus:
- Step three: Work within a Form.
So, what to do with my particular untidy mess? Yesterday I was leaning toward an A-B-A form; today I wondered whether it might be appropriate to use the sonata first-movement form. This frightens me; I have never attempted to improvise a sonata-form movement. I thought about it, and gave it a try: Intercessor as the first theme, in B minor; London New as the second theme in F sharp major, the dominant; development, recapitulation with Intercessor in the home key of B minor and London New in B major, then possibly a coda.
"Be disciplined, Cassie. Don't let it get away from you." With that thought, I turned on my little tape recorder, clicked my stopwatch, and dove in.
The tape recorder is a wonderful invention for the musician. With it, I can review my work and consider how to improve. I made it to the end of my little "sonata" form, the large Happy Ending that eluded me yesterday. The piece finished with a coda that would have made Bruckner blush, combining the two tunes and building to full organ in a triumphant B major.
Umm... a bit over fourteen minutes. That is too long for a church prelude, and the ending was a bit much. No, it was way too much. They are here for church, not a concert.
I took the cassette tape down to the choir room where there is a better playback system and listened to it. Good beginning, very good: soft and intense. The whole first theme grouping (on Intercessor) was good. There was not really a transition to the second group, but a full stop and a new beginning, which can work (and did, it seemed to me), with the London New tune in the dominant major. That went nicely into the development, and there things went awry. It quickly became undisciplined, without a clear direction. I can see that one must be ruthless at this point in a sonata form, and get back to the tonic and the recapitulation. In other words, "Cut it short, Cassie."
The recapitulation on the tape was not nearly as good as the exposition. And the large coda is not how I wanted to finish, though it fit the inner logic of how the piece was going by then; it "wanted" a big triumphal ending (perhaps to balance the over-long development?). But that is not what I want to happen in the context of the liturgy. Can I figure out how to finish the recapitulation with a good bit of energy and use the coda to work down to a quiet ending, and to do it without compromising the inner logic of the piece?
After a couple of hours on this, I was able to lay it aside and move on to other work. Tomorrow is a Sabbath from organ-playing; we shall see where it is on Friday. There is work to do. But now there is a direction. What one does at this point is to focus on the sections that are weak -- for example, play just the development section with the transitions into it and out of it, and consider what aspect of it could be improved. Do it several times. Become comfortable playing development sections. Then put it into the larger context.
---
Bonus Recording:
Part of today's work was helping a bride and groom locate music for solo violoncello, and I encountered this.
There is a Yo-Yo Ma recording of the Six Suites for Unaccompanied Violoncello by J. S. Bach that is quite good, and has over 2 million views -- thank goodness someone out there is listening to classical music; I was having some doubts. The linked recording of the Six Suites is in my opinion better: Mstislav Rostroprovich playing in a Gothic nave -- not, it appears, the National Cathedral, which would have been convenient for him during his many years in Washington, but someplace with similar acoustics.
I continue to be astonished at the wealth of amazing music on YouTube.
Today, there is an enormous mass of ideas, far too many. I worked at the Steinway for a half-hour or so, and it was good. But now, perversely, the piece wanted to be at the organ. So I took it across the room and tried it. Again, it was good; lots of material, lots of good sounds. Among other things, I found that motives from the two tunes combine in interesting ways.
- Step one of improvisation: Know the Tune. That was yesterday's work.
- Step two: Speak the Language. That was much of today's work.
I need a time like this morning to work around with the thematic material, to harmonize it in many ways, to make counterpoint with and against it, to see what is there, to work with the theme in my musical language, which is of course not mine, but what I have inherited from the Tradition. I find that I must spend some time doing this, without writing anything down or making any plans as to what to do with the material. But that is far from enough. The hardest part of improvisation (and, I suspect, composition) is the discipline of form. Untidy masses of sound are self-indulgent and meaningless. Thus:
- Step three: Work within a Form.
So, what to do with my particular untidy mess? Yesterday I was leaning toward an A-B-A form; today I wondered whether it might be appropriate to use the sonata first-movement form. This frightens me; I have never attempted to improvise a sonata-form movement. I thought about it, and gave it a try: Intercessor as the first theme, in B minor; London New as the second theme in F sharp major, the dominant; development, recapitulation with Intercessor in the home key of B minor and London New in B major, then possibly a coda.
"Be disciplined, Cassie. Don't let it get away from you." With that thought, I turned on my little tape recorder, clicked my stopwatch, and dove in.
The tape recorder is a wonderful invention for the musician. With it, I can review my work and consider how to improve. I made it to the end of my little "sonata" form, the large Happy Ending that eluded me yesterday. The piece finished with a coda that would have made Bruckner blush, combining the two tunes and building to full organ in a triumphant B major.
Umm... a bit over fourteen minutes. That is too long for a church prelude, and the ending was a bit much. No, it was way too much. They are here for church, not a concert.
I took the cassette tape down to the choir room where there is a better playback system and listened to it. Good beginning, very good: soft and intense. The whole first theme grouping (on Intercessor) was good. There was not really a transition to the second group, but a full stop and a new beginning, which can work (and did, it seemed to me), with the London New tune in the dominant major. That went nicely into the development, and there things went awry. It quickly became undisciplined, without a clear direction. I can see that one must be ruthless at this point in a sonata form, and get back to the tonic and the recapitulation. In other words, "Cut it short, Cassie."
The recapitulation on the tape was not nearly as good as the exposition. And the large coda is not how I wanted to finish, though it fit the inner logic of how the piece was going by then; it "wanted" a big triumphal ending (perhaps to balance the over-long development?). But that is not what I want to happen in the context of the liturgy. Can I figure out how to finish the recapitulation with a good bit of energy and use the coda to work down to a quiet ending, and to do it without compromising the inner logic of the piece?
After a couple of hours on this, I was able to lay it aside and move on to other work. Tomorrow is a Sabbath from organ-playing; we shall see where it is on Friday. There is work to do. But now there is a direction. What one does at this point is to focus on the sections that are weak -- for example, play just the development section with the transitions into it and out of it, and consider what aspect of it could be improved. Do it several times. Become comfortable playing development sections. Then put it into the larger context.
---
Bonus Recording:
Part of today's work was helping a bride and groom locate music for solo violoncello, and I encountered this.
There is a Yo-Yo Ma recording of the Six Suites for Unaccompanied Violoncello by J. S. Bach that is quite good, and has over 2 million views -- thank goodness someone out there is listening to classical music; I was having some doubts. The linked recording of the Six Suites is in my opinion better: Mstislav Rostroprovich playing in a Gothic nave -- not, it appears, the National Cathedral, which would have been convenient for him during his many years in Washington, but someplace with similar acoustics.
I continue to be astonished at the wealth of amazing music on YouTube.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
By gracious powers ...
Von guten Mächten treu und stillumgeben,Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote these words, the beginning of a seven-stanza poem, in a letter addressed to his mother, 28 December 1944, from a Gestapo prison in Berlin. Some of it appears in a fine translation by Fred Pratt Green as number 695 in the Hymnal 1982. I cannot here quote either the German or English at length out of respect for copyright. The poem speaks of our trust in God no matter what comes, and thus fits the Lessons for this coming Sunday: the widow of Nain (St. Luke 7:11-17), St. Paul's winding road from Damascus which led him where he could not have imagined going (Galatians 1:11-24), Elijah and the widow of Zarephath who has but a handful of meal in a jar and a little oil in a vessel (I Kings 17:8-24).
behütet und getröstet wunderbar...
By gracious powers so wonderfully sheltered,
and confidently waiting, come what may...
We will sing this hymn, and my improvised prelude will be based on it. I began work this morning, and we will see where it leads. For now, I remain much influenced by the Furtwängler reading of the Bruckner Ninth that I heard on Sunday night and wrote about in the previous essay. The tune is Intercessor by Hubert Parry, a good fit to the text. I wrote out the tune in B minor to make a better key relationship with the opening hymn (D major) and took it upstairs to the piano.
One must begin by knowing the tune. I thought through it several times on the bus this morning in solfege, and began playing it at the piano, still singing the solfege syllables. Normally I try to move it through several keys, but I could not get it out of B minor.
If it stays in the direction it went today, it is going to be very dark.
And it seems to want to stay on the piano, our beloved old Steinway Model L. This is the last Sunday before it goes off to the rebuilder for new strings and other work -- all of it needed. But I am afraid. I fear that it might come back like the harsh soulless 1970's beast in the choir room, also a Steinway Model L. Those fears, and my love for this instrument, become part of the improvisatory work, too, as is the connection between Bonhoeffer in the Gestapo cell awaiting execution and Furtwängler and the orchestra in that same dark autumn and winter of 1944.
I think also of a time many years ago. A young woman in the church I then served had ovarian cancer. She and her husband were strong Evangelical Christians, many people prayed for them (including the likes of Billy and Ruth Graham, who had known them as children), and there was confidence that she would be all right. But it proved not to be so; after surgery, chemotherapy and all the rest, the cancer returned, worse than ever. At this point, many were still full of encouragement for the couple, assuring them that God would work a miracle. I tried to write a note to the young man, who was hardly thirty years old, and could not. Finally, I sent him a copy of this hymn. He was not a musician, but he knew Bonhoeffer's writings, and I think he knew that this text was a more honest statement of their situation than what most others were telling them. The young lady died a few months later; I played for her funeral. She and her husband are in the background of my work this morning, too.
I suppose what I am attempting to say is that music is never created without context. For better and for worse, everything that is in the musician - what he has read, or heard, or experienced, or seen - is part of the music that he makes.
I hope to include our opening hymn in the improvisation:
God moves in a mysterious wayThis is from William Cowper, number 677 in the Hymnal 1982, with the psalm tune London New. For my purposes, I wrote it out in B Major, with intent of using it as a coda. I tried to make it so this morning, in my practice; the piece refused to stop there. It insisted on being not a coda, but a B section, returning to Intercessor and B minor. In the service, it should work; if the improvisation returns to Intercessor and ends darkly, the opening hymn is the Cowper and London New, in D major, and a suitable answer to the questions.
His wonders to perform:
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
and rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines,I worked on the improvisation for about a half hour. I had another half hour before staff meeting, but could do no more. Nor could I lay it aside and do some of my other work. But I must; the playing of preludes and postludes is only part of my work, and I cannot allow it to push all else aside.
with never-failing skill,
he treasures up his bright designs,
and works his sovereign will.
But sometimes it does. A piece of music takes over to such a degree that it is hard to do anything else. Artistic work of any kind is rarely efficient. One wishes to be productive, to do one thing, to move on to the next, to be organized, to Get Things Done. Sometimes that is possible, fortunately; sometimes - as today - it is not. The real work is going on under the surface. Beethoven would take a long walk, Haydn would get on his knees and pray. For me, a good night's sleep often brings more clarity in the morning. Writing about it as I am doing here is helpful. The one thing that seems important is to not fill what seems to be a void with noise. Watching television would be deadly, and would probably destroy whatever work is maturing in the subconscious. Even listening to other music would be dangerous - this, after I spent hours on Sunday evening immersing myself in Bruckner. The good part of that is that he will be near the forefront of whatever comes of this on Sunday.
I was ill-tempered in staff meeting, especially after it seemed that I was once again to be squeezed out of my life -- another jazz drummer is to be practicing in the choir room in the afternoons all summer -- the time when it is supposedly "quiet" around here -- there was a list of four concerts this week that the university wanted to relocate here because of river flooding (it later proved to be a false alarm; they decided they can keep three of them at their original location, and I already knew about the fourth, a trombone recital).
But, again, I cannot allow my musical work to push the rest of it aside.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Bruckner, and Wilhelm Furtwängler
This is part one of a recording of the Ninth Symphony of Anton Bruckner, the one that he dedicated "to the beloved God" ("dem lieben Gott") and was unable to finish before his death. Three movements were complete, and much progress was made on the fourth and final movement, but not enough (in my opinion) to justify assembling a completion, though several attempts have been made. It is incomplete with just the three movements, but perhaps it is best to leave it thus, a reminder of our mortality. When it became clear to Bruckner that he was not going to see it through, he suggested that a performance might conclude with his choral setting of the Te Deum, an immensely magnificent work - in the wrong key for a conclusion to this symphony, but I think it indicates in spirit Bruckner's intent for the final movement.
The recording is by Wilhelm Furtwängler (one of my favorite conductors of the older generation) and the Berlin Philharmonic, in a live performance on October 7, 1944. The original tapes were confiscated by the Soviets in 1945 and only became available decades later. This performance is almost terrifying in its intensity.
One can hardly imagine what the conditions were for a group of musicians to play this music in that time and place, with the Russians almost at their doorstep, the Germany they loved in ruins, and an insane and deadly tyrant in control. It is not hard to hear this in the background of this recording; it is life and death for these musicians. To hear what I mean, listen to the last two minutes or so of the first movement, starting about the 8:55 mark of the second YouTube file:
Ninth Symphony, part two of five
In his "de-Nazification" trial after the war, Furtwängler said this:
Furtwängler died in 1954.
There is a 2001 movie on YouTube about the investigation and trial of Furtwängler in 1946: "Taking Sides." I have not yet watched much of it [added later - now I have; see the second footnote]
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Footnotes:
There are some 900 "views" of the first of the YouTube files of this performance of the Bruckner; the later sections of the recording (there are five, covering the three movements) have only 300 or so views.
The other day, as J. and I planned music for a summer diocesan event, we sampled two YouTube recordings that will be used for liturgical dance. These recordings, of "music" which I found to be cold, commercial, and entirely devoid of either musical or spiritual content, had some 200,000 views each.
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I spent the latter part of this Sunday evening watching the aforementioned movie about Furtwängler. One thing is clear: there are no easy answers as to what a musician is to do in such a time. Or any person. May God have mercy on us all.
The Nazi experience is a proof that Music and other aspects of High Culture are not in themselves sufficient to resist evil. Only God can do that. Or more to the point, God-With-Us (Emmanuel).
The recording is by Wilhelm Furtwängler (one of my favorite conductors of the older generation) and the Berlin Philharmonic, in a live performance on October 7, 1944. The original tapes were confiscated by the Soviets in 1945 and only became available decades later. This performance is almost terrifying in its intensity.
One can hardly imagine what the conditions were for a group of musicians to play this music in that time and place, with the Russians almost at their doorstep, the Germany they loved in ruins, and an insane and deadly tyrant in control. It is not hard to hear this in the background of this recording; it is life and death for these musicians. To hear what I mean, listen to the last two minutes or so of the first movement, starting about the 8:55 mark of the second YouTube file:
Ninth Symphony, part two of five
In his "de-Nazification" trial after the war, Furtwängler said this:
I knew Germany was in a terrible crisis; I felt responsible for German music, and it was my task to survive this crisis, as much as I could. The concern that my art was misused for propaganda had to yield to the greater concern that German music be preserved, that music be given to the German people by its own musicians. These people, the compatriots of Bach and Beethoven, of Mozart and Schubert, still had to go on living under the control of a regime obsessed with total war. No one who did not live here himself in those days can possibly judge what it was like. (from Wikipedia, s.v. "William Furtwängler")After the war, it became clear that Furtwängler had helped as many Jewish musicians as he could to escape, including the conductor Josef Krips and the composer Arnold Schoenberg. He also had connections with the Resistance, and the organizers of the failed attempt to assassinate Hitler in 1944, the "20 July plot." But to a large degree after the war he remained under a cloud. Because of intense opposition by musicians such as Isaac Stern, George Szell, and Arturo Toscanini (who all three spent the war safely ensconced in the United States), the Chicago Symphony Orchestra was forced to withdraw their offer to make Furtwängler their musical director. He was never permitted to conduct in the United States.
Furtwängler died in 1954.
There is a 2001 movie on YouTube about the investigation and trial of Furtwängler in 1946: "Taking Sides." I have not yet watched much of it [added later - now I have; see the second footnote]
----
Footnotes:
There are some 900 "views" of the first of the YouTube files of this performance of the Bruckner; the later sections of the recording (there are five, covering the three movements) have only 300 or so views.
The other day, as J. and I planned music for a summer diocesan event, we sampled two YouTube recordings that will be used for liturgical dance. These recordings, of "music" which I found to be cold, commercial, and entirely devoid of either musical or spiritual content, had some 200,000 views each.
The wicked prowl on every side, and that which is worthless is highly prized by everyone. (Psalm 12:8)
--------
I spent the latter part of this Sunday evening watching the aforementioned movie about Furtwängler. One thing is clear: there are no easy answers as to what a musician is to do in such a time. Or any person. May God have mercy on us all.
The Nazi experience is a proof that Music and other aspects of High Culture are not in themselves sufficient to resist evil. Only God can do that. Or more to the point, God-With-Us (Emmanuel).
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