Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Hey - why don't you play something we want to hear???


Play Me!



I LOVE this piece.  It's called "Ikarus", and it's taken from Jean Guillou's collection of six pieces entitled "Sagas".  Perhaps you are familiar with the mythical story of Ikarus (often spelled Icarus):  Ikarus was was the son of the Athenian craftsman, Daedalus.  Daedalus and Ikarus were imprisoned in the labyrinth he had built for Minos, the King of Crete.  In order to escape, Daedalus made two pair of wings made of wax and feathers for himself and his son.  He warned Ikarus not to fly too close to the sea, else his feathers would get wet and be too heavy for flight.  Daedalus also warned Ikarus not to fly too close to the sun, else the wax would melt and he would fall to his death.  Ikarus is full excitement as he tries his wings for the first time.  His adrenaline begins to rush.  He swoops and swoons, flying faster and faster, higher and higher, ignoring his father's warnings.  His youthful daring proves to be his downfall (literally).  Ikarus flies too close to the sun, melting the wax of his wings, and he plunges to his death in the sea.  

What I love about this piece is that you can hear the story within it.  You hear the first halted swoops at the beginning of flight as Ikarus gets used to his new mode of transportation - the music is not constant in its rhythm, but stops and starts as if the performer is not yet sure of what he wants to do.  You hear Ikarus gradually accelerate into a sustained, but clearly reckless joyride - the music eventually "settles" into a constant rhythm, but it is full of jagged shapes and gestures that utilize the heights and depths of the instrument.  You hear Ikarus finally meet his doom, falling faster and faster to his fatal impact with the sea - clearly depicted at in the final measures as the music accelerates and accelerates to an abrupt ending.  Wicked.

I few days ago I was perusing through a thread of comments on Facebook about organ concerts - there was much lamenting about the lack of popularity of the instrument, and there were several comments blaming organists who play music that is too esoteric or raw.  I suppose the piece you are listening to may fall into that category for some.  It begs the question:  it is really my job as a performer - as an artist - to play pretty songs for the audience?  Now I am a firm believer in programming music that a) sounds good on the intended instrument, b) pairs staples of the repertoire with new pieces, and c) has a flow that tells a story from the beginning of the recital to the end.  Choosing pieces for a recital is an art in itself, sometimes made impossible because of the horrible instruments you have to play them on.  But that's our job - to create a transcendent experience for the audience, no matter what is coming out of that instrument.  I'm not even going to pretend that I always succeed at this.  Sometimes you plan a program that looks fantastic on paper but in the end you just want to light a match in the organ chamber and walk away.  

But wouldn't it be a shame, really, if we never had the privilege of hearing pieces like "Ikarus" because people couldn't go home whistling the tune?  Must we only play music that makes us smile and ignore all the compositions that reveal the dark side of the soul?  After all, the world isn't all pink and pastel.  We can only pretend to live inside our favorite Thomas Kinkade painting for so long until the paint starts melting away to expose the stained canvas underneath.  That's where the juicy stuff is.  Those are the times when we really show our humanity, good or bad.  And if art is life, then someone has to go out there and tell the truth as it really is.  I think that's our true calling as artists - to tell the truth through our medium.

What do you think?


Saturday, April 21, 2012

The gift of imperfection

Play Me!


My favorite cellist is Rostropovich - Slava!  Well duh, you say.  He is one of the greatest of all time.  The conductor Seiji Ozawa said in a video about Rostropovich that perhaps because of him he believed in God.  What a statement!  But one of the main reasons I like his playing is because it's not perfect.  It's inspired.  It's gutsy.  It's stunningly beautiful.  It's risky.  There's no one else like him.  But if you listen to enough of his recordings you can find a moment or two of, shall we say, humanity, amongst all the divine that comes from his bow.  In fact, the first phrase he plays in the video above isn't really in tune at all.  Rostropovich plays with such incredible beauty and force of will that no one really cares.  Except conservatory music students, of course, who are famous for pointing out flaws as small and insignificant as the ripped hem of recital dress.  Hey - we train them to be critical of everything as part of their learning process.  They eventually learn to tame that skill into what it needs to be.  Well, some of them learn, and the rest are constantly disappointed because no one plays it as perfectly as they hear it in their minds.  


And that, friends, is where we miss the point of it all.  Art - music in this case - is life.  And neither music nor life is about perfection.  It's about the journey to perfection, a voyage to a destination which we freely admit there is no hope of ever arriving.  That fact that we never arrive is what makes us continue to travel.  Or the fact that there was that ONE time when we got sooooo close that we have to take to the road again, retrace our steps, and try to make it back there.  Here's an example: several years ago I played Franz Liszt's "Ad nos ad salutarem undam" on a recital at the Methuen Memorial Music Hall outside of Boston.  A beast of a work.  The organ at Methuen is a FANTASTIC choice for this piece - lots of wonderful color and power in a room encased in marble, beautiful sculptures and an acoustic that made it impossible to play too short.  Everywhere you look there was beauty, and the sound of the instrument wafted through the air like expensive perfume.  I remember preparing for that recital - it was the middle of the summer, BLAZING hot, and because the hall was a historic building there was no air conditioning.  The piece itself is a good 25 minutes long, so it required long practice sessions to get to know the instrument and find the right sounds that would give voice to what Liszt really wanted.  I still remember that concert.  It was an insanely hot night in July and I sweat completely through my outfit.  Gross.  But the Liszt was fantastic.  Those of you who know me know how rare it is for me to say that about my own playing.  It wasn't perfect, but the intent was there.  The fire was there.  And when required, the tenderness was also there.  All the imperfections of the performance (and I don't mean wrong notes) made it mine.  I read a quote once from a writer who said something like, "I don't like writing, but I like having written."  Ah, there is so much truth in that.  That feeling after a successful recital cannot be matched by anything.  The feeling during the recital, well, some of those are moments I really don't need back.  


My husband and I live in an older house built in 1929 with plaster walls and lots of other character one associates with older houses.  It also needs all the repairs one associates with old houses.  The house has started to settle since we waterproofed the basement, so there are some cracks in the plaster in places, and separation between walls and ceiling in other places.  One particular wall was really bad - the fireplace wall - because the chimney gets pushed around in the wind and moves the wall attached to it.  I just finished repairing some of the plaster and then painting the walls.  And you know what?  That one wall looks like crap.  It could be worse, but when all the lights are on and you look at the right angle you can see every bump and lump.  It looks like parasitic aliens writhing beneath the skin of an unfortunate human host. My husband says it looks like an impressionist painting.  You know what I say?  Fantastic.  Maybe I'll just mount a big empty frame on the wall and call it "Study in Red".  


Life is not perfect.  Thank God, because we'd all have to kill ourselves from the disappointment.  It's those imperfect moments that make us who we are, that give us the character that make us "us".  In this day of worshipping false perfection (plastic surgery, designer kids, pure bred dogs because they have to have a certain eye color), perhaps this is a difficult concept to understand. We hate seeing imperfection in others, especially our leaders, professors, politicians, priests and mentors, because it points to the imperfections in ourselves and damn it, we just don't want to admit they exist.  And we certainly don't want the rest of the world to see them.  When we see that imperfection, we crucify the person they come from, especially if they are in the spotlight.  Why do we continue to do this when we know it is destructive to the entire fabric of humanity?


I think music is one of the ways that art heals the world.  Watch the cool video below about the life of Rostropovich - it's long, but listen to it in the background while you clean or something.  It's proof to me that music is an imperfect process designed to create perfection in an imperfect world.  Our only job is to acknowledge the miracle and allow it to bring us joy.  


I think life itself is an imperfect process designed to create the perfection of joy for others in a world that is designed to tear us apart.  Don't take that to mean that I think the whole world is horrible - not true.  I just think it's the people in the world, in our own little worlds, that make life good.  Great even.  Fantastic sometimes.  And on occasion, inspired.






Monday, April 9, 2012

Spinning something great from a small kernel of truth...


Play and read:



The video above is perhaps one of the most sublime moments in Bach's Passion According to St. John, followed by one of the most dramatic moments from the work. Let's take the beginning of the "scene" which comes after the drama of the arrest, crucifixion and death of Jesus. Listen to the very simple cello line accompanied by continuo (organ). Believe it or not, this entire 4 1/2 minute aria is spun from the first 15 seconds of music you hear. Bach uses a simple orchestration underneath the gentle, lilting voice of the "Soul", the bass soloist. The Soul is having a conversation with Jesus.



Mein teurer Heiland, laß dich fragen,
My beloved Savior, let me ask you,

da du nunmehr ans Kreuz geschlagen und selbst gesagt: Es ist vollbracht,
since you have now been nailed to the cross and said yourself: It is accomplished,

The choir gently comments with a familiar text and tune in Bach's time:

Jesu, der du warest tot, 
Jesus, you were dead,

lebest nun ohn Ende, 
you live now for ever,

The Soul inquires about what has taken place and the meaning of it all. The music turns darker with the first query:

bin ich vom Sterben frei gemacht? 
am I from death made free? 

Kann ich durch deine Pein und Sterben das Himmelreich ererben? 
Can I through your pain and death inherit the kingdom of heaven?

The choir responds with:
in der letzten Todesnot 
in the final agony of death

nirgend mich hinwende 
nowhere else I turn

In these days of medical miracles and medicines, it's easy for us to overlook how painful death was for most people at the time this was written in the 18th century. Every day life was hard enough for commoners, and even the simplest malady, like an infected tooth or a simple cold, could turn into a life-threatening catastrophe that could not be soothed with morphine or other chemical assistance. Families were forced to sit in horror while loved ones died horrible, painful deaths. Both the fear and welcome of death was tangible, which makes the many texts we read about "sweet death" and looking forward to the "freedom" of death more understandable. People often relied on their faith to give them assurance that once their earthly journey had ended, another would begin free of pain and fear.

The music takes a turn to brighter tones when the Soul then asks the larger question, giving particular emphasis on the word, "Erlösung" (redeemed):

Ist aller Welt Erlösung da? 
Is all the world redeemed?

And the choir responds:

als zu dir, der mich versühnt, 
but to you , who have redeemed me,

O du lieber Herre! 
O my dear Lord,

The conversation ends as the soul answers his own question. Notice how Bach gives particular emphasis to the word "Schmerzen" (pain):

Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen; 
You cannot speak for pain;

doch neigest du das Haupt und sprichst stillschweigend: ja 
but you bow your head and silently say : yes!

The choir affirms the Soul's thoughts with:

Gib mir nur, was du verdient, 
give me only what you have won,

mehr ich nicht begehre! 
more I could not want!

What strikes me about this particular recording is the bass, Stephen McLeod. He strikes the perfect tone of humility and innocence in his interpretation, which, ironically, takes an enormous amount of maturity in a musician.  The aria is a very difficult one to sing, but he sings it with incredible simplicity.  I encourage you to check out some of his other work - a fantastic artist.

The final part of the recording includes the dramatic telling of the rending of the temple curtain in two, the earthquake, and the opening of graves after the death of Christ. Definitely take the time to watch the video as the musicians play. Bach gives us drama in the words and in the physical music making. 


This drama accompanies the next thoughts well. I encountered the following a few places on the Internet this week:

First, I laughed.  Then I thought, well, I bet this makes some people pretty angry - but why?  In the context in which I read this, it was not a joke - whoever wrote it was serious.  How sad it is that there are a large number of people who can characterize their encounter with Christianity as spoken above.  I would imagine the dramatic scene of the earthquake and bodies rising from the grave as told in the Gospel of John is just proof of how unstable we crazy Christians really are.  Bodies rising from the grave???  Give me a break - bring on the zombies!  Well, okay.  I suppose that may be a little hard to swallow.  But hey, why not believe in the existence of a little supernatural power?  There are plenty of people out there who believe that there are healing powers in crystals, or that positive thinking can actually change the chemical makeup of our bodies enough so that we could heal ourselves.  Why can't we then believe that there is a Power that created ALL these things that is capable of doing anything, even raising the dead?  

This weekend I was in on a conversation with a couple of people who admitted to leaving the institutional church (Catholic and Protestant).  They had either gone to church as children and fallen away as adults, or had never been exposed to a faith community of any kind and were now searching for ritual and mysticism in their lives.  Guess what?  They weren't finding it in the institutional church.  

Here's the happy truth - many of the things "seekers" are looking for - ritual, mystery and a place to explore the greater questions of life - can all be found within the Christian faith.  The sad, sad truth is that many Christians don't know enough about their faith to help people "seekers" find what they are looking for.  We beat them over the head with dogma, shove them into a box with literalism, belittle them with legalism, or confuse the hell out of them with new age theology that is explained with big words and fuzzy ideas that are impossible to understand.  No wonder they "seek" somewhere else.  This isn't true everywhere, of course.  There are churches and communities out there who manage to bridge the gap of traditionalism, mysticism, and relevance (a word I hate in regards to the church, but it seems to resonate with many people) and attract those who are seekers AND those who found what they are looking for years ago.  But I don't think these places are the majority.

In my understanding of the Christians faith, the core of the faith is love personified in the teachings and sacrifice of Jesus.   Why can't we just take that simple idea - love - and create an incredible bond of community and purpose?   There's certainly nothing wrong with traditional dogma or new ideas (hey - I love a good creed to chew on) but sometimes we get so lost in our ruminating and codifying and conceptualizing that we forget the kernel of truth from which all our ideas are spun.  And when we can't even agree on what that kernel of truth is, well then, we have an even greater problem.

Enter stage left: The Modern Church.





Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Come, friends, help me wail...

A musical reflection in observance of Holy Week - listen while you read....





It all begins with a slow heartbeat - a pulsating rhythm emanating from the depths of the crowd, accompanying a slow, mournful melody. The wailing begins.  The ritual wailing for lost loved ones is as old a part of the human culture as storytelling itself. Although in modern times, we consider ourselves "too civilized", and too much in control of our emotions to let the mourns come forth.

Voices join from all sides of the earth. No words can be deciphered, just the tuneful moans of the gathered. A slow, inevitable crescendo of wails reaches its climax and finally, we hear words we can understand:

Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen! 
Come, you daughters, help me lament!

These new voices rise in their fervor, deep pain fueling their energy. Their friends look on, knowing that their own time is coming to join in the story. The same words are repeated like a litany for the missing, a liturgy for the lost.

Sehet!      Wen? 
Behold!      Whom? 
Den Bräutigam. 
The Bridegroom.

Seht ihn!          Wie? 
Behold him!     How? 
Als wie ein Lamm! 
As a lamb. 

The second group finally enters, slowly drawn into the story like late comers to the scene.  They are invited in by the first group who shouts, "Behold!"  The invitation is to observe, to listen to the story, to take it all in.  As the music continues to drive and weave and layer upon  itself, the world breaks open by a third voice - the sound of innocence.  This third voice sings a well known melody to the listener:

O Lamm Gottes, unschuldig 
O guiltless Lamb of God,
Am Stamm des Kreuzes geschlachtet, 
Slaughtered on the stem of the cross,

This is sung while the two groups continue to dialogue with each other on what and who will be seen, and how we are to understand it.  The simple, innocent melody pulls the listener out of their reverie, wedding the new sounds to a more familiar understanding.  The listener is now part of the drama.  

The instruments take over briefly before the choruses again pick up their song:

Sehet!       Was?  
Behold!       What? 
Seht die Geduld. 
Behold his patience.

And the third voice sings:

Allzeit erfunden geduldig, 
Always found patient,
Wiewohl du warest verachtet. 
Although you were despised.

The groups shout back and forth to each other, searching and tossing about with shouts of:
Seht!              Wohin? 
Behold!          Where? 
Auf unsre Schuld.
In our guilt. 

All the while, the third voice sings:

All Sünd hast du getragen, 
All sin have you carried, 
Sonst müssten wir verzagen. 
Else we must have despaired. 

And finally, the true climax begins, building and growing towards an inevitable ending, every voice on earth gradually merging as one as they sing:

Sehet ihn aus Lieb und Huld 
Behold Him, out of love and graciousness, 
Holz zum Kreuze selber tragen!
Himself carrying the wood of the cross.

The third voice soars above the wailing crowd:

Erbarm dich unser, o Jesu, o Jesu! 
Have mercy upon us, O Jesus, O Jesus!

So begins The Passion According to St. Matthew as interpreted by Johann Sebastian Bach, the dramatist, the great storyteller. When most people think of Bach, those aren't the words that come to mind. They think "academic", or "stoic", and even, "taxing". But no other work is so full of drama, action and excitement (of a kind) than his St. Matthew. Is it long? Lord yes. But "stoic" and "staid" it is not. Bach has set the work for double chorus, double orchestra, soloists, and a cast of characters taken straight from the New Testament. 

 The two choruses function much as Greek choruses did, in that they serve as on lookers and witnesses who comment on the actions taking place before them.  They also play the part of the crowds, the high priests, and the disciples.  Their texts are taken from both the Gospel of Matthew and traditional chorale texts.  In reality, the chorus is us, the listener, as we would be witnessing the drama.  Bach, in his genius, has placed us inside the story.   

The story is told by the Evangelist, Matthew. This tenor role narrates the story from beginning to end, setting each scene and bridging the gap from one to the next. This is one of the most difficult musical roles for a tenor to play. Pacing is everything.  Not only is it difficult to sing, but it is impossible to sing well without completely immersing oneself into the role with a full understanding of who Matthew was and an acceptance of the burden of telling such a tale. We also encounter Peter, Judas, Pontius Pilate, Pilate's wife, a few high priests, 2 servant girls, two witnesses, and 4 soloists who comment on the story through their arias.  And finally there is Jesus, whose words are always surrounded by a halo of sound played by the string instruments.

 The orchestra has all the usual suspects - violins, violas, cellos, basses, flutes, oboes, and organ. He also asks for a Viola da Gamba, Oboes da Caccia and Oboes d'Amore. These extra "colors" play an important role in painting a picture of incredible depth and emotion. Bach uses his instruments much like an artist uses different colors of paint - creating  darkness and light by using the natural traits of each instrument accordingly, including the voices.  

This work is full of tragedy and theater, if you know how to look for it. And there's the issue - most non-musically trained people are so far removed from the gestures and language of the Baroque era that much is lost. But when we take a closer look at the work, we find so much in common with modern music and modern sensibilities. And as a statement of Bach's personal faith, it takes on staggering proportions.

Next week, Baldwin-Wallace College will present its annual Bach Festival with the St. Matthew Passion as its principal work.  Click here to find more information about the performances.  The vocal soloists are truly magnificent.  The orchestra is comprised of students, faculty and professionals (including myself), and the choruses are completely comprised of students.  The Festival is an incredibly learning experience for the students and an incredible musical experience for the listener.  I hope you will join us!


Monday, April 2, 2012

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

Ah, Holy Week. Among my church musician friends we often refer to this week as Hell Week, with any reference to it followed by a string of somewhat unsavory, irreverent, but humorous jokes and comments. My favorite was always the following exchange I heard between two colleagues: 

A: Good luck this week. I hope you survive it all. 
B:  Well, we know who won't!

A bit sacrilegious? Sure. But it's really just a stress reliever. So much preparation, blood, sweat and tears go into Holy Week services, only to be left up to the somewhat unpredictable attendance and performances of volunteer choirs, instrumentalists, and strung out clergy. I remember one year I actually cried over a misbehaving copy machine which I thereafter gave the nickname "Lucifer".  But everything always comes together in the end, and most of the time we look back on Holy Week with an enormous amount of gratitude and incredulity as we say to ourselves, "I can't believe it all came together as planned." Only by the grace of God. 

Secretly, though, we love it. At least, I do. Holy Week is my favorite week of the year, and my most fulfilling times as a church musicians were the ones I spent at Christ Church in Hudson where we celebrated a different liturgy every night - Evensong, Holy Eucharist with Healing, Taize with an indoor garden and incense, Maundy Thursday with footwashing, Good Friday with a sung Gospel, Easter Vigil with an enormous bonfire, Easter morning with brass quintets made up of Cleveland Orchestra members...I always felt so privileged to be a part of the team that executed those liturgies. There is no better feeling than that exhaustion after it's all over - you've got nothing left, but every bit of energy you spent was worth it because you were taking part in something that was so much larger than yourself. I have vivid memories of sitting in that dark church during the vigil, listening to Old Testament lessons and prophecies by candlelight and the light of a full moon coming through the church windows - I wouldn't give those memories up for the world.  

Remember that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy and her friends are quaking before the thunderous voice of Oz and her little dog Toto runs and opens the curtain, unveiling the rather diminutive presence of the true puppet master?  I thought of that scene during the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended.  Where on earth did you go to church, Nicole?  Trust me, it wasn't as bizarre as it sounds, although I've heard worse things during Holy Week liturgies...but that's for another post.   This year, for the first time in 19 years, I sat on the other side of the altar - you know, in the pews with the rest of the normal people. The liturgy itself was a good one, although I admit I was preoccupied during most of it.  At the end we heard a reflection on the drama of the crucifixion of Christ. I've heard so many of these over the years - many of them long, complex and overly taxing, with a few excellent exceptions. This was one of those exceptions. The reflection centered around the rending of the curtain in the temple after Jesus died. The priest explained that according to Jewish custom at the time, the curtain or veil represented God's presence in the midst of his people and served to separate God's presence in the Holy of Holies from those gathered to worship. Also, in the Catholic tradition the tabernacle (a box-like vessel used to house the reserve sacrament) used to have a veil within it. Kind of like a Mini-Me version of a Temple (sorry - I couldn't resist).  

The priest went on to explain that the tearing of the temple veil after Jesus' death was a symbol that the separation between God and his people was no more.  Well, there's your Easter sermon right there - we can all go home now and skip the rest of the week!  I found this hugely significant on a number of levels. First, the idea that a simple curtain could separate the presence of God from the world is somewhat ridiculous, but of course, we accept metaphor and symbolism as a daily part of our lives. And we often let the small things in our lives separate us from those things that are most important.  What really struck me was the idea that at any single moment in time, a veil could be removed from our eyes and we would see things as they really are.  In the case of the temple curtain, we see that God in the midst of us, tangible and easy to access without an intermediary. But I also thought of those times in our lives when the "veil" is removed and we see the world for what it really is - those moments when we lose our innocence, so to speak. Sometimes when the curtain is ripped away we can actually see God, and the pain of the journey seems to have purpose, or we can at least see some hope in the future. Sometimes the only thing we see behind the curtain is the dull, gray truth and reality of the world we live in, sharp edges and all. We focus so much on that "truth" that we fail to see God in the midst of it. And the more we focus on the sharp edged, gray reality of the world the bigger and more ominous it becomes and the more obscure the presence of God is until he appears to disappear completely.  Then we sometimes wonder whether he was really there in the first place.  

If you listen to most atheists, they will tell you that religion and/or faith is like "the little man behind the curtain", and that The Church is just a puppet master out to control the masses and brainwash anyone without enough intelligence to know any better.  I suppose there are plenty moments in history to support that idea, and what I see today in The Church certainly makes me shudder in disgust.  So, what is the reality?  Where is the truth?  Is God really inside all that mess?  I've been asking that question a lot recently, and I don't have an answer yet.  Questions seem to lead to more questions.  In the end, I suppose the answers aren't as important as the willingness to continue asking.  

In a way I suppose we all experience our own "Holy Week" within the course of our lives - the defining moments that make us who we are, that reveal our future and our purpose.  Sometimes these experiences last a hell of a lot longer than a week, and always seem to be preceded by being stripped bare emotionally and spiritually - isn't there another way???  But perhaps those painful moments are when we are closest to God.  So close, in fact, that we cannot see him.  We are so busy looking at all the crap around us that we miss The Presence right beside us, within us. And that is, indeed, a Holy Time.