What was disconcerting about the concert was the conductor, a veritable crow of a man, tall, hunched, his tuxedo tails flapping behind him like great black wings; his every movement fluid and graceful, except for sudden sharp pecking movements with which he called forth the allegro vivace. The piece was well selected for his talents; Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 in B-flat, Op. 60 with its odd, almost predatory adagio in E-flat major slowly unravelling as the movement progressed until the allegro vivace was introduced.
Two musicians were of peculiar interest, the large, amiable young hedgehog playing the bright red bassoon; and the badger timpanist who played feverishly throughout the piece, and at the very end, following the final glorious rumble of his tympani ate the marshmallows off the end of his drumsticks. Let it be said, after the final bow, several large mice scurried off with the other musicians violins in hand. All in all a very satisfying symphony.
Intermission
Every performance needs an intermission. I used to think the intermission was for the audience, then for a while I thought it was for the performers, but it serves a more mundane purpose, that of moving furniture on stage, or instruments; and a secondary purpose, a mercy bladder break for those who need it. If it weren’t for the necessity of moving furniture, no other urgency would ever stop a performance.
When the furniture is moved, pianos go on or off stage, tympani and percussion instruments are brought forward or retired against a wall, and some of the mice playing violins troop on or off stage and their chairs appropriately appear or disappear.
All of life has its own intermissions but humankind being somewhat short sighted ends up doing one of two things, we either fail to move the necessary emotional furniture on or off stage, or more generally we move too much, too very much on, or most likely, off stage.
Ubi Carrot-tops
It should have been Ubi Caritas, but it wasn’t. Instead it was a cacophony, not a concerto, a piece smashed together by one apparent daughter of Lesbos for another, mangling that beautiful medieval chant, Ubi caritas et amor, beyond recognition. Before the piece began the soloist played the haunting line of melody from the chant, and that was the only time that the theme was recognizable. The cacophonous tribute bumped and clattered its way through a full sixty minutes or more artfully jammed discordantly into a harsh twenty minutes. The melody was lost and never found. Sometimes love doesn’t conquer all.
The Symphony
Now for the third piece, fatally maligned as “romantic” in the program notes; a piece of glorious music by Robert Schumann, his Symphony No. 4 in D-minor. Op. 120. We didn’t know that this was why we came to the symphony tonight, that this was going to be why tonight’s symphony was actually going to be a symphony, but it was. I am so glad that Robert Schumann, who was, according to the program notes, a manic/depressive, was not medicated and homogenized by his society, but instead was allowed to have his misery and allowed to have his genius. Today, in our society, we have drugs to make him acceptable and extinguish the nuisance factor that often accompanies genius. That way we can eradicate the romantic element and the genius at the same time.
Instead is was Robert Schumann, who without parroting Ubi caritas, gently and gloriously unfolded the open hearted the Latin chant, “Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est,” “Where charity and love are, God is there. Christ’s love has gathered us into one. Let us rejoice and be pleased in Him. Let us fear, and let us love the Living God. And may we love each other with a sincere heart.”
No comments:
Post a Comment