Musing

I was captured by the Ninth Symphony.

It happened last Thursday night, sitting in the dark of a concert hall. This kind of thing has happened to me before, like the time I saw the film Down from the Mountain and afterward had the feeling I should devote the rest of my life to the preservation of bluegrass. Or the time I woke up to Gerald Finzi’s “Eclogue” on my clock radio. I’d never heard it before, and it seemed like a gift out of nowhere. I can still remember lying in bed in my tiny room in Boston with the yellow-painted walls and the announcer saying, “Every time I hear that piece it makes me want to be a better person.”

Often when I have this kind of experience I think about the piece of music for days. I read about it, try to learn something about the composer, the performers, the history surrounding it—whether early 20th century Appalachia, or 18th century Leipzig. I’ve learned some interesting facts in the course of my obsessions—for instance, that Gerald Finzi and I have the same birthday (although he died in the decade before I was born). That when Johnny Cash’s voice changed and his singing took on the low, resonant tones we know so well, the sound of it moved his mother to tears.

Ultimately, though, I’ve come to realize that none of that information explains why I respond so intensely to a piece of music.

This time the experience was so dramatic that I’ve really had no choice but to think about it. I recognize that one factor is the power of live performance—always more captivating and immediate than listening to a recording (as wonderful as it is, to have recordings to listen to).

And it must be relevant that this time the piece was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—a monumental work, loaded with drama, huge contrasts, big forces (including a choir of more than a hundred voices).

I’ve always loved certain moments in the Ninth—the very beginning, which has such a sense of expansiveness that I picture planets floating in the dark of space, a kind of sublime feeling of contemplating the universe. The opening of the fugue in the second movement—doesn’t everyone love that? It’s so famous that I would guess that pretty much the entire Western world has heard it. The contrast of the slow, tender melody that opens the third movement, and my favorite moment of all: in the fourth movement, when after we’ve heard—twice—a tiny fragment of the “Ode to Joy” theme returning, riding on a pulse in the horns (that pulse always makes me hold my breath), the strings rise and swell like an uplifting of wings and the chorus rushes back in to sing the theme one last time. At Orchestra Hall the other night, the effect was a tsunami of sound.

But my feeble descriptions still can’t explain, fully, what happened to me there. That music, in that hour, cracked me open like an egg.

When it was over and we were all on our feet, clapping and calling out to the roughly two hundred people taking their bows, I was acutely aware that I could have sat down and cried. Sad? No. I wasn’t sad, at all. And as the soloists and the conductor came on and off stage some five times and we kept clapping, I knew the moment was about to arrive when we would leave—but I didn’t want to. I felt bonded to those people, who had done this for me. Reached into my soul and opened it up like—I’m not sure what, but I know as we left I felt dazed, as if after a long time in a dark cave I stood blinking in the sun.

Something has changed, I thought, looking around at the lobby as we left, the people flowing down the stairs and out the doors to the street. Something has changed, I thought, walking into the parking deck which no longer seemed such an ordinary parking deck. It took a while before I realized: What had changed was me.

Of all the arts (and I love them all), music has the greatest power to go straight to our hearts and souls, grab us and shake us in ways that we can barely comprehend. Am I a better person for having attended that concert last Thursday night? I won’t make that claim. But I do see this: My sense of the world, both inside and outside of myself, has grown somehow. And that can only be a good thing.

 

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