Month: October 2020

The first time I listened to “Liebst du um Schönheit” by Clara Schumann, apart from noticing a few things, such as Barbara Bonney’s lovely intonation and a few particularly crisp consonants, I mostly zoned out until the end of the piece. I vaguely admired the gentle flow of the music, and was surprised by an extra chord when I thought the piece was finished. My thoughts on the rest? I really couldn’t have told you.

By the 5^th listen, I was picking up on more interesting harmonic moments and changes of texture. I could follow lines, noticing where the voice drops out and the piano carries on the melody in a few places. By the 9^th listen, it stopped being a piece of music and became almost a physical thing in which I was immersed. A few listens later I felt like I was hearing one long song that changed every time I heard it. My thoughts drifted away for a few repetitions. Then, 19^th listen, I was suddenly paying attention to the structure of the phrases, the placement of words, the dynamics. I understand everything!! I thought.

After listening 20 times, I’m once again not sure I understand this music any better than when I started. I moved between paying close attention to specific things, letting it wash over me, and barely paying attention at all. Through phases of attention and inattention, I think I was intrigued and confused by the same things as when I started, but in a different way; the parts that interested me from the start still pull me, though perhaps they pull me deeper. I thought that this process would be similar to memorizing a piece, and that I would have a good grasp of its structure by the end. I often dance to the song “Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners, and although I haven’t spent as much time with it, I think I know it better for having danced to it; I can anticipate every moment. I thought repeated listening (without dancing) would produce a similar kind of structural understanding, but not so! The Schumann piece still confuses me in some ways, but it is now a very familiar confusion.

If the work of every dead composer vanished from existence, I think there would be a great rush to write new music. Young composers might suddenly find themselves able to afford not only their rent, but a night out once a week. Not only would there be a literal void to fill (imagine the empty libraries! The record collections!), there would be a creative one. With so much less music to draw inspiration from, new musicians might be more at liberty to innovate. Faced with the task of putting together a concert post music ghost, I think I would look to my talented peers for new music. If old music is gone, why even bother with music that was written when it was around? It would be a great chance to connect and encourage each other’s wildest creative qualities. In that sense, I think that “dead” music can sometimes take up space where living voices could otherwise thrive.

However, the past can be a crucial creative connection; consider Jeremy Dutcher, who blends classical music with Wolastoq songs recorded on wax cylinders. In this case, old recordings helped a young artist share a different way of thinking; in his words, “If you lose the language […] you’re losing an entire way of seeing and experiencing the world from a distinctly Indigenous perspective.” For myself, losing the music of the past would be an exciting opportunity to explore and innovate. For others though, it could be a devastating loss of cultural identity.

To bring this all back to Nietzsche, yes, annotating and re-interpreting the past is crucial if we are not to be stifled by it. But I think it’s also worth noting that for some, connecting to the past can be the key to putting forth our ‘noblest qualities in all their strength’ in the present.

For myself as a singer, the ‘way in’ to new music is often to breathe with it, and physically feel where it flows or hesitates. By approaching Glen Gould’s two recordings of Variation 15 from Bach’s Goldberg Variations in this way, I found that the 1955 recording is characterized by continuous forward movement, and the 1981 version by a sense of suspension.

The tempo of Gould’s 1955 recording is faster which contributes to its moving-ness, but I also felt that its phrases are more direct. My physical reaction to this recording is to bop my head back and forth (softly, though). Gould builds steadily toward stressed beats, and attacks with directness. It’s interesting that in the first 15 seconds of this recording, Gould can be heard blowing air, tff tff tff, on every beat. It is a long, steady breath, accented by little consonants. I think that breath speaks to the physical intention behind the music.

In the first 15 seconds of the 1981 recording, Gould does something very different with his voice; he sings a kind of deep-voiced dum dee da that has many characteristics of this later interpretation. Breathing to this recording, I felt that I was often holding my breath for a moment before a beat. This recording is not just slower—Gould seems to hold onto each note, or perhaps the space between them. Rather than flowing toward and away from accents, each gesture is stretched, not just in terms of note duration, but by a constant interplay of holding back and letting go.