The Preparation
As Jonathan Dent entered the stage door at Avery Fisher Hall in New York, a great deal of thoughts occupied his mind. Tonight was the big night. He, along with his comrades on the New York Philharmonic, would have to give the performance of their lives tonight. Tonight was the premiere of a massive new commission by a new and upcoming composer, Jeffery Palk. This composer, who had been relatively obscure in the New York music scene had recently come into the spotlight from a surprise commission from the New York Philharmonic. Press was aghast that this highly reputable orchestra would "waste" their money on such an unknown composer. "How could such an unknown be as good as Aaron Jay Kernis or John Adams?", the critics charged. They were soon to be wronged, however, as Jeffery Palk was about to astonish the orchestral music world with his new composition, a symphony, for a massive orchestra, the size of a Wagner opera, Mahler symphony, or Strauss tone poem. This was the night to give his performance of a lifetime because he was also conducting the piece, his massive symphony. He was not nervous, rather excited, overjoyed that his current magnum opus was going to get played by the finest orchestra in the world at probably the biggest concert of the year.
But back to Jonathan Dent. He entered the stage door of Avery Fisher Hall, the Philharmonic's home concert hall. As the principle violist in the orchestra, he had a hefty salary and played almost every concert including the odd chamber music occasion. He had one of the greatest positions he could have as a professional violist, probably the top position in the world, side from acting as a solo artist, which he did not want to do by any stretch: viola solo repertoire was not to his liking, but orchestral music was, especially the late romantic works of Mahler and Strauss which gave him many solos in an orchestral context; quite the feast for the ears indeed were these works, at least to Jonathan Dent. In short, he was very happy in his position and had earned it. But tonight was different. For some reason, there was a slight rack of nervousness and a bout of enthusiasm in his step. He was excited, but cautious for this concert tonight. No doubt he was prepared. This new piece was hard, but not unbearable. Indeed, it was easier than most of the modern pieces brought before his stand these days. But he loved the piece indeed. In the rehearsals, he play his viola parts with such passion, that the composer had to restrain him. The piece was certainly passionate, joyous, straining, striving, fearing, conquering, defeating, sobbing, laughing, full of emotions, indescribable to words. Obviously, the piece was drenched in sentimentality, but not so much that it was overwhelming. Palk made the piece to bring out the best emotions in the players and the audience alike. And both Palk and Dent felt that it was going to be a major hit with the audience because it emotion in music had be sadly absent from modern music for the longest time. Over the last 100 years, people had been desensitized to feeling in music in favor of a more mechanical and intellectual music. Palk's music certainly wasn't without intellect, but it was primarily emotional, emotional it its core.
Up the stairs to the dressing room Dent walked. He greeted his fellow orchestra members and went to his dressing room. Being the principal violist, Dent had his own private dressing room where he could get ready and prepare for the concert. It was not much more than the size of a small office, but it fit him just the same. He had a good night sleep so he wasn't tired. He sat in his chair while he put on some light Beethoven on his iPod dock and it played throughout the cold air in his dressing room. He was relaxing, trying to tone down his nerves before the performance. The Beethoven symphony happened to be the second movement from Symphony No. 7, the famous A minor adagio. He closed his eyes and listened. Emotions ran through his heart and mind: from sad mourning to longing struggle. The music almost sounded like a death march, a funeral march for a man who had died prematurely and had not achieved the ultimate masterpiece he so wanted to write. "Perhaps Beethoven was preoccupied with death when he wrote this," Dent thought. "Maybe Beethoven was afraid of his deafness inhibiting his music," which, by the time this adagio had been written, was clearly beginning to deteriorate his ears. "Perhaps this funeral march was of one for his ears. He could never hear his music again," at least externally outside of his mind. "Hah! Rubbish," Dent thought. "Why should I dwell on such things? I have a concert to prepare for!" As Dent let the music play, he clearly felt the emotion. It was that emotion that drew him so explicably into the music. It was why he wanted to become a musician in the first place. Dent was not interested in the technical, but the affects of music on the soul, on the heart. It was those unexplainable emotions that brought music its full status as "the highest of all art", the only art form to truly affect the soul like any other, more than poetry, more than painting or sculptures, more than drama. It was music that express those emotions inexpressible in any other medium. Dent loved it. He gave his life to it. For it was only through music that his soul could truly be touched as if God had touched Dent's soul Himself, much like how Beethoven thought that music was the language of God. He listened for several minutes letting the deep plodding strings and high woodwind solos penetrate his inner soul. When the work was over, he sat in silence for a moment, his eyes still closed. In this pensive moment, he knew that he was ready to play tonight. He knew in that instant that this concert was going to be alright. Upon this realization, he began to dress into his tuxedo and tune his viola.
Meanwhile, in another dressing room, larger and on the upper floor, Jonathan Palk was also getting ready for the concert. His dressing room was the largest one designated for the conductor of the evening. It is the size of a small apartment; indeed, one could live in it provided a bed be added. Palk paced the main room excitedly. He was not calm, rather jittery. He could not contain himself that upon stepping onto that podium in just a short time, life, as he knew it, would change forever. Whether it be for the better or worse was yet to tell. He needed to calm his nerves before conducting his massive symphony in just a couple hours. However, rather than putting on his iPod like Dent did, he opened the great grand piano in the main room and sat down. He began to improvise a glorious adagio in D-flat major. It was soft and subtly nuanced with accidentals here and there to add color. It was not a "perfect" adagio where every not fell into place, but rather a strange one, where melodies would not come to full fruition, instead die away just as the next overtook it. It was quite similar to Mahler's adaigios in conception, but not sound. This sounded nothing like Mahler, it sounded more like Beethoven or even Bach, but with a new sonic framework. It was unrefined yet sublime.
Palk closed his eyes as his fingers lightly tapped the notes on the keyboard. He imagined what it would be like if a string section would be playing it. It reminded him of the adagio in the symphony he was about to conduct. Suddenly, without his choosing, the melody from that adagio crept into the contrapuntal fabric of his improvisation. It sounded so perfect! It was as if the melody just took on a whole new meaning. And without a care in the world, the improvised adagio inevitably turned into a fantasia on that theme. It was beautiful. It was love. That emotion, which is so hard to define, was love. He had found that so ambiguous feeling that he had longed to figure out. He began playing louder and louder, but slower and slower, as if the velocity of the music was intensifying. It was like a climb up a mountain where the top is especially steep and pointed. Higher and higher did the melody rise, but it kept falling with bass lines drowning out the top notes in many octaves. Chords upon chords, octaves upon octaves melodies upon melodies! By the time he reached a massive fortississimo on the piano, he made one last push and the improvisation climaxed, as if he had done it! He had reached the top! And once he got to the top, oh what a relief! He had made it! The emotions were overwhelming, with joy and happiness, with glory, with love! It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up into his heart and piano and played their trumpets and harps and their music pierced directly into his soul. Again, as Dent had seen just moments ago, that it seemed as if God himself was pouring out his love into his soul. The piano kept playing! It was as if Palk was no longer playing; he and the piano where one piece of equipment making glorious music that was truly amazing to Palk. How could he possibly make music this good?
It was a mystery to him indeed. But his improvisation began to die down, away into nothingness. It was as if the music was now going to go back down the mountain. It got softer and softer until there was nothing left. All that was left was a small fragment of the adagio melody. He played it quietly in the low register under a chorale in D-flat. It was as if contentment was at hand. The music, and Palk, were content with what had been played and felt. So true was this fact. Palk played the last strains of the chorale slower and softer than ever until it disappeared into nothingness. In silence he sat at the bench for a moment pondering what he had just played. The emotions that had taken him up were simply awesome. "It was not by sheer chance," he thought "that I would make such wonderful music. It could only have been by God himself, or some distant related power of the heart that could possibly make that music." He was not human, even if only for a moment while he had played that adagio. He was something more. Palk had tapped into some other emotional realm of spirituality that few find. It was similar to Dent's experience, but on a much grander scale. Palk was clearly effected by the music. He was now calm, he was no longer jittery. He was ready to perform. Just then a knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. It was his assistant reminding him to get ready for the concert. Indeed he was, so he began to dress into his tuxedo and tune his baton.
But back to Jonathan Dent. He entered the stage door of Avery Fisher Hall, the Philharmonic's home concert hall. As the principle violist in the orchestra, he had a hefty salary and played almost every concert including the odd chamber music occasion. He had one of the greatest positions he could have as a professional violist, probably the top position in the world, side from acting as a solo artist, which he did not want to do by any stretch: viola solo repertoire was not to his liking, but orchestral music was, especially the late romantic works of Mahler and Strauss which gave him many solos in an orchestral context; quite the feast for the ears indeed were these works, at least to Jonathan Dent. In short, he was very happy in his position and had earned it. But tonight was different. For some reason, there was a slight rack of nervousness and a bout of enthusiasm in his step. He was excited, but cautious for this concert tonight. No doubt he was prepared. This new piece was hard, but not unbearable. Indeed, it was easier than most of the modern pieces brought before his stand these days. But he loved the piece indeed. In the rehearsals, he play his viola parts with such passion, that the composer had to restrain him. The piece was certainly passionate, joyous, straining, striving, fearing, conquering, defeating, sobbing, laughing, full of emotions, indescribable to words. Obviously, the piece was drenched in sentimentality, but not so much that it was overwhelming. Palk made the piece to bring out the best emotions in the players and the audience alike. And both Palk and Dent felt that it was going to be a major hit with the audience because it emotion in music had be sadly absent from modern music for the longest time. Over the last 100 years, people had been desensitized to feeling in music in favor of a more mechanical and intellectual music. Palk's music certainly wasn't without intellect, but it was primarily emotional, emotional it its core.
Up the stairs to the dressing room Dent walked. He greeted his fellow orchestra members and went to his dressing room. Being the principal violist, Dent had his own private dressing room where he could get ready and prepare for the concert. It was not much more than the size of a small office, but it fit him just the same. He had a good night sleep so he wasn't tired. He sat in his chair while he put on some light Beethoven on his iPod dock and it played throughout the cold air in his dressing room. He was relaxing, trying to tone down his nerves before the performance. The Beethoven symphony happened to be the second movement from Symphony No. 7, the famous A minor adagio. He closed his eyes and listened. Emotions ran through his heart and mind: from sad mourning to longing struggle. The music almost sounded like a death march, a funeral march for a man who had died prematurely and had not achieved the ultimate masterpiece he so wanted to write. "Perhaps Beethoven was preoccupied with death when he wrote this," Dent thought. "Maybe Beethoven was afraid of his deafness inhibiting his music," which, by the time this adagio had been written, was clearly beginning to deteriorate his ears. "Perhaps this funeral march was of one for his ears. He could never hear his music again," at least externally outside of his mind. "Hah! Rubbish," Dent thought. "Why should I dwell on such things? I have a concert to prepare for!" As Dent let the music play, he clearly felt the emotion. It was that emotion that drew him so explicably into the music. It was why he wanted to become a musician in the first place. Dent was not interested in the technical, but the affects of music on the soul, on the heart. It was those unexplainable emotions that brought music its full status as "the highest of all art", the only art form to truly affect the soul like any other, more than poetry, more than painting or sculptures, more than drama. It was music that express those emotions inexpressible in any other medium. Dent loved it. He gave his life to it. For it was only through music that his soul could truly be touched as if God had touched Dent's soul Himself, much like how Beethoven thought that music was the language of God. He listened for several minutes letting the deep plodding strings and high woodwind solos penetrate his inner soul. When the work was over, he sat in silence for a moment, his eyes still closed. In this pensive moment, he knew that he was ready to play tonight. He knew in that instant that this concert was going to be alright. Upon this realization, he began to dress into his tuxedo and tune his viola.
Meanwhile, in another dressing room, larger and on the upper floor, Jonathan Palk was also getting ready for the concert. His dressing room was the largest one designated for the conductor of the evening. It is the size of a small apartment; indeed, one could live in it provided a bed be added. Palk paced the main room excitedly. He was not calm, rather jittery. He could not contain himself that upon stepping onto that podium in just a short time, life, as he knew it, would change forever. Whether it be for the better or worse was yet to tell. He needed to calm his nerves before conducting his massive symphony in just a couple hours. However, rather than putting on his iPod like Dent did, he opened the great grand piano in the main room and sat down. He began to improvise a glorious adagio in D-flat major. It was soft and subtly nuanced with accidentals here and there to add color. It was not a "perfect" adagio where every not fell into place, but rather a strange one, where melodies would not come to full fruition, instead die away just as the next overtook it. It was quite similar to Mahler's adaigios in conception, but not sound. This sounded nothing like Mahler, it sounded more like Beethoven or even Bach, but with a new sonic framework. It was unrefined yet sublime.
Palk closed his eyes as his fingers lightly tapped the notes on the keyboard. He imagined what it would be like if a string section would be playing it. It reminded him of the adagio in the symphony he was about to conduct. Suddenly, without his choosing, the melody from that adagio crept into the contrapuntal fabric of his improvisation. It sounded so perfect! It was as if the melody just took on a whole new meaning. And without a care in the world, the improvised adagio inevitably turned into a fantasia on that theme. It was beautiful. It was love. That emotion, which is so hard to define, was love. He had found that so ambiguous feeling that he had longed to figure out. He began playing louder and louder, but slower and slower, as if the velocity of the music was intensifying. It was like a climb up a mountain where the top is especially steep and pointed. Higher and higher did the melody rise, but it kept falling with bass lines drowning out the top notes in many octaves. Chords upon chords, octaves upon octaves melodies upon melodies! By the time he reached a massive fortississimo on the piano, he made one last push and the improvisation climaxed, as if he had done it! He had reached the top! And once he got to the top, oh what a relief! He had made it! The emotions were overwhelming, with joy and happiness, with glory, with love! It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up into his heart and piano and played their trumpets and harps and their music pierced directly into his soul. Again, as Dent had seen just moments ago, that it seemed as if God himself was pouring out his love into his soul. The piano kept playing! It was as if Palk was no longer playing; he and the piano where one piece of equipment making glorious music that was truly amazing to Palk. How could he possibly make music this good?
It was a mystery to him indeed. But his improvisation began to die down, away into nothingness. It was as if the music was now going to go back down the mountain. It got softer and softer until there was nothing left. All that was left was a small fragment of the adagio melody. He played it quietly in the low register under a chorale in D-flat. It was as if contentment was at hand. The music, and Palk, were content with what had been played and felt. So true was this fact. Palk played the last strains of the chorale slower and softer than ever until it disappeared into nothingness. In silence he sat at the bench for a moment pondering what he had just played. The emotions that had taken him up were simply awesome. "It was not by sheer chance," he thought "that I would make such wonderful music. It could only have been by God himself, or some distant related power of the heart that could possibly make that music." He was not human, even if only for a moment while he had played that adagio. He was something more. Palk had tapped into some other emotional realm of spirituality that few find. It was similar to Dent's experience, but on a much grander scale. Palk was clearly effected by the music. He was now calm, he was no longer jittery. He was ready to perform. Just then a knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. It was his assistant reminding him to get ready for the concert. Indeed he was, so he began to dress into his tuxedo and tune his baton.
posted by Tokkemon at
12:11 AM
0 Comments
