Mozart and his Requiem

I respect Mozart and his influence on western music as much as the next consumer of classical music, but I have always been more drawn to the emotionally charged pieces of the romantic period and the intellectual depth of modernism. Mozart’s works are technically flawless, but there is something about many of them that just doesn’t connect with me personally. The Requiem is different. It’s so full of textures and emotion. At times it is tender, and at other times it is fiery. At its core, it is a profound piece of music that masterfully combines a beautiful orchestra with a powerful choir and soloists. To see it performed by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra in the Strathmore on March 7th was a joy for the eyes and ears.

Before delving into the history of the piece, one is first struck by the technical aspects. This is a big piece of music - literally. Strings and brass and vocal soloists, and a massive choir bring this piece to life. Watching this piece unfurl, I thought to myself how difficult it must be to keep something this grand together. I love watching conductors, seeing how they control the environment with subtle or gargantuan gesticulations, so seeing conductor Jun Märkl sweeping the air so grandly as to be seen by the last row of the choir was a thing to behold. I would also be a traitor to my instrument if I did not point out that this is one of the first times that the trombone is seen in such a prominent position. The fact that low brass even had a spot in a classical piece is notable, not to mention some beautiful solo parts.

The true allure of this piece is the mystery that has surrounded it since its composition in 1791 (you could even say it started even before composition, as Mozart was so unclear of the identity of the man that came to him to commission it). I have always been captivated by stories behind the music, and how fate and circumstance molded the modern perception that we have of a piece of music, and Mozart’s Requiem, a piece written for the powerful circumstance of death, takes the cake in this respect. The story is so compelling that it has been retold as a short play by Pushkin, an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov, and a play by Peter Shaffer which was later adapted into 1984’s Best Picture of the Year – Amadeus. As the story (I apologize for abridging it so) goes, that Mozart did not know the gentleman who had commissioned this piece, and with his health diminishing as he wrote the piece, he mistakenly embraced the logic that the death mass must be for him. This belief must have fueled him to work on the piece with a special dedication, even as his death became imminent. The Lacrimosa section was the last music that Mozart ever wrote, leaving his pupils to finish the Requiem.

It’s a sad story, but, in an odd way, it seems morbidly appropriate for a man who gave so much to our musical tradition. Psychologists (as well as experience and common sense) tell us how the fear of death and the desire to leave a legacy are powerful drivers of our actions here on earth. Mozart saw both in this piece. This confluence of emotion and talent in composition is something remarkable and desperately uncommon. Although the Requiem might not have been intended for him, it is his. In listening to it, you can see and hear a genius searching for his place in this world and the next.

Of Sound and Solitude

This past weekend, I read a piece by William Deresiewicz entitled The End of Solitude. In addition to being a wonderfully thought provoking and well written article, the think-piece made my mind wonder (as many things do) to thoughts of music. In his piece, Deresiewicz argues that solitude, which was once valued in society, has now become something which we are constantly attacking with modern technology. During the Romantic era of the nineteenth century, solitude became both secularized and salient, Deresiewicz writes. The writings of Thoreau, Wordsworth, Melville, and Whitman are excellent examples of man’s need for some degree of solitude. In spending time isolated, or wrapped up in nature and divorced from human influence, man was able to find the divine.

How many times in your day are you alone? If you live in a city or metropolitan area, that doesn’t help. Cell phones, e-mail, text messages, twitter, YouTube, and Facebook create a world in which even when we are physically alone, we are still communicating with others in a fairly direct fashion. “A constant stream of mediated contact, virtual, notional, or simulated, keeps us wired in to the electronic hive…” Without solitude, we are becoming Star Trek’s Borg Collective.

Although the happenings of the 20th century are probably what got us into this crisis of solitude, there are several musical pieces from this era that contemplate this need for isolation. I immediately think of 4’33” (said as “Four Thirty Three” or “Four Minutes and Thirty Three Seconds”) by the experimental composer John Cage. In the piece, a pianist, backed up by an orchestra, plays a rest for four minutes and thirty three seconds. No notes are heard. As per John Cage’s instructions, the instrumentation, as well as the duration of the rest can be changed. Although the piece is frequently the butt of musicology jokes, there is something to it. Cage is forcing you to hear silence, which does not happen too much in our society. In hearing this silence, you are meant to contemplate the greater nature of music, art, and life. (Cage was a truly unique composer, some of his music can be seen at the left - yes, that's the sheet music). Charles Ives’ The Unanswered Question, performed by the BSO a few weeks ago as the opener to their Organ Symphony program, is a piece in a similar vein. There is very little to the piece; flutes, strings, and a few trumpets playing mostly sustained notes create dissonance, a sense of timelessness, and a slightly ominious mood. As the title of the piece would suggest, it begged several question about music, sound, and art, of which there is no answer. You must contemplate, in solitude, these questions for yourself.

When I think of the times in the day that I am truly alone, I cannot think of many. An exception to this incessant stream of signals, I believe, can be found in music. Although the aforementioned pieces are especially appropriate examples, the very nature of all art and music has a certain built-in quality of meditative solitude – you must enjoy this art by your own standards, by yourself. Ironically, when I am listening to classically performed pieces, live or on a recording, I find my mind drifting more freely than it does on almost any other occasion. Even though there are hundreds of others in the room, and you are listening to a signal created by not just one, but dozens of other humans, it is very possible to feel alone. Although it might not correspond directly to Deresiewicz’ idea of solitude, I think this feeling of isolation you may achieve when you are wrapped up in a piece of music is close to what is he is getting at. It is a temporary release from the electronic hive.