Last night I went to a Tschaikovsky (sp?) concert at an open air amphitheatre. A big one, where all the rock bands play.
The second half was selections from Swan Lake and The 1812 Concerto (or was it a Symphony?). Anyway, it ended with cannons (so unexpected that I almost ended up in the lap of my friend next to me) and fireworks.
But the most memorable part of the concert was the pianist who played almost the whole first half with the symphony "backing her up." I believe the correct phrasing would be "providing accompaniment." Whatever.
I don't remember what the piece was called, but in the 1870's when Tschaikovsky wrote it, the musical establishment of the day proclaimed it unplayable. First mind-blowing thought of the night: Tschaikovsky wrote a beautiful, stunning, soul-filled piece of music that he could not play, nor could anyone he knew. (I know that Beethoven wrote music when he was deaf, and find this similarly amazing.) The piece was so passionate, that it breaks my heart that Tschaikovsky (OK, I'm getting really tired of typing his name) may never have heard it with his ears. Obviously he knew in his "mind's ear" what the piece would be...
I am not a musician, althouth I enjoy music quite alot. I am a writer, a poet, a mixer of words...and there is no parallel experience (that I can think of) between the experience of composing music and composing through written word. Anything I write I can experience--I do experience--as I am writing, re-writing and editing. Sure, I may never see something published, but I don't write to be published. It'd be nice, but it's not necessary.
Anyway, I could ramble on about that for awhile, but what else moved me was the pianist herself. She was a young-looking Chinese woman in a sparkling blue ball gown who played with such intensity and spirit that I often wondered if she knew we were all out there listening. She would play long solos and then open her eyes and look over at the other musicians on stage with a look of "Oh, you're here! Please come and join me!" and then they'd all play for awhile before she played alone again. Her technique and talent were obvious, as was her joy in playing.
I can't play like that, nor will I ever. I don't have the ear, or the fingers, or the dedication. But, the night made me want to write, to put the musicians, and the ballet dancers (for the Swan Lake pieces) , the cool night air, the wonderful Melville Syrah (I think it was a Syrah...) and my lovely, enveloping friends into a poem that would transcend the moment, lift it into the night breeze and drift it away to land in the lap, perhaps, of some pharoah's daughter. (for reference, see comments)
9 years ago
4 comments:
The Language Issue
by Nuala NiDhomhnaill
I place my hope on the water
in this little boat
of the language, the way a body might put
an infant
in a basket of intertwined
iris leaves,
its underside proofed
with bitumen and pitch,
then set the whole thing down amidst
the sedge
and the bulrushes by the edge
of a river
only to have it borne hither and thither,
not knowing where it might end up;
in the lap, perhaps,
of some Pharaoh's daughter.
(translated from Irish by Paul Muldoon)
Hey, Jill and I were at that concert last night too. You described it beautifully. I was also thinking about how the pianist really seemed to feel the music and put her heart into it. I think that helps the audience feel the emotion that the composer intended. Since you're a walking encyclopedia, maybe you can answer this question: where did ballet originate? What's the history?
Oooh...I'm not that smart, Sherri. I would guess that ballet started in France, but it's a guess.
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