It is a beautiful Spring morning in Montreal,
It seems only yesterday that I could listen to classical music all day on CBC. Midday was Off the Record with Bob Kerr. For the last five years or so, his leitmotif was complaining about liner notes. He never quite came to terms with the transition from LP's to the new CD's with their sharply reduced space for pictures and text. I can still hear the pauses and sighs of exasperation as he tried to read the small type in a CD booklet or searched for a piece of information that was just not there.
Frustration. Stuff left out. Things that are just not there anymore.
Listening to Bach. To the St. Matthew Passion. And remembering Otto Klemperer and his recording from 1961. The classic that has become famous because of the very slow tempi. I have found it in my collection and am listening as I write this. Yeah, it's probably too slow.
Otto understood something. Just as the body of the violin resonates with the strings, receiving and amplifying their musical energy, so does music capture the listener, fastening his heart to its pulse, breathing with him, giving substance to the torment in his soul.
But music doesn't move us by force. The connection is a tenuous one. It is like rocking a car stuck in the snow, back and forth, gently feeding the rhythm of the rocking. If it is expertly done, enough energy can be transmitted to break the car free. Just so does music move the soul. Its work is not done when it emanates from a violin body or a speaker cone. It lives on in the listener, building momentum, beauty, glory. Bach does it.
Peter Togni opened Choral Concert today with Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, saying this is the music he would like to hear at the end of life. My bucket music came later in the the program: Mache dich, mein Herze, rein – Make yourself, my heart, pure. (So Jesus can live there.) It was preceded by other excerpts from the St. Matthew Passion and the tempi were, well, fast.
It's a sign of our times. Fast is fashionable. It's not that a fast tempo is bad – it can be very exciting, as for example, in some sections of Glenn Gould's first recording of the Goldberg Variations. But at a certain point I find myself asking, is there more to this than the technical virtuosity? Does it do anything musically?
Here I am, a heavy Chevy stuck in a drift, and the conductor isn't speaking to my rhythm. His energy whistles by and I'm still stuck. So here I am later in the day, thinking about Mache dich and hearing it in my head, much slower. Now the sixteenth notes are the third-story facade of an elegant piece of architecture. They build on the first and second story, elaborating on the structure beneath, adding momentum to the great design. How they do that is a subject for a long musicological article, or perhaps just a conversation between Bach and God. But now I am moved. I feel the beauty and the glory of death. I feel the intense longing, the sweetness, the desire for an innocence I left behind in the womb. I guess I'm just getting old.