Listen

Due to my blogging hiatus of roughly a year from since last fall I thought I might post some of what I've been up to since my arrival in Germany. This post addresses what I've been up to quite narrowly: what I've listened to in the last year.

Beethoven's string quartets have taken up more of my listening time than anything else. I had avoided chamber music in my listening for so long until my frustration with my own ignorance of the repertoire caught up with me last year and I purchased the Takacs Quartet's recordings of the early and late quartets. I've found that while his early quartets define a comprehensible formal standard for Viennese classicism, the ingenuity of his voicing, the violence of his gestures and silences in even the earliest chamber works allows the listener enough surprise as to be vaguely unsettling without destroying the formal framework. The quartets are truly an adventure of the mind. I feel that mine isn't yet nimble enough to grasp many of the later works, but there is more than enough material for a lifetime of listening, study and thought here.

After Beethoven comes Josquin, whom I rediscovered about a year and a half ago. The Missa pange lingua, Missa l'homme armé super voces musicales and the Missa la sol fa re mi recorded by the Tallis Scholars have been a great comfort to me as has

Johann Sebastian Bach's St. Matthew Passion. The music never wears on me and never ceases to amaze me for its inventiveness and infinite variety.

There was a period this year of about a month when a ridiculous desire drove me to listen to the ballet from Sanson et Delila over and over. This small piece is as near perfection as music can be. Saint-Saëns never seemed an ambitious composer to me, but this bagatelle does everything such a piece should and exceeds expectations.

Lastly I would like to mention an addiction I've developed that surprised me. Ever since Lady Gaga became ubiquitous around 2008, the strains of "Just Dance" or "Poker Face" were a constant annoyance, but it wasn't until this February when I first noticed "Bad Romance" that I stopped to listen. I have learned to appreciate the image she has constructed of herself and the intersection of glamour, self-expression and self-concealment and surprisingly good musicality. There was a time a few months ago when I would have said that Lady Gaga was the soundtrack of my time in Afghanistan.

Sleep

Having returned from a grueling day's and night's work at 4AM I put in some headphones and began listening to Josquin des Prez' Missa Pange Lingua as I laid down to sleep. When it came to the Gloria movement and as sleep closed upon me I had a vision of a beautiful procession of animals lined up two by two: great stags and bears and other creatures of the forest. They were lined up in front of a gorgeous icon of our Savior and were doing obeisance. The song of praise flowed from the love and honor that these creatures had for the Lord and they were full of dignity and beauty.

Nürnberg

On the train to Nürnberg today for the first time I sat near a

rambunctious pack of American soldiers whose coarse boasts

made me all too eager to disembark when we finally arrived.

Ascending from the stale air of the underground portion of the

train station to the fresh, open and crowded Altstadt was in

itself enough reward for the journey. This week is the Altstadtfest

and the alleys were packed with vendors and visitors, peddling,

grasping and ignoring Lebkuchen, kebabs and overpriced

leather accessories. On the steps of St. Lorenz an older man

smoking with a crowd of mohawked teenagers accosts me, "Was

ist los?!!" I take my time to take in the wonder of the

Sebalduskirche, saddened by the remnants of war the building still

betrays. On my way out of the Sebalduskirche a jolly stocky man

approaches me and gushes, "Haben Sie Hunger?" and gave me a

large bag of pastries left over from a wedding. I climb to the top of

the town castle, which affords a breathtaking view of the old

city--I can see all its churches and slanted roofs with a sickly

industrial smoke rising from a plant in the distance. A modest

repast of penne and salad and I'm on my way home, ready to

venture further when time allows.

D&C 18:10

Speaking off the cuff to fill a few remaining minutes in sacrament meeting, my bishop turned to his quad: "Let me open up to the exact scripture here, I don't want to get this wrong. Here it is. 'Remember the worth of gold is. . . of souls, of SOULS! The worth of souls is great in the sight of God.'"

The worth is great indeed.

Siemens festival night

Siemens AG is sponsoring public showings and live internet broadcasts of performances at the Bayreuth and Salzburg Festivals. Tomorrow, July 30, will be the internet broadcast of Cosìfan tutte from the Salzburg Festival. It costs €7.90. August 9 Tristan und Isolde will be shown for a fee of €14.90.

The oldest musical instrument in the world

A bone flute, estimated to be 35,000 years old, was discovered last year in the Hohle Fels cave near Ulm in Baden-Württemberg, as reported in Nature. This cave was also the site where the oldest known example of figurative art, a stone "Venus" statue, was found. Two independent labs reached similar conclusions on the dating of the flute through radiocarbon dating using different techniques. The date roughly coincides with initial settlement of the area by Homo sapiens. The article in The New York Times is a nice summary.

Moral of the Story

Listening to La Bohème on the road the other day I was struck by the obvious: when on your way to the pawn shop to sell an item of clothing to be able to pay for a doctor's visit for a dying friend, DO NOT stop to sing an aria to said piece of clothing!  Time is of the essence!!!

Desert rain seen from the High Chisos

Parable of the Fruit

There was a tree, plain and unbecoming that bore the finest yellow fruit.  When the tree was first found in a dark corner of a remote forest, those who tasted it could hardly believe such a wonder had passed so long unknown to the larger world.  Seeds were brought back to the city and the tree could soon be found in all manner of places.  Some who tasted it were glad to have tasted such a wonder.  Others refused because in shape and form it was unlike anything they had eaten.  Some found it too sweet and didn’t think it right to take anything so different from their blander daily fare.  Some who passed by the tree were disgusted by its ungainly appearance and despised the fruit.  “How could anything good come from such a tree?” they asked.  Others said, “God would not place a good fruit on a bad tree.”  There were some food enthusiasts who praised the fruit highly, grew their own trees and enjoyed eating it in the presence of others because they had heard how fine it was, but could hardly stand the smell of it and wouldn’t touch it when eating alone.  Stranger still, there were scientists who made the plant and its fruit the object of exacting study and have never eaten the fruit.  Indeed, most people never touched it and found it little more than an ugly curiosity.  There are a few however, who treasure the fruit and the pleasure of its taste, though most people still prefer potatoes.

Passover

With nothing better to do in a small southwestern country town on a Saturday I attended my first Passover Seder today. To my surprise, the impressive local brick Congregation Beth Israel building has stood for 75 years, though the community is now very small. There were perhaps twenty of us at the meal. As there was no rabbi a female lay leader read many of the blessings and we took turns reading from the Passover story out of The Family Seder, published in 1967. We sang some songs, one of which will definitely stay with me, expressing thanks that if God had only delivered us from Egypt we would be thankful and satisfied, as we would had he only given us manna, or given us the promised land, etc. How strange it was for me to find exegesis and liturgy to be united, and very satisfying, with the haggadah exploring meanings and readings of the stories and rituals. Must I also confess it was troubling as the twin shadows of Cold War and Zionist rhetoric loomed over the rituals in this particular edition of the Seder, everything an emblem of Western political liberalism and its insatiable demand for sacrifice? This and the final prayer for God's fiery vengeance on Israel's enemies (the only amen that failed me) had a bitter taste and when I came home to read John 19-21 made the drama of the text so real for me. God do not let me blame them or anyone, their failings are ours and when we sin we crucify Christ anew. God have mercy on me and all of us.

I had attended a stations of the cross at the Catholic church last week as well, and while the pain and compassion at what Christ suffered was sharp and present, the whole pageant seemed so unreal and distant from the heart of the Passion. How grateful I am for Jesus, who died for us. By God's grace, may his atonement heal us all and the whole earth. Oh thank you God.

Gospel Doctrine

Before the opening prayer the teacher started making the rounds, passing a bamboo kebab skewer to each class member.  "Everybody gets a stick, everybody gets a stick.  OK, here's your stick.  Everyone gets to participate because that's how we learn by the spirit.  Don't poke each other, they're sharp, ha.  We're going to pass out these sticks.  Alright, last one.  Now I need two volunteers.  Alright, sister, I need you to break your stick."  The sister easily snaps it in two.  "Alright, second volunteer, here's our second volunteer.  OK, who loves this brother?  Who will give him their stick?  He needs your sticks."  Class members slowly begin to pass their sticks to the brother one by one.  He ends up with perhaps 16 skewers.  "He's going to try to break these sticks, but he'll find it's harder.  When we're united, we can't be broken."  With a great crack bambo dust bursts into the air and all over the brother's pants as he breaks all the skewers together in a feat of strength.

Ballet and loathing

Several weeks ago a friend who teaches piano invited me over to scavenge through a stack of music she was throwing away. Nothing remarkable--some Chopin, Mendelssohn and Rachmaninoff piano duets I gladly picked out, but it was something else entirely that caught my fancy. I was powerless to resist the urge as I placed it on the stand and eagerly played with more passion and relish than I have in a long time. I had made it to Dance of the Mirlitons before I abruptly stopped in the middle of an elegant gesture, slammed the book shut and reached for some Schubert. That's right, gentle reader, it was a piano reduction of the Nutcracker Suite that so delighted me until the shame of playing Tchaikovsky in February overwhelmed me and I had to move on and pretend it hadn't happened. I can't wait to play it again.

Ite, missa est

Like any self-respecting Mormon intellectual, I have a bad case of liturgy envy.  So, when presented the chance to attend a Latin Tridentine Mass at a local mission church I could ne'er answer nay.  Benedict XVI issued a decree called Summorum Pontificum in 2007 which facilitated the celebration of the Mass in Latin at the request of the faithful.  My understanding is this local church began holding Tridentine Mass last fall.

Having not yet experienced the older rite, the savory incense and gentle dialogue of the antiphon I welcomed and enjoyed more finely for the anticipation, but for all that was new and strange I must say I benefited most from the strong homily that was offered.  The gospel reading for the day was Mark 9:2-10, I think, about the transfiguration of Jesus.  The priest taught how though Jesus had always had the nature the disciples saw with their eyes that day, it was hidden from their sight.  It was in these times when the glory of Christ was veiled that the disciples jockeyed for honor, bickered, denied and betrayed and this was how we all lived--coming from moments of divine grace and insight back to our ordinary experience where we must sort out the particulars of Christian living.  For the priest, the faithful's experience of Christ in the eucharist was the prime example.  The priest took Peter's "It is good for us to be here" as true for the faithful, for whom it is "good to be here": in the church, celebrating the mass, taking communion.  He spoke of the "terror and tenderness" of the disciples' experience on the mountain and the faithful's experience of the eucharist.  Reading this episode in the gospels, I have often found myself moved at Peter's plain exclamation, remarkable not only for how obvious it is, but at what was left unsaid of his own terror and delight at being in the presence of heavenly beings.  He's at a loss for words at his own spiritual experience, something I can surely relate to.  I've thought back on those words, "It is good for us to be here" many times in my life as I've been shown that a circumstance is just where the Lord would have me be.  What a blessed thing, may I be there always.

The priest's comments regarding Christ's divine nature being veiled from human view during his early ministry and the head coverings worn by many women present had me pondering the veiling of glory, from Paul's teaching ("woman is the glory of the man [. . .] if a woman have long hair it is a glory to her" 1 Cor 11: 7,15) to Moses (Exodus 34:33-35) to some Latter-Day Saint practices.  Is veiling to protect the sacred or preserve the ignorant?  What is the meaning of veiling?

In other news, the talks in our own sacrament meeting were on the theme "steadfast faith in Christ."  As I listened to the youth speaker compare a saint's waiting on the Lord for blessings to seeing candy fall and slide through the workings of a transparent glorified gumball machine I was struck at how years ago I would have found this trivial and out of keeping with whatever imagined teaching the speaker had in mind but now found it entirely appropriate.  The last speaker, when reviewing ways to "increase our faith" urged us to do what was right with no thought of reward, which I was impressed to note reiterated Jesus' teaching in Luke 17:5-10 almost exactly without the speaker seeming to be aware.  

Ladies and Gentlemen

For those of you longing for the good old days of genuine urban outrage, may I respectfully submit for your consideration the following:

دام
Ramallah Underground
NiZ-R

The New York Times also ran an article last week on an Iraqi group of another stripe featured in a documentary a couple of years ago.

Best of 2008

Doubt
I can't overstate how much I appreciated this film taken from the play by John Patrick Shanley, which rather than exploiting an issue so prominent in the public consciousness for social ends, forges a mighty spiritual and ethical parable. Much has been said of Philip Seymour Hoffman of late, but of course this is Meryl Streep's movie, which she commands with as much authority as Sister Aloysius does the Saint Nicholas school. The range of her shrieks, scowls and glances is well complimented by Hoffman's meek modulations of tone and expression. You must see this film.

Man on Wire
This little-known documentery is a beautiful film about a great acrobat and unsavory human being, Phillipe Petit, who in 1974 with a group of friends perpetrated a coup of guerrilla performance art by walking without a safety net on a high-wire strung between the twin towers of the World Trade Center. At turns sentimental, funny and thrilling, this documentary manages to entertain as few do.

Gran Torino
I will not say this is a great film, but it is a good one with an uplifting message. As you all know, Clint Eastwood directs himself in this tale of a retired widower confronting the realities of family relationships, immigrant neighbors and gang activity. With middle-of-the-road acting and directing where this movie dares is in dealing with what so few seem to treat honestly and convincingly: relationships.

WALL-E
Who could have guessed that one of the most poetic and telling meditations on the meaning of humanity in the midst of technology in recent years would be a kids movie? (If you have more adult fare in mind, you might be disappointed.)

Encounters at the End of the World
This even lesser-known documentary was the work of director Werner Herzog. Must I say more? Herzog is enthralled by Antarctica. Herzog goes to Antarctica. Herzog interviews and films assorted scientists and grifters in Antarctica. Herzog goes home. In addition to stunning footage and hilarious interviews, Herzog makes excellent use of the gorgeous soundtrack. A bagatelle of a film and an experience, it was dedicated to notable amorphous blob Roger Ebert.

Not of 2008 but in it simply because I first saw these for the first time this year:

Fitzcarraldo
This film is Werner Herzog's lyrical musing on the adventures of a man with impossible dreams. Famously featuring a riverboat dragged over a mountain, this film simultaneously enchants and alienates not only through the half-madness of its hero, but in its own execution. Klaus Kinski as the hero captures an innocence unseen in some of his other work

Le Hussard sur le Toit (The Horseman on the Roof)
Costume drama? Adventure movie? Set in 1832 and complete with Austrian spies, cholera and revolutionaries, this film manages to capture the flavor of July Monarchy France in its use of symbolism, portrayal of social customs and denial of romantic consummation to the lovely couple: a radiant Juliette Binoche and a frantic Olivier Martinez. A very fine film.

Faith-promoting rumor?

At church today a ward member claimed Elder Ballard recently said that for the first time in history there is now a member of the church living in every nation on earth and I instantly found myself thinking, "Really? Bhutan? Congo? East Timor?" The list went on and as I came to Somalia and Sudan I wondered whether the temporary presence of members from western nations working for their respective governments, military forces or NGO's was considered sufficient presence in dozens of such nations to allow a general authority to make such a statement. How meaningful is that? Did Elder Ballard even say this? If so, how does he know? Who's the Mormon in Bhutan? What say ye, noble readers?

Roll Over de Azevedo

What I have in mind for the gentle reader is to view the slick video on this smashing new church-sponsored page. I think it's best I comment very little on this, but needless to say, it blew my mind. Not as some might suppose, however. . . It left me pondering on the status of urban and popular culture. As soon as a pop/urban style or trope becomes a tool of an obscure American sect (read: cult), what is its status? The question is not whether it is dead but how neutral it has become within the cultural landscape when the dangerous temptations of yesteryear merge into our synthetic conformity. Of course this is the nature of culture and is not unique to our time. I once heard composer Harvey Sollberger say that the great masterpieces are like tigers that must be tamed to be made safe for the masses, losing their claws as they enter the canon (this is a paraphrase). And when a cultural product is toothless and neutral how can it be useful? It is useful not for individual consumption, but as the fabric wherewith we all patch our lives, the stuff of our shared experience. This video is indeed bizarre, but it seems real and genuine in a way that can be accomplished only in our age.

The Met's Orfeo ed Euridice

I can’t help but wish for the tragedy as I sit through Glück’s absurd ending and find myself wondering whether that’s what we’re meant to feel.

The Met’s production of the 1762 Vienna version of Orfeo ed Euridice was very good. I am sorry to say the major blot on this production was the chorus. I do not meant their singing of course, but in costumes designed by Isaac Mizrahi they appeared as figures from our collective consciousness: there was Abraham Lincoln, Henry VIII, Jimi Hendrix, Rosa Parks and Frederick Douglass. This was most absurd when first encountered in Act I, as they mourn Euridice with Orfeo. The unfortunate singers were also witnessed making simple hand gestures as they silently sat through Orfeo’s troubled musings—raising their arms as Orfeo mentions the gods above, crossing their hearts as he speaks of marking the trees of the forest in token of his love. The trouble was not so much that the chorus is not well-trained in movement nor that their choreography in itself was so awful (and it was), but that they did it with absolutely no conviction, and that is one thing we can not excuse. Awkward amateurism does not sit as badly with us as dispassionate, devil-may-care performance, and this is the director’s fault, not the chorus’.

That said, the director Mark Morris choreographed splendidly for the dancers, who were the real stars. The choreography struck that delicate balance between suiting the music and sufficing as a thing of beauty in itself. Particularly noteworthy were the tortured writhing in mourning, the halting stumbling of the dead as we enter Hades and the dance of the furies. In the ballet at the conclusion one charming section began with a male dancer keeping time with his foot as he turned his female partner in front of him and then they switched roles and performed the same steps, the rest of the dancers joining in couples, including one male couple and one female. The dancers were costumed in casual contemporary clothing, summer dresses, suits and sweats, changing into new costumes identical in design to what the wore in the opening but in brighter colors for the final scene. The dancing was fabulous.

Stephanie Blythe as Orfeo sang with superb line and was well cast. Absolutely gorgeous in the role of Euridice was Danielle de Niese and I suppose she sang well, too. James Levine was exceptionally sensitive to Blythe’s urgency and musicality.

Met's HD La Damnation de Faust Broadcast

Attended the Met's live HD broadcast of Robert Lepage's La Damnation de Faust at my local movie theater today. (For the uninitiated, La Damnation de Faust is a "dramatic legend" of some more than two hours length that has essentially all the necessities of an opera, however it was not written to be staged, but to be presented in concert form. Personally, I'll bet this was due to Berlioz' difficulties in getting his own works staged in Paris, having been a self-proclaimed and boorish enemy to the Parisian musical establishment from the beginning, rather than being the outcome he truly wished for such a work from the time Goethe first bewitched him.)

First of all, let me say that attending the opera in America invariably creeps me out. I don't think of myself as exceptionally young so finding myself the youngest person at any entertainment event is sure to produce the willies. The theater was nearly full and I can safely say I was the only person there under thirty (what am I saying? I was the only person there under 45).

This production was fantastic. Robert Lepage's much-hyped use of interactive projections was stunning and lived up to the buzz. The set was a wall containing multiple levels of shallow platforms, on to which were projected images from the front and the rear. Images of underwater dancers, fibers that moved in response to the motion of the live dancers (as far as I can tell, detected by sensors that felt their body heat) and real-time images of the singers were all effectively deployed without technology overwhelming the drama or music. One of the most striking projected images was in the scene that begins with Faust singing "Nature immense," the pillars of the set were shown to be the trunks of trees whose waving green branches were projected onto a screen above the top platform. As Mephistopheles entered and moved across the stage he touched each pillar, whose branches subsequently withered. Another excellent excellent effect was during the soldiers' song "Jam nox stella velamina pandit," young women sat at the base of each column as suspended soldiers walked vertically to the top of the set where they fell limp and were slowly lowered to the women's laps to be passionately mourned and then repeat. The novelty and beauty of the director's vision was a great addition to this spare drama.

Which brings us to the work itself. La Damnation de Faust is one of Berlioz' greatest works, which is to say it is a work everyone feels obliged to call a masterpiece, but no one genuinely feels to be such. In it we encounter Berlioz' flair for sonic ingenuity and boldness of gesture, his literary instinct as well as his stunted, inorganic and distinctly French conceptualization of his wild, whirling vision. Here, as much as in any of his works, Berlioz is unable to break from the dance, which both enchants and bores the listener. Luckily, this last aspect was well-exploited in this production with excellent choreography. Indeed, the half-formed nature of this work contributed brilliantly to this bold production, such a non-opera is a director's opera waiting to happen. (Also there is no cadre of die-hard traditionalist fans who would howl at the liberties.)

Musically, it was superb. (Need I say it was better than the first time I saw it under Keith Lockhart in Salt Lake in 2004?) Levine and the orchestra were fine, and the chorus was expressive and disciplined. Susan Graham as Marguerite was refined and sensitive. Marcello Giordani as Faust was uneven, but acquitted himself very well in his upper register, and his performance improved as the show went on and he warmed up. It goes without saying that John Relyea as the villain-who-will-not-be-named stole the show, his charismatic physicality detracting not one whit from his musical art. His costume, a red leather suit with black fur growing from the arms and a two-feather'd cap, was hideous, but he looked fabulous in it.

Regarding the broadcast, the amplification was poorly coordinated at times, particularly in choral passages, obscuring the chorus' careful artistry. Also the camerawork was occasionaly bizarre, showing closeups where it should have shown wide shots to allow us to take in the carefully choreographed spectacle. I've appreciated seeing productions recently (this and Dr. Atomic) that use the stage's full vertical space.

Lastly, Hector Berlioz, I speak to you who are beyond the grave. In denying Faust salvation or even an intecessory prayer on his behalf, you have not done a disservice to a great piece of literature, but to the very fabric our civilization. You have denied us hope, and in case you haven't been watching the news lately, hope is very hot right now.

Listening to Beethoven

What bugs me in Viennese classicism is the occasional treatment of different voices as if they are equal, the trading of musical material between the low and high voices of the string choir with no variation, reflecting the contrapuntal norms of a past era rather than the realities of orchestral performance. Listening to the scherzo of the 9th today when tutti join fortissimo in the galloping rhythm I heard it as if the lazy articulations of the bass were indeed intended by the composer to resonate slightly behind the higher voices, that the strings, written in rhythmic unison, cannot at that tempo sound rhythmically unified. I thought this represents a breakthrough of using the instruments for what they are capable of rather than as the modern replacements of the human voices sounding in churches, and this is here an irony because the passage is in rhythmic unison but that is not what the listener hears: the upper voices sharply articulate the downbeat, but the lower voices are a powerful grumbling like an earthquake whose rhythmic ambiguity undermines the tyranny of the downbeat.
This is a case of what I find brilliant in Beethoven and it is usually misunderstood: that he used the conventions of his time to contrive gestures of shocking violence and intensity. I don’t believe the opening of the Eroica or the 5th or other such famous moments are truly so unprecedented in the music of his time. I’m thinking of the sforzandi in the finale of the 4th, which come in the midst of an unremarkable flurry of superficial activity. On the page the music does not appear so different from Haydn or Mozart and yet it grated on the eighteenth century ear. In that gesture from the 4th I hear more than in any other (except perhaps the first harmony of the finale of the 9th) Beethoven in his apartment mercilessly pounding, punishing the piano he can hardly hear, less to summon the sound than to vent his despair. It’s not that I think Beethoven’s gestures weren’t shocking in his time, they clearly were, but they generally had some precedent and were always the building blocks within a classical framework, sharp articulations of masculine violence to be balanced with female grace.
I noticed the strong hissing of the “f” in “Freude,” which was particularly pronounced in the recording I was listening to, as the choir sang all consonants well before the beat, which I found distasteful at first but am now uncertain about. I remember a voice teacher I knew taught that consonants should be before the beat in German and English and on the beat in French and Italian.
I thought today also that Beethoven did not have the words or their sounds in mind when he wrote the finale, with the single exception of the word “Freude,” which I imagine seized his mind forcefully upon reading the poem and that the lightning-bolt choral “Freude” at the end of the recitative emerges from that moment of inspiration when Beethoven first encountered this bit of Schiller. Otherwise the finale is instrumental music for singers. (Rather like how most of Brahms is piano music for whatever instrument) This is an indicator of how far the orchestra had come as musical thing-in-itself: composers now no longer imposed vocal tropes on wood and steel (I mean sheepgut), but the limitations and conventions of instrumental music now set the terms for vocal writing. This ideal would see its apotheosis in Wagner and his disciples—Wagner, brass-obsessed, innovating new uses and abuses and extensions of the brass choir, whose vocal lines never seem to stray from what’s possible for the French horn. Of course the same goes for Mahler and Strauss, but Strauss is cheating because for him the French horn can do anything.
The Turkishness in the finale of the 9th always troubled me. I do not doubt it was intended to be sonically strange, but I realized for the first time that poetically it represents if not a return to the home of youth, then the new elysial home we dream of, a sort of Garden of Eden. While Turkishness was at the center of the 18th-century Europe image of otherness (as, indeed, the Ottoman empire and various other parts of dar al-Islam were the parts of the outside world with which Europe was most intimately familiar), there was a strand of Enlightenment thought that presented Turks or other easterners as embodying the West’s spiritual ideals and the whole of the East as untouched by the failings of the West. Naturally these images occur side-by-side with portraits of Eastern greed, violence, lechery and superstition, as in die Entführung aus dem Serail, but if we laugh at Osmin, we, with the chorus, sing the praises of the benevolent and enlightened Eastern prince Pasha Selim, who comes off looking much better than the Europeans (at least the men), and whose deus ex machina pardon shows he understands Enlightenment ideals better than they. Voltaire, having taken his simple Candide on a tour of European locales, lifestyles and ideas, settles the hero in his own modest Eden in European Turkey (notably not in the Americas, Europeans’ other fantasy garden, which proved too dangerous for Candide and Cunegonde). I suppose Nathan der Wise is one of the best examples of Western virtue in the person of the crusader suffering by comparison to Eastern temperance. While it could be argued that Nathan represents the cosmopolitan middle ground between the excesses of East and West, yet Nathan, as a Jew, was definitely not European, and would not have been considered such by audiences of Lessing’s time. These fantasies are an emblem of Western decline as European civilization begins to look outward for inspiration rather than inward, as also witnessed also by the European fascination with the New World. These images are also intended as a criticism and mirror of the West rather than having any true grounding in experience or contact with the east.
Back to Beethoven. I would have a hard time arguing that the Turkish march in the finale is not “other.” Poetically, however, it draws the European listener out of his time and place to a distant land he’s never visited and can hardly imagine yet is real, a place where “all men will be brothers.” This ideal place, though located in the inscrutable East is merely the Enlightenment projection of Elysium.
I find myself listening to the 9th and wondering how it is Beethoven was able to summarize the aspirations and anxieties of an entire civilization. Inevitably I doubt the assumptions of those ponderings, asking whether these meanings are what we have bestowed on the man’s work. I consider the strangeness of the apotheosis of Western ideals in this journey through sonic mystery, angular gestures and rustic simplicity, arriving at the place where our most carefully considered dreams come true (by way of the Sublime Porte, no less). It’s a bizarre trip, and one I love to take.
Hat tip to Maynard Solomon for the last three paragraphs