What is the “Music of the Spheres?”

The phrase “music of the spheres” refers to the intertwined relationship between the structures of music and those of the physical world, and a conscious awareness of mystical or spiritual qualities being transmitted through composed sound.

All music consists of a form of dualism, an aural yin and yang in which consonance is inextricably linked with its complementary force of dissonance; one does not meaningfully exist without the other. Dissonance provokes a form of tension – an unsettled relation in the notes of music – and is relieved by the consonance of resolution. We hear this whether we are listening to Bach, Mozart, Bartók or Applebaum, although the balance is often shifted towards dissonance in post-20^th century music, perhaps in reflection of societal conflicts.

Pythagoras is credited with having discovered the physical relationship, expressible as ratios, between mass and sound. He is also credited with having invented the monochord, essentially a stretched gut string on a soundboard with moveable bridges, for testing harmonic properties and their rapport with numerical ratios. (We will hear a monochord in Edward Applebaum’s Dirt Music, which may be the first instance ever of its use in composed music; more recent instruments with basic similarities to the monochord would include the Japanese koto and the Chinese ch’in.)

The octave ratio of 1:2  means that a mass, such as a string of any material, will produce a frequency an octave above the pitch of its full length when it is reduced by one half. For example, the open ‘A’ string of the violin sounds that pitch at about 440 vibrations per second. When the string is “stopped” by the violinist’s finger so that only half of its original length is vibrating, it sounds an ‘A’ that is an octave higher and vibrating twice as quickly. Simply stated, to play this musical interval, one part of the string length out of two parts total (the ratio 1:2) is set into vibration. The ratio for the fifth is 2:3 (two parts out of three are vibrating) and that of the fourth is 3:4.

Pythagoras and his followers believed that a universal philosophy could be founded in numbers. They differentiated three types of music: the music of instruments, the music of the human body and soul, and the music of the spheres, which was the music of the cosmos. Geometric shapes and even orbiting motions could be linked to this philosophy – indeed, Pythagoras could arguably be the first proponent of “string theory” as a tool to understanding the universe – and the important symbol of the tetractys contains the numbers of the perfect musical intervals of an octave, a fifth and a fourth:

X
XX
XXX
XXXX

According to Pliny, Pythagoras devised a literal “music of the spheres” by using musical intervals to describe the distances between the moon and the known planets.  In his Timaeus, Plato took up the idea of a universal philosophy thorough numbers and their musical associations and devised a series that he termed the World Soul: 1, 2, 3, 9, 8, and 27. By using these as musical ratios (1:2, 2:3, 3:9, etc.) he created a series of musical notes that gave a default mathematical ratio for the half-step. By mathematical derivation, one can arrive at theoretical proportions for the non-Pythagorean intervals of seconds, thirds, sixths and sevenths. These intervals are inherently subjective and context-sensitive, however, and have led to epic battles over “desirable” tuning temperaments, in part due to the fact that fixed-pitch instruments like pianos have one pitch to represent at least two distinct notes.

One of these battles was between the lutenist and pedagogue Vincenzo Galilei and his teacher, Gioseffo Zarlino. A member of a neo-Platonic academy, where the ancient associations of music, science and philosophy were again united, Galilei’s use of practical experimentation in his scientific studies of tuning temperaments and their physical properties was influential on his son Galileo, whose own didactic techniques and observations from nature led to revolutionary discoveries in physics.

The great Johannes Kepler followed these leads in developing his laws of planetary motion, describing the relationships of planets and their orbits through numbers and ratios and using them to create geometric figures of two and three dimensions.  He also employed musical references and even desired to create a “symphony of the cosmos,” stating that “the movements of the heavens are nothing except a certain everlasting polyphony.”  Sir Isaac Newton was likewise inspired by the cosmic music of the ancients, as set forth in Proposition VIII of his Principia.

The notion of the “music of the spheres” continues today through studies of cosmic background radiation and “string theory,” among many other applications, and composers have often been directly or indirectly inspired by its concepts:  Density 21.5 by Varèse combines an ancient instrument type with a radical view of the ratios of music and an inspiration from the earth itself: the gravitational weight of platinum, the metal used to build the flute that first played this work. Mozart’s frequent musical allusions to Masonic symbolism continue this notion, and Lou Harrison used the sounds of our world’s music – through time and space – to create memorably beautiful and compelling sounds in new combinations. Beethoven’s “music of the spheres” derives from a Romantic appreciation of the oneness of nature with the interior music of the soul, and Edward Applebaum’s Dirt Music was inspired by a love story (by Tim Winton) and the jazz idiom, with a nod to the architectural proportions of a Stradivarius violin transformed into music. Josef Strauss was also moved to write the “Music of the Spheres” Waltz, which links many lovely dances after a celestial introduction.

(Notes by Stephanie Chase from a chamber music program presented by the Music of the Spheres Society at Merkin Concert Hall in New York, October 2005.)

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Where a kazoo equals a Stradivari violin

I have just returned from a chamber music concert at the Tempe Center for the Arts in Arizona, where it was my great pleasure to collaborate with the fabulously elegant pianist Doris Stevenson and the terrific cellist (and artistic director of the Sonoran Chamber Music series) Thomas Landschoot, in music by Beethoven and Ravel.

Following the concert I spent an extra day visiting with old friends and we decided to check out the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix, which bills itself as the “most extraordinary museum you will ever hear” and opened in May of 2010.

The building itself is very attractive and the entrance desk uses corporate terminology – museumgoers are “guests” and staff are “team members” – which is not surprising in view of the fact that the former CEO of one of America’s superstores, Target, is the visionary (and, one suspects, much of the budget) behind this creation.  The museum’s goal is to present the musical instruments of all of the world’s cultures, and among its advisors are people like J. Kenneth Moore, Margaret Downey Banks and Darcy Kuronen, all of whom are or have been curators of major American musical instrument collections.

After a promising start in the cafe, the collection itself was something of a let-down, with inartful displays and a rather appalling number of instruments that were made in the late 20th century forward – with many post-2008, which were clearly commissioned by the museum itself.  That these instruments are new is not the problem, but the perception that they were made with the priority of filling empty galleries is; when this is the priority then things like authenticity and quality of craftsmanship are likely less important, and the chances of their having been actually played (and vetted) by musicians are marginal.  Labels do not give any information beyond the most basic – place and period made, and sometimes the name of the maker – without informing the reader of materials used or any historic context.  Screens placed throughout feature very brief video and audio bites of some of the instruments in use; sometimes the performers and works are identified and often they are not.

Some of the best displays – in terms of a didactic, educational experience – are by the museum’s sponsors, whose logos are prominently displayed near the entry.  One can see a dissected Steinway piano, a Martin guitar workshop, and soon to come is the D’Addario string manufacturer’s display.

If you want to see one of Elvis’ suits or drums used by Andy Summers (of the Police) or artifacts used by dozens of other pop or country musicians, many of whom were unknown to me, then this is the place – although some people might find the inclusion of the Jonas Brothers a bit mystifying.  Each has his (and I don’t recall a single woman displayed, although Dolly Parton must be in there somewhere) little section of wall with a musical instrument propped up, a couple of other artifacts, and a brief video of the perfomer in action.

Of course I paid attention to the violins on display, and one of the heartwarming aspects is that, like the harp and bagpipe, the violin has a strong presence in a large number of cultures, often in both folk and art music, although clearly less in the African and Australian continents than in Europe, Asia and the Americas.  I was not necessarily expecting to see any especially fine violins on display, but I was surprised by the curatorial carelessness.  There is no evident definition of “violin” versus “fiddle,” no hint that perhaps the violin is the more artful form (although classical violinists and dealers will sometimes call them “fiddles,” but this is deliberately casual), or that the kinds of wood used, skills involved and acoustical treatment is different in a violin made by the Mirecourt school and that found in, say, Peru.  Among the “Argentinian” instruments on display is a violin made in Saxony, with no explanation of why it would be found in Argentina (presumably brought there by an immigrant?)

What surprised me the most was to find probably the best-made violin in the collection, from the Mirecourt school, in a Cajun/Zydeco display, where it is called a “fiddle” and displayed next to a pair of spoons.  Violins made by the Mirecourt school could rightfully be called mass-produced, but they were made by skilled craftmen using good-quality materials and excellent models, such as instruments by Antonio Stradivari, which are still among the finest ever created.

A violin made in 1717 by Antonio Stradivari

Most of today’s violinmakers are copyists and not originators; it is galling when they claim that their instruments are “as good or better” than the best by Stradivari or the Guarneri family, as without these master craftsmen we would have few fine violins.  This process of copying is like taking a great painting by Rembrandt and turning it into a “paint-by-numbers” version.  The result may be pleasing and even “artful,” but it is still an imitation and not the same level of brilliance and creativity, by far.  (Imagine if I decided to play just like Jascha Heifetz and studied all of his recordings and replicated his bowings, fingerings and interpretation.  I might sound quite good – but would still be merely an imitator owing it all to his originality, just like those “Elvises” in Las Vegas.)

There are a few interesting and good examples of the evidently-reviled “Western” instruments, including a glass harmonica, some orchestrions (precursers to the jukebox), and a recording piano for making piano rolls.  I also had fun trying to play the “Meditation” from the opera Thais on a theremin in the Experience Gallery, surrounded by children (and some adults) banging away on percussion instruments.  A harpsichord in the “American” gallery appears, from the label copy, to have been made by the American maker John Challis (with whom my husband apprenticed) – but is actually an instrument, perhaps centuries old, that he revised in 1966 and probably of European origin.  It is displayed adjacent to an exhibit on “Canadian Fiddle Traditions.”

The “Israel” section consists of perhaps five items that include an oud made in Egypt (why?) and a couple of shofars, with a seconds-long video clip of Pinchas Zukerman playing Mendelssohn Violin Concerto with the Israel Philharmonic.  Go figure.  It also seems that the professionals at the Musical Instrument Museum think that Klezmer music is an entirely American musical idiom, without origins and continuing traditions in Eastern Europe.

After encountering scores of instruments made in 2008 and more recently, it was a relief to encounter a full gamelan with some slight wear indicating that it actually has been used by musicians.

The instrument conservator(s) are a main attraction as well; like the chimpanzees in the zoo they are behind a glass partition for the public to gawk at, surrounded by more video screens and instructional signs about insects that like to eat musical instruments.

Arizonans are proud of their new museum – rightfully to a certain extent – but its deficiencies are disturbing to me and I returned home last night wanting to know more about the people and ideas behind this venture.  A quotation from European curator Christina Linsenmeyer seems to say it all:

We don’t feel we need a Stradivarius (violin). If someone offered it, we’d be happy, of course, But I’d have no problem showing a Strad alongside a mirliton (kazoo), with the wax paper and string. Both are the same type of tool; one is not better than the other, and the fact is, kids will probably get more out of the mirliton than the Strad.

A mirliton (kazoo) made from animal bone.

I understand the desire of a museum to be politically correct and not presume that the white anglo-saxon culture is superior to others in music or any other art form.  But when the everything-is-equal mentality is combined with an indifference to detail, what could be an excellent educational opportunity is squandered.

I also understand the desire to appeal to children, but Dr. Seuss is not Shakespeare and a kazoo and its music is not the cultural equivalent of a great violin and its repertoire.

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Mozart’s Magic – The Sonatas for Piano and Violin

I am currently in a two-week long residency at a young artist’s program in the Midwest, coaching twelve students in a variety of sonatas for violin and piano by Mozart.  The participants are between the ages of ten and about seventeen, and I worked with quite a few of them last summer.  Each has been assigned a sonata and, out of the lot, only a couple have duplicate assignments so I am hearing ten different sonatas.

It has been something of a revelation. Although I have played a number of these works over the years, hearing them in such close proximity reminds me of Mozart’s absolute genius, on a multitude of levels.

In some of the Sonatas the violin and piano are equally prominent, in others the violin plays more of an accompanimental role, often playing the equivalent of a bassoon part if the work were orchestrated. The variety of moods (or affects) of these works is remarkable; the first movement of the Sonata (KV 293b) in E-flat Major has a grand nobility followed by a Rondo that is incredibly warm and intimately songful.  One of my favorite aspects of this particular Sonata occurs shortly after its opening, which features a crescendo that is extremely reminiscent – along with the key signature – of the Sinfonia Concertante composed in 1779. Sure enough, we see that this work was composed in Mannheim in February of the previous year, a time when the local orchestra was renowned for its “crescendo.”

Another work from that same period is the Sonata in A Major, KV 293a, which brings back an amazing memory from when I was eighteen and moved to Belgium to study with Arthur Grumiaux.  My studies with him began at a two-week summer master class program in Namur, so I had just arrived in a foreign country and was away from everything that was familiar.  This move had also led to quite a rift – not only with my previous violin teacher but also my mother – so I really felt alone, there was no financial support, and I had to count every franc in order to stave off financial trouble as long as possible. My private lessons were going to cost the then-equivalent of about $150 each (maybe $350 in current dollars?), so I had to scrimp severely. The whole stituation led me to feel quite anxious.

I was sitting in the darkened recital hall where the master class took place, along with perhaps six other students, when it came time for Janet Haugland to play. She had already been working with the Maitre for an extended period and was going to play this sonata. Grumiaux said something to the pianist for the class, who then left the stage, and sat down at the piano to play. His delight in playing this work was palpable – and he was a truly marvelous pianist. The beautiful music and his pianism left me feeling amazed, nearly giddy, and probably a bit jealous as I didn’t know yet how he was going to respond to me.

The second movement of this sonata is a lovely Theme and Variations with a tempo of Andante grazioso. Even its begining is extremely special, as Mozart indicates an upbeat trill but specifies a starting appogiatura that is the same pitch as the principal note of the trill – something that an interpretor probably wouldn’t do otherwise – and the effect is magical. The rest of the movement is no less special, with each variation providing its own affect (including one in A minor that reminds me of a villain tiptoeing around in a comical way!)

I am also coaching the Sonata in G Major, KV 293a, whose heartfelt simplicity demands the utmost purity in phrasing and expression as there is little that is overtly “virtuosic” in the writing.

Two students are studying the Sonata in E Minor, KV 304. Of all of his violin sonatas, this is perhaps the most difficult to bring off in public performance as it reflects the sadness, nostalgia, and anger that Mozart felt shortly following his mother’s death in 1778. The second movement is a wistful Minuet that is characterized by amazingly delicate but profound shifts of mood, none more so than the relatively brief section in E Major in which he indicates, for both players, an expressive portato sound.  Out of all of his compositions, Mozart apparently used this key signature only one other time and his use of minor keys throughout these Sonatas is sparing.

Because the Sonatas were composed while the fortepiano’s sustaining pedal was still being perfected, Mozart generally wrote dynamics that are terraced – in the manner of music for harpsichord – although there are some indications of crescendi, decrescendi and even the occasional “mezzoforte.”  One of the Sonatas is almost devoid of dynamic indicators. I have been encouraging the students to be consistently aware of the level of rhythmic activity in both their parts and that of the piano, as that is one of the best ways to figure out a dynamic scheme that is appropriate to the music and gesture; i.e., if the music is brilliant, then the dynamic level is higher.

Another factor in playing these works is that of articulation.  The demands placed on the violinist’s left hand are not simple in Mozart’s music, especially in purity of intonation and use of vibrato, but those placed on the bowing are much more sophisticated and require a large “vocabulary” of articulation, applied with great finesse. A series of notes that are under a legato line should contrast markedly with separate notes; in the Allegro movements the bow speed often should be the quickest at the very start of a note, in order to balance well with the pianist’s articulation and energy – otherwise the violinist can sound somewhat lazy and unrhythmic.

Unfortunately. even the Urtext editions by Henle and Barenreiter often overlook an important articulation: the stroke, which is sometimes called the carrot, wedge, or keil.  The editors of a number of “Urtext” works apparently have arrived at the mistaken belief that a stroke is really a staccato dot; however, one can see in autographs – such as those of Mozart’s Violin Concerti and Beethoven’s Violin Concerto – that there is a distinction in notation between the dot and stroke.

Having studied many contexts in which I know, reliably, that an articulation mark is indeed a stroke, I have come to the conclusion that a stroke indicates a note that has both melodic and rhythmic significance.  It may be in the part of a meter that normally would be lighter, such as an offbeat or the third beat in a three-based meter, and is the composer’s sign that the note carries an important role. Rarely should it be played with harshness, as is (unfortunately) often the case.  The same is true of the FP (fortepiano) marking, which indicates a sound that begins strongly and ends weakly and may modify a note or phrase of several beats rather than an abrupt accent at the start of a note.

One of the best pieces of advice I have seen regarding Mozart’s ornaments is found in Frederick Neumann’s book “Ornamentation and Improvisation in Mozart.” He gives many examples of suggested realizations of different kinds of grace notes, turns and trills, but ultimately tells the interpreter to use her ear.  If the principal note is enhanced and sounds more graceful, the execution is successful!

Mozart is also a master of the unexpected, whether in insistently (and, often, comically) repeating a part of a cadence or by having us play forte and moving on to new material when the ear is expecting an ending cadence in piano.  Often, both the violinists and pianists gloss over the cadence’s end-note and hurry into the unexpected part, and I remind them (and myself) that it is important to stay “in the moment” and complete the cadence as if there is no surprise coming up, in order not to give it away.

Finally, I try to impart the idea that silence is as meaningful as sound: whether it occurs as rests in the midst of a passge or at the end of the composition, the silence is always to be acknowledged.

One of the pianists and I briefly talked about the fact that some of the Sonatas have but two movements while others have three, and we agreed that Mozart knew when to stop; that he had already achieved perfection in the balance of two movements.  In the process of working with the students here, I feel that my own interpretations have been enhanced and look forward to my own future experiences with this music, the delights and insights of which remain timeless.

Originally posted on June 28, 2009.  Visit my website at www.stephaniechase.com.

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Remembering September 11, 2001: Playing Bach at Ground Zero

(This post was originally published on September 12, 2009)

Yesterday marked the eighth anniversary of a horrific day in the United States and, I would imagine, well beyond our borders.  Memories and emotions from September 11, 2001 streamed back – shock, helplessness, great fear, and an enormous numbing grief for those killed a mere few miles from my home.

It began as a gloriously beautiful late summer day, with cloudless skies and a perfect temperature.  Gradually, like countless others in Manhattan, I became aware of the sound of sirens filling the air and southbound traffic at a standstill. Throughout the city and the nation, we watched the televised news coverage with growing horror. The moment an aircraft hit the second tower, adjacent to the burning hell of the first, we collectively realized that this was no accident. Throughout New York, local firehouses sent their companies out with sirens screaming.  In many cases, including the fire stations in my neighborhood, not a single firefighter returned alive.

Very oddly, I was virtually across the street from the World Trade Center the previous morning, Monday, on an errand.  On Wednesday the stench of death reached my neighborhood: an acrid combination of smoke, melted plastics, paper, furniture and other countless materials that had been part of the World Trade Center, and over 2700 incinerated humans. Life had changed, indelibly.  Both of my parents had recently passed away, my mother in February 2000 and my father in June 2001, but this deadening sorrow that I now felt well exceeded what I had experienced even at their deaths.

Ironically, invitations for performances came streaming in; partly because other artists were unable to travel.  Flights were nonexistent, trains were virtually not running, and all of the local rental car companies had run out of available cars.  A car service from Cape Cod was provided to take me up there – the same day I learned about the invitation – where I replaced Shlomo Mintz (who was stuck in Israel) as soloist in the Brahms Violin Concerto. I recall walking around Hyannis, still feeling stunned, and I cried as the orchestra played the “Star Spangled Banner” as I waited backstage to perform.  The Metropolitan Museum asked me to play several concerts of solo Bach in its Medieval Court, to help soothe patrons who were understandably feeling skittish about being in any public venue in Manhattan.

A couple of weeks later, a friend called me and asked if I would be willing to play some quiet music for the rescue and recovery workers as they took their breaks in St. Paul’s Chapel.  This chapel is an extraordinary place. Just a matter of yards away from the World Trade Center, its graveyard filled with debris from the collapsed towers yet the chapel itself was nearly undamaged.  George Washington had worshipped there and his pew has a special place on the sanctuary’s northern side.   I took the subway down with my violin – circuitously, because the direct line had suffered enormous damage and was closed – and walked over several blocks.  As I got closer, streets were cordoned off and crowds, including tourists, were milling about, and the horrible smell increased. The trading center on Wall Street was draped in an enormous American flag and the streets were remarkably cleaned up of the debris, although it was clear that something catastrophic had occurred. The iron gates outside the church itself were covered in tributes and drawings by children, like a shrine, and in order to reach it I had to cross a barrier manned by the National Guard and local police.  Because the church was being used as a sanctuary for the Ground Zero workers, it was off limits to the public.   Inside was an extraordinary array of items: work boots neatly lined up, foot salves, socks, face masks, throat lozenges, sandwiches, snacks, and bottled water. Sleeping rolls and neatly folded donated comforters lined a number of the pews, and here and there a worker was stretched out resting.  Several people were offering grief counseling to the recovery workers. (Although they were first called “rescue and recovery” workers, the term “rescue” had recently been removed as it became clear that there was no living souls left to rescue from the debris.)  There were cots near George Washington’s pew, which was being used as a foot treatment center.

Working on the pile of rubble that had been the World Trade Center was extremely debilitating in every way.  The debris burned for weeks afterwards and was hot even at the surface – hence the foot treatment center – and the air was laden with toxins even inside the sanctuary.  The emotional consequences of encountering the human bodies and body parts must have been nightmarish, but the remains were carefully dug out for months afterward and always removed from the site with great gentleness.   I was led to the front of the sanctuary, took out my violin, and began to play Bach.  The sound resonated through the church and I recall hoping that it wasn’t disturbing the individuals who were trying to rest.  I played the Adagio and Siciliana from the G minor sonata, the Sarabande from the D Minor partita, the Adagio from the C Major sonata, the Loure from the E Major partita. What felt best was the Andante from the A minor sonata; soothing, comforting, with an acknowledgement of tension in its middle section but ultimately ending in a calming and peaceful manner. Of all these beautiful movements, it was – and remains – the most consoling.   After about an hour the church’s music director played some music on the piano and I walked around the sanctuary, settling down for a few minutes in a pew. Taped to the backs of the pews were dozens of drawings and encouraging words written by schoolchildren. Many of them praised the workers and featured a patriotic theme but one that seared itself into my mind – where it will always remain – showed the two towers themselves under attack, with anthropomorphic faces showing terror and arms hugging each other.

I was asked to return the next day, which was my birthday, and there was no other place I wanted to be.  This time I was more careful about my selections, wanting to play music that was soothing and not revealing the grief that we all felt, but the day itself was even more challenging.  At first, workers came in for breaks from their labors, including several dogs wearing special heat-resistant boots on their paws.  Then the bodies of five firefighters were discovered in what had been a stairwell and I witnessed a number of visibly disturbed workers coming into the sanctuary, guided by a church volunteer, where they lit candles in front of where I played and were counseled.  As I left about an hour later, I walked back towards the subway and briefly turned to face west, where I saw the collapsed towers for the first time. It was an overwhelming sight. Seeing my response, an official came over to comfort me, asking if I wanted to speak with a counselor, which I appreciatively declined.

On November 1, 2001, the newly-formed Music of the Spheres Society gave its first concert. We donated all of the proceeds to two neighborhood firehouses that had suffered devastating losses, to be distributed among the families of the dead firefighters. It felt like the least we could do.   Recently, at a post-concert “meet the artists,” audience members were encouraged to ask us questions, one of which was simple but ineffable: What does it feel like to play this music? This is nearly unanswerable but I have resolved to try, through these postings.  All I can conclude with, now, is that I hope it never again feels like it did eight years ago.

Visit my website at www.stephaniechase.com.

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A Few Degrees of Edith Piaf

To refer to Edith Piaf (1915-1963) as merely a singer is to do her a huge injustice.  Even before I knew her name I knew her sound: tragic, not beautiful in the traditional sense but with a perfect inflection that was intensely expressive and unique.  She seemed to inhabit the world of her songs, capturing in mere moments an entire universe of time, place, and condition.  To hear her sing was to hear the sounds of a mid-century Paris still reeling from the atrocities of a world war and acknowledging heartbreaking losses – but doing so with pride, resilience, determination, and even hope for the future.

Having missed the film “La Vie en Rose” while it was in theaters, where it garnered fabulous reviews, especially for the actress Marion Cotillard, I recently viewed it on DVD.  My knowledge of Piaf’s life story was minimal – I knew only that she was referred to as the “little sparrow” and that she had emerged from a difficult childhood – and I found the film, and her story, mesmerizing.    It was also surprising.  I was not aware of a severe traffic accident in which she was badly injured and left dependent on narcotics and alcohol, each of which probably contributed to an early death.  I was also unaware of her relationship with the renowned French boxer Marcel Cerdan, who was regarded as the love of her life and who tragically died in an airplane crash over the Azores, en route from France to New York City to reunite with her.

I don’t recall exactly when I first heard Piaf’s voice, but it was most likely during one of my earliest trips to France; the first of which was when I was eighteen and auditioned to study with the majestic Belgian violinist Arthur Grumiaux.  This was all thanks to the enormous generosity of Leon Barzin, the remarkable Belgian-American conductor who became a wonderful supporter and mentor to me and who personally knew many internationally-prominent musicians.  We first spent a day or two in Paris with his wife before taking a train to Brussels for my audition, and I was enraptured by the sights and sounds of that beautiful city.

Some years later, a few months following Grumiaux’ premature death at age 65, I visited with his widow Amanda for a couple of days.  This was an intensely sad experience that included my practicing in the studio in which he had taught me and also practiced. During our talks I asked her which violinist he had admired most and the answer surprised me: the French violinist Ginette Neveu (1919-1949).  Among the few recordings of Neveu, whose adult career took place mostly in the throes of World War II and shortly thereafter, is one of the Violin Concerto by Johannes Brahms.  Taken from a live performance, it is remarkable for its intensity and passion; she throws caution to the wind in favor of a very visceral interpretation.  I was surprised that Grumiaux, whose masterly playing was expressive and always refined, admired her over some of the other violinists of the era.  Madame also delicately revealed that Neveu was a hermaphrodite.  This, too, was stunning to learn – although photographs of her reveal a rather mannish face and build – and I felt quite sorry for her tragic life but also understood how she threw her emotions into her music. Playing music well can be an extremely cathartic experience and, undoubtedly, her triumphs as a violinist helped to balance out the personal compromises brought on by her condition.  (In her day, gender reassignment was still very rare – although it was being done experimentally in Germany – and it appears that her parents chose to raise her as a female and to cope as well as possible.)

Edith Piaf wrote in her autobiography (The Wheel of Fortune) that “I would have traveled thousands of miles to hear the great Ginette Neveu…”  In addition to this declared admiration for Neveu, the two are forever linked by the enormous tragedy of an airliner going down in the Azores on October 27, 1949, as Neveu died alongside Piaf’s lover Cerdan in the crash.   In viewing “La Vie en Rose” I learned that the beloved popular singer and songwriter Charles Aznavour was also in the car crash that so severely injured Piaf in 1951, shortly after she had “discovered” him and introduced his music to French and American audiences.  This abruptly reminded me of my own first arrival into Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport: while waiting to retrieve our bags from the carousel, Barzin spied Aznavour waiting as well, and we went over together to greet him with admiration.

Visit my website at www.stephaniechase.com.

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An Ode to Joy

Even in a city replete with extraordinary structures, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is astonishing, first of all for its size.  A massive building that consumes 601 feet in length, with an interior nave ceiling reaching upwards of 124 feet, it is located on the former site of an orphanage on Manhattan’s upper Amsterdam Avenue and is one of the largest cathedrals in the world.  Its designs were drawn up in about 1888 and construction was begun four years later, just as Ellis Island was opened.  Progress was slow – among the first problems encountered was the deepness of the anchoring bedrock below – and frictions over the design, along with the death of a pivotal architect, led to substantial changes in its style: what had been Byzantine-Romanesque ultimately became mostly Gothic, with touches of the Romanesque, Byzantine and Norman thrown in for good measure.

The Cathedral’s enormous nave was first opened to the public immediately before World War II, which largely put a halt to further work on its towers and on the statuary still missing from the western facade.  Only in the 1970’s was an effort made to train local youths in the stone-carving techniques needed to further the Cathedral’s construction, although the success of this program was limited. Presumably following a fundraising campaign, construction on its south tower was continued about ten years later but never completed.  Since the mid-1990’s no further building work has been done, leading to a nickname of “St. John the Unfinished.”    But the work of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is not defined by its outward appearance; indeed, its activities are surprisingly eclectic and encompassing of the community and beyond and include diverse programs for those in need, such as counseling services.  It even has artists-in-residence that include Philip Petit, the high-wire performer, Edgar Winter and Judy Collins.  Elie Weisel and Kurt Masur are among the “Cathedral Colleagues,” and it houses a major textile laboratory, arising out the need to maintain its own important textile collection.

I had been living in New York for quite a number of years before first visiting the Cathedral and recall my earliest fascination with its grandeur and activities, most vividly a yearly blessing of the animals for which people from throughout New York City bring in dogs, cats, snakes, ferrets, birds, and even bacteria in petri dishes.  The various chapels – one dedicated to education on protecting the environment, another for firefighters, yet another for victims of AIDS – were compelling.  I even played a violin recital in one of the side chapels towards the front (and imagine the sound still ringing around inside in various nooks and crannies).  The Cathedral’s bookstore and gift shop, featuring miscellaneous items from throughout the world, were a favorite destination, too, for holiday presents.  I was, therefore, enormously saddened when a large fire broke out in December 2001 that destroyed the north transept and closed the Cathedral; that this took place so shortly after the traumas of September 11 added to the severe blow.  It took nearly seven years for the Cathedral to reopen.

When his Ninth Symphony was premiered in 1824, Ludwig van Beethoven had been totally deaf for over ten years.  By then he had composed hundreds of works encompassing songs to piano sonatas and concerti, chamber music for piano, strings, woodwinds, an opera, sonatas and a concerto for violin, and much more.  Technological developments to the piano and the violin bow at the end of the 18th century had helped lead to music that was increasingly self-expressive as it transitioned away from the Classical into the Romantic style, with Beethoven at the helm.  Over time he had become somewhat resigned to his deafness, although not without a struggle; it was in 1802 that he wrote a letter to his brothers that revealed the despair he felt at losing his hearing, in which he stated that only art restrained him from taking his own life.  In the years thereafter, Beethoven continued to suffer from various illnesses, family problems and tragic love affairs, all of which impeded his ability to compose music but, perhaps, deepened his artistic sensitivities.    In 1822, he received two commissions; one for a set of string quartets and one for a symphony, which would be his Ninth.  In reality, he had been working out ideas for this symphony for a number of years.  A poem written by Friedrich Schiller in 1785 – “An die Freude,” normally translated as “Ode to Joy” – had captured Beethoven’s imagination when he was in his early twenties, and he decided to use it as a motto or theme set to music written for orchestra, chorus and vocal soloists.  Schiller’s translated text includes these words:

All the world’s creatures
Draw joy from nature’s breast
Both the good and the evil
Follow her rose-strewn path.
Be embraced, Millions!
Take this kiss for all the world!
Brothers, surely a loving Father
Dwells above the canopy of stars.
Do you sink before him, Millions?
World, do you sense your Creator?
Seek him then beyond the stars!
He must dwell beyond the stars.

The Ninth Symphony consists of four movements, the first of which can be characterized as stormy and unsettled in demeanor; it is followed by a Scherzo, also in the “agitated” key of D Minor.  The third movement, a set of variations, changes the mood; it is in a major key and lyrical in its nature, giving a sense of calm to the music.  The final movement, which alone lasts about 24 minutes, is a synopsis of what has preceded.  After revisiting the ideas and moods of the previous movements, it gives way to the famed “Ode to Joy” in all of its triumphant glory, with vocal soloists and chorus lending their voices to the orchestra as it blazes away.  Beethoven himself directed the premiere performance on May 7, 1824; it is said that he was not facing the audience and that when the conclusion was met with thunderous applause, he had to be turned around by one of the vocal soloists in order to see the ovation and recognize the success of his work.

Beethoven wrote no more symphonies after the Ninth; rather, he focused on writing string quartets that even today remain enigmatic and disturbing in their combinations of imagination, power and intimacy.  His health continued to decline and death is said to have occurred during a thunderstorm on March 26, 1827.

Celebrating its 25th anniversary in 2010, the American Classical Orchestra is “devoted to preserving and performing the repertoire of 17th- to 19th-century composers, playing the works on original or reproduced period instruments. The musicians use historic performance practice techniques and pass these skills down to future generations through concert performances and educational programs” (National Endowment for the Arts website).  It was founded by music director Thomas Crawford, who has worked tirelessly over the years on its behalf, and consists of the finest period instrument players in the United States.  It has been my great pleasure to perform as soloist on many occasions with the ACO; every time I return, I am deeply aware of the privilege of working with wonderful musicians who not only truly love their art but are also very sympathetic collaborators.

About six weeks ago the American Classical Orchestra commemorated its silver anniversary with, in classical music terms, the ne plus ultra of works: it performed Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in the nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.  Two thousand people filled the vast interior (including some European travelers stranded by a volcano in Iceland), projection screens provided close-up views to those further back, and a chorus plus four vocal soloists massed behind the orchestra.    I was lucky enough to attend and brought along a friend.

The Ninth Symphony was reserved for the second half of the concert; the first half consisted of delightful Coronation Anthems by Handel.   At first, I thought the usual things: great turnout, the amplification – necessary for this venue – was quite good for the orchestra, and I also wondered just how it felt to conduct music of this magnitude, which turned into even deeper admiration for Tom Crawford, who remained seemingly unfazed.    Despite its massive proportions – which mirror those of the Cathedral’s nave – as I listened to Beethoven’s music I was increasingly struck by what seems to be the autobiographical nature of the work.  It is as if he is expressing his own struggles through life – the discomforts and storminess, yearnings, disappointments, difficulties – but with an inward turn in the third movement that revels in nature and expresses appreciation for what music, and life, offer.  The final movement, the ‘Ode to Joy,” looks beyond the individual into the collective and, ultimately, the divine.

On the welcome page of the printed program, Thomas Crawford writes of “a glorious journey” with the American Classical Orchestra and his belief that “we are changed by the vibrations (of music) and that the cumulative effect on our bodies and souls is both subtle and profound.  The harmonious vibrations become sympathetic, and are passed on eternally.”  As I sat in the nave listening to Beethoven’s masterpiece, I thought of his own life struggles leading to this fulfillment (that he could not physically hear), the “unfinished” Cathedral and its history of marvelous accomplishments despite its own troubles, and the committed playing by the orchestra under Tom’s direction, representing a triumph in today’s distressed cultural environment.  And I felt greatly moved and inspired by the unity of these forces.

Over the next few days, it seemed like a kind of magic was in the air: as I was leaving following a day of teaching at NYU, I had to step over a guitarist and several friends who were seated on the floor of a corridor.  He was picking out a few notes, trying to find the right key, and after a moment I recognized that it was the “Ode to Joy” theme.  A day or two later, I heard someone whistling it in the street below my apartment window.

A grimmer reality intruded shortly thereafter, as an oil leak in the gulf revealed a deadly intransigence and someone attempted to bomb Times Square.  Beethoven’s message of brotherly love and spirituality now feels more distant, yet I recall the sounds of that majestic night – perhaps as he recalled the beloved sounds he could no longer hear – and feel a fleeting peace.

Originally posted on June 28, 2010.  Please visit my website at www.stephaniechase.com.

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Some thoughts on Beethoven’s Violin Concerto

Composed in 1806, the serenity and majesty of Beethoven’s famed Violin Concerto belie the turmoil of its time: Vienna was under French occupation and Beethoven was coming to terms with his increasingly profound deafness.

Despite its popularity today, the Violin Concerto did not receive a warm reception at its premiere on December 23, 1806. The soloist, Franz Clement, received the soloist’s part a matter of days before the performance and Beethoven’s nearly illegible writing in the orchestra’s parts undoubtedly contributed to an underwhelming performance; indeed, between the first two movements the audience’s apparently poor response led Clement to turn his violin upside down and improvise a folksy tune in order to reclaim their attention and good graces!   Beethoven felt discouraged by the Concerto’s reception and made a version for piano with orchestra. Although a full score manuscript exists (and I own a beautiful facsimile edition published in 1979), it leads to more questions than answers, as Beethoven has notated many different versions of passages – partly in preparing the piano version – without indicating his final selection. Even the fact that he “proofread and authorized” the first edition (published in 1808) does not convince that what we now know as his Violin Concerto is exactly as he would wish it to sound, due to his impatience in attending to the details of an error-free score.

In any event, the work was in danger of fading into oblivion before being “revived” in 1844 – seventeen years after Beethoven’s death – by Felix Mendelssohn, with the 13-year-old violinst Joseph Joachim as soloist. Time, of course, has established the Concerto as among the great works of the Classical repertoire. Even after years of performances – and having made a recording of it (on original instruments) – I approach it with contemplation and the appreciation of an enduring relationship that only deepens over time. This work demands the ultimate clarity and beauty of musical line, sound, intonation and articulation, which cannot be achieved with virtuosic bluster or exaggeration, and I always examine it carefully for new insights.

Lately I have been especially aware of Beethoven’s masterful use of the perfect cadence, from the solo violin’s first entry through many moments throughout each movement, much like the music of Bach. Although the perfect cadence marks the “resolution” of a musical idea, each of these masters continues the narrative in another guise, leading the listener (and performer) ever forward through a variety of affects or emotions and ultimately to the conclusion of the movement. Beethoven’s use of what I call a “motor” – in the first movement the motif of four even pulses – also determines how feely the soloist plays. When the motor is reduced to one slow pulse per measure in the section in g minor, for example, the effect is that of time standing nearly still and melancholy. Like other great composers, Beethoven also uses chromaticism to create further uncertainty in the listener – where are we going with this? – and he does so to lead this section into a triumphant return of the opening music. Yet, even following an enormously powerful tutti, in which horns are blazing and strings are energetically propelling the music along, he reminds the soloist to play “dolce” – sweetly!

Another source of inspiration is the poetic nature of the Larghetto, which is in the form of a Romance – much like Beethoven’s Romances in F and G for violin and orchestra. (Essentially, a Romance features a musical statement, characterized by simplicity, that is returned to throughout the work with a slight alteration of affect each time and with variations in between.) The Larghetto differs from the other Romances in that the violin is frequently accompanying the orchestra and providing commentary in an improvisatory manner specified by Beethoven’s notes.

Beethoven suddenly and dramatically breaks the serene mood of the Larghetto and leads into a Rondo; taking everyone with him in a quick transition from the sublime to the extremely folksy. Although the Rondo features “simpler” music – with an emphasis on the “hunting call” intervals of a fifth – it is important to phrase it carefully and keep its 6/8 meter from sounding singsong. I also request that the strings use a lot of open strings when they play their tuttis, in keeping with the idea of country fiddles playing a delightful dance. Late in the movement Beethoven pulls the ultimate surpise when he moves the tune from D Major to A-flat Major – again, what is this? – before heading into a powerful coda and a series of harmonic points that undoubtedly inspired Rossini (and the composer of “Heart and Soul”!)

Beethoven did not provide his violin soloist with cadenzas – the spot at which the orchestra ceases to play and the soloist is supposed to play improvisations based on the movement’s music – so I have composed my own. While pondering how to even get started, I asked my dear late pianist friend Bill Black for advice. His response: modulate quickly and as far away from the home key as possible, which has led me to play the second theme in double stops in f minor, which is about as far away from D Major as you can get. I also insert a little cadenza into the third movement where other violinists traditionally do not (partly to keep the conductor on his or her toes), but it is also a place where Beethoven indicated an eingang (literally, lead-in or entry) as he prepared the version of the Concerto for piano soloist. Otherwise, I enjoy putting in bits of the orchestra’s music that don’t appear in the soloist’s part, often “upside down.”

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The Green Violinist

Recently, one of the 24/7 news networks had a feature on the “green” movement in Hollywood that included an actress, who characterizes herself as having “the smallest carbon footprint possible,” describing how the cast and crew eat off recycled plates, use old paper for their scripts, and ban plastic water bottles from the set.

Normally, I wouldn’t think of the Hollywood crowd as conservative, in the traditional sense of the word.  Maybe all of those lovely Christian Louboutin shoes and Zac Posen frocks provide years of wear and ultimately get recycled, but somehow I doubt it.  All evidence points to the fact that the popular entertainment and fashion industries depend on their clientele – and larger audience beyond – wanting something new, different, exciting; in other words, exhibiting a chronic dissatisfaction with what they already have.

This consumerism plays to the deep insecurities of even the hottest starlet; i.e., if you are not dressed in the latest or dare to have some latent expression in your brow, you may not be admitted to the club-of-the-moment and the social set will ostracize you.  Successful television shows (The Rachel Zoe Project comes to mind) are built around people – mostly women – having meltdowns over outfits and accessories, which seems to indicate an inordinate unease over their appearances and that of their clients.   Fortunately, many of the celebrities themselves have disposable careers, and their attempts at recycling their fame – through queasy ventures like reality shows on their stints in rehab, extreme plastic surgery or repeated weight loss attempts – generally just strip them of whatever shreds of personal dignity remain.

But I digress: One under-appreciated aspect of classical music is that it is extremely “green.”  A violinist needs no electrical current; no plugs, no amps – just a violin, four strings and a bow outfitted with horsehair that has some rosin, made from the resin of a fir tree, on it.  My own violin was made in Venice two hundred and sixty-eight years ago (I have been playing on it since I was eleven) and my principal bow is at least two hundred years old, making for a professional carbon footprint to challenge that of even the most eco-conscious Hollywood celebrity.

Many musicians bequeath their entire music collections – comprising etude books, concerti, short pieces, and chamber music – to libraries, conservatories or musician friends.  I cannot recall ever throwing out a music score that I bought; additionally, I have inherited probably hundreds of scores.   Granted, a soloist with orchestra often requires a new outfit for the occasion, but I can assure you that the orchestra’s members – especially the men – have but few sets of formal concert clothes and will wear them for years, sometimes with the aid of black electrician’s tape.  (On second thought, this may be more a reflection of their earned income….)   Musicians are often chided, quite understandably, by contemporary composers because of our predilections for the music by old masters like Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms.  In their eras, however, there were great composers and then there were good composers, and the rest were mediocre or worse: for example, I can assure you that no sane orchestra conductor will program music by Antonio Salieri in preference to that by Mozart or Beethoven.  The same is true today.  There are several living composers I know whose music is not only creative and structurally contemporary but also beautiful and resplendent with subtle emotion, which helps to counter the often-pretentious, tricky and clinical works by others.

The best music reaches deep within the soul, whether in that of the composer, interpreter or listener, where – like a beloved friendship – it exists as an enduring and treasured relationship.  I believe that the life-affirming qualities of this music remain timeless and, therefore, worthy of “recycling” for centuries to come.

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