Monday, January 19, 2009

Gate to the Mountains


In many forms of classical music, there are no pictures or words to provide the listener with a work's meaning. Because of this, some people say that an instrumental work can mean whatever you want it to mean. This assertion is true in one sense and false in another.

Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 is not a story about a particular man, his problem, and the problem's resolution. Rather, told over the span of about 35 minutes, it is clearly the story of romantic longing and fulfillment. When listening, the music can be interpreted at any moment to be about whatever man or woman and situation you choose. Just as some pop songs are loved because many people can relate to them by connecting their own experiences to the songs' general themes, the same is true with classical music works.

Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the story of joyous triumph. This is a more general story than the one told by Rachmaninov's piano concerto, and as such it is even more universally loved, as there are an even greater number of positive, consonant interpretations. (One possible interpretation is the feeling of taking an exam in college for which you had studied long and hard and feeling good about it when you walk out of the exam room.)

Antonin Dvorak's Symphony No. 9 "From the New World" is the story of an epic journey. Occasionally when I listen to it I think of the Fellowship of the Ring setting out to conquer a vast terrain of fields and mountains. (Stylistically, the music is subtle and tender. In this regard, the second movement has few rivals in the symphonic literature.)

While it might take decades to experience your own romantic longings and fulfillments, moments of joyous triumph, and epic journies, once you have those experiences to relate, works of classical music can bring the essences of those experiences rushing back to your mind. The effect can be exhilarating. I conclude by quoting Leo Tolstoy: "Music is the shorthand of emotion."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Ahhhh... that's what Tolstoy means by that quote.