lccmf09

"Safe in the cavern of night, I do not remember harsh miracles."
-Alexander Blok

i. Ophelia
Shostakovich wrote
a song for
an imaginary girl
who lived
then died
and somewhere in the middle
was driven mad by love
and loss.

Shakespeare
called her Ophelia
and countless actresses
have called themselves
Ophelia,
and,
for all that I can tell,
the musicians are
Ophelia.

ii. We Were Together
We were together,
I remember,
We have been together,
I recall-
The radio
Your radio
lulling me to sleep
sweet sleep,
violins and
your voice
carrying

The stage was decorated beautifully for the final concert. Asian screens sat upright with flowering trees around them. The reed organ (harmonium) was placed in the middle of the stage, with it’s honey colored wood, showing off its 2 keyboards and a bunch of stops.

I watch
and listen,
taking in the flowers,
the audience around me,
the musicians on the stage;
she with the flowing dress,
he with the midnight suit,
and on the piano lies
the music for the song,
with one page bent
like a broken wing,
creased from rapid turning,
so oddly poetic in its imperfection,
among the beauty elsewhere.

Snatches of words
drift by,
cadences not unlike
music
with the roar
of the ocean
made by voices beneath,
swelling and falling,
stopping
in surprise
as the lights soften,
and return to full brilliancy:
the sign for silence.

GG note: For Soovin's homepage: http://soovin.com/

Inspire: (verb) fill someone with the urge to do something, especially to do something creative. ORIGIN: Middle English enspire , from Old French inspirer , from Latin inspirare ‘breath or blow into,’ from in - ‘into’ + spirare ‘breathe.’ The word was originally used of a divine or supernatural being, in the sense [impart a truth or idea to someone.]

A thousand dots and lines fill the page; a black and white language that is composed of/by emotion. It is with this language that instruments speak. It is how they move and run and yell and laugh. It is how they tell us stories that make us cry salty tears and smile so sweet at the same time. It is with these words that they whisper sweet nothings in our ears. This is how they remind us of heartbreak and half-frozen nights. With a sweet, harsh language we call music. It kisses us sweetly, then bites our tongue. It tells only the truth, even when that's the last thing we want to hear.

I open the doors of Elley Long at 3:35 and hear the sounds of laughter down the hall. There are gates across the entrance of the concert hall, and signs proclaim, Please Be Quiet During Concert. I stand there, a little confused, and peek through to see a few rows of seats filled with people, and Jeewon Park, David Shifrin, and Hsin-Yun Huan on the stage. I look back down the hall, and then quickly sneak through the gates, still not entirely sure if I'm allowed. I take a seat near the back and look to the stage, where David Shifrin is talking to the audience.

This blog is in response to Friday night's concert given by LCCMF performers.

Somehow I missed that smooth transition from a minor to a major
Problem; you see, I still miss the smell of rosin,
And I just can't stand to break you down, because
Recycling just isn't my thing. I don't even have a
Hindsight, and baby I wish that there was a secret message
For you, hidden in and out of passion for the longing,
And it's funny how sometimes we get a free ride that
Costs us something in the end, like maybe a
Breakdown, or an aroma, or a major problem,
Or a smooth transition that somehow, I missed.

I watch as they sway to the sound of their own music
I listen as they play what they feel is right
I shake to the vibrations their music has made
I taste the amazement in the air that other people just like me are feeling
I smell the flower bouquets that enlighten the fact that these people make special music

Music,
of the harmonies.
Twisted,
of my mind,
drawing me away.

Music,
of the violin.
Twisted,
in of itself;
odd harmonies,
scare the audience.

There is no dissonance,
just scary.
Eerie.
Intriguing.
Impressive.

Music,
of the cello.
Twisted,
with the harmonies,
of the violin.

Different harmonies,
different scares.
Different feelings.

Music,
of the viola.
Twisted,
of the perfect blending,
of the background part.

All together,
the polyphonies,
match.
Harmonizing,
in scary ways.
Eerie ways.
Intriguing ways.
Impressive ways.

This room is supposed to be soundproof,
you know,
but a violin leaks around the
edges of the doorframe
with its oddly confident solo tremolo,
so there's nothing silent about these
white, echoey walls and single piano,
away in the corner like a pouting child.
I need a counterpoint to this jittering solo,
and then,
there's the cello,
breath-and-two-and-three (and four and)
in a lazy, assured way,
and I'm glad I couldn't see it on the stage,
because this pizzicato
surprise
is so much
better
than anticipation.
The cello

The pizzicato of a cello
reminds me of that
feeling you get on a winter night
when you go outside and
it's just cold enough
so you can barely see a tiny whisper of
breath escaping your lips.
The feeling that
at that very moment in time
you are the only person
awake
and you see the world
with eyes that aren't your own
and everything seems so new
and fresh
and you just want to look at the stars
forever
because they're just that beautiful.
Those deep notes
they just speak
they put words on the
tip of your tongue
words that you have always wanted to say

The recurring theme was so heartbreakingly beautiful, I wanted to cry. Coupled with the almost comically dancing melodies, the music left me in wonder that anything could be so fantastically varied, all in one space and time. Surely no man or woman, genius or not, could create such a thing? The cello, with its achingly sad, lovely song; the violin, sweeping through the air in such a way that I catch my breath and yearn to listen forever; the piano rolling thundering chords and notes flowing like a waterfall.

There's a certain sadness in the way I read poetry,
and a quiet desperation when I realize that these words are all the same.
"Music is like magic," we write,
because of the energy we feel when we listen,
but this energy is non-transferrable,
a one-way transaction that can't be
interpreted, replicated,
because when we write about music,
all we want
is to assert how wonderfully spiritual we all are
that we can appreciate contemporary classical music
and hours of endless rehearsals,
when really, I'm sneaking chocolate from the work room

Based on Children's Games

i.
It is a game
of tag
in a way
pizzicato footsteps
faster
faster
as the piano
catches its breath
and tries
not to get
caught.

ii.
This music
is not
classical.
These instruments
speak.
They do not play
a waltz
for royalty
in a far off land
nor do they
take away your pain.
But they run and hide
and laugh and yell
just a little to loud
for some people.

iii.
And they chase;
melodies
hide behind bushes
and
find each other
and shout
in victory
and that last
one who can't be found
just gets a little lonely

My favorite part of music
is the
silence
between notes.
That split second of
nothing
when you can hear
a quiet
so pure
it just
steals your
breath
and it's only
made more beautiful
as the sound of rain begins to
softly
whisper down
and that whisper becomes louder
louder
louder
and before I even realize it
the silence is gone
and the rain is
softly thundering
and the melody is so
graceful
as it dances.
No more silence.
There's nothing left but the
music
and
rain.

Sunday's concert features a very unique instrument by today's standards, but one that was much more common at the end of the 1800s. The Harmonium was invented in Paris in 1842 and became quite popular because of its pleasing sound, sturdy construction, and affordable cost. Pianos and pipe organs were both expensive and difficult to maintain, while a Harmonium took up less space and could be moved around without fear of being damaged. It was a practical alternative to the pipe organ for a small community church. The Harmonium is a very expressive instrument.

Saturday was the most exciting day of the Festival so far! It featured over a dozen master classes, the reading of four new works by our Young Composers, and a Virtuoso Showcase.

When Soovin first introduced the concert ideas to the Board, he described the second concert as a Thanksgiving Day Feast followed by a New Year's Day Feast. Thursday evening, he described the concert as the "meat and potatoes of the Festival." No matter how you look at it, it was a heavy duty concert with some incredibly serious music.

Thursday was a day for traffic jams. My day started with traffic delays going in to Burlington because of the arrival of the Clydesdale Horses for the Champlain Valley Fair. I sat in traffic while Alisa Weilerstein played most beautifully at the Firehouse Gallery on Church Street. While a packed room (which also overflowed into the hallway and studio) enjoyed her performance, I had the misfortune of hearing the Budwiser theme song, over and over again, wallowing through a lousy loud speaker.

Wednesday concert.

The music ends
Silence fills the room
The kind of silence that is so loud that it is frightening
I miss the music that once sang so sweetly to my ears
The music that is gone

a soft rustling
just a whisper of sound
slowly getting louder
cool and refreshing
like the breeze on a warm summer day
growing growing
a twittering melody
soon joined by a low rhythm
the anticipation builds up
then BOOM
a fast confusing jabbering of sounds
high then low
happy and exited
only to fall to a sad slow tune

i.
At some point,
I start to wonder:
At what moment in a musician's
life
do they start to feel
the music so much
that they just
can't bear to sit
still?

ii.
A single bow hair
snaps
from the strain
of pure music
as a passionate cellist
plays
so beautifully;
his eyes closed
tight
summoning up
the last drop
of feeling
until there's nothing left.

iii.
That last
chocolate
note
is held out
a gentle vibrato
so sweet
and dark
you can almost taste it
on the tip of your tongue
that beautiful
sound that just
makes you breathe
deeper
and close your eyes

The violin is an act. Besides the technicality of the notes, Jennifer teaches, there is always a drama to a piece. A violinist plays to a character. Don't lose the beauty and the personality of a piece in the black and white of the score.

A tatty old instrument
Doesn't look anything fine
But play that instrument
and the sound is divine

Play a few notes
just a few notes to tune
and the music will jump out
jump right out of you

(note: the piece was not indeed a waltz, though it reminded me of one.)

What is it about a waltz
that inspires silence?

Or perhaps just a steady
tune that inspires
flowing gowns and
twirling feet and
lifts.
A beauty waltz of sounds.
And though there is
an open floor
and the light dusted
need to stand and
spin with the

ooooooo

of the clarinet- we stay still
fighting urge
to find Love and join
the fingers and bows
in a beauty waltz of sounds.