#4 Deux ou trois choses que je sais d’elle (1967)
A film wrought out of necessity as much as inspiration. Rivette’s La Religieuse, having been banned by the French government, proved a financial catastrophe for producer Georges de Beauregard. As such, Jean-Luc Godard was approached about a film which might bail Beauregard out. Godard had already begun work on “Deux ou trois choses” in early 1966, but the pace of production was increased to give Beauregard something more commercially viable to hand to the public.
Again, we can see a film as historical relic. Sure, Godard’s film constitutes a revolutionary work, openly comparing prostitutionin the new middle classes to the self-exploitation in American-style consumerism. In Brechtian fashion, the actors and actresses quote trendy philosophers and economists, carrying on with daily mundane tasks to highlight the chasm between images of deprivation from their prosperous descriptions. Yes, it’s Godard, so naturally the film is about capitalism. Scenes of women looking at pornographic magazines of the female form are interwoven with clips of the human toll wrought by Western intervention in Vietnam, commenting on the pornographic nature of photojournalism and the profligacy of televised media. Raoul Coutard’s cinematography is rather beautiful, and the slapdash informality of the film keeps one interested (no scene really lasts for more than four minutes).
But the film barters in lofty ideas with unsubtle currency. By laying out all the ambiguities of modern existence in the mind, there is no physical or emotional struggle with which to grapple. This stands in contrast to Rivette’s supposed flop, which focuses on the intricate and difficult topics of the invisibility of experience and the physicality of institutions. It’s perhaps not a surprise that Rivette’s less esoteric metaphors were all the more challenging to the De Gaulle administration, mired in its disastrous economic plans which served to entrench poverty and immobility in the new suburban banlieues.
I can’t help but sense greater authenticity in Rivette’s La Religieuse upon witnessing sheer idiocy Godard’s hyper-intellectualism. For what can suppress a struggle or conflict more than by convincing victims of their existence’s reducibility to thought and speech, rather than sight and action? Indeed, when the stakes are so low, it’s not surprising to imagine why the film enjoyed the commercial success it did.
I ought to clarify that the film is not uninteresting, but rather trite, tastelessly Maoist and fucking sexist (think Henze’s operas in cinematic form). For those curious, a reading list for “Deux ou trois choses” is as follows:
Alleg, The Question
Aron, 18 Lessons about Industrial Society
Brecht, The Messingkauf Dialogues
Bradbury, A Medicine for Melancholy
Fourastié, The Great Hope of the Twentieth Century
Goldmann, Towards a Sociology of the Novel
Kardiner, Introduction to Ethnology
Kardiner & Preble, They Studied Man
Packard, The Pyramid Climbers
Simenon, Lost Moorings
Wittgenstein, Blue and Brown Books
#3 La Religieuse (1966) (Or Lace, Lesbians & Leçons de ténèbres: A Sequence of Unfortunate Events.)
In a bleak adaptation of Diderot’s novel completed in 1780, a family from the petty aristocracy dooms their daughter Suzanne to a life in the church to which she openly does not consent. She’s apparently drugged before taking her vows (which she later does not remember), and her first convent is run by a sadistic Mother Superior who is bent on crushing Suzanne through starvation and psychological torture. A lawyer intervenes, and Suzanne is transferred to another (less strict) convent, only to the sexual obsession of the abbess. Another rescue attempt by a priest turns into yet another nightmare as he attempts to rape her. She escapes, but is unable to support herself except through work as a prostitute, leading her to throw herself off a balcony at the very end of the film. (This flick is no way, shape or form, an uplifting watch.)
Musically, it’s interesting to hear how conscious Rivette’s team was of historical specificity with regards to 18th Century French music (especially for a film made in 1966). One can hear the famous “Jod” sequence from Couperin’s Troisieme leçon de ténèbre as Suzanne describes Holy Week celebrations, and the passage of time in various abbess’s chambers include the playing the spinet, where we hear two nuns playing Rameau’s Le rappel des oiseaux.
Direction: Jacques Rivette
Music: Jean-Claude Éloy
Starring: Anna Karina, Liselotte Pulver
I’m curious as to exactly how a Nazi fugitive (played by Orson Welles himself) would be able to adopt a perfect mid-Atlantic accent to rival Angela Lansbury’s in The Manchurian Candidate.
From a modern standpoint, The Stranger offers retrospective insight into how Americans viewed National Socialism and the Holocaust in the first years after the end of WWII. Though being the first Hollywood film to use footage from the camps, the script and production seemingly tiptoe around the ideology of the Final Solution, using vague terms to illustrate Germany’s intent on biological subjugation of other nations, rather than the absolute destruction of a single group of people. At the same time, the extensive denial on behalf of the villain’s wife that her husband could be an ex-SS officer rings alarm bells, pointing to the compromised conscience of United States, who confronted the reality of camps only when it was totally undeniable. In a sense, it’s quite literally a film of its time, as had it been produced even one or two years later, it might have looked very different as the Nuremberg Trials became increasingly complex and politicized (Indeed, the incessant presence of the clock tower inneed of constant maintenance seems an important metaphor for the essentiality of time.)
Perks of the film include excellent film-noiry lighting, a shit ton of clocks and really (and I mean, REALLY) cheesy music.
Direction: Orson Welles
Cinematography: Russell Metty
Music: Bronisław Kaper
Starring: Edward G. Robinson, Loretta Young, Orson Welles
#1 Sous le soleil de Satan (1987)
Highly recommended for those with a love for: (1) creepy mysticism, (2) Gérard Depardieu, and (3) the music of Henri Dutilleux (extracts from his First Symphony).
Films about crises of faith can be trite and easy, bartering in tropes of devout individuals who restore confidence in their own sensibilities rather than in someone upstairs. Such is not the case in Pialat’s adaptation of Bernano’s magnum opus, whereby a priest’s obsessive mysticism renders a closeness to God as well as a hypersensitivity to the wiles of evil. The film isn’t really so much about religion, but rather the uncomfortable absence of solace in any human faith, passion or belief when possessed with enough fervor. (There’s a reason it was booed at Cannes.)
Direction: Maurice Pialat
Cinematography: Willy Kurant
Music: Henri Dutilleux
Starring: Gérard Depardieu, Sandrine Bonnaire
It’s a strange sensation to be in New York while technically being on tour. My pedal harp sits in Cleveland, my clothes remain in suitcases in Washington Heights (as I’ll be heading back to Ohio in 48 hours) and I think my organ shoes are in my office(?) so I can play for church on Sunday. For now, I’ve an enforced Sabbath of sorts, in which I finally have time to sit down and write, this time “from the road.”
Without being trite, the sensation of touring – that is, the necessitation of consistent performance combined with absence of routine or normative expectations – is not terribly dissimilar to the processes of getting out of one’s comfort zone with an instrument. Sure it can be tough, but you get to travel, meet musicians you wouldn’t otherwise meet, and get out the grind of the day-to-day music making at home.
I’ll cease being vague.
The last week with Apollo’s Fire has been a somewhat Sisyphean journey with tuning, a I’ve a small harp equipped with a single row of strings, no levers or pedals, and a task of playing everything from Sephardic songs to Monteverdi continuo, from Armenian love songs to Arabic longas, all in the same concert. Of course, there are occasional breaks to retune, but at certain points, the harp is required to play in g minor and e minor in the same set, back to back. On stage, lutenists Billy Simms and Brian Kay are seamlessly switching between ouds, theorbos, guitars and lutes at will, soprano Amanda Powell sings in Hebrew, Arabic and Ladinio from scores written in IPA, and Zafer Tawil seems wields a microtonal qanun, kaleidoscopically spinning song to song, flipping gears with his left hand to add other-worldly colors to the ensemble.
At improvisational junctures, recorder player Daphna Mor picks up a ney and starts discussing how she will move from point A to point B using modes in the Arabic maqam, the system which divides the octave into 24 notes, while adhering to a scheme of septatonic modality.
I would be lying if I didn’t say that I didn’t feel rather sheltered and out of my depth. Surrounded by musicians with truly incredible fluency and flexibility, I realized I’d been placing my harp in a box – that is, a box of Western tuning schemes. Harmonic minor scales, duly memorized as a child for ABRSM exams, only seemed to go so far, didn’t match the level of flexibility or expression achieved by my colleagues. In listening to Zafer and Daphna sing and play, I got a rudimentary sense of the overlap between different modes, but I really needed to learn more. Asking Zafer what I should do, he told me to use my ears and go listen to some Umm Kulthum. “If you listen to one of her songs, you’ll hear all the modes you’ll need.”
Sitting at home after the first rehearsal at 11pm, I felt at my most peak hipster, putting on my headphones and turning finding an 1950s Arabic music playlist on iTunes. Pen and paper in hand, I tried charting the tetrachords used in Kulthum’s 45 minute meta-songs, seeing how they related using nothing but intuition. The next morning, sat back with the harp, tuning key in hand, I started to divide minor thirds in half, so as to give me an “inbetween” note for F and F-sharp, as well as for B and B-flat. Later, with some experimentation with tetrachords, I was able to tune one part of the rehearsal in Saba (صبا) and another in Rast (راست) so to having something consistent and plausible.
The result was not only functional, but colorful and expressive. My instrument now blended with others on stage, and no longer stuck out. Of course, I should not have been surprised. Alternate tunings are part and parcel of what many baroque musicians do, day in and day out. Biber’s Rosary Sonatas require retuning of the open strings of the violin, so as to access harmonies and voicings that would otherwise be impossible.
Of course this is nothing new or outlandish for guitarists, as seen in Joni Mitchell’s famous open tunings (of which she devised somewhere between 60 and 80!).
I’ll spare the readers an essay on the history of temperament and tuning in Western Music, as plenty of musicians have written relatively digestibly on the matter. What I will say is that again and again, in confronting baroque music and non-Western music, I realize how engrained my sensibilities are to accept a Steinway’s tuning as patient zero for the harmonic expression in Western Music. This is not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself, if one is sticking to the canon of Romantic and Twentieth Century music, but I wonder to what extent harpists are hindered by accepting their instruments for what they appear to be at first, and not what they could be with a little insight and curiosity. Especially here in the United States, hashtags like #practicalharpist seem to flood the social media profiles of my colleagues, who endlessly promote harp hacks and means of making the profession easier or more approachable for the player, rather than more meaningful for listeners or the musicians playing alongside them.
I understand the impulse, truly. No harpist needs me to remind them that the harp is an awkward and misunderstood instrument. But what if we’re thinking about practicality the wrong way, simply finding shortcuts so we can efficiently adhere to a narrow vision of the harp which fulfills some normative or conservative expectations, but which has not fundamentally progressed in 40 or 50 years. This is an aesthetic hindrance, for sure, but also an economic one: we supposedly relish our nation as one of immigrants, and yet much of the music we make and seek out fails to embrace those elements (such as tuning) which distinguish musical traditions and disciplines from each other, and which are on the rise as non-Western commercial music industries continue to grow in the USA.
Harpists across the USA continue to struggle to make ends meet as the symphonic orchestra as an institution continually faces an identity crisis, but the act of taking on popular musical genres, historical performance and non-Western music – that is, music which by necessity lacks elements of strict prescription – somehow relegate a harpist to the rank of sell-out, untalented, or “insincere.” How much more employment opportunities might there be if conservatories expanded the scope of musical skills at the harp bench, if harp dealers took affirmative stances with a wider variety of harps, and if promoters embraced the sea of change in urban centers. While changes are on the horizon, I fear a landscape in which the harp will once again be left behind, continually relegated to a role as a pretty but impractical instrument. But what could be more practical than getting our instrument to test some boundaries and expand its utility and beauty at the same time?
I normally find outpourings of grief on social media to be self-indulgent and over the top, but today has been at once rough and joyous.
Today, I remember Stephen Cleobury very fondly and with much gratitude, for no other reason than that he took a chance on me, appointing a kid from middle Tennessee whose childhood dream it was to be an organ scholar at King’s. Working for him was at once daunting and inspiring, as he labored tirelessly to shape the institution and future careers of choir members in the process. I know I wouldn’t be where I am had it not been for him and his belief in the potential of all the choristers, choral scholars and organ scholars he invited into the fold.
He deserved a retirement, so I’m holding out that his reward will be beyond what any of us can imagine. Let’s all hope the choir and organists upstairs exceed his expectations.
The few times I’ve tried to blog over the last year, I’ve attempted to put distance between myself and my writing. I wanted my life my life and observations on music to somehow read as effortlessly and romantically as Stendhal or Goethe, when in reality my thoughts on music are about as graceful as a horrible episode from Lena Dunham’s Girls. But when you’re in your twenties, that’s precisely what the internet is for, on the proviso that you just say “yo hell with it” and take advantage of the world wide web.
In avoiding my blog, I’ve been treating it like it’s precious, worrying about how things would look either in a year’s time or twenty years’ time, without remembering (a) the sheer size of the internet and (b) the ephemerality of any musical or intellectual idea. Over and over, I told myself I was going to write about the Goldberg Variations. Every week, I told myself I would start writing about my practicing, the things I was seeing it, etc. But over and over, I couldn’t really get past the Aria. I was fearful of saying too much, or stepping into musicological territory that I wasn’t qualified to talk about, or – God forbid – show an honest opinion. Isolation is powerful. If we let it go too far, it pervades not just our personal interactions, but the way we think about the things we do every day. Without realizing it, we can start putting up barriers where they shouldn’t be, lest we find something that taps into our senses too deeply for comfort.
I believe this is no less true than in the Goldbergs. If you go to any piece of writing about the Goldberg Variations you’re likely to get a lovely analysis of each movement on its own, with considerations of constituent dance forms, counterpoint and those little teeny tiny deviations from the harmonic structure set up in the Aria. This is fine, really. It’s a perfectly respectable way of thinking about the text of Goldbergs and how Bach was a technical genius.
But that’s just not the whole story. Consider that 99.9% of people who enjoy the Goldbergs don’t have the text memorized when they head to a concert. And even if a listener is a music dork or classical musician knows the piece really well, there’s no way for a performance of the Goldbergs to occupy the same time frame as a physical copy of the score. You can open up a score and peruse it, read through it, flip back and forth and have it all there for you at once. Meanwhile, sitting through the performance takes an hour or so. This is all to say that those wonderful analyses we read give us a fantastic idea of how to “play” or “read” but not necessarily how to listen, or to consider what the effect is of listening to the Goldbergs in real time.
While I was in Cambridge to record the Goldbergs, I started to read obsessively when I wasn’t practicing, as if I was literally slipping back into my former self as an undergraduate. The used bookstore around the corner from my room in St. Edward’s Passage had a handy (and cheap) selection of tattered paperbacks, some of which I skimmed, others of which I buried myself into through the drear of caffeine and jetlag. Unsurprisingly, as I was getting to be nostalgic, the books I picked up had either a Cambridge or gay connection of some sort (self-control victory: I stopped myself from picking up Brideshead Revisited for the umpteenth time).
(The following summaries are in run-on sentences for the purpose of appropriate intelligibility. And humor.)
The Illiad (?) Homer – shit goes down as the division between mortals and Gods gets cast in stone in antiquity.
Invitation to a Beheading, (1936) Vladimir Nabokov – Groundhog Day for Russophiles and Tories and there’s no Bill Murray thank God.
Maurice, E.M. Forster (1971) – Cambridge University’s poor man’s Brideshead but with more sex and less popery.
The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann (1924) – Everyone dies because of tuberculosis.
Short Stories, Edgar Allan Poe – Everyone dies dramatically because of tuberculosis.
Exquisite Corpse, (1996) Poppy Z. Brite – Everyone dies because ecstasy fuelled Southern necrophiliac and Londoner psychotic cannibal find love in New Orleans in the midst of the AIDS crisis as they share in consuming a local Vietnamese heroin addict from head to toe #loveisloveislove.
Pale Fire, (1961) Vladimir Nabokov – reader is forced to sort through a bad poem (front of book) with commentary by a murderous bipolar academic (back of book) more time is spent page-flipping than actually reading.
Cassandra (1984) Christa Wolf – Cassandra of Troy spews forth feminist stream of consciousness about sexual trauma, gendered alienation, ethnic tensions at conclusion of the Trojan Wars.
It was about the time that I came back round to Nabokov that I started laying down tracks for the recording. Perhaps the most conceptual of Nabokov’s workds, the reader is introduced to a 999 line poem by a slightly deranged aristocratic expat from a far-off nation (Zembla) ravaged by revolution. The poem’s author, however, is dead, thus leaving introducer cum commentator in the sole position of authority on how a poem composed on index cards ought to be read. As the poem is void of indices or reference numbers, one is forced to flip endlessly back and forth from commentary to poem, without any guarantees that the commentary will be of any insight into the poem at all. Indeed, Pale Fire isn’t about “reading” either the commentary or the poem, but the act of piecing the two together to decide (1) who murdered the author, (2) if the author ever existed, (3) where Nabokov is talking about himself or (4) where Nabokov is talking about his fictitious characters.
Back in King’s College Chapel, the act of repeating the Aria over and over during the sound check ushered in a bizarre memory trip that I took with me for the rest of the week. In practicing the variations the next morning, I felt as if I was living Peter Williams’ analyses of the Goldbergs in which every variation is related back to the structure and content of the opening Aria. The thought processes thereafter are not unsurprising: “Ooh this chord is different here than it was in the beginning, make sure to bring that out.” “That inner voice is mucho sexy, because you can hear it in the soprano in the Aria, but now it’s in alto and that’s cool and everyone should be made as aware of it as much as possible.” And of course, I would get out my iPhone and record myself paying attention to all these details like a good “performative musicologist,” and realize that my playing now had all the subtlety and poise of a rhinoceros passing a kidney stone the size of a DVD player. It wasn’t musical constipation so much as a hostage situation, as if I was trying force the listener to hear everything that I could see.
There’s an overwhelming temptation to treat the Goldbergs not just like a book, but a testament to mnemonic association. We get so fixated on the idea that the variations constitute individual and mutually isolated afterthoughts, that we train our minds to try and flip back and forth in our minds the way one would in reading Nabokov. Of course, that if one part of the story, as Bach and Nabokov both had their reputations for self-conscious intellectual naughtiness (I mean what could possibly be funnier than exasperating someone dumber than you, right?). The Goldbergs can exhaust your sensibilities if you let them, as your faculties can get taxed again and again as you struggle to remember how each variation is a pearl.
Of course, when I sat down to record, this all fell apart. More time was spent dealing with logistical issues of the fact that the Goldbergs were not in fact written for the harp. “Let’s get rid of that buzz, shall we?” “Let’s see if we can eliminate that creak in the bench.” “Is there any way to avoid that pedal noise?”At various points I found myself holding the harp with just my right shoulder, controlling all my pedaling with my knees and not my ankles (to make the action of changing sharps and flats as slow as possible), and changing all my lovely French technique and fingerings to iron out those eccentricities which I had so painstakingly cultivated. The notion of creating some lasting “permanent” interpretation of the Goldbergs had somewhat gone out the window, as the conditions of the recording session started to bear down. (In other words, a large, difficult work on a large, difficult instrument in a large difficult, room… is a large, difficult pain in the ass.)
As the sessions went on, I buried myself in Christa Wolf’s Cassandra, which I was inspired to read after listening to composer Michael Jarrell’s work of the same name. Cassandra of Troy’s memories of the war and her experiences in the palace of Agamemnon are scattered and chaotic. While one can try to relate her story either to Homer or Aeschylus, the incessance of the prose begs one to stay in the moment, relishing the kaleidoscope of ideas as they shift from one to the next. One minute, she’s remembering how Apollo spat in her mouth to give her the ability to prophesy, then on to she’s describing the water beneath a ship, and then further commenting on the consistency of wine drunk by the men who have enslaved her. Seamlessly jumping across time and space, Wolf’s genius in writing is the use of ideas like “liquid” to talk describe real events and foster metaphors for Cassandra’s emotional alienation from her plight.
In recording the variations, one by one, I had to give excerpts from the preceding and subsequent movements to provide adequate material for the producer for editing, as well as to provide tuning checks and tempo signposts. I think it was here that my view of the Goldbergs started to shift. For instance in moving from the Aria and into the next three variations, the subtle and most continuous connective tissue between them wasn’t a harmonic structure, but a cell of three notes.
The ornament on the third beat of the Aria is one of the most famous in Western music. It places an enormous dissonance on a weak beat of a bar (an A over a G Major chord), and proceeds resolves it upwards briefly to a B, before returning back to the A which is now not a dissonance but part of a D major chord. That ornament apart from propelling the motion forward from the very first notes of the Goldbergs is pervasive throughout the entire Aria, providing space for all that languid harpsichord-y expressiveness that often sounds like the performer intentionally has no rhythm.
But it doesn’t stop there. Just after the Aria ends, Variation 1 picks it up and uses it as a rhythmic engine. Not only that, but the left hand incorporates it as implying imitation and counterpoint – that is, providing the essence of two voices – with a single line. You can hear the two hands passing back and forth like an argument or conversation, providing the ears with something to latch onto.
Go to Variation 2, and things get more interesting. The same rhythmic cell is used in the left hand, but slowed down by half, while the original quick ornament is used in the right hand to change that sacrosanct G Major chord into a spicy E minor. It’s crazy: the ornament has literally bifurcated itself, bringing the listener into two different temporal landscapes at once.
Variation 3: a canon, whereby two voices copy each other exactly, but at different pitch levels. The melody – you guessed it – uses the same ornament, repeating itself right-side up and upside-down as if there’s an internal canon or imitation scheme going (not dissimilar to the left hand from variation 1). In listening, one can hear the repetition one on another like one of Escher’s staircases, weaving in and out of each other, using repetitive right angles to obfuscate a tangible sense of space or proportion.
For me, I think this is why the Goldberg Variations make people bananas, as Bach engages both mnemonic and short-memory levels to create hourlong super structures in the mind, while engaging the ears in real time. Unlike a lot of music of the Baroque, and even some of Bach’s own music, the Goldbergs really show themselves in their intended medium for live performance and audiation, rather than textual study.
Of course, the highly technical language I’m using to describe these phenomena is possible due to my access to the score, but that doesn’t mean it’s not identifiable without it. One of the best things about Bach is the ability for beauty to be revealed without knowing precisely “how” he’s doing it. Though Bach may be driving the bus, the listener gets to sit inside for the ride rather than watch it drive by. To go along and really enjoy what Bach might be offering, it requires to you sit back and relish an experience in real time, and sometimes not to dwell in the past. Indeed, over-compartmentalization of anything can lead to a fragmented experience.
I’ve decided to let go, and accept that the last year with the Goldbergs has been part of a healing process. On a musical level, the flow and continuity of the work is too incredible to leave to one side. And, in my own life, I’ve grown tired of pretending that there are parts of my life that aren’t there, and haven’t shaped the way I look at a piece of music. I’ve decided to start reading again, getting that cup coffee, and taking the space to face the music as it hits me.
Utter helplessness sets in when one is faced with the inability to read or verbally communicate. While Western expat cafes along Yongkang Road are all staffed by helpful and friendly Anglophones, upon stepping out, my attempts to order food are reduced to pointing, smiling and confessing on no uncertain terms that I am in this situations, totally ignorant. Indeed after one day in Shanghai, I’ve learned to recognize precisely four characters in Chinese (I think): I can read now read prices in yuan (元), and can identify chicken (鸡), fish (鱼) and tea (茶) on a menu. (Next step, road signs and/or directions to the metro.)
In talking with other members of the Shanghai Camerata, I learned that Chinese takes an exceedingly long time to learn, simply due to the fact that the innumerable characters take years to memorize. And even then, once they are memorized, linking them with appropriate context and using them to express ideas from another language takes even more time and experience. Diligence is necessary, of course, but also patience and openness to the potential for error.
The sense of unfamiliarity with a new language is a relatively common phenomenon when delving into new genres of music either. While one can perhaps enjoy the aesthetic sensation when listening, the act of performance can demand memorization of different modes of communication. One learns harmonic conventions, rhythmic grooves and the overall rhetoric which takes lumps of sonic material and turns it into music.
British novelist Leslie Poles Hartley began his 1953 novel The Go-Between with the famed words “the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” In this intricate tale of an adolescent’s attempts to navigate the significations and affectations of the upper class, the moral of the tale is that one’s sincerity to connect with fellow humans is only as their ability to communicate and listen. By the end of the tale, the book’s protagonist has been through so many failures of communication that he is unable to process any information except facts alone, effectively isolating him from ever forming deep relationships.
Isolation and communication can be problems in Baroque music, as performers are confronted with rows and rows of notes in succession with few complimentary symbols or directions indicating volume or speed. And yet, we know this music ought to be interpreted somehow, as it’s unlikely that a work of music is devoid of either of internal logic or interpretive license. As such, in the historical performance, there’s an element of translation that has to take place, looking at groups of notes on a page to find out what their grammatical meaning might be.
Fortunately for us, some musicians of the past not only wrote their ideas down but compiled them into dictionaries and other lexicographical volumes. For instance, one can easily learn from Johann Gottfried Walther’s Musikalisches Lexicon that rhythmic repetition (anaphora) serves to explicate, demonstrate or augment the meaning of an idea.
The anaphora (from αναφέρω) occurs when a phrase is frequently repeated in a composition for greater emphasis. (Musikalisches Lexicon, 1732)
Johan Adolph Scheibe, another eminent musical lexicographer and composer when even further.
It is important that repetition not be ignored, but differentiated at every opportunity through well devised neighboring or intervening passages. (Critischer Musicus, 1737-1740).
But other figures and symbols are more ambiguous. In Schmelzer’s Sonata Quarta for Violin and Continuo, violinist Ruiqi Ren and I came across a brief section dominated bombus, which occurs when a note is repeated four times in a row in relatively quick succession.
At first such a figure would appear to carry some militaristic or showy affekt. But Walther says something sheds light on the way a figure or a phrase might change over time:
The bombus formerly signified an artful movement of the hands which resulted in beelike humming. Nowadays, the figure merely indicates nothing more than a trillo. (Musikalisches Lexicon)
From here, one can set off on any number of roads of inquiry. One might start by asking how it was that bees were perceived in Walther’s time a place. Was the sound of a swarm of bees something irritating? Ominous? Soothing? Or is it perhaps based in one’s own perception of what a bee represents?
Past a certain point, one can fail to differentiate forests from trees (or indeed the metaphysics of a bee’s existence from four bars in a short piece of music). But in learning any new language, one learns to determine context after learning snippets of vocabulary. Why should we assume that a bombus ought to be aggressive, when we can learn that the opposite might be the case? It’s the act of questioning and trying things out that help internalize a new language.
As I’ve learned in the last few days, it is of course not enough to learn single words but to take a look what’s around it. My first meal in Shanghai, I ordered a dish with fish (鱼) but failed to look at the character beforehand (鲶). I ended up ordering catfish (鲶鱼, which I generally despise) but which is not uncommon in Cantonese cuisine (and yes, I ended up at a Cantonese restaurant my first night in Shanghai without realizing it). But such is the nature of trial and error. Whether it’s food, language or music, one need not be scared to try something new.
Only in Manhattan does one celebrate achievements such as successfully spreading possessions across four small pieces of real estate (two offices, one storage unit and one apartment), rather than simply having a single piece of real estate that can fit everything you own. Over the last few weeks, my partner and I have undertaken the task of consolidating the libraries of two bibliophiles. After building countless cardboard boxes, filling them to maximum capacity and moving them out, we have started to see the intended result: more space in our apartment. Richard oversaw the removal of 16 boxes of LP’s from our apartment into storage, while I reorganized some 400 books recently moved into my new office.
It’s no secret that spatial economy is a nuisance, as the contents of vast quantities of literature are in no want of space in the human mind. After all, for many reading is as valuable as practical experience, as volumes of detailed chronologies or dry analyses form the bases of entire worldviews and perspectives. The permanence of paper offers the opportunity for continued experience with each and every read, potentially altering the context for how one might view the world. Just as we change, the words we read change with us to a degree.
Hence, what one chooses to keep nearby in a library can be telling about one’s values or even their stage in life. Richard’s copy of Hesiod’s Theogony sits one stretch of an arm away from our couch, wedged between Homer and Pindar, while Ovid’s Metamorphoses rests between Thucydides and Plato in my office. For me these volumes remain insightful into human nature, but more practically, because of their sustained relevance over the centuries, they can act as cultural dictionaries when encountering an obscure reference in painting or a piece of a music.
Several weeks ago, I interrupted the packing flow to find my copy of Metamorphoses before I moved it into my new office. It was needed it in order to look up what Ovid might have to say about the figure Astraea, who came up in a rehearsal of a previously unperformed oratorio by Antonio Giannettini (1648-1721). Being the only reference of its type in Giannettini’s account of the life of Moses, La creatione de’ magistrati di Mosè, it was safe to assume that the reference was not without significance.
At first, it seemed that Ovid had little to nothing to offer on Astraea, only offering that she was the last of the immortals sent to live among men in the Golden Age, departing at the end of the Bronze Age and the start of the Iron Age.
Piety was dead, and virgin Astraea, last of all the immortals to depart, herself abandoned the blood-drenched earth. The harsh iron age was last. Immediately every kind of wickedness erupted into this age of baser natures: truth, shame and honour vanished; in their place were fraud, deceit, and trickery, violence and pernicious desires. And now harmful iron appeared, and gold more harmful than iron. War came, whose struggles employ both, waving clashing arms with bloodstained hands. They lived on plunder: friend was not safe with friend, relative with relative, kindness was rare between brothers. Husbands longed for the death of their wives, wives for the death of their husbands. Murderous stepmothers mixed deadly aconite, and sons inquired into their father’s years before their time. (Ovid, Metamorphoses I)
From this reference alone, it was hard to figure out what exactly Astraea’s place might be in Giannettini’s oratorio. But as I perused the libretto, a few other things stood out. First, though the oratorio is supposed to be about Moses, roughly half the arias are sung by his father-in-law Jethro, whose role in Moses’ life receives little mention beyond the 18th chapter of the Book of Exodus. Second, the oratorio’s sequence of events does not include any of the major milestones we would usually associate with Moses, such as the Passover, the parting of the Red Sea, or the receipt of the Law on Mount Sinai. Rather, Giannettini’s oratorio goes into great detail about a period of Moses’ life after the flight from Egypt and before the giving of the law, thus focusing on the uncomfortable decisions which Moses had to make about his leadership of the Hebrews, lest he become a tyrant.
If one reads carefully into the book of Exodus, it’s apparent that Moses wasn’t terribly popular with the Hebrews once he got them into the desert. In Exodus 15-17, it’s said that food and water were scarce, invading tribes wrought havoc, and as of yet, there was no central law or governance apart from the leadership of Moses himself. For a people supposedly defined by their relationship with their God, it would appear they had fallen under a personal dictatorship led by Moses.
The whole Israelite community set out from Elim and came to the Desert of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after they had come out of Egypt. In the desert the whole community grumbled against Moses and Aaron. The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the Lord’s hand in Egypt! There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.” (Exodus 16:1-3)
From the oratorio’s outset, Moses tells his wife and all who would listen that he has been entrusted with Astraea’s scales in order to divine the fate of his people, and that he perhaps fears the loss of control. But later Jethro warns Moses that if he does not exercise good judgment but proves himself a tyrant, Astraea will have her vengeance:
But beware, if greedy instinct prevails in a Minister: Astrea shall bewail her laws by tyrant’s interests twisted, her perfect balances turned to basest use— for weighing gold, instead of works; she’ll see her sword with ruined temper, and with dulled blade. What corner of a venal heart can fail to brighten at the lethal shine of lucre’s light, if by a wicked tribunal Reason is outdone and the Law is made by dealing, for guilty spoils of vile treasure. (Giannettini/Giardini, La creatione de’ magistrati di Mosè, Part I)
In Giannettini’s own time, the concept of Astraea’s return figured heavily in art and literature, though not in his native Italy. On the restoration of the English monarchy in 1660, John Dryden published his panegyric poem Astraea Redux, praising the return of the Crown in the form of Charles II following the dissolution of Oliver Cromwell’s authoritarian regime. So distant in the past is the English revolution that one can easily forget the despair and desolation which accompanied Cromwell’s theocracy. Travel was restricted, music and art largely banned, food was rationed, all giving rise to widespread religious belief that apocalypse was nigh. The success of Dryden’s poem was not in its political or philosophical praise of the monarchy in its own right, but in its reflection of the widespread belief that the Stuart monarchy could turn back the clock.
For his long absence Church and State did groan; Madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne: Experienced age in deep despair was lost, To see the rebel thrive, the loyal cross’d: Youth that with joys had unacquainted been, Envied gray hairs that once good days had seen: We thought our sires, not with their own content, Had, ere we came to age, our portion spent. (John Dryden, Astraea Redux)
Mary of Modena
Of course, turning back the clock is fine, so long as it isn’t turned back too far. In 1687, Dryden’s poem was republished by supporters of James II to bolster the last campaign to restore Roman Catholicism in England. But despite the advice of the Pope and his wife, Mary of Modena, James II sought to restore the one true faith with an iron fist. Though he initially took steps to disestablish the Anglican Church’s constitutional monopoly through a series of reforms and legal repeals, he responded to critics by removing them or taking them hostage. Despite the fact that Roman Catholics represented no more than 2% of the English population in the 1680s, he replaced well over 90% of Anglican bureaucrats with Roman Catholics. By April 1688, he had imprisoned seven Anglican Bishops for the simple act of petitioning the Crown, effectively castrating the House of Lords and shutting down the Constitutional process. James II’s attempt to revive to return to the Tudor era only resulted in a system similar to Cromwell’s.
But these events not only loomed large in England, but in Modena, where Giannettini was employed as a court musician by Mary’s brother, Francesco II d’Este. Mary and Francesco themselves were no strangers to the dangers of imprudence and ill judgment. In 1597, the Este family was deposed from their regency in Ferrara, and forced to flee the famous Castello Estense to Modena in a political scuffle. One can’t help but speculate the extent to which Giannettini’s characters in La creatione de’ magistrati di Mosè – Moses, Zipporah and Jethro – were literal allegories of James II, Mary and the patriarchal Church. Upon the flight of Mary of Modena to France after the Glorious Revolution, Francesco II declared a period of mourning, commissioning dozens of oratorios to be performed, fostering reflection on demise of faith in the face of human greed. But most interestingly, much like Giannettini’s Mosaic oratorio, these oratorios also blend Classical mythology with episodes from the Old Testament to illustrate those themes which not only recur in the Bible, but human history.
The concept of “Western Culture” rides all too easily on a high horse, it can often seem. Frames of reference naturally change, from age to age and place to place, and in a multi-cultural city like New York, one would hope that there would be openness to other ideas and cultural vantage points that were perhaps alien to our parents, or even to ourselves. But such is the nature of the evolution of ideas that living philosophies and religions don’t necessarily have to die so much as be reframed and recontextualized. After all, Greek and Roman religion turned into Greek and Roman “mythology” over the course of centuries, providing fruit for artists and writers to pick when other frames of reference fail or merit augmentation. The Book of Exodus too, once a prescriptive text and a literal tale of a nation’s simultaneous deliverance and strife is now largely a polemical tome, though perhaps out of fashion because of Judeo-Christian ideals are in this moment likewise passé and yet too close to associations with America’s religious right. And yet, the tales of the past can continue to inform and remind us not only about the characters embedded in the stories, but about subsequent events and squabbles in which the antiquity’s was one prism of many through which the world was viewed. It can bring art and music of the past to life, making them relevant to our own time and place.
If you’re like me, you will have been disturbed by subversion of the American Presidency from a position of leadership into a tool of extortion. Whatever your views on the border wall are, it’s hard to deny that Trump’s determination to take government wages hostage would be laughable were it not so economically disastrous for hundreds of thousands of families. Such is magnanimity of error of judgment and callous disregard for the well-being of ordinary American citizens, that one cannot help but wonder if we are about to hear the Republican Party’s swan song. After all the excitement about 2016 election, and the conviction that the American Left had truly failed America, I’m convinced that the events of the last four weeks will cast a longer shadow than any investigation about Russian collusion, or any horrible comment about women, immigrants or the vulnerable. Whether we like it or not, Trump’s dishonesty can be twisted to seem like character flaws, and he certainly would not be the first liar in public office. But Trump’s capacity for vindictive pride has officially outshone that of any other politician I have seen in my short lifetime. Of course, quite a bit can happen between now and 2020, but it would seem that a new standard for unethical leadership has been set.
Again and again in history and literature, the decisions about leadership and communication directly affect a leader’s success. Moses had the good wisdom to listen to advice and resign his authority, electing magistrates to implement the law before he was deposed. James II did not, and faced a rebellion which not only saw his permanent expulsion to France, but the legal suppression of Catholicism in England until 1829. One can argue for against their respective political enterprises, as in the end both men sought to establish harsh and inflexible theocracies. But regardless of any political stance, the stakes of political action act like pendula, swinging back with the same force with which they were set them in motion. In this regard there is no better example than Ovid’s fate after Metamorphoses, composed over period of time during which Ovid fell out of public favor. In Book I, it is clear that Ovid is not only confident in his status as a poet, but in his own stature in the Roman Empire, comparing its fortitude to that of the Gods themselves. But by Book XV, written not long before his expulsion from Rome to the Black Sea, one can see the cracks forming in the Roman imperial mythology. Before concludes with brief and insincere praise of Augustus and his father Julius Caesar, he inserts a lengthy prophecy attributed to the figure Pythagoras. It speaks not of mathematical perfection or impermeability, but the ease at which the mighty can fall.
This let me further add, that Nature knows No steadfast station, but, or ebbs, or flows: Ever in motion; she destroys her old, And casts new figures in another mold. Ev’n times are in perpetual flux, and run, Like rivers from their fountain, rolling on, For time, no more than streams, is at a stay; The flying hour is ever on her way:
The golden age, to silver was debased: To copper that; our metal came at last. The face of places, and their forms, decay; And that is solid Earth, that once was sea: Seas in their turn retreating from the shore, Make solid land, what ocean was before; And far from strands are shells of fishes found, And rusty anchors fixed on mountain-ground: And what were fields before, now washed and worn By falling floods from high, to valleys turn, And crumbling still descend to level lands; And lakes, and trembling bogs, are barren sands. And the parched desert floats in streams unknown; wondering to drink of waters not her own. Here Nature living fountains opes; and there Seals up the wombs, where living fountains were; Or earthquakes stop their ancient course, and bring Diverted streams to feed a distant spring.
(Ovid, Metamorphoses XV, translation attributed to John Dryden)
One wonders how long it will take the Republican Party to realize that unless they ditch Trump, Astraea will not only leave, but return with an axe to grind. Whether you agree with members of my generation or not, they possess a level of vitriol and anger commensurate with the assault on practice of politics under this administration. As the Right continues to move even more to the right, so too does the left pull in the opposite direction. Like Ovid, the Republican Party’s actions put them at risk of not only taking second place in 2020, but of being violently excised from future political discourse. It would be a pity to see the advent of nothing but a political mirror of the inflexibility that has come the characterize the presidency as of late.
Having left New York for the wilds of New England, a man returns home to take his dog to the park. September’s mildness has brought relief to the dog owners of the Upper West Side who, having shaken off summer’s oppressive heat, saunter through Central Park with ease and comfort, free to ponder in silence the prescience of autumn’s hues.
The dogs chase and wrestle on the lawn, and the man paces alone at distance, his ears sheltered beneath headphones and his eyes behind sunglasses. He looks out, his mind retreating into an aural landscape of Bach and distant taxi cabs, embodying the simultaneous contradiction and reconciliation of being back in the city: of being alone amidst millions of others who are also alone. He pauses to feel the breeze and takes in the sight of canine innocence and falling leaves, asphalt and withering grass, things permanent and ephemeral.
That is, until he is interrupted. He looks down to find his dog at his feet, pawing at his leg to vie for affection. The man is taken with her face. As he looks down at her, she rotates her lengthy snout and pert ears exactly forty-five degrees in to form an inquisitive expression. No sooner than he kneels to pet her, she begins to speak.
LUNCHMEAT. What are you listening to?
LOGAN. Excuse me?
LUNCHMEAT. Through your headphones.
LOGAN. I’m not sure how to answer the question.
LUNCHMEAT. Why is that?
LOGAN. Because in one sense, I am listening to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, and in another I am not.
LUNCHMEAT. How so?
LOGAN. I mean to say that I am not listening to Bach so much as I’m listening to Bach through another man’s deceptive machinations – that is, another voice.
LUNCHMEAT. Whose voice is that?
LOGAN. Anton Webern’s, in his orchestration of the 6-part Ricercar from TheMusicalOffering.
LUNCHMEAT. I know it well. What renders your concern that this is not truly Bach?
LOGAN. From the very first notes, the sounds of a trombone, a muted horn and a harp’s harmonic and mark a departure from Bach’s natural realm as I know it. Such instruments are not designed for counterpoint, but for orchestral phantasms, aural visions of alienation and terror. Where I wish to follow a group of equal voices, my ear can only discern a chaos of instruments weaving in and out of each other to pervert the subjects and countersubjects. I simply cannot follow it, and return to the same conclusion again and again that Webern’s treatment represents the absence of lines or shapes: a decadent chasm of formless harmonic plumes.
LUNCHMEAT. Your description is so poetic that I remain puzzled as to what troubles you.
LOGAN. I’m troubled because Webern’s treatment of the Ricercar eliminates Bach’s careful counterpoint altogether. There are no fugal entries or cessations or any semblance of linear organization. I can derive no notion that the work is comprised of six distinct voices. The experience is almost irritating, as it it no way resembles the experience of hearing it on the piano.
LUNCHMEAT. Ah, well therein lies your problem.
LOGAN. What do you mean?
LUNCHMEAT. What evidence have you that the Ricercar was composed for the piano?
LOGAN. Well we know Bach first played it for King Frederick the Great on one of the fifteen pianos at the Prussian Court.
LUNCHMEAT. Do we?
LOGAN. It’s generally accepted that it is Bach’s only work for the piano. Dr. Charles Rosen’s essay on the Ricercar went so far as to proclaim the work to be the greatest ever composed for the piano, only awaiting reclamation by the modern pianists.
LUNCHMEAT. I hate to disappoint you (or Dr. Rosen for that matter), but those were fortepianos in King Frederick’s court, not pianofortes as we know them today. (And we have no evidence that Bach ever owned one himself.)
LOGAN. Are the two so substantially different?
LUNCHMEAT. I’m afraid so. Consider their size for instance, they do not have the dynamic capacity or sustaining ability of a modern piano. Furthermore, the advantage of the fortepiano was that the sustaining potential was in fact less than the natural lengthy bloom of a harpsichord or the perpetual wind supply of an organ.
LOGAN. But surely it can play counterpoint just like any keyboard instrument.
LUNCHMEAT. Perhaps. But does not Dr. Rosen’s thesis rest on an assumption that the Ricercar isn’t truly contrapuntal, but harmonic in essence as the piano’s dynamic sensitivity is not conducive to the even delivery of counterpoint, but rather of sonority. Think about it: can you name any other great contrapuntal works written for the fortepiano in this period?
LOGAN. I suppose I can’t.
LUNCHMEAT. So why would you only ever want to hear the Ricercar only on the piano? Or rather why should any other rendition imitate the piano, if it is not suited to the counterpoint you treasure?
LOGAN. I suppose I do not know.
LUNCHMEAT. And anyhow, are you so sure that Bach even played “the” Ricercar for the King on the piano?
LOGAN. We’re told he improvised it on the spot, after being handed a theme from the King, and wrote it down on his return to Leipzig.
LUNCHMEAT: Tell me, can you recall what you said in a conversation some weeks ago and textually reproduce it verbatim?
LOGAN. No, that would be impossible.
LUNCHMEAT. Indeed. And even if you could, wouldn’t you take the opportunity to express what you had said better, if given the opportunity? Think back to Bach’s own address to the King at the front of The Musical Offering.
LOGAN. What address? I don’t recall such a document in Dr. Rosen’s essay.
LUNCHMEAT. Does Bach only speak through Dr. Rosen’s lips? You can find it in the opening chapter of Dr. Douglas Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher and Bach.
LOGAN. Of course, yes. I do remember now.
LUNCHMEAT. Good. What did it say?
LOGAN. Bach was rather self-deprecatory, if I recall correctly, implying that his improvisation was imperfect and unsatisfactory – that it required editing.
LUNCHMEAT. Hence the title.
LOGAN. Beg pardon?
LUNCHMEAT. “Ricercar” rather than “fugue.”
R e g i s
I u s ta
C a n t i o
R e l i q u a
C a n o n i c a
A r t e
R e s o l u t a
LOGAN. “At the King’s Command….the song… and remainder resolved with…”
LUNCHMEAT. “…with perfect art.” Canonica refers of course to the canons in The Musical Offering (of which Dr. Hofstadter wrote so eloquently with regards to Escher visual matrices), but it also has an implication that “the best possible way” has been found.
LOGAN. So it’s a play on words.
LUNCHMEAT. Think of not so much as a play on words as an insight into a journey towards perfection. The very term Ricercar is taken from the Italian word “to search.” Before the fixed form or genre of the fugue, there was the Ricercar, the musical embodiment of the process the composer goes through to seek out the contrapuntal potential of the subject. In this sense, the musical work functions like an essay, and the composer, an orator. In delivering a thesis or theory, no dux can ever be self-evident unless its evidentiary nature has been manifest in each and every comes. Every last detail in the score of the Ricercar points to the search for an unattainable perfection, even down the format of the score.
LOGAN. How do you mean?
LUNCHMEAT. Each voice is granted its own line, implying an almost primeval equity in contrapuntal annunciation.
LOGAN. How is anyone supposed read such a score and play it simultaneously?
LUNCHMEAT. Perhaps one is not meant to.
LOGAN. You mean to tell me that some of the most beautiful notes in history are not meant to be performed? At all?
LUNCHMEAT. Are all words made to be uttered? Tell me, as a writer: how do words “exist?” Do they only exist in our ability to say them? Do they not exist in our thoughts, our private confidences or in secrets?
LOGAN. Of course, words exist in multiple plains, but only as a result each individual’s own language. Dr. Michel Foucault spelled that out plainly in The Archaeology of Knowledge.
LUNCHMEAT. But why?
LOGAN. Because languages themselves are not symbols, but dialogical
spaces for the reconciliation of opposing ideas through words. Languages by nature are pure. It is words that muddy the waters and where contradictions occur.
LUNCHMEAT. Once upon a time, some music functioned much the same way: as a language. To inscribe notes on a page was not merely to express a ephemeral idea, but to communicate a piece of eternity found within one’s own musical language – that is, something that can’t be uttered aloud without ambiguity. The closer a composer got to touching the eternal, the more antiquated or archaic the physical presentation.
LOGAN. Other composers did this as well?
LUNCHMEAT. Oh yes, many. So utterly despondent was Josquin at the death of his mentor Ockeghem that he composed his Deploration de Jehan Ockeghem in medieval chant notation, a system several hundred years out of date.
LUNCHMEAT. So that the primacy of the cantus firmus taken from the medieval Requiem Mass might be seen, not just heard. Four of the five voices sing the words Wood-nymphs, goddesses of the fountains//Skilled singers of every nation//Turn your voices, so clear and lofty//To piercing cries and lamentation. But the fifth voice, barely audible sings the text Eternal rest grant unto them, the opening lines of from the Requiem. In listening, the ancient religious element is concealed or obfuscated, while the element determines the entire format of the score.
LOGAN. Why this juxtaposition? This sounds like a matter of history, not emotion.
LUNCHMEAT. Because there are things humans cannot hear, but only see: things like sorrow, pain, or proportion. One cannot hear a devastation on par with a catastrophe like the Black Death, a sadness Josquin felt was unparalleled in his own time. But one can see it, when the emotion is framed in format that transcends borders like time. One cannot hear the conjunction of the sacred and the profane, but they can see a French text beneath a liturgical notation system normally used for Latin, the language of the Church. It is a music beyond the ears, and a sorrow beyond comprehension, engaging not only the ear, but the eye and the soul.
LOGAN. Are there such eternal truths in the Ricercar?
LUNCHMEAT. Yes, in both sight and sound. Such is the essence of all musica pura, (pure music) or Augenmusik (music for the eyes). But any truths can only be divined if we accept our limitations in being able to approach them.
LOGAN. How can music be transmitted if not through sound?
LUNCHMEAT. Do we ask “how” poetry is to be recited, all because the visual perfection with which it is presented is immaculate? It would be inconceivable to ask how George Herbert “Easter Wings” ought to be “accurately” conveyed, or to ask how Mallarmé or Apollinaire “intended” their poetry to be read aloud, if at all. There is nothing stopping anyone from memorizing the Ricercar, transcribing it into a more digestible format as suits them, or even from realizing a performance for more than one musician, as Webern did in his orchestration.
LOGAN. So Webern’s transcription is actually appropriate?
LUNCHMEAT. What I mean is that Webern’s transcription falls no more or less short than any other realization of the Ricercar in sight or sound.
LOGAN. Can anyone ever perform the Ricercar as Bach intended?
LUNCHMEAT. No (and certainly not on a piano (as Bach never owned one). No matter what instrument you play it on, there will be a problem, an imperfection, and a thus miraculous glance at the unattainable. The organ will be too muddy, the harpsichord will be too reverberant, the orchestra will be too diffuse, and the piano will be too dynamic and eccentric.
LOGAN. Is this not troublesome at all to you?
LUNCHMEAT. Not at all.
LUNCHMEAT. Because what instrument any work of Bach ought to be played on does not trouble me, as it does you. Humans are uncomfortable with the notion that they may fall short, without realizing that their own shortcomings only serve to uphold those truths they try to live up to. As I’m a dog, and can play no instrument, I can accept and conceive of a total inability to perform the music of Bach. This is no truer than in the Ricercar, which was composed for all instruments and none. For an invisible instrument. For me.