Apr '03 [Home] Poetry Feature: Music Preface by Guest Editor, Mark Nickels A That Spirit ~ Dad, You Fucker ~ Thomas Bauer | Overture ~ Lorna Knowles Blake | Seven Sounds From the Book of Wisdom ~ Robert Klein Engler | forget not me ~ Brenda Gannam | dans l'ensemble ~ Jack Greene | Jewel Case of Sorrowful Songs ~ Thomas Kerr | The Last Snowstorm ~ Jim McCurry | The Comforter ~ J. Morris | Side 4: Couperin, l'Apothéose de Lully ~ Side 7: Prokoviev, Violin Sonatas no. 1 and 2 ~ Mark Nickels (Saint Cecilia at her Organ, Max Ernst) B Schubert's Silent Rival ~ Baruch November | The Piano String ~ Terence Purtell | Ancestral Refrain ~ Rebecca Seiferle | Bill Evans ~ Daniel Shapiro | Bartók ~ Rob Wright | Lines Not Written To Handel ~ Nomad Song ~ Eric Yost | Mysterious Mountain: Hovhaness ~ Passacaglia, 3rd Movement, Shostakovich 1st Violin Concerto ~ Michael T. Young (The Concert, Jan Hermansz Biljert) Contributor Notes |
. | . | . | That Spirit Thomas Bauer What was that spirit in me just now as I played? Father? Or was that you, Szigetti? Alfred, your old student, showed me the up-bow for the preludio he learned from you and just now something swam into my left hand some energy up the forearm into my fingering hand as I played that section like two violins played despite myself, in awe of this power announcing a presence that shivered within and I was detached, almost out of my body observing the calm center of this piece, this pyrotechnic piece, as if it were being performed through me by this presence, my comforting companion an energy like a bed on which my movements sleep soft waves of Bach carrying me away an ocean of love, pure love of my father gone from this world an aching, aching love for a mate or perhaps the blend of motion and sound the emotion of being in motion of making music, painting the air emanating frequencies of passion and joy straining to communicate beyond my space with any kindred spirit who picks it up is willing to love back with equal passion yes, a kind of love, or a kind of self a portion of a greater self, my soul an aspect of me unrealized from a greater expanse of being a higher love within, born through my arm through fine adjustments, the up-bow the newly-learned curling of the wrist my rounded grip as I pull music from the strings resonance, the springiness of the strings the bow hairs, the mechanics of my joints my fingers, elbow, shoulder, neck, spine my stance, my bent form, bending forward to catch the music, follow it as it journeys forth, to catch that energy as it soars and multiplies itself until I reach the end, easily and simply amazed, stopping, falling to my knees, exhaling grateful to whatever it was in that moment that this was given to me, to me, today. The violin bow is to the violin what the breath is to the singer. —Don Reinfeld, Bow Maker [Article] ~ . Dad, You Fucker Thomas Bauer I'm with you again in a Sibelius storm smelling your tweed jacket in the heat and sweat inside this Montreal concert hall, the low hum of basses and cellos behind the burst of the violin piercing the middle of the first movement, a scream rising and cascading and building back to return to that mournful ominous theme, garlic, beer, sweat a tweed jacket, academics, a bald head, glasses you watching these young performers wrestling with this infernal piece of music, this Everest for violinists and oh we judge them all by this piece judge the world and damn and damn it all and fucking hell why, why, why oh why do things happen? And even as I ask the answer comes, the resolution of the oboes, the swooning melancholy melody rejoining because they do, because things happen that way sometimes and we weep, struggle, climb the fucking mountains the secrets of the past, the fuckeduppedness of children and parents, the war of emotions and struggling with drink damn it, I fucking hate it sometimes, hate this crap in me this fucking music, this anguishing torturous climbing wanting needing never-getting beyond this shit inside this hand-me-down from generations of fucked up men, old fuckers bastards, emasculators, torturers of children, you fuckers you fucking fuckers, I hate you all, all of you, you fucking bastards. And the hall goes quiet, a clearing in the forest a pleasant pool of water in the sunlight, with butterflies or dragonflies, and an old friend approaches from the trees my comfort, young and strong, the father who dives into the water and bubbles up laughing who splashes, kicks and swims, healthy and present supportive, protective, the one who gave the golden love when I was a babe and could do no wrong, a dream a wish, a glitch in my memory, unfulfilled yet real. The bent man turns to me and smiles, the audience is breathless the violinist crossed his strings like a bird, the lights shone in his lenses, and I smiled back thinking I was safe thinking I was loved, not knowing that this brief happiness would taunt me when I was older, past loss in the times when I would feel like a salmon struggling in the flows of time and sorrow. Master of The Mended Flute (c.1650 Holland) The fragility of the flute and the lute echoes the brief duration of the music they make. Only the butterfly provides a sign of life, the symbol of the resurrection of Christ. ~ . ~ Overture Lorna Knowles Blake The wet clay sings beneath the potter's hands, becoming, through the rhythm of that touch, a vessel filled with intimate music. What could be more intimate than music called gently forth, or urgently, by hands and instruments tuned to the pitch of touch? In a dark house, at the conductor's touch, a baton waves a single note of music into a vibrant symphony of hands— hands dancing, one touch, and then the music. ~ . ~ Seven Sounds From the Book of Wisdom Robert Klein Engler A whistling wind is the sword of Solomon singing with justice. The rhythms of violently rushing water are the chains of our slavery sliding into the sea. The sound of the most savage roaring beasts is someone saying, "I don't love you anymore." The unseen dash of leaping animals is when you walk where the temple stood and remember the same space, but a different time. An echo from a hollow of mountains comes when the greedy say, "If we could mint the water, then we would dry the world." The harsh crash of rocks hurled down is to do God's law, but not His love. The melodious sound of birds is like the dew of the world to come that shimmers on the cedars at dawn. Apollo Struggles with Heracles Over the Oracle Tripod (c. 520 B.C.) ~ . ~ forget not me Brenda Gannam her signature the key of red with prelude pink to garnet rhapsody la vie, sonata plays herself upon this human harpsichord along whose spine of ruby ivory glides the unseen finger there will be no coda, no reprise breath's music sighs within the beat of heart and cordate fleur de lys where fuchsia passioned grace notes linger faery fashioned remember mine was trebled clef of love's bright blush the rougéd rush thrice known and since marooned bereft forget not me four season's metronome along the spiraled chromosome brief moments, ruddy tick . . . tick . . . tick andante cadence pulsing, bloody through the artery vermilion wine allegro valse de vie crescendoes cherry, carmine segues into scarlet nocturne rose eternity (Image: Ariadne on Naxos) ~ . ~ dans l'ensemble Jack Greene written to Liszt's Consolation #3 in D-flat for John Howard Davis once released a bubble will rise according to a certain pace or wind before it must burst into air it will tingle sheer thimbles of delight neither tattered or torn without a single patch or tear the blesséd rags you walk upon dear friend— a spontaneous ensemble of magic— lurk lustfully somewhere in the air ~ . ~ Jewel Case of Sorrowful Songs Thomas Kerr We're training through a dark tunnel; a man sits beneath a window: passing pipes, stanchions, signs are illuminated by the car lights. Then darkness blurs beyond the glass. He entered the car with a sweeping cane tapping out forward ground, a slow shuffle in largo one and a half beats beyond his step. In left hand a violin; seated its strings are strung against his leg, the bow held loose in a grip of the wooden neck. His striped cane lies inside the arc of arm; his face staring forward with a near-smile. Slowly, to the rhythm of the train, his head nods. Slower yet, two fingers of his free hand tap the bowed back of his instrument. The track taps an echo, railing into lento, returning from the library. My hands withdraw the jewel case of Gorecki's Symphony No. 3; my throat hums the opening prayer from The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. Behind dark glasses little has changed of his face, it remains; the jewel case is empty; the disc is missing. A strange feeling vibrates with the train as the blind man continues to tap his violin. ~ . ~ The Last Snowstorm Jim McCurry A blue light enters. A book falls from the stack of its own accord. The last hiccough wakens to merge with that of the unknown friend. Out there—the first crow croaks. A black Cadillac lingers, grows larger, flags dwarfed in the approach. Am I awake to all I thought I tried once feebly to love? Let us see. Who asks the question? Who is the friend? Feverish feet may chance the stumble-staccato, fulfilling invisible patterns, improvised dance steps, certain that the last shall be first to enter the invisible campagna— safe from alarms, the bullies themselves transformed by majestic jazz. Even the rasp of a solitary crow out there, in the nothing, caught and wrapped in choirs of invisible love. ~ . ~ The Comforter J. Morris His voice so calm and rational, appreciative, brandy-smooth. Not terribly snobbish in his pronunciation of Le sacre du printemps, but making a good-faith effort to deliver a Gallic nasality on the first syllable of spring. I welcome this baritone spirit into my little living room, for the city surrounds me, which certainly means I am afraid. He will give me something Baroque next, he assures me. In the kitchen my wife runs water loudly, like static. I want that assurance, I want comfort, I want to keep out the jamming pulse of my angry polytonal nation, and I want to keep my wife. Both desires are lately in question. He smiles from the speakers and, in describing a Telemann concerto, seems to bless a community of the wavebands, a united state of good music lovers. The union will forever be exclusive. At this moment I can't see why it's so wrong to want that. I even think that God might speak so: rich tones, full of culture, inviting us all to Heaven, securing us against intruders, conversant in European languages but refusing a too precious purse of the lips. The umlauted schön he leaves a touch imperfect, in honor of Babel, but then pours his love and protection down through the cellos, and fifty thousand watts, and wires. [Best Individual Poem, Big City Lit Spring 2002 Contest] ~ . ~ Side 4: Couperin, l'Apothéose de Lully Mark Nickels Probably it really sounded this enervated, suggestive of a sad pacing around in the lobby. There are chestnut trees and something, somewhere is all over. The first suite, in G minor according to the liner notes, depicts Lully on the Champs Elysées coaxing lyrical phantoms. I picture an overcast day, halfway between sticky and coolish. A little too warm for brocade and a wig, but there you are, it's 1687. One notes slight little cuts and pops in the atmosphere, which, in its million releases, is beginning to show its age, particularly in frontiers of the Old World, or junctions of the new: those most revenant-crossed, those most thickly settled with shades. This summer seems paler at darkfall than the others were, washed out like the background of a Watteau, such that if her slipper were lost while she swings on the swing hanging from that parkland bough, it would probably dissolve before dropping to the raked gravel, as swallows do, dissolving on the way from there to there. It just means you can't see it, much like the past, which is here, which is there. Look, I'm not having any more of this phantom rot, it's just plain silly, said Lully, who couldn't see the phantoms, and was after a new roll, a hundred foot roll of dusty rose-colored ribbon to tie himself to the material world: strumpets, meudon with caramelized apples, Spanish sherry that broods in the stomach like King Philip in his Escorial. No phantoms for me until they surround me in some gavotte, like the evening—stately and fading, and maybe only somewhat indifferent. I probably love you, and maybe love you even more than your particularity. It's all so familiar somehow, that blindfolded and seeking you in this black and red room with striated black glossy floors, I can only see colors: overcast days tinted with rose, clicks and warps in the surface. Faintly I taste licorice, and on my tongue the slight grit of wig powder, not to mention the molecular dust lightly being stirred every time I make a gesture made before, follow in the trench of a gesture, a gesture enacted in similar rooms, in other releases So there's this slight dust. When the needle has done turning over the ballroom floor it trips against the red, round label again and again, like Lully himself, planting a cane on the parquet and dragging his suppurating foot, pierced in a conducting accident with his baton, in those days like giant spears with doorknobs on the end. Knock, slide, knock, slide, knock, slide, this dying is a variable speed drill: 16, 33, 45 revolutions. But I'm trilling here for you a while longer. (From Divination By Thunder) [Link to Fragonard's The Swing—Eds.] ~ . Allegory of Hearing, Jan van Kessel, Flemish (1626-79) Amid an array of 17th century musical instruments, a deer's notably sensitive ears. Side 7: Prokoviev, Violin Sonatas no. 1 and 2 Mark Nickels The sky over Manhattan is improbably banked, high with violet and valor, the tulips just bought so fresh they squeal like monkeys when herded in the vase, babies from the bath. Give them Sprite, pennies and Prokoviev, an indication that the waifs home, in league with the local fat farm (bassoon) will be helping with the harvest this year. Eat a pound of glossy black grapes and take in a variety of non-alcoholic fluids: pink grapefruit juice, apple cider, bitters in soda, angostura a flavor as intelligent as, uh, antique wooden chessmen—knight moves, mostly. Meanwhile, various platelets and blood cells quake monochromatically, a tea dance in kinescope, while out the window a difficult trine threatens, under which influence do nothing except read for hours, in a hot refilling bathtub, endless works of fiction. But March, I said, is not a time to weaken of winter, a fine china or lace of ice gilding the brook mud, the deer with latticed flanks, (narrow flutes of bone) giving each other I would imagine nicknames like "Corncrib" and "Slats." One morning, go outside. The pilot light will have been lit for the year, the air chromatic, complicated with both sanctioned life and pathogens. Fireflies will light outside down by the pond where the black swans during moonrise, becalmed, hovering on the surface, look like bentwood chairs piled under the marquee after a cloudburst. This pond is situated on the west side of chromosome 21. Make a rijstafel if someone will translate the Dutch on the package, the cognates with German concealed with the odd J, only a little different, as different from that as the language of the dead is from ours, soon after transition: these dead people bowing shyly, like horses, like tulips, the brother asking if there is minced grebe at the buffet, and has the emmer been parsed, strained, bell-cured? Every day trim the tulip stems. Every day they ride lower in the bowl, like this rhapsody in its cranium case. Sergei plucks and buzzes in an Empire room made of stainless steel, Tuesday night in the Me canton, the nicotine ashmill smoking, the valley floor laved with Mahler oil soap (really), and smelling like an opened violin case. The upstairs neighbor bumps and thrashes, perhaps drunk but in any case so steeped in high-test cool he can barely maneuver in this world. To be everywhere is to be nowhere, and does the same go for every when? I'm pervious, so pervious to all times, the instrument on this pained neck sweetly tanned, smoked, colonized with everything that's ever been said, smelled, roared, done. Ravished. Let alone, even. (From Divination By Thunder) B |