This entry was meant to be for The Monuments Men, but that book will have to wait until the next posting, because I would like to share my experiences at Tanglewood this past Sunday.
Those who know me well will also know that I have been waiting for a very long time to go and hear Beethoven’s Ninth performed live. At long last, I got my chance, and I got to attend the performance at Tanglewood, possibly the most perfect venue, save for actually hearing the work performed in Vienna.
The setting itself was idyllic, with rolling lawns and tall trees scattered all about, shading those of us on the lawn. There are speakers at the shed that make pretty much any lawn seat the best seat in the house, because you can enjoy the natural beauty all around you while you listen to the music. I could not help but think how fitting it was, hearing an immortal work, safely ensconced in the permanence of a mountain landscape.
The Ninth Symphony is perhaps the best known classical work because of its Fourth movement, The Ode to Joy. Since he was a young man, Beethoven wanted to set that poem to music, and this final symphony was the culmination of those youthful dreams.
Beginning with a crash to shake the heavens, the symphony attempts to chart the creation of Joy, daughter of Elysium. And the first movement sounds very much like a creation story would.
The second and third I’ve always felt to be the composer’s–or the listener’s–own path to the summits of joy and its full realization. The second movement has a great deal of “walking” music, with some playful interludes. The path goes ever on, and most often it is winding and we take many turns. The third movement is almost cautious. The end is in sight, but is it everything the traveler has dreamed of? The music is optimistic and yet somehow hesitant.
And then.
The Fourth.
Once more, there is a great melodic cataclysm, but the noise turns itself into something with purpose. As we approach that final stretch, there is a quiet awe to the notes, even as they gradually crescendo.
Then the tenor steps forward, asks us to raise our glasses to more joyful sounds. We are there. He takes us by the hand and we make the final climb.
As the so familiar–yet never dull, never that–melody crashed over us, I looked at the people scattered about the lawn. Some were rapt, some looked bored, others watched their children play, and others chatted loudly with the people around them, heedless of the beauty around them that was demanding not to be ignored.
It was life. Art is one of our most permanent humanistic expressions, and yet no matter what we do or put out there, life will plod on. I’m sure there were people not paying the slightest bit of attention on May 7, 1824.
Just as assured is the fact that there were people who embraced the transcendence of that sound.
When the movement suddenly fell into that hushed moment before the entire chorus explodes into life, I closed my eyes.
All of the voices came together, heralding the triumphant arrival of Joy.
I will never forget the sway of my skirt in the breeze, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the steady presence of my friend by my side.
Freude.