The first was this idea that there is an advantage to nations other than the United States (quite an idea, if you ask me). While in Italy, Muti (who himself is Italian) has said:
"We have an advantage here. At every corner, you are surrounded by history, every corner tells you where you come from. It's part of them. In Italian, the word is convivenza, to spend your life together."
Imagine. Italy is so much older than the United States, and indeed, though I have never been there, I can understand what Muti is talking about. From pictures I've seen of Italy, in textbooks and advertisements, etc., the streets are full of old and new art, the place is bustling with culture in the language, the food, and architecture. A moment doesn't go by in Italy when an Italian isn't reminded of what their homeland is made of, in every sense.
In the U.S., a place still very young in comparison, I think we as a nation are still very fragmented. Admittedly, we are a wealthy nation, in social, cultural, and economic capital, but fundamentally we are still just a huge stone slab yet to be carved. Walking around the United States does not, per se, reflect its people. On the two extremes, we have the pastoral (idyllic and not so idyllic) on one end and the industrial world (apocalyptic or post-modern) on the other, and though these two are combining in odd and interesting ways, we cannot say and/or see much else, aside from noting the cliques and subcultures that fade and die every ten years (so it seems). It's worth wondering: what is it that will last? The idea of the cowboy? The skateboarder? The thug? The rich woman in the pearls and fur? Hippies?
What I'm keeping my eye on these days are expressions of the culture that really reflect its diversity by melding those different facets together. Like, perhaps, the art and architecture that reflects numerous different influences from different nations and peoples. This will be harder with food; I'm not a huge fan of fusion. A culture complex yes, but coherent. Right now I think the culture in the U.S. - sadly - is not so coherent.
Another, simpler, point from the article that stood out to me was Muti's idea that to create better art, to be a better artist, and specifically, to become a better musician, one needs the very best quality of life. Which is part of the reason why he works so hard. So he can make money, so his orchestra can make money, so they can have the best lives - take care of themselves, enjoy the finer things, and make wonderful, beautiful music full of understanding and feeling, both. He says:
"I want to make the instrument better and better, and to make the life of the musicians better and better. If you have a better life, you make better music."
The performance began with Sergei Prokofiev's Sinfonietta, Op. 5/48. Hearing it reminded me of fairy-tales, the woods, and forest spirits. All these have been on my mind lately, but truly, the Sinfonietta reminded me of all of it. I marveled.
It was my first time hearing a performance such as this in maybe twelve years. The singular sound of a powerful unity - which now is more like an orchestra that can sing (as Muti has said) - filled me with awe. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was nothing less than perfect, even for its first ever performance of this piece. I was not surprised to hear the woman next to me say, "How delightful!", as she clapped her hands when the twenty-five minute performance was completed.
Here is a recording of the Sinfonietta, not by the CSO, but if you'd like to hear it, you'll hear the birds and the wind and the warmth and romance (something slightly playful) that comes with the bright colors in this beautiful piece by Prokofiev:
After Prokofiev's piece came the haunting and dark masterpiece by Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No. 13, Op.113 (Babi Yar). This was a turn from the previous, yet not drastic. The gradual segue-way was in the musicianship of the CSO. When people think of orchestras, or perhaps in my own ideas of the orchestra as caricature, I think pomp and circumstance. There was nothing pompous here. Everything was heartfelt, subtle, and powerful, without anything drastically dramatic.
A bit about this symphony. Rarely has it been performed for any audience because of it's political undertones. One of the biggest reasons why it has rarely been performed is because of the lyrics that Shostakovich insisted be sung alongside the other instrumentation. Those lyrics come from a poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who in writing it, was remarking upon the millions of dead bodies in Babi Yar caused by the brutality of WWII. Yevtushenko begins with condemning the place for holding no tribute or monument to the many Jewish people who were killed there. When Russia found out about the piece and Yevtushenko's lyrics, many Russians, including the government, were aghast at the fact that it did not seem give the other Russians who died there any attention. In any case, it seems that it was a little too political to be performed and celebrated as a masterpiece of artistic work. "I am not anti-semitic" - Shostakovich had once said - "because I am a true Russian."
My absolute favorite part of the piece, and only because of it's juxtaposition to the rest of the heavy and solid parts, comes toward the end. It is a little theme, I think beginning with just two flutes, that begin a theme that comes in and out until the very end. It is a light flutter, a glimmer of hope, of souls eternal.
To hear this narrative sung, this poetic narrative sung, is a very different experience than most of the performances of this sort which might be found today. This is because it is not a theatrical performance. It is an expression without action, with pure words and sound.
Here is the piece in a recording by the Philadelphia Orchestra. Read along with the lyrics if possible. When I heard this live last Thursday, I could only listen. I plan on reading Babi Yar in full while the orchestra plays on a night this fall.
- F
A bit about this symphony. Rarely has it been performed for any audience because of it's political undertones. One of the biggest reasons why it has rarely been performed is because of the lyrics that Shostakovich insisted be sung alongside the other instrumentation. Those lyrics come from a poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who in writing it, was remarking upon the millions of dead bodies in Babi Yar caused by the brutality of WWII. Yevtushenko begins with condemning the place for holding no tribute or monument to the many Jewish people who were killed there. When Russia found out about the piece and Yevtushenko's lyrics, many Russians, including the government, were aghast at the fact that it did not seem give the other Russians who died there any attention. In any case, it seems that it was a little too political to be performed and celebrated as a masterpiece of artistic work. "I am not anti-semitic" - Shostakovich had once said - "because I am a true Russian."
My absolute favorite part of the piece, and only because of it's juxtaposition to the rest of the heavy and solid parts, comes toward the end. It is a little theme, I think beginning with just two flutes, that begin a theme that comes in and out until the very end. It is a light flutter, a glimmer of hope, of souls eternal.
To hear this narrative sung, this poetic narrative sung, is a very different experience than most of the performances of this sort which might be found today. This is because it is not a theatrical performance. It is an expression without action, with pure words and sound.
Here is the piece in a recording by the Philadelphia Orchestra. Read along with the lyrics if possible. When I heard this live last Thursday, I could only listen. I plan on reading Babi Yar in full while the orchestra plays on a night this fall.
- F
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