Showing posts with label Golijov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Golijov. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

800 Words: The New Tonality - A Playlist - Part 1

First, the contemporary composers, all two of them:


Osvaldo Golijov (1960-, Argentinian/Ashkenazi Yiddish Speaking Jew/Israeli/Bostonian Academic)


Tan Dun (1957-, Hunanian Chinese/Huangian Political Prisoner/New Yorker)


At this point in world history, there is only so much room for Europeans to dominate musical discourse, and the room for Americans will grow smaller with every passing generation. You can only abstract the folk music of Western Europe by so many degrees before the music begins to seem less like heightened expression and more like white noise. Atonal composers and their followers can claim that their music is the wave of the future as many times as they like - history already seems to have long since ruled against them. American composers influenced by jazz and rock and R&B gave classical music a long-needed surge of vitality, but the vitality of their music was always a weak brew compared to the real thing - which any music lover could access for the price of a meal. The future of classical music, perhaps of music itself, has to belong to East Asia and Latin America, places that are assimilating Western classical music with a speed and aplomb that often shames classical music’s places of origin. Both regions possess folk traditions that are still insufficiently appreciated, and their popular music will never conquer the world after the manner of America, because to many places, ‘pop music’ will always now stink of ‘Americanization’. But these countries have folk music that exists on completely different rules than their Northern/Western colleagues. Aside from a couple Scandinavians and Old Eastern Bloc composers, the only composers left who can possibly be models going forward are composers who capture the music of their parts of the world and put it into their music.


I know there are people who will read this beginning and be too flummoxed to continue. I might as well put Ennio Morricone and Mikis Theodorakis on this list if I’m going to put such light, ‘substanceless’, faux-pop composers on the list. I’m complaining about Americans using the same small group of harmonies, and yet Tan Dun and Golijov use only a slightly different group. But try to understand - the rock/pop/jazz/whatever influenced scores of Glass, Reich, and Adams will only get us so far. To my mind, all three of them are candidates for posterity (though less so in Glass’s case), and all three have written great scores. But unless their successors incorporate more complex harmonies, as both Adams and Reich have already done for twenty years, their music won’t go anywhere we’ve never been before. There are only so many ways to state C-major. Lack of harmonic progression can only work so many times before it ceases to be an interesting idea. Even Michael Daugherty, who can do everything they can and much more, could ultimately be a better candidate for posterity than all three of them.


The more I hear Tan Dun’s music, the more convinced I become that even with his inexplicably bad moments, he may be the one true giant working today. Few composers so talented risk crossing the line into kitsch so often, and few great composers have made anything as dull as The First Emperor, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. What is amazing about Tan Dun’s music is that in his faux-simplistic way, he incorporates every conceivable avant-garde technique within a deceptively simple framework. All the gains made in the Schoenbergian, Bartokian, Cageian, and Boulezian laboratories are to be found within his music, and yet it still manages to almost always place the ear within the most basic pentatonic foundations. His greatest works are almost invariably orchestral - he calls much of his work 'orchestral theater', but what they are nothing less than a reinvention of the orchestra - reinstating the awe and surprise into a concert that must have occurred when Berlioz and Wagner showed the world what the orchestra is capable of doing.

For those who complain that he dilutes the richness of Chinese culture with his gimmicky musical instruments and stereotypical harmonies into the musical equivalent of a Crispy Egg Roll, maybe you’re right. But such complainers don’t understand that you can only bridge the gap between cultures by meeting halfway between them. Neither Western nor Chinese classical music exist in his music as either would ever understand them. This, not high modernism, is music that will bring hundreds of millions of newbies into the concert hall. Perhaps, if such a thing is necessary, we’ll then get a modernism more ‘worthy’ of China. But Tan Dun will have made it possible.


I don’t claim my reaction to Osvaldo Golijov to be representative of anyone but myself. His musical language is so close to mine that he is one of the few composers writing in any language that feels like a dialect close to my own. Like in Tan Dun’s music, and like the music of so many Eastern European composers before them, his music seems powered by unconscious associations with the music of his forebearers. In his case, it feels like Astor Piazzola crossed with Yossele Rosenblatt. Like so many relatives of mine, Golijov’s family of Ashkenazi Jews found themselves escaping European pogroms by relocating to Argentina. No synopsis of Golijov gets through without talking about the interesting melange of exoticisms in his background. But what they neglect to mention is that only a first-class composer could have assimilated so many influences in a coherent whole.


Goljiov was always poo-poohed by certain musicians, and now more than ever because of the plagiarism accusation against him - an accusation which should probably also be leveled at least as seriously at Wagner, Stravinsky, Handel, Schubert, and Mahler. Like with Tan Dun, what they really distrust is the directness of his music. Nothing that apparently simple should have probity. And yet the simplicity enables his music to have a thousand-watt visceral theatricality which few if any musical dramatists since Berlioz or Verdi could equal - like so much of the best music, it has no ambition to disguise itself in a veil of reticence, and is none the worse for it. If Tan Dun is a pure musician whose theatrical experiments fall flat, then Golijov is his equivalent as a born musical dramatist. Golijov may seem rather simple at first glance, but nothing in Golijov’s music is simpler than anything in Verdi, and a lot of it is quite a bit more complex. La Pasion Segun San Marcos has one moment which juxtaposes a 15 against 4 drum beat - a technique straight out of Ligeti. And if you go back to Yiddishbuk, which he wrote as a young man, there are moments every bit as complex and avant-garde as anything by any other composer.


With Golijov’s mixture of Eastern European Jewry and the Spanish-speaking world, there is something about his music that feels as though it’s assimilated fifteen-hundred years of Jewish history within it. Beginning perhaps as far back as Meyerbeer - there is a separate canon of modern Jewish composers who seem to catalogue all the influences and incarnations of the Jewish tradition in music: along with many, many composers from various ‘popular traditions’, any list would have to include Mendelssohn, along with Mahler definitely, perhaps Zemlinsky, definitely Bloch, Gershwin, maybe Weill, certainly Bernstein and Reich, Moisei Vainberg would have to be on this list, I suppose Viktor Ullmann and Pavel Haas would have to act within it considering how they died, maybe Alfred Schnittke and Ligeti and Kurtag would be in it too, and Golijov is more important to this list than any composer since Bloch.  

But it’s not only the Jewishness of Golijov’s music that makes him so wonderful. It’s how that Jewishness is indicative of the world itself. Nobody should deny that the ‘Latinness’ of his Argentinian upbringing influenced his music still more - as it has every conceivable 'Spanish' rhythm and harmony within it. His Judaism, like the Judaism of so many people throughout history, is just a mask that makes him appear different - both a curse that prevents people from being full members of a society, and a passport that allows to access a wider world. Had a musician as talented as Golijov been just another Argentinian, he probably would have been just another popular musician - a talented writer of Tangos, but without a distinctive mark in his identity that separates him and makes composers truly individual. Like Tan Dun, he is a bridge figure to another culture. The world had great Latin American composers before Golijov, but none of them has truly connected the wider world to Latin American music. Golijov is still in his mid-50’s. There is still enormous time for him to succeed wildly where other greats have failed.


Monday, May 6, 2013

My Favorite Album: My Contribution

I got an idea, and I couldn't stay away. Everybody who reads this is going to be asked for their contribution in the near future. Though those contributions needn't be nearly so self-revealing as mine. In fact, I'd recommend they not be :).


La Passion Segun San Marcos by Osvaldo Golijov (Hanssler)   (not the inferior DG remake) 

When I listen to Osvaldo Golijov’s music, I don’t hear anything exotic, I hear home. Golijov, like me, came from a Yiddish speaking immigrant family from Eastern Europe with all too many close relatives who perished in the gas chambers and work camps, and with extensive family connections spread all around Israel, America, and Argentina. He is ‘My Composer.’ When I listen to the Dreams and Prayers of Isaac the Blind, or especially the Lullaby and Doina, I simply can't keep it together. This is the music my subconscious heard long before my conscious self ever realized what it was hearing, and I wonder if there is any music so quick to destroy me emotionally. But nothing Golijov ever wrote, not one piece, prepared me for the impact which La Pasion Segun San Marcos would have on me. I kept thinking back to Berlioz's account of the first time his teacher heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony - he was so moved and so disturbed that when it came to leave and put on his hat, he couldn't find his head.

When I'd finished the album, I literally felt as though my life had the purpose which I'd always lacked. For once in my life, this weird, unshakable obsession of mine for classical music no longer felt like a creepy fascination for embalmbed relics - here was, finally, a place which felt as though contemporary music met history on its own terms. A piece in which classical music fully engaged the world outside the mummified concert hall, and contemporary popular music didn't seem so historically unaware of what came before that its musicians didn't seek to reinvent the wheel. 

One day I'll write the 7,000 word post which I've danced around writing about this, the greatest piece I've ever heard written in my lifetime, for years - and no doubt will delay writing that post for many years more. So I'll simply conclude by saying that for this 'nice Jewish boy', all too steeped in a cultural inheritance he neither asked for nor could ever shirk, the finale of this work is one of the very most moving moments in all of music - more emotionally cathartic (if only for me) than anything else in Golijov, Adams, Reich, Bernstein, Britten, Shostakovich, Copland, Strauss, Mahler, Janacek, Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Brahms, Bruckner, Verdi, Chopin, Schumann, Schubert, Haydn,... or Hebrew Cantillation or Christian chant or the Muslim Call to Prayer, or even in truer gods than theirs', like Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach. 

After more than an hour's worth of telling the story of Christ's death in Spanish (and, vicariously, Latin), during which momentum gradually snowballs for over an hour to an avalanche unheard since the heyday of Berlioz, the text changes without warning to the cadences of Biblical Hebrew, and Christ laments on The Cross in his original tongue of Aramaic. The chorus responds afterward - not with an account of The Resurrection, but with The Kaddish. 

 The Kaddish is the Jewish prayer for the dead which every Jew must chant three times every day for 11 months whenever their parents, spouses or children precede them into the earth. To hear this prayer intoned at the end of a medieval Passion play - a play so often used in history as a way to inflame congregants against the Jews living among them - is both the greatest shock of my musical life and the most unbearably moving moment in all music. It is the greatest display I know of how music may yet bridge the gap between cultures locked pitifully in millenia of misunderstanding.  Even now, as I type this (running on no sleep in 36 hours), I find myself more than a bit ashamed at the tears which flow fast and freely down my cheeks as I think about this most defining musical moment in my life.  To me, this music is the subdued cry of the entire world, and if not the entire world, then certainly the subdued cry of my world. 

I can't help but think of my father's older sister, Tzipporah, raised between 1942 and 1945 in a convent by Catholic clergy for whom discovery of her origins meant certain death for her, them, and probably all the other children within their care, only to die of typhus a few days after my grandparents could reclaim her. I think of my own grandmother, forced to flee her hometown in 1940 with her sister and my grandfather as she heard the machine gun fire which she knew was aimed at every other Jew in her town, including her mother. I think of my grandfather, fighting unbearable depression and malnourishment as he hid in barns and fields during the Baltic winter of 1943, and the unbearable urge to which he later admitted to turn himself and his own family in to save them all the anxiety of waiting any longer for an end which seemed so inevitable. I think of my Great Aunt Rochel, who risked capture every week of the Holocaust to go into the nearest town without a Yellow Star and buy what little food she could so that the three of them could live to see another week, only to die in a crossfire during the Polish Civil War which followed World War II's end. I think of a hundred (hundred thousand? hundred million?) other relatives who died or just barely survived in that terrible century of death, their stories both known to me and completely unknown. What were your sacrifices for? What accomplishment is there which I ever could do that could justify the suffering you underwent so that I may live on this planet with all the privileges you'd never know?

Perhaps this is all just the unbearably feverish sentimentality of a too extravagant person in dire need of sleep. But for me, this music, this Kaddish, is the ultimate symbol I've ever known in my life for hope. I'm thirty-one, and the generation after me springs up all around us. What is there to save us but the hope that future generations will do better than we've done? Maybe, just maybe, our human nature is getting better. And if it is, then what better evidence is there than that a Jew can voluntarily say Kaddish for a man whose name could only provide dread for so many millions of us for so many centuries?





Thursday, October 27, 2011

A Piazzolla Moment



I love listening to Astor Piazzolla for ten minutes every six months. All those tangos blur together for me. It's like Stravinsky's comment that Vivaldi wrote the same violin concerto 400 times. Maybe I'm listening wrong.

In any event, Osvaldo Golijov's tribute to Piazzolla: Last Round, strikes me as much more creative.