6. Symbol
Joy appears against the backdrop of the still-resounding “mighty” F-based chord as a gradually emerging high-pitch F sharp major quickly repeating in a “triple” rhythm. Then, it rapidly evolves into a mini-aria slightly resembling a childlike counting rhyme song. In his Harvard lectures on the meaning of music, Leonard Bernstein interestingly elaborated on children's songs across cultures. He claims that their melodies share certain common features such as quick, repetitive “swinging motion” of a minor third or a major second, and in harmony, they avoid unison. For example:
Here, the sound will be somewhat similar, with a harmonic turn that I am borrowing – from whom, I don't even know. Certainly some romantic. Schubert, perhaps. This turn will reappear, transform into a progression, mature. It will happen much later, though; now it is just “simple and naive”:
Rhythm is perhaps the most problematic phenomenon in contemporary non-pop music (for lack of any satisfactory collective term to describe such music). For a long time, rhythm was closely intertwined with melody and harmony, which it naturally emerged from. Until the end of the 19th century (I’m speaking in very simplified terms here, I know), when it all came to pieces, ultimately doomed by the two world wars, which (again, speaking in simplified terms) fundamentally eroded the respectability of culture originating in the German-speaking countries. Its themes and trails, its symbolism – as used by Wagner, for example – had started to seem suspicious and dangerous. There was a clear desire to leave it behind and make a strong fresh start. In the realm of music, this bore very interesting fruit. On the one hand, it spurred multiple more or less successful proposals of entirely new ways of thinking about music, generating material, creating forms and cultivating models for its social functioning. Yet on the other hand, it also gave rise to lots of more or less camouflaged, often desperate attempts to salvage what was valuable in that legacy. To a considerable extent, this applies to rhythm. The symbolism of regularity, of repetition, of successive recurrences is extremely strong. Shunning recurrence and harmonious functionality undermines this symbolism. There is no complete satisfaction to be had either from strict calculations or from escaping into simple repetition. Or at least I am very rarely able to find such satisfaction there. I need more than a procedure. Something more profound than a concept. An embodied mechanism of the imagination. I miss the symbol.
This week I spent most of the time searching for the right rhythm of the text. Adapting it to what inevitably sounds like music to me. Actually, forcing the text to collaborate. I decided to modify it a bit, cut phrases and increase the tempo. I really needed a momentary regularity. Even almost rhymes. The libretto was as follows:
When I finally saw
mastheads emerging from behind the horizon,
I was the first to run down to the town, to the harbour,
calling that I could see the ship,
they would arrive soon, the wind favoured them,
pilots familiar with the rocks, shoals and tide rhythms
were already boarding their fast boats,
putting up the triangles of sails and commencing their race;
the fastest one would win a prize
for leading the ship into the harbour.
Then, I waited on the dyke,
trying to see if he had changed a lot,
yearning to see his face
when the bosun approached me
and as he handed money to me before saying anything, I already knew.
He said: do not wait, we yielded his body to the sea,
while sailing around Horn.
He fell off the spar onto the deck, he did not suffer.
Is this all I have been waiting for?
What should I tell the children?
And now it is:
And when I finally saw
a sail emerging from behind the horizon,
I was the fastest to run down to the town,
and the first at the harbour, by the water.
I called that I could see the ship,
they would arrive soon, the wind favoured them.
That eventually, after such a long wait
he was back and would stay longer.
And then, familiar with the shoals and tides,
the pilots were boarding their fast boats
putting up the triangles of sails on the masts,
and commencing their race
the fastest to arrive would win a prize,
and safely getting round obstacles,
shoals and rocks, maelstroms and wrecks,
he would lead the ship back to the harbour
And then, I waited on the dyke,
trying to see if he had changed a lot,
yearning to see his face
wondering if he would embrace me.
Then the bosun approached me
and before he even opened his mouth, I knew.
He said: do not wait, we yielded his body to the sea,
he fell off the spar onto the deck, he did not suffer.
Is this all I have been waiting for?
What should I tell the children?
From “And then, I waited on the dyke” on, the regularity gradually fades away with the melody becoming shattered, the rhythm growing irregular and the simple major harmony breaking into dissonances. Simultaneous F sharp major and B minor, slowly oscillating, resemble a cold wind and a dark horizon to me.
A storm is coming. Shortly, the Woman’s grief will transform into anger and rage.
PS – a few hours after posting this text. I realised something important. Or actually recalled it; I’d had the thought for ages. The symbol I am referring to and feel attracted to must steer clear of simple analogies and explanations. In order for it to function, there must be a measure of mystery and irrationality. Music bears meaning in a way that cannot be easily put into words. It is not about comprehension but rather an unclear and ambiguous yet poignant sensation. So I actually take back what I said above. I’m stepping back from myself. The F sharp major is not about joy. It may as well have been grief in disguise from the very beginning. Not childlike enthusiasm but rather an attempt to push away a sense of foreboding. I have no idea what it is. All I know is that this fragment must sound like this, and that’s it. Goodnight.
(transl. Zuzanna Wnuk)