The Music of Secret Love (Berg’s Lyric Suite)

• National Symphony Orchestra – Gianandrea Noseda (Conductor)
• Alban Berg, Three Pieces from the Lyric Suite (arr. for string orchestra)
• Monday, February 12, 2024 / Carnegie Hall, NY, USA

[IN A NUTSHELL]
In the harsh dissonance, Berg's music, with its lyrical beauty, was like a coded love letter expressing forbidden love.

I went to the concert hall to listen to Beethoven’s famous Symphony No. 3, also known as the Eroica Symphony. This captivating piece kept me engaged from start to finish, and the story behind Beethoven’s attitude towards Napoleon added even more intrigue. Beethoven composed this heroic symphony envisioning Napoleon as a revolutionary figure who would bring freedom to all of Europe. However, upon Napoleon’s self-coronation as emperor and his subsequent reactionary behavior, Beethoven, disappointed, chose to depict his idealized hero instead.

The witty portrayal of the ups and downs the hero should endure in the first two movements was commendable, but personally, I found the section from the middle of the fourth movement, with its dance-like feel, all the way to the finale, to be exceptional. While Noseda’s brisk and restrained conducting felt rushed in the more solemn atmosphere of the second movement, it shone brightly in the fourth movement. However, the music that truly captivated me that day was the unexpected and unheard-of first piece from Part I, Alban Berg’s orchestration of the Lyric Suite.

This score was “a coded love letter” full of fervent affection, making this music simultaneously discordant yet poignantly lyrical.

As the performance began, I initially heard only the sounds of the strings. Puzzled, I glanced back at the stage and checked the program. It was then that I realized this piece had been arranged for a string orchestra. Throughout the 15 minutes of the performance, the jarring dissonances influenced by Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique grated on my ears, while the fragmented rhythm seemed to synchronize perfectly with the conductor’s segmented gestures. It felt as though choreography had been intentionally crafted to match the music.

Many people often struggle when appreciating contemporary music or art. In such moments, I advise focusing on the sensations conveyed by the artwork itself—its colors, shapes, textures, sounds, lighting, smells, and so on—rather than trying to understand it intellectually. I add it’s important to simply immerse oneself in the moods or emotions evoked by these sensations. Of course, contemporary art isn’t always accommodating to the viewer’s mood, but regardless, Berg clearly had something he wanted to express through this piece.

Berg subtly exposed forbidden love, intertwining his contradictory emotions of caution and impatience, boundless affection and sensitivity, hope and despair in a subtle blend within the music.

Berg sent the score of this piece to Hanna Fuchs-Robettin, whom researchers revealed was his lover. As if to prove it, Berg clandestinely expressed their hidden love through the grammar of music. The main theme of the piece consists of A—B-flat—B-natural—F, which in German notation represents A—B—H—F, the initials of Alban Berg and Hanna Fuchs-Robettin. Thus, this score was “a coded love letter” (Peter Laki) full of fervent affection, making this music simultaneously discordant yet poignantly lyrical.

However, both were already married, so they knew their love could never be fulfilled from the start. This music resonated with a consistent dissonance from the sharpness of the strings, intertwined with a poignant melancholy. Caution and impatience vied with each other, leading and lagging in competition. In the second movement, as the strings whispered amidst dissonance, it felt as if conflicting thoughts were debating in Berg’s mind. Through his music, Berg subtly exposed forbidden love, intertwining his contradictory emotions of caution and impatience, boundless affection and sensitivity, hope and despair in a subtle blend within the music.

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I was in fifth grade. I remember feeling amazed when I realized that I liked someone from the same class. I had already experienced liking someone in the second grade, but this was the first time I desperately wanted to tell anyone about it. Unable to stay still, I rode my bike to the farthest place I could go and found secluded places. With my heart pounding like a drum, I arrived at a quiet neighborhood or a back alley of a market and shouted out loud several times, “000 likes 000!”

Since then, I’ve had several secret crushes, and whenever I wanted to subtly express my emotions, I struggled to control the urge to let the world know. What do we do in those moments? Feelings that had to be kept hidden because they were shy or not allowed would suddenly pop up due to impatient haste, only to be frightened by sober thoughts and decide to keep them a secret again. Yet, there was a longing for the excitement of being caught in a mistake. I would secretly hope for someone to pick up on the subtle clues I left behind, scattering these coded emotions throughout my daily life for careful observation.

Berg’s music revitalizes those moments in life when we were a bit more passionate, a bit more faithful to our emotions.

Now, holding back has become much easier. It’s partly because the youthful innocence of childhood has faded away and partly due to the resigned attitude I’ve acquired with age to protect myself. It’s not necessarily something to rejoice about. Sometimes, I long for the innocent passion of the youth. It’s not a great consolation to remind myself that I can maintain better mental and physical composure now.

Berg’s music revitalizes those moments in life when we were a bit more passionate, a bit more faithful to our emotions. While those moments weren’t always glorious or happy, don’t we all occasionally wish we could relive them once more if given the chance?

Life as Thirty Variations (Bach’s Goldberg Variations by Ólafsson)

• Wednesday, February 7, 2024 / Carnegie Hall, NY, USA
• Vikingur Ólafsson
• J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations

[IN A NUTSHELL]
Reflecting on the essence of life through Bach's music, and the faithful rendition of it by Olafsson's performance.

When I boarded the subway at the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan, there was still a hint of afternoon light lingering. Exiting at 59th Street, near the entrance to Central Park, I found myself amidst a throng of people, and the sky had already begun to darken. Eager to warm up and nourish my body, I stopped by Le Pain Quotidien for a lentil soup before setting out again for the performance.

At just past 8 o’clock, Vikingur Ólafsson, tall and elegantly dressed in a suit, strode onto the stage. After a light nod of greeting, he promptly took his seat at the piano. Due to his large stature and long legs, the chair appeared smaller and somewhat uncomfortable. After taking a deep breath, he lightly swept his hands from the middle of the piano keyboard to the farthest ends, and then, to everyone’s anticipation, he played the first notes of the music.

J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations, composed in 1741, consists of an Aria followed by 30 variations, concluding with a repeat of the initial Aria. Ostensibly, it was composed as a study and exercise in musical form and performance technique. However, according to some scholars—albeit with questionable credibility—Bach had a particular insomniac Count in mind when composing this music. According to this story, the Count, unable to sleep, would call upon a young musician he employed to play for him. One day, the Count requested Bach to provide new keyboard music for this young musician to play, and that musician happened to be none other than Bach’s student, Goldberg.

With such a famous piece already interpreted and performed by countless musicians, how can one possibly appeal to the audience in a unique way? Trying too hard to inject personal flair may backfire. On this day, Ólafsson’s performance demonstrated just that.

Trying too hard to inject personal flair may backfire. On this day, Ólafsson’s performance demonstrated just that.

From the very first phrase of the famous Aria, there was a sense of unease. The performer’s rubato seemed particularly pronounced that day, to the point where even a classical music amateur like myself could almost certainly detect a slight mistouch. Of course, not being an expert, I couldn’t decisively determine whether it was a mistake or intentional expression of freedom. I remember making an effort to understand it positively, attributing it to youthful impetuosity or a stylistic choice akin to a private play. I recalled a recital by Khatia Buniatishvili, especially when performing Chopin’s Polonaise, her rubato was nearly unbearable at times. In comparison, Ólafsson’s performance that day didn’t feel as jarring.

How did the young Goldberg, barely in his teens, play this mucis? Unlike Ólafsson, who had to persuasively perform the music that had been reinterpreted countless times, Goldberg likely experienced a different kind of pressure. Imagine the heightened sensitivity of the count, plagued by insomnia, as he implored, “Please, play something to lull me to sleep.” In such a scenario, Goldberg might have rushed to convey some specific feelings through his playing, perhaps even unaware of what exactly he was playing.

I found myself adjusting my posture, holding my breath until the end of the Aria, feeling each note resonate throughout my being.

However, as each variation unfolded one by one, Goldberg would have started to confront only the music of his master. And when he played the Aria again at the very end, he wouldn’t have tried to evoke any particular feeling anymore. Just as Ólafsson did.

As the performance progressed into the latter part, Ólafsson’s playing gradually became more serene. It was a depiction of him letting go of himself, solely focusing on allowing the music to be fully expressed through him. The last of the thirty variations was intense yet carried a subdued melancholy that was palpable. It seemed to foreshadow the impending arrival of the final Aria. How many seconds passed between the end of the 30th variation and the first note of that last Aria? Amidst the poignant silence, he played that mournful first note with perfect timing, and I found myself adjusting my posture, holding my breath until the end of the Aria, feeling each note resonate throughout my entire being.

Bach’s intricate music will itself reveal its sublime essence to us.

Bach himself emphasized a light and even touch when it came to keyboard playing. In light of Bach’s approach, one should simply play lightly and follow the score as written. Then, Bach’s intricate music will itself reveal its sublime essence to us.

After completing all the performances, Ólafsson explained why he couldn’t perform an encore this time. He didn’t want to compromise the integrity of Bach’s music. He said that the only suitable encore for this music would be the Aria he had just performed, and that once he started playing the Aria, he would have to replay all the variations that followed it. It was a witty explanation to appease the somewhat disappointed audience, but I thought his explanation eloquently represented the essence of Bach’s music.

“In my beginning is my end.”

T. S. Eliot

Bach’s Goldberg Variations conclude with the repetition of the first Aria at the end. After performing the initial Aria, the musician, having traversed thirty variations in a whirlwind, must now play the same Aria once again. The performer encounters the Aria anew, as if playing it for the first time. Therefore, this time, they play it differently, with a gentle touch, effortlessly.

“The end of my exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

T. S. Eliot

Our lives are likewise. Ignorant of the meaning of life, we begin our world, traversing diverse variations of life before encountering once again where we stared. When we face moments of questioning who we are and what the meaning of our lives is, that’s when we rediscover the roots of our existence—the existential conditions given to us (times, race, region, parents, gender, class, etc.). Only after these thirty variations do we finally come to know and embrace our starting point anew, i.e., the world we are thrown into. It’s not that we have changed; it’s that we have begun to recognize ourselves anew. Therefore, life is a journey of thirty variations, leading towards the aria of self-realization.

Crispy on the outside and tender on the inside (Brahms’ Symphony no.1)

• Sunday, February 4, 2024
• Carnegie Hall, Manhattan, NY
• Munich Philharmonic – Zubin Mehta (Conductor)
• Brahms Symphony 1 & Symphony 2

[IN A NUTSHELL]
The Munish Philharmonic plays, with its dignified sound, the music that appears tough on the outside but is tender on the inside, music that resembles ourselves.

Instead of Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto, his First Symphony was performed. Having recently been let down by a disappointing performance of the same piece from another orchestra, my interest in this piece had waned. Furthermore, with no time to find a replacement for Bronfman, the cancellation of the piano concerto left a sense of regret.

I found myself deeply engrossed in the music, realizing how wonderful Brahms’ First Symphony truly is.

As the performance began, the Munich Philharmonic’s rich and stable sound helped to fully immerse in the music. While some may find their sound a bit too blunt, preferring more agile pieces and auditory pleasure, the orchestra’s performance allowed for a focused appreciation of the music. Having performed Brahms’ First Symphony in their previous concert, there likely wasn’t even time for a rehearsal for this performance. Hence, Mehta conducted Symphony №1 with a bold baton, making the music feel more familiar and accessible compared to Symphony №2 performed in the second half. Ultimately, thanks to their excellent performance, I found myself deeply engrossed in the music, realizing how wonderful Brahms’ First Symphony truly is.

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The sweetness hidden behind the solemnity of an earnest artist must have been reserved only for a few.

The first movement was majestic to the extent to which it felt almost pathetic, while the following movements were serene and gentle. In the fourth movement, the energy surged again, making the overall experience crispy and tender at once, much like the texture of a well-prepared dish. The first and fourth movements wrapped the piece with toughness while tenderly embracing a soft interior in between I may not know much about Brahms as a composer, but I couldn’t help but think, “Ah, this must have been what he was like.” The sweetness hidden behind the solemnity of an earnest artist must have been reserved only for a few.

The fourth movement, though tougher compared to the second and third ones, was less crispy compared to the first movement. It felt much softer, almost as if the crispy exterior was infused with a moist interior. Especially in the middle of the fourth movement when the theme of the first movement was repeated, there was a sense of maturity yet youthfulness, exuding an air of a presentable young man. Brahms must have reconciled with his past self. The sharpness and stiffness of his youth softened, revealing a more tender interior.

Still, I hope they don’t lose their moist interior.

I know several people around me who are crispy on the outside and tender inside, some by nature, and some to withstand the harsh realities of the world. Perhaps more and more people are in the process of ripening, under the scorching sun of competition and labor, pretending not to care about the harsh storms just to survive, trying not to appear weak in the midst of competition.

Still, I hope they don’t lose their moist interior. I hope they courageously display their simple, tender side as often as possible. I hope they become affectionate people who recognize innocence, vulnerability, and sadness of each other beneath the prickly exterior.