IN BETWEEN THE LIVES

Brahms: Symphony No.1 -- coda (Celibidache/Stuttgart Radio Symphony)

Brahms is a composer who doesn't appeal to young people immediately. His introverted character wraps his music up and buries his emotion in depth. He never tells a story as straightforward as Beethoven, and never composes purely musical works as Mozart does. Therefore people label him a Romantic who confines himself in Classical forms. Among his contemporaries, his supporters marveled at the intricate balance and texture of his music, which is "beauty", they say. His opponents denounced his music rubbish and hypocritical, as remarked Tchaikovsky, whose own exuberantly emotional finale to Symphony No.5 went beyond many musical principles of the day so much that his fellow composer Cui asked him to rewrite it! But Brahms, instead of being either Classical or Romantic, carefully expresses his individuality while safely abiding by aesthetic rules. And he simply didn't compose much that's unbrooding, except the Hungarian Dances maybe, and even his most victorious music is rooted in mysterious coverups and doesn't fly, as if there's always something important that he refuses to say directly.

Symphony No.1 in c minor, op.68, is one of the not so much implicit works of Brahms. The fact that he spent 20 years composing it, trying to get rid of Beethovenian influence, didn't make it less Beethovenian than the rest of his output, and the symphony is one of the most heroic and epic works in history with its thundering opening and marching, triumphant ending. And many conductors treat it as a "warhorse" in name, rushing towards the last note. But Celibidache doesn't, and as in his Beethoven Ninth, the Brahms is vestured in heavenliness.

Celibidache makes it simply by a ritardando. After fighting all the way through, all of a sudden, warhorses stop marching and stand solemnly watching Victory come. The overall effect is like watching a sunrise, not dashing through fighting and killing. It's as if you can well expect the last note of the work, and heading steadily, whole-heartedly, towards the destiny, which is the Victory, the only Victory of your life. I reckon this is more Brahmsian: nothing is overdone, everything under control, perfectly balanced, and through such perfect artistry, transcendental.

Celibidache's music making became increasingly transcendal during his later years. Everything is pure and harmonized: sonority, rhythm, timbre, etc. There's not a single sharp sound in whatever music, be it Bruckner, Shostakovich or Hindemith. Instead, every sound is its place, has its origin and destination. Some say Celibidache turns everything into his own music. Anyway, it is good music.

Brahms: Symphonies Sergiu Celibidache

Chopin: Mazurka, op.17 No.4 (Fou Ts'ong)

It was in the year 2002, whether in autumn or summer I've forgotten. It was a live concert given by Fou Ts'ong, the prestigious Chinese pianist, son of the much revered author and translator Fou Lei. Basically, I wasn't, and am not, much warm-hearted about recitals, because I'm no player of any instrument and there's not much to watch. But because it was Fou Ts'ong, I went. I sat on the second floor, next to the aisle and my classmate. The seat wasn't capacious enough even for me. But this is a concert hall in Shanghai. Every seat in Shanghai concert halls is narrow to squeeze me in winter. More than half of the concert program I hadn't touched before, featuring Schubert Sonata D845, Chopin mazurkas, and a few Mozarts.

Throughout the whole event, the surroundings were not quiet at all. Fou Ts'ong's piano didn't sound loud also, partly because the program was full of "soft" works, partly because of the buzzing of air conditioners in the background, which ate up the resonance of the bass. It was obvious that many people came for Fou Ts'ong, not the music he played. So went on the concert. Fou Ts'ong warmed up in a short and sweet Mozart, and dashed into the Schubert sonata. It wasn't an easy work among Schubert piano pieces, and I was dazzled by the dexterity of the master's hands. But the music didn't touch upon my heartstring. Thus ended the first part.

The second half was all short pieces, mazurkas, polonaises, etc. So far, I haven't developed enough sense for Chopin mazurkas. Being folk dances, they surely don't dance enough. But just then, a mazurka, which it seemed to me that nobody had paid any attention caught my ear with two downward thirds. I suddenly felt a pang of melancholy, and was as if strolling aimlessly in a dense forest in late autumn; a lucid screen of sunshine peeping through barren treetop, the air tinted with a thin layer of yellow, not enough to melt the solitude. The two downward thirds sounded like a sigh, and the underpinning chords were also going downward. I felt the air around me was turning cooler and cooler and gradually my hearing failed. The two sighs and repetitive chords rang for the rest of the concert, and after that whenever I'm blue, they creep into my mind, ringing from a distance. Now I've been cooled down from the emotional flush, and can well analyse how the music works by reading the score. And the pang of melancholy was as far away as childhood songs. Reasoning is not always a good thing.