The Transcendent Power Of Classical Music

by

Mackenzie Patel

Listening to the overwhelming beauty of Debussy’s Pagodes is like leaping into a timeless Impressionism canvas, the splotches of greens and natural blues and vivid yellows constructing themselves into a perfect meadow with beautiful Black Eyed Susans and tranquility. Hearing Scheherazade for the millionth time is no less gut-wrenching or spine-chilling than the first time it’s sweetly tragic melody poisoned me that late April school night. I am clothed in a flapper dress, with impossibly fashionable kitten heels and feathers adorning my hair, when the first notes of Rhapsody in Blue wash over me. The more I analyze and learn about it, the more classical music seems other-worldly and absolutely transcendent. How was it humanly possible to create a heart-fluttering, lip-parting, hair-twirling piece such as Liebestraum without residing with the gods? Especially since I started playing the flute and experiencing the physical aspects of classical music, my respect and interest in this field has grown immensely. I used to think Bach and Mozart were pretentious and that a piccolo was a type of slimy vegetable served in seedy drive-by cafes. But now? I would drown in the seas of pianos, violins, and flutes, if only they played Maid With The Flaxen Hair as I gratefully went under.

The idea that I can fashion thrilling and vivid visual narratives in my imagination just by listening to a song is such an addictive thought. Classical music is a novel without fancy words, and every listener, not just the grammar stickler or the newest young adult writer, is an author in their own way. Music notes become the sensual diction of Jane Austen novels, with ties and slurs bringing together the entire composition with exclamation points, firm periods, and ambiguous semi-colons. I mention this work constantly, but Scheherazade is the prime example of a legendary tale transcribed into melodies more enchanting and rich than a Leibniz chocolate bar from Switzerland. Heavily embroidered purple rugs and golden lamps of incense flit throughout my subconscious whenever the lone violin strikes; swirls of gray clouds studded with drops of ire waltz in whenever I feel the Sultan approaching; I can both hear and see a curtain of black hair separating me from the anguished face of Scheherazade. Mostly every piece of music, while it may not have a definitive back story (Scheherazade is based off Arabian Nights), has a novel worthy of Tolstoy lurking behind the sheet music, waiting only for a curious listener to wipe away the blurred notes and pen the story. For example, Mendelssohn’s Piano Trio No. 1 doesn’t have an earth-shattering inspiration, but nevertheless, its subtly dark melody and alternately sweet and damning tune evokes the image of a young girl crushing a cursive letter in blue-veined hands, the farewell from her passionate but selfish lover permanently imprinted on her tiny fist.

People also proclaim that classical music is “calming” and like drinking in the Italian sunshine on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Cinque Terre. However, I find that to be distinctly untrue, at least for several works that don’t fit the elevator music, funeral-march feel. While some pieces are undoubtedly calm (i.e. Peer Gynt, Clair de Lune), their beautiful blandness is nothing compared to the passionate vibes emanated by Stravinsky or Tchaikovsky. How can one possible say that Piano Concert No.1 by Tchaik is relaxed and more refreshing than a glass of Sangria (with soaked fruit hugging the bottom)? It’s stormy, angsty, and tear-worthy, the unstable disposition of Tchaikovsky evident even in the scratchy recording I pirated from the library. That is the cathartic aspect of classical music though—it cascades down the entire range of emotions, from pure hatred to playful romance, without seeming out of place or unnatural. It’s a beast with a thousand different faces, the Mirror of Erised for every individual that has ever lived. The symphony that perfectly embodies this multi-faceted façade is The Planets by Gustave Holst. Divided into movements that reflect the “personality” of the celestial bodies, Mars bleeds with anger, Jupiter drips its divine happiness onto the spell-bound audience, and Venus, the severe Bringer of Peace, wields its justice-doling gavel throughout the universe. The day I realized classical music was more than a snazzy background for my calculus study sessions was when I first listened to Petrushka by Stravinsky. I’ve never had such involved and violent passions about a puppet before, but when the clamoring symbols and dramatic climax signaled Petrushka’s death, I was momentarily broken, mourning the loss of a stringed doll I never even saw or touched.

 My talented chum performing Fiddler on the Roof

I was first deeply enamored with art history, and this obsession spilled over into the musical realm once the overarching parallels between the two revealed themselves to me. Fundamentally, one of the aims of art is to reflect the spirit of the time or the zeitgeist of the community. For example, the Dutch still lives purer than clear glass hinted at the growing middle class and emphasis on domestic affairs in 17^th century Europe. Expressionism ripped the fabric of convention apart in America with Jackson Pollock in the 1960s, the split only deepening with snarky Postmodernism. In the same streak, classical music has evolved and molted into different creatures depending on the artistic climate at the time. The 1800s was an era of experimentation and romanticism, with bolder and more contrasting melodies flirting their way into fashion. Hector Berlioz struck the normality out of symphonies, introducing his trippy composition Symphonie Fantastique in 1830 the way Gericault shocked the pretentious art world with Raft of the Medusa in 1819. The race for change is unending, each generation seeking to outdo its predecessors with originality and quality. We all strain to be the outrageous, to be the exclusive holder of some talent or creation. Classical music tends to be left in the dust in the publicized struggle for newness, but more often than not, it is the ringleader in the battle. Finally, the power of music is unforgettable because of the sheer amount of talent needed to perform most classical pieces. In today’s world, fabricated and robotic sounds can be produced with a tap of the finger, but where’s the real talent in that? With classical music, human fingers have to cramp, bleed, and caress strings and keys, not vaguely hover over a soundboard with impersonal blue and green blinking lights. I respect classical musicians because so much beauty is produced only through hours of practice and frustration. The striking noise that grips my heart is real and pure, not a phantom of authenticity. There’s nothing fake about it, and in a world that’s increasingly obsessed with a perfect unreality, it’s one of the only genuine crafts left.

 

 

 

So take a moment to really listen. There’s more than just a sweet tune—there’s a library of history and life; one needs only to crack open the volumes and read.

Pairing Symphonies With Paintings Part One

Pairing Symphonies With Paintings Part Two

Overdosing On Russian Culture