This past Saturday I played my last concert with the community orchestra I’ve been a part of for six years here in Tulsa. In fitting fashion I went out on a high note, playing Mahler’s 2nd Symphony, the Resurrection. It’s a difficult, winding, grueling work, clocking in at over 80 minutes and requiring a premium of concentration to pull off. Despite a few rough patches, we played it remarkably well, and the experience was unforgettable.
When I play (or even hear) transcendent pieces like Mahler 2, the experience leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth. After the highs and lows of actually listening, I usually experience a profound sadness knowing that so few people in the world seek out this sort of music to listen to. Maybe it’s a sign of my naivety, but I truly believe that listening to great works of music has the power to make us more human (not better, mind you, but more human). Yet who, in this age of snapchattability, has time to invest in listening to pieces that deny instant gratification?
Please understand that this is not another rant against pop music by some pinky raising elitist. I love pop music, unabashedly. Not even just the good stuff – some really terrible, fluffy stuff as well. I’ve been known to sing along to Katy Perry and Taylor Swift in the car. I know almost all the words to this song. I even think pop music can, in its own way, be profound. Nothing stirs my spirit quite like the music of Paul Simon, while listening to Sufjan Stevens is akin to prayer for me. I think pop music is wonderful and valid and everything great.
Yet…
If that is all we listen to, I’m afraid that we deprive ourselves of a certain level of (for lack of a better word) transcendence. Let me put it this way: pop songs do not have either the length or complexity to fully mimic the depths of human experience the way that the great pieces of the classical tradition do. If the human experience is a journey to be experienced, then pop music acts as a means of teleportation, transporting us from one spot to another with as little fuss as possible. Great classical music, though (and let me jump out in front and acknowledge that there is a lot of BAD classical music out there, just as there are bad and good examples of pop music) understand that the fuss and muss and heartache of the journey are the things that serve to transform us from insensate hunks of matter into fully human creatures.
I’ve been leading a group of freshman through Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness of late; understandably they have struggled with the language and density of the story. The ones who have made the effort, though, have been mining the depths of that wonderful book for all its treasures. It’s a richness not available in works of perfectly acceptable fluff like Percy Jackson (or whatever else the kids are into these days). By wading through the jungle thickness of Conrad’s words, they have discovered truths they would not have otherwise. As Yeats says, “It’s certain there is no fine thing/Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.”
The same holds true of the great works of classical music. It takes an incredible level of concentration to really listen to Mahler, or Bruckner, or Beethoven. The melodies don’t remain and get repeated again and again; they unfurl ever outward with a gradual majesty. There’s not a single tone to these pieces, but a range of slowly developing emotions. In other words, these pieces do not tell you upfront what they are about. Inherent in appreciating them is an ability to cut yourself adrift and follow their lead wherever they may go.
With our “customer is always right” expectations and unlimited instant options, we are ill suited to place ourselves at the mercy of a piece of music for an hour, to simply sit and be while the music bears us along as it will. We have trained ourselves to think that things that are not immediately understandable are not worth pursuing till they are understood. I know that you could fill an ocean liner with the reasons that classical music has dwindled in the United States, but I’m convinced one of the chief reasons is that we have hardened ourselves to the place where we cannot feel deeply enough to appreciate it. We move and move, restless with the prideful privilege of autonomy, and refuse to bend our necks to the yoke of any master that could be seen as greater than our own egos.
I don’t mean to scare off those of you who only came here for a good old fashioned rant about kids and how they need to get off our collective lawn, but there are certainly spiritual dimensions at play here. Today is Easter Saturday, a day that has for a long time held special meaning for me. I cannot quite say why, but something touches me deeply about the fact that – having been betrayed, beaten, killed, and entombed – Christ did not insta-resurrect. Instead he waited, biding his time over that eternal Saturday, waiting for the appointed hour. A prayer I read yesterday described it as Jesus resting on the Sabbath day. There’s a difficult, troubling beauty in that image: even one whom death could not hold underwent the pain of waiting in order to complete his journey.
As we Christians celebrate the Resurrection, we must be careful not to forget that the timing of God does not cater to our train schedule demands. Instead it is much more difficult and beautiful, allowing us to develop fully as humans as we go. A good reminder comes when we slow down enough to take in something difficult and profound, like the great works of music that compel us to motion and emotion. If you are looking for a profound way to celebrate Easter this year, may I suggest listening to a challenging, lengthy symphony? I have just the one.
