Music Quickens Time

MUSIC QUICKENS TIME

MUSIC QUICKENS TIME

DANIEL BARENBOIM

US edition first published by Verso 2008

Copyright © Daniel Barenboim 2008

All rights reserved

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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Verso

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ISBN: 978-1-84467-470-1

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Typeset in Fournier by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

Printed in the USA by Maple Vail

To the musicians of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra

Contents

PART ONE: THE POWER OF MUSIC

Prelude

1. Sound and Thought

2. Listening and Hearing

3. Freedom of Thought and Interpretation

4. The Orchestra

5. A Tale of Two Palestinians

6. Finale

PART TWO: VARIATIONS

1. I Have a Dream

2. On Schumann

3. Remembering Edward Said

4. I Was Reared on Bach

5. On Wilhelm Furtwängler

6. On Pierre Boulez

7. On Don Giovanni

8. On the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra

9. On Mozart

10. On Dual Citizenship

Notes

Index

Part One

The Power of Music

Prelude

The beginning of a concert is more privileged than the beginning of a book. One could say that sound itself is more privileged than words. A book is full of the same words that are used every day, day after day, to explain, describe, demand, argue, beg, enthuse, tell the truth and lie. Our thoughts take shape in words; therefore, the words on the page must compete with the words in our minds. Music has a much larger world of associations at its disposal precisely because of its ambivalent nature; it is both inside and outside the world.

In today’s world, music has a cacophonous omnipresence in restaurants, airplanes and the like, but it is precisely this omnipresence that represents the greatest hindrance to the integration of music into our society. No school would eliminate the study of language, mathematics, or history from its curriculum, yet the study of music, which encompasses so many aspects of these fields and can even contribute to a better understanding of them, is often entirely ignored.

This is not a book for musicians, nor is it one for non-musicians, but rather for the curious mind that wishes to discover the parallels between music and life and the wisdom that becomes audible to the thinking ear. This is not a privilege reserved for highly talented musicians who receive musical training from a very early age, nor is it an ivory tower, an exclusive luxury for the wealthy; I would contend that it is a basic necessity to develop the intelligence of the ear. As I will explain in the chapter Listening and Hearing, we can learn a great deal for life from the structures, principles and laws inherent in music, whether these are experienced by the listener or the performer.

Many of the topics I discuss in this book are ones that have occupied my thoughts for decades, and are the result of nearly sixty years of performance, instruction and contemplation. In my first book, A Life in Music, which has an autobiographical thread without being an autobiography, I began to touch on these subjects. In the book I wrote with Edward Said, Parallels and Paradoxes, we explored the relationships between music and society. When I was invited to deliver the Norton lectures at Harvard University in the autumn of 2006, I naturally seized the opportunity to develop my ideas on the connections between music and life more extensively, and this book is a further development of these thoughts.

1

Sound and Thought

I firmly believe that it is impossible to speak about music. There have been many definitions of music which have, in fact, merely described a subjective reaction to it. The only really precise and objective definition for me is by Ferruccio Busoni, the great Italian pianist and composer, who said that music is sonorous air. It says everything and nothing at the same time. Schopenhauer, on the other hand, saw in music an idea of the world. In music, as in life, it is really only possible to speak about our own reactions and perceptions. If I attempt to speak about music, it is because the impossible has always attracted me more than the difficult. If there is some sense behind this, to attempt the impossible is, by definition, an adventure and gives me a feeling of activity, which I find highly attractive. It has the added advantage that failure is not only tolerated but expected. I will therefore attempt the impossible and try to draw some connections between the inexpressible content of music and the inexpressible content of life.

Isn’t music, after all, just a collection of beautiful sounds? John Locke wrote in his—in many ways—very forward-looking treatise, Some Thoughts Concerning Education, published in 1692, that Musick is thought to have some affinity with dancing, and a good hand upon some instruments is by many people mightily valued. But it wastes so much of a young man’s time to gain but a moderate skill in it; and engages often in such odd company, that many think it much better spared: and I have amongst men of parts and business so seldom heard any one commended or esteemed for having an excellency in musick, that amongst all those things that ever came into the list of accomplishments, I think I may give it the last place. Today, music still often takes the last place in our own thoughts concerning education. Is music really more than something very agreeable or exciting to listen to—something that, through its sheer power and eloquence, gives us formidable tools with which we can forget our existence and the chores of daily life? Millions of people, of course, like to come home after a long day at work, put on some music and forget all the problems of the day. I contend, however, that music also gives us another far more valuable tool, with which we can learn about ourselves, about our society, about politics—in short, about the human being. Aristotle, preceding John Locke by nearly two thousand years, held music in higher esteem, deeming it a valuable contribution to the education of the young: But music is pursued, not only as an alleviation of past toil, but also as providing recreation. And who can say whether, having this use, it may not also have a nobler one? . . . Rhythm and melody supply imitations of anger and gentleness, and also of courage and temperance, and of all the qualities contrary to these, and of the other qualities of character, which hardly fall short of the actual affections, as we know from our own experience, for in listening to such strains our souls undergo a change . . . Enough has been said to show that music has a power of forming the character, and should therefore be introduced into the education of the young.¹

Let us first look at the physical phenomenon that allows us to experience a piece of music, which is sound. Here we encounter one of the great difficulties in defining music: music expresses itself through sound, but sound in itself is not yet music—it is merely the means by which the message of music or its content is transmitted. When describing sound, very often we speak in terms of color: a bright sound or a dark sound. This is very subjective; what is dark for one is light for the other and vice versa. There are other elements of sound, however, which are not subjective. Sound is a physical reality that can and should be observed objectively. When doing so, we notice that it disappears as it stops; it is ephemeral. It is not an object, such as a chair, which you can leave in an empty room and return later to find it still there, just as you left it. Sound does not remain in this world; it evaporates into silence.

Sound is not independent—it does not exist by itself, but has a permanent, constant and unavoidable relationship to silence. In this context the first note is not the beginning, but comes out of the silence that precedes it. If sound stands in relation to silence, what kind of relationship is it? Does sound dominate silence, or does silence dominate sound? After careful observation, we notice that the relationship between sound and silence is the equivalent of the relationship between a physical object and the force of gravity. An object that is lifted from the ground demands a certain amount of energy to keep it at the height to which it has been raised. Unless one provides additional energy, the object will fall to the ground, obeying the laws of gravity. In much the same way, unless sound is sustained, it is driven to silence. The musician who produces a sound literally brings it into the physical world. Furthermore, unless he provides added energy, the sound will die. This is the lifespan of a single note—it is finite. The terminology is plain: the note dies. And here we might have the first clear indication of content in music: the disappearance of sound by its transformation into silence is the definition of its being limited in time.

Some instruments, particularly percussion instruments, including the piano, produce sounds that we refer to as having a real-life duration; in other words, after the sound is produced, it immediately begins to decay. With others, such as stringed instruments, there are ways to sustain the sound longer than that of a percussion instrument: for example, by changing the direction of the bow and making the change smooth enough so that it becomes inaudible. Sustaining the sound is in any case an act of defiance against the pull of silence, which attempts to limit the length of the sound.

Let us examine the different possibilities presented by the beginning of sound. If there is total silence before the beginning, we start a piece of music that either interrupts the silence or evolves out of it. The sound that interrupts the silence represents an alteration of an existing situation, whereas the sound evolving out of the silence is a gradual alteration of the existing situation. In philosophical language, one could call this the difference between being and becoming. The opening of Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata, Op. 13,² is an obvious case of the interruption of silence. The very definite chord interrupts the silence and the music begins. The prelude to Tristan und Isolde is an obvious example of the sound evolving out of silence.³

The music does not begin with the move from the initial A to the F, but from the silence to the A. Or, in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 109,⁴ one has the feeling that the music began earlier—it is as if one steps onto a train that is by now in motion. The music must already exist in the mind of the pianist, so that when he plays, he creates an impression that he joins what has been in existence, albeit not in the physical world. In the Pathétique Sonata the accent on the first note makes a very definite break with silence. In Op. 109 it is imperative not to start with an accent on the first note, because the accent by definition would interrupt the silence.

The last sound is not the end of the music. If the first note is related to the silence that precedes it, then the last note must be related to the silence that follows it. This is why it is so disruptive when an enthusiastic audience applauds before the final sound has died away, because there is one last moment of expressivity, which is precisely the relationship between the end of the sound and the beginning of the silence that follows it. In this respect music is a mirror of life, because both start and end in nothing. Furthermore, when playing music it is possible to achieve a unique state of peace, partly due to the fact that one can control, through sound, the relationship between life and death, a power that obviously is not bestowed upon human beings in life. Since every note produced by a human being has a human quality, there is a feeling of death with the end of each one, and through that experience there is a transcendence of all the emotions that these notes can have in their short lives; in a way one is in direct contact with timelessness. When I finish playing one of the books of The Well-Tempered Clavier in one evening, I have the feeling that this is actually much longer than my real life, that I have been on a journey through history, one that begins and ends in silence.

One way of preparing silence is to create a tremendous amount of tension preceding it, so that the silence arrives only after the absolute height of intensity and volume has been reached. Another way of approaching silence entails a gradual diminution of sound, letting the music become so soft that the next possible step can only be silence. Silence, in other words, can be louder than the maximum and softer than the minimum. Total silence exists, of course, also within a composition. It is temporary death, followed by the ability to revive, to begin life anew. In this way music is more than a mirror of life; it is enriched by the metaphysical dimension of sound, which gives it the possibility to transcend physical, human limitations. In the world of sound, even death is not necessarily final.

It is obvious that if a sound has a beginning and a duration, it also has an end, whether dying or giving way to the next note. Notes that follow each other operate clearly within the inevitable passage of time. Expressiveness in music comes from linking the notes, what we call in Italian legato, which means nothing other than bound. This dictates that the notes cannot be allowed to develop their natural egos, becoming so dominant that they overshadow the preceding one. Each note must be aware of itself but also of its own boundaries; the same rules that apply to individuals in society apply to notes in music as well. When one plays five legato notes, each fights against the power of silence that wants to take its life, and therefore stands in relation to the notes that precede and follow it. Each note cannot be self-assertive, wanting to be louder than the notes preceding it; if it did, it would defy the nature of the phrase to which it belongs. A musician must possess the capacity to group notes. This very simple fact has taught me the relationship between an individual and a group. It is necessary for the human being to contribute to society in a very individual way; this makes the whole much larger than the sum of its parts. Individuality and collectivism need not be mutually exclusive; in fact, together they are capable of enhancing human existence.

The content of music can only be articulated through sound. As we have already seen, any verbalization is nothing but a description of our subjective—maybe even haphazard—reaction to the music. But the fact that the content of music cannot be articulated in words does not, of course, mean that it has no content; if that were the case, musical performances would be totally unnecessary and it would be unthinkable to be interested in composers such as Bach who lived several centuries ago. Nevertheless, we must never stop asking ourselves what exactly the content of music is, this intangible substance that is expressible only through sound. It cannot be defined as having merely a mathematical, a poetic, or a sensual content. It is all those things and much more. It has to do with the condition of being human, since the music is written and performed by human beings who express their innermost thoughts, feelings, impressions and observations. This is true of all music regardless of the period in which composers lived and the obvious stylistic differences between them. For example, three hundred years separate Bach and Boulez, yet both created worlds which we, as performers and listeners, render contemporary. The condition of being human can obviously be as large or as small as the human being chooses it to be, and