“Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”
–Somebody (we’re not really sure who)

Yesterday I indicated that I don’t much care for Baroque music, because of its inherent sanity. But as in all things, there are exceptions, and the major one for me is the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music transcends nearly everything. Bach is one of the great transformational figures of all time, and there are very few figures in the history of Western music whose influence has been so wide-spread and so lasting.

Why is this? Well, the above quote provides a way in. Writing about music is slippery business, because it’s just plain hard to capture in one medium the essence of another. As Leonard Bernstein once wrote, in discussing a Chopin etude, “If Chopin could have said in words what he was trying to say with the music, why would he have used music at all?” When writing about music, we can only ever get what feels to the writer an approximation of the essence of the work, which is why good music writing is so hard to find and so valuable.

The quote above also pertains to Bach in that, in the course of drawing an absurd metaphor in order to make a point, it uses precisely the word that leaps to mind when I think of Bach’s music. That word is architecture.

Bach’s music is, to me, architectural. It is mathematical. Now, to some that might make it sound like the music is clinical and sterile in emotion, but nothing could be further from the truth. Bach’s music often suggests, more than any other composer’s, something cosmic, and his work springs from the deep connections between music and mathematics. It’s the primal sense of wonder that may well be the very first emotion we all experience, that sense of grandeur before a Universe that is vaster than we can conceptualize and yet we have innate abilities to conceptualize a great deal of it. That’s what Bach means to me.

Architecture. Every great Bach work is an edifice, in which you can sense each musical building block as it is laid into place. In every great Bach work, you can see how each phrase relates to another, how each chord is structured together. The melodies that emerge from the unerring logic of his musical architecture make sense in a way that few other composers’ do, and it’s that emergent quality of his melodies that is so remarkable about them. Bach draws the ear to a certain place just as a great architect, or painter, knows how to draw the eye to a certain place.

Here is one of Bach’s most famous works, and indeed, one of the most famous musical works in the entire history of the world: the Toccata and Fugue in D minor. I’m providing three versions here. First, you can hear the work as it may have originally been heard, as written for church organ. In the second, the Toccata is played as a MIDI recording (surprisingly good-sounding), but with an accompanying visualization that really clarifies the way Bach stitched this astonishing piece together. And finally, you can hear what many purists likely consider an abomination, but which I enjoy a great deal: Leopold Stokowski’s arrangement of the Toccata for full orchestra, in the piece’s segment from the Disney film Fantasia (Watching Stokowski here, I always wonder if he was mugging or if that’s really how he conducted, because some of his motions are incomprehensible).

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Welcome to this year’s Blogging A-to-Z Challenge! My topic this year, as I indicated yesterday, is Classical Music. My approach will be generally of a piece with my approach to all such things: personal reflections and whatnot.

So, let’s get started!

As a trumpet player back in the day, I remember with quite a bit of clarity my frustration that a pretty sizeable chunk of the solo repertoire for the instrument sprang from the Baroque era. This frustrated me because, as a general rule, I’ve never been much of a Baroque music fan. I had a trumpet teacher in high school, Mr. Craig Fattey (huh – I wonder if he’s still around? Note to self: look him up), who was of like mind, and he summed it up one night thusly: “There’s a sane-ness to Baroque music that doesn’t lend itself all that well to listening, for me.” I think that’s about right. I’m drawn to music that’s got some insanity in it, and if that’s your thing, you’re not going to find it much in the Baroque.

(Bach is, of course, an exception, because he was such a towering genius that his lack of insanity is totally irrelevant. But that’ll be for another day.)

So if you’re a trumpet student, you find yourself playing a lot of Baroque stuff. And two major concertos of the Classical era, one by Haydn and the other by J.N. Hummel. Both are fine works, but it always bugged me that after those two, music for solo trumpet just doesn’t exist until you get into the 20th century. For the Romantics, the trumpet was pretty much exclusively an orchestral instrument. For the most part I was fine with that, because I always wanted to be an orchestral player anyway, but I still longed for a nice trumpet concerto by a Schumann or a Berlioz or a Dvorak. Alas!

But in the 20th century, the trumpet became more popular as a solo instrument, and the Arutunian Concerto is of that era. And what a wonderful, amazing work it is! Alexander Arutunian (who died just over a year ago, March 28, 2012) was an Armenian composer who was apparently nationalist in his music (which means, he used a lot of Armenian folk melodies or characteristics of Armenian folk music in his work). The Trumpet Concerto is just teeming with wonderful melodies and interesting rhythms, and the orchestration is superb, with the soloist and the orchestra achieving a beautiful partnership. It’s a technically difficult work, but it’s difficult in the musical way, as opposed to being a virtuoso showpiece. This is one of my favorite classical works of all time.

The performance below sounds great, even if the camera work – plunk it on a tripod in one spot and never move it – is strictly utilitarian. The soloist is Tine Thing Helseth, with whom I was unfamiliar until I listened to this. Her sound is fantastic – she has a big, bold sound that meshes perfectly with the orchestra, and in her hands, the Arutunian by turns dances, trots, and sings its heart out. This piece is a great deal of fun for the soloist, with its unusual rhythms and places where you just get to belt out a high note and hold it while the rest of the orchestra does its thing. Listen for the recurring rhythmic motif that binds the entire piece together.

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Yup, folks, it’s that time again — the A to Z Blogging Challenge! The idea is to simply blog each day in April on a certain topic (excluding Sundays), using the letters of the alphabet as your guide. This year, my theme will be Classical Music. I’m not taking any particularly organized approach here; I’ll just be posting twenty-six different works with a few notes on each. Some will be very well-known to me; some will be very well-known in general. And some will be entirely new to me, which is exciting. (And yes, for long-time readers, some may well have been used in Something for Thursday installments. I’m not searching my archives for each piece as I go.)

The idea? Not to educate or evangelize, just to share a lot of music that I love or might love. (Or hate, if I choose something that makes me crazy.) I had a lot of fun with last year’s A-to-Z Challenge, so I hope I can have similar fun this year. (And hey, if you want to do your own A-to-Z, go ahead and sign up! There’s still time. More the merrier!)

By the way, Something for Thursday will continue to exist this month, but I’ll lay off the classical music for that feature until May. So in general, expect this blog to have a more musical air about it this coming month!

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