Music and Decay

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'This is your Brain on Music, Daniel Levitin, Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra

The people who make up the audience at concerts of classical music generally tend to be old. if not positively ancient. From my seat at the left-hand end of the front row of the dress circle, my preferred position as it gives a fine view of the entire orchestra as well as of the hands of the pianist if there is one, I look down on row upon row of grey and/or balding heads, interspersed here and there with a fine coiffure, testifying to the art of the ladies hairdresser.

The concert I attended last week, given by the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra, featured a fabulous programme: Bach’s concerto in C major for two pianos, Mozart’s piano concerto in C minor, K491, and Brahms’ double concerto for violin and cello in A minor. It was both a feast of wonderful music (with terrific soloists, of course) and a lesson in the history or development of music in general, and the concerto genre in particular.

The auditorium was full, but I must admit that the state of many of the members of the audience was little short of pitiful. Walking sticks, zimmer-frames and wheelchairs were in evidence wherever I looked, and in the interval it was possible to see more than one or two persons who were evidently afflicted with one or another of those horrible diseases that eat away at the brain, causing the individual character and mind of the person who once inhabited the body to be no longer in evidence. One could almost think that we were surrounded by people in various stages of decrepitude and it was neither an edifying sight nor an encouraging prospect.

Looking at some of those people, and fearing what may lie ahead for myself and my near and dear ones, I resolved that when I get to that stage I would prefer not to have my decaying carcasse paraded in public for all to see, and pity. On the other hand, I feel sure that somewhere in the depths of those failing minds and ailing bodies something remains that is able to enjoy, or at least experience, the music. It would seem to be something of a balancing act when one comes to consider bringing an aged relative or friend into the public arena. After all many of the people in the audience in Jerusalem, Tel-Aviv, or any other town, know one another, if not by name then by sight.

Apart from the problem of the aging audience for classical music, which I have tried to combat in my own way by taking my children, and later my grandchildren, to children’s concerts, not always meeting with undiluted enthusiasm, the effect of music on the brain is also a subject for consideration. I don’t for a minute believe that listening to music can slow the downward path of one’s mental or physical faculties, but if it does bring a modicum of pleasure to a life that is otherwise unchanging and uninspiring then that is also something to be encouraged.

Having just read Daniel Levitin’s fascinating book ‘This is your Brain on Music,’ I am more aware than ever before of music’s beneficial effect on the brains of both children and adults of all ages. And this applies not only to classical music. In fact, most of the examples Levitin gives in his book seem to pertain to pop and rock music, with which I am not so familiar. Luckily, as I downloaded the book in e-book form it came together with a file containing sound extracts of the examples given in the book. I’m currently in the process of working my way through them, and then I suppose I’ll have to go back and read the book again. Although in some respects it is a bit too technical for my taste, it has certainly opened my eyes and ears to many aspects of music of which I was not previously aware.

So I will try not to rush to judgment in castigating those who bring elderly relatives to concerts. After all, when the time comes and the person in whose care I find myself decides that an outing to a concert would be good for me, I might not have much say in the matter.

A Celebration

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Leonard Cohen, Tim Minchin, weddings

When your child gets married, even at the age of 38, or perhaps especially at the age of 38, it is a cause for celebration. At last the poor, lost soul has found his/her life-partner, you think, and now everything will fall into place and life will be plain sailing from now on. Let’s hope so, but let’s also be prepared for the occasional bump in the road ahead.

But serious thoughts aside, the wedding of Eitan and Daniella a few days ago was a truly joyous occasion, made even more so by the special character of the ceremony and the principal actors. A great deal of thought had obviously gone in to the preparation of the event, the choice of venue and menu, the egalitarian marriage contract (Ketuba), which had been prepared by Eitan and Daniella themselves, and the vows they made to one another as they stood beneath the wedding canopy (Chuppa). I must admit that the last aspect took me completely by surprise, and I was amazed at the couple’s courage and honesty in opening up their innermost thoughts in public to one another and the assembled audience.

And to top it all, another surprise. At one point in the ceremony the (orthodox) rabbi took up his guitar and began singing Leonard Cohen’s song, ‘Dance me to the End of Love,’ and concluded the various blessings with a rousing chorus of Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah.’ We all did our best to join in, though later confessed to one another that Leonard Cohen wasn’t our very favourite artist. Still, never mind. It all added to the very laid-back and special atmosphere.

The high point, though, came once the ceremony was over. Instead of the usual general round of kisses and congratulations, imagine our astonishment when, as instructed by the bride and groom, the DJ straightaway launched into a raucous rendering of Tim Minchin’s song ‘The Good Book,’ sung to a square-dance rhythm and attacking formal religion of all kinds, and the bible in particular. I had never heard of that particular artist before, but people of my generation will understand what I mean when I say that he is something akin to Tom Lehrer. Bride and groom bounded down from the stage onto the grass and began a rollicking dance to the music, quickly joined by their friends. It was indeed a sight to see!

The rest of the wedding proceeded in a more decorous fashion. Eating, drinking and making merry was the order of the day, or evening, rather, and everyone’s pleasure was augmented by the fact that the DJ played music that everyone could enjoy but did not exceed a reasonable level of decibels, as is usually the case at weddings in Israel. The young folk danced, the older ones chatted, and everyone appeared to be having a good time, even those ladies who, like me, were unused to wearing high-heeled shoes and standing for hours. Yes, my feet were killing me by the end of the evening, but the pain was as nothing compared with my enjoyment of the event. It gave me tremendous pleasure to see everyone, friends and family, old and young, from far and near, enjoying themselves and sharing in our joy.

It was certainly a wedding unlike any other, and one that everyone who was there will remember for a very long time. As one friend put it, ‘it was an enchanted evening.’

Rites of Passage

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anthropology, Bar-Mitzva, confirmation, rites of passage, sociology

Many years ago, when I was studying for a degree in Sociology, one of the compulsory subjects was Social Anthropology. We students were given a glimpse into the lives of societies far removed physically, geographically, sociologically, and culturally from our own, such as those of the Andaman Islands, the Bushmen of the Kalahari, and many others. One of our professors who hailed originally from South Africa was very proud of the fact that he could make the click noise at the back of his throat that was an intrinsic component of the language of the native population known simply as ‘the Click People.’ That is no odder, I have since discovered, than the French nomenclature for the region known today as Languedoc, which simply denotes the fact that in that region, many years ago, the word for ‘yes’ was ‘oc.’

But I digress. One of the features of all the supposedly ‘primitive’ peoples that we learned about at the time (those were the ‘sixties, when one could use that term without being considered to have overstepped the bounds of ‘political correctness’) was that each one had its own particular rite of passage, usually involving some physical hardship undergone by teenage boys, either singly or as a group. In some cases this involved etching certain markings on their bodies or sending them on dangerous hunting expeditions or tests of endurance, after which they would be acknowledged as grown men and accepted as fully-fledged members of their tribe. In the case of Moslems this involves circumcision, which cannot be very pleasant for a teenage boy. Although I abhor the practice per se, I do consider it slightly more humane to perform it on an eight-day-old infant, as is the Jewish custom.

Christians also perform a rite of passage, albeit of a less physically demanding kind. this is the ceremony of confirmation, in which a religious leader, preferably a bishop, officially accepts a child, whether boy or girl, into the church. This is primarily a Catholic custom, and seems to vary as to the age of the participant, though it is usually performed on groups of pre-pubescent children who are deemed to have reached ‘the age of reason.’ It involves the invocation of the spirit of Jesus as the celebrant makes the sign of the cross on the child’s forehead with holy water. There is not much pain or effort involved, and the event is generally celebrated with a family meal or feast of some kind. With the decline in church attendance in Europe in recent years this ceremony has become less common, although in the countries of Latin America it is still widespread.

The occasion of the recent Bar-Mitzvah of one of my grandsons caused me to ponder the nature and significance of the occasion. When a Jewish boy reaches his thirteenth birthday he is considered to have attained the status of an adult male, and as such it is his religious duty to participate in synagogue services every Saturday morning and constitute part of the quorum of ten men without which no service can proceed. He is also required to be able to read the Hebrew script as it is written by scribes using special ink on a parchment scroll containing the Five Books of Moses and known as the Torah. In our case, although our family is not observant, my daughter’s middle child, Eyal, had been in training for several months, attending synagogue services regularly with his father, studying the ancient notation according to which the Hebrew words are chanted in synagogue, and preparing to read out the portion of the Bible for the week of his birthday to the assembled relatives and the rest of the congregation. This he did with great aplomb, bringing tears to the eyes of this proud grandmama, who, despite her apostacy, suddenly felt herself linked to the generations that had gone before who had undergone the same procedure. Although orthodox Judaism does not count even an adult woman as having the same elevated status as a teenage boy, that being one of the reasons I personally feel alienated from it, the ceremony touched something in my soul.

Whatever the pros and cons of the various rites of passage, I think that the Jewish way, in which a boy is required to display his ability to learn and take his place in a public forum, is the best kind of endurance test. But of course, since it is a Jewish ceremony, it also provides an excuse for a festive meal, and this was provided with all the trimmings and trappings that Jewish family life can provide. In addition, as is now the custom in Israel, there will be a disco party for Eyal’s classmates, and another party for the adults who were unable to attend the Saturday event. Thus, the series of celebrations will continue intermittently over several weeks, and Eyal will bask in the attention he receives and benefit from the generosity of his friends and relatives.

Defiant Requiem

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Rafael Schaechter, Requiem, Theresienstadt, Verdi

Any performance of Verdi’s Requiem any time and anywhere in the world is a memorable event. I have heard it played several times, and am invariably stirred, moved, uplifted and invigorated by the music, regardless of the standard of the performance. Hearing a performance in Jerusalem of what was termed ‘Defiant Requiem,’ commemorating the performance of that music in the Theresienstadt concentration camp under the baton of inmate Rafael Schächter, was something quite extraordinary for all those who heard it, but I felt that for me it had a special significance. The performance, which was given in the framework of the Israel Festival last week, is the project of American conductor Murry Sidlin. In a bold move, the music was interspersed with readings describing the performance of the work in Theresienstadt and filmed accounts by camp survivors who had participated in the performance or attended it.

During my teenage years in London in the 1960s I heard the Requiem played on LP records every Sunday morning. It was then when my late father would sit at his desk in our back room, his head wreathed in cigarette smoke, as he attended to his accounts or typed letters on behalf of the various organizations for which he worked in his spare time to earn a few extra pennies. He had arranged for a loudspeaker system to be built from our front room, so that records played on the ‘radiogram’ there which was his pride and joy could be heard in both rooms simultaneously. It was my task to attend to the four 33 r.p.m. records which formed the boxed set of the Requiem and had to be turned over and changed every twenty minutes or so. Each time I hear the Requiem now I recollect exactly at which point each record ended, requiring my intercession so that the music could continue. Unfortunately, I don’t remember who the artists were, and those records have long since gone the way of all flesh.

The book by Josef Bor describing the agonising events surrounding the performance of the Requiem in Theresienstadt, ‘The Terezin Requiem,’ translated by Edith Pargeter and published by William Heinemann in 1963, was on my parents’ bookshelf when I was still living at home, and I must have read it almost as soon as they bought it. It is a very moving account of all the difficulties and obstacles that had to be overcome so that the music could be performed, and it certainly made a deep impression on me, but the thought that it could in some way be dramatized never occurred to me. My own connection with Theresienstadt derives from the fact that my paternal grandmother was deported there from Hamburg in 1942, and perished there a few months later (before the Requiem was performed there). I have translated the letters she sent from there, as well as the diary written by Martha Glass, who was also from Hamburg but survived.

In the performance devised by Murry Sidlin Israeli actors gave some readings in Hebrew, Sidlin himself gave others in English, and filmed extracts of interviews with survivors were shown interspersed with the music. An upright piano was used to accompany some of the music instead of the full orchestra, reminding the audience of the conditions under which the music was performed at Theresienstadt. At those moments the stage was darkened, and when the full orchestra took over the stage was brilliantly lit, serving to underline the contrast between the conditions then and now. At the end of the performance the audience was requested not to applaud but to stand for a minute of silent contemplation. While we were standing the soloists, the members of the orchestra and the choir quietly walked off the semi-darkened stage.

It was a truly moving performance of a remarkable piece of music, one which few of those present that evening will ever forget, least of all me, who felt that a remarkable coincidence had managed to bring several separate strands of my life together.  My enjoyment was heightened by the fact that one of my two sisters, someone who shared my very unique experience of the music, had come from out of town to attend the performance. But I couldn’t help wondering what our father would have made of it all.