The Strange Case of the Chamber Concert Cellist-cum-Standup Artist

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Jerusalem Trio, Robert Schumann, YMCA

 

 Staid, is the only adjective one can apply to the audience at the regular chamber music concerts held in Jerusalem’s august YMCA auditorium on a monthly basis. The average age is pulled down sharply by anyone under sixty, and there aren’t too many of those.

The concerts, under the auspices of the Jerusalem Music Center (www.jmc.org.il), are invariably of a very high standard, and bring immense pleasure to the few hundred regular and occasional members of the audience. The acoustics of the auditorium are excellent, and the ambience and décor take one back to the first few decades of the previous century, when the building was erected by people of good will who believed that the activities conducted within it would serve to bring harmony and mutual understanding to the peoples of the region.

Be that as it may, that was not the case at the recent performance given there by the Jerusalem Trio. The program, which consisted of a piano trio by Israeli composer, Michael Wolpe, as well as piano trios by the more well-known composers, Beethoven and Schumann, looked inviting and as the audience gathered everyone was eagerly anticipating the evening’s performance.

As we entered the auditorium we were told at the door that there would be a delay in the start of the concert as one of the artists had encountered a problem with his car. We waited patiently, and for the most part in silence, some of us checking our mobile phones (you’re never alone with an iPhone). At one point a young lady strode resolutely up to the stage, sat down at the piano, and—presumably in order to help us pass the time pleasantly—proceeded to give a spirited rendering of Schumann’s Kreisleriana. We applauded, and continued to wait.

Eventually, after a delay of about thirty minutes, the three young men who comprise the trio strode on to the stage and took their places. They did not begin to play, however. Nor was any apology for the delay delivered.

Instead, the cellist, while at the same time trying to arrange the music on his stand, launched into a long and occasionally amusing account of the violinist’s frantic phone call to him to tell him that he had a puncture in one of his tyres, he did not know quite where he was, and when told to check this with Waze or Google Maps on his mobile phone found that he was at ‘insufficient memory.’ The violinist nodded his head in good-natured agreement as the saga of his technical inadequacies unfolded.

This was fairly entertaining, and the audience listened without demur for a while. Suddenly, however, a portly gentleman in the row behind me shouted. “Enough of this nonsense! Is this a concert or a stand-up performance? I’ve paid to hear a concert, and that’s what I demand!”

“Well, you’re welcome to go to the ticket office and get your money back!” the cellist retorted, not to be outdone.

This led to what can only be described as a slanging match between the portly gentleman and the cellist, something which obviously made the rest of the audience feel distinctly uncomfortable.

There were cries of “Silence!” “Enough already!” etc., directed at both of the protagonists, until eventually someone started to clap, whereupon everyone joined in, thereby silencing them both. The discussion concluded, the music began, and everyone settled down to enjoy the performance.

The trio played beautifully, but the cellist was obviously not content with the way matters had ended. And so, when the first part of the concert ended and the artists were leaving the stage for the interval, he stood up and indicated that he had something more to say.

Everyone fell silent, as he focused his gaze on the portly gentleman. “No one has the right to insult us even if he does buy a ticket,” he proclaimed. Everyone applauded and filed out for the well-earned break.

In the ladies toilet, where as usual there was a queue, the general consensus was that the portly gentleman had been rude beyond measure, however justified he may have been, and that it is extremely unwise to upset artists before a performance.

The second half of the concert proceeded without incident. But by then the portly gentleman and his wife were no longer in their seats.

 

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Albert Einstein, Stefan Zweig, Marcel Proust

It so happens that in the last few weeks I have been reading books by or about the above three individuals, all of them Jewish (Proust’s mother was Jewish), all of them great thinkers and/or writers, and all of them (except Proust) living at roughly same period – the first half of the twentieth century (Proust died in 1922). What strikes me are the similarities in the way all three viewed the world around them despite the differences between them as regards their spheres of concern, physical location and period (and the fact that all three sported a moustache).

For the last few years I have been making it part of my summer vacation routine to read one of the six volumes that comprise Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time.’ I do my best to read the original French, but often have to resort to the aid of the Moncrieff-Kilmartin English translation. Still, the beauty of the long, meandering sentences is preserved, together with the interesting philosophical divagations and the portrayal of the world of upper-class French society—at times disturbing, at others amusing, and always fascinating. A large part of one volume is taken up by an account of the divisive effect of the Dreyfus Affair, and Proust makes it clear where he stands on the subject. Since 2014 marks the 100^th anniversary of the publication of the first volume, ‘Swann’s Way,’ I was able to buy a special edition of the Figaro magazine devoted to discussing and analyzing various aspects of the book in great detail.

For my last birthday I was given the biography of Albert Einstein by Walter Isaacson, which attempts to cover all aspects of the scientist’s life. For me, of course, the scientific explanations are rather heavy going, but the account of his personal life, his political views and his attitude to Zionism are of great interest. It comes as no surprise that the author of the Relativity Theory advocated socialism, internationalism and European unity at a time when the continent was being torn to shreds by the First World War. Einstein suffered professionally from anti-Semitism long before Hitler’s rise to power, and this, together with his warm personal relations with Chaim Weizmann, led him to support Zionism and direct fierce criticism against those Jews who (long before the Second World War) advocated assimilation. Einstein regarded being Jewish as a form of ‘tribal kinship’ rather than indicating affiliation to an ethnic or religious group.

Some time ago I downloaded Stefan Zweig’s autobiography, ‘The World of Yesterday’ (translated from the German by Benjamin Huebsch and Helmut Ripperger), to my Kindle, and as I began to read it I was immediately transported to the world of late 19^th-century Vienna. Zweig describes in agonizing detail the stultifying school routine he was forced to endure, and from which he escaped into literature and writing, gaining recognition as a poet and author at a very early age. His success as a writer brought him into contact with many of the leading thinkers of the age, and he was active in the group of intellectuals who sought to further European unity in the period before the First World War.

He frankly admits that they were convinced that the nations of Europe would not descend into the folly of war, and were taken by surprise when it actually happened. Stefan Zweig’s rich vocabulary, rolling sentences and insightful account of the cultural and intellectual movements of the early twentieth century give the reader a vivid idea of what was happening in Europe on many levels. He was friendly with Freud, and as Hitler’s campaign to eliminate every vestige of Jewish life in Europe proceeded the two pondered over the fate of the Jews, whose aspiration to become part of the European nations and cultures in which they lived had been so cruelly betrayed. Now, Zweig remarks, all the diverse elements of the Jewish populations of Europe have finally been forced to acknowledge that they are one community, sharing a common, tragic destiny.

Forced to flee Europe as Hitler’s army dominated ever-increasing swathes of the European continent, Zweig found refuge first in Britain, then in America, and finally in Brazil, where he and his wife took their own lives in 1942, depressed and despondent about the fate of Europe and Western civilization. Einstein was also forced to flee Hitler’s Europe, but found a safe haven at Princeton University, and died in 1954 aged 76, just as he was preparing to give a radio address to mark the seventh anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel.

Neither Proust (who died at his Paris home, where he had lived as a recluse for the previous twenty years taking drugs of various kinds, suffering from asthma and devoting himself to his writing) nor Zweig were aware of the founding of the State of Israel. Only Einstein, who had supported it from an early stage, lived to see it come into existence, though he declined the invitation to become its President. The concept of Zionism was not known to Proust. But perhaps if Zweig had been able to see into the future his act of self-annihilation could have been avoided.

Regardless of Israel, Zionism and all that, all three men live on in their writings, ideas and achievements.

Mahler in Eilat

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Gergiev, Mariinsky

 Nothing could be more incongruous.

On the one hand you have Eilat, Israel’s southernmost town, a seaside resort and tourism magnet, where the sun always shines and it’s almost invariably warm. Its location provides it with some of the loveliest beaches in the world, with craggy mountains to the east and west, the infinite horizon out to sea and beyond that to the south, and the Negev desert to the north. There are huge numbers of palm trees, which are set off to perfection against the backdrop of the blue sky and the russet-tinged sunsets over the sea.

Over the years since 1948 the town has developed from a tiny desert outpost to a thriving international holiday location, with fabulous hotels, an enticing promenade, exciting sports activities on land and at sea, and endless shopping and eating facilities.

And on the other hand there is Gustav Mahler, tragic figure of fin-de-siècle Vienna, the city where music and all the arts flourished but anti-Semitism was also rife. Things got so bad that Mahler felt obliged to resign his post as musical director of the Vienna State Opera, to which he had given ten intensive years, wearing himself out in the process.

In addition, his final years (he died in 1911) were marked by personal tragedy. His beloved daughter, Maria, died of diphtheria at the age of four. His wife, Alma, had an affair with the brilliant young architect and founder of the Bauhaus School, Walter Gropius. And his doctor informed him that he was suffering from a serious heart condition.

Eilat hosts several music festivals annually, and for the last few years the renowned Russian conductor, Valery Gergiev, has brought Saint Petersburg’s Mariinsky orchestra to Eilat every January. There they provide a three-day music festival that attracts music-lovers from all over Israel as well as an international audience.

Knowing the background to the composition of Mahler’s ninth symphony seems to provide a key to understanding it. It starts with what seems like a heart-rending cry of pain which eventually turns into a touching lullaby, perhaps for his deceased daughter. The second movement, a parody of an Austrian peasant dance, a Landler, seems to be full of ironic mockery. The orchestra is instructed to play in a way that is “clumsy and somewhat crude,” and one can almost hear the peasants stamping their feet in the rhythmic dance as the band plods heavily through the village.

But the end, ah, the end of the symphony, is where Mahler comes into his own. After an Adagio that utilises all the resources of the orchestra to the full, with that peculiarly ‘Mahlerian’ richness of strings, brass, and timpany, the music dies away gradually, coming to an almost imperceptible end, leaving the audience, the musicians, and above all the conductor himself, having run the emotional gamut, drained of the ability to do anything but sit in silence for several minutes.

But of course, when the conductor finally lets his arms drop, the applause bursts out with its usual clamour and shouts of ‘bravo!’

The music has ended, the audience has filed out of the darkened theatre, and suddenly one finds oneself back in the ‘real’ world of bright sunshine where people bustle to and fro in flimsy summer clothes.

The question remains, however, which is more real: Mahler’s dark music or Eilat’s bright sunshine?

Coughing in Concerts

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A Tale of Two Cities, Hamlet

 

 Everybody does it at some time or another. It’s an involuntary reflex, and can certainly appear at an inopportune moment. I always do my best to keep my coughing under control, saving it for the loud parts of the music or, better still, for the interval between pieces.

The world of concert audiences is divided into two: those who give dirty looks to someone who coughs and those who offer that person a cough sweet. I belong to the latter category.

Having recently suffered from a lingering cough and cold, which made one concert extremely uncomfortable for me and the people around me, we decided to forgo the next concert for which we already had tickets, and take the refund. It is a far, far better thing I do to stay at home and cough to my heart’s content than suffer the slings and arrows of those members of the audience who are unfortunate enough to be sitting near me (I also apologise to those readers who recognize them for the mixture of literary quotations in that sentence – Dicken’s ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and ‘Hamlet’ for those of you who don’t).

Strangely enough, at one of the concerts at which I didn’t have the urge to cough, a veritable symphony of coughing erupted between the movements of the concerto that was being played. In a sense it was admirable that so many people had managed to contain their impulse for so long, in another it was rather amusing to witness the coordinated restraint displayed by the audience. Obviously, everyone present had admirable powers of control and had been very well brought up.

 So, after having had to leave another concert in haste, while the band played on (oops, sorry, I couldn’t resist yet another quote), I resorted at the latest concert to making sure I had the strongest cough sweets at hand. Knowing that each sweet has a limited lifespan once it enters my mouth, I waited to unwrap it till the orchestra was in place but the conductor had not yet arrived, and so there was no music to be heard.

Unfortunately, the sweet I selected was slightly reluctant to leave its pop-up pocket, resulting in a certain undesirable amount of paper-crackling noise being emitted. Still, I persisted, knowing that the only way to ensure that I wouldn’t cough was to get the recalcitrant sweet out and into my mouth.

“Sssh!” said the elderly lady sitting next to me.

I looked at her in amazement. “They haven’t started playing the music yet,” I protested.

“Sssh!” she said again.

Finally at last I managed to get the sweet out of its hiding place. I’m not easily deterred once I’ve set my mind on something, and in this instance it was a case of it-her-or-me, and I was determined that to prevail, no matter what.

“Sssh!” the annoying sound came once more as I joyfully popped the sweet into my mouth just as the conductor ascended the podium.

This was more than I could bear. “You are very rude,” I murmured to my neighbor, as she gently hissed away once more.

“Shall we change places?” my Better Half offered, and I assented.

That is why, O people sitting in the rows behind us, two people stood up and changed places just as the orchestra began to play.

 I didn’t cough. No shushing was heard. And the concert passed off very pleasantly, apart from some persistent coughing from other parts of the auditorium.

The Medical Microcosm

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CT, Hadassah Hospital

 

 Undergoing medical tests of various kinds invariably involves spending what seems like endless hours hanging around in hospital waiting rooms and corridors.

Strange as it may seem, the most sophisticated modern medical procedures, engaging equipment almost equivalent to the engine of a jet fighter plane, require imbibing quantities of unpalatable liquids and many hours of waiting, both before and after the procedure.

However, the conditions in which one waits for a CT (CAT scan), at least in Jerusalem’s Hadassah Hospital, can only be defined as something less than salubrious.

A draughty corridor, a few plastic chairs that are insufficient for the number of people waiting to be dealt with, the constant passage of hospital personnel, orderlies wheeling patients in their beds, visitors and sundry passersby, many of them talking loudly on cell phones, provides the setting as one waits for the ultra-modern medical procedure. A small TV screen set high on one of the opposing walls is tuned constantly to the children’s channel, adding further discomfort to the waiting experience.

A minor consolation while one waits is offered by the opportunity to review the varied population that is undergoing the same unpleasant process. Sometimes there is a sense of fellow-feeling among those waiting, while at others a sense of rivalry pervades the atmosphere. Some people seem to be able to get ahead of others in the queue, and those left behind are justifiably resentful, and make no bones about venting their feelings. Occasionally, conversations develop between those left behind, as accompanying persons commiserate with one another about the lengthy wait, the trials and tribulations of even obtaining an appointment in the first place, and the hassle of having to travel long distances in order to get to the hospital, which serves a wide area of Israel.

What seems like an entire Arab clan accompanies an elderly gentleman who is awaiting his turn; a nun wearing a short grey habit and a head-covering that parallels the headdress of religious women of both the Moslem and the Jewish religion accompanies a tall, fair-haired woman who speaks only French; an elderly religious couple focus on the books of psalms in their hands, and assorted men and women of all ages and from all walks of life stare blankly into space, read books or follow the programmes on the children’s TV channel with avid interest. A well-dressed young woman accompanying an older version of herself in a wheelchair conducts an animated conversation in Russian with the attendant nurse, while orderlies stroll past chatting amiably about Facebook in Arabic (I don’t speak Arabic, but I could understand the word ‘Facebook’).

What the hospital waiting corridor presents is a veritable microcosm of Israel’s population in all its various aspects. The conversations, the clothing, the languages spoken, and the general appearance of the assorted individuals waiting in the corridor present a reflection of everything that is both good and bad about Israel’s population – its variety, its sense of fellowship, its rivalries, and its reluctant acceptance of the inevitable.