Do you hear what I hear?

I often wonder: what are those of us that love classical music hearing that others are not?

A few nights ago, my wife was needling me about not having gone out to get a refill of some purified water that she’s fond of. And I had decided that the best way to shut her up was to just go get it, so off I went. I was fairly annoyed as I plumped into the car and flipped on the radio. Some talk radio clown was on, rehashing the same old crap, so grimacing, I punched the FM button. Up comes some NPR drone, prattling something intellectual in that annoying, nasal “uber smart aleck” voice, so cursing, I started tapping each of my radio presets in sequence. Nothing. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. (My teen-age daughter has gotten to the presets, so there’s not much hope I’ll like anything there).

I hit the tune button, and dialed it up to the classical station. And within a half a second, my mood had entirely changed – as if it were an entirely different day. We were halfway thru a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, and after about 30 seconds, I could tell it was a really good performance.

I love the Ninth. I love music of all kinds. I tap my feet, and wave my hands, and shake my hips, and get that urge to stand up and hum and sing and shout. It’s embarrasing (to others – one of the great things about getting older is that I have stopped caring what idiots think – I’m having fun, not hurting anybody). But I really love the Beethoven symphonies – I have my entire life. Not because I’m supposed to, or because I want to, or because it makes me feel superior or exclusive, or because my friends do, or because it makes me feel nostalgic, or because it fits with my philosophy of life – actually, none of these things are true. I love the Ninth involuntarily – because my body and my mind make me.

Back in the day, at Berkeley, I used to retreat to my room, take off my shirt, put on a tape of the Fifth or the Ninth, or one of the Brandenburgs, or Carmina Burana, or the late Mozart symphonies, or Handel's Royal Fireworks Music, and "conduct" it, getting totally into it with my whole body.. How funny is that? :-) Could do the same thing with Van Halen, Bill Monroe, The Irish Descendants, the Seldom Scene, Joan Jett, old Neil, or a million others.

So I turned it way way up, and drove off happily to get my water. I mean "way way up" - loud enough that the car windows were shaking; loud enough that some middle aged guy waiting in the car next to me at the light looked over at me with an annoyed expression, just like I sometimes look at kids playing thump-rap... And I looked back and smiled a fake sweet smile, the same way the kids look back at me, as if to say "too bad, old fart".. :-)

You can tell I’m a good husband because when I got to the store, I went in and got the water even though I was in the middle of listening to this great performance – because I thought the store might close early – Christmas Eve and all. But I got back out pretty quick, and then drove around until it was over. It was really superb – brilliant, dramatic, beautifully paced and performed and played. At the end, you could hear the audience rising as one in enthusiastic, heartfelt ovation.

Later, I googled it – the radio announcer had said that it was Michael Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony, at Davies Hall, last June, and I read some reviews which affirmed that I had indeed heard a special performance.

But my point is this. The music had the power to transform my mood completely – literally in one second, it remade my thinking and my health. If I am ever sick, please play me great music! I could hear in it so clearly Beethoven’s passionate appeal for peace and love, for an end to war, an end to injustice. I could hear Beethoven’s magnificent creativity and genius, his courageous flouting of tradition and expectations, his unrelenting passion, and his utter mastery of the musical language. I could hear the joy of the conductor and the performers – the rough, laughing trumpets, the joyous, angry violins, the rising, battling voices. The sweeping, aggressive pace balanced by the lovingly beautiful clarity of sound. The always-fresh, bold and creative style of Beethoven, a true master who used the simplest of forms in such dynamic, powerful, expressive new ways. His way of returning over and over again to the same simple themes, mixing and advancing them, stripping out the unessentials, purifying them, infusing them with passion – now pounding them into your skull, now toying with the lightest of sound-strokes – has never been equalled, or even really understood. He was so innovative that even after a century of imitators, followed by a century of modern avant garde pretenders, he towers above them; he is still shocking, still “punk”, still a breath of eye-opening inspiration, when listened to. And I wondered – why do so few modern people hear this at all, while it is as plain and obvious to me as can possibly be?

When most people hear this, they seem to be hearing something out of their grandmother’s radio-set – an old, boring, classroom sound. As if it's music in black-and-white, for the frail old lady snoring away in her rocking chair, with lace on the armrests, lilac and dust floating in the air. This is so wrong! Classical music needs to be performed differently – with light-shows, and people screaming and roaring, with alcohol sold at the stadium. Take off the damn suits and admit that it’s not just for falling asleep to, or impressing your date with your high-class tastes, or an expensive, pseudo-sophisticated night out. Christ, what a joke – that the greatest, most powerful examples of the art that drives our popular culture are treated like about-to-break museum pieces, only shown with kid gloves and absolute silence.

That’s why I liked Vanessa Mae. My, I loved how she came out in those skimpy little outfits, and played like she was seducing the audience, as if her music was GOOD! I loved one performance I remember, where she literally sashayed in front of some guest of honor – beautiful, marvelously talented, writhing aggressively before his bewitched eyes, while his date sat angrily next to him, glaring at the little bitch, restraining herself. If classical music isn’t dangerous and fun and great and new, it’s being done wrong.

I love myself

This evening, I had occasion to google "ideasware", to check on all the little digital fingerprints I leave all over the place. As some of you (if a tree falls in the forest... ) may know, I run an identity theft protection company, and it is sometimes useful to know what sort of information that interested folks could and would dig up on you if they tried.

So down somewhere on the list, I ran across my profile on imeem, which is probably cool and useful, but which I never use. I have a vague idea that it's for posting videos or tracking your connection to memes, or something. Believe me, I have no time or interest. I can barely take a photo. I do enjoy thinking that I'm sort of a genius when it comes to making movies or commercials -- sort of a diamond-in-the-rough Beethoven of the pictorial story -- but I have no evidence for this, and it's clearly a ridiculous conceit.

So anyway, I am reading the profile, and I come across what I entered as my favorite quote. Here it is.

>> Those who forget whatever it is have something happen to them.

God, I crack myself up.