The Dance of Damnation

I went to see a concert at Alice Tully Hall, a chamber music part of Lincoln Center, last night. I've never been in that particular hall until last night.

The main performer was Natalia Gutman, a famous cellist who studied under Rostropovich. She was accompanied by the violinist Slava Moroz and the pianist Dmitri Shteinberg.

The concert began with J.S. Bach's Suite for Cello Solo No. 3 inC major, BWV 1009.

It was a mesmerizing performance. For the first time in a really long while, I was really forced to *listen*. Don't get me wrong; I love classical music and enjoy going to good concerts. But usually, I allow the music to flow over me, and dissolve in the pleasure of the performance. I don't listen actively, because classical music always has a relaxing, mellowing effect on me. There were two things very, very different about this particular piece. First of all, I've never heard a cello solo. Somehow, I failed to realize that this instrument has an individual personality. It's that voice of support we, amateurs, often forget about out - until it turns out that it can stand on its own and make us hear what it has to say.

It's the soft-spoken that capture our attention once they finally decide to speak up. So I have a newly gained respect for this instrument's voice. There's something pure in it, something, which makes one think about every note. The amazing effect was magnified by the many shades of silence surrounding it. A piano has so many voices of its own that it's practically an orchestra in its own kind. And of course, real orchestras drown out everything around them with the multitude of sounds and short pauses. But with a cello solo, you suddenly grow aware of the intense, rich silence, a silence that is not merely lack of sounds, but which is an instrument of its own kind, a perfect complement to the cello.

I listen to the silence. It is complete, and inside it, in the center, sings the silver voice of the cello. Its simplicity is enchanting. I am trying to understand what the silence is telling me. I've long since realized that music isn't simply music, it's "about" something, it has a wordless story to tell. But what about the silence? It is so palpable, that it must be "about" something as well! And so I listen. I listen to both, to the sound, and to the lack of sound. And they comprise a perfect harmony.

This deceptively simple piece is followed by Trio No. 3, in C Minor, a composition by Brahms. The trio provides a striking contrast to the preceding piece. It is like listening to three old friends gather and talk about three different things. The cello seems to be kvetching about the fate of a housewife, who works so hard to make her house a comfortable home, but is forgotten about, simply because she's so unglamourous. The sweet high-pitched voice of the violin is like the voice of a young girl, venturing out into the big scary world for the first time.

The sighs and pessimistic grumblings of the cello do not discourage her. She's filled with so much hope and excitement for the future that she cannot force herself to stop and consider more pragmatic aspects of life. And the piano sings in the low bass of a man, whose life is intertwined with everything around him, interweaved into a million separate tales of passion and what comes after. The piano has its own story to tell... and the moments when the three voices finally meet, are filled with the exquisite joy of three old friends who've finally learned to understand each other. All throughout, no matter what troubles befall our trio, the threesome manages to break through their separate problems and unite into a humorous, optimistic thrill - life may be difficult and scary, but there's always something of note to laugh about.

Schubert's Arpeggione Sonata in A minor, D. 821, was a lovely continuation to the theme, epitomizing everything that I love about this composer's music. The Sonata is a gentle mixture of tenderness and subdued ardor, like the bright sparkling drops of a brook, playing under the early rays of a spring sun. Here, there's no dissonance at all. The three instruments unite into one multifaceted voice, a voice which gurgles and bubbles, a voice which express an awakening. It is a voice of comfort; it is the way we imagine love itself. It may not turn out the way we think of it, but that is what we see and hear in its early, hopeful days. The Sonata is a great way to lift one's mood. Just thinking of it brings a smile to my face. It is a little naive and childlike perhaps - but it certainly makes the world a more exciting and joyful place to be.

Imagine how this lovelorn voice is swiped away when Shostakovich's Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor rears its ominous head! As the story goes, this trio is inspired by Jewish musical themes and a Holocaust motif of the Nazis forcing the Jews to dance before their own graves, massacring them afterwards. It is a dark, threatening piece, intense and exciting. It keeps one awake, blending one's thoughts with the melody. The violin especially is superb. There's a moment when the violin is being violently plucked, and another time, when one can hear it *stomping*. Of the four pieces performed at the concert, this trio is the most visual and the most frightenting.

It is the last movement of the trio, which gives it its almost supernatural character. The Jewish themes are familiar and painful; there is something of a hellish distortion to the lamenting, violent tunes. It is a scary, scary movement, and for the first time in years, I've been genuinely *awed* by this music, if one can call this composition by such a name. I've been known to sit on the edge of my seat at concerts, gasping and out of breath with excitement. I've been known to run across the room when alone, unable to contain the overwhelming feelings. I've been known to replay music time after time, because of its beauty, its richness. This piece is different, however. It is menacing, it brings with it the seeds of vengeance, which one day, will bloom and bring forth a terrible fruit. The terrible dance I imagine, as I listen to the last movement, is a damning dance.

It brings to mind the biblical story of Cain and Abel.
What always terrified me about the story was when God called out to Cain and informed him that the voice of Abel's blood is calling to him from the ground. I think that is the single most frightening line in all of the Torah. It made me tremble, though I was innocent, it made me realize that no evil deed passes unnoticed. You can call it God's omniscience, or karma, or whatever you want, but it is a scary, humbling concept to contemplate. A reflection of this theme is evident in the last movement of this trio. The dance is filled with the terrible quality of knowledge and awareness of what is coming to pass. The dance is a damning dance, and it will surely echo to the murderers somewhere down the road. The curse, with which the dance is filled, is more frightening than any revenge which has been known to materialized. It is the ultimate measure... somewhere, I've heard, that placing a curse, even on one's enemies, is a really, really bad thing to do, and one shouldn't do it. I couldn't quite understand why... but the music, filling me with a heavy weight of apprehension, finally opened my eyes.

I cannot explain the feeling of awe, which came over me... but I'll think twice before damning someone!

I hope never to see what happens to those, who called this dance upon them.

If I knew how to pray, at this point, a prayer for the souls of the evil once would have been most appropriate.

Instead, all I can do is to beg for peace for the souls of the ones, who danced that terrible dance.

Terrified,
Irina