Why Did You Do This?
Something about encountering genuine punk culture is confrontational to me. Not in the traditional sense that one would tend to think of punk as being confrontational, that is, not in the “Fuck you, Parents, I’m going to tear holes in my pants and get a tattoo!” sense, but in the more progressive punk culture that seems to have found a way to successfully live in opposition to the oppressive/repressive authoritarian mainstream. For instance, these squats in Berlin that actually exist and actually are squats with permanent status. People actually did countercultural things that worked and weren’t just fashion statements or mere aesthetic exercises. Since I tend to be of an intellectualefitist ilk that is simultaneously outraged and ambivalent I always discount any given political (or even quasi-political) movement and move on to some other “hopeful” method of opting out, and always keep moving on ("Call that going. Call that on."), until eventually I just opt in after all (e.g. go to Graduate school), and at least try to not feel too bad about through a program of self-awareness and ironicization and/or pragmatism.
The above, though, is an incomplete picture. I think about this sort of thing a lot, and a large part of the problem – if my not being punk is a problem – is simply that my artistic tastes are exceedingly highbrow (I again remind readers that I am the one of mild interester that doesn’t particularly care for John Adams (in order to example that my tastes are counter-populist)). So there I was, the next day after visiting Subversiv Squat, back in the Philharmonie for another Staatskapelle concert. Once again it was Barenboim conducting, but also this time playing piano on Mozart’s 25th Concerto for the first half of the concert, followed by Bruckner’s 8th Symphony. I guess Barenboim was on something of a Bruckner kick – I’d have to look back through his concert season to see if he conducted other pieces as well.
I’ll again split off any music-specific thoughts into a separate post (with a continuing interest in what exactly is “mild enough to print”), but I would mention that I prefer Barenboim the pianist to Barenboim the conductor. Actually I very thoroughly enjoyed the performance of the Mozart Concerto; it was played very appropriately, I thought, and just sounded great – exactly what I think modern performances of Mozart Concertos should sound like. The image we are given these days of what Mozart the man himself was like involves a great deal of him constantly having music running through his head – one would hope that his brain invented emotionally appropriate music for various contexts, but for spans of time where I just feel generally pleasant, this music would do finely.
It’s Pfingstenwochenende here in Germany – Pentecost, I guess, is a big deal, or a big enough deal, at any rate, for a long weekend (give the Holy Ghost plenty of time to go shooting through all of us with its holy fire, right? (the kind of time that we should give Santa Claus on Christmas – three full days)). Berlin, as you may know, is industry-less, and is essentially a destination for governmental business and tourism, and little else. The town is crawling with Pfingstenreisers, since, apparently (this is according to my teacher) Pentecost is also a very popular travel-weekend. It may have to do with the weather – it’s absolutely gourgeous here, and I guess early May is when the weather gets nice for the first time after Winter up/over here.
Since it’s my second summer in Berlin, I feel that much less like a tourist, and accordingly despise the tourists (especially because the Staatsoper’s performance of Tristan and Isolde on Pentecost Monday was sold out before I even got here, thanks to all the damn tourists, who will not unenjoy themselves therein nearly as deeply as I would have unenjoyed myself). There was a very different crowd as well in the Philharmonie – much more casually dressed, and hopefully unprepared for the abject breadth of Bruckner’s 8th.
The old (German) man who I sat next to seemed to be the real thing – or the real something, anyway. Any time the timpanist played during the entire performance of Bruckner’s 8th (not necessarily all that often), he would lean forward in his chair (blocking my view (I had a seat just to the stage right of the stage, in the second row (affording an excellent view of the hall, but not a great view, necessarily, of the orchestra, despite being close to it))), and watch only the timpanist, in an obvious state of excitement. During the applause, when Barenboim pointed to the timpanist to stand (just about everyone that wasn’t a section string player got at least one chance to stand for their own applause) the old man shouted “Jawohl, jawohl!” several times. The guy was pretty old – like, maybe in his late 70s into his 80s. I could think of three possible explanations of his behavior (it being Bruckner’s 8th, I had plenty of time to consider the options (I dislike old people, so despite my curiosity did not ask him after the concert about his behavior)):
1) His grandson was the timpanist. This would make sense – he’s there to see his grandson, purchased a seat with an excellent view of the timpanist, and was of course very excited to see his progeny’s progeny flail at the calf skins.
2) He used to be a timpanist when he was younger. Before he totally loses his grip on reality, his caretakers brought him to one last concert to see and remember what he used to be. It was as though he was watching himself earlier in his own life playing there on the stage, and this was the cause for his excitement.
3) He was full-blown senile. Seriously. I’ve never seen an old person act so ridiculously about something as ridiculous as the timpani.
I eventually decided to go with Number 3 there as my conclusion, but that may just have been because I was bored into a state of greater-than-usual mean-spiritedness by the 3rd movement. If anything, it helps to remind me that I can be just as uncomfortable in the environs of the high culture as I can be in the counter-. Although, now I feel like I’m claiming to always be uncomfortable, and that’s not right either – perhaps it will just take more posts (more concerts) to figure this all out.
The above, though, is an incomplete picture. I think about this sort of thing a lot, and a large part of the problem – if my not being punk is a problem – is simply that my artistic tastes are exceedingly highbrow (I again remind readers that I am the one of mild interester that doesn’t particularly care for John Adams (in order to example that my tastes are counter-populist)). So there I was, the next day after visiting Subversiv Squat, back in the Philharmonie for another Staatskapelle concert. Once again it was Barenboim conducting, but also this time playing piano on Mozart’s 25th Concerto for the first half of the concert, followed by Bruckner’s 8th Symphony. I guess Barenboim was on something of a Bruckner kick – I’d have to look back through his concert season to see if he conducted other pieces as well.
I’ll again split off any music-specific thoughts into a separate post (with a continuing interest in what exactly is “mild enough to print”), but I would mention that I prefer Barenboim the pianist to Barenboim the conductor. Actually I very thoroughly enjoyed the performance of the Mozart Concerto; it was played very appropriately, I thought, and just sounded great – exactly what I think modern performances of Mozart Concertos should sound like. The image we are given these days of what Mozart the man himself was like involves a great deal of him constantly having music running through his head – one would hope that his brain invented emotionally appropriate music for various contexts, but for spans of time where I just feel generally pleasant, this music would do finely.
It’s Pfingstenwochenende here in Germany – Pentecost, I guess, is a big deal, or a big enough deal, at any rate, for a long weekend (give the Holy Ghost plenty of time to go shooting through all of us with its holy fire, right? (the kind of time that we should give Santa Claus on Christmas – three full days)). Berlin, as you may know, is industry-less, and is essentially a destination for governmental business and tourism, and little else. The town is crawling with Pfingstenreisers, since, apparently (this is according to my teacher) Pentecost is also a very popular travel-weekend. It may have to do with the weather – it’s absolutely gourgeous here, and I guess early May is when the weather gets nice for the first time after Winter up/over here.
Since it’s my second summer in Berlin, I feel that much less like a tourist, and accordingly despise the tourists (especially because the Staatsoper’s performance of Tristan and Isolde on Pentecost Monday was sold out before I even got here, thanks to all the damn tourists, who will not unenjoy themselves therein nearly as deeply as I would have unenjoyed myself). There was a very different crowd as well in the Philharmonie – much more casually dressed, and hopefully unprepared for the abject breadth of Bruckner’s 8th.
The old (German) man who I sat next to seemed to be the real thing – or the real something, anyway. Any time the timpanist played during the entire performance of Bruckner’s 8th (not necessarily all that often), he would lean forward in his chair (blocking my view (I had a seat just to the stage right of the stage, in the second row (affording an excellent view of the hall, but not a great view, necessarily, of the orchestra, despite being close to it))), and watch only the timpanist, in an obvious state of excitement. During the applause, when Barenboim pointed to the timpanist to stand (just about everyone that wasn’t a section string player got at least one chance to stand for their own applause) the old man shouted “Jawohl, jawohl!” several times. The guy was pretty old – like, maybe in his late 70s into his 80s. I could think of three possible explanations of his behavior (it being Bruckner’s 8th, I had plenty of time to consider the options (I dislike old people, so despite my curiosity did not ask him after the concert about his behavior)):
1) His grandson was the timpanist. This would make sense – he’s there to see his grandson, purchased a seat with an excellent view of the timpanist, and was of course very excited to see his progeny’s progeny flail at the calf skins.
2) He used to be a timpanist when he was younger. Before he totally loses his grip on reality, his caretakers brought him to one last concert to see and remember what he used to be. It was as though he was watching himself earlier in his own life playing there on the stage, and this was the cause for his excitement.
3) He was full-blown senile. Seriously. I’ve never seen an old person act so ridiculously about something as ridiculous as the timpani.
I eventually decided to go with Number 3 there as my conclusion, but that may just have been because I was bored into a state of greater-than-usual mean-spiritedness by the 3rd movement. If anything, it helps to remind me that I can be just as uncomfortable in the environs of the high culture as I can be in the counter-. Although, now I feel like I’m claiming to always be uncomfortable, and that’s not right either – perhaps it will just take more posts (more concerts) to figure this all out.
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