Going to the Symphony on Drugs
A ‘thought experiment’ and a mind-blowing 13th century hymn on the murder of Christ
Image above: Pieta, 1876, William Adolphe-Bouguereau
Justin Panson I’m sitting a few rows from the stage where an orchestra and choir of maybe 150 is arrayed in a great semicircle that runs 8-deep. All eyes fix on a trim white haired man in tux and tails who strides with great formality from the wings and climbs the conductor’s stand. He executes a slow dramatic arm gesture that awakens the violins into a quiet, foreboding melody that rises a little more each time it comes around again. The conductor is now moving his arms with intention, signaling other instrument groups to insert little phrases into the main flow of this gloomy sound. I close my eyes and wonder if I’m in some kind of medieval dungeon? The choir enters with a sustained opening note, ominous and low and then climbing up and up. Their first line is a haymaker: “Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine,” meaning “May eternal light shine on them, Lord.” Such a reductive sentiment cuts to the heart of human hopes in this fucked up fatalistic life. The gravity and volume of the choir is transfixing, so many synchronized voices, trading and mingling with the instruments, projecting a massive sound. According to the Sacramento Choral Society introductory remarks, Stabat Mater is rarely performed in the U S of A. Czech composer Antonin Dvorak’s 1877 version is one of 30 symphonic interpretations penned by a who's who of composers dating back eight centuries. The story imagines the Virgin Mary's grief after the slaying of Christ—a mother’s grief. It is a moody, heavy piece in 10 movements. When I looked up Stabat Mater there were several death metal links at the top of the search results, highlighting the unlikely connection between medieval classicism and certain history-minded metalheads who have tapped into the dark gothic sensibility. *Death Metal hand gesture emoji here* https://photos.app.goo.gl/XK2Pepf5qQohdE539
Looking around you see most people are dressed up tonight—the symphony is the ultimate adulting experience—you put on the blazer, the dress, the good manners, and you roll out to the big concert hall for a fancy evening. In a time when formality is mostly gone from our culture, this event and its attendant rules of engagement are a throwback. Beyond the formality and aesthetic joy of the music you have to appreciate the intricacies of how it is put together, how so many different parts and instruments and people are precisely coordinated—woodwinds, strings, the big tubas and kettle drums, the singers and horns, on and on, each chiming in with a unique layer of sound. And there is the sense of the antiquity that transports you back through centuries Orchestral symphonic music as we know it traces to eighteenth century Italy, having evolved from operatic and devotional forms. But honestly, my understanding doesn’t extend much beyond cartoonish popular notions, those images of the great composers in overly serious portraiture and powdered wigs—Vivaldi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Mendleson, Brahms, the Russian romantic Tchaikovsky. Come on, I’m a guy who grew up listening to arena rock hair bands in the 1980s, worlds away from the great opera houses on the “continent.” For centuries the symphony was pop music, and I catch myself wondering what connections there are, if any, between early music and the evershifting, overlapping genres we call pop music today? I’m comfortable with my lack of knowledge in this niche area, but it does present the practical problem of not knowing when to clap, as there are many breaks where nobody claps. But tonight ignorance is bliss as I’m sitting in the center of this powerful experience—losing myself in the joy and emotion of the music. Channeling the twisted antics of Hunter S. Thompson, I had pregamed a square of psychoactive mushroom chocolate which kicked in early in the program. I took a dosage that I knew would be “manageable” for an experienced argonaut, not likely to produce visual effects or risk any kind of strange disruptions. After several recent enjoyable visits to the symphony in a sober state this seemed like an interesting “thought experiment,” a bit of an altered state to augment the musical enjoyments. As things went along, the psilocybin did seem to allow me to get inside of the music, a portal of sorts into a different kind of dimensionality and power. Periodic mental accelerations flared up like gasoline thrown on the fire of the mind. The music animated and organized patterns of thought and sensibility, a spiral staircase of sound, accentuating the crescendos and the sense of plunging downward from great heights. There was a strange narration happening amid the patterns of tension and release. In my own mind I seemed to comprehend the intent and the pathos, although my descriptions here seem insufficient. Near the midway point, three soloists took their places in front of the orchestra and then launched into intertwining arias to the heavens. It is impressive that such a piercing sound can be forced so skillfully from human lungs. I became fixated on a rather buxom woman soloist, and my addled mind drifted into a subroutine about why a fat lady singing is supposed to signal some sort of conclusion—Green Dragon nonsense! And then I thought about my dad who throughout his life was a loyal symphony patron. He might be happy that his affections have been transmitted down the bloodlines, and also probably spinning in his grave at my psychedelic dalliance. In the early years he would drag his three sons to matinees at the Syria Mosque in Pittsburgh, before our eventual rebellion against these forced marches. The old man’s symphonic interests tracked with old European ideas of refinement and superiority in the social order, very much in keeping with his connections to academe and other high culture trappings. Taking note of the audience of maybe a few thousand, it struck me how stoic we all were, sitting politely, expressionless, processing such an operatic spectacle with no visible reaction. Unlike rock shows where you shake your ass or sportsball where you hoot and holler, this was a completely internalized experience, betraying nothing of the dark emotion of the crucifixion nor the depths of maternal sorrow that are the program’s thesis. What sort of outrageous musings could possibly be spinning in the heads of my fellow stone faced patrons? What ghosts had come to haunt their thoughts? Centuries of Christian devotion have led to this moment in the Safe Credit Union Performing Arts Center. Although I am not religious in any traditional sense, the power and nobility of this experience carries a strong appeal. It’s not about the Good Book or the monotheistic doctrine or supernatural magic. More than religion itself, what really gets me is witnessing the devotion of the devout, the plaintiff sound of devotion. Thinking about the people who were true believers who had nothing else but their prayers is devastatingly beautiful! And then a mean bit of context interrupts my wandering ecstasies, a vision of the suffering of the masses across the hot, starving, mad, brutal, zero-sum globe…while we sit politely in our fineries having this lovely experience in the seat of California Empire. And then just as quickly, musings on the widened perspective of this experience, suggesting the transcendental—Emerson, Thoreau, Muir, Whitman. I contain multitudes indeed! The words of their beatnik disciple echo back to me: “Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world.” —Jack Kerouac A series of dramatic flourishes crashes down and then with a whisper the music comes to an end. There is a sustained standing ovation and flowers are presented to the soloists, and then the house lights come up, helping me to reorient. I exit and mingle with the blue hair crowd in the brutalist concrete lobby. ‘Blue hair? ’The little fact checking voice snaps back against this generational slur, ‘Who you calling blue hair, blue hair?’ Pleasant small talk, families and friends congratulating and hugging the performers, upbeat energy all around. I think maybe I would get a chance to meet a few people, but I wander around the carpeted interior like a lone wolf who doesn’t know what prey he is stalking. I am an interloper camouflaged in a sport coat, and the subculture of symphony nerds proves impenetrable to one who is usually good at talking with strangers in less lofty venues. How to end this little narrative in which I have employed drugs as a cheap hook into a stodgy topic? I wander out of the concert hall into the early spring night. I am solo as my wife is out of town visiting our youngest daughter. I think of them, hoping they are having fun. This is the warm fuzzy part of coming down. The music echoes in my imagination and the lights of K Street seem like a twinkling menagerie. I unlock my bike and pedal eastward down K, disappearing through a firmament into the awaiting transcendental evening. March 2, 2024 |
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