K. 344 Zaide, Rase schiksal wüte immer

Rase schiksal wüte immer

I was in stationed in Ft. Stewart Georgia. It was November, around the time of my birthday. I was informed that I was volunteered for a BS (the cuss word, not an Army acronym) training mission. I found out last minute I was going to spend a week or two at an airbase. Just before, I had learned that—do to a clerical error—I didn’t get my promotion to Sgt.

So, I was on the air base. The training concerned securing an enemy airbase. I was drive the Hummer out of a C-5 and provide support for the paratroopers. The actual mission was going to use Bradley, but they wanted to get a feel for the mission with Hummers first. (To me that was like practicing basketball with a football.)

We were there. Staying on the runway. The C-5 (the world’s largest plane) was yards from us. I was too bitter to appreciate the machinery, and the fact that I was going to drive a Hummer in and out of the funky opening front hatch. I was also going to get to watch paratroopers jump out of it.

But, I was miserable. And, my misery only grew. Because, I was not a Sgt, I was put on guard duty, to guard the infantry guys’ Bradleys. Whereas the Sgt assigned with us went to PLDC with me. I should have gotten my Sgt rank at the same time as him. So, I did my shift, sitting in a truck, staring at the massive plane. My teeth probably gnashed like a cud-chewing cow. The next day came, but our mission wasn’t until the night. We did nearly nothing all day. The day of my birthday. Then, night came. The belly the plane was at least as big as a basketball court. We had to take a latter to the second story (not level) or maybe it was more like the third. The thing was huge.

After we parked our Hummer and strapped it down, we buckled in and took off. I was ready for this mission to be done. But, I had days left. The plane rode smooth, not shaky. That didn’t matter. I’d never been motion sick, well at least not to a certain point. To add to my misery, you probably know what happened next. I filled an airsick bag. That’s just the way everything had to go. An hour passed. As we circled the air waiting for the paratroopers to surround the airfield, I was feeling better. Dreadfully thirsty, I needed water. At the top of the plane, I drank a lot of water. I returned to our hummer and sat on the driver’s seat waiting. My stomach started its lurching, churning motions. I filled another airsick bag. Just as I finished, the lights went out. Everything was dark.  It was time to land. After closing my airsick bag, I hastily placed it on the radio shelf next to my seat…

As soon as the feet of the plane's wheels struck the airstrip, I jumped out of the vehicle to unstrap it. We practiced this drill from the landed plane. Mission required that every man, truck and weapon rush out, so the plane could get out of target range. I did my part. Once everyone was done releasing the truck, we were to drive out of the plane. I opened the door, and jumped into the truck with the Army sense of urgency.

Pop. The same pop you hear when you pop a bread bag.

I cringed. I retched. I cussed (I was known in my platoon as the one who didn’t cuss). My thighs and rear were soaked. My TC shouted ‘go.’ And I drove out, sitting in my own vomit. The landing had rattled my airsick bag of the shelf.  Of course, it landed on my seat. Not the floor, but my seat. The rest of the mission continued. I surrendered. “You know what,” I told myself. “Being miserable is not going to make anything better.” I was right. I laughed. I let myself realize, how lucky I’d been to even get to have this experience. And, having done it while not in a real combat.

The next day we left, because they used Bradley's for the next practice run instead. I was only gone for three days. And, I got this great story out of the experience.

So, why do I tell this story for the aria Rase schiksal wüte immer. Gomatz is in a state of complete misery. (My experience is nothing compared to what he was going through.) He believes fate is against him. Then, he wakes. He wakes with a portrait of a beautiful woman in his hand. And now, this shield (her picture) will protect him from fate’s anger. Having seen it brings him enough joy to endure impending misery. The music reflects these emotions well. I wouldn’t call it merry, but the music of someone whose has discovered the thing that will get him through.

Truth: We can always find an excuse to be miserable. And we often do. This music is that of one who doesn’t want to cling to the misery of his miserable situation. Music that is desperate to push it away. When Mozart wrote Zaide, did he have something in his life akin to Zaide’s picture? Or, was Rase schiksal wüte immer a cry for a misery-chasing hope to come into his life? Did the commission of Idomeneo give him that hope, thus he scrapped (or at least gave up on) the Zaide project?

Zaide K. 344, Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt

Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt

Mozart failed. His mission, find a job. Find a job that would support his family, or his father’s family, if you will. All the while, he likely had these grand schemes of what he would do with is life—with his musical career.  His mother died on the journey. His father held it over him. The woman he loved, or thought he loved, dumped him. Had he been tormenting himself? "If only I had traveled with the Webers, and let my mother go home, instead of going to Paris. Mom would still be alive. Aloysia would be my wife. And, I’d most certainly have found a career."

Who knows? 

Then, as the Zaide period in his life continued, how did he believe others looked at him? The mocking? Laughing crowds? “Silly, goofy Mozart. Needs his father to coddle him. Can’t do anything himself. Can’t get anything right, but belt out a lovely tune from time-to-time.” I wonder if he thought that people had a hard time taking him seriously.

Oh those mocking voices. We’ve all heard them.  How can I talk of mockers without mocking? Haven’t we all taken part? We gather with a group of cronies telling stories of the stupid things people do. We laugh and delight. “Man at least I’m not that dumb.” In reality, I wonder if we’re actually thankful there are stupid people out there doing stupid things, so we can look at them and feel better at ourselves.  (Maybe, the TV industry has made a nice profit from such mentalities.) But, then what of those who do something we believe is stupid because of their values? It’s one thing to disagree and even be saddened (or maddened), but another to mock and laugh and their perceived ignorance.

Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt. Osmin’s Aria. The galloping of this marry tune… The voice of a man who gets great satisfaction over the failures of others. He enjoys his rival’s misery. Even in the music of Sultan Soliman, I hear the voice of a hurt person, who does not want to be cruel, but feels he has know other option. With Osmin’s aria, Mozart perfectly and powerfully demonstrates the belittling voice of a mocker. The incorporation of the laughter—the rotten cherry on top a mayo sundae.

K. 344 Zaide, Ruhe Sanft

Right now, I’m on a Zaide kick. I’ve been working on a project centering on the Opera for about a year now. I’m getting close to revealing it. So, since I’m studying it like a prized buckskin paint yearling (horse terms: a beautiful colored horse that if has a great disposition could sell for a high price), I’d thought comment on each of the songs.  I even bought a CD for this one, makes it easier to listen to it all the time. 

 I’ve already commented on the cantor so the next song is Ruhe Sanft. First, I must say this song drew me to the Zaide opera. The most beautiful opera aria. Ruhe Sanft makes Shubert’s Ave Maria sound like a commercial jingle. When I first heard it, its beauty insisted that I find its origin. And, then when I read that it came from an opera that had never been finished—from a work scrapped and thrown into a slush pile—my gut coliced (a twisting stomach condition that can kill a horse). How could something so precious have just been thrown out?  From there, I had to know why. Why did Mozart stop working on it? I’ve read various theories, all likely to have some truth to them. But, I’m just talking about the song right now, not the opera. 

 We’ve taking in a foreign exchange student from Indonesia. And, the other day we were at a fellow host family’s home. Their student was from Germany. So, I thought I’d be clever and say Ruhe Sanft. She couldn’t understand what I was saying. I forgot that they actually use all their letters. None of that silent sound stuff.  (I did spent two years in Germany, but they spoiled me there, for I didn’t need to learn any German to get by.) She said it was rue heh not rue. Then, ad the accent and, well, I didn’t get it quite right. You’d think that for as many times as I’ve listened to the song, I’d have gotten it right. That baffles me all the more, how could the most beautiful song come from what many consider a… a… rough language.

Maybe, sometimes, the roughest, harshest environments produced the purest beauty. (Not trying to sound like a hippy.) 

First, let’s start with the opening. The sweetest opening to the sweetest aria. Such sorrow filled longing right from the start. Mozart tells the world, Zaide knows what she wants, but knows she can never have it. Plucking strings are tears. The notes ask, ‘Would I be better off never having known, or has seeing given me the a joy that can sustain me.’  The notes wrestle with the old adage, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, then…’ yada, not convinced they agree. 

Then, the soprano voice seems to wish, the wishing turns to pleading. Selfless pleads, begging not for her wellbeing, but for the one she loves. By her voice alone, I wonder if I could have guessed she was giving away her only possession, in order that it may revive the receiver.  If the words to this song were a dear and the music was an arrow, Mozart would have pierced the heart. Did he have Aloysia Weber in mind when he wrote the song? It was about the right time. The girl he wanted. The one his father chased him away from. The one who rejected him when he returned. 

After the first theme, the music shifts from pleading/wishing to a daydream state. It imagines what could be. I have that kind of daydreaming all the time. I picture, what would happen if… Sometimes I chide myself, and say things akin to, ‘stop dreaming, start doing.’ But, this second theme says, ‘let yourself dream. Why not if it brings you joy?’ A bit of the cantor creeps in and whispers, ‘you can’t make it any different.’

K. 40, Piano Concerto No. 3

Onto another partial Piano (or harpsichord) Concert.  The third movement was a C. P. E. Bach inspired work, whom Mozart said was an influncial master. How many of us seek out that influence? That one creative force that speaks to us. And, how can we let that influence transform us practically? That's my curse. I've attached myself to impractical influences.

Anyway, back to K. 40. Another nice piece. (Am I so bias that I have psyched myself out of not liking a work? I don't know.) For some reason, the first movement reminded me of Mozart's Sonata for Two Pianos K. 448 (First movement). It didn't sound quite the same, but had that feel. It was mostly bright with just a hint of shadows. The second movement was like a peaceful set sighs, some discontent. And, the third, felt like various sets of waves. And ebb and flow of both clam and vibrant waters. The music surge forward with lurching reaches, and then collapsed back on itself, smoothing out the sand.

K. 39, Piano Concerto No. 2

K. 39, Piano Concerto No. 2

I wrestle with how many words I want to devote to this ditty. I like it.  It was, as an old preschool teacher would say, very lovely.  But, I wrestle with its Mozartian purity.  If the first set of piano concerts were young Mozart’s dabblings using other people’s work, how much should I chew on it? I listened to the piece for a few hours as I cleaned the house the other day. It worked great for helping my efforts, which one could take as either good or bad.  The music, particularly the first and third act, energized.  Light lively stuff.    Kind of what some people think of when they think of Mozart.  Even the slower second, had a hint of drama, but was still more peace-lashing and less trial-tinkering. Yet… It was single layered.  When I write, I like to listen to classical music. It stirs the right moods. It invokes.  All while not distracting… I’m listening to this concerto right now as I write. And, I don’t want distracting songs. But… It is the distracting songs that I remember. The ones I have to stop what I’m doing. I have to listen to. No matter how many times I’ve heard. The songs that stir something in my gullet.  

So if you’re asking, whether or not I like the piece? I do. I like it very much.  I just can’t really describe what it does to me. Gives me energy? Yeah, but simply saying, ‘this song energizes’, doesn’t seem like much of a blog blurb.