K. 219, Violin Concerto No. 5, The 3rd Movement, Rondeau - Tempo di Minuetto

I've spoken in various places about how this movement pulled me into the world of Mozart. Yet, I've not written a post about it. Why? I don't know. I guess, I wanted the words about it to fully capture the music's brilliance. I thought I would just need wait until I honed my writing. Or, learned something about music. Or... Maybe, I was just scared. Scared of sharing the feelings it evokes. Regardless of why I waited, I am going to tell the world (the tiny hint of eyes that may actually read it after they've come here) why this is my favorite Mozart Movement. 

Remember that hyperventaled excitement at your first discovery of a new pursuit. That youthful confidence, "I'm going to be a firefighter, when I grow up." And, all those adults listened. They encouraged. They were proud. "Good for you." "You do that." Did they really believe it?

Now remember a time when you thought a loved one could do no wrong? Your hero. The child wonderment, "My dad can beat your dad..." Could have anything made Leopold prouder than the day young Mozart said that he wanted to be a great violinist? Like his dad... Father and son discovering music together.

The third Movement sings a reminiscing song. "I remember those days." It says... As do I. I remember sitting behind the typewriter my parents got me for Christmas, facing a wall of crumbling plaster, writing for hours. Escaping into my own world. I remember My father, brother and sister, riding bareback in the corals, trying to knock each other off our horses: horse wrestling. I remember wanting to be a cowboy. The opening violin solo. remembers such memories.  Yes, I was going to be a cowboy and a writer (and stuntman too, but that's neither here nor there). And, Mozart was going to be the greatest violinist in all of Europe. (He clearly had the potential.) "Those were the days." The first concerto chunk sighs. Only hints suggest, "Maybe all wasn't as I thought it was..."

I don't think it is that life necessarily gets worse, I simply think we begin to see events clearer. That is the point at which tones turn from major key to minor key. The music shifts. Darkening, the orchestra strikes. Frantic, the violin fights back. "Oh. I didn't see this coming. What am I going to do?" With a scourging percussion effect, bows lash the lower strings, trying to beat down the violin. Reality is sparing with perception.

As he wrote this concerto, reality was surely sparring with Mozart. Watching his father battle the politics of Colloredo and company, Mozart must have lost some respect for his father. Even if he agreed with Leopold in plight, did he resent the results? What bad words circulated Salzburg about Leopold? How had Leopold's pressures on Mozart to weighed on him? "You need to get a good job, to support us." Did Mozart begin to see that maybe his father wasn't concerned about Mozart's dreams?

Ebbing and flowing the orchestra and the violin spar. Slowing... Wearing... Until exhausted, the violin declares victory, but only by redefining the terms. Like a teenager refusing to come out of his room, after a parent told him to go to his room.  I try to contemplate why Mozart did no other Violin Concerto's after this. In fact, his violin work all together greatly diminished. Was it to stick it to his father? To Salzburg, they loved the violin concertos.  Or, was this concerto so great, Mozart didn't think he could top it?  (I like to think that because it makes me feel all uppity.)

And so, can I relate. It's hard to know when I began to loose respect for my father, but I'm pretty sure I knew a date when it was gone. We'd had a particularly harsh winter--not as if South Dakota is famous for its winters. Bills for feeding the horses mounted. Dad came home crying. Really crying. "I don't know what we're going to do?" We didn't have the money to cover everything. He got on the phone calling various government agencies and what not, for help. After chewing out various officials, he put his head on the table and sobbed. My brother, my sister and I stood there watching. They were scared. I was mad. Then my dad turned to us and said, "I love you." My brother and sister said, "I loved you too." They hugged him. I just stood in the corner. Gnashing my teeth. Vile thoughts lashing through my head, with accompanying expletives. "Get rid of the horses." "Stop drinking." "Stop smoking." "You brought this on us." Gnashing my teeth, I stood there watching the three cry...

I won't say it was from that day on, but slowly I began to hate anything related to the 'Cowboy Way'. And, above all, I hated horses. Moreover, I was always the one put on the bullheaded steeds. Maybe being a pissed off teen helped me handle them.

Writing became my only positive pursuit. Of course, reality sparred with that perception as well. I was well into my junior year, and hadn't done very well in high school. The 'what are you going to do with your life' lectures bombarded me. My answer was simple. "I'm going to be a writer." "Ah, well. Ok. But what are you going to do to make money." I'm not out to be a dream-gazing hippy, criticizing counselors a such for crushing my dream. They were right. I needed to think practically, but I heard, "You sure you can do that? You weren't the greatest student." With my grades and our financial situation, was college even an option? So my default, scared, confused troglodyte response was, "I'll join the army. Yeah. That's what I'll do. I'll write while I'm in the army." So, I joined the army. Four years, and I never wrote. (Well, I did one whiny love letter to someone. A friend said it was well written.)

I 'grew up' and 'learned' writing wasn't a practical occupation for me. Once I was done with the army, I had to figure out my next lot in life. I was told by some, I'd make a good Chaplin. And, thus that became my path. I am a pretty tolerable man. I am willing to do all kinds of jobs.  But, I was only ever wanting to do one. And, college came. Papers and tests, the primary source of evaluation. My strengths. I was scared when I started. Especially considering the program I had chosen, I had to maintain a higher GPA. Well... I did much better than I had expected.

It was my writing ventures that sparked a renewed spirit in me. I received complements on my writing. In fact, there was not a paper, where I actually tried, that I did not get an A. (Yeah, now I know academic writing is a different beast from 'real' writing.) But, this success gave me a hint of confidence. "Hey, maybe a writing career is possible." Sometimes, though, I wish I hadn't been give that spark. For, I'm still that lone violin, frantically trying to silence the lashing orchestra. I have by no means achieved victory. I still interpret the voices that say, "Oh neat. You want to be a writer," as, "But, seriously, what are you going to do with your life?"

And so, the concerto movement ends as it began, reminiscing. As do I. When I think of my lot now, life is good. If I never become a writer (or if I accept what those fluffy poster quotes that say I'm already a writer since I have written), that is ok. Yet, like the ending of this movement, I still can't help but reminisce.

I don't miss the way things were, just the way I saw them.

Mozart and Trampled Passions

One great character arc illustrated in the movie Amadeus is the trampling of Mozart’s passions. As you watch, compare his spirit as he conducts Die Entführung (impassioned, lively, full of vigor) to Die Zauberflöte (drained, dying). Then, I think of my oldest son. So excited about life. Loves to show off. Wants to teach everyone who comes over about the planets. He spews out his passions oblivious to everyone else. “Settle down.” Voices often bombard him. (Mine included.). Yet, I was the same. How often was I told to calm down? “Breathe. You don’t need to spit out everything you want in one breath.” When you're young, it’s cute. When you become older… ???

So, Mozart went through his life… Obliviously passionate. How many people told him to settle down as he was in the middle of an impassioned tirade? Did such constant redirections wear on him? I know they have worn on me. Of course, I know I need to be more considerate of other when I speak. It’s a weakness. In turn, maybe I’ve shifted to an internal extreme. Writing’s a nice outlet for it. I can go on, without worrying about others telling me to calm down. Mozart had his music.

But, what good does it do if no one shares your passions?

Yet, sharing passions is a two-way street. Maybe, the reason I’m get aggravated with my son, and his loud impassioned interests is because he is interrupting my priorities. How can I teach him to keep that fire and yet be considerate to others? Maybe that’s what Mozart needed as a child. Leopold propped Mozart’s passions, not to prop Mozart, but to prop himself. In turn, Mozart grew up with the mentality that everyone should be as eager about his passions. (It was cute when he was a child). This mindset is most likely what created many of his problems.

I don’t really have good solutions to these pondering...

Zaide K. 344, Ihr Machtigen seht ungeruhrt

It seems that those watching others go through pain have a harder time with it than those actually going through it. I was watching documentary about happiness. One of the segments spoke of those finding happiness in the harshest of circumstances. One suggestion was that some simply understand they can do nothing to change their circumstance, hence they find a way to rise emotionally above it. (The theme of the cantor). While those who (many Americans) feel they have certain freedoms and/or abilities are unable to be happy because of the perceived ability to change their lot, yet their efforts grow fruitless.  Now, this isn't necessarily a selfish mentality. We often see injustice or sickness or trials facing others, and naturally we want to do something to help. We want to fight to make it right.

And, Allazim is no different from us. He sees the tortured souls of Zaide and Gomatz. Ihr Machtigen seht ungeruhrt. The music cries of a lamenting soul. 'Please don't do this to these two. I love them. Let me take their place.' As a high-ranking slavemaster, Allazim takes on Sultan Soliman. He has to take action. His conscience will not let him do anything else, even though Zaide and Gomatz have made peace with their fate. His joy will not allow him to ignore this injustice. Tyrants, bullies, or just the purely selfish can only truly trample on others if they see them as less than human. Allazim does what he can to get Soliman to see the two as something other than property.

The opera Zaide honestly reflects the struggle we all have to be happy. Mozart's own pursuit of joy weighs on the music.  I could imagine, he was trying to make himself content. 'How many people even get a chance to work within the realm of their dreams?' He may have tried to reassure himself. And, us too. At times, when, in reality, we have a pretty good lot, we look at other trials going on, and use it as an excuse to be miserable. But, is this always bad? If Allazim would have said, "Oh well. Life sucks for Gomatz and Zaide, let me just enjoy what I have?" I don't know. Where do we draw the line between passive content that does nothing versus an active joy that is not afraid to tackle problems but understands that our actions can only go so far?

Zaide (The Young Adult Novel) Chapter Two: Brüder, lasst uns lustig sein

 Alright. I have been working on this YA novelization of Zaide a bit over a year now (a year and half). It is so close to done. I'm just smashing down any ideas that pop into my head to smooth any rough patches. I have only sent out one query... we'll see. Of everything I have written, this project seems to be getting the most traction, but... Maybe I have just gotten better at yelling, "Hey look at me!" Then, some look, shrug and turn back to their own business. So, I am trying a test, to see if this project is something anyone is actually interested in. Below is Chapter 2WO (each chapter will be devoted to a song from the opera). You can read Chapter 1NE here: http://tonedeaftroglodyte.blogspot.com/2015/01/zaide-young-adult-novel-first-chapter.html 

 What I am looking for is feedback. I want to know if this is something people want to see more of. If it is a work that interests you, let me know. Either in the comments, my twitter https://twitter.com/CaveatTies or my Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tonedeaf-Troglodyte-Tries-Mozart/893688947331707?ref=hl If it isn't, feel free to shrug and go about your business.   

2WO

Brüder, lasst uns lustig sein

Brothers, Brother, be now merry

Find your courage, swallow your gripes

The Earth is cursed, we’re all doomed

Everyone, too, is wrought with strife

Let us sing

Let us laugh

You can’t make it any different

This world, this pain, it doesn’t matter

No one, no where is free of pests

A mirth-coerced tune droned around the valley bend.

Zaide sat on the dewy hillside in her drabbest green dress. She didn’t simply want to blend into her surroundings, she wanted to become her surroundings. Her dress was wet from the grass. Her face from tears. With the impending heat, it would not be long before either dried.  Having not had eaten since the new slaves arrived, her stomach ached, growling dull.

Like ticks in a workhorse crevice, rocks dotted the valley floor, waiting to be plucked. Three wagons sat at the boundary of stoneless and stony fields. The first arch of the sun rose out from the hills. Without the full force of light, the grass hues carried grey in their greens. Colors didn’t even like to get up that early.

The song grew louder. Chains rattled in accompaniment. Where a hill spur met the valley floor, slaves rounded the bend. Osmin walked to the side waving his scourge like a conductor’s baton. He had the joy of an amateur composer debuting in Vienna.

Let us sing

Let us laugh

Fear pushed Zaide to her feet. “What is Osmin doing here?  This isn’t his command.”

Bringing her hand to her head to block out the rising sun, Zaide scanned the slaves as they reached the wagons.  Slavemasters unchained the slaves from each other. A lone set of shackles remained on their feet. “There you are,” Zaide spotted the boy among the group. She heard the rumbles of a slavemaster yelling him, but not the words. The slavemaster pointed to rocks and a pickaxe miming out the new responsibilities.  The youth nodded respectfully, but not submissively. He picked up his pickaxe and thrust it into the earth, prying out rock after rock. Others carried them to one of the wagons. This was the pattern for the next several hours. From time to time, the group came upon a rock too large to carry. The slaves broke them into smaller ones.

Not once did that boy slow down. At each water break, he was the last to drink and the first back to work.  

As the noon sun started its descending arc, Zaide lay stomach down in the grass staring over the hilltop, watching the sparse clouds. The slaves hammered away behind her, making music with their thrusts. The tune had a melancholy voice, trying to make the best of a situation.   

She pulled out her portrait. The colors were understated and soft, yet they suggested passion. It was a restrained vibrancy. Her lips smiled the color of a freshly plucked plumb. It had to have been a contrived smile. She simply couldn’t believe she had been smiling at any point since being there. Though, her happiest moments in Turkey came from an Italian artist’s sessions. He came to the palace one day, charming her with his poetic words. When Soliman saw her smile at the suggestion of a portrait session, he let her pose. The Italian knew how to make the right amount of fuss without flattering. She believed his words. Maybe he did coax out a smile.

The finished product was a masterpiece. Her soft cheek line was reddened just right. Enough to add charm without making her look like a pretentious harlot. Her smile was gentle. Kind. It was a beautiful portrait.  So beautiful, it made her sick at times.  It was not the hues or the shapes that bothered Zaide the most about the picture. It was her eyes. The softest cinnamon brown. Filled with compassion, confidence. “How could he see that in me? I’m a vile dog.”

Dropping her face into the grass, she let herself cry some more. Breathing in the earthen smells, she imagined the boy’s plight. I don’t know his name. Why do I even care?

“He was right. I have it worse.”

Shouts and whip crackles echoed from the valley. Zaide sat up a turned around.

An older man lay on the ground. Osmin thrashed him with his whip. “Get up, you useless pile of oxen dung. Get up!” Osmin lashed with every word.

Bleeding and weak, the man collapsed.

Pulling out his scimitar, Osmin said, “Useless slave.” He raised the sword in the air.

“Wait. Wait!” A voice yelled in English. “Stop.”

Zaide’s throat stopped her breathing. She jerked up to her feet. “No. Not him. What are you doing?”

The boy threw himself between Osmin and the slave.

Osmin thrashed the youth with his whip. “Get out of my way, slave.”

Lash after lash thrashed. The boy tried to block the scourges with his hand, as he remained standing.

The stubborn stance of the boy caused Osmin to throw his whip. Grabbing his sword with two hands, Osmin raised it into the air. “I chop down trees that get in my way. I don’t walk around.”

Zaide’s outer sense didn’t stop her this time. Her inner desires shoved her down the hill at a full sprint, as Osmin continued to shout at the slave. They were the shouts of a man not desiring to shoot his strongest stallion, but willing.

Zaide hurdled stones, her dress catching nearly tripping her.

Osmin lifted his scimitar above his head.

“Stop. Stop!” Zaide shouted.

Lowering his weapon, Osmin turned around.

Zaide reached the man, panting. Her words couldn’t come.

“What are you doing here?” Osmin raised a brow, with anger and a bit of joy, knowing that Zaide may have done something to get herself in trouble.

How are you going to talk your way out of this one? Zaide looked into Osmin’s interrogating eyes.  Zaide sucked in a swallow of air. “I like to see new slaves work from time-to-time. Mistresses and I often make wagers to see how long some will last. Don’t you slavemasters and traders dabble in such sport?”

“Have you bet on either of these two?”

“No.”

“Then why do you interfere?”

“I would not want the Sultan’s resources destroyed so soon.”

“We can just buy more slaves.”

“What if none come for a spell? I’ve seen this one at work.” Zaide pointed. “Do you often see such quality? Look at his teeth. A fine specimen.  Let me see if I can get him back to work. It is not as if you are a slavemaster. Slave traders have nothing but loud words and quick scourges. They can’t actually get any work done.”

Osmin’s face flared. He picked up his whip and flinched it at her.

“Oh kind Osmin. Do me the most excellent favor, and strike me, so I can tell the sultan of your cruelties.”

“I will tell the sultan of your troubling yourself in my affairs.”

“Shall we see who he believes?”

Osmin stayed silent, pursing his lips.

“I’ve not come to meddle. But, I do want Osmin to maximize his efficiency. If I can’t get this slave back to work, you have my permission to kill him. What is it to me if they live?”

“As if I need your permission.”

“But, it is to your benefit, that I get the lot back to work.”

Osmin nodded with his head, but not with his eyes.

Zaide turned from Osmin to the boy. She switched to English. “Shall two die for the sake of one?”

“His fate with be the same as mine.”

“Spare yourself,” the old man said, barely able to lift his head.

“His death was declared with this assignment,” said the boy. “Maybe if you lose some good workers alongside the frail, you’ll rethink you priorities.”

“All slaves must meet quota. How can I change your mind?”

“Tell him,” the boy pointed his face to Osmin. “That I will do this man’s share.”

“Surely, that is not possible.”

“Don’t tell me what is possible.” His eyes smacked hers with an odd intensity. They were as hard as the rocks and as soft grass all at the same time. As if they were a solar eclipse, Zaide tried to look at his eye, but it hurt too much to look directly at them. She had learned the power a woman has looking into the eyes of a man. A power that could be used for either intimidation or seduction.  But, for some reason, she couldn’t do it with this boy. She looked down.

“Alright.”  Zaide faced Osmin. “The slave says, he will bear the old man’s load.”

Osmin bellowed. “Such a feat is not possible. We make quotas, because we know a man’s limits.”

“It is to your advantage to let him try. If he fails, you still get more work done, than if you kill him now.”

Still laughing, Osmin pointed his scimitar at the boy. “I can’t wait until he fails. I have yet to sharpen this.”

With high, circular wave of his whip, Osmin ordered everyone back to work.

Zaide faced the boy once more.

He looked back at her. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Coming down. I saw you up there. You didn’t have to come down.”

“Slave. You have it wrong. I am out to protect the sultan’s property. Osmin is careless with the things of the sultan’s kingdom.”

The boy smiled. “Yes. Things.” He started to walk away.

Zaide picked up a scourge and ran after him. “Slave.”

He turned.

As he faced her, Zaide struck him across his chest. I hope that didn’t hurt much. I have to be cruel. I’m asking too many questions. “What is your name?”

His nodding seemed to suggest he understood why she struck him. “Gomatz.”

She struck him again. “Get back to work.”

Zaide crossed her arms at her chest. She stared at Gomatz with her eyelids nearly shut.

Gomatz nodded, grabbed his pick and went back to work. He hacked each rock as if it were rushing to kill his family. His muscles were as intense as fists. As minutes passed, Zaide spotted red seeping through the back of his shirt.

Her teeth ached, but she stayed staring his way.

“He has a fire.” Osmin’s voice spooked her from behind.

“Not enough.”

“Oh?”

“He won’t last more than two weeks.”

“Shall we wager? If that is really your sort of sport.”

Zaide bit her tongue. “What are the terms?”

“I say he lasts a month.”

“And your reward?”

“Odalisque services rendered.”

Zaide conjured laugher. She suppressed a retch at the thought of Osmin touching her. “I’ll give you services for each week past one month he survives, but, if you dare accept the wager, I will require a great reward if I win.”

“What?”

“You resign your post.”

“What kind of wager is that?”

“As I thought, you’re not confident. That is fine.”

“No. I know I will win. I accept.”

Zaide K. 344, O selige wonne

I am not trying to be necessarily religious with this post (I am not trying to avoid it either). But, O selige wonne lends itself to such. So, I must start out by saying that our faith determines our actions. It goads our efforts. It ignites our moods.

What is faith? What do I mean by that? The Bible in the book of Hebrews defines it as such: “Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” (11:1)  Even if you are not religious this definition is perfect.

No one knows what the future holds, but we have certain hopes for it. And, these hopes guide our life. The more certainty we have in our hopes, the more influence they have over our decision making. In turn those hopes turn into faith. I do not know for sure tomorrow will come, but I’m pretty confident it will. I have faith I will see tomorrow. Consequently, I know it would not be wise for me to blow all my money tonight (or my wife’s money, that is). Vice versa, little confidence in certain hopes can not be considered faith.  I may ‘hope’ to win the lottery, so in turn I might buy ticket. However, if losing the lottery meant I was to lose my life, I will not by one.

So, faith is stronger. And in spite of what people proclaim, faith is based on something. It is not blind. (One can argue the credibility of the source material.) And, we humans are constantly interpreting experiences, signs and feelings, to the point where we grow angry, bitter and/or violent toward anyone who tells us we are wrong.

Whatever we believe, our faith determines our actions. Faith in sacred texts and traditions. Faith in the material. Faith in our experiences. Faith in ourselves. Or Faith in love. These are the sources by which we gain any hint of certainty in the chaotic world. Yet, at times don’t even our strongest beliefs waiver between an invisible spectrum of hope and faith. When it shifts toward the less certain, it loses it affect.

And thus, I come to the trio O selige wonne. Zaide and Gomatz took a giant step of faith. With Allazim at their side, they make their escape from the tyranny of the sultan. In the midst of fleeing, the three are interpreting the signs of their escape. The tone starts out hopeful (notice I did not say faithful). They all know what they want. What they hope for. And at first the signs confirm their actions were right. The rising sun, the rainbow, the fluffy hippy feelings.

Then, as if the horse you have been walking beside drops its ears back, takes off a kicks you in the thigh (personal experience), the music shifts. Zaide’s voice cries out filled with terror. “Look, a bloody comet.” “Listen, thunder!”

Allazim and Gomatz respond, “God will protect us.” Their voices do nothing to reassure Zaide. She is filled with fear for the remainder of the trio. Even in the more hopeful place, fear still shakes her voice. Did she ‘lose’ faith? We can quibble over all kinds of terms, but I would say that she didn’t. Her faith shifted. At that point, no one knew what was going to happen. (No one knows the future.) She was now certain doom loomed.

Was she right? Did she interpret the signs in a credible way? That’s is the hard question. And not knowing how the opera ends, we ourselves can never know. In the short run, yes, she was right. The three are captured. But, is there a bigger picture?  And, if so how big?

So often we base our faith on consequences, but is there a point where our faith can guide us regardless of the consequences? Even the most religious, make decisions with some set of eternal consequence in mind. I don’t know if it is really possible to not have some sort of outcome expectations.. The purely material humanist might sacrifice his or her life in order that the world may one day be a better place, but the action is still outcome based.

Zaide’s immediate rightness in her fears ultimately did nothing to change her outcome. Maybe, that is why so many try not to think about what’s to come. They have the mentality of the slaves in the cantor. “You can’t do anything about it, so we may as well be happy.” That isn’t good enough for Zaide. That is good enough for many. Hence her key revelation in Trostlos schluchet philomele, “Who can punish her when she finds what she is looking for.”

Ultimately, isn’t that the pinnacle of faith, the point when we have found that ‘thing’ (horrible word, but nothing is as all-encompassing) that no one can take away from us. I think Mozart desperately wanted that. Some say it is a passion. Others think it is a principle. Other say it’s a legacy. And still others believe it is the supernatural.

I believe Mozart thought love was that ‘thing.’ I can’t say he was wrong, but that’s a term with a myriad definitions. I mean  ‘what is love?’ (Stop bobbing your head.) Is love sacrificing whatever it takes to offer a beloved that one ‘thing’ that can never be taken away? Offering it, even though he or she may reject it?

???

Personally, (I am not trying to be preachy, just honest) I have only witnessed/experience/heard about such a love via Jesus Christ’s death on the cross. But, I’m troglodyte, so of course I would cling to such a hope.