K. 45, Symphony No. 7

Mozart fled to avoid the Viennese smallpox epidemic, but that didn't turn out so well. He got it anyway. Then, he returned back to Vienna. And, this is where/when he wrote K. 45. As I have mentioned, I am also chewing on La Finta Semplice, and it is interesting to note that this symphony is used for the overture.

The first movement chugs out with the-little-engine-that-could aggressiveness. As if to say, "This is tough but I'm going to gnash my teeth and push through this with positivity and eagerness." It toots exhausted here and there, but keeps pressing on. The 2nd movement, is that of exhaustion, but not despair. "I need to rest," it says. Some places sigh darker. The 3rd strikes like a slap in the face, marching, pressing on with new sets of motivation. It gets exhausted again once more, but slaps back some motivation and continues. The 4th chunk, is a looking back of all the trails, as it stands on top the hill and shouting, "Hey world. I did it. So there!"

I wonder which movement would best have illustrated Mozart's mood during that point in his life. I'd go with the 3rd, maybe the 2nd. His world was starting to make its demands. It needed something in return. Archbishop Schrattenbach was no longer bearing patiently with Leopold's absence. Critics and skeptics scowled. Mozart was growing pass the cute stage. The novelty of watching a kid do tricks was wearing, yet he wasn't old enough to be taken serious as a 'real' musician. This trip did not end with a 4th movement victory proclamation.  But, with broken promises, courts complains and tort tirades. (Will elaborate more when I post on La Finta Semplice.)

Ultimately, this trip did not go according to plan. And, all those involved didn't take too kindly to the Mozarts after that lot. That's life. Generally people will tolerate failure, only if they still get something from you.  And, they love seeing failure from those who rub them the wrong way. Mozart was losing his cash-calf status.

Zaide (The Young Adult Novel) Chapter 3: Ruhe Sanft

Currently, I am chewing on La Finta Semplice. I don't know how many times I have to watch it or what-not before I will find the right words. This work is indubitably a character creating milestone of Mozart's personality. I would declare it to be Mozart's first experience of a major failure. (Not saying the work was a 'failure' but its reception).

So, as I chew on this opera for a spell, I will nurture the suckling throngs of fellow troglodytes desperate for their weekly fix of Mozart, offering another bit of opera dabbled on during Mozart's wound-licking period following his biggest failure. Zaide. This may even represent a failed dabblement of my own. But, hey, I wrote it... Just as well share some of it. The third chapter of my Young Adult novelization of Zaide. The Ruhe Sanft chapter.  The chapter devoted to the most beautiful aria in all of opera. If you haven't read the other chapters you can read the on my Zaide page.

3HREE

Ruhe Sanft

Gomatz smashed his pick into the dirt. His palms burned as if the shaft was a smelted rod. The rest of his muscles grew past pain into numb-deadened weakness. Nothing but will was moving them. He tried not to let himself think. Only nasty thoughts slipped into his head when he did. His jaw ached from teeth gnashing when he let his thoughts think.

From pick swing to pick swing, Gomatz looked to the hillside. A drab green dress fluttered with the grass. The woman who had saved him watched over the slaves. He breathed the breaths of a brooding strings section.
His last glance on her, stirred his brain. Why is she watching us? Is this a game to her? Foul creatures everywhere. Enjoy the pain of others. Or could… The brooding string section mood switched to that of a lone, hopeful oboe. Does this girl care? Is she… Darker moods returned. Back and forth, hopeful tones clashed with brooding moans.  It couldn’t be. How could she care? Why should I care? Stuck with criminals. Forced into slavery. Why didn’t I just let grandfather die… No… No.. Stop such laments. But, why? To what end. Why should we both die? His soul’s prepared so is mine. If I remained here longer… I could… But, it is too late. I’ve made my bargain. I may keep up with the work today, and even possibly tomorrow, but surely at this pace, I will die. Ah, but death could only ease my sufferings. Death shall be my salvation. I could have ignored my grandfather’s plight. Only to have swallowed more misery for a longer time. Yes. Gomatz. You have chosen correctly. Freed from guilt today. Freed from a life of slavery tomorrow, or at least soon. Oh. My head. My eyes. They are growing black. I shall die among criminals, as my savior. Faint… Go ahead just faint. It would be a sweet release right now.

Gomatz trembled.  He swooned and began to collapse.

“Time to go everyone,” Osmin yelled.  

Gomatz woke from his nearly fainted state as slavemasters gathered up everyone and chained them neck and neck.  And now I must bear that dreadful tune once again.

Osmin yelled at Gomatz. Gomatz understood it to mean, he had been successful, but the following days would be difficult.

As the shackles went around his neck, Gomatz took one last glance over to the hillside.  The woman was gone.

***

Brothers, Brothers, 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, doesn’t matter

No one, no where is free of pests.

 

The slaves trudged through the valley like a mud-thickened river. Osmin swung his arms as he marched along side. His face beamed with the pride of a hard days work.

Zaide followed from the hilltops using that song as her guide. The sun’s last crest dipped below the horizon. The valley was dark. The hilltops glowed.  Having still not eaten, Zaide’s legs slugged through the grass. Her stomach gave up its ache, knowing she wasn’t going to feed it. Her head turned to complaining instead. He is going through much worse. I can bear this for a day. Zaide chided her headache.

Let us laugh

Let us sing

 

The music stopped, down deep in the dark valley. Zaide trotted to the top of a hill. Reaching a lone cypress tree, she leaned her chest against it, staring down into the valley. From below, a light shone from the barn, a stone building dug into the hillside. The stones came from the fields, built by the slave that stayed there.  The large opening without door glowed, torches burned on each side. The slaves marched just inside and waited to be unchained.

“Oh poor Gomatz. I have to help. I have to do something. No way will you survive. What can I do to give you strength?”

As slavemasters unlocked the group, Zaide trickled down to the barn. Her lungs found it hard to digest her breaths. Her ears heard every step as thunder. Her throat seemed as if it was eating itself. Zaide reached the outside wall, throwing her back into the rock and mortar. She found a shadowy nook where a pillar blocked the torch light.  Closing her eyes, she listened.

Slavemasters shouted orders, laughing from time to time. Most were ready to be done for the night.

“Finish locking them up,” Osmin said. “Give that one some extra food. I want to keep him alive for one month. I must leave. Allazim will be back tomorrow.”

Zaide held her breath as Osmin walked outside the door and down the dirt road. He didn’t look back. Rubbing the rock grains with her palms, she exhaled, waiting for Osmin to move out of sight.

With small, shifting steps, Zaide shimmied closer to the door. Once to its side, she peered around the support beams. The livestock scents of hay and filth hit her. Cages of rusty iron were spaced far enough apart to make whispering between impossible. Gomatz chewed a dry hunk of bread, as a slavemaster guided him toward his cage. A tear dripped from Zaide’s eye as she studied his haggard head. Extra bread, will do no good.  She had learned to tell when death was stalking a slave.  

The slavemaster didn’t throw Gomatz into his prison. They didn’t need to. As soon as his feet hit the heather, Gomatz collapsed.

Sparse, yet intervaled, metallic clanks echoed throughout the barn as the rest of the slaves settled into their beds. Once everyone was locked up, the bulk of the slavemasters left. One lone guard watched the lot for the night.  He usually tucked himself in the back of the barn and slept. No one was worried about anyone escaping. Even if they managed to get out, slaves had nowhere to go.

Once the guard trickled to his place, Zaide snuck in. All the torches but one had been snuffed. It cast dancing shadows between the cages. Zaide tiptoed toward Gomatz’s prison. Half-snore breathings calmed her, letting her know everyone was likely sleeping.
At Gomatz’s cage, Zaide dropped to her knees. His face rest on the bars. Belly down, he breathed heavy into the heather. A patch of fuzz fluttered beneath his nose. Zaide reached a hand through, stroking his soft, oily hair. Leaning her forehead into the bars, she began weeping, tears falling on Gomatz. They struck him both sharp and soft, like a violin string plucked with the meaty portion of a finger.
“How can anyone be so good? So pure? So noble? I will never deserve someone like this. I have my reward in Soliman. But, if only… Oh Gomatz. Why should you die, because of your pure heart? Can I do anything to give you strength?” Her whispers seemed to flow in harmony with his breathing. Zaide placed her hand on her aching chest, grabbing her dress, clenching tight the cloth. The pocket underneath stirred a hint of hope.

Reaching in, Zaide pulled out her pocket. Crafted from the finest lace, it held her most priced possession. She pulled out her picture, staring a briny stare, examining her ideal self. “This is the kind of girl you should have.” Zaide folded the paper and tucked it into Gomatz’s hand.

“Sleep, my dear. Sleep like you have never slept before. Sleep until your strength has returned. I give you my portrait. Let it penetrate your dreams. See my smile. My tender smile. A smile I have never smiled, but want to. Let that smile fill you with the sweetest dreams. If your spirit is renewed by the photo, then I too will be renewed.”

She let a few more tears fall on Gomatz and left.

***

Patterned mosaics covered the seraglio walls. A bath of several hues of blue tucked itself beneath window well. The stained-glass slept for the night. Torches flickered, their lights catching the glossy strips of tile.  Zaide dropped her veil. Jasmine floated in the air, but it couldn’t quite kill the humid stale smell. Wives and odalisques giggled, their echo cackled against the arched ceilings.  

Zaide walked through the gaggle of gossiping woman. “Hail. The Sultan’s favorite. Enters as late as she pleases.” The oldest wife said. She was just over thirty.

Zaide closed her eyes, rolling them in their sockets. I can’t deal with these women. “Quiet, or I’ll tell Soliman you beat me.”

The woman scowled. “The day you run out of favor…”

“The haggard buzzard seeks prey. The ugliest of birds can’t kill on its own, so it has to wait for something to die.”

Wiggling her finger at Zaide, the woman’s mouth dangled open. Her raging lips trembled toward shut and then back open as if they were trying to say something, yet couldn’t find the right words. After a sneering shake of her head, she whipped around and left. The rest of the women gawked at Zaide as if their throats were stuck shut, mid gulp. They parted, letting the young girl through.

Untying her sandals, Zaide sat at the bath’s edge, lowering her dirty cracked feet into the water. Oh. Zaide. You have to be more careful. You can get in trouble letting your feet spoil.  Digging the corner of the soap in the her feet, Zaide massage each sore spot. The cracks were small, barely breaking the skin. Once she dried off, she rubbed her feet with oil. The jasmine scented oil wafted into her breathes. She relaxed and closed her eyes. The raw area lost their burn as she massaged for a few minutes.

Feminine chatter softened, as doors opened and closed. Zaide stood and stretched her legs. They ached a dull and deep, with viscous weakness.

Huhhh. Ffft. Huhhh.

Sniffling sobbed from the other side of a pillar. Zaide walk to the pillar of blue and gold. She caught the edge of sandy hair dangling over the knees of the fetal sitting girl. Her arms pulled her legs tight against her chest.

“That’s the new girl.” A fellow odalisque said, lounging on the nearby couch. “She was given to her new husband.”

“Hmmm.” Zaide stepped to the side of the pillar and leaned against it. She stared straight ahead, not daring to look at the girl. Forcing her tone callous, she said, “She’s going to have to get used to it.” Then she switched to English. “It doesn’t get any easier, you just get harder.”

Even from her peripherals, Zaide recognized the girl. She looked up, her makeup smeared black and blue. Her crimson dress with gold trim was a far leap from her previous drab black and dingy white outfit. “He didn’t touch me.” She sniffled.

Zaide’s brows dropped as she looked a hint more toward the girl. “Why are you crying then?”

“They touched me all over when they washed me and forced me to wear these dreadful clothes and makeup. For what purpose?”

“You belong to someone. You must please your master. Who were you given to?”

The girl shuddered. “I… Um.  He was older. Alli… Alla.. Some name of that sort.”

“Allazim?”

“Yes. Yes. That is it.”

Ah, that is why he was not in the fields. “Blessed are you among us.”

“How am I blessed?”

“You could not have been given to a better man.”

“But, I am still owned.”

“Isn’t everyone? Better to belong to someone good.”

“Could anyone good, own another?”

Zaide shrugged. “So what did Allazim do?”

“When he saw me in bed crying, he patted me on the back, said something I couldn’t understand, and left. A few hours later, they brought me back here.”

Zaide stared forward, quiet.

Although Zaide had been no comfort, the girl inhaled and wiped her eyes as if she felt better. She let her legs drop forward. And stared forward in the same way as Zaide.

“What is your name?” Zaide sighed.

“Abigail. Yours?”

“Zaide.”

Abigail over to Zaide. “Do you know how my family is doing?”

“I have seen your brother.”

“How is he?”

“He is brave.”

Abigail smiled. “I know.”

“It will probably get him killed.”

Abigail dropped her grin. “I know.”

Abduction from the Seraglio via Queen City Chamber Opera

I remember those middle school days. (I hated Jr. High). We'd taken a trip to a youth convention in the Black Hills. A gob of guys had Magic: The Gathering cards. I watched them play from the side. 'Oh, that looks so fun,' I said to myself. I kept asking them questions. Why did you do that? What does that monster do? What's the difference between water monsters and earth monsters... As I yapped like an annoyed lap dog, the nerds (sorry for my bitter words, I'm not really stereotyping) grumbled with snappy, short, uninformative answers. I never learned how to play. Probably for the best, it is most likely a time-wasting, mind-warping drain--I have twitter for that. (Deepest apologies, for those who play, for I speak from a place of ignorance.) 

Now, onto an opposing example. We'd taken a family vacation to the Wisconsin Dells. My oldest son (Byron) loved trains. Having seen a brochure for train rides, we thought it a no-brainier. "We have got to do this." The prices were reasonable (touristy places often jack up prices) so we went. The trains were charming, small steam engines--not pupil popping giants. The ride down was beautiful. Pleasant. (Though, Byron did get a little scared from the vibrating sound.) The ride alone was well worth the money, but it was the above-and-beyond bits from the volunteer-staff that made an impression. When the ride was over with, my sons watched as the men tinkered with the train. Coupling, uncoupling... and a gob of other trainy words that I don't know. They gentlemen saw my boys watching, came over and asked if the wanted to help fill the train with water and coal. 

Of course they wanted to. With gleeful faces, they trotted over to the refilling station. The men let them help, answering questions.  And, they even let my boys push the handle for the train 'merry-go-round'. When the day was through, my wife and I even donated extra money to the cause. (We rarely do that, because we're cheapskates.) If anyone is ever in the Wisconsin Dells area, I highly recommend you visit the Riverside & Great Northern Railway.

People are often afraid to outright ask about something they are interested in. There is no greater way to kill a cause, than to trample on the hint of interest someone reveals. On the flip side, you can nurture an interest, like the volunteer from the railway. Seeing a new face watching everyone play, you can be the person to go over and invite that person to join. 

So, what does any of this have to do with The Queen City Chamber Opera's performance of the Abduction from the Seraglio? 

There are a gob of academics, and artsy-hippy types wondering how to get our youth interested in classical music. And, there is all kinds of debate as to whether or not classical music is dead. (To a troglodyte, the deadness of something only adds to its appeal.) And, if it is dead, how does one revive it? Some say, the answer lies in bigger, better productions. Others say, more radical, modern performances. 

Neither are the answer. Both solutions are simply for those who already love classical music. The former, for those who want to see their favorite music at the peak of perfection. They want every note humming in an environment that cascades forth at its purest. (This tone-deaf man wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a tap-water note and spring-mountain-rain note.) The latter solution comes from those bored with hearing the same music, the same way.  

Accessibility. Accessibility is the key to spurring a love for a cause. Oh, how fitting that I speak of Queen City Chamber Opera's (QCCO) performance of The Abduction from the Seraglio for such a post. Whereas Zaide struggles truer to the way things are, The Abduction calls softly for the way thing ought to be. Pasha Selim desperately wants Konstanze to love him. He's being patience (by patient, I mean his understanding of patience). But, Konstaze just can't love him. She just can't force it to happen. This big towering figure is not accessible to her heart. After a series of up and downs, twists and turns, threatening of lives, Selim captures an escaped Konstanze and her true love, Belmonte. Their fate is in his hands. But, here's where Selim truly shows he loves her. He let's her go. In turn, Konstanze can praise Selim. Not in the manner he wants, but still praises him. 

A bit back, QCCO performed The Abduction. They have recently posted pieces of that performance on Youtube. I'd been eagerly waiting for it. I encourage you to watch, here.  This organization has the right philosophy to spur a love for opera. A love for Mozart. Accessibility. This is not saying, they aren't focus on quality, because the voices and the music are very good. I'd bet my right hearing (not that I need it), that this performance sounded better in person. From the first time I saw their production of Zaide, Isaac Selya, the conductor, has illustrated this philosophy of accessibility--from posting less common works on Youtube, to positive feedback of a lowbrow wrestling with the highbrow.  

Though, it does take discipline... You love something. You want others to love it as well. Takes discipline not to force it on other. My wife often laughs at me when I speak of a disdain for 'elitists', yet she is quick to point out I love classical music. But, it's not the art that makes one an elitist, but the pressure to push any given love upon a populace for its own good. 

Of course how does one even make the music accessible? How do you educate without a hint of prodding? I don't know. And, aren't there gobs of organizations that are accessible? Yeah. Yeah, there are. Unfortunately, accessibility does not guarantee appreciation or love, but it is necessary. It takes patience and a soft, enduring passion to spread a love for a cause. 

K. 43, Symphony no. 6

Following a respite in Salzburg, the Mozarts whisked away to Vienna once again. Vienna was that day's Hollywood. (But, I'm sure there are no parents today bringing their kids to Hollywood, so they can get rich and famous.) It seems that anything that could have gone wrong on such a trip, did. The royals had their own set of concerns (a death and whatnot) as opposed to entertaining the Mozart. Small Pox was gnawing. They had to leave the area for a spell. Mozart got sick. And, a gob of patrons cheated the family out of money. All of which I will explore as I venture into this Vienna chapter of Mozart's life. 

Now, onto K. 42. A work dabbled on while at the Archbishop Schrattenbach's brother's house. A place the ran, to flee smallpox, only to have Mozart catch the illness. He got so sick he lost his sight for days. 

The music is increasingly grabbing my attention. A four movement work, his first I believe, the symphony starts with robust zest. "I'm going to take this challenge on. Kick some rear."  

Then comes the sweet sound of the second. A tune all too familiar to me. I know this music. I've heard the opening before. Zaide. Yes. It is likely because I've listened to Zaide so many times, I caught it. The Andante opening is the exact same, as the music from Herr und Freund. But, yet elsewhere have I heard it. Apollo et Hyancinthus. The aria Natus cadit atque Deus. My most notable piece from that opera, is in fact this song. I've heard it was natural for composers to recycle their work, but I guess I'm just surprised that Mozart joined in. And, as an adult he recycled something he wrote when he was 11.

I know when I have created some sort of idea, that I believe is brilliant, I like to incorporate it where ever I can. Is that what is going on here? Did this bit of music stick with Mozart all his life? I'm curious to see if I'll find it else where as I explore further. Or, to be more cynical, was this an issue of laziness? Not, as if I could blame a young Mozart, going through crazy hell. Both as he wrote K. 35 and Zaide. Why not use some of his older 'good stuff' to make the assignment a bit easier. 

Confession of the nature of my own evilness: In college, I did use some my old papers, and retro fit them for later assignments. And, even more brazen, I suspected a professor wasn't even reading those end of chapter questions he had assigned. He simply checked to make sure we had written something. So, for one of the assignments, I answered the first and last question with the same paragraph. I got a completion. I later grew even bolder, copying and pasting random blurbs of writing from other assignments. I mean, really? What's the point in writing anything, if no one is going to read it. (Yet, I still write this blog.) 

Whether he simply loved this music and wanted others to love it the same, or he needed a break and found some work he had already done, I get why Mozart did what he did. And, this piece of music is very beautiful. The music plays with emotions in a way only Mozart can do. To describe it best, I would say this aria is one of joyful crying.  But not in the manner of Bach, as if to say, “I’m suffering this horrible trail, but I have found peace through it.” But, more as if to say, “I’m going through this horrible trial, and I’m so miserably happy that you’re willing to go through it with me. I’m helpless. I can’t do this alone, and you’re actions have given me hope, even if I still have no chance of escaping this trial.” The music is that of a man on his knees, sobbing, repeating his thanks. (If one can comment about the irony of the last chunk I wrote, that would make my day.)

The third movement is nice, and I think I'm getting a feel for what a Minuet sounds like. The fourth movement has this galloping chunk that reminds me a bit of Osmin's Aria  Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt. It's not as exact as the other... Maybe I just want to find a link. How many more recycled chunks are out there? How many will I miss, because I haven't let the music nest itself into my conscience? Keep reading. If you know something I don't, let me know. 

K. 42/35a, Grabmusik

Early apologies. For as refined as I may have pretended to be, I am still a troglodyte clinging to an ancient hope. I am not enlightened enough to adhere to the solely material. And, I ain't no hippy out to say every belief is equally valid. I get some may not like that. Sure, I'm out to explore Mozart's music, not preach. But, I'm tackling a religious work, so I will not be able to intellectually and honestly avoid a religious talk. Yet, for the sensibilities of those who may not care to hear the barbaric, I will comment on the music first.

Mozart grew up Catholic. It permeated his familial life. Leopold made major family decisions to ensure they lived in a Catholic region. (They could have had some good prospects had they taken employment in London. It worked for Handel and Haydn. But, alas...) So, of course, a young Mozart would have had composed music for mass. And, we come to another of many. 

K. 42, Grabmusik is his longest mass work at this place in the Köchel, I think. (Unless you count K. 35.) This work is a Passion. Or, it focuses on the suffering Christ went through when he bore the cross. Heavy themes to find the right music. I'm not sure young Mozart carried the emotional-evoking burden well. It is a work of four movements. The first is the most emotionally tone-deaf. (Ha. Ha. Look I'm calling Mozart tone-deaf.) I'm not saying, the music is no good. In fact, it is very nice. It has the same sound of many of his later operas. But, for a song speaking of the soul crushing guilt that Christ had to bear such torture for our sins, it is too jovial. The first movement is redeemed, however, around the 3.5 minute mark. This is actually the best bit of brooding, dark music that reflects real anguish from guilt. Unfortunately, it returns back to a rumpus frolic, with laughing included. 

The second movement holds sorrow. And yes, what fitting emotion to carry when singing of remembering Christ's death. But, the lyrics seem to call for more rumble. I mean... Boulders split... Sun, moon and stars take flight... Thunder! Flames and Lightning...? The third does well enough to reflect guilty sorrow. Sorrow that leads to repentance. And the last bit declares victory. Victory in the death of Christ. "Feed us with thy broken body, now in death's agony."

And, this is the faith that pressed itself upon Mozart. It stayed with him. He would have unlikely ever given it up. Mozart saw his faith as his identity. (Even though, this religion was not what he believed. When I dabble in his Freemason ventures, I'll elaborate more.) He grew up seeing Christ as the suffering servant--which he was. But, this suffering focused unduly on the physical. The triumphant stamp was Christ's death. His physical death. As a protestant, I stress the stamp of victory was his resurrection. There are plenty of Catholics who would say this is a valid point, but even then there is a theology (prevalent for Mozart) that emphasizes an idea of the physical suffering. 

Thus the physical, the material, dominated the Mozarts' fears. And, Mozart's fears, even those fears we might believe were spiritual. 

But I must say, Christ's physical torture was not the pinnacle of the Passion.

The night He was betrayed, Christ wept, trembling with fear for what was about to take place. To the point of sweating blood. I can hardly imagine not having the same fear. Yet, later, when many of the disciples were martyred, history speaks of the peace they had. Stephen celebrated he was going home. Peter picked a more gruesome death.  What? Did they have more courage than Christ? Some may say, 'They had the Holy Spirit.' But, in one sense, isn't Christ the living embodiment of the Holy Spirit. Equal in nature and in strength?

So, am I calling Christ a coward? Be no means! The physical suffering was nothing compared to what he was going to take upon himself. The wrath of God. (A hint of this comes from a sermon I heard. And I do not know all his references, so I apologies for lack of citation) Every forgiven sin, ever committed, Jesus absorbed that wrath. And, even though some believe they have bore guilt and fear, no one can truly know what that kind of wrath is like, but God alone. Christ, God in the flesh, knew what was coming. He fully and completely understood.

We can never know what it was like for Christ. In fact, we have an aversion to the idea that God would take our sins that seriously. In my own sinful flesh, I have a hard time accepting it. So, I'm sure someone who has gotten this far is gnashing his or her teeth because of how 'barbaric' I sound. I'm not trying to offend. But... Everyone can agree that there are, and have been, horrible individuals that were flippantly callous about their actions. Do you think Hitler felt sorry about what he had done? And, in the small odds that he had, would the hint of guilt he could conjure ever be enough?

I know. I know. This is difficult stuff to wrestle with. But, our physical fears are the only fears we can somewhat understand. Thus, they dominate our lives. As with Mozart. And, even the times we wrestle with the spiritual, how do we determine legitimate fears when we have primarily physical experiences? 

Ultimately, there are two types of people: Those who do not fear the wrath of God. And, those who do not need to fear the wrath of God. The former do not believe their actions render such consequences. (They may be right.) And, those who do not need to fear the wrath of God. This could be because He doesn't exist. OR... Or, because one has let Christ bear the punishment for the sins we have committed. Let Christ bear a wrath we cannot fully comprehend. And, let Christ bear a wrath we will never have to.

A troglodyte, as I, strives not to let either physical or spiritual fears dominate my life. I do what I can to cling to a confidence in Christ and his actions. Yet, like just as Mozart's music sings, I fail...

K. 36/33i, Or che il dover – Tali e cotanti sono

Who's ever had a required hunk of work (writing work) where he or she didn't know what to write? Sometimes I have just hacked out something real quick... something I thought the person wanted to hear, not what I really thought. That's a lot easier to do sometimes, especially when I can't formulate my own thoughts on a subject matter.

I remember a punishment I was given in the Army. I was supposed to write a 1000 word essay (yes an essay--very 5th grade, 1950's consequence) on why leaving my belongings unsecured was bad. Toward the end, I started to write about the difficultly of coming up with words to write in a essay, because I left my equipment unsecured. Then, I topped it off with 'How close am I to being done? Oh. I just need two more words. Which two? Oh yeah, I have the perfect ones.... The End.' I had exactly 1000 words. I wasn't expecting him to read it anyway. (For those who wonder if I got further consequences for the work, I will say my squad leader actually read it, and he said he enjoyed it. So, no. I did not get further consequences.)

How much could be truer of writing about someone whom I don't know very well, or don't care for. Maybe, I should just write how hard it was to write. Yeah. I should do that for each of these posts. Hey, ya'll. This stuff is hard to write about.

What better words to throw out for a struggling artist than the words of K. 36? (I realize that Mozart didn't write the lyrics, but I'll address that later.) I couldn't help but laugh at the lyrics to this piece. They are exactly the words I feel all the time. Sure, I do realize they may have been sincere, but the cynic in me wonders. I will give my paraphrase, if you want to whole lyrics look them up in Wikipedia.

Duty compels me to write this song, for this awesome guy, but I can't find the words. I'm trying to beat them out of my head. I'm looking everywhere for inspiration. But nothing. I can't find the right words, because this Schrattenbach fellow is just way too awesome for me to spew out any poetry.

I don't know... It's hard for me to take the words seriously. Maybe the writer did find Archbishop Schrattenbach that awesome. But, as I wannabe writer, I can appreciate the easy way out.

Anyway, on to the Mozarty stuff.

Who was Archbishop Schrattenbach? He was the man in charge before Colloredo. To set up the context of the song, the Mozart's had just returned from the Grand Tour. Three years gone, all while being on the Archbishop's payroll. Maynard Solomon speaks of Leopold's fear of Schrattenbach when the family returned (Mozart: A Life: 1995, pg 68). I know the feeling. Whenever my boss (or my wife) calls me into the office I assume it is because I did something wrong. I'm already tallying the things I know I did wrong, before I even get there. However, the Mozart's tour proves fruitful for the Archbishop as well. Their fame became his fame.

Where as the words of this song convey an artist's struggles, the music starts with that fear of getting called into the office. "What did I do?" Then, the music switches from fear to joy. "Oh. An attendance bonus? (Or something else)." Does this music reflect what he heard from his father? Do they reflect the fears Leopold had after returning from the tour? And, then the possibly exuberance he had when, Leopold found out Archbishop Schrattenbach was in fact happy with Leopold, not angry?

And so, the 10-year-old Mozart, composed a genuine bit of music in honor of Archbishop Schrattenbach's anniversary. His first piece of music after returning home.

K. 41, Piano Concerto No. 4

I thought that some may have gotten sick of my Zaide rants, so I thought I’d get back on the Köchel for a spell. Piano Concerto No. 4. I have already mentioned that the first four were redoings of other works, so what shall I say about K. 41? I thought this would be a fun piece to listen intently to the work in both the harpsichord and piano. I had done that with the others, but maybe I’ll offer a troglodytian analysis on this one.

Clearly, if the work is to be a concerto, I’d say you’d have to use the piano. Harpsichord blends with the orchestra too much. A good concerto needs a quibble. The solo and the orchestra should be separate characters. And, the extra range of emotion you can pump out from the Piano--no wonder they switched after it was invented.   

The first movement was not as impactful between the harpsichord and the piano. In fact, the harpsichord might add the ‘bounding excitingly up a set of architecturally magnificent stairs’ aura. The second movement, however, is where the hammer strikes the emotional strings better than the pluck. Softer emotion needs a softer edge. A sound the harpsichord can’t caress.  The movement sings the song of the spirit that has given up, surrendered to life’s lot.

With the third movement, I don’t know if my tone-deafness just can’t hear the notes, or what. But, the harpsichord seems like as flurry a henish pecks. Whereas a hard piano strike and a softer touch at other times, give the up-paced movement that variety of emotions. It declares triumphantly, “I am going through this battle, but I’m going to win it.”

Listen to the Harpsichord version.
Listen to the Piano version.