Saturday, April 17, 2021

5 minutes who will love you brahma


In the past, we have chosen five minutes or so we will play to fall in love with our friends classical music, the piano, Opera, Cello, Mozart, 21st century musician, Violin, Baroque music, Sopranos, Beethoven, flute, string Quartet And Second.

Now we want to persuade those curious friends to fall in love with the music of Johannes Brahm (1833–97), the master of symphony exclamations and stirring moody piano solos. We hope that you will be able to discover and enjoy a lot here; Please leave your favorites in the comments.

The beginning of BrahMos’ Piano Concert No. 1 is one of my favorite concert openings. It is drama, intensity and emotion – and before the piano even gets into it! The soloist does not come for about four minutes while the orchestra has a long, thrilling introduction reflecting the themes of the movement. Brahm uses the full orchestra, with much grandeur, so the entrance to the piano is always a beautiful surprise, very lyrical and soft. And after such a long wait!

When my father passed away in 1997, I vowed that I would not listen to music for two months. And after two months, my father’s voice said to me, “I need to play music now.” So I turned on the radio. I was taking my son to school, and as soon as I turned it on, I heard that raga. My father played the violin, and I felt a connection, that he was directing me to this song; It was Brahma. After a long time, we were working on “Supernatural” with Dave Matthews, and the song came up again. I shared it with Dave, and the next thing you know, it went on the album “love of my life.”

Unlike a lot of modern musicians, who are jealous of this personality, I openly admit to stealing. I steal. And I stole a lot from Brahma. Many times this happens inadvertently, and many times it is intentional. It was 50/50. I gave some music for “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”, and I wrote a melancholy piece for Toledo, the film’s piano player and string orchestra. I am writing a raga and I solve it in the third and fourth time. I stole that second half from somewhere, but it took me several weeks to figure out where to go. Of course, I took it from an inter-grouping of Brahma.

I was introduced to the Brahmins in 1975 at Carnegie Hall, where Herbert von Karzan was conducting the second and fourth symphonies with the Berlin Philharmonic. I only auditioned for that; They asked me to prepare soprano solos from “German Requiem” so that I could sing it at the end of the tour, and they invited me to the concert. It was an unforgettable experience. I later recorded “Requiem” with him and the Vienna Philharmonic: I dedicate that single to all who have lost their loved ones or are victims of this epidemic, essential workers and conflicts and tragedies.

Dedicated to Clara Shuman, it is inter-emotional and intense. It has a magical magic, a loving aura that slowly touches the heart. The power of this music sends you into a world of introspection and intimate peace. It is a piece that never dies; It belongs to something that you can never catch. You listen to its poem, and it forces you to listen again and again.

I love the huge, probing, moody Brahms; Brahmas of breadth and depth; The progressive composer whose mature harmonic language anticipated Schönberg’s subjectivity. But Brahms, in his chief is also a virtuous pianist, a wild side, a showy streak. And any music that makes him a minor compared to minors dips that minor into the girth of his Piano Quartet No. 1 in G Minor, which he calls “Rondo in the Gypsy style”. On this thrilling recording of 1967, Artur Rubinstein, then a month shy of 80, joined the younger members of the Guarneri Quartet.

Here is more of that jeweler Brahmin: the conclusion of his violin concert, a dance with one leg in a magnificent ballroom, the other in a down-filthy village square. After the tender slow pace of the concert, it is a unique explosion. The soloist here is Silver Tond Janen Janssen; I had heard him play this long before the epidemic began, so for me it is a precious reminder of what came first – and what will come after that.

Brahm gave us music of great emotional depth that compels us to pause and reflect. Overall, his musical performance is serious and beautifully nostalgic. His “German request” has been with me since my teenage years in South Africa, when I first heard it at an art festival. Three years later I mourn the devastating loss of my grandmother. Instead of the traditional Latin Requiem, Brahm gathered his beautiful text from biblical sources, in a setting that gave him new meanings. From the opening motif in the chorus to the first words sung by the chorus – “Blessed are those who mourn” – we embrace warmly, comfortably and say, love. I had to restart it during this epidemic and quietly lost my close friends.

When I was 11 years old, I became deaf with an ear infection. After an operation, I was taken to a concert to try out for my Uber hearing. The effect of this music was immense. Later, I realize that no other piece of music starts like this: critical moments, in times of crisis. At the loud throbbing of a drum, the orchestra slowly moves upward, straining against gravity, so much harder yet less struggling. It also spoke to me as a child. How can something so heart-rending be so beautiful? Where did this immense struggle take place? I wanted to know.

Brahma’s most intimate feelings manifest themselves in his final sets of piano pieces, Op. 116 to 119. My appreciation for them grew with each encounter: first, when I learned some of them as an undergraduate piano student; Later, when I had the opportunity to study them in graduate school; And, recently, my wife, Deborah, performed and recorded ops through our house as the final thoughts of this musician. 119 sets. These pieces feel personal and remarkably mature in their simplicity, with an abundance of beauty and intricate detailing.

I think my ornithologist father-in-law said out loud, “How was Brahm able to make music that sounds like the vastness of nature?” And my former teacher said that Brahm was always trying to write texts that were too big for a given ensemble. I listen to the slow motion of the clarinet quintet, and I hear, on a microscopic level, that it is building an infinite world. It is like seeing the sins of the body, the veins of the leaves. There is much to take in: the richness of cohesion, the rhythm of the dupatta and the triple rubbing against each other. They all gather to bind the sadness and beauty of this revelation work.

Brahms’s Forth Symphony never fails to fill the seats of the concert hall with its charm and familiar interaction between stringing and woodwind. I love it because of how it makes me feel. This is the old friend who travels. Together we walk along a wooden trail, laughing and remembering in constant dialogue all the pleasant memories of the summer festivals.

When I went to the Manhattan School of Music in the mid-1980s, I went to the library to do my listening homework. One day I was preparing to read Brahm Ops. 40 threesomes; One version sounded interesting as it was recorded at the Marlborough Festival, which I knew, even distinguished as a freshman. The horn player was Myron Bloom, who was one of the greats – though I had no idea who he was at the time. Pianist Rudolf Serkin and violinist Michael Tree were also legends. This recording changed my perception of what classical music is – and how beautifully French horns can fit into the canon.

“Music for the soul,” “medicine for the voice”: These are two of my singer’s comments when we recorded “A German Request”. To delve deeper into the text – its harmony, pronunciation and meaning – was part of a fascinating journey with this great choir and orchestra, which imbues an intuitive understanding of the tradition; Warm, velvety choral sound; And the properties of the Berlin Philharmonic. Everything came together. This piece is so well known in Germany that you can feel the audience singing in their imaginations; It is music that engages us as we share it.

This is not only strange, a change from major to minor: in this breathless ride of a Cherozo, it feels violent, with existential bets, fights two ways to struggle for control with two means, over a runaway train Fighting with. The rhythm, too, veils sharply between fast and triple forms, even with the speed barrel forward. The feeling of unity and propulsive flow that emerges from this unstable mixture of elements is supernatural – Brahms best in his narcotic and mind.

Was Brahma a classicist or a ProgressiveThe why not both? Wilhelm Kempf’s restrained, artistic approach Late piano works It reminds me of how to get it all together. Gorgeous mellow lines are shaped with a singing quality; Surprisingly the breakdown causes an irritability. And not long after the three-minute mark in a recording of Op. 119, No. 4, Kempf honors some stray, crunchy low-end notes that would otherwise disturb the lilting passage – balancing the bravery of the Brahmins by their grace.

With music, one can withstand the ambient chaos of life and rediscover a possible harmony that does not speak of a lost paradise but a paradise to be found. Romanticism is the way of being. It is a fight for perfection for what is necessary. Go towards that goal with an empty hand and an open heart. Music is the passion that has found its rhythm. With Brahm, the inner pulse of music is very close to the human heart. Through his signature “Rückblick”, this feeling of longing and looking back, his language becomes poignant beyond words.

If anyone ever tells you that Brahmo is boring or asymptomatic – and, to the astonishing, that it is bound to happen – just react with one of his Opus 117’s three. After the first, a lullaby of crush beauty, number 2 comes B Flat Minor. It is also a lullaby, with a lilting raga – as simple as two-note phrases that open its fourth symphony – emerging from a slowly flowing run. Despite the cascading architecture, it is not a sentimental vocal as an invitation, from one solitary soul to another, for five minutes of intensely felt emotion.

It took me a long time to fall in love with the Brahmins, whose music had once given me a very sleepy fire – “Sharatkal”, which we often call critics. It wasn’t until I was forced to know that to live was to lose, I think, that I came to the dark side of her score: grief and sorrow, loneliness and guilt, desperation, even That anger too. Nowhere is darkness more engaged than in his fourth and final symphony, a work with rage at its heart, whatever it may try to maintain. And no conductor has consumed his horrors more than Wilhelm Furtwengler.



Source link

Translate »