It's not September 11th that needs to be remembered; it's September 10th. What is not forgotten does not need to be remembered. We've been living in the shadow of that tragedy from that moment until now. Please don't misunderstand me, I'm not suggesting that the innocent lives of those who died should not be commemorated, or that we should not mark this anniversary with solemnity. I'm only suggesting that we stop and remember what it is that we've forgotten. We must remember that things changed that day, and that now we are not the same.
John Adams didn't intend for his piece, On The Transmigration Of Souls to be a memorial, a requiem, or a reminder. Instead, he intended it to be a "memory space." (from John Adams own description of this piece) He hoped to give the listener a sense of other-worldness; much in the same way that one is overwhelmed and awed with a sense of aloneness upon stepping into a grand Cathedral, despite the busyness that surrounds. He creates this memory space in this work by filling and adorning the background with voices, street sounds, and swelling strings, while leaving the foreground absent and void. By doing this, Adams creates a backdrop in front of which ones' own memories and questions take center stage. Occasionally a voice, or musical line, will step forward before disappearing again into background. The trumpet calls and questions in a way that reminds us of Charles Ives' Unanswered Question of a century earlier, and just like Ives' query this question is left unanswered as well. Next, the men of the choir try to impose some sort of rhythmic direction, before falling away into the chaos they tried to tame. The low and ominous sound of the string basses seems perpetually poised to bring the heartbreak we know is inevitable, yet time and time again we're left waiting as the inevitable fades away. Eventually, after twelve minutes of expectancy, the numbness of the opening is overcome with the pain and agony that we knew was inevitable, with the orchestra violently crescendoing into the climax we hoped would never come. When the chorus rejoins the orchestra, their text is less fragmented and more personal. And as the children tragically sing the awful words, "I know just where he is," we are reminded of the suffering that will take place in that moment, when this exclamation which still holds out with hope of restoration is tragically transformed, and we realize that we don't know just where he is, but we know just where he died. Now at the pinnacle of our pain, words fail and the chorus is replaced with a morbid cacophony of noise from the percussion section. The piece stubbornly presses on, and we are left longing for a peace and resolution that never comes. Instead, the chaos just fades away into the quietness with which the piece began - only now, we are not the same.
When the buildings fell, we felt immense pain, utter confusion, and time stopped. I'm not sure how long that timelessness lasted, but some time in the years that followed the pain turned to sadness, the confusion melted into normality, and once again time began to march on. But now, we are not the same.
When this piece premiered nine years ago, we were still lost and confused. We were not sure what to make of the new world emerging around us. A world ravaged by war and filled with a dangerous cocktail of patriotism and hate. We were trying make sense of the senseless, find hope in the hopeless, and rebuild amidst the rubble. When the piece began, and the recording of a young boy compelled us to "listen," a memory space was created and what we heard in sound gave voice to all of our fears, confusion, and grief. It just seemed true, it just seemed right. But how do we hear this piece now? Now that a new time has begun, and we've learned to live and adjust, what happens in this memory space? It seems somehow distant and off mark. It speaks of pain when all we feel is sadness. We've forgotten the life that was taken from us, we've forgotten all that we lost. Yesterday, when I listened to this piece for the first time in many years, I felt empty and lost, and for the first time in many years, I remembered that I am not the same.
Nathan, this is a different voice than you've used before--more plaintive, wistful, maybe? It certainly seems appropriate here.
ReplyDeleteSo many writers get stuck in one voice, whether by popular demand, by literary inability, or by aesthetic choice. It's like an actor stuck playing Nazis--or swashbucklers, or Johnny Depp's bewildered geniuses--for an entire career. Some actresses, once the public has no more use for them as "the girl next door," have no more career. And it's the same in music. Adams knew that his "Nixon" or "Klinghoffer" styles wouldn't work for this piece.
But changing roles, compositional styles, or voices doesn't by itself make good writing or acting. On one hand, it might show that you weren't as committed to your "original" as you should have been. No one likes posers any more, right? But on the other hand, it might show that some of your commitments mean more to you than Art does. In that case, the value of your writing depends not only on your facility with your chosen style, but also on the extent to which your commitments (values, presuppositions, assumptions) reflect Reality.