This tale wonders through the mist,
without knowing exactly who to combat, without knowing what to do
with this predilection for death. It almost is willing to kill
itself, just give meaning to its mournful longing for Tristan and
Isolde coprolite excrement after Wagner.
Because it was Richard on the brain to its very core, which would
not do, because Schoenberg should always be the first name in the
pantheon. So the back of his head played games, games that would
reach a climax, with a misdirection, thinking that he was worshiping
Schoenberg worshiping Wagner, when their was no reason to involve
Schoenberg at all.
There was also the matter of defining
numbers over and over again with reverence and celerity. He could not
help it, it was just what he did. He could not help any one of these
games, all played in harmony together, even though that harmony was,
at times, slightly out of tune. But it was Berg's out of tune, which
was one of the few consistently out of tune pieces in all of Europe.
You might find Noh, in Japan, or Shanghai Opera settings which would
have the same consistently broken in their wares. That rhythmic sense
that is Chinese or Japanese, not really European, but European style
faking Chinese instruments.
So the first movement is enraged horror,
and the second movement a kind of despair. But how did it reach this
and golden creation that it did?
It begin first by scribbling in this cottage room.- I must make it perfect, even though several times I wanted to destroy the efforts.
This was of course Berg, talking to no
one in particular, since his wife was still; or perhaps again, he did
not know the difference. There was no spitting, or genuflecting to
the creator, which he did not believe in; only something more vague,
and yet more powerful.
It was Christopher S. Wood who would
write about the Vienna School Reader, about a group of, not painters,
but readers writing on reading, it was called the new Vienna school,
because Vienna was the place where East meets West. Little farther
down the Danube, the world had tilted to the east, though still
making use of the West. That was in Budapest, where everything
Western was stylized and not baroque in that way. In Budapest,
everything happened to be already Baroque by not being Baroque at
all. As I said, they had gotten their first.
“... it is precisely his avowed desire to give the special
'understanding' of art he exactly of the natural sciences
distinguishes him from the ordinary experience of the 'sciences of
the spirit.'” this was Meyer Schapiro being quoted in Woods text on
Cézanne, which happened to be exhibited for a very brief time. It
was a secondary reference, because mountain is “Berg” in German.
Everything relates to everything else if one tries hard enough to
nuance enough.
- I wonder if I could convince my
significant other to move out of Trauttmansdorffgasse, even though it
was tree-lined and romantic in nature, there were lines which
reminded him of what Theodor W. Adorno would later note were
Cézanne-esque shapes of tiny rectangles, which Berg silently
detested. There was no composition in the space in town, only at the
Villa, which he retreated to win he wanted to compose his real work:
first Lulu, and now in a fit of orgiastic despair, is violin
Concerto, which he privately thought would be his last work.
- I must get perfect, not in years, but
in a few short months, because I am rotting from the inside.
He invented whole new ways of
introducing the first note: because each note was different in
execution of the small detail, but in order in its larger conception.
Thus each 12 note would be extraordinarily unique, and also with
precision, the same as the note before, only very by each step. Then
it would begin again, with entirely different notes, and theme.
- I must produce my best, because that
is what Schoenberg once from me.
And in his mind eye, ever present, their
was deeply hidden, but plain for Berg to see, a small marionette of
Schoenberg, even though he was the only person to see it.
- I promise I will do better, I promise
I will refine each note, each 12 note, each phrase, each
compartmentalized conception, until it is all perfection.
Again it was to
himself that Berg talk to, because only he could understand the
Viennese German which he spoke in under his breath. It was a singsong
pattern which only he had mastered, he had to modulate this for
anyone else, though Mahler, Schoenburg, and Weber understood the
overall grasp of the sentence, because they spoke the same
clockomagnetic rhyme and reason. It was, it was as if, it was as if
there was a code between the co-fraternity of the second Vienna
school and their God the father.
But Mahler said his ear was not
sensitive enough to really grasps what he was hearing, even in
strictly tonal pieces.
This all within the cottage which had
many rooms in it. But Berg never got the second Symphony of Mahler
out of his head, though with time, he made notations so it was out of
his pen.
Mahler was dead these 25 years, and he thought little of
Schoenberg, he being a obsessed with his wife, who was already
sleeping with the next man she would be marrying, and with the only
composer of his day who would be heir to the Wagnerian throne:
Richard Strauss.
-
even in the exact time, even in the
exact place, there is a resonance to people talking after the same
things. Thus it is in harmonious resonance that Otto Pacht is
speaking of the same attachment to the object, that Berg is wrestling
with in the same way. Both of them love the romantic, but have
adopted the same expressionist demeanor, out of which comes there
fluidity. Though Pacht write reams, while there only rights a few
pieces, each one of them writes in the cold mileuax that looms above
Vienna in the first half of the 20th century. It is one
half 19th century, as if, as many commentators noticed,
this was planted very firmly next to heart – it was Leonard
Bernstein who used almost this phrasing and pace of rhythm – while
the second half is breaching for the 20 century but does not know how
to reach, or what foot to planned where. But it is in the which
reaches a climax of both romantic feeling, in that way that romantic
music does, because words had long ago ceased to mean the same thing.
Romantic words were over in 1850 or so, but romantic music lived on
until it was both a parody and an lielired of something long
forgotten in words.
It was a male only establishment, just
as the Vienna institutions were male only. But then almost all of the
worlds orchestras were. But Vienna would hold on to the last days of
the century before admitting players – other than harps – to take
a seat with the man. It was both endlessly progressive by being
totally reactionary. Remember, Hitler was from this place. And he
like most Austrians, reviled Schoenberg as well as any Jewish
composers, however tonal they were, but Schoenberg he despised.
Actually Bartok – who was Christian –
wrote a letter complaining that the Nazi party would not condone his
writing on to the absolute ban that Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern were
placed. Though Webern tried hard to get off the list, because he
wanted to be both a member of the second Vienna school, and a good
member of the Reich.
But as I said, it was Berg's wife who at
this moment, was deep in the machinations of the power politics. The
wind was blowing out of the South, As was the programming of the
Salzburg Opera Festival. Josef Krips would be making his festival
debut with Der Rosenkavalier, And almost all of the programming
reminded one of the lateness that was the twilight of the era of
Wagner. But underneath the old trappings their was a new sound,
entirely tenor in its nature, which would be the ringing in the ears
for a generation to come. This, it could be said, was what annoyed
his wife. Why was there no mention of the second Vienna school. Mind
you, that wasn't the real reason, but it was the thing she harped
upon, to her husband, and anyone else that she could scrap in to a
discussion.
Right now, however, she was lighting in
to her husband, with details which were not really the concern on her
mind, but shrieked like noise as she moved back and forth on veranda.
It was not even pretty, it began from a high-pitched scream, and
descended in to a low guttural growl. Berg was trying to calm it
down, as the violin tried to smooth over the lumps and pickups. But
the noise from the orchestra would not die down. Every day it was
like this, and every night Berg noted this in his score, or notes
that he took down.
Later, Berg described this part in a
letter to Schoenberg, telling him only the most dry of details. But
in between the details was a hammer blow of a cacophonous pounding
that begins the third movement, which was divided into to parts, the
first part was a prelude, labeled Andante, and a scherzo, labeled
Allegretto. But then came the second act, and with it the allegro,
labeled cadenza. And what a cadenza it was. Thus in two movements,
there were four sections, each one of which had four blandishments,
and each one of them Mrs. Berg had an opinion on, not the least of
which was her complete absence from the musical substructure. Instead
there were parts for other people, which enraged her, though she did
not speak its name. She was worried, of course, that her husband
slept with Manon, a sin that was made double because of her rivals
young age. But instead she harped on Louis Krasner young age and
uncertain virtuosity, because he was not the first person that either
of them would have selected.
And so it went on night after night,
the pitching and screaming, combined with late night tapings of the
pen as he feverishly worked on a force of God cadenza.Meanwhile
Berg's wife was doing her Shiva retain to Berg's Vishnu – she was
hiding most of the second act of Lulu.
Both destroying it from performance, but lovingly preserving to be
found far and away, to reach a performance in the distant future. You
see, Mdm. Berg fought the opera beyond the grave, and it was 1979
when it got its first performance, because the third movement was
only in short score, and she wanted it that way. But she also knew
that Lulu was glorious
and the final masterpiece, from a composer which had only a few.
So from beyond
the grave she thought, and had lawyers snip and lear.
-
But there was
one problem that vexed Berg: having begun and sustained, how would he
and this problem which had now enough space to become almost a
concerto. Because almost is not the same thing as quite being a
concerto. He was in the cottage on the second floor, talking with
Willi about all the options, and reminding him to find a copy of the
book on Bach, which he bought would show that the end of the most
complex cantata was he seen series of notes as the last four of his
tone row.
He wished it
would be so, the complexities of it made orgasmic pleasure in nearly
thinking about it. The ecstasies of it made him giddy and
effervescent just thinking about the sublime difference between
animal and plant myxomycete. He wanted, desperately, to feck them
over and over until he had webs of endless gew on is luxurious velvet
sleeves.
Then one day
Willi returned with a book entitled 60 great canata themes, and their
settled on the page was what he had hoped for: the most complex theme
noted down in all of its glorious detail. He spent hours that night
talking to, a rather talking at, Willi about the various exercises
which he was thinking of doing, combining tonal with atonal, in a
grand mass which would be a prayer for all of the dead, with Manon
being tasked with leading the fallen into their grave.
-
The violin
Concerto was finished, but had no performances yet, when Mme. came to
the door of Berg.
- Are you all
right, I heard some gasping when you were outside for a moment. Are
you well?
She knew of
course he was not well. But she didn't know what was wrong.
- Yes yes yes,
I'm fine. I just turned around and a bee stung me, it was only once.
Could you help me? I need only some iodine, and it will be settled.
Then he
turned, and presented his buttocks, in any display that held enormous
understanding, if not enormous love. Because there was little of that
between them. She looked down, and for a moment stared. It was
enormous and blackened, she had never seen anything like it, and
touched him on his back.
- It is
enormous and swollen, shouldn't we take you to a hospital?
Berg made a
motion that said no, but spoke no word. Of course it was painful,
more than painful, it felt like it was a gash that tour him in to. It
was at this point that he thought of the violin Concerto, and its
remorseless way of telling the tale. Howard struggled, and fought, as
if life itself were being torn out of it. It was like a clatter, a
clamor, and yet sublime release.
- it seems like
I need iodine and perhaps some stitching, really that is all I need.
This was
obviously a lie, told the way and told the way endless lies had come
streaming out of his lips. And she knew it, but she got out a needle
and thread, and set to work darning and fixing. She was fastidious,
but she was postulant and new that this needle would not hold.
So she made a
mess of it, knowing that Berg could not see what a messy job it was,
though he could feel it.
- Are you sure
that the needle has gone all the way in? And all of the morass has
been cleaned out?
Even when
lying dead inside his grave, Berg cast a force that towered over the
various participants.
-
it had been
assumed that Webern would conduct the first performance of the
Concerto. But try as he might, he wanted it to be so quiet that no
one could hear it. Then at the last minute, perhaps under pressure
from the other members of the group, he resigned, and thus a much
lesser member was picked out to conduct the first concerto. There was
tension, inside the brain of Webern, because he was still hoping to
get a position in the Reich, though it all ready was being made clear
that this would not happen. He tried to get the musical members of
the regime to see that the work was pure, and Germanic. But in a
closed room, they would have nothing to do with such cacophonous and
dissonant music.
Knowing full
well that it had not been cleaned out, nor was all of it
sanctimoniously cleaned out. If God's work is cleanliness in action,
then this was the Devils own work itself. The ends were ghastly, and
the sutures made round and round a veritable stitching fever. And
what's more, there new that he was dying on table, in the blue
colored room. If we were looking at the ironic juxtaposition, as an
audience member, you would see a long low table cluttered with
glasses, each having more or less of a drink, from small ones with
aperitif, to enormous ones which contained beer. These – as I said
– cluttered the table in a richness and were clearly of a different
taste for the many people who had stopped by. Though they would not
have said it, is a were paying respects to a dying composer. Also on
the table were small bunches of flowers, though of course at this
point they were dried. The table was covered with a lightly flowered
coverlet which had been in the family since at least the grandfathers
generation. All of it pointed to one thing: Alban Berg was
entertaining, that is to say dying.
In this light
Berg has created a network of emotions that anybody is major works,
because each nonet is related to a given emotion which for just a
moment brings true. One could capture a moment from The Lyric Suite,
with its perturbations of chrysanthemum flowers drooping as they
suffused fire. One could go on and on with this exercise, picking out
moments from Lulu, or the thundering Piano Sonata.
Everything was
symbolizing something, but it had no relationship to what it was next
to. It was a jumble of ideas which Berg would put in order, but he
was dying. And his eyes searched to his wife, knowing that she was
killing him, by ideas. There was not any trace of murder in her
frame, but her shadow was choking him, as if the bodies were lovingly
embraced, and the shadows were cacophonousness engaged in and to hand
combat. The loving face of Mlle. Berg, was mimicked by a shadow which
choked the life.
This pretext,
that they were partners, was really sotto voce, that they were
partners in crime. Than Berg stiffened, and in so doing, gradually
expired. The word of his death was small, and unimportant, except for
those who felt lessed by his grief. These were not only of the
Schoenburg school mind you, but composers as far afield as Britain
and Shostakovich.
It was of
course the English composer Writing to the Soviet composer; he spoke
in melodic sentences that were clearly marked off, yet rounded in
their presence. Words as used in conversation, where short clip
staccato replies that had none of the expansiveness which filled the
room with a resonance, when talking not to anybody in particular, but
to everybody in a group. There was something underneath the tone
which said that all are welcome to listen, but no one was allowed to
speak
-
Klagegesang
II/158 and II/177 Would seem to be a suggestion that the reading,
indeed of the entire force, should be unified in a way that here's
difficult to accomplish. This was sent Schenker approach. It
Represents the adherence of program music and defendants of new
classes and new matter-of-factness”. We find ourselves in a snowy
plain in bags and tatters, a monk in disguise. “ I am the absolute,
be there in fact. The fundamental abstract I eight all sensuous.”
this was laid by the that was Berg.
He then wrote
about his chamber Concerto: “ as an author it much easier to speak
about such external matters then about internal process...” he was
trying to explain why the road about the violin Concerto in abstract
Doppelgaengner reaction. He was conflicting about the dual sides of
one person, about how God and the devil by for inner workings which
define Goethe's Faust. It was
almost a personal bottle to set Strindberg Road to Damascus
the father and the son battling
for control of text. But as usual, the father one day. And Berg
withdrew to other fields. Though he wrote in his copy of the play: “
annihilation of the God in you.” Perhaps he meant Schoenberg though
he would deny.
-
“Berg seems
to me to have committed a serious error...” Pierre Boulez, though
Haruki Murakami would disagree from his The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
on Kafka
on the shore.
