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SUNDAY SPECTATOR
October 13, 2002
Inside the box
It is Canadian Thanksgiving; whom shall we thank and why? In one channel of electronic space I was hearing the prattle of some multicultural congress in Edmonton where we invited the world to come and praise us for our magnificent achievements in tolerance and "social justice"; and to declare that while we may not have cured prejudice or reached Utopia at least we try . (Unlike other nations the United States for instance where immigrants are hunted with nets and spears and people caught speaking foreign languages are publicly drawn and quartered.) The conference was such a painful example of our Goody Two-Shoes narcissism. On another channel Glenn Gould -- the 70th anniversary of his birth or 20th of his death take your pick. Now this was in a separate category. We did not have to pay people to be thankful for him. Not only the CBC but classical radio stations in New York Paris and elsewhere stopped to insert into their schedules his momentous 1955 recording of the Goldberg Variations and hours more in that kind. My own view of Gould is "love-hate"; which means there is genuine love in it. But I have called them the "Goldberg Violations" and was explaining to a correspondent the other week that I thought Gould had "dissected" Bach with miraculous skill separating the spiritual from the intellectual content and then discarding the spiritual. This made a nice Gould-like throwaway line; but later I listened again to those Goldberg Variations through ears now accustomed to Murray Perahia and Angela Hewitt and they swept me off my feet as they had done decades before. And I realized that what I hated in Gould was not irreligion but a man-against-nature Puritan earnestness that crosses into droll; and that is what I love about him too. And I take it all back: Gould was a profoundly original pianist with a direct line to the musical saints and an evangelist of his own peculiar kind perhaps not to all tastes. Still a conductor of God's unmistakable lightning joy in the Creation. Multiculturalism is an empty imposture a sordid self-serving gimmick. But Gould practising Mozart over the vacuum cleaner or humming while he played makes me thankful for God's gift to Canada. I don't know how much you know about music -- I know nothing -- but I have also been listening to Rossini's Petite Messe Solennelle in a recording of its original version (Simon Halsey conducting the City of Birmingham Symphony). Gioacchino Rossini (1792-1868) is the presiding genius of comic opera -- light but knife-edge sharp and witty and to my mind delightfully in-the-face of the whole Romantic tradition. He retired on his winnings still very young stopped writing operas to spend the latter half of his life amusing himself and a salon circle in Paris writing clever provocations and impudences -- musical satire parody and pastiche including flippantly devastating in-jokes on rival composers. And all these brilliant flourishes -- more than 150 piano pieces arias ensemble works -- he dismissed himself with an Italian shrug of his shoulders as péchés de vieillese ("sins of old age"). Then towards the very end he composed this fascinating "little" Mass (nearly 80 minutes on his tempo indications). In the autograph manuscript he makes a couple of remarks directly to God himself (and which I am lifting from the liner notes). At the beginning: "Petite messe solennelle in four parts with accompaniment of TWO pianos and harmonium composed during my country vacation at Passy. Twelve singers of three sexes -- men women and castrati -- will be sufficient for its execution: that is eight for the chorus four for the solos a total of twelve cherubim. Dear God forgive me the following comparison: twelve are also the Apostles in the celebrated jaw-stroke [coup de mâchoire] painted in fresco by Leonardo called The Last Supper who would believe it! Among thy disciples are some who strike false notes!! Lord rest assured I swear there will be no Judas at my supper and that mine will sing properly and con amore your praises and this little composition which is alas the final sin of my old age." Then at the end of the manuscript: "Dear God there you have it finished this poor little mass. Is it really sacred music or is it cursed music that I have made? I was born for opera buffa as you well know! Little technique a little heart that is all. So be Thou blessed and grant me Paradise. G. Rossini." All this frivolity belied by the amount of time and care he bestowed on getting it exactly right; and from a man who otherwise took a gentlemanly pride in merely "tossing things off". (Seven operas once in 16 months.) Now the harmonium is the most holy part of this extraordinary Mass. It is of course completely incongruous: not a great organ but a little monkey grinder as if Rossini has invited into the church a tramp from the street in his rags to do a little riff among the powdered and perfumed members of the choir and orchestra. Yet I swear it is the key to the work: Christ has been smuggled into the building as if in some tramp's Parisian squeezebox. The whole mass is on the edge of humour but never quite goes there stops just short and on purpose. It is bristling with wit but innocently and in the end the spirit is humble humble. The opening Kyrie hung on the spine of a piano melody the compositional centre yet merely keeping time makes my hair stand up it is so irreducibly simple and spooky; and the structure of the movement that hangs upon it is reminiscent of Charpentier and worthy of Bach -- two composers whose Christian faith can never be doubted. The choir trembles; the harmonium steals in a ghost in the machine. In short Rossini was totally utterly fanatically sincere in this perverse little Mass. And true to himself into the bargain. It is the most moving thing a miniature dramatic paradox in which somehow -- who knows how it happens -- Christ is summoned in the Kyrie and then makes an appearance saving the little tramp and his monkey grinder. (The harmonium then leads in the Gloria; "and the last shall be first".) There you have it: why we give thanks. For our salvation O Lord. David Warren
© Ottawa Citizen
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