Moments of Empathy
When you listen to a work of music, you may hear a passage or idea that affects you so deeply, a phrase or harmony that connects with you so wholeheartedly. Sometimes, a song’s lyrics create this connection; the most memorable lyrics are immortalized through endless repetition and quotation (especially on Facebook profiles).
Most instrumental classical music, of course, does not enjoy this luxury. Yet the music is still able to build these strong connections. Ever wonder how this happens? Consider, for instance, the music of the Romantic era, a nineteenth-century era of music unique for its use of musical imagery and rhythmic and dynamic extremes.
There are some moments in Romantic Era repertoire that achieve true empathy. They are moments that peer deeply into the realms of human emotion and psychology, yet flow with deceptive simplicity. They are more than simply great melodies, for great melodies do not necessarily build connections. They are the musical reincarnation of human understanding, those brief but quietly exhilarating instances when two individuals realize a spiritual or heartfelt connection.
A few of these moments come to my mind immediately: the solo recapitulation in Brahms’ First Piano Concerto, for instance, and its corresponding feeling of deep nostalgia, or the budding anticipation to a paradise portrayed in Bruckner’s Fourth Symphony. These are musical ideas that evoke not only image but also familiarity. They relate to our emotions by capturing the nuances of their ebbs and flows, the intensities at various stages, and even the complex factors that lead to these emotions.
This brings me to this next gem:
The soloist is Thomas Landschoot, a professor at ASU whose achievements include introducing classical music to children in India, among other deeds. This video starts at the cello’s introduction of the second theme of Dvorak’s Cello Concerto — exactly where our special moment begins. Now I know that experienced listeners might point out the conductor’s shortcomings at following the soloist, or Landschoot’s occasional tendency to fall flat on his vibrato, but it’s the moment that really counts in my book, and that’s where this recording excels.
Our delicate moment runs from the video’s start to 1:02, and it can conceivably divide into two main musical ideas:
The first idea is pastoral, peaceful, yet intimate, almost as if the music depicted an image not of a country landscape but rather of a storyteller telling about the landscape. What I like most about this recording is Landschoot’s steadiness and his consistent, assertive voicing, even though he plays with tempo just a little. He also rounds out this phrase beautifully with a slight character change at 0:26 rather than a steadier decrescendo, which to me follows the contour of the phrasing better.
The second idea is spiritual and insightful, as everything seems to stop and focus on the cello and its revelation. The character shift to something more airy and tentative is heart-stopping, and luckily for my health the voicing gradually gains confidence and rhythm. This passage feels cathartic and purifying; I only wish that it were played every time someone forgives me for committing a stupid act.
The rest of this recording is very good as well, especially the solo cello, but I really wanted to highlight this particular moment because it affects me in a way few other pieces or phrases do. It is my hope that more such moments be brought out not only to classical music fans but to anybody who has ever enjoyed or emphasized with a work of music — if anything, they show that music can create deep understanding even without lyrics. I’d love to hear suggestions about other moments of musical empathy as well. Fire away!
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For more information about the piece, you can download or search:
Antonin Dvorak
Cello Concerto in B Minor
