A German Requiem For A Dream

Contending with the past and the present. And also, Rick Rubin's beard.

Who wore it better?

Memory is a funny thing. Not “haha” funny, but funny in a, “hmmmm, I thought something happened one way and looking back, maybe it didn’t happen that way or look that way or sound that way or feel that way AT ALL.” Rick Rubin recently got into the Substack game and his first real post was on Memory Analysis: The Past Is Always Changing. I wouldn’t know what he said on the subject because I’m not a “paid” subscriber, but the gist of it, I’m guessing, is some variation on what’s “funny” above with an added dash of impermanence and a splash of omniscience that goes along with his beard.

Photo courtesy of: Helen at Secret Lentil

All this is to say, I had a spiritual moment with Brahms’ Ein Deutsches Requiem (EDR for the sake of brevity) back in college that was life changing. A sixty-voice choir, full orchestra, baritone and soprano soloists, and a conductor of conductors, R. Paul Crabb who, to this day, I give full credit for this almost thirty year obsession with this piece of music. For our 1997 collegiate performance, I was merely another soprano in a sea of voices working as a god-like wave of emotion. In other words, I wasn’t the soloist. I wasn’t the star. I was…the ocean.

From the very first bass note leading into that rub of minor dissonance, my heart skipped. There is a certain power in one, deep, breathtaking note. It cuts to the core, but you can’t stay on that forever. And like life, this piece shifts and turns and laughs and cries and dances and stops you in your metaphorical tracks for seven movements equaling approximately seventy minutes, give or take how many people cough in between during allergy season.

Since then, I have never come across a live performance of it. Never. Not even in New York fucking city. Was my memory of that piece an anomaly? Does it actually suck? Is that why no one performs it? Admittedly, it is a large work requiring a LOT of musicians and singers which equals, not cheap. But, orchestras and philharmonics do mammoth works like this all the time. Honestly, its rarity has stupefied me for decades. Until…last weekend.

Turns out, April in Paris doesn’t just deliver in botanical beauty, she was scheduled to deliver a rare bouquet of music straight to my heart! The moment I saw that the Théâtre du Champs-Élysées was performing EDR, I grabbed two of the best seats I could afford. Upon hitting, “confirm”, I jumped with glee like a goddamned schoolgirl, then asked Tor to go with me whose response was, “You know I have sworn off anything artistic in this city for the rest of our stay.” So I convinced Wesley, my seventeen year old, to go with his ole’ mom on a date night.

A few weeks later the big night arrived and I was doubting Wes was going to like it. Was the choir going to be good? Or the orchestra, or even the conductor who, in true French fashion, holds a “baguette” instead of a “baton.” Was I holding this piece in too high a regard for all these years? On top of that, Wesley sounded like he was battling a second bout of whooping cough. What is it with kids these days? It’s like they get sick and stay sick for months on end?? I’m sure if I brought it to RFK Jr.’s attention he would suggest curing it with gargling apple cider vinegar and windex, and at this point, I’m willing to try it. Wesley assured me he wanted to go, even if half-dead, and we said goodbye to Tor who responded, “Brahms was a vagina compared to Wagner, “ to which I responded, “Wagner was Hitler’s bitch so…”

Wes and I wolfed down our burgers and fries at Mangez et Cassez-Vous and headed to the theatre where we were both wondering if he was going to infect a room filled to the brim with old people and their depleted immune systems. Before you judge, he at least tested negative for Covid.

Mangez Et Cassez-vous! is the closest thing France has to a Shake Shack.

We arrived at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées and I was hit with the sudden fear of, what if this piece actually sucked?! What if my experience of being in it had nothing to do with the reality of what it actually feels like to be an audience member????!!! Fuuuuuuck??! And then it made me sad. To quell my sadness, I turned my attention to the nearest unattractive human standing in line and said, “Wes, is she your type?” When I was young, my mom and my cousins and I called this “the boyfriend game, where we would pick-off the next person we saw and say, ‘that’s YOUR’s’, etc. “Uh…no,” he replied, “and I think that’s a man.” After several back and forths, we both came to the conclusion that this sweet, unsuspecting human being who was being used as a human shield for my own existential midlife crisis was, in fact, a mentally challenged woman which made me, a monster.

The bells were sounding for, “get your asses moving people, the show is about to start!”, and we were shown to our “seats” by the uppity French usher, “You are heeeearreeehh, euuhhhh, in zee folding chairs. Please.” Oh yeah. I forgot I got the cheapest seats in the best section and so, they were folding “chairs.” Wes and I both laughed which sent him into a coughing fit which inspired the woman next to us to offer him a mask, which he declined. Again, asshole Americans, but hey, at least no Covid!

Just as the lights were lowering, I snuck into one of the beautiful, upholstered, unoccupied barrel chairs in front of Wesley, not without sneers and jeers from the folx who paid 200 euros more for their seats than I did. Sorry, not sorry.

The orchestra was ready, the “baguette” was raised, and the double bass’ first note began to bellow. Tears welled-up in my eyes as I looked back at Wesley. The energy was palpable. I wanted him to love this experience as much as I’d hoped I would re-love it and yet, I knew the odds were slim to none. Overall, the kid has great taste in music: loves jazz, Bob Marley, Chili Peppers, and some choice Black Sabbath, but a lover of classical music he is not.

Then came the beautiful call of dissonance being answered by a melodic dance between major and minor. The chorus began: “Selig sind.” (Blessed are…) Ugh. Those first two words could melt the blackest heart. “Selig sind, die da Leid tragen, denn sie sollen getröstet werden.” (Blessed are those who suffer, for they shall be comforted.) The text is one from the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount which we just visited in Jerusalem, such a powerful image we had witnessed with our whole being: breathing the air, overlooking the Sea of Galilee, touching the ground that actually was theeee mount. And to have that same moment captured by the imagination of a man who wrote this piece 1,868 years after Jesus spoke it?? Crazypants.

The actual “mount” of the Beatitudes we saw last month.

I’m not going to make this a play-by-play of EDR, but I will say, in the middle of it, my son leaned forward and whispered, “This is awesome.” Awesome is how I would have described it then and how he described it now. Relief washed over me, my memory in tact.

My son and I had shared a moment. A movement. Seven movements to be exact. This was his first foray with this God-inspired work: sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair, hacking his lungs out with every other pollen-i-fied audience member between each and every silence they could sneak a hack in. I wondered what he would remember about this thirty years from now if/when he listens to this live again. Would it be the burger and fries we ate before? Would it be standing in line where his mother was a monster? Would it be the first note? The baritone solo? The middle? No one remembers the middle. Or the last note that was just as tender and haunting as the first?

During the final applause we ran out to beat the rush of the crowd as Wes was already late for a friend’s birthday celebration. Walking arm-in-arm to the métro, I became overwhelmed and started ugly-crying. I saw my whole life wash before me while listening to that piece: the little girl who just wanted to sing, the college girl who just wanted to get on with it already and be living the dream in NYC, the wife who craved love, the mother who wanted to give her boys the world, and now, the perimenopausal, middle-aged lady who moved to Paris and was facing the fact that her “baby” was going to graduate in exactly one year. What happened?

The piece had stayed the same, I was the one who was different. Somehow, Brahms’ musical journey became a metaphor for my 50th birthday staring me down. While I stood there crying, my son was laughing, “I knew you were going to do this,” he confessed. I said, “Do what?” “Cry.” And then we were both laughing.

Just like that, my “suffering” became “comforted” by joy. Jesus said it would.

In Laughter,
LStL

“Wir werden nicht alle entschlafen, wir werden aber alle verwandelt werden” (We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.) - from the 6th Movement. Apparently, Rick Rubin’s beard was right! The past IS always changing. And so are we.

If you like this post, please do ❤️ it as it allows for further visibility on Substack, which allows me to continue doing my thang. xx