DEPRESSION

DEPRESSION
For whatever reason, recent statistics indicate that the segment of the populace who suffer from melancholia (melancholy, as did Beethoven) or depression, is on the rise. I am one of those members of society who have dealt with this perplexing condition since adolescence. I do, however, now possess tools to help me overcome the paralyzing effects of this condition. A turning point came some years ago in Vienna, Austria. I was there with my accompanist on a concert tour of middle Europe and the Mediterranean region. It was mother’s day, and I was in Vienna, the home of my dear friends Mozart, Beethoven, Strauss. It should have been a wonderful day for me, but I was holding what I have come to refer to as a pity party. I was in a state of abject depression. I don’t know all the contributory elements that placed me in this condition. It could have stemmed from being on tour for over 8 weeks and feeling at a loss without the surroundings of my home and family. It could have been the recognition that my own mother, and the mother of my children were thousands of miles away celebrating the day with me in absentia. Whatever the reason, it was real and oppressive. The weather complied and brought forth torrential rain and gloom, over what can, under such conditions, be a very grey city. We determined to go to hear the famed Vienna Choir Boys singing mass. The performed admirably a Bruckner Mass, which though it was beautifully sung, did not take away the curse of self pity I was experiencing. As we left the church, my accompanist bid me auf widersehen and I got into a cab in the hopes of finding that so-called silver lining through the clouds. When I got into the cab, I asked if he would take me to das Haus Beethoven, bitte. He responded by asking welches Haus, bitte? (Which house, please?). It was at that moment, I remembered that Beethoven had always been a step ahead of the landlord. He lived in a number of “houses” until he could not meet the rent payments. For some reason, I asked him to take me where the Eroica Symphony was written. Immediately he engaged the meter and off we sped into the rain. It soon became apparent that we were leaving the confines of the great city on the Danube, and Vienna began to disappear into the rear view mirror. I had no idea where he was taking me. The great autobahn diminuted to a strasse, then a little gravel winding road. The cows along the side of the road looked at us quisically, as we meandered past them as they contentedly chewed their cud. Soon the gravel came to an end and a small, footpath of cobblestone moved off ahead of us. The driver stopped the meter, took nearly all of my Austrian Schillings and pointed forward saying: da drüben! (Over there!) I walked into the little ancient town of Hieligestadt with the pedestrian walkways and the houses very close together. There was no one on the street. As I rounded the corner I saw a little sign indicating that I had arrived at the home of Beethoven. I climbed the little set of steps and tried the door. It was locked. My heart sunk. I was alone on the outskirts of Vienna with a perforated pilgrimage. I was about to sink into despondent despair, when I heard the sound of tinkling brass. I looked up to see an enormous ring of keys holding up a little old man looking like he was stepping out of the set of a Mel Brooks comedy coming towards me. The weight of the keys seemed to cause him to lean to one side. He asked me if I wanted to go in. I responded with an impassioned Jawohl! In the conglomeration of keys this claviger (keeper of the keys) carried, he seemed to know which would gain us entrance into the sanctuary I was seeking. I entered the room and looked around. There was nothing there! Two empty rooms. Wooden floors, one window...nothing. I don’t know exactly what I had expected, but somehow I thought his death mask might be there, or his walking stick, or his ear horn, or his great cloak, but...nothing! It was at that moment that my pity party took on plump proportions. Perhaps, reading my disappointment, he asked möchten sie lesen die Heiligestadt Testament? (Would you like to read the Heiligestadt Letter?) A flood of recollection came over me as I remembered having translated that letter as a German language student at Utah State University. As I began to read, Mein bruder Karl, it all came back to me. This was the letter that Ludwig van Beethoven had written to his brother Karl, when he realized he would never hear again! I peered over the text, in which Beethoven pours out his heart relating to the pain that he was experiencing within Vienna. The ridicule, the ostracization! He mourned the fact that he was the laughing stock of the Viennese public. A composer with no hearing! How could God, who had given him the gift of exquisite sound in music, punish him by taking the very sense away through which he worked? He posed this and other questions to his brother. He admitted that he had thought seriously about ending his life, but something within him told him that God had something in mind for him, and that he must continue on to find it. He spoke of looking out the window and seeing the great bell of the church swing, but he heard nothing. I looked out of the solitary window and saw the same bell, and though it was not moving, I knew that if it did, I would hear it. At that moment, my pity party evaporated, and I had a feeling of healing that my lot was all right. Out of the silence of Beethoven’s deafness came the most heroic piece of music in history in my estimation, the Ninth Symphony, with it’s chorale setting of Schiller’s monumental Ode to Joy. That moment forged a token for me, which lives in the music of the Ninth Symphony. I have found that playing that work can recall that moment and remove me out of the depression of the moment. I have informed my family of this phenomena which has been very helpful, because there often comes times in the midst of depression, when I am reluctant to “heal myself” and move forward. I am not likely in those moments to afford myself the healing power of this music, hence my family on notable occasions have done it for me. It is almost impossible for me to hear the heroic strains of that remarkable music and continue in despair. No wonder that is the work which heralded the celebratory strains when the Berlin Wall fell in 19?? Perhaps another tokening moment for that piece happened for me in 1970 in the Salt Lake Tabernacle with Maestro Maurice Abravanel and the Utah Symphony. We were performing the Ninth Symphony to celebrate the 200th Birthday of Beethoven. The night before the concert I was very discouraged with the last few pages of the work. We did not appear to be up to the task. It is true, that these are the most difficult passages of the work, but even so, with all of our preparation, we were not able to meet the full measure of the masterwork. I was heartsick that our performance would be less than a fitting praise of the genius of Beethoven. Maestro Abravanel stopped the rehearsal a few minutes early to talk to us. He acknowledged that the rehearsal had concluded with disappointment. He admitted that based upon the rehearsal, we would not essay the work credibly the following evening. But, he promised that he believed when the moment would present itself the following night, we would have the ability to praise Mr. Beethoven as we had hoped. When that moment came, a miraculous thing happened. What had seemed beyond our reach the night before was within our grasp. The passages which had confounded us before were sent forth with power and clarity. The piece ended in it’s traditional crash of tumultous sound. When the final chord had disappeared into memory there was no applause. It was an unusual moment. Usually after such a crescendo, deafening applause meets the moment. But this time there was silence, as if no one dared offend the spirit of the moment. We all knew something had happened that raised our abilities above ourselves. The Maestro stepped off the podium and then the applause began. It rose to monumental heights, at which point the Maestro acknowledged the orchestra, the chorus, the soloists, then it was his time to accept applause, but we could see that he was reluctant to do so. Instead he climbed back onto the podium, took the score of Beethoven in his hands and lifted it high above his head as if to say “this is not my work, but the work of the master!” I we all looked up to revere the action I thought about the fact the Beethoven had said the same thing! Some music possesses great power! The determination of whatever power enabled us to have that experience will differ from one participant to the other. Some will point to heightened concentration as the means. Others the principle of peak performance skills that are employed by some high level athletes. I prefer to agree with Beethoven and Brahms that the inspiration of their works “is the [same] power that created our earth and the whole universe." from "Talks with Great Composers" by Arthur M. Abell, published by Philosophical Library, NYC, NY. Brahms’ entire quote is as follows: "I immediately feel vibrations that thrill my whole being. These are the Spirit illuminating the soul power within, and in this exalted sate, I see clearly what is obscure in my ordinary moods: Then I feel capable of drawing inspiration from above, as Beethoven did...Straitway the ideas flow in upon me, directly from God, and not only do I see distinct themes in my mind's eye but they are clothed in the right forms, harmonies and orchestration. Measure by measure, the finished product is revealed to me when I am in those rare, inspired moods." "The powers from which all truly great composers like Mozart, Schubert, Bach and Beethoven drew their inspiration is the same power that enabled Jesus to work his miracles. It is the power that created our earth and the whole universe."