Week 2: Stereophonic Curtain of Sound and Brahms’ Symphony №4 in E minor

Tonight’s like any other night. A Tuesday. A day’s work done. A cold night ahead. The boss seemed all angry, the office was dreary. “You want something finished?” he yelled, “You must have a start!” It must be that time of the year, I think, when what’s left of content is more chewed and spat. The floor has gone quiet, but Frankie stormed out all red-eyed and flashed me his hate. I don’t take well to those looks (most of all from men), so I spent the day unnoticed, then slipped out early, and set out for home. And now, back in my kitchen, my kettle and mind boiling, I try to escape. I suppose that this writing, a bit incognito, will let me be open and surface this dread.

I suddenly remember the box full of records. It’s incredible to think that an entire week has gone by since I first laid my hands at its old hinges. A week of my own life, with no change or aim, while there, in that dusty music, there were all these stories, awaiting in patience, for me to unveil. I suddenly become excited. What would be the next record? What is the next tale? I glance at the last week’s instalment. “The Art of Marcel Grandjany” is now resting against the bookshelf on the floor, its bright orange cover recalling the harp. I promised myself to stay focused, methodical and not break the course. I’ll play these in order, whatever the fate. And so, I slip out next record, stored right at the front.

The first thing I notice is “BRAHMS” in large capital letters, followed by “SYMPHONY” in just as big black, and then by “№4 in E Minor, Op. 98”. Alright, I smile, we’ve got ourselves some Brahms. I know the name of this German composer, but not of his music, and not of this opus, of course. I believe he’s one of the “Three Bs” along with Beethoven and Bach. I carefully take the record out from its sleeve, I put it on the turntable, and place the cartridge in its grooves (I notice that my uncle has kept the surface in pristine condition), and then I sit back on the floor against the couch with just the album cover in my hands. The opening notes of the strings announce the motif of the first movement, while I explore the write-up on the sleeve.

There is an entire section on the back of the cover dedicated to the “Technical Data” of the recording, listing the dynamic and frequency ranges of the precision mastering that went into this “Stereophonic Curtain of Sound”. I’m fascinated by these words and numbers. The output of today seems less precise and less organic. I know all this because I see the kids with their earbuds and their phones. And yet, in this recording from the 60s, all the fidelity’s intact.

I grab my laptop and look up the catalogue number on the net. Hang on a second, this Audio Fidelity Record happens to be only the second after the “Stereo Test Record” in the “1st Component Series” of Sidney Frey’s new stereophonic pressings. And now it’s here, in its mint condition, may I add, repeating all that’s captured over half a century ago. The power of this thought is overwhelming. I bookmark the page on the process and close my eyes. The music flows and ebbs from the needle to my speakers, and fills out the room with its grandiose triumph. The violins and cellos seem to weep, then raise their voices to the heavens, where flutes and oboes pick them up and carry forth with the explosion of the first movement.

I suddenly want to hear this music live. I picture myself sitting on a balcony, in some German theatre, I suppose, overlooking a concert stage, where this performance’s taking place. Perhaps I’m holding up a pair of binoculars to see the conductor up close. The volume of the music rises, emotions sweep up to a morose crescendo. I hear some sadness and some triumph in the melodies beneath arrangement. Excitement rises in my body. My hands begin to tremble as I skirt the strings and bows and hands and all the movement and land my sights on an excited cello held by a weary woman who suddenly looks up and glances back at me.

I relapse to my room. The reverie is gone. The first side of the disc has ended. The tremor in my hands remains. I get up from the floor and walk over to the turntable. I think that I have drifted (once again), and the weight of the day is dragging on my lame leg, which aches with every step I take. I turn the record over and sit back down on the floor.

I am no longer in my dwellings. Instead, I think about Johannes Brahms. There’s something sad and poignant in his sound, although it’s loud and flashy and a bit forthright. Unveiled in Meiningen, Germany on October 25, 1885, the symphony was conducted by Brahms himself (after he tactlessly dismissed the original conductor). The performance ended quite dimly, receiving little applause. The theatre emptied out, the members of the orchestra began to leave. When suddenly the second Kapellmeister, Richard Strauss (then only twenty years old), came calling back for all the players — the Duke of Meiningen, then present at the concert, wished to hear the symphony alone. The story of this vivid account of the premiere is told by the pianist Frederic Lamond:

“The theatre was dimly lighted and no one had permission to enter the auditorium. I slipped out on the stage. Through the peek hole in the curtain I could see the silhouette of Brahms at the conductor’s desk, and about him the intent, deeply absorbed faces of the orchestra players, who looked ghostly in the dim light. The loge in which the Duke sat was also in semi-darkness; and now there began for the second time a performance of the Fourth Symphony!”

I only remember the finale. Its passionate conclusion exploding in the dark and empty theatre. The horns and strings both striving for completion, the sound building up then dropping down anew. On the stage, Brahms, like a mighty conjurer, envokes the symphony with worn out players for the Duke. His hair and beard are widely swinging with the rhythm. And when the last notes sound and drop into the vast dark silence, she puts her bow away and looks at me again.

I leap up to a sound of a scratching needle and take it off the run-out groove. The music’s gone. My room is empty. But something lingers in the air. My heart is slightly racing from the music. I sense its energy and force. I feel like I’ve brought forth a spirit to my dwelling, but now that music’s over, it is gone. My fingers slightly quiver as I type these letters. They’re cold and clammy at their trembling tips. I want to say much more, my dear reader, but feel that I need air, and a walk. Let’s pause this here, and return, perhaps in week’s time, when I’ll review this column in my mind.

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