My parents did not play me Mozart CDs when I was a baby—the only phase in my life it’s considered intellectually stimulating to fall asleep from listening to classical music. Instead, they molded my growing years with the songs of: Michael Jackson, Bon Jovi, Gary V, Hall and Oates, Depeche Mode, and Tito, Vic and Joey, all of which mutated with my brain cells and caused abnormalities in my behavior. I don’t fall asleep when I hear classical music, but I do feel a terrible itch to listen to songs with the word “kurikong” in them.
So when a free ticket to “Soundscapes”—the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra’s 29th season—came my way, it was only curiosity that possessed me to go. Word had it that the ensemble was going to play a notoriously difficult piece by Igor Stravinsky called “The Rite of Spring.” The term “spring” automatically conjured an image of butterflies, meadows, and people frolicking under the sun in slow motion: How difficult could that be? Turns out, “The Rite of Spring” is about a girl who danced herself to death as a sacrifice to the gods.
When it was first performed for ballet back in 1913, members of the audience went berserk with rage. They were used to such genteel shows like “Swan Lake” (note: It has a Barbie movie), so the dissonance, jarring rhythms, and unconventional choreography of “Rite” drove the spectators nuts. According to stories, the mayhem they created was so loud that the dancers couldn’t hear the music they were dancing to.
You couldn’t imagine why at first. The piece begins innocently enough—gentle and peaceful, even. A girl dancing for a god. But the tempo quickens and the conductor aims his baton skyward, raising the tones, piercing your ears. Then in one abrupt cut, the melody subsides and creeps up on you like colossal footsteps. A girl pitted against the omnipotence of a god. The music transforms again and again, from serene to vehement to magical, so that you are squeezed between this world and somewhere surreal.
For the first time I caught a glimpse of how powerful music is, out of thin air and all around, surrounding the audience with its grandness.
I understand that sometimes it’s just plain alien to follow music without words to hang on to. Which explains why most people can enjoy “baby-baby-baby” (x 100) but can’t appreciate “tenten-ten-tenen.” The trick is knowing the story beforehand. If you know the story, your own mind will create the words and scenarios to every note. The music will make sense.
I am not condemning anyone for their musical choices. All I’m saying is: Give the orchestra a chance. You never know, you might like the experience; you might decide to pick up some Stravinskys on the way home. Or you might get to witness some drama after the performance.
As the members of the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra were bowing to thunderous applause, a lone guy raised both his arms and pointed his thumbs straight down. His thumbs-down pose was in the air for so long, he must have lost some arm fat. At one point he turned left, right, and back, challenging his fellow spectators with a vicious death-stare. Someone took the bait. “Maganda naman, ah,” came a faint remark from nega-Siskel-Ebert’s row. This was the reaction he’s had his bwelo on the whole time; his retort was locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “OH, COME ON, THEY BUTCHERED IT!” he roared in decibels large enough to fill the whole auditorium.
I sighed. For me, good music conveys a story, stirs the imagination, offers empathy, makes sense of a thought, awakens a memory, tells the truth. Good music grabs the heart by a certain chord. I am no connoisseur, but I don’t think it’s following a sheet of notes by every tiny inflection. The performance moved me so much I was holding back tears, I kid you not.
By Jove, I have some semblance of culture in me, after all.
Andrea Libunao, 22, is an advertising arts graduate of the University of Santo Tomas.