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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 1, January 1941
Page 9
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FANTASIA 9 DANSE GROTESQUE by Borrie Hyman Ever since that November evening, I have lacked that which formerly made my life in this stupid world bearable. During this dark time, not one note -- not one bar of music -- has touched my ears. Some of you, out of ignorance, may perhaps be prone to scoff at my plight. But think what that means -- a life without music. Imagine yourself sentenced to the maddening monotony of a life neither brightened nor made rich by melody. It is not a pleasant thought, nor is it a pleasant reality. And as each empty day passes, my doubt that I can endure this existence increases. "Why?" perhaps you are now asking. Well, here is my story -- the story of how one piece of music drove all other music from my life. Though shudders come to my body as I think of it, I feel bound to set down the details of that occurrence which prematurely whitened my hair and changed my existence from one of normal activity to one resembling a state of semi-seclusion. Let us turn back to the night of that fateful concert at the Mayberg music hall in Vienna. An anticipant crowd had already gathered when I arrived to occupy my seat, some nine or ten rows from the orchestra. As the music was scheduled to start shortly, I hastily scanned the program. Most of the selections were familiar, Beethoven's Ninth, Hayden's Surprise Symphony -- then my eye caught upon the opening selection, "Danse Grotesque" by Anton Strabesaens. Both the composer and the piece were unknown to me, so my interest was keen as the conductor, a few moments later, mounted the podium and briskly tapped for attention. With a clash of cymbals and a burst of tympani similar to the furious manner in which Ravel concludes his "Bolero", "Danse Grotesque" began. Before the music had progressed very far, its quality as a masterpiece of counterpoint was evident. It threw itself into a multitude of moods. Now it was capricious, now wanton, now plaintive, now rising to a sinuous wail. Unexpected dissonant suspensions crept in at intervals to add one more weave to the ever-mutable tapestry of tonic melody. But constantly, through it all, was the ceaseless rhythm of two great copper kettledrums. As the tempo increased my body began to surge with untrammeled excitement. Fantastic pictures drifted before my mind's eye under the spell of the music. You who have thrilled to "Scheherazade" know what I mean. You cannot listen to Rimsky-Korsakov's musical canvas without envisaging tall minarets towering over fascinating, turbaned people, without having exotic perfumes wafted to your nostrils, and experiencing a thousand and one varying moods. And as "Scheherazade" calls to my mind the romance of the East, so "Danse Grotesque" made me feel the primitive barbarity of the Dark Continent. I closed my eyes for a moment and relaxed. My fancy caught on and rode astride the swelling music, carrying me with it. It conjured a strange, ugly, yet fascinating scene. In the fitful light of a great bonfire, naked savages writhed in a satanic orgy, the firelight playing on their greased bodies. They tossed their hands to the black night in wild ecstasy. The music heightened in intensity; the scene then became more vivid; I could feel my fingers unconsciously tapping to the deliberate rhythm. Quickly I opened my eyes to banish the now hideous picture. Then it was that I first noticed the effects of the music. For some reason, inexplicable at the time, I percieved my breath coming in short, jerking gasps; my heart leaping with each
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FANTASIA 9 DANSE GROTESQUE by Borrie Hyman Ever since that November evening, I have lacked that which formerly made my life in this stupid world bearable. During this dark time, not one note -- not one bar of music -- has touched my ears. Some of you, out of ignorance, may perhaps be prone to scoff at my plight. But think what that means -- a life without music. Imagine yourself sentenced to the maddening monotony of a life neither brightened nor made rich by melody. It is not a pleasant thought, nor is it a pleasant reality. And as each empty day passes, my doubt that I can endure this existence increases. "Why?" perhaps you are now asking. Well, here is my story -- the story of how one piece of music drove all other music from my life. Though shudders come to my body as I think of it, I feel bound to set down the details of that occurrence which prematurely whitened my hair and changed my existence from one of normal activity to one resembling a state of semi-seclusion. Let us turn back to the night of that fateful concert at the Mayberg music hall in Vienna. An anticipant crowd had already gathered when I arrived to occupy my seat, some nine or ten rows from the orchestra. As the music was scheduled to start shortly, I hastily scanned the program. Most of the selections were familiar, Beethoven's Ninth, Hayden's Surprise Symphony -- then my eye caught upon the opening selection, "Danse Grotesque" by Anton Strabesaens. Both the composer and the piece were unknown to me, so my interest was keen as the conductor, a few moments later, mounted the podium and briskly tapped for attention. With a clash of cymbals and a burst of tympani similar to the furious manner in which Ravel concludes his "Bolero", "Danse Grotesque" began. Before the music had progressed very far, its quality as a masterpiece of counterpoint was evident. It threw itself into a multitude of moods. Now it was capricious, now wanton, now plaintive, now rising to a sinuous wail. Unexpected dissonant suspensions crept in at intervals to add one more weave to the ever-mutable tapestry of tonic melody. But constantly, through it all, was the ceaseless rhythm of two great copper kettledrums. As the tempo increased my body began to surge with untrammeled excitement. Fantastic pictures drifted before my mind's eye under the spell of the music. You who have thrilled to "Scheherazade" know what I mean. You cannot listen to Rimsky-Korsakov's musical canvas without envisaging tall minarets towering over fascinating, turbaned people, without having exotic perfumes wafted to your nostrils, and experiencing a thousand and one varying moods. And as "Scheherazade" calls to my mind the romance of the East, so "Danse Grotesque" made me feel the primitive barbarity of the Dark Continent. I closed my eyes for a moment and relaxed. My fancy caught on and rode astride the swelling music, carrying me with it. It conjured a strange, ugly, yet fascinating scene. In the fitful light of a great bonfire, naked savages writhed in a satanic orgy, the firelight playing on their greased bodies. They tossed their hands to the black night in wild ecstasy. The music heightened in intensity; the scene then became more vivid; I could feel my fingers unconsciously tapping to the deliberate rhythm. Quickly I opened my eyes to banish the now hideous picture. Then it was that I first noticed the effects of the music. For some reason, inexplicable at the time, I percieved my breath coming in short, jerking gasps; my heart leaping with each
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