Bombastic. Choppy. Melodically starved. Too loud. Muddy and incomprehensible. In need of a firm editing. That's what I thought of Anton Bruckner's symphonic music. I hated it. To me, it sounded like that famous Spike Jones skit, Duet for Violin and Garbage Disposal.
Years ago, the German conductor Klaus Tennstedt, noted for his Bruckner, arrived in the Twin Cities to conduct the Minnesota Orchestra for two weeks. The first program included Bruckner's Eighth Symphony, and the second focused on Beethoven symphonies. I decided to attend the Beethoven concert, but Bruckner—why waste my time on music I didn't like? A friend argued that it would be well-worth my time to go to both concerts just to see Tennstedt conduct repertoire he loved. She pointed out that after all, I was researching and observing conductors for my novel, wasn't I?
Indeed. The night I attended the Bruckner concert, Tennstedt loped on stage, his boyish face open, his demeanor eager. He couldn't wait to give the downbeat to the Bruckner Eighth Symphony. I braced myself for the noise—but I heard music. For the first time, I truly heard Bruckner's musical voice. The loud passages suddenly made sense each connected to its melodic line and development. Why couldn't I hear it before?
I had fallen victim to my own inherited prejudices about the sound of good symphonic music. In reality, it depends on how each composer used the orchestra musically: his or her own style, ideas about orchestration, the use of the orchestra's colors, and sense of structure. Bruckner's musical voice is unique to him. Once again, I learned it's important to give the human dimension of music its due. Who was Anton Bruckner?
Before the Internet, my first stop for research of any kind was the library. There, I learned that Bruckner was an extremely devout man and had worked as a church organist for most of his life. The organ exerted a profound influence on his symphonic music. In fact, now I think of Bruckner composing his symphonies as if the orchestra were an organ. His music—the structure, the colors, the dynamic extremes—makes so much more sense in those terms.
Bruckner was also Austrian. He loved Austrian folk music and dance and showed it by threading their melodies and rhythms through his symphonies. He might have been a reticent man in life, but in his music he reveals a powerful range of emotion and musical ideas.
What I heard in the Eighth Symphony the night Tennstedt conducted, it was a sweet musical voice as well as an anguished one. The music carried me on a journey through humanity's conflicts, belligerence, sorrow, and an apocalyptic vision of defiance and destruction. The timpani in the final movement terrified me. One particular descending sequence in the finale layered the orchestra's brass and woodwind sections like water cascading down the side of a terraced precipice. That sequence resonated through my body. I laughed. I cried. The music transcended my prejudices, speaking to an enduring faith in life, and into poor misunderstood Anton's heart and soul.
Today, I love Bruckner's Eighth Symphony, and when I see his music on a concert program, I look forward to it. Now I understand. It was well worth my time and effort to open my ears, heart and mind to give Bruckner's music a chance.
Cinda Yager writes essays, fiction, and two blogs in Minneapolis. She loves classical music and has just published an e-book novel set in the classical music world, Perceval's Secret.
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