Jolting Mahler

This time, I will attempt to report on Mahler's Second Symphony, which is called the Resurrection Symphony for reasons I have never bothered to remember. It is a timely subject, because the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra (plus chorus) will perform this music in mid-June.

The problem is, writing about this is a little like writing about the Grand Canyon. Where do you begin? And how? One of the things you need to know about Mahler is that everything about what he wrote is huge. His first, smallest and shortest symphony is called the Titan, and by the time he got to the eighth, it was called the Symphony of a Thousand. Huge, I say, but not boring or turgid, the way the music of, say, Anton Bruckner is is dull and plodding. Listening to Bruckner's music is about as interesting as listening to somebody read names out of a telephone directory. Don't bother.

I would say Mahler's music is meaningful because it concerns itself with what William Faulkner called "the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself." If you are a human being, you have not only confronted these problems and undergone these conflicts; they have put their mark on you. They cannot be forgotten. That is why Mahler's music has such power and appeal. It is about you, personally.

How does the Second Symphony begin? Imagine this. Moisten the tip of your right thumb and thrust it into an electric light socket. (I say "imagine" this. Do NOT try it at home or anywhere else.) If such a jolting experience could possibly be merely exciting, merely arresting, merely attention-getting, merely thrilling, that would be like the first eight seconds or so of the Second Symphony, when the violins get the thing going.  It jolts you, gets your attention. Then, quickly, the music swings over to the other end of the stage, where the long strings (the cellos, the violas, the basses) make music that is like the experience of watching the black sky of an approaching thunderstorm. Then it switches to the middle of the orchestra, with the oboe and a long song. At this point, the symphony has become airborne.

Two more things to note. At one point during the first part of the symphony, a trumpet player discreetly gets up and leaves. He is not going to the bathroom or sneaking out to order a pizza. In a short while, he begins to play from offstage, and it sounds like a faraway and mournful salute. Finally, the chorus. When the chorus begins to sing, toward the end, you are not supposed to notice it. You realize, instead, that it is just there, softly, like a gentle ghost.

The ending of this symphony is like Aaron Rodgers throwing a touchtown pass to Donald Driver to win the Super Bowl in the last five seconds of the game, except that – in this music – the excitement, the thrill, the fantastic fun, the realization of the triumph, lasts about 50 times as long.

If you have not heard this music, and you can't make it to the MSO performance, this is how to do it. Buy a recording, ideally by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic or Georg Solti and the Chicago. After your children (if you have them) have gone to bed, you and your significant other (if you have one) pour yourselves two fingers of good – it has to be good – cognac, like Remy Martin or Martel.  Turn out the lights and put on the music at a good volume. Not window-rattling or foundation-shaking volume, but a good, rich sound. Then sit down on a squishy sofa and let this music sink into you, wash over you. When it is over, you will not be the same person you were before.