Music, Mortality, and Outliving Mozart: The Whimsical Tale of a Slowly-Built Passion

The great composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart passed away two hundred and twenty-two years ago today. As I was born on his two hundred and twenty-second birthday, I've now outlived him by... let's see... about fourteen hours. I feel very weird about this. Hence, the following.

January 27, 1756: birth of Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart (baptismal name*)
January 27, 1988: music teacher Nancy Wilson tells her fifth grade homeroom class that "Today is Mozart's birthday."

After which Mrs. Wilson said, off-handedly, “Have I missed anyone’s birthday?” I looked down at my lap, too shy to announce that it was my own tenth birthday and risk getting sung to. Several of my classmates raised their hands, and she distributed Tootsie Rolls accordingly. I was disappointed in my own cowardice, but she had given me a better gift than candy. I got to share a birthday with someone awesome.

* * *

Mozart, age 5, 1761: Little Wolfgang begins predicting his musical future by composing his first pieces, which his father notes down for him, and which are pretty dang impressive for a five-year-old (see below)
Jenna, age 5-or-6-ish, sometime in 1983-4: Little Jenni (this is before I was Jenna) predicts her musical future during Suzuki violin lessons: first, by learning off a song above her level by ear; and second, by having a fit of shyness that rendered her unable to play it at speed for her teacher**

* * *

One of Mozart's earliest works, from the Nannerl Notenbuch:

* * *

In fifth grade, my understanding that Mozart was awesome was almost entirely abstract. I'm not ashamed of that, but I am ashamed that it continued to be true until just a couple of years ago.

* * *

Mozart, age 6, 1762: begins touring with his sister "Nannerl" (Maria Anna), both as child prodigies
Jenna, age 7, 1985: Jenni (still not yet Jenna) writes her first musical poem in between reading The Chronicles of Narnia during the family moving trip from Tampa to Missoula. The poem reads and sounds like a crappy countryish commercial jingle, but it's a start.

* * *

My best defense for not knowing much about Mozart growing up is that my family listened almost exclusively to pop Christian radio. This, I should explain, was before artists like Third Day and Jennifer Knapp came along and made pop Christian radio listenable.

The album that rocked the only world I knew.

By "almost exclusively," I mean that I remember most of the exceptions, and I remember them as exceptions. My parents homeschooled us for all but three years, restricted TV and movies, and were very selective about whose houses we could visit unsupervised; they had pretty thorough control over what my sisters and I listened to. I assumed Dolly Parton was a naughty person who sang dirty songs until I was in my mid-teens.

To be fair, my parents let go of the stricter rules as we started graduating high school, and my dad and I actually saw Def Leppard and Bryan Adams together a few years back. But that's anticipating the story a little.

Everybody loves Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid.
Even conservative homeschoolers. Source.

The main source of non-pop-Christian music, aside from movies, was an off-the-radio mixtape my parents had. It contained a few ABBA songs and a tune or two each by Linda Ronstadt, Don Henley and John Denver. A handful of other songs made it to my ears as well, and as far as I was concerned, they were usually made of fireworks and magic:

• "We Built This City on Rock and Roll" by Starship
• "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel
• "Orinoco Flow" by Enya (nowadays, Enya is one of my favorites)
• "Insensitive" by Jann Arden (this played just once in my hearing, on TV; obviously, my parents didn't catch the lyrics)

But my knowledge of music was still mostly limited to Christian radio. Unfortunately, aside from a few markedly sincere anomalies—Keith Green, Twila Paris, and Rich Mullins come to mind—I hated the stuff and preferred silence. I admit, however, to liking those three enough that I will still sing Twila Paris' "How Beautiful" and Rich Mullins' "If I Stand" and accompany myself on the piano. I never bothered learning "Awesome God", though.

* * *

Mozart, age 14, 1770: hears Gregorio Allegri's "Miserere" in the Sistine Chapel and, overlooking the fact that writing it down was at that time punishable by excommunication, writes it out entirely from memory. (The pope was so impressed that instead of excommunicating Mozart, he was all like, "Hey, that's cool! Write it down as often as you want to!")
Jenna, age 14, 1992: having had a few lessons, can now play Beethoven's "Für Elise" and Bruce Rowland's "Jessica's Theme (Breaking in the Colt)" from The Man from Snowy River, just like every other female piano student in Montana. On account of sharing a house with another family for a few months and being too shy to practice in front of them, however, she stops playing the piano. (NB: I was an idiot when I was fourteen.)

* * *

Nothing says "made for greatness" like a list of Mozart's childhood accomplishments. Very few people ever possess the kind of aural recognition and memory that would allow them to write out "Mary Had a Little Lamb" from memory after hearing it just once—let alone this:

* * *

Mozart, age 17, 1773: is appointed court musician by the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, Hieronymus Colloredo
Jenna, age 16 or 17, 1994-5: discovers that Keith Green, Twila Paris, and Rich Mullins are not the heights of musical genius

This occurred thanks to a miracle: my dad switched from pop Christian radio to country music. I more or less responded with, "I thought most music sucked? This is amazing!!"

Don't hate me! I had to start somewhere.

* * *

At seventeen, according to Wikipedia (I know), Mozart wrote the first of his works to still be widely performed today: the motet "Exsultate, Jubilate." Here's the first movement:

* * *

One of my small consolations for not knowing much about Mozart till recently is that at least my deficiency has not just been limited to the music that's most important to me. Lou and I have had the following conversation a minimum of three times:

Me: "I like this song! Who's it by?"
Lou, with a strange look: "The Beatles."

To be honest, I'm still not sure which is which.
Source.

* * *

Mozart, age 19-22, 1775-8: being under the Archbishop's employ, tosses off concertos, sonatas, adagios, and divertimentos at the approximate rate of the average junior higher's phone texts
Jenna, age 19-22, 1997-2000: joins—and eventually leads—the worship team for a tiny basement-dwelling church. Duties include: providing a weekly music lineup that satisfies both the hymn fans and the praise song fans, playing guitar, singing harmony, and shepherding a worship band made up almost entirely of youth group members, which at one point includes a tone-deaf bassist.

That was fun. Most of the time. :)

* * *

Maia getting into the new camera case.
This doesn't have anything to do with music; it's just so
George doesn't feel gypped this week.

* * *

After spending my eighteenth through twentieth years convinced that I needed to be a country singer, in pursuit of which goal I used to lock myself in the bedroom every evening with my guitar and piano, I was given a second gift of broadened musical horizons, this time by my youngest sister. Through a friend, she'd discovered rock and alternative, and she decided I needed to listen to them with her.

Muse, photographed by swampa

I lost most of my taste for country music in short order. I still think of that sister with gratitude when I listen to Muse and Keane and The Fray, though technically we bonded ten years earlier over Lifehouse and Coldplay and Train.

* * *

Mozart, age 25, 1781: blows off the job with the archbishop in order to begin an independent career, and proves his capability by things like performing in front of the Emperor
Jenna, age 25, 2003 (approx): plays synthesizer for another worship team and discovers just how far behind she is as a musician

Friendly church pianist: "Wow, you improvise off guitar chords? I wish I could do that."
Me: "Isn't that what you're doing? You're way better at the piano than I am."
Friendly church pianist: "Oh, I'm not improvising. I'm just sightreading."
Me: "That's possible?!!!"

* * *

A handful of classical works managed to creep into my consciousness before I got myself voice lessons (at about age twenty-one): Bach's "Air", the occasional Beethoven, and Handel's "Messiah". I loved those, but classical music in general, and Mozart in particular, seemed—in the short, unrepeated clips I was prone to coming across—comparatively unemotional, and young Jenna was always about the feels.

The feels. Beethoven knew all about them.
Love you forever, Ludwig.

My voice teacher, whose lessons were one of the best decisions I've ever made, taught me to like opera and classical songs. Her influence included loaning me a video recording of Mozart's opera Cosi fan Tutte. I liked Cosi, but my preferences still ran to slower, sweeter Handel arias and Scotch love songs.

Mr. Chant himself,
Gregory the Great.
Portrait by de Goya.

At long last, I learned to love classical music when I met Lou. He introduced me to musical traditions I'd never even heard of—Gregorian chant and polyphony, which caught me, heart and spirit and imagination, from first listen—and taught me that the trick to loving classical music is in exposure; it isn't an immediate dazzle and then overplayed, like pop music, but something that grows on you as you got to know it, like a book you can read over and over again and enjoy more every time.

Mozart still took me a little longer, though.

* * *

Mozart, ages 32-34, 1788-90: despite suffering setbacks, possibly including depression, still manages to do some impressive composing, including the opera Cosi fan Tutte
Jenna, age 33, 2011: finally understands why Mozart is awesome

Technically, I was still thirty-two, but only just.

I don't recall who said, in my hearing, that “People who don’t think Mozart’s music is passionate aren't listening carefully.” They made me ashamed of myself for not knowing better, however, which is the surest way to make me learn something. Not long later, just days before Mozart's two hundred fifty-fifth birthday and my thirty-third, Lou and I saw the Requiem and "Ave Verum Corpus" at the Seattle Symphony. I finally understood Mozart that night, and loved him.

I have just four words to say for myself: Better late than never.

* * *

One of the most beautiful works of art in existence:

* * *

Mozart, age 35, 1791: returns to full productivity and writes a number of great works, including The Magic Flute, the unfinished Requiem (completed by his student Süssmayr), and "Ave Verum Corpus"
Jenna, age 35, 2013: devotes herself to piano practice and church choir, regains some of her vocal strength after several years of cord damage, and discovers a knack for choral conducting and arranging

It's been a good year for me, musically. Which is helpful, because when it comes to my writing, this year has sucked—but that's another blog post.

* * * 

Mozart, age 35, December 5, 1791: passes away at one A.M.; may he rest in peace
Jenna, age 35, December 5, 2013: well, the day's not over yet, but I've made it past one A.M. :)

It's a bit humbling to realize you've outlived someone so much greater than you. It raises the question of why he had to die so young when I, who will never accomplish a tenth of what he did, am still living—but such questions are probably better left unasked. (Number 22 is germane here, however. Though I sympathize with practically all of those. Maybe not #8. But oh, gosh, #7, and #11 and 12, and #17.... ;))

Detail of Mozart, from the family portrait
by Johann Nepomuk della Croce

Mozart composed over six hundred works, and that's just what we have on record; he was prone to not writing things down, and was so disorganized that he didn't bother cataloguing his work. After his death, musicologist Ludwig Ritter von Köchel went through the mess and did it for him.

Six hundred remembered works and six children (only two of whom survived to adulthood) are a lot for just thirty-five years of life.

I don't think I was made for great things, but I'm grateful that he was. And I'm grateful that I can sit down to the piano and fumble through his music today, two hundred and twenty-two years after he died. I won't subject you to a sample of that. But here's to Mozart, in life and in death.




* According to Wikipedia (yeah, I know), 'Amadeus' is the Latin form of the Greek Theophilus.

** I never got very good at the violin. My sisters and I had a few lessons when we were little, and I played in fifth and sixth grade orchestra. In seventh grade, when we went back to being homeschooled, I did a few trios with my sister on flute and my best friend on clarinet (which might be the worst combination of instruments for a trio ever) and then put the violin down upon falling in love with the piano. I regret putting down the violin, but not nearly as much as I regret not falling in love with the piano earlier and more faithfully.

Harry Potter Book Club: Catch-Up Week... and My Brief Career as a Singing Nun

Hey, everyone, this is catch-up week for the Harry Potter Book Club. I'm taking it off.

I didn't have time or energy to think about Harry Potter this weekend. Our local Catholic school had its centennial celebration, and I got to be part of what—considering how many times I saw the movie—might almost count as a musical dream come true: a group of my fellow choir ladies and I dressed up in habits and sang a medley of "Hail, Holy Queen" and "I Will Follow Him" from Sister Act. Complete with choreography. As a surprise for the gathering of alumni and families.

I apologize for there not being, to my knowledge anyway, a video of this. But you know how it goes, right? It must be admitted that the screenplay displays a colossal ignorance of the most basic workings of the Catholic Church (kind of like the news media, har), but the music is still awesome:



It was hard to hear around the wimple, and I had to stare serenely over the heads of the audience or risk meeting a gaze at the tableful of friends right in front of me (upon which I would never have been able to—as Jane Austen would say—keep my countenance). But a crammed week of rehearsals paid off, and I got all the nerves out of the way in two days of immoderate freakout beforehand, and I was comfortable enough to enjoy myself. People cheered and clapped and laughed, and when it ended with a four-part chord topped by the Mary Robert soloist's high C and backed by a full glissando down the piano, we got a standing ovation. So, yeah. That was awesome. :D

It doesn't help you get any more Harry Potter posts, however, so it's probably good that it was a one-time event. But you can read Christie's chapters 8-9 post, "HPP: Ghosts in the Foreground", and Masha just got her chapters 10-12 post up, "Potions to Pass the Day", and they're both great. More to come in response next week, along with the next couple of chapters. Happy reading!

Today

Harry Potter post tomorrow, y'all! I just. can't. finish it today. Start it, yes. But I have apples and zucchini to take care of, and fresh herbs steeping in hot olive oil to make homemade insect repellent, and not enough time or energy to say anything much more interesting than "Next up: Harry goes to a WICKED AWESOME HOUSE and meets SUPER RAD PEOPLE."

Today, then, I'm joining Masha! Join in over at Piękno, or leave your own sensory notes in the combox...

Today I am...

Feeling... affirmed. And kind of weirdly happy. There's that scene in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone where Harry jumps on a broomstick for the first time, and rushes up into the wind, and all of a sudden he realizes he's found something he can just do—"this was easy, this was wonderful...." Somehow, despite stage fright and plenty of mistakes and the fact that my knit shirt kept slipping off one shoulder during Mass, I still loved conducting choir this week, and I still felt like I did well considering that it was only my second time behind the music stand for a full liturgy. The latter is partly because I had such fun with it and partly because people kept coming up afterward and saying nice things till I felt like a superstar.

Seeing... evening sun through the panes of the front door. I love July in the Pacific Northwest.

Smelling... mint, oregano, thyme, sage, lavender, and olive oil. Supposedly those all steeped together make a reliable insect repellent. I don't know why the bugs don't like it. It smells fantastic.

Tasting... a mint julep. Complete with maraschino cherry. Courtesy of Lou. The mint smelled so good as I picked it for the repellent that we decided the drinks were necessary.

Listening... to Mozart on King FM. My favorite radio station. They rock.

Grateful... for summer weather.

Reading... oh, gosh, I don't even know. I just finished The Chocolatier's Wife by Cindy Lynn Speer (attempt #2 at reading self-published fantasy; review coming soon). Still haven't picked up the Chesterton novel, but it's in paperback and my Kindle charger just broke, so it's probably next on the list.

Loving... our choir and musical team. Rather madly. In case you couldn't tell. :)

Hoping... for all kinds of things, from more ripe tomatoes soon to more ways to use my little newfound talent.

Today

Christie tells me that she hopes to get her Harry Potter post up tonight or early tomorrow, so I'm reversing post days. Today you get... well, the Today post. Tomorrow, you get Harry. :D

'Course, Masha hasn't put up her linky yet over at Piękno, so I'm just stealing her meme until she does.

Update: it's up!

Today I am...

Feeling... bright and cheerful. The sky is bell-clear, and it's honest-to-goodness hot outside, about eighty degrees (go ahead and laugh, all ye who are not from the Pacific Northwest). We get heat like this so rarely that I think of it as splendid. I'm in tank tops and shorts and French braids and enjoying every bit of it. Also, I've just had two extraordinarily pleasant days, on which I shall elaborate under the later sensory headings.

Seeing... bright blue sky and summer flowers; the first buds on my sweet peas; half-grown baby tomatoes (weeks earlier than we had last year, I think); the first female flowers on the pumpkin vines.

Smelling... the light, spicy scent of a glass of holy basil (tulsi) tea.

Tasting... homemade einkorn flatbread and pico de gallo, fresh fuji apples, and "doubled" eggs, all courtesy of my little sister.

Listening... to the strange whistling roar the WTA buses and semi-trucks make going by on the street.

Grateful... for everyone's prayers about my choir directing yesterday, and for a blessedly supportive choir and musical team. I felt very prayed for and loved, able to relax for the most part, to take little mistakes and difficulties in stride, to keep track of the cues, to be decisive, and to freely enjoy myself. And I was surrounded by helpful people who knew just what they were supposed to do and when.

As it turns out, directing is so much fun. You feel the pulse and dynamics of the music all the way through you—even subtle changes you might not notice when singing, like a shift of time signature. You lean in toward the choir and widen your count, and they raise their volume and intensity; you crouch back and narrow your count, and they bring the music down to a hush. You can speed or slow the beat by tiny increments, enough to emphasize the feel and meaning of the song, and you can make the count crisper or smoother to go marcato or legato or anything between. And the ensemble follows you, gets into it with you—at least, they do if they're as superb as my little group. I could see and hear and feel the response, and it was gratifying even before Mass ended and people started coming up to me and being all sweet and encouraging. I get to work with the nicest people. :)

Also, when you're directing, you can ask the accompanist to play organ on one of the hymns. There's not enough of the king of instruments in this world. At least, not enough in our Sunday Masses. ;)

Seriously: if you prayed for me, thank you. There was a memorable moment during Mass when I thought of all of you who had offered prayers, understood how much they were helping me, and was grateful.

Reading... the last two chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, in preparation for tomorrow.

Loving... my little sister-who-does-not-like-to-be-named-on-the-internet and her daughters, with whom I spent a happy late morning and early afternoon. Lots of cuddles and smiles, countless instances of "Watch me!", four small hands helping me peel and mayonnaise the eggs—and spreading both egg peel and condiments over half the kitchen in the process—and coffee and shared thoughts and the occasional movie quote with my sister.

Hoping... that I'll get asked to substitute-direct again sometime. :D Even though I never like having any of our team missing.

Little Screwball Errors and other stories

Maia: "My nice, warm, clean bath towel.
You're not allowed to take it away and fold it."

* * *

"You're very graceful when you direct."

Laughter—I've practiced in front of the mirror, and it's possible I'm overdoing the aesthetics. "It's those seven months of ballet I took."

"Well, it helps. You don't need to be so nervous, you know."

"Oh, I'm nervous, like, ninety-five percent of the time, anyway."

"Yes, I know. I can see that. I used to be the same way."

"Oh, good! You mean it's possible to grow out of this?!"

"Yes. You just have to get to the point where you realize it doesn't matter. Like this; it's just the music for one Mass, at one parish..."

This week's cantor took the time to encourage me after choir practice, and his advice applies to a lot more in life than my mind can take in at once.

As it turns out, directing is splendid fun. Worth pushing through the nervousness for. And our choir is made up of fantastic, supportive, good-natured people, which helps a lot. I still have plenty of opportunity for major mistakes on Sunday, but the practice was both humbling and affirming. Sometimes it's hard to remember that it's possible to make little screwball errors, blush and falter, make something of an idiot out of yourself, persevere, and still be loved.

* * *

I've always loved standing beneath a ripening cherry tree.

And for all it's more or less out of the gardener's control, especially when said gardener forgets to go to pruning class and therefore doesn't do anything: there's something so satisfying about seeing trees thick with developing fruit.

Actually, Lou and I did prune the cherry tree.
But I didn't dare take loppers to our gorgeous old
apple tree without instruction.

Another thing this gardener had nothing much to do with: the neighbors' wild rose is growing up into our snowball bush, and I'm not about to stop that.

The day lily is in its first bloom, which is especially exciting as I had no idea what color it would be. I like the rusty orange.

Elderberry flowers are startlingly beautiful, as is that flax, and the red bark mulch I spread last Saturday is a pleasant improvement on the cat's ear and clover that were attempting to fill in the blanks before. ;)

Lastly, here's one of my early summer thrills: the sweet pea vines finally poking up through the rosemary.

* * *

Music of the week: When I walked into church for choir practice, our accompanist was playing a beautiful arrangement of a favorite old hymn I hadn't heard in forever. I asked him about it when he finished, and while I didn't positively catch the arranger's name, I think I've tracked down the right piece. Anyhow, it's lovely.



* * *

Today still needs to include housecleaning, dinner prep, a count-through of Sunday's music (my right arm is really feeling the workout), an errand to the fabric store, the making of a pan of brownies for tomorrow's family picnic in Eastern Washington (ten hours of driving and five hours of small talk all in one day, and then having to be up on time and mentally present for choir the next... yeehaw), and, if possible, scrubbing some spilled currant jelly out of the refrigerator. I'm off.

Happy weekend!

Today

The Today meme is hosted by Masha! Join in over at Piękno, or leave your own sensory notes in the combox...

Today I am...

Feeling... a little tired, and a little nervous. It took us twenty minutes longer than usual to drag ourselves out of bed this morning, even though—small victory!—this eternal slowpoke dragged herself to bed before 11:30 for once. I think it's the rain. As for the nervousness bit, I'll be steadily nervous through Mass on Sunday, and it'll probably take me the afternoon (or possibly the rest of the week) to get rid of the residuals, but it's all right. A part of me is actually excited about directing choir, terrors notwithstanding.

Seeing... Maia skulking around like she thinks there might be an intruder in the house. By 'intruder', she means 'anyone other than Lou, Jenna, and Maia.' Her people are not as unfriendly as she is. I promise.

Smelling... all the girly post-shower scents. I love citrussy, tropical smells and am a total sucker for all the Clairol Herbal Essences and Calgon body mist marketing campaigns. Even when I hate their commercials, as I generally did with Clairol back when I had a television.

Tasting... that odd, bitter taste in the back of the throat that hints at the possibility of getting sick. I'm probably not; that's a semi-constant feeling in cold, rainy Washington State. But I'm taking elderberries, just in case.

Listening... to a freshly-burned copy of an album I made for my nieces and nephews. Out of distrust for my CD burner and iTunes, I try to listen to every copy I burn to be sure it's glitch-free.

Grateful... for Mary; for her comforting, motherly nearness, for her help in calming my mind.

Reading... I'm in between books now, but am about to pick up Freckles by Gene Stratton Porter.

Loving... my sister Beth, who talked with me on the phone for an hour and a quarter yesterday with a fussy baby on her lap, and planned sewing projects for my next visit.

Hoping... that my Kindle weather app's promise of "abundant sunshine" in early July will come to pass sooner rather than later. It's been holding heat and sunshine out like a dangling carrot, always four or five days away, for what feels like most of June. I'm wearing my skort and doubled-up tank tops and hoping for at least a short break in the clouds this afternoon.