Brahms: A Love Story

BY LUCY RASH

 

Dearly beloved: I have an announcement to make. Though I’m not usually one to declare such feelings so openly, I wish to make this very public: I have a brand new lover. His name is Johannes Brahms.

Now, I didn’t arrive at this decision lightly. Let me recount:

I have, very recently, discovered a love of scripting program notes. I have always enjoyed the process of careful and considerate research: traipsing through university libraries, grappling with the most profound facts imaginable, then sitting down to write: slowly crafting that newfound knowledge into an edgier beast.

But what is it about Brahms as a subject? What is it that gets me? My friends, it was a most profound experience with Symphony No. 2 that won me over.

A violinist by trade, I performed the symphony once or twice when I was younger. Having navigated the writing with my own two hands, I know it well. Still, nothing could prepare me for the reaction I was to have. I had been asked to write notes for the Australian Youth Orchestra 2014 National Music Camp in Canberra. This particular listen had me holed up in a computer lab: score to my left, coffee and an apple to my right, and headphones running direct from my laptop. Cue second movement. As that achingly beautiful cello melody flooded my headphones, I closed my eyes. And then it happened.

My muscles starting quivering and my eyes welled up. Tears! Not just one or two, but a full stream of them. My glasses fogged up and slipped from the bridge of my nose. I could feel my skin getting red and patchy. I’m sure it wasn’t pretty, but I couldn’t have cared less – my insides were glowing.

A friend entered the room, mid-morning coffee in hand. I forced my headphones onto his head and stuck the opening phrase on repeat like I would have done with Teenage Dirtbag in early 2000. “Listen! Isn’t it special?!”  I gushed. Even though I’d heard the movement so many millions of times before, I don’t think I stopped weeping – or shaking – for another ten minutes. I was sure I’d need a cannula to rehydrate.

Now, tell me: what was that? And why did it happen?

Think back: have you ever broken down during a concert? What about when your teacher played you a piece for the first time? I know I did – it was a G minor chord in Wieniawski’s ‘Legende’. Or what about when recalling a particular memory? There are, for example, pieces of music I associate with particular people (that album I was listening to when I first fell in love with someone), places (that piece I was obsessed with when travelling around Egypt), and milestones (that playlist I couldn’t stop listening to when my band mates and I recorded an album in the UK). But the question remains: why did I experience such a strong physical reaction to Brahms No. 2? And why, as a result, do I pine for this gentleman’s (musical) touch?

As soon as I could stop my eyes leaking, a thought jolted at the back of my mind. One quick Google search and I had myself some clarification. Florence Syndrome (FS) – or Stendhal Syndrome, as it’s also known – is a term describing an intense reaction to art. It refers to 19th Century French author Henri-Marie Beyle (pen name, Stendhal) who was overcome with emotion when visiting Giotto’s frescoes in Florence during the summer of 1817: “I was in a sort of ecstasy…Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty…I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations…Everything spoke so vividly to my soul.” How poetic!

I had once heard a friend use the term, but hadn’t paid much attention. I did a bit more reading and noticed that some descriptions of FS were more medicalised than others, referring to it as a ‘condition’ or ‘illness’. Was this contemporary truth, or some whacky nineteenth-century logic at play?

I remembered my dear friend Will Randall, an old band mate who is about to submit his music psychology PhD thesis. Having developed and launched a truly incredible music app called MuPsych (available for free download through your smartphone’s app store! I’m all for good, shameless plugs!), I knew he’d have some useful information for me. “Luce,” he texted. “I’m not familiar with Florence Syndrome, but I certainly know a thing or two about strong reactions to music. Gabrielsson is the author you want. I’ll find a paper.” Exactly two minutes later, some compelling research was sitting in my email inbox. What a guy.

As far as I could tell, Gabrielsson would reckon that my reaction to Brahms (and subsequent love affair with him) could be explained through the ways in which elements of pitch, rhythm, and timbre were perceived and interpreted by my brain. The effects of this are different for each person, perhaps explaining why the rest of my friends who entered the room after me had not begun weeping uncontrollably as well. Gabrielsson also seems to think the strength of my reaction could be attributed to my association of the music with a particular memory. This makes sense. I remember the lovely people I was sitting next to when I played it for the first time, as well as how elated we felt when we first performed it. Even as I type this, a smile is dancing across my lips.

The more I read, the clearer it becomes that Stendhal would have had no solid explanation for why he’d had such a strong physical reaction to the frescoes. Although I’m sure it would be possible to dedicate a whole PhD worth of time to the subject, I couldn’t find even a slither of evidence to suggest FS was backed by solid physiological evidence. All Stendhal knew was that the frescoes were were stunning, breathtaking event. And he revelled in that feeling. Ain’t no one need a psychologist to tell them FS is a ‘thing’ if all that’s in front of them is beautiful art, waiting to be adored.

I check in with Will, telling him that I’m happy to let the universe have its way on this one – for now. What he says back to me is incredible. “Luce, you’re right. It’s really important to just sit back and enjoy the music. While music psychology can teach us about underlying mechanisms and evolutionary interpretations – although there’s still much to learn – you don’t need any of this to be completely moved by music.” Touché.

So, dearly beloved: be sure to listen out for a sniffle or two from the front row of the audience come Brahms time at your next concert attendance. It’s likely I’ll be there, tissues at the ready, and loving every moment. Brahms does to me what no one else can do – and how exactly he’s going to ‘get’ me is a surprise every time.

Now to work out a way of getting hitched to the guy…

 

CutCommon would like to acknowledge the Australian Youth Orchestra.