Noel: music and images for Christmas

 

 

Whom we call Mary, will we ever know?

We have turned the girl bearing down in a freezing barn

hiding her bastard child in terror of death

to someone carved of soap, made cloud or heaven.

Poor Mary. We have robbed you of you.

 

 

 

 

This edifice, this war! This junkyard of faith!

Like molten lead in water

this phosphorescent upflash

of livid flame

 

 

 

 

 

We have this idea we're married to

that men came,

three, though we don't know that,

that they had money and power, though we don't know that,

That they knelt and adored

but we don't know that either

the story has hung itself around us

like crepe paper

 

 

 

 

 

This is Jesus, though hidden.

Jesu ben Yusef

circumcized, a Jew.

We cannot look at him, do not look upon him,

You will burn your eyes.

We know no good has ever come from Nazareth.

 

 

 

 

This is what we find on the sidewalk

Don't go there   don't go outside

Go inside the church and stay there

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portal: walk along the street

where Jesus was, where Jesus was.

Who was Jesus, what, an idea?

A reigning prince, a pretender?
I think he was a dream

a wish, a desire, a scramble for meaning

in the small square hole of our lives.

 

 

 

 

 

For all that, there lives a desperate sort of grace

and we must reach for it

or not go on.

Stay out of our church, go in this one,

be run out of that one,

find the True Church, the one true religion

 inside your own brain.

 

 

 

 

 

For all that, there is this repeating, not endless, just seeming so,

for surely it will end

before we know it.

Will the end be the same,

faith or unfaith,

knowing or not knowing?

Why must hope be born again

at the very desolation of the year

and customs dragged out

dusted off

as if they make a difference to the world?

 

 

 

 

Like chess-pieces, we hold and handle

the smooth turquoise, the cracked cool finish

in a need to comprehend the vast mystery

in

the dailiness and boredom

 

the ascendance

the rhapsody of light

the scent of winter trees

sounds of owls

we live for this, die for it

this stubborn insistence of wonder

this god with a human heart

Noel. . . Noel!

I have a history with this piece. My father had a large and eclectic collection of recordings - we'd call them vinyl LPs now - representing various facets of classical music. He liked compilations, and one of the best was called Pastorales: small woodwind pieces by a diverse group of composers such as Haydn, Stravinsky, Grainger - and Jolivet.

That name doesn't ring many bells, does it - and it didn't then, either. I kept this one with me, however, in some bubble at the back of my brain. Sometimes it would replay there, or parts of it, hauntingly, and it made me want to cry. Couldn't remember the title of it, the composer, anything, and decades went by before I was able to track it down. All I knew was that it had the word "Noel" in it, and was meant to represent four small scenes, musical miniatures from the Nativity.

On the internet, the merest wisp of thread can lead you all the way back to the treasure. Eventually I found a recording of Jolivet's Pastorales de Noel on CD, but it was a disappointment: by then, the original had become deeply recorded and I was stuck on it. The playing was good, but a glaring flaw made me unable to stand it: the flautist took a gasping breath right in the middle of the dramatic sustained trill at the end of the first movement, ruining it.

I found another CD version, but the bassoon sounded thin and the flute less than convincing. By then I was tired of trying to find anything like a match.

I am sure I hunted for a performance of this on YouTube for several years and didn't find it, so it was a nice surprise to discover this. Overall I like this version, though I am driven nearly mad by the way the harpist fusses and fidgets with her music, her stand, her chair. At one point the flautist seems to mimic or even send her up a bit with a little "wait, wait, guys" fidget of her own. Really, this sort of thing should be unnecessary. The harpist's music appears to be approximately three feet wide, the pages impossible to manage. If pianists can use page-turners, why can't harpists?

May I suggest an alternate solution? Opera singers manage to memorize five to six hours of music for Tannhauser and other Wagnerian tortures, so it's obviously doable. Would fourteen minutes really be such a strain?

That said, she does look great up there, her dress matching her instrument, and she sounds even better, the notes golden and sparkling. The weak link is the bassoon, which lacks depth of tone and expression. But he still provides a solid backdrop which allows the flute to really shine.

One glitch - and I'm sorry, but this is the ear I was given genetically - she misses a delectable bit of flutter-tonguing right near the end of the piece, a decoration that turns a plain flute line into a blur of ascending wings. Either she chose not to do it, or it's optional (but I've heard it in every other version), or, at the last minute, like the figure-skater deciding not to risk the quadruple-jump, she shied away.

Never mind, it's a live performance, not to mention a piece of music I was sure I would never hear again.


http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm