The Schubert

It's all good

Growing up, my house was always full of music. My sister played the cello, my brother played guitar, my mom played the violin and piano. She taught violin and sometimes performed, but never played piano outside of the house, except to accompany her violin students. It was just a hobby. Only later—after I grew up and started listening to other pianists—did I realize how good she was. She played classical music—Mozart, Beethoven, Bach—and lots of Schubert; especially his late piano sonatas. I could kind of gauge her mood by which piece she was playing. Schubert’s music ranges from morbid to playful and everything in between. It was a good gauge.

My mom especially loved playing Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B-flat Major. Not always the whole thing. Maybe a little bit here, a little bit there. It was the last piece he ever wrote, and the one I heard most as a kid. Now, whenever I hear the opening notes, I suddenly perceive my life, my existence, from infancy on—as a whole; sort of like the way a smell from childhood can evoke, not only nostalgia—but a kind of summary of your life, of you. Whether it’s the smell of peanut butter sandwiches or music, the reaction is pure instinct—visceral and complete—and to my thinking there’s no sensation quite as powerful.

As a young violinist, I became obsessed with Schubert’s String Quartet in D Minor, known as “Death and the Maiden”. I had never heard music that so clearly told a story. In Death and the Maiden, you can easily hear the two of them, dancing it out. You can hear her, so alive, and hopeful—and then—Death, coming for her. There’s fear and frenzy, and resignation, and peace.

You can hear these two—death and life—at almost constant odds, in a lot of Schubert’s later music. He had syphilis and was going to die young and he knew it and much of the music he wrote during his last months expresses a kind of dread. The late piano sonatas are full of dirges for himself, and the second to last piece he wrote contains a soft funeral waltz …his own. But not the last piece. In the Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, which he wrote from his deathbed, there is a lot of mournfulness, and recurrent, ominous rumbling, like the sound of distant thunder—but as it gets closer and closer to the end, there’s something different that emerges and eventually takes over: playfulness! Then, one resounding, damning chord. It sounds like—it is—death’s last word. But Schubert doesn’t let death get the last word. Instead, the ending of the B-Flat Major, after all that battle, all that struggle, is …absolutely triumphant. To me, it sounds like he’s won. It’s a relief to hear it.

How can feelings be carried through death and time and difference of culture or experience, and yet be so easy to relate to? Words evoke feelings in us too, but not as well. With stories or poems the emotional reaction is—nearly—as quick, but not as complete. Music gets right in amongst you with an immediacy that doesn't leave any time for processing. It skips the step that reading and thinking requires. It's a call and response, in the most personal way.

Recently, my seven-year-old son Jesse started taking piano lessons. He already takes violin, from a cheerful, easy-going person who does a lot to make lessons fun. He hates it. Getting him to practice is hell and at times I’ve just about given up. I was surprised when he expressed an interest in learning piano. We found him a teacher, who smiles when he plays well …and barks when he doesn’t. He absolutely reveres her and practices about ten times a day, determined to impress. Okay. I start replacing my vision of him landing that Sony recording deal for his dazzling interpretation of Bach’s solo violin stuff with a picture of him as a concert pianist, or playing jazz in the back room of some hip club, Blue Note style.

A few weeks ago I saw that a popular young pianist would be coming to our town to give a solo recital. He would be performing Beethoven, and the Schubert Sonata in B-Flat Major! I had never seen it performed. Jesse loves or thinks he loves Beethoven, mostly because we’ve been listening to a fictional story called “Beethoven Lives Upstairs” since he was little, so I tried to sell him on the recital with that. “Oh wow! He’s going to play Beethoven! How cool!”

All good, until he realized how excited I was about the Schubert.

“I’ve been hearing this Schubert sonata since I was little,” I said. “My mom used to play it. It’s one of my favorites!”

“Too bad we’re not going then,” said Jesse.

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“It’d be more funny if it were a joke.”

“Come on, aren’t you excited to hear a real live pianist playing Beethoven?”

“Yes. Too bad for you though, because we’ll be leaving before The Schubert!”

“Okay, okay.”

In the weeks before the recital I started putting the Schubert on for long car rides and making everyone listen to it. “Wow!” I said, “listen to that build up! It’s so dramatic! Incredible!”

“What did you say? I can’t hear anything,” said Jesse.

A week before the concert we found ourselves up in the mountains on a hike. The concert was going to be at an art studio nearby so we decided to drive over and check it out. Just to make the experience complete I put on the Schubert as we drove to the venue. It was the classical music version of getting amped before the big show. We drove around and checked out the scene. It was beautiful—the music and the landscape—and everyone was excited.

A week later we went back to hear the recital. It would be Jesse’s first. I explained that we would listen to the Beethoven, then take a break and wander around the property until after intermission, so he wouldn’t have to sit still for too long. Jesse said “okay, and then we won’t go back in to hear The Schubert.”

I laughed.

The recital took place a few days after the election. It was held in a kind of living room. Airy, but not too big. There was no stage. We sat in the front, just a few feet from the pianist. Jesse squirmed throughout the Beethoven. Maybe I had been wrong to subject such a little kid to this stuff. When it was over we went outside and wandered around for the next couple of songs. Jesse ribbed me a little more about “The Schubert,” but I could tell he was excited.

It was time. We went back in and sat down. I hoped Jesse could stay still. The pianist, who hadn’t spoken to the audience yet, came into the room and stood for a moment. “I’ve been trying to figure out if I was going to say anything, but I realized I can’t play this Schubert without talking a little about it. Especially not today, because I think some of us at least are pretty upset right now, and I think music, and maybe especially this music …it’s just that of all composers, to me, Schubert is the one who most fully expresses the human experience. This sonata is not only the last piece for piano that he ever wrote, it’s the last thing he ever wrote at all. It’s long-winded and intense. It’s hard to play and hard to listen to.” I got the sense that what he meant was, it’s time to buckle down and pay attention—for better or worse; we’re all in for it now.

He began to play. I had strategized a quick exit in case Jesse started to fall apart, but to my surprise and relief, he sat still and listened to the entirety of Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B-Flat Major. I couldn’t believe it. When the pianist played that one resounding chord before the end, Jesse jumped in his seat, mouth open, and turned to look at me. 

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Afterward, we stood on the patio behind the studio with the other listeners, eating cookies and watching the sunset. Everyone was giddy, connected. We had all just experienced the pianist—via Schubert, and Schubert, via the pianist—expressing the human experience. It had been intense, people had cried. It was beautiful out there on the mountain. Jesse seemed happy and a little awed. Maybe he’ll want to play piano like that someday. But wait till he hears that most incredible violin music: Death and the Maiden.

Either way, it’s all good.

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Not Schubert’s last, but close:

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The B-Flat Major, his last:

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Death and the Maiden

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A Palate Cleanser!

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