Esnesnon 30-9-09

It ain't necessarily so, it ain't necessarily so, the things that you're liable, to read in the Bible, it ain't necessarily so! Methus'la lived nine-hundred years, Methus'la lived nine-hundred years. But who calles that living, when no gal'll give in to no man what's nine-hundred years?

Good evening.

It's been about four months now since my last fix. The waiting is over. Approximately one year ago I discovered, with the help of my teacher, the brilliant works of the dead composer Frederic Chopin, God rest his emo soul. In particular I started working with and on his Nocturnes, 21 piano works of varying difficulty, but all characterized by a few stilistic similarities. And of course, all pieces have in common that they are written by a sick soul who hated his own ability to create art and wanted to die. I freaking love it.

First I'll tell something about the basic idea of a Nocturne, for it is a seperate musical style. A Nocturne, as the name implies, is a piece of the night. They start as if they come, skulking out of the shadows. That is, they start off soft. They also have the strong tendency of ending that way, by dying out and dissapearing again. The pieces have usually a rather constant rhythm, held by an endless cycle of arpeggio's, or in common tongue: broken chords, played up and down again. Above that constantly present murmur the melody can be heard, very clearly. If you listen to a Nocturne, you consciously hear the melody, while the support, in form of the arpeggio, plays a more subconscious role. A well played Nocturne forces it's listener to pay attention, to listen intently. And while a Nocturne starts of softly, it's still a heavily Romantic musical style and always comes to at least one dramatic climax. These pieces, especially those of Chopin, are powerful.

Chopin's Nocturnes are special because Chopin was a suicidal, dark Romantic genius. He has spent most of his life in agony, homesick for his dearly beloved Poland, for ever out of his reach. The poor bugger had to live in France. He married a woman he hated, he claims he thought she was a man when he first layed eyes on her. Worst of all: he was sick most of the time, and when he was at his illest, his music was best. He concluded that his art made him sick. The better he would play, the sicker he would get. Yet he couldn't stop, although he wanted to die really badly. Since the man is a Romantic composer, he put all the suffering into his music. I played a Etude he wrote which he designed to hurt the fingers of anyone playing it, a Nocturne about the rain which he wrote after he got pneumonia during a heavy storm, an illness that nearly killed him. Chopin hates the rain with a passion ever since. Another piece, the twentieth Nocturne, I yet have to find the human who doesn't think it's a pretty piece of music, was written for his sister and seems to be a pleasant 'music box' melody while it has an undertone of dark, brooding depression. That is, if you play it well.

I have a special relation with these works. I see it as my task as a musician to find the depression Chopin wrote into his pieces and bring it out. When I play the pieces I can feel Chopin trying to make his audience commit suicide while amusing them with a nice tune at the same time. It's quite hard, but I have managed it with a few. I started with these things one year ago, and after I while I couldn't find the strength within me to continue with the dark, musical misery so I stopped. I continued a few months later, and played them better and stronger then I ever had before. Then I stopped because it was really getting me all depressed. Tomorrow I'm going to start again. After a few months I'll stop again, and start again later. By the fifth time, or perhaps the seventh, I'll have mastered the Nocturnes. Horribleness al around. The coming month at least, I'll be playing with the razor on my wrists and dark eyeliner. Figuratively. Oh, how I love this brilliant emo.

Hugo Maat.