(*"The New Four Seasons – Vivaldi
Recomposed,"
Max Richter, Elena Urioste & Chineke! Orchestra)
My rafting guide and friend, Adam, turned me on to this
modern take on Vivaldi’s classic “Four Seasons.” The music speaks to us of the place
we both know well – the Grand Canyon.
These concertos are perfect music to attribute such fresh
associations. Vivaldi connected his compositions to Nature’s seasonal events in
18th Century Europe, becoming perhaps the first composer of
“program music.” From Wikipedia:
They were a revolution in musical
conception: in them Vivaldi represented flowing creeks, singing birds..., a shepherd and his barking
dog, buzzing flies, storms, drunken dancers, hunting parties from both the
hunters' and the prey's point of view, frozen landscapes, and warm winter
fires.
Here are my own brief associations for each of the album’s pieces,
based on the place of Edenic nature I love best: The Grand Canyon of the
Colorado River. (Mostly, this was written while listening to the album on my
bicycle on the riverfront path in Eugene.)
https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-new-four-seasons-vivaldi-recomposed/1613711918
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“Spring 0”: A short, orchestral prelude perfectly captures the other-worldly hum of the Canyon just before sunrise. It’s a place of cosmic, vibrating strings.
“Spring 1”: This is happy music for a happy place,
shared with rafting friends. It took me to Blacktail Canyon, the notes echoing
off walls of the narrow crack in the Earth. The tinkling music is as rays
of sunshine, filtering in from above, as well as dripping water, at the
head of the easily reached part of the canyon, perhaps a 20-minute walk from
the rafts. You come around the last turn where the way is blocked by smooth
rock, water trickling over it, sunlight trickling down on it. You can climb up
the wet rocks and immerse yourself in the mysterious music of a mysterious
place, like no other.
For Blacktail Canyon gives you a rarest of experiences – you place
your hands on rock layers on each side of the Great Unconformity, where hundreds of millions
of years of Earth history is missing. Gone. Eroded away eons ago. Rock under one hand – more than one billion years old; under your other hand – a
half-billion years old. You're touching deep time, a concept virtually
incomprehensible, caressing unfathomable enigmas of the Universe.
“Spring 2”: Tranquil melodies, like the nighttime
river singing ancient music. Me, perched on a boulder in the river’s shallows,
camp all quiet, but for little bursts of laughter from the guides’ rafts. Slowly,
the moon emerges from behind cliffs, turning the dark water’s surface into a shimmering reflection of the Canyon, now bathed in lunar glow. After a long
while, mesmerized by the river's music, I doze.
“Spring 3”: First time hearing this, I listened closely,
while dreaming about my upcoming Canyon raft trip, my ninth, wondering how many
more trips await. Yet nothing seemed to connect me with the music. Am I getting
too old for this rafting business? Biking along, I fumbled with my iPhone, when I hit a wrong button. Somehow, what came up playing, interrupting Vivaldi, was Forever Young, sung by a definitely-old Bob Dylan. First recorded in
1973, when Dylan was actually young, and now this more mature version, sung
50 years later, when he is 82.
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
And may you stay forever young
May you stay forever young
So, are you saying, I might have yet another raft trip in
me? When his song ended, my phone reverted to right where I left off with
Vivaldi, to finish Spring 3. Go figure.
“Summer 1”: It’s like a transcendent drift on quiet
water, yet the river’s horizon ends abruptly downstream, with ominous wisps of
spray showing beyond. Suddenly, in an instant, wham! You drop into a
rapid. On and on it goes. A final wham! Then quiet.
“Summer 2”: In camp on the raft trip’s last night,
all still, but for natural sounds of the Canyon. The dark river surges with mystical
melodies, pulsing to a three-beat. Thum-thum-thum…thum-thum-thum... The
currents, invisible in the darkness, twist and swirl.
“Autumn 1”: “Everybody listen up!” We’re boarding rafts at
Lee’s Ferry, getting instructions – this is important – giddy with
nervousness, last-minute packing. All is right with the world. Every single
moment is glorious. Wearing my river shoes and Tilley hat again. Climbing back
on the raft once more, I affirm my return by bouncing high on its giant rubber tubes,
overflowing with joy, and reminded of an F. Scott Fitzgerald epigraph:
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry ‘Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!’
-- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers
And soon enough, she has us; we float into the ice-cold current,
moving past trout in water clear as glass, waving back at campers – poor earth-bound
saps wishing, like us, to be carried away to the unknown. Then calm and long moments
of quiet before the first rapid. Excited chatter drowned by the
four-stroke. The magic begins.
“Autumn 2”: It’s a long slog up Saddle Canyon. Step
after step. Will it be worth it? Compared to other hikes, not really. But compared
to just about anything else – definitely! A hard-earned reminder, it’s about
the journey, not only the destination.
“Autumn 3”: It’s the last night of my first rafting
trip (1989), and everyone is giddy. We’re in camp at
Separation Canyon. Tables are being set up for the bubbly celebration later.
Then, the bugle of a trumpet echoes through the Canyon. Not a great trumpet,
mind you, but a pretty good approximation.
Where everyone else saw “table leg,” Ray saw “trumpet.” He was blowing through the end of one of the steel pipe, screw-in table legs. Soon, other rafters joined in bleating a table-leg cacophony of happiness.
Ray, my oldest friend on Earth, did two more trips with me
after that. Now 80, his rafting days are behind him. Can I get in my tenth raft
trip before… well, you know? Maybe it’s kind of like when you go to sleep on
the beach after living on the river all day – the lovely rocking and swaying of
the raft never stops. Until it does.
“Winter 1”: We’re in North Canyon. Vivaldi’s opening,
barely audible sounds, the strange squeaks – like rocks scraping under your
sandals. Hints of music drift by.
When the full orchestra storms in, it takes me back to that
seminal moment with the string quartet. I’ve had moving experiences in my
77 years. But that musical moment in North Canyon was the most beautiful
and blissful experience of my life.
Hiking far up into North Canyon, and high above the Colorado River,
our rafting group hushed, as ethereal notes reached us. Around the next bend
in the trail, perched on a flat spot on the steep canyon slope, sat a real-life
string quartet, with all their instruments, playing classical music – the most enchanting
sounds I’ve ever heard. The beauty of the moment was over-powering. Its memory still can bring tears to my eyes, nearly two years later.
“Winter 2”: The roar of the jet boat, when leaving
the Grand Canyon behind, blocks all conversation for nearly an hour, to get to
your take-out boat ramp. The blast of the wind dries any tears left. Now the
music exists only in your head, as you try to process your recent gifts and
revelations, ensuring they are cemented in your memory. Sweet memories.
“Winter 3”: We zig-zag up Deer Creek Trail, an arduous climb. And then, after traversing a nerve-wracking, sketchy trail along the precipice of the slot canyon, the calm of the Patio, a desert oasis from a dream. Soul-cleansing waterfalls, ancient Native handprints, golden dragonflies, flat meditative rocks.
But always too soon, it’s time to leave the moment in Paradise. Then, gliding back down the zigzag trail, back to the river.
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