Broad Sound

I. Certain Facts Regarding a Nineteenth Century Cadenza

About 11 pages into the 1862 Leipzig, Breitkopf, and Härtel score for Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 67, within the first movement, “Allegro con brio,” as every other instrument reaches a crescendo and pauses after a quarter note, a single oboist is directed to play first a half note, extending slightly past the rest of the orchestra, and then 10 more notes adagio, which is to say at a slow tempo.

It is a minor segment of one of the most remarked-upon symphonies in the history of music—one that became Judge Judy’s theme song and scored a fight scene in a Doctor Strange sequel, among many accolades—a symphony argued, possibly based on apocryphal evidence, to be a lament on deafness, fate, and/or the tribulations of life. It is a segment of 10 little notes played by one little oboe (per the San Francisco Symphony, the average oboe is about two feet long) for one brief moment.

According to John De Lancie, principal oboist for the Philadelphia Orchestra from 1954-1977, the solo—actually a cadenza, which just means a solo that might be improvised and that’s more of a “parenthetical flourish” (Merriam-Webster)—is a direct reference to John Dowland’s Lachrimae, a more somber piece than Beethoven’s Fifth. The title page of Dowland’s score features the Latin epigram, “Aut Furit, aut Lachrimat, quem non Fortuna beavit,” or in English, “He whom Fortune has not blessed either rages or weeps.” De Lancie offers certain key pieces of evidence that he cites to indicate it would be hard to argue Beethoven had not come across Dowland’s piece and its “falling tear” motif a couple centuries later, but we’ll leave that be.

I’m stalling, I think. My musical training started with do-re-mi and ended with a poor attempt at replicating John Williams’s main theme to Indiana Jones on the family piano. Then it started again with an undergraduate course that gave me the ability to recognize and name Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and left me with Schubert’s Erlkönig in my music library. So, I resort to facts indisputable instead of feeling.

Ironically, De Lancie prefers the latter. “Discussions of musical compositions seem to vacillate roughly between two concepts: technical structure and meaning,” he writes.

As relatively clear and unambiguous as the first may be, the second is a veritable minefield. If the commentator clearly states that his or her interpretation of the meaning is purely personal, the statements are then unassailable. But commentators frequently cite technical structure to support their interpretation of the meaning, which then reduces the assertion to pure conjecture unless the composer has titled the composition, the music is set to a text, or the composer has left some specific statement.

In other words, if you describe how you feel about music and make assertions about it, you’re even more valid for what you say than someone relying only on fancy terms and their own, therefore, unfounded assertions.

So, let’s try this again.

II. Certain Personal Considerations on the Subject of an Oboe Solo

Beethoven’s Fifth is known for its famous motif, BA BA BA BUM. It’s identical to the Morse code for the letter V and became a regular symbol of the British cause for victory during the second World War. I once heard a podcast, Switched on Pop, refer to it as “Dramatic Joe” (try saying it to the music), giving the second, gentler motif of the symphony “Little Fräulein Henrietta.” And that’s all nice and everything, but because I cannot look at something big and famous without inevitably carving out my little place where I fall in love with something small and overlooked (however overlooked something could be in maybe the most famous and picked-apart symphony of all time), I only care about one little oboe playing one little series of notes, somewhere in the center of the storm of the Fifth.

I always do this, looking for the little thing. I watched the great film masterpiece Lawrence of Arabia and obsessed over a 30-second piece of the overture for weeks after. I listened to Bach’s iconic Toccata and Fugue and Liszt’s world-famous Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 and still only listen to jazz covers of the pieces. I read the great works of Shakespeare and walked away stumping for The Comedy of Errors. It’s hard to have something new to say about a masterpiece; it’s easier to lurk in one of its shadowy corners and carve out your own space.

I lived for a year in the Old City of Jerusalem, studying in a post-high school yeshiva program focused on philosophy and Talmud, exploration and fundamentals. I was surrounded by matching-hat and backpack-flag tourists on a daily basis, all of them flocking to see, touch, kiss, pray at/to the Western Wall, probably the second-most famous wall still standing in the world. Maybe more than the Wall, I made my pilgrimage to a secluded orange tree in a city of stone. Surrounded by white and beige limestone, in an alley just as likely to be packed with sightseers as it was to be completely empty, stood an orange tree. Not mine, but I felt possessive, connected, appreciative.

Where everybody traveled to find a connection to the ancient world, I was more interested in something that couldn’t have been much more than half a century old at best. In a city of archaeology, I found something fresh. In a surrounding of high-minded spirituality, I found something meaningful on Earth. It was a study of contrasts, of dead stone and thriving, shining, orange and green life, I figured. It was my island of peace in a storm of buskers and red string sellers, tour guide loudspeakers and loud speaking tourists. I took my pilgrimage to the orange tree, like I take my pilgrimage to the oboe solo, that eye in the storm of fate, of Dramatic Joe and all his bluster.

I’m tired of myself.

III. Uncertain Facts by Scholarly Oboists

“The majority of oboists today would probably not include the oboe cadenza from the Allegro con brio movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on a top-ten list of most important excerpts,” writes oboist and scholar Meghan Woodard in her Temple University doctorate thesis. “However, without the oboe cadenza this iconic symphony would not be the same.” Woodard quotes Beethoven scholar Lewis Lockwood, who calls the solo “a lyrical pause for reflection” and “the most poignant moment in this astonishing movement.”

Woodard’s study is dedicated to comparing excerpts of recorded oboe performances for different pieces—a Beethoven symphony, a Brahms concerto, a Ravel suite—and she finds fascinating points of differentiation. De Lancie, as mentioned, sees the cadenza as a mournful and referential piece. Woodard observes that De Lancie’s recorded performance matches this scholarly assertion. She argues with De Lancie’s contention, noting that there is no real evidence that Beethoven did know specifically about Dowland’s Lacrymae, adding that “laments typically entail repetition of the pattern, which does not occur in the cadenza.” In other words, while the “falling tear” motif may be present or at least evoked in the cadenza, it is only played once, and therefore, not much of a lament.

What makes a good cadenza? Woodard quotes 18th century German composer Johann Joachim Quantz, author of the influential text On Playing the Flute, as translated by Edward R. Reilly: “The object of the cadenza is simply to surprise the listener unexpectedly once more at the end of the piece, and to leave behind a special impression in his heart.” For brief cadenzas like ours, Quantz writes, “they must be short and fresh, and surprise the listeners, like a bon mot. Thus, they must sound as if they have been improvised spontaneously at the moment of playing. Hence you must not be too extravagant, but must proceed economically.”

IV. I Have Never Touched an Oboe

Hello, I have something else to say.

Let us consider some variations. Leonard Bernstein and the Vienna Philharmonic (2004): Bernstein’s pace is slower than most recordings I’ve come across. For the first time while truly studying this piece, I noticed the way the oboe rises in prominence as the orchestra bombastically rises around it. Like plowing one’s way through a snowstorm, reaching out, trying to overcome, only to step above the clouds onto a peaceful mountain summit. And under Bernstein’s conducting, the oboist lingers, hanging in the air with their performance, just a bit longer than you’d expect.

Sir Georg Solti and the London Symphony Orchestra (1994, Immortal Beloved movie soundtrack): While Solti’s recording of the movement runs along at a breakneck pace, coming out three minutes shorter than Bernstein’s, their cadenzas are almost identical in length, separated by only a second, maybe two. Even with the rush, Solti’s oboist still takes their time.

Gustavo Dudamel and the Simón Bolívar Symphony Orchestra of Venezuela (2017): Variation is less in the hands of the oboist than those of the orchestra at large. The cadenza finishes and you can feel a breath before the orchestra takes up its course again. Much like the beginning of the symphony, there is a planned pause here—an intentional break from the otherwise tumultuous roar. What lingers is not the oboist taking their time and relishing every note, but instead a feeling of an oasis, an opportunity to gasp some air, before plowing back into the chaos.

John Farley and Portsmouth Sinfonia (1974): A cult classic, the orchestra’s players were not allowed to play an instrument they were trained in. Their music, cacophonous and dissonant, suits the mountain climb metaphor, especially here. Their playing is slow, agonizing, climbing upward, sinking into the ground. The Sinfonia doesn’t even attempt the solo—it seems fitting they never offer a moment of peace, making the cadenza a present absence that haunts anyone who knows.

P.D.Q. Bach, Peter Jacoby conducting (year unknown): The pseudonymous comedy artist P.D.Q. Bach offers a live orchestra performance complete with referee, color commentary, cheerleaders, and penalty box. It’s a work of parody, but it also creates an opportunity to learn about the music theory that makes up Beethoven’s Fifth. On approaching the solo, one commentator remarks, “This time, it’s the oboe playing the note. She’s playing a cadenza—she must be out of her mind! She thinks it’s an oboe concerto.” “It was a disgraceful lack of teamsmanship,” adds the second commentator. The conductor protests, the oboist throttles the conductor, and the referee rules in the oboist’s favor. “I guess that cadenza must’ve been written in the part after all,” remarks the first commentator.

V. That Means Five

I was thinking about the eye of the hurricane as a metaphor for the oboe cadenza, and I didn’t want to make a reference to Hamilton. In 2019, a photo from inside the eye of Hurricane Dorian went viral. In the image, the storm rises like a great wall under a brilliant blue sky. The sun shines as if it’s any other day, and if you didn’t know the context or your meteorology, you might just think you were looking at a particularly thick cloud formation.

Lt. Col. Sean Cross, an Air Force pilot and hurricane hunter, went on CNN to talk about the sensation of being inside the eye. “It’s actually incredible to see what Mother Nature has created from the inside,” he says, “in what I call the belly of the beast.” The peace is at its most remarkable because it stands in such vast contrast with the looming storm. With no offense intended toward the Lt. Col., I believe the power of great forces of nature are most aptly demonstrated by a lack of eloquence: repeating cliches and marveling at the ineffability of something’s majesty is a sure sign that it really is one of the great experiences you could have in life.

I’m doing it again, leaning on supports. Trying to excuse my lack of musical knowledge as a way of building up majesty. I could try similar tactics, relying on the expertise and study of others. Did you know, per Woodard, one 1937 oboist with a “diva” approach extended the cadenza to 21 seconds, while in 1910 the Odeon Symphony’s oboist played the same cadenza in under nine seconds? Is that interesting?

In the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth symphony, there’s an oboe solo that digs deep into my soul with a reedy, piercing flourish. Depending on the player, it may sound more improvisatory, but the notes are on the page. De Lancie can say what he wants, but I think the sadness in Beethoven’s solo is incomparable to Dowland’s Lachrimae. It’s more hopeful, it’s lonely, yes, but it’s a sole, lonely, voice emerging from a storm. And it makes me feel sad. Hopeful. Peaceful. Lonely. At ease.

It is played adagio, which is to say slow. The oboist lingers. The feeling lingers. I stick around too, thinking about what Beethoven has done to me. Leaving Ba Ba Ba Bum to the world and taking a little something—however little I understand it—for myself. This is my personal, and therefore unassailable, belief.