Yesterday, my Schubert CD had its U.S. release, and not entirely coincidentally, I began a run of performances of the A Major Sonata, this one in a house concert in London. Schubert, once again, is looming large.

Not that he had stopped doing so, really. But it was wonderful to be reminded yesterday that you can be overwhelmed by what you think you know. There are certain pieces which give the impression, at their outset, of  embarking on a journey. The Schubert A Major is one of them, and the listener (and player, who is hopefully also listening) is richly rewarded for making the trip, for it takes off in unexpected — shocking, really - directions, and leaves us, in the profoundest sense, somewhere other than where we began.

Schubert died at the age of 31, a mere two years older than I currently am. (!) As I’ve said, I neither know what “maturity” means, nor think I possess it,  but the astonishing development that took place in this young man’s final years has brought the subject to mind again. (Just to be clear, I’m not for a moment suggesting that maturity might be all that separates me from Schubert: there is the small matter of his genius.) Many have said that Schubert’s premature death is the greatest loss to have befallen music; I’m unsure. Were the feverish intensity and celestial lyricism that characterize Schubert’s final year a step along a path towards an unfathomed musical language? Or were those qualities available to him only because he knew the end was near, and because he was quickly drowning in his own unhappiness?

We’ll never know, of course. What I do believe firmly is that what distinguishes late Schubert from any other music is not the feelings themselves — many have suffered greatly, after all. Nor is it is compositional ability — great as it was, it did not exceed that of Mozart or Beethoven. What I believe is without precedent and remains unequaled is Schubert’s access to his inner life — his subconscious, even. Even the twentieth century failed to produce a howl as primal as the one that disrupts the songfulness of the A Major Sonata’s second movement. Is this, perhaps, maturity — an awareness of what lies beneath so absolute that it can be put on paper? (Again, genius surely helps.) Or perhaps the meaning of maturity can be found in the open-heartedness of the last movement — music of pure generosity. After Schubert’s very soul is crushed in the slow movement, where exactly does this come from?

I am perpetually wary of drawing connections between a composer’s life and work. (Exhibit A: Heiligenstadt Testament — Beethoven’s Second Symphony.) But I cannot hear the A Major Sonata (or Schwanengesang, or the String Quintet, or the C Major Symphony, or or or…) without being made aware of how much pain Schubert must have endured. Someone once said to me that Schubert’s music is sad when it is in minor keys, and tragic when it is in major keys, and it’s true — even the music that is consoling contains a knowledge of something terrible.

I am unwilling to say that I am grateful to Schubert for enduring whatever it was that made these masterworks possible. But for their existence I am deeply grateful. This is not merely music you listen to; it resides inside you, speaks to you, evolves with you. Please: stop reading, and go listen to Schubert.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 14th, 2009 at 1:28 pm and is filed under Blog, Schubert. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.