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Rating: THE ABSOLUTE is expressed through pure silences or apocalyptic noises. What must be remembered is the nature of its duration: it is usually very short, almost elusive. You know, a flash, a surge of adrenaline, an orgasm, a sudden and unmotivated happiness, and whatever else may be cited. Once the duration is fixed, it is possible to imagine a logical connection between different absolute events (I know, it sounds like a paradox), to create, almost mathematically, a unicum that is more easily understandable. In this way, we would have hypothesized a rational way to express chaotic ecstasy. To be clear, the exact opposite of Pollock’s paintings. This scientific method applied to music was kept in mind by Karlheinz Stockhausen, who, through computer programming and the study of sound waves, created a fusion of science and sound intuition, prompting his listeners multiple times to turn their face and heart toward the unknown deep space, toward infinity, toward the mind bouncing with nerve discharges. If only this "shine," both ancestral and modern at the same time, could be bottled in vials, rest assured that doctors would prescribe it in daily doses. At least that’s what I think.
Stockhausen, much like Newton, Tesla, and the Marx brothers, transcended his time, casting light on unexplored areas. I was well aware of this when I entered the hall a few weeks ago to see his "concert." But I was also somewhat fearful, and here I can and must confess it. In short, was he an android philosopher made of pure spirit, or what else? I questioned myself until the last moment, finally setting foot in the hall. He was already there, waiting for everyone to sit down. He wasn’t on the stage, he never is. He was sitting in the middle of the two groups of chairs, at the center of the large hall, in front of his mixer, physically present, immersed in a white cloud suit. On his face, a barely perceptible smile, somewhat sly; the gaze attentive but relaxed. People were milling around him, looking for their seats. They were like ships around a lighthouse, he human among humans. Occasionally, someone cast a quick glance at the maestro, at least knowing they should consider him as such.
A light projected a white circle on a black curtain on the stage. It seemed like a small moon. I reached my seat in about the seventh row behind him, then sat down and looked for him. There was a strange aura in the air: I felt like I had a normal person a few steps away from me, yet incredibly "powerful." A person who, in the morning, reads the newspaper on the toilet, but shortly thereafter floats on galactic waves. A strange mixture of sacred and profane, typical of many geniuses and artists from the last century. Whoever understands it is clever. I stayed watching him, waiting, with the murmur of people in the background. At that moment, I felt particularly inspired. Suddenly the maestro rose from the chair and slowly reached the stage. Applause. Silence. Then a few words in Italian, with a clear and soft voice, at times a bit unsure: "Thank you for being here... Today I will perform two works. The first is 'The Greeting of Wednesday,' from 'Light,' a work from 1996; it's the first time it is performed in Italy. The piece will last for minutes... (he said them with the precision of seconds, with a typical German manner). After the intermission, about fifteen minutes long, 'Cosmic Pulses' from 'Sound,' from 2006, commissioned by the music foundation for Rome, in world premiere, will be performed. The piece will last for minutes... I will use eight channels, and the sound waves will move around the hall; they will not move unidirectionally, but all around... My advice is to relax, and slowly move your head, to feel the sound shifts from different positions. Keep your eyes closed, to SEE the music better. Create thoughts. Here on the stage, this small moon is projected, as I have always done in my live performances... Thank you once again to you all. Nothing remains but to wish you good listening and a good journey into infinite space..." Silence again. Applause. He descended from the stage to return to his chair in the middle of the hall. I smiled. That speech had been as strong and fascinating as it was tenderly human. In that instant, having never seen him live nor particularly delving into his music, I understood who Karlheinz Stockhausen is.
THE "CONCERT"
This is the most difficult part. In fact, I believe it is impossible, as well as useless, to attempt to describe in minute detail what really happened in those two hours. It is certainly important to emphasize the conception of time elaborated by the artist over the years: contemplative immobility experienced as action, in line with the Eastern philosophies that so attracted him. Here too, electronics play their part, fixing the study of times, registers, timbres, fluid and harmonious forms that try to extend into space. In the booklet given to us at the entrance, there were clusters of graphs, mathematical formulas, algorithms, geometric shapes. But the performance was so magnetic and out of time - and so incredibly elusive - that perhaps the only way to recount it is through emotions and visions... visions... ions... ons... ns... s...
...Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Ancestral. Darkness. White. Flash. CLLLAANNGGG! Glare. Darkness. Glare. Darkness. Darkness. Flash. Spin. White. Flash. Noise. Szoom. Fluusshh. Glare. Darkness. Clakhsuskl. Flush!!...Blue. Dust. Flash. Zoom. Spin. Double Spin. Triple spin. Collapse - !!!!- Oops. Silence. POOMMM. Black..... Ah-ah!!!!...Flash... Flasssshhhhhhhhhh!!....... Starssszzssssssss......... !!... !... !.......... !......... Y!!!!!....... O....
I didn't really know what was happening, it just happened. I looked around curiously, seeking a foothold. I completely failed. So I decided to fall, it didn’t matter. Away! Here’s a hole, here’s the door... Down!! Down, up, around, right, eastward, above the clouds, a dive into the Milky Way, a spin in time, then here again, and then over there, here, there! Then slowly I found some footholds, and so the situation improved. Yes indeed, it was Controlled Dispersion, my friends! Movement was only audible, not visible. With open eyes, the scene was dark, still, static. Only the small moon remained fixed on the stage, and Stockhausen's figure was facing away from me. The outline of his body was illuminated by the thin lights of the mixer and computers. Now the aura I had subconsciously detected before the performance was clearly visible. People were stationary all around. I closed my eyes and followed the instructions given by our doctor-poet. Slowly moving my head, I opened the other eyes, the others, the ones that don’t need eyelids and pupils. Gradually I found the right trail, able to follow the sound discourse, it was done. At times I gnawed it fiercely like a lion with prey, at times I savored it slowly like a star man sipping perfumed and bright wine. Then at some point, darkness and silence. Perhaps I was in a state of half-sleep. I seemed to see something. It was me looking at the stars many years ago from a terrace. No, no. There he was, the seahorse I saw swimming in Sardinia at Cala Gonone, I must have been eight years old. The blue water all around. No, it was no longer water, it was that scene from Herzog's "The Unknown Space." Maybe it was the music of a year ago in Spain. No, it was that soccer match in the rain. It was the cool evening breeze at the port in July. It was a boozy chat at the pub. Or the party in that seaside house in the fourth year near Lavinio. Or perhaps it was her... More and more blurred. No... I was on a chair, I was there. I had returned to the hall. The situation now was Allright. A few more minutes and the first part ended, fading into the shadow. Thunderous applause. From the chairs behind me, a comment between two people: "Fantastic! You know, I think at some point I almost fell asleep... No, wait, like a sort of half-sleep. How strange...".
People gathered around the mixer, looking for autographs. I went there just to see him up close. Then back to my seat.
The second part turned out to be more dynamic, with sounds and waves vibrating and darting everywhere. I kept my eyes open this time. The moon was stationary, the sonic rebounds increased, the loops added to each other. A curious mix of movement and static. At a certain point, the eye, hypnotized, begins to see speed, the colorful advancement towards the unknown. Do you remember the final scene of "2001: A Space Odyssey"? Pupil wide open. Colors. Green. Blue. Red. The eyelid blinks. Green. Blue. Red. The figure sitting at the mixer looked like the one at the end of the film, in the 18th-century house. I was thinking: "Now he turns, now he turns towards me..." But he didn’t. The music was over, around there were only the hall and people; above, far away, still the moon. Genuine applause. Deserved. The maestro slowly, like a diligent little man after a good job, reached the stage. He received flowers, and made a final bow full of modesty. As if to say: "After all, I just did my duty, nothing exceptional... Anyway, I thank you from the heart...."
The crowd around the mixer was impressive: young people, adults, children, the elderly. A very old man told him he had attended one of his old performances many years ago; Stockhausen listened humbly and very interested, at the top of his 79 years. Smiles, autographs, photos, various chats. I was almost the last one. I approached, shook his hand trying to truly feel it, and asked for an autograph. Finally, I looked him in the face and said: "We await you at the next opportunity." He simply replied: "Certainly!" His little blue and lively eyes were serious and calm, with no sign of dark clouds on the horizon.
I walked backward towards the corridor of the exit, continuing to watch him, taking one last picture for my mind. Because deep down that moment could be the last chance to see one of the great travelers of our time. But thinking about it, why be so pessimistic? So didn’t I learn anything from the concert? Come on... After all, everything is relative, including time; I think a certain Alberto whatshisname said that.
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