Excerpts from Mighty Muso - Musings behind Violetta's adventures for adult minds and readers.
The legend of Orpheus—the musical superhero—dates back to ancient Greece. He was born in Thrace, a mountainous area now spread across parts of Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey; although there seems a bit of argument as to whether his father was the wine God Oegrus, or Apollo. I have to say, the idea of being born to a wine God sounds quite appealing, until you discover Apollo was the God of practically everything.
Either way, Orpheus was an Argonaut. This meant he was fond of sailing and the seaside, and it’s a heritage he shares with a species of octopus—the argonaut octopus species featured in the film My Octopus Teacher. If you have seen the movie, it needs no explanation, and if you haven’t, then you really must; although it would be wise to be prepared with a box of tissues.
Anyway, Orpheus, as a God himself, had other defining characteristics. For example; ‘above (Orpheus’) head there hovered bird in-numerable, and fishes leapt clean from the blue water because of his sweet music.’ I like to think he looked something like this:
He played the lyre you see, and was rather good at it. He was also a bit of a poet, a fan of cosmology and was seen by some as a prophet, with his own religion called Ophism. However, he was most famous for his love of his wife Eurydice. She was a Libyan princess, and although they were very much in love, unfortunately, they didn’t have much time together. One terribly fateful day, Eurydice was fatally bitten by a snake, and was plunged into the underworld. Naturally, Orpheus went down there with his magical lyre, charmed the Gods and got her back; but he broke the one promise he made in order to keep her.
He was not supposed to look back at her until they reached the surface.
It ended tragically. Orpheus was so much in love, he couldn’t resist turning to admire his spouse. Therefore, he lived out the remainder of his days in heartbreak. To make matters worse, the local Thracian women were said to be a bit cross about him taking himself off the market; so they murdered him. It was such an exciting scene, it has been popularly captured on various items of pottery.
Anyway, upon his death—involving decapitation, I don’t see that on the vase!—his body was returned to the sea. ’The head and lyre together were washed in the blue-green waves. And the sea put the head and lire, still together, ashore at the sacred city of Lesbos… after this, the island had both songs and the love art of harping, and of all the islands it is the most tuneful.’ ( Image courtesy of the Met Museum. )
So, you see, all was right again with the world. The island of Lesbos now had a singing head and a harp that played all on its own. What more could an island desire? The weather is fantastic by all reports and they even have a plentiful supply of ouzo. Right, I’m going there tomorrow... or as soon as I can.
But so I wondered, why the interest in Orpheus? What is it about Orpheus and the legend of being born with music? For musicians, it’s a little obvious I suppose. I mean, he did save the love of his life by diving into the underworld and playing his lyre, and there are close to eighty operas written about him; by all kinds of composers from Rossini, to Gluck, Telemann and even Philip Glass. Delacroix, Chagall, and hundreds of others have painted him and in addition to vases, he has been sculpted out of all kinds of materials. He has inspired loads of poems, books, films, ballets, and more and more adaptations of his story arise every year.
So, perhaps the underworld holds a mystery of its own? Offenbach must have thought so and one production I watched of Orpheus in the Underworld was especially entertaining.(Offenbach Orpheus in the Underworld in English ) In Offenbach’s comic opera version, Orpheus is the son of a violin teacher, and not only does it involve a concerto played on a golden fiddle, there is a cat, a cow, a crow and even a lion! Of course, the underworld itself is a little darker. Afterall, it is otherwise known as hell or hades. Therefore, they dance the infernal gallop, otherwise known as the can-can. There is a golden bee, nymphs, devils, women kicking their legs about in frilly dresses, lots of underwear on show, and even Cleopatra makes an appearance. It’s a little along the same vein as Mozart’s Magic Flute, where the hellish side of the drama is used for comic relief.
Of course, Gluck’s Orphues and Euridice version is a bit more serious. The fatal romance aspect of the story—akin to Romeo and Juliet—is captured in the final song Orpheus sings, when he has lost Eurydice. It is perhaps the most famous aria, and interestingly, it starts off sounding rather happy, despite the title being in English: ‘I’ve lost my Euricide.’ It is also in quite a high register; often performed by mezzo-soprano, but this countertenor version is very nice too. Philippe Jaroussky records Gluck: Che farò senza Euridice (Orfeo ed Euridice)
What I discovered was that for the ancient Greeks; talent for music was granted by the Gods. The average—but Mighty Muso—suspects that much of this is down to hard work, but perhaps there is something else? For the Greeks, there were not only Gods like Apollo and Orpheus, but Goddesses too, even Muses—and we all know that word. There were nine of them, back in the day, holding singing competitions—I imagine a bit like The Voice, where their talent could best be displayed.
Slight side-note, as I write this, I am currently watching Boychoir. I know, it’s rather impossible to do both at the same time, but I couldn’t quite walk away from it. Although I’ve seen the movie at least three times previously, it is so inspiring and if you have never watched it, you really must, if not for the performance of Handel’s Hallelujah. In the movie, a descant is written for the soloist of the boy choir, including a high D. It’s absolutely incredible, but then—spoiler alert—our protagonist’s voice changes. He is told: ‘that voice, that sound… it really wasn’t yours to keep. You just borrowed it for a little while.’ A poignant moment, and it is truly so magical and inspiring, but I also can’t help feeling it has significance to Ondine. Serendipitous moments have been happening fairly often to me of late, and gives me hope that I’m finally starting to pull all of the mysterious pieces of Violetta and the Paganini Poltergeist together.
Anyway, back to Ondine. The magical water sprite was an inspiration for many artists, writers and composers; and Ravel and Debussy were amongst them. She has found herself portrayed on many a canvas, but perhaps most famously by Arthur Rackham’s children’s illustrations. For me it certainly brought back memories… more so of Rip Van Winkle who quite frankly terrified me!
As a child, however, I was fascinated with mermaids. One of my favourite books was The Selkie Girl, and for most—in fact all—of my school years, I planned to become a marine biologist. I have always loved swimming, and growing up it was a greater love than music. Over time that changed, but I have always loved the ocean. It’s such a magical world, and if one was a mermaid, it would be possible to stay underwater for as long as you like without running out of oxygen. A particular paranoia that prevented my complete comfortability with scuba diving. It’s fraught with danger… I’m sure you would agree.
Fortunately Ondine didn’t have that problem. In fact married a mortal and was faced with a completely different predicament—a cheating husband. You see, when Ondine in Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué’s version (1811) became mortal and began to age, her husband strayed. A possible reason mermaid life may be superior. In her former state, she could easily smite him, or drag him down into the ocean and suffocate him to death… which is where the Ondine story later ended up. There has even been a medical condition named after her called Ondine’s curse, or Central alveolar hypoventilation syndrome. Yep, pretty scary stuff and if you want to read more about it you can here.
For us romantics, however, we still have Hans Christian Anderson and his Little Mermaid. I’m so excited to see the new movie, I can’t even tell you, but in the meantime I’ll be researching mermaids and making masks. More on that later, but the Little Mermaid, like the first Ondines, was in love with her husband. Despite his meandering ways, she could never harm him and always hoped for the better.
So where did the musicians come into it? Well, Ravel’s version is part of a larger suite, titled Gaspard de la Nuit, ‘a fiendishly hard solo piano work haunted by strange sprites, devilish creatures and the spectre of death,’ based on the poetry of Aloysius Bertrand. I must say, I really love the opening. There’s something a little jazzy and syncopated about it, however it definitely goes to some impossible places, far too difficult for me to comprehend on my tiny iPad keyboard. Debussy’s version, however, is apparently more akin to the aforementioned Rackham illustrations. It is dreamy, and dare I say, impressionistic…
Knowing what I now know about Debussy, he might be offended by that comparison.
What has made me ponder… why Ondine? Well, she was not just a beautiful mermaid of legend, she had a voice—a quite incredible voice by all accounts. In light of my recent movie viewing, I have come to the conclusion that we all have a unique voice and although we can’t all be water sprites, no one can sound the same. No one can play the same, and in an age of developing artificial technologies, perhaps we have to embrace and make the most of our differences? How often have you heard a heartfelt song, sung by an imperfect voice and been brought to tears?
In fact, the movie I’m watching now called Hearts Beat Loud—I know, it’s a sickness—has just made me well up.
Singing, or playing perfectly, is inhuman. It always was and even though it seems like others can do it, I’m sure even your favourite violinist would not believe themselves to be perfect. Therefore, I wonder… Could that be why the Gods bestowed this gift of music upon us mere mortals?
'Above his head...' Poetry of Simonides (b556) Victory songs 51, in J.M Edmonds ed. And tr. Lyra Graeca (Loeb library ed. Cambridge, Mass 1952) cited in Friedman (2000) p6.
'The head and the lyre...' Phanocles, Collectanea, p107, 22-28. Cited in ibid. P9.
Pont, G. (2004). Philosophy and Science of Music in Ancient Greece. Nexus Network Journal 6, 17-29.
Friedman, J. B. (2000). Orpheus in the Middle Ages. Syracuse University Press, N.Y.
#mightymuso #orpheusthegodofmusic #violettaandthepaganinipredicament #orpheusandtheunderworld #violettabookseries #musicalmusings #violinteacher
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