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I just got back from a wonderful Independence day concert by the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra at Hartwood Acres. Adam Liu did a great job in the Herbert Cello Concerto. Here is a picture of Daniel Meyer congratulating Adam Liu for his wonderful performance.
And the entire PSO on stage: 
--large--
Next weekend the PSO will perform two separate programs at Heinz Hall!
What can one say about an absolutely great performance of absolutely great music?
It was great. Absolutely great. It was stunning, in fact.
So stunned that I have no idea where to begin (even one day later) - so let's talk about Dana Fuchs instead.
I noticed sometime last week that Fuchs was singing at the Three Rivers Arts Festival. As my wife is a fan, we planned on hitting the festival in order to see her performance. That was before we learned that the only tickets available for the Mahler were for the same evening as Fuchs' show. What would it be like to quick-step from Dana Fuchs to Gustav Mahler? Stunning. It would be absolutely stunning.
After catching a bite to eat (me shoveling down a plate of shrimp fried rice while the wife had a falafel), we made our way over to the Dollar Bank Stage where Fuchs was just beginning what was to be an hour-long set. Dressed in her "Sadie" clothes (and if you don't get the reference, go see Across The Universe), with swayving hair and ambulant cleavage, she sang and jumped and commanded a stage far too small for her voice or her talent.
And the band cooked. The band with the formidable Fuchs was tight and rhythmically multi-layered despite being only a trio. The guitarist knew his way around the fingerboard and the well-miked drums produced a discernible thump thump thump in the chest throughout the music. The bass player, while holding down the changes, played them into a melodic role easily equal to the rest of the band. Each part great. The whole, greater still.
The most fitting song of her set had to be, for me at least, Bible Baby. In her introduction to the song, Fuchs told the story of how, as a disappointed teenager leaving her intolerant church to join one more open, she was encouraged to sing by a woman in the choir who told her,
The song, one of deep hope in the face of life's deep struggles, begins with these lines,
With each setback, each disappointment, the message is the same: Praise the Lord, Hallelujah - you're alive!
Ok now we can talk about the Mahler.
Kanny of the Trib said the performance "unfolded with exceptional breath" while Druckenbrod of the P-G (who sat merely 6 rows ahead of us) said:
For Mahler, writing a symphony was tantamount to expressing 'the inner aspect' of his 'whole life', of 'constructing a world with all the technical means at my disposal'. As a result, it was necessary to facilitate access to this world for unprepared listeners. It was in this spirit that he once again drew up several different, but essentially similar, programmes for the Second Symphony. In the first movement, the 'hero' of the symphony is buried after a long struggle with 'life and destiny'. He casts a backward glance at his life, first at a moment of happiness (depicted in the second movement) and then at the cruel hurly-burly of existence, the 'bustle of appearances' and the 'spirit of disbelief and negation' that had seized hold of him (Scherzo). 'He despairs of himself and of God. [...] Utter disgust for every form of existence and evolution seizes him in an iron grip, tormenting him until he utters a cry of despair.'
In the fourth movement, 'the stirring words of simple faith sound' in the hero's ears and hold out the promise of light. As for the final movement: 'The horror of the day of days has come upon us. The earth trembles, the graves burst open, the dead arise and march forth in endless procession. The great and the small of this earth, the kings and the beggars, the just and the godless, all press forward. The cry for mercy and forgiveness sounds fearful in our ears. The wailing becomes gradually more terrible. Our senses desert us, all consciousness dies as the Eternal Judge approaches. The Last Trump sounds; the trumpets of the Apocalypse ring out. In the eerie silence that follows, we can just barely make out a distant nightingale, a last tremulous echo of earthly life. The gentle sound of a chorus of saints and heavenly hosts is then heard: "Rise again, yes, rise again thou wilt!" Then God in all His glory comes into sight. A wondrous light strikes us to the heart. All is quiet and blissful. Behold: there is no judgement, no sinners, no just men, no great and no small; there is no punishment and no reward. A feeling of overwhelming love fills us with blissful knowledge and illuminates our existence.'
It was a huge orchestra - seventeen winds, twenty-five brass, seven percussionists, two harps, an organ, and by the composer's command "the largest possible contingent of strings." Then there's the chorus. Druckenbrod numbers them at 150. I trust him. He wears glasses. And then there are two soloists. I didn't think they could fit anyone else on the stage.The piece has been called "80 minutes of anguished, ultimately triumphant speculation on the meaning of life" and I think that that's just about right. Beyond the details of Mahler's program, (where the agnostics of the world - and I count myself among them - are, of course, free not to accept its theology) the fact we can sit there and hear such deep beauty regardless of our own personal speculations shudders my spine.
One of music's aspects that is forever a mystery to me is how it wields such power over us, the humans in the seats. Don't mistake me, I am grateful that it does, but with only 12 tones (given the musical language we're discussing right now) and a handful of gestures, it's a mystery how it can focus our attention like nothing else. And it's possible to spend a life time fully immersed in it with little fear of boredom or fatigue. Perhaps Schopenhaur was right, as it has nothing to represent, perhaps music represents nothing but the Will of the universe itself. It is one of the joys of living as it is at the heart of experiencing life.
Sometimes you just gotta let momma music take over.
Praise the lord. Hallelujah - you're alive!
Wow, it felt so good being back at the Symphony!! And to be welcomed back by such a program!
It began with Beethoven's dramatic, beautiful Egmont Overture. I had never heard this piece before - actually, I had never even heard of it, period! - but man, am I so glad I got to hear it live on Friday. It was my second favorite piece of the entire night! The PSO was in excellent form and didn't once let the music overwhelm them. The Overture was sumptuous, and it would have, in lesser hands, been easy to get lost in.
During intermission on Saturday night, I looked up at the ceiling above our Family Circle seats and noticed a dozen faces looking down on us.
My wife and I went to Friday's concert, after a long break while the PSO went on their tour of China. We quickly found the board of pictures from the trip, including the picture of 'No horn' sign among those taken by Chuck Lirrett and Stephanie Tretick.
I especially enjoyed it because I had just returned from a trip to China myself, and like Chuck was amused by the "No horn" sign, especially when it was found outside a concert hall or school of music. And during our trip, we encountered a few friends who noted the PSO's appearances in Beijing and Shanghai not long before. My wife's family has an association with the Tianjin Conservatory of Music, and when visiting the school and various faculty there, we came upon their Wall of Fame, with pictures of illustrious alumni and staff from over the years. And another picture, of some distinguished alumni and friends from the United States who had recently come to teach and inspire the next generation of musicians. 
It seems that Adam Liu, Cello and alumni of the Tianjin Conservatory of Music, and a few other PSO friends came to the Tianjin Conservatory of Music ahead of us. We laughed at the many interwoven connections we have in our lives, and how small and how rich our world is.
Before I start on tonight's concert (which was great, by the way) I gotta say one thing: I LOVE getting to concerts early. It doesn't happen often and it's not like the evening is ruined by showing up on time, but there's something special about watching musicians get ready. It's like when you're early enough to a ballgame to catch some batting practice. On the one hand, it's just the warm up and nothing important is happening but on the other you can tell something important is going to take place nevertheless.
Owing to our seats in the "Family Circle" section, my wife and I were able to look down upon the band assembling. A sampling from Saturday Night:
Until the time when the hall lights go down and the oboe pitches the A440, it's a wonderful peek into a different frame of mind. The men in White Tie, the women in Black Dress waiting for the beginning of the concert to arrive. The buzz of anticipation is ever-present.
We'd made it downtown with a few hours to spare. We thought we'd walk around the Arts Festival - where, let's all be honest, there easily has to be half as many tattoos/body piercings as there are overall patrons. This is NOT to say, of course, that half the crowd was inked and pierced - just that those who were, were inked and pierced alot.
Not a big deal. Though in retrospect, I have to admit to feeling a bit, um, under-decorated. But then again I am old and dottering and thus this is more or less expected from men of my time and place.
Back to the music. Of this week's concerts, The Trib's Mark Kanny wrote:
Artistic diversity is usually thought of as contrasting works from different times, cultures and styles. Manfred Honeck and the Pittsburgh Symphony take a different tack at this week's subscription concerts, showing that works from the same period and place can provide just as stimulating and rewarding a concert experience. Maybe more so.
All of the music performed Thursday afternoon at Heinz Hall, and which will be repeated tonight and Saturday evening, was composed within the span of a quarter century in Vienna, Austria. It was the high tide of Viennese classicism led by Joseph Haydn, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Ludwig van Beethoven.
While I think he's right (of course, he's right - he's Mark frickin' Kanny!), there are some big differences between the classicisms of Mozart and of Beethoven. The danger here is that it's too easy to generalize such things so much as to render them completely empty of any real validity. That being said, perhaps a careful generalization is in order. Between Mozart and Beethoven the musical imagination of Europe markedly shifts from High Enlightenment to Early Romanticism. In Mozart, we find Voltaire's Enlightenment at its fullest flower, a human mind delighting and reveling in the exuberant exercise of its own intelligence. In Beethoven there is struggle. There is always struggle in Beethoven. As if newly recognizing our own unnoticed dark corners, Beethoven is at a constant struggle with the shadows our intelligence can't so easily comprehend.
The music of this evening is evidence of that.
I agree with Druckenbrod of the P-G that the Honeck's tempos in the Egmont were hardly what one would call slow. But, he writes:
They accentuated the drama of the piece that honors a real-life hero, the 16th-century Flemish Count of Egmont, who fought for freedom against the Spanish and was beheaded for it. (Beethoven actually symbolized it with an abrupt stroke by the violins.)
But some nobility was lost in the heightened moments that were almost noisy in Honeck's hands. The horns, however, were wonderfully rustic in the coda, and the strings gained a rich timbre.
It’s a bit like a bad joke, really: A certain pig-tailed blogger is walking down Penn Ave. when she happens to pass PSO Music Director Manfred Honeck. Given that said blogger has absolutely zero tact and lacks any sense of social protocol, she immediately rushes up to Mr. Honeck and starts babbling incoherently about how she’s “such a fan” and that he is “so very talented.” Mr. Honeck is slightly taken aback, but recovers in eloquent style and promises to read the humble ramblings of his starry-eyed, albeit slightly frightening, admirer.
Continue reading ""Mr. Honeck, I *Heart* You!" - Jennifer Pizzuto" »
Last weekend, before their departure to wow the audiences in China, I caught the PSO's performance with pianist Yefim Bronfman. It was spirited stuff, with Bronfman's full-body musicality punctuating a program that merged Strauss, Mozart and Beethoven -- solid classics that any attendee would enjoy (or so it would seem -- more on that later).
The Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra was gracious in holding a reception in the Overlook room for all of the bloggers associated with the PSO blogs on May 2, 2009 after the concert conducted by Manfred Honeck. It was great to finally meet all of the others and to have some interesting conversations about the PSO and classical music. I held out hope that Honeck himself might drop by, but it was not to be. However, after the event was over, as we were exiting Heinz Hall, I looked back and saw Jennifer Pizzuto introducing herself to Manfred Honeck who had just exited the hall himself. They were both smiling, but I wasn't quick enough with my camera to capture the moment.
I want to thank Nicole Phillip who hosted the event, Kevin DeLuca, our contact and coordinator for the blogs, as well as the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra.
PSO bloggers and friends - Jennifer Pizzuto(1), Matt Campbell(2), David DeAngelo(3), Cynthia Closkey(4), Elizabeth Perry(5), Justin Kownacki(6), Doug Bauman(7) and Louis Luangkesorn(8) 
Legend:
I've been working with a student, steadily introducing him to the ways of our chosen profession. And like many others who are learning their trade, it is turning into a steady stream of work for him to learn the foundations that his success will be built on. And as I was listening to Mozart Concert No. 24 in C minor for Piano and Orchestra I was thinking of that. The piano reminded me of the diligent student, engrossed in the details and intricacies of his work, while the orchestra seemed to be the friends at play.
David Brooks in the New York Times had a column on "Genius" earlier in the week. And he is writing about this, of how the mastery of the art was reached through repetitive and deliberative work, specifically talking about Mozart. While I can see why the romantic idea of genius as something genetic is appealing, I never felt the idea of Athena springing forth mature from the head of Zeus to be something to strive for. And how especially true it must be for music. Writing this now, I still have an image of Bronfman playing completely focused. Or our marathoners this weekend, most of whom should have started their training while there was still snow on the ground, pounding pavement in the cold and the dark, knowing that this weekend would come. So much of our trade is built on many hours of building up the foundation that enables us to make something great.
There are many areas where years of training and exercise build into performance on the stage of life. It is true is music, running, mathematics. It can be seen in the firefighters I work with responding to fires, the police officer who brings everything they know to every contact with a citizen, and to the soldier and marine who must bring all they know when they talk to a villager, patrol a mountain, build a building, or engage an enemy. And all this training and exercise is meant for they day that we go on stage, take to the field, or explore an unknown.
I was talking after the concert to one of the PSO staff who asked me if I was the one who went to Afghanistan. Because her Marine brother was preparing for deployment. And in addition to all the preparation and training that has come before and he is doing know, the family is preparing as well. I do not know if he has deployed to war before, but either way, everything he knows in dealing with people will come into play, their motivations, their desires, and how to deal with them. Semper fi.
Manfred Honeck conducting - so much to follow in his gestures. Watching him, I can see the shape of the music differently, as the baton shows me how to listen, what to notice.
Penny Anderson Brill, Viola, and musician of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, introduced the concert on Saturday night at Heinz Hall. Her introduction was very much an appreciation, by the musicians, for the audience. The orchestra even gave the audience a round of applause. Her final tribute: "Thank you so much for all that you do for us and now I hope you enjoy the concert"
Manfred Honeck entered the stage, and after one bow, began conducting the composition: "Tod und Verklärung" by Richard Strauss. This was my first chance to hear this piece live. I remember being impressed by the low drums at the beginning. I began to think to myself, what does this music mean to me? I found the juxtaposition of the words in the title interesting: Death (first) then Transfiguration. Words and music have temporal meanings, and this time I thought perhaps that this music was supposed to represent death, as only a beginning, and the further meaning beyond, and a contemplation of what that concept might entail, without prior knowing. And transfiguration, coming after death, what could it be -- is it a higher place? Is it like Earth and Heaven, as opposed to Heaven and Earth -- does the order truly come in a sequential fashion, or is it a concept that transcends time, in a manner that we truly cannot easily perceive, yet. All these thoughts came to mind, and flowed through the music. This was truly a beautiful score, and one that I enjoyed; and even though this isn't the first time I've heard this music, it somehow seemed to be the first time for a true appreciation.
The piano concerto with soloist Yefim Bronfman, was the logical follow up to the previous piece, or at least that was my initial thought: that this was sort of like a transfiguration in and of itself. The drama in the introduction of the first movement was appealing. The bases and deeper harmony seemed to dominate, with the violins following suit. Then the piano joined it, and what followed was beautiful, in its entirety this Mozart Concerto Number 24 is one of my favorites.
To whoever I overheard exclaiming at intermission: 'I liked the piano concerto, but I didn't really like the first piece', I must urge you to give new music a chance. To sample new music over a period of years. I think this kind of music grows on you. If you give it a chance, someday you'll be coming to the concert for the prospect of finding new gems in the repertoire.
Next up: Honeck and Beethoven, a fitting combination. I watched, I saw Maestro Honeck conduct, then I truly saw. I saw his movements, his style, his interpretations, his pizazz, his mechanisms, his mind, and the music that was there, and it was beautiful.
Honeck has a particular style, but there is much more than that, it is a substance which spells in the universal language of classical music, and flourishes with abstract verve spun into specific directions for the orchestra and each and every musician. Honeck brings to me a splendid rendition of Beethoven's Symphony number seven, perhaps my favorite, if one can pick a favorite. This symphony opens with a long introduction to the first movement, like the first steps into a beautifully wooded landscape, then the full bodied movement eventually begins.
Honeck's motions sum up the conducting. Hand motions left and right, full sweeping motions back and forth representing increased volume, then for a softer quieter part, a straight upright posture and simple movements of the baton. The conductor has a knack for being soft spoken, and in movements, it's almost the same thing -- I seem to think he isn't moving all that much, his stature straight, and subtle, and tall, then suddenly, his round repeated motions of his arms and some subtle up and down of his body in a fluid and effective outpouring of physical emotion connect to the orchestra. They respond. The sound is perfect, like this symphony from Beethoven, the perfect symphony, the perfect orchestra, and the best conductor for the match: a great combination.
The second movement, one of the most touching movements I know, almost haunting, begins. It comes through this time with sublime effect. Now I think back to the connection of the music for this evening, the transfiguration. This movement is Beethoven's transfiguration, there is nothing else like it. It transcends my soul, goes deeper and evokes more emotion than any other music I know. The tempo is good, but I find myself wanting more, and it is over.
Now the third movement, what a change-up. It's all part of that theme again, the transfiguration: this time from the deeply moving to the presto, chango, and voila -- it's upbeat and moving along at a quicker pace, almost racing. Now its fun with sort of playful melodic sounds, it gets my feet tapping, and my legs moving, and I see the same with the conductor: he is hopping and moving and again animating the orchestra into this joyous music.
Finally we go from the quick to the fast, the final movement. It's really moving now, almost like a race. When I see Manfred Honeck conduct this movement, I truly begin to see a sort of link to Beethoven. And now I imagine what it must be like to see Beethoven, himself, conducting this symphony for the first time. And I hear it as well.
Honeck seems subtle, serious and deliberate, yet effective when conducting. After the music is done, he finally dons a smile so wide and brimming, it is infectious, and this effect along with the beautiful music from the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra affects the entire audience as they simultaneously leap to their feet to applaud, faster than I've ever seen them go into a standing ovation before. And we are rewarded with a symphonic encore, he and the PSO give us all a preview of the concert they will be playing on tour in a week in China. We get to hear the final movement of Haydn's Symphony No. 88, and a treat it was!
Outside, the Pirates were beating the Reds. Inside, the PSO was playing the heck out of three masterworks; Tod und Verklärung of Richard Strauss, The D-minor Piano Concerto (with Yefim Bronfman, soloist) by Mozart, and the Beethoven 7th Symphony.
Stunning. Stunning performance. From the first note to the last. Just stunning.
It started with what must be be assumed was a subtle homage to both the musique concrete of the 20th century AND the Baroque canonical counterpoint of the Renaissance. Here's what happened: The audio of WQED's Jim Cunningham announcing to the audience to turn off their cell phones was played twice, with one "voice" over-lapping the other at an interval of a second or so - an electronic two voice canon at the unison!
Impressive. Eclectic. And kinda subversive, in an Edgard Varèse sort of way.
Then Violist Penny Brill came out and made a brief speech thanking the audience for its support this season and announcing that since the seating arrangements for the symphony had shifted and the violas were now deeply embedded in the middle of the stage, "This is probably the last you'll see of the violas, tonight," she lamented. Violas, like Rodney Dangerfield, don't get no respect. They're the Jan Bradys of the string section. Perhaps of the whole orchestra.
On to the music.
Strauss described the "program" of Tod und Verklärung in a letter to his friend Frederick von Hausegger:
With snippets of this description projected, mostly unnoticed, onto the two screens flanking the stage, the orchestra tuned and waited for Conductor Manfred Honeck.
And once upon the podium, baton in hand, hands raised, he began conducting. It was stunning. And when it was over, there was a lo-o-o-ng pause between when the orchestra ended and when Honeck's arms were lowered. A moment of silence for "the artist" departed. A sign of respect for the dead.
While we might think that such a piece would be depressing, we should remember that while he struggles, the artist only does so when alive. Once his death comes and his transformation begins, the tone of the piece shifts. The soul reunites with the Cosmos, with Schopenhauer's Will. The struggle is over, only eternal peace remains. A most comforting thought when contemplating the passing of loved ones.
And Strauss wrote it down at 25.
The Mozart that followed, with Yefim Bronfman as soloist, was a joy. Clear, precise. Nuanced as only Mozart can be. Bronfman encored (unannounced) with a movement from the second piano sonata of Sergei Prokofiev.
Don't be impressed that I wrote that. During intermission I had to track down Jim Cunningham to find out what Bronfman played. But when he saw me, the first thing out of his mouth was, "So, did you know what that encore was?" I had to admit that I was going to ask him the same thing. Jim guessed Prokofiev. I guessed, um, someone else entirely. Luckily, calls were placed, queries made and answers given (thanks Nicole!).
It was Prokofiev. Opus 14, in D-minor. Turns out it was the scherzo. Not kidding.
There is little in the symphonic repertoire more exuberant than the Beethoven 7. Kanny of the Trib raved:
Honeck's interpretation of Ludwig van Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 was as bold, detailed and imaginative as one hopes a music director's will be. The music is rhythmic and energetic, unless badly done, but Honeck's vitality was exceptional.
While Druckenbrod gushed:
An amazing performance. Followed by more exuberance in an encore: The last movement of the Haydn Symphony 88. I found myself humming along. I thought I was quiet but I learned with a quick but gentle jab to my ribs that my wife thought otherwise.
I stopped humming along.
Great performance, great music. Not so great humming.
I painted during the first half of the concert, delighting in Vocalise and Symphonic Dances. The Piano Concerto in the second half was... breathtaking. Another piece of music I'd never heard in person before. Until I hear a live performance I forget that the dynamic range in a real concert hall, the nuance and the power, are utterly compelling.
A day like many other, and like no other day. Awake past dawn from a dream with a surprise, an old car parked in the garage of my old house in the woods. The day is alive with sunshine bright, warm and ready for bees. I watch CMU's sweepstake buggy races on the internet. The trees reach into my kitchen, and yank me outside, and the birds do say: why do you waste this day inside? You are right, I retort. So I spend the day with the birds singing surreal spring songs. I, in my way, plant flower and tomato seeds and ride bicycle high and low in the air with wind in my hair. To end a day like this is a thing to regret, but what better way than with symphonic music to hear, so I do it that way, my way.
The symphony appears, and I take my seat, turn off my cell phone, with ample cooperation, and made ready to enjoy the concert. Hushed silence, then the orchestra begins their warm up, the sound like no other, individuals all playing, nothing coordinated, yet it sounds so familiar, and sounds rather fine; how could that be, no composition, no rhyme, no reason, yet it sounds good to me.
Rachmaninoff, what more can I say? A concert filled with Rachmaninoff, the icing on top of the day. Goose bumps, appear on my neck, when the music commences, with Vocalise, music Conductor Slatkin dedicates this selection to the recently slain officers in Pittsburgh, and accordingly, he asked for a moment of silence after they play. This composition was perhaps unlike anything done before by Rachmaninoff. There was drama between sections of the symphony, and that accords places for sweet solos from the oboe, horn, cello and others. This time I hear no coughing in the audience, this time I heard pure music, I can hear each section, and drink in the music, with pure appreciation.
Rachmaninoff, Symphonic Dances: A simple story that I invent while listening to this music: 
A bird soars back to her nest, beside the egg is a baby, hatched just the other day, she feeds him. He hops to the side of the nest, ready to fly -- no, my little one, not quite yet, you are not ready, if you try now you will get hurt, I must protect you until you are ready. He hops down and waits. The mother flies off in search of more food. The baby is belligerent and stubbornly tries to fly, and comes crashing down and is injured. First flight this time was to no avail, but the baby perseveres. He hops about and manages to find a high place to try again. He will try the flight of the gliding bird, bounding first then flapping, take to the air, spread his wings, then keep them still, try to glide, that is his goal. His plight is on display, sometimes falling down. His desire is represented by robust, loud, rhythmic, spirited passages, looming near a precipice, and about to dive forth, as if over a waterfall, and when this happens, it is only luck that brings him softly down in a soft, gently flowing, meandering stream and around a bend and into a bed, whence and as if that is where he had started, but not really. Adept at determination, he tries again. Flutter, perhaps his chance at flight is taking off a little, it could be done, it can be achieved, if only, but, plop, back down again.
Next movement brings a waltz, 3 um-pah sounds beneath his wings. Now we see a hawk in the guise of an altered horn, the odd sound that brings his menacing purpose home. The hawk, as is his nature, will eat a baby bird, but if he gets the chance, it will be to find a way to maximize his gain, he must have more than simply this one lone morsel. The baby continues on his quest to learn to fly, it's difficult from the ground, no perch to perch upon, so he continues to try from rocks and with hopping bounds. Low keys abound in the sound coming from the orchestra, this represents the overture of the hawk, he is now soaring above the baby bird. He talks to the baby. He convinces him that he is his mother. That he can be good for him, and the baby, filled with hope, instantly believes him. The hawk gives him food and teaches him a better way to fly. And he lures him to the hawks way of thinking, with nothing to interfere. But the baby has an innate nature, and that nature cannot be denied.
The baby bird escapes the clutches of the hawk. His scurry is frantic, his directions are wild and his wings fluctuate as he attempts a dive to avoid the chasing hawk. But his attempt is futile, the hawk recaptures the baby. But this time there is recapitulation, there are many other baby birds in the capture of the hawk. They all begin to sing, a song of different sounds, each their own, each an individual voice. These add up in syncopated sublime instantaneous coordination. But the wind is blowing. The wind dampens their song. Now a flock appears, a flock of adult song birds, who join the chorus. The sound is beginning to be loud and is culminating in a harmonic vibration all based on a single note, which happens to be the base frequency and harmonic resonant core vibration for the glass cages that hold the babies. It cracks. They are free, and the flock is too big, so the hawk flies away. Many individual voices, acting in unison with tempo and volume, was simply too much for him.
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