Music
is not the universal language. You know this if you’ve ever listened to another
culture’s music, wrinkled your nose, and said, “I don’t get it.” (I have the
same response when I listen to some of my own culture’s popular music, but
that’s a separate issue.) But a few months ago, I had an experience where music
blurred the cultural lines.
I
was in Barcelona, Spain. We wanted to see the Palace of Catalan Music, a
stunning concert hall and showpiece of Modernista architecture. The best way to
see it? A concert.
I
chose a cobla concert. I’d never heard of a cobla. It’s an ensemble that plays
traditional Catalan music. The back row of the ensemble looks familiar – eight
brass instruments, including trumpets and trombones. The front row is less recognizable.
The instruments, called shawms, look vaguely familiar – like oboes or clarinets
– but their sound is somewhere between a reedy oboe and a kazoo. The oddest
instrument is a flabio. The musician plays it with the left hand, while beating
a drum with her right hand. Oh, and by the way, the drum is attached to her left
elbow. Talk about coordination. Coblas play the music for the sardana dance, a
nationalistic dance done by the Catalonian people.
I’d
read my guidebook so I knew that nationalism is rampant in Catalonia. In fact,
Catalonia doesn’t want to be part of Spain at all. The quarrel between
Catalonia and Spain has existed for a long time, pretty much since the two
countries were joined with the marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand in the
fifteenth century. Evidence of this nationalistic fervor fluttered throughout
Barcelona – red and yellow-striped Catalonian flags waving from tiny
apartments, palatial buildings, and homes.
With
this knowledge, I sat back in the Palace of Catalan Music. At first, I just gazed
at the beautiful, bold concert hall. This place is an architecture masterpiece,
with opulent sculptures, a massive stained glass skylight that spills rich color
throughout the hall, and intricate mosaic pillars.
The concert began, and
the sound surprised me. Was it harsh? Or was it an ancient sound? Just what
were those instruments anyway? I decided to sit back and enjoy, like the rest
of the audience, who perched on the edges of their seats.
Then,
after intermission, a choir came onto stage. Ah, something familiar. Choirs I
understand. The singers began a rousing chorus. Of course, I couldn’t
understand the words, but it sounded like a cross between a folk song and a
national anthem.
In truth, the choir
was just okay. The balance was a little off, and the intonation wasn’t perfect.
These were clearly not professionals. I tried to read the program (written entirely
in Catalan) and figured out – I think – that this was a community choir,
comprised of choirs from several communities.
As
the songs continued, audience members began singing along with the chorus. Nobody
seemed to care about the so-so balance or the predictable melodies. The
audience cheered like they were at the World Cup. Some wept openly during some
of the more plaintive songs, and before long, out came the familiar red and
yellow-striped flags. Some audience members waved them demurely from their
seats. Others stood proudly in the aisles. One chubby woman pounced on top of
her seat and held the flag proudly above her head.
Well,
when in Barcelona … I started singing too. Of course, I didn’t know the words,
but I faked it. I stood and cheered with the Barcelonians and wished I had a
flag to wave. Right then, music was a universal language, and I could
understand the fervor of these people and feel the love they had for their
country.
I
still don’t think music is the universal language. But that chilly night in
Barcelonia, for a couple of hours, the cliché became reality and it was.
