The Defense

"In 1594, being then seventeen years of age, I finished my courses of philosophy and was struck with the mockery of taking a degree in arts. I therefore thought it more profitable to examine myself and I perceived that I really knew nothing worth knowing. I had only to talk and wrangle and therefore refused the title of master of arts, there being nothing sound or true that I was a master of. I turned my thoughts to medicine and learned the emptiness of books. I went abroad and found everywhere the same deep-rooted ignorance."

-Van Helmont (1648)


"The new degree of Bachelor of Science does not guarantee that the holder knows any science. It does guarantee that he does not know any Latin."

-Dean Briggs of Harvard College (c. 1900) 

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When I was a young man I read Nabokov's The Defense, which, I think, was about a dissertation defense and the protagonist Luzhin's (rhymes with illusions) ensuing mental breakdown. I can't remember that much about it; but the point is that a dissertation defense - to judge from the blogs and article posts written by calm, rational, well-balanced academics without an axe to grind, and who would never, ever exaggerate their experience just for the sake of looking as though they struggle and suffer far more than everybody else - is one of the most arduous, intense, soulcrushing, backbreaking, ballbusting, brutal experiences imaginable, possibly only equaled by 9/11, the entire history of slavery, and the siege of Stalingrad combined. Those who survive it are, somehow, of a different order.

The date has been set; and just like a real date, it will involve awkward stares, nervous laughter, and the sense that you're not quite being listened to - but without the hanky-panky at the end. The defense is in three days, and part of me knows that most of it is done already; having prepared myself well, and having selected a panel of four arbiters who, to the best of my knowledge, when placed in the same room will not attempt to eat each other. ("Oh come on, just a nibble?" "NEIN!")

Wish me luck, comrades. During the defense, the following will be playing in my head:

Master's Recital: Debussy, Bach, and Shostakovich

For those of you in Bloomington, I will be accompanying for a cellist's master's recital here at the Jacobs School of Music. The program features a sonata by Debussy so unbelievably colorful and vivid, your synesthesia will go haywire; some of the clearest, most soul-refreshing chamber music by Bach; and everyone's favorite, Shostakovich's colossal cello concerto no. 1, which, in classical music terms, is known as a bodice-ripper.

To bring you this, we've put in countless hours of arduous, painstaking practice, endured invective, censorship, and misunderstanding from the most trenchant of critics, and gone through long nights of rehearsal punctuated by hours of bickering and quarreling, torn sheet music and thrown metronomes - but always followed by tearful reconciliation. Has it been worth it? Heck yes. But then again, I'll let you all be the judge of that.


When: 7:00pm, Friday, November 8th
Where: Recital Hall, ground floor of Merrill Hall (1201 E 10th St)
Who: Andy Jahn, Piano; Sonja Kraus, Cello


===== Program =====

Debussy: Sonata for Cello and Piano
I. Prologue: Sostenuto e molto risoluto
II. Sérénade
III. Finale: Animé: Léger et nerveux

Bach: Gamba Sonata No. 1 in G Major for Cello and Piano
I. Adagio non troppo
II. Allegro, ma non tanto
III. Andante quasi Lento
IV. Allegro moderato

Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-Flat Major, Op. 107
I. Allegretto
II. Moderato
III. Cadenza
IV. Allegro con moto

Prokofiev: Etude and Piano Concerto

Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953)

Mention the name of Prokofiev to any musician, and instantly a mental curtain goes up: They hear music of caprice, vigor, and daring; original almost to the point of eccentricity; Russian in the fullest sense of the word.

"I abhor imitation," Prokofiev once wrote, "and I abhor the familiar." Certainly, Prokofiev is a difficult man to pin down; some categorize his music as neo-classical, others as sui generis. By pushing the limits of public taste, he invited both admiration and scathing criticism; however, nearly sixty years after his death, his seat among the pantheon of musical gods remains secure.

The following two selections provide a glimpse into Prokofiev's world. Doubtless, they represent only an incomplete part of him. Both his etudes, op. 2, and his piano concerto no. 1, op. 10, were composed at the beginning of his career; they are worlds removed from the dark, sarcastic, acidic hatred of his final piano sonatas or his colossal, finger-breaking Sinfonia Concertante. (Truly, both Shostakovich and Prokofiev, their souls hardened and warped within the crucible of Stalinist Russia, are two of the greatest gifts to be produced by that unhappy era.)

However, these pieces are a good point of entry into Prokofiev's beautiful imagination. The etudes and piano concerto are energetic, bombastic, unabashedly virtuosic pieces Prokofiev used as vehicles to coruscate onto the musical scene as a singular composer-pianist. And while Prokofiev used the piano to incredible effect, mind that it represents only a fraction of his music output - an oeurve which comprised operas, symphonies, ballets, and a superb cello sonata. The inquisitive listener will be drawn to seek out these gems.

For now, enjoy the dark sonorities and virtuosic daring of his etude in D minor, a picture of the brashness and audacity of a young man beginning to realize his powers; enjoy the roller-coaster ride of the piano concerto finale, a movement traversing an astonishing range of gorgeous, transcendental, sometimes bizarre emotions, climaxing with endless cascades of octaves over the glorious swells of the orchestra.