One of my father's passions was woodworking. He could build almost anything, often indestructible and useful items. The square stools he build for my three siblings and me are still in use at the cabin. They've withstood my family growing up, but also my children, my sister's children, and countless guests. They will outlive us all.
We all spent our own long hours working on things with Dad in the ever expanding workshop in the basement. Once furnace adjacent, it eventually spilled out all around the boiler, and into another room. I loved the belt sander, was deathly afraid of the table saw, and thought the grinder was the best fireworks show ever.
In his workshop he had a radio, and listened to the classical music public radio station. Come to think of it I don't remember where the radio actually lived, as I never would have turned it on myself, and certainly wouldn't have turned it off, or - God forbid - changed the station.
But he had small speakers that he would collect. The kind that came with a turntable/radio/tape deck sort of system, never super high quality, but enough. And he would put them in the ceiling spaces in the workshop. So wherever you were, you would hear this music coming from nowhere and everywhere.
As kids we didn't "get" classical music. So we referred to it as "Dad music" and never with an appreciative tone. He played classical music in the car, in his workshop, on his stereo upstairs. To us it seemed like it was everywhere, always waiting to jump out at you and bore you to sleep.
It was rarely loud enough to hear outside of the basement, but there was one weekend day where we all heard it and commented on it. It was a simple piano piece, and it was repetitive. Like, on a short loop. I think the common concern was that someone had a record that was skipping and just playing the same handful of notes over and over.
His explanation was that it distinctly wasn't the same notes over and over. It was the same notes but just a little different every time. I thought the idea was dumb, got on with my life, and never really thought about it until I was older.
Now that I am turning into my father in age and interests (thankfully not hair loss!) I appreciate the things he did when we were young and ignorant. And one of those things is the music. I have a limited knowledge of classical music, and I don't profess to know much about different composers, performers, or collections. But in the very recent months I have been listening to a few pieces, and from those finding a few more. Most of them are similar to the modern pop/alternative music I listen to - moody and dark, or minimalist and out of the ordinary. In other words, not generally popular in large numbers of listeners.
One of the pieces I have grown to love just a little bit more with every listening is Górecki's Symphony No. 3, Op. 36, also known as the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. It is a symphony in three movements composed by Henryk Górecki in Katowice, Poland, between October and December 1976. You know, when Poland was a happy place to live in. It's obviously steeped in the oppression they felt, and the hopelessness of a country trapped by another. In other words, it's perfect.
It is dark, somber, builds to wonderful hills of emotion, and rolls back into valleys of sadness. Beth Gibbons, one of my favorite singers from a band called "Portishead" performed it with the Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra. She even learned how to sing in Polish for the album. There is a great review on Pitchfork (link) and a great article from the New York times (link) telling the story of the 1989 London Sinfonietta recording that popularized the piece - and the composer - and sold over a million copies. Which is quite a feat. By February 1993, it had reached No. 6 on the British pop charts. Crazy.
It's possible my father heard a version of the symphony, but I don't know. I also don't have a firm grip on the exact genre's and pieces that he loved the most. It's another regret I have, that I never discussed the music with my father that would eventually be able to elicit more emotion from me than any brooding goth pop piece. Hoping my family can give me a better picture, but so far it's just been mentioned of composers and such. Nothing specific enough that I can listen to it and feel my father listening at the same time.
I am not going to go on too much about the music itself, but Spiegel im Spiegel (lit. 'mirror(s) in the mirror') is a composition by Arvo Pärt written in 1978. It's a ten minute song, but I can (and have) listened to it for hours. Sometimes when I listen it brings me deeper into my dark depressions. But other times it can lift me up and make me peacefully happy. Was this the kind of thing he would have listened to? Would have have hated it, loved it, or just not noticed it?
I have found my own favorites, and will grow that collection, I'm sure. And I've searched for that repetitive piano piece, but so far haven't found it.
But I sure would love to listen to that piano piece again as my current me.
