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And here lies the central paradox of this remarkable example of musical theology: Messiaen seeks to depict a realm of timeless eternity, surpassing our experience and our knowledge, by means of the playing of four instruments. But these instruments could not make a sound if they, and we, were not inescapably imprisoned in the world of time.
In a timeless eternity, every hammer of every piano key is perpetually striking every string, and every key of every clarinet is depressed at once. There can be no music, and hence no musical meaning, outside the realm of time. All that distinguishes the sweetest and most lovingly caressed phrase played on the upper strings of the cello from the sound of a garbage disposal crunching chicken bones, after all, is the particular temporal sequence of vibrations in air that convey sound from source to hearer.
If there is no more time, therefore, there can be no more music. Messiaen surely knew this, but he ignored it. He wrote music all the same for the end of time. Casting aside all conventional structures of tonality, harmony, and rhythm, he set out to lead us through untraveled lands where nothing is as it appears, and yet everything is far more than it appears.
The elements out of which Messiaen creates music include birdsong, folk melody, and chordal clusters that defy analysis. Never wholly forsaking a certain gravitational pull toward the center, Messiaen carries us so far from this tonal home that we think there can be no way back; but then familiar intervals and melodies suddenly appear on the horizon. The movement from, say, the Romantic harmonic language of Brahms to the free association of Messiaen is like the movement from Renoir and Degas to Franz Kline and Willem de Kooning. Messiaen's major works have received a wider hearing in 2008, the centenary of his birth, than ever before, and yet they remain deeply perplexing to many listeners.
But in the hands of performers as skilled as the Gilmore artists, music that is initially incomprehensible becomes so utterly convincing that one cannot help being drawn into its world. Uchida, by far the most accomplished member of the ensemble, remained inconspicuous in her role throughout the performance, providing steady and precise support to her three companions without drawing attention to herself. Clarinetist Martin Fröst demonstrated absolute mastery of his instrument, able to draw a perfectly tuned note out of nothingness so gently that a listener was never aware of the moment when silence became sound. Violinist Soovin Kim and cellist Christian Poltéra drew every nuance of shading and emotion from their instruments. Each string player is given a lyrical solo movement with a sort of piano ostinato painting a backdrop: the cello's song is of "Praise to the Eternity of Jesus" in the fifth movement, the violin's of "Praise to the Immortality of Jesus" in the closing movement. In the Gilmore performance these movements seemed to bring ordinary time to a point of absolute stillness and calm.
In shocking contrast to these still points came the "Dance of Fury, for the Seven Trumpets," in which all four instruments play a craggy and angular melody in unison throughout. The rhythm is fragmented and asymmetrical, but it pushes forward without rest, and players and audience alike are caught up in forces that cannot be conquered or even fully controlled. In any effective performance there is a remarkable excitement in this movement, which is unlike any other in Western chamber music. In this reading, as the musicians kept pushing each other nearer and nearer to the point of losing control, there was an element of sheer terror.
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