Music and Age

Last night I went to hear the extraordinary Lázár brothers (Lázár tesók), accompanied on piano and xylophone by Márk Csernovszky, who played so subtly, you wanted to catch every note. The Lázár brothers, Ágoston and Domokos, are members of the renowned band Esti Kornél, which began in 2006 in Mezőtúr (not far from Szolnok), where they grew up. I have just begun to listen to Esti Kornél, but I can say that the Lázár duo (and trio, and quintet when they have cellos) are worth hearing at any possible opportunity. They sing beautiful sparse songs where every word and note matters—about life and death, memories, the passage of time, happiness, places. I could hear and understand almost every word; putting all the meaning together is a different matter, but that’s part of what relistening and albums are for. In between the songs, they joked easily with each other and the audience and retuned their guitars quickly (some of the songs had alternate tunings). One of my favorites was “Szabadon él”:

Another favorite from the concert was “Keringő”:

This is music for all ages; on the one hand the musicians are relatively young (in their thirties, maybe?), with a youthful presence; on the other hand, they sing, in part, about losses, illuminations, getting older, things that the grey-haired listeners understand all too well. The music itself is too beautiful to be trapped in one age or another. The audience reflected this; the ages ranged, I think, from about fifteen to seventy, with just about every age in between. That was partly thanks to the venue, the beloved Tisza Mozi, which has a way of bringing people of different ages together. But it was mostly thanks to the music itself.

This is how it should be. But there’s also great pressure on musicians to have a youthful following (not that musicians themselves would complain about a young crowd). That’s what looks good, that’s what gives the impression of something up and coming. Venues, videos, all sorts of marketing devices aim at a younger set. I was once at a show where some enthusiastic middle-aged women were dancing and having a great time. The band’s photographers then recruited teenagers in the audience (most of whom had stayed close to the wall) to come forward so that they could be photographed dancing to the music. That, I suppose, is what looks good on a website or Facebook page. It wasn’t a bad thing; I think the teenagers were happy to have an excuse to come out and dance. But there was a purpose beyond increasing their enjoyment.

This may not even be a “Sailing to Byzantium” situation. The music may not be commending “whatever is begotten, born, and dies.” But so many messages, not from the musicians themselves, say, “The more young people, the better.”

So if you are older, you (or at least I) have a double consciousness about it all. I know that I am welcome in the music. From that perspective, I belong in any audience where I want to be. That belonging is unbreakable. It exists no matter what anyone says. On the other hand, not last night, but at other times, I feel acutely that I am not of the wanted age, that too many of me would be a disappointment.

This happens to musicians too, and across all genres of music. Some time ago a violinist friend was telling me about how orchestras subtly inform their older members that they are replaceable, that younger musicians would be a better fit. It must be terribly hard to play in an orchestra for decades and then to start feeling that you aren’t really wanted in it any more.

Granted, youth has a lot going for it: energy and talent finding their way to form; attractiveness; a sense that the peak is still far ahead. There are plenty of reasons to support and nurture youth. Teachers know this! In addition, some kinds, aspects, phases of music really are youthful, and that is fine. The young get to be young and to have other young people around them.

But I admire those musicians, and those venues, who can break through that a little, who can make and host music that cuts through time. Where anyone who listens with full heart can be at home.

Photo credit: Lázár tesók (from their Facebook page).

Sliding Love (a new Hungarian film)

Even before the film started last night, you could feel the emotion in the room: the excitement of being back at the Tisza Mozi for a a special film event: this time a pre-screening of Viktor Oszkár Nagy’s film Becsúszó szerelem (Sliding Love), followed by a discussion, led by Zsolt Bajnai, with the director, the lead actress (Viola Lotti Gombó), and another cast member (Ádám László Piller). István Demeter, the owner of the Tisza Mozi, welcomed us heartily.

I loved the film and understood about 95% of it, the most I have understood so far when watching a Hungarian film without subtitles. It’s a somewhat eccentric, melancholic romantic comedy about a couple that wants to have a baby but can’t conceive because the husband, a football “ultra,” is sterile. At an adoption orientation that they attend, prospective adoptive parents are asked what they would hope for in a child. The husband says, “A Hungarian,” and makes clear that he does not want to adopt a Gypsy; this and a few other missteps more or less kill their prospects. Then one day the wife brings home a pregnant Roma (Gypsy) girl, Lüszi, with the idea that they will adopt her child. Things take unexpected turns from there.

The film explores the football (soccer) fan subculture: the rough-and-ready groups of buddies who follow their favorite team all over the place and keep getting into fights and scrapes. It takes on Hungarian racism against Roma people. And it shows a vulnerable, spunky young Roma woman who, over the course of the story, shows and finds out who she truly is. It has heaps of satire too: of various self-help groups, of the justice system, and of the lives of petty thugs.

The lead actors were the ones who enchanted me: András Ötvös as Gyula, and Viola Lotti Gombó as Lüszi. Viola Lotti Gombó has extraordinary range and grace: in the beginning, she plays crass and bored, annoyed with everything; slowly, as the film develops, she lets Lüszi unravel into beauty. I am eager to see what she does in the future.

There’s that moment, at the Tisza Mozi’s special screening, when the film is over, the credits are still playing, and the lights start coming back on, signaling that the discussion will shortly begin. The photo below is from that very moment. “Hang” means “sound”; that was the sound credit, and you can see the light shining onto the chairs below the screen.

During the discussion, Zsolt Bajnai asked the director about the origins of this film, about how it differs from his previous work, about how he learned about the football fan subculture, and about the casting. The football fan subculture part was particularly interesting; he said that he had made contact with various people, friends of friends, and visited some of the games to see and experience this world, and the world of football-hooligans too. Mr. Bajnai asked Viola Lotti Gombó a few questions too. From her responses, you could see how much she loved this role and what it meant to her to be in the film. There were a couple of questions from the audience. Then István Demeter thanked everyone for coming and brought the evening to a close.

On my way out, I had a chance to say hi to the Bajnais, whom I haven’t seen in person for months, and then I zipped home on the bike, happy and full of thoughts.

A Great Tuesday Evening

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I had planned to spend most of the afternoon reading Krisztián Grecsó’s Vera, from which Grecsó will read on Thursday when he visits our school and the library. Before today, I was about thirty pages into it. I figured I would read for five hours or so. But I got home only to realize that I had left the book at school–and I was planning to see the movie Seveled at 8:15 at the Tisza Mozi. It seemed best to go back to school, pick up the book, bike on down to the Tisza Mozi, and read for a few hours at the cinema’s café. I read up to page 109, without a dictionary, and expect to reach at least the halfway point tomorrow. It’s a wonderful novel and–assuming I keep this up at a reasonable pace–the first novel I will have read in Hungarian.

Seveled (directed by Dénes Orosz) was bittersweet and funny, with some intense beauty. I read about it on blogSzolnok and decided to see it. And I understood it! That was a happy surprise, since it was the first Hungarian comedy film I had seen. In some ways, comedy is easy to understand–a comic situation is often recognizable–but in other ways, it’s more difficult than the weightier genres. So it was really rewarding to get the jokes and laugh along with others. There were many good things about this film, but I especially loved the mother character (played by Juli Básti).

And then there was the bike ride home. To return from the Tisza Mozi, I just have to go north on Szapáry (which has a generous bike lane) and then make a few short turns. It’s a five- or ten-minute ride–and where the path is clear, I pedal full speed.

Here is a photo from earlier in the day, on Batthyány Street, where the pet supply store is located (but this isn’t a photo of the shop). I got a few things for my cat Minnaloushe and then walked home in the rain, enjoying this street (I had not brought my bike to school, knowing that I would have some big things to carry home). So, come to think of it, it was a pretty good day–and I haven’t even brought up the teaching, which went well too.

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Film, Bike, Evening, Szolnok

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A few weeks ago, the faculty at Varga received an invitation to a Tisza Mozi screening of the 2018 documentary Gettó Balboa. Knowing nothing about it except for a basic description, I signed up right away. Tonight a colleague and I went. I stayed at school until 5:00, grading tests and such, and then zipped off on the bike, down Szapáry utca, and then around the corner onto Templom út and to the cinema. Everything was starting to light up: the gallery, the street lamps, the Mayfly Bridge.

Gettó Balboa depicts a former Budapest mafia man from the Budapest Ghetto who turns to God, turns his life around, and begins to train poor ghetto children and young adults in boxing. One young man in particular, Zoli Szabó, he supports through difficulties that might otherwise have crushed him. Both he and Zoli are of Gypsy (Roma) origin, as is the director, Árpád Bogdán. This is both important to the film and not; the audience was Gypsy and non-Gypsy, and afterward, in the lobby, Gypsy chefs treated us to a delicious stew. But the film was about poverty too and what it does to a person–and about kindness and fighting, which we all know in our own ways. What does it take to help oneself and others? What does it mean to fight with all your soul? The black-and-white cinematography–sometimes crystal-clear, sometimes flattened into silhouettes, sometimes blurred with flashes of light–took me into the hardship and beauty.

After the film, there was a discussion–which came as a surprise to me–I had not known about it in advance–led by the author and journalist Zsolt Bajnai, with Árpád Bogdán (the director), Róbert Bordás (the cinematographer), Attila Poczók (the producer–at least I think he was there), and Mihály Sipos (“Misi,” the protagonist). They discussed, among other things, the process and techniques of filmmaking, the film’s themes and messages, and their own impressions of it.

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Then, after eating some stew and saying goodbye to my colleague, I biked up onto the Mayfly Bridge (where I ran into one of my neighbors) and soon afterward turned around. I had thoughts about the nature of kindness: how many directions it takes, how many illusions it can hold, and how simple it can be nonetheless. And about documentaries: how they distill real events into forms, how they can come close to poetry. And about Szolnok, which has opened up to me slowly over the months, and which I am starting to get to know in new ways. And other thoughts, harder to pinpoint, which carried me home.

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  • “To know that you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

    —Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies

  • Always Different

  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In February 2022, Deep Vellum will publish her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

  • ABOUT THIS BLOG

    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

    Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.

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