FULL AND HALF KEYBOARDERS: VIVE LE DIFFERENCE!

Although I began (somewhat) serious musical training at age 60, I have always loved music.  When much   younger, I taught myself to play some simple pieces, Schumann's First Loss being one of them.  I was deeply moved by it.  Much later, my piano teacher informed me that when she was very young, this piece also had a  profound effect on her.  First Loss is from Schumann's Album for the Young, written in 1848.  The composer felt rejuvenated during the creation of this book of short piano pieces.  He set himself the task of writing music for children that captures the world of childhood without ever being childish.  The compositions are simple but often, as is the case with First Loss and some others, profound.  

The purpose of this article is not merely to make this wonderful composition known to those who have never taken piano lessons or to resurrect this piece for those who have forgotten it; I have written the article in order to answer the question,  Why are some people affected by the serious, even tragic, aspects of life  more than others?  Why, regarding music, are some people convinced that their soul will not be satisfied, and will not grow, if limited to hearing only upbeat compositions?

  

This article is especially written for those whose emotional response to life is characterized by a broad range.  I will give an analogy: the piano keyboard has 88 keys.  Let us assume--that is, let us pretend--that middle C is a state of being neither happy nor sad.  Let us further pretend that the forty-four keys to the right represent increasing feelings of happiness, until the utter ecstasy of the highest C is reached, four octaves above middle C, that is, 44 notes higher.  Similarly, the 39 keys to the left represent a decreasing scale of happiness, until the utter misery of the lowest A note is sounded.  The keyboard thus becomes an emotional gauge with happiness increasing as we progress toward the right. Why is it that some people's inner life, if transcribed into music, would have a wide range of notes, while others would have, say, the octave-and-a-half or so of a singer?  (Please note: possessing a wide emotional range doesn't make you better--a great singer can do so much more with her octave-and-a-half than an average musician can with all 88 keys at his fingertips.)

Shakespeare undoubtedly had the broadest emotional keyboard at his disposal--and so do a good deal of drunks. Most successful businessmen, I imagine, have a more limited range of available emotional notes. I want to make clear from the beginning, however, that this article is not about contrasting artists with philistines, but about two different personality types which are widely distributed among artists and non-artists alike.  I will in fact contrast First Loss with a composition by another great musician, who, to my knowledge never ventured to the left of middle C.

First let's listen to the piece, which I have recorded for this article:

(You can also access it by googling Thomas Dorsett First Loss Youtube)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ji3Wi167hXU

What a beautiful piece!  But it is a sad beauty indeed.  Schumann's genius captures a young person who very much still lacks full emotional range but has very definitely, as the title of the piece implies, entered the territory to the left of middle C,  for the first time in his life. I think of him as a bright, sensitive child of 8 or 9--a very significant transition has been reached.  Prior to this it was all sun; from now on there will be periods of sun and periods of shadow.  He now has no chance of becoming an inveterate optimist.  He has tasted inner sorrow--for this music is very internal--which means that sorrow will arise not only from external factors--which happens to nearly all of us at some time--but from internal factors as well.  He has been introduced to a beauty that evokes both joy and sorrow--he will have greater emotional depths than most, and will pay for it dearly.  (Optimists are, of course, happier, and tend to live longer.)

In the works of Schumann the emphasis is mostly to the right of middle C, although, he, to a degree that this piece merely hints at, was familiar with the whole keyboard.  If the proto-Schumann depicted in First Sorrow progressed exclusively to the left as he grew older, he, might well grow up into an adult who could identify with this poem by Platen (my translation):

TRISTAN 

He who has seen beauty with open eyes
is already firmly in death's power;
his work will fail, however hard he tries,
yet, when death approaches, he will cower,
he who has seen beauty with open eyes.

The pain of love will gnaw at him forever--
For only a fool on this sad earth
hopes to satisfy desire--Never
shall beauty's arrow cease to rend and hurt;
the pain of love will gnaw at him forever.

Ah, he'd like to disappear like steam
or inhale poison as he scans the skies
and fade away, as if he'd never been;
he who has seen beauty with open eyes,
ah, he'd like to disappear like steam!

August Graf von Platen
--Translated from the German
by Thomas Dorsett

Schumann would undoubtedly agree with this poem at times, but certainly not always, as most of his music attests.  But many--perhaps the majority of people--live only in the upper keyboard; to them the poem would be just about meaningless, merely the rant of a pathetic depressive.  

The upper keyboard is a very pleasant place to be; those that remain there are content.  Living only in the lower range is a miserable existence, although, if the person in question has genius, it might be a profound existence, but miserable nevertheless. Living the whole keyboard is living life from its depths to its heights; these individuals, when artists, will tend to produce the most profound art of all--Bach and Shakespeare are good examples.  Since most live in the upper keyboard area, , upper keyboard artists tend to be the most popular.  (Posterity, of course, is a full-range judge. During their lifetimes, the upper keyboarder Telemann was much more popular than the full-keyboard Bach.)

Although, in by opinion, the best art tends to be created by full keyboard artists, there are many, many many exceptions.  (Boccherini, Monet, most of Dvorak.)

Let's discuss one of those exceptions now as demonstrated by the deservedly popular song by Bob Marley, Don't Worry About a Thing.

First of all, let's listen to this utterly delightful piece:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mACqcZZwG0k
 (This piece can also be accessed by googling: Every little thing gonna be all right, Marley, Youtube.)

When in the right mood, tears of joy overwhelm me while listening to this piece.  Similarly, tears of sorrow and poignancy arise while listening to or playing the Schumann piece.   As these two pieces indicate, art can express both sorrow and joy; half keyboarders tend to listen only to  music which reflects their upbeat nature. Full keyboarders respond to the music of yes as well as to music of no, since their emotional life is, as it were, composed of both.

Is it the genes or the environment that turns the artist or the individual into full keyboarders or half keyboarders?.  I think genes play the most important part, but the environment certainly helps to either suppress or express them.  Let's look at the lives of Schumann and Marley to indicate why this is so.   

Here is a picture of Robert Schumann

Here is a picture of the house where Schumann was born, which still stands in Zwickau, Germany

Here is a picture of Bob Marley:

Here is a picture where Marley was born:

Need I say more?  Poverty is obviously not a major factor in the creation of full  keyboarders.

The contrasts between both men are extreme.  Schumann had a very literary father; both parents were good to him.  Schumann immersed himself in literature and music, both of which fostered the full range of emotions which were part of his genetic endowment.  Schumann had friends, and had a happy marriage with Clara Schumann, albeit after a very stressful court case in which Clara's father, Schumann's teacher, tried to have the marriage annulled.  (Schumann apparently lacked the common sense to marry Clara after she attained majority--which fell on the very day after the marriage!)  Schumann's first biographer wrote that he "possessed the rare taste and talent for portraying feelings" at the age of 12--a strong indication that the composer was a full keyboarder from the beginning.

But, internally, things could get very stormy.  His first attempt at suicide was at age 30, after hearing about the deaths of not too close relatives from the plague.  He suffered  from bouts of depression and mania his entire life; he also suffered toward the end of his life from aural hallucinations.  He died in a sanatorium at 56, where he spent the last two years of his life in a state of complete mental breakdown.

Marley did not have it easy in the beginning.  His father was white--he sent money to the  mother of his son,, but did not raise him;, his father died when Marley was 10.  

Marley's hometown in Jamaica is like a village transposed from Africa.  Everyone there is, genetically, completely of African descent.  There is no racial mixing, and thus no accommodation for those of mixed race, as in the United States.  Thus, Marley was teased unmercifully for being a half-caste.  It is said that he had to work twice as hard to earn the respect that was his neighbors' birthright..  This did not depress him, as these delightful words which Marley wrote about himself indicate:

I don't have a prejudice against meself.  My father was a white and my mother was black.  Them call me half-caste or whatever.  Me don't deh pon nobody's side.  Me don't deh pon the black man's side nor the white man's--Me de pon God's side, the one who create me and cause me to come from black and white.

Marley seems to have been totally unable to experience depression, and periods of deepe sorrow, except those caused by the inevitable vicissitudes of life--from which he undoubtedly would recover much faster than most.  I think of Marley's First Loss was the realization, at the end of his life, that the cancer he forgot about had recurred and would soon kill him.  His sorrows, when they came, arose from external, not internal causes, which is characteristic of the half keyboarder. 

Schumann, though depressed at times, was by no means a stranger to joy, a fact which the majority of his music reflects.  But he knew both sides of life, and his work is much more the profound for it.  I can picture him nodding in wistful agreement after reading the first stanza of a famous poem by Goethe:

Who never ate his bread with tears;

who never spent a dismal night

racked by terrors, doubts and fears

doesn't know you, heavenly light!

His work, in my opinion--and I must admit to being a full keyboarder--was deepened by this knowledge..

As true with everything in life, you pay for what you get, and full keyboarders, like Schumann, sometimes pay dearly.  They experience life in a profounder way, which sets them apart from the majority, half keyboarders.  Their state of consciousness is deeper; their life more fragile.  Who is more profound than the fictional Hamlet who is more real than all of us?  And look what happened to him.

One of the positive aspects of being a full keyboarder is the tendency toward greater empathy.  I will give an example.  On the radio, I heard a discussion about a recent mass suicide.  One of the speakers said that although it was sad, the people who killed themselves had free will and made their decision, and that's that.  Spoken like a half keyboarder!  A full keyboarder would know that these poor people were lost in an area to the left of Middle C and, with a little, help, could move higher.  Half keyboarders tend to think everyone is like they are--since they would never commit suicide, they assume that only fools could.  Full keyboarders, who have experienced life more deeply, know what it's like to feel helpless and lost, and thus have more empathy for those who feel cornered.

I think evolution permits the recurrence of full keyboarders in order to deepen the creativity of our species ,thus enhancing its ability to survive.  If one were a half keyboarder full-time, one would tend to lack the desire to create something really new and profound.  At the very least, the full keyboarder will be able to experience life much more deeply.  I think it's worth the price, especially when the full keyboarder is able to ascend from the depths with the help of friends and a healthy lifestyle.  Silver clouds with dark linings are, I think, very important.  If you're a half keyboarder, you don't need advice; however, if you're a full keyboarder, take this from me: expose yourself fully, yet only periodically, to those dark-lined clouds--and when you do, have an umbrella ready.

LADY STEGOSAURUS SINGS THE BLUES

Note: I promised to write a little musical composition for my wife's grandniece, who is crazy about dinosaurs.  At four, she knows their names and can classify them as herbivores or carnivores, which is pretty good indeed.  I haven't made much progress, but during a recent walk in Shenandoah National Park, I composed the following children's poem, which will serve as an introduction to the music. (If all goes as planned, the piece will be recorded and added to this blog as a YouTube link.)


LADY STEGOSAURUS SINGS THE BLUES


Once I traveled back in time
and met a stegosaurus.
She didn't wince, she didn't whine,

she simply stood, amazed to see
a creature weird as Horus.
Is that what I'll evolve to be?

As if she preferred primal ooze,
she stared at me from head to shoes--
Then Lady Stegosaurus sang the blues:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pks9_D9Kjkk

Little Things Mean a Lot--Kitty Kallen is Alive and Well! So am I!

1.
Yes, everything is on YouTube.  After listenting to the great rock 'n' roll classic, "Shout" by the Isley Brothers (1959) I suddenly remembered a song that, briefly, meant a good deal to me when I was eight and nine years old:  "Little Things Mean A Lot" recorded by Kitty Kallen in 1954.  Was it, too, on YouTube? It was!  I had never forgotten the song, even though the last time I had heard it was nearly sixty years ago!  I hadn't forgotten the words either--tears came to my eyes as I listened to it for the first time in many decades.


2.
Yes, I've reached the age when one begins to read obituaries.  Plucking petals from a daisy while reciting 'she loves me, she loves me not,' has morphed into scrolling down the online obituary section of the Times while reciting, 'This one was younger than I, this one was older.'  I'm certainly hitting back, but at my age mortality is increasinly better able to connect with its punches.  I feel little older than a kid inside, so it's weird to suddenly be transported sixty years back in time, when I actually was young.  Yes, seventy-year old kids are fictitious as leprechauns, time tells me, get real. You're nothing but an abstract concept, I say to  time, and continue with my seventh decade of youth.

(I suddenly remember taking a walk in Chennai, India, with my sister-in-law Pechu about two years ago.  I walk at a fast clip.  She advised me to slow down a lot--"After all, you're old now and older people shouldn't walk fast".  I didn't say anything; I just doubled my pace.)

Mortality's punches--sometimes they come in the more benign form of Nostalgia's pats on the back.  Anyone my age can give many such examples.  To me, a major pat on the back came last week during a trip to the Museum of Natural History in New York.  This museum has large sections that haven't changed a bit since my first visit there around 1950.  My wife's niece (she is now thirty-five but is fixed in my memory when she was two, the time during which I got to know her well during a long trip to India) now has a daughter who is crazy about dinosaurs, so we--my wife Nirmala, my sister-in-law Mridula and I--visited the museum, hoping to find something in the gift shop she would like (we didn't).  How well I remember the dinosaur exhibits, which thrilled me so at the age of seven!  I collected little statues of the dinosaurs which were available at the gift shop  Lovely little bronze replicas; they were not cheaply made as stuff you get these days--does anyone remember them?  I remember that they came in two sizes; the largest ones cost two dollars apiece--I recall thinking how expensive that was--Would I ever be able to save up for a two-dollar Trachodon which I just had to have?  After visiting these gigantic skeletal friends, we went to the first floor to get to the Hayden Planetarium.  A walk through the "Hall of the American Indians" really hit me--it hadn't changed a bit.  But the poor little kid who walked through its long corridor so many times is no more.  But that attack of nostalgia did not last.  "Little Things Mean a Lot" however, struck a far deeper chord.

3.
YouTube has everthing, but Google has everything squared.  I knew I would find out more about Kitty Kallen and her hit if I googled her, and, sure enough, there was a little article on Wikipedia.  She had toured with big bands during the 1940s.  Her one great hit was "Little Things Mean a Lot."  She married, had one son who is now a law professor.  And she is still alive at 90.

4.
The fact that her hit was a childhood favorite is proof, alas! that I'm not even young enough to be a baby boomer.  This song was one of the last hits of the big band era, just as I was one of the last births of the World War ll generation.  Listening to it now, I hear it very differently.  It is a ballad, sung  admirably by a female crooner, with big-band orchestration.  The backbeat--the drumbeat on the third beat of a four beat measure, whcih is the hallmark of rock 'n' roll, would soon change music forever.

5.
After sixty years, I saw a picture for the first time of Kitty Kallen as she was then.  What a knockout!

6.
The song played a big role in my life.  I don't know where I first heard it.  My grandparents, who lived downstairs (they owned the house) had an RCA Victor console which included a TV (13 inch screen) and   a phonograph, bought in 1949.  We didn't get a TV until 1954, the year  when Kittly recorded the tune.  Did I have a 78rpm record of it?  Did I hear it on the Hit Parade, a very popular TV show at the time during which Snooky Lanson, among others, sang the popular hits of the day?.  I'm not sure, but I had the song memorized, which indicates that I must have had a recording of it, but if I did, no memory of it has remained.

7.
The song is so important to me, not only because it was perhaps the first beloved song  in an (eventually) music-crazed person's memory bank, but because it brings back to me the first crush I had on a girl-well, maybe the second, but that's another story.  Her name is (or was) Kathleen Manet.  She had just moved into our rough working-class neighborhood when the song came out.  We became friends.  We sang this song together many times--along with the current hits of Theresa Brewer. I was very fond of Kathleen, and was just beginning to realize that my fondness for her was differnt from the pleasure I took in the company of my friend Walter and other boys.

How fond I was of her is indicated by another memory.  My uncle used his savings to buy a simple little house in Forked River, NJ.  (He wanted to retire there eventually--but the universe, alas! had other plans for him.  He died from stomach cancer at the age of 60.)  Our family spent a month there in 1954--or was it 1955?  When I left, I made Kathleen promise me that she would write every day.  I wrote many times, but recieved no letter.  Every day I went with my parents to the post office to pick up the mail--no letter, no letter, no letter.  I felt very sad.  When we got back, I asked her, no doubt with hurt in my voice, what happened?  Oh, I must have had the wrong address, Forked Bend, wasn't it? she said, in a very unconvincing way.  I can still feel the disappointment. I was Pip, she was Estella; my Great Expectations had been crushed.

Another related memory comes to mind-- I, with my uncle's permission, invited her for a weekend at his Forked River bungalow. ( I don't think she ever came; I'd be sure to have some memory of it. )  The walls of the little house were unfinished; guests wrote messages and thank-you notes on the cardboard covering the walls.  (Yes, this was the working-class version of those fancy guest books found in vacation homes everywhere.)  I remember writing a little love note on the bathroom wall, right next to the toilet.  Among other (forgotten) things, I told her how happy I was that she would soon visit.  When family members saw it they laughed; I was very embarrassed.   My brother especially did not let me forget how ridiculous it was to write from the heart while one's rear is on the toilet.

8.
We lived in a very rough neigborhood.  We didn't know we were poor, but I did know that Kathleen was poorer than us.  (To give you an example of the type of neighborhood we lived in--There was a somewaht dilapidated three-floor walk-up next door, which had two flats of four railrood rooms each on every floor.  This was a little version of the welfare hotels that came later.  On the second floor lived The McCormicks with their six children.  The father  was a policeman--he had the reputation of being a very corrupt one; his wife, perhaps thirty-five,  looked like sixty--and not my kind of sixty.  Later on we found out they had seven children--the last child, discovered by the authorities when she was about six, had never been taken outside the house--and apparently had remained stark naked since the day she was born!  She was removed from the home--we didn't know what that meant, but we knew what it meant some time later, when we learned that the eldest boy had been taken away...to jail.)

Kathleen lived on the fourth floor of a walk-up one block from my house.  She lived with (as I understand now) a very overburdened single mother, who probably had difficulty paying the rent.  Her mother smacked her around a lot.  One time, when I witnessed her mother kicking her, yes, kicking her, I was outraged.  How could one do that to my little girlfriend?  I told my friend Walter Wilczeswiki about it.  (Walter was my best friend; a poem I wrote about his death in 1977 was recently published by the University of Virginia's magazine, Hospital Drive.  (If you are interested in reading it, here is the link: http://hospitaldrive.med.virginia.edu/hospital-drive/issue-7-winterspring-2012/homage-to-walter-wilczewski/ or simply google the title of the poem, Homage to Walter Wliczewski.) )  I told my friend about Kathleen's troubles in confidence.  Yet Walter--this was the only time he ever did --betrayed my confidence.  He told Kathleen, "Tom says your mother doesn't treat you right."  Nobody likes to hear that about her own mother.  Kathleen, crying, a tear of bitterness alternating with a tear of anger, couldn't believe I would ever say such a thing and asked me whether it was true.  I stammered; I was never good at lying. I felt terrible for her. I also remember looking at her right eye, which was made of glass--how she lost her eye I probably once knew-- but I can't remember if there were tears there, too.

A little while later, Kathleen, who had moved to Jersey City with her mother perhaps six months earlier, moved again.  And exited from my life forever.

When Katleen left, I never listened to Kitty Kallen's song again, until now.

9.
Another reason that this song  had such an effect on me is that it illustrates my love for music even at the age of 8.  Yes, I wanted piano lessons, but I come from a very unmusical family.  At age 15, I was able to get  hold of an old spinet and briefly took some lessons from a good person but a bad teacher.  But I finally did something about it--at age 59, I began lessons with a good teacher, and, at nearly 67, am still taking lessons from her.  I will always be a rank amateur, but there is lots to be said about rank amateurs.  I am able to play music with friends; I started a musical group and attend other musical groups; I go to nursing homes to play and conduct singalongs, etc.   My advice to older people with regrets of not having done something that they wanted to do all their lives: stop complaining and do it now.

10.
Yes, the song, after sixty years, resulted in an acute earworm infection.  (An 'earworm,' a word that comes from the German Ohrwurm, indicates a musical phrase that keeps repeating in one's head. It can drive you crazy.)  But along with the earworm came a great consolation: for a while I was a kid again, singing a favorite song along with a cute little friend, whom I had just about completely forgotten for decades, along with the song.


11.  
The lyrics to "Little Things Mean a Lot" are not worthy of Hammerstein--not to mention Cole Porter.  Still they are adequate and the music is sweet. It's about a young woman who tells her love, "You don't have to give me diamonds or pearls/ champagne, sables or such/ I never was much for diamonds or pearls, for honestly, honey, they just cost money."  Instead she wants the little things that mean a lot, because they indicate deep love: "Blow me a kiss from across the room/ say I look nice when I'm not; touch my hair when you pass my chair/ little things mean a lot."   It's a sentimental song, true, but a very effective one.  And I love Ms. Kallen's performance.  She sings the song in a very convincing, intimate way, without any exaggeration for cheap, emotional effects.  Her phrasing is excellent--an example: the way she sings "heart": in the phrase, "give me your heart to rely on."   She sings this word more softly and, with a subtle emphasis, indicating that this is what she really wants--deep, unconditional affection.  The intimacy of her voice is striking--you feel as if she's singing directly to you. I suppose we felt some of that even then--thanks to Ms. Kallen's superb performance.  After listening to the song on YouTube a few times (I couldn't listen too many times, or else I would have been driven mad by my earworm,.) I went right to the piano and was able to play the tune by ear.  Here is a link to me, amateur pianist that I am, performing it:  Hope you are listening somewhere, Kathleen! (Note: I know I'm far from a good pianist; I do believe, however, that there are appropriate places for amateur musicians, that is. everywhere, including here.)
http://www.youtube.com/my_videos_edit?ns=1&video_id=eiHbByTPPiw

12.
Thank you, Kittly Kallen--You brought back many memories to me.  The resulting feelings of love, tenderness, nostalgia,  combined with the realization of how fleeting a lifespan is, have deepned my appreiciaion of being human.  I am glad you are alive; I wish you years of additional happiness.

And to you, Kathleen Manet, though I can't google you or find you on YouTube, I hope you, too,  are alive and well somewhere!  I hope your mother found a good provider or got a good job, and took you out of poverty soon after she took you out of my life.  I know the statistics; the chances that you rose from a very difficult situation are not good.  I did, though; dear dear Kathleen, I hope you did too.

AN EXTRAORDINARY PERFORMANCE

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra's performance of Anton Bruckner's Te Deum and Beethoven's Choral Symphony, which my wife and I attended on May 25th, was a spectacular finish to the season, and, for me at least, a profoundly moving experience.  The conductor, Peter Oundijan was brilliant--brisk tempos--which let the music express itself without any hperromantic overlay; very expressive when he needed to be; he also managed to strike a near-perfect balance among the instruments.  The orchestra was in great form.  The singers were all good.  There was a striking contrast between the two male singers, both of whom performed admirably.  The tenor, Brandon Jovanovich, was thin and of small stature; he was dressed Eutopean-style in a black tuxedo with a white shirt and tie.  The Bass, Morris Robinson, towered over him--a bulky 280 lbs or so compared to the tenor about half his weight.  Mr. Robinson was dressed casually,  in a dark sports jacket and sported no tie.  The contrast didn't end there.  The tenor was very involved in the music; his facial expressions indicated that he was joyfully--and, if need be--solemnly one with the score.  Mr. Robinson often looked quite bored--but that's not how he sang!
I am writing this little piece, however, not to technically judge the performance--I leave that to professional musicians--but to discuss something in both pieces that affected me deeply.
The finale of Bruckner's piece begins with the soloists singing the following words: "In te, Domini, speravi, non confundar in aeternam."  The text is of crucial importance here.  The English, in my translation, is "I have placed my hope in you, O Lord, do not confound forever" or, in the standard translation: "O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded."  It  begins simply enough, with the soloists singing sweetly, as if they really don't understand the implied meaning: how can a loving God allow suffering?  Soon one can see, that is hear, that  this problem was of great importance to the composer.  the chorus takes it up, the orchestration deepens.  The sopranos sing high and loud--We've trusted in Thee!  How come no response! (That's what I interpret the music to be "saying," not the text.)  The brass adds additional and painful solemnity to this question.  Eventually a wonderful climax arrives: The chorus singing the same words, but with full force in a major key, transforms the meaning.  Now the music "states"--gloriously--the following: I have trusted in Thee and Thou hast not let me down!"  In this chorus Bruckner comes the closest, perhaps, in all his music, to doubt.  He wrestles with the text, he doesn't let it go.  It ends in a sublime statement of faith, which would not have nearly been so effective without the many bars of questioning that precede it.   The program notes state: "Building in waves, he creates one of the most glorious climaxes in all choral music."  After being moved almost to tears by this music, I consider that sentence to be an understatement.
Then came Beethoven's great choral symphony, beloved, deservedly, all over the world!  I will limit my discussion to the striking parallel I found between the finale of Brucker's piece and that of Beethoven's.  Once again the text is crucial: "Brueder, ueber Sternenzelt/muss ein lieber Vater wohnen." (Brothers,  a loving Father must be living beyond the tent of the stars." my translation.) It is first stated very solemly by male members of the chorus supported by lower-register stings.  Then it is taken up, very gently, by the women--after much back and forth, an extraordinary climax is reached by the chorus.  These two lines were of crucial importance to Beethoven--and he sublimely lets us know it.  The meaning of the text is very similar to the text Bruckner wrestled with.  Beethoven is telling us, well, there just hast to be an answer to all the suffering we endure.  It is beyond everything we know, or, metaphorically, "beyond the stars" but it is there.  The glory of Beethoven's music is the transformation of "It is there" to "It is there!"  I am reminded of Hopkins's glorious line, "There lives the dearest freshness deep down things."  So deep that we shall never reach it but we can get very close in music such as this.  After this confirmation of faith, the Ode to Joy theme returns, ecstatically transfigured.
I have come to think of Bruckner's finale of his Te Deum, Beethoven's finale of the choral symphony and Handel's aria from The Messiah, "I know that my redeemer liveth" as the three classic statements of faith in music--with the exception, of course, of everything Bach wrote.  I will add a final question: What are we to do with this as modernists?  I for one cannot believe any religion literally, and I doubt, in the twenty-first century, that I'm alone in this regard.  But music, like poetry, cannot be put into prose.  (I like to think that if I could go back in time to Bach's church in the seventeenth century, I would have understood perfectly every note Bach wrote.  But after the music stopped, and the preacher began to talk, I can hear myself thinking, "What the hell is that guy talking about?")  For me Bruckner's and Beethoven's faith is still resonant in that most of us, too, believe that there is a greater depth to our lives than that  we are (usually) aware of.  We can plummet these depths with great music, great poetry, with love, and with productive work.  That's more than enough for me.