In my last post I discussed how putting a piece into a historical context can be very helpful for understanding its meaning, minimising the possibility of the music seeming too foreign and alienated to be enjoyed by modern ears. For this piece though, I won’t do that.
It feels far too personal for that.
Some pieces of music, regardless of the history behind it, evolve to become your own in a way. They touch something in you, making it feel as though it so perfectly applies to your own experiences and emotions specifically, regardless of the historical context.
“Caro mio ben” is one of those pieces to me. Thus, sharing it feels strangely intimate, as it feels like my own, that those exact emotions being conveyed through the music are my very own. Therefore, by sharing it, I feel as though I’m letting you in closely on how I feel- in the most sincere way known to me.
There are many versions of this piece due to it being a fairly popular song to cover, for sopranos and baritones alike. However, singing a song and conveying the spirit of a song are two different things. Personally, I find this version in particular manages to sneak its way into my fog of emotions, to then get a firm grip of them, just about perfectly.
Luciano Pavarotti has done a well known cover of this piece himself. However, I myself prefer to hear a woman sing this song, the reason being I find it comes accross as far more tender. Cecilia Bartoli does this beautifully. That said, it does not carry the same level of softness throughout the entire performance, something in which she executes gracefully.
The piece is written in an ABA-form, meaning it has a middle part different to the beginning and ending of the song. Here, I find that Bartoli truly manages to express the desperation that is present. My favourite part is when she by the end of the B-part of the song transitions from a forceful, desparate, rich vibrato-filled voice, into a line of such complete purifying, vulnerable softness- all without even stopping to take a breath between the two lines. This isn’t only impressive, but the notable contrast gives me goosepumps every time I hear it.
Not only that, but there are versions of this piece played with a full orchestra, or at least the string section, for accompagnement. Yet, as much as I love the strings and generally believe they add something magical to an already beautiful song, I am in love with this version with just a simple piano. It creates an intimate duet between only the soloist and the singular instrument. This further conveys the sense of longing which exists in the piece. The poignant simplicity also seems to contribute to the feeling of the piece being even more personal to me. There’s not much going on – it is pure, blending in smoothly with my own emotions. It feels as though it belongs with them, in a sense. It translates them.
Even the language is another component – I don’t speak Italian, so I can interpret it exactly how I’d like. I create a personal meaning by only listening to the sound, and experience what it does to my mind and emotions in the processes. This is also why I purposefully haven’t put in a translation of the lyrics into English, as I did in my last post. I want you to experience it being entirely personalised.
Though I stated in the beginning of this post that I didn’t want to put it into any specific historical context, I do wish to mention one thing. This piece was first publised in 1785. Meaning that I can not possibly be the only person who has been touched by it.
The fact that feelings evoked upon hearing the piece may be much the same to me, as to a person who lived 230 years ago, makes my mind spin (in the most profound way).
I think this is a reason why classical music is so special to me. Despite earlier discussing how the piece seems quite personal to me specifically, I am definitely not the first to feel this way. Throughout its over 200 years of existing, it has undoubtedly entered an impressive amount of people’s ears, people living in a time and with a life and experiences so unthinkably different to my own. Yet, the feelings evoked in us by the music are much the same. I find that thought to be incomprehensibly meaningful, beautiful and something which exists far beyond my vocabulary in any spoken human language that I’m aware of.
I feel honoured to be granted the experience which is shared by so many people, extended across centuries. It makes me feel connected to people I’d normally never have the chance to reach in any other way. But the music is our meeting point. And I will gladly meet with them there.
I hope you enjoy this 1785 aria by Tommaso Giordani:
Kovu's music 