Sitting in St. Matthew’s church beneath the imposing outstretched arms of the Latin cross, I thought the classical Persian musicians playing simple instruments of gourd and animal skin a surprising anomaly. Soon, I realized it wasn’t so incongruous; after all, we were in this sacred place beneath the cross of passion, listening to the music that rekindled the pulse and awakened that same non-logical part of ourselves that consoled the early Christians. Rowan Storm, who spent her childhood in the Palisades and graduated from St. Matthew’s, discovered this collection of ancient melody fragments passed down over generations 40 years ago. She has dedicated her life to deepening her knowledge by studying and performing classical Persian music called ‘radif,’ with masters of traditional Middle Eastern music. Friday night she brought this group of performers and composers to her hometown. There she was standing at the altar, a blond, radiant Aryan, which ironically connects her to Iran, ‘the land of the Aryans,’ pleasantly insisting that we open ourselves to the music–to a repertory that has not been harnessed by notes and meter, but shoots directly into our hearts, finding a sympathetic vibration in our bodies. The Lian Ensemble, based in Los Angeles, presented music based on the lyric poetry of two influential mystics of the 13th century, Attar and Rumi. Sometimes the ‘tar,’ the six-stringed instrument carved from mulberry wood, quieted the sanctuary space; others times the dulcimer-like ‘santur’ took the lead, or the plaintive song of the ‘ney,’ a wind instrument used in the Middle East for at least 5,000 years, stirred in all of us the sadness that shadows the human condition. At intermission, I encountered a woman in the bathroom who had been stirred to tears by the music. ‘I always cry with this music,’ she told me, smiling and weeping at the same time. Not even the most self-contained Episcopalian could resist the power of the drums–pounded, fingered or brushed to match our pulsing hearts. As the drumming overwhelmed the full sanctuary, men and women began to clap and sway, their bodies responding on a sensual level–separate from our intellect, our politics and our preconceptions. The basic nature of classical Persian poetry is profoundly humanitarian and spiritual, and the heart of the music. Nonrational and inexplicable, this music unleashes something ancient, dark and mysterious into the world. Ralph Waldo Emerson said that art is the path of the creator to his work. I left the church feeling fragile and puny in the powerful undertow of this music. But, I also felt exhilarated and flushed, reconnected with my ancient irrational parts.
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