Terroir, a word which Californians love to toss around to refer to the specific effects of a region’s soil on its production of wine, is of course a French word referring to the land (“terre”). But as we use it today, it refers to the characteristics unique to something, uniquely influenced by multiple aspects of its environment.
I’m struck by the way the land, customs, food, wine, air, light, water, and personality of particular places in the world inform my understanding of how to play music from that region. This is the main reason why I’m drawn to travel, to enrich my understanding and appreciation of a culture so that I can play music from that culture more faithfully, revealing more of its secrets. Perhaps nowhere is this more true than in France. The intimate relationship which the French have with their rich musical legacy, most especially from the late 19th and 20th centuries, seems unparalleled to me. I love how they love their music. Yes, you could say the same for Germans and their 18th and 19th century musical affection, or the English and their unique hold on choral music of the last 500 years, but for the moment I’m in France and focused on that.
Throughout my life, I’ve treated music as my passport, my bridge to other cultures, to other languages that I may or may not comprehend, and my ticket to friendships easily won and lovingly maintained. It’s also been my comfort when I’m lonely, my inspiration and challenge, my muse, and my fascination. With it I know that divine light can shine through my work (not of my doing!) to touch people, excite people, and even transform them.
So it was especially poignant for me this morning when my host introduced me to one of his local contacts who happened to have the key to the 19th century organ at Église St. Bartholémy in Lauzerte. The three of us ventured into the medieval church, and turned on the organ; I sat down with my iPad to play some music and improvise. The sounds were the voluptuous French 19th century sounds that César Franck loved so dearly, and that served as his chief inspiration in organ composition. How could I not get lost in those timbres?
The man with the key asked if I could play Messiaen’s Dieu parmi nous from his “Nativity Suite” and seemed quite shocked when I opened the music and started playing it. He immediately asked me if I could come back this summer to play a recital! (Alas, the date he asked about is a date I’m playing Luxembourg, so I declined. But it was nice, and somewhat amusing, to be asked.)
What was interesting to me was that I had gone five days without making music, yet I hadn’t realized until that moment that I was in some sort of withdrawal. The absence of the ability to share my love of music-making was causing me to feel somewhat depressed and melancholy. I had thought the mild depression was from physical exhaustion on the Chemin de Saint-Jacques; but the fact that it completely disappeared when I made music, and stayed gone for the rest of the day, tells me that it was the absence of music that was affecting me so much.
And of course performing French music in France is like plugging a light into a socket. It works. It does what it’s supposed to do. It shines and makes people happy. Terroir!
After a near-miss wipe-out in the mud (you’re probably as tired of hearing about mud as I am of walking in it), I opted to walk most of the day on the road (the chemin) rather than the footpath (the “Route”). Yes, it meant spending the entire day dodging cars, but at least I could walk at a comfortable pace without worrying about my feet going out from under me. The extra sore feet and tired calf muscles are a small price to pay for stability and making good time.
All along the way I listened to French music, mostly Gounod’s “Roméo et Juliette.” The fields around me seemed to echo the sounds coming through my AirPods. The clouds danced with the sounds of the string orchestra. The houses and churches that dotted the landscape weaved into my consciousness like the soprano Diana Damrau’s mellifluous voice that I was saturated with. It was a perfect wed of sound and sights.
Terroir. The word makes me think more of France than of wine. Understanding how essential it is for me to be plugged into music-making was a revelation, informed by the character of the place I’m in, and nurtured by the unspeakable kindness I’m finding all around me – nearly overwhelmed with the generosity of everyone I meet.
©2024, Jonathan Dimmock