Grant Us Peace

Celebrating six months of Shades of Blue, and sharing a bit of Bach with dreams of a peaceful new year.

Edvard Munch (Norwegian, 1863–1944). The Sun, 1910–13. Oil on canvas. Munch Museum, Oslo. Photo © Munchmuseet

Last week marked six months since I launched Shades of Blue. 

Although the idea of writing a newsletter devoted to melancholy classical music — those works that elicit a gentle sadness and sense of longing within us — had been on my mind for a while, a mix of perfectionism, imposter syndrome, and overthinking had prevented me from making it a reality. That all changed this summer, thanks to a monthlong workshop led by the beautiful people who comprise the Foster collective. With so much support surrounding me, I finally sat at my desk and began working on a piece to launch the newsletter — which went out to a grand total of two people on June 23.

Despite the essay's pedantic title, what ended up flowing from my fingers was a creative manifesto. "Why I'm devoting this newsletter to melancholy classical music" became a 1,500-word collection of confessions about my history with classical music — first as an orchestral musician and later as a writer and marketer — why this music means so much to me on an artistic and spiritual level, and the emotional benefits I hoped would entice future readers to let me into their inboxes. 

Of course I still had doubts as to whether anyone would subscribe. How many people would take me up on my invitation to slow down, reflect, and feel the vibrations of melancholy music that help us tap into questions of life and death, joy and sorrow, love and loss? Was anyone else interested in witnessing within ourselves the transfiguration — physically, emotionally, spiritually — made possible through this music?

As it turns out, plenty of you wanted to embark on that journey with me: Today's newsletter is going out to 381 readers.

While that number boggles my mind in many ways, it also confirms something I've long suspected: That many of us are hungry for the calm, connection, and healing in our lives made possible through art. That in our time of war, ideological division, and perpetual doom-scrolling, I'm not alone in wanting to experience that magical place where beauty and longing transport body, mind, and soul — a realm

Susan Cain

calls in her bestselling book Bittersweet: "a beautiful, more perfect world outside our own."

So many of you have commented here or emailed me to say how much you enjoy your time with this newsletter. Some have made a cherished weekend ritual out of reading the stories and listening to the recordings I share. Others have turned to these works when writing, relaxing, or taking a deep breath when life becomes overwhelming. Every single one of your notes has brought a smile to my face and sent a tiny tear of gratitude sailing down my cheek.

To all of you trusting me as your musical guide here: Thank you. I do not take one moment of your time for granted.

Because I've spent so much time in that beautiful, more perfect world classical music has offered me throughout my life, I'm forever an optimist. After all, if art does nothing else, it offers us glimpses into the best of what humanity has to offer. It shows us what's possible when we harness our creative potential to support rather than admonish, to nourish rather than deprive, to expand our worldview rather than limit it to one perspective.

Even this optimist, however, knows 2024 is going to be a challenging year. The wars being waged — and the human suffering they cause — won't end because we've turned a new page on the calendar. The cost of living crisis can't be fixed by a "new year, new me" mentality. And here in the U.S., another toxic presidential election looms large in just 10 months, even though we've yet to sort through all the political and judicial detritus of the last one.

But I also believe that when people move through their lives as ambassadors of hope, compassion, and peace, a lot of good can happen in the world — and we'll need all the good we can get in 2024. Which is why I offer you one last musical recommendation before diving into the new year ...

Johann Sebastian Bach / Dona nobis pacem (Grant Us Peace), from Mass in B Minor

It's hard to find any descriptions of J. S. Bach's Mass in B Minor that don't use the words sublime, life-affirming, or soul-stirring. And for good reason: It's all those things and more. Regardless of the scope of spirituality in your life, this is music that carries a singularly profound emotional power. From the cries to heaven evoked in its opening bars, Bach's mass stops us in our tracks to remind us that darkness must always give way to light, that sorrow and joy are two sides of the same coin of human experience.

Although it's performed today as one massive composition, the Mass in B Minor is actually composed of music Bach wrote for different occasions over 25 years. He penned the first half in the 1720s, before adding other movements to the work's structure two decades later. By the time he completed the mass in 1749, Bach was in failing health and had lost his vision. He would die the following year, never having heard the work performed in its entirety. That means the Mass in B Minor isn't just the sacred magnum opus of one of Germany's most cherished composers — it's a living, breathing tapestry that traces Bach's artistic development and provides insights into the music that inspired him.

Case in point: The Dona nobis pacem (Grant us peace) movement that brings the mass to its transcendent conclusion. For the lush melody that drives this music forward, Bach turned to a Gregorian chant written roughly 800 years prior. But unlike the monks who sang the tune in total unison as part of their daily prayers, Bach uses it as the basis for a four-part fugue, where each voice begins singing the melody a few beats apart from each other. (Think of singing "Three Blind Mice" with your primary school classmates as a child.)

No longer confined to a monophonic musical statement, the melody delicately blossoms as Bach brings new voices into the mix. The basses hand over the tune to the tenors, who then support the entrance of the altos, the burnished warmth of their timbre the ideal complement to that of the silvery sopranos who follow them. Countermelodies are woven through the texture as chorus and orchestra converge in a series of ever-more harmonious displays, culminating in the arrival of a trio of trumpets, their bright, brassy tones pealing like those of cathedral bells on a Sunday morning. 

Bach is excavating the musical traditions of the past, marrying them with the innovations he's brought to the present, all to manifest a vision of a glorious future for all those who experience this music. We don't all have to sing as one uniform entity, he seems to be saying — a brighter tomorrow is possible when our individual voices move in perfect harmony with each other. Sound the trumpets and drums of peace!

Grant us peace: Three simple words, a trio of syllables that form one of humankind's most fervent prayers. No matter the storms that rage around us, we continue to strive for that ideal state of being. Listening to Bach's magnificent chorale — which speaks to past, present, and future with such tenderness, love, and hope — I know peace is possible. 

And maybe, just maybe, 2024 is the year it happens.

Although I'm linking directly to the final chorus, I can't recommend this entire performance of the Mass in B Minor enough. The Netherlands Bach Society is not only one of today's finest ensembles, they're also on a mission to make Bach's music accessible to all by releasing performances of every work the composer wrote — all free of charge on their YouTube channel.

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