# Does anybody else feel a connection between a certain place and piece of music?



## bravenewworld (Jan 24, 2016)

One of the questions that bugs me is the degree to which two people feel the same emotions upon listening to a given piece. Obviously they feel somewhat different emotions, but can we ever know that they feel the same things (cue Derrida and other Poststructuralists. But that's an argument for another day)?

So, I thought it might be worthwhile testing what I feel to be a peculiar response that I have to (particularly classical) music. 

I went on holiday a few years ago to South Africa. While I was there, I was just starting to listen to Mahler. Except I only had one piece with me on my phone- his Symphony No. 1. I know this piece isn't considered his best by a long shot, but I listened to it over and over again while I was there. Sitting in the foothills of the Drakensberg, listening to the first movement of the work, was a wondrous experience. And the later movements, with their inherent tension, I felt captured the beauty and the tragedy of the country so very well. 

And yet when I came back to Australia and listened to this piece, my feelings were transported back to South Africa again. Even today, several years later, I still get the feeling that I'm sitting on the tree-stump in the Champagne Valley with the insects buzzing around my ears as I sit there with my earbuds feeding me Mahler, or that I'm in a car speeding through the countryside as that diabolical tension of the third and fourth movement is reflected in the country around me.

And yet the piece was not written with South Africa in mind. 

I feel the same with second movement of Rachmaninoff's Second Symphony. When I first listened to it, I was on a train speeding through Sydney's Western Suburbs. Now, whenever I listen to that piece I still see the landscape whizzing past me much more vividly than normal memory could recount. Yet again, this piece was not written with Western Sydney in mind. 

I think it's worth noting here that pieces such as, say, the Russian Easter Festival Overture, which are written with a specific place in mind, are pieces that I feel would logically evoke such places. And yet I find it difficult to comprehend how more abstract pieces can still get such a strong (and personal) connection with a place that could not be further away from the mind of the original composer.

So, that's my quirky response to some pieces. Does anyone else have the same sort of response? Or is it something unique to me as a listener?


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## Larkenfield (Jun 5, 2017)

I believe the mind works on the basis of the associations it makes as much as it does on logic. And if there’s a strong enough emotion behind the experience it can get hooked up with music in unexpected ways. When I was young I used to read while listening to the Brahms 3rd Symphony and I was reading the biography of a famous and beloved American baseball player. Every time I hear it now I still think of the great Christie Mathewson who died a tragic death as the result of being gassed in Europe during WWI. I thought it might have made him feel better in spirit that I had unexpectedly connected him with such beautiful music. I still do.


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## Biffo (Mar 7, 2016)

It may seem a cliche to associate RVW's Tallis Fantasia with a cathedral, especially as it was first performed in Gloucester Cathedral, but for me it always evokes Ely Cathedral. There is something about the the work, which I heard numerous times, and the cathedral, which I have only visited once, that is deeply lodged in my consciousness.


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## Granate (Jun 25, 2016)

bravenewworld said:


> I went on holiday a few years ago to South Africa. While I was there, I was just starting to listen to Mahler. Except I only had one piece with me on my phone- his Symphony No. 1. I know this piece isn't considered his best by a long shot, but I listened to it over and over again while I was there. *Sitting in the foothills of the Drakensberg, listening to the first movement of the work, was a wondrous experience.* And the later movements, with their inherent tension, I felt captured the beauty and the tragedy of the country so very well.


Can you believe I had the same experience this year during Summer holidays in the Pyrenees? The first movement is the closest to nature I can recall, with woodbirds as bassoons.

I am sensitive to the surroundings, weather and time of the day when I go out with my three music devices: Tablet (contemporary albums), MP3 (contemporary singles) and Phone (Classical Music). But it affects to the genre and not to pieces. The attachment is not so strong there.

Also, I don't usually listen to the exact same music in different places (I mean, I listen to recordings and update or get tired) so your situation is rare for me.


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## Totenfeier (Mar 11, 2016)

I believe one could classify this phenomenon as a genre of synesthesia, a blending of two or more senses associated with a particular experience, condition or object. For example (and this is fairly me-specific and silly) I first read the opening pages of Pearl S. Buck's _The Good Earth _while eating a leftover meatloaf sandwich, so now whenever I re-read the book I get that same taste in my mouth.

During my senior year in high school, our brand new (for then) high school had its cafeteria at the front of the school, with a large window wall that looked out over a mountainous scene. I was a sensitive band sort who was desperately into Mahler even then, and as I was particularly suffering that fall, I was listening almost every night to the Ormandy/Philadelphia 10th.

To this day, I remember first period (a free period) sitting in that cafeteria, eating crullers, and staring out into rainy mornings at the mountains with last night's performance in my head. Teen angst has changed somewhat since then, of course.


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## MarkW (Feb 16, 2015)

Copland's El Salon Mexico and the Martian moon Phobos, because of a juvenile science fiction book I was reading when I first listened to it.


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## Guest (Dec 11, 2017)

Sixteen years old... being an emergency call-up for the Western Hockey League team that drafted me... having to play with and against players who are 18, 19, 20 years old... leaving Vancouver for the very first time...homesick, missing my folks, all six of my annoying kid sisters...teary-eyed...excited...nervous...sick to my stomach and tossing down Tums like jelly beans...

Flying to Winnipeg...2294 km (little over 1400 miles)...arriving in Brandon, Manitoba and immediately getting on the bus for the next set of road games...unknown teammates who kept their distance until they knew whether or not you could actually play...driving along to Saskatchewan on the Trans Canada Highway...Pulling that sweater (jersey) over my head for the first time, looking downwards upon that crest, and actually praying "Please God do not let me dishonor this sweater"...

Saskatchewan...endless endless endless prairies...Regina...Moose Jaw...Saskatoon...Prince Albert...in January...through white-out snow storms and blinding blizzards...riding with my eyes closed because I'm too afraid to look out the window...snow, and sleet, and ice, seemingly every mile of the way...darkest darkest darkest pitch-black nights in the middle of God only knows where...as scared to death as I ever was or will be...Stepping off the bus and inhaling air so cold... so unbelievably relentlessly cold that it literally took your breath away...

Having to fight and fight and fight when all I wanted to do was just play the damned game...but you had to fight...you just had to whether you wanted to or not because if you ever backed down... if you ever hesitated or showed fear or despair over how the game you grew up loving became something that you started to hate you were done for... Players can sense weakness like wolves on the prowl and a pack instinct takes hold and they will catch you and they will rip you to shreds...Black eyes and cut lips and sore bleeding knuckles covered with ice packs that hurt so much I couldn't sleep on the bus...

Opponents (with full beards facing off against a six foot tall 72 kg (approx. 160 lbs) skinny kid from B.C. who didn't even shave yet...Opponents who were older and bigger and stronger and tougher and meaner than I'll ever be but thank you Jesus for giving me the ability to skate faster backwards than every other player could skate forwards...and faster forwards than every other player in the league...Building up a head of steam behind my own net... looking upwards... seeing an open seam and flying down the ice as if I had wings...

Listening to the Canadian anthem blasting out of the loudspeakers...absolutely convinced that everyone in the barn (rink) can hear my heart pounding out of my chest...all ten players rocking back and forth on their skates waiting impatiently for the anthem to end...wondering why that big ugly b******* keeps giving me the evil eye and finding out in a hurry when he gives me a two-handed slash right off of the face off...and instinctively swinging right back but a hell of a lot harder because you have to end this kind of nonsense right away or else you are going to get beaten like a drum every shift you take...

Getting my first assist...scoring my first goal...getting my first hat trick...getting my first (of many) slashing penalties... getting tossed out with a game misconduct for "Unsportsmanlike conduct"... being heckled by obscenity-spewing plaid-shirt bib-overall wearing farm boys in the stands who secretly wished that they were me...making my teammates laugh in 'Toon Town (Saskatoon) by yelling "shaddup ya fat b****** or I'll come up there and kick yer a**" to a beer-soaked prairie rat who just fell off of the turnip truck and who just kept riding me and riding me and riding me with the filthiest insults all game long...sitting in the penalty box trading insults with whoever caused me to be in the penalty box...screaming "F*** you" back and forth and back and forth and back and forth with opposing fans and foes...and thoroughly enjoying ourselves whilst doing so...Banging on the glass with my stick to scare the bejeesus out of people who kept banging the glass every time I tried to fish the puck out of the corners and laughing like crazy when they flinched and nearly fell out of their seats...

Knowing that I was finally accepted by my teammates when I stepped in to protect one our smaller guys who was about to get the beating of his life even though I really should have allowed him to have that beating of his life because he was one of those guys who was only a tough guy when one of us was on the ice to save him from that well deserved beating... 

Being strangely proud of the fact that when it came to a scrap they knew that I had their backs and I knew that they had mine...Watching other players scrap and holding on to an opponent as we both watched and made each other laugh by providing non-stop colour commentary on how absurd what we were watching actually was...

Having my coach be so furious with me for taking three bad penalties in the final minutes of three games in a row in which the other team's power play crew scored the winning goal...After the third bad penalty of the third game when I skated back to our bench and sat down he grabbed ahold of my sweater and starting shaking me so hard whilst screaming in my ear that he ripped the Canadian flag shoulder patch on my sweater right off...and told me one more bad penalty and I'm gone for good and will never play another game in this league again...Thank you Jesus for giving me the strength to keep my mouth shut for once and the wisdom to realize that I needed to learn to know when to pick my battles and when to walk away because I was hurting my team and letting down the people who lived and worked in that small Canadian town that I played in...

Remembering the first time I was surrounded by 9 and 10 year old kids who wanted my autograph and who knew more about my stats that I did...Thinking and fearing that somehow my teammates were playing an elaborate practical joke on me and that when I started to sign everyone would suddenly start laughing and I would be played for a fool...but...suddenly you look into their eyes and you see such joy and happiness and how thrilled they are that you're willing to take the time to talk to them about hockey and school and anything and everything else...Remembering this strange sense of humility coming over me and somehow understanding intuitively that I needed to realize that I was playing the game for these kids and not for myself...and that I just really needed to get my act together because these kids were pretending to be me and my teammates when they were playing road hockey on Scott Avenue...(and I could tell when they were pretending to be me because of the extravagant overuse of profanities and the kids all took slashing penalties at the worst possible moment and positionally not one of them was where they were supposed to be)...

The first time I saw a kid wearing a sweater with my name and number on the back...Jesus what a moment that was... I turned away as my eyes welled up with tears because I suddenly wished that my mom was here to see this... To see why I was doing what I was trying to do and hoping that when she saw that kid wearing a sweater with my name and my number she would somehow someway understand why I was a hockey player...that I actually was the player that that kid wanted to be... 

And so I tried my best to play the game with honour and integrity and I would like to believe that I did...but I was never able to break the overly extravagant cursing habit (much to my mom's continued horror and undisguised embarassment)...and I never really lost that knack for taking bad penalties at the worst possible moment...but I have first-hand knowledge of what it means to achieve redemption... Redemption would arrive unannounced and unexpectantly during those rare high-light reel moments when I would fly out of the penalty box, scoop up the puck, fly down the ice as if I had wings, fire off a wrist shot, and score the goal that won the game...That's redemption...and trust me there is nothing sweeter in this life or the next than redemption...

Along every mile of that particular journey I listened to Trevor Pinnock, The English Concert - Bach: Brandenburg Concertos, Orchestral Suites, and other Concertos...given to me by my mom (the Ph.D wielding music teacher) burned by her on a new iPod who packed it in my equipment bag without telling me because I would have left it at home if I knew...and who left me a note that was meant for just me and no one else and so it's contents must forever remain known only to the two of us... 

My mom... who hated me being a hockey player - Jesus did she hate me being a hockey player... because she just wanted me to be so much more than what I had become... My mom... who told me that even if I made the NHL and entered the Hall of Fame I still would not have lived up to my potential...And who would pray every night on her knees that I would be always be safe and would return home unharmed... My kid sister Janie...who was furiously angry with me for years afterwards for upsetting mom so much for so little and who finally forgave me when she became old enough to understand that people sometimes have to be who they are and do what they're meant to do...

My mom...who knew that despite the swaggering foul-mouthed tough guy routine I was actually so scared to death that my hands would shake...hiding them in my jacket pockets and hoping no one would notice... And my nerves...the ever-present-never-leave-you nerves were jangling like bells on Christmas morning...jangling so loudly that I was worried that they could be heard all the way back home in Vancouver... My mom...who I asked not to call me for a couple of weeks when I first arrived because every time I heard her voice I started to choke up and I would beg her and my 6 annoying kid sisters to just stop...to just stop... talking about how much they missed me because the longer I was away from home the harder it became not to want to cry because homesickness eats away at your heart and your soul and your spirit and I mean...really...Jesus, if the guys in the room ever saw me this way I would never hear the end of it...I had to be a tough guy...a fearless tough guy... mean, scary, and a nasty nasty piece of work because that was the only way that I could pretend that I was anything other than scared every moment of every day...I've often wondered if I hurt her feelings by asking her not to call and she's reassured me that I didn't but if I had the chance to go back... I think that I should have had the strength of character needed to survive the ridicule that I would have received and just talked to my mom when I really needed to talk to her and to hell with everything else... 

Postscript...in the years since...my mom has often politely asked me whether or not I ever actually stop talking and would I please consider doing so... She often requests that I take a "vow of silence" every now and then (more "now" than "then" to be quite honest) but especially when she's around...And now she claims that the two weeks in which we didn't speak were two of the happiest weeks of her life...and I'm not entirely certain that she's kidding...

Whenever I hear Bach...Trevor Pinnock...The English Concert... I'm always back on the bus... 16 years old looking through the window along the Trans Canada Highway in January in the Canadian prairies in a raging snowstorm with not one but two black eyes both welling up with the kind of tears that only homesickness brings...giving silent thanks for a mom who knew her son better than he did... Listening to the music that she hoped would bring me some sense of peace and contentment and freedom from the anxiety that would seemingly never leave me...I did listen and still do to this very day...


...and that is my connection between a place and a piece of music...


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## waldvogel (Jul 10, 2011)

It seems to be a common theme that these associations date from our youth, perhaps from a time when the wiring in our brains hasn’t fully set.

Mine dates to that scary period in late April, on the campus of the University of Toronto, waiting to write final exams. From the first movement of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, second theme, comes my triumphal march where I conquer the exam questions, one at a time.


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## tdc (Jan 17, 2011)

The coda of Prokofiev's 2nd Symphony brings back a very specific time in my life, the odd thing is I hadn't listened to the symphony at the time.


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## Pugg (Aug 8, 2014)

I remember being in Rome years ago and I was so impressed to see the places Puccini used for Tosca, really surreal experience.


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## Granate (Jun 25, 2016)

Nudge and a Wink said:


> Sixteen years old... being an emergency call-up for the Western Hockey League team that drafted me...


Mods, the like button is broken! Please fix it!


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## bravenewworld (Jan 24, 2016)

waldvogel said:


> It seems to be a common theme that these associations date from our youth, perhaps from a time when the wiring in our brains hasn't fully set.


I would say that, moreover, the majority of these experiences seem to have something to do with the outdoors, or with physical activity of some sort (although there are a few notable exceptions clearly, so I'm not sure how strong the trend is)

Perhaps as a result of my youth I feel this phemonenon more strongly than some of the older members of this forum. But I thought of a third example of what was termed 'synaesthesia' (which I'll be calling it hereafter).

I often like to go cycling of a lazy weekend through the suburbia in which I live. Luckily in Sydney we have enough bike-paths through the bushland (forest) clinging onto the banks of creeks and rivers, so it can be quite nice.

When I started riding, I was just getting to like Tchaikovsky's symphonies (the Eugene Ormandy boxset of Tchaikovsky had just arrived at my house). I'd listen to the music before I left, so as to have that wonderfully mellow feeling you get when your head is full of music, and I'd ride along humming or whistling to myself.

Now, whenever I listen to either the _Andante sostenuto_ from his Fourth Symphony, or the _Valse_ from his Fifth Symphony, I immediately get transported to those lazy Sundays as I rode through the bush, insects buzzing around me in the summer heat (almost a modern Australian version of the imagined rural peace of Lower Binfield in Orwell's _Coming up for Air_). And quite frankly I find that lovely.

I think that synaesthesia is a beautiful thing. It makes your inherent response as a listener to a piece something unique...something nobody else can ever understand. But it also draws out a very strong emotional response, often of nostalgia, but always of gladness that you had these experiences in your life.

I, for one, certainly hope to have a few more cases of synaesthesia develop over time


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## Guest (Dec 13, 2017)

bravenewworld said:


> Perhaps as a result of my youth I feel this phemonenon more strongly than some of the older members of this forum.


A bit of well-intentioned advice... get back to this post as quickly as you can, hit the "Edit Post" button and change "older members" to "distinguished, mature, and wiser members"... trust me on this one, eh?... You're supposed to _*dodge*_ bullets not stand in front of them... :lol: NW


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## manyene (Feb 7, 2015)

Redeeming a promise made to myself in Vienna in 1968, when Czech freedom was snuffed out, and managing to stand of the Charles Bridge in Prague three decades later and mentally listen to Smetana's 'Vltava'


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## Phil loves classical (Feb 8, 2017)

The Largo from Vivaldi’s Spring Concerto was the most evocative piece I music I heard when I was young. It reminded me of quiet woods, etc. and played a big part in my love of nature. I read years later it actually has a program to the music with a sleeping sheperd and barking dog. That is still one rare piece of music that actually moves me.


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## Guest (Dec 15, 2017)

Unusually early snow in Winchester in November 1981 (I was 22) and I was invited to Sunday lunch by a college lecturer. We talked and watched a blizzard rage outside - a rare event in southern England. I took great pleasure walking home through great drifts of snow.

Curiously, this was called to mind first thing this morning - don't know why - but the music I connect with it was by Orchestral Manoevres in the Dark. I'd just bought the album (_Architecture and Morality_), but I wasn't listening to it during that lunch, so I'm not sure why the association is so strong.

"_The Beginning and the End_"


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