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Neuroscientist Daniel Levitin, in conversation with astrophysicist Neill deGrasse Tyson (“Is Music the Language of the Universe?”), postulated that music predates language in the human brain:

Studying contemporary hunter-gatherer societies that are cut off from Western civilization and industrialization, we have every reason to believe they're living the way they might have been 20,000 years ago. We believe that they use music to encode knowledge.

For example, they would have a song that would encode “this is the route to the well, and this is the route you take to the other well, if this one goes dry; or a song that says don't go over that mountain because great grandfather Og went there and the neighboring tribe killed him; and this is how you make a watertight canoe; or this is how you boil a plant so it's not poisonous.”

Why music? Because first of all, the available evidence indicates that the neural structures in the brain that encode music are phylogenetically older than those that encode speech. So evolutionarily, we were musicians before we were talking to one another, from a brain development standpoint.

Put another way, it isn’t that music is a language, but that language is a type of music, with “music developing first and providing the foundation - from an evolutionary and a developmental standpoint - for language acquisition.”

Imagine a proto-human experiencing something intense – terror, pleasure, grief, awe – and being driven to express what he felt in the only way he can: with music. Later - eons later - we developed words to describe the experience; words, which, for all their immense power, can never come close to the purity of music in truly and directly describing emotion.

Levitin continued:

[Then] once we had words that we set to music, those words would be preserved in memory with far greater resistance to distortion and forgetting because you've got the mutually reinforcing cues of rhythm, accent structure, meter, and rhyme scheme, and there's a limited number of ways that you can fit words into that space.  

You look at the Iliad and the Odyssey, which were very, very long poems orally transmitted. The Old Testament was sung for a thousand years before it was ever written down and, as far as we know, preserved fairly accurately. Songs are, to a large degree, able to resist distortions that simple speech is not.

Little wonder, then, that following the post a few weeks ago, when asked to write in with favorite concert experiences, I received a wealth of concerts vividly remembered, even fifty years in the past. Here is a selection. Sadly, there were too many to fit them all in, but thank you to everyone who wrote!

David Yang, Artistic Director

There's only been a few times in my life when I've been so profoundly moved by a performance that I was left speechless. One of those times was a performance of the Britten War Requiem given by Seiji Ozawa and the Boston Symphony with soprano Christine Goerke, British tenor Ian Bostridge and German bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff, along with the Tanglewood Festival Chorus and a fine children's choir. I hadn't heard it live before and it was almost surreal when it ended. I was aware that everyone around me in the packed house had gotten to their feet, applauding thunderously, yet I was so overwhelmed by what I'd just experienced that I was unable to move.

Tom in Ashburton, England

The very first reaction I had to that question in your post was Santana at Woodstock. I had never heard of Santana; nor had I ever heard anything like their Latin/Rock beat. I was literally moved by it and didn't stop dancing by myself for their entire set. From all my memories of that amazing weekend, that's the only one that stands out for the music.

Anne in Amesbury

The most memorable concert we ever attended was (I believe the first) Tallis Scholars concert in Boston.  Church of the Advent, they did the Alleghri Miserere.  The church is visually fantastic, and a perfect setting for the music.  The performance was out of this world.

Dave from Dover (“Dovuh”), NH

It can sometimes be dangerous to revisit past loves, but when my mother invited me to a celebratory concert of Haciendo Punto en Otro Son, my childhood love for them was rekindled. Haciendo Punto (as it is commonly known) is a folksy band that wears the crown of the Nueva Canción Latinoamericana in Puerto Rico. They encapsulated the muzzled scream for justice and freedom that permeated the region during the 70’s. During two intense hours, I sang, sobbed, and shared this meaningful music with an audience that felt as joyful as I did. It was magical.

Joanna in San Juan, Puerto Rico

Hearing Stockhausen’s “Mantra” for two pianos, wood blocks, cymbals and electronics on the Henry Wood Promenade concert in Royal Albert Hall, August 1971. Like 50 years ago! The sonic appeal was the prepared piano dissonance, the pings and bangs of the blocks, cymbals etc. The gigantic pianos were “dovetailed” together, so they operated like one instrument. After the performance I met Stockhausen as I was hanging out with members of “Gentle Fire,” the British-American experimental electronics group that for a while was Stockhausen’s “house band.” They were a pretty good intro to the emerging electronic avant garde: trumpets in buckets of water, violins literally sawed…

James in Philadelphia

For me, hearing the Danish String Quartet play Benjamin Britten’s String Quartet No. 2 left me clutching the hand of my 80+ year old neighbor as he wiped his eyes with, of course, a linen handkerchief. In the lobby, everyone was wet-eyed and silent and the group of lovely Danes came out and hugged anyone who wanted a hug.

Beth in Newburyport

I’m climbing on a bus with my little violin case, on my way to Usdan Summer Music Camp. I’m thinking about swimming, not music! An older kid has nose plugs around his neck, and I’m wondering why he needs them because even though I’m only 6, I know how to blow bubbles out my nose when I go under water (thank you very much)! We get off the bus, and we’re escorted to the outdoor concert shed. We must sit and listen to a performance of the Big Kids’ Orchestra. OK, swimming later.

They come out. Tuning, cacophony… Then quiet as the conductor raises his baton. Wait- it’s still quiet, but no, now some haunting low phrase is emerging. This could be a scary and sad piece. It’s starting to move- it’s not going to be slow after all, there’s a rhythm pushing in the strings. But the melody in the winds is so- yearning- do I even know that word? I’m captivated, I HAVE to find out what happens. Just one note is being held now, threatening to take me somewhere unknown. Other instruments join the one note. It’s not scary anymore. Because I’m suddenly being embraced by the most heavenly melody I have ever heard.

Who knew at that moment, that I would ALWAYS remember it?  It was the first time I heard Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.

Adela in Brooklyn

This world is hardly perfect. Sometimes we must make choices. In March of 1968, as an impoverished high schooler that's what I had to do. The album cost $2.49.  A ticket was $2.50.  I went for the ticket and experienced Jimi Hendrix live as my first real concert, sitting in the fifth row so it wouldn't be so loud.(!) Yes, it changed my life.

Walter in Concord

In the summer of 1965, when I was a twelve-year-old kid growing up in central Pennsylvania, my much older brother proposed to my parents that I join him and his wife to camp for two months through most of the European countries. He had concluded two years of army duty in Frankfurt Germany. One evening we hiked up the Acropolis to see the Light Show at the Parthenon. We didn’t get that far. On the path, we could look down directly on the restored Theater of Herodes Atticus, where the dress rehearsal of Verdi’s Aida was just underway—with real elephants! I was mesmerized, my heart about to burst, I couldn’t move. Music I had never heard, opera never imagined; never seen such costume and spectacle; never imagined the ancient-as-present, in a “real” place, not an auditorium. It changed my life. My vocation has always taken me to ‘putting art (back) in its place’. Here’s a blury photo I took from my little camera.

John in Newburyport

Jessye Norman floated onto the stage of Alice Tully Hall, in her boundless batik. It was, I think, Autumn 1987.  And of course knowing of her and hearing many of her recordings I expected that stunning voice. I never thought, however, that a voice alone (she sang at least two songs acapella including the finale) could be so powerfully moving. I suppose I'll never again experience such a moving rendition of "He's got the Whole World."  Sublime.  

Peter in Montreal

One concert I remember making a huge impression on me was Christian Tetzlaff playing all the Sonatas and Partitas in one day in Cleveland at Severance Hall's recital hall (I guess it was technically 2 linked concerts)

It was really a remarkable performance, all of them by memory, not one memory slip and incredibly soulful and stylistic playing throughout. In every piece he kept this inexorable sense of direction but also highlighted the structural hierarchy perfectly. I was about 24 years old when I heard that and it made such a profound impression on me, because of his artistry and virtuosity but also the sheer mental and physical commitment it took to do that in one day with only a 1 hour break between sets. Doing the complete cello suites is a huge undertaking but I think the solo violin music is a higher peak to climb because of the big Fugues in the Sonatas and the Chaconne.

Dan in New York City

Symphony Hall, Birmingham

I saw Richard Strauss’ Alpine Symphony at Symphony Hall, Birmingham, UK in 2023. Achieving a long-held ambition to hear this live, I felt full of expectation and excitement as we took our seats in the newly refurbished concert hall. From the first note I was transfixed. The sheer number of musicians (125) onstage thrilled me, plus the curious, rarely seen instruments on display, such as the heckelphone and Wagner tubas. As the music unfolded and more players were involved, its aural majesty grew, mirroring the enormous mountains of its title. I could almost feel the music - its weight, its volume, its intensity each resonating the air around me and through my body. The physicality of sections such as ‘the ascent’ or ‘the waterfall’, skillfully translated and distributed among various orchestral sections by the composer, wove a succession of rich mental tableaux.

Being led by the music along a narrative path was deeply satisfying and I understood the story without needing to read the synopsis - the music virtually spoke to me. The emotional thunder and lightning section releasing a furious rain storm, and eventually calming into sunset was a particularly affecting part of the music for me. I honestly felt as if I’d had a religious experience and I left the concert hall as a slightly changed person.  A reminder that music can be transformative whether a player or a listener.

Gabi in Ashburton, England

My recollection is not about one concert in particular but how lucky I feel to have heard several of the legendary violinists of the past: Milstein, Szeryng Menuhin and Stern.  Growing up in Ottawa, Canada, it was a stop on the concert tour.  I still remember the characteristics of their playing:  Milstein was incredibly agile and free, even at the age of 83 or so; Szeryng was note-perfect and had a huge sound; Menuhin was clearly past his prime but had an amazing stage presence; and Stern's violin sang like nothing I had heard before.  But I also vividly remember non-musical details.  Milstein: had trouble walking, but played Paganini like a teenager; Szeryng: so short!  Menuhin: huge bushy eyebrows! And Stern: almost too fat to play!

Charles in New York City