One of the greatest pleasures a musician can enjoy is knowing that there are entirely fresh ears among the audience. Last night I enjoyed the presence of two such. Young adults, neither of whom listen to what we call classical music and certainly not live. I knew they were coming but did not make the program with them in mind.
The program included two of the most serious late works I know of, both by Mozart: the A minor Rondo, K 511, and the Adagio in B minor, K. 504, composed in 1787-88. Whereas I might have expected them to fidget, they did not. These pieces were interspersed with contrasting pieces, mostly dances or dance-like (except for a couple of Bach Fugues) so there was ample occasion to relax into slightly more familiar modes of music.
One of the new listeners is a dancer whom I met at the swimming pool. I have been exploring musical expression of the Martha Graham gesture of straining the head and arms forward while pulling back with the solar plexus. Sure enough, the gesture was heard and described in great detail. I would not be surprised if the combination of a first-time listener and dancer made it come to life.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2015
"Whatever You Are Feeling Is Fine"
The above quote is from a review of Taylor Mac's new show on the history of popular music in America. Taylor Mac is unequivocally brilliant.
I would say that this sentiment -- including every response as appropriate and welcome -- should be up in neon lights at the front of every concert room large and small, and in every art museum, large and small, and perhaps also on the cover of every work of fiction or poetry.
We have too much steeped in appropriate-ness as if there were such a thing for us constantly changing creatures in a constantly changing world.
I would say that this sentiment -- including every response as appropriate and welcome -- should be up in neon lights at the front of every concert room large and small, and in every art museum, large and small, and perhaps also on the cover of every work of fiction or poetry.
We have too much steeped in appropriate-ness as if there were such a thing for us constantly changing creatures in a constantly changing world.
Friday, January 23, 2015
What is Happening to Tone?
I found it virtually impossible to write critiques of live performances and CDs for The New Music Connoisseur, not that I didn't have things to say. But what I ended up critiquing was too complex to convey within the allotted space: To sum up the dilemma: I could talk about the music itself, insofar as it is possible to do so without actually having played it myself; I could talk about the performance, a lot easier, since performing is my "thing," or, as happened more and more, I could address awareness of how hard it is to make a living sticking one's neck into the music business and how I did not want to discourage anyone from doing so.
Now emerges another level of concern that is too deep for 300 words or less, and at which I can only hint here. There is less and less concern with inhabited sound. It is rare these days to feel so grabbed by a sound that I do not forget it. More likely I hear sounds that seem to have been filtered through what? Hard to say: through awareness of perfection, perhaps.
At last week's CMA conference I had a conversation in which a coach was describing the dilemma posed by working with a saxophone quartet who were to perform a string quartet: How to deal with the musical questions raised? These are compelling questions of the sort that have fascinated me for years. The next day I heard that saxophone quartet playing what turned out not to have been a string quartet at all, but a piece for viola overdubbed with other viola lines ( faux viola quartet ? ). There is no way to penetrate sound qualities from such a source.
I know because I was once in a situation where I was expected to take a cello line from a CD and reproduce it on the piano. I actually could not hear the line unless I put on a headset while at the piano seeking out the "tones." It turned out the line had been dubbed onto the track; there was no shared resonance with the accompaniment. This rendered it, according to my definitions, unhearable.
Tone is more than pitch. Have we lost it?
Now emerges another level of concern that is too deep for 300 words or less, and at which I can only hint here. There is less and less concern with inhabited sound. It is rare these days to feel so grabbed by a sound that I do not forget it. More likely I hear sounds that seem to have been filtered through what? Hard to say: through awareness of perfection, perhaps.
At last week's CMA conference I had a conversation in which a coach was describing the dilemma posed by working with a saxophone quartet who were to perform a string quartet: How to deal with the musical questions raised? These are compelling questions of the sort that have fascinated me for years. The next day I heard that saxophone quartet playing what turned out not to have been a string quartet at all, but a piece for viola overdubbed with other viola lines ( faux viola quartet ? ). There is no way to penetrate sound qualities from such a source.
I know because I was once in a situation where I was expected to take a cello line from a CD and reproduce it on the piano. I actually could not hear the line unless I put on a headset while at the piano seeking out the "tones." It turned out the line had been dubbed onto the track; there was no shared resonance with the accompaniment. This rendered it, according to my definitions, unhearable.
Tone is more than pitch. Have we lost it?
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Music and the Body
The program note for this month:s Mixed Bag
Linking music to the body is a hot topic among music theorists; much attention is paid to “embodied cognition” by neuroscientists. Anyone attending a performance by a young(ish) string quartet will see ample (perhaps too much) evidence of body movement.
I confess I do not understand what the fuss is about, as all of music is generated by the physical reality of sound and of sound perception. The body parts that interest me, however, are not visible to the ordinary eye: they are the 32,000 vibrating sensor-tipped hair cells in our inner ears, 16,000 on each side, transmitting information to the brain 200 times faster than any other sense perception.* My bodily involvement with music takes the very real form of chasing those vibrations.
My purpose in performing to small groups of listeners in these privileged circumstances is to invite you to join me in the chase, not always at fast tempos, but therefore all the faster inside.
A word about my CDs: They were all recorded in this room, for an audience like yourselves, and produced with state-of-the-art mikes and mastering, but no editing. They are thus entirely different from commercial recordings - a bit like taking this evening home with you.
*As measured by James Hudspeth, Rockefeller University
Linking music to the body is a hot topic among music theorists; much attention is paid to “embodied cognition” by neuroscientists. Anyone attending a performance by a young(ish) string quartet will see ample (perhaps too much) evidence of body movement.
I confess I do not understand what the fuss is about, as all of music is generated by the physical reality of sound and of sound perception. The body parts that interest me, however, are not visible to the ordinary eye: they are the 32,000 vibrating sensor-tipped hair cells in our inner ears, 16,000 on each side, transmitting information to the brain 200 times faster than any other sense perception.* My bodily involvement with music takes the very real form of chasing those vibrations.
My purpose in performing to small groups of listeners in these privileged circumstances is to invite you to join me in the chase, not always at fast tempos, but therefore all the faster inside.
A word about my CDs: They were all recorded in this room, for an audience like yourselves, and produced with state-of-the-art mikes and mastering, but no editing. They are thus entirely different from commercial recordings - a bit like taking this evening home with you.
*As measured by James Hudspeth, Rockefeller University
Stopping Time to Listen
Musical time is one of the most difficult phenomena to describe. Most likely the typical listener assumes that rhythm represents all there is to know about time in music, but that is far from the case. Actually, as musicians listen millions of events occur within every entity that passes for "a" beat. I guess you might call it fine tuning.
I experienced one of the best examples of the difference watching a silent movie, of all things. It was at a series of westerns being shown at the Museum of Modern Art many years ago. There, in total silence, a drama was unfolding on the screen. Behind me an elderly gentleman caught (and commented on) the gist of the successive frames long before I did. Clearly he was used to this kind of event depiction, where the emphasis was on silence.
We are by now so accustomed to being almost literally thrown around by sound that we can't imagine what might really be happening. I say "we" because I, too, have fallen for it.
I experienced one of the best examples of the difference watching a silent movie, of all things. It was at a series of westerns being shown at the Museum of Modern Art many years ago. There, in total silence, a drama was unfolding on the screen. Behind me an elderly gentleman caught (and commented on) the gist of the successive frames long before I did. Clearly he was used to this kind of event depiction, where the emphasis was on silence.
We are by now so accustomed to being almost literally thrown around by sound that we can't imagine what might really be happening. I say "we" because I, too, have fallen for it.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Elegance is Generosity
The past couple of days I have listened to almost 20 different ensembles at the annual conference of Chamber Music America, ensembles of all sorts performing a wide range of repertoire in all kinds of instrumental combinations, including flower pots.
I am struck by the particular elegance of two jazz pianists, in matters of touch and timing. The assumption seemed to be flexibility rather than split-second accuracy. There was plenty of that as well, however, as these musicians were in the company of very attentive colleagues.
It would be impossible to analyze the acoustical assumptions behind these diverse groupings, but in each band the piano played multiple roles, at times light and lyrical, at other times percussive and driven.
It is so refreshing to experience the definition of chamber music becoming broader by the minute.
I am struck by the particular elegance of two jazz pianists, in matters of touch and timing. The assumption seemed to be flexibility rather than split-second accuracy. There was plenty of that as well, however, as these musicians were in the company of very attentive colleagues.
It would be impossible to analyze the acoustical assumptions behind these diverse groupings, but in each band the piano played multiple roles, at times light and lyrical, at other times percussive and driven.
It is so refreshing to experience the definition of chamber music becoming broader by the minute.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Vulnerability on Canvas and on Stage
A splendid talk last night at the Galerie St. Etienne's 75th anniversary reception about the vulnerability of the human body seen frontally by artists of various periods and genres brought to mind the vulnerability of every artist who gets up to play music alone, unprotected.
It points up, too, the necessary vulnerability of the beholder, whether viewer or listener. Dare to see and feel; dare to hear and be moved. Not necessarily according to a textbook version of what that might be but simply on your own terms.
Do get to this show if you can.
It points up, too, the necessary vulnerability of the beholder, whether viewer or listener. Dare to see and feel; dare to hear and be moved. Not necessarily according to a textbook version of what that might be but simply on your own terms.
Do get to this show if you can.
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