May Auld Antagonism Be Forgot...

There was an interesting concert review in the New York Times over the weekend, interesting partly because you don't often see newly formed new music ensembles that play in Greenwich Village clubs getting full-length reviews in the Gray Lady, and partly because of the direction critic Anthony Tommasini chose to meander in the later paragraphs. Early on, Tommasini notes that, "Though the performances were brilliant, it was the irreverent mixing of works that excited me,"and he goes on to detail a widely varied program ranging from thorny Modernism to pop-influenced music by ultra-trendy 20-somethings.

The lesson we're meant to draw is one I've written about before, that the new generation of young performers and composers "could not care less about the stubborn ideology that divided the camps long ago." This is hardly a new notion, of course. Many of us in the music world have been writing about this long-overdue evolution for years, and ArtsJournal even hosts a music blog whose tagline declares, "No Genre Is The New Genre." But Tommasini notes an exception to the new egalitarian rule:

"Still, the program was not all embracing. The works played here were either by complex modernists (Stockhausen, Babbitt, Berio), or younger freewheeling composers of a post-modernist bent, what the critic Greg Sandow calls the “alternative classical” music of today. Missing from the roster was anything by composers of, for want of a better word, the middle ground, what John Harbison has wryly referred to as “us notes-and-rhythms composers,” meaning those who more or less write pieces for conventional instruments, largely eschewing electronics, composers more concerned with thematic development than with instrumental atmospherics and sound collages."

Now, that's a very interesting observation to me, because, for those of us who play in symphony orchestras for a living, those "notes-and-rhythms" composers are almost all the new music we see! Orchestras, which by definition have to draw huge audiences to survive, rarely program the kind of aggressively modernist works that sent audiences scurrying for the exits in the 1960s and '70s, but we also rarely play works by those hip young experimenters so beloved in the New York club scene. (This isn't because we don't like them, by the way - it's because most of them aren't writing music for orchestras yet. Stress on yet - those who like to see every new musical trend as yet another sign that orchestras are dying love to claim that every new generation of composers has abandoned the large-scale orchestra, when the reality is always that there's simply no point writing an orchestral piece until you know there's an orchestra waiting to play it.)

What we do play is music by those more "mainstream" composers that Tommasini worries about - John Harbison, Aaron Jay Kernis, John Corigliano. (Does Kalevi Aho fit in that group? Not sure...) And while I think the Times is right to point out that there's still a wide gulf between the music that is held in high esteem in academic circles and that which large swaths of the public are likely to embrace, it's not something I think of as a serious problem. Academia is always operating on a different (and less market-driven) plane from the rest of society - it's why academics prefer to stay in the academy, while the rest of us couldn't wait to escape it.

As Tommasini says in his final paragraph, "The important news is that the end of dogma is indisputable. Empowered American musicians and composers from the new generation have it in them to foster pluralism and save classical music from itself." To which I can only add: ...and it's about [redacted by request] time.

DIY Music

I've been thinking a lot lately about the culture of music and musicians, and how distinct the line seems to have become over the decades between those who play an instrument and those who don't. Time was that everyone and his sister played something, mainly because the array of entertainment options available didn't yet include many passive activities like TV, so hobbies that involved actual skill were still something people considered fun.

But these days, when someone I've just met asks what I do for a living, the response I get is either a glazed look, or an enthusiastic endorsement of my career choice, followed by a timid admission that the questioner also once played some instrument or other, back in school, but hasn't picked it up in years. The obvious implication is that, if you aren't a full-fledged musical expert, you can't possibly hope to really tap into the culture of musical performance, and that's just sad, because it's so untrue, and so antithetical to what the arts are supposed to be about.

Consider, for example, what's happened with the culture of food and cooking over the last decade or so. Where once Americans drew a bright, shining line between those who cook fancy, upscale food for a living, and those of us who dump slop out of a can and heat it up in the microwave, "real" home cooking has made an astonishing comeback, and restaurants and professional chefs have benefitted immeasurably as a result. Say what you want about the Food Network, but that little marvel of cable niche programming (along with many other influences, of course,) has brought a New York level of foodie sophistication to countless smaller American cities, and allowed even the humblest of home cooks to toss around terms like "julienne" and "gazpacho" without feeling like a snooty wannabe.

Then think about what the internet, that most reviled of all cultural levelers, has done for the world of reading and writing. Yes, a lot of the junk that you can read online isn't really worth anyone's time, and yes, many of the people who write online seem to need a serious remedial-level English course, but that's not the point. After decades of decline in the number of Americans who bother with words at all, ordinary people are reading and writing again in huge numbers! And that can't be anything but good for those who write for a living.

So that brings us back to music. The online world has led to an explosion of renewed interest in listening to music (if not paying for it,) but for classical music, which is so dependent on the devotion of listeners who really understand the little interactions and turns of phrase going on during a performance, we desperately need to rekindle a culture of amateur interest in not only listening to what we do, but playing the music oneself. There are pockets of amateur musicians around the country who still get together to read quartets or four-hand piano arrangements, but they're few and far between, and for most of the population, musical instruments have become relics of childhood, something fun you did in junior high, but nothing you'd ever consider pursuing into adulthood.

So what about it? When's the last time you picked up your old clarinet or trombone? Do you think you appreciate music more because you once knew how to play it yourself? And if so, why'd you stop? What would it take to get you to start up again? And what can those of us who do this stuff for a living do to help break down the barrier between we as professional performers and you as potential amateur ones?

Action, reaction

Last month I posted my response to Lawrence Johnsons "review" of the video screens at Ravinia. Now, reaction from the audience, and it is -surprise, surprise - positive. Whaddiditellya?

hmmmmm....

...well, look, I'm all for using technology to enhance performance experiences. But I'm all for finding the most efficient and organic way of utilizing those technologies; I don't think it makes sense to incorporate multi-media/electronic/communication gadgetry just for the sake of using the technology in itself.

Case in point, an upcoming Beethoven Sixth Symphony with the National Symphony Orchestra led by NSO associate conductor Emil de Cou in which program notes will be sent via Twitter at appropriate times during the performance.

I don't have a problem with real-time program notes, which some have found to enhance the concert experience (I would think particularly so for those less familiar with the repertoire/type of music at hand). I just don't think Twitter is really the right vehicle.

I love tweeting as much as the the next Gen X/Y-er, but the charm of Twitter is that posts are pithy reflections of experiences in real time, as they occur. The 140-character limitations creates the necessity of boiling down a thought or observation to its essential meaning, and posting is a matter delivering these as they occur to you, a running commentary on life as it occurs (some tweets I just read as I write this blog: "Running to USPS & bank so I can get my errands and exercise done at the same time."; "In Vegas for a meeting, believe it or not. Just saw the spot where Elvis waited in his cape before he went on."; "Just did a shot of aquavit and sight-read the "Moonlight Sonata." It's wild sharps in that sonata.").

Pre-written program notes, tweeted as carefully cultivated musical points, first and foremost, defeat the purpose of Twitter. This is an example of the use of technology as a delivery system (for mass texting) which is peripheral to the whole purpose of the technology itself (from the Twitter website: "Twitter is a service for friends, family, and co–workers to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing?").

If you want to provide real-time program notes, why not have a super-title screen?

Ok, Ok, I know some of you will say, "Well, at least with the Twittering, those of us who don't want to be distracted by the program notes don't have to see it on some screen above the orchestra." To which I answer, what's more distracting, a screen high enough above the orchestra so that you could ignore it if you so choose, or seeing the pale glow of countless phones and PDAs as people read their screens every few minutes? Are we encouraging people to read texts during a concert? What precedent does that set?

Orchestras have slowly climbed aboard the technology bandwagon, which I applaud. What I'm less enthused about is the use of the latest "sexy" thing ("Hey, everyone's on Twitter! We need to incorporate this into what we do because it's proof that we're hip and current!") just for the sake of the thing itself, when there is a more efficient and perhaps more natural way to accomplish the same ultimate goal.

I've had a long-standing relationship with the NSO (I first worked with them back in 2002), and I appreciate this attempt to think outside the box; however, for my taste, this particular foray into use of technology seems off-mark. I'll be curious to see commentary from those who attend the concert.

PS: had set this to post on a 12-hour delay without carefully proofing, sorry for the typos in the original!

To see or not to see

A review about the opening concert of the Ravinia Festival caught my eye, primarily because a majority of content was not about the performance itself; critic Lawrence Johnson spends most of the article panning the use of the large video screens showing closeups of the performers.

One of my earliest exposures to symphonic music (besides my audiophile father and the Honolulu Symphony, which is a subject of a future blog post) was PBS's "Great Performances" - I still remember a Brahms Piano Concerto #1 with Ashkenazy/Giulini/LA Phil from the early 80's. What I loved about those programs was the up-close-and-personal sense one gets, thanks to some well-produced camera work; it's great to actually see an instrument during a solo spot, illuminating to see the cues and communication going on onstage and inspiring to see the expressions of conductor and players as they deliver an emotionally and intellectually engaging performance.

Perhaps my predilection for this kind of "produced" concert experience makes me much more sympathetic to the use of video screens in performance. We experimented with this in our final Inside the Classics concert of the season, to mostly rave review; a vast majority of responses from the audience were very favorable, while a minority pronounced the screens distracting (this data via website commentary and written survey results).

I certainly think the more conventional concert experience (of the standard, "unenhanced" variety) has its place. By the same token, I question Johnson's contention that "in its attempt to “open up” the traditional classical event, the video simulcast only serves to cheapen the concert-going experience, making it less appealing and, to be frank, irritating as hell." It may be "less appealing and...irritating" for some, but I would be curious to hear responses from the Ravinia audience; if it's anything like Minnesota audiences, many enjoyed the sense of connection to what's happening onstage. And I wonder, is there a generational disconnect here? Are those of raised on produced televised concerts in tandem with live performance more accustomed and open to different concert experiences? And does any enhancement of a symphonic presentation "cheapen" the experience (and what does that really mean?)?

Finally, Johnson wraps up with this:

Perhaps in time one can learn to tune out the video or drink the Kool-Aid and become accustomed to this MTV-ification of the classical concert experience. But I doubt it. So much contemporary pop calls for music-video flash, quick-edit dancing and assorted stimuli to distract one from the fact that the music isn’t very good. Brahms, Mendelssohn and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra don’t require such pointless “enhancements.”

What I find pointless is taking potshots/hurling veiled insults at other musical genres. This is the kind of holier-than-thou attitude that does nothing to endear those of us in the classical side of the business to...well, a vast majority of the rest of the world (because, really, less than 10% of the adult population of our country attended a classical music performance in 2008 - this according to the NEA). It's tantamount to insulting a majority of the populace for its musical tastes. Do we need to engage in this kind of bridge-burning in an attempt to elevate our preferred music?

Music is a living art; a symphony was never meant to be presented as a museum piece, with a removed reverence utterly disconnected with the era in which it is being performed (not that in which it was created). I'm not advocating for video screens for all concerts of symphonic music; I'm simply interested in keeping what I do and love vibrant and relevant for generations to come. And for that to happen, we cannot rely on business as usual.

Murphy's Law

Weirdest thing happened this morning at our Coffee Concert featuring MN Orch conductor laureate Stanislaw Skrowaczewski. Intermission had ended, the orchestra tuned, and Stan, who is about to turn 85 but has more energy than I do, came striding out and took his bow. We got ready to start Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathustra, which begins with a long, low hum in the contrabassoon and organ, before the trumpets come in with the famous theme from 2001. Only, as the applause died and Stan raised his arms, the room rumbled a bit, and kept rumbling, at roughly the same pitch as the opening hum of the piece.

Stan, startled, looked around to see if the organ was already playing for some reason. It wasn't. He looked next at Jorja, who tried to quietly explain that the construction outside on Marquette Avenue was causing the noise. (What are they doing to that poor street, by the way? It looks like a war zone from 12th all the way up to the light rail station!) Orchestra Hall is pretty well soundproofed, but when you've got jackhammers and other heavy equipment working underground right next to it, there's really no avoiding some intrusion. Stan didn't understand what Jorja was telling him, and by this time, people in the audience were looking around worriedly, and wondering if we were ever going to start the piece.

It was around this time that a woman about 20 rows deep on the main floor started talking. I don't mean whispering. I mean talking in a full, clear voice, although I don't know whether she was speaking to anyone in particular. I couldn't make out much of what she was saying, but as half the hall began shushing her, I distinctly heard her say, "What? They haven't even started yet!" Which was true, but as the entire orchestra plus Stan was now staring at her with confused looks on our faces, she might have been able to ascertain that she was part of the cause of that.

Meanwhile, the rumbling stopped. For about three seconds. Then it started again, and Stan again looked to Jorja for help. At this point, we'd all been waiting for nearly two minutes. Jorja shrugged, and said, "We're gonna have to play through it." So Stan raised his arms again, and cued the contrabassoon and the organ, who came in perfectly in time with a giant hacking cough from the front row. Some days, you just can't win for losing.

Seriously, folks...

In a recent New Yorker article )"Why So Serious?"), Alex Ross discusses the ritualization and relative rigidity of the format of modern-day classical music concerts. Included are the usual suspects: the overture-concerto-intermission-symphony format; the insistence on silence between movements of larger works; the curatorial aspects of creating an "intellectual journey" through the combination and chronology of repertoire; and the general seriousness that hovers over all of the proceedings, which seems to "elevate and stifle the music in equal measure". Perhaps the most quotable line: "The overarching problem of classical music is the tuxedo".

Certainly an oversimplification, but it's hard not to agree with much of Ross's premise. It made me ruminate over the eternal debate about applause, and when (and how) it should occur. On one hand, there's something thrilling about the expectant hush that comes over an audience when the baton is raised; on the other, there's something awkward about consciously silenced enthusiasm after a spectacularly well-played first movement. Why delay the expression of delight? In the early 19th century (the era of the "potpourri" programming) the first movement of a work may have very well been the only one heard - intermingled with other works, often more of the "light classical" vein. Audiences were apt to mill and murmur and applaud when they felt applause was warranted, even if it was in the middle of a piece.

This made me think back to a concert I conducted last weekend at the Mann Center in Philadelphia with acclaimed alt-rocker Ben Folds and members of the Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia (COP), which was a blast for me (it's always fun to work with people whose upcoming albums you pre-order on iTunes). Although it was a "concert with orchestra", the capacity crowd of several thousand was certainly there for Folds and not for the COP (and most likely, few were regular classical concertgoers), and thus it was a perfect environment in which to observe audience reactions unaffected by expected standards of classical concert behavior.

Interestingly, they acted much like 19th century concert attendees would: there was a constant milling, the movement of people coming from/going to the concessions area; an underlying murmuring; spontaneous applause from different sections of the house in reaction to different elements (from humorous song introductions to the brief violin solo in the middle of one of the charts); people shouting out requests (read the section in the Ross article about Liszt); enthusiastic hooting when a particularly popular song began. There were a couple of numbers where there was a smattering of (quasi) rhythmic clapping, one song where Folds asked the crowd to act as the chorus of "oooo"s (in triads, no less!), and several in which there was a palpable quietness because of the nature of the music (notably "Fred Jones Part 2" and "The Luckiest"). In short, appropriate responses to the ebb and flow of music and emotions within a concert experience.

Neither I nor the orchestra (or, presumably, Ben Folds!) was ever distracted by what was going on in the crowd, which was never rowdy or disrespectful (in fact, Folds gave an extended shout-out to the COP and orchestral music in general); there was an interaction and a clear connection between those of us onstage and those in the audience; and both performers and concertgoers left with a feeling of satisfaction that comes from sharing the ephemeral experience of well-played live music.

While realizing that this sort of concert experience would be difficult to duplicate in the classical concert hall (and would certainly not work for particular repertoire), it's clear to me that it's the kind of thing that makes people want to go out and spend their hard-earned money in a sober economic climate to hear live music. And the irony is that it's also the kind of behavior that is discouraged in the average orchestral performance.

The other thought that arose from reading the Ross article was the expectation of a "clockwork routine" in orchestra concerts - two halves, each 40-50 minutes in length. It's given us all a somewhat inflexible notion of how long concerts, or pieces of music within a concert, should be (which is why some people are thrown off by, say, the colossal nature of Mahler symphonies). It reminded me particularly of some of the commentary we received over the course of our first season of "Inside the Classics", notably the sentiment that a 24 minute piece (like "Appalachian Spring") didn't constitute enough music for an entire second half of a concert. While I understand people's preferences for a certain amount of similarity to a "conventional" orchestra performance, it seemed lost on those who critiqued the timing of the featured pieces that the very premise of the series was to create a different way of approaching a concert experience. Which just goes to show how ingrained those expectations of an orchestral concert experience are.

Balancing the need to meet a certain amount of expectation with the need to push boundaries is the crux of the issue, and it's hard to know if the proper equilibrium is being struck. But seriously, that's the trick, isn't it?