During the summer of 1975 the important person in residence at Tanglewood was Mstislav Rostropovich, who came there with his wife Galena Vishnevskaya and their two daughters, Olga, who played the cello, and Elena, who played the piano. It was a very exciting summer, filled with master classes where Rostropovich would tell charming stories (I remember that his humor was rather unrestrained). Near the end of the summer Rostropovich was scheduled to perform Shostakovich's Second Cello Concerto. Many people knew the first concerto, but very few people knew the second, a piece that Shostakovich wrote for Rostropovich in 1966. Only nine years old, it was a piece of relatively new music. I am pretty sure that this performance was the first by the Boston Symphony, and it could have even been the first American performance of the piece. Anyway, it was a big deal.
The fact that Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony was on the second half of the program offset any chance of losing the audience to an unfamiliar work. Everyone loves Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony.
During the intermission there was a bit of a commotion on stage, and then Galena Vishnevskaya walked to the center of the stage and sang an unaccompanied lament. Everybody wondered what it was about. Eventually Bill Moyer, the Boston Symphony Orchestra's personnel manager, came on stage. He told the audience that Dmitri Shostakovich had just died.
Then Rostropovich conducted the performance of the Fifth Symphony. It was an awesome performance in every way. Many thousands of people were in a state of collective mourning. Wherever "there" is when a person dies, that's where we all were.
(I seem to remember that the program was an all-Shostakovich program, but a passage quoting Oliver Knussen's recollections of the day on page 188 of Peggy Daniel's Tanglewood: A Group Memoir suggests that there might have been some Tchaikovsky on the program.)
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
Musical Line
Some people call it phrasing. I also like to think of it as line, because lines show shape, and musical ideas are made of lines of different lengths and thickness that interact with one another.
As a flute player I always envied oboe players. Their supply of air could last for pretty much as long as they wanted it to, allowing phrases in Bach, for example, to reach their points of repose after following very long musical paths. Flutists, who have to waste half of their air supply making a sound, often have trouble developing the intellectual ability to think in long phrases because they lack the physical ability to execute them. There are exceptions, like Emmanuel Phaud, but they are exceptional. I always hoped that playing with real musical line and being able to allow music to develop in really long phrases would be something I would gain with age and maturity. For me it took more than age and maturity; it took learning to play instruments other than the flute, and to experience the mapping of phrase lengths in repertoire other than the flute repertoire. And even with age and maturity (now that I'm 50), the struggle to keep track of long phrases, and carry them, like tea trays, to their various destinations (which are sometimes difficult to determine) is constant.
The other day I watched a television broadcast of a concert I played last weekend. There was a very young pianist playing the Tchaikovsky Concerto who played with true musical line. I'm grateful for the broadcast because there was a great deal I wasn't able to hear because I was playing myself.
This pianist's sense of musical line--getting from one note to the next, or from one note to an important one that happened to come a measure or two later--was extraordinary. He must have been thinking about his phrasing all the time because there was nothing accidental or casual about the direction of any phrase. But, in spite of his tremendous control, every phrase was surprising and compelling. The one-note-to-the-next progress of the piece was as important as the one-phrase-to-the-next progress. And that was just the skeletal level of the piece. On top of the beautiful phrasing, everything was dressed in an array of brilliant musical colors. It was very inspiring, partially because his musical choices seemed so completely natural.
So, I have been working on trying to keep track of long musical lines, and paying a lot of attention to their sense of contour and consequence. The process of doing so, particularly when playing Bach, is kind of like following a complicated line of reasoning, while at the same time allowing yourself to be immersed in the emotional flow of everything that does not concern the intellect.
As a flute player I always envied oboe players. Their supply of air could last for pretty much as long as they wanted it to, allowing phrases in Bach, for example, to reach their points of repose after following very long musical paths. Flutists, who have to waste half of their air supply making a sound, often have trouble developing the intellectual ability to think in long phrases because they lack the physical ability to execute them. There are exceptions, like Emmanuel Phaud, but they are exceptional. I always hoped that playing with real musical line and being able to allow music to develop in really long phrases would be something I would gain with age and maturity. For me it took more than age and maturity; it took learning to play instruments other than the flute, and to experience the mapping of phrase lengths in repertoire other than the flute repertoire. And even with age and maturity (now that I'm 50), the struggle to keep track of long phrases, and carry them, like tea trays, to their various destinations (which are sometimes difficult to determine) is constant.
The other day I watched a television broadcast of a concert I played last weekend. There was a very young pianist playing the Tchaikovsky Concerto who played with true musical line. I'm grateful for the broadcast because there was a great deal I wasn't able to hear because I was playing myself.
This pianist's sense of musical line--getting from one note to the next, or from one note to an important one that happened to come a measure or two later--was extraordinary. He must have been thinking about his phrasing all the time because there was nothing accidental or casual about the direction of any phrase. But, in spite of his tremendous control, every phrase was surprising and compelling. The one-note-to-the-next progress of the piece was as important as the one-phrase-to-the-next progress. And that was just the skeletal level of the piece. On top of the beautiful phrasing, everything was dressed in an array of brilliant musical colors. It was very inspiring, partially because his musical choices seemed so completely natural.
So, I have been working on trying to keep track of long musical lines, and paying a lot of attention to their sense of contour and consequence. The process of doing so, particularly when playing Bach, is kind of like following a complicated line of reasoning, while at the same time allowing yourself to be immersed in the emotional flow of everything that does not concern the intellect.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Alienating Musicians
Here are three examples of why so many people stop studying the violin (and other instruments) when confronted with this kind of a teacher. It's not so much what this teacher says that I find so very difficult to stomach, but how he communicates verbally and how he demonstrates his concepts musically. I imagine that there are other teachers like this loose in the musical world.
1. 2. 3.
(I know that #1 seems like a joke, but when you move on to #2 and #3, you will see that it is serious.)
When you have had enough, please go here for an example of how beautifully and effectively someone can use the internet to help people to learn about string playing and musicianship.
UPDATE:
There is an elaborate discussion about these videos over at violinist.com. If you scroll down (or search for) "Nicholas Garibaldinos," you will come upon something far more disturbing than even the violinistic content of the video-violin-lessons: the "king" revealing himself in sentences that show he is either the product of a horribly deficient education, or that he feels that he is entitled to live far beyond the conventions of punctuation.
The discussion among the other literate violinists at the site is interesting reading, and Mr. Garibaldinos was kind to host a post by this "king".
1. 2. 3.
(I know that #1 seems like a joke, but when you move on to #2 and #3, you will see that it is serious.)
When you have had enough, please go here for an example of how beautifully and effectively someone can use the internet to help people to learn about string playing and musicianship.
UPDATE:
There is an elaborate discussion about these videos over at violinist.com. If you scroll down (or search for) "Nicholas Garibaldinos," you will come upon something far more disturbing than even the violinistic content of the video-violin-lessons: the "king" revealing himself in sentences that show he is either the product of a horribly deficient education, or that he feels that he is entitled to live far beyond the conventions of punctuation.
The discussion among the other literate violinists at the site is interesting reading, and Mr. Garibaldinos was kind to host a post by this "king".
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Edward White's Puffin Billie
For everyone with fond television memories of the Captain, here's the title music, and some more about the music for the show.
Cult of Personality: Other Thoughts
I'll never forget the day that Herbert von Karajan came to Juilliard. Around the time of an orchestra rehearsal, people were speaking in hushed tones about it. Perhaps he would come to hear our orchestra. And then he arrived. There was a familiar aura in the room: the specialized scent that musicians emit, perhaps, when someone they believe is truly great has entered a room. Now, I didn't care much about Karajan, but I did know his name. I barely saw him when he came in with his entourage (he was very short) and his scarf, but I could feel the importance of his presence.
I noticed the same sense of general awe at Tanglewood when I would see Leonard Bernstein go to a rehearsal, dressed in the most casual of clothes, smoking a cigarette, and surrounded by an entourage. Perhaps it is the entourage that presents that aura of "otherness."
My flute teacher would often have guests come in to Juilliard (and those guests needed guest passes just like everyone else), and they would present themselves as people who didn't have a practical care in the world. People who never had to pay a phone bill (or worry where the money would come from to do it), people who looked really successful, and presented themselves as successful people. Now, in retrospect, I have a feeling that it was, for almost everybody except James Galway, mostly an act.
Though my musical origins were impressive (growing up around the Boston Symphony), I tended to respond to musicians as regular people. Sure, my parents dressed up for concerts, but it was more like putting on a uniform. My father, being the kind of person he is, dressed for comfort. On stage he wore tails like all the other BSO men, and in normal life he wore normal clothes--nothing fancy, and nothing particularly noteworthy, and nothing particularly stylish. My teacher dressed the same way as my father (except for the running pants--my father would never be caught dead in anything as stylish as running pants).
I followed the examples of my teacher and my father, but perhaps I should have followed the examples of all those well-dressed guests. I imagine (thinking in retrospect) that those people who looked so "put together" had probably spent many hours and lots of money to look the way they did to present themselves as Juilliard. From those experiences (and other observations) I learned that flutists (both men and women) are more often judged by the way they look--the way they present themselves, the way they dress, and their overall attractiveness--than the way they play.
The dressing down of conductors (Bernstein and Ozawa) in the 1970s was always confusing to me. In a way I believe they would carefully dress down because they could. It magnified their sense of importance. They were so important that they could be the worst dressed people in a room, and still be the most attractive.
It still baffles me how much attractiveness factors into musical success. You would think that the situation would be different for musicians, who are supposed to be judged by the way they sound rather than the way they look. But it isn't. Composers too. Look at the success of Ned Rorem. Had he not been an extremely good-looking young man (and he is still an extremely attractive octogenarian), he might not have gotten the support of the people he needed to have any kind of a career. Charm and intelligence is one thing, and charm, intelligence, and good looks is another thing entirely.
Notice the way that my flute teacher, Julius Baker, playing with the far more attractive (far taller, and far more famous) Jean-Pierre Rampal (who toned down his body-English for this occasion), was ignored by Dick Cavett, who addressed all his banter to Rampal?
I noticed the same sense of general awe at Tanglewood when I would see Leonard Bernstein go to a rehearsal, dressed in the most casual of clothes, smoking a cigarette, and surrounded by an entourage. Perhaps it is the entourage that presents that aura of "otherness."
My flute teacher would often have guests come in to Juilliard (and those guests needed guest passes just like everyone else), and they would present themselves as people who didn't have a practical care in the world. People who never had to pay a phone bill (or worry where the money would come from to do it), people who looked really successful, and presented themselves as successful people. Now, in retrospect, I have a feeling that it was, for almost everybody except James Galway, mostly an act.
Though my musical origins were impressive (growing up around the Boston Symphony), I tended to respond to musicians as regular people. Sure, my parents dressed up for concerts, but it was more like putting on a uniform. My father, being the kind of person he is, dressed for comfort. On stage he wore tails like all the other BSO men, and in normal life he wore normal clothes--nothing fancy, and nothing particularly noteworthy, and nothing particularly stylish. My teacher dressed the same way as my father (except for the running pants--my father would never be caught dead in anything as stylish as running pants).
I followed the examples of my teacher and my father, but perhaps I should have followed the examples of all those well-dressed guests. I imagine (thinking in retrospect) that those people who looked so "put together" had probably spent many hours and lots of money to look the way they did to present themselves as Juilliard. From those experiences (and other observations) I learned that flutists (both men and women) are more often judged by the way they look--the way they present themselves, the way they dress, and their overall attractiveness--than the way they play.
The dressing down of conductors (Bernstein and Ozawa) in the 1970s was always confusing to me. In a way I believe they would carefully dress down because they could. It magnified their sense of importance. They were so important that they could be the worst dressed people in a room, and still be the most attractive.
It still baffles me how much attractiveness factors into musical success. You would think that the situation would be different for musicians, who are supposed to be judged by the way they sound rather than the way they look. But it isn't. Composers too. Look at the success of Ned Rorem. Had he not been an extremely good-looking young man (and he is still an extremely attractive octogenarian), he might not have gotten the support of the people he needed to have any kind of a career. Charm and intelligence is one thing, and charm, intelligence, and good looks is another thing entirely.
Notice the way that my flute teacher, Julius Baker, playing with the far more attractive (far taller, and far more famous) Jean-Pierre Rampal (who toned down his body-English for this occasion), was ignored by Dick Cavett, who addressed all his banter to Rampal?
Friday, May 01, 2009
The Cult of Personality: Botstein on Schoenberg
Perhaps the greatest joy that I get from teaching music appreciation classes comes from the students who, without knowing anything about the ins and outs of the musical world, ask questions that really require a great deal of thought to answer. So I have been thinking.
Yesterday's class covered Schoenberg and Strauss (I always like to mention the Strauss statement about Schoenberg, "It would be better for him to shovel snow than to scrawl on music paper."), and once again the students were bewildered why Schoenberg could have so much influence on music of the twentieth century (and could take credit for alienating a good chunk of the audience for classical music), and that Strauss barely made it into our textbook (the opening minutes of Also Sprach Zarathustra finally made it into the introductory CD of the latest edition).
Now don't get me wrong. I do like Schoenberg. I find his music interesting to listen to and to study (but not particularly enjoyable to play). As a composer I find the 12-tone system useful, especially when I am having trouble coming up with ideas, but still feel like working. The problem that I find with 12-tone writing is that I can spend an enjoyable hour or two coming up with something that I think has some potential, and when I return to it after a day or so I have no idea what I was thinking about, or why I thought it worthwhile. The only success I have ever had in 12-tone writing has involved cheating; manipulating the row so that I can use the notes I want to use instead of the notes I have to use.
Growing up in a musical world that still embraced 12-tone music and the influence of Schoenberg, I didn't start writing music until I realized that it was "safe" to write music that I could really hear (I know that there are composers who have far better ears than I have) and would make musical sense to me day after day. It really has only been about 25 years since a composer of tonal or non-serial music could be taken seriously by his or her peers.
I came upon an article by Leon Botstein that outlines the problem, and compares the cult of personality that made Schoenberg who he was with the cult of personality that made Wagner who he was.
Yesterday's class covered Schoenberg and Strauss (I always like to mention the Strauss statement about Schoenberg, "It would be better for him to shovel snow than to scrawl on music paper."), and once again the students were bewildered why Schoenberg could have so much influence on music of the twentieth century (and could take credit for alienating a good chunk of the audience for classical music), and that Strauss barely made it into our textbook (the opening minutes of Also Sprach Zarathustra finally made it into the introductory CD of the latest edition).
Now don't get me wrong. I do like Schoenberg. I find his music interesting to listen to and to study (but not particularly enjoyable to play). As a composer I find the 12-tone system useful, especially when I am having trouble coming up with ideas, but still feel like working. The problem that I find with 12-tone writing is that I can spend an enjoyable hour or two coming up with something that I think has some potential, and when I return to it after a day or so I have no idea what I was thinking about, or why I thought it worthwhile. The only success I have ever had in 12-tone writing has involved cheating; manipulating the row so that I can use the notes I want to use instead of the notes I have to use.
Growing up in a musical world that still embraced 12-tone music and the influence of Schoenberg, I didn't start writing music until I realized that it was "safe" to write music that I could really hear (I know that there are composers who have far better ears than I have) and would make musical sense to me day after day. It really has only been about 25 years since a composer of tonal or non-serial music could be taken seriously by his or her peers.
I came upon an article by Leon Botstein that outlines the problem, and compares the cult of personality that made Schoenberg who he was with the cult of personality that made Wagner who he was.
. . . . But the most apt comparison is with Richard Wagner. Not only did they both have disciples and demand uncommon degrees of loyalty from their followers, but Wagner and Schoenberg invented and institutionalized a rhetoric of self-defense and description. They both brilliantly placed themselves within music history and connected their work to past and future. Institutions designed to preserve and defend the Schoenberg legacy were created, first in Los Angeles, then in Vienna. Schools of composition and criticism that developed after 1945 relied heavily on Schoenberg’s analysis of compositional methods, his views on form and structure, and his readings of Mozart and Brahms. To generations of Schoenberg admirers, followers and scholars, any departure from this self-constituted (or auto-poetic) code of discourse of defense and description was tantamount to ignorance or betrayal.You can read the whole article here.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Birthday Music
(You can download a PDF here.)
Today is my 50th birthday.
If, at the age of 30 (a milestone for many), someone with the ability to see into the future would have told me that I would be a violinist and a violist by the time I turned 50, I would probably not have believed it. If someone told me at 30 that by the age of 50 I would have written nearly a hundred pieces of music, I would also not have believed it. I supposed I am living proof that life can begin at 30.
So this 50th birthday present I have given to myself (and to share with whoever might be interested) of a piece for viola d'amore (another implausibility) marks the day, and celebrates the fact that with enough desire and enough hard work (one day at a time) it is possible to do what seems to be impossible.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Einstein Violin Story
Julius Baker, who was a great admirer of Albert Einstein, told me a story that I want to share, whether it is true or not. Albert Einstein was playing violin in a concert in Philadelphia, and a well-known playwright (presumably one who wrote comedies), was sitting in the audience and laughing. After the concert Einstein asked the playwright, "Why were you laughing at my concert? I never laugh at your plays."
Skye Boat Fantasie
This is a piece I just finished for violin, viola, and piano that is based on a traditional Scottish melody. It turns itself into a traditional Scottish earworm, and after hearing it you too will be humming the melody in your dreams.
Listen at your own risk.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Birdies that Sing in the Spring (tra la)
The ways of the creative mind are mysterious. There are times when it is easy to be inspired to write music by simply listening to the birds sing in the spring, and there are times when the birds that sing in the spring seem to be simply chattering among themselves in exclusive groups, with little concern for anything except calling to their own species, and making themselves heard. As a member of a different species, I can feel left out, useless, and superfluous. I guess it is all a matter of perspective.
There are also other seasons, and there are many things in life to celebrate with music, but there are a lot of situations in life that threaten the creative process. Seeing and hearing clearly--clearing away all the muck that comes with needing to be at least recognized (not to mention appreciated) for what we do, is something that does not come easily. The profession of music is filled with people who have to constantly build and rebuild their fragile egos, and sometimes that ego building and rebuilding takes up a great deal of creative energy. Sometimes it takes up a great deal of space and time as well.
I find that it is best to look to nature for strength. I get excited when the birds return and sing to one another outside my window, and I feel open to whatever inspiration happens to come my way. I also get excited when I hear a performing musician play or sing particularly beautifully (like I did yesterday). I think of it as a wonder of nature when it happens--a surprising mixture of many people, influences, and spontaneous feelings (combined with a lot of hard work). It's like all the innocent energy of birdsong, but its presented in an organized way, and translated into a language that allows me to take part in the conversation, even as a listener.
The birds are so busy singing their hearts out that they don't have the luxury of listening to their unintentional and highly complicated counterpoint. But I do.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Blue Ribbon in Support of Roxana Saberi
I'm joining T and other members of the blogging community by placing a blue ribbon on my blog in support of the journalist Roxana Saberi who is in Tehran's Evin Prison.
If you have a blog, join this rally celebrating free speech by displaying a blue ribbon.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Steven Staryk Anthology
I thought I'd share a link here to a collection of 30 CDs that form the Steven Staryk Anthology here. There are generous audio samples of music from the Anthology that play on the website (you might end up keeping it on all day).
Make sure to click on "more details" to read about the Anthology.
Make sure to click on "more details" to read about the Anthology.
Friday, April 24, 2009
What I Think Composers Think About
Kyle Gann has been hosting an interesting discussion about what composers talk about (and think about) over at Postclassic, and I feel the need to add a cent or two--or perhaps a sentence or two in response.
The idea, of course, that I can get into someone else's head, especially the head of someone who is no longer alive, is absurd, so I can only speak for myself.
Music, being made mostly of feelings (though it can and should be organized in some way with the mind in order for those feelings to be transmitted either by a composer to the person or people playing the music, or by a performing musician to an audience), can be understood in relation to any number of different emotional situations by any number of different listeners. It is not my business as a composer to write a narrative, but I suppose it is my business as a composer to make an abstract narrative possible for both players and listeners. I also don't think that it is a future audience's business to know what my particular personal problems were when I was working on a piece of emotionally-charged music. Actually, I would prefer it if they didn't know.
Feelings are complicated. I imagine that I'm not alone when I say that I have used writing music as a ladder of escape out of a difficult emotional state. Sometimes just doing the work itself tends to help. Having a "place" to wallow and scream over and over again is a luxury, and it is great when it can have creative spoils. Perhaps hearing the piece after a period of months or years brings back the memory of having had difficulties, but once the details have been blurred by the kindness of time, the music takes on the emotional life of the moment and the emotional life of the performing musicians.
I wrote a piece for a friend while I was going through a difficult time. She asked me, in search for a way to interpret the piece, what it was about her that caused me to write the piece. The real answer is that I loved the way she played and was interested to hear what she would do with the piece, but she was far too modest to accept that as a reason. I told her that she and I were both going through some difficult personal struggles (each of us had our own life-circumstance-based struggle) during the time I was writing the piece, and the piece could be interpreted as being "about" those struggles. Her performance of the piece was very different from (and so much better than) the way I imagined the piece could be played. When she sends me her recording, I'll put a link to it here.
You don't need to know what my struggles were at the time to appreciate the music, and you don't need to know the struggles that my friend was having either. Actually, you will never know, because I will never tell.
The idea, of course, that I can get into someone else's head, especially the head of someone who is no longer alive, is absurd, so I can only speak for myself.
Music, being made mostly of feelings (though it can and should be organized in some way with the mind in order for those feelings to be transmitted either by a composer to the person or people playing the music, or by a performing musician to an audience), can be understood in relation to any number of different emotional situations by any number of different listeners. It is not my business as a composer to write a narrative, but I suppose it is my business as a composer to make an abstract narrative possible for both players and listeners. I also don't think that it is a future audience's business to know what my particular personal problems were when I was working on a piece of emotionally-charged music. Actually, I would prefer it if they didn't know.
Feelings are complicated. I imagine that I'm not alone when I say that I have used writing music as a ladder of escape out of a difficult emotional state. Sometimes just doing the work itself tends to help. Having a "place" to wallow and scream over and over again is a luxury, and it is great when it can have creative spoils. Perhaps hearing the piece after a period of months or years brings back the memory of having had difficulties, but once the details have been blurred by the kindness of time, the music takes on the emotional life of the moment and the emotional life of the performing musicians.
I wrote a piece for a friend while I was going through a difficult time. She asked me, in search for a way to interpret the piece, what it was about her that caused me to write the piece. The real answer is that I loved the way she played and was interested to hear what she would do with the piece, but she was far too modest to accept that as a reason. I told her that she and I were both going through some difficult personal struggles (each of us had our own life-circumstance-based struggle) during the time I was writing the piece, and the piece could be interpreted as being "about" those struggles. Her performance of the piece was very different from (and so much better than) the way I imagined the piece could be played. When she sends me her recording, I'll put a link to it here.
You don't need to know what my struggles were at the time to appreciate the music, and you don't need to know the struggles that my friend was having either. Actually, you will never know, because I will never tell.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Classical TV
Here is yet another way to spend more time at your computer: live concerts, performances of whole pieces, documentaries about classical music, master classes, chamber music, orchestral music, jazz, dance, operas . . .
It is mind boggling.
It is mind boggling.
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