Let’s get away from the high-fallutin’ art talk of recent posts for a moment, and switch to a recent GTCYS performance. Our Concert Orchestra gave its holiday concert last week at Union Gospel Mission near downtown St. Paul. UGM is a homeless shelter and we have a tradition of playing for their residents, including a holiday sing-along, every December.
At the dress rehearsal the students, most of whom were in the facility for the first time, looked nervously around the chapel where they’d perform. It’s a Spartan space, clean but gloomy. There were residents coming into the audience seating area, clearly down on their luck—a far cry from most of our kids’ regular social circles. Then the music started, and something happened.
The crowd was uninhibited and enthusiastic, in a way our kids aren’t used to. They demonstrated that anyone can appreciate classical music—and they demonstrated most energetically. The kids’ initial apprehension was replaced by enjoyment as a give-and-take energy developed between performers and listeners (something we’d like to see more of at classical concerts!). By the time the sing-along began, the line between haves and have-nots had gotten pretty blurry. The residents were thrilled to experience live orchestral music—and the kids realized they were getting a gift from their audience. It’s great to play for a dressed-up crowd in a beautiful concert hall. But it’s also meaningful to play for a dressed-down group of people who let you know that your music touches them, and that music shouldn’t be taken for granted.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
What is great music?
It looks like there was some interest generated by my first blog posting, so herewith: “Round Two.” That’s a one hundred percent increase (how’s that for mathematical slight of hand?)! As before, the question hovering in the background is, “why classical music?”
Here’s an issue which vexes: what is great music? One might say, “oh that’s easy. Dittersdorf isn’t great music; Mahler is.” Simple, right? Well, no. I just came across a blog which has a SMACKDOWN between two respected conductors about whether Mahler is a good composer. One makes strong arguments for Mahler’s greatness; the other for his mediocrity. They can’t both be right—or can they? There’s an old joke about an argument between two Jews (let’s call them Mr. A and Mr. B), back in the day in Eastern Europe. A third party (Mr. C) hears Mr. A’s side of the argument and says, “you’re right.” Then he hears Mr. B’s side of it and says, “you’re right.” Someone else (Mr. D) pipes up and says, “hey, first you said Mr. A was right, and then you said Mr. B is right. They can’t both be right!” To which Mr. C replies, “you’re right too.” This scene, by the way, was recreated in Fiddler on the Roof.
But away from those apocryphal Ashkenazim and back to the historical one, Mahler—both his partisans and his detractors have their point. The former say he’s an amazingly visceral musical portrayer of the human experience, with his evocative melodies and haunting orchestration. The latter reply that Mahler’s a self-absorbed crybaby whose music is way too long. Might both camps be correct?
I encountered a similar situation with the students in GTCYS’ Symphony Orchestra when we prepared Morton Gould’s “American Salute” for our fall concerts. It’s a fast-paced, patriotic work written during World War Two, a set of variations on “When Johnny comes marching home.” It struck some of the kids as second-rate music. Too tuneful, too easy to “get,” not enough gravitas—must not be very good. Yet it won over both players and audience in performance. What was going on?
To some degree, I can sympathize with the view that in order to be great, art’s got to be hard. For instance, one can’t have Brahms’ German Requiem playing in the background while doing dishes. You have to sit down and listen to it—without distractions, repeatedly, with a translation of the text if you don’t understand German—and the more you do so, the more glorious it gets, even if at first you’ve said, “this is boring.” Your deliberate, patient, repeated investments will, over time, reap immense and ever-growing rewards of satisfaction, whether it’s listening to Brahms, viewing Rembrandt, or reading Joyce. A “top-40” tune doesn’t have that effect—what you hear is usually what you get, much less effort is required and the aesthetic rewards are fleeting. Ergo: one way of defining great art is that there’s always more to discover—and you must constantly work at discovering it. But to be contradictory (and if you read the previous blog entry, you’ll understand my perception of contradictions as vital and fascinating aspects of human character): we might also watch an episode of “I Love Lucy” thirty times—long after every line is memorized—or eat our mother’s perfectly roasted chicken every Saturday for decades—no surprise about how it’s going to taste—and still appreciate them as masterworks. They’re great, even though there’s nary a new thing to discover. The “American Salute” falls into the roast-chicken-cum-Lucy category: there’s not much new to discover through repeated encounters, yet it’s wonderful stuff, infinitely more rewarding for repeat, engaged listeners than pop fare.
So what makes a piece of music great? I leave you with that for now, and encourage responses! Thanks to those who replied to the last posting, and talk to you soon.
Here’s an issue which vexes: what is great music? One might say, “oh that’s easy. Dittersdorf isn’t great music; Mahler is.” Simple, right? Well, no. I just came across a blog which has a SMACKDOWN between two respected conductors about whether Mahler is a good composer. One makes strong arguments for Mahler’s greatness; the other for his mediocrity. They can’t both be right—or can they? There’s an old joke about an argument between two Jews (let’s call them Mr. A and Mr. B), back in the day in Eastern Europe. A third party (Mr. C) hears Mr. A’s side of the argument and says, “you’re right.” Then he hears Mr. B’s side of it and says, “you’re right.” Someone else (Mr. D) pipes up and says, “hey, first you said Mr. A was right, and then you said Mr. B is right. They can’t both be right!” To which Mr. C replies, “you’re right too.” This scene, by the way, was recreated in Fiddler on the Roof.
But away from those apocryphal Ashkenazim and back to the historical one, Mahler—both his partisans and his detractors have their point. The former say he’s an amazingly visceral musical portrayer of the human experience, with his evocative melodies and haunting orchestration. The latter reply that Mahler’s a self-absorbed crybaby whose music is way too long. Might both camps be correct?
I encountered a similar situation with the students in GTCYS’ Symphony Orchestra when we prepared Morton Gould’s “American Salute” for our fall concerts. It’s a fast-paced, patriotic work written during World War Two, a set of variations on “When Johnny comes marching home.” It struck some of the kids as second-rate music. Too tuneful, too easy to “get,” not enough gravitas—must not be very good. Yet it won over both players and audience in performance. What was going on?
To some degree, I can sympathize with the view that in order to be great, art’s got to be hard. For instance, one can’t have Brahms’ German Requiem playing in the background while doing dishes. You have to sit down and listen to it—without distractions, repeatedly, with a translation of the text if you don’t understand German—and the more you do so, the more glorious it gets, even if at first you’ve said, “this is boring.” Your deliberate, patient, repeated investments will, over time, reap immense and ever-growing rewards of satisfaction, whether it’s listening to Brahms, viewing Rembrandt, or reading Joyce. A “top-40” tune doesn’t have that effect—what you hear is usually what you get, much less effort is required and the aesthetic rewards are fleeting. Ergo: one way of defining great art is that there’s always more to discover—and you must constantly work at discovering it. But to be contradictory (and if you read the previous blog entry, you’ll understand my perception of contradictions as vital and fascinating aspects of human character): we might also watch an episode of “I Love Lucy” thirty times—long after every line is memorized—or eat our mother’s perfectly roasted chicken every Saturday for decades—no surprise about how it’s going to taste—and still appreciate them as masterworks. They’re great, even though there’s nary a new thing to discover. The “American Salute” falls into the roast-chicken-cum-Lucy category: there’s not much new to discover through repeated encounters, yet it’s wonderful stuff, infinitely more rewarding for repeat, engaged listeners than pop fare.
So what makes a piece of music great? I leave you with that for now, and encourage responses! Thanks to those who replied to the last posting, and talk to you soon.
Monday, October 27, 2008
WHAT IS CLASSICAL MUSIC, AND WHY SHOULD I CARE?
Remember when your grade school English teacher warned you not to choose too broad a thesis topic? That’s what the above question is like—you can’t answer it in one essay—or even in several. It’s like “what is the meaning of life,” or “is there a Supreme Being?” Even if given a straightforward answer, would you readily believe it?
Perhaps the question is unanswerable. And yet, it is the reason for this blog—because I believe that classical music is important enough that the question needs asking, regardless of the answer. So I plan to write on various topics from time to time, with that question always lingering in the background. Today’s topic: Gounod.
I’m writing about him because the orchestra I conduct, the Symphony of the Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphonies in Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota, is playing the ballet music from his opera Faust (premiered in 1859) at our November 23 concert. Just the music—no dancers in sight. Why Gounod? His music is fascinatingly controversial. It has its loving adherents (French opera fans) and detractors (most other humans). Is he a great composer, or a hack cranking out superficial Gallic fluff? Consider how he compares to other great composers: even those with little knowledge of classical music know Beethoven’s name, have heard at least some of his Fifth Symphony, and generally say, “this is impressive stuff.” That’s not true for Gounod—one of his weaknesses—or perhaps it’s a strength—is that his music’s success rests on more variables than does Beethoven’s.
An uninitiated person can listen to Beethoven and “get it”—he can even listen to a bad performance and get it. In the case of Gounod, however, the performance has to be convincing, and one needs to know more about the music’s context. Now, the thought of having to think and learn about music may cause horror to some dear readers, but if people aren’t willing to do it, then classical music withers away. A vacuum results, and since Mother Nature abhors a vacuum, it gets filled by musical garbage. (Perhaps this is one possible answer to the overriding question behind this blog).
Let me give a little context for the ballet music we’re performing on November 23. What is the opera Faust about? Many of you have some concept of that name. To make a Faustian bargain means selling your soul in order to get something you think you can’t live without. There was a real Faust in Renaissance Germany, whose persona inspired stories and plays by various artists over the centuries, and continues to captivate today. The most famous characterization is the play/poem by Goethe (1808), in which the highly learned but bored Dr. Faustus sells his soul in return for bliss. This causes tremendous problems for those around him (such as death, destruction and dishonor), though ultimately he receives divine clemency. In Gounod’s opera, Faust makes a pact with the Dark Side because he despairs of both worldly knowledge and religious faith. Isn’t this an issue that people struggle with constantly? Haven’t they always done so? Doesn’t this idea transcend age, class and ethnicity?
At the time Gounod wrote Faust, all works staged at the Paris Opera were expected to include a ballet. He wrote one into the beginning of the fifth act, a Walpurgis Night scene. What’s Walpurgis Night? OK, I’ll tell you a bit about it, if in return someone out there tells me why the Paris Opera required ballets—I don’t have time to look it up.
Walpurgis Night (April 30/May 1) has its origins in European spring celebrations that predate Christianity. It gets its name from the transfer of the remains of St. Walpurga of Devon on that date in 779. In other words, it blends Catholicism and Paganism—a potent mix. It’s celebrated by traditional Catholics and by people who are the opposite. Long ago adapted into the political calendar of the left (think May Day in Soviet-era Moscow), it’s now also associated with the right in certain countries (such as Finland). In Germany (where Faust takes place) witches gather in the mountains to celebrate spring on Walpurgis Night. (One interesting side-note: Germany’s worst leader ever did himself in at Walpurgis-time in 1945.) Is Walpurgis Night a joyful or nefarious occasion, or a little of both? Are we attracted or repelled by it? Walpurgis Night, like the Faust character, speaks to something in our complicated, conflicted characters. Gounod tapped into this when he wrote his opera.
Here is a link to the ballet. The dances have catchy tunes; the listener might hum them when leaving the concert hall. That sure isn’t the case with Beethoven. Think back to that Fifth Symphony: it’s got a very recognizable four-note idea (da-da-da-DUUUM), but that’s not a tune you’d whistle when walking down the street. Beethoven develops the four-note idea in a hundred different ways—he has to in order to give that motive depth. Gounod writes great melodies, and doesn’t develop them. So what gives the music depth? The story behind it, and the way it’s played. It’s the performer’s role to highlight the varying tone colors, phrasing, dynamics and so forth. This variety—this array of contrasts—is what makes Gounod’s music “tick.” It parallels the contrasts within peoples’ personas. We hope to convey some of that contrast on November 23.
Thank you for reading my first-ever blog entry. I invite your response, whether you consider yourself a music connoisseur or a novice.
Perhaps the question is unanswerable. And yet, it is the reason for this blog—because I believe that classical music is important enough that the question needs asking, regardless of the answer. So I plan to write on various topics from time to time, with that question always lingering in the background. Today’s topic: Gounod.
I’m writing about him because the orchestra I conduct, the Symphony of the Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphonies in Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota, is playing the ballet music from his opera Faust (premiered in 1859) at our November 23 concert. Just the music—no dancers in sight. Why Gounod? His music is fascinatingly controversial. It has its loving adherents (French opera fans) and detractors (most other humans). Is he a great composer, or a hack cranking out superficial Gallic fluff? Consider how he compares to other great composers: even those with little knowledge of classical music know Beethoven’s name, have heard at least some of his Fifth Symphony, and generally say, “this is impressive stuff.” That’s not true for Gounod—one of his weaknesses—or perhaps it’s a strength—is that his music’s success rests on more variables than does Beethoven’s.
An uninitiated person can listen to Beethoven and “get it”—he can even listen to a bad performance and get it. In the case of Gounod, however, the performance has to be convincing, and one needs to know more about the music’s context. Now, the thought of having to think and learn about music may cause horror to some dear readers, but if people aren’t willing to do it, then classical music withers away. A vacuum results, and since Mother Nature abhors a vacuum, it gets filled by musical garbage. (Perhaps this is one possible answer to the overriding question behind this blog).
Let me give a little context for the ballet music we’re performing on November 23. What is the opera Faust about? Many of you have some concept of that name. To make a Faustian bargain means selling your soul in order to get something you think you can’t live without. There was a real Faust in Renaissance Germany, whose persona inspired stories and plays by various artists over the centuries, and continues to captivate today. The most famous characterization is the play/poem by Goethe (1808), in which the highly learned but bored Dr. Faustus sells his soul in return for bliss. This causes tremendous problems for those around him (such as death, destruction and dishonor), though ultimately he receives divine clemency. In Gounod’s opera, Faust makes a pact with the Dark Side because he despairs of both worldly knowledge and religious faith. Isn’t this an issue that people struggle with constantly? Haven’t they always done so? Doesn’t this idea transcend age, class and ethnicity?
At the time Gounod wrote Faust, all works staged at the Paris Opera were expected to include a ballet. He wrote one into the beginning of the fifth act, a Walpurgis Night scene. What’s Walpurgis Night? OK, I’ll tell you a bit about it, if in return someone out there tells me why the Paris Opera required ballets—I don’t have time to look it up.
Walpurgis Night (April 30/May 1) has its origins in European spring celebrations that predate Christianity. It gets its name from the transfer of the remains of St. Walpurga of Devon on that date in 779. In other words, it blends Catholicism and Paganism—a potent mix. It’s celebrated by traditional Catholics and by people who are the opposite. Long ago adapted into the political calendar of the left (think May Day in Soviet-era Moscow), it’s now also associated with the right in certain countries (such as Finland). In Germany (where Faust takes place) witches gather in the mountains to celebrate spring on Walpurgis Night. (One interesting side-note: Germany’s worst leader ever did himself in at Walpurgis-time in 1945.) Is Walpurgis Night a joyful or nefarious occasion, or a little of both? Are we attracted or repelled by it? Walpurgis Night, like the Faust character, speaks to something in our complicated, conflicted characters. Gounod tapped into this when he wrote his opera.
Here is a link to the ballet. The dances have catchy tunes; the listener might hum them when leaving the concert hall. That sure isn’t the case with Beethoven. Think back to that Fifth Symphony: it’s got a very recognizable four-note idea (da-da-da-DUUUM), but that’s not a tune you’d whistle when walking down the street. Beethoven develops the four-note idea in a hundred different ways—he has to in order to give that motive depth. Gounod writes great melodies, and doesn’t develop them. So what gives the music depth? The story behind it, and the way it’s played. It’s the performer’s role to highlight the varying tone colors, phrasing, dynamics and so forth. This variety—this array of contrasts—is what makes Gounod’s music “tick.” It parallels the contrasts within peoples’ personas. We hope to convey some of that contrast on November 23.
Thank you for reading my first-ever blog entry. I invite your response, whether you consider yourself a music connoisseur or a novice.
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