Sometimes you forget how touching a concert can be…

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.

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.