Listening to Music at Concerts

I have recently begun thinking about going to the opera again.  I saw three Stravinsky pieces at the Met a couple of years ago. The production strung together Le Sacre du Printemps, Oedipus Rex, and Le Rossignol, the latter being the only one of the three which is an actual opera. The production was designed by David Hockney and it was incredibly beautiful and impeccably performed. When you go to the Met to see an opera, you can be sure you will find an educated and motivated audience. How can I be sure? For one thing, tickets at the Met top out at $495. It’s no place for the unmotivated. Most of the people who go to the opera are there to listen to music.

I attend between 30 and 50 concerts a year and the reason I go is to hear music. I understand that there is a social dimension to concert going. I genuinely like people and love talking with them. It is not why I go to a concert, however. I am a musician. I love music and I go to concerts to hear music. 

The last concert I went to at the New York Philharmonic was a performance that included two pieces—Brahm’s Violin Concerto, with Sarah Chang as soloist, and the rarely-performed Persephone by Igor Stravinsky.  The first piece on the program was the concerto and it was very well performed by the orchestra and by Ms. Chang. I had heard the piece many many times, but it was wonderful hearing it live again. I did notice that the audience wasn’t quite as focused as it might have been. There was whispering and talking during the performance, including the seat holders on my right.  It was manageable though, until the orchestra started playing the Stravinsky. To my astonishment, my neighbors to the right began an extended conversation about the Brahms and about Ms. Chang’s performance. I then noticed that the attention of the audience, in general, had drifted substantially.

I could scarcely believe it.  I had first heard Persephone on a record album I borrowed from the New Castle Pennsylvania Free Public Library in 1968. I loved it immediately.  Now, some forty years later, I was hearing it live for the first time—played by one of America’s premier ensembles in New York City, one of the cutural capitals of the world, and the audience was about as attentive as a movie audience in a Times Square theater.

Have I become a concert snob?  Hardly.  I watched the Met’s production of Turandot at home in a comfortable chair in my pajamas.  The sound from my TV speaker is terrible, but I guarantee there was no talking during “Nessun Dorma.”  I actually don’t care what people do during concerts as long as it is quiet.  Please, text to your heart’s content, just remember to turn your phone to vibrate only.  Read a book, check your email, gesture to your neighbor in sign language, get some sleep—feel free to experience the concert as you like, but please realize that some people go to concerts to hear the music.

There was an exchange of letters in the New York Times recently between people who believed that classical music was dead or dying. One writer lamented that many people don’t know how to behave in concerts any more, because they have received no education about it in school. Another writer blamed parents for not teaching their kids how to behave in concerts.  And who will teach the parents?  Cities started cutting arts programs from schools in the mid-seventies. We are well into the second generation of citizens without any training or experience in music in the schools.

Is classical music dying? I grow impatient with these kinds of discussions quickly.  Who cares if the audience claps between movements? Keep it simple. Start with this. If you are not at a concert to hear the music, don’t go.  Stay home.  Download the Brahms concerto onto your iPod and eat corn chips out of the bag while you listen to Sarah Chang play the piece, but please, oh please, do not talk during the concert.

                                                                                                   Lawrence Davis

Peloquin and Ives

I once saw a painting at the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Connecticut, titled “The Earth Everlastingly in Transition.”  It was a very beautiful painting, but what has stuck with me since then is the title.  Life and art are also everlastingly in transition.  At any given moment we can capture the experience of art, but then, almost immediately, we move on.  Even the memory we may have of experiencing the art at that moment is subject to change. Canadian pianist Glenn Gould made a recording of the Bach Goldberg Variations in 1968, when he was 30, and another recording 20 years later.  Those bookend recordings are astonishingly different from each other, yet they are the same piece.  The transition came within Mr. Gould.  Each performance brings its own insights into the music—each the same, each different.

Last spring, my colleague and friend of over twenty years Marc Peloquin gave a performance of Charles Ives Piano Sonata #2 (“Concord, Massachusetts 1840-1860”).  The Concord Sonata is a piece of music that is almost unimaginably complex and beautiful and a piece of music that Charles Ives was endlessly absorbed in.  Marc and I are working on a web project revolving around the Concord Sonata.  It’s a part of an ongoing conversation he and I have had about Ives in general and the Concord Sonata specifically.  It’s a piece that deserves every bit of attention you give to it and rewards your efforts with new revelations.  

I have heard Marc Peloquin play the Concord Sonata three different times and each time has been a completely different experience.  For me, Marc has been a fearless Concord Sherpa, who leads his audiences to the peak of the mountain and guides them safely back.  Marc is passionate about understanding the piece—researching, thinking, discussing, playing through the numerous edits.  This sonata was everlastingly in transition for Ives, as he never seemed to “finish” the piece, and now also for Marc and his audiences.  

                                                                                                  Lawrence Davis

Solo Playing vs. Orchestra Playing

Richard Strauss wrote a piece called METAMORPHOSEN in 1945.  The instrumentation was 23 solo string players.  It is quite a striking piece in many ways, based on the second movement of Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony—the Marche Funebre, it elongates and intensifies the rhythmic and melodic contours of the original.  Is it a wild Germanic musical Frankenstein, made from parts of a masterpiece?  Or is it a genuine metamorphosis—like a butterfly emerging from a caterpillar?  I urge you to listen to the piece and draw your own conclusions.  

What fascinated me about the composition was the distinction Strauss made by making it for 23 solo string players, rather than a string orchestra. In truth, when you hear the piece, the differentiation seems subtle.  I doubt that anyone hearing it for the first time without knowing Strauss’s description of the ensemble, would conclude it was written for any number of solo string players.  It is certainly not the first piece written with multiple string parts. The Romance from the 5th Symphony by Ralph Vaughan Williams has, with divisi, 16 different string parts.  

I work with a talented student orchestra, a chamber orchestra. I spend a lot of time talking about the difference between a large orchestra, which represents the experience of most young players, and a chamber ensemble.  In a large orchestra, the conductor is more of a director.  Time constraints and the need to work efficiently in a modern orchestra, means there is little time for consensus building or dissenting points of view.  In an ensemble of 85 people,  it would be disastrous asking for other opinions among the players. A chamber ensemble is a different story.  I coach a string quartet and one of my year-long goals is to encourage the exchange of ideas among the players.  We work on making specific suggestions.  Rather than saying the section of the piece starting near letter D is out of tune, I try to get them to be specific.  “At measure 330, on the D major chord, the second violin seems sharp.  While that is possible, even desirable, in a string quartet, it could mean bedlam in a large orchestra.  

In a chamber orchestra, I try to make it part chamber music and part orchestra.  Frequently I will pause the rehearsal and ask the players to comment.  With young people, the results are mixed.  Talking about music in a way that focusses on the specific is not easy.  Asking students to use words that more clearly communicate the point they are trying to make is the only way they will ever build those skills and, over the course of the year, many do improve those communication skills dramatically.  That focus on specifics and communication helps to build the most important ensemble skill of all—engagement.  Engagement builds a feeling of responsibility.  The more responsibility each player feels about the final results, the better the results will be.

In many (if not most) orchestras, stronger players tend to dominate and less strong players tend to recede.  If there is a particularly difficult passage, conductors often rely on stronger players to learn the difficult passage first and then bring weaker players along.  This system is really a matter of practicality in many cases, given the amount of rehearsal time there is.  

Unfortunately, this may be a practical solution, but it can also lead to a part of the group not fully accepting the responsibility for the musical achievement of the ensemble.  In fact I’ll go so far as to say the deeper into the ensemble that sense of responsibility goes, the stronger the performance will be. If you are a solo performer, there is no partner there to cover for you.  If you haven’t prepared every detail in the piece, those details will not exist in the final performance.  For a soloist, that responsibility starts at the beginning of the piece and ends with the last note.  That is exactly what every orchestra needs, engaged, responsible players, performing as if the responsibility for the quality of the final performance was completely in their hands.  In a real sense, it does.

September 11, 2003

“By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped.”

Ernest Hemingway

The seemingly inextinguishable fire had long since been put out. The sickening smoke that drifted across the Hudson River to Jersey City (where I live) for at least six months had finally floated into the atmosphere.  The photocopied entreaties after lost loved ones that had once covered every lamp post and telephone pole in Manhattan were mostly in tatters.  The gigantic pit that was once the World Trade Center was clear of the remnants of absolute destruction.  Local trains were running on local tracks and express trains were running on the express tracks.  You could get on the west side highway and go all the way to the Holland Tunnel once again.  Our city, knocked to the ground for a long time, was on its feet once again, still a bit wobbly, but standing upright nonetheless.

In August we received an inquiry from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.  Could we provide some student musicians to play at the solemn September 11 ceremonies taking place at ground zero.  August is tough for us.  The summer session ends and the fall students are still scattered to the four winds.  However, we did find two wonderful players—a flutist named Elena Sandoval and a violinist named Joshua Rim.  They, along with many other student musicians from across the city, would play quietly in the background as the names of the nearly 3000 victims were read by family members and friends.  I would go with them to make sure everything went smoothly.  

We had to report to the intersection of Vesey Street and Broadway at 7:30 a.m. to check in and receive our credentials.  Both Elena and Josh were there on time.  We picked up our credentials (mine read “Guardian”) and we were led to a tent on the edge of the pit off of Vesey Street where we were asked to wait until they were to play. In the tent were folding chairs, a TV monitor tuned to the coverage of the ceremonies, and about 20 performers, parents, and guardians sitting quietly.  The atmosphere was pretty relaxed given the gravity of the event. We found out that Elena was going to be the first performer playing.  She was as calm as could be.  Shortly after, Josh’s father showed up and joined us.  He is a professor at Columbia University, a scientist.  

As the ceremony began, Elena, played (and was on camera on national television) and the first two family members began to read the list of names.  The reading would follow a pattern—Robert A, Sally B, Joseph C, and my beloved son...  In the meantime, Dr. Rim and I started talking about many things.  He really is an interesting man and we moved from topic to topic.  All the while people were swooping in and out of the tent.  Mayor Bloomberg stopped by and, in a very dignified way, thanked us all for being part of the day.  Assistant Commissioner Kathleen Hughes came by to ask my advice about something.  Governor McGreevey of New Jersey stopped by briefly.  Performers were coming and going and all the while the names continued, “my loving husband, my wonderful sister, ...how we miss you.”

As the hours rolled on, the situation was starting to seem a tiny bit surreal to me.  Everyone was going about their business, keeping things organized.  We were just a few feet from where people were performing and where family members were reading a very long list of names and despite that proximity, we saw absolutely nothing that we couldn’t see if we stayed home and watched it on TV.  I’m chatting away energetically with Dr. Rim on subjects far and wide.  

Finally, Josh played, really well as he consistently does, and we could leave. I said good by to Joshua and his dad. It was nearly noon when we left.  The whole area was heavily secured.  Police were everywhere.  Everyone seemed busy, even as I moved away from the immediate vicinity.  I walked the rest of the way across the island and caught a ferry to Jersey City.

When I arrived in Jersey City, I suddenly felt exhausted.  I sat down on one of the benches facing the Hudson River and I started to cry.  

And I could not stop.

Mr. Beeson's Piano

Composer Jack Beeson at his piano

One of my absolute favorite musical memories of all times was running into composer Jack Beeson in front of what used to be called the New York State Theater at Lincoln Center.  I had just been to an excellent performance of Mr. Beeson’s opera “Lizzie Borden” at the New York City Opera.  He was in a frame of mind I can only call transcendent.  He was floating on a cloud of joy and satisfaction and gratitude.  It gives me great pleasure just remembering the occasion now as I write.  

That encounter with Mr. Beeson was a magnificent way to cap a Sunday afternoon performance of a great opera. Lizzie Borden was everything you would expect from an opera that celebrates a woman who murders her mother and father with an ax.  It also had its own set of values, including some very dark humor. Mr. Beeson’s music always seemed perfect for whatever purpose he was composing.  The music for Lizzie Borden is powerful and energetic, brittle at times, exquisitely lyrical at times.  Like Benjamin Britten, Mr. Beeson captured the interior emotional drama that consumes his characters.  Unlike Benjamin Britten, Mr. Beeson was an American composer, born in Muncie, Indiana, and his music reflects American aesthetics and values without being self conscious in any way.  He was a part of the generation after Copland and Ives who wrote music that has distinctly American themes (Lizzie Borden takes place in Falls River, Massachusetts) without trying to write “American” music.

Nora Beeson, a former member of our Board of Directors, a devoted tireless worker for the school, and a very good friend to me personally was also the wife of Jack Beeson.  Nora and Jack attended many many concerts at Bloomingdale and contributed immeasurably to the school.  Sadly, Mr. Beeson passed away in June of 2010 at the age of 88.

Now, through the generosity of Nora Beeson and Miranda Beeson (Nora and Jack’s wonderful daughter), Bloomingdale School of Music has received Mr. Beeson’s beautiful Baldwin piano. which is now in our library on the second floor.  Through an earlier gift, arranged with Nora’s help, we already own composer Douglas Moore’s Mason and Hamlin piano.  What an honor it is to now have two of America’s foremost opera composers’ pianos in use at Bloomingdale.

I am a little intimidated by composers and the magic they create with their musical scores.  I can only imagine the alchemy involved with combining Mr. Beeson and his beloved piano.  The results speak for themselves—a legacy of wonderful music.  Now it’s up to us at Bloomingdale to continue the work of making music worthy of the gift.

Trusting Your Talent

Just what is talent, anyway?  The dictionary defines it as a “natural aptitude or skill.”  The idea of talent permeates the study of the arts at all levels.  It’s one of those ideas that some people use to pigeon-hole others, or, even worse, it’s an idea that some people use to limit themselves. All manner of achievement is attributed to having talent and any number of short comings are blamed on the lack of talent.

I have been working with young talented people since 1973.  Some of them were more talented than others, of course. A few who thought they were talented, were surprisingly limited. Others were amazingly talented, yet completely unconvinced that they could achieve as an artist.  Others have been incredibly talented but it meant nothing to them.  Something inside of them kept them from fully understanding what talent really is and the importance of making the most out of it.

How much talent do you have and how much do you need?  I love the quotation attritbuted to Samuel Goldwyn, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”  With a very small  change, that idea sums up my feeling about talent.  “The harder I work, the more talented I become.”

Two years ago I worked with a young string player named Robert (not his real name).  Robert was a hard worker, very musical (lyrical player), he also worked beautifully with other players. Being a good collaborator is quite a gift.  One day I asked him if he was considering making music a career.  He told me, with some sadness, he wished he had that ability. I was stunned. If any student had that ability it was he, yet his own vision of himself was not big enough to include his talent.

The biggest mistake I have seen young artists make is to censor their own talent.  An artist's life is about hard work and also about expectations.  When a player asks me if they are sharp or flat on a given note, I always turn the question back to them.  90% of the time, when I make them answer, they are correct.  They have the ability but they are not fully aware they have it.

If you have a powerful motivation to be a musician, trust that. Something about it resonates within you. Listen to that.  Believe in your ability to master your craft and then work really hard at it.  No time will be wasted. Every bit of work you put into it you will get back ten-fold.

That's it.  That's my pitch.  I hope you will forgive my presumption in offering it to you.  I hope your journey of self-discovery offers abundant personal rewards and satisfaction.

Playing Bach

The Bloomingdale Chamber Orchestra has been rehearsing the Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 and we are having a tough time with it.  Modern orchestras don’t do as much Bach as they do other composers.  Bach’s music wasn’t really written for the modern orchestra.  It doesn’t quite fit.  The Fifth Brandenburg, for example, has no second violin part.  

What it does have is a lot of notes.  In Baroque music, the flow of a piece is governed by the musical line.  A line is a self-propelled musical entity, usually based on one or two short musical segments called motives which are transformed during the course of the piece.  Every line has its own kinetic energy which ebbs and flows, creating the expressive potential of the line.  The interaction of two or more lines is what creates the tension and release that both propel the piece forward and which lead to the overall drama in a piece of Baroque music.  The interaction creates a kind of polarity—equal and opposite forces trying to unite.  The whole process is called fortspinnung in German—spinning forth.  Its part of what makes Baroque music seem so restless and energetic.  Bach represents the epitome of this kind of Baroque music and the Brandenburg concerti represent some of his very best secular instrumental compositions.  

What Bach’s music doesn’t have much of are rests, which is one of the reasons it’s so challenging.  While lines are built of two or three simple motives, “development” consists mostly of transforming those motives--reshaping them, altering them with accidentals, moving them to new keys, playing them upside down, playing them backward, among other things. It means players need to be aware of the notes every moment they are playing, while at the same time musically shaping the line and being aware of how the line interacts with the other performers. 

A few years ago, I was given a book titled Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas Hofstadter.  I am not going to pretend I understood much of that book, but what I loved about it was the idea that three magnificent creative thinkers in mathematics, art, and music could be linked through an understanding of thinking and awareness.  I love the idea that Bach’s musical lines have energy contained within them, just the the way the sweeping lines of a sculptor like Bernini contain energy, and those lines can uplift those who experience them.

For the performer, playing Bach is one of music’s extreme sports and one of music’s most completely satisfying experiences.  After you have finished performing the piece, you know you have done something special.
                                                                             Lawrence Davis