Music and Miscellaneous

The Pleasures of Organization

2010-02-27T01:37:00.002-05:00

As I've written elsewhere, tonight I took six sheets of 20 x 23 inch paper (made by the good Post-it people) and wrote down all my professional obligations (plus a couple of personal goals and side-projects, not strictly professional), along with the date it needs to be complete or an estimation of such a date. This took me up to February, 2015, when my projected song cycle, Loss and Magic, will be premiered at UNH.

Strangely enough, this process gave me an unbelievable amount of comfort. Yes, the list is ridiculously long, and if I can get through what I have, I am going to have to learn to say no more often in the future; but somehow it looks oddly manageable.

Next task--more arduous: break down each obligation into a series of manageable tasks, estimate how long each task will take, and plug these tasks into a weekly or semi-weekly schedule, depending on all the known deadlines. Starting that project tomorrow. Much of this way of thinking owes to my reading Eviatar Zerubavel's The Clockwork Muse, and my memories of those wonderful days when I was working a full-time job and coursework for two doctorates at Eastman. I had every minute scheduled and I was more productive than I've ever been. I recommend The Clockwork Muse to anyone that feels overwhelmed by their ambitions.

On Music Appreciation

2010-02-07T23:27:00.002-05:00

I've pretty much given up on the notion of a good textbook for music appreciation. I've looked at them all--indeed, my first experience with music history was with Charles Hoffer's Music Listening Today. But things have changed a lot since I was 10. For one thing, we ignore pop music (not to mention indie, world, and all sorts of other little sub-subgenres) at our peril. Non-music majors simply are not going to drop that music and embrace classical music anymore. Why not lead them to a deeper, richer experience of that non-classical music?

That's my plan, anyway, for this semester's class in appreciation, good old MUSI401 at UNH. Fortunately, this is an honors section, so the students are very motivated and very smart. I think they'll be able to help me find out exactly how best to teach this class. And I'm videotaping every class meeting so they (and I) are going to have a record. I'm also keeping a record of what I did, which I might make available for their use and which, I hope, will serve me when I try to organize this material further.

The Pleasures of Long-Term Practicing

2009-07-06T22:09:00.002-04:00

I’m continually amazed at my professional piano-playing colleagues, who are usually so busy that they must maximize the efficiency of their practicing in a way that’s completely beyond my imagination. Much of the time (or so it seems to me), they learn (or re-learn) music in days, at most a few weeks. Since they do this constantly, I suppose their muscle memory (and perhaps also their sight-reading ability) is more finely developed than mine.

Performance, much as I love it, can never occupy so much of my time that I can come close to these virtuosic powerhouses. But while that’s true, I can give myself a luxury that they can’t: I can learn pieces over a longer span of time—can, in a sense, live with the piece, or better, experience playing a particular piece as if it’s like getting to know someone. I first became aware of what that feels like when I began performing Two² with Laurel back in 1993. After a couple of years not doing it, we got into the habit of playing it every year. It changes partially with us, partially with circumstances—for example, in the last couple of years, we tend to play it as the second half of an evening-length program (with Four⁶ as the first half). I think it works pretty well that way, although at some point I'd like to do the two piano parts of Music for _____ as Music for Two. It’s been a while since I listened to that piece, but I seem to remember it would make a good contrast with Two².

Anyway, I found myself thinking about this afternoon when I had a sudden urge to practice some music that I’m playing for Nic Orovich in the spring. So far, the two works definitely on the program are Hindemith’s alt-horn sonata and Leslie Bassett’s trombone sonata. I played the latter many, many years ago while I was still in high school with Hugh Eddy, who I now see is the associate trombonist with the New York City Ballet orchestra (yay, Hugh!); I haven’t played it since. I was surprised today that the piece came back into my fingers after about 90 minutes. But I’m more glad that, now that it has, I have lots of time to spend with it as a piece of music—rather than finding myself fighting to perfect it the week before the performance. The Hindemith is new, but I’ve played so many of his sonatas that I feel as if I’m with an old friend every time I learn a new one.

This kind of practicing is surely a luxury; I can’t help feeling, though, that it gives people the chance to make a particular piece of music a part of their life. That’s something rather different from working full-time as a performing musician.

Playing Cage in Missouri

2009-03-09T11:59:00.004-04:00

I’m flying back from Missouri State University, where Laurel and I played Two² and (with Barry and Peter) Four⁶. Laurel and I have played this piece almost every year since 1993, and something very unusual happened to me while playing this time around. My usual performance attitude is one of extreme concentration and emotional engagement with the music I’m performing. This time, I would not say I was concentrating as much as I usually do, but neither was I apathetic, going through the motions. And I felt emotions too. The feeling I had, perhaps, comes closest to the feeling I have when I’m practicing or playing for myself—no one around, no one to play to, no reason to be nervous or tense. And I got to thinking about the Zen mindset of nonattachment, of allowing feelings to arise and then depart as quickly; since we’ve played this piece so often, and since we hope to play it at least once a year for the foreseeable future, have these performances become everyday life? It’s very difficult to express exactly what this experience felt like for me, and I’m trying to distance it from some sort of otherworldly experience just as I’m trying to differentiate it from something banal and uninteresting.

And then after the talk I gave today before leaving for the airport, I was talking to Peter and a couple of his MSU colleagues and I told them it occurred to me that when I say something like, “I know something about Zen” or “I know a lot about Zen,” what can that possibly mean?

The Lord of the Rings again

2009-03-05T21:59:00.001-05:00

I’ve been reading The Lord of the Rings again—this is probably the fourth time through. (Thanks to Paul Harris for introducing me to the book when I was in high school.) It’s lost none of its narrative power and excitement; in fact, I sometimes have to make myself slow down to savor Tolkien’s detailed descriptions of the landscapes and the poems and bits of historical lore that he adds in. Over the years, I’ve occasionally read other fantasy fiction—very occasionally. Lynn Draper recommended Terry Brooks’s Sword of Shannara and I remember liking it; Vanessa Davis keeps recommending something with a Greek-like name . . . Acropolis? Hellespont? I don’t know if I’ll get to it.

I also don’t think I’d like Brooks if I had the chance to re-read it; his world didn’t stay with me. But Tolkien excels precisely because of the detail of his world, its history, its languages—even if he hadn’t filled out the rest of this history in The Silmarillion and all the other manuscripts that Christopher Tolkien has published as The History of Middle-earth, the tantalizing glimpses of the past that he gives us in The Lord of the Rings is enough to make Tolkien’s world apparent in all its breadth.

And I love the tone of the prose in The Lord of the Rings. In The Hobbit, Tolkien told a tale for children; the narrator’s voice betrays an awkward self-consciousness:

This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but he gained – well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.

Compare that to this passage, from The Two Towers—Gollum returns to Frodo and Sam and sees them sleeping peacefully together:

Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo’s knee – but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.

What an amazing passage! Even as Gollum covets the ring, he also loves Frodo and longs for the closeness that Sam and Frodo share. Tragically, the corruption of the Ring has foreclosed the possibility of love to Gollum forever. Still, he’s not simply an evil character; he carries with him the remnants of the being he once was—Smeágol—and the tortured recollections of love and kindness which he cannot experience again. Could a child really sense the full import of such loneliness? I’m very glad that Tolkien seemed not to bother worrying about that.

There are few books I have time to read more than once, but I enjoy making time to re-read The Lord of the Rings. And while I’m glad that I was able to see Peter Jackson’s magnificent filmed adaptation of Tolkien’s novel, I know it can’t begin to compare with the depth, pacing, and profound drama of the original. One day, I’ll detail all of the film’s shortcomings as a way to goad people into reading (or re-reading) the novel for themselves.

Thoughts on the “25 Things about Me”

2009-03-01T10:42:00.002-05:00

The “25 Things about Me” Facebook craze, sad to say, seems to have died down, no doubt because some wag-journalists and computer-culture experts have offered their learned opinions on how stupid it is in order to shame people into silence. Again.

Claire Suddath’s withering, mean-spirited critique in Time struck me as typical, but I imagine I could find others more artfully written and more insightful. Among other things, she estimates that 800,000 hours of worktime productivity have been lost as a result of “this recent bout of viral narcissism.” (Well, Mr. Scrooge, I guess it’s time to fire all these layabouts on the job so we can improve the world economy.) And Claire laments that most people wrote only trivial, unfunny lists that were far too personal; I’m sure everyone feels awful about wasting Claire’s valuable time.

I loved doing this list. I found out about it because I’d been tagged by my wonderful friend Chris Mandra, a fine composer and artist and an endlessly fascinating raconteur. And so I wrote my list, in part, knowing that it should be interesting (and funny) enough for Chris. After I finished (below), Chris and I had the best conversation we had had in years; that alone was worth the 10 or 15 minutes that it took me to write it.

I was fascinated by dinosaurs growing up; I knew the names of all the different ones.
Once I tried to write a book about the Civil War, but I realized what I knew filled only half a page.
I make technology work for me.
I love chicken tikka masala; I also love peanut butter.
If I had to pick one book that summed up the way I feel about life, it would be The World According to Garp.
My (somewhat dubious) gift: making complicated ideas understandable with a few pithy remarks.
I transcribed a Scarlatti sonata by ear when I was 14.
I often have dreams in installments, like a TV miniseries; I once had a dream with credits.
I generally find composers the most interesting people.
I sometimes think I should have been a psychologist.
I have 25 bow ties; if anyone’s ever stuck on a gift to buy me, I suggest a bow tie.
I think that courtesy is probably the most important thing in a civilized society.
It’s often foggy outside my house; it makes me imagine I’m on the moors.
I think that everything could (and should) be done more artistically.
I would like to meet Peter Tork.
I watched The Shining 24 times. At least.
I find people with OCD charming.
I thought the world was going to end before 1998.
I believe in reincarnation.
I learned most of what I believe about morality from watching Dark Shadows.
I think William Schuman wrote the greatest American symphony.
I hate humidity.
I love the sound of wind.
I enjoy eating in restaurants when there are only a few people in them.
I’d like to be a cat, but only if someone like me was my owner.

After I posted it, several old friends commented on their favorites—some of them, like David Kase, I haven’t seen in years, might not see again. But for that brief moment, we had a chance to be together again. And it seems to me that whether or not the occasion of bringing people together leads to the exalted or the ridiculous, a little more community is better than none at all.

I heard a computer-culture expert talking about the phenomenon on NPR—can’t remember the name of the show now so I can’t locate it online. This expert made the logical point that older authors indulge their sense of nostalgia and history in their lists, while younger ones—who lack the same amount of life experience—tend toward the spontaneous and, perhaps, idiotic. So what? Let them write another “25 Things” in 5 years, or 10 or 25; taken together, the lists could make for a very poetic form of autobiography.

In Recovery from Television

2009-02-28T13:15:00.003-05:00

In July, I moved to a new condo and joined the ranks of homeowners dreaming the American dream. (So far, at least.) In the process, I didn’t transfer my cable TV and was thus without network television (local or otherwise) for about six months. (I got basic cable again about a month ago—more of that later.) I have to say that the experience helped my thinking generally—I read more, listened to (a little more) music, and generally felt my mind was somehow clearer than it had been with the television almost constantly on.

Of course, there are some real drawbacks to a life without any television at all. Lots of people watch TV, of course, and an observation about a favorite show can be a great conversation-starter. TV references abound in my lectures—or they used to—and they can be an effective (if somewhat coarse) method of making unfamiliar ideas or people more accessible. (Seinfeld has worked well for this purpose, but I don’t imagine that will continue much longer.) And I missed the final season of The Shield, one of the few TV shows I thought was actually well made. The problem, of course, was that I didn’t simply watch good television; I watched too much, well, very bad television.

But in January, as the new season of Lost was approaching and I realized it would cost only a few dollars more than I was already spending for my cable internet service, I decided to reactivate basic cable. I deliberately eschewed all the bells and whistles that I’d previously enjoyed: DVR, HD TV, endless channels that I couldn’t watch even if I didn’t have a job. And I wondered if I’d get hooked again.

Well, now it’s almost March and my television-watching is still under control. I watch Lost; sometimes I watch news. But one night I started watching Supernatural and got bored after about 10 minutes, so I decided to read instead. That’s a good development.

The Saddest Music

2009-02-27T23:08:00.002-05:00

I was talking to my friend Chris Hill tonight about Rattle’s performance of Mahler 9. (It had been recommended by my friend Tobias Hünermann.) I bought it—months ago—but still haven’t listened to it. The reason? I feel as if I need to have a certain store of emotional strength to listen to it. Otherwise I become inconsolably depressed. I think the last time I listened to it was, oh, 1992—that's how deeply it affects me. Right now, I’m absolutely sure I don’t have the fortitude I need. For instance, lots of great animals in my life have died: the first was Lori’s cat Julio; then Kari’s cat Joon followed a few months later; then my own wonderful Chococat over the Christmas break. And just today Laurel’s dog Magy died. Animals are like children to me. So I’m certainly not ready for Mahler 9 anytime soon.

I’ve been wondering why it seems to me that all the saddest music I know comes from when I was younger. The second movement of Tippett’s Double Concerto; Barber, Knoxville: Summer of 1915; Albinoni Adagio; second movement of Tippett’s first piano sonata (why Tippett?); Duran Duran, Ordinary World. I think I was 33 when I heard the Duran Duran and that’s the last sad song I remember hearing as sad. Have I become immune to sad music now that I’m older? Do I feel less deeply? Or have I simply become less self-indulgent?

Strangest of all are the pieces that sometimes seem sad to me and sometimes don’t: Reich’s Music for Eighteen Musicians is one, but so are “Mache dich” from the St. Matthew Passion and Howard Shore’s closing credits music for The Two Towers. What accounts for the difference? It can’t be a question of quality alone. Does it come, perhaps, from the power of the memory with which the sad music is associated? And if that's true, might I someday have a wonderful memory associated with Mahler 9 that will make it possible for me to hear it as often as I’d like?

David Zinman’s Beethoven Cycle with the Tonhalle Orchester Zurich

2007-07-08T22:55:00.001-04:00

I was thinking about the Morton Feldman interview with Peter Gena where Feldman said that Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony should be played at least once every three years or so. I rarely have a burning desire to listen to Beethoven these days, but when I do, I usually find the experience exhilarating and not at all academic. I don’t know what accounts for this, but at least some of it comes from the exuberance with which musicians play his work. (Ralph Shapey said that Beethoven's music has an indestructible architectural structure that is impervious to bad performance. I agree.)

Anyway, when my friend and colleague William Kempster recommended a new recording of all nine Beethoven symphonies conducted by David Zinman and performed by the Tonhalle Orchester Zurich, I had mixed feelings. I already own three performances of these pieces conducted by Furtwängler, Hogwood, and Gardiner. I hadn’t listened to them recently, but in my mind’s ear I remembered the feeling of peculiar excitement I experienced when I heard the Prestissimo from 9:IV under Hogwood; I thought, This must be what it must have been like to be in the audience at the premiere. I also remembered Zinman’s performances of these symphonies during his tenure at the Baltimore Symphony. The orchestra couldn’t quite handle the original tempos that Zinman insisted on using; and the whole enterprise didn’t make sense anyway, because I think he left out some of Beethoven's original repeats. And on top of all that was my usual disinclination to listen to Beethoven. Did I really need to have another cycle of Beethoven symphonies, even though Bill insisted that the performances were the best he’d ever heard?

Sometime after I scaled back my writing for American Record Guide, I decided that I had the time and the inclination to revisit some of the great Western classical works that I never had a chance to listen to because I was reviewing what seemed like the 800th recording of the Goldberg Variations. And I remembered Bill’s recommendation. The price was right: I think the set costs only $30 or so. So I bought it and began listening with no. 1, continuing in order until I finished listening to the Ninth yesterday.

I have to agree with Bill that these are amazing performances. The musicians play from the critical performing editions of the works prepared by Jonathan Del Mar and published by Bärenreiter. Zinman takes Beethoven's metronome markings for the tempos, but this time the orchestra plays beautifully; all the original repeats seem to be there. The phrasing follows eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century principles of performance practice: short, articulated phrases—no “long line”; and sometimes the musicians embellish their melodic lines just a bit, a practice some think was quite common at the time. The instruments sound modern except for the percussion: the timpani have a crisper sound that suggests the use of calfskin heads and harder mallets; the metal percussion instruments have an interesting timbre that’s hard to explain but that sounds unlike modern examples. And the Del Mar edition differs from the classic Breitkopf in a number of cases (most audibly in slurs and other expressive markings).

No, it’s not perfect. Sometimes the trills sound absurdly metronomic (introduction to Symphony no. 2); some added embellishments distract more than they delight (oboe cadenza in Symphony no. 5:I); and some of the phrasing will strike more than a few listeners as overly articulated. (I have to say I like playing Beethoven’s music with this kind of space between the phrases myself, even though I wonder if I’m wrong to do so because I know Beethoven criticized Mozart’s playing as too choppy.) Even so, for anyone who has thought that the period instrument movement was no more than an interesting side enterprise that could never seriously affect the modern orchestra, this recording will be a revelation.

The Zen of Top Chef

2007-07-06T22:14:00.001-04:00

First of all, I should say that I've never really understood the appeal of most reality shows. When I watch TV (which I still do more than I should), I want to see interesting characters in interesting theatrical situations--ordinary people behaving badly, or childishly, or bawdily in very short-term life situations (usually way too contrived for comfort) does not appeal.

But I have enjoyed Bravo's Top Chef very much. I found myself emotionally invested in Season 1's characters. I liked Harold very much--I thought that I would rather see him win than anyone else. And I was quick to side with Dave against Stephen or Tiffani. For instance, I thought the judges should have eliminated Tiffani because the Cirque de Soleil liked Dave's food much more than they did Tiffani's. But she stayed because I think Tom Colicchio was biased in favor of Tiffani in Season 1 (just as he also seemed in favor of Cliff in Season 2). Naturally, it was much more of a dramatic finish to have Harold defeat Tiffani rather than Dave--I mean, how could anyone be happy to see Dave lose?

I soon came to feel that Bravo shamelessly manipulated my experience of these characters just so they could create these over-the-top pseudo-dramatic moments. So I tried, in Season 2, not to have any favorites--but I couldn't keep it up for long. First, I was mainly rooting for Ilan and I thought Marcel was an arrogant snot. (I also really liked Carlos and was sad to see him leave so early.) But then when Betty started taking cheap shots at Ilan whenever it suited her to do so, I began to root for Marcel. And the more everyone else hated him, the more I rooted for him. It wasn't necessarily that I thought Marcel was the best chef on the show--I don't know enough about gourmet cooking to answer that question--but rather that I thought he was picked on with a severity disproportionate to whatever unpleasant behavior he showed. After Ilan made his cruel joke about Marcel's sexual knowledge, I couldn't take any pleasure in seeing him win. And I still can't. So Season 2 ended and I felt, once more, that Bravo had successfully manipulated me.

In Season 3--so far, at least--I've managed to like everyone on the show. In the Season 1 vs. Season 2 smackdown (where we first met Season 3's contestants), I came to really enjoy Stephen and Tiffani. They seem very serious and passionate about what they're doing; they have something to say and I like the fact that they really believe in themselves. And I'm really enjoying Hung in Season 3's cast--I know we're supposed to hate him, but I think he's funny and very serious about his work. In fact, each one of the Season 3 chefs are different and very interesting, and I find myself wishing they could all stay for the whole series and have the final battle be between the two chefs who were consistently the best each week. But I guess that would be too expensive, and it would be harder for the Bravo people to manipulate the situations and interview dialogue so that we will be made to like one person or another.

Welcome

2007-07-05T21:40:00.001-04:00

A lot of friends and colleagues blog, and I'm very impressed with their results. I doubt what I write here will be on the level of what I've seen elsewhere, but in the last couple of days it seemed to me that the blogosphere might be a good place to post some notes and random musings about things that interest me, mostly music and film. These sorts of posts don't fit very well in the other publications that I write for; for example, I've been reviewing for the American Record Guide since 1993--mostly harpsichord music and occasional newer stuff--but recently decided to scale back that work, at least for the immediate future; but even when I was writing a lot for ARG, I wasn't able to write on several composers that I'm very interested in (for instance, John Adams). And while I love films, I've published very little about film.

Don't expect lots of entries for this blog, especially during the summer of 2007--I have to make sure this exercise doesn't keep me from doing some of the other writing that I really need to be doing!