Premios Dardo Awards

Wow- I’ve won my very own Premios Dardo award, thanks to Jen at Adventures of an Idaho Violist. I’ve been trying to get Jen in with the Oregon East Symphony for a while now, as I’d love to work with her, and I think it would be a hoot having a blogger in the orchestra for a concert I’m also blogging about. Fingers crossed that something works out before I finish up there.

So, here are the rules of the Premios Dardo awards-

1- Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person that has granted the award and his or her blog link.

2- Pass the award to at least 5 blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgment. Remember to contact each of them to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

These exercises are always good for a laugh, and hopefully help stir a bit of fresh traffic for all involved. All of the blogs on my blogroll are worthy of listing, so in trying to cut the list back down to five, I’ve tried to pick not only blogs that I enjoy, but also some that I think could use a bit more exposure, or that I’ve only discovered fairly recently…

1- Black Dogs- Insightful, opinionated and committed writing about music, and hilarious takes on life and food. Author RAD Stainforth has got it all wrong about Mendelssohn and all right about Schumann- which I find odd, since their reputations were both wrecked for a hundred years by Wagner. Still- I can forgive the Mendelssohn thing, but I continue to be baffled by the affection for the gut-busting horrors of the Full English Breakfast.

2- Horndog Blog- A fairly recent discovery for me, Bruce Hembd has a lot of interesting and funny takes on music and some useful practical insights on horn playing and the psychology of brass playing in general. He’d make this list alone for bringing to my attention the Onion’s recent “brass section is sucking up to the conductor” news story.

3- Johnson Rambler- Author Tim Rutherford Johnson is New Music-centric, informative and entertaining. To my profound irritation, his take on the recent NYT feature on the use of music in Peanuts was way funnier and cleverer than mine.

4- Composer Bastard- Bryan-Kirk Reinhardt must certainly hold the all time record for most comments at Vftp, but he still has time to maintain a great blog of his own. Right about Rachmaninoff, but wrong about Downie. We haven’t heard from him here in a while- he’s probably pouting because I’m doing Mahler again.

5- On An Overgrown Path- Hardly a new discovery and not suffering for lack of recognition (how many NYT mentions has he gotten? I’ve gotten the Gramophone and BBC features, but it’s the Times I covet now. Oh, how I covet them….). All the more reason to tag him- hopefully he can plug five deserving blogs to his huge audience.

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We can all stop worrying about “cello scrotum” at last

 

 (Apparently, doing this isn’t likely to damage the scrotum. bbc.co.uk)

I couldn’t resist linking to  a post on the history of the mythical condition known in medical circles as “cello scrotum,” (one I had never heard of until Kristen from Florida forwarded me the article from the BBC). How could one not be moved by such double-entendre rich writing as-

“A spokesman for the BMJ said that, 34 years on, no-one faced the sack for failing to spot the implausible condition. “

Well, I’m glad nobody is facing a sack afflicted with “cello scrotum.”

One might applaud the BBC for having the balls to tackle so bawdy a subject, but I can only bow in admiration when a member of the House of Lords admits to “dining out” on cello scrotum for thirty years. And, I fall, supplicant, upon the floor in awe of the BBC’s use of the heading

Scrotal flak

 

What more can I say…. 

Check out the BBCs podcast from PM on the subject.

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Heavy, man, heavy…..

A Mahler V query from the mailbag-

Question for your thoughts…8 bars before rehearsal 2 in movement 1 the trombones are marked “schwer.”  However, that figure isn’t marked like any other time in the movement that I see.  The insane stickler for details that he is…is there supposed to be a tangible difference, or do you carry the idea through?  Just curious…

Of all the Mahler symphonies, I think the 5th offers up the most of these little points of inquiry and uncertainty- several of which I’d already planned to write about here.

As it happens, this question (from one of the small army of brilliant young conductors who will be playing in the orchestra for this concert) is one I’d already given some thought to. Had he caught me in the hall on my way to rehearsal and asked, my answer would have been pretty straightforward.

I would have broken the question in to two parts- what does the word “schwer” actually mean in musical terms, and does its appearance in this one spot tell us how this motive should be played throughout the movement?

“Schwer” means “heavy,” which leaves the performer asking whether it is a term of tempo, volume or articulation? This is not the only time Mahler uses the word “schwer-“ most interestingly, he writes it over the entire staff at figure 19 in this movement, but here he only writes it above the trombones. The rhythm at 19 is an augmentation of the dotted rhythm in the trombones at 2 minus 8. That can’t be an accident.

Mahler is quite daring in his willingness to write tempo modifications over isolated sections or solo players throughout the 5th, so we have to guess that whatever “schwer” means to Mahler, ifit applies specifically to the trombones at that moment, or to all appearances of this riff in the trombones, or, indeed, in any section .

However, this is the first occurrence of that motive, which is no accident. Based on this, my intuition tells me that this is Mahler’s instruction for how this motive should be played, not simply how this bar should be played, so I guess my short answer to the question above is that I would carry the “scwher” execution of this idea through the whole movement.

But what is the idea? Does Mahler wish us to interpret “heavy” as “slower?” Given that this dotted rhythm is a continuation of the horn theme of the previous few bars, and connects to brief transitional idea in the horns then the funeral march theme (also the same dotted rhythm)  in the violins, any disruption in the tempo seems out of character with the fact that this is a march.

Likewise, it seems unlikely that “schwer” refers to the dynamic, since at that very moment he specifically instructs the trombones to play “piano.” I suppose if any conductor was going to ask for “piano but louder than piano” it would be Mahler, but he could have written mp if he wanted “piano but louder.”

What about articulation? Mahler has notated this passage without articulation marks- should we assume that by “schwer” or “heavy” he wants us to play a little on the long side? The dotted rhythms in the melody (horns) and bass line (cellos and basses) that immediately precede this moment are written as dotted quarter-eighth, whereas here, he clearly writes quarter- eighth rest- eighth. Surely he wouldn’t have added a rest if he wanted the bones to make a point of holding out their notes as long as possible right after writing without rests in the preceding bars.

So, if Mahler’s not referring to tempo, volume or articulation, what does he mean by “schwer?” One clue may be found in the dotted rhythms heard in the opening bars of the work, or more specifically the double-dotted rhythms in the opening bars of the work. At first glance, the first occurrence of a dotted rhythm in Mahler V is in bar 9 in the solo trumpet, except here, and in bars 15 and 16, Mahler writes a double dotted rhythm (double-dotted quarter-note and a sixteenth). Such a double dotting in a march theme might well have been done as a matter of tradition and habit by Vienese musicians of his day, so it’s entire possible that the trombones would not have realized that the solo trumpeter was looking at a different rhythm than theirs in bar 27. Given this, it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that Mahler wrote “Schwer” to encourage them to read this rhythm literally, with a nice heavy, punch eighth note at the end of the beat rather than a 16th.

This reading seems borne out by the fact that the melodic dotted rhythm in the trumpet in bar 9 is a diminution of the structural dotted rhythm that opens the work. Mahler specifically asks the trumpet soloist to stylize the rhythm at the opening- playing the triplets at the end of each bar more or less twice as fast as marked. Rather than 3 beats plus a triplet over 1 beat (ie—a dotted rhythm) Mahler asks for 3 ½ beats plus a triplet over half a beat (ie—a double-dotted rhythm). This is a clear augmentation of the main dotted rhythm which follows (it’s more correct to say that the dotted rhythm in bar 9 is a diminution of the rhythmic outline of the opening fanfare).

Remember, then, that when Mahler writes “Schwer” for the whole orchestra (figure 19 in the score), it is again over the augmented form of the dotted rhythm, only here it seems clear that he wants the dotted rhythm rendered quite literally.

So- my short answer would have been that, in this context, “schwer” means a reading of the dotted rhythm that is literal, verging on a slightly-long smaller note value, and that it applied to all occurances of this vamp rhythm throughout the music.

However, since I had the luxury of composing a response for Vftp, I was able to a bit of extra research. I pulled out my recording of Mahler’s piano-roll performance of this very movement to see how exactly GM read this passage.

There’s actually a considerable body of research contending that Mahler, generally speaking, intended dotted rhythms to be double dotted. For instance, at Figure 5 in the first movement, Mahler’s friend and collaborator Wilelm Mengelberg wrote in his score that Mahler intended the dotted rhythms in that passage to be double dotted. Are we not to read his rhythms literally, when he shows in the opening bars of the piece that he is more than capable of writing out a double-dotted rhythm, whether by using the extra dot, or by instructing the player to play the end of the beat later and faster, as he does with the triplets in the opening fanfare?

So- it’s off to Mahler’s piano-roll recording. Here’s what you hear at the fateful moment-

LISTEN

It’s odd, isn’t it. I’m reminded of the many attempts to describe Mahler’s way of walking- 3 normal steps then a fast, nervous hop. Mahler seems to be double dotting the rhythm, but also rushing it a little. It sounds nervous, Vienese, a little awkward (I doubt he would have replicated that hiccup in the tempo had heard a playback under studio conditions), but it’s definitely not literal, nor is it the opposite of the trumpet double-dotting at bar 9. It’s pretty clearly double-dotting with a bit of nervous rushing (possibly a piano-tick).

So does that mean that GM wanted all dotted rhythms double dotted? Let’s go back to that passage that Mengleberg wrote about. It seems that Mahler is, in fact, mixing and matching double dots with normal dotted rhythms-

LISTEN

Note how at the beginning of the theme he’s almost alternating a double-dotted unit with a “literal” unit, but as the phrase goes on, the delineation between the two seems to blur and become less predictable and quantifiable.

The same can be said of his treatment of the “schwer” rhythm. In fact, what’s kind of amazing, and daunting for the poor conductor, is that Mahler varies the execution of dotted rhythms almost continuously throughout the piece.

In old-fashioned performance-practice speak, this is what we call “Fantasie.” This is something that’s relatively easy to attain as a solo performer, but with a huge orchestra and limited rehearsal, did Mahler really expect us to constantly vary the weighting of dotted rhythms? Surely that’s impossible?

As it happens, I checked out the old Vienna Phil (remember, for better or worse, they were Mahler’s orchestra, and the traditions he knew are still there to a large extent- it is the most conservative group on Earth) DVD with Bernstein. Sure enough, although the dotted rhythms are not quite as wildly varied as in Mahler’s piano roll, they do tend to vary between literal and stylized readings of the rhythm throughout.

So, what, besides this blog post, is my answer to my colleagues question?

”Schwer” means “heavy.” “Schwer” means “schwer.” For answers, that’s the best I can do. For an interpreter, a question is more valuable than an answer.  Do we rate Mahler the pianist above Mahler the notator? Should we try to imitate and maintain the performing traditions of his day? Would he still play that rhythm that way today? Did he expect the rhythm to be played so un-literally by a full orchestra, or would he have simplified things to either double-dotted or not? Am I going to ask the bones to double-dot that damn rhythm? It sounds odd to me that way, but I’m an American of a completely different era to Mahler. Does that matter?

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Why Ken’s not losing his marbles

Great news from the New York Times today-

After controlling for numerous socioeconomic and health factors, including high cholesterol and high blood pressure, the scientists found that the subjects who had reported drinking three to five cups of coffee daily were 65 percent less likely to have developed dementia, compared with those who drank two cups or less.

Why am I not surprised that this was a Swedish and Danish study? I’m not sure our puritanical Anlgo-Saxon nations could have brought itself to undertake such a study.

Few things give e more pleasure and peace of mind than making a good coffee. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth earlier this month when my nearly-brand-new grinder packed in. Fortunately, I was able to repair it. Since we live in a throw-away world, actually repairing something broken might be even more satisfying than making a good cup o joe.

I’m curious what the Swedes were actually drinking in this study- I only drink espresso based stuff, as filter coffee makes me sweaty and jittery, which can’t be good for long-term health.

Anyway, I wonder if the preachy class is going to stop looking askance at coffee lovers now.

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A musical suicide mission

I seem to have acquired a reputation somewhere along the line as a conductor who often chooses very challenging programs.

(Some regular readers who I work with in various orchestras will already be laughing out loud wondering how I might begin to defend myself against this charge. I’m not going to. Not exactly)

I think I would be straining the bounds of credibility to contend that I don’t have a taste for challenges, but, in my defense, many of the most challenging programs I’ve done weren’t chosen by me. On paper, the CMEW program I did last spring would certainly qualify as close to impossible for the amount of rehearsal time we had (Paul Mefano had emailed about 10 days before the first rehearsal to ask how rehearsals were going, and I when I told him the first rehearsal was the one he was coming to in the studio the day before the concert, I think he almost passed out). That one was chosen by the BBC and CMEW’s AD, Gordon Downie. I once did Piston’s Sinfonietta, Ives 3, the Barber Adagio (which is crazy hard) and more on a concert- it was fun (and challenging) but nobody came to the concert. I was tempted to get the committee that picked the program to sign a statement that it wasn’t my idea, but I’m really glad I did it.

Then there’s the vexing question of what actually makes a concert difficult. Is it a question of a program being difficult for the individual players to execute, or is it that it is difficult to make it sound good? At many levels of the music business, I’m often surprised at the extent to which many players don’t seem to realize what they sound good on. Sad to say, but only the best musicians seem to realize that Haydn, Mozart and Schubert tend to be the hardest composers to play- not just the hardest to play in some artsy-fartsy, abstract way, but actually the hardest to play well enough that the audience is not writhing in agony throughout the performance. Beethoven’s music tends to be a little more forgiving in the hall because of the sheer energy and power of his music, but not on recording- every little blemish shows through. String players, on the other hand, tend to equate “high” with “hard” and “lots of sharps or flats” with “hard.” This would seem to mean that Mozart 41 is the easiest piece ever written. Find me a live recording of that piece without clams by any but the very best orchestras.

On the other hand, it’s pretty hard to make Richard Strauss sound bad, but Johann Strauss Jr. is much easier to mangle. When we did Brahms 1 and Death and Transfiguration on the same program last year, I think almost everyone in the band expected the Strauss to be the tougher piece, but it was the Brahms which did the ass-kicking. I did a Young Person’s Guide with a small regional orchestra a few years back and some of the players thought it was impossibly hard (I had a lot of complaints), but it sounded great in the concert and the audience loved it. The Leonore 3 also on the program sounded pretty weak by comparison, but these musicians’ impression of their performances was exactly the opposite of the audience’s.

The program I’m doing with the Wilmslow Symphony in a couple of weeks is certainly challenging by any measure, including mine-

Elgar- Cockaigne Overture

Gregson- Trombone Concerto

Arnold- Scottish Dances

Copland- Four Dance Episodes from “Rodeo”

Gershwin- An American in ParisThe Elgar is Strauss-ian in its ability to flatter the orchestra, provided you have a mighty enough virtuoso brass section, which the WSO does. Still, it is fiendishly hard to play for everyone, and very taxing for the brass- even brass monsters. Doing such a massive blow as a concert opener can either loosen up the whole group for the rest of the night, or wreck everyone’s chops and confidence.

The Gregson is a lovely piece, and very well written. Eddie (that’s Maestro Gregson to you, mate) came to our first working rehearsal on it on Friday and it was a tribute to his craftiness as an orchestrator that he went home pretty happy as far as I could tell. It’s tricky, but very playable. The only obvious extra challenge is that nobody in the band has heard it before, so we’re learning the style as well as the piece.

Then there’s the Arnold- it’s really a “pops” piece, and fortunately, it’s pretty straightforward musically, but there are a few nasty licks which will take a moment’s sorting out. Pieces like this can be dangerous, though, because you tend to under-rehearse them in favour of pieces like the Elgar, which are inescapably difficult. I like the piece, but I’m not sure the concert needed it- the  Gregson is short for a concerto at 18 minutes, but the Elgar is long for an overture. Still- they want to play it, and I’m excited to learn it.

First impressions are important in life. Buckaroo Holiday, the first movement, is orders of magnitude harder than the other 3 episodes from “Rodeo.” It’s also my favourite piece in the suite. Because it comes first, it tends to make the whole piece feel harder than it is, and you can’t afford to let up on the concentration after it’s over. By Copland’s formidable standards, it’s not that tricky, but it has an awful lot of gaping holes to fall into. You have to do it enough that everyone knows which version of the tune is coming next, or someone (usually someone loud) crashes in early. Hoe Down gets fingers flying, but it’s a standard youth orchestra piece.

I’ve enjoyed coming back to the Gershwin, having just done it at the OES fairly recently. I like bracketing the program with the two un-contestable masterpieces on offer, and somehow, I think Gershwin’s hyper-detailed orchestration seems very close to the rarified perfectionism of Elgar or even Mahler. It doesn’t sound like Mahler (at all), but the orchestral technique is pretty similar. All those lovely multi-layered dynamics and wonderful colors.…

The Gershwin sounded great at the first reading, but since then I’ve done a fair bit of work with the strings in particular, who tend to get forgotten in this piece. The first result of this is that they’re sounding much better, which gives the piece a level of depth and sophistication it often loses if you just leave it to the brass to carry the day, but the second result of thisis that I’ve convinced them that it is very hard. Now I’ve got to convince them that the difficulties are surmountable. It’s a pretty durable piece, fortunately.

I’m always surprised when I come back to the piece that the great trumpet solo in the slow section isn’t actually all that long. I think my misconception about this passage started with several performances of the Cincinnati Symphony’s legendary principal trumpet for many years, Phil Collins, who could make time stop with the sheer beauty of his sound. Phil has a great blog, by the way. Conductors can learn just as much from him as brass players, I’m sure.

I always think of this moment, with the rather salty accompaniment in the orchestra, as the grand entrance of a burleske queen in some Paris night club. In Phil’s hands, she was a sophisticated and glamorous European beauty. When James Smock played it at the OES, she was way kinkier, raunchier and racier (definitely the tougher side of Paris), in a way that was maybe a bit more startling, but kinda alluring. John’s playing her a little more upmarket than James’ down-and-dirty version, but he sounds great.

Anyway, the band’s been sounding good in rehearsals, and although I’m becoming aware of the dwindling hours of rehearsal left to us, I’ve been feeling reasonably confident about the concert- the orchestra has definitely grown in the year since my last visit.

However, I had a funny conversation after the last rehearsal with one of the string players, which got me thinking about this post. She said the programme was “so mad that I’ve had to resort to desperate measures- you know… the p-word………. practice.

She continued in a tone both humorous and ominous- “I think it’s a suicide mission, this program. These string parts are insane,” she warned. “A “Suicide Mission for Orchestra-” we should put that on the posters! I think we’re on a suicide mission this time!”

I mumbled something intended to be vaguely encouraging.

“Well, at least the wind section are happy,” she finished. “That’s the important thing!”

What was funny was that she didn’t seem upset or particularly worried- hopefully she knows it all sounds pretty good, regardless of what it feels like.

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Post of the week

Much as I dislike it whenever someone comes up with something that is significantly wittier than anything I’ve written in a long time, I have to admit, this post from Sequenza 21 had me howling. What would Alma Mahler have gotten up to in the age of Twitter?

 

@alma   Wassup, Tweeps! G. conducting 2nd 2nite. Goes on 4ever. Stuck at home w/ Evl Sis. Boorrring.   about1 hour ago from web

 

@AlexZ Did u show him my score yet? Did he like it? How much did he like it? Loved it, I bet. about 59 minutes ago from TweetDeck

@gropius Tx, God, u’re there, A. We r in bg trble. Must speak 2 u urg. G. has been talking about us 2 nut case Freud. It’ll be all ovr Vienna. about 59 minutes ago from TweetBerry

@alma OMG. I thought u were the only one G. didn’t know abt already. about 58 minutes ago from web

@ AlexZ Which part didn’t he like? I can re-write it. Always happy 2 do a re-write. about 57 minutes hour ago from TweetDeck

@gropius Crazy bastard said I had an edifice complex. Thinks he’s Woody Allen. about 55 minutes ago from TweetBerry

There’s more…..

kw 

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Fickle Magic

I’ve had a number of questions in the olde mailbag the last few weeks. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I do love hearing from you, so please keep them coming.

Today, “G” asks-  

Hi Ken,

I hope you don’t mind a question from an amateur and (even worse) a choir member.  One thing that I’ve noticed through the years is that all too frequently the ‘peak performance’ ends up being the final rehearsal before the real performance.  It’s so frustrating to receive accolades after a performance with the knowledge that they didn’t hear the very best performance that could have been.

Is that ‘typical’ for the orchestras that you conduct?  What do you do to make the performance the ‘peak’ performance? 

We had an incredible rehearsal of Handel’s Messiah with the________ Symphony on Monday night, and an adequate performance last night.

Well, part of me wants to simply lie, and say that I’ve never, ever conducted a concert that was not as good as the dress rehearsal.

Unfortunately, what “G” describes is so common that I don’t think anyone would believe me if I claimed that.

Evgeny Mravinsky, the legendary conductor of the Lenningrad Philharmonic, was not a fan of concerts in his later years, and often turned them over to his assistants, preferring the intimacy and control of the rehearsal environment. In the EMI documentary about his life, a  number of players talk about experiences in rehearsals that were so shattering, so overpowering that Mravinsky knew it could never be that good in the concert, so he simply didn’t conduct the concert. On one level, it bothered the musicians that he abandoned them when they went before the public, but they also recognized that, like many geniuses, he had his quirks. On balance, I think they felt that it was their privilege to be a part of those moments in the rehearsals.

I couldn’t imagine abandoning my colleagues in the orchestra for a concert, but then again, I’m neither as old nor as famous as he was. However, I have many times had the feeling in a rehearsal that something so magical was happening that the concert could never equal it. Frankly, some music is more suited for an empty hall than a full one anyway- sometimes playing into a silent, empty space is ideal. Much as I always want the audience to experience our very best, I also recognize that these moments are our privilege as musicians.

That said, I think most conductors try to save a little something in the rehearsals, and to not “push” too hard in a dress rehearsal. Sometimes that works, sometimes it backfired. I used to assist a well-known conductor who had taken holding back in rehearsals way too far- the musicians loved him as a person and a performer, but the lack of energy in rehearsals was a very sore point. On the other hand, as we all know, sometimes, when you back off, you get more- whether it is playing or conducting. You can step back a bit in a Bruckner symphony then gradually realize that something momentous is building, and you have to decide whether to pop the balloon or not. Don’t pop the balloon- chances are you’ll just ruin the rehearsal and not help the concert.

If a concert fails to take flight on the same metaphysical level as a rehearsal, that’s one thing, and I can live with it. Frustrating as it is, if someone gets nervous, I can understand that too- we’re all human. What makes me CRAZY, however, is when the level of basic concentration between rehearsal and concert falls off. The same thing often happens after opening night of an opera or on the middle performance of a 3 night subscription run. Everyone is so relieved to survive that first run-through that they just don’t mentally prepare as well for the next one. This may happen, but it shouldn’t, and one should feel bad, and it’s not okay when it happens. 

The other thing to remember is that you may not be the best judge of how your performance, or that of the entire group, is coming off. I recently came across this excellent blog post from my fello CCM-er Alban Gerhardt, written after his performance in my home town of Madison.

I just finished playing another Elgar performance in the very charming little city of Madison – I think it wasn’t a bad performance, but somehow I didn’t feel the closest of all connections with the audience; there was quite some coughing in the first minutes of the piece, and I guess it’s my upbringing to look for the blame in myself. I didn’t manage to engage them and draw them in with what I had to say with the music which resulted in the fact that they weren’t quite with me.What can one do if one realizes that? Start throwing some antics at them? No way, bad idea, even though it might do the trick, but I tried to just give as much intensity and emotion as I could to make the coughers be silent, and maybe I am wrong, but I think it worked later on.

Alban seemed rather cross with himself that he wasn’t able to create more of an atmosphere and dispel the coughs in the auditorium from the first note. I sympathize with the frustration at the coughing- I sometimes feel like I’m conducting in a flu ward, and it does bother me. However, Alban seemed to feel that he’d somehow not been able to connect to the  audience, when the comments on that post show that he’d made a profound impact on the audience and the musicians.

I heard the Saturday performance. I admit I was not prepared for what I heard, because I’ve never much liked the Elgar concerto (or much of Elgar’s other orchestral music — it seems to meander so), and I’d already heard it four times in the last two years. No, what I heard was something completely unexpected. The intensity of your performance brought the work into focus for me, and my attention was riveted throughout. You may have changed my opinion of the work.

Most of the time, thank goodness, I’d say performances I’m in go to another and better level than the rehearsals, and that everyone in the band recognizes that. However, if the concert doesn’t exceed the rehearsal by orders of magnitude, I’ll find that members of the orchestra are usually quite divided about which one was better. Likewise with multiple performances, although I would say that the first performance of three or four tends to always be remembered as the best. Often, I can go back to the recordings of a run and see that each concert got better. They get better because you learn so much from each performance, but the more you learn the more you expect. By the last performance, you know it so well and expect so much, that you might not enjoy it at all, BUT, it might sound amazing to the audience, so don’t throw in the towel.

In fact, it’s important to remember to trust that the music is more powerful than your performance of it. A good piece of advice I got from older conductors early on was not to try to push every concert to be “great,” because pushing can cause people to make mistakes or simply strangle the music. I believe in the wisdom of that advice, but, like Alban, I often find myself giving it everything I’ve got onstage then coming off feeling like it wasn’t enough. To say that it’s more important that the audience loved it than whether I did is too simple and neat.

I think that at the end of the day, you have to accept that sometimes, your best work goes unheard by the public, and you have to live with the knowledge that only you and your colleagues experienced it, but also, that sometimes, you’re not going to enjoy your own best performances at all. I vividly remember my second concert with the GRSO- we were doing Haydn 104, and I spent the whole performance mad at myself, the audience and the musicians. Things didn’t sound in tune, didn’t sound together, the balances felt wrong, the audience was coughing. By the end, I was in a FOUL mood, in spite of it being joyful music. As soon as the applause died off, my friend Ed, who was about the most cultured and knowledgeable musician in the orchestra, came knocking on my door- “man- that was the best the orchestra has ever played!” he said.  Further conversations convinced me we’d had a little triumph, but one that I hadn’t enjoyed one bit- at least until people started telling me how great it was.

BTW- The review of Alban’s concert had one of the funniest headlines I’ve ever seen- “Cellist Alban Gerhardt finds the sadness with the Madison Symphony Orchestra.”

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Secret Beethoven subtexts in Peanuts

There’s a great piece in the New York Times today about Charles Schulz’s use of the music of Beethoven in the Peanut’s comics.

 

Schroeder plays the Hammerklavier (Photo: Peanuts/United Feature Syndicate, Inc.)

In the world of “Peanuts,” of course, Schroeder was the Beethoven-obsessed music nerd who lost patience when Lucy interrupted his practice and who called time-outs as a baseball catcher to share composer trivia with the pitcher. Yet musicologists and art curators have learned that there was much more than a punch line to Charles Schulz’s invocation of Beethoven’s music.

“If you don’t read music and you can’t identify the music in the strips, then you lose out on some of the meaning,” said William Meredith, the director of the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies at San Jose State University, who has studied hundreds of Beethoven-themed “Peanuts” strips.

When Schroeder pounded on his piano, his eyes clenched in a trance, the notes floating above his head were no random ink spots dropped into the key of G. Schulz carefully chose each snatch of music he drew and transcribed the notes from the score. More than an illustration, the music was a soundtrack to the strip, introducing the characters’ state of emotion, prompting one of them to ask a question or punctuating an interaction.

Had I known one could specialize in the analysis of comic strips, I might have become a musicologist….

Schulz was a long time subscriber of the Oakland Symphony in the years when my teacher, Gerhard Samuel, was there. Gerhard had a number of treasured Schulz originals that he had drawn for fundraisers for the orchestra. The one which held pride of place in his flat had Charlie Brown saying the Oakland Symphony was “my kind of orchestra.” Apparently, Schulz, for all his well-documented love of Beethoven and Brahms, thought the San Francisco Symphony’s programming in those years was a little dull.  

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Getting down to work on M5

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I’m spending a lot of time with Mahler 5 these days- I’m doing it on the March1 OES concert, which will be the finale of our Redneck Mahler adventure, and then again in the summer at Harlech.

Happily, I’ve managed to keep a fairly steady stream of Mahler symphonies in my calendar of late, which hopefully means my approach to studying his music is constantly evolving.

Like most great music, his gets more challenging as one gets older, but Mahler is an especially severe example because of his way of using notation. Mahler, possibly the greatest conductor who ever lived, did not have a huge confidence in future conductors to know how to handle his music. He often said that his music would take generations to master (he said it would take conductors 60 years to learn how to handle the 3rd movement of the Fifth Symphony, for instance).

It’s not simply a question of Mahler’s skepticism about the skill level of his colleagues in the conducting profession- his close associates Strauss, Walter, Klemperer and Mengleberg all had his deep respect. He also knew that the newness of his musical language would demand a new gestural language from conductors, and a whole new range of orchestral techniques from players.

Had Mahler lived in the age of recording, one imagines he would have been among the first to embrace technology as a way of instructing future generations in the finer points of performing his music. Just imagine the luxury of a DVD “Mahler rehearses Mahler…”

Fortunately or sadly (both, really), Mahler didn’t manage to record or film and of his performances of his own music (other than the piano rolls). Instead, he fundamentally changed the function of musical notation. (I’ve also written about this here and here).

For Beethoven, Haydn or Schubert, the score of a symphony was a pretty accurate representation of what they wanted to hear. For Mahler, the score was a detailed set of instructions to the performers, which, if followed, should create the realization of what he wanted to hear.

The funny upshot of this is that this means Mahler’s scores are, on one level, incredibly easy to learn. You don’t have to think about phrasing- he shows you where the phrase is going. You don’t have to think about balance- he’s done all the work for you. You don’t even have to think about rubato- every tempo nuance imaginable is there for you, as well as countless cautionary instructions. Mahler must say “no” more often than any other composer- don’t rush, don’t drag, only the tiniest bit more, don’t over do it, don’t under do it….

Of course, the ease with which one can develop a performance of a Mahler symphony by simply reading his map belies the fact that this is not only complex music, but sophisticated music as well. Sophisticated music deserves a sophisticated performance, and simply following instructions isn’t particularly sophisticated.

Of all the criticisms leveled at Mahler over the years, the most consistent has been that his music is somehow “too complex,” (too complex for what, I might ask), and that that complexity hides a lack of internal depth of structure and meaning. This perception is, of course, bullshit (forgive me), but I think it is rooted in two things- a general suspicion among some listeners of complexity of all sorts, and, perhaps more specifically, a tendency of performers to be seduced by the ease of simply executing Mahler’s instructions, rather than taking the time to understand why they’re there.

Wouldn’t it be cool to learn a Mahler symphony from a score that looks like a Beethoven symphony- uniform vertical dynamics, a near-absence of tempo modifications, and a complete lack of specific performance instructions like bowings? Could one start with such a text and develop a performance realization from that skeleton that is more or less the same as what Mahler actually gives us? It seems like one should at least try to recreate the process to the extent that you start to understand why those markings are there.

Of course, Mahler was constantly engaged in that very process himself. The Fifth Symphony was the most revised and tweaked of all his works, and the vast majority of those revisions had to do with balance and texture, but others had more to do with clarifying the musical intent.

I’ve worked on Mahler 5 before, so I’m lucky enough to have a pretty good sense of technically what I need to do to get through it. This time around, I’m trying to study it without looking for any immediate clarification of the “how’s,” but only of the “why’s.” I’m actually consciously trying to avoid wanting to make the leap from “oh this idea comes from here, so therefore, the tempo should be _____” to stopping for now at “this idea comes from here,” and leave the decision making for later.

To that end, I’m suffering through a lot more work at the piano. I’m not the worst pianist in the world, only the slowest. However, that slowness seems to be a benefit. I’m finding that as my fingers hunt for the last note in the chord which I can already hear in my head, I start to recognize some little aspect of the voice leading that I might have skimmed over in silent study. Again, I’m not worried about what implications that little insight might have, I just want to make a note of it and move on.

There are also books to read, people to talk to, questions to ask and then all the practical issues to finally sort. Bye…

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The end is in the beginning

I’m often struck by how the threads of my life seem to come together in funny and surprising ways.

In the midst of getting up to speed on the coming run of concerts, I’ve also had to do a fair bit of planning and preparation for my final three concerts with the Oregon East Symphony. In the past week, that’s included sending off the bowings for Mahler 5, which we are doing on March 1st,  sent off a list of preparation notes to our chorus master for the Mozart Requiem, which we’re doing in April, and been working on the final details of the program for my last concert at the beginning of next season in October.

Even as I was picking my last program and final piece with the orchestra (well, my last as MD- never say never), I was reminded of what was almost my first piece with them- the Brahms D major Serenade, which I am conducting with the Lancashire Chamber Orchestra next month. At the time OES asked me to conduct it, I said a firm no, as I thought it was way too difficult for the orchestra at that time (I’d heard them once at that point). From saying no to that heavenly Brahms Serenade to doing Mahler 5 on a tight rehearsal schedule is long, long journey.

Also coming up is another piece that figured importantly in my early years with the OES- Dvorak 9, which I’m going to be doing with the HSO in March. The last time I did Dvorak 9 was my second year at the OES, as part of a program that I rather consciously decided was going to be a new kind of OES concert. I had gone to some lengths to put together a blockbuster combination of program and soloist, and we worked especially hard in rehearsals. I worked especially hard at home on the Dvorak, and I can tell now- even 8 years later, it’s deep in my bones. I  try to put my heart and soul into every piece I do, but when you come back to something and you feel like it is imprinted in your DNA, you can’t help but kick yourself for not getting to that point with every piece.

We’re close to finalizing the program for that very last OES concert. This close to the end, everything has a bit of meaning- the Mahler will be a summing up of our incredible adventure with his music the last four years, Beethoven 2 will complete our Beethoven cycle, the Mozart Requiem is something the chorale have been asking me to do for many years and I’m finally ready to return to. That gets us to the end of this year. That final concert next year? Things could change, but I’m hoping to end with Schumann 2, because it feels right- the orchestra has never done a Schumann symphony (YIKES!), and I can’t entrust the breaking of that seal to the next conductor. I’m also toying with either opening with a commission if we can find the cash, or doing the Mozart Paris Symphony I did on my very first concert, so long ago…..

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Round the web

There’s some good stuff out there on the ol’ internet to read this week.

First, Dick Cavett has a nice piece on the forgotten art of the insult, that is, the forgotten art of the clever insult.

I haven’t ever found any great writing on that wonderful and often unappreciated art form, the insult.

There are two kinds of insult. “I was bored by your book” is one kind. “Your book? Once I put it down, I couldn’t pick it up,” is the other.

The insult is, along with the apology and the question, one of the fast-disappearing parts of our discourse. A proper insult is a form of social engagement- it takes wit, thought, energy and a degree of interest in your subject. Today, hostility is usually expressed in either simple invective- terms of hatred that could apply to anyone. “Fuck you” is not a proper insult, as it is not tailor made for the recipient. (The exception is to be found in the denoument to the “clown joke.”) Fortunately, orchestra musicians tend to excel at the art of the insult- in my experience, British professional orchestra musicians are among the most creative and witty masters of the insult in the world.

That the apology is becoming rarer than even a good insult. I could hardly hide my surprise the other day when a player apologized in advance for having to miss a rehearsal for a funeral the other day- not even everyone bothers to tell a conductor of an absence in advance anymore. When I was wee, we were taught to ASK if it was okay to miss, even if it was a completely non-negotiable situation. “I’m afraid I am scheduled to have open-heart surgery that conflicts with a rehearsal for this concert- is it okay if I miss the rehearsal for my surgery, and would you still consider allowing me to play the concert,” is the way I was taught to do it. I have had players ask almost identical questions, but I also get simply told “I’m missing rehearsal next week because I’m busy.” Anyway, I sound like an old fart, but when a train is cancelled, or the whatsit I just ordered on line is no longer available even though the website lists it as in-stock, I kind of expect an apology from an actual person (not the recording the train companies use, which is worse than  nothing).

Also on line today is an excellent piece on Mendelssohn from blogger Jessica Duchen in the Indy. Jessica has been designated as the official blogger of the Mendelssohn anniversary year by the BBC, and this article is a good sign. I have no idea if the hypothesis that FM may have offed himself after being rejected by Jenny Lind, but I’m not suprised his private life may not have been the simplistic study in happiness that previous writers have sometimes depicted because I know a good bit of his music fairly well….

I’ve written before about my general feelings for Mendelssohn, in this post called Felix Rocks, which more or less sums up my outlook to Mendelssohn. How anyone could listen to the A minor quartet (probably my favorite Mendelssohn piece) and recognize that this was not only a precious talent, but a great soul- one of the few composers who has ever been able to understand the world of Beethoven’s late quartets? How can you not see the passion and tragedy in the Hebrides Overture- that’s not happy music, not one-dimensional music. It’s high tragedy.

I like, even love, Wagner’s music, but he committed countless wrongs against other composers- he discovered early on he could build his own reputation by destroying those of his peers and predecessors. His two most consistent targets were Schumann (who he stole a great deal from) and Mendelssohn (whose talent he was deeply, deeply envious of). What is sad is that his talking points against these two composers are still getting repeated. Wagner tried his dirty tricks on Brahms, but Brahms was smart enough to cultivate his own friends in the press. Anyone who tells me that Mendelssohn was somehow “facile but one-dimensional,” is likely to get a properly constructed insult unless they construct a proper apology…

BTW- check out the obit of Betty Freeman at the Indy. It’s a great example of how one person can put a bit of old money to very good use and change the world in the process. Where would music be without her and Mrs Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge

c. 2009

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RIP- Valentin Berlinsky

It sounds a bit absurd to express surprise at the death of an 83 year-old man, but I was genuinely surprised to learn of the death of the cellist of the great Borodin Quartet, Valentin Berlinsky, who died a few weeks ago. After 62 years in the quartet, I’d assumed he’d be there forever, and had even thought of his retirement in 2007 as a passing phase…

 
 The Borodin’s where surely one of the great quartets of all time. They’re probably best known for their recordings of the Shostakovich quartets (they recorded them several times as the group’s personnel evolved over the years), and these recordings sit alongside those of Rostropovich, Oistrakh and Daniel Shafran as the most valuable resources to understanding the performing traditions of Shostakovich’s time and the style of playing he wanted.
The Borodin’s performances of Shostakovich were markedly different from most Westerner’s ways with this music. While too many American and British groups scratched and hacked their way through Shostakovich’s music, the Borodin’s played it with unerring polish, warmth and beauty, and in doing so, allowed the music’s rage, intensity and wit to come through with startling clarity. I’m still suprised how many Western players think Shostakovich’s music should be played with an unmusical sound and no care for refinement of intonation or variety of color.

They also excelled in the core quartet repertoire and brought a rare level of seriousness and commitment to other Russian chamber music. Their recording of the Tchaikovsky quartets illuminated these three strangely neglected works as the masterpieces they are. I’m playing the last Tchaikovsky quartet with Ensemble Epomeo and Suzanne in March, and I think we’ll dedicate the concert to Berlinsky.

Through it all, there was Berlinsky. First violinists came and went (I’m glad to have studied with two of them), as did the violist Rudolf Barshai, who went on to become a major conductor. Founding first violinist Rostislav Dubinsky (my chamber music teacher at IU) painted Berlinsky as a character of Shakespearean proportions in his memoir of the Borodin years, Stormy Applause. Berlinsky comes across as alternately flawed, wise, complex, strong, and even occasionally villainous, but Berlinsky endured over the years (outlasting Dubinsky by several decades!), playing at an astonishing standard throughout his 70’s in spite of nearly crippling his left hand in a car accident decades ago. I never got to coach with him, something I would have loved to do.

Radio 4 had a nice appreciation of him on Last Word this week. You can hear the
program here for the next 7 days (the Berlinsky part of the program is near the end).
Obits here, here, here, here and here.
 

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Gershwin puts the hurt on the 20th and 21st centuries

I have an alarming number of pieces to learn this week (I have first rehearsals for three big-ish programs in a 4 day period), alongside completion of my UK taxes (argh- I get to do taxes twice a year….), so blog posts may be scarce for a while.

Among the works on my desk is one I did not too long ago (thankfully), Gershwin’s American in Paris (you can read some of my earlier thoughts about this piece here). It’s a piece I’ve played, conducted and covered a few times, but one covering experience comes to mind this week…

It was during my year at the Cincinnati Symphony- the orchestra held a brief mini-festival dedicated to the intersections of classical music and jazz. There was a nice mixture of the new and the old, and some really fine performances, but at the end it really struck me that the best of the works we heard were those by Gershwin, which were the earliest pieces in the festival- not a tribute to progress, I’m afraid. To me, his music seemed to be the most successful as BOTH jazz and classical music- that is, it successfully integrated the rhythmic language of jazz, the spirit and vocal style of the blues and the sound world of the jazz ensemble with a classical mastery of form, counterpoint and motivic development. His music was also the most fun.

Over the years, this idea has, sadly, taken hold in my head. In the first 3rd of the 20th c., jazz had a profound and international impact on classical music. One could make the case that not all jazz-inspired works of that era, by the likes of Ravel, Milhaud and Stravinsky, qualify as both great works of jazz and great works of classical music. More often they’re great classical pieces inspired by jazz, where as Gershwin’s music excels in both worlds.

Still, as the century went along, jazz inspired classical music seemed to become both more common and, generally less good. Bernstein’s jazz pieces of the 50’s start to look like the last, magical gasp of a movement that was already fading away (and Bernstein was closer to Gershwin than we are to Bernstein). Many great jazz composers, from Ellington through Ornette Coleman, tried their hands at large-scale, classically inspired jazz pieces for orchestra, but I wouldn’t really say many of those works are really successful, at least they’re not as good as their pure jazz projects. The lesson of Milhaud and Stravinsky seems to be that a piece has to work in the genre in which it is being heard (in their case, as classical pieces), and then, if the music is also successful by the standards of another medium (in their case, jazz), maazel tov. I’m not sure that a piece like Milhaud’s Creation du Monde is great jazz (in fact, I’m sure it’s not), but it is a great piece, and that’s fine. Rhapsody in Blue is great jazz and a great solo/orchestral work

However, if composers of the last 50 years have largely stumbled  when integrating classical music with jazz, it seems like the fate of rock n roll and it’s siblings and cousins relationship to classical music has been a more or less complete and abject failure.

This is striking for a number of reasons. First of all, rock is a pretty old musik- it’s been around in one form or another as the more-or-less dominant form of popular music. The 20th c. left us with two huge classical movements- the serial path, and the folk/vernacular music path. Whether you’re talking Bartok or Vaughan Williams, the importance of vernacular music in art music in the last 100 years is hard to overstate. Gershwin took the vernacular music of his day into the concert hall and made magic. Ives showed the developmental potential of tunes like Camptown Races and hundreds of other musical dinner scraps.

However, nearly 60 years in, I’m not sure there has been a “classical” masterpiece written that integrates the language of R & B, rock ‘n’ roll, funk, hip hop, metal, hard rock or punk into  its DNA. I fear now that the window has closed- the rock/pop family of genres seem to have atrophied into the plastic and lifeless artefacts of corporately generated background music to accompany product placement.

Still, there have been many efforts to mine the riches of the 60’s for classical ideas. Artists from the Kronos Quartet to Nigel Kennedy have struggled to bring Hendrix into the concert hall- so far all I’ve heard are arrangements that pale in comparison to the originals. It’s not as exciting, not as hip, not as funky, not as intense and not as cool.

Then there is the long list of rockers who, perhaps with the best of intentions, have tried to cross over to classical music. I actually like Elvis Costello’s classical projects on their own merits, but most of these faded-rock-star projects are just embarrassing….

Rouse’s “Bonham’s Drums” was a cool piece the one time I got to hear it. I’ve always wanted to commission an orchestral work from Steve Coleman.

I’d say rockers have done far better at bringing classical ideas and techniques into rock. Whether it’s Stockhausen’s influence on the Beatles or Verdi’s on Bohemian Rhapsody. Pete Townsend and Pink Floyd showed they could work in leitmotif’s and build large forms that hung together with a real sense of drama. Yes, Yngwie Malmsteen was embarassing for musicians in all genres….

Anyway- will we ever see a rock Bartok/Gershwin/Bernstein? If you know one, send me the link.

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Richard Hickox- the final interview

Hi everyone

I’ve just been made aware of this- the last recorded interview with Richard Hickox, available as a podcast on the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra website.

Click here to listen, or right click and select “save target as” to download to your computer. The interview with Richard is about halfway through the podcast, following a discussion of Nielsen with my Discovering Music colleague, Stephen Johnson

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