“For Franz music was the art that comes closest to Dionysian beauty in the sense of intoxication. No one can get really drunk on a novel or a painting, but who can help getting drunk on Beethoven’s Ninth, Bartok’s Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion, or the Beatles’ White Album? Franz made no distinction between ‘classical’ and ‘pop.’ He found the distinction old-fashioned and hypocritical. He loved rock as much as Mozart.”
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
As you might have inferred from a previous post, I’m currently reading My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk, the 2006 Nobel Laureate in Literature. Among the many themes Pamuk deals with in the novel is the question of what constitutes “style.” The dictionary defines style as “the combination of distinctive features of literary or artistic expression, execution, or performance characterizing a particular person, group, school, or era.” Style is what distinguishes a particular artist, author, or musician as himself—their individuality, their “way,” their -isms.
How then is a style born and then perpetuated to the point where it is distinguished as a style? Here’s a quote from the novel in which Enishte Effendi, a master illuminator, explains to another how a new style of painting comes to be:
The birth of a new style is the result of years of disagreements, jealousies, rivalries and studies in color and painting. Generally, it’ll be the most gifted member of the workshop who fathers this form. Let’s also call him the most fortunate. To the rest of the miniaturists falls the singular duty of perfecting and refining this style through perpetual imitation.
A master imparts his teachings (and his style) to his pupils. And as a result, the master’s students pick up the master’s nuances—if not consciously trying to imitate them, then simply by being around a certain way of doing something for an extended period of time. As a saxophonist, I can usually tell who someone has studied with, or at the very least in which pedagogical line they’ve been trained, simply by their tone color, phrasing, articulation, and choice of repertoire. But what actually defines that master teacher’s style?
I’ve heard it said that what we hear (speaking in terms of music here) to be individuality and someone’s style are actually the little mistakes they make and their own peculiar manner of executing certain things, such as an articulation or a phrasing choice. And the way a student begins to sounds like the teacher is by imitating these subtle “mistakes.” (In the context of Pamuk’s novel—illuminators and miniaturists in sixteenth-century Istanbul—the only acceptable way to render an illustration is by reproducing as closely as possible the figures of the great masters from centuries ago. This is seen as the only acceptable style. Adding your own “signature” or synthesizing new or foreign ways of painting is viewed not only as a disgrace to your particular guild, but also an afront to Islam.) I don’t necessarily agree with the statement that an artist’s isms constitute subtle “mistakes.” It’s merely their particular way of executing a portion of their art. (Granted it might sound like mistakes to some.) And as far as synthesizing elements of different players into your own playing, I’ve written before that doing so is the beginning of the path to developing your own unique voice, which unlike in sixteenth-century Istanbul is something I’m told is desirable for artists these days.
Hot off the presses is the second edition of Take A Friend To The Orchestra, a collection of essays by bloggers, critics, musicians, administrators, and patrons, the fruits of Drew McManus’ yearly internet initiative of the same name over at Adaptistration. I’m thrilled to be included in the book. Order yours today!
“The late moon now emerged. Under the eaves of the building it was still dark, but the sky was beautifully illuminated. An attendant was sent to fetch zithers from the Bureau of Books and Instruments. When there were brought Tô no Chûjô chose the six-stringed zither, which he, like Genji, played with outstanding skill. Prince Hotaru took the great thirteen-stringed zither, while Genji himself decided on the seven-stringed kin. Lady Shôshô accompanied the gentlemen on the four-stringed lute. One of the senior courtiers, who was noted for his musical talents, was asked to conduct, and a delightful concert started. As the light began to spread, the color of the flowers and the faces of the players gradually came into view. Now the birds joined in with their own gay song. It was a dawn to gladden anyone’s heart.”
Murasaki Shikibu, Genji monogatari æºæ°ç‰©èªž
A reader writes the following about this post from the SLN archives:
“You [say] that ‘it’s pretty easy to tell if a performer “owns” the piece or is using the music as a crutch.’ As a musician (a saxophonist, actually), I’m very much interested in attaining a higher level of mastery of my instrument as well as the music I perform . . . but I am not quite sure as to how I would go about doing so. Any resources you can provide or personal insights you are willing to share would be most appreciated.”
There are (at least) two aspects necessary to achieving a sense of freedom in music performance: complete and utter command of your instrument and musical maturity.
You will notice that I didn’t say “complete and utter mastery of your instrument,” but rather command of your instrument. My use of “command” was a conscious choice because I believe that although we strive to master our instruments, complete mastery is something that is unattainable. Yet despite the fact that we may never reach total mastery, we continue to work towards that “unattainable” goal. That’s what allows us to improve. That’s what leads to instrumental progress. That’s what keeps music fresh, vibrant, and exciting. A life in music, especially music performance, is a journey—a journey that celebrates the process. To be a performing musician, you need to enjoy the process of making music. The countless solitary hours spent in the practice room. The days, weeks, or even months, to unlock the score. Living in the music’s world—its history and context—until it becomes a part of you. These are the things that we need to love doing. If someone doesn’t enjoy this process, they won’t enjoy being a musician.
That said, the process of working towards instrumental mastery begins with investigating every possible aspect of your instrument and its technique—articulation, digital technique, tone production, the wide variety of timbres and attacks, extended techniques, dynamics, and so on. And not only being able to execute these things, but to actually understand how and why these things work the way they do—their pedagogy. You simply have to have an insatiable appetite for any and all information related to your instrument, its history, its repertoire, its acoustics.
The second aspect involves a musical maturity that can only be acquired over time and through experience. Each concert we play gives us new insights. Each concert we attend provides us with grist for the artistic mill. Likewise, every recording we listen to enriches our musical palette, giving us new ideas about phrasing, the use of vibrato in a slow lyrical passage, how to move the time around most effectively, and so on. Over time you begin to synthesize all of these elements into your own playing, learning what makes the great artists of today as well as those of the past so great, and all the while developing and shaping your own musical voice.
Once you’ve reached the point where you feel as though you can make your instrument do your bidding and you know absolutely everything you can possibly know about the music you are playing, then you can really begin to make the music your own. Ask questions: what does the music mean to you? How will you convey the music’s meaning to the audience? This always requires that you perform with your ears. Listening to the sounds you are making—do I want my sound to be transparent, full, edgy?—and how they are resonating, both literally and figuratively, in the hall. Be spontaneous. Feel the energy (or lack thereof) in the room and make something special happen. Do something you’ve never done before. Be whimsical. Make up stories about the music you’re playing and then tell your audience those stories—in sound.
TAFTO month is now in full swing over at Adaptistration by Drew McManus. Click here for my contribution.
After reading Alex’s latest article in The New Yorker I emailed him this quote from Jacques Attali’s Noise, wondering why a preeminent culture vulture would neglect such a reference:
The phonograph, then, is part of a radically new social and cultural space demolishing the earlier economic constructions of representation. With the introduction of the record, the classical space of discourse collapses. Against the wishes of Edison himself, the drugstore jukebox wins out over the singers of the caf’ conç, the record industry over the publishing industry. Even radio, which could have forestalled this process by providing representation with a new market, gradually became, as we will see, an auxiliary of the record industry. After the discourse of representation was devalued, radio provided a showcase or the record industry, and the record industry gave the radio the material it needed to fill the airwaves.
His reply: “Sousa said it first, and in better English!” He’s right, you know. Although Attali, Adorno, and Benjamin are great thinkers, their verbiage tends to get in the way and “hijack the conversation,” as Alex says.
Less is more. A subordinate conglomeration is without exception exceedingly more profitable than an innumerable agglomeration. See? Rich Crawford, the venerable American musicologist, preached this all year long to a small group of us who took his two introductory PhD musicology courses a few years ago. It’s a good rule to follow.
“‘Bravo!’ Settembrini cried. ‘Bravo, lieutenant. You have described very nicely an indubitably moral element in the nature of music: to wit, that by its peculiar and lively means of measurement, it lends an awareness, both intellectual and precious, to the flow of time. Music awakens time, awakens us to our finest enjoyment of time. Music awakens–and in that sense it is moral. Art is moral, in that it awakens. But what if it were to do the opposite? If it were to numb us, put us to sleep, counteract all activity and progress? And music can do that as well. It knows all too well the effect that opiates have. A devilish effect, gentlemen. Opiates are the Devil’s tool, for they create dullness, rigidity, stagnation, slavish inertia. There is something dubious about music, gentlemen. I maintain that music is ambiguous by its very nature. I am not going too far when I declare it to be politically suspect.’”
–Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
Here’s a funny story about a fellow who “invented” a new state-of-the-art synthesizer back in 2000. He faked all the magazine ads with some marvelous Photoshop work and managed to get the European synth community on its head over a product that never existed. (Courtesy of Mark Pachucki.)
Thanks to ACD for re-adding Sounds Like Now to the list. And be sure to check out pianist Thomas Moore’s compendium of new music links.
There was a great topic on NPR’s Talk of the Nation today, which every college music teacher should download, listen to, and share with their students. The show was titled, Playing Jazz, and Making a Living, but could be applied to any artistic discipline–especially classical music. It dealt with the business side of music making and its importance in today’s music world–a topic that’s not addressed nearly enough in higher education. (Jazz composer and arranger Maria Schneider echoed this sentiment during an interview on the show.) The classical music world is changing. Witness how I’m communicating to you right now. Re-read Terry Teachout’s post on this issue. How will you prepare your students to be competitive and successful in today’s cultural marketplace?
There's more where that came from. Music, videos, and albums by Brian all inside.
