sounds like now

I’m going to stay out of the scuffle on the main page at Sequenza21. However, there’s one issue from Anthony De Mare’s concert that both Anthony Tommasini and Frank Oteri bring up in their review and rebuttal, respectively–playing from memory.

One fact from Mr. De Mare’s concert that they both mention, was that Mr. De Mare needed to go off stage to retrieve the score for Mr. Rzewski’s work after failing to be able to perform it from memory. That took a lot of guts. And I’m glad that neither Mr. Tommasini or Mr. Oteri castigated Mr. De Mare for doing so. Rather, both give him credit for a wonderful reading of the work with the score.

So this makes me wonder, who cares if you play with music in front of you? Does it matter that much? A great performance of a work will transcend the score. When I play a concert, I’ve internalized the score to a point where I don’t really need it–in a way I’m playing from memory. But it’s nice to have it there as a reference, especially if the music is extremely difficult and complex. (I do play Stockhausen’s In Freudschaft from memory, but that’s because he specifies that it needs to be played from memory in the score. There is so much choreography that reading a score during performance would be impossible anyway. I’m also scared of the consequences if Stockhausen were to find out that I was playing his piece with the score.) It’s pretty easy to tell if a performer “owns” the piece or is using the music as a crutch.

As a new music performer, I have to tip my hat to Mr. De Mare for taking on the formidable task of presenting six new works from memory. Is it necessary though? Somewhere along the line, playing from memory became the norm in piano performance. Yet I’ve seen some great performances where the pianist played with the score–Marilyn Nonken’s recital of the complete Boulez piano sonatas stands out. Not all instruments have this tradition. But in the piano’s case, does it really matter if you play from memory? I don’t think it’s that important.

I noticed something from my last post. Six out of the ten solos I listed were recorded live. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. There’s something about the energy, excitement, intensity, immediacy, and spontaneity of a live performance that simply cannot be captured in a controlled and sterile studio environment.

You don’t hear live classical recordings that often. Occasionally you’ll run into one–Lang Lang’s “live” Carnegie Hall recital CD comes to mind. Although who knows just how much splicing and editing was done from the dress rehearsals. You don’t see live classical albums nearly as often as live jazz or rock albums. Even Steely Dan, the rock and roll studio kings of the 1970s and 1980s, cut a live album not too long ago. (In fairness to Mr. Lang, there’s a well-hidden but still audible edit in “Peg” on the Steely Dan album right before the final guitar solo–listen closely, you’ll hear it.)

So why don’t people make live classical albums? They’re scared to, that’s why. Who wants to take a chance at releasing an album with a wrong note (or two)? Imagine the humiliation and shame you’d feel in front of your peers, who never mess up. Today’s advanced editing techniques have made it possible to create perfect, flawless, almost superhuman sounding recordings. You can even speed up a passage if you can’t play it fast as you’d like to. Over time, the bar has been set continually higher for the polish and perfection of classical recordings. And that’s not entirely bad. I think this high standard has spurred amazing advances in instrumental technique. But who can play flawlessly all the time? And what about the synergy between artist and audience?

Walter Benjamin talks about certain aspects of this phenomenon in his essay, “The Work of Art in the Mechanical Age of Reproduction.” In one instance, he compares the stage actor’s performance to that of a screen actor. The stage actor presents his/her artistic performance to the public in person. The screen actor’s artistic performance is presented by the camera. And the camera that presents the performance to the public doesn’t need to respect the performance as an integral whole. The editor chooses the sequence of events, camera angles, and close-ups, which then constitutes the completed film. One consequence of this is that the film actor lacks the opportunity to adjust to the audience that the stage actor does. This allows the audience to take the position of a critic without expreiencing any personal contact with the actor. Everybody’s a critic.

While I’ve been up on my soapbox, I have to admit that my recordings contain editing. It’s an accepted practice and everyone does it (sure sounds like peer pressure). In the end, it comes down to each artist’s integrity. They’ve got to live with what they’ve chosen to do. Catholics might have a harder time with this than others. Someone could make an amazing sounding recording with a little (or a lot of) studio magic. However, if they’ve really pulled a fast one on everybody in the studio, the truth will inevitably come out in live performance. My next album won’t be “clean” but one of these days I’ll make a live album. Mark my words.

(Actually, not all of my recordings have editing. This one, which features me on alto saxophone with the Larry Teal Saxophone Quartet, was recorded live in concert.)

Did anybody see Yo-Yo Ma’s performance of the Sarabande from Bach’s 6th suite at the Academy Awards last night? The piece was supposed to serve as a requiem of sorts for the folks that passed away this past year. But the audience’s clapping for the deceased, who had their pictures flashed on the giant screens as Mr. Ma played, was both annoying and distracting. What’s up with these Hollywood-types? Don’t they know how to act?

Jerry’s post about the violinist Nicola Benedetti, who might sell more albums based on sex appeal rather than her talent as a musician, raises an important question: What is our goal as musicians? To sell albums or to make art?

The answer to this question would probably vary depending on who was asked. Posed to the artist, I’m pretty sure the answer would be the latter. But directed at the president of a big-name record company, I bet the answer might be different. And probably at odds with his or her artists’ aims.

To her credit, Ms. Benedetti seems to understand the possible ramifications of her recent deal–her spokesman Ian Roberts issued the following statement: “Nicola wants to keep to her core of classical music, but modernise without losing standards.” And just what would happen if she began to lose her standards? Well, she’d run the risk of being branded a “sellout” by both peers and critics, if they haven’t already made that judgement.

The music business has it’s fair share of these artists, and each instrument can most likely claim at least one. Among saxophonists, Kenny G as long been the bearer of this burden (all the way to the bank, I might add!). The truth is that many of these so-called “sellouts” are fine musicians, Mr. Gorlick included. They’ve simply chosen a path in music that might be a bit more lucrative than the path that you or I have chosen.

But the issue then becomes the hype or overhype surrounding the artists. This is precisely why Anthony Tommasini wrote such a scathing review of Lang Lang’s Carnegie Hall recital in The New York Times. Because Deutsche Grammophon had built up such expectations about the event, who can fault Mr. Tommasini for his reaction when, to his ears, the performance didn’t live up to the hype?

Performers and composers want to make music and share their art with the public. Record companies want to sell albums. In a way, these two goals are quite simila—at their core they both are about allowing people to enjoy music. Yet they couldn’t be more different. Is there a way to bridge the gap between these competing aims or perhaps just create more common ground?