This weekend, I was saddened to hear Sir Malcolm Arnold died.
I think the best tribute I heard was a friend of mine, who has never been a fan of Classical music, but said "Oh yes, Malcolm Arnold - he was fantastic, the second Elgar." His score for "The Bridge over the River Kwai" won him massive acclaim, and the unlikeliest of fans.
And I think this was the key thing about him - his wide-ranging appeal to people of all walks of life. He resolutely stood against all types of genre segregation, believing that there should not be such viscious distinction between jazz, folk, classical etc. His "themed" orchestral dances (two English sets, plus a set for each of Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Cornwall) are an absolute joy, drawing heavily on folk sounds and styles and incorporating them into various dance styles. He wrote a concerto for Larry Adler, the harmonica player, and treated it every bit as seriously as he did his concertos for "standard" instruments, such as 'cello.
He was also a fantastic trumpet player, and wrote excellent, but phenomenally difficult, brass parts in his music. The second set of the English dances still gives me nightmares.
The appeal that Arnold had is something that I believe a lot of modern British composers have lost. I read a very good article some months ago where the writer was bemoaning the fact that few modern composers engage with their audiences the way earlier composers did. Mozart and Haydn were integral players in their court orchestras. Shostakovich played music for cinema. Sibelius played violin in several orchestras. Arnold played trumpet with the London Philharmonic. They all had an inherent understanding of what audiences appreciated, and what performers appreciated.
Yet several of today's composers do not have this "grounding", for want of a better word. They prodcue finely crafted pieces, of tremendous intellectual cunning and wit, yet which are intelligible to most average concert-goers. I am loathe to single out people, but I have never forgiven Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies for his contribution to the Queen's 80th birthday celebrations this year. One would expect a triumphal march, or even a jolly dance, based perhaps on some folk melody appropriate to the Queen, or a favourite piece of hers. Instead Maxwell-Davies produced a sombre dirge. The construction of the piece was extremely clever, and would have offered month's worth of analytical possibilities. But it was utterly inappropriate for the occasion.
I am not saying that our beliefs should not be subverted. Shostakovich frequently confounded all expectation, taking wild turns when a more orthodox line would have been expected. But even he knew that there was a time and a place for this. Maxwell-Davies was given a wonderful opportunity to reach out and engage with public, given a platform that many other composers would have longed for. And instead of producing something which could have done more good for the world of classical music than any number of "outreach" programs, he produced a piece which smacked of intellectual snobbery, and which reinforced the opinions of those who believe that modern classical music is an impenetrable confusing murk. Great British composers such as Walton and indeed Arnold had no qualms with producing music which, while not perhaps giving them as much intellectual stimulation in the writing, was appropriate to the occasion. They had a sense of what was expected, and I find that few modern composers, and particularly, modern British composers, have this any more. I do believe however, that in fifty years' time, Walton's "Crown Imperial" will still be playing to full houses, whereas I doubt that Maxwell-Davies' piece will receive a single performance.
Sir Malcolm Arnold, with his unpretentiousness, and his ability to synthesise whole musical worlds, was to my mind far more of a "modernist" than Maxwell-Davies, Taverner, or Turnage. His belief that music should transcend all genre barriers was a truly modern concept, and one that I feel should be revisited by others with more urgency, in order to prevent classical music ceasing to be. In many ways, while not as avant-garde and seemingly a world away, Arnold's synthesis of jazz, folk and classical is the closest we have produced to Steve Reich or John Adams.
To my regret, I know comparatively little of his music - specifically, Arnold the symphonist is an unknown quantity for me. Often the words "British Symphonist" are seen as an oxymoron, Elgar aside, though there is a lot to be said for the works of William Walton, Arnold Bax, and not forgetting the absolute genius that was Ralph Vaughan-Williams. I wish I had heard more Arnold, and shall now seek out all nine of his symphonies and discover a whole new world.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Happy Birthday DDS
Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich.
I have expostulated to some length on my love of this composer and his works. Often I find myself thinking how I would have liked to have met him, to have been taught or lectured by him. But then on the other hand, I have a strong conviction that the man wouldn't have liked me, or just viewded me with superficial interest, as a dilettante in his particular field of interest. Perhaps I could have convinced him of the passion I feel for Classical music study, my developing love of composition, and my desire to learn this at the hands of a true genius. But then again, for this unlikely series of events to have happened, I would have had to be born in Russia - almost certainly St Petersburg - and have had to be of a suitable age when Shostakovich was at the peak of his powers. Compromised by the authorities, but still with the fierce intellectual fervour and rigour of his youth. But then, that would have involved being at such an age in the late 1930s and early 1940s. And, as I would have been of fighting age then, I would almost certainly have perished in (then) Leningrad.
Perhaps I could have been taught by him in the mid-to-late 50s, after the effects of his second denunciation at the hands of the authorities had worn off, and after the death of Stalin, in the pre-emptive Krushchev "thaw". But by then his health was failing, he was veering on the edge of mani depression and suicide, and his spirit was seemingly broken, despite his continuing ability to write masterpieces.
Perhaps, then, I could have been a contemporary of his at the Conservatoire, in the days before the Stalinist terror machine cranked into gear. But then, being in his inner circle at this time, I almost certainly would have been executed after the "Muddle instead of Music" incidence.
When I think along these lines, the overwhelming impression is of the phenomenally difficult life of Showstakovich, and perhaps even worse, the Russian people, in the heydays of Soviet Communism. The lack of cosseting - in actual fact, the continual critical and official buffeting - the Shostakovich was on the receiving end, makes one ownder how he could have composed anything at all, let alone some of the musical masterpieces of the Twentieth Century.
I have been wondering how I should mark this day. Should I lock myself away in hushed vigil, listening to some of his finest works? Should I set aside a few hours and tackle some of the works that I still have not quite got to grips with, but desperately want to? Should I focus my evening on listening to Lady Macbeth, in all of its riotous technicolour glory?
Actually, this evening, I think I shall just quietly raise a glass in memory of a film pianist, who loved football, gambling and vodka, and happened to turn out some pretty nifty music of his own too.
I have expostulated to some length on my love of this composer and his works. Often I find myself thinking how I would have liked to have met him, to have been taught or lectured by him. But then on the other hand, I have a strong conviction that the man wouldn't have liked me, or just viewded me with superficial interest, as a dilettante in his particular field of interest. Perhaps I could have convinced him of the passion I feel for Classical music study, my developing love of composition, and my desire to learn this at the hands of a true genius. But then again, for this unlikely series of events to have happened, I would have had to be born in Russia - almost certainly St Petersburg - and have had to be of a suitable age when Shostakovich was at the peak of his powers. Compromised by the authorities, but still with the fierce intellectual fervour and rigour of his youth. But then, that would have involved being at such an age in the late 1930s and early 1940s. And, as I would have been of fighting age then, I would almost certainly have perished in (then) Leningrad.
Perhaps I could have been taught by him in the mid-to-late 50s, after the effects of his second denunciation at the hands of the authorities had worn off, and after the death of Stalin, in the pre-emptive Krushchev "thaw". But by then his health was failing, he was veering on the edge of mani depression and suicide, and his spirit was seemingly broken, despite his continuing ability to write masterpieces.
Perhaps, then, I could have been a contemporary of his at the Conservatoire, in the days before the Stalinist terror machine cranked into gear. But then, being in his inner circle at this time, I almost certainly would have been executed after the "Muddle instead of Music" incidence.
When I think along these lines, the overwhelming impression is of the phenomenally difficult life of Showstakovich, and perhaps even worse, the Russian people, in the heydays of Soviet Communism. The lack of cosseting - in actual fact, the continual critical and official buffeting - the Shostakovich was on the receiving end, makes one ownder how he could have composed anything at all, let alone some of the musical masterpieces of the Twentieth Century.
I have been wondering how I should mark this day. Should I lock myself away in hushed vigil, listening to some of his finest works? Should I set aside a few hours and tackle some of the works that I still have not quite got to grips with, but desperately want to? Should I focus my evening on listening to Lady Macbeth, in all of its riotous technicolour glory?
Actually, this evening, I think I shall just quietly raise a glass in memory of a film pianist, who loved football, gambling and vodka, and happened to turn out some pretty nifty music of his own too.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
the roof at waterloo
I'm sat on a train late at night, commuting back from my latest tutorial. I'm tired, it's dark outside, the train is quiet, I have 'when it rains' on my mp3 player, and I'm staring with my head against the window out at the rather beautiful roof of waterloo station.
I partly wish I could have the station entirely to myself, lie on the platform and stare up out of the roof into the great unknown. It's moments like these, which are so perfect, that make life the great adventure it is.
Good night all.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Gergiev, Shostakovich and Brahms
I'm getting rather excited at the moment as tomorrow night, I shall be taking another step towards the completion of one of my ongoing musical quests. Being the Shotakovich nut that I am, when I found out that Valery Gergiev was conducting a cycle of the complete Shostakovich symphonies beginning back in 2005, I knew I would have to attend them all.
It's not that Gergiev is any more qualified a conductor of Shostakovich than others - indeed, he never actually met the great man, thus placing him, in "authenticity" terms, behind Shostakovich's son, Maxim, and his good friend Mstislav Rostropovich. But Gergiev is one of the most exciting conductors around today, a scholar of Shostakovich, and someone who brings the utmost dedication and respect to these scores.
Beginning in September of last year then, Gergiev has conducted all the symphonies with a variety of orchestras, and I have attended each one. Not every concert has been a great success: sometimes I felt the interpretation was a little awry - the Eighth unsurprisingly failed to match Rostropovich's performance with the same forces (which remains one of the finest concerts I have ever attended). At other times, outside forces conspired to alter the effect of the concert: a magical performance of the disturbing Fourteenth was ruined by someone in the audience, who chose to disrupt what should have been the shattered silence after the devastating finalé in an attempt to show he knew the piece, by shouting "Bravo" the second the last semiquaver finished. The enthusiasm was appreciated, but given the subject matter, and the emotion conveyed, it was a little bit of a rude awakening from our spellbound state. On the other hand, some performances have been incredible: I doubt I shall see as good a performance of the Fourth Symphony again. However, all the concerts have stuck in my mind as unique and thoroughly enjoyable experiences, significant events in my concert-going life.
However, Wednesday and Thursday this week will be the highspots of the whole cycle for me. Both are with the Vienna Philharmonic, one of Europe's oldest and most traditional ensembles. Unsurprisingly, given the "rules" that still continue to dictate that orchestra's programmes, the symphonies being played are the two most "traditional" in style. Wednesday will see Shostakovich's Fifth, while Thursday is the Ninth. While the Fifth is a special piece for me, being only the second-ever complete symphony I performed in, and sparking my love of Shostakovich (thanks in no small part to our superb conductor, Malcolm Doley), and the Ninth is a joy to hear, it is a non-Shostakovich item I am most looking forward to.
Because, you see, the second-half of Thursday's concert is going to be Brahm's Fourth Symphony. This, for me, is a piece of music with such massive importance in my life, that for a long while, I could not actually bring myself to listen to it, such was the emotional effect it had on me. It was the first symphony I ever played in, with the Lancashire Students Symphony Orchestra. Furthermore, it was the first complete symphony I ever heard, and the first piece of Classical music I ever owned on CD - indeed, one of the first CDs I ever owned. It was in a complete set of Brahms' symphonies bought for me by my parents, something that is still on heavy rotation to this day, and a permanent fixture on my MP3 player. It helped spark my love of the whole sphere of Classical music. I read the liner notes of the CD, and wanted to know more, so I raided my parents' book collection for articles on the work and biographies of the Brahms (and there were a few given that this was one of the set works my Mum had taught at school). I found that the technical information made sense, the detail all added up in my head, and I wanted to see, read and hear more.
But it wasn't just for this reason that the symphony had such an effect. While on tour playing this piece, I got together with my first girlfriend. I had my first kiss after finishing a performance. I went on my first dates after rehearsals of this piece. This helped me realise that, despite my long-held beliefs, I was not a freak destined to be lonely for ever, but actually I quite enjoyed the company of people. I discovered the joys of being a member of an orchestral brass section, and all that entails. I remember sitting with Tamsin and other friends of mine from the string section while they pored over the huge books that comprised their parts for the symphony, and being roundly (but good-naturedly) mocked for the fact the Trombone part in its entireity consisted of two sparsely-written sides of A4 paper. Happy times.
But above all, I played this symphony at what was, and almost certainly shall remain, the best and most prestigious concert I have ever participated in - La Madélaine in Paris, to a crowd of over 2000 people. I remember the pride I felt as we played the trombone chorale in the fourth movement, along with the ethereal string accompaniment the only sound in that huge building. I remember looking out and seeing my parents in the audience, of seeing Tamsin in the strings, of the conductor smiling for the first time in what seemed like an age, and thinking that this was a special moment in my life. Looking back on this now, with a distance of over ten years, it sometimes seems as if it was another world, that it was not me who did this. But then I find old photos and realise that yes, I may have had stupid long hair and a perpetual teenage scowl, but it was me.
And perhaps this explains why, in a cycle of Shostakovich concerts, the piece I am most looking forward to is by someone completely different. It is a piece I know inside out, better than I know any play, any book, any piece of art, and soemthign that brings endless pleasure every time I hear it.
I can't wait.
It's not that Gergiev is any more qualified a conductor of Shostakovich than others - indeed, he never actually met the great man, thus placing him, in "authenticity" terms, behind Shostakovich's son, Maxim, and his good friend Mstislav Rostropovich. But Gergiev is one of the most exciting conductors around today, a scholar of Shostakovich, and someone who brings the utmost dedication and respect to these scores.
Beginning in September of last year then, Gergiev has conducted all the symphonies with a variety of orchestras, and I have attended each one. Not every concert has been a great success: sometimes I felt the interpretation was a little awry - the Eighth unsurprisingly failed to match Rostropovich's performance with the same forces (which remains one of the finest concerts I have ever attended). At other times, outside forces conspired to alter the effect of the concert: a magical performance of the disturbing Fourteenth was ruined by someone in the audience, who chose to disrupt what should have been the shattered silence after the devastating finalé in an attempt to show he knew the piece, by shouting "Bravo" the second the last semiquaver finished. The enthusiasm was appreciated, but given the subject matter, and the emotion conveyed, it was a little bit of a rude awakening from our spellbound state. On the other hand, some performances have been incredible: I doubt I shall see as good a performance of the Fourth Symphony again. However, all the concerts have stuck in my mind as unique and thoroughly enjoyable experiences, significant events in my concert-going life.
However, Wednesday and Thursday this week will be the highspots of the whole cycle for me. Both are with the Vienna Philharmonic, one of Europe's oldest and most traditional ensembles. Unsurprisingly, given the "rules" that still continue to dictate that orchestra's programmes, the symphonies being played are the two most "traditional" in style. Wednesday will see Shostakovich's Fifth, while Thursday is the Ninth. While the Fifth is a special piece for me, being only the second-ever complete symphony I performed in, and sparking my love of Shostakovich (thanks in no small part to our superb conductor, Malcolm Doley), and the Ninth is a joy to hear, it is a non-Shostakovich item I am most looking forward to.
Because, you see, the second-half of Thursday's concert is going to be Brahm's Fourth Symphony. This, for me, is a piece of music with such massive importance in my life, that for a long while, I could not actually bring myself to listen to it, such was the emotional effect it had on me. It was the first symphony I ever played in, with the Lancashire Students Symphony Orchestra. Furthermore, it was the first complete symphony I ever heard, and the first piece of Classical music I ever owned on CD - indeed, one of the first CDs I ever owned. It was in a complete set of Brahms' symphonies bought for me by my parents, something that is still on heavy rotation to this day, and a permanent fixture on my MP3 player. It helped spark my love of the whole sphere of Classical music. I read the liner notes of the CD, and wanted to know more, so I raided my parents' book collection for articles on the work and biographies of the Brahms (and there were a few given that this was one of the set works my Mum had taught at school). I found that the technical information made sense, the detail all added up in my head, and I wanted to see, read and hear more.
But it wasn't just for this reason that the symphony had such an effect. While on tour playing this piece, I got together with my first girlfriend. I had my first kiss after finishing a performance. I went on my first dates after rehearsals of this piece. This helped me realise that, despite my long-held beliefs, I was not a freak destined to be lonely for ever, but actually I quite enjoyed the company of people. I discovered the joys of being a member of an orchestral brass section, and all that entails. I remember sitting with Tamsin and other friends of mine from the string section while they pored over the huge books that comprised their parts for the symphony, and being roundly (but good-naturedly) mocked for the fact the Trombone part in its entireity consisted of two sparsely-written sides of A4 paper. Happy times.
But above all, I played this symphony at what was, and almost certainly shall remain, the best and most prestigious concert I have ever participated in - La Madélaine in Paris, to a crowd of over 2000 people. I remember the pride I felt as we played the trombone chorale in the fourth movement, along with the ethereal string accompaniment the only sound in that huge building. I remember looking out and seeing my parents in the audience, of seeing Tamsin in the strings, of the conductor smiling for the first time in what seemed like an age, and thinking that this was a special moment in my life. Looking back on this now, with a distance of over ten years, it sometimes seems as if it was another world, that it was not me who did this. But then I find old photos and realise that yes, I may have had stupid long hair and a perpetual teenage scowl, but it was me.
And perhaps this explains why, in a cycle of Shostakovich concerts, the piece I am most looking forward to is by someone completely different. It is a piece I know inside out, better than I know any play, any book, any piece of art, and soemthign that brings endless pleasure every time I hear it.
I can't wait.
Procrastination
I am taking a break from my studies because I have a blog post itching to get out of me...
I just have to share with you two pieces of music which are really moving me at the moment.
The first is Brad Mehldau, "Largo". After a conversation with Nicholas on Saturday (a most excellent evening. incidentally), I was inspired to get another of Brad Mehldau's albums. For those of you unaware of him, he is an American pianist who plays jazz (mostly) in a trio (in the period in question, bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Jorge Rossy). He has a net line in jazz versions of Radiohead and Beatles tracks.
I was first introduced to his music back in 2001 when living in Nice. We were sharing a house with an Irish exPat Nursing student, Orla, and she introduced us to the large Irish community in Nice at the time. Amongst them was an extremely affable chap called David O'Docherty (nominated at the Edinburgh Fringe this year for the Perrier award, and writer of the rather terrific children's book, "Ronan Long Gets It Wrong"), who loaned me a tape of his friend Brad, which took up residence on our rather decrepit tape player for the next few weeks.
The original record Nicholas and I were enthusing over, "The Art of the Trio, Volume 4" has now been joined in my collection by "Largo", which I believe is marginally superior, although orbiting in a slightly different musical world. The ensemble has been enlarged to include brass and string sections, and it takes a slightly more simplistic approach to some of the numbers. Indeed, it is markedly less "jazz" than the other recordings I have heard by him (which may help to quell the fears of those dreading a jazz-Radiohead collision), and features some fine versions of "Paranoid Android" and "Dear Prudence".
However, it's the opening track, "When It Rains", which is moving me at the moment. There's an air of relaxed melancholy over it, which is peculiarly beautiful. I won't say much more about it, but would encourage you to track it down if you can (Nicholas - a copy shall be on the way to you shortly).
The other piece that is affecting me at the moment is the Concerto Grosso, Op. 6 No. 4 by Arcangelo Corelli. Not only is it far removed from the Brad Mehldau, it is far removed from my "usual" favourite pieces of Classical music. Thanks to my course, my eyes have been opened to the joy of Baroque (and earlier) music (previously, I confess, my interest in this period had begun and ended with the Renaissance church music of Gabrieli and J.S. Bach). This particular Concerto Grosso is one of our set works, and I would encourage anyone who likes the music of Vivaldi (can you guess who this is directed at?!) to listen to this piece.
The musical and technical joys of this piece are too long for me to go into here, but I shall highlight my two favourite moments. Firstly, the Phrygian (so called after the Phrygian mode) cadence that ends the Adagio. After a Perfect cadence in B minor (for the piano players among you, a triad of F# major, followed by a triad of B minor, both in root position, and with A# followed by B in the top part), the music descends through a first inversion (A in the bass, F# at the top of the chord) F# minor chord, then a first inversion E minor chord (G in the bass, E in the top), and finishing on a root F# major chord (F# in the bass, F# at the top). It looks complicated written down, but believe me, it sounds simple and beautiful.
The second moment is in the fourth movement (Allegro), again at the end of the piece, where the bass rises against F# and D in the top two violin parts, giving chords of D major (root), D major (first inversion), G major seventh (first inversion), D major seventh (second inversion), B minor (root). Again, looks complicated, sounds divine.
I hope you enjoy these!
I just have to share with you two pieces of music which are really moving me at the moment.
The first is Brad Mehldau, "Largo". After a conversation with Nicholas on Saturday (a most excellent evening. incidentally), I was inspired to get another of Brad Mehldau's albums. For those of you unaware of him, he is an American pianist who plays jazz (mostly) in a trio (in the period in question, bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Jorge Rossy). He has a net line in jazz versions of Radiohead and Beatles tracks.
I was first introduced to his music back in 2001 when living in Nice. We were sharing a house with an Irish exPat Nursing student, Orla, and she introduced us to the large Irish community in Nice at the time. Amongst them was an extremely affable chap called David O'Docherty (nominated at the Edinburgh Fringe this year for the Perrier award, and writer of the rather terrific children's book, "Ronan Long Gets It Wrong"), who loaned me a tape of his friend Brad, which took up residence on our rather decrepit tape player for the next few weeks.
The original record Nicholas and I were enthusing over, "The Art of the Trio, Volume 4" has now been joined in my collection by "Largo", which I believe is marginally superior, although orbiting in a slightly different musical world. The ensemble has been enlarged to include brass and string sections, and it takes a slightly more simplistic approach to some of the numbers. Indeed, it is markedly less "jazz" than the other recordings I have heard by him (which may help to quell the fears of those dreading a jazz-Radiohead collision), and features some fine versions of "Paranoid Android" and "Dear Prudence".
However, it's the opening track, "When It Rains", which is moving me at the moment. There's an air of relaxed melancholy over it, which is peculiarly beautiful. I won't say much more about it, but would encourage you to track it down if you can (Nicholas - a copy shall be on the way to you shortly).
The other piece that is affecting me at the moment is the Concerto Grosso, Op. 6 No. 4 by Arcangelo Corelli. Not only is it far removed from the Brad Mehldau, it is far removed from my "usual" favourite pieces of Classical music. Thanks to my course, my eyes have been opened to the joy of Baroque (and earlier) music (previously, I confess, my interest in this period had begun and ended with the Renaissance church music of Gabrieli and J.S. Bach). This particular Concerto Grosso is one of our set works, and I would encourage anyone who likes the music of Vivaldi (can you guess who this is directed at?!) to listen to this piece.
The musical and technical joys of this piece are too long for me to go into here, but I shall highlight my two favourite moments. Firstly, the Phrygian (so called after the Phrygian mode) cadence that ends the Adagio. After a Perfect cadence in B minor (for the piano players among you, a triad of F# major, followed by a triad of B minor, both in root position, and with A# followed by B in the top part), the music descends through a first inversion (A in the bass, F# at the top of the chord) F# minor chord, then a first inversion E minor chord (G in the bass, E in the top), and finishing on a root F# major chord (F# in the bass, F# at the top). It looks complicated written down, but believe me, it sounds simple and beautiful.
The second moment is in the fourth movement (Allegro), again at the end of the piece, where the bass rises against F# and D in the top two violin parts, giving chords of D major (root), D major (first inversion), G major seventh (first inversion), D major seventh (second inversion), B minor (root). Again, looks complicated, sounds divine.
I hope you enjoy these!
Friday, September 08, 2006
Dub No Bass In My Head Man
During my jaunt to the family home in lovely Poulton-le-Fylde recently, I had to make a difficult decision.
I decided to give away my bass amplifier. This may sound like a piffling decision to most, but it's actually had quite an effect on me. It wasn't much to look at - around a metre high and a metre tall, with a sloping front grill covering a large 15" speaker cone, and with two vents at the bottom. It had seen quite a lot of action too, even by the time I bought it second-hand from Brent Forbes. It was the amp he had used during the recording of the "Les Miserables" soundtrack in London (you will see his name on the credits), and it had travelled over the world with him. The body had been gloss-painted over in black to cover up marks and scratches in the original paint work. The foam inside the flight case had begun to sheer off, and the lid of the case soon bit the dust (last seen being burned on a ceremonial pyre). The electrics had begun to be troublesome, and shortly after I bought it, the gain control knob sheared off and had to be replaced. It also had an annoying habit of shorting out at the most inconvenient moments, such as in the middle of a gig, though this was rectified with a little bit of electrical tweaking.
But it was a thing of beauty when played. I had so many memories tied up with it. I remember playing Grey Day in 1998, the biggest gig I had done when playing the bass, and watching people key in to the sounds that were coming out - it seemed everyone keyed in to the bass, and it surprised me that these sounds were coming from my fingers. I remember the unholy sound I managed to extract from it when doing a Cactus Lounge gig in Collingwood and, doing a running leap across the stage onto my pedals, managed to explode one of them. I remember working out exactly where I could hit my bass on it which would generate the best harmonics on the low B string while not damaging the instrument. And I remember recording the Chaulk demo, where I rigged it up to two cabinets containing two ten inch speakers, and running the distortion through those and the clean bass through my amp, and producing the finest, loudest sound I think I ever got out of it.
I hadn't played it for years - it was too big to bring to London with me, and not having a car emant transporting it would have been impossible. But deciding to give it away to a friend in need means that one of my few tangible links to these moments is gone. Which is sad for a number of reasons, but perhaps most of all because it forces me to face up to something I have known deep down for a long time. I am never going to be a full-time bass player in a signed band.
I know that sounds fanciful, and the kind of dream you have when you're much younger, but havign played so much with various bands, it looked for a long time like this might happen. And I came so close on a number of occasions. The two other band members from Wug tried to encourage me to spend a year after graduation touring, playing and trying to get signed. I could not give a firm commitment, and so the band went their separate ways. James is now signed to Creeping Bent records and has a small label of his own. Danny is a promoter in Manchester and getting rave reviews for his Folk Collective. I spent a year trying to make ends meet as a professional trombonist and am now a Civil Servant.
Then there was Chaulk. Our demo sold extremely well, and we actually got several phone callsf rom a couple of major labels (if memory serves me rightly, Parlophone was one) asking for more material. But by that time the band had imploded, the fractious relationships collapsing to the point where the concept of speaking to one another, let alone trying to record another demo, was impossible. So in desperation, Rich A, Ben and I cobbled together the unused, rough versions of extra songs we'd recorded for the first demo, some without vocals, some very shoddy, and sent them off on an unmarked CD, without telling Rich Meehan. It was without a doubt one of the more shitty things I've done, and unsurprisingly we heard nothing more.
And Andy Logan's attempts to get me to play wiht him in various bands after graduation were appreciated, but ultimately futile, as by then, after my trombone experiences, I had a sensible job, a regular wage, a little bit of trombone playing on the side, and not enough time left to give him the commitment he wanted.
So now, I am giving away my equipment. I still have my bass, although because of space issues, it is in storage, as I have my electric piano instead of it now. And in theory, I am going to replace my amp, but again, with space issues, I will only do this when I need it. Deep down, I suspect this day will never come.
All this came flooding back to me yesterday when listening to some of Ben Folds' EPs. I thought of how powerful, and how fantastic, the bass is. It always has had this primacy - when doing my harmonisation of Bach Chorales, it is amazing of how altering the bass even by one or two notes can imply and create a completely different aural effect. But yesterday, when walking down towards the Wetland Centre in Barnes and listening to "Protection", there was a moment where the bass came in at the beginning of a verse with a slight bit of syncopation and it almost made me jump with delight. And then I listened "There's Always Someone Cooler Than You", and heard the impact the fuzz bass makes when it come in, and I just thought that all is well with the world. And a tiny tiny voice said in my head...maybe one day...
I decided to give away my bass amplifier. This may sound like a piffling decision to most, but it's actually had quite an effect on me. It wasn't much to look at - around a metre high and a metre tall, with a sloping front grill covering a large 15" speaker cone, and with two vents at the bottom. It had seen quite a lot of action too, even by the time I bought it second-hand from Brent Forbes. It was the amp he had used during the recording of the "Les Miserables" soundtrack in London (you will see his name on the credits), and it had travelled over the world with him. The body had been gloss-painted over in black to cover up marks and scratches in the original paint work. The foam inside the flight case had begun to sheer off, and the lid of the case soon bit the dust (last seen being burned on a ceremonial pyre). The electrics had begun to be troublesome, and shortly after I bought it, the gain control knob sheared off and had to be replaced. It also had an annoying habit of shorting out at the most inconvenient moments, such as in the middle of a gig, though this was rectified with a little bit of electrical tweaking.
But it was a thing of beauty when played. I had so many memories tied up with it. I remember playing Grey Day in 1998, the biggest gig I had done when playing the bass, and watching people key in to the sounds that were coming out - it seemed everyone keyed in to the bass, and it surprised me that these sounds were coming from my fingers. I remember the unholy sound I managed to extract from it when doing a Cactus Lounge gig in Collingwood and, doing a running leap across the stage onto my pedals, managed to explode one of them. I remember working out exactly where I could hit my bass on it which would generate the best harmonics on the low B string while not damaging the instrument. And I remember recording the Chaulk demo, where I rigged it up to two cabinets containing two ten inch speakers, and running the distortion through those and the clean bass through my amp, and producing the finest, loudest sound I think I ever got out of it.
I hadn't played it for years - it was too big to bring to London with me, and not having a car emant transporting it would have been impossible. But deciding to give it away to a friend in need means that one of my few tangible links to these moments is gone. Which is sad for a number of reasons, but perhaps most of all because it forces me to face up to something I have known deep down for a long time. I am never going to be a full-time bass player in a signed band.
I know that sounds fanciful, and the kind of dream you have when you're much younger, but havign played so much with various bands, it looked for a long time like this might happen. And I came so close on a number of occasions. The two other band members from Wug tried to encourage me to spend a year after graduation touring, playing and trying to get signed. I could not give a firm commitment, and so the band went their separate ways. James is now signed to Creeping Bent records and has a small label of his own. Danny is a promoter in Manchester and getting rave reviews for his Folk Collective. I spent a year trying to make ends meet as a professional trombonist and am now a Civil Servant.
Then there was Chaulk. Our demo sold extremely well, and we actually got several phone callsf rom a couple of major labels (if memory serves me rightly, Parlophone was one) asking for more material. But by that time the band had imploded, the fractious relationships collapsing to the point where the concept of speaking to one another, let alone trying to record another demo, was impossible. So in desperation, Rich A, Ben and I cobbled together the unused, rough versions of extra songs we'd recorded for the first demo, some without vocals, some very shoddy, and sent them off on an unmarked CD, without telling Rich Meehan. It was without a doubt one of the more shitty things I've done, and unsurprisingly we heard nothing more.
And Andy Logan's attempts to get me to play wiht him in various bands after graduation were appreciated, but ultimately futile, as by then, after my trombone experiences, I had a sensible job, a regular wage, a little bit of trombone playing on the side, and not enough time left to give him the commitment he wanted.
So now, I am giving away my equipment. I still have my bass, although because of space issues, it is in storage, as I have my electric piano instead of it now. And in theory, I am going to replace my amp, but again, with space issues, I will only do this when I need it. Deep down, I suspect this day will never come.
All this came flooding back to me yesterday when listening to some of Ben Folds' EPs. I thought of how powerful, and how fantastic, the bass is. It always has had this primacy - when doing my harmonisation of Bach Chorales, it is amazing of how altering the bass even by one or two notes can imply and create a completely different aural effect. But yesterday, when walking down towards the Wetland Centre in Barnes and listening to "Protection", there was a moment where the bass came in at the beginning of a verse with a slight bit of syncopation and it almost made me jump with delight. And then I listened "There's Always Someone Cooler Than You", and heard the impact the fuzz bass makes when it come in, and I just thought that all is well with the world. And a tiny tiny voice said in my head...maybe one day...
Monday, September 04, 2006
Interpretation and Showmanship II
Liselapois got me thinking further along the lines of showmanship and its connection with authenticity and tradional.
Often accompanying the "showmanship" is a pulling of the piece slightly out of shape - i.e. a certain amount of rubato. This is fine in its place, and when directed by the composer, but if you are going to add rubato to places where the composer did not specify it, then the whole system of printed music breaks down. There is no point for the composer to have written any more than a shell of a few notes, and certainly no need for s/he to have concerned themselves with adding dynamic and interpretive marks. It is only a small step from here to say "why don't I add a few notes here and there", and before you know it the piece collapses as it was originally intended (stand up Colin Matthews and your Pluto movement - what a waste of time that has turned out to be).
But on the other hand you do have the argument that, had Mozart or Beethoven had access to a modern concert Grand Piano, they would have increased their interpretive directions - more dynamics, longer sustain etc. And if you are determined not to indtroduce these modern techniques then why do you not perform the piece on on original fortepiano? If you are performing a Classical piece on a modern piano, should you not do the piece justice by subtly shading it here and there according to your own preference? I have some recordings of Bach's Das Wolltemperierte Klavier, played by Andras Schiff on a modern concert grand, and he subtly shades the music with his own interpretation. I find these immensely more pleasurable and tolerable to listen to than on the harpsichord or the clavichord, yet this is completely inconsistent with Bach's wishes.
And again, I confess to a little inconsistency. I think you should be far more strict with a performance of Mozart, and the Classical era in general, than of Bach and his Baroque contemporaries. Bach's era was defined by music primarily written for an event - either religious, such as a cantata, or secular, such as a suite for dancing. The very act of transferring these pieces to the concert hall fundamentally alters their purpose and marks them as something other than what they are. Therefore, any other subsequent changes pale in comparison to this - music that was intended as purely functional has to be altered in order to become entertaining in its own right. However, the whole point of the era in which Mozart was writing was that the music was refined, balanced and elegant, suitable for both the aristocracy and the emerging bourgeosie, and above all, in a great many cases, intended to be listened to (think of the emergence of the Symphony - purely "entertainment" music, and as such, unheard of in the Baroque era). Mozart was, of course, ahead of his time, and introduced far more into his music, thinking about the responses in his listener and deliberately trying to confound, surprise and move them, through techniques which he wrote into his pieces. He knew the effect he wanted to produce in his audience and crafted his music so that it would produce this effect.
Now if a modern performer (such as Lang Lang in the performance I mentioned earlier) comes along and overlays their own interpretation through showmanship, then it disrupts the careful balance that Mozart worked out, and instead of Mozart dictating our responses, the performer is indicating to us where we should feel emotion. And this is what I have a problem with - I do not wish the performer to dictate my emotions to me. It makes me think of Shostakovich's description of the last movement of his Fifty Symphony: to paraphrase, "where you are beaten around the head and told 'your business is rejoicing', until you stagger to your feet and walk away saying 'our business is rejoicing'". If I am to be beaten about the head and instructed to rejoice, I would prefer Mozart administer the beating.
Often accompanying the "showmanship" is a pulling of the piece slightly out of shape - i.e. a certain amount of rubato. This is fine in its place, and when directed by the composer, but if you are going to add rubato to places where the composer did not specify it, then the whole system of printed music breaks down. There is no point for the composer to have written any more than a shell of a few notes, and certainly no need for s/he to have concerned themselves with adding dynamic and interpretive marks. It is only a small step from here to say "why don't I add a few notes here and there", and before you know it the piece collapses as it was originally intended (stand up Colin Matthews and your Pluto movement - what a waste of time that has turned out to be).
But on the other hand you do have the argument that, had Mozart or Beethoven had access to a modern concert Grand Piano, they would have increased their interpretive directions - more dynamics, longer sustain etc. And if you are determined not to indtroduce these modern techniques then why do you not perform the piece on on original fortepiano? If you are performing a Classical piece on a modern piano, should you not do the piece justice by subtly shading it here and there according to your own preference? I have some recordings of Bach's Das Wolltemperierte Klavier, played by Andras Schiff on a modern concert grand, and he subtly shades the music with his own interpretation. I find these immensely more pleasurable and tolerable to listen to than on the harpsichord or the clavichord, yet this is completely inconsistent with Bach's wishes.
And again, I confess to a little inconsistency. I think you should be far more strict with a performance of Mozart, and the Classical era in general, than of Bach and his Baroque contemporaries. Bach's era was defined by music primarily written for an event - either religious, such as a cantata, or secular, such as a suite for dancing. The very act of transferring these pieces to the concert hall fundamentally alters their purpose and marks them as something other than what they are. Therefore, any other subsequent changes pale in comparison to this - music that was intended as purely functional has to be altered in order to become entertaining in its own right. However, the whole point of the era in which Mozart was writing was that the music was refined, balanced and elegant, suitable for both the aristocracy and the emerging bourgeosie, and above all, in a great many cases, intended to be listened to (think of the emergence of the Symphony - purely "entertainment" music, and as such, unheard of in the Baroque era). Mozart was, of course, ahead of his time, and introduced far more into his music, thinking about the responses in his listener and deliberately trying to confound, surprise and move them, through techniques which he wrote into his pieces. He knew the effect he wanted to produce in his audience and crafted his music so that it would produce this effect.
Now if a modern performer (such as Lang Lang in the performance I mentioned earlier) comes along and overlays their own interpretation through showmanship, then it disrupts the careful balance that Mozart worked out, and instead of Mozart dictating our responses, the performer is indicating to us where we should feel emotion. And this is what I have a problem with - I do not wish the performer to dictate my emotions to me. It makes me think of Shostakovich's description of the last movement of his Fifty Symphony: to paraphrase, "where you are beaten around the head and told 'your business is rejoicing', until you stagger to your feet and walk away saying 'our business is rejoicing'". If I am to be beaten about the head and instructed to rejoice, I would prefer Mozart administer the beating.
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