The words ‘recording studio’ conjure up the image of a soundproof room, its ceiling clad with foam, wires streaming from holes in ugly polystyrene walls, armies of microphones, triple-glazed windows – a sort of refrigerator sealed from the outside world in order to preserve the controlled sounds created within. With most pop music or electronic music the acoustic of the room should play no part in the final product; everything relies on post-production mixing. A bloom on the sound, because it varies and is unpredictable, is undesirable. But in classical music recordings the natural acoustic of the space is usually an important part of the process. Not only does a beautifully sounding hall encourage the performer(s) to play better, to relish the overtones, to savour the nuances, but it makes the final CD sound more natural. Classical music, and the instruments on which it is played, is organic – in more than one sense of the word.
Not having a sealed environment can have its drawbacks, however. The roar of a jet plane, the hum of a lawn mower, a distant car alarm have all on occasion forced me to stop in mid-flight. Years ago I was recording some Schumann in a church. We’d reached the sublime, rapt third movement of his Fantasie op. 17 when birds at the stained-glass windows began squawking with raucous pleasure. I’m sure that Robert and Clara at the height of their courtship were not so demonstrative. In the end – with ruined take after ruined take, time running out, and sanity at the point of shreds – I had to run out with a starting pistol (the engineer had thought of everything), shoot it into the air, then run back inside again to complete the recording. No glowing acoustic can compensate for such dramatic drawbacks.
On one of my CDs you can hear, if you listen very carefully, just for a few seconds, the gentle warble of external (chaste) birdsong. We left it there. It was the best take. It was unobtrusive. It was musical. It was organic.
Our wonderful, ageing audiences
Although most people turn up at concerts on their own or in couples, occasionally there can be a coachload, frequently of older people, more often than not from a nursing home. On one occasion in Canada a few years ago such a scene set me thinking.
I arrived at the venue that evening with some of the familiar worries most performers have in the hour before the curtain rises, and as I approached the stage door I saw someone being wheeled up the ramp to the front entrance from a bus parked outside. When I saw this man, my heart instantly lifted. It struck me as wonderful that he was there to hear Beethoven and I was the one who this evening was to bring that music to life. It sounds corny to talk about it being a privilege but that’s exactly what it felt like. Ultimately to be a musician is to be a ‘joy bringer’: we are Jupiters, one and all! This old man in his wheelchair was a reminder of the fact, often lamented, that audiences for classical music concerts are mainly made up of the elderly, and that it seems increasingly difficult to attract young people to join us. But on that occasion such an observation seemed like a blasphemy. Greying audiences? I love them! With old age comes wisdom, patience, subtlety, contemplation … all qualities needed to appreciate great and complex music.
I’ve been playing professionally for over thirty years now and there’s always been a sea of grey beyond the footlights. So what? A new grey has replaced the old grey. In the leisure of retirement or in the freedom from the responsibility of looking after children, people can finally find the time to go to concerts. Not that I want in any way to discourage young people from loving classical music and from joining us in the concert halls. In Asia especially it’s thrilling to see large numbers of teenagers at concerts, clutching scores and taking photographs. For the young there should be as much education, encouragement, accessibility and affordability as possible … but not at the expense of making our seniors feel less welcome, as if we tolerate them only because we can’t attract a younger, hipper audience.
Classical music should be a great equaliser, not just socially but also between the generations. The Beethoven concerto I was playing in Canada on that occasion was written two hundred years ago; there were people in the audience who were probably approaching their own century, and the conductor and leader were both showing me photographs of their infants at the post-concert dinner. Classical music across the ages: timeless, universal, ageless.
Dumping the interval
With an art so rich and cherishable it can be frustrating to be reminded of the limits to the appeal of classical music. There have been many suggestions about how people can be encouraged to discover this treasure: better education, more creative repertoire, lower pricing, ways to counteract elitism. But what about the logistics: the time a concert begins and how long it lasts?
At some point in the early twentieth century we settled into a pattern: concerts should start in the early evening and last roughly two hours with an interval in which either to drink a glass of wine or to visit the loo. Any shorter and we invite complaints from the audience; longer and we risk complaints, as well as overtime costs, from the backstage staff. I think it would be good to reconsider this convention if we want to refresh the experience of hearing great classical music live without resorting to gimmicks.
Traditionally in the UK concerts start at 7.30 p.m. and in the USA at 8 p.m. But on a recent recital tour I did in Australia the default time was 7 p.m. In Spain and Italy concerts can be at 9 p.m. or later. The St Louis Symphony has 10.30 a.m. concerts; the Atlanta Symphony has 6 p.m. concerts, and the pianist Vladimir Horowitz in later life would play only at 4 p.m. Rock around the clock indeed.
However, one thing common to them all is the interval – the fifteen-to-twenty-minute gap between the first half and the second half. For opera or ballet this is understandable: sets need to be changed, singers and dancers need to rest, the works being performed are long and have breaks written into them. But who decreed that a concert should last roughly two hours with a gap in the middle in order for us to feel we’re getting our money’s worth?
I think we should consider removing the interval and starting either earlier or later than at present: sixty to eighty minutes of music, then out. It might be objected that the interval is a time to socialise. But is this really true? Isn’t it rather a time to scramble to the bar and at best begin a conversation that has to be cut short as you scramble back to your seat before the second half begins? The Los Angeles Philharmonic has ‘Casual Friday’ concerts when the orchestra plays a shortened version of that week’s programme with no interval and no on-stage dress code. When I played one of these it felt charged with an energy that the traditional concert can sometimes lack. When you play for an appreciative, concentrating audience there can be a cumulative emotional effect in the hall as you all enter the powerful world of a composer’s mind and heart. An interval’s descent to chit-chat can bring everyone down to earth with a bump, requiring the engines to be started up all over again.
Another possibility would be to have two shorter concerts on the same evening, like sittings in a restaurant. A seventy- minute concert at 6.30 p.m. then another one at, say, 9 p.m.? It could be an exact repeat or have a slightly altered menu. It would be possible to choose to come to both concerts, with time for a proper meal in between, or to opt for the one that works best for the audience member. Concert halls with on-site restaurants could double the number of people they feed to the advantage of all, and we could have proper conversations with our friends rather than shouting a few hasty words over the hiss of the hand-dryer.
Classical music – for everyone?
I often hear it said that classical music is for everyone but I’m not sure I agree. Before I make enemies of all my friends and enrage all my colleagues, let me explain myself and explore this idea a little further. I want every door of access to music to be flung open. I don’t want one pair of ears on this planet to be denied the opportunity to experience the ecstatic world of classical music – and certainly not through social or financial exclusion.
But the problem is not really with access. In Britain our auditoriums, orchestras and festivals put on concerts for every conceivabl
e audience group, at every time of the day, sometimes in the most unlikely venues, streamed on multiple digital platforms, at prices that are more affordable than ever. Our broadcasters constantly play and explain music with energy and wit. On the phone in my pocket right now, in a matter of seconds, I could begin to listen to just about any symphony ever recorded, free of charge, in superb sound. The sheer accessibility of music today is mind-boggling. But in the end some people will just not respond to this art form we love – and that’s just fine. There’s nothing wrong with them and – more important – there’s nothing wrong with the music.
Education, exposure, enthusiasm all play a part in developing new audiences, and many musicians and musical organisations are tireless and passionate in their determination to do so, but listening to great music requires an effort. People understand that playing an instrument, like excelling in sport, requires years of work and dedication to reach a level of expertise. What they might not realise is that, unlike with sport, when you can crack open your fifth beer, lie on the sofa and still enjoy the Wimbledon Finals on the telly, a Mahler symphony requires utter concentration to make its impact. It explores the most complex ideas and emotions. If the work is going to make any sense, the blood, sweat and tears of the composer must trickle down to the performers … and to the listeners.
Classical music audiences are not and should not be passive. They are an essential part of a performance; their attention amplifies the atmosphere on stage. It’s a kind of psychic soundboard for the musicians. When we invite someone to come with us to a concert it’s more like asking them to play a game of tennis rather than to watch a match. I do think we sometimes undersell classical music, especially to young people. We invite them to climb Primrose Hill when they are ready for Ben Nevis. Young people are, and always have been, attracted by complexity and a challenge. When I was at school I remember asking the English teacher, ‘Which is the hardest book to read?’ Finnegans Wake soon formed an impressive bulge in my satchel.
Classical music might not be for everybody but it is for millions more across the world than presently attend our concerts. What if each of us asked a couple of newbies to join us next time we go? Anyone for tennis?
Poking bows and spitting mouthpieces
I’m used to my profession being thought of as a luxury, something in which to indulge after the serious business of real life has been taken care of. Politicians in Britain – left, right and centre – have nodded at the arts with respect over the years (one even conducted symphony orchestras), but usually as a sideline to the main event, a cherry on top of the cake rather than deep in the very mix of the dough.
I know I’m biased but I think learning something about the history of the arts in schools is as important as learning about the history of kings and queens and presidents. How people live their imaginative, creative lives is vital in understanding how they make their brief time on the planet meaningful.
So much for theory; what about practice? Not so much ‘music appreciation’ classes, but rosin on a bow, reed in a mouth, fingers on keys. Many studies are now discovering that learning a musical instrument is something positive in itself – a discipline that helps a person to acquire skills of co-ordination, concentration and perseverance. It shares these with sport, of course, but there is more. What makes playing a musical instrument worthy of special attention is that its physical and mental complexities are a springboard to something beyond the tangible or the measurable. Unlike sport, music is not about winning, or keeping fit, or promoting your town or your school; it’s about celebrating, to a level approaching ecstasy, the deepest human longings. At moments of acute joy or sorrow, men and women throughout history have sung or reached for musical instruments to express the inexpressible. When minds are taut with emotion, there seems to be an inner compulsive instinct to release and harness this tension through the measured vibrations in the air that we call music.
We can learn to draw, but our relationship with Rembrandt exists across a rope inside a gallery. We might understand a book, we might mutter its more melodious words under our breath, but reading, too, is a passive engagement. But playing a musical instrument allows us to touch the cloak of Beethoven. Without our fingers on the keys, his sonatas remain mere dots on a page – a soulless, soundless, unbroken code. Music flares into life only when you or I dare to strike the match. Our libraries, our museums, are sacred temples to be preserved with all our might, but the ability to play a musical instrument allows us to create a cathedral in any room where we might bow a violin or blow an oboe.
In a period of economic difficulty or social strife the arts don’t just help us to cope, they call into question the way we live our lives. What makes a society happy, fulfilled, creative, law-abiding? Few would suggest that money can do this by itself. Discovering how to spend leisure time well could be as important in the effort to reduce crime as having extra police on the streets; increasing the population of concert halls might actually help decrease the population of prisons. As Pascal put it, ‘The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room.’ Few occupations pass the solitary hours more fruitfully than the playing of a musical instrument.
Children with genius levels of musical talent will always find a way to flourish, despite opposition or deprivation. Those from families where music is already present will have countless opportunities – even if a little coercion is sometimes involved – to learn an instrument. But what about all the other children? Political leaders need to be proactive here because change will not happen by itself. The ubiquity of low culture, the inaccessibility of instruments and teachers, peer pressure, schoolwork demands, the blare and glare of technology’s latest gadgets – all of these make it more difficult for children to begin studying the cello or the horn, and to persevere beyond discouragement or boredom.
The most cursory glance at a music history textbook will contradict any nonsense about classical music being for the rich or privileged in society. In fact, most of the great musicians came from modest or often even seriously disadvantaged backgrounds. It is possible to combine an unflinching demand for excellence with a passionate insistence on equality of opportunity. This should become a norm in the early years of a child’s schooling: a vast youth orchestra, a finely tuned machine for social improvement and enrichment, fuelled by communal cooperation. Up to a hundred individual personalities sitting within reach of a poking bow or spitting mouthpiece, forced to put aside their egos for the sake of a greater good.
Can you be a musician and not write music?
I have often written and spoken about the issue of pianist–composers, pointing out that until the Second World War it was virtually unheard of for someone to play the piano and not to write music as well. In the nineteenth century, arriving in a town to play only someone else’s compositions would have provoked a raised and not entirely approving eyebrow. Every great instrumentalist was not a great composer, but each one wrote music, published music, performed his or her own music. Learning how to compose musical notes is no more difficult than learning how to write words; it is a technique. Actually it is something that is generally required at any music college in the form of harmony and counterpoint, and it is only a small step from harmonising a Bach chorale to writing one of your own.
When you reach Act III of Wagner’s opera Die Meistersinger von Nürnburg you realise that the contest was not about winning the prize as a singer but as a composer … and, indeed, as a poet too. It is Walther’s creative originality and daring that exclude him from being accepted as a Master in Act I, just as it is the same qualities, finally recognised when the walls of prejudice are dismantled, that gain him the prize and the bride in Act III. The only character in the opera who is solely a performer is the buffoon Beckmesser, who steals someone else’s song and is unable to make sense of it, mangling it to great comic effect.
I hate the piling up of obligations but I do think that music students should be required to wri
te music. We look at other composers’ notes on the page in a different way when we have struggled to write our own. If we have spent time debating where exactly to place a certain dynamic marking or how to space a chord, I think we will look at those same issues in the music we play by others in a different, more intelligent way.
To answer the question in the title above: yes! I think it’s obvious that there are many great musicians who have not written music. But I’m not convinced that they couldn’t have; and if they haven’t, I think they should have.
Can you be a musician and not play or read music?
Now, moving the argument in a different direction, do you have to play or sing in order to call yourself a musician? I mentioned this point to a friend once and he replied instantly, ‘Of course! A musician is someone who plays music.’ I’m not sure it’s as simple as that, and I think this realisation could change the way thousands of people attend concerts or listen to recordings.
Everything hinges on how you define the word ‘musician’ of course. I have come across people whom I would happily call musicians, even though they might not even be able to read music. Unlike sport, where someone who has never sweated in action could hardly be called a sportsperson, the essence of music is something invisible, intangible. The playing of notes on an instrument is only the beginning of a connection with the inner world of the sounds. I have come across people whose profound alertness to music, whose instinctive, sympathetic resonance with its inner vibrations, is so acute that they seem to me to be not only musicians but great ones. Critics, novelists, poets, painters, actors, scientists, doctors … and many members of an audience can fit into this category.
To define a musician as ‘someone who plays or reads music’ doesn’t hold water. Is the ability merely to be able to play a simple scale on a recorder or strum a few stray chords on a guitar a qualification? If not, at what point would someone become a musician? And what about those who, through serious injury, are unable to play any more? Are they ‘ex-musicians’? No! To say, ‘she used to be a musician’ implies to me that the person is still playing but has lost that inner understanding of the spirit behind the sound waves.
Rough Ideas Page 2
