My dear Cynthia strongly desires to see me conduct--live and in performance. Like many, she's seen her share of
YouTube videos and has actually attended rehearsals of my two Quad City ensembles. That being said, she says that she needs to see me in
my element. As we were recently discussing, that's probably easier said than done. A viable conductor cannot live "in the moment," rather s/he needs to--as much as is possible--stay ahead of it. S/he needs to anticipate everything than it going to occur: melodically, rhythmically, etc. Of course, if one has done his/her job well, there should be room for spontaneity. But again, leading "in the moment" is a possible recipe for disaster; in the world of live performance--regardless of the level of ensemble or the preparation thereof--things can still go awry.
I remember all too well
the orchestra in the Czech Republic that turned the opening section of Bernstein's
Candide Overture into a canon (it sort of worked!) although nothing of the kind ever happened in rehearsal. There was a much more recent occurrence (April 6 as a matter of fact) when, in the opening of the middle of the second movement of a Holst Suite, the clarinet soloist did not come in. Instead s/he (I won't give it away) initiated the entrance
one measure late while the rest of the ensemble went on unabated. This had never occurred either. Needless to say, I quietly mouthed "Letter D--now!" and gave a rather unmusical downbeat. Ah, the world of the traffic cop.
I have also led performances in which I was nearly carried away by the emotion of the moment, recalling a performance of Mark Camphouse's
Whatsoever Things that the
QCWE performed in memory of my dear friend, August Knoll, who had suddenly passed away only weeks before. Throughout most of the concert, I looked at the empty chair in the third clarinet section only hoping that Augie were there to share this emotionally-laden music with us. Although I was nearly in tears at several points in the piece, my own pain doesn't seem to have adversely affected the performance (at least judging from CD and DVD recordings).
On this subject,
Susan Tomes writes in
The Guardian:
What
happens if a performer is deeply moved by a work? Trouble, says Susan Tomes
Last week a friend told
me she was going to sing at a relative's funeral (BH: I've been there--one of the hardest things I've ever done) and couldn't imagine how she
would do so without crying. She wondered if it is hard for professional
musicians to play sad music in public. Do they have to feel sad too? Or do they
have to shut themselves off from the emotion of the music in order to be able
to perform?
Players of jazz, Indian
raga, and western classical music might all give different answers. However,
all musicians grapple with the same problem: if the voice breaks the tone
cannot be controlled, and what the listener hears is you rather than the music.
In instrumental music
there are equivalents of the voice breaking: trembling limbs, nerves, memory
problems. All these can intrude between the musician and the music, and between
the music and the listener.
Some of the most
outwardly emotional music requires enormous control. In Spain recently I saw a performance
of flamenco. On the surface it couldn't have been more fervent, but at the same
time one could feel the rigorous control and finesse of all the performers.
Classical performers
have to strike a balance between presenting themselves and presenting the
composer's work. To deliver the music with its meaning intact, it seems that
players have to remain separate from it, or at least enough to control it. (BH: exactly!)
They have to use their
own experience to understand the composer, but they mustn't identify with the
emotion of the music, or - paradoxically - it will be diminished. It's
dangerous to think you know everything the composer means. There may be more in
the music than the performer has decided to express, or is capable of expressing.
Years ago I was struck
by André Previn's description of a concert in which he conducted a romantic
symphony immediately after hearing that a close friend had died. Distraught, he
resolved to dedicate the performance to his friend's memory. Throughout the
piece he felt convinced that a sense of tragic power had elevated the whole
performance.
However, when he watched
a video of the concert afterwards, he was horrified to find that far from
raising the level, his misery had got in the way. The way he directed the
orchestra seemed haphazard and melodramatic, and his facial expressions
distracting. His emotional identification with the music had actually prevented
him from controlling it.
Musicians can't
understand music without using their emotional intelligence, and indeed it is
this that dictates the shape and timing of their performances, making one
player meaningfully different from another. But, as Daniel Barenboim once said,
"Your task is to convey the emotion, not to experience it." (BH: This is so easy to say. Only time will make the act "easier.")
As I don't witness my
performances, I couldn't say whether I keep my personal worries off the concert
stage. But when I listen to my recordings I'm often surprised that my emotional
state is not detectable. (Of course they are "only" sound recordings,
and collect no visual evidence.)
Recording is very
stressful, and nerves are sometimes screwed really tight. In recording sessions
I have had all sorts of problems that I thought were going to ruin the result.
Recently, for example, there was a problem with the piano I had chosen. Midway
through the record I had to switch to a different instrument. I was upset, and
convinced my emotion would be captured on the disc, making people feel
mysteriously low when they listened to it.
However, when I received
the finished product half a year later, there was no trace. The music sounded
serene, and the reviewers said so. That was a good thing, but I have also had
the experience of feeling particularly moved when recording certain passages
and finding that nothing special has found its way on to the disc.
We have all seen famous
performers who emote violently when they play, performing the emotions of the
music as well as the music itself. We hear a lot these days about
"ownership of the material", but with artists like Jacqueline du Pré
or Leonard Bernstein it almost seemed the other way round: they appeared
possessed by the music. Undoubtedly they felt it deeply, and fans loved their
involvement, but for me this type of performance is counterproductive. I feel
I'm being invited to witness them having an emotional experience, and this
prevents me from having one myself. (This is a hard one to agree with; DuPre's Elgar is the stuff of legend.)
At the opposite extreme
are undemonstrative players whose composure hides a selfless control of the
instrument. They try scrupulously to bring the music to life without getting in
the way. Think of Sviatoslav Richter sombrely reading his way through a piano
recital by the dim light of an Anglepoise lamp, or the startling virtuosity
that poured out of Rachmaninov as he sat almost unmoving and poker-faced at the
piano. The music lived through them, but they didn't have to mime its emotions
to make it comprehensible.
There are some players
who feel deprived if they can't emote on stage, and others who feel guilty if
they do. The audience's reaction is not something that can be second-guessed
and, as well as varying from person to person, can vary from one nationality to
another.
But in general the less
familiar the audience is with the music, the more they seem to like having it
signposted by the performer's body language and expressions. If, on the other
hand, musicians are playing to colleagues, they rein in their explanatory
gestures.
You can't control how
any gesture will be interpreted. (BH: This is true, but does that mean we eschew all gesture and emotion?) When playing chamber music, I find I often
feel like sharing certain nice moments in the music by looking over to a
colleague, perhaps smiling, or gently drawing attention to a moment where a
melody passes from me to them or vice versa. This would happen naturally in a
rehearsal, and feels like an appropriate part of performing the music too.
Recently, though, I
found myself saying something of the kind to our host after a private concert.
"Oh, do you do that deliberately?" she asked. "I noticed you
turning to look at your colleagues, and I couldn't help being surprised that you
still needed to do that after so many years of playing together." For her
my gesture was evidence of insecurity.
Perhaps it would have
been more convincing if I never looked round at all, but for me this would have
meant consciously restraining myself. As a listener I have just the opposite
response to a player who never looks away from the music or from their hands; I
feel they don't know the music well enough to be free.
Students often ask
whether it's important to "put yourself into the music". My answer is
that it isn't something you have to strive consciously to do. (BH: Yes. Just as a conductor's gestures to an ensemble are based upon study of the score, not on grandstanding.) Other people
can't help noticing how you look and move, and your presence - physical and
spiritual - is an integral part of your performance.
There may be value in
learning to control distracting gestures and superfluous movement, but no
player needs to strive to put themselves in to the music, because they are
there anyway as the vessel through which the music passes.
The player will
certainly make an impact on the audience. (BH: Really?) Much less sure is whether the music
will come across. In every field of music, fans have a special love for those
performers who give us the music as the primary experience, and themselves as
the secondary. Audiences sense where the performer's priorities lie, and for
whose sake they are in the business of performance.
BH: For me, the challenge is to simply forget that an audience is there, and that is the real tough part.
