Words on Music

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WORDS ON MUSIC

BY

ERNST BACON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 6

Introduction 7

THE PERFORMER 9

The Interpretive Art 10

The Podium 15

The Conductor as a Public Official 19

The Singer 25

THE CRITIC 32

Limits of Criticism 33

On Musical Stature 37

Criticism in the Provinces 41

THE AUTHOR 43

The Composer 44

The Experimental View 50

On Originality 55

Jazz 59

THE TEACHER 63

The Interview 64

Accent on Youth 72

The Search 75

MUSIC AND SOCIETY 80

Are Musicians Citizens? 81

Patrons 87

The Price of Waste 95

Changing Concepts 101

BRIEFLY SAID 104

The Performer 105

The Critic 107

The Author 109

The Teacher 111

Music and Society 114

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 118

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

For the opportunity and assistance needed for the completion of his manuscript, the author wishes gratefully to acknowledge his indebtedness to

Mr. Huntington Hartford

and

Chancellor William P. Tolley, Syracuse University

Introduction

The appalling centralization of English, intellectual and artistic life...with the consequent boorification of the provinces.

BERNARD SHAW

This book deals with some of the less obvious aspects of present-day music in America. The public has little knowledge of what goes on behind the proscenium of concerts, operas, and broadcasts, or how fashions or reputations are made, and it seldom sees the need to appraise the merits of men in high places. Our professional music has long been a one-party affair. In its politics there is no organized opposition, though the scattered elements of resistance could well constitute a large majority of the profession. As to what I call the political side of the art (by which I mean its manner of being manipulated and not its connection with the machinery of state), enough will be said in this book to make the point clear.

While education is now undergoing a worried scrutiny, with resonance added by some of our international pollsters and prognosticated, almost nothing is said in criticism of our large orchestras, opera houses, college music schools, recording companies, concert bureaus, movies, broadcasters, and publishers, which certainly play a large part in the national education, and which add up to what has been estimated to be the fifth national industry, filling a willing, or unwilling, commensurate portion of our everyday lives. It is true that now and then a book is vaunted for its disclosures of music’s real life backstage; and, indeed, if a person cared to read between the lines, enough has been printed to cause him to reason that there is more that a waits telling. However, to borrow an expression that Theodore Roosevelt applied to President Taft, the authors mostly mean well, but say it feebly. When not damning with faint praise, they praise with faint damns.

Not that this book pursues any particularly bold or courageous line. I have neither the gift nor the resources to be a reformer, statistician, muck-raker, racket-buster, or even gadfly. While I do bring out a few circumstances of which the profession is as much aware as the public is ignorant, it is nevertheless my main task to speak of attitudes rather than statistics.

It is awkward to dwell on the faults of so glamorized and well-dressed a business as music. To do so, however, one should at least have some point of reference, some basis of comparison in making a criticism. My vantage point lies somewhere between the American concept of citizenship and the experience we have enjoyed in American letters, which is the only mature art we possess.

Nothing is gained when the wish to have arrived is confused with the doubtful fact. We need only observe that in exchange for foreign artists and orchestras we have been sending abroad our own, led by Americans in citizenship only, and programming (rightly or wrongly) as few genuine American works as they do at home. Europeans, enjoying and praising our orchestras and artists, are again convinced that we are better at buying talent than at building it. This is not to say that individuals have not arrived in America: only that the nation as a whole has not achieved a proper level of musical self-respect, and lacking this it can hardly expect to win the unqualified admiration of others. The American musician does not sit easily in the saddle of authority and responsibility. The horse may be as much at fault as the rider.

If it were possible to sum up what stands most in the way of our musical self-realization, I would say it is centralization. This growing evil has indeed infected Europe of late, but in lesser degree and at a stage of less vulnerability. It is odd how few people realize that the nation’s music is ruled from one little half a square mile of Manhattan: management, radio, recording, the union, criticism, publication, and even to some extent scholarship. This tyranny, even though it often pictures itself as benevolent, is in effect repressive to regionalism, restrictive to individualism, and destructive to aspiration. New York is not only a national market. It is a world market. If only the great centers abroad were similarly neutral as regards their musicians, then a proper state of reciprocity might prevail. But they are not, and as a result we are harboring an ill-balanced a nationalism that dispirits no less than its purblind opposite excludes. There has been some amelioration of this fault of late, but not as much as is deduced from a few native concessions which remain the exception rather than the rule.

Posing the problem, I offer no simple remedy. An inferiority complex is not cured with a capsule. Walt Whitman said: Produce great persons; the rest follows. But then one can’t put a Sequoia seed into a tin can and expect much to happen. I have as high an opinion of American talent and vitality, as I have a low opinion of how it is treated. This is the essence of what I have to say.

THE PERFORMER

No more than any other talent is that for music susceptible of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its exercise.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

The Interpretive Art

Sometimes, looking at a score, I say to myself, "What marvellous music. But I must make it so."

PABLO CASALS

People have a way of speaking more and more of creativity the less there is of it. In olden times every musician made music, just as today we expect a painter to paint his own pictures. There was no mystery about it. The average musical child (and that is by no means a minority) makes up tunes as soon as he learns to speak. We usually put a stop to that, unhappily, by throwing the instrumental classics at him and frightening him with their complex notation. If we just let him sing awhile, he might do something as pretty as he does with paints when intelligently left alone. Instead, too often we tend to discourage the inventive strain; then later, after it has been chased out of the house, we make an exalted mystery of it. Creativity needs but little promoting, yet a good deal of allowing. No one thinks of planting a seedling in a solid bed of manure; but a certain amount of weeding, cultivating, and even manuring are presently necessary, once the plant has started. This simple garden formula ought to suffice us; but instead, we prefer to educate our musicians in hothouses. So we go in for exotic plants, and our greatest pride is to raise musical orchids and papayas in places like Michigan or Ohio, where apples and corn (yes, corn!) would grow so handsomely.

But all the concern over the composer (most of all, the American composer, the very emphasis upon whom is an admission of his low station) becomes a perennial bore. It has a note of unreality, if not of condescension. Composers are not to be expected in droves. Our music schools should temper their efforts to swell the ranks of a profession that has so small a place in modern society. The composer should be an intellectual aristocrat, as he has been in the past, whatever his economic station. An average artist is no artist at all. At best he is an artisan. If he is encouraged to believe himself a composer for no better reason than that he can spell out a little counterpoint, or juggle around a twelve-tone row (which are about as difficult to learn as elementary sentence structure or long division), then we cannot be surprised at the public’s bewilderment at the results. An artist need not be a Beethoven or a Michelangelo, as some persons seem to insist, but he ought early to respect such towering genius, which in itself is already a promise of distinction. He is not properly in competition with other artists, but is never out of competition with himself. He strives to equal his own capacities, and this is no average assignment.

Now, in our better circles we have been saying so much about the composer, and forgetting that once he was synonymous with the musician. I doubt if anyone called Bach a composer in his day. But he was widely known as an organist. A musician of that time played, wrote, directed and taught. If we imagine that our age of specialization, or expertness, produces better players, writers, conductors, and teachers, because of their narrowed fields, we are mistaken. Art has not become more complex, nor more highly organized, as have science and industry. On the contrary, it is today in many respects simpler, lesser in scale and notably less fecund. The output of a Stravinsky or a Hindemith (to name the most prolific) is small beside that of an Alessandro Scarlatti or a Handel. No modern oratorio measures in size, organization and complexity with the St. Matthew Passion, nor has an opera of the dimensions of The Ring been conceived since Wagner. No one today paints murals of the size and complexity of Tintoretto’s or Rubens’.

The specialization of today exists not because of artistic needs, but is imposed from outside by business, which takes its cue from industry and sports. Business wants production in the sense of repetition (repetition and reputation, as Manuel Komroff remarked, have a close bond). It wants champions too. But the decathlon is not in its repertory.

And yet, the great composers of the past, like Bach, Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner, Mendelssohn, Liszt, and Chopin, were at once the great interpreters, and often the great teachers too, for it transpired that every one of their activities fed into every other. Conducting and piano, or organ playing, were replete with the experience of writing; writing was full of the experience of performing; and both were usually tempered through teaching. But this was not our modern teaching, per se; it was an apprenticeship, in which the student accompanied the master in his labors of construction, instead of learning an academic manual of arms in the ranks of a classroom.{1} The main object was always to do and the student learned by doing. There was none of the tendency, which prevails in most of our modern schools and against which Leonardo warned, of allowing theory to outstrip performance. The old masters taught by the best of all precepts: example. Their words were loaded with deeds. In contrast, our colleges expect so much talk that art soon, as Wilde put it, explains itself away, all poetry being reduced to prose, all instinct bogging down in intellect.

Even in our own day we have seen a few of these grand old versatile fellows who were at home in all of music: Rachmaninoff, Strauss, Tovey, Casals, Enesco, and Kreisler. They wrote, played, conducted, and mostly were masters of more than one instrument. Could anyone deny the richness and breadth of their interpretations of the classics, beside those of the specialized acrobat virtuosos? But even they were forced, at least to the public eye, into specialization in order to prove their first-rateness, and to justify their inclusion in the stables of concert managers. Had any one of them extended his field of public enterprise beyond his advertised specialty, he would have gained not a new following, but lost instead much of his old.

If we look for American national music (and I believe it is worth looking for, provided we do not make a great noise about it), we make a mistake when we emphasize nationalism in any one branch of the art alone, and leave out the others. The composer, the critic, the conductor, the singer, the instrumentalist, the teacher are each a part of the picture. If we want to help the composer, we had best support those of our conductors and soloists who will perform his work. If we want to help the pianist, we should encourage the composer who will give him something special and new to perform. If we want to help the teacher, we should provide his students with professional outlets in concert and opera, something better to look forward to than only the academic treadmill. If we want to help the native conductor, then our critics should speak up for his right to compete fairly for conducting posts. If we want to help the critic, we should provide him with something better to write about than Maestro X’s latest assault on the Brahms First.

I have always hoped for a place where all the elements needed for creative and interpretive music could foregather toward a national art, which in its very nationality would achieve an international appeal, and lend us stature abroad as well. This is the more important at a time when our political nationalism has aroused so much misunderstanding, and even mistrust, in foreign lands. Such a place has yet to be found or made. It could learn from the Florence of Boccaccio, the Weimar of Goethe, the Vienna of Mahler, the Dublin of Yeats, the Concord of Emerson, the Chapel Hill of Paul Green and Koch, not to forget the Leipzig of Mendelssohn. So far, neither Tanglewood, nor Aspen, nor any of the larger festivals and centers, despite their undoubted excellence, have quite achieved this. For they are still postulated on a certain degree of American inferiority, and they operate in a vacation milieu.

In a way, a performance is in itself no less than a creation in that it resurrects a mere record of another’s thought. What is necessary, says Casals, is to bring to life what is written. And it takes every bit as much labor and thought to recreate as to create. It happens that one is often more conscientious about learning a classic than about writing a new work. A sonata is usually written