Gustavo Dudamel vs. the Second Coming

Judging from all the recent press, Gustavo Dudamel's coming to Los Angeles as the Music Director for the Los Angeles Philharmonic is a news event equivalent to the second coming – and with greater expectations. If he doesn't conduct the world's greatest concerts, end war in the Middle East, cure AIDS, and out draw the Lakers, his first season will be considered an abject failure.

Overstatement is certainly nothing new in advertising for the arts, and since hyperbole is the expected language in ads and press releases, anything less falls flat. I know this first hand from my work in advertising for the Media City Ballet Company. "Come see a very good mid-level ballet company perform an entertaining and fairly artistic rendition of Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker," becomes, "Don't miss this truly great performance of Tchaikovsky's timeless masterpiece The Nutcracker by the outstanding Media City Ballet Company."

I suppose, "Come hear the LA Phil under the direction of Gustavo Dudamel. Mr Dudamel is a very talented young conductor who should grow and mature nicely while working with the Phil," will never make it into the orchestra's advertising. Admittedly, that version may be a little too understated, but there is something to be said for lowered expectations.

Take Robert Schumann's article in Neue Zietschrift für Musik about Johannes Brahms. In hyperbole worthy of a trailer to a Hollywood blockbuster, Schumann writes:

[In a galaxy far, far away]. . . someone must and would suddenly appear destined to give ideal presentment to the highest expression of the time, who would bring us his mastership, not in process of development, but would spring forth like Minerva, fully armed from the head of Jove. And he is come, a young blood by whose cradle graces and heroes kept watch. He is called Johannes Brahms . . . He [bares] all the outward signs that proclaim to us. "This is one of the elect."

Minerva herself couldn't have lived up to such high expectations and the glowing praise really messed with Brahms' head. It is said to be one of the main reasons why he took so long to complete, and then to publish, his first symphony.

But Brahms survived and most likely Dudamel will as well. In the end, it is about the music and nothing else. If the music is true, it doesn't matter how far the truth is stretched in the press.

Conductors - Do They Matter?

Recently I was watching the "Finale du Concours international des jeunes chefs d'orchestre" on Arte TV. My wife, who likes some of the reality shows (Top Chef is one of her favorites) thought it might be similar, but for conductors instead of cooks. She was a little disappointed when she discovered that there were no fiery personality conflicts, backstabbing comments, or emotional tirades (at least that we saw).

After a few minutes she turned to me and asked, "So, how much difference does the conductor really make, anyway? Doesn't the music tell the orchestra all they need to do?" I'm sure she regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth because I was off and running on the first of a ten part lecture on what a conductor does and why he makes a difference.

I won't bore you with all the obvious (at least to musicians) details of tempo, phrasing, balance, blend, interpretation, and so on. But I did mention that it was also a question of inspiration and leadership, like in a business. As a businesswoman, I thought that this would be something she could relate to. A good business leader gets her workers to want to work their best for her.

So it is with a good conductor. Musicians, being human (so I'm told), don't always bring their "A" game to a performance. It isn't easy to get up for an old warhorse that one has played a thousand times. It takes a conductor to inspire them. That inspiration occurs when an orchestra feels the conductor has outstanding musical skills, a valid musical interpretation of the work, a love of the music, and great communication skills at the podium.

All those qualities were on display when Kazuki Yamada conducted the first movement of Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique at the competition. The work started strong, but as the piece progressed, one sensed that the orchestra (the BBC Symphony Orchestra) felt that they were taking part in something special. As Yamada inspired them, their playing became more exciting, and that in turn seemed to inspire Yamada even more - vortex of inspiration building on itself until it became a joyous celebration of the music. I'm not a big Berlioz fan, but boy, was I sold on this performance.

The Value of Uncertainty in Music

During summer vacation I will on most mornings sit down at the piano for a few minutes and sight read (rather poorly) through some Bach. The other morning it was the "Fugue # 1 in C Major" from the Well Tempered Clavier. You can see and hear a nice playing of this work by Stephen Malinowski below.

The work starts with a fairly simple, mostly stepwise, subject. It is quickly imitated following the normal rules of a fugue exposition. No great genius here, nothing a good student of counterpoint couldn't pull off (well, OK, a really good student).

At measure 8 things start to become a bit more intriguing. The harmonic direction becomes less clear and there is a slight increase in dissonance. This tension is quickly resolved but then at measure 12 it once again becomes more dissonant and the harmonic destination less certain. What is Bach up to? Where is he taking us? It is only when we reach the resolution in measure 14 (on an A minor chord) that we understand what Bach was doing.

Bach continues in this vein for the rest of the 27 measure piece (as well as in other works in the The Well Tempered Clavier). Sections of increased tension and harmonic precariousness are followed by resolutions. It is like watching a tightrope walker who (purposely) looks like he is about to falter and plunge, only to right himself at the last second to the relief of the seat-edged crowd. It takes a certain amount of trust to experience such feats, but in the end, it is what makes the show memorable.

And so it seems in life. Times of uncertainty can make us look at things in a new light. We question, rethink, examine, and revalue things we have taken for granted.

My wife was recently laid off from Macy's after being with the company for over 20 years. We didn't feel that we were in an immediate financial crisis, but the possibility of falling into one suddenly became real. What would we do if things became truly bad? Would we lose our home? What about funding college for our kids? What could I sell to get some quick cash?

I suddenly began to have a greater appreciation of our townhouse. I put a higher value on my family and friends. I realized that I would always have music and literature, and those things took on a new importance. I became more sympathetic to those who had less. The world looked a little different. My wife has a new job now, but in an odd way, I appreciate the little side trip into uncertainty that has refreshed my outlook on life.

It would be interesting to know what happens in our brains when we become uncertain (both in life and in music). Do we experience a slight bump in epinephrine or adrenaline resulting in increased perception and energy? Is our fight or flight center alerted and put in the ready mode? And what happens at resolution? Do we get a rush of serotonin or dopamine? Are our neurons rewarded for finding a solution to our uncertainty?

Would all this help explain why music is so important to us, especially in times of stress? Do we resolve that stress vicariously through music? When Bach leads us back to harmonic safety, does that feeling of having triumphed over a crisis cross over into other aspects of our lives? Does the feeling of resolution given to us by music allow us to get up the next morning and face life's challenges with renewed hope?

Tell Me a Story

One of my favorite places to go to when I’m in Las Vegas is the Nine Fine Irishmen pub in the New York, New York casino. They serve good Irish food and have a nice variety of Irish beers and whiskeys, but the real reason I go is to hear the music played by the band Sin e Ri-Ra. The group does a wonderful job of presenting a nice mix of traditional Irish tunes and more contemporary Irish songs.

My Irish heritage probably contributes to my love of the Irish songs that speak of the hardships faced by the men and women from that land. But you do not have to have Irish blood to appreciate the tales. You are Irish, at least for the moment, if your ancestors were ever poor, persecuted, forced to emigrate, prejudiced against, or compelled to fight for their freedom; if they ever struggled with their inner demons, celebrated life with family, friends, and a good drink, or held on to faith in the face of a stern reality. At their core, individual cultures are all encompassing.

Musically, the material is fairly simple: primary chords, diatonic melodies, song forms, and chord based textures. To be sure, the band is composed of good musicians, and the fiddle player especially provides some very nice solos, but the real charm of the band lies in their ability to tell a story through music in a sincere and moving way. For the most part this is due to the talents of the singer, Darryl Conlon.

Listening to his Irish brogue, I can easily imagine that I’m sitting in a pub in Ireland while he tells his friends tales of good times and bad. He pauses in the right places to build affect, he gives a knowing grin as he tells an off-colored joke (“Seven Drunken Nights”), and his voice has a bitter sweet edge as he sings of love and despair (“Dirty Old Town”).

He lives the words as he sings them, and what amazes me is that he has sung them hundreds if not thousands of times. I’ve been coming to hear the band for several years now, and though many of the songs are the same, they are always fresh.

I think one can only do that if one loves telling the story as much as the actual story its self. The joy of communicating, the delight in reaching an audience, the pleasure of moving people's hearts: this is where the focus is.

It is not always easy to do that in choral singing. For one thing, everyone must be telling the same story – not simply literally, but interpretively. Where is the wink of an eye; which word should be stressed; what vocal tone best conveys the emotions of a section? Everyone needs to be clear on the musical message.

And the singers must really feel that message. The whole choir must first internalize the text in order to externalize it – pass it on to the audience. Music, when done well, has the unique ability to cut straight to the deepest parts of our heart and brain – vocal music perhaps even more so. Vocal music is a communication that at once embraces language and transcends it. Or one might say it is meaning enhanced language.

In the end, being musical is about loving the music and having the will and skill to communicate it affectively at the most intimate level.

Mozart and Blues

My wife and I were in Las Vegas recently on vacation. One morning, while my wife was at the pool, I began to analyze some Mozart symphonic scores I had brought along. (Hey, doesn’t everybody bring a few Mozart scores along on their vacation to Vegas?) As is usual when I study Mozart, I was soon impressed and humbled at how subtly he manipulates his musical forces for affect and variety.

Those forces were constrained by the style and musical language his time - so everything had to count. For example, the orchestra in Mozart's day was primarily made up of strings and a few winds, a fairly bland color compared to orchestras 100 years later. But Mozart, with subtle doublings and nuanced instrument voicings, gets a remarkably varied sound that adds to the music's expressiveness. One can find similar examples with his use of harmony and rhythm.

The constraints of Mozart's era did not hamper his artistic ability - just the opposite. Mozart understood that within the limitations was a world of subtlety. This is where Mozart's genius flourished.

So what does all this have to do with the blues? What can the restrained emotional style of the classical period have in common with the heart ripping emotions of the blues?

The blues, like the music of Mozart's time, is also a tightly constrained art form. In most songs, the harmony and structure can easily be related to the standard 12 bar blues progression. The texture is predominately homophonic, and melodies are tied closely to the pitches of a blues scale. In addition, a blues band has a relatively limited range of instrumental colors to work with.

Because of all this, everything counts, and like in Mozart, subtlety is essential.

I think this is why I like very few blues groups, but the ones I like I really love. Real emotions are most often a complex blend of conflicting and supporting feelings. Simplistic musical performances cannot convey that. Subtlety is a necessity.

Later during our vacation, my wife and I decided to go to the House of Blues and listen to one of the blues bands performing there. Even though the band was a bit of a pickup band – members of the Michael Grimm band with singer Ronny Rose filling in for Michael, most of their numbers really cooked.

Rose skillfully used every aspect of his voice for the precise emotional affect he wanted: big ballsy full voiced tones, raspy growls, clear as a bell pianissimos – all delivered without any of the clichés one finds in a blinged-out, over ornamented, narcissistic pop music diva. He was subtle, economical, and to the point.

The guitar player, John Wedemeyer, also really impressed me. He made wonderful use of subtle dynamic shading. Some phrases would tail away into nothingness, some notes would pop out of the texture, hints of ghost notes would be followed by aggressive runs. He also coaxed a variety of colors out of his instrument: dark muted tones, artificial harmonic screams, staccato passages, and wailing bends.

This description may not sound like a subtle performance, but his handling of these techniques - the how and when of it - was. Everything was delivered with taste and nuanced musicality.

So, while there would seem to be little connection between the refined elegance of the classical period and the visceral punch of the blues, there is common ground. Where there is constraint, subtlety is critical. The ability of a composer or a performer to create a rich world of subtlety is what gives depth and humanity to the music.

The Significance of E Sharp

The back wall of Taft's choral room is decorated with a mural of the music to Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. It was painted several years ago when Capital Arts Entertaniment filmed a scene from American Pie Presents Band Camp in the room. (I confess that I have not seen that cinematographic masterpiece but I am sure that it is a classic filled with complex character development and subtle literary references. I will therefore put off viewing the film until I have ample time to devote to all its artistic qualities.)

Despite the no doubt many fine aspects of the movie, there is one major flaw that haunts me every time I enter the choral room. It is found in the music written on the back wall. I can overlook the cutesy scrolling of the staff, or even the little artistic touches given to some of the rests. BUT, the key signature to Eine Kleine Natchtmusik is wrong! Mozart's little gem is in G major which requires a signature of one sharp - F. Despite the fact that I gave the film company the correctly notated music, the artist replaced the F sharp with an E sharp!

E sharp! Sacrebleu! What was the philistine thinking? It ruins the whole wall, makes a mockery of Mozart, and thumbs its nose at over 200 years of music theory! Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Burn the boorish boob at the stake!

Of course, there was no key using just E sharp in Mozart's time, so at best this is an outrageous anachronism. Further, it betrays a complete lack of musical education on the part of the artist, not to mention that it permanently displays the artist's inability to copy accurately.

When I pointed out this atrocious blunder to the artist, he seem unconcerned. To him, it was a minor oversight (forgive the pun). The little number sign was just a tad too low. No big deal. What's the fuss? For him, the symbol had no significance other than design. I was clearly overreacting.

I tried to explain the issue to him: The opening two measures are in the tonic - on a G major chord. In the simplicity that is Mozart's genius, he balances that statement with an answering phrase on the dominant chord - what should be D major. But without the F sharp, it becomes D minor. That not only sounds bad, but throws everything out of whack! Talk about bad Feng Shui! Talk about bad karma!!!

It was no use. No theoretical, historical, or artistic explanation could convince him that it was worth his time to correct the error. But I fear that there is more at play than just the blunder of an ignorant artist.

Here is the real problem. When we don't appreciate the significance of something; when we don't understanding a thing's function; when we don't recognize its importance or value to others; we fail to comprehend its true meaning.

Music notation signifies something deeper than just it's literal musical translation. A slurred phrase or a staccato passage means more than just a way of playing the notes. The markings refer to a musical gestures that have specific meaning within the time period it was written. Notation carries in it emotional and artistic subtleties that a sensitive performer understands and transmits to an audience.

When we as performers fail to grasp or convey this deeper meaning, we do the music a disservice. When an audience doesn't catch this deeper meaning, they are deprived of the complete musical experience. As musicians it is our job to illuminate the score's artistic qualities in a way that is true to work, the composer, and the musical language of his or her time. As educators it is our job to guide our students to an awareness of the artistic nuances of this musical language.

So, the E sharp remains on the wall. I grudgingly use it as a teachable moment for my class - "Who can find the flaw in the music on the back wall?"

There is, however, even a greater lesson here that goes beyond music into the realm of language and culture. How much do we fail to understand of people and the world because we misinterpret or undervalue the symbols (words, gestures, etc.) used to communicate? What appears insignificant to us can embody deep meaning and great importance to others. How adept are we at getting past the literal meaning of a symbol and internalize it's full value? And how sensitive are we to reading the extent to which others really understand us? Do we just assume that because we've said it that it is comprehended?

So now, considering all of the above, the E sharp carries new significance to me. I guess meaning can be found in serendipitous mistakes too!

Graduation 09

Graduation is a time of mixed emotions: pride of accomplishment, sadness at saying goodbye to friends, hope and fear at facing an uncertain future. For Vocal Ensemble, it is all this and more. About a dozen seniors will be leaving us. There were a lot of tears shed after we sang our last piece at this year's ceremony.

There is a bonding that comes with any team or group activity. We share a commitment, we share the anxiety and excitement of performance, and we share the challenge of rising to the next level. But with a musical group, there is also the shared musical/artistic experience. This is a deep bonding, an unspoken communion that unites us in an intimate and highly personal way.

That bond was most evident with this year's basses. All four are seniors, and three of them had been together for at least a couple of years. High school men's sections are generally smaller and because of that seem to bond tighter. When there are only four of you, you really rely on your neighbor. This creates an added trust that under the best of circumstances develops into an artistic camaraderie.

The basses had that. Without ever verbalizing it, they set a high musical standard for themselves. Even though they were a group of different personalities and voice types, they learned how to blend and work together. They developed a rich, full sound and brought artistry to their singing. Without having to talk about it, they listened to each other's voices and developed cohesive phrasing to the musical line. They were a wonderful section.

There were many individuals from this year's group that I will remember, but two come to mind now. The first is Ashley Quadri. I always knew that Ashley was a solid singer in the alto section. What I didn't know, until she auditioned to sing the National Anthem for graduation, was that she had such an incredible solo voice. I don't ever recall hearing a singer who had such marvelous placement and focus to her sound without ever having private lessons.

Why did it take me so long to recognize the extent of her ability? Probably because she was also a great team player. She knew how to blend and balance within her section.

I don't know if I would have done anything different with the ensemble had I realized earlier what a wonderful voice she has. I don't pick music to feature a soloist; instead I prefer to keep the focus on the group as a whole. But I would have encouraged her more. Get voice lessons. Find opportunities where you can sing solo. The best I can do now is to urge her to join one of the choral groups at college (CSUN). A person with such a lovely voice must keep on singing!

The other individual that stands out in my mind is Oksana Borodyanskaya. If I could clone one person into a choir of singers, it would be Oksana. She is the ideal choral singer. She has a very good voice, blends well in the section, always knows her music, is always watching the conductor, works well her classmates, is reliable, and has a keen sense of musicality that spreads throughout the soprano section.

All of those musical qualities, and this is what makes her special, are visible when she sings. After a while a conductor can tell who is really "in" the music. There is something in the eyes and the body language that communicates a total involvement. When this happens, a symbiotic relationship develops between the conductor and the singer/choir. As singers respond both visually and musically to the conductor's gestures, the conductor feels a greater sense of freedom to explore the music. As the conductor reaches deeper into the music, the choir feels the music more intimately and responds more sensitively.

Oksana was that kind of singer. She led by example and needed no words. She inspired me. I will miss her, but I already see that her musical DNA has been imparted to next year's sopranos. Some of them are allowing themselves to be totally immersed in the music, and it shows in their faces. In this sense, Oksana will be a part of all future Vocal Ensemble soprano sections. Again, in the realm of the unspoken, much is communicated.