They don't know Broadway

Last night I saw Showboat -- the grand old musical -- in what was supposed to be a gala concert performance at Carnegie Hall. I don't know how it can be very gala if hardly anyone in the cast can inhabit their roles. (Nathan Gunn was the big exception. He really knows how this music goes, and both sings and acts well enough to bring it off. He belongs on Broadway.)

But let that be. What fascinated me -- and, I'll admit, made me a little sad -- was the orchestra. The musicians, in theory, were star quality, the A-list people from the Orchestra of St. Luke's. If you're talking about classical freelance gigs in New York, this is as good as it gets. If you read through the list of the players, printed in the program, you can see (if you know the instrumental scene in New York) that these are top people.

But they didn't seem to know how the music goes! I've heard them play 18th century music, Mozart and Haydn, with radiant attention to stylitstic detail, but in Showboat, they sounded -- especially by comparison with their classical work -- like they were merely marking time. They never launched their melodies -- or, rather, Jerome Kern's melodies, as orchestrated by Robert Russell Bennett -- with relaxed affection, or lingered over all the little pauses in the tunes with any kind of audible delight. They didn't step up to the climaxes, bounce the brassy Broadway stuff, or energize the sometimes corny transitions from one tune to another with the kind of wise indulgence that can overcome the corniness.

Maybe this was the conductor's fault, though he was a big Broadway name, Paul Gemignani. Maybe he's good with the kind of pit musicians who traditionally have played this stuff, and know how it goes without his help. Maybe he can't inspire symphonic musicians, or teach them the style.

But I think the musicians are a problem, too -- though the problem isn't their own fault; if they don't know the style, they don't know the style. I heard the same thing in South Pacific, at LIncoln Center, a famously triumphant revival, which I loved from beginning to end. (As an aside, I want to say that both shows give me little patriotic thrills. "I'm an American," I found myself thinking, with a grin, "and I love this stuff.")  But the orchestra couldn't make the music go, something that became especially clear after I relistened to the original cast album from 1949. That orchestra knew exactly what it was doing, with the brass (just to cite one example) sounding completely at home in symphonic passages, and also when they had to strut out playing bits of Dixieland. Whoever they were, they sounded like they'd played both styles a lot, and didn't even have to think of making a transition.

Whereas the orchestras I heard last night -- and also in South Pacific, though less so -- sounded like classical players who got timid when they had to step out in some other style. One mark of a serious classical player in the climate of the past few decades has been a kind of dignnified restraint. You just don't get gloopy. But to play Broadway, you can't be restrained, and you have to play things -- and love them! -- that from a strictly classical perspective might well be embarrassing. But still you've got to give them everything you've got, or else you've betrayed the style. (And thus, if I want to get fancy about it, betrayed your prime directive, the very notion that made you so restrained in the first place -- you want to play everything in the proper style. But if that style demands you be improper...)
June 11, 2008 8:29 PM | | Comments (9)

9 Comments

This is part of why pops concerts that have the symphony play non-classical music don't bring in new audiences: Because they typically suck. If I ever hear any symphony orchestra play a medley of funk hits ever again, I think my ears will jump off my head and go running for the exits.

I'd have a lot more confidence in the P-Funk All-Stars taking on "Music for 18 Musicians" than I do in an orchestra playing Your Favorite Hits of the 70s, because if the P-Funk All-Stars were to play Steve Reich, they would at least really mean it.

I love classical, but compared to the exuberance of pop music and jazz, many classical musicians sound like embalmers.

Wasn't that the way Classical musicians used to approach everything Baroque or Rennaisance? With unnecessary reverence based on lack of understanding? It's both painful and hilarious to listen to a pre-1960's recording of a Monteverdi or Gesualdo madrigal that is overtly sexual in text sung as if it were part of a High Mass. Yes, Classical musicians, for the most part, are limited by the repertoire they allow themselves to play, so it is not surprising that they are somewhat timid, if not disdainful (in this day and age! Tsk tsk!) of Musicals. Perhaps it's time for a performance-practice evaluation of Broadway show tunes.
Hell, it may be time for a similar evaluation of The Beatles of The Who!

And now early music performers can be the liveliest classical musicians around.

Performance practice for classic musicals is easy to study -- we have the original recordings! Just play it like the musicians in the original pit orchestras did! I suspect, though, that it's easier for the scholarly classical music world to discuss performance practice academically -- and I'd guess that if someone developed a time machine, and we could hear Liszt and Thalberg play, pianists today -- including those who've studied the performance practices of that time -- would be as embarrassed as some symphonic musicians seem to be when they're confronted with a Broadway show.

There's an indispensable book by William Hamilton, just published this year, called After the Golden Age. It's about 19th century pianists, and piano playing. Hamilton has a lot of fun teasing people who know exactly what kind of pianos people like Liszt and Thalberg played, but conveniently ignore that much piano playing back then was designed for entertainment, and that every pianist improvised (including even very serious people like Mendelssohn).

I'm not sure if it's fair to make such
sweeping generalizations. I saw the PBS
broadcast of Camelot with the New York Philharmonic as a deluxe orchestra. I thought the orchestra sounded gorgeous and the musicians
sounded like the were really enjoying themselves.
By the way, I am a classical musician who used to play the horn. I am also a veteran of
many performances of musicals, which I also
enjoyed playing.

I don't disagree with anything you're saying here. I was watching part of a Met DVD of The Magic Flute with my daughter yesterday and was struck by how stilted and mannered even the silliest parts were - it wasn't funny in any genuine way, but rather seemed designed to make you soberly think, "That is very funny."

The other side of this is that there's no aesthetic rule (as far as I know!) that says the original way/context is necessarily the best way to experience an artwork. So, while it's easy to point out how classical music culture transforms music that is, almost by definition, from another time, there are lots of ways in which such transformations can be positive. For example, as instructive as the examples are that you've frequently given about people talking through opera performances of the past, it could easily be argued that we're better off listening more quietly (even if something is lost).

But beyond that, at its best, the layering on of different performance traditions can add a real richness, which is why we need to understand that traditions about how to listen and perform can be as important as the works themselves. For example, I love the experience of hearing enormous-sized performances of "Messiah" that owe as much to the 19th century as they do Handel's context. Neither the Gould nor the Dinnerstein Goldbergs would likely have sounded "normal" in Bach's time, but a reason that Bach has survived is that his music can flourish (and even grow) in so many different contexts.

I'm not saying that these high-minded symphonic Broadway shows are achieving the same, but I'm not sure the ideal is just to sound exactly like the pit orchestras from the mid-20th century either. I think that's my point. And I'm sure we'd both agree that what makes the most difference is that the performers are invested in what and how they're communicating.

Well, we have a lot of common ground here. I love the last Beecham recording of Messiah, for instance, with Jon Vickers as tenor soloist and a huge, not at all Handelian orchestra. Harps in "Comfort Ye"! Well, why not?

And of course even supposedly authentic, period performances are modern takes on music whose original performance is, if we're honest with ourselves, pretty hard to imagine. (Though I thought I had a flash of something a couple of nights ago, when I heard Verdi's Un giorno di regno in a fabulous production with young singers at Wolf Trap. The orchestra was smaller than we'd hear in a big opera house today, or on a recording, with fewer strings. Which helped give the performance a scrappy sound. And since everyone -- under one of the best bel canto conductors I've ever heard, Brian Garman (and yes, I really mean that) -- seemed to be having a really good time, I felt that I might be hearing something at least vaguely like what 19th century performances would have been like. (Though the Wolf Trap orchestra was far more assured technically than 19th century orchestras most likely would have been. The scrappiness, I'm speculating, is what both might have had in common.)

For quite a wonderful reimagining of a classic artwork, I could recommend the Walter Felsenstein movie of Fidelio, released in a comprehensive (and expensive) Felsenstein collection from Arthaus. Felsenstein streamlines the opera, to put it mildly, especially at the beginning, where he cuts out Jacquino's and Rocco's arias, going directly from Marzelline's aria at the start to the canon ensemble, with appropriate bridging dialogue. He takes out all the stiffness that can make Fidelioa chore in the opera house, without losing any of the opera's power. In tact he makes it more powerful.

All part of the preciousness and pretentiousness of classical music performances - of course the orchestra members were out of their league. They probably have never listened to recordings of American musical theater, or popular music, made when that music was new - in the 1920s. There was a great outpouring of truly American exuberance then; the wonderful songs of Gus Kahn, Walter Donaldson etc. - but the printed music is never to be taken too literally. A feeling for that style is not something one learns in music school.

I wonder how many players could have told you what the book was about prior to entering the pit. Even now I'm sure there are still players down there that still can't tell you what's going on upstairs.

I know there are schools where singer/actors can study musical theater as a discipline, but is there any corollary in the instrumental world?

Good question. I don't know if there's any formal training in musical theater, but I'd guess that anyone who studies jazz at the Berklee School of Music in Boston ends up knowing how to play musical theater. More broadly, studio musicians would know. They have to play a variety of styles -- basically anything out there. I'm going to guess that there are fewer studio musicians than there used to be, because now a lot of music can be created on a computer (TV scores, for instance). But the ones still active -- and, of course, people currently playing in Broadway pit bands -- can surely play Broadway shows.

This is a very interesting observation - because, as a composer, I am trying to blend the worlds of music I love - which includes Broadway, jazz, rock and classical (but not limited to these). One of the things I've found is when I write something and hand it to musicians, if they are classically trained, they don't seem to get the jazz idioms (or the rock ones for that matter) - but if they're pop trained, they don't the classical bits... Vocalists are particularly troublesome as the opera I'm working on is a blend of classical and hip hop/pop/rock... and while the man who sang the lead male part is very familiar with rock, and I thought he did the music just right - but the critic didn't like the "blend".

So, what do we do as musicians? Do we just compose in a specific genre and get musicians that know that genre and then bill it to the audience just what to expect??? Where is the desire to create something new - and make something new that requires a new approach. To do things that may be improper for one style, but just right for another.

Chip, other composers have had this problem. My friend Scott Johnson writes classical pieces with James Brown rhythms, and the classical players never quite feel them. And I've written pieces with Led Zeppelin rhythms, or even a simple backbeat, and classical musicians playing the pieces don't quite know what to do. (They get into counting the rhythms, for instance, rather than feeling them.)

But this is an emerging area, and there are more and more people emerging into it with every passing year, so there's hope. We've now got groups like the Bang on a Can All-Stars who ace the kind of music we're talking about. Another inspiring example -- the Nonesuch recording of Louis Andriessen's opera Rosa, where you'll hear instrumentalists and singers who not only go back and forth between classical and pop and jazz styles, but happily inhabit a territory where all those things are going on at once.


Very interesting but true to my experience. I am a retired saxophone/clarinet player from the Navy Band in Norfolk, VA. I have also played a bunch of shows, not in NYC on broadway but in Baltimore and Norfolk/Virginia Beach. My experinece in both the Navy and doing shows is that the classical players just do not play the commerical styles very well. However the jazz oriented and commerical players seem to play classical music better than the strictly classical players play jazz, rock and commercial music.

I guess it is just what you decide to do with your music. I studied clarinet in college and my teacher plays in the Balto Symphony. However I also studied saxophone both classical and jazz. I think that you will find that a lot of your studio musicians in NYC and in Hollywood have very broad backgrounds, open minds and can play any style.

Case in point. In playing with concert bands when they attempt to do jazz styles and broadway show music the following always seems to happen. When the flutes, clarinets, oboes bassoons, euphoniums, tubas etc have the melody it never swings and usually sounds corny. This is the complete opposite of when the saxes, tpts and troms have the melody. However I have experienced exceptions. I have heard and played with some tpt, trom and sax players who couldn't swing if you hung them from a tree and pushed them.

Well I guess thats it.

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Resources

Age of the audience 
Conventional wisdom: the classical music audience has always been the age it is now. Reality: It used to be younger -- dramatically younger, in fact. Here's some evidence -- primary sources (actual texts of old studies, links to NEA studies) -- plus two of my blog posts on this subject, and some anecdotal data.
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earlier resources

Things I like

Old debates 
Seems like a couple of points often -- always? -- come up when I talk about changes -- aging, shrinkage -- in the classical music audience.

Any stats about aging (and there are plenty, proving the aging of the audience, over many years, beyond much doubt) elicit a familiar response, that the population as a whole has aged, and so the aging of the classical music audience is simply something one would expect.

(Some of what follows might be a little dry, for those who don't move easily in the world of numbers. Apologies for that, though of course there really isn't any other way to delve into these issues.)

But there's more to the aging of the audience than that. If the classical music audience had aged simply because the population had, then the relationship of ages -- the relationship of the classical music audience's age to the age of the population as a whole -- would remain the same. If the classical audience was, let's say, 10% older than the population at large in 1950, it'd be 10% older today.

But that's not the case. In the 1950s, when the Minnesota Orchestra found that its audience had a median age of around 35, the median age of the population was just a hair over 30. In our present decade, when one major orchestra told me privately that the median age of their single-ticket buyers was late '50s, and for subscribers over 60 -- typical figures for an orchestra that size -- the median age was only around 36. Clearly, if these figures are representative, in the 1950s orchestras had an audience about 16% older than the population as a whole, while in our time, the audience (figuring a median age of about 60) would be 67% older.

These are rough figures; many approximations went into my calculations. (For instance, I don't have age data for 1955. The earliest figures I can find were for 1958, so I compared the audience age in 1955 to the population's age in 1958.) But I don't think the approximations make my calculations suspect. The trends are too large to be thrown off by small approximations/

For another look at the same phenomenon, consider NEA data that shows the median age of the classical music audience increasing from 40 in 1982 to 49 in 2008. That's a 22% rise. The median age of the population, meanwhile, went up from 31 to 36, a 16%  rise. So the classical audience is aging faster than the general population, a point, by the way, that the NEA has been making in various public statements for many yeras.

(The NEA's age figures are lower than those reported by orchestras, for reasons I've discussed before. The NEA doesn't focus on any part of the classical audience, and in fact defines "classical audience" as people 18 and over who say they've been to classical concerts. They aren't asked which concerts they went to. The orchestra audience is a subset of that, clearly with its own characteristics, one of which is that it's older.)

Not that my saying this will put the argument to rest. I'm sure I'll get the same response next time I raise these issues. Not everyone reads all of my posts, and it's hard to think about these issues -- hard to separate speculation from fact, especially when the facts aren't terribly well known, and can be hard to find.

One more argument I've run into. When I talk about the classical music audience being much younger very far in the past -- for instance, when I cite the famous passage about teens and young adults hearing Beethoven's Fifth at a concert, in E.M. Forster's 1904 novel Howard's End -- I'll be told that life expectancy was so much lower in those distant years that the youth of the classical music audience doesn't mean what it would mean today. One person posting a comment here even said that in 1904 people 25 years old were middleaged!

This, with all respect, is just zany. Life expectancy was lower in those past years for many reasons. People died in childbirth more often than they do now, and also died more often in infancy, childhood, and young adulthood. Nor of course did people so readily live into their 80s and 90s as they currently do.

But that didn't mean that the population you'd encounter as you went about your life in the 19th century, let's say, skewed notably younger than what we see today, and certainly not that 25 was the middle of life for those who made it that far. Average life expectancy is a misleading statistic here, since it includes so many people who died very young. If you read literature from the past, you see an age distribution among the characters that doesn't seem all that far off from what we see now. I'm reading Dickens' Bleak House right now, for instance. There are young characters, middleaged characters, and old characters. Similarly with Balzac, whom I read over the past year, and for that matter Shakespeare.

And the young characters act young, while the old characters act older. If, in Balzac, you find Parisian aristocrats in their 20s going to the opera every night, that's not because they're behaving the way 55 year-olds behave today. They clearly don't, and the contrast -- in things other than opera attendance -- between them and the older people they encounter is very much the contrast we'd see today, between people in their 20s and people in their 50s.

So if the people in their 20s went to the opera  constantly, that shows a different relationship to opera and classical music than people in their 20s have today. It hardly matters -- for my purposes here -- that the people in their 20s might get married earlier than they would now, or that possibly they'd encounter fewer people in their 50s and 60s than people in their 20s encounter today. The relationships between people of all these ages remained very much the same, and so the presence of many 25 year-olds at the opera really does mean something.
Back in the day 
Once upon a time, a generation ago or so, classical music was far closer to everyday life than it is now. We all know this, I'm sure. But it's good to be reminded. So here are four quick appearances of classical music in the popular culture of the past.

The Birds (the classic Hitchcock film, released in 1963): Tippi Hedren, the star, playing a woman in her 20s, visits a normal middle-class family, husband, wife, 11 year-old daughter. The family has a piano. Hedren sits down and plays Debussy's First Arabesque, which isn't identified, any more than her playing is remarked on in any way. Nobody says, "Oh, you play classical music." It's just taken or granted that she might.

Laura (the classic noir -- or, more accurately, semi-noir -- thriller, released in 1944): Vincent Price, playing a high-society type who appears to be in his early thirties (Price himself was 33 when the film was released), is a suspect in a murder case. Where was he, the detective asks, on the night of the murder? At a concert, he says. What music was played? Brahms's First and Beethoven's Ninth, he replies. And whether a concert program like that makes sense, or would have been heard back then, the fact that he's at a classical concert is simply taken for granted. There's nothing special about it. Of course he might have been there.

House Dick (a hard-boiled mystery thriller by E. Howard Hunt -- yes, the Watergate burglar, though that doesn't matter for my purposes here, and he turns out to be quite a sharp writer): The world-weary hotel detective, banged around by life, attracted to the wrong kind of women, has had a hard day. He goes home, and listens to Brahms on the radio. This is just a throwaway reference, nothing special about it, no need to explain why a tough ex-cop would listen to classical music. He just did it. The book was published in 1961.

And now my favorite, an extravagant interlude from Skylark Three, the second (despite the "three") in a trilogy of science fiction novels by E. E. "Doc" Smith, the greatest name in the great old tradition of "space opera," stories in which evil aliens plot destruction, planets explode, and the laws of physics are pretty much ignored. This book was serialized in Amazing Stories magazine in 1930.

For our purposes here, it doesn't matter why two married couples in their twenties are traveling through space, many times faster than the speed of light, saving the galaxy from a ghastly threat. Or why one of them plays a Strad. But here they are, entertaining themselves in a rare quiet moment:

"What say [says the hero, Richard Seaton] you girls get your fiddle and guitar and we'll sing us a little song? I feel good...it's the first time I've felt like singing since we cut that warship up."

Dorothy brought out her "fiddle" -- the magnificent Stradivarius, formerly Crane's, which he had given her, and they sang one rollicking number after another. Though by no means a Metropolitan Opera quartette, their voices were all better than mediocre, and they had sung together so much that they harmonized readily.

"Why don't you play us some real music, Dottie?" asked Margaret, after a time. "You haven't practiced for ages."

"Right. This quartette of ours ain't so hot," agreed Seaton. "If we had any audience except Shiro [their Japanese servant, an ethnic stereotype from a thankfully bygone age], they'd probably be throwing eggs by this time."

"I haven't felt like playing lately, but I do now," and Dorothy stood up and swept the bow over the strings. Doctor of Music in violin, an accomplished musician, playing upon one of the finest instruments the world has ever known, she was lifted out of herself by relief from the dread of the Fenachrone invasion and the splendid violin expressed every subtle nuance of her thought.

She played rhapsodies and paeans, and solos by the great masters. She played vivacious dances, then "Traumerei" and "Liebestraum." At last she swept into the immortal "Meditation" [this would be by Massenet, the "Meditation" from Thais], and as the last note died away Seaton held out his arms.

"You're a blinding flash and a deafening report, Dottie Dimple, and I love you," he declared -- and his eyes and his arms spoke volumes that his light utterance had left unsaid."
It's sweet that she plays light classics, which Doc Smith reveres as if they were the greatest masterworks. But note that these aren't culturally fancy people. Great scientists the men might be, and galaxy-spanning warriors, but as the dialogue shows, these are colloquial people (well, three of them are -- Seaton's buddy Crane is adorably stiff), in their behavior perfectly normal twentysomethings from their time. But classical music (which, if my memory is accurate, shows up just twice in the Skylark trilogy, is an easy part of their lives.
Dion on YouTube 
He's singing his first big hit in the balcony of a theater, with his group (aka two backup guys) the Belmonts. The song is gentle, and if you listen to the words, it's supposed to be sad. "Why must I be a teenager in love?" But Dion is cocky and confident, enjoying his easy triumph. So this -- in Milan Kundera's famous definition -- can't be kitsch. There's no subtext telling us that he knows he's being sad, because he's not being sad. But the song is honest. It's about something he might have felt before he was famous. And surely it catches the helpless longing all the girls listening to him felt, all the girls clapping dutifully, right on the beat (because we white people hadn't yet learned what a backbeat is).

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles 
Smart, searing TV series. For instance: Cameron looks like a teenage girl, but really she's a killer robot from the future, reprogrammed to help people, rather than kill them. But she's still a killer. And though she tries to understand human beings, she can't grasp empathy. Someone finds a turtle on its back, and turns it over, so it can walk again. Why do that? Cameron asks. Later she attacks -- with unrelenting violence -- a friend of the people she's helping, because she thinks he's a liar. "Stop," she's told. She looks down at the man -- battered, groaning -- and with no expression turns him over.
 
Lucinda Williams, Little Honey 
Her most joyful album, but also her roughest -- very frayed, vocally, with edgiest band she's ever had. I don't know if I trust the joy (and I'm sad to say that), but she sounds like she's bitterly earned it.

more things

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Sandow published on June 11, 2008 8:29 PM.

Bang on a Can 2008 was the previous entry in this blog.

Showboat footnote is the next entry in this blog.

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