Today I wanted to share some thoughts I've had after listening to an interview by the wonderful French pianist, Hélène Grimaud (who happens to also be a great writer and thinker). In the last part of this interview, she discusses the role of the listener and the demands which are placed on a person whilst listening to Classical Music.
Music of any genre is, in essence, dialogue.
Sometimes, this dialogical nature is obvious. For example, when folk songs are shared between loved ones or in antiphonal church music (where there is call and response between verses and so the material is passed between singers). In an immediate sense it is dialogical in the complexity of Bach's counterpoint, and in the interwoven strands of melody between instruments in Brahms' chamber music. Here is one of my favourite recordings by Christian Tetzlaff and the exquisite late Lars Vogt playing the first movement of Brahms' Violin Sonata No. 1 in G major, Op. 78, where this interweaving is beautifully demonstrated.
However, it is also dialogue when the sound is being produced by only one person or group. For example, when a lullaby is sung to a newborn, in a heartfelt solo aria, in the performance of a Beethoven solo piano sonata or a Bach cello partita.
Why do I say that? Doesn't dialogue rely on the two way stream of communication between people?
Of course. But isn't it true that all of these instances of music-making are in fact not the first point of communication? They are shared in response to an experience or in the reproduction of such an experience for the sake of storytelling.
A mother sings a lullaby in response to the cry of her baby, or in response to the love which she feels for them. A passionate aria laments the loss of love or the tragedy of a situation involving the character concerned and the people involved in their story. In solo Classical performance the music in question has always been written in response to something, whether that is a political situation, a religious text, a personal nostalgia, a natural landscape, a psychological question or a mythical tale.
I would like to argue in favour of three more points of dialogue inherent to music-making.
The first is one which excites me on a daily basis. It is the dialogue with the original creator of the music which I am striving, in some sense, to reproduce from the moment I open a new score. For years it has fascinated me that we have a series of written instructions which, though neither entirely reliable nor always complete, denotes the method to recreating the sound first heard in the mind of the composer. It is a huge privilege to be tasked with decoding a score to try to understand a composer's intentions and to try to realise them in the twenty-first century. More crucially, it is a privilege to get a glimpse into the inner world of another soul who lived centuries ago and know that the precise feeling of that person has survived over the years and crossed geographical barriers to be given to me as a player to experience now.
The second is the the internal dialogue with oneself as a musician. Once the mechanics of a piece are securely in place there are questions which must be asked. How can I relate this music to my personal life experience? Does it remind me of something? What effect does it have on me? Why did the composer choose to write x instead of y? Does it evoke a particular image? How do I feel after practising it? Does it make a particular point I want to portray? How does it relate to other works and other artistic disciplines? What can I learn about history by hearing this work and conversely, how does it's historical context shine light on how it might be best played? I could go on.
The third point brings me back to Hélène's view about the reception of classical music. It is the dialogue with the listener. Of course, this is something only available to the musician in a performance setting (though that doesn't necessarily have to be a concert- this dialogue is possible as soon as there is even one other listener present). As a performer, I experience this in two ways. In a clear sense, the conversations with audience members post-concert are often enlightening and help me to hear the music I have presented afresh. But before that even takes place, the listeners have played an essential part in the music-making just by having listened. By giving their attention they have completed the circuit.
I think most musicians would agree that when an audience is really attentive, there is a tangible energy which allows them to perform better- spurring them on to take more risks which invites playing which is more spontaneous, intimate, exciting and altogether more human.
All of this is to say:
We need "professional listeners" as much as we need professional musicians.*
This has two implications.
One of these is pragmatic- without audiences who are willing to continue to pay and attend live performances there is no work for musicians.
The second is perhaps more philosophical, but I think true. Music is made meaningful when it is given to and received by others, and what a gift it is to be truly listened to. Isn't it interesting that in English we often use the term "to give" a concert instead of "to do" a concert?
The dissemination of beauty through music into the wider world requires a conduit, and this is the vital role of the audience.
So, if you consider yourself someone who is "not at all musical but just loves to listen," then I ask you to reconsider. By loving music and attending live concerts, and by giving the precious gift of your attention, you are contributing in an invaluable way to the transmission of music and to the sharing of humanity in which music allows us to partake.
* I am fairly sure that this is a quote of Hélène's but now cannot find the original interview!
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