“Of course, you know this piece very well.”
To the naïve or untrained observer, it
might appear that the Maestro beginning rehearsals with such a
compliment is off to a good start. However, this bit of flattery
clangs off the ears of the hardened orchestral musician like a
dropped mute, especially when it serves as the prelude to, maybe even
an apology in advance for hours, perhaps even days, spent in a
painstaking vivisection of the repertoire on offer. Indeed, in this
context 'knowing the piece very well' is often coded language for
received wisdom, the accumulation of error, or of a misguided
tradition, which the conductor is about to sweep away with a number
of well chosen words, leaving in its place something cleaner, more
authentic, an ur-interpretation of what was once naively thought
familiar. The empty promises ring hollow when brought up against the
reality of the limited allotment of rehearsal time, not to mention
the hubris of feeling oneself capable of knocking down an edifice in
order to build a brand new castle-in-the-air during a few hours of
rehearsal. Many times, when unrealistic expectations manifest
themselves as inadequate preparation, it is this disdained
'knowledge' of the orchestra that saves a foundering performance.
To claim an orchestra knows a piece
very well is a multifaceted assertion, but one which essentially
boils down to an acknowledgment that the orchestra, as a group, knows
how to execute a good performance on its own, with minimal guidance
(sometimes even in the face of malevolence or gross negligence) from
the podium. Obviously, this knowledge includes each individual
player's mastery of their instrument, but further extends to
familiarity with the other parts, which, in a practical sense, and in
this context most importantly, means knowing what to listen for, how
to respond to it, and how to incorporate that into the physical act
of performing. This knowledge is pragmatic, visceral as well as
intellectual; it is the accretion of all the player's experiences,
numerous trials and errors over many years, triumphs, train-wrecks,
hours spent in rehearsal, in practice, in listening, and for some,
even in contemplation.
Just as merely attending a few lectures
on human anatomy, reading a few textbooks, perhaps observing a
dissection, might not make a person a good lover, listening to a
conductor talk about music is not necessarily the best route to a
good performance. The better conductors seem to understand how to
balance the mechanistic with the spiritual when it comes to spending
precious rehearsal time, acknowledging that, much like one's personal
hygiene, the knowledge of the orchestra, in its visceral and
practical sense, requires a certain amount of repeated, sometimes
unpleasant, usually unglamorous, attention.
At one end of the spectrum is the
conductor who relies too heavily on the knowledge of the orchestra, merely
waving arms around and accepting whatever happens. Like the
charlatan baker, who, having an order for a birthday cake canceled,
merely scrapes off the frosted inscription and presents the cake to
the next unsuspecting customer, this conductor adds little to the
orchestra's store of knowledge, but instead cashes in on the work of
others. This Maestro's appearance on the podium is a sort of nightly
stage dive, where the orchestra, in possession of a sense of dignity,
not to mention professionalism, along with the inability to take
spontaneous collective action, catches him or her every time. The
antipode of such a Maestro is, at the 'highest level' of the
profession, more common, and, by most musicians, considered at least
somewhat insufferable, namely, the incessant talker, the Maestro who
does not leave enough rehearsal time for the orchestra to actually
put into practice the myriad ideas presented. Perhaps as symptom of
encroaching age, I find that, although I'm often scratching my head,
trying to figure out how what is being said is going to help the
week's performance, I have more patience for the talkative Maestro
than some of my colleagues. Yes, the boyhood reminiscences, or what
some far-flung critic had to say about a long-forgotten performance
are odious, but other podium offerings make me happy to 'learn as I
earn' - the steps to the ländler,
for instance, or the difference between an Austrian and a German
military march (or at least the fact that such a difference exists -
interesting how many Austrians I've met who are at pains to point out
the most subtle discrepancies between themselves and Germans), these
may not be the most important things in the moment, certainly not
from my particular corner of the orchestra, but they are interesting,
and, year in year out, add to the collective wisdom of the orchestra.
The conductor, like the doctor who sees
serious malady and does nothing, should be discouraged. Similarly,
his counterpart, the well-meaning, overzealous ideologue whose first
impulse is to immediately euthanize the patient and set about
effecting a resurrection, should be gently dissuaded. Each Maestro
who takes the podium leaves a mark, contributing to the orchestra's
collective wisdom. The orchestra, out of necessity, and as a
survival instinct, prioritizes pragmatism, and in so doing can be
somewhat ruthless in dismissing otherwise well-meaning conductors.
However, from a player's perspective, the steps to making a positive
contribution, and to avoid becoming a cautionary tale, seem to be
obvious, yet somehow illusive.
***
I would like to take this opportunity
to thank the various readers of the Bass Blog, both colleagues and people
unknown to me, who have contacted me during my lengthy hiatus. Your
inquiries as to the fate of the Blog, not to mention my own
well-being, have been greatly appreciated. I thank you for your
enduring patience with this self-destructive hobby of mine. Of course, due to my
contrarian nature, those who expressed pleasure at the disappearance
of the Blog, and wished for its continued non-existence, provided the
ultimate motivating factor in my decision to resurrect it.
