Orchestral Conductors - Mud From A Scraper - No.7 In An Occasional Series

I saw that Prufrock at Prufrock’s Dilemma has published a serious and learned guest post on the Art of Conducting. Those of you of an equally serious musical bent might like to pop over and read this well researched and well written essay. Anyone of a lighter disposition could continue reading here, although !WARNING! this may well turn into an overlong post. (I don’t expect comments)

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“What! up and down, carv’d like an apple-tart?”

Taming of the Shrew - Shakespeare

With the exception of a few who are truly great, conductors are either popular with audiences or the orchestra; to have a large public following and to command the respect of the players at the same time, is not given to many.

Whilst most lay audiences will admit to their incompetence in judging matters of sound, they claim the right to pass judgement on what they can see. Orchestral players assess the merits of a conductor solely by the quality of his music making, and find any unnecessary display on the podium merely distracting. A beat that looks impressive from behind is usually difficult to follow, whilst a stick technique, from which all extravagant gestures have been amputated, affects an audience no more than would a metronome.

There are as many types of beat as there are conductors - or ‘carvers’ as they are known in the profession. Some of them beat in circles, some diagonally, some give no down beats, some nothing else; some sweep the stick decisively from one extremity of their reach to the other, and some oscillate their elbows and expect to produce cohesion.

All carvers however, though differing in every other imaginable way, expect an orchestra to play the final chord of any slow pianissimo cadence on the fourth waggle of the stick, and not before.

A conductor should understand all instruments and be able to play several. He must be capable of judging balance and tone and appreciating the finer points of orchestration; he must be a student of human nature and applied psychology, and he must be able to understand the composer’s intentions - which is often overlooked. A great conductor can do all these things. He also has an attitude of humility to his art, and a great respect for his players. He achieves his results by taking an orchestra into spiritual partnership and treating them as equals. He never loses his temper or bullies players - nor does he need to do so.

There is a regrettable attitude among conductors that, by virtue of their craft, they are the social superiors of mere instrumentalists.  An orchestra is quick to judge the character of a carver. Musicians will co-operate with a conductor who is sincere and who has a musician’s approach, even though he has no pretensions to greatness. They will not approve of incompetence, over-theatricality, or simply lack of musicianship.

Given a good orchestra, any musician can stand on the rostrum and conduct it - provided that he makes it clear when the players are intended to start and to stop. The result will always be passable with a well-known work, because the performers can, and often do, play it from memory.

Conductors’ musical reputations are made and lost at rehearsals. No orchestra will co-operate with a carver who keeps going over a passage without saying what is wrong with it, or one who stops and points out an accidental error from ten minutes ago. To a certain extent, an orchestra knows its own failings, and if a conductor points them out he is considered sound. Musicians will, however, find means of retaliation if a conductor complains about a section that musicians know to be in order.

Musicians will rarely approve of a visiting carver’s new interpretation of an old familiar work. An interpretation that has been accepted for twenty years is not to be upset by the whim of any jack-in-office who couldn’t conduct a tram. A conductor who has earned the orchestra’s respect may, however, break convention in moderation without losing face.

The least pleasant conductor to play under is the composer. His technique is rarely any worse than that of a professional carver, but he will know every note of the score, and require to hear them all; he will also enjoy himself and expect to see the orchestra fascinated by his brain-child.

There are many symptoms by which a conductor can tell whether or not an orchestra likes him, should it make any difference to him. Sabotage is rare, being difficult to reconcile with an artistic conscience and wrong notes played at concerts are generally accidental. Passive resistance, however, is frequently indulged in, and, among other time-wasting efforts, consists of a general lack of concentration at rehearsals.

Finally, should any orchestral musician, through misguided ambition or avarice, aspire to become a conductor, he must be prepared to renounce all his old friends and allegiances; also in so doing he will encounter all the mistrust and suspicion otherwise only experienced by a man who meets his ex-wife’s relations.

Musicians - Soloists

Mud From A Scraper

No. 6 In An Occasional Series

An instrumental soloist is a musician who, by virtue of an over-developed technique and an excess of individuality, is unsuited to playing in orchestras. His task is a thankless one, for he is always conscious that there are fifty or more performers behind him watching for flaws in his performance. A solo violinist feels that he is being accompanied by twenty players who have studied the work he is playing in detail, and who know that they could play it better. A cello soloist is more fortunate, in that he rarely performs before more than eight of his critical colleagues.

Pianists are in a happier position as they seem to be divided into two classes: a) sensitive ones, who benefit from comparison with the insensitive ones who ignore the orchestra, and b) those others who are oblivious of any hostility they may arouse.

Singers are judged by different standards. It is an old saw that people are either gifted with musicianship or with a good voice; thus a singer exhibiting the slightest trace of artistic sensibility is welcomed by an orchestra however inadequate the voice may be. The majority are praised or condemned for their intonation and the quality of voice, and except in rare cases will be unfavourably compared with famous singers of the past, not only for their voice but also looks and sex appeal. Players know little or nothing about vocal technique, but refuse to relinquish their prerogative to criticise anything in earshot.

The artistic merit of any soloist can be gauged by the amount of applause afforded to him or her by the orchestra. Most players tap their stands at the end of a concerto or aria as an act of thanksgiving that the piece is over - but it also signifies gratitude for the audience the soloist has attracted. If they continue to tap whilst the soloist is taking his second bow, it means that they approve of the performance. If they are still tapping when he is recalled for a third bow, they think he is really good. However, no player applauds after this, lest the soloist be encouraged to play an encore.

Many orchestral musicians entered their careers under the illusion that they would one day be soloists. Despite this, there is no trace of jealousy in their indictment of concerto players, for they come to realise, after fifteen years in the profession, that though there is no kudos to be gained in their work, theirs indeed is the higher calling.

Musicians - The Platform Manner

Sir Simon Rattle and The Berlin Philharmonic at the Royal Festival Hall

Mud From A Scraper

No. 5 in an Occasional Series

Aside from all considerations of individual and orchestral technique, there is a strict code of behaviour on concert platforms which has evolved through many generations of musicians. Failure to observe it results in the offender being branded as a beginner. The correct attitude of mind assumed by all members of orchestras is one of vague resentment, directed indiscriminately at the programme, which could be shorter, the management, which could be less grasping, the rest of the orchestra, which could be better, and the conductor, who could hardly be worse. No true professional admits to any enjoyment in his work, though the opus in question may be one of the few he really likes; should any aspect of contemporary music be mentioned in conversation, all remarks are of a deprecatory nature.

The correct posture, except for front desk players, differs from that which is taught at the schools of music. The left elbow of violin and viola players rests on the left hip or any other convenient object, and the right arm is held as low as possible. Cellists and bass players conform more nearly to the scholastic ideal, as it is not possible for them to hold their instruments any lower; instead, they lean on them in the most relaxed manner.

When there is a prolonged pizzicato passage, the violinist, and the violist, puts his bow on his knee, and either turns his instrument so that his chin is resting on its ribs, or lowers it altogether, supporting the scroll on his knee, with the button or end-pin, on the middle of his waistcoat.

It is generally understood that if the conductor wants any extra refinements, he will ask for them. Whether or not his requests will be granted is another matter. A professional rarely uses vibrato, save on the longest notes, and when particularly exhorted to do so. Anyone who does so too often is, again, branded as a beginner, because vibrato, besides being useless in many passages, is never specified in any contract, and musicians are specialists in the art of working to rule.

No-one normally uses a different style from his neighbour, as there is rarely enough room on a concert platform. Most performers habitually harass their neighbours for a few extra inches. Cellists are especially sensitive to lack of space, and indeed, develop a form of claustrophobia if any other instrumentalist comes within a bow-length of them.  

There are similar customs among the pit fraternity in theatres and opera-houses. Apart from never having enough room, the pit musician never has enough light, and constantly complains to management and electricians. In contrast with the symphony-player's preference for a well hidden position on the platform, the opera-player struggles to be placed near the audience, so that he can better watch the stage. Or when he becomes bored, which is his natural state, he amuses himself by fitting tunes of a frivolous nature to the accompaniments of the most impassioned arias.

The pit-musician will show interest only in the length of an opera. He may have a hidden preference for Aida, but will enjoy Traviata more. He may not have much sympathy with Puccini, but La Boheme is always popular. The Ring is unspeakable, and Meistersinger is beyond the pale. He only really likes one opera - Salome, which is over by 8.45 pm.

Musicians: The Professional Approach

At Rehearsal

Mud From A Scraper

No. 4 in an Occasional Series

"I say 'silver sound', because musicians sound for silver"

Shakespeare

The first rule that must be learnt by those who would understand the character of musicians is that few members of an orchestra are interested in music. Each plays his instrument because that is his trade - because that is the job for which he is physically and mentally suited, and that is the best way he knows of earning a living.

His aim is, like the average man or woman, to earn the maximum income with the minimum effort, though this is not so straightforward as it sounds, and even the minimum effort is very strenuous. Owing to the fact that there are a few eccentrics in the profession, who exhibit excessive interest in their work, who are insensitive to the hostility they arouse, and who have relations in the management, an unnecessarily high standard of conduct has come to be expected. It requires a great deal of skill to find the mean between doing as little work as is compatible with an artistic conscience, and doing as much as a conductor demands.

The location of this compromise is determined not only by the general pattern of behaviour of the particular orchestra, but by the position of the player in question: The further back in the section the musician is, the less he needs to keep up appearances. Those at the back may need to make a better showing than their immediate superiors in order to remain in the orchestra at all; those at the front, who are heard and watched by all, are expected to look efficient even to laymen, and must behave as though they enjoy playing the same old hackneyed works year after year.

All other points of orchestral technique are based on this principle. It governs the posture the player adopts, the energy he expends in playing, the time he arrives at rehearsal and the colour of the socks he wears for concerts.

It may be thought that the height of a musician's professional ambition would be membership of one of the top symphony orchestras. It is not so; even members of the top symphony orchestras yearn to be invited to play with the small, light combinations which broadcast so frequently under so many names. A contract job is considered stultifying, and though the financial security is useful, a free-lance player with the right connections can earn in a week as much as a symphony player receives in a month, though he may be unemployed for the two subsequent weeks.

Above all, a player must have the attitude of mind which goes with this concept of the profession. The biggest crime one can commit used to be called 'arty-crafty' or 'British West Hampstead'.  This consist of understanding counterpoint, going to concerts, tracing the influence of Stravinsky in the works of Villa-Lobos, and working out unconventional fingerings. Such behaviour may make a good impression on an amateur orchestra or on the lunatic fringes of the profession. It is anathema to the experienced player.

Musicians On Out-Of-Town Engagements

Mud From A Scraper

No. 3 in an occasional series.

Musicians on Tour

- between rehearsal and performance -

One of the least popular features of the orchestral musician's life is the out of town concert, or gig. This usually involves early rising, a long coach or train journey, the expense of buying meals, and a late return as well as the customary rehearsal and performance. For all this, the player receives little extra remuneration.

There is invariably great anxiety about catching the return train, and it is accepted that the last movement of the last work in a concert is always played faster than on any previous occasion. The conductor may object to this, but is usually overruled. Experienced musicians have a wide knowledge of the shortest route from every concert hall to the nearest station, via some public house.

Touring may consist either of a string of provincial concerts spread around the country, or of a longer period in just one or two towns. The first kind is generally detested, as the player is away from his customary haunts, and is not long enough in any one place to settle into a routine; the second is more easily tolerated and some musicians may even enjoy such a sojourn as it provides an opportunity for making new acquaintances and playing on fresh golf courses. Whatever its effect upon musicians, touring is a long-standing custom, part of their contract. A beneficial side effect of touring is that it boosts sales of recordings.

The main problem attached to visiting strange towns is that of finding reasonably priced accommodation. Alas, some musicians welcome tours as a justifiable excuse for getting away from wife and home, and, in common with sailors and commercial travellers, tend to have a sweetheart in many towns. Such players rarely have accommodation problems.

Musicians pay one of their few tributes to culture when working out-of-town, for no beauty spot, abbey or historic building in provincial towns is left unvisited. The purpose of this is two-fold: to be able to say they have been there when asked by curious grandchildren and also to help prove to suspicious wives that they have really been away on a job at all. Most take their cameras to add evidence to their stories; some have even been known to hand these to accomplices to take pictures for them, when their motives for going out-of-town were less than professional.

Introducing The Audience

Interior of Covent Garden Theater, London
ca. 1808
Thomas Rowlandson (1756-1827 British)

Mud Gathered From A Scraper  -  Part 2 in an occasional series.

Part 1 was an introduction to orchestral Musicians


How many members of an audience realise that whilst they are looking at and commenting on an orchestra, the players are equally looking at them?  -  and how many people sitting in the front row of the stalls realise just how unintelligent and depressing they appear to those on the platform, or in the pit?

If members of the public are dressed informally, they are held to look scruffy, and players resent wearing formal clothes for them. If the audience is immaculate in evening dress, the players blame it for maintaining the convention that makes dinner jackets compulsory.  It is the view of the audience a player has from the impersonal elevation of the platform, before the houselights go down, which determines his opinion that all audiences can be divided into ten categories, regardless of the time, place and programme.

The first group, to which of course all readers of this blog belong, is of genuine music-lovers, who listen to the performance, and do their best to understand the music. They do not necessarily sit in the best seats, and may know little about the intricacies of first movement form, but they are the core of the audience, and the only people to whom musicians are always glad to play, however few in number they may be. There is also a type of listener who imagines that he belongs in the first group. He will exchange knowing remarks about the orchestra with his neighbours, and when he recognises a melody, will hum it to himself, in another key. Many members of amateur orchestras belong to this group.

Another kind of concert-goer tries to give an impression of being musical by studying the score during the performance. Should he not possess a score, or should he become hopelessly lost, he will shut his eyes, assume an expression of concentrated ecstasy and sway slightly, in time with the music. A fourth category is composed largely of old ladies, who appear to be enjoying a concert intelligently, and who will say, in conversation with a performer, how they love good classical music, like "In a Monastery Garden".

Soloists are often engaged for concerts on the strength of their following.  The soloist's fans do not bother to hide their boredom during the works preceding the concerto or aria; they are sullen and fidgety and usually leave when their idol has taken his or her last bow. The only point in their favour, from the musicians point of view, is that they make the concert a financial success.

Some people buy season tickets for a series of concerts; thus they can hear six programmes for the price of five. They will attend each programme in order to get their money's worth and can easily be recognised by their air of determined enjoyment, which is similar to that seen at a holiday camp during wet weather.

Smaller sections of audiences may consist of young lovers who consider the surroundings more conducive to successful courting than the cinema. Then there are school parties, who pay reduced rates; pupils regard the occasion as an outing of much the same sort as a conducted tour of the local gas-works. Parents occasionally bring their families to concerts, hoping to 'do them good'. When the youngest member starts whimpering during the slow movement, they leave their seats in the middle of the row, red-faced, kicking as many shins as they find on their way out.

And finally, there is unpunctuality, which is a common failing among all sections of an audience. Although concerts rarely start at the advertised time there is still a core of determined late-comers delaying the performance to the annoyance of players and conductor.

In spite of the foregoing, players need their audience, so please come and listen;  they also need to pay the rent.

Introducing Musicians

WILLOW'S MAGPIE TALES No. 48

Every orchestral player, so scenario-writers would have you believe, carries a conductor's baton in his case. This is not true: open any instrument case in any bandroom at any time, and you will find a near-black bow-tie or flimsy scarf, seven old assorted programmes, an outdated lottery ticket, a sandwich and a dirty duster.

There may also be an instrument of some sort, but there will be no more sign of a conductor's baton than of a poached egg. Probably less.

There is a great deal of romantic nonsense written about musicians. Novelists endeavour to convince the public that members of the profession wear an air of glory, and manage to infuse them with a spirit of romance and adventure, that is denied other mortals. A musician's life is, in reality, as prosaic as any; there is no more glory attached to it than to the lot of a shop assistant, and no more adventure than to the life of a travelling salesman.

The concert goer is, perhaps, more deluded than one who knows less about music. After weeks of happy anticipation he listens, entranced, whilst sixty black-clad performers play his favourite symphony. It is only natural that he should place these beings on a mental pedestal, and imagine that if they do have the same sordid necessities and vices as the rest of the species, they at least forget about them whilst they are playing for his benefit.

The concert goer also holds the idea that musicians play chamber music in all their leisure moments. The opposite view is also widely held: that musicians play poker whenever they are off duty, and are too sharp to admit that they are on an easy racket. The two opinions, in a nutshell, are that musicians are either long-haired or bald. Some of them are, of course, but never at the same time.

The first thing a player does when he comes on to a stage, having made sure that he has the best available chair and sufficient room to play, is to study the audience. Very attractive members of the audience, male or female, will occasion an appreciative titter. Critics will cause mournful glances in the direction of the conductor, blaming him in advance for the performance's shortcomings.  Any player spying a fixer - these exalted beings rarely attend concerts - will keep the sighting to him/herself and play like they've never played before. Getting on to the A-list of a well-known fixer is what every musician aspires to; fixers have such sought-after money-spinners as light music sessions, film sessions and TV jingles in their gift. Jingles pay the most for the least effort.

Musicians develop, very early in their careers, a fine technique of conversation with the public. They will size a layman up from his first sentence, and adapt their remarks to suit his taste, on the principle that every member of an audience is a potential employer, or at least a possible supper. There is no propaganda for musicians, only for music, and it is incumbent on every player to convince as many people as he can that he is a fine artist and a nice chap and that the orchestra to which he belongs is the finest in the country.

During their career, most players adopt a fatalistic attitude, and have difficulty in keeping up the attitudes that are expected of them. They would really much rather be at home painting the bathroom or sorting their stamp collection.