Category: Performance

In an earlier posting about amateur music ensembles (“Learning to be an Amateur” March 23, 2013), I asked the question, “How do you motivate amateurs to seek perfection, unlike professionals whose livelihood depends on it? We know that everybody wishes to be perfect in every way, but reality often has its own way of disrupting such wishful thinking with mundane real and imagined limitations.

Some say that “talent” takes care of the problem of perfection because the latter is a natural consequence of the former. But I am taking “talent” out of the mix because, like Malcolm Gladwell, Daniel Coyne and others, I suspect “talent” is a chimera or at least, a distraction. No matter the individual’s innate predilection for playing a music instrument or singing, a person can become as good as they want to be, given motivation, focus and direction (i.e., lessons).

The answer to my March question recently came to me in a flash. But the answer is rather complicated.

It begins with the premise that the music performers in an ensemble are simultaneously the audience of the ensemble. The players listen to each other while playing, for the same pleasure they get from listening to a concert from afar. And these “concerts” happen over and over again, in the form of rehearsals, and almost incidentally, public concerts.

One example of this paradigm is particularly vivid. During the performance of certain compositions that feature brief solos, individual listener-performers listen intently to the fellow member who is playing the solo, set to the ensemble’s accompanying murmur. Each listener-player silently cheers them on, winces in sympathy, or grinds their teeth in dismay. I never fail to be amazed at the dual nature of this experience, where I am simultaneously staring intensely at my music on the stand, keeping my place when playing or counting bars of tacet, while listening intently to the soloist in the same manner as a sit-down audience member.

I should add that the performer-audience paradigm also takes place in the mind of professional musicians, but it is background to the sobering, if not tense act of making a living as a professional musician. Also, when professional musicians were young, they switched over to a kind of intense practice regimen when the goal of making a living in Western Art Music pulled into view. Both scenarios are clouded by the constant threat of imperfection and its consequences – failure and ultimately, disgrace. There are 20 if not 200 people waiting anxiously to replace every professional who stumbles twice, or even once.

I should state up front that likely none of this discussion has any relevance whatsoever to popular, jazz and ethnic music ensembles (unless they are state-sponsored). They may have other kinds of shibboleths, waiting to be discovered by me some day.  My discussion is limited to performers of WAM (Western Art Music) gathered together in large ensembles (full orchestras, string ensembles, and wind bands).

The Parallels

There are several parallels that immediately come to my mind.

The world of Western Art Music is famous, some would say notorious, for performing programs of music only once, twice or perhaps three times, then quickly moving on to rehearsals for the next concert. Contrast this parsimony with theatre, where an individual stage presentation will be shown dozens of times. The theatre experience of multiple performances of the same program is played out for amateur WAM listener-performers because for them, all the rehearsals represent multiple performances. But with one important difference. The “concerts” are flawed, sometimes showing improvement, sometimes failing due to one or more audience-performers’ limitations. Nevertheless, the performer-audience members are ever hopeful of a perfect performance perhaps after several run-throughs, perhaps even timed for their public concert. Granted, theatre ensembles rehearse before their “run” but the style of rehearsal is far more piecemeal than a music rehearsal where the music ensemble plays the score as nearly perfect as possible from the very beginning.

I am also reminded of team players who observe their current game unfolding towards victory or defeat as each member of their team provides the technique and the spirit to not only win the game, but also to work seamlessly in the face of adversity. The post-game elation (or depression) represents the good or bad concert, and during practices (read “rehearsals”) the momentary failures are down-played in the hopes that another run-through will show improvements.

A final parallel is seen in concerts of Western Art Music chamber ensembles, such as a string quartet. They all take pride in being conductor-less. In order to pull off such a feat of artistic integration, the group of four or more must seat themselves in a semi-circle or U-shaped configuration so they can see and cue each other. This performance practice is well-known and even obligatory but what is not equally understood is the fact that the performers are “concertizing” to each other in the most intimate manner possible while the audience is largely ignored until the last notes are played. The audience is placed in the odd role of cultural voyeurs looking into the intimate conversation of close friends. Contrast this inward configuration with any group in popular music where the quartet always faces out to the audience, an almost impossible configuration by Western Art Music ensembles, or so they claim. Not so, the Carion Woodwind Quintet ensemble.

The problems

Being a listener-performer inside the music has its problems.

The seating is a liability. The further one is from another section of the ensemble, the less one hears that “voice”. More important is the distraction of playing while listening. Think “cell phone use while driving”. These problematic conditions are obvious, and some would say, go without saying. The liability is tolerated because the positive rewards, the mutual construction of the music, are far greater.

One of the most interesting problems of amateur audience-performers is the participant’s perception of musical failings within the group. Personal musical failings take on an ethical, even moral dimension. Fellow musicians who consistently fail to achieve perfection due to lack of practice degrade the listening (i.e., concert) experience and corrode the camaraderie of the “team”.

Even tuning of instruments can be a satisfying or cringing experience for the entire ensemble. Despite having tuned to a tuning note, individual notes need to be constantly tempered, a skill many amateurs seem not to understand.

Interestingly, amateur ensembles can be very tolerant of random mistakes, infinitely more so than professional ensembles. “Cast not the first stone…” You may be reminded of the frequent positive critique of many a performance of professional musicians where the audience members judged the concert to be “authentic” and “human” because of occasional lapses in perfection.

Many ensembles have a “come one, come all” policy, with no audition requirements. This attitude is in keeping with the very best in cooperative community thinking, where members join in order to share their deep mutual pleasure with fellow enthusiasts, no matter what their creed, religion, ethnicity, etc. There is even a place for beginners, found in positions labelled second and third chair, where the music is lower in range and often not so exposed. The positions operate somewhat in the manner of an apprenticeship, with the understanding that one can always move up in the “corporation” as one improves and develops confidence. The marvel is that composers sometimes purposely write their compositions with this human dimension in mind. Isn’t that a wonderful thought!?

But when a member is consistently imperfect, the ethical component reveals itself. The amateur player with the problems may invoke the postmodern shrug and sheepish smile after they botch a music phrase, claiming “that they tried”.  But they can seriously degrade the listening experience for fellow ensemble members. They can even damage the morale of the ensemble, sometimes beyond repair.

Amateur musicians are often caught between a rock and a hard place, given that their musical pursuit is a hobby, one of many life-style activities (making a living, parenting, continuing education). Some may even be proto-beginners, having returned to the music instrument of their youth after years, maybe decades of neglect. But these impediments become irrelevant during the heat of performance (including rehearsals).

The conductor

It is well known that the conductor’s job is to establish and maintain the beat for the benefit of the musicians. That includes changes in tempo, some of the most terrifying moments in music (and one of the reasons why marches succeed so well, given that they never vary their tempo). To this end, performers are constantly badgered and admonished to “look up” at the conductor instead of intently reading the page of music in front of them. Television announcers used to have the same problem, until the advent of Teleprompters.

A secondary responsibility of the conductor is to act as a sound engineer, gauging and tweaking sound levels of the ensemble to match the wishes of the composer and the acoustic conditions of the performance space. It is in the variable nature of loud and soft moments, interestingly called “dynamics” (as in a dynamic, as opposed to a mono-tone/monotonous, event or person), that amateur ensembles show their true colours. Despite the best efforts of a conductor, some/many amateur ensembles play medium loud from beginning to end, with an occasional moment of extra loud. Amateurs (and beginner music students) are generally unaware of how dramatic dynamic levels must operate in order to be musically expressive to listeners.

At this point, I should say in full disclosure, that I am a listener (and RCM examiner) who needs and demands musicians and ensembles to “go big or go home”. I know there are some conductors who aspire for the subtle side of dynamics, but I’m not in that camp. Subtle for some is a grey wash of sound for others. But that’s my bias I suppose.

Be that as it may, the regulation of the tempo and dynamics can take on new meaning when the conductor steps out of the picture, that is, off the podium, at a concert. After the conductor has “set the mix board” in rehearsal, the ensemble without conductor in concert must take collective responsibility for itself by listening to each other (as I described already) in order to mutually realize the beat, including tempo changes and temper the dynamics.

In a conductor-less concert, a passage marked quiet (i.e., pp/pianissimo) is not quiet enough if a player cannot hear his/her stand partner. During the performance of a melody or occasionally, a solo passage, the accompanying voices must play softer than the principal melody, regardless of the dynamic marking in the music notation page. In other words, if he/she can’t hear the person “speaking”, he/she is too loud.

Last but not least, is the most important role of the conductor of an amateur ensemble. Mediator. Relationship counselor. Morale booster. Conductors of professional ensembles are one of the last bastions of autocracy. Not so amateur ensembles. The conductor of an amateur ensemble is usually there at the pleasure of the players, usually receiving a modest stipend for their efforts, but more often than not, because their love of the music propelled them to move up in the music performance world to the ultimate position – manager. Like a professional conductor, they must manage the musical resources of several individuals to form a unified sonic event, but rather than impose their will on the membership, they bring unity to a motley event, at the behest of the membership. The “audience”, that is, the membership in the ensemble, bestows gratitude and loyalty in exchange.

The amateur musicians also give an amazing gift to the conductor – absolute silence between run-throughs of passages, or an entire piece, while the conductor muses about this or that improvement. This self-imposed silence can last up to two hours long, which is remarkable, given the fact that the room is filled with a multitude of excited individuals deeply and passionately sharing the experience with each other. As you read this description you may be reminded of a typical lecture or even performance where the listening public is absorbed in the listening experience without interruption. But remember that the members of the amateur ensembles are team players in the act of cooperative goal-making. Quite the paradox.

When each ensemble rehearsal comes to a close, I cast my mind back to dance classes I have seen, where the dancers will clap in appreciation to the work-out provided by the
instructor. I have never seen this moment of appreciation in a music ensemble, which is a great shame, I think.

Conclusion

The actions of listener-performers I have just described recall Christopher Small’s several books about musicking. Each player is immersed in the intoxicating pleasure of the magical mix of sounds in a way that can never be equalled by the listening experience of a passive audience member who sits passively, contemplatively, while mustering acts of attention that defy normal behaviour. Each performer-listener becomes an insider. Each player lives the music structure instead of analysing it with pen, paper, and score in hand.  And the production of the music is supremely interactive, perhaps the most important concept in this twenty-first century.

Bibliography

Ruth Finnegan (1989) The Hidden Musicians: Music-Making in an English Town

Susan Bennett (1997) Theatre Audiences: A Theory of Production and Reception

Christopher Small (1998) Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening

Malcolm Gladwell (2002) “The Talent Myth,” in The New Yorker, July 22, 2002

Stephanie Pitts (2005) Valuing Musical Participation

Harris M. Berger (2009) Stance: Ideas About Emotion, Style, and Meaning for the Study of Expressive Culture

Henry Jenkins et al (2009) Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture

Daniel Coyle (2010) The Talent Code: Greatness isn’t Born. It’s Grown

Many students of mine have arrived at the School of Music via the well-travelled road of the Royal Conservatory of Music examination system. And almost all of them trod down this path as youthful pianists.

For those not in the loop, I should quickly summarize the august institution that is known simply as the RCM. It is venerable, like its counterparts in England from which it received its essential outline. “How venerable?” you ask. Let me take you back to 1985. I was watching the Anne of Green Gables on CBC (the one with Megan Follows, not its successor with Sarah Polley). Circa 1900, an older Anne (with an e) had achieved her dream; to enrol in a university. She was crowding around her new female friends, sharing in the excitement of the first week of classes. Then, one of the girls suddenly becomes alarmed.  She had forgotten about her RCM exam which was scheduled to take place across campus within mere minutes. I was equally jolted, but with surprise and delight, at the fleeting reference to such an important, modern Canadian musical landmark in such an historic setting.

The RCM was founded in 1886, the same year that Vancouver was chartered to be a municipality. And whereas pre-Vancouver Gastown was nothing more than a Wild West assortment of clapboard buildings populated mainly by rough-and-ready, loggers and bushwackers, the RCM was housed at the opposite end of Canada, in a stately Victorian building on a sophisticated, tree-lined street in Toronto. Those who are avid followers of Murdoch’s Mysteries will have an excellent picture in their mind.  Back then, the mandate of the RCM was to provide an out-of-school music education to the daughters of Toronto’s moneyed classes, in keeping with the usual Western bourgeois’ bid to make young women more marriageable in higher society. Cynical, I know, but there’s substantial body of research to justify this view. That is not to say that the same young ladies didn’t use the opportunity to explore their musicality on their own terms, only that the outcome was different from the process.

Today the RCM coincidentally has one of the most amazing distance education programs on the planet. But before I explain it in more detail, I should make a few things clear. There is the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, a music conservatory housed in the newly-refurbished heritage building on Bloor Street, and then there is the RCME, the Royal Conservatory of Music – Examinations. It is the latter which interests me the most, mainly because I have been an examiner for the RCME for many years. My specialty is woodwinds, brasswinds, and percussion.  Some of what I am going to describe is true for the strings and voice, but I’m not overly familiar with those exams, so I will restrict my comments to my own experiences with winds and percussion examinations. Or rather, “assessments”, the preferred term today.

Distance Certification

Here is where the distance-education thing becomes remarkable.  Imagine that you want to train for a professional certificate. You discover that there is a national, highly respected yet distant educational establishment that provides you with a certification process right in your city or town, rather than requiring you re-locate to their location. And unlike standard distance education programs, the institution will examine and certify your knowledge in person, one-on-one, each time you complete one of the levels in their clear series of progressive skills that ultimately ends in a complete education. You acquire the knowledge necessary to pass each graded exam by hiring a local teacher on a weekly basis, thus supporting the local economy and allowing you to stay home.

The institution sends out examiners three times a year to personally conduct an assessment and judge whether you are ready to move on to the next step with your local teacher. You can fail as many times as you want (before the sad truth sets in). You can take the same exam as many times as you want. You can even skip grade levels (but not in the final grades).  At the end of the process, you acquire a certificate from one of the most respected educational establishments in the world, for use in one of the most secure self-employment job markets in the world (private music instruction). The only downside is that you will most likely have to work the afternoon shift (3 PM to 10 PM).

The only organisation I know of that functions on the same distance-education model is dance, with ballet at its core. And therein lays a great research paper for somebody. How do they compare? Are the outcomes similar?

From a nationalist point of view, there is one small problem with the RCME. For all intents and purposes, it functions as Canada’s national music conservatory. And yet its final certificate of graduation is labelled ARCT – Associate of the Royal Conservatory of Toronto, instead of ARCC – Associate of the Royal Conservatory of Canada. I have mentioned this snag many times to the RCM, but there does not seem to be any real interest in changing the designation. Toronto-centrism at work? I hope not.

So, in no particular order, I present you with a few of many examples of the sociology of an RCM exam, as seen from my side of the desk as both examiner and participant-observer. My comments may seem carping, so I hasten to add that the RCM graduation certification is without a doubt, one of the finest of its kind in the land and recognized all over the world.

Musicking

First, and most important, is the ensemble portion of a wind exam (as well as strings and voice).

Every music candidate, piano and otherwise, is expected to play standard pieces of repertoire as well as shorter examples of technical achievement like studies and technique (scales, arpeggios, etc.). When the wind players enter the room to perform their repertoire, they arrive with a pianist who accompanies them. I see mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, local piano teachers hired at the last minute, and every other combination you can imagine, thrown together to present two or three pieces of music in a tremendous moment of intense cooperation and mutual music-making. During the preparations and then the exams, they create strategies, suffer defeats or celebrate success, as they go through the process of achieving the height of human cooperation known to mankind. Christopher Small calls the process spiritual, and re-named it musicking.

So what of the piano students? Nothing. No sharing. No cooperation. Just solo performances encased in solitude. I find this part of the piano exam shocking. If it were up to me, I would have the pianists perform at least one example of accompaniment in their repertoire preparations. Like the winds, strings and vocal candidates, they must arrive at the exam with a second person, perhaps a friend who plays the flute, or their piano teacher who is also a singer,  or a fellow bench-warmer doing 4-hand piano. Piano teachers will likely howl in protest, saying that the repertoire of solo literature is already full to overflowing, and not open to more additions, let alone another List of requirements. I say, drop one of the entire lists, edit the remaining solo lists, and create a new list of accompanied pieces of music. One less Bach; one more moment of supreme example of human cooperation and engagement. And in the process, young people are prepared for the rigors of socialisation at the very times in their life when they are most in need of practice and advice.

The details are daunting, I admit, but where there is a will, there is a way. And right now there is no will, not even a glimmer of possibility. Perhaps the next generation will lobby for such an important change.

The look

Here I shall applaud the pianists, instead of berating them. Sort of. They are required to memorize their music, and the winds are not. The result of this oversight is the vision of wind players, including highly advanced players, staring intently at their music stands, oblivious of “the audience” (i.e., me). Although the sound of the music may be glorious, the “look” of the performance is generally stagnant and alienating. Such a performance style is well known as the kiss of death in the theatre world. When the time comes to make a living on the stage as a performer, the reality of this situation will hit hard. If even the tiniest of munchkins are required to memorize their repertoire, as well as the Glenn Goulds, then so should the wind players.

Of course, pianists do not necessarily shine visually when they have their music memorized. They usually stare at the keyboard, sometimes blankly as their inner player downloads the notes, sometimes rapturously.  Because of the nature of piano performance, pianists must commit the gravest sin on stage, presenting their shoulder to the audience instead of their entire body. With this in mind, its interesting to see how pop musician pianists like Tori Amos and Jerry Lee Lewis solve this problem. They stand. I admit that such a position denies the player many advantages built into the seated position, so frankly I am baffled to think of a solution. Except perhaps the obvious. The piano, like the string quartet, plays on stage as if alone, and the audience is forced to play the role of cultural voyeurs, gazing in amazement while holding their breath in an oppressive blanket of silence, lest they interrupt the solitary musings of the musician.

Be that as it may, acknowledging the importance of the look of the music performance will stimulate discussion and research the difference between good theatre and damaging histrionics, the most pressing issue in stage performance today.

The consequences

When a student does badly, or is mediocre, where does the fault lay? This answer may appear obvious at first, given the dedication of music teachers who do as well as they can to prepare their students for the exams, talent or not. But many’s the time I’ve heard mediocre performances that are obviously the result of mediocre teaching. But only the student suffers the consequences. This is a conundrum I have never been able to solve, but I always hope that my written comments that accompany the marks can be read between the lines.

The future

In the 1980s, the RCME, and private music teachers, seems to have gone into a decline as young people pulled away from their parent’s middle class ambitions for their children, choosing instead allowing their kids to pursue their own destinies and musical interests. They rejected WAM (Western Art Music) in favour of popular music. Given that pop music is a living entity with exciting possibilities, residing at the heart of modern culture, the decision is understandable. In contrast, Western Art Music has steadily become marginalized, museumfied and relegated to a niche segment of the population.

Then, in the 90s, a new wave of immigration from East Asia arrived on the shores of Canada, particularly after the hand-over of Hong Kong to the PRC in 1997. Student enrollment ballooned and continues to be bullish. But there is a fear is that the burgeoning numbers may be a bubble as the young arrivals begin to see the Western world through the eyes of their local counterparts. To accommodate this possibility, the RCME is expanding into the US and early indications are that will be very successful, simply because of the far greater numbers of candidates, regardless of cultural conditions that favour popular music.

The RCM is also heavily committed to the non-musical benefits of learning how to play music, such as increased mental acumen, but I have not seen any research that says garage band players or karaoke devotees are any less prone to developing their mental prowess.

In a future instalment, I’ll chat about some other sociomusicological issues that I have observed – the pathological fear of the ear tests, the dread of scales and arpeggios, the seeming complete disconnect between Canada’s university departments and schools of music with the RCM…

Readings

Ezra Schabas (2005) There’s Music in These Walls: A History of the Royal Conservatory of Music

Christopher Small (1998) Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening

Derek Scott (1989) The Singing Bourgeois: Songs of the Victorian Drawing Room and Parlour

Tia DeNora (2000) Music in Everyday Life

Richard Leppert (1993) The Sight of Sound: Music, Representation and the History of the Body

There have been several times in my life when I decided that re-enacting the original context of a music composition’s performance was an exciting and viable option. I once called it Theatre of Music (as opposed to Music Theatre).

When you hear or read the word “re-enactment”, you might recall vacations or school day-trips when you visited a historic site such as an old-fashioned farm, stately mansion, or stone fort. As you walked into the grounds of the sprawling network of buildings or the hushed drawing room of a fussy Victorian house, you were probably greeted by people dressed in the same time period as the historical location. Those individuals manning the printing press or the kitchen or the stockade are called re-enactors and their job is to bring life to the walk-around exhibit by re-enacting the roles and occupations associated with the historical site. And, when they weren’t busy with their occupations, they engaged with the visitors to explain what they were up to, answering questions, joking about their life in 1890, or 1790, or even 990 in L’Anse aux Meadows at the northern tip of Newfoundland. The re-enactors in the American site of Plymouth are unique in that they speak in first-person, as if they really are living in the age of their historical re-construction. Pure, glorious theatre. In other places, the re-enactors have been replaced by interpreters in the uniform of Parks Canada or whatever because of cutbacks. No theatre. Just polite lectures.

Some of my most memorable life moments have been in the company of re-enactors. Just to take one example among many, the young, passionate re-enactors at Old Fort Henry, brought a lump to my throat as I watched them practice their military duties and music instruments fife and drummers in snappy military cadet garb.

Of course, I knew that at the end of the day, the “soldiers” stuffed their uniforms and flutes in their lockers, strolled out of the fort and returned to their everyday lives as young people on summer break from university, enjoying one of the best summer jobs ever. But when they were in costume, they looked and acted like the real thing of long ago, and we modern visitors, some in Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts, did not feel remotely out of place interacting with these soldiers of 200 years ago. We were time travellers, and they were our willing hosts. The magic of theatre was at work, where the suspension of belief is as natural as breathing.

If you find yourself drawing parallels with music videos, congratulations. You’ve made the leap.

Disbelief

I could turn this little essay into a full-blown book if I added all the other re-enactments I have enjoyed. But I will admit in the next breath that I do have my limits of suspended belief. The motley crowds at LARP (Live Action Role Playing), CosPlay (Costume Play) and SCA (Society for Creative Anachronisms) seem to me to be comprised of individuals, dressed in meticulous costume re-construction, compromise their authenticity with fantasy. Besides, SCA and CosPlay often relegate their re-enactment to themselves while neglecting their environment, which is usually a convention or festival.

Did you notice the word “authentic”, the soft under-belly of re-enactment, in the previous paragraph? Re-enactors of all stripes, from fantasy to history, are accused of being inauthentic (i.e., fake) because it is impossible to really know how events or people were thinking or feeling back then, no matter how meticulous the research. Then there are the nitpickers who rightfully point out that such-and-such a re-enactor or re-enactment couldn’t possibly act or be that way because of the march of history that has brought about modern medicine or machine stitching or whatever.  These critics come from the ranks of the self-righteous post-modernists, constantly looking over their shoulder for signs of a Grand Narrative, the untenable, if not unconscionable, buttress that supports one or another “-ialism” such as post-colonialism.  Finally, there is the sharpest barb of all; re-enactors are pretending, the alleged opposite of real. Recall the exchange of quotes by the chess-masters Spassky and Fischer, who argued, “chess in not like life, it is life”. They dismiss the theatre of re-enactment as a charade of histrionics. And, if the truth be told, I have seen some truly awful histrionics on stage.

Theatre of Recital

Despite the discomfort of these accusations, re-enactment has been embraced by myself and many music groups that I have joined, albeit with some trepidation.

My earliest exposure to re-enactment was during my years with the Towne Waytes, a six-man ensemble that played Renaissance wind instruments. We were fanatical about historical performance practices and authentic reproductions, even going so far as to read original music notation. No bar lines! (Musicians will gasp at the idea.) And yet, knowing our music was esoteric almost to the extreme, we wanted to make a living. Our solution was to perform our music in hundreds of schools in a theatrical manner, with scripted dialogue.

When we arrived at the back door of a gym, we pulled out our music instruments, props and costumes and proceeded to assemble renaissance town squares in each corner of the gym. The students were assembled in the middle, and we toured four countries (i.e., four corners of the gym), playing the music of their long-ago resident waytes. The children were entranced, either gawking in disbelief or hooting and hollering as one of their own got up to try a galliard taught by one of us.

Oddly enough, we never did this performance for adult evening audiences, opting instead for the classic stone-statue gaze of the typical Western audience assembled in a darkened theatre. Many’s the time I looked out at the crowd and saw nodding heads as we laboriously worked our way through Byrd’s fantasy for 6 recorders. Those evening concerts were nerve-racking, unlike the school shows which were out-and-out fun for everybody.

And then there was my program of pub music in London circa 1750, and best of all, my program that featured wandering flutists from both sides of Eurasia, the Komuso of Japan and Will Kemp of England.

Why?

“What was the point of these theatrical concerts,” you ask? They addressed the difficult issue of musical meaning. Each program placed unusual music in its context so that its sounds could be humanised. They replaced passive listening and faceless puppets manipulating music instruments with active conceptualisation; information combined with experience. I came to realize that almost every kind of music is greatly enhanced by contextualisation. This style of performance is already common in groups that have decided to offer spoken introductions to their music, usually done badly because of musicians’ notorious lack of public speaking skills. Perhaps they think that their speaking roles are forgiven because they are brilliant musicians. If so, I have a bridge they may be interested in purchasing.  In contrast are groups like Canadian Brass who hired theatrical directors to give them the “look” that could accompany the “sound” they were making. The door to this world is marked “dramaturgy”.

Re-enactment aligns with fundamental shift in grade school style of education, where facts are being replaced with experiences, rote-learning with creative curiosity, up-load/down-load autocrats to information mediators. A perusal of any modern school board policy statement or faculty of education research goal will quickly reinforce this new move from providers of information, now profusely available on the internet and social media, to the leaders of experiences, the fuel that sparks the imagination which in turn trolls the internet for information.

Music, again

I find that I can listen to music wrenched out of its context and place naked in the recital hall when I am utterly familiar with its context. It’s possible (but not obvious to me) that such an enlightened form of listening is the goal of Musicology. But how general audiences “from the street” can extrapolate context and listen in alleged rapturous silence to the bare bones of the music, is beyond me. Well, not entirely beyond me. It seems to me that the context of the music has been replaced by an obsession with musical form. “Did you hear that, self? The secondary theme came back in the tonic instead of the dominant!” But truly, how many members of a typical WAM concert can listen like that. Long ago, when I taught Music Appreciation classes, my rooms were constantly filled with anxious listeners who blamed themselves for their failure to be transported by classical music. “My mind wanders within the first five minutes! What’s wrong with me!?”

I have already acknowledged that re-enactment has its scathing critics. And I am troubled by the lack of research that could help listeners (and performers) differentiate re-enactments from histrionics. It is entirely uncharted country, although the new social science of Performativity is providing guidelines for discovery. I feel proud of the fact that the students who have taken my two courses, Introductions to the Study of World Music and Popular Music, have walked away from the lectures with at least a glimmer of understanding and hope.

Readings

Richard Schechner (2002) Performance Studies: An Introduction

Michael Ann Williams (2006) Staging Tradition: John Lair and Sarah Gertrude Knott

Richard Handler and Eric Gable (1997) The New History in an Old Museum: Creating the Past at Colonial Williamsburg

Stephen Eddy Snow, with a foreward by Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimbett (1993) Performing the Pilgrims: A Study in Ethnohistorical Role-playing at Plimoth(sic) Plantation

Stacy F. Roth (1998) Past into Present: Effective Techniques for First Person Historical Interpretation