Encouraging Dissent

Washington Post music critic Anne Midgette has an interesting post up on her blog this week about an odd sort of groupthink that frequently seems to permeate the classical music world:

"Why do we all have to like the same composers? I’m sure that we could find movies or books that we disagree about without it seeming quite so heretical. (Actually, my husband doesn’t care for Bruckner, and I love Bruckner, and we manage to continue a happy marriage regardless.) Anyway, I think we need to embrace these disagreements, because they help get classical music off its film-star pedestal and into an arena where we can interact with it, have opinions about it, dare not to like it."

I like the comparison to other art forms, because whereas critics who write about movies, books, and theater spar continuously over the quality (or lack of quality) of what they're reviewing, many classical music critics seem to feel constrained only to review the performance of a piece of music, and rarely discuss the merits of the work itself. And given how passionately many classical fans feel about their favorite composers, I'd probably do the same in their shoes. It's really not worth the trouble you're going to stir up by saying in print that, just for instance, Bruckner's symphonies are overrated, long-winded, and boring.

Midgette has another theory about why critics should be more open about their likes and dislikes, though:

We talk a lot about how to reach new younger audiences: well, they’re not fooled by didactic lectures and hollow praise. I have a host of anecdotes about times I felt I reached someone who was new to classical music by giving them permission not to like it.

Now, this rings very true to me, and I've got an anecdote of my own. A few years back, we were playing the world premiere of a newly commissioned work, and from the opening moments of the first rehearsal, we knew that we were in for a very tough slog through some incredibly dense, modernist stuff that our audiences were just going to hate. It's never fun trying to get through music like that, because we can see the audience visibly hating it, willing it to be over, and nobody wins in that situation. You can always hope that the audience will be so incensed that they'll do something dramatic like refuse to applaud, or even boo the composer, but most American audiences are far too polite to ever consider such acting out.

Now sometimes, when we're playing a new piece, we'll invite the composer to say a few words about it before we play it, which can sometimes have the effect of making the audience more open to what they're about to hear. But in this case, the composer of what I'll call the Noise Concerto wasn't actually going to be at the concerts, so Osmo decided to speak to the audience instead. I couldn't imagine what he was planning to say about a piece that basically everyone agreed was unlistenable. Here's what he said (to the best of my memory - this was several years ago, and I don't have it on tape):

"When I first received the score for this piece by [Composer X], I thought to myself, 'Oh, no.'"

At this, there was a slight gasp and some nervous laughter from the audience. Osmo went on, "It seemed so dark, and so difficult, and with so much happening all over the orchestra, and I didn't know whether anyone would be able to listen to it. But now, as we've been rehearsing and playing it all week, and we have begun to understand some of the composer's ideas, now I think... well, now I think still "Oh, no" in many places."

The audience erupted in laughter. Osmo wasn't done: "But," he said quickly," what does Vänskä know? I am hearing the piece for the first time just as you are, just as we all are, and when we play it, you will have your own conclusions, and those are what matter."

It was a masterful way to introduce the piece. There was no question, once we'd finished the premiere, that the vast majority of those in attendance fell into the "Oh, no" camp, but the amazing thing was that it was clear from the looks on people's faces as we played that, by giving them permission to hate the piece, we had made them more open to giving it a chance. At some of the work's loudest, most headache-inducing moments, I even saw a few people smirking or chuckling, as if to say, "Wow. This must be one of the 'Oh, no' places."

The lesson, I think, is that people who know they're allowed to have their own opinions on what we're doing on stage are far more likely to engage, and to view concerts as something they participate in, rather than as something static that is set in front of them. Midgette sums it up nicely:

"We don’t need boosterism: we need to regain a sense that this field matters, and that there are reasons for everyone to care about it, beyond a dutiful sense of “it is great and we should.” That's the basis of a love of music, an amateurism, that sustains, rather than distant appreciation of isolated, glamorous performances."