Something for the road

The staff of ITM will be taking a short break for the next week as I travel to Hungary for what I hope will be a most worthwhile trip.  Naturally, I have given much thought to entertainment for the thirty-hour bus journey there and back, and have already half-filled my MP3 player with music. However I am going to suggest, briefly, something both for my stimulation and for that of my readership during this hiatus - the broadcasts of the Reith Lectures.

If you are unaware of the existence of the RL, their format is simple: an expert records a series of talks, some with an audience present, on a pertinent and stimulating subject.  They are then broadcast on Radio 4 and the World Service. Bertrand Russell was the first, setting the mark pretty high with 1948's Authority and the Individual, but there have been many great figures and as many interesting topics since.  My personal favourite, for obvious reasons, is Daniel Barenboim's In The Beginning was Sound from 2006, memorable for his devastating attack on piped muzak in public.

Back to the first paragraph.  For the former purpose, an enormous archive of programmes from the very first Lectures to those of 2010 are available for download, and from these I shall select one or two sets to listen to as I travel in the coming week.  For the latter, the 2011 Lectures are now being broadcast and transcribed (for those outside the UK unable to access the audio) and are possibly the most extraordinary yet. For a start, they have not been recorded in a London studio, but in a secret location 6000 miles away. Also, they are illegal - or at least, they are in the country where they were produced.

That country is Burma, and the lecturer Aung San Suu Kyi (along with contributions from a former head of MI5) which explains the previous two caveats.  The tapes were smuggled out of a country with one of the most oppressive governments in the world (and one where the BBC is banned from reporting) and, appropriately enough, are on the subject of 'Securing Freedom'. The BBC's production team have written a quietly uplifting blog entry on how they actually got the videos made (all of which can be viewed on YouTube if you are outside the UK), including, incredibly, a live satellite link to Kyi after the audience showing. The quality and hypnotically engaging content of the talks are both superb.

I appreciate that a coach full of students, most younger than myself, is not the ideal environment to hang on every word spoken on such learned subjects, but there are far worse ways to fill the time. The Reith Lectures also provide further evidence for my belief in the considerable superiority of radio over television. When I return: what happens in Hungary, the myth of elitism, and more in support of the previous sentence.

My hovercraft is full of eels

I'm going to Hungary in approximately two weeks.  This I intend to be a fun, educational and valuable trip, a concert tour with my old university's student-run chamber orchestra to be precise, and one that may well be documented on-the-fly via this blog as long as Internet access is forthcoming. You may or may not know that I often turn into a prolific scribbler when on expeditions or adventures, and as around forty per cent of the entire operation will be spent travelling on a bus, I plan to spend at least some of this time writing an account of it, something which will probably end up half-way between a diary and a novelisation. Don't worry, it won't be too frank, and there may be funny bits too.

Following the 'remember to pack a Thermos flask and a change of socks' philosophy, I like to prepare thoroughly for any adventure, a strategy which usually pays dividends (we will brush aside the unfortunate incidents of that misread signpost in Kent, and accidentally driving up Harlesden High St with some dodgy characters about).  I have borrowed a Lonely Planet from the library, located our hotel and the transport links, and made an approximate plan for independent sightseeing. I'm slightly miffed that an extra concert on our 'free day' has now appeared on the schedule, scuppering my plans to go in completely the opposite direction (and, frankly, have much better views and much fewer German sunbathers) but it will enable my swanny-whistle to see some service in concert.

Now I should add that I've been to at least some of our planned destinations before, and as a result already posses a map (bus and tram route numbers slightly out of date; could be interesting) alongside the tour itinerary.  With so many details and interesting factoids already deliberated, cogitated and digested, really the most useful way I could prepare was by improving my Hungarian, starting from a baseline of next-to-nothing. And as they say on a popular Sunday-night messing-about-in-cars show - how hard can it be?

Now, arguably, I have understood a form of 'Hungarian' since I was 14, as until 1844 Latin was the country's official language (stop being a smart-arse, Simon - ed).  But with the dizzy heights of an Italian A-level amongst my past achievements, and armed with a Berlitz phrasebook, Central Library's copy of Complete Hungarian (+MP3 compatible double CD) and occasional reference to Wikipedia, I was naturally confident about mastering at least the rudiments of the vernacular.  I find that the logical path is to start with basic expressions (yes, no, please, thank you, beer, wine, taxi) before doing numbers (I can now count to egy milliard, oh yes) and then swearwords.  Lest this seem vulgar, I should clarify that these will be swearwords in English, declaimed after one has tried and failed to pronounce a word such as hangversenytarem*. 

Hungarian - Magyarul - is part of the exotic-sounding Finno-Ugric language family and has little in common with English other than the concept of manipulating lips, tongue and epiglottis to make noises happen.  The alphabet, in particular, seems to have been carefully contrived to trick unwary English speakers, for practically none of the vowels are pronounced as they appear to be written. 'A' is closer to 'o'; 'i' is more like 'ee'; whilst the eight combined variants of 'o' and 'u' (namely o, ó, ö, ő, u, ú, ü and ű) sound closer to the lower registers of a contrabassoon than to any Latin syllable.  'C' and 'dzs' are relatively straightforward: they simply do not make anything like the noises you expect. In a further blow for well-meaning English speakers, the differences between vowel sounds are in many cases subtle but vital.  Hú and hű mean completely different things despite the 'u' being just different lengths of the same sound. The words for 'I would like' and 'I love you' are only a single consonant different (Hungarian has a very logical system of word roots, so this is perhaps not as foolish as it may appear) making the simple action of purchasing a train ticket (the word for which just happens to have an irregular, archaic, pronunciation) into a very real danger zone for the visitor. Further on, there is the terrifying arrangement of 'vowel harmony', meaning that prepositions (which are always expressed through suffixes) have to be chosen from several possible options based on the proportion of 'open' or 'closed' vowels in the word.  At least all other nationalities will share these same difficulties too...

Speaking of Wikipedia, the erstwhile source of (mis)information has a nearly hilarious story of several Hungarian phrasebooks from the nineteenth century containing the phrase 'My postilion has been struck by lightning'.  Naturally, I have already committed to memory this most useful of phrases, never knowing when I might find myself in command of a stagecoach in rural Transdanubia during an electrical storm. On reflection, it may prove more useful in the real world to substitute in the Hungarian terms for 'Renault Megane' or 'English tourist coach'; 'heat shield' and 'come unstuck'.

Anyway, if at any time this post appears to have facilitated humour at the expense of the noble Magyar language, I am doubtless that it will be reciprocated in mirth at my own attempts to express myself once in the country.

*'Concert hall' - a word which I might, realistically, need to utter, and which certainly wasn't just picked at random because it looked impressively long. It's pronounced something approximating to 'hongversheneetorem'.

What is hip

(Part one of a proposed series in which I discuss the mechanics, techniques, joys and frustrations of composition)

Lets' start with a deceptively simple question. Establishing a tentative trend for opening blog posts with the line: 'I sometimes get asked...';

'...how do you know what notes to write?'

And the question is almost always 'know', not 'decide' or 'find'.  The questioner implies that I will have an absolute conviction in the 'correctness' of anything I write.  This is striking because, to be blunt, I often don't.  The experience of composition is like a process of engineered serendipity - not groping in the dark, but more like mining one's consciousness close to what we know in the past has been a fruitful seam. The precious mineral is there somewhere, but it is still an uncertain process as to how much of it we can get out, and what we can make with it having done so.

The hard part is when it comes to judging what is worth keeping. In this respect, one of the essential skills of composition is to be able to step outside from oneself and try to judge the work from an observer's perspective.  This is difficult, because it's nigh-on impossible to be truly objective about what is good in your work, and even, to a lesser degree, about others'.  But we can at least attempt to define what constitutes accomplishment in a chosen artistic field, and not just in music. (We are assuming here that all artists aim to create works that they feel are accomplished in some purpose - not necessarily a noble one - and that they strive to improve the effectiveness with each successive work). It seems to me that there are five primary criteria that all 'accomplished' artistic figures fulfil:

1. Originality of style: The majority of the artist's output is readily recognisable as theirs, and contains a number of stylistic 'fingerprints' which enable us to identify it as such. This does not mean that every feature of the work is unique to them alone, nor that every work exhibits the same recognisable motifs, but neither will it be blatantly derivative of another's style.

2. Originality of works: The artist does not repeatedly produce the same basic work with minor variations. An underlying template may be used, even one commonly found in the output of others, but this will allow sufficient scope for individuality that the observer does not consider differences between works to be merely superficial.

3. Technique: The artist will have a highly developed technical ability in his chosen field. This is to some extent an exchange process with the development of individual style (Stravinsky is technically very competent at being Stravinsky, because he has defined and subsequently refined what Stravinsky's style consists of) but it also confirms to wider cultural expectations and historical precedents within their discipline. There are several aspects to this:

3a. Quality of material: The artist is judicious in devising and refining their materials, such that even an observer with a similar level of knowledge cannot identify any significant flaws in the basic ideas or how they are carried through the work, other than personal taste.

3b. Suitability for the chosen medium: The artist does not attempt anything patently impossible or unsuitable for the medium they are working in. In addition, any inherent weaknesses are either avoided as best as possible or even used to some advantage.

3c. Control of material: Aside from possessing a mastery of fundamental techniques and existing conventions in their field, the artist will also have perfect control of their own innovations and original ideas for which no exact model exists.

4. Prolific-ness: The artist must produce a significant number of works. 'Significant' need not mean the thousands of works by Bach or Picasso, or even hundreds, but enough to demonstrate an ability to develop their style through time, and a sufficient diversity of creative ideas.

5. Recognition: Note that 'popularity' is an inadequate term for this aspect. 'Recognition' constitutes the interest and respect of peers, if not the wider populace. This need not be universally acknowledged, nor forthcoming within the artist's lifespan. Criticism will generally reinforce fulfilment of the criteria already discussed.

There are, of course, several factors which are more difficult to quantify.  The precise degree of 'originality', in particular, because maximum does not equal optimum in this discipline.  Even allowing for the varying degrees of 'experience' in any particular style that an observer has, there is a fairly consistent level of relation to 'known' works which helps us judge how far between yawningly derivative or discombobulatingly novel something is. The best artists have an innate feeling for where this point of balance lies.

I intend in the future to discuss a related question; whether composition can really be taught. I am fairly certain, however, that it can be learned.

Transportation

As everyone is aware, I am a cellist.  Inevitably, a frequent question I am asked is 'how do I transport the thing around'. Well...

...Oh, I should really tell you about the 'cello case itself, because it makes all this possible. It is called a Hiscox.  It is intentionally very tough. It needs to be, because inside is a very old and valuable possession that I rely on for part of my livelihood. Tower Bridge and Camilla Parker-Bowles aside, most objects more than a century and a half old are not called into regular working use, and that's because they risk being knocked about whilst in service. So it's made from carbon-honeycomb, with an impact-absorbent space between the core and the shell, and thus offers a significant degree of protection to the instrument...

The case has both handles and shoulder-straps. It's not an ideal shape to carry, but it is light enough (small instrument with carbon-fibre/plastic instead of metal bits, fairly lightweight case) that I can do about a mile with it with little discomfort.  You can also run a little if the train is late / large lorry is coming up fast.

A considerable proportion of my driving career (and before that, the parents') has been spent transporting the thing and its associated paraphernalia around the highways of southern England.  Naturally, it makes the purchase of any new vehicle an elaborate process, and I have many reliable accounts of lately overly-confident car salesmen being silenced when presented with the question 'ah, but will it fit the 'cello in the boot?*'.  My parents' usual strategy was to buy Vauxhalls, because the general consensus was that their larger models had a huge carrying capacity, and that this benevolence towards bearers of stringed instruments, antiques dealers and such like was a core tenet of the UK arm of General Motors' purpose on earth.  There are, of course, many other suitable vehicles - several Volvos, the estate VW Passat, and a Skoda have been championed by cellist friends and acquaintances in the past but we stuck bravely to the griffin-with-a-flag.  Obviously the commencement of my own driving lessons posed something of a problem, as there was no way on earth I'd get insured on the huge estate that was the family car of the time, and in any case I would need independent transport post-test.  But gadzooks! - a facelifted Corsa B turned out to be almost perfectly suited to carrying the cello, albeit across the back seat. This is one of two ways to carry the instrument in an undersized motor; the other is upright like a passenger.  Both are problematic methods in two-door models, yet many manage. Use of the seatbelt through suitable points on the case is advised.

However, I've just got rid of the Corsa, because I've think I've found possibly the most cello-friendly car in the world.  I suppose I must conclude that I am indebted to the chance actions of some anonymous designer - frameless glasses and all - for making the thing end up the way it is.  My guess is that automotive engineers probably start with the dimensions of the chassis, then come up with what would look good on top, then work out how everything fits inside.  With the exception of the Ford Transit van (surely one of the greatest pieces of design in the history of humanity) they seldom base the entire vehicle on a specific item that it has to contain. 

This makes all the more utterly remarkable the nigh-perfect match of a Hiscox cello case and the luggage compartment of a Mk.II Renault Megane Sport Tourer#.  The one goes flawlessly into the other.  And yes, I know there are plenty of cars with even more space at the back, but the problem then is that you have to start strategically positioning handy objects in order to stop the cello from crashing around through the bends. The Meg actually fits the cello, not just the other way round. The floor is also level with the tailgate, so you don't have to nurse it through some arcanely-shaped opening as if trying to steer an airship full of Ming vases under the Forth Bridge.  I should probably add that it looks stunning in gloss black, goes like a frog out of a frying pan and that, crucially, all the electrics seem to work. Lest my readership begin to suspect this is some kind of astro-turfing publicity on behalf of Renault (- for a model not produced for two years?) the quality of the interior plastics is noticeably inferior to the old Vauxhall, and it lacks the diesel's torque.

Trains aren't great, although I took the instrument at rush hour to central London for three years. Other passengers, trying to stand on one leg wedged against the window (you think I'm joking, but British trains can be that crowded - cheers for privatising them, Tories) are less than happy that you appear to be carrying what is a needless piece of luggage and thus taking up twice the amount of floor space you 'deserve' (because the British are very possessive and judgemental like that, mm).  Even on empty trains I feel conscious that putting it against the empty seat next to me may incur the ire of the conductor (and I've heard third-hand stories of bullying jobsworths trying to fine musicians for this, which we hope are fictitious) mostly because I'm young and don't have the right to do anything anyone older than me might not want me to.  I was shown pretty early on by a friend that the best thing to do is to unclip one of the shoulder straps, wind it round a hand-pole and clip it back before tightening it as much as possible. This will keep the flat-bottomed case upright in all but the most severe pointwork-induced turbulence. I recall this to be less effective on Jubilee, Metropolitan and Northern Line trains due to the relative lack of vertical poles in the carriages.

And now we come to the most entertaining part - air travel.  Various world powers from time to time feel the need to impress on citizens that 'something is being done about something' and, in a classic case of life imitating The Thick of It, find new things to ban from the cabin of commercial airliners. Musical instruments have been on the list, notably in 2007 after some nutters drove a Jeep into Glasgow airport in the deluded belief that the entire population of Western Europe would instantly convert to radical Islam as a result.  Clearly this was caused by professional musicians wanting to take their instruments to countries lacking a direct train service from Southampton Central, so cellos were instantly banned from planes. (This is the level of logic that helped the British conquer a third of the world and invent the hovercraft and the Thermos flask).  The British government soon discovered that picking a fight with militant intellectuals is unwise and under pressure from the MU and a mention in Mark Elder's Last Night speech at the years' Proms, backed down. That reset the alert level for taking the instrument on an airline from 'impossible' back down to 'bloody awkward'. If I don't wish to risk it in the hold - and I certainly don't - I have to book a seat in the cabin. Some airlines - and I will name Virgin Atlantic for setting a good example - will allow you a reduced fare for this, but Ryanair et al won't (in fact they will try and charge you for a violin).  Obviously a few of the check-in staff and many of the security goons don't realise this is not only possible, but allowed, and have to be sternly told so in order to maintain progress through the airport.  (This somehow always seems to work).  Some idiots also think that the strings are a possible weapon, so if this happens I lie and say that I cannot take them off the instrument until they break, which the cretin is invariably too ignorant to refute (I put spare strings in my luggage - they're too expensive to risk some security **** nicking them off me as his personal contribution to the War on Normal People).  Obviously the aisle of an Airbus is not wide enough to carry the thing down without bashing shins. And I spend the whole flight worrying about it going out of tune. And then it has to go through the airport at the other side so I get asked in Slovak what it is and how do I transport it. Also, try holding it whilst getting your bag off the carousel...


* That's the 'trunk' to my American readers.
# Pedants, it is spelt correctly. Renault, possibly in a move to internationalise the car, dropped the acute accent over the first 'e' on the second-generation Meg. Also, 'Sport Tourer' is just marketing-speak for an estate/station wagon - it's not a breathtakingly quick car.

Mahler and me

Today, May 18th, is precisely 100 years to the day since Gustav Mahler breathed his last.  This has chiefly been commemorated by musos through smart-arse Facebook statuses, something that I have wholeheartedly participated in. Top marks appear to have been taken by my former conducting teacher and doyen of Sunday-cricket , Levon Parikian (who maintains a superb blog, Runny Thoughts) for numerous witty gems.

But I'd like to talk seriously for a bit, if I may. I am, unashamedly, a Mahlerian. The core of his music contains a philosophy I agree with wholeheartedly (whilst still being just about able to appreciate why unenlightened people do not share my passion).  For a start, Mahler's famous exchange with Sibelius (whom I equally admire) about the symphony 'being like the world' is at the heart of his conception of music, their very reason for existence. His symphonies don't last for an hour and a half or more just because they can, it's because they need such a time-scale in order to contain the hugely important and transcendent ideas he is trying to articulate. A Mahler symphony really is a world of its own, and possesses both an 'architectural' quality of form and an emotional range that journeys over a huge expanse of space.  Interestingly, the equally lengthy symphonies of Anton Bruckner (who taught Mahler for a time) work in a completely different way, unfolding a concentrated nucleus gradually within a tight structural and colouristic scheme, rather than exploiting rapid changes from one particular extreme to the other as we are propelled through so many landscapes.

This last characteristic of Mahler's writing has been the cause of criticism, apparently too reliant on over-the-top, flashily orchestrated histrionics and 'ironic' symbolism within the musical material.  My response is that; firstly, every note of his output is carefully crafted and coloured with exceptionally skillful deployment of the instrumental or vocal resources used; and secondly, Mahler's heart-on-sleeve approach to - well, everything in his music - is both provider of the individuality in his voice and the reason he is able to compare to the pantheon of great composers, for to play or listen to his music is to be utterly drawn into something that cannot help but have a compelling and profound effect, and it is the greatest music which creates the greatest effect. The hammer blows in the Sixth Symphony are not cheap film-music clichés, nor are they merely colouristic effects like the wind and thunder machines in Strauss' Alpine Symphony, they are the actual force the composer wished to depict, the mighty blows of fate striking down defenceless mortals.

I am a little uncertain as to when I first heard, and then really fell under the spell of, Mahler. I knew the Adagietto from the Fifth Symphony - probably the piece most people hear first - from when I was a teenager, but it was later before I became aware of the youthful exuberance and sweeping turbulence contained in the First Symphony, the Titan.  Later still I discovered the rest of the Fifth, and then in my first year at university ULSO, the intercollegiate orchestra which I would soon join, played the Third, a concert I shall never forget. Aside from the sheer length of the work, I was completely possessed by the music, music that was more epic and more encompassing of everything than any piece I had heard before. I was lucky enough to hear the Third live again at last year's Proms, and relived everything I had felt the first time - from the doom-laden opening march, to the night-world of the fourth movement, the chorus of angels in the fifth and the almost unbearable depiction of complete resolution in the finale. But I think my most compelling Mahler experience was earlier in that year, when ULSO performed the Sixth in Cadogan Hall. Even after the read-through there was a feeling that we had been possessed by some strange dream, that we had lived the sound that was being lifted from the page. There is a moment in the finale where the turbulence suddenly subsides and the violins, harp and celeste leap up an octave out of the storm.  It is as if one is suddenly lifted into the night sky and transported to a hillside under the stars, with cowbells and a solo horn glinting in the distance. I cannot think of any other composer who can paint so vivid a picture without the slightest mention of any actual programme in the score. 

Earlier this year, I was lucky enough to take part in a performance of the Ninth Symphony, so like and yet so unlike any of the others.  There was over a minute of silence after the last, faltering note in my section had died, the culmination (nearly) of not only eighty minutes of music, but a lifetime of vision as lofty as the mountains over the Attersee.

Topical referencery

'Welch ein törichtes Verlangen

Treibt mich in die Wüstenein?' *

(Die Winterreise)

With twin clouds of post-election doom now hanging over his party, now might be an opportune time to remind ourselves that Nick Clegg likes Schubert. 

*What is this foolish desire 
that drives me into the wilderness?'

Categorisation

As you may have noticed, one of the many noble purposes of ITM has been to champion the existence of composers who have, we feel, been unjustly neglected, such as this one and this one.  It would be very easy to saturate this blog with the lives and music of hundreds, nay thousands, of obscure figures in the vain hope of igniting a little interest in their output, but this seems both an impractical and an inadvisable course of action.  How can one be sure that any musician is actually worth celebrating?

To this end, and also fulfilling an earlier promise, I have prudently devised several categories in order to aid with the Neglected Composers series. This are designed as a quick field guide to determining the reasons for the aforementioned neglect (a printable leaflet version with diagrams, life cycle, conservation status etc may become available should demand arise) and allow the observer to determine the worthiness of hitherto unheard-of composers through five easy labels:

#1. 'Loada Rubbish': Composer's music is genuinely worthless; either over-contrived, formulaic, uninteresting, juvenile or in some other way considered by our good selves to be, in a nutshell, a pile of crap. Examples: I lack the legal clout to provide a full list, which is a strong hint that most of the exponents are composers still alive and working.

#2 'Of its Time': Music is either too obscure in conception to be appealing without specialist knowledge, too reliant on dead cultural idioms to make ready sense to modern ears, or boring due to subsequent repeated pillaging of ideas. Examples: all kinds of medieval chaps such as Anonymous I, II, III and IV, Hildegard of Bingen etc; most pre-Tudor folk song; increasingly musique concrete.

#3. 'Wrong Side of the Fence': Composer worked under insular regime, was in exile, imprisoned, or from territory with few cultural links to the rest of the world. This can also apply to certain periods of output from otherwise well-known figures. Examples: Tubin, Popov, Pavel Haas.

#4. 'They Liked it Back Then, But...': Music is popular/fashionable, even to the point of celebrity, during composer's lifetime, but inevitable dip in interest following death has turned into a nosedive of obscurity. Examples: Rubinstein, Salieri, Stanford.

#5. 'Who?': Composer has made little or no attempt at posterity - music either written for personal enjoyment, deliberately unpublished, or lacking in any commercial nouse. Either that, or too new to have yet reached a mass audience.  Examples: Sorobji, Gesualdo, scores of contemporary composers lucky enough not to be in Catagory One.

Rest assured, dear reader(s) that in future posts we shall continue to select only figures worthy of mention on ITM. Alternatively, the occasional post along the lines of 'Just Exactly What's Wrong with Morten Lauridson' may not go amis either.