The meaning and mattering of music is a slippery thing. Now you see it, now you don’t. When you see it, there could be nothing more magnificent. When you don’t see it (and you’re a professed musician), it is mildly discomfiting at best.
I’m not sure how common it is to lose heart in this way. It’s not something we talk about. In fact, there are many subjects considered to be taboo in musician circles, a whole slew of topics swept under the rug of We Should Be So Grateful. I do know of a couple of musicians who have voiced their discomfort with the idea of performing for some of the most privileged people in our society when we are faced with so many urgent crises of climate, hunger, violence, and all manner of suffering that humans absolutely could do something about.
For whatever reason (personal shortcomings, obviously), that particular darkness hasn’t come for me. No, my recurring dark night of the soul is the dreadful feeling that we musicians are mere participants in a system that makes busy people even busier.
Maybe that sounds crazy to you. Outrageous, even. Or maybe you think it’s a huge bummer and I should keep such negative thoughts to myself. Or maybe you disagree with me and would like to insist that music does more than just make you busier, and that you actually do enjoy concerts and don’t see them as yet another obligation in your calendar. But there’s no need to talk me off the ledge. As uncomfortable as this feeling is, I don’t view it as a thought to be expunged or educated into something more palatable. I think it’s trying to tell me something.
Ten years ago, when I first started organizing the Classical Incarnations series, I would get mad (Ellen mad) at musicians who offered to “fill time” on the program. The series was (and still is!) a free monthly event in a bar in which classical musicians from all over the city–symphony musicians, college students and professors, church musicians, freelancers, etc.–volunteered to perform a variety of music under the classical umbrella, which is quite large. Each musician or group of musicians would perform for 5-15 minutes, then the next group would take the stage. Sometimes there was a theme for the evening, sometimes not, but there was one constant: the musicians chose their own repertoire.
One of the many unintended yet beautiful things baked into this structure was the love the musicians felt for the music they presented. There was no expectation that you would perform entire works–just the movements you couldn’t wait to share. The audience could feel the sincerity. Because the series depended on people volunteering their time, we would occasionally come up a little short on the program, and musicians would say things like, “I’d like to play the 3rd and 4th movements of this sonata, but if you need to fill time I could also do the first two movements,” to which I would respond, in the manner of Batman slapping Robin, “Nobody needs to have their time filled!” I felt that our audience’s time was sacred, and that if we were going to lure them into our event, we’d better play something we cared about. This, it turns out, was counter-cultural.
To me, this is what is so dispiriting about most classical music programming. It fills in blanks. Here’s how it usually works: an organization decides that they are going to produce a certain number of concerts at this specific venue per year, and each one will be approximately this long, will be arranged like so, and will involve this size ensemble. Then the time is filled accordingly.
I wish there could be a more art-driven approach, as in: I really love this piece of music and can’t wait to share it with my community, so how can I present it in a way that brings them into the fullness of the experience? What time of day, and in what venue? Should we talk about it first, or print a program for people to read? Should we open with another piece that will help prepare them for the experience? Should we keep the program bite-sized, considering the complexity and newness of the art? How can we re-create the conditions necessary for the spark I just experienced myself?
Such an approach would be built on love–love for the music, love for the audience–which seems to be the key to meaning and mattering. But what I really find so delicious and invigorating about this approach also happens to be the reason why no institution could ever adopt it: when you aren’t feeling particularly inspired, you step aside, sit down, and shut up. At least until you have something to say.
“Without truth, without concepts, reality disintegrates into a noisy heap.”
Byung-Chul Han in Saving Beauty
I love that you ask the question of WHY and then providing a solution. These are the same questions I ask myself too so it’s so great to see someone else wonder – that I am not alone. Hugs to you.