Music without (social) borders

The upcoming NEXT Ensemble concert -- June 1st at Alleged -- is another installment of our "Music Without Borders" series. Last time, we explored music that originated outside the European diaspora. This time, though, we want to think about social borders faced by musicians.

Believe it or not, it is still harder for some people than others to break into the classical music world. At some points in classical music history it was almost impossible for anyone other than a cis-gendered hetero white male to be taken seriously as a composer. Today it's still easier for people like me compared to those who do not fit such a description.

At the concert, we will hear music written by women, non-whites, gay and lesbian composers, and Jews, just to name a few. I'm excited to be part of presenting this music, some of which simply would not have been performed in earlier eras. I'm finding myself struggling with one thing, however:

When I listen to music by a gay composer, am I supposed to hear his "gayness"? If the music is by a woman, am I to hear her femininity encoded into the score? Etc. And if I am supposed to hear those things, what do they sound like?

A previous generation would have answered "absolutely not, the music is the music, period." As if music could possibly exist outside the biographies of its creators. To my mind, the sounds are always a product of the contexts in which they are imagined, created and re-created. (Even when they are not supposed to -- looking at you, serial gang.) But at the same time, it is entirely possibly for me to just hear a piece of music and be moved by it with no knowledge about its context.

What exactly are we saying when we say "here, listen to this music, it's written by a person of color"? Should that fact take priority over other criteria, either subjective or objective? What if the thing turns out to sound like Mozart-meets-Lawrence-Welk? Has the composer somehow failed to represent herself? Or is that her prerogative?

As a musician, a scholar, and occasional decent human being, I want fairness for composers who have previously been excluded from the canon. Everyone has a right to be heard. I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to hear them -- but frankly, that's on me to figure out.

Come join us on Saturday? We'd love to see you there. I guarantee we won't walk away with definitive answers to the questions I raise, nor should we. The progress, the journey, is always in the asking.

Why go to live performances? Part 2

One of the ideas I floated at the meeting referenced in my last post was that a performing organization's "product" is much more than just the music he/she/they presents on any given concert.

If we think in terms of exchange value, it has to be. As I wrote last time, a subscription to a streaming service is cheaper than most concerts, offers a guaranteed experience, and you need not leave the house. And yet I see countless advertisements for concerts that pretty much just list the works that will be played. If concerts were just about the music, then I could stay at home and listen to those works on the night of the performance and arguably not miss out on much.

But we all know I would, indeed, miss out. I would miss out on the entire social experience. I would miss out on seeing my friends and family members do something they love to do. I would miss out on that moment when the entire audience holds its breath during a particularly compelling moment, or the sheer pleasure of joining in the din of earnest applause.

But why don't performers and organizations advertise these things, lean into the social aspect of the concert? We can blame German-speaking nineteenth and early twentieth century modes of thinking about music for that (along with a whole host of other classical music rituals). Evidently we are supposed to go to concerts just to have the musical experience. Focus on the music, period. That's one reason why performers wear uniforms (tuxes or Johnny-Cash-all-black) -- they are not really meant to be paid attention to, at least not as individuals. Except for the concerto soloist, of course, who is permitted to wear something sparkly or flashy, but lots of these nineteenth-century ideas didn't really consider concertos akin to the "sublime experience" of a symphony.

Last I checked, it's no longer the nineteenth century. Or even the twentieth. Times have changed, attitudes have changed, value systems have changed. But so often the classical music crowd is not interested -- lest they endanger the "purity" of their music.

Old music deserves to be heard, don't get me wrong. But not as a museum piece. It is capable of connecting with our lives today, of being relevant to audiences today, if only we will allow it fully into the present.

Why go to live performances? Part 1

I'm involved with a non-profit called NEXT Ensemble and we have an "audience engagement" meeting tomorrow. This has led me over the past few days to think hard about what I think ought to be the first question:

Why should anyone actually go see live music?

Let's be honest, there's very little reason to leave the house for entertainment in the age of Netflix, Spotify, and YouTube. There's more available to stream than anyone could possibly ever watch/listen to in one lifetime. So why bother to put on pants, drive to the venue, buy a ticket, find a seat, etc etc etc.? And besides, what if it isn't any good? A waste of your time and money? You're pretty much stuck there. But if something's not to your liking on Netflix, you can just move on to something else -- you've invested very little in the experience.

And besides, watching a show on Netflix or listening to a piece/song on Spotify, you're guaranteed a certain level of quality. The product you are taking in is a finished, polished one -- as close to perfect as its creators could get it. The next time you seek out that show or song, it will be exactly the same.

I have a theory that this is why there are so many of the same fast-food restaurants at major highway exits -- no matter where you are in the country you can rest assured that there will be no culinary surprises: a Big Mac in Tulsa will taste exactly the same as one in Nashville or San Diego. To eat at a local restaurant comes with no such guarantees -- sometimes you'll be disappointed, but sometimes you'll be amazed when you live dangerously.

Performing live is a dangerous thing. Something will go "wrong," no matter how prepared the performer is. Even if the performance is note-perfect, there are too many other variables to guarantee one performance will be the same as the next.

And that's what makes it exciting. Those unknowns are why live performances are different from recordings. With recordings, you can (arguably) repeat the exact same moment over and over again, but live, there is no such security. Something will happen that is unplanned, and everyone has to deal with that.

I'll bet you thought I was speaking from the performer's perspective in the preceding paragraph, but I wasn't. For audience members, sensitive to all of the things that make up a musical moment (which are far more numerous than just the notes being played/sung) the absence of repeatability and potential for disaster/astonishment is what makes going to a live show worth heading out the door, buying a ticket, and putting on pants.