The school year has begun in earnest and my time, so recently profuse and unallocated, has become a precious commodity not to be squandered. But it’s a three-day weekend, and I’ll be doggoned if I’m going to make like a frenetic wage-slave the whole time. There are new CDs to be savored, a cat to be cuddled, goodies to cook, walks to take.
My listening has ranged from the pure through the chaste to the unsullied, focusing almost exclusively on Bach cantatas and Mozart operas, with a bit of Haydn thrown in for seasoning. I am in full-tilt reactionary mode, bathing myself in the voices of our Western greats, rather than exploring outwards or onwards into the paths less travelled. That will come, to be sure, but not right now. For the moment, Bach is meeting my needs quite well, as he so often does.
I am once again struck by an overall change of gestalt from the 18th century to our own just past: somewhere along the way, the idea that music must be grim in order to be considered worthy acquired a toehold in composers’ imaginations and has shown only of late the slightest sign of letting go. Music is not alone in this: 20th-century visual arts took a sharp turn down a dark alley, as did literature. The ecstatic confidence of Bach’s B Minor Mass, the exuberance of Haydn’s “Clock” symphony, the dazzling gemwork of Le Nozze di Figaro—where did it all go? So much 20th century music shuffled about with a case of droopy drawers, a frown on its face and a smoulder instead of a song in its heart. There were some exceptions, to be sure—Copland in his Frederic Remington mode (but not when he was making like Mr. Great American Composer), Stravinsky for the most part until age and credulity led him into serialism. (Even then, Stravinsky managed to defeat the blip-bloopers at their own game with Agon, a work of undeniable sparkle.)
The Americans seem to have been the grimmest of the lot, especially those New York academic types who are rapidly receding from collective memory—Peter Mennin, Walter Piston, William Shumann, et al. They were such a massive bunch of fellows, writing intent and stone-faced symphonies characterized by medieval-ish harmonies and spikey rhythms. I suppose they were trapped by the prevailing critical ethos, which sneered at lightness of touch as weakness. To be good you had to be weighty.
This can only happen in a culture in which artists aren’t particularly answerable to customers. Consider the case of Joseph Haydn, who in the late 1760s began having himself some fun experimenting with the current fad for turbulent minor-key compositions. The symphonies of that period — Nos. 39, 44, 45, and 49 in particular — are challenging, compelling, and about 180 degrees removed from the genial Papa Joe of popular conception. But he dropped the turgidity, and rather abruptly at that. I can’t keep from wondering if Nicolaus Esterházy decided that enough was enough and pulled the plug. I know of no primary documentation that might shore up my little hypothesis, but certainly it’s plausible enough. Haydn wrote as Nicolaus decreed: if the boss wanted baryton trios, the boss got baryton trios. Haydn spent a large part of the 1770s and 80s producing and writing operas, a genre for which he was only partly suited. But that’s what the boss wanted. In London in the 1790s, Haydn enjoyed relative freedom, but nonetheless he was still very much beholden to his audiences. Symphonies were rabidly popular amongst the English public, and the more spectacular the better, so Haydn delivered in spades. The Londoners were not in the mood for anything too terribly soggy, so of Haydn’s 12 “London” symphonies only one is in a minor key—and that only intermittently.
Throwing sour, bleak, and deliberately imposing pieces at a paying public will work for only so long. Folks are bound to start hollering for something more uplifting, as they damn well should. I’m a musician myself, but after a long day of teaching and making music, the last thing I want from an evening at the symphony is to be ground down by two hours of oppressiveness. That’s not to say that all should be sweetness and light, but dammit: I’m sick and tired of all the garment-rending, hair-pulling, and self-flagellation. Even the soggiest Bach cantata is a gentle lullaby compared to the lockjawed Puritanism of so much 20th century stuff.
Once again I point to the San Francisco Symphony’s premiere last season of The B-Sides by Mason Bates, which in addition to being tonally comprehensible, was decidedly upbeat and even chipper. In fact, The B-Sides was downright entertaining. Mason mentioned to me recently that he had worried that the audience might scorn the work, but as it turned out people gave it the most enthusiastic reception for new music I’ve heard in a very long time. They were applauding because they actually liked it, and not because it would be rude not to applaud.
In other words, there’s hope.
But for now, time for another Bach cantata.