More feeling, more feeling!

   How often do students hear such a desperate cry from their ecstatic teachers?  Usually, befuddled students don’t have a clue what it means.  Neither do I.  Luckily, at one point, they notice that if they follow crescendo markings, the teacher’s face brightens with approval.  If crescendo comes impulsively with accelerando, they may be gently threatened with the metronome, but overall are considered musically sensitive.

   They learn fast.  The more dynamic and tempo changes they apply, the less “more feeling” they hear.  In the future, many of them, driven by the utmost “feelings and sensitivity,” will shape virtually every single note with crescendo and decrescendo.  The truth is, this convenient trait not only saves practicing, for example, legato bow changes or continuous vibrato but is also regarded by many as refined sound projection. 

   Over the years of training, students form their ways of dealing with the properties of music other than pitch and rhythm.  When a student becomes a performer, the manner of handling these properties is labeled an individual style, which is usually a mixture of personal emotional tendencies, copying of the teacher’s ideas (passed to him by his teacher), and conscious or subconscious imitation of heard performances or recordings.  The treatment of a melodic line, presumptuously believed to be phrasing, is a part of the style.  Regrettably, most contemporary performers aren't able to identify a true (crowned with a cadence) phrase and even less to locate the dynamic climax of one.  The dynamic hysteria in the realization of the melodic line is only one of many faults in the miscarried interpretations spawned from personal feelings.  Various musical venues are infested with misguided emotional displays, abuse of a composer’s artistic vision, sometimes plain ignorance, and fashionable mannerisms that often conveniently camouflage technical inefficiencies. 

   Yet, performers usually follow their feelings.  Is there anything wrong with being guided by one’s emotions while playing someone else's composition?  

   Well, let’s expand upon a definition of art music which in its part reads: “One of the fine arts – the expression of human (composer’s) emotions through a combination of melody, rhythm, and harmony enclosed (by a composer) in a structurally complete form."  Every composer hopes to evoke in a listener’s heart emotions similar to those that inspired him to write the composition.  The degree of fidelity in this emotional reigniting depends upon the quality of a necessary medium - the performer. 

   How can a medium attain insight into a composer’s realm of feelings? 

   Of course, we all had teachers, and usually more than one.  Soon, we notice that the authority of a teacher in many aspects, including interpretation, was but temporary (the next one had different opinions) and was usually limited to an individual repertoire, as only very few teachers would dare to work on an advanced composition they didn't learn during their schooling.  Biographical books, often full of myths and poetical untruths, are of little use.  Music history always helps, but a quest for unbiased historical facts requires immense research, access to works of many independent scholars, fluency in several languages, and, in the end, we always know something for sure only until we learn otherwise.  Ultimately, the most reliable insight into the composer’s intent and design is the score of the composition.  Everything we need to know in the process of interpretation is there in a music score.  We only need to read and understand the musical language from which we translate into each interpretation (L. interpretor: explain, translate). 

   The reading part is easy.  The basic properties of a note (rhythm and pitch) are obvious to anyone with but a modicum of training.  However, the deliberate combination of notes into meaningful structures and the existing relations between them is vital for the proper interpretation as it will harness otherwise spontaneous responses to a melodic line, harmony, and rhythm.  Identification of these structures and recognition of the existing interrelations between them is the essential part of interpretation, as it will harness and direct a spontaneous response to a melodic line, harmony, and rhythm.  So, what characteristics?  Dynamic ascend or descend.  What choice of articulation?  How much agogic allowance within a phrase or between phrases within a period?  Again, the answers to all these and other questions are there in the musical score.  Finding them is the much more difficult part – the part of understanding, without which the aesthetic and emotional content captured by the composer will be altered or even lost. 

   What would make us truly understand the musical language?  The same thing that enabled a composer to manifest his talent and inspiration in actual compositions – education.  Education – similar to that of a composer, even if the creative span of WTAM is a closed chapter in music history. 

   We can only speculate that the rudimentary stages of such education involved aural training, solfège, and basic harmony.  The next level of schooling probably included figured bass realization, harmonic progressions in 3-4 voice structure, and counterpoint. 

   All the principles and patterns learned in theory were validated in practice, not only by the routine exposure to art music but, eventually, through formal analysis of the crucial compositions of esteemed masters.  As a result of this praxis, systematically explored music history was recognized as the evolution of harmony, instrumentation, and musical forms rather than a collection of biographies.  Obviously, the earliest pieces of each novice composer were often influenced by the most progressive ideas in the analyzed material.

   Simultaneously, a significant portion of education was aimed at performing skills, even if the ultimate goal of any extensive musical training was to rear a composer.  From early childhood, under the methodical guidance of a teacher, a student formed his technique, improved tools of expression, and developed a sense of style, advancing systematically through art music literature, which in its abundance, provided choices suitable for any age or degree of technical efficiency.  Fully accomplished performers, usually at this point successful composers, although customarily expected to present their own compositions, occasionally paid homage to iconic composers and even promoted newly emerged contemporary pieces out of sheer admiration. 

   Such a course of education yielded scores of accomplished musicians and was considered, through the centuries, as the only way to achieve proficiency in musical arts.  What was the reason that we strayed from this track of teaching?  Why was the forming of a musician gradually substituted with the training of a performer?  When and why did this decline start?    

   The end of the XVIII century brought a new and more profit-oriented application of the Enlightenment’s postulates - the first public performances with paid admission.  The social rank of concert attendants shifted from class connected to financially capable.  The popularity of art music grew.  Some compositions, especially those pleasing the common ear, became quite famous.  Many of them were frequently performed not only by professional musicians but by amateur music lovers as well since increased publishing made sheet music easily available.  However, the concept of such concerts, as progressive as it may seem, unfortunately, compromised some artistic values. This is often the case when art is expected to be financially self-reliant.  The economy of such an enterprise was simple: the ticket sales and an occasional generous donation had to fund the rent of a hall, fees for stage personnel and ushers, advertisement and ticket distribution, and honoraria for the performers.  Obviously, the event had to be profitable for the organizers.  The simplest way to reduce expenditure was to hire fewer performers. In the end, a new form of performance - the solo recital, much more cost-efficient than a symphonic concert, became a preferable choice.  

   Fame around a soloist or even a bit of obscurity and scandal could boost the initial sale of tickets quite well.  Still, only positive feedback after the first performances would secure the whole series of concerts.  What would cause such feedback?  What would sufficiently please, maybe not always the most refined, but paying the tickets all the same, audience?  The entertainment.  A performer had to be able to improvise impressively on known songs or operatic arias on demand, arouse the emotions of listeners through brilliant expression, and, most of all, had to present unmatched technical proficiency even if – according to some – a pact with the devil was what it took.  In reality, only very few artists were so generously endowed, in the last aspect, by nature.  The rest had to obtain similar skills through countless hours of practicing, improving mostly finger dexterity or bowing techniques, often at the expense of a complete musical education.  Yet, there was no going back once virtuoso-style performance became a norm.  Typically, such performances included flashy arrangements of various simple pieces, elaborate but artistically marginal variations on original or borrowed themes, and at times other composers’ works, as long as they were technically challenging.  Truth be told, very few great virtuosi of this period contributed noteworthy to the development of WTAM through their original compositions. 

    Political and social changes at the end of the XVIII and the beginning of the XIX century drastically affected cultural life in many European countries.  The shrinking patronage of church and court circles and the impoverishment of once-affluent families left many composers without a shield of sponsorship.  Those who couldn’t procure financial assistance and rejected the glamour of the virtuoso lifestyle were forced to take teaching positions in aristocratic or sometimes even well-off bourgeois families as music lessons at home marked a bon ton.  The extent of education obtained through such lessons varied according to a student's aptitude,

a teacher's competence, and an employer's monetary dedication.  So did the accuracy in the interpretation of played compositions.  Most of these students had no earnest aspirations to compose music, and their performing activities were limited to family events and small social gatherings.

   The need to express emotions has always been the main reason for any musical attempt.  Even so, art music had once been formed into intricate combinations of melodic lines and magnificent harmony with very little or virtually no emotional stimulus but only in pursuit of absolute beauty alone. 

   There was also a period in the arts when sensibility and idealism were raised above knowledge and reason. 

         

               “[.....]

               Faith and love are more discerning                                   

               Than lenses and learning.”     /The Romantic - A.Mickiewicz, trans.W.H.Auden/          

​

   And thus, the emotional drive in one’s life was cultivated, glorified, and even attributed to an artistically inclined nature.  Indeed, some claimed artistic license merely for the ability to experience strong feelings.

   In music, a composer was now expected to express a broad range of emotions from subtle sentiment to extreme passion, and the harmonic language of Classical music, although comprehensible and immaculate, did not suffice.  Different harmonic solutions were ventured.  Some new daring ideas, such as adopting appoggiaturas into chordal structures, harmonization of a chromatic baseline, unresolved secondary functions, ternary functions, and surprising twists in chord progressions through enharmonic change, could encrypt complex feelings much better than a succession of, mostly, diatonic triads.  Phrases, laden with chromatic functions, expanded in uneven ratios undermining the symmetry of a period, periods evolved into harmonically unrestricted sections, and new forms were sought for the accommodation of such content.  The sonata form, favored and universally applied by Classical composers for its guiding and clear structure, turned out to be too restricting for a romantic soul.  The name “sonata” was still used by some great Romantic composers, but the design of such compositions had little in common with archetypal Classical sonata.  The newly introduced forms, whether impromptu, caprice, nocturne, tone-painting, fantasy-piece, lyric piece, ballad,  or other, had virtually no formal requirements.  Descriptive titles of some compositions could suggest a type of narrative, but mostly the original structure, characteristic of each piece, reflected the free flow of the composer’s imagination. 

   Many found inspiration in folk music, fascinated by its raw harmonies and repetitive rhythmic patterns of dances.  However, only a few were able to successfully utilize this “new” material within the refined norms of art music.  A failure to apply such rectification often resulted in some metrical dilemmas, incomplete chords, or gaps in the logic of a harmonic progression. 

   All the new forms, as well as amendments to the harmonic language of art music introduced by the greatest Romantic composers, set numerous challenges for an average performer whose education (including comprehension of harmony) was, for the reasons described in previous paragraphs, often inferior to that of an accomplished composer.  As I also stated earlier, a performer has to understand (not only read) the musical language of a piece.  The act of performing is somewhat similar to reciting a poem or reading a book aloud.  Any words out of the reader's vocabulary will make the reader stumble.  He may try to guess the meaning of a sentence and even apply – suitable for his supposition – inflection, most likely conveying the wrong idea.  Another reader may guess something else and pass a different, but still wrong, message.  A proficient writer would effortlessly read the whole chapter unless the text had misspellings, incorrect punctuation, or wrong grammar.  In this case, though, an author of any integrity would probably discard such writing as unfit for circulation.  A performer accustomed to Classical designs could also be – quite like a reader – puzzled by the unprecedented structures of the new Romantic music.  Only, his solution was quite different.  He left comprehension of those – absolved by the doctrine of the epoch –  to his feelings.  For sure, he wouldn’t discard a juvenile (and sometimes not so juvenile) piece of a lesser composer for its weaknesses in the melodic line or poor harmonic choices; he would have to recognize them first.  Sadly, many of these second-rate compositions are still in circulation and even present in concert halls next to genuine masterpieces of music literature.

   The substitution of feelings for knowledge, initiated in early Romanticism, eventually became a norm in interpreting not only Romantic but any composition in general.  What made this attitude so prevalent among, equally, singers, instrumentalists, and conductors not only back then but even more today?

   First, it requires less education.  Secondly, feelings are immune to criticism -- this is the way one feels, the end of discussion.  Thirdly, a performer following his own emotions (not necessarily similar to those experienced by the composer) has the illusion of taking part in a creative process, “editing” a composer’s design.

   Though the number of consequential composers in the late XIX century was disproportionately low compared with the ever-growing volume of musicians, the musical training of this period still concentrated mainly on the art of composing (the degree in music performance hadn't been invented yet).  By then,  the modality of easily accessible folk music gradually lost its charm, and tonal harmony left but a small pool of yet unexplored possibilities.  It took not only talent but also thorough education, extraordinary inspiration, and quite an intellect to stay innovative.  More and more composers-to-be settled for a career of a performer or teacher, composing very little and usually in the Classical style, occasionally peppered with some daring harmonic solutions.  How many of them could understand and accurately interpret, for instance, a multi-climax “never-ending” phrase so common in the works of Late-Romantic masters?  The gap between a composer’s proficiency and the comprehensive abilities of a performer widened even more.

   The development of Art Music always followed the path of evolution.  Even the multiple amendments to harmony introduced by Romantic composers rarely contradicted the core principles of Classical music.  Still, the same principles, however crucial to the beauty and unique architecture of art music, controlled the potential quota of harmonic combinations and, consequently, the span of the evolution itself.  The revolutionary concepts of Post-Romantic composers compromised some of these fundamental norms but, in exchange, extended the life of tonal music by a few decades (during which – we must keep in mind – non-tonal concepts were already pushing their way into concert halls filled with aesthetically confused audiences).  The music of this period, abounding in many divergent styles, offered completely new sonorities and challenged a performer with many unorthodox configurations.  Revived Ancient Greek modes, non-European and synthetic modes, frequent unforeseen common-tone or direct modulations, incomplete phrases, ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth chords, non-third chords, and cluster chords  – to mention only a few – didn’t arouse emotions as clear as those evoked by  Romantic or even late-Romantic harmony.  A performer, dependent upon the guidance of personal feelings, could be at a loss.  Fortunately, or I should rather say, unfortunately, an easy solution was at hand.  This time, interpretation was replaced by imagination.

   After WWII, some countries offered state-run music schools to the general public.  The extensive programs of such schools accepted musically inclined children as young as 3-4 years of age into music preschools, with an option of later enrollment in elementary music schools and, subsequently, music high schools.  The courses attended during 10-12 years of education  (music theory, aural skills, harmony, forms, music history, and music literature, etc.), together with rigorous practicing and competitive performing, would forge a competent, professional musician.  Still, further pursuit of excellence was possible (in higher education schools with entrance exams) to earn a degree in vocal or instrumental performing, conducting, or composition.

   One would expect an exemplary interpretation and astonishing performance of any composition from a musician produced by this kind of schooling.  Alas, this is not always the case, and performances presented by these musicians usually do not reflect all the knowledge presumably accumulated through such a long and thorough education.

   On the opposite end of the scholarly spectrum, anyone interested in music may obtain private lessons from whoever is willing to give them.  The performances rendered by those musicians reflect, by and large, very little, if any, knowledge about music since the qualifications of a teacher are often questionable and the a student's work is, at best, ad libitum.

   Yet, occasionally we can witness a phenomenal presentation of a choral or instrumental piece, and immediately a question springs to mind: where, on earth, and how was this kind of mastery achieved?  It appears, upon reflection, that the rare occurrence of an outstanding performer (singer, instrumentalist, or conductor) can not be tied to any particular nature of schooling or system of education.  Nonetheless, there are at least two characteristics that all truly great musicians have in common: a profound musical sensitivity and an extensive comprehension of art music.  While the first is a gift with which some of us are born, the latter has to be acquired.  Contrary to common belief, even extraordinary talent can not spontaneously progress into refined artistry.  There is more than one trail to the top of Parnassus, but all of them, I’m afraid, lead through the stringent realm of education.