Litotes [?]

Ask a random person on the street to name a composer. Was it Beethoven? Maybe; if it wasn't, perhaps it was Bach. I'd bet on it. I call this the "What If I Asked My Dad?" method of thought experimentation.

Figure 1: Not the Bach to which I was referring.

Musicians adore Bach. Even the most cynical historian, theorist, composer, or performer, in my experience, adores Bach.

People who love music's mathematical designs love Bach.

People who love music's emotive qualities love Bach.

People who love to study elaborate contrapuntal techniques love Bach.

People who love to perform love Bach.

Analysts love Bach; musicologists love Bach.

Everyone the fuck loves Bach. And with good reason.

Bach is the unambiguously most revered composer in the canon. Beethoven might be more enfant terrible-y; Mozart more zesty; both are undoubtedly massively influential. But it's hard to overstate the influence of Bach on, oh, say, the last 300 years or so of Western art music.

The Power of Bach, the Comfort of Morricone
Vivian Schweitzer, New York Times, 9/20/2010

So: Bach, right?

Bach strongly influenced several prominent South American composers, including Heitor Villas-Lobos of Brazil and Alberto Ginastera of Argentina.

Mm, hm. Mm-hm.

Figure 2: The Grand Canyon was strongly influenced by the Colorado River.

Hilarious understatement as rhetorical device?

Yeah; no. I wish.

The Well-Reasoned, Fully Substantiated Attack of the Week!

This week is Spring Break for many in the world of academia, which means none of those annoying students around. And with nothing to do this morning, I decided to partake of a caffeine beverage at the local café. There I fortuitously came across a discarded copy of the New York Times. O frabjous day! A special treat to those of us without a major newspaper, to say the least. As I plodded my way through all the liberal bias and hidden socialist agenda, I eventually made it to the arts section, of which the New York Times writers rarely disappoint.

There are, of course, different approaches to writing a music critique. Review the performance, review the music, provide a play-by-play summary of the evening, or an editorial style commentary of the evening -- it's all good.

For the Flux Quartet's performance in the Bargemusic Here and Now series, Vivien Schweitzer decided the best approach was to introduce the mostly unfamiliar works to the reader subtly punctuated by a summation of her overall thoughts of the success of the piece.

Let me highlight my favorite part. (Read the full article here.)

Elliott Sharp’s “Tessellation Row” (1984) uses the Fibonacci series (in which the first two numbers are 0 and 1 and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two) to generate rhythms, forms and tunings.

figure fibonacci: The number sequence of the Fibonacci series, just because we stand for knowing shit here at the Detritus.

Interesting. It's certainly not a new idea to use mathematical constructs as the basis of a musical composition, but the results are almost never the same so I tend to be open-minded.

A nice introduction to the piece. What else?

Pitches are played on open strings tuned to different ratios relating to the series.

See, this sounds pretty cool. Instead of using the mathematical series to determine pitch (which is so often the result), Sharp has in essence created his own tuning system. Very cool.

So, speaking as an audience member, how did it sound?

Aggressive outbursts were tempered with occasional moments of respite.

Okay. A rather generic statement, but fine. What else?

For the most part the cacophonous work sounded like something that might be used to torture prisoners.

Excuse me? Come again. Baking powder? Music for torturing prisoners?!

Are you sure?

Which actually begs the question...what is music used for torturing prisoners?

[Emails Dick Cheney...no response. Checks the internets...success!]

So, it sounded like Eminem's song "The Real Slim Shady"?

That does sound awful. Thanks for the warning. Your well-reasoned and fully substantiated critique has surely saved many innocent music lovers from this dreadful concert (seeing as most of us prefer not to be tortured) or ever trying to listen to Elliott Sharp's music!

What a service! Thanks, Vivien.

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In case you're interested and don't want to read the whole article, here's Ms. Schweitzer's concert scorecard:

Annie Gosfield, Lighthearted and Heavyhearted -- Loved it!

Giacinto Scelsi, String Quartet No. 5 -- Hated it!

Elliott Sharp, Tessellation Row -- Hated it!

David First, Elegies for the Afterland -- Strangely no opinion given...I guess it was the result of the "hypnotic, trance-inducing mood"

Conlon Nancarrow, String Quartet No. 1 -- Nancarrow later wrote for the player piano

Webern, Six Bagatelles -- "Provided a striking contrast" (e.g. better than most of the crap on this concert)

Pianist Stabbed in the Bach

Every day at the Detritus we get to observe what happens to a review when the critic is confronted with the unfamiliar, i.e. new music. Since new music doesn’t come with a pre-established descriptive vocabulary, critics are left to their own devices, often exposing tiny inadequacies, more so than usual. Arnold Schoenberg’s music becomes “thorny.” Xenakis’ music becomes “caucophonous.” And in another case, John Corigliano’s music becomes the sum of the program notes. Or John Adams’ music is either more or less similar to Nixon in China. This is understandable, to a degree, and often hard to fault.

But what happens when the critic is charged with reviewing something terribly unfamiliar in a familiar context? Or more precisely, what happens when the familiar piece of music is interpreted in an unfamiliar way?

Let’s take a look at how Vivien Schweitzer handled a different interpretation of the “Goldberg” Variations.

A Pianist Offers Bold Ideas About a Standard by Bach

Since I feel like being lazy, here’s the background to the performance in Schweitzer’s words, which also happens to be 40% of the total number of words in the review:

According to Johann Nikolaus Forkel, who wrote the first biography of Bach, that composer’s “Goldberg” Variations were commissioned by the Russian diplomat Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk. An insomniac, the count reportedly wanted Bach to write a musical sedative that Johann Gottlieb Goldberg (a talented young harpsichordist who lived with Keyserlingk) could play to soothe his restless nights.

The legend has been discredited, and Bach’s monumental work is so gripping in any case that it would doubtless have fueled the count’s insomnia.

Objection, your honor! Hearsay.

But there was unfortunately something soporific about the pianist Beth Levin’s performance at the Bechstein Piano Center on Friday. The concert, held in an intimate space at the back of the showroom, was a benefit for the Children’s Orchestra Society, a training organization founded in 1962 by H. T. Ma (the father of the cellist Yo-Yo Ma). It presents children and teenagers in orchestral and chamber concerts with their peers and established artists.

Got it? The piece was once thought to be a sedative, but that’s not the case. And Beth Levin’s interpretation was tediously boring or monotonous as to cause sleep. Clever tie-in. Whoop-dee-doo.

But this is where Vivien gets into the nitty gritty. And so do I.

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The “Goldberg” Variations (like much of Bach’s music) offer pianists a chance to make a personal statement...

Like Major League Baseball and Visa: “Express your fanhood through your credit card!” Or Random Phone Company: “Express yourself with a new ring-tone for only $5.99!” Yuck.

The “Goldberg” Variations (like much of Bach’s music) offer pianists a chance to make a personal statement and can withstand a wide variety of interpretations.

What exactly is the width of the variety of interpretations that a piece of music can withstand? But more importantly, what is it withstanding?

It seemed to be more about her than about Bach...

See, two things I don’t subscribe to are 1) the New York Times—I just get the Sunday paper for the crossword puzzle—and 2) the notion that black dots on a page, written at a time when improvisation flourished, are owned more by a composer than a performer, or vice versa. I prefer to think of those black dots more as the composer’s architectural blueprint and the performer the craftsman—one is no more important than the other—the final result being a collaboration. Maybe I’m a Communist.

...and her idiosyncratic decisions sounded jarring and unnatural.

Another thing I don’t subscribe to is the notion that “jarring” and “unnatural” (whatever that means) are inherently bad things.

Harshly attacked accents, as in Variation No. 3...

By definition (I’m guessing here, so I leave it to you to look it up) notes that are accented are more harshly attacked than notes that are unaccented. So, “harshly attacked accents” is redundant.

Harshly attacked accents, as in Variation No. 3, gave the listener musical whiplash...

Remember a long time ago when Schweitzer said that the performance was soporific? Yeah. Me too. You know, I usually sleep through whiplash. How about you?

Besides, I think “musical whiplash” is synonymous with “something that takes you in a different direction.” We can’t have any of that in our music!

...and slow tempos and exaggerated phrasing rendered many variations awkwardly stilted.

Since “exaggerated phrasing” means nothing to me, Vivien, I’ll ask this: what is the slowest tempo that the Goldberg’s can withstand and still be natural? Keep in mind that Bach didn’t indicate the tempos for the variations. Ready?........Go!

Variations Nos. 4 and 29, for example, were so ponderous and stretched out, particularly in the opening measures, that the music sounded distorted.

Ugh.

The performance lacked an overall cohesion and architecture, partly because the vital sense of a dance pulse was lost.

Ugh. Dance rhythm, not “dance pulse.” Very different things.

Vivacious, sparkling variations like No. 5 sounded lackluster.

Geez. Don’t hold back, Vivien.

Had the livelier numbers been more energetic, Ms. Levin might have made her point better when playing the slower variations.

Ugh.

But there was sometimes a strange sameness in a work that should be full of contrast, veering from merry wit to profundity.

Ugh. The work should be...

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So how did Vivien handle the unfamiliar familiar? By comparing and contrasting it with the billions of previous recordings and performances of the Goldbergs she already knew and loved. Awesome, because that’s how we do it. That's how we make judgments. That is, if it leads to a better understanding of what is being compared and contrasted.

Granted, Beth’s interpretation might have been boring. I wasn’t there. But...

Unlike reviews of new music, the Goldbergs are accompanied by a mountain of pre-established descriptive vocabulary, as well as performed or recorded models with which to compare. It’s no surprise, then, that Vivien was already influenced (Heck, I would be, too). But, here’s the difference, as I see it. It seems that Vivien used previous models to demonstrate why she found the performance stilted, rather than attempting to use previous models to understand why Beth Levin made the performance choices she made. Vivien, instead, entered the concert hall with her ideal model already formulated and any deviation, any different or unfamiliar interpretation, outside a narrow range of varied possibilities, was doomed before it began. Hence, we get statements like:

• “idiosyncratic decisions sounded jarring and unnatural” To whom? Vivien.
• “slow tempos and exaggerated phrasing rendered many variations awkwardly stilted” To whom? Vivien.
• “Variations Nos. 4 and 29 [...] were so ponderous and stretched out [...] that the music sounded distorted.” To whom? Vivien.
• “The performance lacked an overall cohesion and architecture, partly because the vital sense of a dance pulse was lost.” Vital to whom? Vivien.
• “But there was sometimes a strange sameness in a work that should be full of contrast” It should be what to whom? Full of contrast to Vivien.

There was no attempt to understand, let alone appreciate, Beth’s interpretation. And before y’all chime in, I understand that Vivien is entitled to an opinion. It’s just that her opinion was made up before the concert began. And that's not cool.

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It often sounded as if Ms. Levin, who took some repeats and read from the score, were playing Beethoven, Schumann or Prokofiev.

Ugh. Is that a jab at Beth for taking repeats and reading from a score? Because that has nothing to do with anything, ever. On the bright side, good news for Schenkerites: all good music does sound the same!

Bach’s spirit rarely shone through.

Ugh. I challenge anyone to write an essay that expresses your interpretation of Bach’s spirit and how it shines through things, without waxing too poetic. Oh, and make sure it can withstand a variety of interpretations, within reason, of course.
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Wherein Ancient Rhetorical Devices Are Explained

I’ve been meaning to write about Vivien Schweitzer for a while, now. I can’t find anything about which to call her out, because, well, she’s good. So I’m taking this opportunity to point out an oft-neglected rhetorical device: Extreme Understatement. Anti-hyperbole. Perhaps there’s a fancy ancient-rhetoric name for it, I don’t know.

What? Look it up? Okay. [looks it up]

It’s called Litotes. Here’s a good example:

“Business carried on as usual during alterations on the map of Europe.” --Winston Churchill

WWII = alterations on the map of Europe. Classic. He’s one of my favorite rhetoricians.

Here is another (good example and favorite rhetorician):

When David Robertson first conducted at the Metropolitan Opera in 1996, he had the distressing experience of leading a performance of Janacek’s “Makropulos Case” in which a tenor died onstage.

Holy crap! “Distressing”? More like fucking terrifying, if you ask me. Potentially traumatic, even.

Then, this:

Things went more smoothly on Saturday night, his first appearance at the house in a decade, leading Mozart’s “Entführung aus dem Serail” (“The Abduction From the Seraglio”).

More smoothly = nobody died onstage. Wow. Exemplary.

Keep it up, Ms. S.

Original article here.

Mad Lib: for B.S. Generators

The Vivien Schweitzer-bot didn’t waste any time waxing poetic in this one.

When the violinist Midori and the pianist Marc-Andre Hamelin performed Ravel’s Sonata for Violin and Piano on Wednesday evening at the Rose Theatre, notes and phrases were as carefully placed as stones in a Japanese garden.

Arrange the extracted adjectives into their appropriate places. Then reboot.

delicate
languid
jazz-influenced
organic
smokey
sultry

But the details blended into a seamlessly ________ whole, flowing from a _______, _______ Allegretto into Midori’s _______, _______ rhapsodizing in the _______ second movement, then into the frenzy of the concluding Perpetuum mobile.

Good luck! Here is the answer.
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New York Times Writers Love Food Metaphors, Hate Cold

A decent little review that requires a little gentle ribbing:

Sources of Heat and Light to Challenge an Icy Season

At least in the NY Times they understand capitalization [looks askance at Houston Chronicle].

On a miserably cold winter evening,

Mr. Holland? NO?! You’ve been sitting too close to him, then.

musical comfort food

The sonic equivalent of macaroni and cheese? Or cassoulet? I’m confused, and a little sad. But not cold! Take that, New York in February!

like Schumann’s vibrant Piano Quintet provides warming nourishment.

It does? Okay, metaphorically, I guess. Seems lazy, though (although I do get to use the “food metaphor” tag!).

It was given a vigorous performance on Monday at Weill Recital Hall by the Modigliani String Quartet and the pianist Jean-Frédéric Neuburger.

Jean-Frédéric...Neuburger? I’m guessing he’s…Scotch/Irish?

The Modigliani, with the violinists Philippe Bernhard and Loïc Rio, the violist Laurent Marfaing and the cellist François Kieffer,

What’s with the French first name/German last name thing? Are they Flemish or something?

was founded in 2003 at the Paris Conservatory,

Oh. No. Just French. One assumes. And apparently young. That’s cool.

where its members studied with the Ysaÿe Quartet.

Nice mentors to have, I’ll wager. I bet they’re good…

Both Mr. Neuburger, 21, and the ensemble were winners of the 2006 Young Concert Artists International Auditions and made their debuts in the Young Concert Artists series last season. They were presented here by the organization in an encore performance.

Apparently they’re actually awesome, too! Sounds like a great concert. On a miserable night.

The musicians plunged into Schumann’s Piano Quintet (written in 1842, a prolific year for his chamber music)

His...music was prolific that year? I call bullshit.

with youthful dynamism, bringing the requisite vitality to the exuberant opening measures and the fugue of the finale. Mr. Bernhard’s tone occasionally turned strident in the excitement, but it was an enjoyable performance, and Mr. Neuburger made fine contributions.

The dynamism was youthful, the vitality requisite. What?

The concert opened with Debussy’s String Quartet, which mystified audiences at its premiere in 1893.

I think they call that a lede. It’s supposed to make me more interested. It did! I love that piece! I’d like to hear more about that!

Too bad for me.

The Modigliani played with animated zest, and an underlying tension built up momentum to frenetic climaxes, highlighting the taut pizzicatos

(pizzicati)

in the second movement and the languid exchange of the main theme in the third.

Hey! Now I know where Empiricus gets his mad libs. (And why.) The zest was animated! Animated, I tell you! Is the “zest” thing part of the larger food metaphor?

Mr. Neuburger also offered a solo selection: the Prelude and Fugue, No. 14, and the Prelude and Fugue, No. 15, from Shostakovich’s Opus 87 cycle. The bleakness of the No. 14 prelude (interrupted here by a loud cellphone) contrasted with the initial energy of the No. 15. But as with much Shostakovich, that work soon descended into relentless despair.

Relentless despair. Like much Shostakovich. So much semiotics, so little time.

Mr. Neuburger’s chilling rendition of the manically macabre fugue from No. 15 made me shiver.

Ok, a little redemption for the overly-described but cleverly alliterated “maniacally macabre”.

As an encore to reward the enthusiastic full house, the musicians played the third movement from Brahms’s Piano Quintet, a satisfying dish to fortify listeners heading out into the frigid night.

Fortified, they went into the cold night, warm. What was this thing called again?

Sources of Heat and Light to Challenge an Icy Season

The heat was…from the fortifying comfort food-music. I think.

The light…never really came up. The Shostakovich sounds dark-ish...

Maybe the zest was light? Like...lemon zest, to brighten a dish? I’m confused again. But not cold!