Category Archives: Commentaries & Critiques

A gradual hush falls as the lights go down in the recital hall.  A marimba is illuminated center stage and on it are four mallets in pairs, handles crossed. In the hall’s darkness, this image charms and anticipation grows. Then, as silence descends, a performer appears. Our applause is tentative at first, but grows as we remember our responsibility. No one really knows this player, or what to expect, but we want to be polite. The performer strides forward, but stops about three feet behind the marimba and acknowledges the applause with a deep bow, hands on knees. His torso straightens, but he lowers his head once more, resting chin on chest. His arms hang loosely at his sides and his shoulders rise in gentle response to a deep breath that swells his breast. And the audience grows quieter.

His shoulders relax, his head rises to face us and we see that his eyes are closed. He slowly opens them and moves towards the marimba.  Head lowered, he contemplates the mallets. With the precision of a diamond cutter, the mallets are picked up one pair at a time and placed within his fingers, just so. Satisfied, he takes one step backwards, lowers his arms to his sides and, after another deep breath with eyes closed, he raises the mallets, steps forward and hovers over the marimba, the mallets swimming above the instrument in curiously sensual circles that come closer and closer to the bars. What has he done? What will he do?

The silence and anticipation are finally resolved. The first notes fill the hall. They have all the charm of acne.

I watched hours of television coverage during the Inaugural Day ceremonies for the new President of the United States and I heard a great deal of talk: the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court talked-tripping up the president elect and, if not dismantling, at least tickling the “smooth transition of power”; two preachers talked; the Speaker of the House talked; a poetess read a beautiful poem badly and the new President gave a humorless speech beautifully, talking for twenty minutes with nary a hint of lightheartedness. Times are tough.

Aretha Franklin sang a bodacious “My Country Tis of Thee”. I love her voice, but her hat got my Bravo! Ms. Franklin’s sartorial statement gently brought to mind my mother’s youth.  (I have a faded black and white photo from the early 1930’s showing her and her sisters wearing hats approaching the audacity of Aretha’s.)

After all the talk-much of it justifiable-it was time for America’s youth, proud and happy, to strut its stuff:  if for no other reasons than the joy of making music together and yes, bragging rights for the rest of their lives. They had been chosen to represent the nation. They had practiced hard and had won awards. They had gathered hours earlier, off camera and cold.

Of the seventy-nine official participants, there were 30 high school, secondary and junior school bands; 12 university bands; The Lesbian and Gay Association Band of New York; the Suurimmanitchuat Eskimo Dance Group and some interesting non-music groups, such as The Mobile Azalea Trail Maids from Mobile, Alabama; The U.S. Secret Service Uniformed Division Ceremonial Honor Guard and Motorcade Support Unit (Yikes!); and a refurbished 1965 DC Metropolitan Police Department Cruiser-(well, that’s OK.)

But the parade wasn’t about music, or about spectacle. Rather, it was all about Talk. A constant gushing of narcissistic blather made the music a mere background accompaniment for talk. The talk was louder than the United States Army Band playing The Army Song*; louder than The Punahou High School Marching Band; louder than the Howard University marching Band; even louder than the Florida A&M Marching 100 or the Grambling State University World Famous Tiger Marching Band; Louder than the Ohio State University Marching Band and the United States Navy Band.

Chris Matthews (MSNBC) and CNN’s Wolf Blitzer-is that really his name?-out blasted em all. The network’s had opted for talk over music. They had kidnapped one of America’s most historic and beloved spectacles in order to concentrate on their talking heads.  In the United States alone, forty million people viewed the parade, but  never saw or heard most of its participants. As the Punahou Band from Hawaii approached the Presidential party, a TV announcer began talking about how far they’d traveled to be there, and how proud they must be.  When she’d finished talking, they were gone; the new President’s High School alma mater band, its music almost inaudible, had barely appeared on camera.

Matthews, Blitzer and their bosses are perfect metaphors for American television culture. They are my “Worst Persons in the World”, and shame on them.

* The Caisson Song.

20 December, 2009

I recently attended a concert of contemporary chamber music. I knew all the musicians and had performed with most of them.

In one work, the pianist and percussionist had, periodically, about a half dozen notes that were obviously intended to be in unison, but were not. I  assumed the culprit to be the percussionist. Why?

The pianist and his instrument, simply by virtue of their position in the hierarchy of Western Art Music, received the benefit of my doubt; it simply stood to reason the percussionist was wrong.

I wonder if other members of the audience made the same assumption.