1-Fearlessness (from "American Music Teacher" and "Horn Call" magazines)

2-Everything I Need To Know, I Learned From An Eggshell (from "Pilgrimage"magazine)

3-Human Wisdom, Human Knowledge, Human Truth, And Thought (from "Mensa Bulletin" magazine)

4-Frequency And Pitch Vis A Vis Human Wisdom, Knowledge, And Truth (from "Colorado Music Educator" magazine)

5-All-Day Music Lessons (from "Pilgrimage," "Music for the Love of It," and "Keyboard Companion" magazines)

6-The Exercise From Hades (from "Horn Call" magazine)

9 through 12-Four Historical Periods of Music: Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and Modern (from the Barre-Montpelier Times Argus newspaper)

13-Olivier Messiaen's Vingt regards sur l'enfant Jesus (from the Barre-Montpelier Times Argus newspaper)

14-Thoughts about Beethoven (from the Barre-Montpelier Times Argus newspaper)

Didn’t you feel tugs from other things?
Lion, mountie, Doctor, Prince?

How did you press a boy’s dreaming
Into sound? Did you choose fingers
And mouth after flesh proved
The perfect instrument, or before?

And why a bent and belled horn?
Did Old Testament sounds woo you,
A forceful relative insist, or was it,
What those successful, call an accident?

Forgive the envy and my asking;
But there are sad strains
In your eyes, too, at times.

I wonder if an open dream
Festers beneath the fat tailed
Dots you force, legato,
Making the air wet with clear music.

But now our hands are striking
For your effort and art. Bending,
You acknowledge it, leaving
A chair at rigid attention
To guard the echo
Until sun and a janitor
Reclaim this place
In the name of order and silence.

But now my coward’s mind,
Untrained and battle shy,
Will slyly police your sounds,
Arranging them as counterpoint
For the long wide drift to sleep,
And the riot that continues
As dawn sets off another morning.

1) FEARLESSNESS

From  "American Music Teacher" magazine (October/November 1994), this article is based on an early version of the second chapter of Living Dangerously with the Horn: Thoughts on Life and Art.

This chapter addresses material for which there are neither absolute answers nor resolutions. Its contents  are presented not as dogma, but as seriously considered thoughts and conclusions about complicated subjects. I hope that my thoughts and conclusions will impel readers to distill their own. First, we will look at fear, courage, and fearlessness; then apply these behaviors to audition-taking, a real-life and often fear-provoking "bit of business."

FEAR
"It is very important to a lot of people to make unmistakably clear to themselves and to the universe that they love the universe, but are not intimidated by it and will not be shaken by it, no matter what it has in store." (Norman Maclean, in Young Men and Fire.)

In writing about smokejumpers--young men (and now, young women)--who parachute into remote forest areas to fight fires, Maclean is chronicling "fearlessness."  Like smokejumpers, some hornists fearlessly jump into the dangers and difficulties that the horn has "in store." Others persevere despite their fears. While I do not completely understand human motivation--my name is Kaslow, not Maslow--I find it useful to ponder fearlesness, which is an aspect of motivation, and a stance held by the best smokejumpers and the most successful horn players.

Let us use The Oxford English Dictionary definition of "fear" as our starting point. The definition is "The emotion of pain or uneasiness caused by the sense of impending danger, or by the prospect of some possible evil."

Fear is a perennial problem, which can be a crippling, even lethal, emotion. Also, fear is individally defined: some people find fear in situations in which others find comfort.

There are at least three kinds of acquired fear, each a response or reaction to its own type of danger or difficulty. The first kind is acquired from an innate, concrete difficulty. An example is the learned fear of playing a large, exposed slur, or of making a soft, high entrance. As a shorthand, I will call this "fear-concrete."  The second kind of fear is acquired from an imagined danger or difficulty. The response usually is psychological, such as poor self-image, fear of failure, fear of success, inordinate need for approval, or agoraphobia. ("Agoraphobia" is the fear of being in public--literally "fear of open spaces.") Often, such fear arises from once useful but now outdated responses, and often it is more devastating than fear-concrete. I will call this "fear-magined."

Fear-imagined and fear-concrete may be present together in a single circumstance, producing a third kind of fear. For example, in playing the "horn call" from Siegfried, we might fear both its concrete difficulties and the possibility of failure. I will call combined fears simply "fear."

(There is yet another kid of fear, not relevant to this discussion because it is experienced mostly by infants, but which I include for completeness. It is an innate response to a concete fear. Examples are the innate responses of infants to their concrete fear of falling: the grasp reflex and the startle reflex.)

Amid this sea of  nomenclature, let us remember that labels are most useful when they describe extreme situations, and least useful in "gray areas." An example of a gray area is an ambient temperature of sixty degrees, which will be labeled "warm" by some people and "cold" by others.  (Even in extreme situations, however, labels must be applied and interpreted with caution. An air temperature of one hundred degrees will be called "hot" by most people, but not by all: for instance, by someone living in an equatorial region.)

Whatever its basis, fear is unnecessary.

Despite fear-concrete's basis in real danger, it is unnecessary. It can be eliminated by solving--through study and practice--the underlying problem. Also, fear-imagined is unnecessary. Whatever its basis, it can be eliminated by removing--through study or psychotherapy--its underlying cause. As Miguel de Cervantes wrote, "Take away the cause, and the effect ceases."

I do not wish to be callous or flippant about the difficulties surrounding the discarding of fear. I acknowledge that eliminating fear is a difficult task--one of the most difficult tasks that we can face.  It is difficult to learn to play a soft, high note or a wide slur. It is difficult to overcome a psychological problem such a poor self-image. But, these and other difficulties can be overcome. We need not be resigned to fearfulness, provided that we are willing to apply ourselves to problems, and to obtain the aid of others when necessary.

Despite all of this, some fears can be temporarily useful catalysts, stimulating the flow of adrenaline, elevating the pulse, and increasing the rate of breathing--and thus enhancing our activity level. But, to be useful, fears must be short-lived and produce immediate, constructive responses. For example, out of fear of committing a musical error, we are moved to increase our knowledge about music. Out of fear of technical shortcomings, we are moved to practice. Out of fear of the unknown, we are moved to seek new experiences or to revisit old ones in new ways. (In revisiting old experiences, however, it is essential that we bring freshness: merely repeating old experiences is not the same as partaking in new ones.)

Although fear is unnecessary, fearless respect for a difficult task is appropriate: we cannot play well if we are lackadaisical. Indeed, every action we perform must be given the energy, focus and general awareness that are its due.

We must acknowledge that fear produces real feelings and real physical responses. Fear should be taken seriously, even as we work to rid ourselves of it. Fear felt by our students should also be acknowledged, even while we help them to overcome it.

Many fears come from negativity toward ourselves, toward others, or toward the universe. Fears cause us to see ourselves as the center of the universe. They isolate us and prevent our connecting with the rest of the world; they diminish us. As John Ruskin said, "When a man is wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package."

Psychologically, fear saps and diffuses energy, causes tension, and blocks self-confidence. Physically, it leads to shallow breathing, memory loss, "cotton mouth" and trembling.  The physical cycle produced by fear destroys breath-technique, a tool which could alleviate fear. This is similar to AIDS, which destroys the very cells that could prevent the disease's  entrenchment.

Fear can be likened to the various memory functions of a computer. Fear is as real as the images on a screen, but also as transitory. As on the computer screen, fear can be deleted, and well it ought to be, because it drains life from music-making.

Finally, fear confuses our understanding of true-ego. We often misuse the word "ego" by defining it as power-seeking, arrogance, insecurity, fear or defensiveness: we might describe a braggart or show-off as "egotistical." But, in such a case we are observing false-ego.

 To an Easterner, ego is that which blocks recognition of the connections between ourselves and the universe, or with a deity. It is this lack of awareness, and the ensuing feeling of isolation, which leads to fearfulness. In the Western sense, true-ego (or simply "ego") is awareness of, and comfort with, all of the strands of our being--what Gurdjieff calls our inner "voices," and what Van der Post poetically calls our "tappings." Ego is the source of our best work; it is not our enemy. Ego produces awareness, fearlessness, freely flowing emotion, knowledge, skill and security. Also, true-ego precludes the desire and need to seek attention. Truly egotistical people are aware and fearless, and have no need for "courage."

COURAGE
A composite dictionary defition of  "courage" surely would include the words "danger," and "fear," and would define "courage" as the act of overpowering fear.

On the surface, courage would seem to be a positive trait. Courage, however, expends energy inefficiently. Because fear--as we have seen-- is unnecessary, so too is courage. At best, courage is only temporarily useful as we work toward fearlessness.

Courage lives symbiotically in relationship with fear, and courage implies willingness to overcome the same fear repeatedly. Courage also wastes resource--courageous behavior is like cutting a finger and then bandaging the cut, rather than avoiding the cut. Furthermore, the effect of courageous behavior extends into the future: by legitimizing courage and fear, we perpetuate both.

Courageous players performing, for example, the Siegfried "horn call" overcome fears-concrete by such means as inordinate mouthpiece pressure, by taking drugs, or through sheer will-power. They overcome fears-imagined by methods such as "tuning out" the world with beta blockers or through hypnosis. A courageous approach is simply too cumbersone to generate excellent performance.  Courage only temporarily empowers us and at great cost. It is senseless to legitimize fear by legitimizing courage. We should limit ourselves to confronting only the real, unavoidable problems in horn playing.

FEARLESSNESS
Fearlessness is composed of awareness, understanding of  "control," and belief in the goodness of both ourselves and of the universe. Our progress with awareness and control, and belief in our own and the universe's goodness takes us beyond courage, and increasingly into the area of fearlessness.

In Eastern culture, fearlessness often is called "fierceness" or "the warrior-spirit." As seemingly bellicose as these words seem, they connote the strength and awareness solely within which peace thrives. A small number of people seemingly are born fearless. Most people who become fearless do so in stages. The first stage is fearfulness, the second courageousness, and the final stage is fearlessness. Note that fearlessness is not the same as ignorance.

We have the broadest focus on our work when we are fearless. Fearless, we do not manufacture false musical or psychological difficulties, but instead address only innate difficulties. Fearless, we are free to engage joyfully in music-making, whereas when we are fearful, we use so much energy overcoming our fear that we are deprived of the joy of making music.

A fearless approach to the Siegfried "horn call" takes us beyond the instrument: for instance, we might seek to communicate Siegfried's personality as revealed in the call, or we might focus on the universal symbolism revealed in it. With the synergy of fearlessness and awareness, the "horn call" is thus placed in a larger perspective.

Fearlessness is hampered when we let others define "success" for us. We should define success for ourselves within a context of ego, fearlessness, intelligence, openness and skill. Such a context is conducive to growth. Brooks Tillotson addressed fear and success in personal letter:

"Nervousness comes in and out of one's playing experience like so many unwelcome guests crashing a party. It is truly an outside experience trying to get in. Worst one of all is approval fear, definitely an outside influence... The player must concentrate keenly upon his musical equipment... and must be honest to himself and to no one else."

Unfortunately, sometimes we use platitudes such as "Just take a big breath, and..." or "Just ignore the audience," in an effort to overpower or obscure fear, rather than to remove it. Platitudes, like drugs, are temporary solutions which ignore or mask real problems. Temporary solutions most often come from outside sources, whereas permanent solutions generally arise from within. At best, temporary solutions produce courage--itself of limited value. Temporary solutions do not produce fearlessness and often also produce problems of their own, such as dependencies. Perhaps most sadly, temporary solutions weaken our inner resources, rendering us less able to cope with future problems, and with a concomitant loss of  "control."

CONTROL
We often think of fearless players as those who "control" their playing; we devote much of our practice to achieving such "control." In seeking control, however, we discover a paradox: although absolute control does not exist--perhaps no control really exists--we must behave as though it does.

This paradox is parallel to that encountered in the living-and-learning process. To live effectively, we must have beliefs upon which we act, despite the questionable accuracy of human perceptions and knowledge. Normal living-and-learning behavior is based on perceptions of truth, with the simultaneous realization that these perceptions might be incorrrect. Prejudicial behavior, while also based on perceptions of truth, does not recognize the possibility of error.

Regarding human perceptions and knowledge, remember that the world was flat until the fifteenth century; that water always flowed downhill until the discovery that it flows uphill as it approaches absolute zero degrees; and that Jeremiah Clarke's Trumpet Voluntary used to be composed by Henry Purcell.

Perhaps control does not exist. Witness the proverb, "Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans." We carefully prepare so that we may control a performance, then become ill the day of the concert. We purchase a fine instrument so that we may control our tone, then the instrument is stolen. During our practice, we meticulously learn to control the phrasing of a passage, then find that the conductor asks for a different rendition.

Indeed, one can see life as a series of inevitabilities. When we retrospectively analyze any event, we see the circumstances which, with seeming inevitability, led to its occurrence. Marcus Aurelius wrote, "Whatever happens at all happens as it should; thou wilt find this true, if thou shouldst watch narrowly." (Quoted in Lawrence Block's A Ticket to the Boneyard.) It is not surprising that we might conclude that we partially, or even completely, lack control of our destiny.

Each of us has to come to her or his own terms with this question. Henry Thoreau's terms were written in his journal: "A man's life should be as fresh as a river. It should be the same channel, but with a new water every instant." An ancient Latin epigrammist wrote "Fate leads those who are willing. The unwilling it drags."

No matter what our individual conclusions, we must behave as though some control is possible. In The Wisdom of Insecurity, Alan W. Watts addresses, in detail, the necessity for this behavior. To govern our life as if every moment is preordained would remove incentive or to examine our actions, our inner self, or to work toward increased awareness. (Incidentally, Newtonian physics is quite compatible with chaos theory--"chaotic" events are determinate, although unpredictable by man.)

While is is arrogant to believe that we can have complete control over anything--perhaps "influence" is a better word--let us also remember that, "chaos theory" notwithstanding, careful preparations in everyday life most often yield predictable results: we remain healthy; our Alexander is not stolen; and the conductor appreciates our musical instincts. Stan Getz said "I never play a note I don't mean," showing that playing can seem controllable--at least for Stan Getz!

In pondering the issue of "control," we should remember that it is easier to deal with issues while they are possibilities, rather than when they become realities. For example, it is easier to deal (by practicing) with the possibility of playing a passage poorly than to deal (by explanations, or by crawling into a hole) with the reality of having played poorly. Also, we should bear in mind that fear and surprise have many aspects in common. To the degree that we remove surprise, we also remove fear.

But, even seemingly achievable control can, by blocking spontaneity, sometimes be an obstacle to artistic music-making. We play our best when we attempt to control that which we can and ought to control. We play our poorest when we attempt to control the uncontrollable, or that which ought not to be controlled. Ironically, fear of loss of control can become a self-fulfilling cycle, like the drunkard in Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, who drinks to forget he is a drunkard.

Accepting the nature of control helps us achieve a realistic balance between playing with control and playing with abandon. The appropriate balance differs from person to person. But, whatever the balance, there will be times during which we must gracefully "abandon the driver's seat." To play--or to live--beautifully, we need balance between strength (awareness, caring, application, predictability and skill) and vulnerability (abandon and spontaneity). In Sacred Clowns, Tony Hillerman wrote the folowing:

"The way he understood hozho was hard to put into words. I'll use an example. Terrible drought, crops dead, sheep dying. Spring dried out. No water. The Hopi, or the Christian, maybe the Moslem, they pray for rain. the Navajo has the proper ceremony done to restore himself to harmony with the frought. You see what I mean. The system is designed to recognize what's beyond human power to change, and then to change the human's attitude to be content with the inevitable." (Hozho  is the Navajo metaphysical concept of the harmony of nature.)

Caring about something does not necessarily mean controlling it. Maclean, in A River Runs Through It, describes his fishing rod: "It was wrapped with red and blue silk thread, and the wrappings were carefully spaced to make the delicate rod powerful but not so stiff it could not tremble."

Some things we control; some we do not. When we judiciously esercise control--with knowledge and humility--we somewhat control our journey (expressing our "power") while simultaneously we relinquish control (our "trembling"). When "control" ceases to be an issue, our actions are natural, spiritual, strong, beautiful: they are grounded in truth.

Truth, as well as nature, spirit, strength, and beauty, are interchangeable verities, all facets of, or different names for, the same diamond--Qi, the life force. Many great minds and spirits allude to this concept in various ways. The three following examples can strengthen our resolve to reveal truth through our music, truth being that which is true, as well as that which potentially is true.

First, the final lines from John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn": "Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that  is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Next, Carl Nielsen, explaining the germ of his "Inextinguishable) Symphony, wrote this program note:

"In case the world were devastated...then nature would still begin to breed new life again, begin to push forward again with all the fine and strong forces inherent in matter....These forces, which are inextinguishable," I have tried to represent."

Finally,  we can be inspired by the following statement by the great Indian mathematician Ramunajan, as quoted in Robert Kanigel's The Man Who Knew Infinity: "An equation for me has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of God."

Also, "control" can be understood through a belief in the goodness of the universe. There are several aspects to maintaining this belief: the ability to trust ourselves, others, and nature; the knowledge of self; a stance of non-defensiveness; the possession of  true-ego; and an understanding of the nature of truth.

Belief in the goodness of the universe is both an aid to gaining, and is a product of, awareness. Such belief is more easily maintained if we remember that every event is benevolent to someone or something: a rain that spoils our picnic is good for the plants; a death that saddens us enriches the soil.

Belief in the benevolence of the universe, however, does not nullify our responsibility to behave as positively as possible. In Shambhala--the Sacred Path of the Warrior, Chogyam Trungpa wrote:

"It is not just an arbitrary idea that the world is good, but it is good because we can experience its goodness. We can experience our world as healthy and straightforward, direct and real, because our nature is to go along with the goodness of situations. The human potential for intelligence and dignity is attuned to experiencing the brilliance of the bright blue sky, the freshness of green fields, and the beauty of the trees and mountains. We have an actual connection to reality that can wake us up and make us feel basically, fundamentally good. Shambhala vision is tuning in to our ability to wake ourselves up and recognize that goodness can happen to us. in fact, it is happening already."

Later, he states that,

"The discovery of basic beauty is not a religious experience, particularly. Rather it is the realization that we can directly experience and work with reality, the real world that we are in. Experiencing the basic goodness of our lives makes us feel that we are intelligent and decent people, and that the world is not a threat. When we see that our lives are genuine and good, we do not have to deceive ourselves or other people.  We can see our shortcomings without feeling guilty or inadequate; and at the same time, we can see our potential for extending goodness to others. We can tell the truth straightforwardly and be absolutely open, but steadfast at the same time."

PATHS TOWARD FEARLESSNESS
While the most serious study of ourselves and of our interconnections to the world would be optimum, some of us choose less time-consuming and complex paths toward fearessness. Such popular approaches to fearlessness deal with the way we are--they try to maximize the possibilities within the way we are.

Among myriad popular meditational, philosophical, and literary approaches to fearlessness are Transcendental Meditation, and books such as A Soprano on Her Head (Eloise Ristad), Why Man Takes Chances (edited by Samuel Z. Klausner), and Claude M. Bristol's The Magic of Believing. (The last was a favorite of Philip Farkas.)

Many fears are of common types. Some are acquired early in life, others in adolescence and adulthood. Often, they are intentionally or unintentionally conveyed by parents, teachers, and other authority figures. The scenario of a common early-acquired fear is an authority figure communicating to us, at a vulnerable time, his or her fear of a passage, and our subsequent fearing of the passage--even before we attempt to play it.

As adults, some us retain these debilitating early-formed fears. Examples of problems that may be formed early in life are poor self-image, self-destructive personality, blocked emotional paths, fear of failure (or of success), and agoraphobia. Some players are so debilitated by these or other core problems--no matter when they were acquired--that they cannot function at all. These players have no alternative to confronting their problems, using strong traditional or non-traditional psychotherapies. (Even players with minor issues, however, would benefit from psychotherapy.)

Deep psychotherapeutic approaches profoundly transform the way we are. Traditional Western psychotherapies, such as Freudian, Jungian, Maslovian, and Perlsian are, not surprisingly, the powerful medicines most commonly employed in our Western society. Also, there are systems that combine facets of several types of therapy. Jerome Frank's Persuasion and Healing provides a wealth of information on the nature of available psychotherapies.

Of course, not all therapists are equally skilled, nor is any method of psychotherapy appropriate for every person. Undergoing any kind of psychotherapy is a difficult, frustrating, embarrasing, and painful experience. In addition, psychotherapy demands a considerable commitment of emergy, money, and time. (Jungian or Freudian analysis can take many years.) But, for those in need of psychotherapy, its costs are small compared to the costs of not undertaking it.

Less commonly, non-traditional spiritual or religious paths, such as Gurdjieff's "Work," and Shambhala Training are undertaken. For example, Gurdjieff's "Work" is a system of knowledge, self-observance, and visceral exercises, all of which share the goal of increasing our self- and other-awareness; Gurdjieff calls this goal "awakening." In "The Work," much attention is given to observing the habits and other automatic reactions that underlie (and undermine) much of what we do, and which result in our "sleeping" through our lives.

"The Work" is a visceral and difficult undertaking--it is more challenging than any other activity with which I am familiar. Although it is effective, "The Work" also is very intense. Those about to begin "The Work" must first ensure that they possess sufficient stability to withstand its demands. In Search of the Miraculous (P. D. Ouspensky) is an excellent introduction to, but not a substitute for, engagement in "The Work."

Shambhala Training--The Sacred Path of the Warrior--addresses fearlessness straight-on. This training is accomplished on several levels, consisting of meditations, classes, discussions, and individual work with teachers. Constituents of fear and fearlessness, such as habits, goodness, and renunciations are examined. Like Gurdjieff's "Work," Shambhala Training is a serious undertaking. The book, Shambhala--The Sacred Path of the Warrior--provides an explanation of the path, but is not, in common with In Search of the Miraculous, a substitute for visceral experience of the studies.

As we navigate the obstacles on the road to awareness and fearlessness, we ought constantly to remember that music making is at heart a joyful activity. The French call music le jeu de notes (the game of notes). It is to experience this jeu that we are musicians. While we must, with utmost seriousness, remove any obstacles to experiencing this joy, let us remember Philip Farkas's statement in The Art of French Horn Playing: "... remind yourself occasionally that your work comes under the heading of entertainment. You are not about to perform an operation in which someone's life will be at stake."

ORCHESTRAL AUDITION-TAKING
Whether we are fearless (aware) or we are fearful (unaware), there are many ways to prepare for, and conduct ourselves at, a symphony audition--the kind of auditions most of us take. The remainder of this chapter is devoted to these techniques.

Like many other activities, an audition can be approached grudgingly and stintingly, or as an activity worthy of our best resources: intelligence, perseverance, sensitivity, and ethical grounding. Given its importance to our careers, our approach ought to be the latter. (Within the constraints of time and energy, of course it always is best to approach anything that we do with our finest resources--even if for no other reason than to perpare ourselves to do something else beautifully.)

Before we proceed, I wish to make two points for those musicians who are new to this monstrous necessity.

First, we must be maniacal about every audition we take; we must temporarily live for it; we must direct all of our energy toward it. Whether or not we do so, someone else will. Recall the comment made after a Super Bowl in which the Pittsburgh Steelers soundly beat the Los Angeles Rams: "The Rams came here to play, but the Steelers came here to win. The outcome never was in doubt." (Of course, the most interesting situations are those in which both teams-or several auditionees--come "to win.")

Second, novice audition-takers must be certain that they are on a level--musically and technically--to play a credible audition, even if they do not realisticaly expect to win the position. There can be no "throw-away" auditions. A poorly played audition might well forestall future employment with the same or other orchestras, or by the conductor hearing the audition. Often, conductors recall or keep notes on auditionees, and discuss with each other the pool of available players.

By definition, an audition cannot be fear-provoking to a fearless person. Most of us, however, are not yet fearless. As Henry Allen wrote in Newsday in 1990, "We may very well have nothing to fear but fear itself, but we do have fear itself."

As long as we "do have fear itself,"--that is, until we become genuinely fearless--I recommend adopting, throughout the chronology of the audition process, the facade of the following "fierce" posture: we are granting a favor by auditioning. (The facade also serves another purpose. By changing our outer posture we may change our inner posture. At that point, the facade or posture is no longer an illusion.)

Our job at  an audition is to get the job. It is not necessarily to "play well" according to our definition of playing well. At an audition, the chances are small that we will convince a conductor or a committee that our way of playing a passage is better than theirs. We should therefore play in a manner that we know will please the conductor and committee, provided that so doing does not conflict with any fundamental ethical or musical principles. There are some elements of musicianship--they vary from musician to musician-with which we must be as flexible as possible, and others with which we must be inflexible. (Incidentally, this is not intended to imply that conductors generally make unmusical demands. Most do not, and in any case, they are as entitled to their opinions as we are to ours.)

Metropolitan Opera hornist Richard Moore used to counsel his students to show a conductor that you are "his or her kind of player." I add to Moore's advice only that we should do so from a position of strength, and not out of desperation, ignorance, weakness, or malleability. There are so many non-musical and extra-musical elements present at an audition that some modification of our normal musical ways are inevitable and justified.

Music-making and auditioning are, in several ways, different from each other. Auditioning is an outer and public activity performed for an audience. Artistic music-making is an inner and personal activity, only incidentally shared with an audience. Also, an audition unnaturally emphasizes a single performance, unlike a concert that most often is part of a season of performances.

Some readers will correctly call manipulative some of the suggestions contained here. I stress that to perform beautifully in an orchestra, we must first be hired--we must jump through the surreal "hoop" of an audition before we can begin the real task of music-making. Incidentally, this requirement is not limited to music-makers: all fields have their hoops. Even Jonas Salk had to endure some of the nonsensical aspects of medical school training before he could begin his real work.

Of course, after passing an audition we must work with our new employer. Therefore, we ought to accept only a position within which we can live somewhat contentedly--while we prepare for the next audition. There is also this practical consideration: as Vince Lombardi said, "If you are not fired with enthusiasm, you will be fired--with enthusiasm."

In preparing for an audition, it is useful to approximate as closely as possible all of the circumstances related to the audition--both the outer conditions and our expected inner state. If we are familiar with the accoustical properties of the audition hall, often we can approximate them at home, by strategic placements of furniture or pillows. Occasionally, we can arrange for practice time in the actual hall. Also, it helps to eat only the kind of food we expect to eat before the audition, and practice while wearing the clothing that we will wear for it. In addition, it is useful to practice while sitting on the type of chair we will occupy in the audition hall. Hornists know, because of our need to positon the bell on our leg, the necessity of adjusting to chairs of varied heights. (Of course, this is not a concern for those who hold the bell free of their leg.)

By ascending and descending staircases, we can approximate the out-of-breath, heart-pounding feeling sometimes experienced at auditions. For some, hunger helps to approximate the emotional and physical sensations caused by nervousness.

While often we research the business aspects of the orchestra for which we are auditoning, sometimes we neglect investigating its musical facets. Do the orchestra and conductor specialize in a specific repertoire? Does the conductor have a preference for a specific horn tone? Does the horn section prefer a specific make or style of instrument and, if so, is it flexible about this preference? Has the orchestra recently performed compositions featuring prominent horn passages? If so, these passage might remain on the conductor's mind and be requested at the audition. If we know members of the orchestra, questioning them often yields useful information.

Nearly always, we are provided with a list of excerpts to prepare. It is instructive to listen to the orchestra's or the conductor's recorded versions of these compositions, if such exist. If not, we must prepare the excerpts in many styles and an varied tempi. Also, we should constantly change the order in which we practice the excerpts--if we repeatedly "go through the list," often we begin to hear the excerpts as elements of a single "composition." It can be disquieting to be asked to play this "composition" out of chronological order.

For several reasons, it is best to learn the excerpts--and their adjacent passages or, optimally, the complete composition--from actual parts, rather than from excerpt books. At most auditions, we play from actual parts, and sometimes the conductor will ask that we continue past the portion quoted in the excerpt book, or will request to hear a passage that she or he remembers as problematic--even though it is not on the list of excerpts. In addition, we might be upset if the excerpt is visually different from what we have practiced.

We must be aware of the unwelcome possibility of learning the excerpts incorrectly because of mistakes in our excerpt books; some of the books are carelessly edited. (My generation of horn players incorrectly learned a passage in The Barber of Seville from a then-popular excerpt book.)  It is helpful to memorize the excerpts, including every nuance in the notation. This ensures that the excerpts are given much attention, and it may provide an informal oportunity to demonstrate our intimate knowledge of the repertoire and, by implication, our vast experience of performing it.

We must plan in advance our strategy in regard to missteps. After errors, we can either request another opportunity to play the passage, or simply proceed to something new. Correcting an error on a second atempt is helpful, but repeating the error is not. The first communicates self-confidence and self-awareness, whereas the latter conveys a lack of both self-awareness and good judgment.

Whenever feasible, it is best to arrive at an audition site the day before the audition--at the least, four or five hours before our scheduled time. Considering the importance of the occasion, as well as the energy and money we have already invested in the event, it is sensible to secure every posible advantage to play well. Reserving a comfortable room and taking good meals also is part of this strategy. In many ways, an audition trip can be compared to a short tour.

We should handle our "warm-up" procedure carefully. The physical and emotional disadvantages of insufficiently or overly warming-up are obvious. Disadvantages also apply to repeatedly warming-up.

Most auditions begin with the playing of a self-chosen composition. Moores' advice on this subject was to "play something that you can play in your sleep." Some conductors will disqualify players immediately after a poor a rendition of the first offering. Others will politely listen for a few more minutes, but with diminished interest in the player. Assuredly, we will be asked to play "cliff-hangers" in later rounds the audition, but first we must ensure that we are present at the later rounds.

When an audition proceeds according to the announced schedule, we can base our warm-up procedure on it. If the session get ahead of schedule, we must adjust--but "fiercely." If we have not adequately warmed- or rewarmed-up, we should firmly request sufficient time before we play our audition. We must not allow ourselves to be rushed; it is senseless to prepare carefully for an audition, and then allow ourselves to be upset by a last-minute schedule change.

Several strategies are helpful at the final, sight-reading portion of the audition. One is to gain time to study the music--by the expedient of emptying the horn, or by adjusting a tuning slide, our chair, or the music stand. Also, it is useful to mark the music as we would do for a rehearsal or for a performance. Adding personal notations both helps us to play well and, like playing from memory, demonstrates our professionalism. The biggest aid with respect to the sight-reading component of an audition, however, is accomplished during the years before we take an audition: learning the repertoire so thoroughly and learning composers's stylistic quirks so intimately that little ever is actually sight read.

We should keep a written record of all auditions that we take. This helps us to clarify our patterns and thus to precude our repeating mistakes; sometimes, small stones can trip us. It is best to do this immediately following each audition. The record should include everything that we can remember: for example, how we first learned of the opening; how we prepared musically; what we ate before the audition; how we were dressed for the audition; and so forth. We ought not to omit anything, and should consider both the inner and the outer aspects of the entire chronology of the event. What did we do? What did the world do?

If we bring newly-achieved fearlessness to an audition, already we have achieved considerable inner success, whether or not the "results" are those for which we had hoped. If we bring long-standing fearlessness, often we also enjoy outer success: we "get the job."

From "Pilgrimage" magazine (March/April 1995) :

The overriding issue in my life journey is learning to relate to the world in a healthy manner--to connect the me and the not-me; to understand I and thou. Throughout my journey, so far I have been fortunate to have been granted two epiphanies.

The first epiphany helped to frame the issue. It occurred during a children's science television show. (I believe that it was Watch Mister Wizard. Remember?)  It was Easter season and Mr W. discussed eggs. Specifically, he told us budding scientists that an embryonic chick receives oxygen through its shell and that its waste carbon dioxide escapes through the eggshell. Based on my experience of an eggshell as a solid wall, I wondered, How can gasses pass through a wall? Could the Wiz be wrong?

The next step in the journey occurred a few years later while I was reading my sister's chemistry textbook (and pretending that I was older than I was). I read about two kinds of relationships: mixtures and compounds. I learned that the components of  mixtures retain their individual characteristics; that they do not bond with each other; and that they do not produce new and stable entities--that they simply coexist within a defined area, like oil and vinegar dressing.

Conversely, I learned that the parts that comprise compounds lose all or most of their characteristcs; bond with each other; and produce new and more-or-less stable entities. Mayonnaise, I read, is a compound.

I rejected both kinds of relationships. Even in those salad (so to speak) days, I knew that I did not wish to retain my "stuff," my unique individuality, at the cost of not relating to other people, animals, or objects. But, neither was I willing to give up my "stuff" so that I could relate.

I began seriously searching for answers to this dilemma. I contacted organizations and and investigated religions that I thought might help me to understand eggs, salad dressings, and myself. I wondered if there were possibilities other than mixing and compounding. Finally, I discovered the Gurdjieff Foundation, located their building in Manhattan (no mean trick), and began studying--and later teaching--the Gurdjieff "Work." From Gurdjieff, I learned that the first step to connecting with the rest of the world is to awaken the contents of my particular egg--both difficult and necessary work. This was the most challenging work that I had ever undertaken, and remains so. It could be said that the yolk was on me!

The other epiphany came serveral years later, when I read a magnificent book titled Children of the Universe (Hoimar von Ditfurth), and came upon the euphonic and visually delightful word syzygy. A syzygy is both a mixture and a compound. Being semi-permeable, an eggshell simultaneously separates its contents from the rest of the world through its semi-permeable shell, and connects its contents to the world through its semi-permeable shell. Thus, an eggshell is both a mixture and a compound--and a syzygy--and my faith in Mr Wizard was restored.

Cogently, I realized that syzygy relationships would permit me to keep my "stuff," but also allow me to relate to the cosmos in the healthiest ways. I saw that I must keep my wall to hold in my "stuff," but the wall must be permeable so that I can at the same time interact with the world.

For me, a relationship is worthwhile only if it allows me to retain my shell, and simultaneously to connect with the cosmos. On other words, my task is to keep the shell intact and permeable.

3) HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, WISDOM, TRUTH, AND THOUGHT

From "Mensa Bulletin" magazine (November 1999) :

Throughout With Aspirations High, I relentlessly use the phrases "human knowledge," "human wisdom," and "human truth,"  to remind us that, due to human fallibility, human attainment notwithstanding, human knowledge, wisdom, and truth are limited, mercurial, and unique. To build our unique musical human human truths, in part we must cultivate inclusive patterns of thought, so that we see "big pictures," rather than limited areas of pictures. Then, questions such as "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" become irrelevant: the "big picture" informs us that the human concept of time is a fallible human construct, and that chickens and eggs simply are.

Human beings gain human knowledge, such as that D major contains two sharps, through sensory observations and rational conclusions. Human knowledge reflects the frame of reference that "seeing is believing." Often, it's observations and conclusions are true and useful, but incomplete, human knowledge being only the first of two facets of the unity that I call "human truth."

The second facet of human truth is human wisdom. Unlike human knowledge, human wisdom is preceived through our intuitive, emotional, and spiritual senses. When applied to key signatures, human wisdom observes, for example, how D major affects us. We gain human wisdom--such as aesthetic truths, sensitivities, feelings, emotions, and intuitions--through extra-rational conclusions.

Human wisdom reverses the concept that "seeing is believing," and replaces it with the notion that "believing is seeing": that our viewpoints are the bases of our experiences. Like the products of human knowledge, those of human wisdom are true and useful, but incomplete in respect to human truth.

Throughout With Aspirations High, I offer several paradigms of human truth. The first is that human truth contains large quantities of high-quality human knowledge, and large quantities of high-quality human wisdom, co-existing in what soon we shall call "composite relationships." Other paradigms of human truth include human truth as a composite relationship of self- and other-awareness; as a composite of the products of meditation and contemplation; as a composite of both of our brain hemispheres; and as a composite of healthy reactions and responses. ("Responses" are intellectual, thoughtful, primarily left-brained, content-centered processes; whereas "reactions" are visceral, instinctive, thoughtless, primarily right-brained, form-centered processes. In benevolent relationships that include humans, the entities that are in composite relationship-- several people, or people with other animals or objects--simultaneously react and respond in healthy, productive ways.) Still another definition of human truth is suggested by an observation contained in an unpublished journal of noted Denver architect G. Cabell Childress. It implies that human truth is a composite relationship consisting of our external senses and our inner sensibilities:

"Perception Misses Reality                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Perception Is Reality"

A brief side-trip into the realm of relationship is necessary before we return to examine further human knowledge wisdom, and truth. Mixture relationships contain components that retain their individual characteristics; do not bond with each other; and have no humanly perceptible influences each other. Compound realtionships, on the other hand, contain components that surrender all or most of their characteristics; bond with each other; and form new, larger entities. No matter how apparently successful they might seem, both mixtures and compounds are incomplete in that either one represents only one aspect of a "big picture." Only composite relationships (which simultaneously contain mixtures and compounds) reveal "big pictures." Composite relationships accomplish this by transcending fear-riddled, rigid, limited (and limiting) dichotomies, such as lead/follow, hot/cold/ good/bad, up/down, and replacing them with fearless, fluid, and unlimited responses and reactions.

It is questionable whether humans ever can understand immutable Ultimate Truths. If they occasionally can, however, it is through leaps of faith and logic. Musicians are fortunate because daily we are in contact with the thoughts of uncommonly perceptive human beings, such as Bach, Glass, and Stravinsky. Arguably, such musicians perceived--or perceive--Ultimate Truths. In regard to this, Daniel Morganstern, principal 'cellist for the Lyric Opera of Chicaho, in a private correspondence observed that:

"As a Christian believes that God spoke directly to Jesus, and a Muslim believes that God spoke directly to Mohammed, I believe that God spoke directly to Schubert and Beethoven in the language of music, and that belief has sustained and enriched me throughout my life. To spend one's life in the company of genius is the major compensation of being a musician."

Of course, we should adhere to the convictions that are generated by our human truths: we believe what we believe, and we are correct to act according to these beliefs. But, even as we passionately follow our convictions, we must periodically reassess even our dearest, longest-held, and most strongly entrenched human truths, to ensure that we maintain inner environments that encourage expanding and evolving human truths.

Most definitions of human truth include or imply alignment with the Principle of Creation that many Westerners call God; that some Easterners call Gods or aspects of God, as exemplified by the Hindu prayer, Vishnu-Sahasranama (The Thousand Names of God); and that still others call Tao, Nature, or the Big Bang. Throughout With Aspiration High, I call this Principle "The First Cause."

Unlike Ultimate Truths, human truths are mercurial and different from person to person, from culture to culture, and from location to location. But, at proverbial "moments of (human) truth," our unique human truths should reflect only our unique human knowledge and our unique human wisdom.

Artistic musical performance presents human truths within webs of composite relationships. Composers notate their human truths. Afterward, performers re-create composers's human truths and add their human truths. Then, audiences add their human truths. When performances are reviewed empathetically, reviewers re-create the above-mentioned human truths, and add their human truths to this ever-expanding web.

As it is useful to distinguish human knowledge from human wisdom, it is useful to distinguish between paths leading toward human knowledge and toward human truth. If we wish to choose one of the paths described below, or to forge an entirely different one, first we must aware of the choices and be able to choose from them. The first and most commonly followed path toward human knowledge and human wisdom begins with thought. "Thought" includes emotion, instinct, intuition, and reason, and increases our general awareness and presence in each moment, and suggests solutions to the myriad challenges intrinsic to making music. Indeed, some theologians and philosophers believed--and believe--that thought is the only reality. Even if some of us do not share this belief, most of us nevertheless have experienced moments during which changed or tranformed thoughts have changed or transformed our realities.

On the first path, thought produces experience, and experience produces human knowledge through response, human wisdom through reaction, or perhaps both, in the form of human truth. To illustrate, we might entertain the thought that it is dangerous to cross a street without looking to see if cars are approaching. This thought leads to the experience of looking both ways, and  produces human knowledge in regard to caring for our physical beings, and possibly produces human wisdom with respect to the correlation between our outer health and our inner well-being. For musicians, the thought that a note would sound best if played with a specific timbre might lead to the experience of playing the note in that manner. This produces human knowledge that the thought was appropraite or inappropriate, and thus yields an element of human aesthetic wisdom.

As we shall see, experience is intrinsic to all human truth, and therefore is an element in both paths. On the first path, however, sometimes thought and experience occur in a compound relationship and thought is overshadowed by a reaction, a response, or both, and experience seems to be absent. For example, many of us have simultaneously had the thought that a fly is annoying us (a reaction) and, simultaneously, the experience of brushing it away (a response). But, although the thought of annoyance was overshadowed by the experience of brushing away the fly, thought nevertheless was present in the episode.

Changes may be large or small, but in all cases are limited alterations of thoughts, behaviors, or of both. For instance, we may change our clothing. On the other hand, transformations may be understood to be all-encompassing metamorphoses. For example, everything appears different when it is seen from a transformed viewpoint, such as through the lenses of sunglasses or through a kindly state of mind. Change does not always lead to transformmation, but transformation always contains elements of change.

The second, less commonly taken path begins with experience, rather than with thought. For example, on this path we might experience a visceral, thoughtless reaction or reflex, such as shivering when we are cold. As on the first path, this experience produces human knowledge, human wisdom, or human truth. But, while sometimes it might be unclear that the first path contains thought, clearly, the second path does not.

When musicians distinguish between change and transformation, we can use these bits of information to influence our choices as performers, as teachers, and in our everyday lives. For example, as teachers we might choose to impart to our students our unique human truths in regard to phrasing specific passages. If we so choose, at the following lesson we must repeat this process when we address a different passage, and again at the following session, and so forth. In this case, our students learn to change their phrasing of specific passages, and only later learn to generalize about phrasing. On the other hand (and more efficiently, in my opinion), we might choose to teach our students our human truths in regard to the principles of phrasing. In so choosing, we help our students to transform their understanding of all pasages, reminiscent of the idea that if we give someone a fish, that person has a meal that day. But if we teach someone how to fish, he or she has food every day. To a large degree, our musical nourishment is attained by examining our thoughts and our human truths. With more than a passing nod to Socrates, only examined musical lives are worth living.

4) FREQUENCY AND PITCH VIS A VIS HUMAN WISDOM, KNOWLEDGE, AND TRUTH

Dictionaries define "knowledge" as a body of information, "wisdom" as a body of insights; and "truth" as the body of reality. Whereas these definitions are useful in general, for them to be most useful to musicians we must examine and expand these concepts. An underlying theme in this brief article being the idea of "human knowledge," "human wisdom," and their synthesis, "human truth, I will relentlessly preface the words "wisdom," "knowledge," and "truth" with "human." This will serve to remind all of us that due to the fallibility of human minds, bodies, and perceptions--human attainment notwithstanding--human knowledge, wisdom, and truth are intrinsically limited and mercurial; we humans simply do our best.

As we apply human truths to music, it becomes apparent that music is an organism. Like other organisms, music both interconnects to other organisms and contains inner aspects. If we wish to understand music, it is useful to dissect it into these aspects. (Incidentally, I disagree with the idea that "analysis leads to paralysis." Whereas analysis can produce paralysis, analysis does not inevitably lead to paralysis—"paralysis" being defined as the inability to react and respond to an element of life. Instead, I believe that ignorance leads to paralysis.)

I believe that human knowledge always is better than human ignorance. So did Socrates, who taught that "the only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance." With a nod to Socrates, let us examine the musical aspects of pitch and frequency.

"Pitch" describes our perception of highness or lowness in a sound, and "frequency" refers to an objective and measurable number of cycles per second. Often, pitch and frequency are identical, and in such cases the terms that we use to describe them often are used interchangeably. But, when measurable frequencies must differ from perceived pitches—as when a note must have a frequency of 440 cycles per second, but be perceived as sharper or flatter than 440 cycles, we must choose our words and apply these concepts carefully.

A situation in which a frequency and pitch must convey opposing information is one in which a note is simultaneously the third of a major chord, and the leading tone in a scale. The frequency of such a note can be physically lowered, and at the same time its pitch can be raised—perhaps by singing or playing it with a brightened timbre or at a louder dynamic level.

The precise frequency and pitch of a note are determined by its location with a key, its psychological and emotional requirements within its musical context; sometimes, by its harmonic function; and whether it is part of a tempered or an untempered scale. Occasionally, we raise the pitch or change the frequency of isolated notes to communicate a sense of excitement, whether momentary or generalized. In other contexts, we change the pitch or lower the prevailing pitch or the pitch of isolated notes to convey moods of momentary or generalized tranquility.

To produce precise frequencies, string players make fine adjustments on the strings of their instruments. Wind players's techniques toward the same end include specialized tunings and adjustments of embouchures. Percussionists's methods include adjusting their instruments, such as changing the tension of drumheads (especially on timpani), and carefully choosing the size, materials, and density of their drums, sticks, mallets, gourds, woodblocks, cymbals, and so forth.

Pianists and players of equal tempered instruments are denied the luxury of adjusting their pitch within scale contexts. These musicians can, however, imply sharpness or flatness (in other words, they can change perceived pitches) through alterations of timbre and dynamics. Frequencies that they convey with dark timbre imply flatness, whereas those that they convey with bright timbre imply sharpness; frequencies that they communicate loudly imply sharpness, whereas frequencies communicated softly imply flatness.

Although all organisms contain inner elements and outer connections, we must actively confirm these relationships through our awareness and by our conscious actions, rather than through automatic actions. There is an essential difference between, for instance, choosing to put ice cream on cake, and automatically putting the ice cream on cake because grandpa used to do so: the first action represents a human truth, whereas the second simply represents a habit.

In making music, often it is appropriate to sing, to play, or to conduct a passage in a standard way—after all, standards are standards for good reasons. But, like choosing to put ice cream on cake, to convey our human truths we must choose to play a passage in a standard manner, rather than automatically to follow habits, conventions, teachers, or peers. Then, we experience the goal of teaching: communicating our human truths, so that they may be filtered through the human truths of our students.

5) ALL-DAY MUSIC LESSONS

Years ago, while I was writing Living Dangerously with the Horn: Thoughts on Life and Art, I had an epiphany. Pondering the nature of allopathic and homeopathic medical systems for a chapter dealing with "health," I realized that if the macrocosm that we call the universe is simply an organism containing myriad interconnections, then unknowingly I had gained both musical knowledge and musical wisdom from every past discussion, situation, or activity in which I had ever been involved, no matter what its ostensible subject or focus. As if to reinforce this thought, at the same time I recalled that the music of American avant-garde composer John Cage is based on the idea that any so-called differences between music and non-music are illusory: i. e., that every sound is music.

Without meaning to look this particular gift horse in the mouth(piece), also I realized that this must have been true in both directions: that also I had learned about the universe in the process of learning to be a musician. For instance, I saw that the color and projection of the sound of a railroad horn had taught me much about the color and projection needed for playing low notes on a French horn. Similarly, I perceived that my studies of athletic training methods had instructed me about approaching the athletic aspects of playing the horn; that the contradictory crustiness/creaminess of a freshly-baked baguette had shown me how to approach the delicious crusty/creamy contradictions in the music of Francis Poulenc; and that the passion I had encountered in reading Juan Ramón Jiménez's Platero and I had prepared me to play the passionate compositions of Carl Nielsen.

In turn, I saw that by being "around" Beethoven's titanic spirit, I had learned much about my sprit; that I had brought my understanding of the complexities of Bach fugues to my understanding of my many roles, functions, and relationships in everyday life; and that I had brought my experience of the intensity in John Coltrane's free jazz to many intense, extra-musical aspects of daily living.

More than ever — and for this, I am grateful for Russian mystic and philosopher G. I. Gurdjieff's "Work" — I see that by constantly striving to be more responsive and reactive to every musician and to every non-musician, as well as to every musical and to every non-musical activity, past music lessons continue to be transformed into lessons in extra-musical living, and that seemingly mundane daily moments still are transformed into all-day music lessons.

6) THE EXERCISE FROM HADES

From "The Horn Call" magazine (February 2002) :

The challenging exercise that follows brings together several elements of music making. It asks us simultaneously to convey many of the ever-changing elements of music, including frequency and pitch, dynamic level, timbre, tempo, meter, and clef. The ability to do so is pertinent to the realities of modern freelance horn playing, in which freelance players must be adept at frequently changing their “hats,” to play most effectively in varying horn sections and in many styles, i.e., Broadway musical, swing, symphony orchestra, commercial, and jazz. Likewise, symphony players may be required to play in many styles within a season, a performance, or even within a single composition.

Fortunately, as pianist Glenn Gould averred -- and demonstrated both in his piano performances and in his unique radio programs for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation -- we are capable of simultaneously comprehending and conveying much more information, both musical and non-musical, than we usually assume. To me, the most plausible explanation of this capability is that musical information is simply a form of thought, and that thought travels through our nervous system at the speed of light.

If necessary, the challenges in this exercise -- which has been described by one of my students as “The Exercise from Hades” -- at first can be mitigated by omitting or moderating one or several of its factors, such as by restricting the note range, or by ignoring the varying dynamic levels. On the other hand, the challenges can be enhanced, for example, by adding levels of dynamics, enlarging the note range, adding transpositions, or adding a timbre midway between dark and bright. Regarding the latter, “dark” and “bright” here refer to extremes of timbres, as compared to our everyday timbres. Few players’s everyday timbres are so dark or bright that they cannot be darkened or brightened.

Below are a few brief thoughts that straightforwardly apply to the terrors of the exercise.
 

Frequency and Pitch: In approaching the exercise, remember that “frequency” refers to the objective, measurable number of vibrations per second, whereas “pitch” refers to a subjective perception of a sound. In playing the exercise, consider the unrelated notes as unrelated -- that is, unattached to a key center -- and tune them in equal temperament, as on a piano. In other words, this exercise asks us to concentrate on frequencies, rather than on pitches. It therefore is helpful to compare each note to a fixed pitch, such as a tuning fork or an electronic tuner.

Dynamic Level: To convey as fully as possible the intentions both of composers and ourselves, it is essential that we have at our command more than the three more-or-less “standard” dynamic levels of soft, medium, and loud. It is unlikely that we could ever express ourselves completely on only three levels. In the exercise, be sure that each of the six dynamic levels between pp and ff remains consistent throughout the exercise, irrespective of the frequency, timbre, duration, and beat/rhythmic placement of the note to which it applies.

Timbre: A combination of right hand adjustments and alternate fingerings usually provides a sufficient arsenal to produce whatever timbres we desire. As remarked about dynamic levels above, make sure that every note marked “D” (dark timbre) matches exactly every other note marked “D” and, of course, the same standard should be applied to “B” (bright timbre).

Tempo: Throughout the exercise, maintain a constant metronome marking of quarter note = 60.

Meter: Place accents within each measure correctly, according to the accented or unaccented beats within the meter of the specific bar.

Clef: The exercise is intended to help hornists become equally facile at reading the treble and bass clefs.

Years ago, I devised this exercise to help fulfill my desire to express both a composers’s and my musical ideas. To the same end, others should alter this exercise according to their musical visions.
 

7) The Instruments of the Orchestra
The precursor of the modern, full-sized orchestra, Franz Joseph Haydn’s (1732-1809) "classical" orchestra, was formed by expanding the string quartet (two violins, one viola, and a cello), and adding pairs of wind instruments and percussion, as needed.

The modern orchestra builds upon Haydn’s vision. The ensemble consists of four choirs of instruments. They appear in a conductor’s score (reading downward), as woodwinds, brasses, percussion, and strings. Herewith, basic descriptions of these instruments.

A few preliminaries are in order. First, the smaller the instrument, the smaller the column of vibrating air, string, wood, or metal, and the higher the notes that it plays. Second, we categorize the instruments by how they are played, rather than by the materials out of which they are made. For example, cymbals are made of brass, yet are percussion instruments. Third, we shall limit ourselves to the instruments of the modern orchestra, thus excluding such worthy instruments as the guitar.

The primary woodwind instruments, omitting their smaller or larger relatives (e.g., a larger bassoon, called the "contrabassoon") are the flute, oboe clarinet, and bassoon. With one exception, woodwind players produce their basic sounds by blowing through either the "double reeds" (made from two pieces of bamboo) that are employed by oboists and bassoonists; or across the "single reeds," made from single pieces of wood, that are used by clarinetists. The now-vibrating air produces a sound, called a "crow." Flutists use no reeds, instead making their basic sound by blowing air across a hole in the mouthpiece.

On each of these instruments, the basic sound is directed higher or lower by shortening or lengthening the column of vibrating air. This is accomplished by manipulating "keys" that open or close precisely placed holes. Although we cannot be certain, the founder of this family may have been an early homo sapiens who put a piece of grass in his mouth (an irresistible, spring-day inclination while walking through a meadow), breathed across it, and relished the sound thus produced.

The main brass instruments (they have relatives, too) are the French horn (usually, called "horn"), trumpet, trombone, and tuba. Brass players produce their basic sound by buzzing their lips into (expensive) tubes. They transform this buzz into high or low notes by a combination of adjusting the tension of their lips and, with one exception, by changing the length of their instruments with valves that control extra lengths of tubing fastened to their instruments. Uniquely, trombonists change the length of their instruments by moving their "slides." The founder of the brass family possibly was a hunter/fisherman blowing into a seashell to obtain dinner, and inadvertently causing the shell to "sound."

Next on the score comes the percussion family. This group makes its sound by striking an object with another. Percussion instruments are subdivided into four groups: membranophones, cymbals, mallets, and "toys." Membranophones are drums, and are played with sticks. Most commonly used are the tympani (tuned to specific notes, and usually used in pairs), and untuned snare drums. Orchestral cymbals usually are of the "crash" variety, and are played by striking one against the other. Mallet instruments consist of tuned blocks of metal or wood set on a stand, and played with sticks. Most commonly found is the xylophone. The "toys" consist of instruments that can be carried in a pocket, such as finger cymbals. The origin of this family surely was the universal noticing that sound results when objects strike each other.

The largest choir in the orchestra is the string section, consisting of the violin, viola, violoncello (usually shortened to "cello"), and kontrabass (abbreviated "bass"). String players produce their basic sound by drawing the hairs attached to a stick, called a "bow," across four strings, tuned five notes apart (in musician lingo, a perfect "fifth"). At the same time, string players depress the strings, effectively shortening them, and changing the resulting pitches.

Orchestral string instruments are unfretted. Unlike, for example, guitars, they lack ridges along the fingerboard to guide finger placement.
The discoverer of these instruments might well be our old friend, the hunter/fisherman, this time in dual roles: bow hunter and, by relishing the sound of his twanging bow string, "music critic." Thus, along with his dinner came his dinner music.

8) What DOES a Conductor Do?

At a "pops" concert, it is common to invite (let’s face it: "coerce") an audience member into "conducting" the orchestra in a reading of, for example, a Sousa march. This is good fun: the newly minted maestro or maestra leaves the stage in a state of excitement. But, at the same time, some members of the audience leave in a state of confusion.

Often, they wonder, How important is a conductor? What can be so difficult about conducting if my neighbor can do it "cold?" This perplexity is compounded when they consider that as well as conductors of orchestras, there are conductors of choruses, operas, ballets, Broadway musicals, popular music, and commercial "jingles." In short, these audience members wonder, what DOES a conductor do?

The difficulty of answering this question reflects the complexity of the task to which it refers. Here, we limit our answer to the duties of the conductors whom we hear most often, live, and on compact disks, television, and radio: professional conductors of professional orchestras. Of course, some of these duties are the same as those of other types of conductors.

A conductor’s two main musical activities concern LEARNING the score (the complete printed parts for each instrument), and INTERPRETING the score (conveying the maestro’s conception of the piece).

In regard to the first, a conductor must learn every note, dynamic level (loudness), articulation, tempo change, and any other markings in the score, and make sure that the players execute them.

En route, a conductor confronts such thorny complications as reading the array of clefs used by different instruments (a clef locates one note on a five-line staff, thereby implying the location of the other notes). This task is like reading lines in several languages simultaneously. Furthermore, she must transpose (mentally change the key of some of the printed parts). For acoustical reasons, such instruments as clarinets, trumpets, and horns play notes with two identities. The first identity is as a "written pitch"; the second is as a "concert pitch." A conductor is required to read the written pitch in the score, and translate it into its concert pitch. (Expanding on the analogy above, now, in addition to reading lines in several languages simultaneously, some of these lines are as if printed upside down.)

At this point, the foundation for the second, and paramount, duty has been prepared. This duty is to interpret the score: i.e., to bring both his and the composer’s personalities, visions, experiences, aggregated wisdom, and accumulated knowledge to the fore. This explains why two recordings of the same composition may differ greatly (neither one is "right" or "wrong").

In deciding a unique interpretation of a composition, a conductor also considers such factors as the acoustical nature of the hall in which it plays; the historical placement of the composition, and hence its "style"; the sound of a particular aggregate of players; and a possible preference for either blended sound (Ricardo Muti is one master of achieving this), or for producing clarity of line (the genius, for example, of Pierre Boulez.
In addition, along with their musical responsibilities, a professional orchestral conductor confronts extra-musical tasks. These include hiring and firing personnel; deciding such "business" issues as salary and tenure; representing the orchestra to the public; and choosing the overall nature of the orchestra’s repertoire and the contents of specific programs. In turn, programming involves deciding whether the orchestra’s concerts should be challenging or entertaining (or both) to the audiences; and, if both, in what proportion?

Finally, there remains the daunting psychological challenge of working with a group of highly trained high-strung professionals, all with strong, valid musical ideas of their own. In his delicious classic, A Smattering of Ignorance, pianist and storyteller Oscar Levant observed that many orchestra members view their relationships to their bosses as one between, "a hundred men and a louse."

9) Music of the Baroque Period
The music of the Baroque (1600-1775, approximately) is fascinating in that its nature is complex … and often self-contradictory. Even the upper case word "Baroque" has a meaning that contradicts lower case "baroque."

Upper case "Baroque" refers to the Baroque period, and conveys scorn. In 1768, French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau echoed popular sentiment when he described Baroque period music as follows: "The harmony is confused, full of changes of key and dissonances; the melodies are harsh and unnatural; the motion is constrained." Contradictorily, as an adjective, lower case "baroque" describes ornate work with implied admiration.

Either scorn or admiration of Baroque musical performances may be deserved. If Baroque musical lines are conveyed straightforwardly, with occasional and subtle embellishment, a pleasingly ornamented line results. If, on the other hand, the lines are overly embellished, an unpleasing musical experience ensues.

Readers wishing to compare Baroque music with other Baroque art may consider the writings of John Milton, Jean Baptiste Racine, and Moliere; and the paintings of Harmensz Rembrandt and Diego Velazquez.

Noted Baroque composers include Claudio Monteverdi, Arcangelo Corelli, Antonio Vivaldi, Henry Purcell, George Frideric Handel, Jean-Baptiste Lully, Georg Philipp Telemann, and, perhaps the greatest musician of all time, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Bach fathered twenty children, four of whom became composers. ("Bach" without initials refers to the father.) He spent his most productive years working as an organist and composer for St. Thomas’s Church, in Leipzig. Bach’s output includes many Cantatas, The Goldberg Variations, The Art of the Fugue, Mass in B Minor, A Musical Offering, Saint Matthew Passion, and six Brandenburg Concerti.

Like many other Baroque composers, Bach was deeply religious. Also, like other Baroque composers, he often "signed" his compositions not with his name, but instead with "S. G. D.," abbreviating "Soli Deo Gloria" (Only for the Glory of God).
Sometimes, this fine sentiment of humility leads to the confusing result of Baroque compositions composed by "Anonymous." Some Baroque works are surrounded with uncertainty. For example, thanks to musical scholarship, Henry Purcell’s famous Voluntary is now — maybe — by Jeremiah Clarke.

Most Baroque music is written in a style called "contrapuntal," which consists of several musical lines that are simultaneously independent and complementary to each other. An everyday example of counterpoint would be Frere Jacques and Three Blind Mice sung or played simultaneously. Thanks to the complexity of contrapuntal techniques, untold generations of music students have struggled mightily to master such forms as fugue, an extraordinarily complex style of composition in which a theme and counterthemes are imitated at different levels; and passacaglia, a series of variations on a theme, played over an eight measure chord pattern.

Larger scale Baroque forms include operas, which are large, staged productions that tell a story using vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra; oratorios, unstaged settings of a Biblical story, performed by vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra; cantatas, short settings of a story (often sacred, but sometimes secular) for voices and instruments; and concerti, compositions for a soloist, or soloists, with orchestral accompaniment.

The difference between countrapuntal Baroque music, and harmonic Classical, Romantic, and Modern music is one of proverbial "night-and-day." A sports comparison comes to mind: a Baroque baseball team would consist of equal players (ie, musical lines), who work well together (contrapuntally) to accomplish the team’s goal. On the other hand, a Classical, Romantic, or Modern baseball team would contain one superstar (a melody), and the remainder of the team (the harmony) would support the superstar.

Adding to its complexity is that Baroque music is highly improvised. Some of the improvised aspects include loudness level ("dynamics"); the speed of the repeated beat ("tempo"); and the manner in which notes are joined to one another ("articulations").

Embellishing figure are improvised on the spot. These figures include rapid alternations between printed notes and the notes above ("trills"); and notes that pass between two composed notes ("passing tones"). Furthermore, some Baroque music includes a basso continuo, an improvised bass line, usually provided by a low string instrument and a harpsichord or, in some cases, a piano.

Baroque contrapuntal music provides some of us with a challenge, and all of us with magic. The challenge for music-lovers is formidable: to comprehend both the music’s individual lines and the resulting mass of sound. At the same time, by simply by listening to Baroque music as a mass of sound, this magical music is accessible to music-likers and music-lovers alike.

10) The Miracle of Classical Music
The Classical period often is delineated as approximately 1775-1825, although opinions vary. "Classical" art may be defined as work that follows such principles of ancient Greek culture as directness, clearly delineated form, and strong sense of balance, as apparent in Greek drama and architecture. On the other hand, "classics" are works of enduring high quality.

Semantic confusions abound concerning "Classical," "classical" and "classic." Small efforts to disentangle such confusions yield large rewards: generally, increased knowledge tends to translate into increased enjoyment.

In music, the major source of semantic puzzlements is the common use of "Classical" to describe symphonies, cantatas, operas — indeed, all longhair music — no matter what its style or its time period. Another confusion is that when uttered, "classical" sounds the same as "Classical."

Writers about music have done much fancy-footwork while dancing around the Classical/classical/classic linguistic complications, arriving at solutions too humorous to mention. Some solutions are simply unhelpful, such as completely avoiding these language distinctions. Another unsatisfactory solution is to use such phrases as "art music" and "serious music" when referring to symphonies, operas, and so on. Unfortunately, such phrases implicitly demean other genres of music, such as popular music, folk music, and jazz, all of which can be "artful" and "serious."

A simple solution, and one that will be followed in these columns, is to employ "Classical" only in reference to music composed during the Classical period, and to renounce use of the lower case "classical." Then, lower case "classic" will be used either as an adjective or as a noun. Thus, a symphony of the Romantic period (approximately, between 1825-1910) by Johannes Brahms is "classic," a "classic," but it is not "Classical." Conversely, an opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is "classic," a "classic," and is "Classical."

In his 1929 Gifford Lectures, American philosopher John Dewey discussed two approaches to dealing with life’s uncertainties. One approach is to attempt to placate the perceived powers that buffet our lives. The other is to try to tame and order these powers, mostly through art.

Clearly, the arts of the Classical period are attempts to tame and to order life’s vagaries. In music, by following Classical sensibilities, some composers provided not only security and reassurance, but also overarching beauty. Furthermore, as we shall see, in so doing, they accomplished musical miracles.

The most noted Classical composers were, chronologically, Franz Joseph Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Franz Schubert. Often, the latter two are considered to be transitional to Romanticism — "on the cusp," as an astrologer might say.

For purposes of comparison, Classical painters include Frenchman Jacques Louis David and British landscape painter John Constable. Some Classical writers are Frenchmen Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire and Jean Jacques Rousseau, as well as British writer Jane Austen.

In a nutshell, Haydn is celebrated for bringing us out of the Baroque, and into the realm of Classicism. Furthermore, he invented the Classical orchestra, and the Classical symphony and string quartet forms. Although perhaps not the finest Classical composer, to his great credit, he was the first. Mozart wrote what is generally considered to be the most perfect, as well as some of the most perfectly-beautiful, music ever to grace our planet. Beethoven is revered as an icon of the human spirit. While totally deaf, he composed some of our most venerated music, in particular, his late string quartets. Finally, the essence of Schubert’s music is captured by the word "melodist," as illustrated in his song-cycle, Winterreise.

In addition to emphasizing form and balance (for example, one phrase balancing the next in length, shape, and spirit), Classical music is characterized by a specific type of harmony. "Harmony" refers to the groups of three or four simultaneously-sounded notes, called "chords," that support melodies. Classical harmony is of a type called "diatonic." The chords in diatonic harmony contain only notes that belong to the key (scale) in use, thereby limiting the number and types of chords available to composers.

Another feature of Classical music is the presence of more performance instruction than was provided during the previous, Baroque, period (1600-1775, approximately). Whereas Baroque composers included little guidance (called "markings") with respect to, for example, required tempi (speed of the beat), and loudness levels, Classical composers furnished them copiously. For this reason, performances of Classical music vary less from presentation to presentation than do those of Baroque music.

Technical nuts-and-bolts aside, however, Classicism inspired miracles, and they were produced by human beings. The miracle is that despite (or, arguably, because of)

Classicism’s incessant constraints, restraints, prescriptions, and proscriptions, Haydn, et al, gave Western culture some of its most inspired, inspiring, enduring and… well, classic, masterpieces.

11) Musical Romanticism
Romanticism was a worldwide movement. With the notable exceptions of Baroque period composer J. S. Bach; Classical period composers Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Ludwig van Beethoven; and Moderns Benjamin Britten and Igor Stravinsky, the list of Romantic composers includes many of our favorites. In addition to the aforementioned Bizet,
Tchaikovsky, and Smetana, this honor roll includes Germans Johannes Brahms, Richard Wagner, Felix Mendelssohn, and Robert Schumann; Pole Fryderyk Chopin; Spaniards Enrique Granados and Manuel de Falla; Viennese Franz Schubert (sometimes considered to be the first Romantic period composer), and Gustav Mahler (by some, considered to be the last of the Romantic composers); Frenchmen Hector Berlioz, Camille Saint-Saens, and Gabriel Fauré; Italians Giuseppe Verdi and Giacomo Puccini; Hungarian Franz Liszt; Bohemian Antonin Dvorak; Moravian Leos Janacek; and Norwegian Edvard Grieg.
Many musicologists assign the dates 1825-1910 to the Romantic period, but the dates of the musical epochs are not carved in stone, and should not be taken for granite.

In all of the arts, the term "Romantic" refers to works that were strongly influenced by the open, and earthy nature of ancient Rome. It is interesting to compare the parallels to musical Romanticism in the other arts. Romantic writers include Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and Oscar Wilde; Romantic painters are represented by Francisco Goya and Eugene Delacroix; and two well-known Romantic ballet dancers are Fanny Elssler and Marie Taglioni.

Generally, in Romanticism, human emotions are given full and – to some, and at-times – excessive rein. Thus, Romantic music strongly concentrates on the fullest possible expression of our emotional lives, or on describing the stories that so potently convey our emotions. Music that conveys emotions as literally as possible, or that tells a story concretely is called "program music." Music that exists simply for the sheer pleasure of making music – what the French call le jeu de notes (the joy of music)" – is called "pure" or absolute" music.

The content of Romantic musical expression is not limited to "romance" as we most often use the word. Instead, Romanticism includes the gamut of human – or of collective nationalistic – emotions, including love, anger, pride, mirth, gratitude, fear, jubilation, surprise, and awe. Often these emotions are expressed through folk songs. We identify with Romantic music because we process it so personally – humans primarily are our emotions and the communication of our emotions.

Romanticism arose as a way to escape from the incessant repressions and rules of the Classical period (1775-1825) from which it evolved. The Romantic composers used tone color (in musical parlance, "timbre") and complex rhythms, in their efforts to communicate human emotion. To the same end, these composers modified older, Classical, musical forms. For example, in his "Pathetique" Symphony, Tchaikovsky rearranged the Classical order of movements, and Brahms, in his second Piano Concerto, expanded the Classical concerto’s number of movements.

Composers found that Romantic music’s extreme demands could be transmitted through several means. For instance, these artists found that by injecting notes from outside a key (i.e., chromatic notes) they could enlarge the harmonic vocabularies available for addressing emotional extremes. At the same time, these composers discovered that frequent "modulations" (key changes) produced the musical ambiguities that could serve to mirror emotional ambiguities.

At the same time, singers and players found that improved instruments, teaching methods, and vocal and playing techniques gave them the abilities to sing or play slower, faster, louder, softer, higher and lower, and thus to perform more expressively.

With all of these forces and devices available, musical Romanticism grew increasingly lengthy, complex, and ambiguous. Culminating in the music of Mahler, Romantic music finally collapsed under its accumulated musical avoirdupois. This implosion produced the soil in which Modern composers (from 1910 to the present) planted new musical vocabularies.

12) Modern Music, Modern Challenges
Before we begin, in the interest of fashionable full-disclosure, we must acknowledge that audiences often compare some modern music — unfavorably — to a root-canal operation. As always, however, knowledge may bring enjoyment. In the present case, knowledge begins with definitions: In this, and in future "Fine Tunings" columns, "modern" classical music refers to ALL music, whatever its style, written after approximately 1910. On the other hand, "modernistic" describes the seemingly "off-the–wall" music that simultaneously emerged amid the perception that the threads of European music had been exhausted, and that new systems of music were needed.

The phrase "off-the-wall" elicits questions. Many modernistic compositions are written in languages with which we are unfamiliar. Just as we cannot know the meanings or values of words spoken in foreign tongues without learning them, we cannot make sense of such musical languages as "aleatory," "dodecaphony," "atonality," "bitonality," and "minimalism" without learning their vocabularies and syntaxes.

Therefore, one question arises: Should audiences be expected to learn new languages so they might enjoy their musical experiences? A corollary question is, should music entertain, instruct, or do both? Of course, each of us answers such questions differently. (In determining our answers, however, it is helpful to remember that many of our most rewarding moments come only when we are prepared to receive them.)

Non-modernistic modern music includes compositions by such American composers as Samuel Barber (1910-1981), best known for his modern but not modernistic "Adagio for Strings" (1936; and originally the slow movement of his String Quartet in b minor); and music by Aaron Copland (1900-90), author of such immensely popular scores as "Appalachian Spring" (1943-1944). These and many other modern works by these composers are easily enjoyed, although some of their modernistic compositions, such as the finale of Barber’s 1939 Violin Concerto, and Copland’s 1930 Piano Variations, are challenging to their audiences.

To prepare for such musical challenges, let us examine two representative modernistic languages: aleatory, derived from "aleator," Latin for "gambler" and sometimes called "chance" music; and dodecaphony, from the Greek: "dodeka" plus "phone" (12 plus sound) and alternatively called "serial" or "12-tone" music.

Aleatoric music, such as that by American composer John Cage (1912-1992), consists of compositions in which performers play or sing whatever seems appropriate at every moment, so that the music reflects the moment as accurately as possible. In one instance, a performer is directed to play nothing at all: In Cage’s 1952 composition titled simply "4’ 33,’’ a pianist sits motionless at a piano for four minutes and 33 seconds. In this instance, the ambient sounds — ventilation fans, audience coughs and program rustling, passing buses and fire engines, and such — constitute the music. In semi-aleatoric music, only imprecise directions are provided: for example, "play the notes of your choice, at the tempo (speed) of your choice, but only within a soft dynamic (loudness) level."

Dodecaphony was invented by Viennese composer Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951), and refers to compositions in which the 12 tones between a note and its reiteration at the next higher or lower octave are carefully rearranged into a series, called a "row." This row is then repeated, in various permutations, following Schoenberg’s complex rules. The goal of dodecaphony is musical "democracy," wherein no scale degree is more important than any other.

We easily feel affection for many of the offerings of non-modernistic modern music, as in the "Adagio for Strings." With preparation, however, we might feel as much affection for such modernistic compositional styles as aleatoric and dodecaphonic … or we may legitimately conclude that, for our tastes, they are simply too "off-the-wall."

Works of art necessarily contain movement, most often progressing from multiple particulars to a larger totality. This is evident in such geographically and temporally diverse artworks as the poem, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955); the painting, Domes of the Yosemite (on display in the Athenaeum, in St. Johnsbury, Vermont), by Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902); and the ancient Hindi chant, "Vishnu-Sahasra-Nama" (Thousand Names of Vishnu). Similarly, in Vingt regards sur l’enfant Jesus (Twenty Gazes Upon The Baby Jesus), for piano, French composer Olivier Messiaen (1908-1992) provides us with particular views of the Baby Jesus, en route to conveying his total vision of the Baby.

Like all of Messiaen’s compositions, Vingt regards speaks in the composer’s unique musical language, a melange of both extra-musical and musical influences. Messiaen’s extra-musical influences include birdsong, stalactites, bells, spiral shapes, photons, and religious writings (predominantly, of his Catholic faith). His musical sways include modality (ancient scale patterns), and serialism (also called "dodecaphony," within which the 12 tones in an octave are rearranged into a series, and played or sung in various permutations). But, Messiaen’s strongest musical influences are those of Greek, Hindu, and Western rhythmic patterns and timbres (tone colors). With such a collection of flavorings, it is not surprising that Vingt regards was, and is, subject to controversy: one early critic found it "impossible to detect either usefulness or pleasure" in the work.

This is "program music" — music that tells a story or that describes a vision. Vingt regards conveys Messiaen’s infinitely tender, loving vision of the Infant. The 20-movement composition consists of 13 meditative or contemplative "gazes" upon the Infant Jesus, such as "The Gaze of The Father," and "The Gaze of the Angels"; along with 7 interspersed gazes (in Messiaen’s words) of such "immaterial or symbolic creatures" as "Time," the "Heights," and "Silence." The latter gazes function as connective tissue, with further unification provided by three recurring motifs: the "Theme of God," the "Theme of the Star, and of the Cross," as well as an elusive (sometimes-concentrated, sometimes-fragmented) "Theme of Chords."

This is a lengthy and complex work, presented in Messiaen’s novel musical language, and challenging both to the human and technical resources of pianists, and to the intellectual and emotional assets of its listeners. In the composer’s words, "Each piece is different from its neighbors in terms of style, but the same themes run from one end to the other." Messiaen’s aural vision is complemented by his texts/commentaries, posted on www.vcme.org.

Music-lovers might benefit from a bit of preparation before listening to this masterpiece. This could include reading Messiaen’s texts and commentaries, and listening to a recording of Vingt Regards (several are available), as well as to such other Messiaen masterpieces as Quatuor pour le Fin du Temps, Turangalila-symphonie, Catalogue d’oiseaux, and Des canyons aux etoiles.

We can choose to listen to Vingt regards either contemplatively or meditatively. In the former case, we enjoy both its musical originality and its literal content. In the latter, we bask, hot bath-like, in its color, rhythm, and raw emotion. In either case, its particulars reveal the totality of Messiaen’s view of the Infant Jesus … and, more importantly, they elicit our own.

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14) Thinking about Beethoven

Provided that we remember the inherent limitations of labels, it is fascinating to try to describe a large subject using a small number of words. As applied to classical music, we can attempt to describe a composer’s body of work in a few words. Thus, Bach’s music might become “contrapuntal and spiritual,” Mozart’s is “elegant and divine,” Schubert’s offerings are “expansive and melodic,” and Stravinsky’s compositions are reduced to “rhythmic and eclectic.” For Beethoven (1770- 1727) this effort might result in “revolutionary and universal.”

In regard to Beethoven as “revolutionary,” there are such factors as his changes to the classical symphony form (for instance, reversing the order of the second and third movement in his ninth symphony), and the unprecedented soul-baring that is evident in the late string quartets.

With respect to Beethoven’s “universality,” we recently saw the Western world — and not only its music lovers — captivated by the recent discovery of an original Beethoven manuscript in a Philadelphia seminary. Universal identification with his music also is demonstrated by the choice of Beethoven for annual United Nations Day celebrations.

This interest is further reflected in fine Beethoven biographies. There is no shortage of such books ... in fact, there is a longage. The following three are exemplary and currently in print: Joseph Schmidt-Gorg’s “Ludwig van Beethoven,” Philippe Autexier’s “Beethoven, the Composer as Hero,” and Paul Nettl’s “The Beethoven Encyclopedia, His Life and Art from A to Z.”

Each of these books details such elements as: Beethoven’s early years in Bonn; his musical precocity; his 1792 move to Vienna; his relationship to his immediate family, nobility, women, publishers, and to such other composers as Mozart and Haydn; his 1798 diagnosis of impending deafness and the subsequent complete deafness that began in the early 1820’s; his confrontations with such other illnesses as kidney stones, colitis, rheumatism, abscesses, cryopathy, eye disease, and hepatitis; and, finally,  his death at age 56, and a funeral attended by more than 20,000 mourners.

In addition, most biographies address Beethoven’s famous 1802 “Heilegenstadt Testament.” This unposted letter to his brothers was discovered after Beethoven’s death. It includes several heart wrenching passages:

“Oh you men who think or say that I am hateful, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly do you wrong me.”  It continues, “Though born with an ardent, active temperament, and susceptible to the diversions offered by society, I was made early to withdraw myself, to live my life alone.  My misfortune is doubly painful to me because I am bound to be misunderstood. I can have no relaxation with my fellow men, no refined conversations, no exchanges of ideas. I must live almost alone, like one who has been banished; I can mix with society only as much as true necessity demands.” In regard to contemplating suicide, the letter goes on, “It was only my art that stopped me. It seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me.” Toward the end, the letter explains, “With joy, I rush to meet death.  If it comes before I have had the chance to develop all my artistic capacities, it will still be coming too soon, despite my harsh fate, and I should probably wish it later. Yet even so, I should be happy, for would it not free me from a state of endless suffering?”

Along with standard biographies, there is much to recommend two other easily available Beethoven-centered books: Russell Martin’s “Beethoven’s Hair, and J. W. N. Sullivan’s “Beethoven: His Spiritual Development.”

Martin’s book describes the journey of a lock of hair taken from Beethoven’s head at the time of his passing. We learn, for example, that many of Beethoven’s health problems can be explained by lead poisoning. Most astonishing, however, is that no opiates were found in the composer’s hair. Apparently, Beethoven preferred composing in honest pain to painless non-composing.

In the second book, Sullivan analyzes the composer’s inner growth, most evident in his progression from overcoming fate (the young Beethoven famously railed, “I want to take Fate by the throat”) to converting his trying circumstances to a catalyst for growth. In Sullivan’s words, “One of the most significant facts, for the understanding of Beethoven, is that his work shows an organic development up till the very end. The older Beethoven lived, the more and more profound was what he had to say.” He continues, “Such sustained development, in the case of an artist who reaches years of maturity, is a rare and important phenomenon.” Unlike Mozart’s compositions, which seem to exceed the human capacity for perfection, Beethoven’s work is that of an ordinary human, albeit writ large.

Music lovers wishing to trace Beethoven’s spiritual growth may begin their listening with the 1797 first symphony, composed before his diagnosis of progressive deafness. Follow that with the 1808 “Choral Fantasy,” in which Beethoven’s spirit triumphs over his pain. Finally, listen to one of the late string quartets, such as the 1826 Opus 131, in C sharp minor, a thorny, introspective composition in which Beethoven feeds upon his facts of his life, and in so doing, as Sullivan puts it, reveals to us “new regions of consciousness.”

15) Humor in Music

Most classical music goes about the serious business of delving into human dynamics in an appropriately-serious manner. Richard Wagner’s Siegried Idyll, for example, expresses the universal parental love for their children; and Bedrich Smetana’s Ma Vlast reveals love of country.

Sometimes, this largely-understated monsterpiece is performed in clownish fashion. At other times it is presented deadpan. Either way, we laugh — for a month.

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16)  Musicians as Writers

Parallels abound between music and language. For example, a note is similar to a word; a phrase of music is like a sentence; and a group of phrases, what musicians call a “period,” coincides to a paragraph. In addition, notes and words convey shades of meaning — i.e., a loud G natural has a musical meaning quite different from a softer or louder one, just as the word “residence” expresses more formality than “home.”

Given these similarities, it is hardly surprising that some musicians use words as their alternate language on their days away from keyboard, reed, baton, bow, and such.

Aside from textbooks, for instance those by composers Gunther Schuller, Walter Piston, and Paul Hindemith, musician-writers have given us such autobiographical gems as those by Spanish ‘cellist Pablo Casals, soprano Beverly Sills, contemporary composer Ned Rorem, (who is both a prolific composer and the author of seventeen books), composer and conductor Leonard Bernstein, pianist and enfant terrible Oscar Levant, and pianist Gary Graffman. Musicians, a notoriously voracious bunch, also have cooked up cookbooks: for example that by eminent duo-pianists Arthur Gold and Robert Fizdale, and rather straightforwardly called “The Gold and Fizdale Cookbook.” It includes a swoon- (and spoon-) worthy recipe for iced guacamole soup.

A comprehensive list of works by musician-authors would be prohibitively lengthy, here. By way of introduction to the genre, however, we can look at two perennial favorites among music- and book-lovers: famed English piano accompanist Gerald Moore’s “Am I Too Loud?” and French Romantic composer Hector Berlioz’s  “Evenings with the Orchestra.” The former is not easy to find, but is well worth the effort. Available in several translations, the latter is readily available at libraries and bookstores.

Moore’s offering recounts his work with many of the finest solo performers of his time (1899-1987), including violinist Yehudi Menuhin, singers Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Victoria de los Angeles, as well as with Casals.

In addition to delighting his readers, Moore offers serious observations regarding music and musicians. In various ways, music-lovers and music-makers may profit from Moore's gentle views. For example, writing about Casals, Moore observes that,

“With Casals, as with all great artists, it is the music that matters; the music is more important than the man. Now the musician always pretends to put the composer first and loves to be told how faithfully he delivers the creator’s message, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the player is thinking of himself all the time. Conceivably he is an egocentric who imposes his personality on the music, but that is not the entire answer. Many a good musician of modesty unconsciously thrusts himself between the composer and the listener through his concerns over his fourth finger, through technical insecurity, or through fright. The fight to gain control over self, the struggle to keep the bow-arm steady, to hit the note dead centre, absorbs all his faculties, and the music itself suffers.”

The title of the other book, Berlioz's "Evenings with the Orchestra" refers to time the composer spent sitting in the orchestra pit in “a certain Opera House of northern Europe,” listening to the “romances, anecdotes, and risqué stories” told by the chatty players ... but only during second-rate works. The book is organized by “Evenings,” with each representing a performance.

Berlioz offers a mixture of veneration and irreverence. Describing the “Fifteenth Evening,” for example, Berlioz subtly and reverently conveys a music critic’s view of a Classical masterpiece. (The translation is by Jacques Barzun):  "Beethoven's  Fidelio is being performed. Not a word is spoken in the orchestra . The eyes of all true artists are aglow, those of ordinary musicians remain open, those of the blockheads are shut from time to time.”

In a different vein, this time addressing his pit-mates, our musician-writer (again, in Barzun’s version) delights us with irreverence, making us crave yet more of his literary masterwork:<>

“One day, I say, I met Kleiner leaning his elbows at a table at a café, alone as is his wont. He looked gloomier than usual. I go up to him and say:

            ‘Kleiner, what's the matter? You look terribly sad.’

            ‘I am — I'm suffering from vexation.’

            ‘Have you gone and lost eleven games of billiards again, like last week? Have you broken a new pair of drumsticks or a meerschaum you'd just finished?’

            ‘No, I have lost — my mother.’

            ‘My dear fellow, I'm sorry I put such questions to you — and then to hear such grievous news.’

            Kleiner (to the waiter): ‘Waiter, one Bavarian cream.’

            ‘Right away, sir.’

            ‘Yes, old boy, I am much disturbed, believe me! My mother died last night after a dreadful agony lasting fourteen hours.’

            The waiter: ‘There is no more Bavarian cream, sir.’  

            Kleiner (striking the table with his fist and upsetting two spoons and a cup): ‘Confound it! Another vexation!        

            ‘There you have natural sensibility, and admirably expressed.’

The musicians burst out laughing so loudly that the conductor, who has been listening, is compelled to take notice of it and to reprove them with an angry eye. The other eye smiles.”

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17) Music, live and packaged

Everyday life contains stability and fluidity. Some of our activities and needs, such as breathing and digesting, are necessarily stable. At the same time, our lives are enriched by such fluidities as emotions and intuitions. We live best when both modes of experiences are in balance.  The interplay between stability and fluidity also pervades musical performance. Ironically, concertgoers and home listeners who understand the unpredictable nature of musical performance often make their listening experiences more … well, predictable.

Packaged/studio recordings are awash in “control,” and often offer good quality musical experiences. They are carefully edited to remove human lapses that occurred during their making, and offer us a maximum of predictabilities. For instance, we can choose our CDs with care, and play them on the best equipment that we can afford, and at times and in environments of our choosing. Furthermore, we can control such factors as when to listen to them, the dynamic (loudness) levels at which we listen, the balance between lines, which tracks to omit or to repeat, and how we are dressed for the occasion. After paying for our playback equipment, the expenses associated with buying CDs (as compared to attending live performances) are relatively low.

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The boy attuned his instrument, and then looked questioningly and timidly at the Master.

            “What would you like to play most?” asked the old man.

            Joseph could not answer because he was awestruck before this Master, this man whose like he had never encountered in his life. He took up his music-book, and handed it shyly to the Master.

            “No,” said the old man. “I want you to play from memory, not to repeat a practice exercise. Something simple that you know by heart — perhaps a song that you like very much.”

            Knecht was confused, and at the same time enchanted, by this man’s face and eyes. He was speechless, and most ashamed of his embarrassment, but still could not manage to utter a word. The Master did not insist, but struck the first chord of a melody with his finger, looked enquiringly at the boy, who nodded and immediately repeated the tune. He was pleased, for it was one of the old songs that was often sung in the school.

After the two make music together, the passage concludes: “Grateful and transfigured, Knecht looked at the Master, but could find no word to say.”

Probably, the finest ‘cellist in the world is someone who has never heard or played a note of music and therefore was bereft of both opportunity and encouragement. Lon was fortunate indeed to have been provided with both, and thus could answer her “call.”

Unlike the roads to most professions, there are no standard paths to professional music making. Here, we briefly look at three aspects of Lon’s career preparations: the roles of her teacher (or teachers) and her schooling; the time she spent practicing and listening to music; and the importance of her extra-musical studies.

In addition to illustrating “the call,” implicit in the Hesse passage above is the crucial role played by the music teacher. This person (or people) was an important — perhaps, the most important — figure in our ‘cellist’s training. Most likely, he both provided examples for her to imitate, and helped her to uncover her musical and personal uniquenesses.

Probably, the mentor was himself a ‘cellist: not surprisingly, most teachers and students share a discipline. Next most likely, he worked in a closely-related discipline. Perhaps he was a violinist, flutist, composer, or conductor. Least likely, he was not a musician at all, but he understood the connections between music and non-music (or perhaps he and his student believed, like composer John Cage, that the seeming differences between music and non-music are illusory.) Whomever she chose, with his help and after untold hours of effort, Lon defined her unique musical voice.

In working with her teacher, our ‘cellist had chosen between attending a college or university, a music conservatory, or neither. Depending on her nature, any on these choices would have been appropriate.

Colleges and universities offer fine — and necessary — academic training, but with a concomitant loss of practice time. On the other hand, conservatories allow for many thousands of hours of high-quality practice — in fact, they insist upon it. But, these hours are available at the cost of time for academic studies. (Practice time, incidentally, remains a factor throughout most careers.) Least commonly, self-motivated music students reach their musical goals solely through private studies.

No matter how otherwise excellent, musical performance or composition conceived in a vacuum is one-dimensional, neglecting the universality and interconnections that define great music. Therefore, either at a college or university or on her own, Lon has become a well-rounded person through non music-related critical reading and thinking.

Having somewhat disappeared into the practice room as she completed her studies, she confronted such extra-musical business practicalities as learning about job openings and negotiating contracts. Then, like Banquo’s ghost, finally, Lon was ready to re-materialize before our eyes … and ears.

20) Frank Martin (liner notes for “First Edition Music” FECD 0020)

In the visceral manner that people are drawn to campfires, I am among those drawn to Frank Martin’s (1890-1974) compositions. My introduction to Martin was through the oratorio Le vin herbe (1941), and Le petite symphonie (1944-5), the earliest Martin masterpieces that fused tonality and 12-tone writing into a unique style that might be called “tonal atonality.” Although these compositions predate the non-dodecaphonic cello and violin concerti, they demonstrate the open-mindedness and inclusiveness evident in all of Martin’s work.

Years later, the First Edition Music recording of Martin’s 1965 Concerto for Cello and Orchestra renewed this attraction, and that same performance, paired with Martin’s Concerto for Violin and Orchestra (1950-1), comprises the present compact disc reissue of these world-premiere recordings. Martin lovers welcome it: contrary to the befuddled (and probably apocryphal) university dean who announced that a plan “solves a much-needed problem,” this release fills a much-lamented gap in our cd Martin collections.

Other admirers of Martin’s work include Yehudi Menuhin, who wrote that he approached Polyptyque (1973), with “the same responsibility, the same exaltation” as he did J. S. Bach’s Chaconne. Doubtless, this remark pleased Martin who, by age ten, had already chosen Bach as his mentor.

 In a similar vein, in the autumn of 2003, eminent flutist, pianist, composer, and co-founder of the Marlboro Music Festival Louis Moyse remarked about Martin’s 1938 Ballade for flute and piano (dedicated to Louis’s similarly eminent father, Marcel) that, “From the very beginning, one can feel the grandeur and the depth of the work; the undercurrent is amazingly organic, and you cannot help but be taken by this force of nature.”

Simply put, Martin’s music moves us. Few listeners fail to be touched, for example, by the first and second movements of the cello concerto, and by the second movement of the violin concerto. What could be more organic than that?

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Being a believer that the deepest truths, whether musical or otherwise, encompass, embrace, and reconcile diverse viewpoints, this vignette has for many years enchanted me, and instructed my thoughts and actions. It matters little whether the story is true; rather, its import lies both in the question per se, and in its implications about the nature of wide-ranging, inclusive approaches to music making.

Unlike such composers as Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), who was linked solely with Classicism; and Richard Wagner (1813-1883), whose association was only with Romanticism, Hindemith’s approach, like Igor Stravinsky’s (1882-1971), was decidedly synoptic.

Some audiences, desiring musical conservatism, find Hindemith’s work overly radical; others, seeking radicalism, find him too conservative. But, the truth is inclusive: Hindemith’s compositions are simultaneously conservative and radical, and are best appreciated as such. Inclusiveness is evident both when we consider Hindemith’s large oeuvre, and when we listen to such single compositions as his 1939 Sonata in F, for horn and piano, which is both neo-Baroque and neo-Classical, with Romantic rhythmic displacement, reminiscent of Johannes Brahms (1833-97), included for good measure. 

Large Chamber Orchestra features contrapuntal techniques and abrupt dynamic changes (reminiscent of Baroque “terraced dynamics”), combined with such Classical features as increased lyricism and focus on instrumental timbres. These Baroque and Classical aspects co-exist comfortably within a sunny, scherzo-like setting.

The 1945 Concerto for Piano and Orchestra exemplifies Hindemith’s third period, with its preponderance of the neo-Classical tonality that was earlier iterated in his 1933-4 Symphony Mathis der Maler, and 1943 Symphonic Metamorphoses on Themes of Carl Maria von Weber. Beside vestiges of Baroque techniques, the concerto’s three movements reveal, for instance, neo-Classical thematic development, and the presence of codas. Throughout, the composer’s inclusive, consonant nature shines through; and each movement closes with a Hindemithian “signature” major chord.

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In 1955, Henry Pleasants, a respected Philadephia Evening Bulletin, New York Times, and New York Herald Tribune music critic, shocked the musical world by publishing a book titled The Agony of Modern Music. He argued that modern music is an invalid attempt to stretch a thread — that of traditional European music — that can no longer be stretched.

In the opening prelude to the first movement of The Triumph of St. Joan Symphony, “The Maid,” Dello Joio immediately reminds us that his is an original and well-crafted voice, introducing us to Joan through an inventive set of variations that is worthy of his beloved Haydn (1732-1809).

Dello Joio’s audiences profit from his faith in the resilience of the western European classical tradition; and his students may take succor from the viability of his vision. Taken together, his compositions and teachings prove a South Carolina state motto: dum spiro spero (poetically rendered, “where there is life, there is hope”). As a bonus, and to Dello Joio’s great credit, also they prove the reverse: that where there is hope, there is life.

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An artisan boat-maker advertises his boats as “floating songs.” A restaurant reviewerdescribes a house-specialty as a “song.” The Old Testament includes “The Song of Songs.” Be it vocal or instrumental, informal or organized, self-made or vicarious, we humans cherish our songs. We rely upon songs to inspire and stimulate us, and to express the entire range of our emotions.

Ned Rorem (b. 1923) fathoms the nature of, and our cravings for, song. For more than five decades, he has been composing copious amounts of it, both as instrumental song and as … well, songs. Clearly, for Rorem, art songs are not mere addenda to his instrumental works: his songs span the time period from before 1948, when he wrote the Music Library Association awardwinning composition, The Lordly Hudson (1948), to the present. Rorem’s choices of texts by such writers as William Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, W. H. Auden, Homer, and himself (as in the 1964 Laudemus Tempus Actum), reflect both his gentle character and literary sensibilities. (He is the author of seventeen books.)

Piano Concerto in Six Movements shares with Eleven Studies for Eleven Players such characteristics as lean, understated textures; and imaginative uses of timbre and rhythm. In contrast to the 1959 composition, however, the style of the concerto is markedly more percussive, particularly in movements 2, 3, and 6. Also, in contrast, the entire concerto is programmatic. Finally, despite the concerto’s far greater dissonance, Rorem’s trademark lyricism is always evident, as is his uncanny ability to provide that which we crave: song.