Most “emerging” composers in our world, as well as aspirants in almost any genre, seek any opportunity to get their music in front of an audience whether financially lucrative or not—in most cases not. It’s probably the one piece of common ground between all of us, even if the economies that support the successful practitioners of each genre are so stark in their differences.
The process of meditating is remarkably similar to the way that so-called serious music is “supposed” to be listened to or how books are read, even though meditation is ostensibly a personal inward activity while listening or reading are outward activities focused on someone else’s thoughts.
On Saturday I made my biennial pilgrimage to the Whitney Biennial; why isn’t there a similar biennial in our music community that could involve an orchestra, chorus, several chamber ensembles, soloists, etc.
Perhaps there’s a reason to learn how to drive afterall.
Over the years I’ve been accused of listening to too much music, as if we could determine such an amount the way a dietician determines the proper daily calorie requirements for healthy living.
According to Rufus Wainwright, in classical music: “you can write your most interesting music when you’re old, fat, and ugly”; what does he mean by that?
By hermetically sealing off a single composer’s work when we present single-composer concerts, are we somehow losing a contextual framework for listening to it?
While the notion of a premiere occuring on a specific date and geographical venue in history is comforting to musicologists and folks who compile best of the year or best of the nation lists, it presents a somewhat incomplete picture of how creative works evolve and manifest themselves.
Imagine being an actor and being given a copy of a script that only contained your lines; that’s exactly what composers do to musicians when they give them parts that only contain the notes for that particular individual to play.