At last night’s Boston Early Music Festival concert, the harpsichord on stage was a French-style double-manual built in 1984 by the late David Jacques Way, currently owned by Boston organist and keyboard addict Peter Sykes.


That is one seriously pretty instrument. (It’s better in person—the palette actually tends towards an uncanny glowing verdancy.) Looking at it made me curse the one-size-fits-all 2001-monolith grand piano design that is now pretty much ubiquitous.

It’s interesting, given our human propensity towards all things blingy, that piano design has become so staid in comparison with its plucked ancestors. It’s probably the result of a combination of form-following-function and the music-appreciation ideal of keeping one’s attention soberly focused on the music. I would suspect the advance of the Steinway brand played no small part, as well. (And given some of Steinway’s recent forays into more elaborate cases, basic black certainly starts to look better in comparison.) But really, instruments all around have become pretty sedate, design-wise. Guitars still get a little adventurous (though less so than in the heyday of 70s metal); accordions still break out a bonanza of mother-of-pearl now and then, as does the occasional drum set. But you have to hang around the period-instrument crowd to see string instruments with heads, for example.

Someday—as soon as I am deemed worthy of attention by those fickle mistresses, time and money—I’m going to build my own harpsichord, paint it black, and then decorate it with old-school tattoo flash: skulls, hula girls, hearts that say “MOM,” &c. (At the rate I get through projects, tattoos will no longer be cool by that point—even better.)

Best academic overreach of the day:

[Billy] Joel’s treatment of the same Beethoven material [the slow movement of the “Pathétique” sonata, in the song “This Night”] is even more literal than that of [Kiss’s] “Great Expectations,” although he withholds the melodic quotation until the refrain. But the song is shot through with wordplay linking Beethoven’s nineteenth-century practice to that of the self-described “piano man” Joel and to the expressive registers of historical doo-wop ballads that the song references. Indeed, the love lyrics at times seem to suggest the solo pianist’s relationship with the keyboard; distortions of musical time and imaginitive space are effected through the utterance of words that possess meaningful implications outside the conventional subject matter of the song. These include “ready for romance” (code word for nineteenth-century repertoire), “only a slow dance” (the slow movement, outside the context of the full sonata), and the notion of an expressive historical musical continuum delivered at the end of the Beethovenian refrain music (“this night can last forever”). Joel sets up the first citation of the theme when his doo-wop rocker persona admits at the end of the verse that he can no longer “remember the rules,” launching the song into a different registral collection from which the melody and harmony of the refrain are borrowed to create an effectively expressive hybrid.

—Michael Long, Beautiful Monsters
(University of California Press, 2008)

Given that he’s just name-dropped Barthes, I was disappointed Long didn’t hit for the textual-analysis cycle with a “Piano/Man” reference.

We can probably thank producer Bob Ezrin for the Beethoven quote in “Great Expectations,” by the way—the demo has no quotation, and in fact reveals that the melody of the chorus was tweaked to more closely echo Beethoven.

We’re back from Paris, where I ate bread, offal, and macarons; indulged in hero worship (above); walked until it hurt every day; and improved my French accent to the point where people would at least reply to me in French out of politeness, if not out of ignorance of my obviously American state. (As the headline notes, there was also a brief sojourn in the source of my giant head and pasty complexion.)

We even took in a couple of concerts, which I’ll write up in due course, but the big cultural news in Paris was the opening of Vengeance, directed by the impossibly prolific Hong Kong filmmaker Johnnie To, and starring the ageless French rock-and-roll legend Johnny Hallyday. Celebrity images in Paris tend to be the usual international crowd—George Clooney had an advertising banner hanging in the Opéra Bastille, and Vengeance was swamped in its opening weekend by the Ben Stiller vehicle A Night at the Museum 2—but Johnny’s fame trumped all, his weathered visage gracing seemingly every press kiosk, tabac, and Métro station in town.

It’s slightly amazing how big a contrast there is between Hallyday’s fame in France and his obscurity everywhere else. My lovely wife had never even heard of him, so we indulged in a crash course via YouTube. Given my own preference for proto-punk 1950s rock—if I were the pope, I would canonize Eddie Cochran—it’s not surprising that I liked the early stuff best. Here he is in a mellow mood in 1962, singing to Catherine Deneuve. Bon travail, si vous pouvez l’obtenir.

See you in a couple of weeks.

I was reading John Capouya’s biography of the great wrestler Gorgeous George, and I had a sudden bout of déjà vu—the appetite, the shameless show-biz sensibility, the clothes… where had I seen this before? Oh, yeah:


I am pretty tempted to put that on a t-shirt.

I was thinking over the weekend about the latest Internet hoax, the one where an Irish college student inserted a fake quote into Maurice Jarre‘s Wikipedia page just after Jarre’s death, and the quote was duly featured in a number of newspaper obituaries. Though I was disappointed in the student’s attempt to explain the hoax as some sort of sociological experiment—it was a prank, enjoy it and stop trying to puff yourself up—kudos nevertheless for coming up with material that would irresistibly play into the persistently Romantic impression of composing among the laity:

“When I die there will be a final waltz playing in my head, that only I can hear.”

How much traction would this particular hoax have gotten with a more realistic quote? Something like—

“When I die, I’ll be busy re-voicing the harmonies in the accompaniment so the clarinets aren’t arpeggiating across their break.”

The hoax has predictably engendered another round of hemming and hawing about Wikipedia, which I suppose is useful for dispelling any lingering impression that Wikipedia is a court of last intellectual resort. (To me, it’s rather like taking a subway map to task for not being a topographical atlas.) Then again, the alternative has its own issues. Surfing the edges of this story, I learned a nice bit of trivia: the first article to make it through the peer-review process of Nupedia, Wikipedia’s expert-only ancestor, was musicologist Christoph Hust’s entry for “Atonality.” You can still read that first entry at the Internet Archive. Here’s how it starts:

Atonality in a general sense describes music that departs from the system of tonal hierarchies that characterized the sound of classical European music from the sixteenth through the nineteenth centuries (please see the longer article “tonality” for further explanation). Currently, the term is used primarily to describe compositions written approximately 1900 to 1930, in which tonal centers that had been fundamental to most European music since about 1600 are abandoned.

1930? Really? What would that make the technical term for, say, Jean Barraqué’s musical vocabulary? Très piquant? Skepticism is a 24/7 job.

DON. Don and his wife, Susan, are attending a performance of The Marriage of Figaro by the touring Metropolitan Opera company at the Masonic Temple Auditorium in Detroit. They are both very fond of the theater, and they go to a play or an opera whenever they can manage it. As usual, Don has bought seats near the back of the balcony, where he knows the radio reception is better. The two of them are following the opera attentively, but Don is also holding a small transistor radio up to his left ear. (He is left-eared all the way.) Through long training, he is able to hear both the opera and (because of the good reception) the voice of Ernie Harwell, the sports broadcaster for Station WJR, who is at this moment describing the action at Tiger Stadium, where the Brewers are leading the Tigers 1-0 in the top of the fourth. A woman sitting directly behind Don and Susan is unable to restrain her curiosity, and during a recitative she leans forward and taps Don on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she whispers. “I was just wondering what you’re listening to on that little radio.”

Don half turns in his seat. “Simultaneous translation,” he whispers.

—Roger Angell, “Three For the Tigers,”
The New Yorker, September 17, 1973

As a boxing fan, I’ve been following the burgeoning myth of Philippine fighter Manny Pacquiao, and after last weekend’s second-round knockout of Ricky Hatton—giving Pacquiao a world title in his fifth weight class—it seems the myth may actually be justified. I mean, we knew he was good, but this good? Dang. (Of course, even though Pacquiao’s style is one of speed and precision, boxing being what it is, the sport’s essential brutality was also on view.)

Now, boxing is no stranger to scandal, but a musical scandal is something new. Philippine pop star Martin Nievera was on hand to sing “Lupang Hinirang,” the Philippine national anthem. (For comparison, Tom Jones sang “God Save the Queen.”) And now Nievera is in trouble for it.

A lawmaker on Wednesday said he intends to file criminal charges against Martin Nievera over the singer’s rendition of the Philippine national anthem during the Pacquiao-Hatton fight in Las Vegas last Sunday.

In a weekly press conference, Cavite Rep. Elpidio Barzaga Jr. said the “test case” would determine if Nievera indeed violated Republic Act 8491, or the Flag and Heraldic Code of the Philippines, which states that the national anthem should be played or sung in accordance with the musical arrangement of its composer, Julian Felipe.

At issue is Nievera’s slow introduction and sustained final note, which the National Historical Institute of the Philippines claimed was, well, below the belt:

The NHI, the government agency tasked to ensure that national symbols are given the reverence and respect they deserve, said Martin should not have slowed down the song’s opening and ending. The NHI added the singer should have sung the song in accordance with composer Julian Felipe’s “march-type” tempo.

Good heavens, they probably would have dropped Marvin Gaye into a volcano or something. Anyway, there might be a less exalted political angle to this as well—Pacquiao’s political ambitions are no secret—though trying to untangle the alliances is a little dizzying. (The lawmaker planning to file charges is a member of the KAMPI party, which last year merged with President Gloria Arroyo’s Lakas-Christian Muslim Democratic Party; Pacquiao was floated as a Lakas-CMD candidate, but instead joined the Liberal Party, which nonetheless supported Arroyo in coalition; in Pacquiao’s only campaign thus far, he was soundly defeated by Darlene Antonino-Custodio, a prominent member of the one-half of the Nationalist People’s Coalition that didn’t support Arroyo, &c., &c.) For his part, Nievera claims no disrespect, and in fact just the opposite: “I will not apologize for giving my all just to sing that song in front of the world,” he said. Come on, even his in-ear monitor had a Philippine flag on it.

One of the more true truisms of music history is that the most recognizably American style of classical music, the neo-Classical tonal populism invented by Aaron Copland, was a reaction to the economic crisis of the Great Depression, that Copland wanted to write music that would be more simply perceived by a mass audience. This is not to pick at the scab of the Complexity Wars (which is simpler—Appalachian Spring or Webern’s op. 24? Conduct through the Copland before you answer) but to note that the idea of simplicity as a solution to societal problems is, I think, a particularly American thing, one no doubt ingrained in each of our psyches by a steady flow of subtle agrarian, back-to-the-land mythology in American culture. Think of it this way: in reporting about the current economic crisis, the number of stories I’ve read implicitly based around this narrative—

Due to technology, financial instruments became too complicated for investors to truly understand what they were investing in

—have far outnumbered those based on this narrative—

Due to deregulation, greedy bastards acquired the legal cover to be even greedier bastards

—a narrative that, on one level, implies that the problem was too much simplicity.

In fact, you might be able to make the case that all societies react to crisis by attempting to simplify, but that the peculiarly American quirk is that the perception of simplicity is more important that the substance. To use another musical example, the 12-tone method, historically contemporary with post-WWI European crises, can be read as a conceptual simplification of the late-Romantic dissolution of tonality that was already underway before the war.

I was thinking about this today because at the historical moment, that penchant for a movement towards simplicity in the face of crisis seems to be on a collision course with that other sure-fire historical pattern, artists tending to react against whatever style is prevalent during their formative years. In other words, the current lets-pretend-its-not-a-Depression would predict a musical shift towards more simply-perceived populist styles, but those styles have been ascendant for some years now (consider Steve Reich’s Pulitzer in light of that prize’s stylistically slow reflexes). Since the generation of composers that were in rebellion against modernist complexity are now The Establishment, one might expect their disrespectful youngers, crisis or no crisis, to swing the pendulum in a different direction.

It’s fun to try and decide if a faster musical evolution has lapped a historical cycle, or the other way around—or if artistic and societal patterns are really on parallel tracks, and we only perceive a connection between them because, well, as human beings, that’s what we like to do. Maybe we’re due for a resurgence of chance music and aleatoricism—not bringing order out of chaos, but getting used to the idea that chaos is the only order we’ve got.

I haven’t written anything about the possible impending shuttering of my sometime employer, the Boston Globe—I doubt that anyone has been breathlessly waiting for the point of view of a non-union freelancer—but, in honor of May Day, this is just too perfect.

The Boston Globe’s largest union last night called on The New York Times Co. to extend today’s deadline for reaching agreement on millions of dollars in concessions after revealing that an accounting mistake by management has suddenly removed $4.5 million in possible givebacks from the table.

A spectre is haunting The New York Times Company—the spectre of arithmetic.

Speaking of May Day:

Alexander Feodorovitch Kerensky will not stay put. I have a feeling as I write this that whatever I say will be ancient history in the light of new, violent developments in the career of this remarkable character. Perhaps he will star in the movies, perhaps… but no… he can never be a drawing-room favourite; he is not as cultured as Lenine or Trotsky; he speaks only Russian and a few words of French, while they speak any number of languages, are well up on the classics and even chatter of music. Trotsky looks like Paderevski and Lenine like Beethoven. What chance has he against them? Still—Kerensky is playful, ministers in the Winter Palace claimed that he kept them awake all hours of the night, singing grand opera airs….

Louise Bryant, Six Red Months in Russia (1918)
(ellipses in original)

—because singing opera is so lowbrow. But Louise is always good for a slightly off-course comparison—this one probably derived from the fact that Lenin did like Beethoven. In Gorky’s famous anecdote:

One evening in Moscow, in E.P. Pyeskovskaya’s flat, Lenin was listening to a sonata by Beethoven being played by Isaiah Dobrowein, and said: “I know nothing which is greater than the Appassionata; I would like to listen to it every day. It is marvelous superhuman music. I always think with pride—perhaps it is naive of me—what marvelous things human beings can do!”

Then screwing up his eyes and smiling, he added rather sadly: “But I can’t listen to music too often. It affects your nerves, makes you want to say stupid, nice things, and stroke the heads of people who could create such beauty while living in this vile hell. And now you mustn’t stroke anyone’s head—you might get your hand bitten off. You have to hit them on the head, without any mercy, although our ideal is not to use force against anyone. H’m, h’m, our duty is infernally hard!”

Now there’s a marketing angle: “Classical music: insidiously distracting you from amoral dictatorial ruthlessness!”