Charles Addams, the great New Yorker cartoonist whose lugubrious turn of mind suggested an important source for a death fantasy, wrote (without sending an illustration) as follows: “I am hoping to break into a thousand tiny pieces while attending a theremin concert in Malone, N.Y., in mid January.”

I was very excited by this, but not knowing what a “theremin” was, I had to reach Mr. Addams on the phone to ask. I said I was embarrassed not to know; someone had assured me that a theremin was a kind of “Eastern” religion, and the “cracking into a thousand pieces” was the consequence of being peered at by a waiflike holy man enveloped in a white shroud.

“No, no, no,” said Mr. Addams. “Heavens no. A theremin is a musical instrument… a sort of electrical coil which gives off a humming sound.”

“Oh.”

“It works by the distance you hold your hand to it. The closer you put your hand,” Mr. Addams went on, “the higher the tone, and right up close you can get a terrific vibrational shriek. It’s a bona fide musical instrument and by making the proper hocus-pocus gestures you can get Beethoven’s Fifth out of it, or anything else.”

I said I was relieved to know that he didn’t want to be extinguished by a guru’s glance, and he said, “No, no, no, no,” again. “A theremin. A theremin.” He said that he had thoroughly enjoyed working out the problem. “A real challenge,” he said.

—George Plimpton, Shadow Box

News and opinion of a musicological bent from all over:

Over at Sounds & Fury, A.C. Douglas, in his inimitable style (i.e., framed as some sort of righteous smackdown), waxes knowledgeably about dynamic markings in Wagner. This is part of a subject close to my heart, the difference between notated scores as representations of the music or as instruction manuals. Some composers (Schumann and Webern, for example) seem to construct their scores as paper versions of the end effect of the piece on the listener: you can read the score and imagine the sounds in your head without any translation. Wagner aimed for the latter: his markings are designed to take into account what he suspects the individual musicians are going to do naturally, and he either countermands it or tacitly allows it to happen. (This is one of the reasons I like to know as much about a composer’s personality as I do about his or her music before I perform it—you can get a sense of how they approach this sort of communication.)

The guys at Amusicology are back blogging now that the finals crunch has disspated, and it’s like coming across a network summer-replacement series that’s exponentially better than anything on the fall schedule. The latest fun: Ryan tracks down a persistent, suspiciously too-good-to-be-true anecdote about George Gershwin’s childhood, and in the process, points out the slippery nature of even what seem to be primary sources.

George Hunka, from a theatrical perspective, lays it on the line with regards to challenge and accessibility. As time goes on, I get the sense that the move towards audence-friendliness is in large part due to increased modern opportunities to be played for a fool—with the number of scams, hoaxes, and misinformation we run into every day, people are less inclined to give the avant-garde a chance if there’s any hint of a con about it. Personally, I learned to enjoy being a fool, because a) the payoff for risking being an audience-member patsy has been so high for me, and b) you go through three-quarters of your life as a fool anyway. (However, I do have my new shorthand for meaningless, artistically cynical provocation: “No soap; radio!”)

Phil Ford calls for lolmusicologists. I give this lol thing about eight more weeks—enjoy it while it lasts, meme-aficionados! I’ll play along, not least because “lolTaruskin” is the funniest-looking word I’ll type all week.

The other day was a good one for serendipitous musical juxtapositions. In the car, I got Glenn Gould’s performance of the b-minor prelude from Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier drifting slowly in and out of rhythmic phase with the clicking of the turn signal; waiting in the dentist’s chair, the ceiling speaker serenaded me with the Talking Heads ballad “Heaven,” which I imagine is the closest my life will ever get to turning into a Jim Jarmusch movie; later, while correcting papers, I needed to reference something on iTunes, and mindlessly leaving it on, six songs later, Clyde McPhatter and the Drifters started singing “White Christmas,” which is always much more poignant in hot weather anyway.

I think this intersection of everyday life with random pre-recorded music, an experience unique to the last 75 years or so, has changed the way we expect to interact with music. This sort of serendipity goes way back, of course—think of Clément Janequin’s “Les cris de Paris,” a quodlibet of 16th-century vendors’ cries; In the 19th century, there was a bit of a vogue for the combination of worldly concerns and overheard church music, Schumann’s song “Sonntags am Rhine” being a gorgeous example. But it’s only in the 20th century that music begins to be piped in everywhere, where it’s possible for the sort of surreal found art you get from hearing doo-wop in the supermarket, or free jazz in traffic, or Mozart’s greatest hits while on hold on the phone. We’re far more used to music grabbing our attention in unexpected and often inappropriate situations.

Occasionally there’s a bit of music that pays knowing, beautiful homage to this novel ubiquity. One of the other songs that turned up during my grading shuffle play was “Dance, Dance, Dance” by the Beach Boys, a fragment of pop at its most ephemerally joyous. There’s an upward modulation to the final chorus that always sticks with me—a jarring, shift-without-a-clutch harmonic crank in the backing track disguised by a genial slide in the voices. It’s an uncanny musical representation of an old car radio, the kind where the presets were accessed with those black push-buttons that physically yanked the needle to the appropriate place on the dial. Normally, any piece that conjures an experience so time- and place-specific tends to dilute its purely musical impact for me; I’m pulled out of the piece and into another world of reduced possibilities. This one always works for me, though—I’m there in the car, peeved that the current offering isn’t bright and rhythmic enough, punching the radio, looking for an epiphany. It’s an appropriate fantasy for listeners saturated with music: to be able to grab control of the ambient mix, and tune the ether to the exact song for that moment of your life.

Today’s competition honors America’s greatest and most successful export of all time. I refer, of course, to “Endless Love.” Seriously, if he was British, Lionel Richie would have his CBE by now for writing this thing.

And the winner, by unanimous decision in the seventh round: Diana Ross and Placido Domingo.

Lest you think that the gatekeepers of classical music are unduly harsh about the issue of excess applause (for the record, I say clap whenever you want), behold the five graduates of Galesburg High School in Galesburg, Illinois, who were denied their diplomas at commencement because their family members cheered when their names were announced.

“Lots of parents complained that they could not hear their own child’s name called,” said Joel Estes, the school’s assistant superintendent. “And I think that led us to saying we have to do something about this to restore some dignity and honor to the ceremony so that everyone can appreciate it and enjoy it.”

Look, the only thing to appreciate and enjoy about a high school graduation is hearing your kid’s name, because the rest of it is insufferably boring. My poor parents have had to sit through six of these hot, overcrowded dronefests—you want to tell them they can’t cheer? Because no jury of their peers—namely, anyone else who’s ever listened to what passes for high-school principal inspirational rhetoric—is going to convict them. Oh, and by the way, those five students who were singled out? Black and hispanic. Proving once again that nothing curdles the minds of those in power in places like Galesburg, Illinois like the realization that you’ll never be in charge of anything larger than Galesburg, Illinois.

In the same subject area, our friend Alex Freeman sends along this photo. As he descibes it: “Rare footage of Fidel Castro trying to coach Pierre Trudeau in a pick-up performance of Clapping Music.”


“Come on, asere, you just do the same thing over and over again…. No, no, you pasty man, I’M the one going out of phase. Stay on your own part! STOP CLAPPING WITH ME!”

Beethoven hair for sale! Beethoven hair for sale! Louis Mushro, hair collector, is selling clips from his collection, including 1/16″-long scraps from everyone’s favorite happy-go-lucky proto-Romantic symphonist. (Warning: Louis will start talking to you when you load the page.) Bidding starts at $500; let’s see, figure 100,000 hair follicles per head, about 3-4 inches long… that’s $800 million for the whole head. Then, I’ll convert all that hair into diamonds, and encrust Beethoven’s skull with them. Whaddya think, $10 billion? Top that, Damien!

I’m always glad to see an Oulipian incursion into the mainstream media, so I was amused to read this review by Bernard Holland in today’s New York Times, in which he says provocative things about the heyday and waning reputations of George Crumb and Krzysztof Penderecki. Here’s the thing: I had to read the review twice to figure out that there was no actual Penderecki on the concert—it was an all-Crumb affair. Toying with the technical structure of a music review to create a vague and disorienting sense of the modern world’s alienation—I like it! (I actually did like it—the connection between Crumb and Penderecki is an interesting one, and one I’ve not really pondered.)

If you’re in Boston with nothing better to do this coming Sunday (the 3rd), drop by the Museum of Fine Arts at 1:30, where the Boston Jewish Film Festival will be screening Knowledge Is the Beginning, a 2005 documentary about the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra the Israeli-Arab student ensemble founded by Daniel Barenboim and the late Palestinian-American intellectual Edward Said. They’ll also be showing the group’s 2005 concert at the Cultural Palace in Ramallah; in between, yours truly and the terrific Israeli flutist Amir Milstein (of Bustan Abraham and Tucan Trio fame) will do our best to say eloquent things about the movie, the group, and anything else that might come up. (Scroll down here for details.)

Music is great because you can put it on the stereo and still do other things. Not so dance, which requires one too many senses for multitasking. I’ve wasted a good chunk of the morning hunting around YouTube for the work of the French choreographer Maurice Béjart, just for fun; I figure I better just post a few before the whole day is a wash.

Here’s a bit of Béjart’s 1966 Webern, Opus V, as danced by Loipa Araujo and Jorge Esquivel at the 1969 International Ballet Competition in Moscow. Unfortunately marred by an announcer who has no idea what he’s talking about—that w in Webern’s name is pronounced like a v, my good man! Maybe I’m biased, but I actually find it pretty romantic.



And now my procrastination is yours.

Today’s time-sink is the Digital Image Archive of Medieval Music (free registration required), a joint project of the University of Oxford and Royal Holloway, University of London, consisting of fantastically high-resolution (144 megapixels) images of manuscript sources for Medieval and Renaissance polyphony.

The sources archived include all the fragmentary sources of polyphony up to 1550 in the UK (and almost all of these are available for study through this website); all the ‘complete’ manuscripts in the UK; a small number of important representative manuscripts from continental Europe; a significant portion of fragments 1300-1450 from Belgium, France, Italy, Germany and Spain.

Obviously a great resource for scholars (they’ve started to include images taken under ultraviolet light as well), but also surprisingly fun to just browse around. It takes some time—the search functions are geared towards experts trying to pinpoint particular manuscripts or collections—but there’s plenty of graphic treasure to be found. Here’s a few favorites:

From Oxford’s Bodleian Library (MS. Don. b. 31), an Agnus Dei with the incipit beautifully encased in the initial Q of “qui.”

Three successive initials on page 54 (verso) of MS 178 from the Eton College Library. I love how the obviously Irish scribe indulges himself on that third one.

And from the British Library (Egerton 3307), a Medieval house party. Even the dogs and monkeys are getting drunk. Rock-band excess has nothing on the fifteenth century.