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Peeks and Piques!
By
RAYMOND J. STEINER ALTHOUGH
ART AND literature have occupied my thoughts for at least the past sixty
years, I find that music, in all its varied and nuanced manifestations,
still escapes my critical ken. I confess to a predilection for listening
to “classical” music — I usually have it playing softly
in the background as I write or paint — but can claim no wide knowledge
of it. I prefer it as “background noise” in my study because
it contains no lyrics to distract me — and, truth be told, I do
not know the names of pieces and cannot discern Mozart from Beethoven,
or Chopin from Liszt. Oh, I know a few pieces — like Für
Elise
by Beethoven — but only because it is particularly moving to me,
and I took the time to look it up. Mostly, I simply let music “wash”
over me, allowing it to drain away my tensions and “heal”
my frazzled nerves. Why this occurs is as much a mystery to me as music
is itself. Probably because I look forward to this “healing”,
I tend to dislike atonal works (note that I even refrain from calling
it “music” — so limited is my insights into the mystery
of the subject). The late Robert Starer once invited me to a premiere
of one of his compositions, and I held my peace until some months later
when we met on the train going to New York City. When he asked my how
I liked the concert, I told him that I found it mostly unsettling —
after readily admitting that I really didn’t understand such stuff.
His response unsettled me even more than did his “music.”
He said that only another composer could really understand it since,
in his words, “it must be read to be appreciated.”
Now that floored me. It sounded so much like Mark Twain’s old chestnut
that Wagner’s music was probably a lot better than it sounded, that
I almost laughed. I didn’t. Starer was not a man you easily laughed
at. I might have pointed out that his argument would be like my saying
that you had to read about a painter’s work rather than to
look at it to really appreciate it. But I didn’t do that
either, and chalked it up to a definite lack in my own appreciation of
music and its many ranges This narrow-mindedness on my part generally
carries over the whole gamut of sounds that are grouped under the general
heading of “music.” I recall that in my younger years I could
listen to the “crooners” and their ballads without squirming
in my seat and, for a time during my Army years, that I enjoyed listening
to some jazz. And, even before that, when I was still in my teens, I played
the guitar — sometimes even the banjo and mandolin — as part
of a square dance band. But that was only for a few years and I could
only play “by ear”. Nowadays, jazz can set my nerves a-jangling
as much as Schonberg’s “music” does, and ballads appear
to be an old-timey thing of the past. If you really want to see
me squirm, make me sit through a musical where I have to watch two performers
sing at each other with straight faces. As for most of the ‘60s
singers, I was simply constitutionally unable to enjoy the plaintive nasal
caterwauling that they all felt more effectively carried their “weighty”
social messages. Both their whiny sounds and their political posturing
quickly wore thin for me. And today? From heavy metal, hard rock and on
into rap and hip-hop — fuhgeddaboutit! I have enough trouble trying
to distinguish heart irregularities from the usual wear and tear of aging
without adding to my worries by exposing myself to what seems like a never-ending
and never-varying drumbeat resonating inside my chest cavity. Anyway,
just thought I’d let you in on my secret of being musically-challenged.
My own theory is that it has something to do with math. If numbers really
do lie at the heart of music, then I’m sunk. I barely squeaked through
arithmetic back in grade school. |