328 - The Power of Music and the Music of Power

The Power of Music and the Music of Power
By Eugenia Zukerman

Memories from childhood are vivid, if unreliable. They are based not necessarily on fact, but rather on a synthesis of imagery and sensation. Often, on reflection, it seems it was an occurrence or event that took place in our earliest years that marked our lives forever. I have two such recollections from my early years that, fused together, formed one lasting impression.

I

The first: The time mother washed my pet turtle to death. It had climbed onto a towel and was inadvertently taken to its untimely, but clean, end. Discussions about death followed, the possibility of afterlife, the subject of God was raised, and somehow, in childish confusion, I came away from the talk believing the Almighty was a giant celestial tortoise. The image stayed with me for some time-the giant carapace in the sky, the awesome head and tail, the four spiky legs. I wondered if this Turtle snapped; that would explain thunder; the angry red eyeslightning. It took time and more discussions until the concrete image dissolved into the abstract and certainly more beneficent God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

But the abstraction was troubling. If God was not a turtle and could not be seen, then where did His (or Her) power come from? Answers were not satisfactory. It seemed, so I was told, I would have to experience His (or Her) power for myself.

And then I did. Memory #2: I was sitting on the rug in front of the television set-it was an Emerson, one of the first; it had a ten-inch round screen, and whenever it broke down, my father had to make the repairs, and I was playing with my doll, talking to it, hoping that Kukla, Fran, and Ollie would soon be on instead of these dreary grownups I saw before me in black and white, holding musical instruments, tuning up. Finally a figure appeared on the screen-a man, with streaming white hair and bushy eyebrows. A commanding presence. He stood on the podium, back to me; then, suddenly, he wheeled around, looked furious, placed a forbidding finger to his lips and hissed a loud and frightening "Shhhhh!" I was the only one in the room. He must be talking to me, I

Eugenia Zukerman is a flutist, recording artist, novelist, and arts critic. She is Music Commentator for CBS News' Sunday Morning and appears regularly as soloist with major orchestras throughout the world, sometimes with Pinchas Zukerman, her husband and concert violinist and orchestra conductor. This article by Ms. Zukerman was delivered as a public address at the Westminster Town Hall Forum, sponsored by the Westminster Presbyterian Church, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

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thought. I was mesmerized. This man had power. This must be God, I reasoned. And there are those who say Toscanini would have agreed with me. As he led the NBC Symphony through a Beethoven Symphony, I sat very still, listening, afraid he'd turn around and scold me again. He didn't. But there was Beethoven, and I heard the power of it. And I paid attention. Did I like It? I don't recall. But I listened.

In retrospect, it is not so odd that I confused the search for God with music. Historically, early music was a means of communication between human beings and forces not understood. Obviously music's function has changed since the days when primitive people leapt around the fire, beating drums and chanting, but it seems to me that music is still a way of searching for something beyond ourselves-it is an expression of the inexplicable, the ineffable, it is a bridge between ourselves and the infinite.

Each of us has experienced music's primeval roots. Rhythm is the foundation of music, and if we don't remember our mother's heartbeat, we just have to take it on account that we must have beard, or felt, it in the womb.

II

Sometimes I am struck by the fact that I play an instrument-the flute-whose history is as ancient as humanity itself. In the murky fog of prehistory, some semi-upright hominoid was probably blowing across a hole in a reed, summoning up spirits. The flute is supposed to have incantatory powers. I don't know how we can substantiate the claim, but I do know that for a ninth grade science project I played my flute to a group of nasturtiums while a control group was left in silence. The serenaded plants, of course, grew faster, which proves that for unemployed flutists, there might be work in the field.

Agrosonics aside, the flute surely has powers of arousal. D. H. Lawrence didn't miss its phallic qualities when be wrote a book about a flute player called Aaron's Rod. In ancient Greece, women were not allowed to hear flutes because the sounds might have excited them. Even today, in a remote section of the Amazon River basin, the Mehinaku Indians forbid women not only to hear the sacred flutes of the men, but even to see them. But in what we call the civilized world, in these sexually liberated 1980s, the flute is the most popular instrument. Of course its sensual appeal is only one reason for its popularity.

In fact, this is the second golden age of the flute. The first was during the eighteenth century when monarchs like Frederick the Great were devotees and practically every gentleman in Europe could play a tune. But, the popularity of instruments swings like a pendulum. In the 1930s there were more string players than Montovani could ever have used in his orchestrations, and few fine flutists. Today the opposite is true-too many flutists, few fiddlers. The bug is catching, and flute fever has reached epidemic proportions. There's hardly a teenager on the street without a flute case dangling from an arm. In the'60s, it was the guitar.

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But the '60s was an era of social unrest, and the guitar was used to accompany songs of protest. The flute is a far less social, more introspective, individualistic instrument. If, as they tell us, the '80s are the "Me" years, then perhaps there is some connection. Or, maybe it is the malaise of anonymity that makes the flute attractive; each player has a unique, identifiable sound. Playing it is an assertion of self. For whatever reasons, I have spent more than twenty years playing it, and my connection is so visceral that when I don't play it I feel physically ill. (Sometimes when I play it I feel physically ill, too, but that's another story.)

III

Let me, as a woman, address for a moment, the strength of women as performers. In 1981, I wrote an article for The New York Times in which I tried to answer the question, "Why aren't there more women superstars in classical music?"

In that article, I carefully and deliberately narrowed my subject to the performance of classical instrumental music. But, if we take the word of a New York critic as absolute truth, which we always absolutely do, it seems I could now, two years later, let my generalizations spill over into all areas of the performing arts. Let me quote from Bernard Holland's recent review of a duo concert by Placido Domingo and Sherrill Milnes: "The performing arts … at least at the star level … seem to have drifted into the world of men. At the movies, Paul Newman stands tall, but where are the Hedy Lamarrs and Rita Hayworths of forty years ago? Margot Fonteyn dominated the ballet after World War II, but today it is Nureyev and Baryshnikov who grasp our attention. And so has it been in opera."

If Mr. Holland is right, then, despite liberation and equal rights, women's star status in the arts is decreasing, not increasing. There are probably many reasons besides the ones I concocted a couple of years ago, I have one new thought to offer. These great female performers for whom Mr. Holland nostalgically yearns were women of mystery. Their lives were cloaked in secrets; they pulled myths around them like cashmere capes. Now, with the advent of the tell-all, see-all, show-all talk show, not only can we learn every intimate detail of a star's life, but we can have her visit us in our own living room every week. Perhaps, to be truly charismatic, a woman on stage must be unattainable and vulnerable at the same time; distant yet alluring. To know her is, perhaps, not to love her.

"Nonsense," my husband, the violinist, violist, conductor, and manabout-town, Pinchas Zukerman, says. "Women had better training back then. They were better musicians. Show me a Myra Hess or a Maria Callas and I'll show you a superstar."

Male chauvinist? Maybe. But maybe, just once in his life, Pinchas Zukerman agrees with a critic.

I take exception when male critics write excessive physical description

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of female performers. Here's a choice quote from a recent review of a soprano from The New York Times: "She appeared in full prima donna regalia, complete with an artsy hairdo and a flowing, sparkly gown. She looked terrific, but she didn't sound terrific."

How about this one, describing a violinist; this from the Washington Star: "She paraded onto the stage, her dazzlingly diaphanous midnight-blue drapery clinging to the smallest shred of actual clothing, her jet-black hair falling across a bared shoulder and cascading halfway to the floor." These two examples could be justified, I suppose, as reports of the visual aspect of the performances. But isn't there just a wee bit of prejudicial tone to the writing?

Concert attire does imitate our formal dress code, which is based on the nineteenth century concept that women can, and should, look seductive and fetishistic, whereas men are dressed in drab and unvaried uniform. But have you ever read a review that described a male performer's appearance with the comparable detail of the two I've just quoted? I'll make up one----"He strutted onto the stage, his jet black silky suit clinging to his taut quadriceps, his blond ringlets bouncing insouciantly, his patent leather shoes sparkling brilliantly. He looked like a million dollars, but he played like a bounced check."

Women may have come a long way, baby, but if we take a look at current advertising, it seems to me, we're sliding backwards. My least favorite ad of recent months shows a woman standing on a podium wearing nothing but her softcup front-close bra and luxurious satin tricot bikini lavished with lace. In her right hand she holds a baton and at her feet, yes, at her very feet, a swarthy violinist is playing his instrument while she smiles above him, leading the orchestra. "The Maidenform Woman," the copy says. "You never know where she'll turn up."

Some kind of convoluted thinking had to go into the creation of this masterpiece. I remember when the Maidenform Maiden could only dream … and those dreams were not terribly ambitious-"I dreamt I went dancing in my Maidenform bra."

"Up-date that ad!" I can just hear the mavens yelling. "Women today don't dream of being something. They are something,"

"Yeah!" the admen must have agreed. "They're doctors and lawyers and symphony conductors. Let's show them in these positions of power-in their panties!"

Great going, guys. Madison Avenue has done it again. But someone should tell them that an ad like the conductor in her lace, nylon, and tricot does not encourage the public to take a woman on stage seriously. It simply encourages them to take her.

IV

Regardless of which sex performs it most successfully, music has played an essential role in the human drama. Whether for religious or secular purpose, for storytelling or for dancing, for seduction or for

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solace, music has sustained the human spirit. In turn, humanity has supported music. At first, the church maintained music, then the community. It was during the fifteenth century that composers began to work regularly at the courts of wealthy rulers and composed nonreligious music. The most powerful music was subsidized by the most musical in power. The Duke of Burgundy employed many of the best musicians in Europe. The court of the Popes of Rome supported composers like Josquin des Pres and Giovanni Palestrina. Monarchs themselves, like Henry VIII and Frederick the Great, wrote and performed music. Louis XIII and his son, Louis XIV, had an orchestra of twenty-four violins which was later copied by Charles II of England. It is due to the Georges I and II of England that Handel wrote much of his music, and if not for Prince Esterhazy, Franz Joseph Haydn might not have turned out a new work nearly every week. By the nineteenth century, concerts went public, and patronage poured in from the private sector-thank you Mr. Kreutzer, Mr. Razumovsky, Madame de Rothschild, and Mr. Joseph von Sonnensfels, to name but a few.

This whimsical historical survey of subsidy is situated in Europe where culture is still an essential and integral part of people's lives, and where music is still strongly supported by governments and private individuals.

But here, across the Atlantic, how can we characterize the state of music in particular and the state of the arts in general? There are pertinent statistics, and there are subjective opinions. I'll give you a little of both.

A recent Harris poll showed that sixty-one per cent of the American public does not think government should give grants to the arts. The statistics support that poll. This year, Great Britain will spend $3.60 per person for the arts; France, $11.88; and Austria, $100. In the United States the commitment per citizen is 70 cents.

Despite the small amount spent, we are told by the National Endowment of the Arts that in the last fifteen years alone, there was a 260% per cent increase in the number of cultural institutions around this country. What per cent of that per cent were musical institutions? Perhaps a pertinent figure from New York's concert halls answers this question. In 1950, in New York there were an estimated 2000 musical events in a single season. In 1981, The New York Times alone reviewed 1500 concerts, and the total number of events was at least four times that.

Well, so there are more concerts. But what about the quality of the programs? Let's look, for example, at new music. Is it being adequately encouraged? There are many "New Music" Groups, but are contemporary works being incorporated into the programs of the touring virtuosos who have the power to promulgate them? While critics are holding their ears and saying, "Oh, no, please, not again, not Beethoven 2!", the concert auspices want to please their important patrons who, so they reason, want to bear what they know. This idea, I risk saying, is condescending. I am reminded of the time my husband played a recital

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somewhere in Florida. He had programmed the Fantasy for violin and piano by Arnold Schoenberg. "Our audience will hate it," the auspices complained, but Zukerman refused to change the program. The night of the concert, backstage, pressures mounted, and begrudgingly, Zukerman trotted out on stage and announced that he had been advised that the Schoenberg, although written nearly fifty years ago, might be considered too avant-garde and therefore he was changing the program. "Hold it!" an octogenarian in the audience shouted, waving his cane, "Let's hear some of that new-fangled music!"

Even though most concert programs concentrate on music written two hundred years ago, there certainly are more classical concerts than ever. There is positively a proliferation. Television brings it to us weekly. Classical music is no longer the terrain of the effete elite. It's played by all kinds of nice guys and gals who can cook on the Dinah Shore Show and clown around with Johnny Carson. Supposedly, this brings more people into the concert halls. But it can, I think, also lead to the creation of false expectations. The new concert-goer enters the concert hall feeling an intimacy with the artist who is about to play a concerto. After all, he's seen him do his imitation of Clark Gable on the Merv Griffin Show, or beard him tell the hilarious story of losing his bags en route to Helsinki, or seen him perform with John Denver. When the concerto begins, will the new concert-goer expect the artist to clown around and do his schtick? Will he enjoy the rest of the program? Will he listen quietly? Will he be disappointed?

As a servant to the composer, the interpreter should be the medium for the message. Instead, it seems the message is a victim of the media: the musician is more popular than the music, and charisma is more salable than art any day. Television is largely responsible for the cult of personality in the arts, a cult that has its precedent in the nineteenth century. True, when Liszt played, the ladies fainted. But he was considered the high priest in the temple of art, not a jet age superstar courting box office sales.

"If I were dictator of this country," a friend of mine said, "the first thing I would do would be to ban television." This potential benevolent despot happens to be an executive at one of the major TV networks. I do not share his despair. There are some fine programs, like CBS's Sunday Morning, there's "Live From" practically everywhere, and there is public radio, and our children should be encouraged to watch and to listen … then they should go practice.

If I were dictator of this country, the first thing I'd do would be to give every child a recorder. Why? Learning music combines self-discipline with self-expression, two essential ingredients of psychological well-being. And it teaches us to listen.

V

When Toscanini turned around and told me to be quiet, I listened. But that was 1948 and not obeying had consequences. The autocratic

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attitudes of yesterday have evolved into the increasingly permissive and egalitarian postures of today.

Recently at a theatrical performance in New York, I turned to a group of rowdy teenagers next to me and said, "Would you please be quiet?"

"Why should we? It's boring!" was the smartass answer.

This charming response was, of course, merely a minor infraction when we consider the larger public affronts, like muggings and robberies and rapes that are daily unpunished occurrences in our cities. It seems our standards of behavior have been grossly compromised.

Some months ago, in Miami, when riots took place, followed by looting, one public official was heard to say, "Well, what can you expect? You turn the lights off, and people will steal."

What can you expect, indeed? Once we stop expecting civilized behavior, it's just a matter of time before we return to the marauding bands of outlaws who ruled the fourteenth century. I'm in no way advocating a right-wing law-and-order now approach to solving the problem, nor do I mean to equate bad theatre manners with lawlessness. But one can be prelude to the other, and both are symptomatic of the disintegration of consequences for poor behavior.

Poor behavior at public peformances comes, I believe, from our TV-watching habits. Not only do we talk to each other during programs, but we have become accustomed to endless commercial breaks. Our national attention span has been shortened by those creative ad people who are so clever and successful.

But there is always hope. My heart leapt when, at a movie, last week, in New York City a sign flashed across the screen along with other pre-feature announcements. It said something like: "Talking may be disturbing to your neighbors. Please refrain from conversation while the movie is being shown." This announcement was met by a round of applause from an obviously beleagured crowd. It is a sad comment that we need such announcements at all, but now that they're here, who knows, maybe being considerate will come back into fashion.

It's one thing not to annoy your neighbor, it's another to know how to listen. A young and well-connected stockbroker recently asked me a stunning question. Having seen classical music on TV, knowing it's the in thing, he went to his first concert.

"Tell me something about classical concerts," he began. "I went to my first one last week."

"Did you like it?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said. "I sat there and read the newspaper and the time passed very pleasantly. Is this acceptable concert behavior?"

How could I answer? Obviously, he never learned to listen. I do not mean to suggest that all first-time concert attendees are sitting in the audience with the New York Review of Books--or worse-hidden in their programs. But in order to enjoy classical music, people do have to know what they are listening to. Hearing a popular much-played

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showstopper like a Tchaikovsky concerto on television does not prepare a novice for the intricacies of Til Eulenspiegel or the subtleties of La Mer. I'm not blaming my stockbroker friend. He didn't study music at home, and he certainly didn't get it at school.

At a time when there is little money for anything, it might to some seem flippant to suggest that we need, in this country, a comprehensive revision of our musical education programs, and, for that matter, our arts education programs. There is too little, and it is mostly mediocre. The arts are like an essential protein for the maintenance of civilized existence. Our children must learn that culture is more than a dollop of whipped cream on the chocolate cake of life.

I could berate the government's budget cuts for the arts, or implore corporations to increase their support for the arts. Yes, we need money, now; we must all militantly lobby for increased support for the arts. But in order to support something, you must be convinced of the value of what you support. We must look further ahead than this year or next. We must educate the next generation, and the next, and do it properly. Would it cost so much? Couldn't we somehow incorporate the arts more meaningfully into our childrens' education so that in the year 2003 some endangered species, like a flutist, will not step onto a stage to be greeted by 2,000 people reading newspapers?

The arts in America are in jeopardy. The danger is not that they will disappear. They never have and they never will. But the arts are becoming a luxury instead of an integral part of our daily lives. They are being treated as commodities, to be packaged and sold, and in the most palatable fashion. And we are selling them to an increasingly culturally illiterate public. The arts are not for the elite. They are for those who understand. To understand, we must learn.

While the power of art has never been stronger, the art of those in power is weak. We must, somehow, convince those with power that to nurture the creative potential of this country is to create a powerful future. In a world where too many things look alike, taste alike, sound alike, art offers us the unique. In a world where there is violence and corruption and an impending threat of global annihilation, the arts remind us that there is beauty, there is truth, there is, after all, hope.