Alan
Walker
An
Anatomy of Musical Criticism
Chilton,
Hardback, 1968.
8vo. xii+114 pp. First
Edition. Preface by the author, February 1966 [xi-xii].
Contents
Preface
Part One
A
Solution in Search of a Problem
Part Two
Creative
Principles
Part Three
A
Theory of Unconscious Assimilation
Conclusions
Bibliography
Index
=================================================
The most important landmark
common to all of my favourite authors
is that they have changed me, my
views and opinions, even my character. The British-born, but Canadian-based,
musicologist Alan Walker fits the criteria to perfection. His monumental
three-volume biography of Franz Liszt, first published between 1983 and 1997,
has changed my perception of the Hungarian genius out of recognition. It is by
far the most comprehensive, scholarly and perceptive study of Liszt's amazing
life and unique personality available in English, and it is most likely that it
will remain so for a good many years ahead. If there is any other work of
musical biography which combines compulsive readability and stupendous research
is so fine a way, I have yet to read it. Alan Walker (born in 1930) has
repeated the feat with one of Liszt's famous pupils, Hans Von Bülow: A Life and Times (2009, I wish he would tackle Carl
Tausig too, to say nothing of Richard Wagner) and he has also published a
wonderful collection of essays, Reflections
on Liszt (2005), that make an excellent companion volume to his magisterial
biography.
Since I owe Alan Walker so
much, the least I can do is to read some of his earliest and most obscure
books. And this is where An Anatomy of
Musical Criticism comes into play, for it was first published long before
Mr Walker had even started his exhausting research on Franz Liszt, let alone
published the first volume of his biography.
In book form or in the online
version of the famous magazine Gramophone,
I have read quite a bit of musical criticism. Except for the writings of two
great men – Harold Schonberg and Bernard Shaw – I have found it of little
value, and even this is often obscured by severely technical language that's
all Greek to the layman. For the most part musical criticism is indeed
perfectly ridiculous. If anything, I am vastly amused by those fellows in the Gramophone. As a general rule, they put
on gigantic airs and attach an astonishing importance to themselves; they are
often stupendously presumptuous, pretentious and condescending. I am not sure
what's worse: if they sincerely believe the inane stuff they write or if they
deliberately write nonsense for their own perverse amusement. Certainly I am
deeply sorry for everybody who takes these guys seriously and let them
interfere with his musical experiences. He misses the best music can offer.
So it is hardly surprising
that, my great admiration for Alan Walker notwithstanding, I have been
sceptical about An Anatomy of Musical
Criticism. I should have known better. Despite its forbidding title, it
makes an excellent read packed with stimulating observations. Mr Walker's view
of musical criticism strives for complete objectivity and thus it is
refreshingly different than the highly personal approach of Shaw or Schonberg.
Significantly, however, all three writers share exemplary prose – perfectly
lucid and beautifully written, with regular flashes of wit and wisdom – and
formidable argumentation which completely excuses the obvious fact that all of
them are strenuously opinionated. Mr Walker, of course, is not nearly as witty
as Mr Schonberg, to say nothing of Shaw, but this is to be expected considering
his scholarly approach. Nevertheless, his writing is often enlivened by
charming humour and – this is very important – no matter how much I disagree
with some of his notions, I cannot possibly be angry with him.
Before I go into appalling
detail about the contents of this lovely book, one serious caveat to be kept in
mind: the whole second part makes a truly tough read for the layman. The reason
is simple and, I have to say, to be fully expected: the chapter is full of
numerous musical examples, no fewer than 99 of them. They constitute at least half of its volume and range
from piano pieces to full orchestral scores: from Chopin's famous (and stupidly
nicknamed) ''Heroic'' polonaise to Wagner's prelude to Parsifal, his last music drama. I daresay this is inevitable and I
really am the wrong person to peruse this book; a trained musician, or anybody
who can read music fluently, will surely gain a lot more from it than I
possibly could. Still, even for the layman these pages are not entirely
unreadable for they do contain a number of interesting points that can be understood by everybody who is
able to read. Besides, the other two parts are perfectly free from musical
examples.
What attaches a peculiar
fascination to this book is what shines on every page of it, and this is Mr
Walker's genuine passion for music; not something one would expect in such rigidly
intellectual approach. As for the purpose of his book, I can't do better than
quote extensively from his fascinating preface:
The practice of
criticism boils down to one thing: making value judgements. The theory of
criticism, therefore, boils down to one thing also: explaining them. If you
formulate a theory of criticism, it is not enough to know that one work is a
masterpiece and another a mediocrity. You must also explain why they are
different. It is on this issue that my book takes a stand.
[...]
Faced with such
extreme opposites as Mozart and Schonberg, Beethoven and Stravinsky, one is
hardly encouraged to postulate the existence of constant, creative principles
which all these great masters have followed. Each seems to pursue his own
arbitrary path. Yet I believe this to be an illusion. Masters do not write
masterpieces by accident. Nor do we recognise them by accident. Far from being
arbitrary, I believe that masterpieces unfold according to timeless, creative
principles, that they would not be masterpieces unless they did, and that it is
the chief function of any theory of musical criticism to tell us what these
principles are. This is the task I have set myself, although the present book
amounts to no more than a survey of the basic issues.
Rather tantalising! Further
in these two remarkable pages, Alan Walker demolishes some notions of his
colleagues (Hadow, Calvocoressi, Newman) who have tried before him to provide
musical criticism with such sound theoretical basis. He is convinced that they
were terribly wrong chiefly on two points, and he tries to show that the very
opposites are true, namely that: 1) there is no such thing as a critic with
standards; and 2) the critic must possess value-judgement before he even starts criticising. Never a man to mince words, Mr
Walker bluntly states that, as regards the first point, there is music with standards but certainly no
such critics, and that the opposite notion of the second point has been ''a
major disaster for criticism.'' Then he makes the startling statement that one
of the main paradoxes that he proposes to explore in his book is that criticism
actually only explains what one already knows on intuitive level; in other
words, you needn't prove that Beethoven's Eroica
is a masterpiece to know that it is, for ''its mastery is self-evident'', but
the much more important question is why
it is self-evident (his italics).
Yes, I agree, the subject is
thoroughly abstract and monstrously abstruse. It is definitely a difficult
stuff to grasp since, quite apart from the fact that it does require solid
knowledge of musical theory, it goes deep into human psychology and there is
nothing more arbitrary than that. Yet there is something really inspiring in Mr
Walker's ideas about music as – no other word will do – mystery, as something
completely self-sufficient, rather esoteric and playing weird games with the
subconscious. But he does have a fine point, as every music lover knows only
too well. Music is a mystery. It
either grips one or it doesn't; and if these conditions are fairly easy to
distinguish, it is devilishly difficult to say why a certain piece of music – often in a certain performance
indeed! – gives you a unique thrill of excitement, whereas another work – or
even the same work in another performance! – gives you a strong nausea. At any
rate, Mr Walker offers a fascinating journey that may well prove worthwhile in
the end:
We sleepwalk our
way through music observing, often with somnambulistic certainty, what is good
and what is not. But we still know next to nothing about the way in which we do
it. Perhaps, it may be objected, we do not need to; a theory about our musical
reactions will not necessarily make us better critics. True; but the crucial
function of theory is not to improve practice: it is to explain it. Its great
task is to bring into sharp focus the principles behind musical communication.
This quote comes from the
first paragraph of the first chapter, which is indeed by far the most important
one in the book. Here Mr Walker explains the principles of his theory
concisely, with rare subtlety and beautiful lucidity. He separates the chapter
into five main sections:
(i)
''A Priori'' Principles
(ii)
Creative Determinism
(iii)
Methods of Comparison
(iv)
Means versus Ends
(v)
Vox populi, vox Dei
Each of these five parts does
contain tons of compelling reflections. I make no apology for the extensive
quotation.
''A
Priori'' Principles. In one of his remarkable footnotes Mr Walker tells us
that he uses the term ''a priori'' in its strict logical sense, namely meaning
''from cause to effect'', not as ''arbitrary'' as it is sometimes misused by
musical theorists. I can't for the life of me put it better than the author
did:
It is often
asserted that a theory of criticism based upon an acceptance of a priori principles is doomed to
failure. My book was written in the belief that such an assertion is almost
certainly wrong. A masterpiece is not a masterpiece by chance. Neither, for
that matter, is a mediocrity. Both are symptomatic of deep, far-reaching
principles; music's fate is sealed internally, as it were. When these
principles function, you have a masterpiece; when they malfunction, you do not.
Another landmark of my
favourite writers is that it's always a pleasure to disagree with them. So let
me immediately take issue with Mr Walker's statement here. For one thing, I
think he makes a little too sharp a distinction between masterpiece and
mediocrity, putting the former on a kind of pedestal and dismissing the latter
contemptuously. Anyway, he is convinced, not only that these ''a priori
principles'' do exist, but they actually are ''immutable laws to which all
genius gives unconscious utterance.'' There are three consequences of extreme
importance that emerge from such an assumption. Mr Walker sets them in his
usually straightforward manner; as we shall see presently he is not in the
least as dogmatic as he looks like:
First: cutting
across all musical barriers – light, serious, chamber, orchestral, vocal, etc.;
cutting across all historical styles; cutting across all shades of opinion, all
varieties of taste, there runs a simple line of division. On one side fall
those works which express music's timeless, creative principles; on the other
fall those which do not. The division is crucial. It is one of my deepest
convictions that it splits the world's best music from the world's worst.
Second: ''taste''
is not a tool of criticism but a symptom of people. Tastes change. A switch in
taste must, logically, involve untruth. How can today's masterpieces become
tomorrow's mediocrities? A masterpiece either is, or it is not. You cannot have
it both ways.
Finally, there are
no critics with principles. There are only works with principles. Criticism
does not settle music's fate; it observes music's fate. An important concept
now emerges.
Before tackling this
''important concept'', I should like to quote a footnote which Mr Walker uses
as a very amusing illustration which parallels the job of criticism, namely to
observe music's fate:
The story goes
that a man once went to an exhibition of paintings. He walked round all the
galleries paying particular attention to the old masters. As he left, an
attendant said to him: ''I hope you enjoyed our collection of paintings, sir''.
''Not bad'', came the reply, ''but I didn't like your old masters.'' The
attendant paused. ''With respect, sir'', he said, ''it isn't the old masters
who are on trial here''. There is no need to labour the parallel.
Creative
Determinism. This, of course, is the important concept Mr Walker mentioned in the end
of the previous paragraph. He starts with the curious notion of music as an end
in itself, its intrinsic value being completely independent from any external
factors. That seems a little high-handed to me. Can one separate a musical work
from the historical period in which it was created or from the personality of
its creator? Is it worthwhile doing that? Would Eroica have been hailed as a masterpiece had it not been created in the very beginning
of the XIX century as the first flame of the newly born Romanticism? I doubt
it. Yet Mr Walker does have a point, the same one I remarked on earlier. Every
person susceptible to music, by which I mean listening to music not for relaxation or fun but from
internal compulsion, knows that knowledge about the life and times of a
composer whose work he likes can, and does, increase his appreciation. But one
must first like the music, to say the
very least, and this early stage, I think, is the one which Mr Walker set out
to explore. His own philosophy as far as musical criticism goes – creative
determinism – is certainly provocative and controversial. But it is compelling
and stimulating, too. Accepting that music is ''autonomous'', Mr Walker tells
us, the consequences are threefold (all italics are his):
(1) A musical
communication is complete; it refers to nothing outside itself. Mendelssohn was
once asked the meaning of some of his Songs
without Words. His reply summarises an entire philosophy.
There is so much
talk about music, and yet so little is said... Words seem to me so ambiguous, so
vague, so easily misunderstood in comparison to genuine music... The thoughts
expressed to me by music that I love are not too indefinite to be put into
words, but on the contrary, too definite.
The totally musical nature of musical
communication is something I want to stress. Music is non-conceptual. It
neither requires nor demands an ''explanation''. It is purely musical truth
which can be comprehended on a purely musical level.
(2) If music is
autonomous all our knowledge about it must flow out of our experience of it. I
do not think it is sufficiently realised that there is no valid theoretical
concept in the entire history of music which did not first emerge as an
intuitive part of creative practice. Musical theory is always wise after the
creative event:
Robert Craft:
''What is theory in musical composition?''
Stravinsky:
''Hindsight. It doesn't exist. There are compositions from which it is deduced.
Or, if this isn't quite true, it has a by-product existence that is powerless
to create or even to justify.''
(3) Unless you
already understand music, a theory about how it works is beside the point.
Knowledge without understanding is a curse of our age. I know this is heresy in
some circles. The entire field of musical education, for example, is slanted
towards the belief that the ''way in'' is through knowledge – theory, analysis,
history, etc. Modern psychology, however, shows that this is really the ''way
out''.
[...]
The philosophy I
am expounding, creative determinism, leads inevitably to a definition of
criticism. It is a definition that I shall follow rigorously throughout my
book. Criticism is the rationalisation of
intuitive, musical experience. I maintain that you cannot criticise
anything of which you have no previous intuitive understanding, for your
value-judgment is already contained in
such understanding. Nobody postpones responding to music until he has set it
against a critical yardstick. We respond first, criticise last. This is my
basic objection to the so-called ''scientific'' approach to criticism. It
encourages the notion that we do not know whether music is good or bad until we
have subjected it to an ''objective'' test. But the whole point is that we do know. As soon as we have taken that
first intuitive step towards a work, we know instinctively whether we are
dealing with something trivial or something great. As for the ''criticism''
itself, this is merely a rationalisation of something we already know to be
true on an intuitive level. The real dilemma facing most critics is not that
they cannot recognise musical quality without yardstick; it is that they can,
but do not know how they can.
[...]
The notion that
stylistic developments can be explained in terms of historical ''pressures'' –
political, social, economic, etc. – the bread and butter of the history books,
is misleading. The case against it is really very simple. There are no successful stylistic changes in music
which are not, at the same time, artistically necessary. I find this fact
impressive. If you wish to explain a musical event, you do not have to go
outside music to do it. The history of music lies in music. The historical
background against which music unfolds, I submit, plays a passive, not an
active, role in music's development. That is to say, history merely offers an
ever-changing series of alternatives – political, social, economic – through
which music might, or might not, develop. The final choice is, I maintain,
always musically, always creatively determined.
[...]
In the light of
the foregoing discussion, I should like to consider two aspects of critical
practice which seem, to me, fallacious.
But before we consider these
too, let's look at the above quote again. Lots
of food for reflection. Mendelssohn and Stravinsky hit the nail on the head
with mighty force, to begin with. Mr Walker's notion about music's total
independence of history is rather interesting, but I wish he'd given us several
examples. His philosophy is highly appealing for it fits perfectly with mine:
everybody is his own best critic. In other words, if you do know/feel that you love certain music, you may well send all
those who don't to mind their own business. I do not know if Mr Walker would
agree with me that the value of this ''rationalisation'' is purely personal
and, a friendly pun intended, autonomous, but this is beside the point.
The notion that comparisons
in criticism are evil is more than sensible: it is brilliant. This appalling
practice is what, to my mind, makes so much of art criticism – music,
literature, painting, you name it – simply detestable; to say nothing of
critics who do inflict their opinions on you as if they were the only right
ones in the world. ''Knowledge without understanding is a curse of our age.''
This is frightfully true, much more so today than it must have been in the
1960s. Today, with Internet and Wikipedia, knowledge is devastatingly easy to
be acquired. But understanding – now, that is quite a different matter. I might
even go further and suggest that it’s only information
that is easy to obtain today. Knowledge is one level above that – and
understanding is what but few of the knowledgeable fellows manage to achieve.
The two fallacious notions –
disastrously so, if I may add – of musical criticism are points three and four
above: ''Methods of Comparison'' and
''Means versus Ends''. In short, the
former refers to the vastly misguided passion for yardsticks and the latter is
even sillier for it implies that technique may have anything to do with the
value of the result, and of course it can't and it doesn't. I hardly need to
add that both of these anathemas have pervaded all art criticism. These are
problems of paramount importance and Mr Walker has explained, and demolished,
them stupendously well, to say nothing of his elegant witticism:
I have never
understood the high premium some critics attach to comparison. It has always
seemed to me unreasonable to use one composer as a rod with which to beat
another – for this is what ''comparison'' invariably amounts to. Work A is
neither good nor bad because it is like work B. For the question then arises:
why is work B considered worthy as a
critical yardstick? Because it is like C which is also considered worthy? This
is a charmed circle from which escape is difficult. Comparison brings us back
to the all-important question: Where
is music's value to be found? We are faced with a simple choice. Music's value
is either intrinsic – in which case
we shall know about it without our ''yardsticks''; or it is extrinsic – in which case we shall
arrive at the embarrassing conclusion that a great work of art is ''great''
through no fault of its own.
[This is a very powerful
argument very powerfully expressed; a real gem. And so is the next one, and a
great fun too.]
A particularly
invidious form of comparison arises when critics appoint themselves to the rank
of H. M. Customs and Excise officers whose function it is to spot composers
smuggling contraband ideas from one work to another. To ask a composer if he
has anything to declare while he is busily unrolling his music to public view
is not a very intelligent question. Each act of composition is a declaration.
If it did not owe something to somebody it would be intelligible to nobody.
Elgar may be said to have ''smuggled'' the closing pages of Tristan into the final bars of his own
Second Symphony. But the comparison is so obvious only a bad critic would make
it; and only a fool would ''devalue'' the Elgar as a consequence. The likeness
sheds no light whatsoever on the respective ''value'' of either work. The way
pieces resemble each other is the least interesting thing about them. It is one
of musical criticism's blind alleys.
[...]
Another is the way
in which means are sometimes confused with ends. Means are precompositional;
they are the concern of the composer. The critic's concern on the other hand,
is the creative result. We put the cart before the horse when we censure a
composer for employing a technique which, for one reason or another, we happen
to dislike. By itself, a technique is neither good nor bad. It is incapable of
receiving censure until it has fulfilled itself in a creative result.
Means are
continually gaining the upper hand over ends in criticism. We are always being
asked to admire a way of doing, not what is done. Witness the so called
''experimental masterpiece'' which commentators are apt to refer to with
monotonous regularity. The fact is, there can be no such thing as an
experimental masterpiece and it is a critical blunder to suppose that it can.
An experiment is a process – a means
towards an end; but a masterpiece is
an end. For the rest, if the experiment comes off it is no longer
''experimental''; if it does not come off the result can hardly be a
''masterpiece.''
Transfixing passages! They do
give me a considerable pause. I may mention in passing that in a footnote Mr Walker
mentions as an example of an ''experimental masterpiece'' which has had that
''meaningless label'' for many years Sibelius' Fourth Symphony. And have you
never seen the charming fellow who insists on showering you with comparisons
between composers, painters and writers, discussing with subtlety and insight
the technique they used to create their masterpieces. I have. This is called
''culture'' and showing it off is the favourite pastime of these ''charming
fellows'' who can be described with the generic name ''intellectual snob''.
Vox
populi, vox Dei. The last of Mr Walker's five maxims is the most
dangerous one – and he knows it. This, of course, is the elusive and so often
misunderstood correlation between recognition and mastery, or to put it in a
rather more vulgar way: between commercial and artistic value. It's a conundrum
as old as art itself. Does popularity prove that a work is a masterpiece or
not? That is the question. It's a very complicated one. Popularity is not so
easy to define, to begin with; what do you mean, really: national, continental,
worldwide popularity, one that transcends different cultures and religions, or
something else? Then there is the question of time. Popularity means nothing if
it doesn't last sufficiently long. But how long? Most importantly, perhaps, a
work of art must first be given the
opportunity to survive the fickle human nature and the severe test of time. In
the case of music, fine performances of a work must be heard often enough for a
considerable time: if it still fails, then surely it is no masterpiece; if it
survives, then it is. But there are complications here, too. The quality of
performance and the duration of the survival time are vastly subjective. Yet
one thing is sure: no masterpiece can gain any recognition if it is dismally
performed or not at all. This, I maintain, is the reason for Liszt's symphonic
poems to languish into obscurity century and a half after they were written.
Instead of rambling like that, I may as well give the word to Mr Walker:
I should now like
to put forward a hypothesis which is of some importance to my theory. The
potential aim of a great composer is to communicate a universal, artistic
truth. [...] Immediately, certain objections arise. There are many works about
which there has never been universal agreement. [...] Yet there are two reasons
why I want to retain the hypothesis. First: its operative word is
''potential''. I am not maintaining that a great musical communication is universal, only that it may become so. Second: overwhelming as
such objections to it may be, they only represent one side of the case. It is
equally certain that there are works about which no one disputes.
[Here, again, I would have
loved to see some examples on both sides of the case. The first point is rather
evasive. It works both ways: if a communication has not become universal for
decades or even centuries, maybe the work in question is no masterpiece and the
theory which claims the opposite is false. The second point is controversial:
even the most universally renowned works have had their detractors. They may be
in the minority, those hard-headed iconoclasts, but their eminence is usually
impressive and gives their voice a certain prominence.]
As for the
question ''What does music
communicate?'' no theory of criticism can avoid it. Music is a vehicle for
transferring a psychological situation. A listener who responds to music does
so because he has unconsciously identified himself with it; [...] No musician
needs to be told that the intuitive musical experience is a vehicle of truth
far superior to that of rational thought.
[I venture to claim the above
is true of every serious listener, too. In a fine footnote Mr Walker mentions
what he discusses more fully in Part Three, namely that the relationship
composer-listener is based on powerful unconscious factors that are most
probably beyond human understanding.]
Why do
masterpieces survive across the ages? Surely because musicians are in general
agreement that they are masterpieces.
Survival is a symptom of profound and widespread recognition. Critics who cannot accept the notion that a universal
response is symptomatic of musical value often counter with the argument that,
if it were true, the most popular works would be the best – a conclusion nobody
accepts. Actually, popularity is not significant because it increases music's
value but because it confirms it.
[Rather muddled that, or
evasive is a better word perhaps, either is a rarity in Alan Walker's writing.
So, is popularity proportional to value or not? If not, as seems to be the
case, doesn’t this invalidate the whole argument? How do we measure popularity?
Can we? Should we? Is there some kind of threshold above which the value of a
work is ''confirmed''? Whatever. The next paragraph redeems the deficiencies of
the previous one. Here Mr Walker is positively profound:]
Vox populi, vox Dei is a dangerous doctrine to
espouse in aesthetics. Yet it is equally dangerous to ignore it. The fact is,
the vox populi is often a symptom of
the vox Dei. To dismiss it
arbitrarily is the essence of snobbery. To regard it as evidence is the
beginning of understanding.
[...]
Assuming that he
gets a hearing, history shows that a master will never remain unrecognised for
ever. How great a master he is, and how widespread the recognition accorded to
him, these are subsidiary matters which should not deflect us from our main
objective. A theory of criticism must explain what it is that constitutes the difference between the two extremes of
mastery and mediocrity.
Having set the stage brilliantly,
Alan Walker then goes on to illustrate how he applies his principles to some
musical works which he, apparently, considers masterpieces, unless he
explicitly states the opposite as he does in a few cases. Unfortunately, as I
have already said, Part Two of this little book is largely incomprehensible for
me. But since Mr Walker mentions a number of my favourite works, and waxes
lyrical about some that are not but I have some familiarity with, I think I may
allow myself several cautious remarks.
Sometimes I really am sorry
that I can't read music and in such cases I have to satisfy myself with a very
lame analysis. But I absolutely refuse to believe that the ability to read
music, or any other special knowledge of music theory, is in any way essential
for a true understanding of music. The musical perception of a trained musician
is unimaginably different than that of a layman, that's for sure, but who is to
say which is the truer or more important one? I dare not even think about it.
One of the most wonderful
things about Part Two of Mr Walker's book is that he spends considerable time
on Tchaikovsky's Fifth symphony and, to a lesser extent, his Violin Concerto,
overture-fantasy Romeo and Juliet and
the Fourth symphony, all of them outstanding works that are very close to my
heart. One of Mr Walker's most curious footnotes is also dedicated to
Tchaikovsky, and I of course cannot resist quoting it:
One day, when the
history of composition, the history
of musical ideas comes to be written
(as opposed to the conventional, socially inspired histories of music),
Tchaikovsky will emerge as a leading figure in the development of the
contrast-potential of large-scale musical structure.
I wish Alan Walker had
elaborated more on this; he did, indeed, though indirectly: in the same
footnote he directs the reader to his analysis of Tchaikovsky's Fourth symphony
in his previous book, A Study in Musical
Analysis. Yet even for the perfect layman, he can be illuminating. Why does
Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony have a waltz
as a third movement? This is not without historical precedent (Berlioz's Fantastique, for instance), but it is
surely very unusual. So is the inclusion of a march in a symphony, and that's
exactly what Tchaikovsky did in his Pathetique.
Alan Walker builds a case that these at first glance bizarre choices actually
make a good deal of sense when the works in question are carefully examined. I
am sorry – yet again – that his explanation is in the form of musical examples
and thus well beyond me. (Still, why does Beethoven's Eighth have a minuet as
third movement? Beethoven himself had made this dance obsolete in a symphony,
replacing it with scherzo, long before he came to compose that work.)
Speaking broadly, in the
second part of the book Alan Walkers asks point blank many questions of
paramount importance. I am indeed surprised that I had given them almost no
thought before, especially considering the vast number of examples I am
familiar with. Why is a particular composition written for a particular medium?
Does change of the medium matter? Why is every masterpiece constructed of such
and such movements and why the themes in each
of them are arranged in that way?
Does change in either matter? The short answer is ''Yes, they do matter'', the
medium, the themes and their order. Alas, I can do no more here than point out at
some examples.
As usual, the exceptions are
the most fascinating part of the story. Though Mr Walker is convinced that the
right medium is essential, he is perfectly aware that every medium has its
limitations and the great composer is the first one, when his inspiration
dictates it, to write against the
medium. Since both instruments and performers evolve, this leads directly to
the amusing historical paradox that some works were condemned ''unplayable'' at
the time of their composition, yet today they are extremely popular and played
by a good many people. The most famous example here is Tchaikovsky's Violin
concerto which became ''playable'' just two years after Leopold Auer, the
distinguished Russian violinist to whom the work was dedicated, had declared it
to be ''unplayable''.
Sometimes the recognition was
much slower, in a few cases it has yet to come. Here Mr Walker gives as an
example Beethoven's famous, or notorious, Hammerklavier,
one of his late piano sonatas which, nearly a hundred and fifty years after its
composition (at the time of Mr Walker's writing), still posed severe technical
problems even to accomplished virtuosos. Some parts of the final fugue are
simply physically impossible to play, something Mr Walker memorably describes
as Beethoven composing beyond the
medium. The author is convinced that one day the time will come when pianists
will reach the level of mastery required to play faultlessly the Hammerklavier. I don't know if that day
has come already, but I wonder whether the truth lays more in Mr Walker's
speculation or more in the possibility of Beethoven, towering genius as he was,
being carried away in the realm of the nonsensical.
Mr Walker's notion that all
masterpieces grow from diversification of one
main theme may sound exotic but I daresay he knows what he's talking about; it
may well be that the aspect is comprehensible only to trained musicians.
Certainly, I too find it rather interesting that Brahms' Second Symphony is his
longest yet the one composed in the shortest time. Despite Mr Walker's touching
descriptions of this work as ''conceived whole, rather than made whole'' and that
there is ''impressive totality about it'', I still consider Brahms' Second by far
the dullest of his four symphonies. Just another example how different a view –
just different, nothing more – a
musician and a layman may have of a single work. All the same, Mr Walker
remains convinced that every musical masterpiece, no matter how diverse on the
surface, exhibits a profound unity in the background. He backs this up with an
amazing quote from a letter by Tchaikovsky himself:
We begin to
understand what Tchaikovsky meant when, discussing symphonic form on one
occasion, he remarked: ''The details can be manipulated as freely as one
chooses according to the natural
development of the musical idea'' (my italics). I should like to draw a
corollary from Tchaikovsky's observation. All great music is variations; to
compose is to diversify! In a masterpiece, no event will take place for which
there is no precedent. Every direction the music follows is predetermined by
the ''natural development'' of the basic idea.
Did you spot the most
important part in Tchaikovsky's quote? It is the singular form of ''idea''. It
is from one idea that a masterpiece
grows by constant diversification. This sounds positively fanciful to me, but I
am pretty sure people who can read music may well find some not unconvincing
evidence in Mr Walker's examples. Amusingly, he drew this ''corollary'' while
discussing Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony which, as every admirer of the Russian
composer knows perfectly well, does have a main theme, a motto, a leitmotiv,
call it what you like, that appears in all four parts of the work, sometimes
heavily disguised. Of course this is so obvious, even to the layman, that it is
not at all what Mr Walker means when he talks about unity. He goes far beyond
that, to the very foundations of a musical work, and there, alas, I cannot follow.
The most obvious consequence
of this principle is that ''there are no ''free'' passages in music – except
bad ones'', but there also are some rather far-reaching implications not
without interest. Mr Walker, for instance, argues that, not only does it matter
which themes a composer chooses to
build a dramatic contrast in a movement, but it does also matter in what order he arranges them. His example is
absolutely charming: he re-writes Mozart, no less. He takes the entire
exposition of the first part of the Sonata in F major (K. 332), which contains
no fewer than seven ''sharply contrasted themes'', and re-distributes them
without omitting a single note. Yet the difference between the two versions
''might almost be called spectacular'' and here comes the most enchanting
moment:
If you do not
already know Mozart's original, I do not think you will reject my version,
although I hear no chance of your accepting it as the work of a genius. It
could have been written by a minor eighteenth-century composer.
Somewhat more accessible
example about the importance of the order in which musical themes are organised
is Mr Walker's re-retelling how Beethoven's Diabelli
Variations came to be written. Now, I by no means subscribe to his opinion that
this is ''the finest set of variations ever written''; even from Beethoven's
own sets of variations I would much sooner listen to the more concise and
powerful 32 Variations in C minor, though they are regarded contemptuously by
more or less everybody, Beethoven himself included as he didn't give them even
an opus number. But this is neither here nor there. The story is highly
entertaining and has been told so many times that it will surely bear another
repetition. And I certainly cannot better Alan Walker's version, to say nothing
of his using it as an illustration:
In 1822 the
composer and publisher Diabelli invited fifty-one of the most prominent
musicians then living in Austria
and Germany
The last major question that
Alan Walker discusses in Part Two is also the most elusive one. This is the
applying of what is known in logic as the ''law of parsimony'', which is in
fact a ''law of economy'' and translated in musical terms means to compose
music that contains neither fewer nor more notes than it is absolutely
necessary. This may seem like a simple affair but, in fact, it is devilishly
difficult; anybody who has ever tried what I am trying at this very moment,
namely to write something not altogether unintelligible, knows only too well
that simplicity is a really hard thing to achieve.
Starting from this rather
unassuming point, Mr Walker goes beyond even the wildest dreams of the musical
layman, delving deeper and deeper into complex matters like difference between
an idea and its utterance, revisions of own works and transcription of others',
''co-extension'' between form and content, the principle of audibility and,
perhaps most important of all, the creative process as function of the
unconscious. This, indeed, may be regarded as the main topic of the whole book:
it pervades the pages like a Wagnerian leitmotif of epic grandeur and
disturbing power. The author is absolutely convinced that musical composition
is largely – if not entirely! – an intuitive process, that great music cannot
communicate universally, and thus can't be great, if it does not affect
profoundly the subconscious of both performers and listeners. It is a kind of
spooky notion, but extremely appealing to speculate about. Here Mr Walker
resorts as often to psychology as he does to musical examples, and his prose is
so sublimely succinct, that I can – yet again – do worse that resort to
shameless quoting with but occasional annotations.
Good musical
argument is likewise subject to a law of economy. The reason may be summarised
in two words: maximum comprehension. To introduce into musical communication
either more material or less than is actually required to convey the meaning
behind that communication leads to ambiguity and distortion
[Here, in one of his
wonderful footnotes, which really rival Gibbon's in terms of additional
dimensions to the main text, Alan Walker mentions that he uses ''economy'' in
the strictest sense of the word: ''Economy not only involves the elimination of
surplus: it also involves the preservation of essence. Too little is as
uneconomical as too much.'']
Composers through
the ages have been acutely aware of the need to express themselves with
unremitting clarity. Some succeed; many fail. Josef Suk once showed Brahms one
of his youthful quartets. That Brahms was well aware of the function of economy
is shown by his reply, characteristically pointed. ''The essential thing is
that every note should be in its place. I can't do that – nor can Dvorak – and
you, of course, least of all.''
[Brahms was quite a
character, wasn't he?]
Beethoven rarely
succeeded in correctly articulating his ideas the first time. His Sketch Books
put his creative process under a magnifying glass. They reveal an obsessive
search for a true formulation. To ''fix'' the idea, to define it, to pin it
down – that Beethoven knew this was the essence came out strongly, on one
occasion when, after hearing the Funeral March from Paoer's opera Achilles, he observed ''I must compose
that!''
Now the general
law of economy which all these composers were hinting at, and musicians of all
times have had an unconscious awareness, divides into a group of subsidiary
principles which I should like to define separately.
First: the principle
of identity between the idea and the
utterance. In a masterpiece, the ''idea'' and its ''utterance'' are one. To
put this proposition another way: it is a function of creative mastery to cloth
an idea with a certain number of notes; no more, yet no less. I derive this
hypothesis from the simple observation that you distort a masterpiece the
moment you add to it or subtract from it.
[...]
Few composers
formulate their ideas precisely the first time. They are constantly
re-adjusting and re-defining until their ''outer'' notation matches their
''inner'' vision. This habit of sketching offers us an ideal starting-point.
Indeed, it brings into sharp focus the distinction I have already made between
an ''idea'' and its ''utterance''. Beethoven's sketches are more fascinating
than most – partly because they reflect every stage of his creative process
(often, even the sketches have sketches), and partly because the contrast
between the initial, unpromising formulation and the final, inspired result is
so spectacular. Every detail is exposed – like watching a film in slow motion.
[...]
It is clear that
sketches are of limited use to us in demonstrating the existence of the
principle of identity between idea and utterance. They can furnish an
illuminating starting point; yet their great drawback is that the evidence they
offer is precompositional. Sketches
are not part of the work at all; they are means, not ends, and I only
introduced them by way of furnishing an analogy. Let us push forward the
argument a stage by returning to the finished composition itself.
There is a field
of musical creation well suited to a demonstration of this principle. I refer
to revisions. Most composers revise. They may return to ''completed'' works,
often after an interval of many years, and re-compose them. Nothing could serve
better to illustrate the presence of economic tendencies in creative genius.
Revision is an acknowledgement by the composer himself that what he actually
wrote is not what he actually meant. Revision is an act of self-criticism. It
aims to re-define, and therefore enhance, a musical communication.
[Here Mr Walker inserts a
footnote which is well worth quoting in full:]
The very word
''revision'' implies that a composer has a revision,
a new vision of the work. True, what prompts him to revise may not always seem like a new vision. External
conditions arise which sometimes force a composer to adapt his work. One thinks
of Mozart re-composing opera arias owing to last-minute cast changes. But this
is not, strictly speaking, ''revision'' at all. It is the creation of genuine,
musical alternatives which arise from
a sense of expediency; and frequent as it is, it is not nearly so common as
that caused by creative dissatisfaction. It is this last activity, revisions
which are artistically determined,
which discloses an unconscious drive towards economy.
[Examples here include
Liszt's simplifying in 1851 the early version of his Transcendental Studies (1839), ostensibly to make them more
accessible but really, Mr Walker believes, to discard lots of surplus material
and thus express much better his original ideas.]
It could be held
that these examples of revisions are open to precisely the same objection as my
earlier examples of sketches. That is to say, the composer himself has
accomplished the revision. What we have witnessed is an act of self-criticism – a very different thing
from criticism! All this is true. Let me push the argument to its final stage.
Composers are not
only self-critics. They are critics, too. When Beethoven said of Paoer's Funeral March ''I must compose that!'',
and when Brahms told Suk that ''the essential thing is that every note should
be in its place'', they were defining a tool of criticism; they were comparing
the real music, the music behind the
notes, with the way in which it had been wrongly
expressed. Such observations can sometimes lead to highly productive results.
Composers will sometimes re-compose composers. This can be criticism on a
grand, creative scale. So devastatingly effective can it be, the original
composition can be totally replaced by the new version which succeeds where the
other failed. History is full of examples.
[As a striking example, among
others, Mr Walker discusses Liszt's Paganini
Studies (1838) which, significantly, he also revised and simplified later.]
A comparison
between the originals and Liszt's adaptations is revealing. Like Bach, Liszt
does not hesitate to re-compose the originals. I do not mean he merely adapts
to the new medium. He does this and much more. He adds new figurations,
transforms the harmony and even adds extra bars. One of the best transcriptions
in the set is the second, in E flat major (number 17 in the Paganini
collection).
[Two musical examples
unfortunately impossible to include here follow.]
One is tempted to
say of Liszt's version that it transformed the original not out of, but into, recognition. Posterity would
scarcely remember this Paganini caprice, if Liszt had not shown a creative
interest in it. Hearing the two versions one after the other is like seeing a
blurred image suddenly leap into sharp focus.
[It is very pleasant to see
Mr Walker referring to Liszt's works, and some of his most virtuosic
transcriptions at that, with so much sympathy in the relentlessly anti-Lisztian
climate of the 1960s, long before he started his work on what is now Liszt's
definitive biography.]
There are other
directions, too, in which the creative tendency toward economy operates. One of
the more important manifests itself as a principle of Co-extension between form and content. Debussy once told Satie that
he should pay more attention to form. Satie responded by writing his Trois Morceaux en forme de Poire (Three
pieces in the form of a Pear)! There was a right idea behind Debussy's advice,
just as there was a right idea behind Satie's response. Debussy was regarding
form as an aim of musical content;
whereas Satie was trying to show that form is a result of musical content. Now many musicians have observed that
the distinction between ''form'' and ''content'' is a false one. They rightly
point out that you cannot have ''form'' without, at the same time, having
''content'', that the one is the organic result of the other, that it is
misleading to talk about form as if it were an empty husk, a mould into which
''content'' is poured. ''Form'' and ''content'' are different aspects of the
same thing.
[...]
I contend that
when we understand music really well, when it has become a part of us, we also
intuitively come to know the potential
of its material. It is the non-fulfilment of this potential that enables us to
diagnose a ''split'' between content and form, between the distance the music
has already covered and the distance it might yet cover, between what the music
actually is and what could still become. Why is a masterpiece as long as it is?
Text-books on form remain silent. Yet it is of paramount interest to know why
music ends when it does. The one sure thing about a masterpiece is that it
completes its allotted span with the punctuality of a planet completing its
orbit. Music has a certain propensity to unfold a certain distance. If it stops
before it has done so, it is incomplete. If it goes on after it has done so, it
is over-complete; there is no room in great music for the pleonasm.
[I find this unconvincing;
perhaps that is to be expected for the matter is really very abstract. The
question is: why do I think most of Liszt's symphonic poems masterpieces and
none of Mahler's symphonies anything but monstrous pleonastic orgies? Many
would disagree with me, of course, but this is not the point; of course I would
think differently if I could like Mahler. The question is: can I ever
appreciate any music I don't identify subconsciously with? I don't think I can –
nor do I think that it makes any sense trying to. That said, men of Mr Walker's
erudition and intellect probably can and so far as theory of musical criticism
is concerned he probably does.]
There functions in
all great music a principle of audibility.
To get across, to make a total aural
impact; that is an objective towards which all notes travel. Not all of them
arrive.
On a most
primitive level, anything in a musical structure which is strictly inaudible is
strictly unnecessary: if you cut it out, you cannot hear the difference, anyhow.
But this kind of inaudibility is not all that fruitful to study. I know of no
great master who is guilty of such gross miscalculations (although I can think
of several lesser masters who are).
One of the most
striking cases of inaudibility occurs towards the end of Grieg's A minor Piano
Concerto, where the theme of finale's central episode returns in full
orchestral splendour, and where it obliterates the solo pianist totally and
absolutely.
In the concert
hall it is an extraordinary effect to see the soloist racing up and down the
keyboard, fortissimo apparently
without producing any sound. The observation is beyond all question, and I
invite anyone to check it for himself the next time he sees the Concerto played
on the stage. The conclusion you draw, of course, will depend largely on
whether you think that Grieg meant it
to be heard. I personally think that he did, and I consider it a serious
miscalculation in a work which is otherwise supremely well composed.
[Now Mr Walker does have a
point here. In yet another meaningful footnote he reminds us that he refers to
live concerts, not recordings where the sound may be so manipulated ''that,
paradoxically, the notes come across despite Grieg, rather than because of
him.'' Of course he is right about the ''silent'' pianist on the stage, this no
one who has ever heard, and seen, the concert performed live will dispute. But
such moments occur in many a piano concerto; certainly in Tchaikovsky's and
Liszt's Firsts, occasionally even in Brahms and Rachmaninoff the orchestra
comes dangerously close to drowning the piano. And if Grieg may be regarded as
a ''lesser master'', shall we say the same about titans like Liszt,
Tchaikovsky, Brahms and Rachmaninoff?]
[Towards the end of Part Two
Mr Walker summarises his philosophy in a beautifully concise and vastly amusing
way.]
Buridan, a logical
philosopher of the 14th century, was reputed to own a remarkable ass. Placed
between two bundles of hay, the animal is said to have correctly deduced that
both were equally succulent. It then starved to death because it could discover
no rational reason for proceeding in one direction rather than in the other.
This astonishing beast was well on the way to becoming a bad music critic.
Indeed, asked to decide between two works, many a critic might follow his
example; that is to say, having exhausted his intellect weighing one
possibility against another, he might be faced with a logical obligation to
starve himself into silence. So much the worse for the intellect. So much the worse,
too, for musical criticism. I have never understood the somewhat exalted
position to which Buridan's ass has been raised by some philosophers. It has
always seemed to me fully deserving of its fate. But perhaps this is because my
own philosophical position is different. Essentially, that position is a
Pragmatic one. Had Buridan's ass been a Pragmatist, it would have consumed both
bundles of hay and ''rationalised'' the event later. Likewise criticism. We
''consume'' music, then we ''rationalise'' the experience. It is simply not
true that critics wait until they have set a masterpiece against a critical
yardstick before they know it is a
masterpiece. Criticism does not work like that. Music's value is there a priori; it comes across intuitively as
part of the musical communication. You know, you criticise (= rationalise); the
converse is unthinkable.
[In other words – in this
case, mine – criticism is absolutely useless unless you are of singularly
inquisitive turn of mind and want to know why
Beethoven's Eroica or Mozart's Jupiter are masterpieces. And what good
will this ''rationalisation'' do for you when you have known all time perfectly
well, though intuitively, that this
is as sure a fact as the endless universe? The answer is obvious.]
[The last chapter from Part
Two is called ''The Musical Underworld'' and deals exclusively with musical
composition as a function of the unconscious. I start the quotes with two
excerpts from an earlier part of the book since they are very relevant to what
follows below. After discussing in detail the structure of Tchaikovsky's Fifth
Symphony, Mr Walker writes these memorable words which cut straight through the
heart of the matter.]
Tchaikovsky, we
may be sure, was blissfully unaware of his complex integration. He would no
more deliberately compute his thematic organisation in this fashion than a
pedestrian, guided only by a desire to get to other side, would work out a
geometrical progression before crossing the road. Tchaikovsky was guided only
by his creative conscience. Yet for that reason, this sleepwalking genius
remains a fascinating study for all musical analysts.
Some musicians
might disagree. They might maintain that what is not consciously intended can
hardly become part of a meaningful, artistic communication. This is a naive
point of view. It is misleading to suppose that what is conscious is
meaningful, while what is unconscious is not. Indeed, what is unconscious is,
by its nature, dynamic and far-reaching in its creative consequences; all the
more likely to be meaningful, then. Composers themselves have made penetrating
self-observations which provide a great deal of evidence in favour of
unconscious musical organisation. Moreover, from the listening end, we observe
far more than we know. We hear unconsciously, too. The notion that the complex
demonstrations of unity sometimes revealed by analysis cannot possibly be heard
unconsciously receives no support from depth psychology. What cannot be grasped
unconsciously, cannot be grasped.
[...]
From time to time,
I have observed that the creative process, like the critical, is an intuitive
activity. Music cannot communicate, let alone survive, unless it expresses a
high degree of unconscious content. The unconscious is the womb of musical
creation; all masterpieces are born there.
Such categorical
assertions are likely to sound provocative. They impute to the musical
unconscious almost uncanny powers of creative organisation. Yet there is a
great deal of evidence, from composers themselves, suggesting unconscious
sources for their ideas. Many of them have self-confessedly picked their way
through the complexities of a composition as if in a sleepwalking trance.
Indeed, there are a great many so called ''intellectual'' achievements in music
which were arrived at with no more effort than it requires to produce a dream.
My comparison is nearer the mark than may be supposed. Composers who dream
music are not at all uncommon.
[There are several absolutely
amazing examples about the musical unconscious and how it worked brilliantly
for composers as diverse as Tartini, Handel, Mahler, Walton, Copland, Brahms,
Schubert, Schönberg and Stravinsky. I will limit myself to the most famous
example – Wagner – and would like to stress that Mr Walker's attitude is
infinitely more sensible than that of many a Wagnerian scholar who have been
only too eager to show themselves learned by trying to disprove the episode as
fictional. I also quote Mr Walker's extremely perceptive footnote in full.]
The trans-like
condition which can accompany the act of musical creation was described on one
occasion by Wagner while discussing the initial inspiration of the orchestral
prelude of Rhinegold. After entering
a ''cataleptic state'' he suddenly felt, he says, as if he were sinking into a
mighty flood:
The rush and roar
soon took musical shape within my brain as the chord of E flat major surged
incessantly in broken chords: these declared themselves as melodic figurations
of increasing motion, yet the pure triad of E flat major never changed, but
seemed by its steady persistence to impart infinite significance to the element
in which I was sinking. I awoke from my half-sleep in terror, feeling as though
the waves were now rushing high above my head. I at once recognised that the
orchestral prelude to the Rhinegold
which for a long time I must have carried about within me, yet had never been
able to fix definitely, had at last come to being within me.
I think it would
be a mistake to dismiss this kind of testimony – highly coloured though it is.
It is of the utmost interest to the student of modern psychology. And Wagner
only confirms what many other composers have experienced.
[Footnote.]
To judge from his
frequent remarks on the subject, Wagner had an unusually keen insight into the
creative process. In Meistersinger,
it will be recalled, even the inspiration for the ''Prize Song'' comes to
Walter in a dream!
Part Three of Mr Walker's
book does not contain a single musical example (though it does have several
simple schemes), but it is the most difficult one to grasp. It deals almost
exclusively with psychology and it contains a one-page quote, the longest in
the book, from Freud's Introductory
Lectures on Psycho-Analysis (London, 1952); it is not an accident, indeed,
that Freud is the writer with most books in the small, but thoroughly and
wisely used, bibliography in the end of the book. But I daresay this is
inevitable. Being the least visible and the most intangible of all arts, music
plays on your unconscious as nothing else does. Besides, as Mr Walker wisely
points out in the beginning of his final chapter:
Let us begin by
acknowledging that when music brings home a crop of contradictory reactions it
is a symptom of people, not music. It
is to psychology that we must turn for some answers.
I confess I am fan neither of
Freud and his libido stuff nor of psychology in general, but to dismiss Mr
Walker's reflections only because of this prejudice of mine would be foolish
beyond measure. After all, he asks a number of questions of paramount importance
for everybody seriously interested in music, be he performer or listener. Why a
masterpiece is recognised by some people and not by others? Why a seemingly
irrelevant matter like the identity of the composer is so important to
appreciate a piece of pure music? In a nutshell, Mr Walker presents a case that
music is an expression of the repressed unconscious by a composer, therefore
the first and by far the most important factor for a listener to appreciate it
is to identify unconsciously with it. Music lovers – true music lovers – know perfectly well what this means: music
either grips one or it doesn't, and that's that.
Only it's not that simple. Here Mr Walker introduces
his concept of ''Moving historical backgrounds'' which leads directly to investigation
of the nature of aesthetic experience. This, again, is something that everybody
susceptible to art knows, yet many try, stupidly, to discard. Music's value may
well be entirely intrinsic but its appreciation by the layman, or by the critic
for that matter, certainly is not; there are powerful ''secondary'' factors
which are extra-musical. If I understand correctly, this is where the ''moving
historical backgrounds'' become really important. Just like one can't quite
ignore one's past, not for any other reason but because it has had a marked
effect on his personality, nor can one ignore his ''personal musical history'',
so to say, or the musical spirit of the times he lives in. As for the
complexity of the aesthetic experience, I may safely leave this to Mr Walker:
The fact is, as we
have seen, our aesthetic experience of music does not consist only of what we
hear. It consists of what we do not hear, too. On the one hand, there is the
work itself – the ''primary'' source. On the other, there are all the works by
the same composer (and many others historically related to him) – the
''secondary'' source. What we already know of a composer's music conditions the
way in which we react to something unfamiliar by him. The aesthetic experience
is always compounded of this interplay between the ''primary'' appreciation
field and the ''secondary'' appreciation field. As soon as we are told that a
work is by (say) Beethoven, this one piece of information is enough to trigger
into activity a ''secondary'' field, and which colours it – albeit on an
unconscious level. But suppose that we later learn that the work is not by
Beethoven at all, that it is by a nonentity. Then its links with the
''secondary'' field are severed. We listen to it in a different ''frame of
mind''. And this, too, is the whole case against anonymity.
[Earlier in this chapter Alan
Walker gives some vastly amusing examples of this well-known phenomenon: when a
work is known to be by a great master, it automatically gains some of his
greatness; and when it is known to be by a lesser master, it automatically
gains some of his mediocrity; and when there is a mistake, deliberate or not,
with the identity of these two fellows, then there is a good deal of fun. Mr
Walker calls the guys who play such tricks ''hoaxers'' and, a little further in
the chapter, he is rather harsh – rightly – with their attitude:]
All hoaxers go
wrong in ignoring this dual aspect of the aesthetic experience. They imagine
that aesthetic reactions are based exclusively on the observed work of art, and
that when a listener rhapsodises over a work later shown to be a fake, he
exposes himself as a fool. It is the hoaxer who is the real fool, however. He
overlooks that vast, pre-existent reservoir of positive responses which all of
us gradually acquire and then unconsciously project on to new works by great
composers. What you know influences what you do not know. Without this
unconscious tendency, no hoax would be possible. For the hoaxer creeps in under
its cover and exploits it. He robs a work of its true background and fabricates
a false one. The listener is easy game; he takes music on trust. The hoaxer
does not; his attitude is essentially that of the perverted lawyer who regards
everybody as guilty until proved innocent. But musical criticism never has, and
never can operate on such principle.
Far from
representing a detour, a careful consideration of what is that constitutes a
hoax and how exactly it differs from what constitutes ''honest'' musical
communication seems, to me, to be an ideal method of disclosing the presence of
historical backgrounds, and their function. A historical background can push a
listener towards a work, or it can pull him away from one. It is an
indispensable factor in fixing the view from which the listener observes the
composer. No theory of criticism can afford to neglect it. But what has it to
do with the first part of our theory, that of ''unconscious identification''?
Well, it doesn't make much
sense to stop quoting just right here. For in the next few paragraphs,
subtitled ''A Synthesis'', Mr Walkers brilliantly brings together the two major
components of his theory mentioned in the last sentence of the above quote. I
daresay there are people who would denounce Part Three, if not the whole book,
as trite and superficial; then again, the author himself has never claimed that
it is anything more than the very foundations of something he hoped to develop
more fully in the future (alas, he never did). Personally, I find his
reflections compelling and his arguments stirring, if not always entirely
convincing. But let's go back to the point – ''A Synthesis'' – which Mr Walker
explains with rare clarity:
At first sight, I
appear to have changed horses in mid-stream. The concept of ''moving historical
backgrounds'' seems to have little to do with that of ''unconscious
identification'' – an aspect of our theory which we apparently abandoned some
pages ago. Indeed, these two concepts give the impression of being somewhat
contradictory. For if it is historical backgrounds which determine whether or
not music shall communicate, why postulate unconscious identification at all?
To put the contradiction another way: Was it not a mistake to have proposed
unconscious identification as the key
to our theory of musical communication in view of the crucial role played by
historical backgrounds?
I do not think it
was a mistake. Nor do I think there is any contradiction in our theory. What I
have called the listener's ''historical background'' is nothing less than the sum total of all the music he has previously
identified with. He has no ''historical background'' unless and until he
''identifies'', for this is his only means of acquiring one. The two
conflicting ''concepts'' are, in fact, different sides of the same coin. It is
by a continual process of unconscious identification, particularly in his
formative years, that the musician gradually builds up the historical
backgrounds against which he listens – or composes.
[…]
All influence,
cultural or otherwise in T. S. Eliot's phrase, ''introduce one to oneself''.
Psychologically, ''influence'' is largely what you need to be influenced by in
order to develop. It is a deeply mysterious process, but one to which everybody
can testify. It is equally true of composers and listeners alike. When a
composer ''influences'' a listener he is doing nothing less than revealing a
part of that listener's own musical personality to him. And where do the
musical principles, the principles I formulated in Part Two, fit into the psychological
theory I have just outlined? The answer is that they emerge as rationalisations from within the
framework of our positive responses towards composers and their works. Theory,
as I said before, follows practice. The proper philosophical position for all
principles in art criticism, subordinate though it is, I believe to exist well
and truly after the event.
Being the supreme egoist, I
naturally ask myself the following and very simple question: what has all that
to do with me? Well, quite a lot! Every layman can hardly fail to notice how
often Mr Walker refers to the listener as well as to the musician or the musical
critic. One of his most awe-inspiring notions is that the unconscious
identification with certain music is entirely pre-determined. Of course one may improve one's appreciation with
the passing years, personal experience and repetitive listening, but if the
most vital part is not there from the very beginning, there is no use in trying
at all. For want of a better word, I am bound to call it ''unconscious
identification''.
For me, personally, this
means what I have already realised, if not unconsciously at all events
subconsciously, namely that it makes no sense whatsoever to try to like any
music that simply does not correspond with my inner self. In my youth I used to
be mortified that I always found Bach and Handel monstrously boring or the New Viennese
School
Among my favourites, there
are peculiar cases of course. What about Mozart, Schubert or Tchaikovsky? Wolfi
is rather a mystery, for whatever I have heard of the eighteenth-century music
I have found it tedious stuff; I am forced to conclude that here is a strong
case of powerful unconscious identification; it is absolutely beyond
explanation. As for Schubert and Tchaikovsky, the unconscious factor reigns
supreme here too, but there also are some fascinating (extra)musical factors.
Aren't these two great composers the greatest ones to precede and follow Liszt,
respectively? Indeed, they are. The case is particularly strong in the case of
Tchaikovsky, who composed a number of outstanding symphonic poems apparently
inspired by great literature such as Shakespeare, Dante and Byron. Had Liszt
ever had Tchaikovsky's unique melodic gift, he might well have composed Romeo and Juliet or Manfred. Had Tchaikovsky ever had Liszt's extraordinary
inventiveness, to say nothing of his infernal insight if I may put it so, he
might well have composed the Dante
and Faust Symphonies. As a matter of
fact, both composers being as they are, Tchaikovsky's Hamlet and Francesca da
Rimini do sound extremely Lisztian, do they not?
I may safely say that with
this little book Mr Walker has forced me to reconsider all of my musical
tastes, or to rationalise them perhaps. He might, even, have changed my whole
musical perception, hopefully for the better. Pretty good achievement for a
hundred pages full of incomprehensible musical examples.
I certainly can't finish this
rambling in a better way than with a long quote from Mr Walker's conclusions,
which are as meaningful as anything written by him. Ironically, my claim in the
beginning was proven wrong: Alan Walker's approach to musical criticism is
every bit as personal as that of Harold Schonberg or Bernard Shaw. The
significant difference is that Mr Walker tries to explain his reactions on a purely intellectual basis; but he
remains convinced that criticism itself in an intuitive process. In other
words, we've gone a long a way round to come at the same place as in the
beginning. But it's been a most exhilarating ride.
Even more ironically, though
he doesn't quite say that, I believe Mr Walker realises that musical criticism,
theory or practice, is essentially useless except insofar as the individual who
does criticise and does rationalise is concerned. But this is surely an
oversimplification of mine. The fact that Messrs Schonberg, Shaw and Walker do
exist proves that musical criticism, or some tiny part of it at any rate, is
very useful indeed.
Lastly, Mr Walker makes a
fine case against negative criticism which, in fact, is a logical
impossibility. Of course this does not always apply to criticising performers,
but it does fully apply to criticising works. Keep this in mind next time you
read a scathing review of a favourite work.
My book is not an
attack against criticism; it is a defence of criticism. Even so, the theory it
unfolds will almost certainly not remain unchallenged. The twofold conclusion
towards which it drives is too stark for that.
First: the
practice of criticism is destined to remain at the litmus-paper stage. Critics
take a dip into music and we see what colour they turn. That, basically, is all
critical practice is about. Second: the practice of criticism is really a
solution in search of a problem. How a critic reacts is largely pre-determined
by deep-rooted musical and psychological force. That, basically, is all
critical theory is about.
How does this
constitute a ''defence'' of criticism? – in view of the nature of my theory the
term seems almost ironical. I think that we do criticism a great disservice by
emphasising its intellectual aspects. An act of criticism is not an act of
intelligence: it is an act of intuition. The intellect is there only to move in
after the intuitive event, to explain it. It would make no difference to a
critical reaction if it did not move in at all. Litmus-paper still changes
colour even when we are not interested in knowing why.
[…]
For the rest,
there is one, indispensable symptom without which both the theory and practice
of criticism remain sterile. […] Like performance, criticism should proceed on
a basis of positive, intuitive involvement; paradoxically, it leads to the
truth about music far more quickly than a negative search for defects. This,
incidentally, is the unanswerable case against ''objective'' criticism which,
being psychologically impossible, is correspondingly truthless. How do you
criticise music you insist on holding at arms' length? Until you have embraced
it, assimilated it, there is nothing to criticise; but once you have, your
''objectivity'' has vanished. The dying echoes of the great
''objective-subjective'' debate can, as a matter of fact, still be heard today
in the drawing-rooms of the musical intelligentsia. They need not detain us,
however.
[…]
A critic functions
most truly, I believe, when he plays the role of counsel for the defence. If he
finds himself out of sympathy with the evidence he ought not to accept the
case. I am by no means the first musician to think thus about criticism,
although I may well be the first to want to base a theory of aesthetics on that
belief.
If he is also the last, so
much the worse for aesthetics.
I have a notion that the best
review of a really great book is a careful selection of quotes – and nothing
else. As it turned out, this is more or less what I have done with Alan
Walker's An Anatomy of Musical Criticism.
This must be one of the most extraordinary books I have ever read. About one
third of it is completely incomprehensible to me, I disagree with a good many
observations of the author and I by no means always find him entirely
convincing in the other two thirds. Yet I have no hesitation to rate this book
as highly as I am able to. It is beautifully written, extremely readable and
fabulously thought-provoking. In a hundred pages or so, Mr Walker gives you a
simply unparalleled insight, quite out of proportion to the length of the
volume, into the minds of many a great composer. Most of all, he offers lots of
food for reflection about the elusive nature of music, how it is born in the
realms of the unconscious and why, though the least tangible of all arts, it is
perhaps the most genuinely universal and powerfully affecting one.
