The critical function 12.2: To reach an understanding…

On the darker side of the house, the critical snob typically possesses neither taste nor a discriminating ear, but more than his or her fair share of ill-informed opinions. This type of critic is not in the business of “guiding the listener;” instead, the sole object of interest is the degradation of his or her artistic superiors. For this critic, no recording (for example) is ever quite clean enough, no artist talented enough, no conductor of sufficient standing to penetrate the hazy ether of his or her personal predilections. He or she will rarely elucidate the criteria by which art is judged, but will simply assume that everyone who knows anything about the particular genre is of like opinion. While somewhat more menacing than the good shepherd mentioned earlier, the gaseous eructation of these second-rate minds is usually easy to dismiss as a worthless torrent of catch-phrases and buzzwords designed to fog the brain and obscure any dissent.

The existence of persons engaged in critical function usage as a means of delineating aesthetic boundaries is troublesome in and of itself: how can so nebular a set of metrics be convincingly defined by non-specialists? Likewise, given the propensity of new listeners to follow the “advice” of those professionally employed by the classical music industry, is it not reasonable to ask critics that they make specific note of the variety of tastes involved in aesthetic judgment while maintaining personal objectivity? Granted, this is not an easy undertaking, but examples exist in the critical literature. In some cases, writers have specifically noted the variance in interpretive approaches and commented no further on the subject (i.e. “his dynamic coloring was rather static as may or may not befit the character of the movement…”). I suppose it could be argued that the function of a critic is to serve as a knowing guide through the rarefied landscape of fine art; I prefer to believe that human beings, left to their own devices and natural curiosity, will arrive at an informed decision as concerns personal taste at some point. While this sentiment may be somewhat outside the realm of my normally cynical viewpoints, it leads to a greater question: how does one define “great” art? Unfortunately, that question will have to wait until the next middle-of-the-night posting…

Borrowing a page from Mr. Gump (whose unique philosophy and fractured take on contemporary social paradigms have formed the greater part of my present Weltanschauung), allow me to posit that “music is as music does;” it requires neither a self-appointed guide nor a written critique. The aural pleasure derived from sensory immersion in a new world of sound and thought needs only an inquisitive spirit and an open mind; absent these key ingredients, the nonsensical banter of half-hearted aesthetes is nothing more than empty chatter with which to fill the void in between Facebook updates and “tweets.” Our critical faculties may require development and careful application, yet they are a uniquely definable personal trait; to argue that they are totally meaningless without the addition of authoritative opinion (I shudder when I realize the syntactical implications of the phrase) is to deny our humanity on the grounds of insufficient independent confirmation.

The critical function 12.1: A matter of taste?

Cliburn and Konrashin manage this in a manner that will likely never be equaled. While I put little stock in public perceptions of art, the fact that this album was the first to record sales that put it firmly into the category of platinum albums (triple platinum, as of this writing) leads me to a horrifying conclusion: the public got it right and the “professional” missed the mark. As if this were not galling enough to an afficianodo’s sense of propriety, the basic elements of critical aesthetic judgment were lacking: decrying the amazing representation of everything anyone who has made the least effort to understand the composer would quantify as essential to a true representative effort, the review instead refers the reader to Stephen Hough’s lamentably popular recording: taking the tempos much too fast for his technical abilities, it is an exercise in a slipshod, solely virtuosic take on a concerto that has quite a bit more depth than is commonly acknowledged. Ironically, the review notes that Hough’s playing is preferable because it “has the quality of flowing water;” exactly: it is an undisciplined mess of fluid with little drive or point.

Jan Sibelius, who was a victim of more than his share of scathing critical reviews, once wrote to a critic that he was “sitting in the smallest room of (his) house with the review in front of (him), but it would soon be behind (him).” One word: touché. It does beg the question, however, why so universally acknowledge a composer would deign to respond to the nonsensical ravings of arbitrarily designated artistic guru. While one is tempted to cynically assert that critics are the organic phenomenon that occurs when an erstwhile aspiring musician fails to make a impact (thus he or she then searches for some other means of connecting with an audience), I believe that the reality behind their existence is much darker. The critic essentially appears in one of two forms: benevolent, patronizing snob or haughty, self-inflated snob; for the life of me, I cannot decide which type is more insidious.

The “good-natured” variety is invariably an insufferable bore: the shallow-read pseudo-intellect whose appearance at dinner parties is cause for indigestion. We have all met the type; having read a book or two on a given subject, he or she assumes “expert” status and loudly trumpets such a dubious achievement by the spouting of irrelevant facts or correcting the minor flaws in the commentary of others. Do you have the image of such a person in mind? Now apply it to the musical world: the critic acts as a sort of older brother figure who feels charged with explaining to you what’s “cool” and what isn’t. Unfortunately, as music is an extremely subjective art-form, this type of assistance is rarely warranted. In truth, for novice listeners, it can provide lasting damage in that it presents the world of classical music as inordinately complex with multiple rules and customs one must “learn” before being admitted into the inner sanctum. The patronizing critic, however well meaning, is nonetheless a pedantic busybody whose attempts to “improve” the listening audience quite often have the very opposite effect. Perhaps a walk on the “wild side” is merited…

The critical function 12.0: Inane ramblings do not equal insight.

Having presently finished reading a review of Van Cliburn’s recording of the Tchaikovsky 1^st piano concerto, I was struck by a singular thought: the writer of this tripe is possessed of an inadequate ear whose ineffable lack of insight is matched only by the sheer magnitude of the writer’s inconsequentiality. The review was not only misguided, it suffered from both a dearth of musical comprehension and a plethora of pithy remarks used to convey a false sense of authority. While I recognize that the reviewer (who shall remain nameless as his recognition is solely predicated on familiarity and I have no intention of furthering his cause) is English, which (in the musical world, at least) tends to lead to a false sense of entitlement despite the appalling lack, relatively speaking, of worthwhile native musicians, I was dumbfounded by the sheer assumed precociousness of his tone.

By what authority does this gentleman speak? Is he a famed pianist searching for a bit of extra income? Perhaps an out-of-work composer who is trying to make ends meet by any means (no matter how base) necessary? He is simply a man whose opinion has been artificially inflated to the point of universally assumed cognizance as regards a subject with which he has an admittedly deep association yet little to true understanding thereof. To what end, then, is the point of his employment: to guide wary listeners through a sea of classical music recordings such that they may experience the best available? Or, lacking the ability to produce a work of art himself, to denigrate the efforts of others? I suspect the latter bears much more truth than the former; one is tempted to think of the vociferous parents whose frustrated dreams are projected onto their children in some ridiculous pursuit of  a perfected past that neither existed nor was plausible at the time.

To comment on the review in particular, his words revealed the same sort of xenophobic ignorance that appears to be rather typical of any given critic: as good as a performance might have been, it was nonetheless done by a foreigner, and thus not up to par. While I recognize that this may seem slightly ingratiating considering Van Cliburn and I share a national identity that differs from the reviewer, it is necessary to note that I consider the performance to be “one for the ages” in large part due to the happy talents of the conductor, Kirill Konrashin (a Russian national). His ability to extract the maximum amount of emotional content from his players is estimable; this particular concerto is over-wrought, anxious, inappropriately exuberant, irreverent, and exasperating. In a word, it is the distilled essence of Tchaikovsky; to understand this work is to understand the composer. More to follow…