Seeing music (and not hearing it?)

Because of my fascination with the complex relationship between listening and watching, I decided to visit three performances at the recent Holland Festival and experience what happened when I tried to pay equal attention to ears and eyes. The first was "Delusion of the Fury" (1966) by American composer Harry Partch, the second a concert performance of Philip Glass's opera "The CIVIL warS" (1983), the third a performance of Franz Schubert's "Die Winterreise" (1827) in which twenty-four short films by South African artist William Kentridge were shown.

"Music is made for the blind. That remarkable statement comes from the blind writer and resistance fighter Jacques Lusseyran and is quoted by Oliver Sachs in "Musicofillia." In it, Sachs elaborates, among other things, on the remarkable growth of auditory abilities in people with no or limited vision. Although the last word on this has not yet been said, it strongly suggests that something essential and perhaps undesirable is happening in the development of the human brain. Indeed, at the point when functions in the left hemisphere of the brain in particular mature, they seem to overshadow others. When functions like speech or vision are damaged or limited for whatever reason, this does not happen or happens less. This is why these very people sometimes show remarkable musical talents. That's the scientific side, and looking at it that way, it would probably be best to listen to music with your eyes closed. The other senses get in the way of the experience of music.

[Tweet "Experiencing music is done with your eyes closed. The other senses just get in the way."]

The other side is that watching often helps to understand music. In genres that try to banish predictability and allow the listener only limited pleasure of recognition, such as progressive jazz and New Music, seeing how the music is created is almost essential to understanding it. Once you have seen that, you can listen to and appreciate the music on CD, but taking in such music directly through the loudspeaker usually proves impossible.

'The general public hears what it sees.' A jazz musician once said this, a valid argument, although the statement was meant as a criticism of a colleague who, through his facial expressions, suggested to the listener what emotion the music should evoke. It is a well-known phenomenon: with a bit of acting, a musician can suggest feelings or atmospheres that provide the music with an extra layer that is only limitedly available in the music itself. Think of rock guitarists pretending that pushing up a string requires an inhuman effort. Or the singer closing his eyes to suggest intimacy. It is clear that watching and listening are in some way in conflict here. In other words; here seeing does not support hearing, but imposes a different meaning on the listened to.

[Tweet "Think of rock guitarists pretending that pushing up a string requires an inhuman effort"]

I experienced this very strongly once at a concert by The Leaders at the Bimhuis. At a certain point, saxophonist Bobby Watson played a wonderfully penetrating solo. Had I heard it on CD, I would have been convinced that someone was bared his soul here, but I saw someone who was making silly jokes with his band members until just before the solo and who resumed the joking immediately after that intense solo. This does not mean that Watson's solo was not intense or penetrating, it means that a musician may have almost immediate access to emotions that the very imagery of digging up and deepening would have one believe are not immediately within reach and can only be brought out with effort. What is really happening musically remains hidden to any layman, which is why he uses senses other than his ears.

Delusion

Harry Partch (1901-1974) is an obvious outsider in music. Someone who, from an early age, refused to acquiesce to existing systems and therefore, among other things, designed his own instruments and scales. It does not seem bold to me to assume that the Holland Festival programmers saw in Partch a counterpart to Ayn Rand's also programmed play "The Fountainhead". That play is about how an artist can remain original and avoid making concessions. Partch is a textbook example of this.

Partch was maladjusted, a dilettante, a non-conformist, someone also who could ignite in great rage. With some good will, his wondrous work "Delusion of the Fury" can be read as a psychological self-portrait; it is about wandering, about scapegoats and misfits, and about the mind-blurring effects of anger. Now 'is about' is far too strong an expression, because "Delusion of the Fury" is mostly a collection of scenes where the viewer/listener soon has to give up looking for strict coherence. The greatest charm of Partch's work is his bizarre, self-designed instrumentation and their corresponding appearance and sound. The first sensation is the sight of those exotic instruments, which immediately brings back memories of early concert visits. The intriguing sight of the orchestra's arrangement disappears when you regularly go to performances; with Partch, that primary sense of wonder returned.

[Tweet "At Partch's concert, that primary wonderment came all the way back"]

In preparation, I had listened to a recording of the piece and also watched a performance on DVD. Perhaps I shouldn't have done so. Those earlier introductions to "Delusion of the Fury" made it clear that Partch was a very unorthodox composer who appeared consistently opposed to systematics and, it seemed to me, in his own music as well. Partch largely came across as disorganised. That can certainly be enchanting in a short composition or improvisation, but during the roughly one-and-a-half hour duration of "Delusion of the Fury", it results in the necessary weak spots in which the piece has little to offer to ear or eye. Listening to it at home, I had already noticed that I repeatedly lost concentration and interest. I had hoped that seeing this music played would help me get over those dead spots, but I had to conclude that this was not the case. "Delusion of the Fury" remained a curiosity with exhilarating moments, but also moments when my mind wandered.

Later what I had not expected happened at home, when I listened to the recording again, hardly any images of the performance surfaced. However, I did understand the composition better, I was less often distracted or bored. The imbalance of the piece remained an issue, but was less disturbing now. Is that because I saw the play? There's no way to prove it, but I think so.

Absent image

Philip Glass (1937) is one of the most popular and (therefore) most controversial composers. Together with Steve Reich, he revolutionised classical music in the 1960s. Their 'minimal music' considerably shook up and loosened up a rather stagnant profession, and the fact that their invention led to mutual quarrels and ultimately resembled an institution does little to diminish this achievement.

The earliest minimal compositions, in which Glass and Reich usually still played together, were often performed in museums. The visual component often played an essential role in Glass's music. Consider a world-famous film like "Koyaanisqatsi" or his repeated collaborations with theatre director Robert Wilson. "The CIVIL warS" was also created by Glass and Wilson, but at the Holland Festival the work was presented in a concert performance. So no effects, or they had to be musical.

[Tweet "Glass and Reich, they won't be happy about it, but they remain grateful comparison material"].

Glass and Reich, they won't be happy about it, but they remain rewarding comparison material. When Reich was artist-in-residence at the Hague conservatory a few years back, I saw a lot of his music performed. What always struck me was how physical that music was. The rhythmicity of those constantly repeating musical patterns with subtle variations was unmistakably reflected in the musicians. Their bodies had to adopt that pulse to be able to perform the works well. With Glass, I saw the opposite happen. The rhythmic aspect of "The CIVIL warS" is rather static and therefore weak. The bassists in particular showed this clearly. It was nothing more than a foundation. "The CIVIL warS" has to rely quite literally on clarion calls and the dramatic power of solo and choral singing. It is illustrative music, music that supports rather than evokes images, but those images were not there now.

Yet again, it was the watching that, to my mind, led to a better understanding of the music. The laxity of rhythm, the excess of dramatic display, I had heard it to a limited extent. Now I saw it too. But fair is fair, when I listened to another recording at home, I still liked the piece better than at the concert.

Own world

To a large extent, the Gesamtkunstwerk remains as elusive as a dream. Since Richard Wagner declared it his ideal image, there have been plenty of technological developments that should be able to bring the dreamed-of closer, but how often is it successfully realised? A few years back, the Jewish Historical Museum displayed an amazing feat by South African visual artist William Kentridge. His mechanical theatre "Black Box" turned out to be a rare penetrating work in which image and music were in perfect balance with each other, underpinning each other and never stealing each other's footlights.

The anticipation for Kentridge's contribution to Schubert's famous song cycle 'Die Winterreise' was therefore one to look forward to. Here, as with Partch, the concert experience began upon entering the hall and not just when the musicians emerged. Looking at the stage where the black grand piano is set on a cheap-looking plywood? platform, at the two walls from which sheets of paper hang, flapping now and then as a draft moves across the stage. Then the dimming of the lights and the appearance of pianist and singer. They stand before the viewer on the far left. When Kentridge's films begin, they appear to be projected mainly on the right-hand wall. Side by side or even opposite each other, in other words. It is hard not to see a clue in this.

[Tweet "Kentridge's films are certainly impressive"]

Sometimes the images slide over both musicians, sometimes the singer turns his back to the audience and watches the projected images with them. Beautiful, occasionally decidedly poignant images. Kentridge has stayed close to himself, if you don't get carried away by the images you sometimes wonder what exactly their relationship to Wilhelm Mueller's poems set to music by Schubert is, but Kentridge's films are certainly impressive. This does have a problem. I notice a certain tornness, notice that I find it difficult to enjoy both at the same time. In, for me, the most beautiful songs like "Das Wirthaus" and "Der Leiermann", the music wins, sometimes I forget about the music and watch the film shown breathlessly. Meanwhile, the thought repeatedly occurs to me that surely this cannot be the intention, this constant being forced to choose between one or the other, why do they work so moderately together?

I suspect because Kentridge does not illustrate. He has juxtaposed his work with Schubert's and the performance of the performers, perhaps pumping himself up to formidable proportions because of the composer's stature. Either way, his work is too big, lacks humility. It is great work, but does not know its place, takes up too much space. It overshadows as far as it can, steals the limelight where possible and tells its own story, puts a story next to Mueller's, with only two musicians it still gets crowded on stage. Too much is happening.

[Tweet "On the way home, it turns out that, after all, it was mainly the music that stayed. Few images come to my mind."]

On the way home, it turns out that, after all, it was mainly the music that remained. Few images come to my mind. Even when I later listen to recordings of "Die Winterreise" again, Kentridge's films do not come before my eyes. Maybe that says something about the way my brain works, I want to hear and watch, but I am too auditory-minded, to use both senses optimally. Perhaps the mastery of Kentridge's remarkable films shows precisely my limitation.