Hit Parade, circa 2200

[Birgitte Jorgensen <bj@kemmunet.net.mt>]

Jim Morrison wrote:
>I think the real judge of how much you like it though is to listen to
>the Goldbergs and then the Handel, then the Partitas and then the
Handel, then the
>English Suites and then the Handel, then Beethoven's Fourth then the
Handel, then the
>Bryd/Gibbon and then the Handel, then the Mozart and then the Handel,
then the Brahms
>and then the Handel, then the Inventions and then the Handel, then
>the Schoenberg and then the Handel.

I do think it is possible to over-analyze a piece of art. Whether we
place the harpsichord discussion in a historical-technical context and
gauge its comprehensibility in the form of the question: "Where does it
fit in vis-à-vis an acceptable academic framework for evaluating this
instrument, this period, or how does it compare to other
interpretations?" and so on, or whether we take a less rigorous, more
emotional approach, and ask ourselves: "How does this move me, inspire
me, thrill me, intrigue me, why does this stir/not stir my soul, etc?"
the point is that either approach is valid, as are a good many other
perspectives situated between these two. Ultimately, all are essentially
expressions of preference, and therefore unassailable positions. And to
expand the dilemma, remember that Gould said he always tried to avoid
making aesthetic judgements, with the exception of his own work, and
claimed he made only moral judgements.


Since John has not yet relieved Mary Jo of her suspension on sharp
instruments, I pose this question: How much does the music which means
the most to you owe to the recording?s quality or technique?

Assuming that a recording meets a minimum standard of professionalism,
that the playback medium is not unacceptably distorting, and the
acoustical environment is passable (i.e., not a stadium or an ice-hockey
arena), I think most listeners, especially when they are very familiar
with a song and have developed an intense bond with it, compensate for
all but the worst audio distortions with the ultra-sensitive
"correcting" equipment of their inner ear. (I?m not including musicians
or engineers listening to a playback during a recording session in this
hypothesis; naturally, they attend to both the medium and the message,
but I refer to the comparatively casual listener, hearing a favourite
song on a car radio or in a restaurant or at a party.) Similar to the
way our eyes stitch together a coherent visual image from 24 separate
frames per second as they are projected on a screen, I think even
technically unsophisticated listeners (and in this age of musical
wallpapering, there really aren?t any unsophisticated music interpreters
to speak of), have the capacity to use their brains as active filtering
systems.

For example, on Gould?s Byrd/Gibbons CD, the Sweelinck track was
recorded live, so in contrast to the cleaner sound of the studio tracks,
the initial tape hiss is glaringly apparent?for about 3 or 4 seconds. As
soon as Gould reels you in with his sublime performance, your mind
simply blocks out the sub-standard noise and gets on with the show.

The point is that our appreciation of music is deeply intertwined with
emotional associations and memory. If, for the moment, we restrict the
discussion to popular music (rock, jazz, pop, etc.), I think people?s
choices of favorite songs have less to do with the quality of the
recording than with the timbre of sentiment they arouse in us. If it?s
an oldie (say, The Beatles or Billie Holiday), they may wish the
recording was better, but they won?t let inferior equipment get in the
way of appreciating a good song.

Part of Gould?s fascination with making recordings (in the sense of
constructing a piece of music with multiple takes and splices) was the
temporal way it differed from recording a concert; in other words,
rather than freezing a specific moment in time, the studio recording
artist creates something which exceeds those confines, something more
permanent. Interestingly, this isn?t what happens with recordings of
rock or pop songs. Perhaps because of the ubiquitous way contemporary
music is disseminated, hit songs are woven inextricably into the
zeitgeist. They actually represent, like nothing else, a particular
place and time. That's one of the reasons filmmakers shamelessly
manipulate us with soundtracks based on compilations of yesterday's
hits. Hence, a rock milestone, like "Whole Lotta Love" to give you a
humorous example, may be an atrocious recording, but for many people
playing a scant 10 or 20 seconds of it will unleash an avalanche of
memories, good or bad. That is, if one can remember the sixties; you
know the saying.

In fact, one could simply recite a hit list from any year and trigger a
string of associated thoughts and feelings. If you hear "Baker Street"
(I mention this one because there are no lyrics and that seems to play a
central role in the way the initial memory is coded), you won?t
associate it with the same memories or feelings as I do, but because it
was heard everywhere in the summer of 1978 (or was it ?79?), it is a
cultural phenomenon that we all share. As the VH1 "tributes" are so fond
of saying, pop songs of the so-called classics from Elton John to Joni
Mitchell constitute the soundtracks of our collective lives. As kitsch
as that may be, it rings true. One?s relationship to music like Gould?s,
on the other hand, is intensely personal and timeless. It?s in the world
but not of it.

Love them or loathe them, last summer?s signature theme songs (Ricky
Martin?s "Livin? La Vida Loca," Madonna?s "Beautiful Stranger" and
Cher?s hit, which I can?t remember the name of, among others) will
always signify that period exclusively, even if you find (as I do)
Martin?s tune, and in particular the video, reprehensible. The hit
parade of our lives is entombed in nostalgia, and thus, will likely fade
away with us, meaning primarily the boomers. Well, maybe Neil Young will
still be rocking the free world a century hence, but I don?t think that
sometime in the 2050s the world will be celebrating the centennial of
Madonna?s birth. Bach, on the other hand, is well into his third century
of the afterlife. I am doubtful that all but a few of the legends of
rock will survive beyond the next generation or two.

In contrast, I think people will still be listening to Gould 200 years
from now, and not just because he produced the opposite of disposable
aural candy, or for the novelty of hearing a masterful playing of the
piano, which by then will be as antiquated as the harpsichord is today,
but because his recordings accomplish precisely what he set out to do:
they exert a force that reaches far beyond the confines of where and
when he recorded them.


One more thing. I laughed out loud at the idea of Gould appearing in an
SNL-type scenario with Yehudi Menuhin partly because it is so easy to
imagine him doing it. Although his sense of humor, or at least its
public exposure, was highly unusual for a classical musician of his
stature, he was in fact part of a quintessentially Canadian tradition of
satire. I explain for the benefit of list members who are not from the
Great White North that its roots go back to the humourist Stephen
Leacock, whose most famous book satirizes the residents of
turn-of-the-century Orillia, coincidentally the community near which the
Gould family?s cottage at Lake Simcoe was located. Recent practitioners
of the mimicry for which Canadians seem to possess an uncanny talent
include Kids in the Hall, Jim Carrey, Mike Myers, John Candy, and, of
course, Dan ("Jane, you ignorant slut!") Ackroyd. Note to Jim M: L.A.
has been invaded by Canadians, who, like insidious aliens, can only be
recognized by other Canadians.

Birgitte Jorgensen