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Richard Wagner
German Composer
1813-1883 A selection from ON CONDUCTING
Narrated by Jeff Riggenbach
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running time is 17 minutes
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In the days of my youth, orchestral pieces at the celebrated
Leipzig Gewandhaus Concerts were not conducted at all; they were
simply played through under the leadership of Conzertmeister
Mathai, like overtures and entr'actes at a theatre. At least there was no
"disturbing individuality," in the shape of a conductor! The
principal classical pieces which presented no particular
technical difficulties were regularly given every winter; the
execution was smooth and precise; and the members of the
orchestra evidently enjoyed the annual recurrence of their
familiar favourites.
With Beethoven's Ninth Symphony alone they could not get on,
though it was considered a point of honour to give that work
every year. I had copied the score for myself, and made a
pianoforte arrangement for two hands; but I was so much
astonished at the utterly confused and bewildering effect of the
Gewandhaus performance that I lost courage, and gave up the study
of Beethoven for some time. Later, I found it instructive to note
how I came to take true delight in performances of Mozart's
instrumental works: it was when I had a chance to conduct them
myself, and when I could indulge my feelings as to the expressive
rendering of Mozart's cantilena.
I received a good lesson at Paris in 1839, when I heard the
orchestra of the Conservatoire rehearse the enigmatical Ninth
Symphony. The scales fell from my eyes; I came to understand the
value of CORRECT execution, and the secret of a good performance.
The orchestra had learnt to look for Beethoven's MELODY in every
bar — that melody which the worthy Leipzig musicians had failed to
discover; and the orchestra SANG that melody. THIS WAS THE
SECRET.
Habeneck, who solved the difficulty, and to whom the great credit
for this performance is due, was not a conductor of special
genius. Whilst rehearsing the symphony, during an entire winter
season, he had felt it to be incomprehensible and ineffective
(would German conductors have confessed as much?), but he
persisted throughout a second and a third season! until
Beethoven's new MELODY was
understood and correctly rendered by each member of the
orchestra. Habeneck was a conductor of the old stamp; HE was the
master—and everyone obeyed him. I cannot attempt to describe the
beauty of this performance. However, to give an idea of it, I
will select a passage by the aid of which I shall endeavour to
shew the reason why Beethoven is so difficult to render, as well
as the reason for the indifferent success of German orchestras
when confronted by such difficulties. Even with first class
orchestras I have never been able to get the passage in the first
movement performed with such equable perfection as I then (thirty years
ago) heard it played by the musicians of the Paris "Orchestre du
Conservatoire." Often in later life have I recalled this
passage, and tried by its aid to enumerate the desiderata in the
execution of orchestral music: it comprises MOVEMENT and
SUSTAINED tone, with a DEFINITE DEGREE OF POWER.
The masterly execution of this passage by the Paris
orchestra consisted in the fact that they played it EXACTLY as it
is written. Neither at Dresden, nor in London when, in after
years, I had occasion to prepare a performance of the symphony,
did I succeed in getting rid of the annoying irregularity which
arises from the change of bow and change of strings. Still less
could I suppress an involuntary accentuation as the passage
ascends; musicians, as a rule, are tempted to play an ascending
passage with an increase of tone, and a descending one with a
decrease. With the fourth bar of the above passage we invariably
got into a crescendo so that the sustained G flat of the fifth
bar was given with an involuntary yet vehement accent, enough to
spoil the peculiar tonal significance of that note. The
composer's intention is clearly indicated; but it remains
difficult to prove to a person whose musical feelings are not of
a refined sort, that there is a great gap between a commonplace
reading, and the reading meant by the composer: no doubt both
readings convey a sense of dissatisfaction, unrest, longing—but
the quality of these, the true sense of the passage, cannot be
conveyed unless it is played as the master imagined it, and as I
have not hitherto heard it given except by the Parisian musicians
in 1839. In connection with this I am conscious that the
impression of dynamical monotony (if I may risk such an
apparently senseless expression for a difficult phenomenon)
together with the unusually varied and ever irregular movement of
intervals in the ascending figure entering on the prolonged G
flat to be sung with such infinite delicacy, to which the G
natural answers with equal delicacy, initiated me as by magic to
the incomparable mystery of the spirit. Keeping my further
practical experience in view, I would ask how did the musicians
of Paris arrive at so perfect a solution of the difficult
problem? By the most conscientious diligence. They were not
content with mutual admiration and congratulation, nor did they assume that
difficulties must disappear before them as a matter of course.
French musicians in the main belong to the Italian school; its
influence upon them has been beneficial in as much as they have
thus been taught to approach music mainly through the medium of
the human voice. The French idea of playing an instrument well is
to be able to SING well upon it. And (as already said) that
superb orchestra SANG the symphony. The possibility of its being
well sung implies that the TRUE TEMPO had been found: and this is
the second point which impressed me at the time. Old Habeneck was
not the medium of any abstract aesthetical inspiration—he was
devoid of "genius:" BUT HE FOUND THE RIGHT TEMPO WHILE
PERSISTENTLY FIXING THE ATTENTION OF HIS ORCHESTRA UPON THE MELODY
OF THE SYMPHONY.
THE RIGHT COMPREHENSION OF THE MELODY IS THE SOLE GUIDE TO THE
RIGHT TEMPO; these two things are inseparable: the one implies
and qualifies the other. As a proof of my assertion that the
majority of performances of instrumental music with us are faulty
it is sufficient to point out that OUR CONDUCTORS SO FREQUENTLY
FAIL TO FIND THE TRUE TEMPO BECAUSE THEY ARE IGNORANT OF SINGING.
I have not yet met with a German Capellmeister or Musik-director
who, be it with good or bad voice, can really sing a melody.
These people look upon music as a singularly abstract sort of
thing, an amalgam of grammar, arithmetic, and digital
gymnastics;—to be an adept in which may fit a man for a
mastership at a conservatory or a musical gymnasium; but it does
not follow from this that he will be able to put life and soul
into a musical performance. The whole duty of a conductor is
comprised in his ability always to indicate the right TEMPO. His
choice of tempi will show whether he understands the piece or
not. With good players again the true tempo induces correct
phrasing and expression, and conversely, with a conductor, the
idea of appropriate phrasing and expression will induce the
conception of the true tempo.
This, however, is by no means so simple a matter as it appears.
Older composers probably felt so, for they are content with the
simplest general indications. Haydn and Mozart made use of the
term "Andante" as the mean between "Allegro" and "Adagio," and
thought it sufficient to indicate a few gradations and
modifications of these terms.
Sebastian Bach, as a rule, does not indicate tempo at all, which
in a truly musical sense is perhaps best. He may have said to
himself: whoever does not understand my themes and figures, and
does not feel their character and expression, will not be much
the wiser for an Italian indication of tempo.
Let me be permitted to mention a few facts which concern me
personally. In my earlier operas I gave detailed directions as to
the tempi, and indicated them (as I thought) accurately, by means
of the Metronome. Subsequently, whenever I had occasion to
protest against a particularly absurd tempo, in "Tannhauser" for
instance, I was assured that the Metronome had been consulted and
carefully followed. In my later works I omitted the metronome and
merely described the main tempi in general terms, paying,
however, particular attention to the various modifications of
tempo. It would appear that general directions also tend to vex
and confuse Capellmeisters, especially when they are expressed in
plain German words. Accustomed to the conventional Italian terms
these gentlemen are apt to lose their wits when, for instance, I
write "moderate." Not long ago a Capellmeister complained of that
term (massig) which I employed in the score of "Das Rheingold";
the music, (it was reported) lasted exactly two hours and a half
at rehearsals under a conductor whom I had personally instructed;
whereas, at the performances and under the beat of the official
Capellmeister, it lasted fully three hours! Wherefore, indeed, did I
write "Massig"? To match this I have been informed that the
overture to "Tannhauser," which, when I conducted it at Dresden,
used to last twelve minutes, now lasts twenty. No doubt I am here
alluding to thoroughly incompetent persons who are particularly
shy of Alla breve time, and who stick to their correct and normal
crotchet beats, four in a bar, merely to shew they are present
and conscious of doing something. Heaven knows how such
"quadrupeds" find their way from the village church to our opera
theatres. But "dragging" is not a characteristic of the elegant
conductors of these latter days; on the contrary they have a
fatal tendency to hurry and to run away with the tempi. THIS
TENDENCY TO HURRY is so characteristic a mark of our entire
musical life latterly, that I propose to enter into some details
with regard to it.
Robert Schumann once complained to me at Dresden that he could
not enjoy the Ninth Symphony at the Leipzig Gewandhaus concerts
because of the quick tempi Mendelssohn chose to take,
particularly in the first movement. I have, myself, only once
been present at a rehearsal of one of Beethoven's Symphonies,
when Mendelssohn conducted; the rehearsal took place at Berlin,
and the Symphony was No. 8 (in F major). I noticed that he chose
a detail here and there—almost at random—and worked at it with
a certain obstinacy, until it stood forth clearly. This was so
manifestly to the advantage of the detail that I could not but
wonder why he did not take similar pains with other nuances. For
the rest, this incomparably bright symphony was rendered in a
remarkably smooth and genial manner. Mendelssohn himself once
remarked to me, with regard to conducting, that he thought most
harm was done by taking a tempo too slow; and that on the
contrary, he always recommended quick tempi as being less
detrimental. Really good execution, he thought, was at all times
a rare thing, but short-comings might be disguised if care was
taken that they should not appear very prominent; and the best
way to do this was "to get over the ground quickly." This can
hardly have been a casual view, accidentally mentioned in
conversation. The master's pupils must have received further and
more detailed instruction; for, subsequently, I have, on various
occasions, noticed the consequences of that maxim "take quick
tempi," and have, I think, discovered the reasons which may have
led to its adoption.
I remembered it well, when I came to lead the orchestra of the
Philharmonic Society in London, 1855. Mendelssohn had conducted
the concerts during several seasons, and the tradition of his
readings was carefully preserved. It appears likely that the
habits and peculiarities of the Philharmonic Society suggested to
Mendelssohn his favourite style of performance (Vortragsweise) —
certainly it was admirably adapted to meet their wants. An
unusual amount of instrumental music is consumed at these
concerts; but, as a rule, each piece is rehearsed once only. Thus
in many instances, I could not avoid letting the orchestra follow
its traditions, and so I became acquainted with a style of
performance which called up a lively recollection of
Mendelssohn's remarks.
The music gushed forth like water from a fountain; there was no
arresting it, and every Allegro ended as an undeniable Presto. It
was troublesome and difficult to interfere; for when correct
tempi and proper modifications of these were taken the defects of
style which the flood had carried along or concealed became
painfully apparent. The orchestra generally played mezzoforte; no
real forte, no real piano was attained. Of course, in important
cases I took care to enforce the reading I thought the true one,
and to insist upon the right tempo. The excellent musicians did
not object to this; on the contrary, they showed themselves
sincerely glad of it; the public also approved, but the critics
were annoyed and continued so to browbeat the directors of the
society that the latter actually requested me to permit the
second movement of Mozart's Symphony in E flat to be played in
the flabby and colourless way they
had been accustomed to — and which, they said, even Mendelssohn
himself had sanctioned.
The fatal maxims came to the front quite clearly when I was about
to rehearse a symphony by a very amiable elderly contrapuntist,
Mr. Potter, if I mistake not.
The composer approached me in a pleasant way, and
asked me to take the Andante rather quickly as he feared it might
prove tedious. I assured him that his Andante, no matter how
short its duration might be, would inevitably prove tedious if it
was played in a vapid and inexpressive manner; whereas if the
orchestra could be got to play the very pretty and ingenious
theme, as I felt confident he meant it and as I now sang it to
him, it would certainly please. Mr. Potter was touched; he
agreed, and excused himself, saying that latterly he had not been
in the habit of reckoning upon this sort of orchestral playing.
In the evening, after the Andante, he joyfully pressed my hand. More information about Richard Wagner from Wikipedia
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