The Short End of the Stick

Interesting question – and one I would never have though of for myself. I don’t think that I ever try to do anything in particular because it is different from what another conductor would do.

There are, of course, technical errors I try to avoid, as well as most of the standard things that players complain about, but none of these are judged according to what other conductors might or might not do. I certainly would never imitate a ‘move’ or parody a conductor’s style. I guess I am not really that interested in conductors. My concern is with the music and how to get that to emerge from rehearsals and concerts. And that process is very much psychological and not easily defined in terms of ‘do this’ or ‘don’t do that’. I think that is the source of some of the misunderstanding between players and conductors. It seems to be fairly obvious to many players what a conductor should be (and often isn’t) doing. But I don’t think it is so obvious, and a lot of what a conductor is trying to achieve is oblique and unannounced. (We are not supposed to speak, remember!) So frequently a conductor’s preoccupation may be quite different from the pre-occupations of a given musician.

I discussed this with a colleague recently, a man experienced at the highest level both as a player and as a conductor, and he said he felt the conductor’s job was to give the players exactly what they wanted and expected. I demurred. My feeling is that the art of conducting is largely deceptive. Not in the sense of trying to mislead or be untruthful, but in the sense that it is an art of persuasion, and if you can get the players, almost unconsciously, to do what the music needs for its success, it is not necessary that the players know quite how you do that, or even what it is you are trying to do. The obvious approach does not always work. For instance, in getting a brass entry to fit with the strings, a steady beat does not cut it. In getting a difficult bit of accompaniment to arise with perfect ensemble, a simple beat won’t be reliable. There is a lot of psychology which is more effective if you do not burden the players’ conscious thoughts with what you are doing. For me, the ideal is to have the players play the way you want them to, because you have created a situation in which that is the easiest and most natural thing for them to do.

But the second part of the question is fun – what have you learned not to do?

To this end, I can only offer two humorous pieces that I have written, and used on my blogs. The first is a description of an actual sequence of rehearsals and concerts that I observed. (I have obliterated places and names to protect the guilty) and the other is a sort of primer in how to be a terrible conductor. I cannot claim to have committed all these crimes, but I am sure I have committed most of them from time to time.

==========================
Mahler Somewhere.
I saw that a fairly small orchestra, not in a big city, was going to perform the Mahler Second Symphony – The Resurrection. So I asked to go to rehearsals and offered to hang around as a cover. Hey, if this guy couldn’t cut it, I’d be ready!

So I went down to the rehearsal, and the conductor was really strange. He knew the score well enough, and was conducting from memory. But, as usual, this meant he was not so much rehearsing the orchestra, as practicing conducting it. He’d do huge stretches, never correcting near collapses, then eventually stop and ask the second harp to play a little louder 132 measures ago, and tell anecdotes to the chorus about where Mahler liked to have them stand.

The only thing he talked to the orchestra about was ensemble; playing together. He got quite angry about poor ensemble and, in every case, it was HIS FAULT.

He had the most bizarre technique – a variant of the upside-down choral style. For the ictus at a big climax, instead of arms in the air, he would drop his arms to his waist, pull his elbows behind his back, and then with clenched fists, violently punch the stomach of a large, imaginary stuffed Panda right in front of him. Since this gesture was so low down, it was totally invisible to 80% of the orchestra.

He didn’t give upbeats in tempo either. How the cellos knew how to come in at the beginning I have no idea. Critical mass, I suppose.
For delicate entries in the strings, he would raise a hand beatifically above them, smile, and freeze until they started playing on their own. No baton. All poetic shaping.

I went to a bit of the dress rehearsal, but had to leave early, certain that there was no way they would get to the end.

I returned to the concert and sat in the front row, with a mixture of anxiety and glee. An interminable speech about sponsors and donors, ending with the mantra “This is YOUR orchestra. Please support it.” served instead of an overture to generate enough time before the big enchilada for latecomers to get to their seats. It was sold out.

Maestro came out in a sort of Thai satin shirt. No stick. Never looked at the score.

By God, it was a triumph! Rough, but a triumph. Total effortless recall, effortlessly relaxed; he conducted the whole thing with joy and sweep, which was highly infectious.

His technical problems ensured that the orchestra got out of sync at all the usual places (like the coda of the first movement, and of course, the off-stage band bits) and there were plenty of split brass notes, but he had that supreme virtue: he made it look easy and fun. I really admire the orchestra for coping so well. The concert was on a Saturday. The first rehearsal had been the previous Thursday evening.

I still don’t quite understand it. Standing Os of course. Real enthusiasm. I’d be scared all over again, though, if I see he plans to do Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements!

==========================
CONDUCTOR’S GRANDEUR (How not to be a conductor.)
To be a true maestro, you have to have hostile musicians. If you can, you might as well make them really furious. This will demonstrate your power to crush whatever music is left in them, and ensure a bad performance which you can then blame on the ineptitude of the players. Doing so will prove how high your standards are.

Here are some tips on how to do this.
• Always be late to rehearsals.
• Wear dark glasses so no one ever knows if you are looking at them.
• Rehearse a piece the orchestra was not expecting.
• When this means a crucial player is not there, look personally outraged, as in “But any moron must see how artistically imperative it is to rehearse Bolero at this precise moment.”
• After playing goes well for 15 minutes, complain that the library has the wrong edition.
• Make sure that if the orchestra has bar numbers, you only have rehearsal marks. Or vice versa. (Ideally, set it up ahead of time that the winds and strings have incompatible systems. For instance, bring your own parts, but only for the woodwinds.)
• Organize your rehearsal so that, for instance, the tuba player is essential for the first 3 minutes and the last 20 seconds. If possible, let the time run out just before you get to those last 20 seconds.

Talking.
• Assume a foreign accent and waste time struggling to find exactly the right word. Look as though you are in terrible pain as you think.
• Make sure the word, finally found, is trivial, such as “quicker.” (kvEEku?)
• Stop the orchestra often to implore them to play more musically. Give no specifics.
• Obviously you must talk as much as possible, but never be clear who you are talking to.
• Talk before the sound dies away, talk a lot, talk as you give the upbeat, talk as the orchestra is playing. Never allow the music to flow unimpeded. Remember: you are in control. So if no control is needed, sabotage.
• Explain things in detail before you catch the attention of the trombones who have not been playing for the last 18 minutes, and who had no clue that you are now leaping to their bit.
• Mumble.
• Never use a simple hand gesture when the same thing can be achieved by stopping the entire orchestra and giving them a lecture on how it is done in Berlin.
• Give the downbeat before anyone has a chance to find the spot.
• To this end, give directions to a bar backwards, as in “Please, my friends, my dear colleaks, ve go from …. 27 bars after…. NO! 28 bars after…. letter Q …. in the Third movement.” BAM! Downbeat.
• Whenever possible, maintain confusion about which movement you are talking about. A true master can sustain confusion about which composition you are referring to. Single composer concerts (e.g., all-Mozart) are terrific for this.
• If possible, count bars from key changes so that horns and percussion will have no idea where you are.
• If the orchestra actually knows where you plan to start, (e.g., the beginning) look around to make sure everyone is focused, pause, give a clear upbeat, then, as they breathe in, abort the downbeat and say “Oh, by the way….”
• Always look disappointed at the end of each passage. If you can get away with it, stare at the score in confusion and mutter “I can’t figure out quite what is wrong.”
• Use the Royal we. “I think we make a ritard here. We need to be so lyrical” (Do not say where.)
• Understand that it is very important to conduct from memory, since it might impress a donor who knows nothing about music. It will be better for PR photos too, taken by a photographer crouching in a spot that prevents the violas from playing anything.
• Consequently, the purpose of the dress rehearsal is not to help the orchestra, but to practice remembering what comes next.
• Therefore, do not listen, just keep going to make sure you can cover up memory lapses.
• Be sure to stop the orchestra just before musicians who have been carefully counting 198 measures of rest get a chance to actually play anything.
• Abort all climaxes.
• NEVER refer to, or look at, either the violas or the second violins, unless there’s a cutie there that you want to flirt with.
• Use radically different tempi at each rehearsal.
• In matters of intonation, always pick on the oboe.
• At the end, look disappointed and ask where the harpist is.

Then there’s the general question about what it is like to stand up and conduct. I shall have to write more later, but, in truth, it is terrifying. The danger of generating rage is always there, and you feel terribly exposed and inadequate. As regards presenting an interpretation that is different from what the players expect, this doesn’t really arise, except in details. After all, you, as conductor, do not know what the orchestra expects, and they don’t get a chance to know what your ‘interpretation’ is until the concert is over. And the distaste among players for wide-ranging explanations of intent means that the divergence between expectation and requests emerges only piece-meal, one detail at a time, or one movement sweep at a time.

A very real source of the tension arises from the fact that players are necessarily going to be much occupied with the details of their part, and the conductor has to be much more pre-occupied with an overall view of the dramatic structure of the performance. That dramatic vision doesn’t help a viola player with dubious accidentals much, but then again, getting every staccato the right way isn’t going to help much in getting the spiritual oomph to project. So players and conductors are correctly at odds to some degree. But it gets worse because the authority of the conductor is an institutional authority – not a personal one. The conductor is in charge because someone has to be. It is terrible when either the conductor comes to believe that he has some special wisdom which makes his opinions about bowings and the lighting level and the dress code particularly valuable. Narcissism is a real hazard. It is also bad when players come to think that the conductor is exercising authority because his is personally power mad. There are all sorts of reasons why people become conductors, and in general, a desire for power is not it.