". . . the composer sets in stone every note that is to be played, and the orchestra plays no part in that creative process."

This seems to be a fairly common misconception held by folk music (and sometimes jazz) enthusiasts.

Consider the idiosyncratic Canadian pianist, Glenn Gould. He once said something to the effect that if a musician brings nothing new to the performance of a piece of music, he or she is "unnecessary." It's already been done, and that musician can be easily replaced by a recording.

From an article on Glenn Gould:

"Gould was known for his vivid musical imagination, and listeners regarded his interpretations as ranging from brilliantly creative to, on occasion, outright eccentric."

And

"The pianist's first recording, Bach: The Goldberg Variations, came in 1955, at Columbia Records 30th Street Studios in New York City. Although there was initially some controversy at CBS as to whether this was the most appropriate piece to record, the finished product received phenomenal praise and was among the best-selling classical music albums of its time. Gould became closely associated with the piece, playing it in full or in part at many of his recitals. Another version of the Goldberg Variations, recorded in 1981, would be among his last recordings, and one of only a few pieces he recorded twice in the studio. The 1981 recording was one of CBS Masterworks' first digital recordings. The two recordings are very different: the first, highly energetic and often frenetic; the second, slower and more introspective. In the latter, Gould treats the aria and its 30 variations as one cohesive piece."

The notes and the dynamic markings in both versions were the same, yet the two recorded performances are quite different.

Look at it this way:   some years ago, a friend and I listened to two recordings of Mark Antony's funeral oration ("Friends, Romans, countrymen. . . .") from Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar," one by Marlon Brando (from the movie) and the other by Sir John Gielgud. They were as different as night and day. Yet, the words they were reading, or reciting, were the same. Same with different renditions of "To be or not to be" from "Hamlet," from stentorian versions as if by some over-emoting ancient Shakespearean actor (eyes closed, back of hand pressed to forehead) coming on like Senator Claghorn filibustering to Congress, to a quiet, contemplative recitation, such as the way Sir Lawrence Olivier did it in the 1940s movie (after all, Hamlet was contemplating suicide).

The words are the same. But the interpretations are very different.

Classical musicians are no more limited in their approaches and interpretations than actors are.

In the case of orchestral or ensemble playing, if all one had to do was play the notes as written, there would be no need for a conductor. A Mozart or Beethoven symphony is subject to interpretation in the same way that Bach's Goldberg Variations as played by Glenn Gould are. Each musician in the orchestra will have his or her personal interpretation of the way the notes should be played. And the results would be chaos! So what the orchestra winds up playing (after many rehearsals, to make sure that everyone is "on the same page" so to speak) is the conductor's interpretation of what the composer has written. Georg Solti's and Sir Simon Rattle's approaches to symphonic music are quite different. True, the musicians in the orchestra are setting their own personal ideas aside and following the conductor's interpretation. It's a cooperative effort. But this in no way means that, in a different situation, they are not capable of exercising their own creativity. The first violinist in a symphony orchestra may also play in a chamber group, and/or play solo recitals. Or, perhaps, get together with a few others and whip out some Bluegrass.

On a TV show some time back, I saw Itzak Perlman sawing away quite spectacularly with a couple of Bluegrass musicians. He obviously knew what he was doing and what the music was all about.

I also take issue with the idea that classical musicians can't ad lib, or have to learn to ad lib, as if the ability were granted only to folk and jazz musicians. Chamber music started early on when a group of friends would get together at someone's home with lutes, viols, recorders, etc., and jam. Usually the melodies they played would be written out, but that was it. There might be what was called a "figured bass," but the actual notes in the harmony parts, or in the contrapuntal lines, were improvised. So, apart from style, there is nothing new about jazz. Or a group of folk enthusiasts getting together to have a session.

Ad libbing and improvising was an essential part of it. And whether a person can ad lib or not is not necessarily dictated by the kind of music they play, but a matter of their own ability or lack thereof.

No, I'm sorry. Those who try to imply that classical training deprives a person of creativity are just plain wrong.

Don Firth

P. S.   I can get really suspicious of that viewpoint. In most cases, I think that it's matter of ignorance about classical music and the musicians who chose to play it. But sometimes it can have a somewhat sinister motivation. Early on, after slogging through guitar chord diagrams and having to ask what chords to play to accompany a particular song (like many people here on Mudcat, posting to ask for the chords for some song), I decided to learn some music theory. One particular singer, considerably more experienced than I, and with professional aspirations, got on my case about how any kind of classical lessons, especially music theory, would burden me down with all kinds of rules and prohibitions and completely destroy my creativity, and, he warned, I would never be able to do folk music.

I didn't see the logic of this. I went ahead, took classic guitar lessons, and studied music theory, first at the university's music department, then with a local composer who gave private theory and composition lessons.

Contrary to saddling me with rules and limitations, suddenly I was learning what was POSSIBLE! A wide open field of possibilities!

And here's the kicker! The singer (quite a good singer, in fact, who was doing a few concerts around and who had a record coming out) who had given me all the dire warnings? He claimed that he was totally devoid of musical training, had worked out everything on his own, and said that he couldn't even read music. I later learned from his sister that he had taken some nine years' worth of classical violin lessons before he got interested in folk music and took up the guitar.

The only conclusion I can come to (verified by a mutual acquaintance) is that, back then, seeing how eager I was, he was afraid that I could turn out to be competition!

As it turned out, he was right. After a couple of years, people started hiring me for the kind of singing jobs he generally got.

Kinda sad. . . .