Reviews

Most critics, arguably, are veritable paragons of perfection. Certainly that's how they often seem to view themselves. Since what he has is by nature a kind of platform and outlet for him to plant some opinion among the public, the garden-variety critic is one of those who seem convinced he can speak for others. Many actually subscribe to this.

The form, general content and direction of a typical review is almost predictable - and most reviews are, alas, typical, by reason of their predictability. Reviews - of concerts, CDs, books, plays, films and anything else - are the verbalization of the reviewer's own thoughts and opinions based allegedly on his or her own perceptions. This is obvious but very easy to forget, so it should still be kept in mind by the reader of any review, at any time. Some people have a tendency to accept as gospel whatever happens to appear in print and/or anything the critics might say, the latter a concept that might suit the critics themselves.

The most a reviewer can do is offer his own views. A valid question might be asked, Who are we to "criticize" an artist's work? Unless we, ourselves, are creative people - and to earn one's living as a critic is not synonymous with being "creative" - we may not be qualified to do so. This matter isn't often addressed. To be a critic in any medium is merely a way of earning a living too often at the expense of others whose work the critic might not like.

Hector Berlioz, Robert Schumann, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, Claude Debussy, Gabriel Fauré, Virgil Thomson - these and other men wrote music commentary, to greater or lesser extents, at some point(s) in their lives. What distinguishes them from "music critics" is that these men knew what they were talking about. - All of them were composers. Being human, like all of us, at times their particular judgements about a certain piece or performer may have been off the mark - posterity brings perspective - but theirs were largely informed conclusions born of their personal integrity and their background and experience of being truly creative musicians. They, as commentators on music and as reviewers of works and performances, had more of a right to be wrong than the typical music critic.

There are countless monuments to the composers throughout Europe. Not one exists to the memory of a critic. We don't remember them. We remember the composers.

The most extraordinary kind of reviewer is the one whose commentary, as dictated by his own personal nature, is charactertized by a fundamental fairness, integrity, tolerance, and even benevolence, for which he aims even in his personal dealings with others and which would clearly show through in his writing. A trait like this would make him an unlikely, even unnatural and certainly unusual critic, but maybe the very best kind: he sets himself apart from the others by being able to comment on and review something without having to "criticize" it. He tries to see the positive features of a work, viewing and accepting it on its own merits - rather than follow the easy route traditionally taken by critics who view something tangentially and focus on what it is not, and often for the sake of the kind of controversial and often hostile copy that so draws many readers. We learn little from the latter kind of criticism but much from the former kind of review and commentary. In keeping with the sort of positive, constructive approach in which discernment and subtlety would play a major role, such a reviewer might prefer silence on certain points rather than discord when he dislikes something in what he's reviewing. To those on whom subtlety is lost, his reviews might lack color and even excitement - but to the sensitive, observant reader with understanding and the insight and ability to see beyond the obvious, his commentary would be interesting and even enlightening. Such reviewers are truly exceptional, and the critics could learn well from such people.

Was She Serious?

Some time ago I tracked down an old acquaintance from my high school era who, I had learned, was living in France. I hadn't seen her in years so it was more out of curiosity than anything else that I contacted her - a couple of times, but I never received a response. I then sent her publishers' offprints of some of my print and online-published articles - again on more than one occasion (this was before the www really took off) - and still I received not even an acknowledgement. She had evidently received all my sendings since they were never returned to me. I shrugged my shoulders, sent nothing else for several years and had nearly forgotten about it. Not long afterward, I had a chance encounter with her and her younger sister in New York. I was never able to figure out if it was outright nerve or downright stupidity that prompted her to actually ask me why she hadn't received any more sendings from me - and this was a question coming from a graduate of reputedly one of the most prestigious schools (at that time exclusively for women) in the state of New York, in Bronxville. Go know. There's an axiom, "A degree doesn't mean you're intelligent. It means you're capable of learning." We should all be indebted to whoever brought it to us - and I'm certainly indebted to the man who brought it to my attention.

The Faux-Pas

In early May of 1984, I was in Pittsburgh for the rehearsals and world premiére performances of the Concerto for Viola & Orchestra by Miklos Rozsa. Dr. Rozsa's music can even today be heard frequently on the soundtracks of the now-classic films he scored, but live, recital-and-concert-hall performances of his music composed for those venues were and still are special events by reason of their relative rarity. On one of those evenings, my Pennsylvania hosts invited a group of us to their home in Lebanon, a Pittsburgh suburb. Many of us had come from various points around the country to their city especially for the concerto performances. The hostess had set up a long buffet table in the dining room on which lay a tantalizing array of hot & cold dishes. Visitors all helped themselves and took their plates, napkins, etc., into the living room where there was seating for all. I'm not a celery and raw carrots man so I opted for the (mostly hot) dishes that took my fancy. At the very end of the table lay the last hot dish, a tray with things that appeared to be long mozzarella sticks in a lighter-than-usual batter. I asked the hostess what they were. "Those are called Chicken Planks around here," she replied to someone who was clearly a non-Pittsburgher. I put one on my plate, and went into the living room to join the others.

I soon concluded that that Chicken Plank was the best hot item of any that I had chosen - and I felt it would be fitting and proper to so inform my hostess. "Ruth, these Chicken Planks are my favorites among anything else you've made here!" I told her. Her husband, Alan, then informed me as follows: "That's the only thing here that came from Long John Silver's, a fast-food restaurant popular here in Pittsburgh."

Though the mistake I had made was the most honest kind, the feeling of chagrin I felt was indescribable. I'd have crawled into the smallest hole nearby, had one been available. I've since learned to be if not perfect then certainly more careful. I've also learned that we should be as careful with our compliments as we are of our insults, because there may be more to a situation - or to other people - than just what meets the eye.

Any Volunteers?

Some years ago a close friend of mine offered his services as a part-time volunteer at the studios and offices of a then-popular radio station here in NY. Working as a volunteer may not be problematic for some - maybe they're lucky in that respect - but for my friend it was rather different. After a brief time he decided he had had enough: by the paid employees, without exception, the volunteers were treated, spoken to, and in virtually every way regarded as though they were veritable garbage, with no consideration of human dignity playing even a tertiary role. Some of the volunteers actually considered themselves lucky, because of the "prestige," to be even thusly associated with that radio station. I thought the radio station was lucky to still have them as volunteers. What my friend decided echoed the sentiments of Brahms himself a century earlier (and I discovered this quote only later on): "I see no reason why I should subject myself to such discomfort" - a practical view, almost ingenious in its simplicity and logic, that has guided me, and guided me well, in many circumstances. Since they're carefully considered, my reasons satisfy me, though certain types of people seem actually disturbed by my position on this.

Some time before my early retirement I applied for a position at the main branch of the New York Public Library at 42nd Street & Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, where in warm weather people are wont to sit on the street-level steps with patience and prudence, "reading between the lions." I heard nothing for several months. I happened to mention the silence to someone at an employment agency (another topic about which "somebody" should really write an extensive exposé-type article. . .). The agency man said to me, "The best way to get your application to the top of their list is to volunteer at the Library. . ." - this, after I had already specified my need, at that time, of a salaried post. My question, "Who's going to volunteer to pay my current bills??" actually surprised him and preceded my thanks for his time, and I left the premises, never to return. I shudder to think of what kind of position that man might have sought for me. Thankfully, my need to be involved in that kind of nonsense - or in any kind of corporate nonsense - is, fortunately for me, now history.

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Author's Bio

Jeffrey Dane's writing appears in print and online publications in the USA and abroad in several languages. That his work pleases some but not others is something he recognizes and freely acknowledges; however, he will continue researching and writing about music history - and anything else that interests him - in spite of the objections a few others may have. An eccentric preference of his is to deal with sensible and prudent people. Like most, he tends to respond in kind to the treatment he receives, and his experiences have shown him that the personal approaches others take in their dealings with strangers can pre-determine the very outcome of a situation. He's perceived by some as being overly confrontational and thusly a real idealist, and by others as being insufficiently engaged and thusly an ideal realist. Both views have merit.

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