THE NATURE OF THE AUDIENCE

The primary questions an artist must pose at the outset are these: What do I seek to invoke through my public
presence, and what do I demand of my audience?

The most essential of all questions, however, should be: What standard do I demand of music and of myself, within the realm of my own consciousness—ultimately, my own assessment of the interplay between nature and the deeds of man on earth?

How do I distinguish between the Good and the Confused!

It has always been the wise and the clever who recognized that the taste of the masses is no measure of quality.

There is a reason, or perhaps several reasons, why popular music is popular and appeals to a broad audience.

German Schlager music likewise finds a resounding response. The assessment of the backgrounds of these
facts—namely the individual’s acceptance or rejection concerning entertainment music or art music—rests with the reader of this text.

A passage from the biography of Bach, published by Johann Nikolaus Forkel in 1802, shall provide an impetus for reflection:

“A second rock upon which genius often comes to grief is the public’s undiscriminating applause. To be sure, I do not undervalue public approval or commend without reserve the remark of a Greek teacher to his pupil,

“You performed badly, otherwise the audience would not have applauded you.”

Yet it is none the less true that many artists are thrown off their balance by exaggerated and often unmerited plaudits, particularly in their early careers before they have acquired self-discipline and sound judgment.

The public merely asks for what it can understand, whereas the true artist ought to aim at an achievement which cannot be measured by popular standards.

How, then, can popular applause be reconciled with the true artist’s aspirations towards the ideal? Bach never sought applause, and held with Schiller:

Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk, Mach’ es wenigen recht; vielen gefallen ist schlimm. (If you cannot please everyone through your actions and your art, satisfy the few; pleasing the many is bad).

Like every true artist, Bach worked to please himself in his own way, obeying the summons of his own genius,choosing his own subjects, and finding satisfaction only in the approval of his own judgment.

He could count on the applause of all who understood good music, and never failed to receive it. Under what other conditions can sound works of art emerge?

The composer who debases his muse to the popular mood either lacks real genius or, having it, abuses it. For to catch the ear of the public is not a difficult task and merely connotes an agreeable facility. Composers of that class are like artisans who frankly fashion their goods to suit their market.

But Bach never condescended to such artifices. The artist, in his judgment, is the dictator of public taste, not its slave. If, as often happened, he was asked to write something simple for the Clavier he would answer, “I will do what I can.”

He would choose an easy theme. But when he began to develop it he always found so much to say that the piecec soon became anything but simple.

If his attention was drawn to the fact, he would answer smilingly,

“Practise it well and you will find it quite easy. You have as many good fingers on each hand as I have.”

Nor was he prompted in this by mere contradictoriness, but exhibited the true artist spirit.”

Another clue to assessing the true nature of the audience is provided by Carl Maria von Weber, who served as the opera director at the Estates Theater in Prague from 1813 to 1816 and staged Beethoven’s opera Fidelio.

Regarding the stage history of Fidelio, the following has been written:

“Fidelio now made its way across the stages. In Prague, C. M. von Weber gave a well-rehearsed performance of the opera on November 26, 1814, but the audience almost flunked it.

Weber wrote: ‘I gave Fidelio, which went excellently. There are truly great things in the music, but—they don’t understand it. One would like to become the devil. Punch and Judy, that’s the real thing for them.'”

Is attendance at a classical concert or the opera thus undertaken almost exclusively as an occasion for pastime, and for reasons of social recognition and a sense of belonging—comparable to attending a football stadium?

Is the word ‘concert’ merely another term for ‘circus’? Does the majority of professional musicians regard music itself only as a platform for self-aggrandizement?

We wish to spare you time and answer these questions with a laconic ‘yes.’

This is the subjective observation of Emanuel Melchior. For several decades, his parents derived their livelihood from public performances in the field of so-called ‘classical music’—a term which, it should be noted, actually describes a specific era and ought not to serve as a generic label for several centuries.

The term is frequently used in a generalizing manner, which in itself speaks volumes about the current zeitgeist and the prevailing indifference toward terminological accuracy.

The affirmation of the aforementioned questions shall be substantiated by the statements of the following
preeminent figures:

Frédéric Chopin remarked to Liszt: “I am not fit to give concerts; the public intimidates me, I feel asphyxiated by its breath, paralyzed by its curious glances, and I stay mute before those unknown faces.”

The following statements can be attributed to Glenn Gould: “To me, the ideal artist-to-audience relationship is a one-to-zero relationship. The artist should be granted anonymity.” “I’m fascinated by what happens to the creative achievement when one isolates oneself from the approval or disapproval of the people around one.”

Another frequently cited, more pointed remark by Gould reads:

“I detest audiences; not in their individual components, but en masse I detest audiences. I think they are a force of evil, morally speaking.”

“A spectator in an arena, watching a musical performance as if it were an athletic feat, exposes himself to no danger; yet he derives a sadistic pleasure from observing what occurs on stage. To me, there is something cruel, savage, and idiotic about it. This is precisely what compels savages, like those in Latin America, to attend bullfights. However, this has nothing to do with what is actually taking place: the performer’s attempt to achieve a powerful identification with the music being played. It is not a match; it is a love story. During a concert, something of extraordinary beauty can emerge. In such moments, I would prefer to have 20,000 people in the hall rather than just 2,000—but such moments are rare. I love the recording. When something magnificent happens, you know it remains. If it does not, you are given another chance to reach the ideal.”

Emanuel Melchior insists that his agreement with these views be recorded here emphatically and from the bottom of his heart.

He holds the following convictions:

“There is nothing worse in the realm of art than a crowd of people who use music as mere entertainment and do not listen to it in honor of God—or at least fail to think, feel, and act with humility.”

“I prefer to play for myself or for animals, because animals have no unhealthy need for recognition and do not judge, whether negatively or positively. They are a far more pleasant audience than humans.

The minds of animals may be less reflective, but they are particularly pure and full of reason. As long as the search for heralds of the good remains in vain, animals shall be my preferred auditorium. Every human being can learn everything from an animal.”

We are not concerned with whether the audience is ‘musical’ or not; it is solely about the fundamental attitude of the individual and the inseparable importance of auditory experiences: the interpretation of what is heard in terms of morally motivated classification and, ultimately, the willingness to surrender to joy with humility!

“Tomorrow, then, let Right be sure To find its friends in mood benign, If only for today the Unpure Full place and favor can assign.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

With reference to a humble mindset—ideally, this should be the norm for everyone—a conclusion can also be drawn from Schopenhauer’s dissertation On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason regarding our present case, namely, music and the manifest lack of discernment exhibited by contemporary society:

“But do you gentlemen know what is happening?          A long-prophesied epoch has arrived: the church is faltering, faltering so badly that one wonders whether it will ever regain its center of gravity, for faith has been lost.

For the light of revelation is like other lights: a certain amount of darkness is a prerequisite. The number of those whom a certain degree and scope of knowledge renders incapable of faith has grown alarmingly large.

This is evidenced by the general spread of a shallow rationalism, which is increasingly asserting itself.        The profound mysteries of Christianity, which have been pondered and debated for centuries, it calmly sets out to measure with its tailor’s yardstick, thinking itself wonderfully clever in doing so.

Above all, the core Christian dogma, the doctrine of original sin, has become a laughingstock among rationalist flatheads, because nothing seems clearer and more certain to them than that everyone’s existence began with their birth, and therefore it is impossible that they could have come into the world through their own fault.

How astute! And how, when impoverishment and neglect prevail, the wolves begin to show themselves in the village; under these circumstances, materialism, which is always ready, raises its head and approaches, hand in hand with its companion, bestialism (termed ‘humanism’ by certain people).

With the inability to believe, the need for knowledge grows.” “There is a boiling point on the scale of culture where all faith, all revelation, and all authorities evaporate; man demands to be taught according to his own understanding and seeks to be convinced.

The reins of childhood have fallen away: he intends to stand on his own two feet. Yet, his metaphysical need (The World as Will and Representation, Vol. 2, Chap. 17) remains as indestructible as any physical one. At this stage, the desire for philosophy becomes earnest, and needy humanity calls upon all the thinking minds it has ever produced from its bosom.

Hollow rhetoric and the impotent efforts of intellectual eunuchs are no longer sufficient; what is required is a sincere philosophy—one based on truth rather than intent and fees—which, therefore, does not ask whether it pleases ministers or councilors, or this or that ecclesiastical faction of the time.

Instead, it reveals that the vocation of philosophy is quite different from providing a source of income for the poor in spirit.”                                                                                                                                        The greatest composers were aware of the essential core of humility in its various manifested forms and lived accordingly with profound devotion, setting their notes in consonance with this spirit.

The so-called ‘word-painting’ is likewise to be mentioned here, though it shall be described in greater detail elsewhere. Music of the most exuberant refinement and the clearest, most honorable expression is always brought forth through some form of humility.

Praise, in the form of music, can thus be perceived as a nexus between one’s own contemplative attitude—inherently consisting of gratitude, reverence, and insight—and the effect of this attitude upon the recipient, as well as being perceived per se.

“The quintessence is the adoration of the musical essence, acting out of itself, and its inseparable message and free destiny. The difference between a person of the 21st century and their ancestors – especially those until 1900 at the latest – is primarily to be recognized in the degree of inclination to appear as an opportunist of that falsely extolled progress, declared a natural law.  The human of former times possessed an inkling of inner rectitude concerning praise; however, the human living today has abruptly lost that inkling. The difference is unfortunately more profound than that between motet and madrigal, which brings with it a sense of hopelessness.”              Emanuel Melchior

Joseph Haydn’s work The Ten Holy Commandments serves as an ideal example of this type of upright music.

“Thou shalt believe in one God” is the first of the ten canons and leaves no doubt regarding its humility.      His 1767 Stabat Mater is also among Haydn’s most significant sacred works and marked his international breakthrough as a composer of spiritual music.

The motets, cantatas, psalms, hymns, Magnificats, masses, passions, and oratorios of Bach, Handel, and Telemann are likewise noteworthy exemplifications of sounds brought forth in humility.

Strictly speaking, music history from the emergence of Gregorian chant in the eighth century until the beginning of the Ars Nova in the fourteenth century was shaped exclusively by sacred music; within this tradition, the first four-part composition of 1198 is credited to the highly revered Pérotin and is to be regarded today—together with the compositions of other masters such as Bach, Handel, Telemann, Byrd, Dunstable, and Haydn, to name but a few—as the acme of all music since its inception and for all time.

It should be noted that humble thinking does not depend on established religions or preconceived
images.

It is no coincidence that “mindful music” —as I am inclined to call it—(that is, music up to 1750 with occasional offshoots into the late 18th century) coincides chronologically—at least from 1720 to 1800—with the Enlightenment, the Age of Reason.

Thus, the reader of this text should form his own thoughts and consider Immanuel Kant’s motto, which originally stems from the Roman poet Horace (ca. 20 BC): “Sapere aude!”

As stated in the Abhandlung der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig – Aug’ um Ohr: Goethes Zugang zur Musik: “Goethe’s concern, then, is with the veritable, the ‘hearkening’ to music.

He is well aware that music is divested of its profoundest inherent faculty when it employs, as it were, unauthentic means to achieve its effect: ‘He [the musician, the author] is not to flatter the sense of the eye. The eye all too easily advantages itself over the ear and lures the spirit from within to without.’”

In Johann Gottfried Herder’s Cäcilia, this is made clearly discernible. Thus, in the treatise published in 1793, he draws a significantly clear line between “sacred music,” that is, church music, and “dramatic music,” that of the theater, the latter of which (as a form in which “the poet or artist speaks in order to show himself”) is “insufferable to pure feeling” and is from church music “almost as distinct as ear and eye.”

For Goethe’s friend Herder, “the worthiest and most reliable among all friends of music,” hearing is an “inner faculty, not a physical sense,” in order to comprehend the phenomenology of tone—in Herderian language schooled in Leibniz, the “musical monadology.”

The German philosopher and writer Johann Georg Hamann finds the following honorable and lovely words: he prefers the “labyrinth of passions and of hearing” to the “magic lantern of the eye.”

Finally, in Johann Mattheson’s Der vollkommene Capellmeister (The Perfect Chapelmaster), it is written: “… sight, smell, taste, and touch serve the body; but the sole sense of hearing is determined and reserved for our soul and our morals.”