THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

Evening Star, Issue 20374, 4 January 1930, Page 4

THOUGHTS ABOUT MUSIC

[Written by “ L.D.A.,” for the ‘Evening Star.’] “Music gives tone to the .universe: wings to Hie wind: flight to the imagiiuation: a charm to sadness: gaiety and life to everything.”—Plato; Musicians, like other folk, vary in their ideas as to what Constitutes the ideal holiday Some sharo the belief of Josopti Chamberlain, who used to declare Hiat the best form of recreation is a compete change of occupation; others pin their faith to alteration of environment, coupled with a spell ot entire idleness, as the most effective antidote to the results of overwork. Just now, unfortunately, many professional musicians are haying a holiday thrust upon them, whether they like it or not, and are experiencing a very lean time indeed. As regards complete change of occupation-some of them have had no option. I am informed, on the most reliable authority, that one of Dunedin’s leading violinists was recently seen serving out beer in an hotel bar; whilst one of the finest drummers in the country has been reduced to such straits as to have taken ou a chef’s job in another hostelry—cook’s straits, in fact, as it was whimsically described to me. »‘« * * This makes very sad reading at any time, but more especially just m.y, wnen everyone who has the means is endeavouring to get away to or from tho sea, as the case may be. What is known as tho ’busman’s holiday appeals to quite a few. This is best described as the ruling passion strong in life, and consists of watching, or listening to other people performing one’s .own paiticular job, more or less satisfactorily than oneself—chiefly less, of course; though I must say I have found musicians, as a class, always ready to give praise where it is due. They are not less human than other mortals, and perhaps are more prone to gossiping and backbiting than the majority of their fellow-men, but, as I have remarked on a previous occasion, ’twere oaAer for a musical “ dud ” to pass through the eye of a camel—mixing the metaphor somewhat—than to deceive his confrerqs as to his real ability. Briefly put, musicians are the best judges of other musicians, and—as far s mv experience goes—they are usually fair and impartial in their criticisms. I can speak feelingly on this point becau a certain violinist, who —for some reas.m I have never beer able to fathom —persistently showed himself my avowed enemy and never lost an opportunity of doing me an illturn wlu he could-get away with it : this fiddler, I say, has never received from me aught but praise for his musical attainments, despite the fact that there, have been occasions when I could have damned him with a word.

In mentioning this I am not desirous of holding myself up as a model of self-restraint, but it is typical of tho attitude adopted by most musicians towards one another; personal considerations are not weighed in the balance against real talent—that is, of_ course, among musicians of any standing, the higher you go, the more tolerant you find them. Nevertheless, these same harmonious folk will not hesitate to tear private characters to pieces should the least opportunity present itself, and it is regrettable to have to record that some reputations do deserve all the castigation they receive. For, it cannot he denied, some musical dispositions present an anomaly which defies explanation. One would naturally suppose that a life-long association with such a beautiful subject as music would inevitably exert an uplifting tendency; in other words, the more talented the musician, the more spiritual should be his 01 her character, whereas, in actual fact, the exact opposite is often the case. I could name at least half-a-dozen performers of the front rank whose private characters would not stand the least investigation; it would almost seem as if the possession of abnormal talent induced a correspondingly largo deficiency in another portion’ of the brain. The eccentricity of genius sometimes takes the shape of very painful aberrations which show conclusively that one of the \penalties of greatness in a particular direction is a conspicuous lack of self-control.

Artistic persons are naturally extremely sensitive to outside impressions; what is known as the artistic temperament has been the butt of many a jest, but to possess it is no joke to tho owner; _it makes him a prey to temptations which pass harmlessly by the matter-of-fact, ordinary man, who—if he only knew it —is a creature ; to be envied. The everyday, prosaic individual who never gets anywhere is particular has a much happier time of it than the moody, mercurial musician whose days are passed alternately in emotional fits of ecstasy or deep despair. No wonder so many of them become to various forms of excess—chiefly victims of alcohol. The exhausted nerves cry out for some immediate stimulant, with results usually disastrous, but, in some cases, decidedly curious. For instance, there is a typo of musician—fortunately not often met with—who seems at his best after a certain number of drinks; a regular proportion of alcohol is requisite before he can give an adequate performance; either oyer or under indulgence is equally ineffective. This pecularity is not, of course, confined to musicians only; it has been known to exist amongst journalists, and there is the, historical case of poor Sydney Carton in ‘ A Tale of Two Cities.’

All this moralising has arisen from my opening remarks about the diversity of holiday making; for I once elected to take a vacation by joining the orchestra of a travelling theatrical company. It was many moons ago, in the year 1913; to be exact; and it was also about this present time of year—with a difference, though, because the season 1912-13 was a really respectable summer, whereas this we are now experiencing is—well, what is it? In the last few days of 1912 I replied to an advertisement for a theatrical pianist, which resulted in a tour of this country that—except for one fly in the ointment, of which more anon—was a sheer delight from beginning to end. The weather never failed us; as far as I can remember there was not a single wet day during all our wanderings, which extended from Auckland to Invercargill; in fact, I wore a black alpaca jacket the whole time and never had occasion to don anything heavier in the nature of overcoating. What is more, there was actually no wind to speak of—not even in Wellington—day after day of perfect cloudless sky and naught but the dust in the railway carriages to mar our complete content.

Tin's tour was a remarkable one in certain respects. It was conducted by J. C. Williamson to star two eminent American actors—Fred Niblo and Cor-

son Clarke—and, primarily, of course, these artists should have constituted the main attraction. What actually, happened was this: The orchestra which they carried round with them was so exceptionally good, and the conductor, who was also the violinist, drew from the audiences so much applause and enthusiasm, that the chief actor felt compelled to request the management to supply him with a less attractive .musical director—in his own words “that guy’s the whole;show, I’m only an ‘ also ran I’ ” Thus runs the story, and I have not much doubt of its truth, because night after night, in almost every town we visited, the same thing occurred; the orchestra played an overture, which was invariably c'l cored ; then, as an entr’acte, our friend the condc ■■tor-fiddler would give a violin solo—something everyone knew, such as Mascagni’s Intermezzo, or Raff’s * Cavatina,’ but—well, the way he played them made the compositions quite new, he revealed them in an entirely different light. The audiences were enraptured and showed their approval by tumultuous applause and insistent demands for encores—what time the star actor, drawing £llO per week, fretted and fumed behind the curtain, giving vent to the remarks mentioned above.

This state of affairs continued week after week so long as we were within hail of the hotel district; but when we reached Oamaru a eudden change came o’er the scene. By some mischance or oversight our brilliant violinist had failed to provide against the inhospitality of a uo-license area ; alas! bis flagons were empty and his flasks bone dry, with the consequence that the good people of Oamaru were not treated to any Paganini-—like display. On the contrary, what they saw was a shaky and haggard figure, barely able to stand up and hold his violin, the while he sawed out a tremulous offering that sounded like a beginner on a steel* guitar. I could never have believed the absence of alcoholic stimulant could have effected such a transformation had I not witnessed it myself. After that performance I became convinced that the question of Prohibition is a much more complex one than is generally believed.(To lie continued.)