On my first morning back in NYC, I had a long-awaited dentist appointment. At 8, I walked into the bare bleak waiting room; I sat for a moment looking at the scuffed floor, at sad magazines; a serious 30-ish woman whisked me into a chair, bibbed me, X-rayed me, scraped me, made me lay back and say aahhhh, caused me to gag several times, and at 8:30 AM told me I was fine and to come back in 6 months. I had not been in a dentist’s chair in a wrongly long time, and as I walked by Barney Greengrass on my way home a sturgeon, with dead eyes askew and empty in the window, seemed to warn me not to gloat. How could I repay my teeth? I passed my tongue over them; they were proudly arrayed in my mouth, smug and demanding compensation.
Apparently, as I have been reading over at Soho the Dog, a group of scientists (!) have told a bunch of people to try to be happy and then put Le Sacre du Printemps on the stereo. Then they asked them how happy they felt while listening, and published the results in an academic paper. (Perhaps this last part is the bit that pisses me off the most.) I have to say my considered, scientific reaction to this is: Are you KIDDING me???? For me, the money quote comes when the scientists (?) explain how they came to select Stravinsky’s masterwork. They deduced it was a good, interesting choice because it was “hedonically ambiguous.” Bitter inner laugh. Yes, I suppose you could say that: when the virgin gets sacrificed at the end of a savage, ever more violent, and yet fertility-oriented ritual, that is somewhat hedonically ambiguous. Hello? Clue phone’s ringing, is anyone answering?
Soho, aka Matthew Guerrieri, usually eminently reasonable, seems to suggest that this study means that we shouldn’t do pre-concert talks. Respectfully, I must admit I am missing some of his deductive links. In not one of my preconcert talks have I ever told my audience to be happy, or to have any particular emotion at all; merely, mainly, to notice things; to lubricate the attentive faculties. I’m sure this annoys some audience members sometimes too.
I think the scientific (?) experiment means the obvious: you should never ask people how happy they are. It’s a very irritating question. My happiness goes down considerably when people ask me, and takes a while to recover. (I send my happiness off to a resort in the Bahamas.) The question is often asked disingenuously, as in “of course you’re not happy because you’re work-obsessed and aren’t in touch with yourself, but I’m going to ask it already knowing the answer, because I want to help you figure that out, to take you down the enlightened path that I occupy.” When you blurt through your forced grin, “yes, I’m happy,” people look at you with searing pity, like it’s so sad you can’t admit that you’re not. Then you want to do violent things to them, which most people would agree is not a happy-go-lucky state of mind.
After my dental appointment, and several cups of coffee, a long day of practicing ensued. Was I happy while I was practicing? Well, I didn’t ask myself. I remember lingering for a while on this moment:
Regular readers of Think Denk may remember that, in place of happiness, I propose the philosophy of the “hap”—a unit of experience. This Mozart theme is crammed with beautiful haps (it is hap-dense). I remember thinking a lot about which of these, which little nooks and crannies in the chromatic descent, are the most wonderful, which were the ones that could be enjoyed without slowing or destroying or distorting the whole, the ones that could somehow feel timeless while being swept up in the current of the piece’s time. I also remember dwelling on this thing:
…. yes the little beautiful bird of a melody which flies into the development unannounced and soars around, then vanishes, only to come back again at the end of the recapitulation … perhaps the generative, magical “hap” in that passage lies in the very first two notes. There is the melody note, a G-sharp, which is prosaically part of E major; but then the underlying harmony shifts to the subdominant, making the G-sharp suddenly a wonderfully dissonant seventh, a sensual, possibility-laden thing. And indeed that dissonance as a jumping off point becomes the occasion for any number of leaps and dialogues wandering from right to left hand, from treble to bass (a series of interlocking joys), all wrapping itself up perfectly into the sentence known in music as the phrase, the delimiting frame, the little package which makes it possible to absorb the beauties within and not to get utterly lost in them.
But then, at 7 PM, post-mortem-ish, delirious, sitting in the train, on my way to a friend’s birthday party, lost in my thoughts, I realized that while part of my brain was feverishly caressing Mozartean nuances, unable to let go, another considerable portion of my brain was replaying certain moments at around 8:12 AM; I was reminiscing automatically on the scrape of metal tools on the borders of my gums. For a moment, as the subway whizzed, I was looking around a room from a prostrate position, a paying prisoner, trying desperately to keep my mouth open (while instincts screamed protect yourself! flee!); nonetheless I remembered this prostration with some sort of pleasure, some happy misery. Lovable haps were crammed in this memory, even down to the chalky fluoride, the 70s wood grain of the fixtures, the concise bzz of the X-ray machine … I wasn’t at all sure I wasn’t remembering this moment with more love than Mozart had forcibly wrung from me all afternoon. I passionately mused over my early dentistry and made a melody out of its suffering.
A man across the car from me was visibly absorbed in a book. I couldn’t quite make out the title, though the cover seemed to be in an interesting design, and the man—how should I quantify this?—seemed so happy reading it. I admired him. He was vaguely smiling, and was not at all distracted when a group of three men entered the subway car and began to sing gospel, very loudly. They exhorted us, all of us in the car, to be happy. “Smile,” they said, “it won’t mess up your hair!” I could feel myself fighting dark urges. Other people on the train felt the same way. The singers held out their cup to me as they passed and I looked at it scornfully, despite my better self, which looked on with rolled eyes, thinking grow up, Jeremy. It’s not their fault they’re happy, I thought, but no smile leaked from the faucet of my face.
59th Street. The happy reader was getting off! As he exited, I managed to glimpse the cover of his volume: it read, neatly printed, THE POCKET GUIDE TO UROLOGY.
Another passenger came and sat in his place. I had but one more stop to go and my eyes briefly rested on this new arrival. Hmm. There was something familiar about her. I couldn’t quite place it. It was only when the train began to creak and groan, and make preparations to exhale me … only then I realized that despite absence of mask and glove and other gear, this was my dentist. She was stoic. I tried to look at her, get some eye contact, to send mental vibes saying “you made me happy with your fluoride procedures, somehow,” or “I was just thinking about you!” but she read none of my vibes and looked nowhere and everywhere, her eyes evasive and yet still, like the sturgeon in Barney Greengrass. How many mouths had she reached into since mine, while I had sonically manipulated my 88 black-and-white teeth?
Her reappearance unnerved me. I felt dazed by unmeasurable correspondences; I felt framed. As I strode down 51st Street to my destination, I had only one sure conviction. If a scientist comes up to you and asks you to measure your happiness, on a scale from 1 to 10 or A to Z, or whatever, I give you permission to use as many expletives as possible (to employ cuss-dense, hedonically ambiguous formulations, if you will). This may do wonders for your personal happiness; it will be a hap to cherish.
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Well, I have to admit, I’ve heard so many god-awful pre- and DURING-concert talks this season that a complete moratorium wouldn’t upset me. I’ve had to sit through a choir director reading program notes out loud at length longer than the actual amount of music on the concert; more than one emasculating attempt to make an avant-garde program friendly and reasonable when the entire impact of the music depended on disorientation and surprise; and worst of all, a performance of a Claude Vivier piece where the pre-concert lecturer pointlessly and gratuitously brought up the sordid circumstances of Vivier’s death, after which the performer who introduced the piece during the concert felt the need to also mention the same said sordid circumstances. You, Jeremy, I would pay to hear talk about music, but you should know just how exceptional you are at this sort of thing.
The take-away I got from the mentioned research was a) people don’t have a clue what would actually make them happy, although they might think they do, and b) what will actually make them happy is usually something that they’re not making an effort to find. (Both conclusions are supported by other research; I just liked this study because they were playing Stravinsky for people.) I actually think the most useful pattern would be post-concert talks, not pre-concert: give the listener a chance to have the joy of the music hit them in an unexpected way, then, if their curiosity is piqued enough to want to know more, they can stick around and delve into the details.
But seriously, if you ever get tired of tickling the ivories, you could do the art form additional service by teaching other performers how to use words as well as you do. I save most of the programs from concerts I’ve been to, and at more than one, as I look through them, I was moved to write “STOP TALKING” and put a box around it and underline it repeatedly and to the point where the pen breaks through the paper. It’s not as easy as it seems, people.
What a pleasure to have the experience of hearing a Mozart piano concerto vividly in my mind’s ear while at the same time visiting a subway car in NYC and considering the shallowness of a scientific study of musical enjoyment. You are truly a remarkable writer; I can’t wait to hear you perform.
This post just made my Tuesday morning.
As far as pre-concert talks, I’ve only had limited experience with pre-opera talks here in Austin. My father likes attending them, even though the woman who does them has such a patronizing tone as to be off-putting. I’m sure if she could force people to get in the correct mood (happy for opera buffa), she would. I just try to zone out during the talks of hers I’ve attended; I’ve even took a book to read during the pre-“Barber of Seville” talk I attended a few months ago.
There’s no happiness going to the dentist even if only seen by hygienist for prophylaxis treatment. The anxiety alone of the grinding metal drill is exhausting. I wonder what made the subway passenger smile reading about Urology unless it’s a humorous book guide to assess the bladder and urethra.
I went to your last concert in NY and w/out the pre and post concert lecture, I was so happy that I came and witnessed a rare spectacular Jeremy performance. I was smiling and humming the Gershwin Rhapsody all the way home.It was a perfect evening. Now I could wish it was taped for future public radio listening so the happiness will be shared to all the listeners.
There’s no happiness going to the dentist even if only seen by hygienist for prophylaxis treatment. The anxiety alone of the grinding metal drill is exhausting. I wonder what made the subway passenger smile reading about Urology unless it’s a humorous book guide to assess the bladder and urethra.Going to a urology exam is not a happy moment either.
I went to your last concert in NY and even w/ the absence of a pre-concert talks on Gershwin’s Rhapsody, I was so happy that I came and witnessed a rare spectacular Jeremy performance. I was definitely smiling through my ears and humming all the way home. It was a perfect evening. Now I could wish it was taped for future public consumption so the happiness will be spread.
There’s no happiness going to the dentist even if only seen by hygienist for prophylaxis treatment. The anxiety alone of the grinding metal drill is exhausting. I wonder what made the subway passenger smile reading about Urology unless it’s a humorous book guide on bladder irrigations and kidney stones. Going to a urology exam is not a happy moment either.
I went to your last concert in NY and even w/ the absence of a pre-concert talks on Gershwin’s Rhapsody, didn’t care. I was so happy that I came and witnessed a rare spectacular Jeremy performance. I was definitely smiling through my ears and humming all the way home. It was a perfect evening. Now I could wish it was taped for future public consumption so the happiness will be spread.
I want more of that nostalgic blues happened that night.
There’s no happiness going to the dentist even if only seen by hygienist for prophylaxis treatment. The anxiety alone of the grinding metal drill is exhausting. I wonder what made the subway passenger smile reading about Urology unless it’s a humorous book guide on bladder irrigations and kidney stones. Going to a urology exam is not a happy moment either.
I went to your last concert in NY and even w/ the absence of a pre-concert talk on Gershwin’s Rhapsody, didn’t care. I was so happy that I came and witnessed a rare spectacular Jeremy performance. I was definitely smiling through my ears and humming all the way home. It was a perfect evening. Now I could wish it was taped for future public consumption so the happiness will be spread.
I want more of that nostalgic blues you gave that night.
Yes, a humorous book guide to bladder irrigations and kidney stones.
I was indeed happy after your performance. I want more of that nostalgic blues you gave that night.
I found your remarks at last year’s Seattle Chamber Music festival to be a great help in understanding and enjoying the odd piece you played.
A piece I may never hear again.
My dictionary defines “hap” as “fortunate”
Now all we have to do is straighten out “hip” and “hep”
csikszentmihalyi. Google it. I’d love to read your thoughts.
It’s such a pleasure to read about your thought processes as you practice, then hear the finished product. Your Mozart last Sunday was a delight, particularly the third movement. Keep contemplating, dwelling, lingering…whatever it is you do that creates this magic.
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[…] concerts, and that thus maybe pre-concert lectures are a bad idea. I won’t try to outdo Mr. Denk’s response, as it is far more eloquent than whatever I came up with on my own and makes the essential point […]