“Music makes herself beautiful and charming for those who love and respect her; she has nothing but scorn and contempt for those who sell her.” Only one of the many quotable observations in Hector Berlioz’s “Evenings with the Orchestra.”
I’ve been reluctant to try to encapsulate this book, which I finished weeks ago, in preparation for this year’s Bard Music Festival. “Hector Berlioz and His World” will begin on Friday at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, NY. (For more information, see the link below.)
Oscar Wilde’s Lord Henry memorably observed, “To define is to limit,” and there is something about this book – like Berlioz himself – that defies limitation. It’s every bit as much of a chimera as the composer’s most ambitious music. Satire, autobiography, music criticism, sociology, aesthetic philosophy, slapstick comedy, parable, historical romance, science fiction, and grand guignol form a curious menagerie, startling as the wonders of Dr. Lao’s circus parade.
The tales and framing device provide glimpses into the composer’s life, his encounters with musicians great and poor, his intense love affairs raising him on wings to heaven, only to dash him in the other place, his observations on a beleaguered art in a hopelessly flawed and vulgar world, and his impressions of what he perceives as our very greatest and worst music.
At times, these take on a fantastical element. The composer projects his criticisms of the current state of the art, circa 1850, five hundred years into the future, to an authoritarian, Gluck-worshipping society, complete with air ships like something out of Edgar Rice Burroughs. I kept expecting Raymond Massey to show up in his massive “Things to Come” helmet. In one of the interludes, things turn unexpectedly gruesome, rivaling the most horrifying episode in Edgar Allan Poe. In another, we learn of composer William Vincent Wallace’s erotic adventures among the cannibals of New Zealand.
We are introduced to the microcosm of the opera house, with its vainglorious tenors, who treat music scores like so many hangers on which to display their gaudy clothes; impresarios who know little about, and care nothing for, the integrity of the works they present; and the routine rough handling, arbitrary cuts, and clumsy alterations to which even the greatest operas are routinely subjected.
Furthermore, Berlioz seldom allows an opportunity to pass with which he can use to illustrate what a bunch of idiots the wider public are. Yes, even back then.
The overarching conceit has the narrator (Berlioz or an alter ego) visit the pit of a foreign opera house, where most of the musicians are shown to quickly lose interest in whatever jejune trifle they’re given to perform, dismiss whatever imbecilities transpire onstage, and pass the time gossiping and exchanging the anecdotes and stories that become the bases of the various chapters of the book.
There are notable exceptions. Whenever the works of Gluck or Weber find their way onto the music stands, they play as if they are handing down Holy Scripture.
A recurring target is the overzealous bass drummer. Berlioz makes no secret of his disgust with the vulgarity of most Italian opera, especially Rossini; but he is no easier on the French, at one point offering an ostensible – albeit extensive – review of a new opera by Adolphe Adam that, beyond a few sentences at the end, is really mostly an account of Berlioz’s weekend in the country. This review originally appeared in a Paris newspaper. As you can imagine, there was no love lost between the two composers.
We also learn about the political maneuverings of the claques, factions paid off by impresarios and singers to applaud and cheer, with the aim of bolstering the reputations of performers and the successes of new productions.
Also, about “tacks,” when conductors take to rapping their batons on nearby objects to attract the attention of musicians. According to Berlioz, or the narrator, in one case, the maddening repetition of the act against a resonant box at the foot of the stage, night after night, drove the prompter who worked inside finally to commit suicide.
Episodes like these excite with their lurid interest. However, they are interleaved with panegyrics to Berlioz’s favored musicians (Spontini, Gluck, Weber, Paganini), and some of these, I have to admit, can go on for quite some time. They provide their own sort of interest, but after a while, they can get to be a little challenging for a reader burning the midnight oil. When Berlioz warms to a subject, he can waffle on about it for a good 30 pages. For great stretches, he can be amusing, occasionally even laugh-out-loud funny, but I must say, for me personally, “Evenings with the Orchestra” is not bedtime reading. I made much surer progress when I picked it up during the day. If you want a good Berlioz bedtime book, stick with the “Memoirs.” Its shorter chapters lend it a brisker pace.
Whatever the composer writes, it is invariably full of personality. This book, more than most, really conveys quite vividly that nothing in human nature ever really changes – even without the author projecting 500 years in the future. I can totally relate to the types and personalities involved, and the composer’s frustrations, but also, thankfully, his sense of the ridiculous.
I conclude by reminding you that the Bard Music Festival, “Berlioz and His World,” will take place at Bard College from August 9-18. You’ll find a complete schedule of concerts and more information at the link.
https://fishercenter.bard.edu/whats-on/programs/bard-music-festival/
Fisher Center at Bard
