There's a joke, repeated with endless variations, that has as the punchline: "I don't need to run faster than the bear. I just need to run faster than you." It came back to me recently as a humorous way to express a perfectly valid philosophy.
My friend and drummer Mariano hosted a little party at a bar, and at a certain point the music switched from the usual recorded background tunes to the house live band. After a few songs it became clear that they were... not spectacular. I'm pretty sure that given some reasonably skilled musicians, we could do better in just a few rehearsals. It was Mariano who explained to me, years ago, that it's not necessary to have a chart-topping band in order to get regular gigs, it's only necessary to be good enough musically, and enjoyable to watch. Like a lot of classically-trained musicians, I have this idea that you shouldn't even think about getting onstage until you're closely approaching perfection. That includes the arrangement of the music, the skill in delivering it, and the show aspects. As any perfectionist and most musicians will attest, these are good things to aim for but take a good while to bring about. More to the point, waiting for that will both slow your abilities (which do require performance to fully develop) and cause you to pass up perfectly valid opportunities to play.
Not only that, but as he put it, most people don't know the difference, in any conscious way, between good and really good performances. Sure, they can tell that a band in the top 5% is better than a band in the top 15%, but it's like me and wine: I can identify Great from Good if they're next to each other, but danged if I can elucidate what the differences are; and generally speaking I'm quite happy with Good. If the audience is happy with Good which is striving to be Very Good, or Very Good on the way to Great, there is no reason not to look for paying gigs as soon as reasonably possible. Plus, if you take your music and showmanship seriously, odds are strong that you'll be on the short list soon enough.
We don't have to be the second coming of Aerosmith or Van Halen to get gigs. We just have to be the best choice the venue has. That's definitely good enough. And the bar is sometimes lower than we figured.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Thursday, December 05, 2013
The Magic Flute
The L. A. Opera is performing Mozart's The Magic Flute from now until Dec. 15. It's a very unusual show. Now, that particular opera is kind of a strange one to begin with, effectively being a fairy tale with two simultaneous tracks in its plotline, in some ways parallel and in other ways intertwining. It's full of epic themes and Masonic elements, varies in required virtuosity from the simple (Papageno) to the very difficult (Queen of the Night), and has numerous other oddities as well.
But of course those have been part of the opera since its writing. Barrie Kosky, director of the Komische Oper Berlin, collaborated with the very inventive artists at London-based theater company 1927 to stage something very new. The area of the stage that can be walked on is reduced to essentially a proscenium: it's maybe 8 feet deep. Behind that stands a blank, white wall about 18 feet high and nearly the width of the stage. Panels in the wall allow the actors to appear in various places, including 10 feet above the floor: a panel swivels 180 degrees, and there stands the actor on a tiny semicircle of a platform, surreptitiously belted to the panel for safety. At the same time, animations projected onto the wall provide scenery, special effects, and stage props. An actor might appear to be standing on a giant, mechanical hand, riding an elephant, or flying with a firefly's wings and body.
The hundreds of animations strongly reflect the designers' influences, which include German expressionist films, cabaret, pre-code cartoons, and other silent-movie-era genres... and quite possibly absinthe. Monostatos, for example, is no longer a Moor, but instead is Nosferatu, down to the pointed ears. And when drunk, the leading men have visions of pink elephants. Flying pink elephants. In garters.
One very useful innovation has to do with the Singspiel form of the opera, different from some other forms in that it includes spoken sections instead of recitative (sung). These were abbreviated and put into projected written form in the style of silent movies. Though the lyrics were still in the original German, the "spoken" parts were translated to English for the Los Angeles run of the opera, which worked very well indeed.
Though I've seen the opera a few times before, this was the first time in a good many years, and the first time I realized what was going on with the parallel story lines I mentioned above. The dramatic thread was the high, noble, philosophical approach to self-improvement and challenges, and the comedic thread showed the simple commoner's approach to life. This I had an inkling of before, but it was crystal clear this time around, though whether through my own personal advancement or the way in which it was presented, I really don't know.
Something I definitely didn't understand previously was the humor. Sometimes a line would jump out at me as a bit strange(r), a criticism unwarranted, uncharacteristic harshness, or similar. With all the 18th and 19th century reading I've done, it suddenly struck me that these were wry and high-browed jokes, the sort of thing I see regularly in modern life, particularly among the intellectual set. It's just that some things don't translate very well, or easily. Drop "world's oldest joke" in your favorite search engine and you'll see what I mean. Or have a go at any medieval comedies, for that matter.
If you have a chance to see it, I do recommend seeing this very unusual presentation of a landmark, unusual opera. The production is fascinating and the voices, stellar. Though that shouldn't perhaps be much of a surprise, it being the L.A. Opera, after all.
But of course those have been part of the opera since its writing. Barrie Kosky, director of the Komische Oper Berlin, collaborated with the very inventive artists at London-based theater company 1927 to stage something very new. The area of the stage that can be walked on is reduced to essentially a proscenium: it's maybe 8 feet deep. Behind that stands a blank, white wall about 18 feet high and nearly the width of the stage. Panels in the wall allow the actors to appear in various places, including 10 feet above the floor: a panel swivels 180 degrees, and there stands the actor on a tiny semicircle of a platform, surreptitiously belted to the panel for safety. At the same time, animations projected onto the wall provide scenery, special effects, and stage props. An actor might appear to be standing on a giant, mechanical hand, riding an elephant, or flying with a firefly's wings and body.
The hundreds of animations strongly reflect the designers' influences, which include German expressionist films, cabaret, pre-code cartoons, and other silent-movie-era genres... and quite possibly absinthe. Monostatos, for example, is no longer a Moor, but instead is Nosferatu, down to the pointed ears. And when drunk, the leading men have visions of pink elephants. Flying pink elephants. In garters.
One very useful innovation has to do with the Singspiel form of the opera, different from some other forms in that it includes spoken sections instead of recitative (sung). These were abbreviated and put into projected written form in the style of silent movies. Though the lyrics were still in the original German, the "spoken" parts were translated to English for the Los Angeles run of the opera, which worked very well indeed.
Though I've seen the opera a few times before, this was the first time in a good many years, and the first time I realized what was going on with the parallel story lines I mentioned above. The dramatic thread was the high, noble, philosophical approach to self-improvement and challenges, and the comedic thread showed the simple commoner's approach to life. This I had an inkling of before, but it was crystal clear this time around, though whether through my own personal advancement or the way in which it was presented, I really don't know.
Something I definitely didn't understand previously was the humor. Sometimes a line would jump out at me as a bit strange(r), a criticism unwarranted, uncharacteristic harshness, or similar. With all the 18th and 19th century reading I've done, it suddenly struck me that these were wry and high-browed jokes, the sort of thing I see regularly in modern life, particularly among the intellectual set. It's just that some things don't translate very well, or easily. Drop "world's oldest joke" in your favorite search engine and you'll see what I mean. Or have a go at any medieval comedies, for that matter.
If you have a chance to see it, I do recommend seeing this very unusual presentation of a landmark, unusual opera. The production is fascinating and the voices, stellar. Though that shouldn't perhaps be much of a surprise, it being the L.A. Opera, after all.
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