Collecting Statistics Of The Wild Oat Crops
After a brief hiatus, the indefatigable Sir Donald Tovey is back.
At this time of day, it ought hardly to be necessary to point out that our criterion must not be that of the criminologists who, at the end of the nineteenth century, demonstrated to their own satisfaction that they could not distinguish genius from insanity. I have it on the infallible (or at all events indisputable) authority of my own intuition that such writers are condemned to spend many thousands years in Purgatory collecting statistics of the wild-oat crops sown by ten dull persons for every genius into whose private affairs they have intruded.
Correctness will not prevent the current criticism of any period from manifestly bristling with abnormalities when we look back on it with the light of later knowledge. But critics do not always fail to recognize the important artists of their day. The neglect and poverty in which Mozart died so young would have been an affair of a few lean years if he had survived it. In fact, poor Salieri’s reputation has been terribly blasted by his remark that, Mozart’s death was a good thing for us other musicians, because if he had lived for much longer we should all have starved.
These comments are a propos for Miss Mussel at the moment as she begins the year as a proper music critic. In the ten reviews she has written over the past four months, she has discovered an additional responsibility borne by the critic that goes far beyond writing about the concert and making witty remarks about the state of things, as it were.
The mantle of Curator Of The Arts is heavy, bit unwieldly and, at times, downright bothersome. The community for which Miss Mussel writes is a one paper town, so there is no opposing opinion to temper the occasional bluster. Balancing an honest account of the event with the sometimes competing goal of encouraging the public to attend the next time is tricky and a skill that can only be learned in time.
If there is one thing Miss Mussel could say on behalf of criticism, it’s that critics really do love music (believe it or not) and the whole point of writing about it is to try and get others excited about it as well. Less than successful aspects of the concert are mentioned in aid of improving the next performance as well as illustrating that we were actually there and actively listening.
Although Miss Mussel must admit that it is thoroughly enjoyable to find the correct adjectives and turns of phrase to describe disasters, missteps, laziness or lack of talent, the same pleasure is had when writing about performances that are life-altering in their intensity and wonder. Reporting on a less than satisfactory concert does not give her any joy. Not in the slightest. Sorry to burst your bubble.
In fact, the best concert is when you have no words at all, when all you can do is sit in stunned silence after it is over and feel nothing but grateful that you were able to experience it. That’s what makes this whole endeavour worth it.
