Open Writing

An audience is an integral member of a team comprising performers, those who assist them, and those who attend the performance. Without an audience, there would be no point in perfecting the playing of a musical instrument, one’s technique as a ballet dancer, actor, fine artist or novelist.

Several years ago, in New York, Leon and I were privileged to be among the audience at the farewell concert for Kurt Mazur as Resident Conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. The concerto performed that night was for ‘cello, written by Schnittke; a modern work seemingly composed with the adage “ugly is beautiful” in mind. Like Beethoven before him, Schnittke wrote what he felt was worthy, and not necessarily what would appeal to the public.

Kurt Mazur and the ‘cellist, Natalia Gutman, walked on stage, bowed, settled. The conductor lifted his baton, and as it fell, let loose upon the huge audience a visual and audible randomity. It was as if the composer’s instructions to the orchestra were: “Okay guys, pick a note – any note – and make a noise!” The orchestra was huge. The solo ‘cellist’s sound was totally buried under the weight of so many instruments, though she sawed away at her instrument until it seemed that it would disappear in a pile of sawdust! Once or twice an amplifier picked up the sound of the solo ‘cello: that lovely, mellow instrument surely was not designed to screech in the piccolo range? Individual sounds poked through the mish-mash: a ringing crash as the pianist attacked his keyboard with both forearms, holding down the sustaining pedal; the brass players made raucous noises with their gleaming instruments... The creation of these sounds had me sitting on the edge of my seat in amazement – how was it that these instruments could make sounds so totally different from those normally expected of them? The “music” created visions of a universe in the throes of destruction.

Schnittke’s music was so different in structure from that of his predecessors that only an orchestra of great musicians could play it. Only a conductor of the calibre of Kurt Mazur could interpret the composer’s requirements and guide the orchestra to create the sounds intended from the pages in front of them. The skill of each musician in that huge orchestra was superb; each was challenged beyond the limits of what had previously been required of their instruments and abilities, and each rose to meet that challenge.

Without an audience absorbing new ideas, new sounds, and appreciating the talent that went into creating them, such music would stagnate, would become as insect-scrawls across a page… With an audience there is reason for the music to be performed, to be shared; and for Music to evolve.

Without audiences, the concert halls of Europe would never have been built. The music of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and so many others would never have been heard. Swan Lake, Les Sylphides and all other ballets would never have danced to life on stage. Fonteyn and Nureyev may never have met.

With no-one to shed a tear over the deaths of Romeo and Juliet or gasp at the horror of Shylock’s desire for a pound of his enemy’s flesh, the immortal words of Shakespeare would remain mere scratches on parchment.

Without people thronging to view them, the canvasses of Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Picasso would gather dust in neglected attics.

Without an audience, the voices of Louis Armstrong, Elvis Presley, Barbara Streisand and those who came before and after, would be unrecognised in millions of homes.

Without an audience, there would be no movie industry, no stars, no Oscar Awards!

What the audience sees, hears, enjoys, appreciates – that is what empowers the artist, encourages them to strive for perfection; that is what enables art and culture to develop with vibrancy.

To those who say with regret, “I can only sit and listen,” the musician responds: “Without you, the audience, I am nothing, and all that I do is wasted. Thank you for listening!''

Until next week – “here comes Treble!”

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