Despre cum sa traim, despre cum sa intelegem viata prin toate simturile, caci pentru asta exista. Pentru ca, asa dupa cum muzica nu este atat redarea unei insiruiri de note, cat interpretarea lor – adica redarea semnificatiei lor – la fel si viata este nu numai de trait, cat este de inteles.
Despre cum sunt oamenii diferiti, despre cum sa nu ne grabim sa definim nimic penru ca in acest fel limitam totul la o singura intelegere a lucrurilor, cand atat de multe alte semnificatii sunt posibile.
Despre cum sa nu ne grabim sa credem ca un lucru se face sau se simte intr-un anume fel, intrucat orice lucru este un ansamblu si se traieste, se simte atotcuprinzator.
Despre cum sa fim creativi in a ne descoperi si utiliza resursele pentru a cunoaste lumea in care traim si pe noi insine.
“However, what I have to do as a musician is do everything that is not on the music. Everything that there isn’t time to learn from a teacher, or to talk about, even, from a teacher. But it’s the things that you notice when you’re not actually with your instrument that in fact become so interesting, and that you want to explore through this tiny, tiny surface of a drum. So there, we experience the translation. Now we’ll experience the interpretation.
I get a basic idea as to what you might be about, what you might like, what you might do as a profession, etc., etc. However, that’s just, you know, the initial idea I may have that we all get when we actually look, and we try to interpret, but actually it’s so unbelievably shallow. In the same way, I look at the music; I get a basic idea; I wonder what technically might be hard, or, you know, what I want to do. Just the basic feeling. However, that is simply not enough. And I think what Herbie said — please listen, listen. We have to listen to ourselves, first of all. If I play, for example, holding the stick — where literally I do not let go of the stick — you’ll experience quite a lot of shock coming up through the arm. And you feel really quite — believe it or not — detached from the instrument and from the stick, even though I’m actually holding the stick quite tightly. By holding it tightly, I feel strangely more detached. If I just simply let go and allow my hand, my arm, to be more of a support system, suddenly I have more dynamic with less effort. Much more. And I just feel, at last, one with the stick and one with the drum. And I’m doing far, far less.
So in the same way that I need time with this instrument, I need time with people in order to interpret them. Not just translate them, but interpret them.
(…) and it’s amazing that when you do open your body up, and open your hand up to allow the vibration to come through, that in fact the tiny, tiny difference … can be felt with just the tiniest part of your finger, there.
And so what we would do is that I would put my hands on the wall of the music room, and together we would “listen” to the sounds of the instruments, and really try to connect with those sounds far, far more broadly than simply depending on the ear. Because of course, the ear is, I mean, subject to all sorts of things. The room we happen to be in, the amplification, the quality of the instrument, the type of sticks … etc., etc. They’re all different. Same amount of weight, but different sound colors. And that’s basically what we are. We’re just human beings, but we all have our own little sound colors, as it were, that make up these extraordinary personalities and characters and interests and things.
The interesting thing about this as well, though is quite simply that not only were people connected with sound, which is basically all of us, and we well know that music really is our daily medicine.
I say “music,” but actually I mean “sound.” Because you know, some of the extraordinary things I’ve experienced as a musician, when you may have a 15-year-old lad who has got the most incredible challenges, who may not be able to control his movements, who may be deaf, who may be blind, etc., etc. — suddenly, if that young lad sits close to this instrument, and perhaps even lies underneath the marimba, and you play something that’s so incredibly organ-like, almost — I don’t really have the right sticks, perhaps — but something like this. Something that’s so unbelievably simple — but he would be experiencing something that I wouldn’t be, because I’m on top of the sound. I have the sound coming this way. He would have the sound coming through the resonators. If there were no resonators on here, we would have a fullness of sound that those of you in the front few rows wouldn’t experience, those of you in the back few rows wouldn’t experience either. Every single one of us, depending on where we’re sitting, will experience this sound quite, quite differently. And of course, being the participator of the sound, and that is starting from the idea of what type of sound I want to produce. Can you hear anything? Exactly. Because I’m not even touching it. But yet, we get the sensation of something happening. In the same way that when I see tree moves, then I imagine that tree making a rustling sound. Do you see what I mean? Whatever the eye sees, then there’s always sound happening. So there’s always, always that huge — I mean, just this kaleidoscope of things to draw from.
So all of my performances are based on entirely what I experience, and not by learning a piece of music, putting on someone else’s interpretation of it, buying all the CDs possible of that particular piece of music, and so on and so forth. Because that isn’t giving me enough of something that is so raw and so basic, and something that I can fully experience the journey of. (…) so it may be that, in certain halls, this dynamic may well work. (Music) It may be that in other halls, they’re simply not going to experience that at all and so therefore, my level of soft, gentle playing may have to be different.
The tiniest, softest, softest sound to something that is so broad, so huge, so incredible! There’s always something — it may sound good up there, may not be so good there. May be great there, but terrible up there. Maybe terrible over there, but not too bad there, etc., etc. So to find an actual hall is incredible — for which you can play exactly what you imagine, without it being cosmetically enhanced. And so therefore, acousticians are actually in conversation with people who are hearing impaired, and who are participators of sound.
So when we do listen to each other, it’s unbelievably important for us to really test our listening skills, to really use our bodies as a resonating chamber, to stop the judgment. For me, as a musician who deals with 99 percent of new music, it’s very easy for me to say, “Oh yes, I like that piece. Oh no, I don’t like that piece.” And so on. And you know, I just find that I have to give those pieces of music real time. It may be that the chemistry isn’t quite right between myself and that particular piece of music, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to say it’s a bad piece of music. And you know, it’s just one of the great things about being a musician, is that it is so unbelievably fluid. So there are no rules, no right, no wrong, this way, that way.
If I can just say, “Please clap and create the sound of thunder.” I’m assuming we’ve all experienced thunder. Snow. Have you ever heard snow falling? Well then, stop clapping. Try again. Try again. Snow.
You know, the interesting thing here, though, is that I asked a group of kids not so long ago exactly the same question. Now — great imagination, thank you very much. However, not one of you got out of your seats to think, “Right! How can I clap? OK, maybe … Maybe I can use my jewelry to create extra sounds. Maybe I can use the other parts of my body to create extra sounds.” Not a single one of you thought about clapping in a slightly different way other than sitting in your seats there and using two hands. In the same way that when we listen to music, we assume that it’s all being fed through here. This is how we experience music. Of course it’s not.
We experience thunder — thunder, thunder. Think, think, think. Listen, listen, listen. Now — what can we do with thunder? I remember my teacher. When I first started, my very first lesson, I was all prepared with sticks, ready to go. And instead of him saying, “OK, Evelyn, please, feet slightly apart, arms at a more-or-less 90 degree angle, sticks in a more-or-less V shape, keep this amount of space here, etc. Please keep your back straight, etc., etc., etc.” — where I was probably just going to end up absolutely rigid, frozen, and I would not be able to strike the drum, because I was thinking of so many other things — he said, “Evelyn, take this drum away for seven days, and I’ll see you next week.”
So, heavens! What was I to do? I no longer required the sticks; I wasn’t allowed to have these sticks. I had to basically look at this particular drum, see how it was made, what these little lugs did, what the snares did. Turned it upside down, experimented with the shell, experimented with the head. Experimented with my body, experimented with jewelry, experimented with all sorts of things. And of course, I returned with all sorts of bruises and things like that — but nevertheless, it was such an unbelievable experience, because then, where on Earth are you going to experience that in a piece of music? Where on Earth are you going to experience that in a study book? So we never, ever dealt with actual study books. So for example, one of the things that we learn when we are dealing with being a percussion player, as opposed to a musician, is basically straightforward single stroke rolls.
“Why am I practicing paradiddles? Is it just literally for control, for hand-stick control? Why am I doing that? I need to have the reason, and the reason has to be by saying something through the music.” And by saying something through music, which basically is sound, we then can reach all sorts of things to all sorts of people. But I don’t want to take responsibility of your emotional baggage. That’s up to you, when you walk through a hall. Because that then determines what and how we listen to certain things. I may feel sorrowful, or happy, or exhilarated, or angry when I play certain pieces of music, but I’m not necessarily wanting you to feel exactly the same thing. So please, the next time you go to a concert, just allow your body to open up, allow your body to be this resonating chamber. Be aware that you’re not going to experience the same thing as the performer is. The performer is in the worst possible position for the actual sound, because they’re hearing the contact of the stick on the drum, or the mallet on the bit of wood, or the bow on the string, etc., or the breath that’s creating the sound from wind and brass. They’re experiencing that rawness there. But yet they’re experiencing something so unbelievably pure, which is before the sound is actually happening. Please take note of the life of the sound after the actual initial strike, or breath, is being pulled. Just experience the whole journey of that sound in the same way that I wished I’d experienced the whole journey of this particular conference, rather than just arriving last night.”