Alone this morning, I was eating my breakfast to the music of
Keith Jarratt in a recording of his Köln concerts from 1975. At the end, I
listened at least as attentively to the applause.
That the recording producers included the several minutes of
applause pointed up the contribution of an audience to a concert. This particular
audience began, as the music ended, with the usual random clapping that built
in a kind of crescendo, then transformed into a synchrony for a time, finally
ending in a long, tapering sound of individuals merging their enthusiasm in
white noise, a fading afterglow of emotional experience.
A performer has to be moved by such appreciation expressed
by his audience. He had just completed his improvised concert, ending it as the
music itself called for its own conclusion. In his heart and his fingers, the
expression was complete. Whether or not he was anticipating the audience
response, he had done his part. The afterglow was his heartbeat, gradually
returning to quiet.
In my recording library I have thousands of tracks, pieces
of music I’ve accumulated over the years, Many of the pieces (mostly but not
all classical) I know by heart, and in my head I’m singing along with them as
they play in the seclusion of my home. Mostly these days, I play my music when
I’m alone; for some reason I hear it better without other people present, unless
I’m intentionally sharing something with someone who I’m confident will listen,
and get it just as I do. (Music
played for atmosphere in a social occasion is different.)
Attending a live concert is another thing altogether. I’d
much rather share that experience with someone I care for. To hear live music
alone, I’m simply another pair of ears (and hands) in an anonymous crowd. I can
participate in the experience of performance and audience, but it lacks the
intimate welling of shared emotion that seems to need, like sex, another tuned-in
soul.
Still, the experience of listening to a particular recorded concert
such as Keith Jarratt’s Köln performance, or the memorial tribute to George
Harrison, “Concert for George” in 2002, even in recording, is emotionally
distinct from studio recordings. One can visualize the presence of an audience
even if it’s only a sound recording. One of my favorites from many years ago is
Wes Montgomery, playing with the Wynton Kelly Trio at the Half Note Club in New
York. The live nightclub ambiance takes me there, where I can visualize the
room and the player-audience relationship. I have a studio album of Roberta
Flack that cries out for the same ambiance, for she began her career in the
music world playing at Mr. Henry's Restaurant, on Capitol Hill, Washington, DC,
and her voice simply fits that kind of environment.
A more recent artist, Eva Cassidy, who reminds me of Roberta
Flack, also began her career in clubs in D.C. I’m lucky to have a live album of
her at Blues Alley in 1996, shortly before her death.
For some music that I grew up with listening to recordings, I
don’t miss the sounds of the audience. I’m not sure how I would react to
Rachmaninov or Sibelius in a live recording. They are simply too familiar to
me. Of course, I’d jump at the chance to hear them at Hill Auditorium, even in
performances by the University Philharmonic. The acoustics in my living room
don’t compare with those in such a hall. And I’d stand and shout “Bravo!” along
with everyone else at the end.
I'm grateful that my hearing loss affects music less than speech; even
though I lose the high notes from a violin, for example, my brain seems
to fill in the missing vibrations.
Music is not just music. A live concert or a polished studio
recording makes a difference, but whatever the genre, it’s a gut experience
that’s up there near the top of my life experiences.
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