Use Your Hands
Classical music has become ridiculous. Concerts are largely nonevents in which any real expression or interpretation is avoided in the name of conformity to the printed page. Even the so-called early music world, once possessed of radical vigor, has started taking its improvised dogmas as gospel. Meanwhile, musicians make ever more grandiose claims for themselves: one highly sought-after performer fancies himself a musical doctor, healing the souls of his audiences; another styles herself as a latter-day Menuhin, spreading peace and love with each concert. And yet, when I hear them all I can think is—where’s the music?
I can’t tell most players apart. Technical standards may be rising, but the range of acceptable expression remains narrow. There are sanctioned sounds, eligible feelings, and, if you ask the jurors and professors nicely, a list of allowed eccentricities. But who cares? Where are the musicians who, like ancient pipers, play not to court the industry, but out of a genuine need to communicate? Where are the seekers, the nomads, the poets? They’ve been replaced by conference attendees who, like Gibraltar macaques, jockey for higher and higher position on the rock face while aging tourists take videos and selfies.
I’m quite convinced that cooking is the only remedy. Not copying hip recipes from some trumped up YouTuber, but developing a tactile understanding of how to prepare good, simple meals, served with plenty of wine and conversation. A man who can feed a table of hungry guests with his own two hands will never be as ridiculous as someone who lives only to be a virtuoso. Only when I can do so shall I pick up my flute—and then, I’ll think like a cook, not an artist.