Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 22, November, 1878

by Various

MUSIC IN AMERICA

ENGLAND and America have long been classed among the unmusical countries of the world, and for good reasons. Their history so far records the names of no composers of a high rank; and although in both countries there are plenty of amateurs and minor musicians who fully appreciate the best there is in the art, yet the people as a whole are not influenced by it in the same way as the Germans and the Italians, to whose hungry souls music is as necessary as is oxygen to their lungs. If we adopt the good old-fashioned classification of instrumental and vocal pieces into "music for the feet," or dance music, "music for the ear," or drawing-room music, "and music for the head and heart," or classical music, we are forced to admit that so far only the first of these classes has found general favor with our masses. Waltzes, quick-steps, galops, quadrilles, are the daily food of our people, and there are thousands of pianos scattered throughout the country which are never used for any other purpose than to play this dance music, which occupies about the same place in relation to the higher forms of music as dancing on the stage does to artistic acting. Next comes the somewhat more elevated branch of drawing-room or salon music, which in the cities and towns is very largely cultivated. It is typified by the popular "Maiden's Prayer," and also includes the more sensational of the French and Italian opera melodies with all their vocal pyrotechnics, as well as the pianoforte fantasias on these same melodies—in short, all music written with a view to giving the performer an opportunity of displaying facility of execution rather than genuine feeling.

It is only in our centres of culture, the largest of our cities, that sufficient interest is taken in the highest products of musical genius to call into life and to support respectable orchestras and choruses; and even in these centres of culture there is no excess of devotion, as is perhaps best shown by the great rarity of amateur string quartettes, those most intellectual and most enjoyable of all musical clubs, whose sphere is classical chamber music, the direct opposite in most respects of the drawing-room music just spoken of. How different all this is from the state of affairs in Germany, where every town of ten thousand inhabitants has its well-managed opera-house and its various kinds of musical clubs for public and private amusement! The difference may best be realized by reading Wagner's admirable little essay, Ueber Deutsches Musikwesen, republished in the first volume of his collected works.

Perhaps there is no better way of arriving at a just estimate of the present state of general musical culture in this country than by looking at what may be called the creative department, and examining the vocal and instrumental sheet-music of native composers continually issued in such large quantities by our publishers. Were we to follow an old maxim, that the best way of judging the inner life of a nation is to listen to its music, and accordingly judge of the sentiments and emotions of Americans by their sheet-music, we should arrive at very discouraging results. The characteristics of our sheet-music, briefly summed up, are: (1) trite and vulgar melody, devoid of all originality, repeating what has been heard a thousand times already; (2) equally trite and monotonous accompaniments, the harmony limited to half a dozen elementary chords, the rhythm mechanical and commonplace, and the cadences unchanging as the laws of Nature; (3) insipid, sensational titles; (4) words usually so silly that a respectable country newspaper would refuse to print them in its columns—true to the French bon-mot, that what is too stupid to be spoken or read must be sung.

This may seem too sweeping a condemnation, but it is not. There are some honorable exceptions of course, but only just enough of them to attract notice by the contrast, and thus to prove the rule. If an aspiring young composer wishes to appear in print, the point to which he must direct his attention is to secure, not a good original melody or a piquant accompaniment, but a "catching" title, like "Timber-Thief Galop," "Silver Bill Polka," or "Sitting Bull March." If his choice in this respect does not please the publisher, his manuscript may yet escape the paper-basket if its title-page happens to be embellished with a grotesque cartoon or a sentimental picture of a couple of lovers or cats who have met by moonlight alone. From these external and all-essential attributes an experienced agent can form an accurate estimate of how large the sale of a new piece will be; and he will tell you that so little does the excellence of the music contribute to its success that in general the sale of compositions in this country stands in inverse ratio to their merits.

The sheet-music nuisance seems to be a phenomenon peculiar to this country; for, although France, England, Italy, and even Germany, annually produce much music which is not worth the printer's ink, yet in comparison with ours it might almost be called classical. And the melancholy thing about it is, that specimens of these flimsy productions may be seen lying about freely on the pianos of people who would blush at the mere thought of having books of the same intellectual and æsthetic level lying on their parlor-tables for general inspection and for the entertainment of guests. For, while the corrupting influence of an impure story or a bad picture has long since been recognized, it still seems to be imagined by many educated people that music being the "divine art" any form of it must of course be desirable, and better than nothing at all. This is the form of Philistinism which before all others must be combated ere we can hope to materially purify our musical atmosphere. The error naturally arose from the great amount of silly talk about music, which is usually represented as being incapable of lending itself to the expression of any but the noblest sentiments and emotions. Quite the contrary. If good music has all those wonderful powers which have been ascribed to it from time immemorial, it follows necessarily that bad music must exert equal powers in an opposite direction. In fact, bad music is even a more demoralizing agent than, for instance, a miserable newspaper. The latter is once hastily read through and then thrown away, while a poor musical composition is apt to be preserved in the parlor—perhaps, neatly bound with some others of like value, is carefully studied, or even memorized, and repeatedly sung at evening parties; and in this way it cannot but slowly vitiate the taste of performer and hearer alike, and make them deaf to the beauties of better things.

If we turn from this aspect of music in America to our concert-halls, the prospect is much brighter. In this department we have achieved more than in any other, and no one is now obliged to go abroad in order to hear a good concert, as he is if he wishes to enjoy a respectable operatic performance. How much of this is due to the energy of one man, Mr. Theodore Thomas, everybody knows, and it is not too much to say that the "new departure" he is about to make may be expected to mark an epoch in the history of American music. Cincinnati will henceforth claim the position of musical metropolis, and whether its pre-eminence be conceded or a vigorous rivalry maintained, the whole country must feel the good effect of that generous ambition which has rescued a noble enterprise from an uncertain and fluctuating condition, and offered it a secure haven.

Americans have already good reasons for being proud of their concerts, for except in Berlin there are perhaps no audiences in Europe which have the advantage of us in this respect. This can be seen by comparing our programmes with those offered in continental cities, as recorded every week in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, published at Leipsic. I have repeatedly seen paragraphs in leading German papers calling attention to Mr. Thomas's programmes, and hinting that their own conductors might learn something from them. What is particularly noticeable about them is their cosmopolitanism, and this has contributed much to their success. It has been said, however, by some that Thomas's sole aim seems to be to offer as many novelties as possible, and that he disregards artistic perspective in the arrangement of his programmes. He has indeed never followed the illiberal principle that it is bad taste to perform the works of living masters—a principle which has done much to bring to the brink of ruin a certain association in Boston—but he has endeavored to do justice to all the composers from Bach to Berlioz and Wagner. If Mr. Thomas makes an effort to introduce to his audience a new symphony by Brahms or a new symphonic poem by Saint Säens immediately after its issue from the press, we certainly ought to be very grateful to him for his enterprise. When a prominent author writes a new book everybody is eager to get sight of it as soon as possible, and no one has any fault to find with this curiosity. But when a similar eagerness is manifested to hear a new symphony, the conservatives at once cry out, "For shame! Would you neglect the old masters for the sake of pieces which the wear and tear of time have not yet proved to possess permanent value?" The Messrs. Conservatives evidently do not perceive the ludicrous aspect of their position. If their influence were not fortunately losing instead of gaining in strength, we might soon look for the extinction of art through the infanticide of genius. Mr. Thomas is not a conservative, and, thanks to this fact, we are often enabled to hear a new composition even before it has been performed in all the German capitals.

Of the condition of our operatic affairs it is impossible to speak in the same terms of self-congratulation as of our concerts, and will remain impossible as long as our opera troupes differ in no essential respects—except in being less sure of their parts—from travelling bands of negro minstrels. An orchestra may with impunity travel from one city to another: it always remains the same, and only needs a good hall to appear to advantage. But an operatic performance is such a complicated affair that excellence can only be attained after years of constant practice under the same conditions and with the same materials, and without constant changes in the chorus, orchestra and stage surroundings. European experience seems to show that without government assistance good dramatic and operatic performances are not possible. In France and Germany, where such assistance is given, the theatres are good: in England and America, where none is given, they are bad. Perhaps in course of time our national or city governments will come to recognize and support the theatre as an educational institution, or at least as a good means of suppressing intemperance and other vices by supplying a harmless mode of amusement. There is little prospect, however, that this will happen soon. It is more likely that some of our rich men will at last come to see the folly of founding so many new colleges, and devote their money to other uses. Had Mr. Samuel Wood left his money for the establishment of a permanent first-class opera instead of a conservatory, he would have done a wiser thing. The importance of a good opera-house as an institution for promoting musical culture is not yet generally understood—naturally enough, considering the wretched performances we have so far been obliged to endure. The opera has one great advantage over concerts: it is more attractive to the uninitiated. It appeals to the eye as well as the ear. The scenic splendors will attract many unmusical and semi-musical people who shun the purely intellectual atmosphere of a classical concert as a great bore; and while they gaze at the wonders of the scenery they unconsciously drink in the music, so that in course of time they learn to appreciate that for its own sake. When Lohengrin was first performed in the German cities the masses attended it chiefly to see the new and brilliant scenic effects. They found the music stupid, devoid of melody and form, and bristling with "algebraic" harmonies. But they went so often to see the swan drawing the mysterious knight through the waters of the Rhine that they finally learned that the opera is a rich storehouse of the most exquisite melody, that a wonderful unity of forms pervades the whole, and that the algebraic harmonies serve to express depths of emotion hitherto unknown. In the same way the Vienna people have been lately crowding the theatre to see the Rhine-daughters in their long blue robes swimming about under the surface of the river, to see the fight with the dragon, the march of the gods over the rainbow, the ride of the walkyries on their wild steeds, the burning Walhalla, etc., and have gradually discovered that their critics at Bayreuth again hoaxed them when they wrote that the music of the Trilogy was "atomic," that it was devoid of melody, and that the harmony was in defiance of all the laws of euphony.

These illustrations show the value of good scenery. Independently of its artistic value, it is a legitimate bait for enticing people to a place where they are obliged to hear good music. Good scenery, however, has never been the strong point of our opera troupes. They never had more than one strong point. Formerly, some of the great prime donne used to pay us an occasional visit, but now even they have learned to avoid us, because we are no longer willing to pay five dollars for an evening's amusement. London, Paris and St. Petersburg are at present the head-quarters of the costly "stars." Nor is this fact to be regretted. The decline of the star system is rather to be greeted as the dawn of a better era. It has always been the curse of the opera and the greatest obstacle to improvement. There was a time when the prima donna was so omnipotent that even the composers were her slaves, being frequently obliged to alter passages to suit the taste of the stage goddess; and there are instances on record of whole operas having been composed in vain because she did not happen to be pleased with them, and refused to sing. This evil period we have happily out-grown, but an equally great nuisance remains. The exorbitant prices still demanded by the "stars" are out of all proportion to their deserts, and show that even if the composers are their slaves no longer, the spectators and managers still are so. In Paris and elsewhere it is often found impossible to do justice to the secondary stage appointments because the salaries of the soprano and the tenor swallow the whole income. The Germans, on the other hand, are too artistic and rational to endure such an imposition. To them the one-star-and-ten-satellites system seems an abomination, and doubtless Emperor William had the sympathies and approval of all his subjects when he refused to engage Patti at a price that would have proved disastrous to the high aims of the imperial opera, which are to preserve an evenly-balanced and uniform excellence of all the parts of a performance. There are signs that even England is outgrowing the star system. Carl Rosa has adopted the German system of dispensing with "phenomenal" singers, putting the minor rôles into good hands, and keeping a well-trained chorus and orchestra; and his success, as everybody knows, has been enormous. Now let some competent manager in this country follow his example: let him show that he does not merely aim at getting the people's money, but that he has also the ambition of honestly interpreting the works of the masters and developing a healthy taste for good dramatic music and acting, and there can be little doubt that instead of increasing the number of failures now recorded, the enterprise would prove a success, and show, as Carl Rosa's has done, that in this way opera can be made to pay even without government assistance.