Expound the meaning of, bring out, make out the meaning of, explain, understand, render by artistic representation or performance.
Well, this was something to start from, anyhow. Let us see: "Expound the meaning of."
From the oracles of old, not infrequently more obscure on purpose to give them greater importance, down to a speech from the front benches, utterances in words may, and indeed often do, need expounding the meaning of, but it seems to me in music, and, perhaps, in art altogether, the necessity for explanation nearly always indicates a certain degree of inferiority. I cannot imagine anyone looking at a Velasquez, or Titian, or Rembrandt, or Michelangelo asking "What does it mean?" but I am sure we all have heard that question, very likely emphasised by the addition of two little words, like "on earth," or something stronger, at exhibitions of Futurist art.
So in a piece of absolute music, i.e., music without words, for an orchestra or a solo instrument, any attempt at expounding the meaning of, make out the meaning of, must, in my humble opinion, always be more or less of a failure, whilst, of course, there can be no need of such an attempt at all if the music be programme music, or if, by the title given to it, like, for instance, Elegy, Reverie, Humoreske, Nocturne, Barcarolle, and so on, the composer clearly has indicated his intention. There is no need asking what Bach, Beethoven, Brahms meant by their symphonies, their fugues.
You might as well ask what the meaning of a cathedral. These things are there for us to wonder at the greatness and power of the human mind, to lose ourselves in admiration of the various forms of beauty in which they reveal themselves, to bow down, to worship. On the other hand, in music with words, the poems chosen by the composer are rarely sufficiently obscure or eccentric to require "expounding the meaning of."
It seems to me, therefore, that the only definition of the word interpretation with which we need concern ourselves is "Render by artistic representation or performance." And that would seem simple enough were it not that when it comes to a song we have to deal with a compound of poetry and music which complicates matters inasmuch as there is art required for reciting a poem as well as for singing the music.
That the music of a song, as such, may be beautifully rendered by an instrument other than the voice we all know. Who—to quote only one example—has not heard Schubert's Ave Maria played on a 'cello? And the words of a song detached from the music may find an ideal interpreter in the person of a talented reciter, who, as regards music, may not know one note from another. The perfect interpreter of a song, therefore, would have to combine in him or herself the talents and qualities of both a reciter and a singer, and it will be seen at once that, as in song the music is of the first importance, not only should an intending singer make a point of studying music as well as singing, but the study of theory, harmony, counterpoint, etc., that is to say, of music as a creative art should always be made the foundation on which all special studies for expressing that art should rest.
I have just said that in a song the music is first in importance. Should, therefore, by any chance a composer have failed, as some of the best have been known to now and then, to make the music fit the words completely, it would be the duty of the singer to consider the musical phrase in the first instance and fit in the words as well as possible under the circumstances, even at the risk of breaking between two words which otherwise it would be better not to separate.
The question of breathing is altogether one which puzzles a great many singers. Take, for instance, a Bach or Handel aria, with semiquaver runs, often extending over half-a-dozen bars or more. There are singers who deem it beneath their dignity to breathe during such a run, and go on until they are red in the face, or else, if they see they must after all, put in additional words. This is quite unnecessary. Such occasions should be treated instrumentally. Give such a run to, say, an oboe player and you will find that he now and then will take an instantaneous little breath which enables him to do justice to every note and carry the thing through successfully and without exhaustion. It is generally the childish fear of being thought lacking in physical strength which induces some singers to delay breathing until the thought of their bursting a blood vessel remains the only one left in the poor listener, rendering anything like interpretation and, therefore, artistic enjoyment of such a performance utterly impossible. If you know how to breathe, i.e., how to replenish your lungs in the twinkling of an eye and imperceptibly, you cannot really breathe too often, for by such judicious breathing you are infinitely better able to satisfactorily accomplish the task before you. I remember being asked, years ago, to hear, with a view to giving my opinion on her talent and voice, a young singer, now quite famous, and being horrified at her utterly mistaken idea as to breathing. Disregarding all thought of intelligent phrasing, she actually never breathed unless positively obliged to do so. I stood it as long as I could and then got really angry. I stopped her short and said, "My dear young lady, do you wish to show the people what wonderful lungs you have, or what a beautiful song it is you are singing?" You can only do one of the two things at a time. Supposing even your breathing be good, which, being neither inaudible nor invisible, I am sorry to say it is not; you will have to learn that an accomplishment, be it ever so great, in anything pertaining to a detail in the mere technique of an art becomes a fault the moment attention is drawn to it. A singer who after the singing of a beautiful song is complimented on the excellent management of his breath or the wonderful articulation of his words should go home and resolve to do better next time, and not rest satisfied until he feels that the singer's highest aim should be the full appreciation and enjoyment on the part of the listener of the work interpreted. That aim being achieved he need wish for no greater praise.
For an intelligent and thoroughly satisfactory rendering of a song it is absolutely imperative that the vocal technique of the singer—and the breathing is as important a part of it as the actual singing—be developed to a state of efficiency, such as to need no more thought than, for instance, a pianist interpreting a Beethoven sonata should have to give to the fingering. All technical difficulties should have been overcome once for all and technique itself become a matter of course before an attempt at interpretation is made.