Showing posts with label An American in Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label An American in Paris. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Have We Been Playing Gershwin Wrong for 70 Years?




(The following is a piece from the New York Times which caught my eye, then dragged me right in. It's pretty long, but I had to reproduce it here in its entirety. It illustrates a crucial point about art: remove one element, or change it, and the whole work is changed in subtle or not-so-subtle ways. This whole story reminds me of the famous gaffe by the art gallery that hung a painting upside-down and didn't notice it for 30 years.)

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/02/theater/have-we-been-playing-gershwin-wrong-for-70-years.html

Have We Been Playing Gershwin Wrong for 70 Years?


It is one of the most famous pieces of American music — but for 70 years orchestras may have been playing one of its best-known effects wrong.

The work is George Gershwin’s jaunty, jazzy symphonic poem “An American in Paris,” and the effect involves a set of instruments that were decidedly not standard equipment when it was written in 1928: French taxi horns, which honk in several places as the music evokes the urban soundscape that a Yankee tourist experiences while exploring the City of Light.

The question is what notes should those taxi horns play. In something of a musicological bombshell, a coming critical edition of the works of George and Ira Gershwin being prepared at the University of Michigan will argue that the now-standard horn pitches — heard in the classic 1951 movie musical with Gene Kelly, in leading concert halls around the world, and eight times a week on Broadway in Christopher Wheeldon’s acclaimed stage adaptation — are not what Gershwin intended.




The finding promises to divide musicians, and could require instrument-makers, sellers and renters — who now offer sets of tuned taxi horns specifically for “An American in Paris” — to consider investing in new sets tuned to the new notes. The change would give a subtle, but distinctly different, cast to a classic score that was influenced by some of the leading composers of its day, and which followed in the footsteps of other works that employed so-called “found” instruments, including Satie’s 1917 ballet “Parade,” which uses a typewriter and gunshots, and Frederick Converse’s 1927 “Flivver Ten Million,” an ode to the Ford automobile, which uses car horns.





“I have a feeling that percussionists are going to be somewhat put out by this whole conclusion,” said Mark Clague, the editor in chief of the critical edition, who attended some test performances of the revised score by the Reno Philharmonic last month.

The ambiguity stems from how the taxi horn parts are notated in Gershwin’s original handwritten score. To put it in Gershwin terms, we got rhythm: The score shows that the horns play sets of accented eighth notes. But when it comes to pitch, things are less clear. Gershwin’s score labels the four taxi horns with a circled “A,” a circled “B,” a circled “C” and a circled “D.” Those circled letters have been interpreted as indicating which note each horn should play — A, B, C and D on the scale — since at least 1945, when Arturo Toscanini used those pitches in recording the piece with the NBC Symphony Orchestra.




This is the original version recorded in 1929 under Gershwin's supervision. Take note of the sound of those taxi horns!


But the new critical edition will argue that Gershwin’s circled letters were merely labels specifying which horns to play, not which notes. Mr. Clague, an associate professor of musicology at the University of Michigan, mentioned that Gershwin handpicked taxi horns to buy during his 1928 trip to Paris, and that friends and colleagues recalled that he had been particular about which notes they played. Mr. Clague also pointed to the evidence of a Victor recording of “An American in Paris” that was made in 1929, under Gershwin’s supervision and presumably using his horns: The taxi horns on that recording sound a more atmospheric, more dissonant set of notes: A flat, B flat, a much higher D, and lower A.

Gershwin’s original instruments seem to have been lost. Michael Strunsky, 81, a nephew of Ira Gershwin and trustee of his estate, said in a telephone interview that his father, William English Strunsky, had played the taxi horns when George Gershwin first gave an informal recital of the piece for the family in 1928 after sailing back from Europe.





“I went looking for those taxi horns once,” Mr. Strunsky said. “And somewhere in the moves back and forth, and this and that and the other thing, they disappeared.”

Russ Knutson, the owner of Chicago Percussion Rental in Illinois, who rents out tuned horns for “An American in Paris” and has played them on occasion, said in an interview that he thought that the currently accepted A, B, C and D pitches “fit exactly in the score.”
“The whole country and the whole world have been oriented to doing it with those four pitches,” he said in a telephone interview. “All of the recordings you’ve heard are with those four pitches.”

But Trey Wyatt, a percussionist with the San Francisco Symphony who estimated that he had played the horn parts 40 or 50 times, and who rents out several sets through his company, California Percussion Rental, said that he was intrigued by the finding.

“If this new tuning takes off, I may have to buy another five sets of these horns,” he said.





Rob Fisher, the musical score adapter and supervisor of the new staging of “An American in Paris” currently on Broadway, said that he agreed that the A, B, C and D labels were names and not pitches, but that the show had ended up using the standard horns.

But he questioned whether the pitches used in the Victor recording should be taken as gospel. “I don’t ever want to say what was in somebody’s mind,” he said. “Were those the four horns that made him the happiest that day, when he was picking horns? I just feel like if he’d wanted exact pitches for his horns, he was really good about writing down intentions.”

Mr. Clague said that between the 1929 recording that Gershwin supervised and the 1945 Toscanini recording, which seemed to help establish a new performance tradition, there was great variation in how the taxi horns were played. But he said that his musical analysis gave weight to the idea that the pitches used in the 1929 Victor recording work best. “George was thinking harmonically and melodically with the taxi horns,” he said. “It’s not just a sound effect.”

But he added that there would have been an easy way of avoiding the ambiguity entirely. “I think George would have saved everybody a lot of trouble,” he said, “if he had just numbered them ‘1,’ ‘2,’ ‘3,’ and ‘4’ rather than ‘A,’ ‘B,’ ‘C’ and ‘D.’”





Blogger's Observations. I decided I'd do this whole thing by ear, as a sort of auditory blind taste test. I'd try to determine which version was the "true" one: the one we currently hear in concert halls and have been hearing for 70 years, or the first recording ever made in 1929, supervised by Gershwin himself.

I've been listening to An American in Paris since I was a wee tot, and I even remember my mother explaining to me that it used real taxi horns, which I thought was pretty strange. I'm not a musician, but I was saturated in music from the get-go, surrounded by real musicians, and by inheritance came in with the same equipment, meaning a pretty sharp ear. So I sat back and just plugged myself in to the sound, going back in time to that 78 r.p.m. record made in 1929.

The very first blast on the first taxi-horn made me sit bolt-upright and yell, "AAAAHHH!" It was completely different, a totally different sound! The blasts that came after that were even more of a revelation: lower, earthier, more dissonant, with the odd higher note to add harmonics (for Gershwin heard music in noise: he said so all the time). These sounds were just so much more. . . Gershwiny.





I am utterly convinced that these are the taxi horns Gershwin originally used. These are the horns he collected while in Paris, scrounging around in auto shops and junk stores, then picking four out of a couple of dozen to match his score - no, wait. It's bigger than that. THE SCORE WAS MATCHED TO THE HORNS. The two came together like a hand in glove.

You wonder how orchestras could've gotten it so wrong for so long. To write A, B, C and D and circle them is pretty obviously a way to label each horn, not describe the horn's tone. It's just self-evident, isn't it?

Now people are saying they wish Gershwin hadn't been so "ambiguous". He was a genius, people, and geniuses are ambiguous by nature, leaving the rest of us snail-brains in the dust. Now some percussionists, suffering from defensiveness and hurt pride and unable to admit they may have been wrong, are insisting WE had it right all along, and Gershwin had it wrong. Or that it didn't matter. Or that, when making the original 1929 recording, he just picked out the horns he happened to want on that particular day, pulled them out of the junk pile pretty much at random.

DON'T MAKE ME SCREAM.

Gershwin was an utter perfectionist. He never took stabs at things, not even improvising. It was from God's mouth to his ear/fingers. His scores were as immaculate as Mozart's, not a note out of place. He wouldn't just rummage around in his junk drawer and pull out a few taxi horns.




The problem is, he did not happen to consider that people would not know how to reproduce those exact sounds in the years and decades to come. Perhaps he believed it was self-evident and that they couldn't possibly get it wrong. So somebody took a flying-leap guess based on some letters with circles around them on the score (and if the piece is in the key of A, it obviously would have a great big circle drawn around the A. Isn't that how you tell what key something is in?), and thus the whole thing became standardized.

I want to keep listening to that original recording, except that it makes me want to cry. Gershwin went through so much in his short, sometimes very painful life: his masterpiece Porgy and Bess was cut by about a third for its first performance (though most operas more than exceed its original length); the critics slung mud at it and called it garbage. He was a sensitive soul and he DID care what people thought, though artists aren't supposed to. And then he died at 38, and in so much agony, essentially alone.

So for God's sake, people. Get those taxi horns right! It's the least you can do for poor George.



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Saturday, January 24, 2015

Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron - An American In Paris




Going with Gershwin, going wherever this Gershwin thing is gonna take me, I'm reminded of one of my fave movie bits: the sensuous, incredibly acrobatic ballet from An American in Paris. The trumpet solo in this version blows all the rest out of the water, forever. Hard to describe, really - you just have to listen to it - but it just has more - balls to it, more imperious sexuality, more Gene Kelly animal physicality. As I've said before, I never associated Gershwin with sexuality (though with this shining steed of a solo in my memory, I don't know how I could have thought it). 

Uan Rasey - does that name ring any bells? Not here. But he was one of the unsung heroes in MGM movies, one of those top-flight musicians who, instead of plodding along in the same groove with a symphony orchestra for decades, found himself providing the sound track for our lives. I don't even know how you pronounced his name, and he died at 90 a few years ago, but God, he made this number, made it racy, a little tom-cattish, finding misted midnight corners in it, nuances no one else could provide. 

I still think of Gershwin as asexual - the princely bearing, the Hapsburg lip, the "Gershwin is in the car" approach to the world - but from somewhere, or out of nowhere, this vibrating, brassy fire.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Oscar Levant: one-man band

 


Oscar, reclining and reflective, begins to dream. He dreams he is in a vast concert hall. . . 




. . . playing Gershwin's Concerto in F with his cigarette-stained fingers. . . 




. . . and conducting at the same time. . . (and he was a real conductor so he isn't just waving his arms)




. . . and likewise the  percussion, he's really playing (an early
 example of cloning, or else he accelerates himself to the speed of sound)






My personal fave, cuz he looks so sexy. . . 




     Cute with a gong (and doesn't he look a bit like Buster Keaton?)




"Bravo! Bravo!"


Sunday, September 28, 2014

Oscar Levant: one-man band




Oscar, reclining and reflective, begins to dream. He dreams he is in a vast concert hall. . . 




. . . playing Gershwin's Concerto in F with his cigarette-stained fingers. . . 




. . . and conducting at the same time. . . (and he was a real conductor so he isn't just waving his arms)




. . . and likewise the  percussion, he's really playing (an early
 example of cloning, or else he accelerates himself to the speed of sound)






My personal fave, cuz he looks so sexy. . . 




     Cute with a gong (and doesn't he look a bit like Buster Keaton?)




"Bravo! Bravo!"


(I stumbled on these while looking for gifs on Google. I keep looking for gifs on Google and finding MY gifs and thinking, why are MY gifs so much better than anyone else's? 'Strue, you know. These were made during my feverish Oscar Levant phase a couple of years ago. It was fascinating, and I am sure I could dig out more now if I wanted to. In fact, what brought me here in the first place was finding another Levant performance on YouTube. He shows up in odd places on Turner Classics and always adds something strangely appealing to otherwise-routine movies. He showed up in an abomination called The I Don't Care Girl, in which he played something so convoluted and strange that I couldn't guess who wrote it. Just ripped through it like chain lightning. He also wore a strange tiger-striped cat suit for one scene in which he had one line. There was nobody like him, and perhaps that was a good thing.)


 

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Sunday, May 26, 2013

Oscar Levant: one-man band




Oscar, reclining and reflective, begins to dream. He dreams he is in a vast concert hall. . . 




. . . playing Gershwin's Concerto in F with his cigarette-stained fingers. . . 




. . . and conducting at the same time. . . (and he was a real conductor so he isn't just waving his arms)




. . . and likewise the  percussion, he's really playing (an early
 example of cloning, or else he accelerates himself to the speed of sound)






My personal fave, cuz he looks so sexy. . . 




     Cute with a gong (and doesn't he look a bit like Buster Keaton?)




"Bravo! Bravo!"



Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Oscar Levant Follies: he sings! He dances! He plays the piano!











SO. Oscar Levant again. I don't know what it is. But I do. He was a famous genius, a famous crazy man, a crazy celebrity whom some say threw away a monumental musical talent because he wanted to be in the movies.

So he became the "Oscar Levant type", except that there was only one of them. I managed to get through his biography, A Talent for Genius, which is the kind of no-holds-barred, detail-packed, interviewing-everyone-who-ever-emptied-his-ashtrays treatment that I love. In fact it bookends nicely with the Marion Meade biography of Dorothy Parker, What Fresh Hell is This? (a Parkerism oft quoted by Sheldon Cooper on The Big Bang Theory). 





By the end of it I was slogging along, however, as his life descended into a drug-drenched miasma. He threw away his accomplishments and his happiness with both hands, and seemed to be relentlessly seeking oblivion. By some miracle - by the grace of God, or more likely his doggedly devoted wife June - he made it to age 65, the worst of his addictions and mental aberrations burned down to embers. But at his worst, he would meet with a "doctor" (think Michael Jackson and the propofol) in the middle of the night, literally in a dark alley so his wife wouldn't know, and be shot up with Demerol or phenobarbital. He told June once that all he wanted was to be "unconscious".




But that was nothing. Gasping and staggering out the other side of his biography, which I narrowly survived, I plunged into his Memoirs of an Amnesiac and nearly didn't make it at all. The last quarter of it is devoted to his "Walpurgis night" (I had to look that one up) of flailing hell, in which he speaks of his addictive desperation:

"I would have taken anything I could have laid my hands on. I was going to say that that was as low as I ever got, but I have since discovered that the pit is bottomless. There is no such thing as a lowest point."







































Amen, brother - unfortunately, I hear you, because I've dropped through the bottom more times than I care to admit. And it has had little or nothing to do with drugs - it's the Walpurgis night of the mind. It did not quite destroy Oscar, a fragile, vulnerable soul with a mostly-untreated heart condition and paralyzing stage fright. Somehow his wife kept him around  long enough for Candice Bergen to come and interview him for Esquire Magazine. Maybe she was just too beautiful at 25, and it overwhelmed him, but he lay down for a nap and died that day, his soul just floating away painlessly, as sweetly and  effortlessly as he once played the piano.


Monday, October 1, 2012

An American in Paris - Tra La La





I was surprised to note that Gene Kelly grabs his crotch at 3:30.

Why Leslie Caron and Oscar Levant are not not NOT the same person





(from A Talent for Genius: The Life and Times of Oscar Levant by Sam Kashner and Nancy Schoenenberger):

"It was Gene Kelly who had brought the seventeen-year-old ballet dancer Leslie Caron over from Paris to star as the gamine Lise Bourvier (in An American in Paris). . . At a studio party to welcome Leslie Caron to Hollywood, Oscar (Levant) met the French teenager who would be turned into an American movie star with her first picture. June (Levant) was anxious to know what Gene Kelly's discovery looked like. 'She looks too much like me as far as I'm concerned,' he replied.




As preposterous as the remark sounded, there was truth in it. Caron did indeed look like a feminized, fetching version of Oscar Levant, with her full, pouty lips, round head, and wide, intelligent eyes. The resemblance would be borne out later in Amanda Levant, the daughter who looked the most like her father and who would bear a striking resemblance to Caron."

OK then. . .

We may not agree with this thesis, but we can try it on, can't we? Every adjective has been used on Levant, and his pictures show a man who can be either borderline-dishy, or as toadlike as Jabba the Hutt. He's much better in his movies, where his set-the-world-on-fire piano playing style immediately sends the hormones soaring, whether you like his looks or not.


 

As for Caron, she's a bit overbite-ish for my tastes, her invisible tail frisking away like a merry little squirrel's. Hi-Lily, Hi-Lo, indeed.


 

 
There's something Satanic about Oscar's face that doesn't go well with a blunt cut.
 

 


Funny, but I DO see the pouty mouth and sad eyes in this one,
though he was awfully young here.
 


 
 
 No, no, NOOOOOOO. . . this isn't working. . .  Levant in drag is just too incongruous. Once he outgrew that soft-faced, baby-lipped phase, he began to look sort of like the neighborhood tough, and it suited him.
 



Now THIS is Caron's true predatory nature, all done up in Oscar's sexy performing tux and trademark bow-tie.
 

 
Uhh. . .
 
 
Ahh. . .
 
Enough, enough! Let me quote another strange source, an astrology site that dissects Levant's natal chart (something to do with a goat), and makes the following alarming statements:
 
 

 
 
"He was knock-kneed and always looked disheveled with his rumpled, crumpled attire. Many women found Levant sexy with his limpid eyes, sensuous mouth, helpless demeanor, and devilishly wicked tongue. At home, his friends would find the pianist hunched over the piano smoking one of his countless cigarettes playing Bach, listening to Beethoven on the phonograph and reading Albert Camus at the same time."





Would I have wanted to know Oscar Levant? He was a close friend of Dorothy Parker - they always spoke highly of each other - but I've always had severe doubts as to whether I would have wanted to meet her. She was just too difficult, too draining, though as with Levant, celebrity swirled around her. I've just started reading the Levant bio, and already it's alarming: the man was a sort of bipolar's bipolar who careened from one extreme state to another, sometimes soaring in huge updrafts of grandiosity and other times glued, paralytic with depression, to his bed.

As with Parker, though, he had loyal friends, people who honestly loved him and knew they were in the company of an original. They don't make them like that any more, do they?  Perhaps in the course of human history, one Oscar Levant was enough.