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Art for Art's Sake

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In a musical sub-career lasting 30 years (since my first professional gig in the Palais Theatre Orchestra Pit), I've had a whole raft of interesting experiences, but a recent phone contact (via the Musician's Union) left me questioning thirty years of experience

I had a call from a Mr. Heineken (not his real name) who wanted to have his music recorded - specifically a string quartet. I offered to meet with him at his residence to collect the scores, and ended up in the reception area of a suburban retirement village. The receptionist mentioned at this stage that the person I was about to meet was possibly not considered of sound mind. Specifically, there was mention of "flights of confabulation". Thinking back through many musical experiences and my many musical friends, I decided that perhaps these factors didn't disqualify Mr. H. from at least a friendly chat.

I then reassured the receptionist that I would not undertake any work on a commercial basis, and would simply try to make an old man happy. Mr. H. appeared a few minutes later, musical scores in hand, unkempt, unshaven and a little frail of step. We chatted for a while about the scores, and he was also keen to show me his critiques from eisteddfod judges and other musical luminaries about the works. In fact, had I not signalled the receptionist, I daresay that I would have spent many weeks in the reception area. However, Mr. H. was lucid, polite, friendly, charming, and generally coherent. And his scores were commercially prepared and both legible and structured.

I'd agreed to render recordings of these quartets using samples and the next task was to type in the myriad notes into Noteworthy Composer, a sequencer package, replicate the written score, select some violin, viola and cello samples, and record these to CD. Mr. H. had plans of entering a Sydney eisteddfod, and this was the only performance mechanism available to him.

A couple of days of digital transcription later, and Mr. H's scores were ready to record. On paper they appeared coherent. When heard for the first time, they revealed a cacophony of scale-like passages, ascending and descending, with little regard to form, theme, or diatonic harmony. However, the nature of modern composition is varied, and linearly conceived parts are not always amiss in tone poems or Schoenburg, or even in heavy traffic on Eastlink.

By themselves, each part of the score made sense. In total, they were sonically confusing and harmonically disparate. I checked again the notation package to see that my parts had been transposed faithfully, that accidentals were not missed, that bars were not displaced, and that arco and pizz sections were all as per the original score. The cacophony was still apparent after a diligent check of many pages of score.

I thought to myself that this was beyond a joke. In fact I laughed, and expected someone with a candid camera to appear at any minute. Surely Mr. H. wasn't serious. Surely the works were not meant to be as disjointed and harmonically bankrupt. I made an effort to spread the parts in the stereo spectrum to define any melody that would take precedence via its higher pitch or rhythmic focus. Didn't help. This was fly shit at thirty paces - blowflies, probably, or sandflies.

As I re-listened to the works they did start to adopt a distinctive cohesive character. Or perhaps the Panadol was working. Like my memory, my inner ear was trying to invent a context for the sounds that washed over my eardrums - like the Carrum-Frankston sewer outlet washing over prized restaurant-grade abalone.

I wanted this to be correct. I didn't know what I would say to the composer upon him hearing the works back. I was worried I'd somehow missed some essential detail. The more the works eluded any form, the more I pored back over the scores, desperate to do them sonic justice. Every part was checked meticulously. The more serious I became about rendering the work correctly, the more the irony of the exercise played tricks with my sanity. I tried to suggest to myself that these works were worthy of a film score, or perhaps trying to present harmonic concepts that were more advanced than my own training. I was strangely prepared to learn from the episode. In spite of the fact that the source material was questionable, the effort and duty of care with this composition was still strangely necessary. I was torn between stating that the works were crap - and dashing an old man's aspirations, or simply treating the exercise with a meticulous seriousness and bypassing the common-sense of it all.

Had nobody told Mr. H. in 40 years that his work was atonal rubbish? Or was it simply the musical equivalent of Bowie lyrics - written on paper, cut into pieces, scattered on the carpet and then re-assembled in random fashion? Or was this a skilled musician whose mind had finally fragmented and who only had the decaying artefacts of a musical education to draw upon?

I delivered the CD to Mr. H. in good faith, observed a neat abode, a rich musical library in bookcases in the music room, the keyboard and the computer at the workdesk, and the manuscript with newer scores on it - the same as any full-time arranger would have. Outward appearances were unsuspicious and indicated the pursuits of a serious musician. No candid camera crew, either.

But I couldn't help thinking why the music was so unfamiliar to me, and wondered whether I'd missed the point. If art is about the expression, Mr. H. had certainly expressed himself. And this in turn was valid. Just that it was like music from a completely different approach. And in turn I questioned my own approach.

I drove back home. Usually the radio would be blaring. Today, thanks to Mr. H.'s musical efforts, I turned the radio off, and sat in silence, questioning what was art and what was artifice. And I pondered the fact that of all the clients I've ever had, this guy had his shit together more than most do.

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Who Writes This Anyway ?

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The Dues is indebted to a team of highly underpaid, overqualified volunteers who have too much time on their hands.

This month we’d like to pay tribute to one of these brilliant contributors – who this month took the time to write his own, self-effacing and somewhat humble biography.

HAT’S OFF TO PETER’S BRILLIANT CAREER

Peter Kelleher wears many hats, though only one at a time, having only one head.

Having entered on the career of pal to an organ grinder’s monkey, his stellar career has been a stellar career, going from one thing to the next in that order.

In the early 1990s, he gave it all up and went to live in a commune in the back paddock of a farm near Timboon. Three days later he was back by popular demand, baking caramel and rye sandwiches at the Palais Theatre and Phone Booth in St Kilda.

A tragic accident in 2007 left him dead and unable to earn a living in the career that had given him such a stellar career.

The president of his fan club is a penguin.

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