JAMES BOYK MEMORIAM

June 1, 1943 – June 7, 2019

Loving, beloved and generous husband, father, grandfather, son, brother, friend, companion, creator, musician, author, mentor, record producer, sound engineer, inventor, connoisseur, raconteur. This is still insufficient to describe all you were and did. We will always love you and miss you!

Published by Los Angeles Times from Jun. 6 to Jun. 7, 2020.

To a lot of people, this seems like nonsense! But not to my friend, Caltech math professor F. Brock Fuller. Brock said, “Oh, yes, that’s what my mother did when I was a kid: put a tight limit on how much time I could spend on schoolwork. When the time expired, that was all! But to my surprise, I could still get my work done. I got more and more efficient! And I had time for what was important to me!”

At a random time during practice, STOP! Ask yourself,
“What precisely am I trying to do at this moment?”

Be Specific! Not “Observe the crescendo” or even “Improve the crescendo,” but “Find the score-elements that energize the crescendo; that create it.”

Not “Appreciate the sonority more,” but, “Relate the sonority to the harmonic series.”

Not “Playing with correct rhythm,” but “Creating rhythm that breathes and dances.”

My one-time landlord, Michael Malosek, cellist and herb doctor, used to refer to “thinking-practice.” The Stop! and Think technique can be a productive element of it.

MUSICKING a town: Making music at home and in homeless shelters, in prisons and legislatures, outdoors and indoors, in schools and theaters, classrooms and labs, on the Web and on the air. Young playing for old, and old for young. Rich and poor together.

SUPPORTED from below, not imposed from above.

CONNECTIONS within the community and to other communities.

ENHANCING expression and communication; and thus, the emotional health of all.

Half-pedal: An advanced effect in piano playing. Fictitious. Used to intimidate students and feed performers’ narcissism.

A piano tuner wouldn’t by choice use poor tools. If the socket on the tuning hammer were made of inferior metal, so that it soon wore out and slipped on the tuning pins, it would be useless for tuning; or if usable, it would waste effort. Would it be fussiness or affectation—or arrogance—for the technician to insist on a good tuning hammer? Would it be a statement that the tuner thought himself or herself better than other tuners? No! It would simply mean that he or she wanted to produce the best possible work for the pianist and audience.

Even with a defective tuning hammer, the tuning might get done acceptably—eventually. But musical performance allows no delays, no second tries; otherwise one gets what one does so often get: a routine experience; just another piano recital. But routine is not why people go to concerts; they go to be moved, to be exalted, to have life itself illuminated by great art. If one isn’t at least attempting to do this, one has no business playing the great works.

No performer can guarantee to play a great recital. But it’s hard enough to make music even on a perfect piano. Any imperfection in voicing, regulation or anything else–or in the fundamental sound quality of the instrument–makes it that much harder, that much more likely that one will not reach the heights.

Attempting to assure a perfect instrument is not an arrogant statement that one is oneself perfect; it’s a way of making up a bit for one’s own imperfections. A way of putting oneself on the spot. “Well, you’ve got a perfect piano,” you are saying to yourself. “You have only yourself to blame if the performance isn’t good.”

Of course most recitals are played on pianos in far from excellent condition, but that doesn’t mean this situation is desirable. The pianist who works actively to have the best possible instrument in the best possible condition is showing an ethical responsibility to the composer, the audience—and the music.

In a South American competition, a pianist won first prize: $5,000 and an appearance with orchestra. She played the concerto but never collected the $5,000.

In an international competition I entered, three rounds were scheduled: the usual two rounds followed by the usual finals with orchestra. But after the second round, the organizers announced that another round would be interposed before the finals! They took five contestants into this new third round; the jury passed only two into the finals; and then it split 2nd prize between them, not awarding 1st or 3rd.

A number of us who had been knocked out of the competition agreed that the best contestant was a young woman from Japan. She made it into the third round—that new 3rd round—but not the finals. I’ll never forget her ebullient performance of Beethoven’s Opus 2, No. 3, all joyful eagerness and precision; nor her heart-broken sobbing when she was eliminated. Her teacher was the great Ingrid Haebler, whom jury members were rumored to see as a competitor to themselves. Whether they did or not, her playing was marvelous, and it got her nowhere. Were the rest of us wrong in our judgment? Was her elimination honest? Or was it a case of musical politics? And was it an accident that of the two eventual finalists (who split that 2nd prize), one was a fine performer, and the other—technically accomplished but quite unexpressive—was the student of a jury member?

(I’m not mentioning many incidents I’ve encountered whose interpretation might be less clear, as when members of a competition audience (the big competitions have full-house audiences from first note to last) called out the name of one contestant they favored, whom the jury had knocked out. Or the contestant who omitted the toughest of David del Tredici’s “Fantasy Pieces” from a second-round performance in a major competition, saying cynically of the jury, “They’ll never check the score.” He was right: despite his violation of the rules, he made it to the next round. (Of course, he did have to play well enough to move on!)

And I’m not mentioning the many delightful moments, like the audience member’s coming up to me after I’d played the Opus 111 in Munich and saying in German, “Original Beethoven!” Or, after I played the second round at the same competition, the short twinkly nun bustling up to me and saying, “I love you!” In one of the few times in my life that I’ve found the right response on the spot, I replied, “Well, then, I’m in good company!” Or, most fun of all, the camaraderie among contestants, especially when we practiced and ate together.

I have a few ideas about how to run competitions: You don’t have to award first prize, or any prize; but you must give away all of the prize money. The contest announcement should be accompanied by a notarized statement from a bank that 100% of the money is in an escrow account, and will be distributed, but only to contestants. If the jury says that no one deserve first prize, that’s fine; that’s what you have a jury for. But then the money for 1st, 2nd and 3rd goes to those who place 2nd, 3rd and 4th. If no one places, it goes to the honorable mentions. All the money goes to contestants no matter what. This keeps things financially honest.

To keep things artistically honest, jury members may not be current or former teachers of contestants. This can be tough to arrange; so for extra protection, contestants should play behind an (acoustically-transparent) screen, at least until the finals. (Teachers may still recognize their students’ playing. I don’t know what to do about this.)

There’s much more to it, such as assuring that pianists have good instruments for practice (a big competition once supplied me with an upright), but these rules are a start.

Contests are great fun, but will always be problematical. Some performers are oriented toward sharing a musical-emotional experience with an audience, not testing themselves against other performers. These people may not show to advantage in a competition.

Then, too, juries will always tend to pick the contestant with the lowest musical profile. If contestant A plays with a very distinct musical personality—a “high profile”—some members of the jury may like her playing, but it’s a certainty that some will dislike it. These latter people may like the equally high-profile but quite different playing of B, whose work is intensely disliked by the group that favors A. Each group blocks the selection of the other’s favorite; and they compromise on C, who does not offend either group because his playing is low-profile, and indeed boring. This is why so many competition winners have so little to say. The exceptions—contestants so good that they can’t be denied, despite high profiles—are very rare.

Rarer still are jury members of the modesty of Artur Rubinstein. Judging contestants in his namesake competition in Israel, he scored every one either 20 (the highest score) or 0. When asked about this, he replied, “Either they can play the piano or they can’t.”

Returning to practicing, I was deeply into it when one of the French doors opened behind me, and a young man poked his head in. “Excuse me,” he said. “I finished tuning an hour ago and just wanted to see how it’s holding.”

I said nothing, but wordlessly played the same sequence of intervals while watching his face. A satisfied look spread across it as he said, “Perfect! Just wanted to check. Thanks.”

Exiting, he closed the door quietly.

I think we identify unconsciously with voices that fall in our own vocal ranges. This jumped out at me one time in a certain young man’s playing. I suggested the idea to him, and he immediately played the soprano as well as he played the bass.

I was lucky that the suggestion cured his problem. It was like one of those stories about how Freud cured some famous person with one insightful remark; except that this fellow wasn’t famous, and I’m not Freud. Or it’s like those stories about Zen masters, except that I didn’t have to break his leg for him to find enlightenment.

By the way, it happens with dynamics, too: people usually identify with a rather narrow range of dynamics. When you hear ugly loud sounds, there’s a good chance that the player identifies with “soft”; and the reverse when you hear tentative soft playing. Very few people can identify with the full ranges of pitch and dynamics.

For more on the subject, see my article, Audiences of the World, Arise!. And read Annals of Architecture: A Better Sound, by Bruce Bliven, Jr., in The New Yorker, Nov. 8, 1976. (Free to New Yorker subscribers, cheap to others.)

Some things seem clear:

Yes, good acoustics matter. “Auditorium” means a place for listening. If it isn’t good for this purpose, why spend the money and time?

Computer technology now lets us hear how the hall will sound before it’s built; not perfectly, but to a useful degree. This would have been regarded as magic a generation ago; and it’s valuable because it helps committees like ours come to agreement more quickly and with more confidence.

An acoustical consultant, or acoustician, must be involved from the first moment of the project. In case of disagreement between architect and acoustician, contracts should give priority to the latter.

The legal doctrine of “substantial performance” may interfere with your getting what you want, unless you take steps to incorporate performance standards and penalties into contracts. You may want the contract to say that the specified performance is “of the essence of this contract”; but don’t take my word for it. I’m not an attorney! Consult an attorney experienced in this sort of contracts!)

I’m not an acoustical consultant, either. What I am is a pianist; and through my career, I’ve seen that fine auditoriums inspire performers to give their best, provide the most intimate communication between performers and audience, assure that audiences receive the maximum of enjoyment, and attract additional events to the venue. Yet it’s rare for individuals or a committee to choose to make a fine hall.

You can be the exception. Make decisions that are acoustically beneficial, see that engineering and construction are carried out properly; and the fine acoustics will be your legacy to future performers, listeners, and your community.

Quietness and good acoustics

Several people on our committee have suggested that since Bailey Hall is not going to end up perfectly quiet, it isn’t worth it to make it quieter than it is now. And since the acoustics won’t be perfect, it’s not worth making them better. By contrast, I think every little bit counts.

Good acoustics are what bring the audience the full beauty and meaning of the sound produced on stage, and enhance that sound with the “bloom” of the hall’s reverberation. Good acoustics let the performer control the sound for greatest expressiveness.

Good acoustics involves questions like:

How much reverberation does the hall have, and what is its character?

Does the reverb last long enough to support the sound, so the performer benefits from the “bloom” and doesn’t feel he or she is working into cotton wool?

Does it last about the same amount of time for all pitches, or do some last much longer than others (which can sound weird)?

Does it die away smoothly (good), or does it have distinct echoes (bad)?

Is the power of the sound fully conveyed to the audience (good); or is it lost in wings or fly-gallery, or absorbed by walls or shell that are too floppy (bad)?

Quietness allows the audience to hear the finest details without straining. This is important because details of sound communicate details of feeling. And because a quiet hall makes soft sounds more audible, the performer can produce a wider “dynamic range”—from softest to loudest—without having to make the loudest sounds impossibly loud and therefore ugly. A wider range makes performances more expressive.

Quietness involves questions like:

How much noise is audible in the hall, and what is its character?

Is it a low-pitched hum, which will cover the voices of some actors and bass and baritone singers, cellos, double-basses, tubas and trombones?

Is it higher-pitched, where it will interfere with other actors, and with sopranos, altos or tenors, violins, violas, flutes and clarinets?

Does it have a pitch, which will become a dissonant note in every moment of performance? (Every vent fan and every motor makes noise with a distinct pitch—listen to your refrigerator—which is why their noises must be carefully isolated.)

Is it a smooth wash of sound, which may be relatively unnoticed? Or a succession of noises like a jack-hammer, which cannot be ignored?

Is it always present, like air-conditioning in hot weather, or occasional, like a toilet flushing?

Is it produced inside the hall (fans) or outside (airplanes, motorcycles)?

Noise is one thing; acoustics is another. What you do to improve either one has basically nothing to do with the other. Bailey Hall, according to the measurements, is noisy! Yet the acoustics are promising.

Who will benefit if noise is reduced and acoustics improved? Everybody on stage and off, in every performance and every rehearsal. But the ones most in my mind are the students, our children. As a performer, I know how much their experience, and their education, will be enhanced by having Bailey Hall more nearly what it can be.

In a quiet hall with good acoustics, hesitant voices and instruments will still be heard. The quietness will let them be heard; and the acoustics will improve them. Students will emerge from the experience saying, “I can’t wait to perform again!” Parents will say, “My daughter sounded better than at home!”

In a hall with good acoustics, a normal loud sound from the stage will come across as loud to the audience, with no need for strain by actor, singer or instrumentalist; thus no risk of ugly tone. The full power of the sound will be conveyed. Students will say, “I filled the hall with my sound!” Parents will say, “My son sounded like a pro!”

In these days of amplified sound, we forget that real voices and instruments can only play so loud and no louder. And we forget how lovely is the sound of natural voices and instruments, because we are so used to the corruption of amplification. (All amplification corrupts!)

A quiet hall widens the “dynamic range” of performances—the range from loudest to softest. This communicates a wider range of emotion because in performance, as in everyday life, louds and softs are directly related to feeling. Students will say, “I really got into it!” Parents will say, “They really communicated!”

The quieter the hall, the lower the audience’s stress level, and the more welcoming it will feel. Students will say, “The audience were such good listeners!” Parents will say, “I even enjoyed listening to other people’s kids!”

Who will suffer if Bailey’s noise is not reduced and acoustics not improved? Everybody on stage and in the audience, in every performance and every rehearsal. But the ones most in my mind are the students, our children. In a hall that’s noisy or has bad acoustics, the performance is harder to hear, and the expressive points tend to be lost. Soft parts, whether spoken, sung or played, are less audible, so fine details of feeling are less clear. Loud parts don’t come across as loud, so the feeling they convey is lost, too. Noises inside and outside the hall distract the audience’s attention. Student performers will say, “What was the point of all the preparation? I couldn’t put it across!” Parents will say, “I guess my child isn’t as good as I thought. And come to think of it, none of the kids sounded good.”

Some have pointed out that even if the hall were utterly silent in terms of internal noise, there would still be noise from outside. This is true. However, noise from outside will be much reduced when the room is finished, because many openings will be properly sealed. And when you’re in a big quiet space—for instance, a church—there’s a “distancing” of outside noise. Psychologically, it doesn’t bother you so much, because of the interior quietness of the space.