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Classical Music We Love to Hate—Midget Faded Rattlesnake
Our most recent thread on classical music favorites revealed a surprising amount of hate for Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Or maybe it’s not surprising. Perhaps there’s no surer way to torture a music lover than to force him to listen to music that doesn’t, for whatever reason, meet his expectations of what music should be. And that got me thinking about classical music that I hate. Turns out there’s a fair amount of it.
I can’t be the only one around here who feels passionate hatred for certain pieces of classical music, so I thought it would be fun to start a thread on what classical music we hate and why. Here, in no particular order, are a few of my favorite hates:
The first and last movements of Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. I love Vivaldi. I love the Four Seasons. Except for these two movements. I suppose they’re nice enough when they’re played by a skilled group, but indelibly etched on my memory is the sound of our school orchestra tunelessly sawing its way through these two pieces, which it did every year without noticeable improvement. Even when I listen to skilled performers, my inward ear still returns, like a salmon to the stream in which it was spawned, to the sour, phraseless noise that constitutes my earliest memory of Vivaldi. Shudder.
Ave Verum Corpus by Mozart. Again, this isn’t bad music. In fact, it’s a miniature gem of balanced, bland niceness. Which is probably why I don’t like it. Too nice is boring. Moreover, such a bloodless setting of what is, after all, a rather bloodthirsty bit of devotional poetry strikes me as rather impious.
The choral portions of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Beethoven wrote music for his heroic ideal of what singers should be, not for singers as they really are, and it shows. Most singers just don’t have the stamina necessary to sing this work without shouting or shrieking. I’m not sure I can imagine anything more disorienting than being trapped in the middle of the soprano section on this piece as most of the sopranos (several of whom are inordinately proud of their A5’s) try to outdo one another on the held high notes. When high notes are held that long, you can’t help but become acutely aware that the singers around you each have their own idea of where the pitch is supposed to be. If I’m destined for Hell, Satan would have to work hard to devise a torture for me worse than surrounding me by sopranos, all of them shrieking slightly different versions of A5, and demanding that I “match that pitch and timbre”.
Wagner’s operas, at least half the time. Yes, I know. Not a terribly original hate. But I’m married to a Wagner nut. Which means every time there’s a Wagner opera in town, off we go. Often the music is heartbreakingly beautiful. Until the singers open their mouths. The singers believe that, since they’ve been chosen to sing Wagner, it must be their destiny to make themselves heard over the orchestra at any cost, even if it means singing ugly. The orchestra members also believe that, because it’s Wagner, for once they don’t have to hold back – it’s the job of Wagnerian singers, after all, to make themselves heard no matter what. A fierce battle between singer and orchestra typically ensues. You could say that the orchestra usually wins, but, in reality, nobody wins. It’s a pity, because on the rare occasions you hear singers naturally powerful enough to carry their part over the orchestra without effort — or an orchestra sensitive enough to hold back — the results are extraordinarily lovely. I think that’s what’s meant by Wagner’s music being better than it sounds.
The Fanfare-Rondeau by Jean-Joseph Mouret. You may not think you know this piece, but you probably do. Thanks to PBS, this might be the most widely-recognized piece of Baroque music aside from Pachelbel’s Canon in D. As a TV theme song, it’s fine. As one of the few Baroque pieces most people can recognize as such, it’s not. It is music that’s unbearably pleased with itself. If this was your idea of Baroque music, you could easily be forgiven for thinking of Baroque music as nothing more than smug, repetitive tootling that never reaches beyond itself, though Baroque music needn’t be any of those things. I find this piece much more annoying than Pachelbel’s Canon.
In fact, I still enjoy Pachelbel’s Canon. Once in a while. Yes, it’s overused. And yes, it’s sad that more people’s musical horizons don’t extend beyond it. But the reason Pachelbel’s ghost follows musicians everywhere, tormenting them, is precisely because the bass line Pachelbel used is so effective. A composer could do much worse than to write the first really famous piece of music using that bass line. In fact, many composers have.
I still haven’t gotten around to my hatred of many madrigals (if I ever see fair Phyllis I will strangle her), Maria Callas, atonality, or polytonality. Or my ambivalence toward countertenors. But that will do for now.
What about you? What classical music do you love to hate?
Published in General
Now that I’ve responded to Spengler’s good-hearted, but misguided view of Vaughan-Williams, I’ll respond to the question at hand: what I really don’t like.
Bach. It pains me to say this. I know he’s a genius. I know his stuff is great. But, and I’m ready to admit that this is probably my failing and not his, a little Bach goes a long, long way with me.
Piano Sonatas in general. The piano is a great instrument, but I have a very hard time listening to it, and it alone. The interplay between a piano and orchestra in the great concerti is wonderful, but the solo piano gets very boring, very quickly. I feel generally the same about violin sonatas, but the violin stands on its own better than the piano.
Atonal Music. This term is an oxymoron. A little atonality to serve as a contrast is fine, but music must finally find some harmony if I’m going to enjoy it.
Well, if we’re doing sight gags on classical music, how about Swan Lake? This is only part of a much longer sequence from Brain Donors, but I don’t think the full thing is up on Youtube. There’s this bit, for instance, with a leaping dancer, a whoopee cushion, and a trampoline…
The Serenade is nice. The others? No, no, and (especially the Vaughan Willams) NO. (Just as I was starting to enjoy it, I got smacked upside the head with a Welsh folktune.)
Look folks, I appreciate your kind efforts to save my soul, but I’m not converting. I just don’t like this stuff. When you reach a certain age, you realize that you don’t like broccoli, or cilantro, or Vaughan Williams — and a different type of sauce won’t change your mind.
I’m afraid you’re the one in the best position to articulate why a particular composer makes you barf. I encourage you to give it a try. We have not had nearly enough hate on this thread so far.
Which one? I didn’t recognize it.
If you can get a good rant off about Welsh folk tunes, I would love to hear it. Personally, I find the Welsh language rather beautiful, their songs for the most part fetching, and their tradition of men’s choruses rather sweet. But they are by no means immune from parody.
I am very sad. I have tried so many times to post on conversations with the “New Ricochet” only to have it bomb out on me or never post the comment. I had a nice response to this thread but it won’t post. When my member ship renewal com es up I will say good bye.
Midge, I’m grateful for your initiating this thread, because I had to hold my fire about Tschaikovsky in the other thread, and now I don’t have to!
To me, while a couple of his chamber pieces are reasonably enjoyable (perhaps because they remind me of Borodin’s string quartets, which I do like), the entirety of Tschaikovsky’s orchestral-size oeuvre — all of it, whatever the piece — is nothing but pure schmaltz.
Put differently, I find Tschaikovsky to be thoroughly overrated.
To my mind ironically, Tschaikovsky apparently once sneered something along the lines that melody in Brahms’ works was completely impossible to find.
I say “ironically,” because to me Tschaikovsky — in every movement of every one of his orchestral-scale compositions — puts out there a few bars of a mildly catchy melody and then proceeds to beat it to death; think of his 5th Symphony, for instance.
While I’m at it, I’ll add that unfortunately Rachmaninoff continued in Tschaikovsky’s footsteps — if the phrase “saccharine-laced schmaltz” conjures up gross-out imagery in the mind’s eye, that’s because musically that’s what it is.
Oh no! You managed to post this comment…. Is there no point in trying again?
That comment took five tries.
I was guessing; it could have been an English tune, or an original theme with a Welsh flavor.
I enjoy Welsh music, and my book of Welsh, English, & Irish fiddle tunes is well-used. But for whatever reason, I just can’t stand it when the music of the British Isles is arranged in a symphonic setting. I enjoy Eastern European, Central European, and even American folk music arranged for orchestra (Bartok, Dvorak, Copland, Ives, et al.). But making British folktunes into a lush, rich composition sounds overwrought to me. Too much bigness. It’s like a woman who wears so much makeup that it becomes more prominent than her face.
SoS: As a believer in freedom (even your freedom to not appreciate wonderfulness), I will back off. But I’ll never understand why you’re such a “hater” of the poor Welsh. Haven’t the English done enough without you piling on their folk songs?
BTW, it probably was a folk song you heard (can’t speak to its Welshness). V-W spent years finding and preserving folk songs.
Pachelbel fun:
I have a similar reaction to lush settings of many folk tunes, though as far as I know, my objections aren’t particularly associated with any nationality.
Since about half the music I do takes place in church, I notice this all the time with hymns and carols. Several carols started out as folk songs. Drinking songs, even. Carols with such origins don’t often take well to majestic settings, so please stop trying, unless for humorous effect. Similarly, several American hymn tunes come from the shape-note tradition, which is notable for its no-nonsense approach and eerie raucousness, but certainly not its lushness.
For example, the tune Nettleton, used for the hymn “Come Thou Fount”, was first set by a shape-note publisher, and since I somehow grew up knowing this, I’ve always associated it with that kind of style. For me, the only thing worse than hearing a lush arrangement of “Come Thou Fount” is having to sing one.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s only a canon in the upper parts, with the bass forever stuck on the ground, so to speak, making it a chaconne. But the name “canon” has stuck, so whatcha gonna do?
Considering the popularity of many rounds, which are simple canons (here’s an oldie, but a goodie – pity there aren’t better recordings on YouTube), I’m not sure I’d buy it’s popular because of its ironic status as the canon that really isn’t.
Me, I’m an inept enough keyboardist that I still can derive some joy out of improvising new parts over that dratted ground bass, though I understand why that wouldn’t be enough of a challenge for a keyboardist of any great skill.
I thought I hated Rachmaninoff, too, until I found his liturgies for the Russian Orthodox church, which are a cappella, constrained by tradition, and (I think) refreshingly under-wrought in their beauty. Here is a playlist of his Liturgy of John Chrysostom, and here is an outstanding alto solo from his Vespers (did I mention how hard it is to find great alto soloists yet?):
I’m glad to hear it! I was hoping someone would really hate something!
I didn’t mind it until I worked for Dillards. As part of the in-store soundtrack, they had about 50 minutes that was nothing but four or five versions of the Canon in a row. There was the traditional string quartet, and a brass quartet, and a more upbeat version, and after hearing the same song multiple times a day, every day, you just want to cover your hands and scream. I asked the organist to play any song but that one at our wedding …
The other one that Dillards taught me to hate was a version of The Flower Duet — the soundtrack had two women just screeching their way through it.
Now I know never to ask you to sing it with me, then.
I was lucky enough the first time I heard that duet to hear it done really well, so I fell instantly in love. I’m responsible for it happening at three weddings so far – though I suppose I should make it clear I didn’t force it on anyone!
I don’t know which recording I first heard. Maybe this one. I know it wasn’t the one by Netrebko and Garanca, since I was so young at the time and they weren’t on the scene yet, but they also do it pretty well. As the piece exists to showcase the serene harmony of perfectly paired sopranos, it’s certainly auditory torture when it’s done poorly. And it’s not hard to do poorly – getting sopranos to pair perfectly is hard!
In fairness, it’s been over a decade since I’ve worked for Dillards, so the PTSD from that has faded. :D
As a piece of music, I do think it’s gorgeous, and frankly, I think it would be fun to sing. I just never *ever* want to hear that particular recording again.
Those are some talented sopranos if they can hold a high note and make demands at the same time.
Satan would be the one making the demand, in his role as infernal conductor. (That said, if you’ve ever caught sopranos glaring at each other on a held high note, you’ve seen them make demands of each other at the same time.)
I don’t know if Satan is also a soprano. He could be. I wouldn’t put it past him.
All this talk of sopranos and neuroses has me worried. My eldest wants to sing soprano opera and keeps practicing numbers from The Magic Flute.
Cool. Which ones?
Sopranos in aggregate have what is probably a well-earned reputation for being more neurotic than any other voice part, but that doesn’t mean all sopranos are neurotic. It’s possible singing soprano can’t bring out any weakness you don’t already have. A placid, unflappable woman who doesn’t get nervous, isn’t over-anxious to please, and who enjoys robust good health probably stands a good chance of not being driven crazy by singing soprano.
For the rest of us, it’s dicier.
You might think tenors, being the highest normal male part, would be similarly crazy, but they’re not. They generally operate under the assumption that, simply because they’re tenors, they’ll do an awesome job. As a result they’re incorrigible, but they keep their sanity.
I wonder if you would change your mind if you heard it in its original context, as the middle movement to a string quartet?
I had to think about this.
She was a superb musician, but more often than not, I just don’t like her sound. That a voice so dominating could also be so flexible is of course impressive. But she often sounds to me as if she’s singing through sinuses stuffed with Gouda, even when she’s at her technical and expressive best. In fairness to her, she also disliked her sound.
And her high notes were unstable, a problem for a soprano, especially one who attempts most of the coloratura repertoire. For every sweet one, it seems like you can find a shrieky one that would blister paint two counties over. (Just because you can hit a note doesn’t mean you should be hitting it in concert.)
Also, because of her reputation for control and agility, I’m left wondering whether odd, blurred, or inaccurate-sounding ornamental work was a deliberate artistic choice, and if so, why?
Her descending chromatic scales, really sighs with just enough vibrato to give a vague impression of distinct notes, are fantastic though.
Sure they can do it. It’s called “wretched-tative.”
(Auditory pun – must be spoken aloud to work. ;-)
And her high notes were unstable, a problem for a soprano, especially one who attempts most of the coloratura repertoire. . . .
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TR says: I’m in no position to judge Callas technically. She was wonderful in the dramatic aspects of her roles, but I find her voice pretty rough, especially near the top.
Her snarky treatment of Renata Tebaldi, her rival and great lyric soprano, was vicious. Tebaldi kept her powder dry, and after one particularly vicious attack, wrote a letter to Time that may be one of the greatest put-downs of all-time: “The signora [Callas] admits to being a woman of character and says that I have no backbone. I reply: I have one thing she does not have–a heart.” Zing!