For many years, prominent Bach scholars including Harald Vogel (to whom I mean no personal disrespect) wanted us to believe that the organs of North Germany and Holland were the "ideal Bach organs" -- i.e., the best organs on which to play the music of the Thuringian master.
Well, Bach wasn't North German. And he'd never been to Holland. Why, then, make these illogical claims?
The answer is quite simple: many of the more Bachian and less tampered-with organs were in the former East and were, thus, not easily accessible to Vogel and others. Part of their data pool was roped off.
Strangely, this rather obvious answer has been disputed by some. An organist working in the former East wrote on a popular listserv:
[Vogel] used to come here p[r]etty often, even before the fall of the wall. It wasn't impossible, just unpleasant.
However, on the website of the Constellation Center here in Cambridge, MA, future home to what promises to be a stupendous Taylor & Boody, one reads:
While playing the music of Bach has been an important consideration in the design of organs for a long time, the relative inaccessibility of surviving instruments in Thuringia and Saxony during the East German period had prevented the research necessary for musicians and organ builders from the West to gain a thorough understanding of the traditions that Bach knew.
Now this situation has changed. Study of these instruments by builders and players has been taking place for a number of years and some of the most important Thuringian and Saxon organs have recently had fine restorations. Because of recent and ongoing research in connection with the restoration process, it is now possible to have a much clearer understanding of the sounds that Bach worked with and how they were produced.
This landmark Taylor & Boody instrument will be modelled after the much-hyped Hildebrandt organ in Naumberg. And it will be a wonderful instrument for the music of Bach. But is the Hildebrandt organ really "THE ideal Bach organ," as their publicity would have us believe?
The afore-mentioned organist in the former East wrote:
As for Naumburg - JSB helped design it, he examined it and found it excellent, and he pulled quite a lot of levers to get his student and son-in-law appointed there.
True, it is likely that Bach thought highly of this instrument. But how could anyone stretch, "I approve of this instrument," into, "This is The Ideal instrument for my organ music"? I know musicians are creative, but that requires something beyond the normal dosage of creativity!
The late, great Stephen Bicknell wrote:
If such an instrument [i.e., a true "Bach organ"] had existed in respect of J. S. Bach himself we would have a far greater understanding of the man and his music. In truth the historical record conspicuously lacks any such instrument. There is no identifiable Bach organ, and despite the hopes of many researchers the possible connection between J. S. Bach and the design of any particular instrument - whether the Trost organ at Altenburg or the Hildebrandt at Naumburg - is at best treacherously tenuous. [...]
From the record of surviving instruments we have none at which he presided. There are several which he played, even a few where he made a formal inspection at the time of their completion. All have suffered from the vicissitudes of time and, even where they have been conscientiously restored, the sounds that can be heard today give only a partial insight into the instrumental world that the great man inhabited.
In the relative absence of any coherent archaeological record the study of the relationship between J. S. Bach and the organ occupies exactly the same imaginary world as the study of Stonehenge, and the results of that study are witness not to Bach's own genius but to the affairs and concerns of those who have made the various studies. [...]
With this in mind I prefer to see the connection often made between Bach and the organ building of late seventeenth century Hamburg - instruments by Arp Schnitger and his immediate predecessors - as being a story of twentieth century preoccupations. First and foremost it is a story of political upheaval. In the division of Germany after the Second World War the Bach homelands of Thüringia and Saxony became relatively inaccessible, their organs and organ culture obviously so. The instruments of Gottfried Silbermann retained their specific cachet, but that widely acknowledged award of distinction was a matter of survival, not of revival. The remarkable craftsmanship in Silbermann's instruments led them to be revered not only in his own time but in following generations too. I would go as far as to say that in the nineteenth century he was the only organ builder of the past whose name was widely known in the international organ world. When the Iron Curtain came down across Europe even Silbermann's instruments fell for a time into shadow, and the idea of them belonging to an indigenous and varied local organ culture passed completely into oblivion. Attention was naturally diverted for a time to the other great area of importance to Bach's understanding of the organ - Hamburg and the North.
This removal of focus from central Germany to the North was also propelled by the engine of twentieth century musicology[.]
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Brahmsian News
You heard it here first: an exciting new Brahms project, slated for completion this summer, to be published by CIC.For over a hundred years, Brahms's final opus, the beautiful Eleven Chorale Preludes for Organ (Op. 122), has inspired both admiration and curiosity. George Bozarth, Barbara Owen, and other musicologists have opined that Brahms actually intended Fourteen Chorale Preludes, divided into two groups of seven.
The order of the first seven in Brahms's manuscript is 1, 5, 2, 6, 7, 3, 4. Clearly, the current No. 11 would be No. 14. That leaves Nos. 8, 9, and 10. What would comprise the missing three?
The splendid Prelude and Fugue on O Traurigkeit (WoO 7) spring to mind. But that still gives us only 13.
Rumor has it that Brahms sketched a few measures of a canonic treatment of Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen. We know that several of Op. 122 are revisions of earlier works. We know also that Brahms and Joachim liked to write canons, during the great days when Schumann was still among the living.
In this spirit, CIC is preparing the very first edition of "Brahms's Vierzehn Choralvorspiele (Fourteen Chorale Preludes), Op. 122a." Set I will consist of Nos. 1-7 (in the afore-mentioned order). Set II will include (in a yet-to-be-determined order), Nos. 8-11, O Traurigkeit, and Yours Truly's own canonic treatment of Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen, in a Brahmsian harmonic language but with the canonic technique employed by Schumann in his Six Studies for Pedal Piano, Op. 56
This exciting publication will be available on or before September 1st.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Mark Twain Speaks III
Along outside of the front fence ran the country road, dusty in the Summertime, and a good place for snakes - they liked to lie in it and sun themselves; when they were rattlesnakes or puff adders we killed them; when they were black snakes or races, or belonged to the fabled "hoop" breed we fled, without shame; when they were "house snakes" or "garters" we carried them home and put them in Aunt Patsy's work basket for a surprise; for she was prejudiced against snakes, and always when she took the basket in her lap and they began to climb out of it, it disordered her mind. She never could seem to get used to them; her opportunities went for nothing. And she was always cold toward bats, too, and could not bear them; and yet I think a bat is as friendly a bird as there is. My mother was Aunt Patsy's sister and had the same wild superstitions. A bat is beautifully soft and silky; I do not know any creature that is pleasanter to the touch or is more grateful for caressings, if offered in the right spirit.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Mark Twain Speaks II
It was during my first year's apprenticeship in the Courier office that I did a thing which I have been trying to regret for fifty-five years.
It was a summer afternoon and just the kind of weather that a boy prizes for river excursions and other frolics, but I was a prisoner. The others were all gone holidaying. I was alone and sad. I had committed a crime of some sort and this was the punishment. I must lose my holiday, and spend the afternoon in solitude besides. I had the printing-office all to myself, there in the third story. I had one comfort, and it was a generous one while it lasted. It was the half of a long and broad watermelon, fresh and red and ripe. I gouged it out with a knife, and I found accommodation for the whole of it in my person -- though it did crowd me until the juice ran out of my ears.
There remained then the shell, the hollow shell. It was big enough to do duty as a cradle. I didn't want to waste it, and I couldn't think of anything to do with it which could afford entertainment. I was sitting at the open window which looked out upon the sidewalk of the main street three stories below, when it occurred to me to drop it on somebody's head. I doubted the judiciousness of this, and I had some compunctions about it, too, because so much of the resulting entertainment would fall to my share and so little to the other person. But I thought I would chance it. I watched out of the window for the right person to come along -- the safe person -- but he didn't come. Every time there was a candidate he or she turned out to be an unsafe one, and I had to restrain myself. But at last I saw the right one coming. It was my brother Henry.
He was the best boy in the whole region. He never did harm to anybody, he never offended anybody. He was exasperatingly good. He had an overflowing abundance of goodness -- but not enough to save him this time. I watched his approach with eager interest. He came strolling along, dreaming his pleasant summer dream and not doubting but that Providence had him in His care. If he had known where I was he would have had less confidence in that superstition. As he approached his form became more and more foreshortened. When he was almost under me he was so foreshortened that nothing of him was visible from my high place except the end of his nose and his alternately approaching feet. Then I poised the watermelon, calculated my distance, and let it go, hollow side down. The accuracy of that gunnery was beyond admiration. He had about six steps to make when I let that canoe go, and it was lovely to see those two bodies gradually closing in on each other. If he had had seven steps to make, or five steps to make, my gunnery would have been a failure. But he had exactly the right number to make, and that shell smashed down right on the top of his head and drove him into the earth up to the chin, the chunks of that broken melon flying in every direction like a spray.
I wanted to go down there and condole with him, but it would not have been safe. He would have suspected me at once. I expected him to suspect me, anyway, but as he said nothing about this adventure for two or three days -- I was watching him in the meantime in order to keep out of danger -- I was deceived into believing that this time he didn't suspect me. It was a mistake. He was only waiting for a sure opportunity. Then he landed a cobblestone on the side of my head which raised a bump there so large that I had to wear two hats for a time.
It was a summer afternoon and just the kind of weather that a boy prizes for river excursions and other frolics, but I was a prisoner. The others were all gone holidaying. I was alone and sad. I had committed a crime of some sort and this was the punishment. I must lose my holiday, and spend the afternoon in solitude besides. I had the printing-office all to myself, there in the third story. I had one comfort, and it was a generous one while it lasted. It was the half of a long and broad watermelon, fresh and red and ripe. I gouged it out with a knife, and I found accommodation for the whole of it in my person -- though it did crowd me until the juice ran out of my ears.
There remained then the shell, the hollow shell. It was big enough to do duty as a cradle. I didn't want to waste it, and I couldn't think of anything to do with it which could afford entertainment. I was sitting at the open window which looked out upon the sidewalk of the main street three stories below, when it occurred to me to drop it on somebody's head. I doubted the judiciousness of this, and I had some compunctions about it, too, because so much of the resulting entertainment would fall to my share and so little to the other person. But I thought I would chance it. I watched out of the window for the right person to come along -- the safe person -- but he didn't come. Every time there was a candidate he or she turned out to be an unsafe one, and I had to restrain myself. But at last I saw the right one coming. It was my brother Henry.
He was the best boy in the whole region. He never did harm to anybody, he never offended anybody. He was exasperatingly good. He had an overflowing abundance of goodness -- but not enough to save him this time. I watched his approach with eager interest. He came strolling along, dreaming his pleasant summer dream and not doubting but that Providence had him in His care. If he had known where I was he would have had less confidence in that superstition. As he approached his form became more and more foreshortened. When he was almost under me he was so foreshortened that nothing of him was visible from my high place except the end of his nose and his alternately approaching feet. Then I poised the watermelon, calculated my distance, and let it go, hollow side down. The accuracy of that gunnery was beyond admiration. He had about six steps to make when I let that canoe go, and it was lovely to see those two bodies gradually closing in on each other. If he had had seven steps to make, or five steps to make, my gunnery would have been a failure. But he had exactly the right number to make, and that shell smashed down right on the top of his head and drove him into the earth up to the chin, the chunks of that broken melon flying in every direction like a spray.
I wanted to go down there and condole with him, but it would not have been safe. He would have suspected me at once. I expected him to suspect me, anyway, but as he said nothing about this adventure for two or three days -- I was watching him in the meantime in order to keep out of danger -- I was deceived into believing that this time he didn't suspect me. It was a mistake. He was only waiting for a sure opportunity. Then he landed a cobblestone on the side of my head which raised a bump there so large that I had to wear two hats for a time.
Stuffy Organists
I was vaguely following a thread on a popular listserv devoted to organists. Discretion prevents me from naming said listserv; but its initials are PIPORG-L.
Every so often arises a debate as to who is more effacaciously killing the organist profession, those who play "lighter" music to "please the crowds," or the "purists" who play only "serious" music.
Such debates are like water in a toilet bowl: it swirls around continuously, but ultimately it can go only in one direction.
Then my fancy was caught by this one sentence by a list member:
I think "stuffy" organists who play ONLY classical pieces or some of the less accessible modern pieces are a bigger problem.
Back when I was a teenager and knew everything, something bothered me about going to concerts at Symphony Hall. There was something bogus about it all. You take a great composer, who struggled his whole life with money. Now we hear said composer's music in Carnegie Hall, played by musicians with formal black-and-white attire, all for the special price of $219 a ticket. The interpretations are too boring; the program notes are too erudite; it's an experience carefully tailored to the people with more money that taste -- the exact kind of people that made the composers' lives miserable. I was very conscious of this irony when I was a teenager and knew everything.
I'm pleased that organists are wrestling with these matters. I believe that we musicians are the ones who are going to have to make the change.
The "overly serious organists" need to be less boring. We need to speak to the audience about what we're playing. If we love a work, we should be able to explain to others why we love it. And if we don't love it, why would we play it? And what of the daredevil technical warhorses that we play to impress our colleagues, to make sure they see the finely sculpted muscles that we are flexing? Unless we have 2,000 such colleagues, all of whom are willing to buy tickets to our Symphony Hall or Carnegie Hall concert, how is said event going to be financially feasible? Even 50 such colleagues, if they were willing to attend our church service every Sunday, are not going to be enough to keep the church afloat financially. From a purely mathematical point of view, making music only for the cognoscenti is not going to make ends meet.
As for the "not serious enough organists," you need to dare to be a little more boring, perhaps. Most classical concert organizers have the same flawed thinking as most Roman Catholic pastors of a certain generation. "We gotta bring more people in the door!" Yes, but to experience what exactly? A baseball game at Fenway Park attracts 35,000 people. A Sunday Mass does not attract 35,000 people. Mathematically -- and I'm speaking only mathematically -- more people would show up to Mass if the Bread and Wine were replaced by hot dogs and beer, the chalice replaced by a baseball bat, the Lectionary replaced by a score card. Yes, the numbers of people entering the door would increase mathematically. But what are they attending? When I was a child, I entered church and smelled incense. Recently I entered a church which I will not name and smelled coffee. The clergy of the latter is baffled, utterly baffled, why parishioners are now texting and talking and drinking beverages in the pews. So during the opening announcements, the congregation is told verbally that they are about to witness a "sacred" worship service. Their ears hear those words while their noses smell coffee. Which sense are they going to believe?
Musicians must not make the analogous mistake. Yes, a concert audience will be mathematically larger if you have less Bach and more rock music. But what will the audience actually be hearing? Dare to play what you feel is good music.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm headed to the 4:00 Mass for a cup of coffee.
Every so often arises a debate as to who is more effacaciously killing the organist profession, those who play "lighter" music to "please the crowds," or the "purists" who play only "serious" music.
Such debates are like water in a toilet bowl: it swirls around continuously, but ultimately it can go only in one direction.
Then my fancy was caught by this one sentence by a list member:
I think "stuffy" organists who play ONLY classical pieces or some of the less accessible modern pieces are a bigger problem.
Back when I was a teenager and knew everything, something bothered me about going to concerts at Symphony Hall. There was something bogus about it all. You take a great composer, who struggled his whole life with money. Now we hear said composer's music in Carnegie Hall, played by musicians with formal black-and-white attire, all for the special price of $219 a ticket. The interpretations are too boring; the program notes are too erudite; it's an experience carefully tailored to the people with more money that taste -- the exact kind of people that made the composers' lives miserable. I was very conscious of this irony when I was a teenager and knew everything.
I'm pleased that organists are wrestling with these matters. I believe that we musicians are the ones who are going to have to make the change.
The "overly serious organists" need to be less boring. We need to speak to the audience about what we're playing. If we love a work, we should be able to explain to others why we love it. And if we don't love it, why would we play it? And what of the daredevil technical warhorses that we play to impress our colleagues, to make sure they see the finely sculpted muscles that we are flexing? Unless we have 2,000 such colleagues, all of whom are willing to buy tickets to our Symphony Hall or Carnegie Hall concert, how is said event going to be financially feasible? Even 50 such colleagues, if they were willing to attend our church service every Sunday, are not going to be enough to keep the church afloat financially. From a purely mathematical point of view, making music only for the cognoscenti is not going to make ends meet.
As for the "not serious enough organists," you need to dare to be a little more boring, perhaps. Most classical concert organizers have the same flawed thinking as most Roman Catholic pastors of a certain generation. "We gotta bring more people in the door!" Yes, but to experience what exactly? A baseball game at Fenway Park attracts 35,000 people. A Sunday Mass does not attract 35,000 people. Mathematically -- and I'm speaking only mathematically -- more people would show up to Mass if the Bread and Wine were replaced by hot dogs and beer, the chalice replaced by a baseball bat, the Lectionary replaced by a score card. Yes, the numbers of people entering the door would increase mathematically. But what are they attending? When I was a child, I entered church and smelled incense. Recently I entered a church which I will not name and smelled coffee. The clergy of the latter is baffled, utterly baffled, why parishioners are now texting and talking and drinking beverages in the pews. So during the opening announcements, the congregation is told verbally that they are about to witness a "sacred" worship service. Their ears hear those words while their noses smell coffee. Which sense are they going to believe?
Musicians must not make the analogous mistake. Yes, a concert audience will be mathematically larger if you have less Bach and more rock music. But what will the audience actually be hearing? Dare to play what you feel is good music.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm headed to the 4:00 Mass for a cup of coffee.
The Secret to Happiness (?)
Subtitled: Enlightenment is overrated, and I can prove it.
There have been all sorts of studies indicating that Bach uses more different parts of your brain than other, "simpler" music.
What bothers me is: there's never been one study proving that using more parts of your brain makes you happier.
Enlightenment is overrated, and I can prove it. You're in a tiny village in Italy. You make cheese. Your father made cheese, his father made cheese, his father's father made cheese ... the tradition goes back 800 years. You make cheese. That's Scenario I. Scenario II is: you've been listening to so much Bach that the reawakened parts of your brain are telling you you'd rather be an interior decorator. You quit the cheese business. No one in your family will speak to you. Rumors circulate throughout the village.
In which of those scenarios are you happy?
Who is happier, the person who has aluminum siding on his home, or the master carpenter-architect-artisan who is nauseated whenever he sees a house with aluminum siding?
The secret (?), however, is if somehow the person with more developed taste can find an environment in which he or she is supported by human beings around him or her.
In certain historic communities, no changes to the exterior of a home may be changed without expressed written consent of the town leaders. In other, more rural areas, wood is so plentiful, as are carpenters who deal with it artistically. To even find someone who knew how to install aluminum siding would be difficult, and the result expensive.
A musician, therefore, could hypothetically find happiness, if he or she simply found a place to live and work where the people want and maybe even expect good music. He or she could also be the pioneer who inaugurates a musical tradition. But I doubt he or she will experience much happiness in that thankless process.
There have been all sorts of studies indicating that Bach uses more different parts of your brain than other, "simpler" music.
What bothers me is: there's never been one study proving that using more parts of your brain makes you happier.
Enlightenment is overrated, and I can prove it. You're in a tiny village in Italy. You make cheese. Your father made cheese, his father made cheese, his father's father made cheese ... the tradition goes back 800 years. You make cheese. That's Scenario I. Scenario II is: you've been listening to so much Bach that the reawakened parts of your brain are telling you you'd rather be an interior decorator. You quit the cheese business. No one in your family will speak to you. Rumors circulate throughout the village.
In which of those scenarios are you happy?
Who is happier, the person who has aluminum siding on his home, or the master carpenter-architect-artisan who is nauseated whenever he sees a house with aluminum siding?
The secret (?), however, is if somehow the person with more developed taste can find an environment in which he or she is supported by human beings around him or her.
In certain historic communities, no changes to the exterior of a home may be changed without expressed written consent of the town leaders. In other, more rural areas, wood is so plentiful, as are carpenters who deal with it artistically. To even find someone who knew how to install aluminum siding would be difficult, and the result expensive.
A musician, therefore, could hypothetically find happiness, if he or she simply found a place to live and work where the people want and maybe even expect good music. He or she could also be the pioneer who inaugurates a musical tradition. But I doubt he or she will experience much happiness in that thankless process.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Will this be on the test?
I was in a cab today with a public school teacher. A very intelligent fellow who teaches French in a public high school, in a city west of Boston.
He described a phenomenon in his school that made me truly wonder if something resembling learning was still possible in the Massachusetts public schools.
About five years ago I started hearing about something called MCAS, the Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System. In nuce, it is a standardized test that every student must pass in order to receive a high school diploma. My impression at that time was that public school teachers were not so much giving their students an education as they were preparing them to pass the test. In other words: the students were not really "learning" -- they were simply "studying for the MCAS."
If this French teacher I met today is giving an accurate impression of the affects of MCAS, I am truly pessimistic about the possibility of a child to learn something in Massachusetts' public schools.
Even the honors students -- especially the honors students -- are categorically uninterested in learning any aspect of the French language, unless the teacher convincingly assures them that "it will be on the test." Even the best students are not interested in actually learning French; they hope only to "pass the test." Recently this teacher had a conversation with one of the brightest students in his French III class. The student was slacking off a bit. "Don't you want to go on to French IV next year?"
"Yes," the student answered, "but only because it'll look good on my college applications."
You can imagine, then, what this has done to the art and music programs in Massachusetts' public schools ... In times of war or economic crisis, the arts are more crucial to quality of life than ever. Yet never have the arts been more of a nuisance to public school superintendents than they are now. Never have those programs been more eagerly cut; and never have the honors students been more eagerly advised by guidance counselors to avoid them.
I did a Google search, to see if this guy's story was really accurate. I came across a disturbing document that is worth quoting in full.
What is the MCAS?
The Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System (MCAS) is a set of standardized exams administered to students in grades 3 through 10. Students must pass the tests in English and mathematics to receive a high school diploma, and students with high marks can receive financial aid to state colleges and universities.
What's wrong with using the MCAS this way?
Newspaper headlines about improving MCAS pass rates leave out important pieces of the story, like its effects on individual students. Tracey Newhart, a 20-year-old high school student with Down Syndrome, is an award-winning cook who wanted to attend Johnson & Wales University, get a degree, and open her own restaurant. She has overcome many obstacles to fulfill her high school's local graduation requirements. Unfortunately, Tracey was kept from achieving her goals when Johnson and Wales rescinded her acceptance after she failed the MCAS.
Supporters of high-stakes testing promote examples of other students, some with disabilities like Tracey's, who have passed state exit exams. They say these students now have "meaningful" diplomas that indicate they have mastered "a high-quality state curriculum." They say pass rates are up, and even disadvantaged groups of students are doing better on the tests.
Is education better because of high-stakes testing?
A growing body of evidence from researchers says no.
* High-stakes testing degrades rather than improves the quality of education. Researchers
have consistently found that high-stakes testing puts pressure on educators to teach and on
students to memorize vast amounts of information so they can pass the tests. Scores may rise, but test preparation crowds out more worthwhile learning that fosters critical thinking, in-depth exploration, and creativity, as well as basic skills.
* The negative consequences of such testing fall hardest on those who need help most.
Schools that serve low-income or minority students are most likely to narrow curricula because of intense pressure to improve test results. While schools in higher-income communities can offer art, science, history, and music and still maintain their test scores, schools with students who score low on such tests end up offering little more than intensive test preparation in math and English.
* When high-stakes tests come in, graduation rates decline. National studies find a correlation
between high-stakes testing and declining graduation rates, increased dropout rates, greater grade retention, more students being expelled (in some cases to drive out low scorers), and increased exemptions of disabled students.
* In states with exit exams, the students who drop out, fail, or are held back are
disproportionately low-income, minority, special needs, or have limited English proficiency.
By denying diplomas to students such as Tracey Newhart and others, even if they have passed
their courses and succeeded by other measures, high-stakes testing makes their lives much harder.
Real improvement in learning opportunities and meaningful accountability for schools is achieved through a range of assessments, not a single test.
In Rhode Island, for example, students can show they have met state graduation standards through a variety of approaches. Many award-winning schools serving disadvantaged youth, such as the small schools associated with the work of Boston educator Deborah Meier, don't focus on test scores, with excellent results.
What is high-stakes testing's toll in Massachusetts?
While rising MCAS pass rates are front-page news, rising dropout rates in Boston and other low income, urban districts get less attention and seem to be soon forgotten. Here's the headline from the April 6, 2004 Boston Globe, Page B3: "HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT RATES ARE UP SHARPLY." Anand Vaishnav reported, "Dropout rates in some of Massachusetts' biggest school systems spiked in 2002-03, the first year that students had to pass the MCAS exam to graduate. Boston public schools' dropout rate went from 7 percent to 7.7 percent, or 1,405 students. In Holyoke, the dropout rate increased from 7.6 percent to 10.2 percent, according to state figures released yesterday. That translates to about 200 students for the Western Massachusetts city. The rate more than doubled in Framingham, from 1.2 percent to 3.7 percent, or a total of 73 students, the state Department of Education report shows. Some individual schools had even higher rates. At Dorchester High School, 1 of every 5 students dropped out last year, compared with a 12.7 percent dropout rate in 2001-02."
But MCAS passing rates are way up. Doesn.t that show things are getting better?
Improvements in MCAS passing scores reflect, in part, the large number of students who are
"lost" from the Class of 2006. Although they started high school with the class, they are not
present for testing. Closing test score gaps may simply reflect the loss of more African American and Latino students relative to white students.
Overall, the number of students who took the MCAS in the spring of 2004 is considerably lower than the number who were enrolled in the class in 9th grade in October 2002. Attrition between entering grade 9 and taking MCAS math in grade 10 is nearly 15 percent for the Class of 2006 as a whole.
The claim that the achievement gap between white students and minorities is closing is debatable, at the very least, when so many minority students leave school before taking the MCAS. African American and Latino students are lost from the class of 2006 before MCAS at much higher rates than for white students: 10 percent for whites, 27 percent for Blacks and 34 percent for Latino students.
Prior to 2003, before MCAS was required for graduation, Boston's on-time four-year graduation rate (for the classes of 2000 and 2001, for example) was 61 percent. For the class of 2003, it dropped to 53 percent; for the class of 2004, it was 52 percent. If the Board of Education raises passing scores, as recently proposed, those dropout rates will be even higher.
Lower graduation rates in Boston Public Schools mean that EVERY YEAR, approximately 300 more of the city's young people leave school without a high school diploma.
They may no longer be in school, but they are still part of our community.
For more information, I urge you to visit www.parentscare.org.
He described a phenomenon in his school that made me truly wonder if something resembling learning was still possible in the Massachusetts public schools.
About five years ago I started hearing about something called MCAS, the Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System. In nuce, it is a standardized test that every student must pass in order to receive a high school diploma. My impression at that time was that public school teachers were not so much giving their students an education as they were preparing them to pass the test. In other words: the students were not really "learning" -- they were simply "studying for the MCAS."
If this French teacher I met today is giving an accurate impression of the affects of MCAS, I am truly pessimistic about the possibility of a child to learn something in Massachusetts' public schools.
Even the honors students -- especially the honors students -- are categorically uninterested in learning any aspect of the French language, unless the teacher convincingly assures them that "it will be on the test." Even the best students are not interested in actually learning French; they hope only to "pass the test." Recently this teacher had a conversation with one of the brightest students in his French III class. The student was slacking off a bit. "Don't you want to go on to French IV next year?"
"Yes," the student answered, "but only because it'll look good on my college applications."
You can imagine, then, what this has done to the art and music programs in Massachusetts' public schools ... In times of war or economic crisis, the arts are more crucial to quality of life than ever. Yet never have the arts been more of a nuisance to public school superintendents than they are now. Never have those programs been more eagerly cut; and never have the honors students been more eagerly advised by guidance counselors to avoid them.
I did a Google search, to see if this guy's story was really accurate. I came across a disturbing document that is worth quoting in full.
What is the MCAS?
The Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System (MCAS) is a set of standardized exams administered to students in grades 3 through 10. Students must pass the tests in English and mathematics to receive a high school diploma, and students with high marks can receive financial aid to state colleges and universities.
What's wrong with using the MCAS this way?
Newspaper headlines about improving MCAS pass rates leave out important pieces of the story, like its effects on individual students. Tracey Newhart, a 20-year-old high school student with Down Syndrome, is an award-winning cook who wanted to attend Johnson & Wales University, get a degree, and open her own restaurant. She has overcome many obstacles to fulfill her high school's local graduation requirements. Unfortunately, Tracey was kept from achieving her goals when Johnson and Wales rescinded her acceptance after she failed the MCAS.
Supporters of high-stakes testing promote examples of other students, some with disabilities like Tracey's, who have passed state exit exams. They say these students now have "meaningful" diplomas that indicate they have mastered "a high-quality state curriculum." They say pass rates are up, and even disadvantaged groups of students are doing better on the tests.
Is education better because of high-stakes testing?
A growing body of evidence from researchers says no.
* High-stakes testing degrades rather than improves the quality of education. Researchers
have consistently found that high-stakes testing puts pressure on educators to teach and on
students to memorize vast amounts of information so they can pass the tests. Scores may rise, but test preparation crowds out more worthwhile learning that fosters critical thinking, in-depth exploration, and creativity, as well as basic skills.
* The negative consequences of such testing fall hardest on those who need help most.
Schools that serve low-income or minority students are most likely to narrow curricula because of intense pressure to improve test results. While schools in higher-income communities can offer art, science, history, and music and still maintain their test scores, schools with students who score low on such tests end up offering little more than intensive test preparation in math and English.
* When high-stakes tests come in, graduation rates decline. National studies find a correlation
between high-stakes testing and declining graduation rates, increased dropout rates, greater grade retention, more students being expelled (in some cases to drive out low scorers), and increased exemptions of disabled students.
* In states with exit exams, the students who drop out, fail, or are held back are
disproportionately low-income, minority, special needs, or have limited English proficiency.
By denying diplomas to students such as Tracey Newhart and others, even if they have passed
their courses and succeeded by other measures, high-stakes testing makes their lives much harder.
Real improvement in learning opportunities and meaningful accountability for schools is achieved through a range of assessments, not a single test.
In Rhode Island, for example, students can show they have met state graduation standards through a variety of approaches. Many award-winning schools serving disadvantaged youth, such as the small schools associated with the work of Boston educator Deborah Meier, don't focus on test scores, with excellent results.
What is high-stakes testing's toll in Massachusetts?
While rising MCAS pass rates are front-page news, rising dropout rates in Boston and other low income, urban districts get less attention and seem to be soon forgotten. Here's the headline from the April 6, 2004 Boston Globe, Page B3: "HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT RATES ARE UP SHARPLY." Anand Vaishnav reported, "Dropout rates in some of Massachusetts' biggest school systems spiked in 2002-03, the first year that students had to pass the MCAS exam to graduate. Boston public schools' dropout rate went from 7 percent to 7.7 percent, or 1,405 students. In Holyoke, the dropout rate increased from 7.6 percent to 10.2 percent, according to state figures released yesterday. That translates to about 200 students for the Western Massachusetts city. The rate more than doubled in Framingham, from 1.2 percent to 3.7 percent, or a total of 73 students, the state Department of Education report shows. Some individual schools had even higher rates. At Dorchester High School, 1 of every 5 students dropped out last year, compared with a 12.7 percent dropout rate in 2001-02."
But MCAS passing rates are way up. Doesn.t that show things are getting better?
Improvements in MCAS passing scores reflect, in part, the large number of students who are
"lost" from the Class of 2006. Although they started high school with the class, they are not
present for testing. Closing test score gaps may simply reflect the loss of more African American and Latino students relative to white students.
Overall, the number of students who took the MCAS in the spring of 2004 is considerably lower than the number who were enrolled in the class in 9th grade in October 2002. Attrition between entering grade 9 and taking MCAS math in grade 10 is nearly 15 percent for the Class of 2006 as a whole.
The claim that the achievement gap between white students and minorities is closing is debatable, at the very least, when so many minority students leave school before taking the MCAS. African American and Latino students are lost from the class of 2006 before MCAS at much higher rates than for white students: 10 percent for whites, 27 percent for Blacks and 34 percent for Latino students.
Prior to 2003, before MCAS was required for graduation, Boston's on-time four-year graduation rate (for the classes of 2000 and 2001, for example) was 61 percent. For the class of 2003, it dropped to 53 percent; for the class of 2004, it was 52 percent. If the Board of Education raises passing scores, as recently proposed, those dropout rates will be even higher.
Lower graduation rates in Boston Public Schools mean that EVERY YEAR, approximately 300 more of the city's young people leave school without a high school diploma.
They may no longer be in school, but they are still part of our community.
For more information, I urge you to visit www.parentscare.org.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Mark Twain Speaks
Besides being America's first great author, Mark Twain was incontestably one of the greatest and funniest storytellers. In his lectures he honed and fine-tuned certain tales, into a form that often surpassed the earlier, written-down versions. Here is one such example, included by Twain's own request in his memoirs. It is probably one of the funniest paragraphs ever committed to paper.Look at Mariar Whitaker -- there was a girl for you! Little? Why yes, she was little, but what of that? Look at the heart of her -- had a heart like a bullock -- just as good and sweet and lovely and generous as the day is long; if she had a thing and you wanted it, you could have it -- have it and welome; why Mariar Whitaker couldn't have a thing and another person need it and not get it -- get it and welcome. She had a glass eye, and she used to lend it to Flora Ann Baxter that hadn't any, to receive company with; well, she was pretty large, and it didn't fit; it was a number 7, and she was excavated for a 14, and so that eye wouldn't lay still; every time she winked it would turn over. It was a beautiful eye and set her off admirable, because it was a lovely pale blue on the front side -- the side you look out of -- and it was gilded on the back side; didn't match the other eye, which was one of them browny-yellery eyes and tranquil and quiet, you know, the way that kind of eyes are; but that warn't any matter -- they worked together all right and plenty picturesque. When Flora Ann winked, that blue and gilt eye would whirl over, and the other one stand still, and as soon as she begun to get excited that handmade eye would give a whirl and then go on a-whirlin' and a-whirlin' faster and faster, and a-flashing first blue and then yaller and then blue and then yaller, and when it got to whizzing and flashing like that, the oldest man in the world couldn't keep up with the expression on that side of her face.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Musical Prejudice
Last week on PBS was an interesting documentary entitled "The Music Instinct: Science and Song." I caught very little of it (except to hear an excerpt of Mozart's K. 330 played so fast that it sounded like a cheap stunt, even by current standards of cheap-stunt Mozart playing. I don't know who the pianist was. I'm told he was blind; however, he was not deaf).
A point was made during the show -- not one of the salient points, but one that to me was very interesting.
To us Western Hemispherians, a minor scale sounds "sad." But what if that is merely cultural?
(The following, naturally, is my own expansion of this point. I do not wish to implicate the makers of the documentary for it!)
Clearly there are cultures where music in minor keys or modes is not experienced as being "sad" at all, while in our own culture, "classical music" is so often perceived as "dark," no matter how major the key or how joyful the mood. To many, the sound of an organ is "funereal," no matter how many sunny major chords the music radiates. Once I played a Saturday Mass at a Catholic church unaccustomed to anything bearing the slightest resemblance to "classical" music. I didn't play anything "heavy," but at one point I improvised, somewhat in the style of Mendelssohn, and in a major key. (There was not a profusion of minor or diminished chords. It was not "dark" music.) A parishioner stopped me afterwards and said that it sounded like a funeral. I realized that for people like that parishioner, no organ sound can be anything but gloomy.
Even my two-year-old demonstrated some musical subjectivity the other day. We were listening to a CD of Wladyslaw Szpilman, the fine Polish pianist whose life is portrayed in the outstanding movie "The Pianist." Szpilman was playing a composition of his own, the Concertino for Piano & Orchestra (1940). The piece has a jazzy element; it doesn't sound like Gershwin, but it mixes classical and jazz moods with the freedom that Gershwin did. My son said that the music was "scary." My wife opined, "No, it's not scary. I think it's mysterious." To me they were both wrong.
There are infinite examples of people's prejudicial reactions to classical music. Not long ago I played a funeral, and I played a piece by Ted Marier that I've always considered comforting. The celebrant said after that he felt it was "depressing." Yet at the very same funeral was sung Marty Haugen's "Shepherd Me, O God," which is firmly rooted in a minor tonality. What makes the Haugen "happier" if the harmonies are no less minor than the Marier?
Simply put, many people are allergic to "classical" music or anything that bears a resemblance thereof. There's no better way to put it: it's an allergy. At a shopping plaza in a neighborhood of Boston, there was once the problem of not-so-nice kids hanging around and causing trouble. So what did the plaza owners decide to do? Pipe in classical music! Now every time you walk through the plaza, you are treated to masterpieces of the symphonic repertoire. The kids are nowhere in sight. It repels them more effectively than any amount of armed policemen could have.
What causes a person to hate what is beautiful? The only explanation I can come up with is: it is like when you're sleeping, and someone turns on the lights in the room at 3 in the morning. At that moment, you hate the light. It doesn't seem possible that anyone could hate light, but in that instance you do just that. Our culture has become so dark that the light has become distasteful.
It's clear that no instrument of classical music inspires more aversion than the pipe organ. People who will happily go out to hear chamber and orchestral music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert wouldn't be caught dead at an organ recital. To Catholics, perhaps the organ subconsciously represents all of the beatings they received from nuns in parochial schools. It represents something that their parents and grandparents loved, something that belonged to them. Interestingly, many 20- and 30-somethings who are too young to remember the Latin Mass or the mean nuns are fascinated with the organ's technological ingenuity and sonic richness. The 50- and 60-somethings are the opposite. They are the ones who want Kumbaya played by guitars rather than Bach played by the organ. They are married to Vatican II -- for richer and for poorer.
The root of the problem is the connection that people make between the organ and the church. They cannot conceive of the organ as a musical instrument separate from the church. The organ becomes the church. And if people don't like church, they're not about to like the organ. The organ becomes paid indulgences. The organ becomes papal infallibility. The organ becomes the pedophilia scandal. The organ becomes the church. That is the association people subconsciously, or even consciously, make.
But for a millennium and a half, the organ was as secular instrument that no one would have dreamt of bringing into the church. In Roman times, the hydraulis (a small, portable organ) was used in amphitheatres, to accompany the lions' eating the Christians. In the Middle Ages, when the great Gothic cathedrals were being built, organs still weren't thought of for the church. That's why many Gothic cathedrals are difficult to retrofit with an organ, without causing visual or acoustical problems.
At some point during the Renaissance, someone decided to introduce the organ to the church. Churchgoers were scandalized. They passionately believed that the organ was a secular instrument unfitting for the church -- the exact same reaction that many people have today towards electric guitars and drums in the church.
Interestingly, in South Africa the organ is thought of as a secular instrument. (The theatre organ or cinema organ is more popular in South Africa than is the church organ.)
For some reason, music in Latin elicits particularly strong reactions. In my whole life, I have never been able to understand why many clerics fear Latin hymns like they would fear a glass of water during a cholera epidemic. What is it about the Latin language that elicits such trepidation? No Rabbi is afraid to have Hebrew spoken in his temple. Why the Catholic priests' antipathy? In 2007, Pope Benedict XVI gave priests permission to celebrate a Tridentine Mass without first having to consult a bishop. That's all he did. Latin Masses were already allowed, but a priest formerly needed a bishop's approval before holding a Tridentine Mass. Benedict simply eliminated that extra administrative step. But look at the firestorm that resulted! Benedict was accused of trying to "bring back" the Latin Mass (which didn't need to be brought back because it was there all along). And then when word got out that there was one sentence in the Latin liturgy that could be construed as Antisemitic (the sentence has been since taken out), Benedict was seen as some sort of racist, trying to take the church back into the Middle Ages. It was insanity, but Latin inspires such insanity for some reason.
I think, in the end, the clergy are afraid that parishioners will flee from organ music and Latin hymns, just as people at the shopping plaza flee from the piped-in classical music. But I hate to tell you: there will not be one penny less in the collection plate if you do the Latin Agnus Dei instead of the English Lamb of God at a 4 o'clock Mass. If anything they will give more, because people sense quality even when they can't explain it. A person says, "Wow, this is a beautiful church," without being conscious of the fact that the color scheme of the ceiling matches the color scheme of the stained glass windows, or what have you. They know it's beautiful, but they don't know why. For the same reason, people will always respond positively to good music. Almost 25 years in this business tells me that good music is preferred by the majority of congregants but the minority of clergy. It is a musical prejudice not at all unlike that of my toddler who thinks the Szpilman Concertino is "scary." Priests are scared. The difference is: my son will surely grow out of it.
A point was made during the show -- not one of the salient points, but one that to me was very interesting.
To us Western Hemispherians, a minor scale sounds "sad." But what if that is merely cultural?
(The following, naturally, is my own expansion of this point. I do not wish to implicate the makers of the documentary for it!)
Clearly there are cultures where music in minor keys or modes is not experienced as being "sad" at all, while in our own culture, "classical music" is so often perceived as "dark," no matter how major the key or how joyful the mood. To many, the sound of an organ is "funereal," no matter how many sunny major chords the music radiates. Once I played a Saturday Mass at a Catholic church unaccustomed to anything bearing the slightest resemblance to "classical" music. I didn't play anything "heavy," but at one point I improvised, somewhat in the style of Mendelssohn, and in a major key. (There was not a profusion of minor or diminished chords. It was not "dark" music.) A parishioner stopped me afterwards and said that it sounded like a funeral. I realized that for people like that parishioner, no organ sound can be anything but gloomy.
Even my two-year-old demonstrated some musical subjectivity the other day. We were listening to a CD of Wladyslaw Szpilman, the fine Polish pianist whose life is portrayed in the outstanding movie "The Pianist." Szpilman was playing a composition of his own, the Concertino for Piano & Orchestra (1940). The piece has a jazzy element; it doesn't sound like Gershwin, but it mixes classical and jazz moods with the freedom that Gershwin did. My son said that the music was "scary." My wife opined, "No, it's not scary. I think it's mysterious." To me they were both wrong.
There are infinite examples of people's prejudicial reactions to classical music. Not long ago I played a funeral, and I played a piece by Ted Marier that I've always considered comforting. The celebrant said after that he felt it was "depressing." Yet at the very same funeral was sung Marty Haugen's "Shepherd Me, O God," which is firmly rooted in a minor tonality. What makes the Haugen "happier" if the harmonies are no less minor than the Marier?
Simply put, many people are allergic to "classical" music or anything that bears a resemblance thereof. There's no better way to put it: it's an allergy. At a shopping plaza in a neighborhood of Boston, there was once the problem of not-so-nice kids hanging around and causing trouble. So what did the plaza owners decide to do? Pipe in classical music! Now every time you walk through the plaza, you are treated to masterpieces of the symphonic repertoire. The kids are nowhere in sight. It repels them more effectively than any amount of armed policemen could have.
What causes a person to hate what is beautiful? The only explanation I can come up with is: it is like when you're sleeping, and someone turns on the lights in the room at 3 in the morning. At that moment, you hate the light. It doesn't seem possible that anyone could hate light, but in that instance you do just that. Our culture has become so dark that the light has become distasteful.
It's clear that no instrument of classical music inspires more aversion than the pipe organ. People who will happily go out to hear chamber and orchestral music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert wouldn't be caught dead at an organ recital. To Catholics, perhaps the organ subconsciously represents all of the beatings they received from nuns in parochial schools. It represents something that their parents and grandparents loved, something that belonged to them. Interestingly, many 20- and 30-somethings who are too young to remember the Latin Mass or the mean nuns are fascinated with the organ's technological ingenuity and sonic richness. The 50- and 60-somethings are the opposite. They are the ones who want Kumbaya played by guitars rather than Bach played by the organ. They are married to Vatican II -- for richer and for poorer.
The root of the problem is the connection that people make between the organ and the church. They cannot conceive of the organ as a musical instrument separate from the church. The organ becomes the church. And if people don't like church, they're not about to like the organ. The organ becomes paid indulgences. The organ becomes papal infallibility. The organ becomes the pedophilia scandal. The organ becomes the church. That is the association people subconsciously, or even consciously, make.
But for a millennium and a half, the organ was as secular instrument that no one would have dreamt of bringing into the church. In Roman times, the hydraulis (a small, portable organ) was used in amphitheatres, to accompany the lions' eating the Christians. In the Middle Ages, when the great Gothic cathedrals were being built, organs still weren't thought of for the church. That's why many Gothic cathedrals are difficult to retrofit with an organ, without causing visual or acoustical problems.At some point during the Renaissance, someone decided to introduce the organ to the church. Churchgoers were scandalized. They passionately believed that the organ was a secular instrument unfitting for the church -- the exact same reaction that many people have today towards electric guitars and drums in the church.
Interestingly, in South Africa the organ is thought of as a secular instrument. (The theatre organ or cinema organ is more popular in South Africa than is the church organ.)
For some reason, music in Latin elicits particularly strong reactions. In my whole life, I have never been able to understand why many clerics fear Latin hymns like they would fear a glass of water during a cholera epidemic. What is it about the Latin language that elicits such trepidation? No Rabbi is afraid to have Hebrew spoken in his temple. Why the Catholic priests' antipathy? In 2007, Pope Benedict XVI gave priests permission to celebrate a Tridentine Mass without first having to consult a bishop. That's all he did. Latin Masses were already allowed, but a priest formerly needed a bishop's approval before holding a Tridentine Mass. Benedict simply eliminated that extra administrative step. But look at the firestorm that resulted! Benedict was accused of trying to "bring back" the Latin Mass (which didn't need to be brought back because it was there all along). And then when word got out that there was one sentence in the Latin liturgy that could be construed as Antisemitic (the sentence has been since taken out), Benedict was seen as some sort of racist, trying to take the church back into the Middle Ages. It was insanity, but Latin inspires such insanity for some reason.
I think, in the end, the clergy are afraid that parishioners will flee from organ music and Latin hymns, just as people at the shopping plaza flee from the piped-in classical music. But I hate to tell you: there will not be one penny less in the collection plate if you do the Latin Agnus Dei instead of the English Lamb of God at a 4 o'clock Mass. If anything they will give more, because people sense quality even when they can't explain it. A person says, "Wow, this is a beautiful church," without being conscious of the fact that the color scheme of the ceiling matches the color scheme of the stained glass windows, or what have you. They know it's beautiful, but they don't know why. For the same reason, people will always respond positively to good music. Almost 25 years in this business tells me that good music is preferred by the majority of congregants but the minority of clergy. It is a musical prejudice not at all unlike that of my toddler who thinks the Szpilman Concertino is "scary." Priests are scared. The difference is: my son will surely grow out of it.
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