Use Your Hands
Classical musicians, especially flutists, are ridiculous. The field is populated by garden-variety village idiots, and the industry is a closed circle of little use or relevance to most people’s lives. And yet, musicians are not afraid to make grandiose claims for themselves: a major flute-centered publication honors flutists “whose dedication has transformed the landscape around them” and claims that their gladiatorial competitions are “ways to be part of a collective spirit”; a highly sought-after performer fancies herself a musical doctor, healing the souls of her audiences; a well-respected professor claims that music school is more difficult than medical school, and even compares music studies to Basic Training. Everybody with a head on straight will smell the reek of bullshit in these statements, but the real question is: why don’t musicians?
I can’t tell most musicians apart. Technical and musical standards are rising, but the range of acceptable expression remains narrow. Fifty years ago, there may have been only a handful of musicians of the highest calibre, each playing in their own way. Now there are hundreds of high calibre musicians, but they still play in those old ways. There are sanctioned sounds, eligible expressions, and, if you ask the jurors and professors nicely, a list of allowed eccentricities. But who cares? This bravado of musicianship is for the musicians, not their audiences.
A narcissism of small differences has set in—debates are had, dissertations are written, and careers are made over blank minutiae. Despite their blustering claims of musical healing and community building, most musicians are startlingly out of touch with what their listeners care about. Where are the seekers, the nomads, the poets? They’ve been replaced by careerist conference attendees who, like Gibraltar macaques, jockey for higher and higher position on the rock face while amused tourists take videos and selfies.
I’m quite convinced that cooking is the only possible act of rebellion against these Gibraltarians. Nothing extravagant—simple, yet dignified meals will do—for my aim is not to impress, but to nourish hungry guests with good food, wine, and conversation. If I can do that, I’ll never be as ridiculous as a pretentious aesthete who only lives to be a diva on the stage. Then, and only then, I shall think about music. And when I do, I’ll think like a cook, not an artist.