Frequently when I'm at a free improv show, I find myself unconsciously (and, obviously, ineffectively) directing the players—that is, wishing that one of them would do X, with varying amounts of specificity, at some particular moment. They rarely actually do (though sometimes, sometimes), and sometimes what they do in fact do works out pretty well; sometimes, though, I retain my wish that they had done what I wanted, because it would have been (I think) so good! would have fit perfectly!. Not that the goal of the players is, necessarily, to create something that fits perfectly.—One of the things that most frequently bothers me at such concerts is the problem of ending a set. A few times in Berlin it would transpire that one or two players would gradually decrease the volume or intensity of their playing, and I'd think, ok, we're winding down, soon this bit will come to a close. But instead the player would keep going just a little too long, and one of the other players, apparently thinking things were set to continue just a bit longer, or wanting to get his own piece in, or finding the first musician's continuing without support unbearable, or god knows what, would join in, but not in any way that provided a basis for the music as a whole to pick up, just a little bit of sympathy for the first. But then a vicious cycle is embarked upon, and the thing limps along forever, going nowhere, doing nothing, always half-ended. No one, seemingly, can think of anything else to do, but neither can they just actually stop. This is very annoying! At least, if it's bad; if it's good, it can pick up again and actually go somewhere. But even that's too strict, because I can imagine that something that I would describe similarly, at least as to as much of the facts as can be separated out from the assessment (I wouldn't say "limps along forever", but perhaps rather that the musicians "sustain the mood for a long time", since sustaining something is always positive), actually being good. One wants to say here that the problem isn't that the sounds being produced fall under any meaningful general characterization, but that it just didn't work. Something was off; the music was just bad, and there's an end on't.
A Digression: I wonder what people who deny particularism or at least deep contextualism (if you buy that the one doesn't lead to the other) in ethics, which is presumably nearly everyone, make of the view that aesthetic judgments are irreducibly singular and not subsumable under general laws. (Of course, I don't know how popular that view is.)
When this sort of thing happens (not necessarily just this ending-problem, really, but after any improv that I think just fell flat or perhaps never reached a height from which a meaningful fall would even be possible, though now that I think of it most of the bad improv shows I've been to recently (all of which were in Berlin, as were some really good ones) did have that particular problem) I always wonder what the performers thought of it. I once complimented Amy Cimini on a performance that actually I didn't like (while listening to it I started thinking of them, based on the instrumentation (bassoon-viola-bass drum) and general feel of what they were playing, as the Third Rate Band) and she said that she had thought it was terrible. So it's possible. But perhaps when I think the whole thing's mistaken, their thinking that they're accomplishing their (utterly perverse) goals fairly well, thank you. (After a performance that I think has gone well, I never wonder whether or not the musicians would share my assessment.) Or maybe forget about their intentions; after all, one of the best moments in my recent free improv auditing history could not have been intentional at all[1]: maybe they'd just judge, afterwards, that what they did was good. Tastes vary, after all.
1: Tatsuya Nakatani had set up several (metal?) bowls rocking back and forth on one of his drumheads; the sound of the rocking alone was distinctly audible. He would occasionally jog the drum with his knee while he was hunched over doing something to a cymbal. The first time two bowls collided and made a very clear chiming sound, his knee was nowhere near the drum and neither was any other part of his body and I can only assume it was pure coincidence with respect to Nakatani that it happened right then, but what's really important is that its happening when it did was completely right with respect to the music as a whole; this simply could not have been planned. That moment was really incredibly satisfying; it was, you might say, cop show. Being able to see the bowls, and moreover, see that they weren't being manipulated to cause that sound, was probably an important part of its resonance.
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