THE POSSIBILITIES OF THE MUSICAL SKETCH
THE musical sketch occupies a high and prominent position in the scale
of entertainments given by the individual. With many it is more popular
than ventriloquism, impersonations, reciting, or conjuring, and needs as
much skill and study as any of these other accomplishments. For its
successful rendition the artist must be equipped with
1. Subtle humor and pathos.
2. Impromptu patter.
3. A good memory.
4. A clear pronunciation.
5. Mimicry.
6. Self-accompaniment from memory.
7. Individuality and mastery of the audience.
He must also be well versed in the popular topics of the day, and be
able to dish them up in an attractive manner to suit the humor of his
various hearers; and, of course, a certain amount of natural talent is
indispensable.
In this mode of entertainment there should be no pause. The whole time
the artist should either be engaged in patter or playing, and he must go
from anecdote to anecdote smoothly and without jerkiness, always
relating his stories as if they were his own experiences.
He should begin an after-dinner story in some such way as--
“The other night, when dining with my friend, Mr. A., I had the
misfortune to be stuck down beside his elderly maiden aunt, Miss
Dimbledock, who my host had previously informed me was a stanch adherent
to the Blue Ribbon Army. Now, as Mr. A. is her only living relative, he
naturally expected to inherit her wealth, and consequently had given
instructions to Coggledab, the butler (who on ordinary occasions served
as coachman), that especial attention and care were to be lavished upon
her severe and abstemious person; but, alas, he had forgotten to instill
him with her principles, and the result was that the poor old lady was
mortally offended, for, ere we had reached the second course, Coggledab
leaned over her chair in a fatherly and solicitous manner that well
became his white hairs and portly person, and whispered in a voice that
penetrated every corner of the room:
“‘Gin, whisky, or brandy, Mum? You can’t be enjyin’ of yourself! _You’re
not drinkin’!_’
“And it is to this apparently trivial incident that a year ago a
flourishing dogs’ home was opened in New York, and that my poor friend
Mr. A. can be seen any day selling matches at his post in Times Square!
And talking of the importance of trivialities, reminds me of an
adventure that befell me the other day. I had hired a taxi-cab, and was
just stepping into it----,” &c., &c., thus introducing quite a different
anecdote.
Now, the outlines of the incident of Mr. A.’s dinner-party are taken
from a comic paper, but twisted and colored to suit the requirements of
the artist; and there are many stories that may be dished up in similar
manner, while frequently personal experiences are extremely humorous
when rightly treated.
THE “ALL IN ALL”
The artist should study and cultivate the correct and various methods of
telling a story, remembering Pope’s adage--
“For style is all in all, whate’er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.”
If the style of writing is important, how much more is the manner of
verbal narration. The wittiest story may fall to pieces in the hand of
the inartistic, while the most trivial incident humorously handled may
be greeted with shrieks of merriment.
The raconteur must give his audience the impression of frank geniality
and friendliness without familiarity, his attitude cunningly eloquent of
the man who is about to open his heart to a confidante.
Orchestra chairs and gallery are his bosom friends. He twinkles and
patters at them right merrily. If he paints their peculiarities or
laughs at their social ways he must flavor his babbling with the tender
fun of that greatest of humorists, Charles Lamb, who never aped or
scoffed at physical deformity, and was never cynical at another’s
expense.
The caricatures depicted by mimicry must be cleansed of that sour
Voltaire bitterness and cruelty, the artist always remembering that he
is performing in order to beguile, and he must cultivate that delicate
tact which prevents him from imitating the withered idiosyncrasies
supposed to be typical of the old maid in the drawing-room, when he
knows that some spinster relative or friend is present.
The public possesses a vast fund of humor, and there is nothing it loves
so much as a hearty laugh, but its risibilities should be handled as
delicately as a trout is tickled, and if they are only provoked at the
dear expense of some unfortunate individual, they are coarse and vulgar,
and the artist himself is culpable. The broad double meanings of
apparently innocent witticisms one might have heard at some vaudeville
halls should be rigorously avoided. There are gentlemen, fine-souled and
clean of mind, in your gallery as in your orchestra chairs. Treat them
as such. Appeal to the best, to the refined sense of the ludicrous that
lurks in every mind, and you will be as welcome in the most select
drawing-room as in the theater.
Humor and fun are as bracing and purifying a tonic as a breath of sea
air. They should be steeped in the salt ozone of wit, but never in the
withering blight of vulgarity.
AN ARTIST--AND A GENTLEMAN
The artist should be large-souled and natural in attitude and gesture--a
gentleman from head to heel in the best sense of the word--and the
result will brace up and encourage him, for he will observe the faded
city merchant laughing with the heart-whole abandon of the child.
It is not necessary, and it may become even monotonous, to pose forever
as the comedian who sees fun in every incident around him. A great and
versatile artist, now deceased, in the middle of his recital would sit
down at the zither when the room was still ringing with laughter,
provoked by his keen shafts of humor, and win tears by the exquisite
pathos of the refrain: “The mill will never grind with the water that is
past.”
Maudlin melodrama is not pathos any more than vulgar mockery is humor. A
thin veil lies between tears and laughter, and both are nearer the
surface than some artists realize. Both are noble and wholesome, and so
should never be made puny by too little giving or rendered grotesque by
too much.
A most effective means of self-accompaniment is the harp, and one
moreover which adapts itself exquisitely to the subtle charm and
changing qualities of the human voice, but only in the performer’s more
serious moments. To twang at this instrument and pose above it in the
attitude of the comedian, to pluck it banjo fashion, is to displease and
jar the sensibilities of the most uninitiated of the audience.
The dual art is a stumbling-block to many a versatile artist, and its
perfection needs a tremendous amount of persevering and diligent
practice. There are some gifted performers to whom the art of pattering
or reciting to music is inborn, and so extremely facile, but to the less
fortunate it presents discouraging obstacles, and the power of
improvising an accompaniment suitable to the anecdote or poem related is
not given to the majority.
However, the student should remember and be encouraged by the fact that
“steady effort attracts unknown powers to our aid,” and work on
determinedly until the difficulty is mastered.
In studying the dual art, the beginner is apt to hammer the words to the
accompaniment, or the accompaniment to the words, and it seems at first
impossible to arrive at that perfect blending of voice and music which
is essential to this kind of performance. Another extremely common fault
is to emphasize the wrong word or the wrong note, with the result that
the achievement becomes meaningless.
The ear should be trained to the rôle of an exacting critic, and when
this power is developed it will demonstrate faithfully wherein the
failure of co-operation lies.
Music should never be suffered to overburden the words of the poem or
anecdote related. It is usually but a ground-work upon which the artist
builds, “at most, an undercurrent of answering emotion.” The instant it
flows through the floodgates of restraint it obliterates the meaning and
the sense of the words as the waters of a burst dam obliterate the
natural features of dry land.
Another serious fault to be found in the rendition of the inexperienced
student is permitting the time of his accompaniment to swing into his
voice. Against this he must be severely on his guard, or he will develop
a wearisome habit of chanting in monotone.
While taking pains to blend his voice with his accompaniment, he must
take equal care to keep both distinct and apart. This sounds
paradoxical, but practice and self-criticism will prove that both are
true and possible.
MUSIC AND WORDS
The speaker should learn to harmonize his music so exquisitely with his
words that to the uninitiated the accompaniment seems rather extempore
improvising than the result of toil and diligence. As a matter of fact,
it is extremely rare that even the greatest artists dare trust to the
inspiration of the moment to provide them with adequate accompaniment.
An artist may have a theme or motif borrowed from some composer, and he
may be sufficiently gifted to plan it out and develop it for himself,
but always with careful thought and deliberation before he gives it
public expression.
The dual art is as full of vagaries and traps as the French language,
and at first the student who finds himself handicapped by inability to
conquer it, cannot do better than study some poems written to music, and
at these he must work steadily before he attempts to patter to
accompaniment.
A few musical poems mastered will go far to secure him an air of ease
and self-possession.
[Illustration: Correct attitude at piano.]
For instance, undertake some such study as Racine’s tragedy of
“Athalie,” which has been so exquisitely set to music by Mendelssohn. In
the opening bar of “Allegro Moderato,” a few notes are played to
introduce the passage, “Where do those women and their children go?”
Then there are a few more notes, followed by the words, “The Lord hath
laid the queen of cities low.”
The four succeeding bars are treated in the same way. The music ceases
while “Her priests are captives” is recited. Then a chord is struck, and
the voice goes on unaccompanied, “Her monarchs are rejected.” Another
chord, “Her godly rites forsaken, unprotected.” The sixth bar opens with
a chord, and is followed by the words, “Down, temple! Cedars, down!” and
terminates with four semi-quavers.
This is an intensely dramatic poem, written in rhymed Alexandrines, and
the student must take great care not to rend the words from the
accompaniment, or the accompaniment from the words. The short phrases
and detached chords must punctuate and emphasize the sentences, and lend
weight and finish to the whole. This is not a difficult task when
compared with such a study as “The Dream of Jubal,” in which the music
accompanies the words in strict time, the combination of voice and
pianoforte flowing smoothly, the components dependent and yet never
waiting for each other.
The only way to reach perfection is to study the poem and music
separately at first, until the student is fairly familiar with both.
Then continue them with the aid of a metronome until the technicalities
of the mechanism, which include correct emphasis, pauses, and rhythm,
and the proper flow of the phrases, are mastered.
When this has been frequently rehearsed, the student may try his powers
without the metronome, and gradually, but surely, he will master the
antagonistic forces arrayed against him.
The artist who possesses a natural gift of composition will find it
extremely useful, for there are many exquisite poems which, although
seeming to clamor for a musical accompaniment, have not yet been
touched; but this combination is fraught with perils, and those who
approach it must be for ever wary of the grotesque and unfit.
In burlesque, of course, the artist has great license in the matter of
accompaniment. He may exaggerate and slash his pianoforte (taking care
never to drown his voice), and achieve the absolutely absurd and
ludicrous, but, in the poems or patter that need delicacy, lightness of
touch, melancholy cadences or bubbling, merry notes, he cannot be too
careful in the theme he chooses to aid and color his portrayal. In such
pieces, the right attitude, the right gesture, the right expression must
be studied and gripped, so as to add their subtle beauty to the whole.
The accompanying sketch shows the correct attitude at the piano, or
rather, the attitude generally adopted by the professional
musical-sketch artist. The body is turned “three-quarters” to the
audience, the head full-faced, the left foot working the pedals, while
the right usually follows the direction in which the performer is
looking.