Psychic Symphony

Does the musician shape the instrument or the instrument the musician?

A psychiatrist would say that certain personality types choose certain instruments. A conductor would say it makes no difference, since all musicians are the same -- outpatients.

Pop psych has long been essential in the volatile world of music. In this month's High Fidelity Magazine, for example, Pianist Claudio Arrau tells how analysis helped his playing by "clearing my personal psychic jungle," and contends that no musician is ready to stand on his own until he has first stretched out on the analyst's couch and found "selfhood in harmony with the cosmos."

For many musicians, the most fascinating psychic jungle is that of the symphony orchestra. Flutists tell dark tales of suicides among "rejected" second violinists; trumpet players attribute the snobbism of first violinists to an "identity crisis" resulting from their "cloistered, velvet-pants upbringing." And almost everyone is convinced that all oboe and bassoon players are a little batty. London's Royal Philharmonic members nod understandingly when one of their fellow players, Nicholas Reader, admits that he reads fairy tales to his bassoon each night.

Oral Types. Some pop psychers believe that particular instruments tend to form particular personalities, even down to physical similarities. The Boston Symphony's Sherman Walt ascribes great significance to the fact that he is tall and skinny like his bassoon. Berlin Philharmonic Cellist Eberhart Finken is convinced that woodwind players speak with the same tones and inflections as their instruments.

Los Angeles Psychoanalyst Ralph Greenson, an amateur violinist who has treated several prominent musicians, suggests that some clarinetists and flutists might think that they took up their instrument because it was the only one available in the high school band. More likely, it was because they are "oral" types, "great eaters and drinkers. A lot of them are people who have been extremely gratified, and therefore spoiled, and then deprived. The playing of their instrument is an attempt to make up for this."

Among the string players, adds Greenson, sex is the dominating factor. When a solo violinist assumes his proud stance, he exudes a "phallic pride. He wants to make love to the audience. It is an attempt to prove that 'I am lovable, attractive and irresistible.' It sets a mood, and this applies especially to those who doubt their powers and attractiveness." Cellists woo too, by the way they hug their female-shaped cellos. This is healthier, suggests Greenson, because the "cello is more of a grown-up figure, yet passive." Musicologist Dorothy Bales sees the struggle of the string players as "a need to put the self together--to join the yang and yin of their personality. They try to do this by coordinating their right arm with their left." Like all artists, she says, musicians are "a combination of the hysterical and compulsive."

Workaday Folk. Many musicians, of course, disagree--hysterically and compulsively at times. They say they are just workaday folk, subject to the same strains and stresses as anyone else. Nevertheless, prolonged study of orchestra players suggests a curious collection of traits, neurotic or otherwise. The result, however arbitrary, is a sort of Stereotype Symphony.

> The Prima Donna on first violin:

Having studied to be a soloist, he resents the ignominy of sawing away with the masses. He shares with other string players the conviction that there is something unfair about having devoted a lifetime to conquering his instrument when other musicians have mastered theirs in only a few years. High-strung, persnickety, he raises potted plants and an ulcer.

> The Understudy on second violin: Buried deep within the strings, he feels forgotten. His expression is hangdog, his disposition catty. He lives only for the day when, in some miraculous burst of virtuosity, he will dethrone the hated Prima Donna. Meanwhile, to compensate, he composes sonatas on the side.

> The Middleman on viola: The in fighting for advancement that goes on among the more populous violin desks is not for him; that is why he switched over from the violin years ago. The cerebral sort, he lives for chamber music, which offers more challenge than the routine supporting role that most composers give his instrument.

>The Bon Vivant on cello: Cool, detached, debonair, he exudes calm assurance--and amore. Convinced that the sound of his cello is a mating call, he is a dedicated lady killer and a divorcee. Besides women, he collects Chinese jade and pre-Columbian art.

> The Mortician on bass: With little chance for individual expression, he prides himself on being the "foundation of the orchestra." Tall, glum, plodding, he is quick to point out that he and his instrument are exceedingly manly.

> The Eccentric on oboe: Poor chap, puffing away he builds so much pressure inside his head that it is a wonder he is only half crazy. If that were not enough, he spends 15 masochistic hours a week shaving reeds for his mouthpiece. He has gotten over his fainting spells; now he just snarls a lot.

> The Clown on bassoon: He is a practical joker. It figures, say fellow musicians, because anybody who takes up such a contrary and ridiculous instrument must have a sense of humor. Ever since Mendelssohn made the bassoon a buffoon in a clown march, the bassoonist has been trying to prove that the instrument is a gentleman or at least a pagliaccio, a clown with a soul. But nobody believes him.

> The Stabilizer on clarinet: Quiet, reflective, he is the most musically learned of the woodwind players, serves as the soothing, sympathetic father confessor to his neighbors.

> The Dandy on flute: A dapper dresser, he is as flighty as his instrument. He mischievously delights in tripping up the conductor with his superior musicianship.

> The Aristocrat on French horn: The class of the brass, he is refined and erudite, is one of the highest-paid members of the orchestra and acts like it. Unlike the other brass players, he has never known the camaraderie of playing in dance bands, and tends to stand aloof. He is adept at organizing strikes and protest movements.

> The Sport on trumpet: Aggressive, outgoing, he is the orchestra's resident swinger, a locker-room pundit, a connoisseur of poker, baseball and off-color jokes. To meet the physical demands of his instrument, he lifts weights. > The Tout on trombone: He lifts martinis. A wheeler-dealer, he is forever organizing parties and picnics, likes to sit in on jam sessions at the local jazz club.

>The Braumeister on tuba: He is young, puffy, crewcut, a graduate of the college marching band. In keeping with the Germanic tradition of his horn, he is a dedicated beer drinker.

> The Extravert on percussion instruments: Often required to wait an entire concert just to ping the triangle or thump the bass drum, he develops anxieties. When his moment comes, he flails away with gusto, confident that every eye is upon him. As proprietor of the orchestra's "kitchen," he is belittled because of the limited range of his instruments, envied because he can bang all his frustrations away.

How can so many divergent types work--most of the time--in such close harmony? As one violinist explains: "There is one glorious counter-stress that makes everything worthwhile--the joy of making music." And, it might also be added, with the smug certainty that the fellow up there waving a stick at them is a musical ignoramus as well as an exhibitionist.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.