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One hears in "The Symphonia," the masterwork of the obscure composer, Smedley Feinschmecker, the familiar collision of the sublime and the mundane, a device skillfully tasked to give voice to the musician's supposition about what the moment of creation would have sounded like if someone had been around to record it on sub-optimal equipment and then retransmitted it over a faulty telephone line.
The Symphonia is at once an ambitious and awesome undertaking, and not infrequently kind of obnoxious. Well-executed, a performance of the work is a tout de force. But this musical deux ex machina, in the hands of perplexed musicians, is rendered more often as simply machina cacophonious, leading some critics to dub the piece: "Guide for the Perplexed."
The Symphonia, sometimes called "The Mohel," is an astoundingly long and complex composition divided, not by movements, but by what Feinschmecker referred to as "innings." It is so long, in fact (a complete performance lasts for nine innings), that a full production calls for no fewer than three conductors plus a fourth conductor working relief.
While the piece gets off to a slow start, the score builds gradually, inning by inning, in intensity and tempo until it reaches the 7th inning, where the composer, evidently tuckered out, stretches, refreshes, and substitutes some of the starter leitmotifs with fresh ones summoned from the depths of his psyche, or, as he put it, "the bench." Here, Feinschmecker has borrowed heavily from other composers.
Interviewed for the liner notes of the last major release of his work on the Sine Qua Huh? label, Feinschmecker described his method for incorporating influences from his own favorite composers into his 7th inning:
"I copied them outright, note-for-note, without attribution or the slightest hint of guilt. I find that when you do this with public domain compositions, it cuts way down on the litigation. This is why, in my Symphonia, after what sounds like 47 minutes of unmitigated bellowing, you suddenly hear an exact replica of the 3rd Brandenburg Concerto, followed by the opening movement of the Jupiter Symphony, and finished off with the juicier parts from the Ode to Joy, if you can imagine those pieces having been written for shofar and kazoo." Thus, the 7th inning of the work has come down to us as "The Plagiarism Suite."
Feinschmecker, like many in his industry, was a firm believer in crescendo, and resented composers like Satie and Debussy who resisted the urge. Feinschmecker thought their approach idiotic. He often referred to them as "stupid idiot persons," but never to their faces, for they were not contemporaries, and never met in any event.
The crescendo in Feinschmecker's Symphonia comes from behind a tonal scuffle in the 9th inning in the form of the stirring "Alles Alles In Free" chorus. Though he rarely spoke of it, notes scribbled on the back of a customer copy of a restaurant receipt and now archived at an on-line university together with the rest of his papers give us clues about the genesis of Feinschmecker's inspiration for his momentous finale.
The epiphany came at a fish eatery where the maître d' announced repeatedly over the loudspeaker: "Feinschmecker, Party of Five!" to gales of laughter from the other patrons, including Feinschmecker's own colleagues from the Komposer's Kollege, who had earlier promised to treat him to lunch, but decided to have him pitch in when hearing that name amplified in the heady atmosphere of flounder and cooking oil.
This incident evidently inspired the volcanic high-pitched eruption that concludes the work in such a rage. During the premier public performance of the Symphonia, the audience covered their ears made "lullalullalullabulla" noises by moving their index fingers back and forth rapidly over their lips to drown out the sound, and headed for the exits before the end of the inning -- a tradition that survives to this day.
Feinschmecker is rarely performed anymore; he hasn't written anything for the past 30 years, a period coinciding with the number of years he has been dead. This has been a source of consternation for some. For others, it is music to their ears.
Most musicologists agree that Feinschmecker was often given over to an anger and angst that constantly infused his music. (He liked to compare himself to Beethoven, but the reverse was never the case). Evidence is to be found in an anecdote about one of his earliest childhood memories. Before coming to America, the original family name had been Feinschmeckers with an "S," but it was shortened at Ellis Island because the immigration official there had trouble with the pronunciation. Feinschmecker, the Younger, was always bitter that his father hadn't lopped off the "Schmecker," when he had the chance, but the elder said that would have been too painful.
Who knows what musical gifts Smedley Fein would have left us? Of course, we can only speculate. The "Symphonia" is Feinschmecker's way of saying "who cares?"
The Symphonia is at once an ambitious and awesome undertaking, and not infrequently kind of obnoxious. Well-executed, a performance of the work is a tout de force. But this musical deux ex machina, in the hands of perplexed musicians, is rendered more often as simply machina cacophonious, leading some critics to dub the piece: "Guide for the Perplexed."
The Symphonia, sometimes called "The Mohel," is an astoundingly long and complex composition divided, not by movements, but by what Feinschmecker referred to as "innings." It is so long, in fact (a complete performance lasts for nine innings), that a full production calls for no fewer than three conductors plus a fourth conductor working relief.
While the piece gets off to a slow start, the score builds gradually, inning by inning, in intensity and tempo until it reaches the 7th inning, where the composer, evidently tuckered out, stretches, refreshes, and substitutes some of the starter leitmotifs with fresh ones summoned from the depths of his psyche, or, as he put it, "the bench." Here, Feinschmecker has borrowed heavily from other composers.
Interviewed for the liner notes of the last major release of his work on the Sine Qua Huh? label, Feinschmecker described his method for incorporating influences from his own favorite composers into his 7th inning:
"I copied them outright, note-for-note, without attribution or the slightest hint of guilt. I find that when you do this with public domain compositions, it cuts way down on the litigation. This is why, in my Symphonia, after what sounds like 47 minutes of unmitigated bellowing, you suddenly hear an exact replica of the 3rd Brandenburg Concerto, followed by the opening movement of the Jupiter Symphony, and finished off with the juicier parts from the Ode to Joy, if you can imagine those pieces having been written for shofar and kazoo." Thus, the 7th inning of the work has come down to us as "The Plagiarism Suite."
Feinschmecker, like many in his industry, was a firm believer in crescendo, and resented composers like Satie and Debussy who resisted the urge. Feinschmecker thought their approach idiotic. He often referred to them as "stupid idiot persons," but never to their faces, for they were not contemporaries, and never met in any event.
The crescendo in Feinschmecker's Symphonia comes from behind a tonal scuffle in the 9th inning in the form of the stirring "Alles Alles In Free" chorus. Though he rarely spoke of it, notes scribbled on the back of a customer copy of a restaurant receipt and now archived at an on-line university together with the rest of his papers give us clues about the genesis of Feinschmecker's inspiration for his momentous finale.
The epiphany came at a fish eatery where the maître d' announced repeatedly over the loudspeaker: "Feinschmecker, Party of Five!" to gales of laughter from the other patrons, including Feinschmecker's own colleagues from the Komposer's Kollege, who had earlier promised to treat him to lunch, but decided to have him pitch in when hearing that name amplified in the heady atmosphere of flounder and cooking oil.
This incident evidently inspired the volcanic high-pitched eruption that concludes the work in such a rage. During the premier public performance of the Symphonia, the audience covered their ears made "lullalullalullabulla" noises by moving their index fingers back and forth rapidly over their lips to drown out the sound, and headed for the exits before the end of the inning -- a tradition that survives to this day.
Feinschmecker is rarely performed anymore; he hasn't written anything for the past 30 years, a period coinciding with the number of years he has been dead. This has been a source of consternation for some. For others, it is music to their ears.
Most musicologists agree that Feinschmecker was often given over to an anger and angst that constantly infused his music. (He liked to compare himself to Beethoven, but the reverse was never the case). Evidence is to be found in an anecdote about one of his earliest childhood memories. Before coming to America, the original family name had been Feinschmeckers with an "S," but it was shortened at Ellis Island because the immigration official there had trouble with the pronunciation. Feinschmecker, the Younger, was always bitter that his father hadn't lopped off the "Schmecker," when he had the chance, but the elder said that would have been too painful.
Who knows what musical gifts Smedley Fein would have left us? Of course, we can only speculate. The "Symphonia" is Feinschmecker's way of saying "who cares?"
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