Music: Food for the Soul

Duke Ellington claimed that "there are only two kinds of music: good and bad," and I completely agree.
Bad music is drastically useless to me. There are things (and many) written down that I can easily do without, as they add absolutely nothing to my existence. In fact, I'm convinced that 70%, maybe 80% or more of written music is absolutely boring, formulaic, an exercise in style, a source of profit for its own sake (for some, good for them...). In short, it's anything but beautiful and moving (and, if you look closely, not even entirely ethical).
Music doesn't feed, it doesn't quench, it doesn't heal, it doesn't warm, it doesn't satisfy any primary human need... Its only purpose is to create emotions, because humans (as a species) cannot live without experiencing emotions; good or bad, they often hold our existence in their grip unless we find the will and the way to control them. A man can survive for days without food, several without water or sleep, in heat or cold, in health or illness, but he cannot live a single moment without emotion, and much less can his life be fulfilled without experiencing emotions (especially beautiful, fulfilling ones). What does music do if not provide us with the very food for the soul we so ardently and painstakingly seek, nourishing (or healing) parts of the body we sometimes even forget we have? Unemotional music is the most useless thing there is.

I have been making a living from music (professionally) since 1993, and throughout my career I have been involved in all aspects of music composition and production, in fields ranging from record production to print publishing. I've been fortunate enough to conduct ensembles large and small, prominent and lesser-known, sometimes even with exceptional soloists, but it's with the Youth Orchestra of the Arsenale della Pace in Turin, which I founded with some friends from the Laboratorio del Suono - Sermig, that I've had the most fun. When I conduct, I tell my musicians (professionals and amateurs alike) that to excite, you have to be excited, you have to be credible, authoritative, not an impostor. If I want to share something truly authentic, I have to have experience with it, I have to have experienced it firsthand. Otherwise, the audience will have the impression of being in the presence of someone who, instead of playing, is doing a homework assignment or, worse, giving a nice sermon, or even "promoting," to use a colorful expression...

I believe that music is also everything that isn't written. Let me explain. The score is a fence, a competition ground, the mapping out of a path that can be more beautiful or more ugly. It's a project worthy of the applause (or rejection) of the designer (or composer). Some pieces of music are extraordinarily beautiful regardless of who or what they're performed with; for example, Bach on the classical or electric guitar or piano remains wonderfully Bach, yet in his life he never saw (for chronological reasons) a guitar (let alone an amplifier) or a piano. But his projects always retain their power and poetry, their perfection worthy of a mechanism from the highest school of watchmaking, regardless of the instrument or the era. It's enough to make the notes (which is often far from simple). The composer establishes the trajectories, the curves, the climbs or descents, the sea or the mountain. It's he who traces the run, as happens in alpine skiing. The interpreter is so called because he is called upon to interpret the course, to put himself on the line on that path, in the construction of that project. Written music is the playing field, but everything the performer brings to that playing field, that particular score, can also be great—indeed, very great music.
Sometimes the performance is worth more than the design itself. If this were not the case, and music were merely the notes, it would be more than enough to have one (and only one) version of Debussy's Claire de la lune; the others would automatically all be the same. But since music is undeniably also what is not written, we have one for each pianist, one for each performer, and the fantastic thing is that they are all different, each says something different, yet the notes are always the same… Why? Because each of us is unique and unrepeatable.
 

Mauro Tabasso
Focus
NP April 2025