56 things from this book went into her brain. Here are the first 6.
Henry Edward Krehbiel argued that the ability to listen attentively to music is better proof of musical talent than playing an instrument or singing, and is far rarer.
Henry Edward Krehbiel observed that music is the art people practise most and think about least, and that a frank diagnosis has to come before any cure.
Krehbiel argued that the greatest need is not more teachers of playing and singing, but people who can teach others how to listen to music.
Henry Edward Krehbiel warned that the most harmful writers on music are foolish rhapsodists who sound sensitive instead of pointing listeners to the music itself.
Krehbiel held that music has a material side grasped by the intellect and a spiritual side reached through the imagination, and that real appreciation needs intelligent hearing.
Krehbiel observed that music exists only while it sounds, so the listener must rebuild it in memory at every hearing, and that memory is what makes deeper listening possible.
Henry Edward Krehbiel held that repetition is the basic principle of building anything in music, and that this is what makes memory easy to use while listening.
Krehbiel advised listeners to follow a work's main themes, because that reveals the unity that makes a symphony one whole rather than a set of loose pieces.
Henry Edward Krehbiel held that intelligent listening does not require knowing what music means beyond itself, and that each listener works that out for himself.
Krehbiel said composers listen for beauty and the overall design, while many listeners get lost hunting for pictures and stories in the details.
Moritz Hauptmann held that music says the same thing to everyone, and that any confusion comes from people trying to put their own feelings into words.
Krehbiel credited Beethoven as the first great democrat among musicians, one who made the aristocracy of genius outrank the aristocracy of birth.
Krehbiel said that chamber music depends on sympathy between performers and listeners, and that the musical life of a community shows in whether it flourishes.
Krehbiel held that a title or motto can help a listener, but a piece must be judged by its music itself, not by how clever its commentary is.
Krehbiel observed that music cannot copy water, but it can do what water does and so suggest water, which he saw as the better way to describe things in sound.
Krehbiel noted that true composers avoid musical cartooning, and that music which only copies external things loses artistic value.
Beethoven titled his Pastoral symphony as more expression of feeling than painting, which Krehbiel saw as an admonition that should always guide listeners.
Krehbiel argued that the Classic and Romantic principles are two forces whose opposition keeps art alive, and that what is Romantic today tends to become Classic tomorrow.
Krehbiel said that learning to tell the instruments of an orchestra apart adds an intellectual pleasure to listening without spoiling the sensuous enjoyment, and opens the ear to beauties never noticed before.
Krehbiel noted that Bach understood the possibilities of instruments far ahead of his time, when most composers still used them only to support the voices.
Krehbiel recounted how a critic mocked Berlioz's delicate violin effect at its Paris premiere, a reminder that a listener can mistake a clever intention for a fault.
Krehbiel held that a melody must suit the instrument it is given to, since a bold fanfare turned into a weak-voiced wind part can become absurd. The fit between idea and medium matters.
Krehbiel recalled Mendelssohn's view that the trombones are too sacred to use often, a reminder that the most powerful voices keep their impact through restraint.
Krehbiel argued that no composer can write down signs for everything he means, so a performer's taste and judgment are needed to give the music life for an audience.
Krehbiel warned that a symphony is one unified work, not a string of unrelated pieces, and that a listener who hears only the parts misses the whole.
Krehbiel said the movements of a symphony are held together by a key relationship and by an emotional bond, and that the emotional bond is the more elusive one yet essential to any truly great work.
Krehbiel described the first movement of a symphony as a three-part shape: present the themes, develop them, then return to them. Knowing that shape lets a listener follow the whole.
Krehbiel observed that in the hands of great composers like Beethoven and Schumann, playfulness can invite thoughtfulness rather than merriment, blending deep melancholy with wild humour.
Krehbiel explained that a work can express many moods and still hold together when its main idea is presented in many transformations. Unity comes from that one idea reappearing, not from sameness.
Krehbiel noted that Ysaye thought a performer had little to add after Beethoven, since composers are usually more eloquent with their own ideas than the performers who play them.
Krehbiel recorded Gluck's aim that an opening should prepare the audience for what follows, serving as a kind of argument for the piece.
Krehbiel held that technical mechanics are a low plane of art, and that real emotional power comes from the player's touch, which is why the most skilled mechanician can still be outshone by a player with more soul.
Krehbiel noted that Bach changed his hand technique, bringing in the thumb and loosening his fingers, because his polyphonic style demanded it. Technique should serve the music, not the other way round.
Krehbiel quoted Kullak and Dannreuther to show that Beethoven changed form only as his expression required, not for the sake of novelty. Change should come from need.
Krehbiel warned that music fitting an instrument well is not thereby good. Content matters more than how idiomatic a piece is, and praising a piece only for its fit with the instrument can hide weak content.
Krehbiel observed that Liszt, for all his showmanship, set aside his own vanity when he played Beethoven and became a peerless interpreter. The best performers serve the work in front of them.
Krehbiel observed that opera audiences often enjoy the music and ignore the words, even though the lyric drama has grown so that its words and drama now matter far more than they once did.
Krehbiel argued that opera is a reasonable art form, since it aims to charm the senses, stir the emotions and persuade the reason all at once, and that it is no absurdity when done well.
Krehbiel held that the best light opera, such as Gilbert and Sullivan, satirises a popular folly with a smile, the way good comedy corrects manners. When it sinks into vulgarity it loses that purpose.
Krehbiel argued that a true lyric drama should stay musical from beginning to end. Switching between speech and song keeps the audience pulled between the real and the ideal, so the drama never fully takes hold.
Krehbiel observed that music can turn an inner emotional struggle into the feel of a story full of incident, as in Tristan, where the outward action is barely more than a meeting of two lovers.
Krehbiel judged that singing exists to serve dramatic meaning, and that technical display without feeling is hollow, however dazzling it sounds.
Krehbiel explained Wagner's starting point: music had become the end when it was meant to be the means. Words, music, staging and action should work together, with music raising the drama to a higher power.
Krehbiel warned that memorising a catalogue of labels teaches little. A listener learns more by noting the attributes that give a passage its mood and fitness, because feeling the mood matters more than knowing the name.
Krehbiel held that taking part in music, especially singing in a choir, teaches more than listening alone, because it builds sympathy and gets to the heart of a piece faster than anything else.
Krehbiel held that size is no sign of merit in a singing group, and that a well-trained group of modest size can perform most choral music well.
Krehbiel argued that a strong group needs each member to give up some of their individuality for the blend, while still mastering their craft, because the collective effect depends on each person's precision.
Krehbiel criticised performances that sing every piece the same way, and held that each work should be sung according to its own character, which is how a familiar piece like Handel's Messiah can regain its freshness.
Krehbiel advised listeners to hear music in terms of the purpose it was written for. Palestrina's church music aims to exalt a mystery rather than voice personal feeling, so judging it as personal drama misses its point.
Krehbiel explained that a drama presents incident to the eye, while an oratorio relates, expounds and celebrates its story through the ear, so the listener has to build the scene in the imagination.
Krehbiel held that musicians, critics and public keep each other honest through friction, and that a world with no tension among them would bring stagnation rather than harmony.
Krehbiel argued that a critic who simply echoes the crowd, measuring praise by applause, is failing the audience. People enjoy being flattered, but the critic's real job is to guide judgment, even when it is unwelcome.
Krehbiel advised that before judging a work, you should go to the author to find his meaning, not your own, and only judge it afterward if you feel qualified.
Krehbiel noted that the public are neither bad judges nor good critics: their popular verdicts are quick and swayed by fashion, while a judgment built on principle and precedent lasts longer.
Krehbiel held that a judge of music need not be a composer, but must be able to feel with one. Discussing a work only through its technical side, as a pedant does, misses what music is for.
Krehbiel held that a critic's duty is to separate excellence from defect, and to look harder for beauty as the faults grow more apparent. Without sympathy, he said, judgment is also lacking.
