The Symphony of The Book
Three records featuring different performances of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No. 1 in B flat minor from Winston’s dad’s record collection.
My father loved classical music. Our frequent visits to the Edmonton Public Library were as much about the records as the books, at least for my dad.
Some of my earliest memories involve watching my dad “ripping” vinyl to cassette, speaker to mic before we had the money for nicer stereo equipment and the miracle of patch cables. My sister and I enjoyed quite a raucous free-range childhood for the most part, but one thing we knew with absolute certainty, even after the upgrades to the latest dual cassette deck or high-end turntable… be quiet when dad was recording his music.
Going to church did not require so sacred a silence.
Now the thing with classical music is that it’s never just about “the piece.” I mean, yes, we refer to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony as if it was a singular work of art, featuring what are possibly the most famous opening four notes in all of classical music. But talk to any classical music aficionado and odds are they will reference more than the title and composer, but rather a specific recording of the piece, by a particular orchestra, a favourite conductor, possibly a specific venue, perhaps featuring a favourite soloist. It’s never just Beethoven’s Fifth, it’s the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra’s performance of Beethoven’s Fifth that Alexander Prior conducted at the Winspear.
In that frame of mind, I have gotten into more than one heated debate about whether the conductor should be properly considered the real “artist” in classical music and the musicians merely part of the instrument being played.
Interestingly, this fundamental acknowledgement of a wider range of ‘key players’ in a performance fades even before we leave the realm of music, becoming much less of a thing in pop music, for example. Still, we talk about the difference between live albums and studio albums, or when a favourite band plays a song unplugged. And there’s still nothing better than a live show, the original original performance.
Then there are the covers. Have a listen to Lovers in a Dangerous Time… first the original by Bruce Cockburn and then the cover by The Barenaked Ladies… and you’ll hear two remarkably different performances of the same work, two distinct works of art.
And dare I mention every version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah?
So why am I rambling on about classical music and covers of pop songs on a book blog?
Because I would argue that the same recognition for the depth of creatorship, not just authorship, should be applied to books.
Turns out my childhood influences of classical music and books collided into a lifelong fascination with print culture, with graphic design, with the book as object. Herein lies my justification for buying more than one copy of any given book, the way my dad had three versions of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No. 1 in B flat minor in his record collection, and who knows how many pirated versions on cassette. Out of this mix grew my fascination with the technology that underpins the art. So too sparked the idea – unpopular opinion – that the book designer plays a greater role than the book author in the creation of literary meaning.
And it’s why, in large measure, for me, the Butterflies & Aliens Library of Literary Eccentricities & Rarities now exists.
Just as a manuscript of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, existing merely as inky scrawls on staff paper or sheet music on a stand, does not become actual music until performed, the manuscript of a written work must undergo a similar transformation, an interpretation — a performance — before it becomes the actual art which we as booklovers consume. Somewhere along the line, someone must conduct an orchestra of typographers and illustrators, paper and ink makers, cover designers and bookbinders to bring the manuscript to life.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King says that “books are a uniquely portable magic,” but I would take it a step more granular. I submit that each individual book is a unique piece of portable magic, a unique casting of the spell, a unique performance of a manuscript-based work of art.
How much more is Isaac Asimov’s Foundation with Michael Whelan’s cover art? I love Frank Herbert’s Dune, but in the Berkeley paperback or the Easton Press leatherbound hardcover more? And just how does the original Griffin & Sabine by Nick Bantock, a story told in postcards, manage to translate into an audiobook version on cassette?
Because it’s not simply the same words presented in the same order. It’s how.
I look forward to exploring this idea, and sharing some of my favourite performances, with you in the weeks and months ahead. You will find them tagged as part of the Book as Performance section of the site.
Happy exploring!
– Winston
