Sounding Off
John Keillor cocks an ear at the Chan
While I was shopping for classical CDs in January, I overheard this exchange between a customer and a clerk:
“What did you think of the Philip Glass recital?”
“Awful. The acoustics in the Chan were appalling.”
“I hate the acoustics there too. You know they call it the Chan Can.”
Such strong language is rarely heard in public when it comes to discussing the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts. After all, there had been official consensus—even before it opened in 1997—that the sound is brilliant. Designed to mimic the interior “reverberation chamber” of a cello, the concert hall was built to project “the subtlest change in musical colour or volume,” according to the website. In order to achieve these stellar acoustics, it was furnished with adjustable features: sound-absorbent wall hangings and a 37-ton, chandelier-like canopy.
Strange, then, that I’d had my own mixed—even confusing—experiences. I once wrote a lukewarm review of a concert by eminent pianist Murray Perahia for The Globe and Mail, only to be called a “fucking idiot” by a local music promoter. My gist had been that the normally magnificent Perahia had been having a bad day. His prickly champion inferred that the hall’s faulty acoustics had misled me.
This wasn’t the only time the Chan’s apparently shaky sound came up for me. Once, a Vancouver composer found out I would be reviewing a chamber performance there, and ensured that the tickets I’d been given weren’t for “trash” seats.
So why is this issue so hush-hush? A few of the music professionals I contacted for this article frankly refused to discuss the venue’s sound. Yet many talented musicians revere the Chan as a superior concert hall. Perhaps the problem is not the Chan’s structure, or its features, but something else entirely: a lack of discourse.
In Vancouver, when it comes to voicing opinions (or not), the path of least resistance has become a superhighway. Some of the hall’s detractors may keep a low profile because the venue was a philanthropic gift; looking a $25-million gift horse in the mouth is most ungracious. I have heard such people diplomatically navigate through a pro-Chan crowd by defaulting to architectural admiration. (The building’s unpretentious, sensationally modern exterior, zinc cylinder and all, is deservedly beyond reproach.)
But beyond that, it seems that any whiff of dissatisfaction is regarded as toxic acrimony, to be flushed from our gleaming arts infrastructure. This city seems to reflexively conflate constructive criticism with hostile opposition. In short, people are afraid of pissing somebody off—some cultural bureaucrat perhaps, sequestered from public view, secreting venom, able and willing to interfere with an outspoken musician’s professional life. This bogeyperson—whether fictional or actual—puts a damper on public scrutiny and talk, so that resolvable issues fester, inhibiting thought and constipating public discussion.
Luckily, this condition is highly treatable. Local debates that lurk unspoken or half-spoken need airing out. Some people did speak freely about the Chan, so here’s a start:
Michael Juk, producer of CBC Radio One’s West Coast Performance, said, “It’s an impressive hall, beautiful for vocalists and more delicate material, such as baroque music. But larger sounds—orchestral sounds—can be problematic.”
University of BC piano professor Jane Coop hears the room differently. “I find it very good for orchestra, very warm and clear,” she said, adding, “For solo piano and other, more intimate, shows, a shell behind the performers might help push the sound further into the hall, toward the audience.”
Composer Rodney Sharman, who has composed works specifically for the Chan, observed, “Brass and percussion players must show restraint. The Chan has great warmth but it can also get boomy.” Similarly, CBC Vancouver Symphony conductor Mario Bernardi said, “The Chan has wonderful acoustics, though the tympani player has to be careful.”
These reputable folks all favour the hall while acknowledging its idiosyncrasies. These foibles are perhaps what the covert grumblers dislike about it. The sound question is apparently more of a variable, rather than a binary matter of good or bad.
“A concert hall can’t be all things to all people,” Juk explained. “The Chan’s acoustics are lively. They naturally flatter strings and vocals. Piano is more challenging. So is big band. Like any hall, the Chan is an instrument. Halls have distinct sonorities and tone colours, and you have to learn how to play them.”
This seems to be the crux. The canopy above the stage, suspended by metal cables, is adjustable by height to help direct music away from the stage. The motorized fabric banners can drop down the walls to further domesticate lively acoustics. Given time, a performer can set up the hall the way he or she likes.
Alfred Brendel, another eminent pianist whose Chan performance I had praised in a Globe review—in the same summer as the Perahia gig—had spent hours in the hall beforehand, sorting out the sound. It emerged magnificently crystalline.
If tweaking the canopy and banners isn’t an option, the hall’s sound naturally becomes more of a gamble. One piano student said of her own, rather rushed, Chan appearance, “I didn’t even have time to see a technician there.” Without the help of a sound engineer, her recital came across as vague and woolly. The music seemed to hover around that amazing canopy, which remained high up, imperious and ineffective. If the facility kept a shell on hand—as Coop suggested—it could have been carted on and off the stage with a minimum of fuss.
As things stand, Chan staffers have their own assessment of the situation. “Performers sometimes forget to budget enough time to work on the hall’s sound,” said Cameron McGill, the associate managing director of facilities and operations. “Also, it costs money; some performers may not be able to afford a sufficient amount of a technician’s time.”
The Chan, however, doesn’t always require exhaustive tinkering. Sharman’s 2002 premiere of Love, Beauty, Desire was a case in point: supposedly problematic percussion underpinned his exquisite vocal writing with crisp discretion. The soprano’s sensually wavering, unhurried, microtonal melodies were bound in potent pauses and decays, so delicate that the hall’s own resonance became virtuostic. No Brendel-style makeover had taken place. “I simply composed for the hall as I remembered it,” Sharman said.
The Chan is still relatively new, and some listeners’ negative opinions formed before the hall’s operations have had a chance to run optimally, before anyone has learned—through feedback—how to play it properly. Constructive criticism must be made public, or else the sentiments become bitter and blistering, spoken with a cabalist’s hiss. So, music lovers, speak out.
Copyright © John Keillor, 2004