Putting A Stop To It

Oh dear. I note the participation by someone of whom I'd have least expected it (because manifestly unnecessary) in one of those manifold variations of that tiresome exercise in self-trumpeting: the Desert Island List game. (To shield the misguided, no link provided.) Public participation in such a game, of course, gives one the opportunity — or, rather, excuse — to display for the impressing and admiration of all and sundry the breadth of one's knowledge as well as one's depth of general intellect, and the level of refinement of one's tastes.

As I said, a tiresome exercise.

This particular variation of the Desert Island List game took the form of a literary questionnaire with seven items, one of which was itself an undisguised desert island list entitled, Five books you would take to a deserted island.

Slick, what?, and double tiresome.

Typically, I ignore these things, and pass over reading participants' responses, as I did in this case. A few years ago, however, on a largely knowledgeable-persons-populated online classical music forum in which I sometimes participated (the population including a fair number of professionals), when the periodic eruption of a call for the Desert Island List game surfaced, and was met with the beginning of the posting of answering lists, with, of course, each list prefaced with the de rigueur demur of, "I really hate lists, but...," I was determined that, this time, because in a really pissy mood that day, I would attempt to put a stop to the thing aborning.

What a bunch of wusses [I cooed]. These Desert Island List games are sissy stuff. I say, no more sissy stuff here. Let's get down to it the Real Man way.

It's the Apocalypse, and you've been chosen by the Dark Horseman to save harmless for all surviving and future humanity but a single work of music, all other works of music to be consumed by the conflagration, and lost forever to humankind as if none of it had ever existed, and none of it ever again to be re-created.

The challenge is: What's the one work you choose to save harmless for all humanity, and why? (N.B., for the present purpose, Wagner's Ring, for instance, counts as four works, not one.)

The howls of protest that greeted this challenge were virtually deafening. I, of course, knew that's just what would happen. After all, how can one display the depth and breadth of one's knowledge, intellect, and refinement of tastes by choosing but a single work, and that most especially given the way the challenge was posed as, abiding by the rules, the choice would not be revelatory of one's own accomplishments and gifts, but a measure of one's understanding and judgment of humankind, and what would be to its greatest benefit?

The bargaining for a change in the rules began at once. One work is impossible!, was the cry. Make it five. OK, not five. Three; at least three! Two? At least two works! How can one choose, say, a symphony of Beethoven's, but consign, say, Le Sacre to oblivion, or vice versa? Be reasonable!

Oh, the wailing and the gnashing of teeth! A truly pitiable thing to behold.

But I remained obdurate. The rules of the challenge, I declared, were nonnegotiable. And closing a loophole that would be spied by all sooner or later, I further stipulated that but a single work could even be mentioned. No I-choose-X-but-it-was-a-close-call-between-X-and-Y-not-to-speak-of-Z permitted. (I told you I was in a particularly pissy mood that day, right?)

Their last hope shredded to tatters against my iron will, and their surrender imminent, I then delivered the coup de grâce. I asked everyone to give hard, frank thought to the reason their objections to the rules of the challenge were so vociferous and adamant — the real reason, not the reason they all to a man had given.

That did it. Everyone pretty much got it right off, and, indeed, that was the last time any variation of the Desert Island List game was ever even proposed on that forum.

The really interesting thing, however, was that about 75% of the usual players insisted on going forward with this particular variation of the game under the rules set forth.

And so they did (as did I), and a few astonishing and unexpected outcomes were to be observed.

First, was the utmost seriousness with which everyone took the challenge, all participants almost palpably feeling the immensity and weight of the responsibility that had been hypothetically thrust upon them. This was perhaps the most astonishing and unexpected outcome of all. And totally absent was any trace of self-trumpeting the opportunity for which is the sine qua non characteristic of all variations of the Desert Island List game.

Second, was that all the choices (including this writer's) were of works where the human voice, solo and / or in ensemble, played a principal part.

And lastly, all the choices put forward were, without exception, of pre-20th-century works. This from a group famous for being cheerleaders for so-called New Music (this writer, of course, not included among them in that regard).

I confess that these unexpected outcomes — the earnestness and care invested in the choosing of the work most particularly — I personally found touching and reassuring. Took the pissy right out of my mood P.D.Q. that day, it did.

Wouldn't it have you?