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第一段貌似不重要The art of embellishment—improvising cadenzas, adding ornaments, taking other opportunities for creativity in performance—is a hot topic in classical music these days. For generations, conservatories preached absolute fidelity to the score: do what the composer wrote and nothing more. The problem is that the scores of prior eras can leave quite a bit to the performer’s imagination, and the earlier the piece the sparser the notation. Modern musicians specializing in the Renaissance and the Baroque have led the way in looking beyond the printed page: the great viol player Jordi Savall improvises heavily in his appearances with Hespèrion XXI, and Richard Egarr, in a new recording of Handel’s organ concertos, responds imaginatively to passages marked “ad libitum.” The notion of adding unwritten material to Classical and Romantic works is more outré, especially in instrumental music, but it is gaining ground. At this summer’s Mostly Mozart Festival, both the pianist Robert Levin and the violinist Joshua Bell presented their own cadenzas, giving spark to what might have been routine events.
第二段开始就相似了Cadenzas sprang up in the early eighteenth century, when composers began indicating brief episodes where the performer should play freely, delaying a final cadence. They appeared not only in opera but also in instrumental pieces, especially in the closing sections of concerto movements. Musicians had been embellishing the score for centuries, and perhaps the cadenza was a way of bringing improvisation under control, corralling it. Mozart, as composer and pianist, brought the practice to its peak; one of his contemporaries stated that cadenzas should be dreamlike in their logic, expressing “ordered disorder,” and Mozart’s playing evidently had that quality. (He wrote out cadenzas for many of his concertos, so his performances may not always have been spontaneous.) Beethoven carried on the tradition—the darkly rumbling cadenza that he devised for Mozart’s D-minor Piano Concerto is a fascinating case of one composer meditating on another—but he also helped to kill it. In the first movement of the “Emperor” Concerto, the soloist is told not to make a cadenza but to play “the following”—a fully notated solo. Performers gradually stopped working out their own cadenzas, instead turning to a repertory of written-out versions. Opera singers retained more freedom, especially when it came to interpolating bravura high notes, but they, too, grew more cautious. Improvisation became the province of church organists and avant-gardists, the latter often taking inspiration from jazz.
Classical advocates of the practice believe that it is not only historically valid but intellectually enlivening. For a recent paper in NeuroImage, Aaron Berkowitz and Daniel Ansari studied what happens cognitively when someone improvises; they observed increased activity in two zones of the brain, one connected to decision-making and the other to language. Even if a soloist extemporizes for only a minute, the remainder of the performance may gain something intangible. Levin, the Harvard-based musician who for decades has been the chief guru of classical improvisation, believes that performances need to cultivate risk and surprise. Otherwise, he says, music becomes “gymnastics with the affectation of emotional content”—a phrase that sums up uncomfortably large tracts of modern music-making.

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