Transgressive Behaviour

Last week, the media were flooded with allegations of transgressive behaviour against internationally acclaimed Dutch conductor Jaap van Zweden.

A Dutch public broadcaster had spent several years investigating the matter, and this week it released the findings based on around fifty, mostly anonymous complaints. Van Zweden responded in a video message on a different programme. He acknowledged being a perfectionist and therefore often employing an “intense” rehearsal style, which can sometimes come across as unpleasant. However, he stated that his criticism is never meant personally and is always aimed at the final result: the concert.

The behaviour now labelled as “transgressive” is by no means limited to Van Zweden himself. I know many examples of conductors, musicians, and also managers who employed similarly “intense” ways of communicating. I remember a televised masterclass from the 1980s, given by the famous soprano Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, where the vocal students serving as demonstration subjects stood trembling on stage. When I began my own studies, an authoritarian teaching approach was still quite common. Only from the late 1960s or early 1970s did this gradually begin to change. I was also fortunate to have a number of teachers who wanted nothing to do with such an approach (or perhaps simply had no talent for it), and who understood that the acquisition of knowledge is a personal process — best served with a healthy dose of empathy. A bit of humour also works wonders.

There’s another side to the story, however, which I’ve barely heard discussed — and which is necessary for a complete picture.

I believe many conductors, especially early in their careers, could tell stories of being “tested” by certain well-established orchestras. Playing a wrong note on purpose to see whether the conductor noticed. Making silly jokes among themselves to break the concentration. During a rehearsal of one of my own works, when the conductor was working separately with a specific section of the orchestra, several other musicians were busy trading items with one another. At a rehearsal of a different piece, the concertmaster deliberately delayed proceedings because he didn’t like the music. The conductor later told me he could have strangled him. Orchestral players coming up to me during the break to explain that they found my music completely worthless. Standing up in the middle of a bar because it was time — to the minute — for their coffee break.

Teaching, too, brings its own challenges, especially when working with larger groups: arriving late, excessive chatter, staring at mobile phones, failing to prepare or do homework, and showing clear indifference towards the lesson — which is attended only to earn the credits needed for graduation. It was widespread.

In my case, it concerned theory lessons — always considered subsidiary subjects, and therefore often seen by students as less important than their principal study. That was one of the reasons I began to explore alternative formats, such as the aesthetics class The Technique of Beauty, the laboratory Research Concert Cycle, and the studio The Atelier, where students helped shape the structure themselves.

Whenever one individual is placed opposite a group, a specific group dynamic inevitably comes into play. It is all too convenient a position for the so-called critical investigator to point to that single person as the culprit when something goes wrong. The process is much larger than any one individual. But those making these programmes are not concerned with that — they want to score, to attract viewers, or, in the case of the written press, sell copies. If one truly wants to present an adequate analysis of — in this case — the classical music world, all contributing factors must be taken into account. That includes the method of investigation, the role of the (psychological) experts brought in, what information they had, to what extent they actually understand the musical practice under scrutiny, and what interests are at play — not only within the case itself, but also with regard to the research and its presentation. The focus should not be on the behaviour of a single individual, but on the broader context in which that person functions.

It’s difficult to assess precisely what happened in the examples mentioned in the investigation, especially as the testimonies are mostly anonymous, and the complaints often quite vague. I also recall, after my second composition lesson, riding home on my bike in tears. I hadn’t expected the criticism from my teacher, and couldn’t immediately make sense of it. But a day later I realised he had a point, something worth investigating further. And I also understood that it wasn’t meant personally, even though that’s how it felt at first.

Of course, everyone involved in this practice must be open to criticism. Van Zweden certainly has some explaining to do. In particular, the example of the singer who asked him to begin a certain passage a few bars earlier — Van Zweden’s reaction to that is unacceptable. And unnecessary. It’s simply foolish. I have never seen a conductor refuse such a request from within the orchestra. But the role of the orchestra director in this situation is also troubling. He should have taken both the singer and Van Zweden aside. Had he done so, the singer’s perfectly reasonable request would surely have been acknowledged by Van Zweden. The fact that this didn’t happen is incomprehensible. It would be to Van Zweden’s credit if he went a step beyond what he said in his video — namely, that orchestra musicians should, of course, feel safe and shouldn’t be sitting at home sick. “Sensing what is happening within the orchestra is part of the conductor’s task.” He ought to clarify how he intends to deal with this reality. And that’s not so difficult. If you cross a line, you can acknowledge it, and apologise. We all make mistakes. The craft of the arts is vulnerable, far from ordinary, and often deeply confronting — because it throws you back upon yourself.

If we want to gain a better understanding of transgressive behaviour within the classical music sector, we must also examine the orchestral structure itself. The orchestras that performed the premières of Beethoven’s symphonies probably consisted of 35 to 50 musicians.

That’s about half the size of a modern symphony orchestra. It’s certainly challenging for a conductor to work with 80 to 100 musicians — though not impossible, of course. But it does increase the likelihood of authoritarian behaviour. Especially given the time pressure: the number of rehearsals is limited, which poses a serious problem for the preparation of new works.

Then there’s the issue of the star status some top conductors enjoy. On the one hand, it draws larger audiences — the general public tends to enjoy that sort of thing, it is, after all, a form of opera. These conductors also bring in sponsors, and thus money. That gives them power over orchestra managements, who feel they must walk on eggshells to avoid bruising the conductor’s ego — a delicacy they’ve chosen in exchange for the money.

This may not be the main reason, but it certainly contributed to why composers, from the 1970s onward, felt the need to search for alternatives to the orchestral format. Ensembles are significantly smaller, and a more democratic approach is much easier to realise. Some ensembles simply chose to work without a conductor at all — the musicians collaborated on the artistic content as equals. And when an ensemble did choose to work with a conductor, that person had to be open to dialogue with the musicians. Perhaps it would be helpful if orchestral conductors regularly worked with ensembles — with musicians who are not afraid to speak up. That produces something not only artistically valuable, but also allows the conductor to learn something about reciprocal communication.

— Cornelis de Bondt, 24 May 2025