In a 2013 interview with the great Philip Myers (Principal Horn, New York Philharmonic, 1980–2017), Michael Davis asked how he thought about his musical relationship with Philip Smith (Principal Trumpet, 1978–2014) and Joseph Alessi (Principal Trombone, 1985–present). Myers responded:
I don’t know whether they would agree with this or not, but I think we were all taught a rather odd thing…I think we were all raised, every one of us, was being raised told that “good” was normal. And I don’t believe that anymore, I don’t believe that’s true. I think when something’s good, that’s almost unusual. That’s exceptional. That’s great. That’s wonderful. That’s something to be excited about. My father didn’t view it that way. My father’s view of it was that that was just to be expected: that things would be good. And the only thing to be dealt with was when things were less than good. And if things were less than good that meant you hadn’t met your responsibility.
I too was raised under this misapprehension. Good was not presented to me as a fortunate interruption in the ordinary course of things, but as the ordinary course itself: a stable family was normal, courtesy was normal, and a man was expected to keep his word, arrive when he said he would arrive, perform his work conscientiously, and refrain from making a spectacle of either his appetites or his sufferings. Adults possessed some command of themselves; houses were kept clean, children were raised well, and meals were eaten together. One dressed properly when the occasion required it, spoke with care, and understood that one’s behavior imposed obligations toward others. There were failures, certainly, but failure was understood as a deviation from the pattern rather than the pattern itself.
None of this was taught to me as doctrine. It was absorbed by osmosis, through habits and assumptions so constant that they scarcely seemed like teachings at all. I did not know that I was receiving a moral inheritance, because what is inherited is invisible to the child who lives within it; he assumes that the walls have always stood and always will. The order of the home, the general restraint of adults, and the thousand courtesies by which daily life is made tolerable seemed less like achievements of character than facts of nature.
Because of this, I passed through my late teens and twenties with a hopeful outlook. I believed the disorder of early adulthood to be temporary, and supposed that those who were aimless would eventually find direction, those who were coarse would acquire decorum, and those who drifted through romance, drink, resentment, or self-invention would tire of it all in time. They would marry, have children, and assume the responsibilities of ordinary life, while the adolescent self, having served its purpose, would be outgrown like the clothes of childhood.
For many, something like this did happen; but for many others, it did not. Time did not correct them so much as carry them forward; the habits hardened, the grievances deepened, and the evasions gradually acquired the dignity of philosophies. Some never formed the families they had once assumed they would; some married and remained essentially alone; some had children without accepting the moral transformation that parenthood demands. Others attained respectable positions while preserving within themselves the vanity, disorder, and petulance of youth, now concealed beneath the costume of adult life. I had supposed maturity to be inevitable, when in truth only age is inevitable. Character must be actively formed.
Such a discovery may incline a person toward cynicism, but cynicism is merely another misapprehension, for it mistakes the rarity of good for its nonexistence. Myers’s remark suggests something more exact and, in the end, more hopeful: goodness is neither imaginary nor merely relative, but exceptional, and it manifests when someone has accepted the responsibility of the good.
This is plainly true of manners. Courtesy is often spoken of as though it were decorative, a thin polish applied to virtues of greater substance, when in fact it is among the most practical forms of moral discipline. To be courteous is to acknowledge that one’s moods do not rule the room, and that another person’s dignity is not suspended because one happens to be tired, hurried, wounded, or important. Grace in conduct does not require softness, artificial sweetness, or endless agreeableness; it requires proportion, restraint, and some knowledge of how much of oneself may properly be imposed upon the world.
The absence of this quality has become common enough that its presence can now seem almost startling. A person who remains aware that other people occupy the same world—who gives them room when standing in line, offers a seat when it is needed, and steps aside to let someone pass—already possesses a kind of distinction. If he also listens without merely waiting for his turn to speak, does not advertise every injury, performs small obligations without praise, and bears disappointment without making it contagious, he may appear almost aristocratic—not in rank, but in consideration and command of self. One begins to understand that what was once called breeding was, at its best, not a matter of class or lineage, but the long instruction of instinct by duty, until regard for others became almost second nature.
In music there is analogy to goodness in the form of excellence, because in sound we can hear how rarely excellence is achieved. A professional orchestra may play every note, maintain the proper balance, and observe a perfectly defensible style, yet nothing of consequence has taken place; then, on another night, the same musicians may play the same piece, and the work seems to arrive from some region beyond them, as a phrase acquires the force of necessity, transitions seem discovered rather than negotiated, and the orchestra ceases to sound like sections and begins to speak with one voice. We often speak as though such greatness were the natural consequence of talent augmented by years of discipline, but it requires far more: memory, humility, courage, and the mysterious consent of many people to serve something larger than themselves. Even among the most accomplished musicians, these things do not combine automatically or appear in equal measure on every occasion, which is why excellence is not the baseline of artistic life but an event within it—realized to a certain level on occasion, yet never wholly commanded. At its highest level, the performance possesses a force beyond its beauty, revealing what human beings may accomplish when impulse is restrained, ego set aside, attention sharpened, and responsibility borne together; the result is not merely polished sound, but cosmic order made audible, in which each player retains an individual voice while no one plays for himself alone.
Myers’s father believed that anything less than good meant that one had failed in one’s responsibility. There is severity in such a view, yet nobility as well, for he belonged to a world in which men understood that the walls did not stand by themselves, and that their preservation depended in some measure upon each person. We may no longer assume that they will stand of themselves, and should therefore honor those who continue to maintain them. Whenever something is truly good—whether in a home, a human character, or a symphony—we ought to understand that it is not ordinary at all, but an achievement to be noticed, protected, and received with gratitude.
I do not write these things as one who has attained them, or who is better than other men, for I know too well my own failures, and how far my practice falls short of what I believe. Yet I would not therefore cease from the attempt, but would rise a little earlier, listen with greater patience, speak with more care, bear my disappointments without laying them upon others, and love my neighbor more faithfully than I did the day before. And when I fail in these things, as I often do, I would make the attempt anew, trusting not in my own strength alone, but in the mercy and help of the Almighty. For whatever good may be found in me has come not by nature or by merit, but through grace, repentance, and the daily willingness to begin again.