The interview is at the restaurant of the Deutsche Oper Berlin. The composer is waiting at a table in the front area, the interviewer takes a seat at the table, and the interview begins right away.

Mr Kampe, is it possible to tell a joke through music?
That begs the question of what…

We are interrupted as a friendly staff member informs us that she’s setting the tables for the guests for the evening performance, and that we have to move to the back.

Kampe: That was the perfect segue! This situation here could be very funny on stage.

The fact that we have to change seats would be a joke?
Absolutely, especially if the situation occurs again. Imagine that you turn on the recorder, take a sip of coffee, and ask me the first question. And whenever I start to answer, I’m interrupted at the exact same spot. It all starts over again.

Sounds like Beckett. Is that still funny, or just grating?
Both. The absurd is grating and funny at the same time. There’s a lot of comic potential in the un-resolution of a situation.

How would you set our scene to music?
Musical jokes aren’t that different from linguistic ones. In a society of speakers and listeners, we unconsciously get accustomed to how things are supposed to be. A joke deviates from these “rules”, otherwise we wouldn’t even notice it. The case of our endlessly interrupted interview would demand harmonic support.

How exactly do we need to imagine it?
As music listeners, we’re used to certain chord progressions known as cadences. You don’t need to know anything about musical theory to intuitively recognise a “correct” harmonic resolution. We expect a return to the keynote, the root position chord. And you can play with this expectation.

How does it feel when we don’t return to the keynote?
Imagine the keynote is your home: A simple cadence, you know it like the back of your hand. It’s usually how pop music works. But with Wagner, for example, you spend hours meandering around and encounter all sorts of strange figures. Or you keep saying that you’re about to go home, but you’re never able to. You walk around hopelessly. It’s relatively easy to convey such a sense of lostness by suddenly switching to a new key.

And it becomes comedic through repetition?
I worked that way for my GEFÄHRLICHE OPERETTE. The singers and musicians keep repeating this anti-joke until it reaches your ears: “What did the Dalmatian say to the waiter? That hit the spot!” Over and over. It’s absurd, annoying, and downright ludicrous.

Gordon Kampe tells an anti-joke about Dalmatians. Illustrator Theo Koopenhagen presents his own perspective on Rossini, and on the question of whether the Dalmatian’s food hit the spot 

 

What makes Rossini a master of comedic opera?
You can try to nail down specific aspects, like his astonishingly good timing, his manner of drawing figures, his ability to build up tension through music to an immeasurable extent and then terminate it. But it’s about his attitude: Rossini was able to laugh about his own works, opera in general, and especially about himself. This sets him apart from those who want to make a pointed, academic statement from up above.

Is that a character trait, or something that can be learned?
Rossini was good and he knew it. But he didn’t have to constantly prove everything he’s capable of. Maybe this security is key to becoming a master. But can you learn the art of perfect timing? Every joke is in exactly the right spot, but they would fail if they were just two bars late. That’s how tight the gap is between success and failure in comedy…

Does the clown have it harder than the sad bard?
Mirth is a lot harder to depict than grief. The clown bares all, and has failed if nobody laughs at their jokes. Forgive the polemic, but the person who looks out into the distance and bemoans the suffering of the world has it easier – including musically.

Do serious matters tend to be valued differently in our culture?
We’re supposedly still trapped in this dichotomy. On the one side is serious music that is supposed to be taken seriously, and on the other side is that which is “just” entertainment. Cheer tends to be seen as more superficial. And, as I know from my own experience, it’s much more closely tied to the person who brought it forth.

How so?
It can be almost a little dangerous for creators in our cultural space. If you’ve told a joke too many times, you get pigeonholed as a clown. And the clown can’t kill because that’s not part of the role. If someone does go over the rails now and then, you can’t take them seriously in some contexts.

Do you have anyone in your life whom you ask for advice when you aren’t certain about something?
I always trust my wife. She’s my strictest dramatic advisor and questions everything I think up.

What did she say about your Dalmatian joke?
She advised against it.

Interview: Tilman Mühlenberg