Music in Trains

I have to admit that I am only now reading through the theories of Heinrich Shenker for the first time. I am reticent to mention this in an atmosphere of assumed understanding. This is not to say that I have been oblivious; rather, quite the opposite. What may be more accurate is that I have never taken the time to read the theories from the horse’s mouth/pen (the mixed metaphor clearly falls apart.)

One tenet that keeps sticking out in my mind as I read is the connection between analysis and performance in Schenker’s mind. Perhaps he takes it a bit far to suggest that there is only one true performance of each piece, or, even more so, that performance is superfluous to the music that exists in the score. He does, however, demonstrate that performers can lead the listener through each piece by performing an analysis (not the literal graphs that so many recognize, but rather the resultant understanding.)

Benjamin Zander, a leading interpreter of Mahler and Beethoven recently spoke on TED.com about Classical music. I think he expressed much of what Schenker intended in a humorous, yet powerful way. He takes the audience through “performances” of the same piece as played by a young piano student who progressively gets better. The student begins by placing emphasis on every note; then beat; then measure, phrase, then… they quit lessons. These students generally leave their studies right before being able to demonstrate the direction of the music by only emphasizing structural goal points. I think Schenker would be proud.

Granted, Schenker’s theories traditionally pertain to a limited selection of music of which Brahms is emblematic. Theorists, however, have been feverishly working for years to bring his thinking into the music of today (as are some of my colleagues.) If nothing else, I think this principle of direction in music can, and should, be carried forward. I have heard plenty of awful performances of new music that use emphasis not merely at the the measure- or beat-level, but at the pure note-level. How, distasteful! I think there is a call for performers of new music to find the direction and then, only then, perform.

This does not get composer’s off of the hook. We can not leave the performers to flounder in a murky sea of notation. Rather, it is our responsibility to at the very least compose a sense of direction into each piece. Even better: we can make it obvious. I understand that not all compositions must have direction (i.e. soundscapes and the like), but for those that claim to be “music” in the western tradition, I hardly think that this is an option.

One of the great things about composition in today’s world is the vast social library of styles and media. In a short span of about 100 years, we have gone from mere national stylistic differences to “isms” for any and everything that comes along.

I recently read a passage written by The New Yorker music critic, Alex Ross that made clear to me the value of these enormous stylistic differences. In preparations for translations of his popular book The Rest is Noise His task was to include all quotes in their original languages in order to obtain the best translation. Here is an example:

“Il y a trop de musique en Allemagne,” Romain Rolland wrote, back in the heyday of Mahler and Strauss. Something was lurking, the French writer suspected, in these humongous Teutonic symphonies and music dramas—a cult of power, un “hypnotisme de la force.” Germans themselves recognized the demonic strain in their culture. During the First World War, the not yet liberal-democratic Thomas Mann wrote a manifesto titled Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, in which he praised all the backward German tendencies that he would later come to lament in the pages of Doktor Faustus. In the earlier work, Mann states that die Kunst “hat einen unzuverlässigen, verräterischen Grundhang; ihr Entzücken an skandalöser Anti-Vernunft, ihre Neigung zu Schönheit schaffender ‘Barbarei’ ist unaustilgbar…”

To me, the text is enriched by the insertion of original-text quotes. How better could one understand the content or ideas behind these statements than to look at the words that were used to describe them.

On the other hand, there are those authors that use foreign words without necessity. T. Maretic, the great Croatian linguist, formulated the rule, “Do not use unnecessary foreign words, that is those for which good substitutes can be found in the vernacular.”

The parallel to music is nearly direct. The use of one style within the context of a different style may be extremely beneficial in order to best express the intent of the composer. It may simply be that what must be said can only be expressed a particular way.

Back on the other hand, Maretic may have said, “Do not use unnecessary foreign styles, that is those for which good substitutes can be found in the familiar (i.e. first-employed) style.”

For this, I am thankful to have so much to draw on. Like no generation before, composers today have endless possibilities. So, how multi-lingual can we be?

Some surprising figures:

“For years, [William Weber] has been gathering data on late-eighteenth- and nineteenth-century performances, and he summarizes his findings in graphs showing how works of dead composers came to dominate concerts in Paris, London, Leipzig, and Vienna. In 1782, in Leipzig, the percentage was as low as eleven. By 1830, it was around fifty, going as high as seventy-four in Vienna. By the eighteen-sixties and seventies, the figure ranged from sixty-nine to ninety-four per cent (in Paris). Matters progressed to the point where a Viennese critic complained that ‘the public has got to stay in touch with the music of its time… for otherwise people will gradually come to mistrust music claimed to be the best,’ and organizers of a Paris series observed that some of their subscribers ‘get upset when they see the name of a single contemporary composer on the programs.’ These quotations come from 1843 and 1864.”

This summary comes from Alex Ross of the New Yorker in an article called, “Why So Serious?”

I was dumbfounded when I saw these numbers; clearly, the lack of contemporary music in concerts is not a modern problem. As Ross puts it,

“Anyone who believes that twentieth-century composers, with their harsh chords and rhythms, betrayed some sacred contract with the public should spend a few moments absorbing Weber’s data. In fact, the composers were betrayed first.”

This says to me that there is something deeper at the root of the modern state of affairs than a simple disdain for the whims of modern composers. Would, for example, this void still exist if composers essentially never stopped composing like the classics? I’m thinking the answer may be affirmative. Even as contemporary composers return to more palatable material, audiences are not following. It doesn’t take any brilliant analysis to see that the music of contemporary composers is not really making any headway with the public.

We might look instead to changes in cultural practices that surround this music. For example, classical concerts used to be a sort of background music for aristocratic socialization. Such a function might be compared to the modern “elevator music,” background to our everyday activities. At restaurants, music is inevitably piped through the room with anything ranging from pop to cheesy classics. This is quite similar to the way in which opera was originally consumed (at least fairly similar.)

The fate, however, of ending up piped over some dingy speakers in a overcrowded restaurant is not desired by modern composers, myself included. Part of our job as composers goes beyond just writing music down to making sure that people hear it.

How can we be a part of culture if culture never hears us?

Artie Isaac, a Columbus native, who works at an award-winning, creative marketing strategy and advertising agency, recently made a presentation to City Year Columbus on the topic of ethics in speech.

One of the great questions of the day was, “What’s the hardest part of maintaining ethical speech?”

The answer? Silence.

He writes quite brilliantly on this topic in his own blog at Net Cotton Content, and therefore, I won’t retell the whole story. I will just repeat his closing thoughts about a time in which he showed tact by staying quiet:

But, man, that moment is still awkwardly quiet. Because there are certainly things that could be said.

Isn’t that true in music as well? How often do we composers look to stock filler because the silence is just too overbearing? A run; churning arpeggios in the inner voices; overly complex transitions—there are plenty of easy ways to fill those isolated seconds of silence.

I’d venture to say that there is definitely a sense of “tact” in composition. The audience, knowingly or not, will develop a set of expectations for each piece they hear. They know when you have gone too far, said too much, i.e. left out the silence.

It wouldn’t be a surprise if the audience caught a faux pas before the composer. Surely, as in speech, a great deal of control must be developed over time so as to not go to far.

The hardest part is a silent moment.

Having a free week this summer was a rare commodity, but that’s just what enabled my wife and me to take a trip to Long Island and visit her family. It was exactly what a vacation should be: non-productive. Needless to say, I did enjoy learning some of the basics of banjo-music from Emily’s brother, Randy. We even wrote a tune called (I think) “Moonshine Under the Moonlight.” Not too shabby, but I’ll spare you the details for now.

In the midst of this time, however, I did keep up on my reading of posts on music around the net. Here’s a few “found objects” that I thought worth sharing without comment:

• “Roll Over Beethoven” by Jean Cook
  

  Music sites that tell you Beethoven is the performer, that “Allegro” is the name of the piece, that the piano soloist might be the Berlin Philharmonic. I find these experiences endlessly frustrating. I don’t understand how something so simple has to be so hard to figure out. (I take that back. I do understand. Believe me, I really, really do. But it still makes me crazy.)

• “M50: Minimalism Turns Fifty” on Sequenze21/
  

  This September marks the 50th anniversary of musical Minimalism, an artistic revolution which critic Kyle Gann has described as “the most important musico-historical event of my lifetime.”

• “A dancer’s disciplines” by Andy Crouch
  

  For 30 seconds I danced in front of everyone. It was a very ridiculous-looking version of modern dance (and, c’mon, that’s a long time to look ridiculous). Then a professionally trained modern dancer (with Stillpoint Dance Theater) danced for 30 seconds. Hers was beautiful. I said, “Folks: exhibit A, exhibit B, this is the summary of my talk.” And with this my talk officially began.

Enjoy!

I ran across this interesting quote that is very illuminating:

“In playing for contemporary composers, I’ve always felt that the ones I respected were not inflexible about what you did to their music. They permitted a certain degree of freedom. I’ve found that the lesser composers were the ones who insisted, no, I said mezzo piano and that’s not my conception of mezzo piano. I think the great composers believe their work will endure even if one does not adhere to the exact indications of the music.”
Isidore Cohen (quoted in Nicholas Delbanco, The Beaux Arts Trio: A Portrait)

This is not the first time I have written about the flexibility of scores (see Who’s in Control?), but it I thought it was worth bringing up again to post thoughts from a performer’s perspective. My wife commented on that previous post, pointing out this quote from Roger Norrington:

“…tempo indications, like all other expressive markings, are meant to guide and inspire the performers, not dictate to them.”

I do hope that composers will take this sort of thing seriously. Our art is an interesting one that requires multiple specialists. It is not the result of one person learning to sculpt clay or write a poem. Rather, it is the composer-performer collaboration in which two heads are truly better than one.

Engraving is a production step that went from the individual to the pros and is now creeping back to the responsibility of the composer.

Early-music composers had quite possibly the most difficult job: engrave each piece AND develop a system with which to notate. It wasn’t until around at least 800 that music began to be notated in any systematic way and it was a long time (about another 800 years) before the modern system became fairly well developed.

Around 1500, shortly after Gutenberg developed a movable type printing system, music engraving became the job of professionals. Notation was more or less becoming standardized and composers were more easily able to produce multiple copies of a piece of music by handing it over to an engraver.

We are now seeing this responsibility swing back to the composers. It often can be too complicated to work with publishers of contemporary music as the market is not that large. Many composers have turned towards self-publishing (I’ve recently learned of Mark Phillips’ Coolville Music and it’s hard to not recognize the success of Stephen Paulus‘ Paulus Publications.)

This means that composers must learn to tame the engraving software programs such as Finale or Sibelius to make quality, aesthetically pleasing scores. Daniel Wolf, on Renewable Music writes:

Even more unsolicited advice to young composers: if you use a computer engraving program, don’t use the default text fonts.

What seems like a small thing of which to take notice may be a great first step toward great engravings. This makes me think of the parsley placed on each plate at Denny’s—I have heard that it is a reminder for the employees to consider the personal touch necessary for each and every guest. Similarly, composers must take into consideration each and every part or score that performers will eventually need to navigate.A clearer, more beautiful score will inevitably mean a better first reading and, perhaps, a better ultimate performance.

Composers, the ball is back in our court!

By the way, my font of choice is Georgia.

About three years ago, when my then-future-wife was just moving to Akron in preparation for graduate studies, her grandmother said that some distant relatives happened to live in northeast Ohio. Over the course of the next two years, she—and subsequently we—became great friends with these “cousins” (actually a much more complicated relationship, but this is how we refer to it for simplicity).

Last night we had the pleasure of visiting with them and taking in a concert at the Copley Bandstand. It was a fun night of big band music, courtesy of Swing Machine. Great memories of playing second tenor in a big band came rushing back to my mind as I listened to charts such as Basie’s “April in Paris.”

After the concert, we talked to a couple who was friends of our relatives and a friend of theirs. The couple was from Puerto Rico and the friend was from the Dominican Republic. The began talking about music and Bob, the husband of the Akron “cousin” remarked, “This couple taught me the samba.”

I responded, “Oh, that’s fun!”

To which the couple asked me, “You know the samba?”

At this point I got confused. I thought, “Sure, I know the samba. I’ve played plenty and heard even more.” But I knew that I was missing something.

The other man then offered to teach us all the calypso and gave a quick sample as he shuffled his feet.

I got it: they meant “Can you dance the samba?”!

It’s amazing to look back at how many style or genre terms originated as names for dances. It would perhaps even be fairly safe to say that instrumental music began as dance music.

We’ve come a long way since then… and I don’t necessarily mean in a one-way track of improvement. Popular music still knows how to dance; some of these musicians may be making some of the best dance music ever. “Classical” music, on the other hand, has two left feet. I think we are starting to see a little swing (pun partially intended) back in the other direction, especially as the neo-romantic-post-minimalist trend seems to have hit it big with audiences. I wouldn’t be surprised to see well-crafted, quality dance music reappear in the next couple of decades as composers begin to reconnect with culture, and the “hidden language of the soul.” [Martha Graham, American dancer and choreographer]

As many conductors and music educators have often said, “Let it dance!”

My wife came across this video of a Swan Lake presentation that is a must see!

I am amazed that these dancers have achieved the ability to move in ways that I would not have even considered (not that I am by any means a very well trained dancer).

This reminds me again of the value of consistent practice in any endeavor. Clearly, these dancers have put in a great deal of work and have probably been dancing their entire lives.

Similarly, any performing musician worth their salt is the result of a great deal of practice.

What makes young composers think that they are somehow exempt from this? Is there something I am missing? I don’t think so…

There seem to be 3 general components that go into making a great composer

1. High levels of creativity, i.e. the capacity for, or state of, bringing something into being
2. An incredibly large mental library of music by great composers
3. Continuous practice and hard work

Can you doubt the results of the hard work from these dancers?

I submit this sentence, from Lynne Truss‘ Eats, Shoots & Leaves, as Exhibit A:

“Assuming a sentence rises into the air with the initial capital letter and lands with a soft-ish bump at the full stop, the humble comma can keep the sentence aloft all right, like this, UP, for hours if necessary, UP, like this, UP, sort-of bouncing, and then falling down, and then UP it goes again, assuming you have enough additional things to say, although in the end you may run out of ideas and then you have to roll along the ground with no commas at all until some sort of surface resistance takes over and you run out of steam anyway and then eventually with the help of three dots … you stop.”

… and this passage, Col 1:9-14, as Exhibit B:

“For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding. And we pray this in order that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

When I first read Exhibit A, I thought, “Wow, here is someone who really knows how to use the English language.” The ability to build and build the tension to the very end is enviable.

A few days later, I heard Exhibit B spoken aloud (a world of difference from silent reading!) and I noticed the same increase in intensity. Here is a man who is about to explode with the message he has, and you can actually feel that as he comes to his joyous climax.

What does all of this have to do with music?

I can’t help but think of pieces such as Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” The seemingly unending increase of tension and excitement amazes me every time.

There also seems to be a corollary to the difference between Exhibits A and B in terms of music. Consider the endless sequences or 5ths progression from a lesser Baroque composer. It is obvious that the tactic works, but in the end, there is not always a payoff when the material itself is not that meaningful (A). On the other hand, the same tools in the hand of a master, such as Bach and the like, will never cease to delight. The essential value of quality material allows such composers to display incredible expression that is unmatched in the musical medium (B).

Although any composer can use the tools of the trade to pull at our emotions as the audience, the composers who use the same tools AND incredible content will always stand out.

Interestingly, Barber’s “Adagio” was later set as to the text of “Agnus Dei” (Lamb of God).