@fEARnoMUSIC: Hey composers! Please don’t put bowings in unless you have played the instrument you are bowing for for at least 30 years. Thx! Mwah! Luv u!

@ElissaMilne: Really?! (re no bowings!) I’m assuming you mean up/down indications, not all slurring?!!

@harryfiddler: Articulation, yes. Bowings, no. Unless you want a particular effect, in which case you get a string player to help you.

@harryfiddler: I guess it’s like fingering on a piano? You wouldn’t presume to dictate fingering, although you do indicate articulation.

@fEARnoMUSIC: Yes, I’m talking about up/down bow indications. Let us figure out our own bowings based on your articulation/dynamic markings.

So, is it really so bad for composers to mark bowings?

I can understand that string players will undoubtedly have more familiarity with what is comfortable or familiar than non-string-playing composers. Surely, putting bowings in scores just for the sake of thoroughness (or whatever else) without caring much about any particular outcome is overkill.

However, I’m intrigued by @harryfiddler‘s comparison to fingerings on a piano. Is it true that one “wouldn’t presume to dictate fingering”? Schenker’s Art of Performance describes a variety of ways in which performance issues can relay interpretive information and may therefore may facilitate a more accurate conveyance of a composer’s intent (supposing an appropriate interpretation). Schenker’s editions of the Beethoven piano sonatas are not merely clean copies; they are interpretations. Fingerings matter because they can facilitate the portrayal of grouping and signaling information to audience members (as my Keyboard Harmony students are [hopefully] well aware).

Are not bowings akin to fingerings in this sense? The selection of bowings is an interpretation of sorts. If a composer puts in bowing markings that seem unnatural to a string player, could it sometimes be that the string player simply does not understand the music the way it was intended? I have no doubt that unnatural bowings may actually hinder an accurate portrayal, despite the intentions of the composer. And yet, is it so awful for string players that they do not wish to even try the bowings suggested by a composer “unless you have played the instrument you are bowing for for at least 30 years”?

• http://balldroppings.com/js/ (my personal favorite)
• http://www.incredibox.fr/
• http://www.optuswhalesong.com.au/
• http://www.whitevinyldesign.com/solarbeat/ (thanks to Erin Gamble!) (not really composition per se, but it is fun…)

But then I got to thinking about the music-making involved and started asking myself questions such as “What does it to take to make an application that can generate more-or-less pleasing music regardless of musical ability on the part of the ‘composer’?” That’s just about when I began reading Jason Freeman’s NYTimes opinion piece “Compose Your Own, Part 2” and its prequel “Compose Your Own.” This led to a number of other questions that I will address in separate posts in the upcoming week.

The ‘Building Blocks’ of Music?

As I pondered what makes composition apps work in a musical sense, my attention was drawn to the issue of sequence or—perhaps more appropriately—the lack thereof. The composer/designer of the app relinquishes the decision-making power over the order of musical events and must therefore accommodate the potential musical outcomes. Each app is designed in such a way that more-or-less pleasing music will result regardless of the actions of the user.

Such an approach to composition is by no means novel. In many ways, these apps conceptually resemble Earle Brown’s Available Forms I, in that the lines between audience, performer and composer are blurred by giving more responsibility for the sequence of musical events in the final musical product to someone other than the initial composer (Überkomponist?). In this sense, the initial composer has produced musical ‘building blocks’ that may be put together in any ‘legal’ (i.e., permitted by the rules of the initial composer) way such that the result will always be effective.

Freeman’s app is perhaps the most clear realization of this conceptual approach. He denatured composition into a pseudo-visual/auditory task of piecing together blocks of musical gestures in a web-based platform called Piano Etudes. Unlike Brown’s piece, however, the ‘composer’ need not read music given that all of the musical fragments are represented visually by pseudo-registral/durational notation.

Beyond Musical Sequence

The simplistic impression suggested by the ‘building block’ analogy is perhaps misleading. Much Western music written before the twentieth century has some significant sequential component that cannot be arbitrarily dismissed. An obvious example might include the so-called ‘sonata form,’ with the resolution of secondary material in a principal key area upon its return. In any other sequence, it would simply not be a sonata (especially by definition, although the musical impact would also be lessened).

Even the popular music of earlier times had specific sequential determinants. A performer could not simply piece together the various phrases from a Baroque dance suite and hope that the outcome would make sense. Rather, the harmonic and cadential schemata require accurate sequencing. This differs greatly from modern popular dance music. If there happens to be a differentiation between ‘verse’ and ‘chorus,’ the order of presentation likely makes little difference. Even more explicitly sequence-free is the product of the live DJ that combines various repetitive patterns in overlapping layers with other musical gestures that need not suggest any particular musical event.

The composition of musical fragments that can truly go in any order is an entirely different matter.

Non-Sequential Music and the Audience

Music that can come in any sequence must essentially be more-or-less effective regardless of when the audience begins listening to the materials. In this sense, the listening should be able to begin at any point. An audience member could theoretically walk in during the middle of a performance and still appreciate the music because any component can sound like a ‘beginning’ just as much as an ‘ending.’ That is, no component of the music will rely on any previous component and can thereby serve as an entry or exit point to the audience’s attention.

This seems to have great implications for keeping an audience in their seats according to the traditional model. Part of the value of sitting through an entire classical symphony, for example, is hearing the logical conclusion of that which comes before. Missing some earlier portion of the music may preclude appreciation of a later portion. Therefore, rapt attention is incredibly useful, if not necessary. If there is no sequence to be perceived, is such rapt attention the most useful audience model? And yet, much can be appreciated in each new performance of such a work.

As many new music ensembles seek to maintain or increase audiences, one notable trend is the shifting of attention away from the music. Such ensembles play in bars or clubs where talking and mingling is not only accepted, but also encouraged. Concerts are paired with dinners or other artistic endeavors that deserve their own attention. Music is no longer the focus at such events, so much as is the sensory experience.

In a way, this also reflects popular consumption. Students listening to their iPods between classes are by no means paying rapt attention to the music. Music is everywhere and paired with every sort of experience from movies to museums, elevators to telephones, and the like. Even classical music on NPR is often transformed into ‘background’ music that can be entered into or exited from with ease. Without understanding the logic and sequence of the music, it too becomes non-sequential.

Could it be that listening habits are changing to better appreciate the music? Does the music change to meet the listening habits? It’s hard to know for sure, but musicians and music advocates alike must take these issues into consideration.

Sequence vs. Non-Sequence

I will not suggest that either sequence-dependent or non-sequential music is somehow superior [I definitely enjoyed BallDroppings!]. Rather, I merely want to examine the related issues. However, what I will end with is an interesting note from the results of Freeman’s project. He allowed users to submit ‘compositions’ to be judged (by himself). The winning ‘compositions’ would then be prepared for performance and recorded (you can hear the results in the NYTimes article).

Two interesting features emerged in the winning ‘compositions’: 1) minimalistic repetition; 2) goal orientation. On the one hand, this could simply reflect Freeman’s tastes as a composer and audience. However, the comments of the ‘composers’ were also rather revealing in these respect:

“I’m interested in patterns in nature, and I was thinking about them when I composed the etude. A pattern is a sequence that repeats in time, space, or both. Because our world is finite, patterns must have boundaries. What does the edge of a pattern sound like? What about the boundary between related but different patterns?”

“I began with what I felt like were the more ‘pop’ elements of the score and created a loose musical narrative around those ideas.”

“I organized the material to create shifting states of rhythmic and harmonic tension within an overall hypnotic, pensive space. My intention was to allow this ebb and flow of tension to gradually unwind into a closing series of calming, pacific breaths.”

“I actually took a course from John Cage in the ’60’s at UC Davis, and am familiar with such ‘alternate’ forms of composition. … The choices were made with an aesthetic in mind — definitely not aleatoric!”

It is intriguing to me to see these ‘composers’ describing the opposing forces of order and chaos, sequence and non-sequence as they composed. They were interested in the moods created by repetition and yet were driven to seek some goal. There seems to be a satisfaction in both the appreciation of a single item in detail just as there is in recognizing global relations over the scale of a composition. Semper idem, sed non eodem modo (always the same, but not in the same way), invoking the memory of Schenker.

Two quotes, in particular, stood out to me as calls to composers in regards to their work:

I regard my talents as God-given, and I have always prayed to Him for strength to use them. When in early childhood I discovered that I had been made the custodian of musical aptitudes, I pledged myself to God to be worthy of their development, though, of course, I have broken the pledge and received uncovenanted mercies all my life, and though the custodian has too often kept faith on his own all-too-worldly terms.

-Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Dialogues and a Diary, (London: Faber, 1968), 125.

Here, Stravinsky elegantly describes the work of a Christian composer; gifted with talents by God, but still human. It speaks directly of the role of steward that the Christian plays to produce much with what we are given. It also recognizes directly the fallibility of humans and the limitless mercies of God.

[Secular-religious music] is inspired by humanity in general, by art, by Übermensch [superhuman], by goodness, and by goodness knows what. Religious music without religion is almost always vulgar.… I hope, too, that my sacred music is a protest against the Platonic tradition… of music as anti-moral.

-Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Conversations with Igor Stravinsky (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1959), 142.

Stravinsky is also weary of composers of “religious” music that is essentially secular. Simply using a religious text does not make a piece religious. Stravinsky elsewhere suggests that “Christian” music is not truly religious unless it is composed by a “Christian” composer. This suggests that it matters what is in the heart, not merely by the outward workings.

What a challenge does Stravinsky pose to Christian composers!

Since the nineteenth century, analytical studies and discussions about music often have arisen either explicitly or implicitly from organicist roots. In its most extreme form, the organicist model states that in order for a work to have aesthetic value, it must have arisen from a single musical idea or concept.

This was perhaps the most beautifully worded summary of so many of the discussions I have been a part of in recent days. Here, I will illustrate only a few.

Schenker’s theories have been a central topic of interest among my colleagues in recent days. There are some postulates of his that everyone seems fairly willing to accept and others which are either so limited as to be of little value or simply seem inaccurate. One such agreement is the idea that a Schenkerian understanding of a piece can positively inform performance. A disagreement lurks around the dubious explanation for the Neapolitan chord.

An interesting middle ground (no pun intended) is the question of the status of the major triad as the “Chord of Nature” from which all true music flows. Composers may be fairly ready to agree to the concept of the compositional task as the resolution of the vertical and horizontal dimensions of music (harmony, melody). Much less likely is the possibility of finding a composer who wants to suggest that everything comes down to the major triad.

The question then becomes, is it possible to retain a majority of Schenker’s postulates while electing to reject the major triad as the only fundamental sonority? How much of modern music could be explained in such a light? How many composers think this way? To me, this is an area of introspection that deserves more time from composers today.

Another opportunity for such a discussion came up at the 2008 SMT/AMS National Conference. Joanna Demers presented a paper on “Noise, Silence, and the Microsound Movement.” This is a field that posits the smallest musical unit as a single sound wave (or some such small measurement.) Interestingly, this area of composition came from the popular realm of hip-hop.

Not surprisingly, this type of music tends to be very quiet: almost inaudible. The listener is not to raise the volume, but rather to lower the volume of the surroundings so as to be able to better focus. This music has also been termed “Glitch Music” as many of the sounds resemble mistakes more than they do traditional music.

A question arises with the premise of the Microsound Movement in regards to the smallest musical unit as it relates to music. The man who coined the term “microhouse” also said, “[Glitch] notes, pulses, and textures bear no immediate relation to the world around them, to a language of melody or tonal narrative…”

Such a view does not seem at all foreign to a compositional market that values electronics, but clearly it does raise some new questions. I haven’t made any decision on the subject of the “smallest musical unit” or what a “single musical idea or concept” might be; nor am I sure that I will have to make such a choice. For now, I am enjoying the conversation and look forward to continued discourse!

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.

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?

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.

1. The word “creativity” in popular culture has, at best, an ambiguous definition
2. No one, not even any psychologist, knows exactly what happens in our minds when we are creative
3. Furthermore, some people just seem to be more creative than others, just because of who they are

I don’t know exactly how we got here, but this is where we are.
Looking back at all of the great composers of the past, I can’t help but think that creativity is a whole lot more straightforward than we are making it. Was it really anything more than hard work, plenty of technical skill, a little bit of ingenuity and plenty of practice that produced all the great works of Bach, Beethoven and the like?
In the midst of my research, I was re-listening to a great deal of early Schoenberg and had to marvel at its beauty. Verklärte Nacht was the piece that really struck my fancy. Wow.
Interestingly enough, the man who wrote that piece didn’t have a great deal to say about creativity in particular. For him, it was a quality that a person either possessed or not. In Fundamentals of Musical Composition Schoenberg wrote:

The greatest difficulty for the students is to find out how they could compose without being inspired. The answer is: it is impossible.

and

A composer does not, of course, add bit by bit, as a child does in building with wooden blocks. He conceives an entire composition as a spontaneous vision.

I think, however, that creativity may be a lot more objective than that. The result of all of this research was my first white paper. “So You Want to be More Creative…” is the culmination of my thoughts and findings. I encourage you to download it, share it and let me know what you think.