Music in Trains

No matter how much composers wish to be noted for their tendency to think outside-of-the-box or to be on the cutting-edge, it is apparent that composers are also unlikely to compose without drawing on some form of external (whether intentionally imposed or not) inspiration.

One likely source of inspiration is that a similar generator; in the case of composers, another composer. One composer with whom I studied, Nikola Resanovic, made it evident that he drew some of his inspiration from other musicians; namely, The Beatles. He made no attempts to hide such inspiration, but rather made it evident with occasional titles such as “Igor’s Pet Walrus” alluding to the source of a harmonic progression (as well as components from Stravinsky). It became apparent, however, that such preferences leaked into his music even when he hadn’t necessarily consciously intended to do so, e.g. preferences for particular progressions typical of pop music, and became part of a wonderfully engaging personal style.

Another source of inspiration might come from the materials with which a composer works. Brandon Paul, a student at The Ohio State University, published a study on the music of Einojuhani Rautavaara. Paul’s observations regarded the symmetrical nature of Rautavaara’s music around an axis that is largely the result of playing piano and the symmetrical positioning of one’s hands. The interesting revelations of the study, however, come with the discovery that the non-piano music also conforms to the same sorts of patterns. The language that was developed due to physical limitations in one medium, spilled over to create a unique style in all media.

My current impetus for thinking about the subject of inspiration came when I read about Satie’s daily routine during the period when he moved to Arcueil, 10 km outside Paris. He made nearly daily returns to Paris on foot, when according to Templier, “he walked slowly, taking small steps, his umbrella held tight under his arm. When talking he would stop, bend one knee a little, adjust his pince-nez and place his fist on his lap. The we would take off once more with small deliberate steps.” His consistent routines were marked by periodic stops at street lamps to jot down some music.

This habit becomes interesting in regards to an observation made by Roger Shattuck during a conversation with John Cage in 1982, that “the source of Satie’s sense of musical beat—the possibility of variation within repetition, the effect of boredom on the organism—may be this endless walking back and forth across the same landscape day after day… the total observation of a very limited and narrow environment.”

In the case of Satie, a habit that is not particularly inherently musical, yet permeates the daily life of a composer, becomes a source of stylistic inspiration.

Surely every composer is in some sense inspired by not only what is heard or played, but also lived.

Whereas I have written before in defense of live performers (“Who Needs Performers?”), I found the recent attacks on performers who used pre-recorded music rather lacking in substance. In particular, the 2009 inauguration performance and the national anthem at the 2009 Super Bowl were written about by Eric Felten in the Wall Street Journal in an article titled “That Synching Feeling.”

Here are some of the reasons offered by performers as to why they would use pre-recorded music:

• This occasion’s got to be perfect. You can’t have any slip-ups.
• The slightest glitch would devastate the performance.
• There are too many variables to go live.
• The performers care too much about their art to risk presenting something substandard.

On the flip side:

• This led the musicians to deny who they are as performers.
• There is something pitiful and pitiable about musicians hobbling their own voices.
• What is art without risks?
• An opportunity for glorious exertion and vitality was missed.

If I were to be coming to this argument for the first time and read these two lines of reasoning, I must say that I’d probably have to agree with the decision made by the performers.

The arguments made by the performers addressed the marketable situation in which they were involved. They were hired on the basis that they create apparent perfection on a regular basis. This impression is enhanced by the recording industry that expects and delivers flawless (i.e. edited) recordings. Nevertheless, this expectation exists and must be addressed. If not, such a flawed performance would surely make the internet (as it actually did in the case of the Inaguration).

Taking a look at the arguments made by the other side, I am left with more questions than answers. “What is art without risks?” Good question; perhaps we should pursue an answer. What is the “something pitiful and pitiable about musicians hobbling their own voices”? What does it mean to deny who you are as a performer? What sort of “opportunity for glorious exertion and vitality” was missed that was not at all possible when in the recording studio for the pre-recording?

These are, in fact, questions about the value of live performance that must be addressed. I think, however, we musicians would be hard-pressed to offer a response to the public value of the market. If most of the audience is going to be watching via the internet, then who cares on which day it was performed? I think it is time for us to learn more about our audience and their expectations so that we can address their needs while at the same time pursuing ours.

I worked with guitarist/composer/conductor Dennis Roden for around 10 years at a church in Canton, OH where he was music director and I was pianist/organist (musicians wear so many hats, don’t they?). He recently earned the name Master Roden with his writings on the Stravinsky Mass. The research provided some interesting insights into the compositional process of Stravinsky (odd text accentuation, musical form that does not directly follow the form of the text, etc.), but I was most struck by Stravinsky’s thoughts about composers and spirituality.

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!

A true gem of a thought that I can not resist periodically shows up on Orchestralist, the international forum for orchestra professionals. One such post recently came up that contained such good points that I am still mentally working my way through my own thoughts regarding the questions posed.

The author paraphrased Jared Diamond’s book Guns, Germs and Steel with a list of factors that may be the most important factors in whether an orchestra will present a new work:

1. Is there an economic advantage to the orchestra for doing so? Will the new work make us money? Will we get grant moneys, film contracts or payment by the composer or patron?
2. Will the orchestra gain prestige? Will the orchestra get recognition, be reviewed, be honored in doing the work, receive greater attention? Will their music department be honored? Will the teacher?
3. Will the new work contribute to the the value of the present repertoire or detract from it? Will introducing yet more music into the market decrease the value of the present holy lexicon of works which is the stock and trade of the orchestral industry or put it out of demand?
4. How immediately will these advantages be realized? Without investment—or as little as possible—will the orchestra be rewarded soon?

Why has this not become a major discussion among composers? Let’s get the ball rolling!