How to sound like a human being

I like to have a little fun when I blog, including in my choice of titles. Please understand, if you are a spambot reading this, you are going to come away with nothing useful. But if you are a human person who plays the piano or some other instrument, or it you sing, well, read on.

One of the differences between someone who can really play (or sing) and someone who can only sort of play (or sing) is in their delivery. The professional is much more fluent. This doesn't mean they can play faster, though that is probably also the case, but that the way the music unfolds sounds much more natural, and can be more easily understood by the listener.

Take a basic example. When I was growing up, computers were just learning to talk. They--soun--ded--like--this--pu--tting--ex--act--ly--the--same--space--be--tween--ev--e--ry--word--and--ha--ving--com--plet--ly--un--var--y--ing--tone.

There was no rise and fall in their computerized voices, of course, but there was also something else:

Their rhythm was off.

I don't mean they couldn't keep the beat, I mean just the opp--o--site. They sounded like metronomes. Every thing was exactly, completely, inexorably, boringly on time. Now, I want you to try something.

Read the next paragraph out loud.

Typically, when a person reads in a language, they vary the pace from one word to the next, grouping some words closer together and other words come after a slight pause, as if a boundary line had been drawn between them. Periods and commas are visual indications of when and how to group words, of course, but if you are really paying attention to how you read this paragraph, and if you read well, if you can sound as if you yourself are holding a conversation with someone and are just now thinking of these words and saying them yourself for the first time, you'll note that even when there are no commas, even when the spacing of the words looks exactly uniform, you still don't speak them evenly. They don't get the same rhythmic spacing, nor do the words and the syllables of the words get the same emphasis.

The reason for this insight is that it removes our last excuse for treated music as if it were to be played with mathematical precision even if it is notated that way.

True, four identical looking quarter notes in a measure APPEAR to be exactly the same, but if you play them that way, we are going to get bored fast. That's because in a language there are always more and less important pieces of information, and it is the necessary task of the recipient to sift through the information and determine how the parts lie in relation to each other.

Now anybody who has taken music lessons for a couple of years knows that when you see a slur you are supposed to group the notes together. But a good musician doesn't rely entirely on slurs to group notes: for one thing, slurs haven't been around forever and some of our greatest composers didn't use them. For another thing, a slur can't tell you everything. The truth is that no amount of markings, unless you want the page to look like a complete mess, can account for all of the interpretative grouping that needs to go on in order for communication to be achieved. As I said, that sorting and grouping is the task of the recipient.

But when you are the performer, your job is to step between the sender and the receiver, and, in effect, tell the listener how to listen by how you play or sing. If you don't you not only make the listener's job harder than it needs to be, but you show that you yourself have not understood the message.

To try to demonstrate the relationship between what is printed on the page, and how a performer interprets that printed matter, I'm going to give some examples. Next week, they'll be musical. But for now, I want to take that paragraph you read aloud a moment ago, and try to show you how I might have read it, showing pacing by putting words together, pulling them apart, and emphasizing some of the strongest syllables in bold face:

Typicly, when a person reads inalanguage, they vary the pace  from one word tothenext, grouping some words closer together   and other words come after a slight  pause, asifa boundary line hadbeen drawn between them. Periodsandcommas   are visual indications of whenandhow to group words, of course, but if you are really paying attention to howyouread this paragraph, andifyoureadwell, ifyoucan sound as if you yourself are holdingaconversation with someoneandarejustnow thinking of these words   andsayingthem yourself forthefirsttime, you'llnotethateven whentherare no commas, even when the spacing ofthewords looks exactly uniform, you still don't speak them evenly. They don't get the same rhythmic spacing, nor dothewords andthesyllablesofthewords get  the same emphasis.

That was interesting. For me, at any rate. For one thing, it is quite a strain to accurately represent, or to fully represent, all of the things that were going on in my voice when I spoke the paragraph aloud. For one thing, I was not able to indicate slight crescendi, or accelerandi, or tiny divisions within words in which one syllable might actually be closer to its neighbor and the next farther away, and so on. I comfort myself by the fact that musical language took a long time to evolve such that indications of dynamic variation and speed variation were unavailable to some composers until at last somebody figured out how to indicate it. But even then, there is quite a bit of room for individual variation.

Which brings us to point two, which is, of course, that you might very well have read the paragraph in a very different way. You could have done a rather Christopher Walkinesque interpretation and intentionally stressed odd words and paced things in a very unnatural manner, but even if you adhered to traditional understandings of pace, syllabification, and stress, there is still plenty of room for individual interpretation.

This suggests that there are more and less acceptable ways to interpreted written language, but that there will still be plenty of space for legitimate difference, and also that the written languages themselves do not--indeed, cannot--give us all the information we need to bring them to life orally.

Next week, we'll try this with some music. The point is to notice patterns, points of emphasis, and larger and smaller packets of information. And in turn, to really speak the music, not simply read it.

Speaking figuratively

This week in church I'm playing a piece by Jan Sweelinck based on the hymn "I Call to You, Lord Jesus Christ" (or, in the original German, "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ." Mr. Sweelinck lived from the latter 16th and into the early 17th centuries. He lived in Amsterdam for most of his life. He wrote organ music. He didn't own an IPOD or have a website. Or go to Disney world. What are the chances that a 21st century American is going to get something out of his music?

And yet that is my quest this week as I try to communicate with my congregation in a way that will at least stir some sense of understanding, if not appreciation, for the music of this seemingly remote individual. After all, I didn't really feel a sense of familiarity or understanding when I began learning the music, and I've had a lot more experience in musical matters than someone who walks into a church on Sunday morning and hears a piece by Sweelinck for the first time. To me, being able to communicate something that will help remove the barriers between the listener and the composer is important. But how to do it? And, can't the music just speak for itself?

An interesting question early this week led to some interesting results. While playing the piece through I started to wonder why the composer kept shifting gears so often: now the accompaniment was rapid, now slow, now jumped around, now was a series of smooth runs. What was making him change his mind so often? And yet, for all that, the hymn tune remained.

I had a little suspicion of what might be going on here. A number of composers of the time, particularly when they wrote music with words, or, in this case, music related to words in which the text is silent (ie, it is based on a hymn which you sing, but it is for organ alone so the words of the hymn are only implied) subscribed to the idea that you could invest those words with meaning depending on what you did with the music. Known as the "doctrine of figures" the idea was that if the notes when up it meant something, or if they went down it meant something; if they jumped around or were very active it meant something, and so forth. In its most extreme form one could get the idea that putting a composition together didn't involve creativity at all, and that, when faced with a concept, all you had to do was look up the "musical word" that meant that idea and you were all set. I don't think it really worked that way, though it might have tended in that direction.

I have to say I don't think because I am not much of an expert on this doctrine of figures. I've read about it here and there but I've had trouble locating any good sources that really explain it in detail. A few composers of the time wrote extensive works about the idea, complete with a compendium of musical analogues, and I hope eventually to get my hands on them and find out a few things. In the meantime, though, I've been going through middlemen.

It's rare that when I go online to find something out I get so enlightened so quickly, but, as it happened, an organist/scholar in Canada had posted a fascinating video in which she played the same piece I'm playing on Sunday, and, as each line of the silent text goes by, not only does she put the words on the screen, in Dutch and English, but her thoughts on what Sweelinck is doing, and why. Since I am new to this particularly field I don't know how certain she can be about it--how much is scholarly intuition or creative insight? But I have to admit it is intriguing. My favorite part of the video (and the music) involves a line from the last verse in which Sweelinck suddenly (at 8:15 in the video) switches to a triple time dance texture at the words "if temptation comes, Lord, defend me." Why there? Well, for many a religious soul in those times (and ours) dancing was worldly, sinful, and generally a bad idea. So apparently, summoning up a dance was a good way to remind us of a temptation we'd do well to avoid.

There are other ideas present in the music--times when the notes wander up and down aimlessly, times when they have jagged edges to represent negative emotions--all explained in this video. I'm linking to it here because I think it might well produce a kind of aha moment for you as well, and show something that we didn't realize was there. Sweelinck is indeed praying his way through this music, taking the text of the hymn as the basis for everything he does; it is not just an exercise in pretty music or finger digitation.

But to a larger question, because a few of you musicians out there will no doubt think all of this unnecessary. Shouldn't it all be obvious? Should we ruin the music by explaining it?

The composers of the time seemed to feel that explanation was unnecessary  and that what they were doing would be obvious to anybody. Perhaps they were being presumptuous. There are times, of course, when the notes go up or down or do something particularly sensational, that it does seem that most people would likely react to it pretty much the same way. People do that with marches and minor key music, flashy toccatas and erudite fugues. But it can quickly become a question of just how similarly we react and just when is a musical idea too subtle to admit that same idea to everyone regardless of preconditioning?

I've decided not to assume too much--after all, I didn't know most of this was there until I went looking for it. And I've decided part of my role as an organist is to help other people find these things, too--to appreciate their heritage, and to get something out of what we are doing on Sunday morning, as well.

Which is where the last sentence of my program notes took a turn this week. So far this may seem like a fairly learned exercise, of the understanding, and historical knowledge. But Sweelinck wasn't interested in making musical analogies for their own sake. He is setting a prayer to music. That isn't about simply knowing the words--it goes beyond that. It is about meaning them. Making meaning--in music, and in the hearts of the hearers.

Here's the video: Enjoy!