I've often felt that the listening archive at pianonoise really ought to come with a warning label. Not for explicit lyrics (there aren't any) or any of the usual suspects, such as anything that you think might turn your kids into Liberals, but because, no matter what your expectations, notions about music, personal philosophy of "the Nice," or current mood, something in there is bound to disrespectfully crash into your neatly balanced world.
Probably the key word here is "variety." Variety is no respecter of persons. I once coined a definition which could belong in The Devil's Dictionary: "Variety: something to offend everyone." The friend I told it to found it offensive.
But as I've traveled this globe, thither and yon, physically and mentally, I've come in to quite a number of ideas about music, some of which clash fundamentally with others over the very function of the noisy art, and, finding something of interest in each, I've collected them all, had them stuffed and put on the pianonoise wall. (ok, that's a pretty offensive image; not to mention outdated) Some are from several centuries ago, in countries far away, and others have come into existence quite recently.
Actually, that's one of my own issues with the archive--it doesn't have enough recent music. There's a problem with that, a word called copyright, and the fact that most copyright holders don't have the decency to even write back to deny you permission to use their work. Even a piece written nearly a century ago may be behind this copyright wall, and if it is also out of print that pretty much guarantees the work a silent death. I've been fortunate in that a few composers who themselves have control over their works have given me permission to post my recordings of them. There are also works published with Creative Commons Licenses of various sorts which allow you to use the pieces in certain ways without obtaining permission. I'm exploring those avenues. Nonetheless, the catalogue is tilted toward works in the Public Domain.
That's still a lot of ground, however. And if you have your volume turned up the first thing you'll notice is a great dynamic variance. Some of the pieces start loudly. I'd keep my finger on the button at the start of a selection I didn't know if I were you.
But that's just it--it's not the works we know that might cause problems. It's the ones we've never heard of. And even though 99% of the public won't touch anything classical if they don't have to, even that 1% hasn't heard of the majority of the literature available to them in the so-called classical vein. And I make it my business to look for rare and unusual works, some of the time. However, the item right next door to it in the catalogue might be right down Main Street. When you are listing things in alphabetical order, there is no telling what sort of musical neighbors you will run into.
Besides the so-called classical group, which is a convenient way of lumping together over four centuries and at least a continent's worth of different types of music so that people who like all of their music to be in four minute spurts and about puppy love to be able to easily avoid all of it, there is a bit of jazz, gospel, ragtime, and various fusions--some very intellectual, some a bit folk, and you never really know what it is going to be just by title because I haven't done the nice thing and categorized it.
Of course, offended isn't the only thing that might happen. You could be bored. One of my 'staff composers' made it his business to explore intentional boredom in art--I'm looking at you, Erik Satie. And if you get past that you still might not stick around long to hear the a-tonal effusions of a few of the pieces by---no, I'll let you find those land mines yourself. And in addition to the various moods these pieces might arouse--passion, inspiration, fear, anger--you might just be puzzled. That's a reaction that's happened to more than one artist before. Some of them seem to enjoy it.
There's a risk when you hit that play button, particularly if you've not heard of the piece before. You can't be sure whether it's going to conform to your ideas of what music is or should be, or whether it will grab you by the scruff of the neck and take you somewhere you've never been. If you go with it it might take you somewhere wonderful, or just drop you off on a random street corner and vanish. Then what do you do? Pick up and keep going, I suppose. But you won't be quite the same after one of those encounters, will you?
Don't say I didn't warn you....
But hey, if it makes you feel any better, if you don't like it, you get your money back.
Showing posts with label musical philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musical philosophy. Show all posts
Monday, January 19, 2015
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Getting a good return in the long run
Performing musicians: Today I'm going to talk to you like I'm your financial advisor.
You need to diversify your portfolio.
It's a complex, competitive world out there, and if you want to be able to survive as a musician--I'm speaking here to people who want to do music for something other than a private hobby--you have to be open in the first place to the fact that you will probably end up doing some things that have nothing to do with what you thought you'd be doing, even in the field of music.
In the second place, however, it is almost certain that even in your specific vision of what you've got in mind you will find that the logistics, deadlines, and uncertainties of day to day operations make it necessary to really on every skill you've got in your arsenal. Unless you've just got the one, then--look out.
It's become sort of a joke around here lately that I like to play the piano with one hand while taking pictures with the other, but I've actually been cultivating my skills at multitasking a lot these past few years. When you perform with ensembles, particularly amateur ensembles, you generally need to be able to help them while helping yourself at the same time. And on Sunday morning during a church service you never know what will happen and how you will need to deal with it. I've been learning to perform distracted--and to consider that what I'm hearing and how to deal with it is an important part of music making, and not something I need to screen out.
On the other hand, I've also been honing my concentrating skills, which is the complete opposite. I used to tell my students that even if the Blue Angels flew overheard during their recital they had to ignore it and keep going. I once kept on playing through a fire drill, so I think I've got the cred. I figured if things were really on fire they'd come back for me anyway.
Anyhow, the important thing is I'm still here.
The other important thing is that, in a given week, I do plenty of sight reading, plenty of playing by ear, plenty of making things up on the spot, composing, and especially problem solving to figure out how I'm going to get everything done and done well. This week I did all my recording on Monday because I knew it was going to be 4 below zero the rest of the week and I like to record with the heat off temporarily so there is less hum on the recordings, and at those temperatures you can't maintain any semblance of heat for more than a couple of minutes. So I've spent the rest of the week composing three pieces a few weeks ahead of their deadlines, and jamming in rehearsals as needed. Basically you have to size everything up, figure out when your opportunities present themselves, and do what you can do when you can do it. I've gotten better at that over the years.
It's a pretty diversified life, and I like the challenge. Which is another skill you'll need. Challenge-loving. Along with discipline and hard work, it means you'll always get better at what you do, because what you are doing is always dealing with challenges. You can only improve what you practice, and the more you see something as an opportunity to practice it, (instead of complaining about it) the faster you'll improve.
You need to diversify your portfolio.
It's a complex, competitive world out there, and if you want to be able to survive as a musician--I'm speaking here to people who want to do music for something other than a private hobby--you have to be open in the first place to the fact that you will probably end up doing some things that have nothing to do with what you thought you'd be doing, even in the field of music.
In the second place, however, it is almost certain that even in your specific vision of what you've got in mind you will find that the logistics, deadlines, and uncertainties of day to day operations make it necessary to really on every skill you've got in your arsenal. Unless you've just got the one, then--look out.
It's become sort of a joke around here lately that I like to play the piano with one hand while taking pictures with the other, but I've actually been cultivating my skills at multitasking a lot these past few years. When you perform with ensembles, particularly amateur ensembles, you generally need to be able to help them while helping yourself at the same time. And on Sunday morning during a church service you never know what will happen and how you will need to deal with it. I've been learning to perform distracted--and to consider that what I'm hearing and how to deal with it is an important part of music making, and not something I need to screen out.
On the other hand, I've also been honing my concentrating skills, which is the complete opposite. I used to tell my students that even if the Blue Angels flew overheard during their recital they had to ignore it and keep going. I once kept on playing through a fire drill, so I think I've got the cred. I figured if things were really on fire they'd come back for me anyway.
Anyhow, the important thing is I'm still here.
The other important thing is that, in a given week, I do plenty of sight reading, plenty of playing by ear, plenty of making things up on the spot, composing, and especially problem solving to figure out how I'm going to get everything done and done well. This week I did all my recording on Monday because I knew it was going to be 4 below zero the rest of the week and I like to record with the heat off temporarily so there is less hum on the recordings, and at those temperatures you can't maintain any semblance of heat for more than a couple of minutes. So I've spent the rest of the week composing three pieces a few weeks ahead of their deadlines, and jamming in rehearsals as needed. Basically you have to size everything up, figure out when your opportunities present themselves, and do what you can do when you can do it. I've gotten better at that over the years.
It's a pretty diversified life, and I like the challenge. Which is another skill you'll need. Challenge-loving. Along with discipline and hard work, it means you'll always get better at what you do, because what you are doing is always dealing with challenges. You can only improve what you practice, and the more you see something as an opportunity to practice it, (instead of complaining about it) the faster you'll improve.
Monday, December 23, 2013
What does this Mean, then?
A couple of weeks ago I tipped my hand and posted what I'll be playing for Christmas Eve. If you haven't heard it, here it is. If you already have, thanks for listening, and here it is again. One of the difficulties that "classical" music has with the public is that requires a lot from the listener and contains a lot of unfamiliar musical "information." One way to deal with this is to listen to a piece several times so that you become familiar with it and find yourself enjoying it like a conversation with an old friend. So here it is (again):
Introduction and Variations on a Ancient Polish Carol by Alexander Guilmant
Another way to deal with all of that information is to divide and conquer. Knowing how the piece is structured makes it more understandable. In this case it is a series of variations. Those variations are on a tune that may be familiar to you, in which case, that will also help.
The first thing you will hear, though, is the blustery introduction, grand and dramatic, and opening in a minor key. Only a few seconds later it switches to major, and repeats what becomes the opening phrase of the carol. After tossing giving us several hints about what tune we are about to hear, things begin to simmer down, and just when you think things are about to get peaceful--he really sets the stage for a nice tranquil presentation of the tune (at 1:02)---
It's nice and loud! Which is something I mentioned last time and something I'm going to elaborate on today.
Meanwhile, you hear the tune, all 35 seconds of it, in full organ. Then, after a conclusive held chord and a short pause comes the first variation (at 1:37) in which the tune is in the bass, and descending notes are in the treble. After this section comes a soft meditative one (at 2:15) in which the harmonies slither a bit and get interesting. Then, the final variation (3:04), which is full of running notes and musical jubilation. And that's pretty much it except for the big ending.
If you're counting, that means we only had three variations, which shouldn't tax anyone's patience very much. The whole piece is under four minutes long.
That describes the blueprint of the piece, but it doesn't tell us what the piece is about. Now right away we've wandered into one of those huge debates in which there are two passionate sides convinced the other hasn't got a clue. To exaggerate, there are some who see stories in every piece of music, and others who believe music means nothing at all beyond a collection of satisfying notes. In a nutshell, I've always believed that suggesting the latter is as much as to say the sole reason for writing is to pay attention to grammar and perhaps things like rhyme, assonance, meter, and so on, but no more. And yet, in writing, words always point to something beyond themselves, though at the same time good writing does put words together in a way that causes a harmonious blend of the constituent parts themselves. That just isn't the whole enchilada.
Maybe I'm playing into the notes-alone argument here, but it seems as if the easiest time to search for what a composer may have had in mind besides the marks on the page is when he does something unorthodox. And what could be more unorthodox than to introduce the tune "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly," a lullaby, fortissimo?
In fact, one performance of this piece, one I heard on Youtube when I was looking for something to play by Mr. Guilmant, left out this rather startling bit of dynamic usage. The performer decided to tone down the composer's dynamics and registrations, and to do things much more quietly. I am going to suppose he may have done this because
1) he thought the composer had lost his mind; or
2) he decided that the entire reason for the strangely loud dynamic was that the composer was planning to play the piece at the conclusion of a church service, when the church would be very noisy with the sound of people leaving, and talking loudly to each other, and decided he needed to bellow in order to be heard above the din. Since this was for a recording in a "concert" situation, this performer did not need to resort to such shouting.
This last was indeed the first thing that struck me as a possibility, but I have wondered since whether there might be more than mere practicality in mind. It seems to me that clever composers often manage to do things both for practical reasons and for reasons of effect, or meaning, and to marry the immediate need with a larger plan.
After all, it isn't just the end of the service that is going on, here. It's midnight on Christmas Eve--or maybe it's 1 am (if it was a midnight mass). In any case, Christmas has truly arrived, and what is called for isn't just a cozy snow season and baby in a manger, but a shout--an announcement that HE IS HERE! and that Advent has been fulfilled and the waiting is over! Merry Christmas, everybody!
(which is a great feeling if you've been waiting for it. But we don't like to do that. A famous experiment wherein children were given one marshmallow which they could eat now or were promised two more if they could wait until the adult left the room for a few minutes and came back, showed who few of us like to wait, no matter the reward. Years later, it was found that the ones who could wait also had much higher SAT scores. Surprise!)
In that context it makes sense. If you are sensitive to the rhythms of the church year, and you understand, in our no-waiting, one marshmallow society, that we've been building up to this moment for a month, not to collapse from exhaustion when it is over, but to celebrate its arrival, then you will want to shout the glad tidings along with the organist.
Until then, there are shepherds on a hillside, puzzled, asking themselves, with wonderful King Jamesian superfluity, "What does this mean, then?" And confused astrologers, seeking a point on a map by follow a hot ball of gas to God-knows where. And a lot of other people just going about their business, not knowing, or caring. But then....
There we are, in its midst. And if that isn't worth a shout, what is?
Even above the noisy throng.
Introduction and Variations on a Ancient Polish Carol by Alexander Guilmant
Another way to deal with all of that information is to divide and conquer. Knowing how the piece is structured makes it more understandable. In this case it is a series of variations. Those variations are on a tune that may be familiar to you, in which case, that will also help.
The first thing you will hear, though, is the blustery introduction, grand and dramatic, and opening in a minor key. Only a few seconds later it switches to major, and repeats what becomes the opening phrase of the carol. After tossing giving us several hints about what tune we are about to hear, things begin to simmer down, and just when you think things are about to get peaceful--he really sets the stage for a nice tranquil presentation of the tune (at 1:02)---
It's nice and loud! Which is something I mentioned last time and something I'm going to elaborate on today.
Meanwhile, you hear the tune, all 35 seconds of it, in full organ. Then, after a conclusive held chord and a short pause comes the first variation (at 1:37) in which the tune is in the bass, and descending notes are in the treble. After this section comes a soft meditative one (at 2:15) in which the harmonies slither a bit and get interesting. Then, the final variation (3:04), which is full of running notes and musical jubilation. And that's pretty much it except for the big ending.
If you're counting, that means we only had three variations, which shouldn't tax anyone's patience very much. The whole piece is under four minutes long.
That describes the blueprint of the piece, but it doesn't tell us what the piece is about. Now right away we've wandered into one of those huge debates in which there are two passionate sides convinced the other hasn't got a clue. To exaggerate, there are some who see stories in every piece of music, and others who believe music means nothing at all beyond a collection of satisfying notes. In a nutshell, I've always believed that suggesting the latter is as much as to say the sole reason for writing is to pay attention to grammar and perhaps things like rhyme, assonance, meter, and so on, but no more. And yet, in writing, words always point to something beyond themselves, though at the same time good writing does put words together in a way that causes a harmonious blend of the constituent parts themselves. That just isn't the whole enchilada.
Maybe I'm playing into the notes-alone argument here, but it seems as if the easiest time to search for what a composer may have had in mind besides the marks on the page is when he does something unorthodox. And what could be more unorthodox than to introduce the tune "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly," a lullaby, fortissimo?
In fact, one performance of this piece, one I heard on Youtube when I was looking for something to play by Mr. Guilmant, left out this rather startling bit of dynamic usage. The performer decided to tone down the composer's dynamics and registrations, and to do things much more quietly. I am going to suppose he may have done this because
1) he thought the composer had lost his mind; or
2) he decided that the entire reason for the strangely loud dynamic was that the composer was planning to play the piece at the conclusion of a church service, when the church would be very noisy with the sound of people leaving, and talking loudly to each other, and decided he needed to bellow in order to be heard above the din. Since this was for a recording in a "concert" situation, this performer did not need to resort to such shouting.
This last was indeed the first thing that struck me as a possibility, but I have wondered since whether there might be more than mere practicality in mind. It seems to me that clever composers often manage to do things both for practical reasons and for reasons of effect, or meaning, and to marry the immediate need with a larger plan.
After all, it isn't just the end of the service that is going on, here. It's midnight on Christmas Eve--or maybe it's 1 am (if it was a midnight mass). In any case, Christmas has truly arrived, and what is called for isn't just a cozy snow season and baby in a manger, but a shout--an announcement that HE IS HERE! and that Advent has been fulfilled and the waiting is over! Merry Christmas, everybody!
(which is a great feeling if you've been waiting for it. But we don't like to do that. A famous experiment wherein children were given one marshmallow which they could eat now or were promised two more if they could wait until the adult left the room for a few minutes and came back, showed who few of us like to wait, no matter the reward. Years later, it was found that the ones who could wait also had much higher SAT scores. Surprise!)
In that context it makes sense. If you are sensitive to the rhythms of the church year, and you understand, in our no-waiting, one marshmallow society, that we've been building up to this moment for a month, not to collapse from exhaustion when it is over, but to celebrate its arrival, then you will want to shout the glad tidings along with the organist.
Until then, there are shepherds on a hillside, puzzled, asking themselves, with wonderful King Jamesian superfluity, "What does this mean, then?" And confused astrologers, seeking a point on a map by follow a hot ball of gas to God-knows where. And a lot of other people just going about their business, not knowing, or caring. But then....
There we are, in its midst. And if that isn't worth a shout, what is?
Even above the noisy throng.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Noise noise and more noise
I didn't want 2013 to pass us by without commenting on Luigi Russolo's futurist manifesto, "The Art of Noise." It turned 100 years old this year, and, since it adorns the listening archive page of Pianonoise: the website, I thought it deserved comment. (I should mention that there is a quotation from somebody at the top of each of pianonoise's near 100 pages. It's definitely a group effort.)
I first made the acquaintance of Russolo's manifesto back in grad school. Some excerpts of his essay, including the quote I used, come from a college textbook which I still possess. Although the website predates my use of the quote (and probably my knowledge of it), it still seems like a fun quote to have lurking around one of the site's nerve centers. Pianonoise is a resonant title, which, like my several resonant titles, means it is so called for several reasons, some of which I may not have thought of yet.
For instance, the term noise may be a bit of self-deprecation, as in, "I am just making a little noise on the piano." A number of people I have met "on the street" do not see it this way, and like to assure me that they do not think my site is noise at all. The term noise here is still thought of as a term of abuse. ("Turn off that noise!")
On the other hand, noise might be a more inclusive term, and an expanded way of looking at things. If I happen to write something that expresses an opinion on a political or social issue, particularly if it is in the minority, it may function as a kind of noise for people who do not care for it. It is possible (remotely) that later on those more prone to the exercise sometimes known as thinking about things will, if they haven't changed their minds, at least think about the issue at hand a little differently. In which case, does noise become more harmonious?
But for Mr. Russolo, and many a musical "futurist" in the early part of the 20th century, noise was more than that. It was liberating. It was a chance to escape from the predictable patterns and pat musical cliches of harmony that we had been playing around with for centuries, and explode the overtone system so that it included all of what sounded around us, not the natural world, but the one humanity had constructed in modern urban environments. It was a soundscape that was unashamedly artificial.
I first made the acquaintance of Russolo's manifesto back in grad school. Some excerpts of his essay, including the quote I used, come from a college textbook which I still possess. Although the website predates my use of the quote (and probably my knowledge of it), it still seems like a fun quote to have lurking around one of the site's nerve centers. Pianonoise is a resonant title, which, like my several resonant titles, means it is so called for several reasons, some of which I may not have thought of yet.
For instance, the term noise may be a bit of self-deprecation, as in, "I am just making a little noise on the piano." A number of people I have met "on the street" do not see it this way, and like to assure me that they do not think my site is noise at all. The term noise here is still thought of as a term of abuse. ("Turn off that noise!")
On the other hand, noise might be a more inclusive term, and an expanded way of looking at things. If I happen to write something that expresses an opinion on a political or social issue, particularly if it is in the minority, it may function as a kind of noise for people who do not care for it. It is possible (remotely) that later on those more prone to the exercise sometimes known as thinking about things will, if they haven't changed their minds, at least think about the issue at hand a little differently. In which case, does noise become more harmonious?
But for Mr. Russolo, and many a musical "futurist" in the early part of the 20th century, noise was more than that. It was liberating. It was a chance to escape from the predictable patterns and pat musical cliches of harmony that we had been playing around with for centuries, and explode the overtone system so that it included all of what sounded around us, not the natural world, but the one humanity had constructed in modern urban environments. It was a soundscape that was unashamedly artificial.
"Let us wander" he writes," through a great modern city with our ears more attentive than our eyes, and distinguish the sounds of water, air, or gas in metal pipes, the purring of motors (which vibrate and pulsate with an indubitable animalism), the throbbing of valves, the pounding of pistons, the screeching of gears, the clatter of streetcars on their rails, the cracking of whips, the flapping of awnings and flags. We shall amuse ourselves by orchestrating in our minds the noise of metal shutters of store windows, the slamming of doors, the bustle and shuffle of crowds, the multitudinous uproar of railroad stations, forges, mills, printing presses, power stations, and underground railways. Nor should the new noises of modern warfare be forgotten."
I think we could probably do without the modern warfare section of the orchestra. Nonetheless, Russolo does have classifications in mind: he wants to divide his sound orchestra into six groups:
- Roars, Thunderings, Explosions, Hissing roars, Bangs, Booms
- Whistling, Hissing, Puffing
- Whispers, Murmurs, Mumbling, Muttering, Gurgling
- Screeching, Creaking, Rustling, Buzzing, Crackling, Scraping
- Noises obtained by beating on metals, woods, skins, stones, pottery, etc.
- Voices of animals and people, Shouts, Screams, Shrieks, Wails, Hoots, Howls, Death rattles, Sobs
These are the families of his orchestra and all sounds are combinations of these "primary" sounds.
Like most ideas that are new, or unconventional, most people will probably find this bizarre in the extreme. One person who did not was John Cage, who, at mid-century was using his ears to listen to the sounds around him and composing music that often did not require the will of a composer at all, but could be achieved completely randomly. It is an entirely different way of looking at the question of music, and because it raises a rather fundamental question about the validity of centuries of tradition, few people have been all that interested in doing more than heap scorn on it.
Back in grad school we weren't all that keen on it either, although we had to learn about it in our class on the history of American music. We spent a class or two on the futurists. I remember the works of Edgar Varese, whose orchestra included sirens and car horns and so on. We didn't think all that much of him.
I had a classmate, however, who must have found it liberating. He went on to write, as I recall, a piece of music scored for (no kidding) rocks and white noise. One of his more conventional instrumentations, a piece for voice and piano, nonetheless included a lot of unusual ways of making that pairing function. I recall that the singer spoke quite a bit, and the pianist sang a little, and spoke, and that at one point the singer pushed the pianist off the bench and began to play. I remember all this because I and a singer performed the piece once on a concert.
I rather liked the piece, actually. And I've always found the idea of pushing old boundaries interesting, even though I don't always like the musical results. At least it gives us something to think about. And sometimes it does a bit more than that. Sometimes it is quite a bit of fun and perhaps even profound. In other words, it does what music is supposed to do. It shines some light on our humanity.
But I realize you can't dance to it, or have it on in the background while you are doing the dishes. Which, ironically, seems to be what makes it noise.
What an odd world, no?
I had a classmate, however, who must have found it liberating. He went on to write, as I recall, a piece of music scored for (no kidding) rocks and white noise. One of his more conventional instrumentations, a piece for voice and piano, nonetheless included a lot of unusual ways of making that pairing function. I recall that the singer spoke quite a bit, and the pianist sang a little, and spoke, and that at one point the singer pushed the pianist off the bench and began to play. I remember all this because I and a singer performed the piece once on a concert.
I rather liked the piece, actually. And I've always found the idea of pushing old boundaries interesting, even though I don't always like the musical results. At least it gives us something to think about. And sometimes it does a bit more than that. Sometimes it is quite a bit of fun and perhaps even profound. In other words, it does what music is supposed to do. It shines some light on our humanity.
But I realize you can't dance to it, or have it on in the background while you are doing the dishes. Which, ironically, seems to be what makes it noise.
What an odd world, no?
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