I intend this article for Catholics, and hope that you read it with the great earnestness required of such a pivotal subject regarding our faith.
Did John Paul the Second want rock or pop music in our Churches? Certainly, he showed great joy at the love and outpouring he received at various public rallies and Masses.
If any image of the late-great John Paul II has come to the forefront since his passing into glory, it is the image of a "people's champion" in Papal garb. And he certainly was that, make no mistake.
Yet such imagery, as well as the frequent misinterpretation of the dictates of the Second Vatican Council, have been used as a Devilish (yes, capital D) opportunity to rob our generation of Catholics of the true aesthetic riches of our faith.
Most of us, stepping into Churches, find ourselves the victims of the "creative thinking" of the 60's as opposed to the teachings of the Church we claim to believe in. Some Catholics are now entering their gray years without having any idea of what a Church is supposed to SOUND like.
Personally, as a cradle Catholic, I had no idea what Palestrina or Sacred Polyphony sounded like until I heard it in a college-level Music History Course. I didn't hear Chant -- sung live -- until my mid-20's. I didn't see a Mass done with an actual MASS composition until also in my mid-20's. What a sad, bitterly sad commentary on what our Churches have become!
John Paul the Second, despite his love of popular forms of faith expression, did not want our Churches to sound like rock concerts. He did not want the top-40 music from Christian radio played during Communion, nor did he approve of bad choirs and poorly-written "songs" echoing pathetically from the Choir loft.
Nor did the previous Popes. Nor does our current Pope. Such expressions, while fine outside of Church, are simply not worthy of the sacrifice of the Mass, nor can they stand on equal footing with the music already present in the deposit of the faith.
This is why Pope Benedict has banned such music from the Vatican. Yup: banned.
It may be a bitter pill for many to swallow, but so is most truth. Read it and weep, from JP2's own hand:
http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/letters/2003/documents/hf_jp-ii_let_20031203_musica-sacra_en.html
Now don't get me wrong: popular Christian songs and forms of devotion and "praise" played a great part in my own reversion story. Yet, technically speaking, they cannot fully express Sacredness using melodic formulas and musical forms reserved for hip-shaking rock concerts or dance halls. It simply doesn't work, any more than placing Chant music inside of a rave is anything but cheap appropriation -- or pure vulgarity.
In my own life, I remain a great fan of rock and heavy metal music. This being said, I recognize that it cannot be held in the same light of spiritual quality as the music written in the accepted spiritual forms. This is not an opinion of mine, nor is it some misguided dogma: it's a doctrine, and one which I must humbly accept (whether I like it or not.)
Read, for instance, to what JP2 writes in this excerpt from the above linked document:
"The more closely a composition for church approaches in its movement, inspiration and savour the Gregorian melodic form, the more sacred and liturgical it becomes; and the more out of harmony it is with that supreme model, the less worthy it is of the temple"[33]. It is not, of course, a question of imitating Gregorian chant but rather of ensuring that new compositions are imbued with the same spirit that inspired and little by little came to shape it. Only an artist who is profoundly steeped in the sensus Ecclesiae can attempt to perceive and express in melody the truth of the Mystery that is celebrated in the Liturgy[34].
To give another example: anyone who has given up television for a while comes to know a simple truth: television is generally loud, vulgar, patronizing, numbing, and quite often very bad for the soul. Not only that, but it is a waste of time.
Anyone who has taken a silent retreat has been forced to confront the multiplicity of noise in his/her head. In such cases, one comes face-to-face with a startling fact of life: much like food, in art, we become what we consume.
Nor would Andy Warhol's work belong next to an Altar any more than a modern billboard.
As a Catholic, you may despair at such news, you may feel the urge to rebel. Yet remember that you do so at the expense of many great living artists -- as well as the Church's own wishes.
Or, as I'll tell people often enough: "If you'd rather hear top-40 expressions over Palestrina in your Mass, it's not an issue of differing opinion. It's a personal problem which needs to be corrected, no different than the many other things we struggle with in our faith walk."
Encourage your Priests to become educated on the right kinds of art and music -- pressure them to improve the quality of sights and sounds at your Church. If you can sing, then do it! If you're in a position to donate, then nothing bring about change more than a financially-endowed bullish reformer. The change is trickling in, and you can make it a much-needed torrent.
Lastly, if you happen to live anywhere near Chicago, do yourself the favor of hearing and seeing Mass at St. John Cantius, on the Near-north side, this Christmas Eve. The choral concert begins at 11, while the Mass-proper begins at Midnight. It is, quite simply, the way a Mass is meant to be. (http://www.cantius.org)
As a Buddhist professor once told me: "If you make your Churches beautiful, then people will come of their own accord."
The 1960's popular experimentation has failed, and devastatingly so. We turn again to the Magisterium, seeking guidance in forms both ancient and new...
I'm providing three links to help you start the journey. The first is a blog detailing the Sacred Music revival in the Church -- the right-hand-side has several fascinating Papal writings on the subject. The second is the Church Music Association of America. The third is the group I work with, the wonderful Foundation for Sacred Arts.
http://authenticupdate.blogspot.com/2008/02/tim-mcdonnel-speaks-to-priests-and.html
http://www.musicasacra.com/
http://thesacredarts.org/
Showing posts with label new music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new music. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Was Modern Music a Slavic Age?
(Warning: potentially contentious statement later in this article...)
Last month's issue of Classical FM magazine dealt beautifully with the subject of modern Russian music. Reading over the roster of names -- many of whom did their work in the 20th century -- got me to thinking:
Which nation or geographic region had the greatest effect on the course of 20th century music?
While this may seem like a loaded question, music history texts have no problem pointing to various eras where styles and trends were dominated by Italy, France, or Germany. Indeed, the Germans seem to take the crown historically, providing us with more geniuses from the Classical era than any other nation.
It was a supremacy they fought hard to keep. Arnold Schoenberg predicted -- with the typical Tuetonic flair of that unfortunate era -- that he had "discovered something that will guarantee the supremacy of German music for the next hundred years." (Thankfully both him and that other Aryan supremacist war-mongering occultist intellectual dictator were both wrong in their grand predictions. You could call me bitter, but I'm not exxagerating.)
I will celebrate this 11/11 -- the 90th anniversary of Polish independence from her less-friendly neighbors -- by making a potentially contentious statement:
Where music is concerned, the 20th century was a Slavic Century. While I know this is a personally biased statement, it nevertheless has great historical weight. I firmly believe that when leveled in the perspective of (non-Boulezian) history (assuming certain racial stereotypes in music are perhaps dulled or forgotten), students will one day learn about the powerful Slavic turn of 20th century music.
I also believe that it is the Slavic composers who saved modern composition, at least as far as audiences are concerned. The 19th century folk-tinged rumblings of Chopin, Dvorak, and the Russian Five led to a veritable musical explosion in Central and Eastern Europe. A brief survey of names includes: Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Lutoslawski, Glazunov, Gorecki, Scriabin, Penderecki, Schnittke, Janacek, Ligeti, Gubaidulina, Part, Kurtag, Rachmaninov, Szymanowski, and of course Bartok. (This was a list off the top of my head -- feel free to add your favorites.) Then there was the mighty teacher, Nadia Boulanger -- Catholic, half-Russian, and deeply aware of both.
While western Europe blazed a trail of largely soulless music, Stravinsky (bolstered by his mentor Boulanger) brought another version of musical modernity into being. The echoes of the rite still reverberate through our concert halls and conservatories.
Where Schoenberg & Co. codified atonality and paved the way to musical modernism, it seems that it is the composers of Eastern and Central Europe -- always placing the demands of expressionism over the demands of craft -- that gave modernism a soul.
Then there are the quasi-folk musings of Janacek and Bartok, who stooped classical high-browery back to the earth, unleashing tremendous expressive possibilities which are still being explored across numerous cultures today.
A glimpse back to the Russian five may give us the roots of this cultural success. These men were concerned with music for its spiritual and expressive properties, rather than any numerical interest it might engender. They were certainly under-trained as musicians and composers (or, perhaps, unhampered by over-training?) They were humanists first, seeking an expressive nationalistic vision for their resurgent nation. They also recognized the inherent power of folk music. This began a trend which would carry through most of the following century.
I am particularly proud of Poland, where modernism both found a soul -- and a way out. Long before his neo-romantic musings, Penderecki was at the head of the avante-gard in composition. Most of us are too young to remember the extreme cultural impacts of his Threnody and St. Matthew Passion. In all fairness, we can thank the Germans for embracing -- and funding -- most of Penderecki's international successes.
In Estonia, Arvo Part began his career by writing some of the most expressive serial music ever penned, before realizing the limitations of such a musical language and withdrawing to reconsider his craft.
1976 will likely be considered a magical year in future music history texts. It was in this year that Gorecki penned his magnanimous Third Symphony. After the premiere, one member of the modernist hegemony was said to decry that "Gorecki has abandoned 200 years of musical progress with a single piece." Yet it has become the best-selling recording of modern music in history, inspiring countless composers to return to a new simplicity. (It is also the piece that saved my young compositional life.)
In that very same year, Arvo Part emerged from his long self-imposed silence with a new musical language, blending ancient religiosity with a stark modern simplicity. In the end, the very nations that either resisted abstract modernism -- or gave it a soul -- also provided composers that -- along with the American minimalists -- showed a way out of the cultural morass of modern music.
In short, it was these men who maximized the modern, while later giving us permission to dream a different musical dream. Faced with the bleakness of a secular, mathematical century, the "Kyries" and "Agnus Dei's" poured forth once more. The end of the Slavic century presented a fitting musical gift, turning our hard-headed art back to more basic human needs.
It is curious, then, and perhaps even a bit xenophobic, when music schools require German or Italian from their musicology students. Should not Polish and Russian be added to the list?
Often impossible to analyze, often too simple for academic prose, the music of the Slavic century may have more than cultural biases to overcome in order to assume a proper historical prominence.
It's still too early to say where the new century will lead us. Will it, by virtue of our continued melting-pot status, become the American century? Will the Chinese seize cultural dominance? Or will the rise of communications technology make it the first truly international era of music?
Contrary to popular belief, classical music has never been stronger or more widespread then it is now, despite the lack of (generally pessimistic) major-media coverage. Out of the political darkness of the 20th century, we've been handed a battered baton of hard-earned progress from the Slavic greats. It is a baton covered with the sweat of the politically-hounded and the blood of freedom fighters, emerging from a modern history stranger (and more brutal) than fiction. Where will we run with it?
Last month's issue of Classical FM magazine dealt beautifully with the subject of modern Russian music. Reading over the roster of names -- many of whom did their work in the 20th century -- got me to thinking:
Which nation or geographic region had the greatest effect on the course of 20th century music?
While this may seem like a loaded question, music history texts have no problem pointing to various eras where styles and trends were dominated by Italy, France, or Germany. Indeed, the Germans seem to take the crown historically, providing us with more geniuses from the Classical era than any other nation.
It was a supremacy they fought hard to keep. Arnold Schoenberg predicted -- with the typical Tuetonic flair of that unfortunate era -- that he had "discovered something that will guarantee the supremacy of German music for the next hundred years." (Thankfully both him and that other Aryan supremacist war-mongering occultist intellectual dictator were both wrong in their grand predictions. You could call me bitter, but I'm not exxagerating.)
I will celebrate this 11/11 -- the 90th anniversary of Polish independence from her less-friendly neighbors -- by making a potentially contentious statement:
Where music is concerned, the 20th century was a Slavic Century. While I know this is a personally biased statement, it nevertheless has great historical weight. I firmly believe that when leveled in the perspective of (non-Boulezian) history (assuming certain racial stereotypes in music are perhaps dulled or forgotten), students will one day learn about the powerful Slavic turn of 20th century music.
I also believe that it is the Slavic composers who saved modern composition, at least as far as audiences are concerned. The 19th century folk-tinged rumblings of Chopin, Dvorak, and the Russian Five led to a veritable musical explosion in Central and Eastern Europe. A brief survey of names includes: Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Lutoslawski, Glazunov, Gorecki, Scriabin, Penderecki, Schnittke, Janacek, Ligeti, Gubaidulina, Part, Kurtag, Rachmaninov, Szymanowski, and of course Bartok. (This was a list off the top of my head -- feel free to add your favorites.) Then there was the mighty teacher, Nadia Boulanger -- Catholic, half-Russian, and deeply aware of both.
While western Europe blazed a trail of largely soulless music, Stravinsky (bolstered by his mentor Boulanger) brought another version of musical modernity into being. The echoes of the rite still reverberate through our concert halls and conservatories.
Where Schoenberg & Co. codified atonality and paved the way to musical modernism, it seems that it is the composers of Eastern and Central Europe -- always placing the demands of expressionism over the demands of craft -- that gave modernism a soul.
Then there are the quasi-folk musings of Janacek and Bartok, who stooped classical high-browery back to the earth, unleashing tremendous expressive possibilities which are still being explored across numerous cultures today.
A glimpse back to the Russian five may give us the roots of this cultural success. These men were concerned with music for its spiritual and expressive properties, rather than any numerical interest it might engender. They were certainly under-trained as musicians and composers (or, perhaps, unhampered by over-training?) They were humanists first, seeking an expressive nationalistic vision for their resurgent nation. They also recognized the inherent power of folk music. This began a trend which would carry through most of the following century.
I am particularly proud of Poland, where modernism both found a soul -- and a way out. Long before his neo-romantic musings, Penderecki was at the head of the avante-gard in composition. Most of us are too young to remember the extreme cultural impacts of his Threnody and St. Matthew Passion. In all fairness, we can thank the Germans for embracing -- and funding -- most of Penderecki's international successes.
In Estonia, Arvo Part began his career by writing some of the most expressive serial music ever penned, before realizing the limitations of such a musical language and withdrawing to reconsider his craft.
1976 will likely be considered a magical year in future music history texts. It was in this year that Gorecki penned his magnanimous Third Symphony. After the premiere, one member of the modernist hegemony was said to decry that "Gorecki has abandoned 200 years of musical progress with a single piece." Yet it has become the best-selling recording of modern music in history, inspiring countless composers to return to a new simplicity. (It is also the piece that saved my young compositional life.)
In that very same year, Arvo Part emerged from his long self-imposed silence with a new musical language, blending ancient religiosity with a stark modern simplicity. In the end, the very nations that either resisted abstract modernism -- or gave it a soul -- also provided composers that -- along with the American minimalists -- showed a way out of the cultural morass of modern music.
In short, it was these men who maximized the modern, while later giving us permission to dream a different musical dream. Faced with the bleakness of a secular, mathematical century, the "Kyries" and "Agnus Dei's" poured forth once more. The end of the Slavic century presented a fitting musical gift, turning our hard-headed art back to more basic human needs.
It is curious, then, and perhaps even a bit xenophobic, when music schools require German or Italian from their musicology students. Should not Polish and Russian be added to the list?
Often impossible to analyze, often too simple for academic prose, the music of the Slavic century may have more than cultural biases to overcome in order to assume a proper historical prominence.
It's still too early to say where the new century will lead us. Will it, by virtue of our continued melting-pot status, become the American century? Will the Chinese seize cultural dominance? Or will the rise of communications technology make it the first truly international era of music?
Contrary to popular belief, classical music has never been stronger or more widespread then it is now, despite the lack of (generally pessimistic) major-media coverage. Out of the political darkness of the 20th century, we've been handed a battered baton of hard-earned progress from the Slavic greats. It is a baton covered with the sweat of the politically-hounded and the blood of freedom fighters, emerging from a modern history stranger (and more brutal) than fiction. Where will we run with it?
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
A Life in Music
What does it mean to live a life in music?I remember having completed my first year of study on my Masters degree in Composition. I was in a wonderful and supportive environment at the University of Colorado. My teachers were exceptional, my program dedicated, and I had developed the friends and support system to see me through. In truth, my time at Colorado is the standard by which all other academic (and professional) experiences will be measured. Many institutions could learn a great deal from the way CU runs her music program...
Yet I was profoundly unsure of what I was doing. I was exploding with creativity, yet my craft remained weak, and I had felt battered by opposing viewpoints on aesthetics since beginning my undergrad years. Somehow, regardless of intellectual realization, I was unable to accept pure modernism and abstract art on a soul level. My body rejected it like bad food, which left me utterly confused. Something was not right, and I began to doubt whether or not the musical world had a place for me.
As I entered that second year of graduate study, I knew that my resolve -- and my career -- hung in the balance. I sought guidance on the issue, and prayed feverishly for a clear path forward. As always, answers come from unexpected places.
At the end of a long and exhausting week, ready to go home, my friend Trudy asked if I would volunteer at a conference about Nadia Boulanger. She promised great networking opportunities, lunch, and a free concert of sacred music, so I flippantly agreed. The experience would change my life.
In to the U-of-C poured over 200 of Nadia Boulanger's former students, and the school was suddenly awash in a new kind of energy. I met one of Nadia's last students, now teaching in San Fransisco. I met a sweet old nun who studied with her in the 1930's, and was partly responsible for her conversion.
Nadia Boulanger's students, regardless of their religion, were united in the belief that music was a fundamentally important and fundamentally human excercise. They made no apologies for their rejection of much modernism as mere intellectual drivel, and their music -- as well as the force of their personalities -- all testified to the strength of their position.
I learned of Nadia and Lili Boulanger, and how Lili's death silenced Nadia's compositional voice while unleashing her love of pedagogy. I learned of Nadia's influence on over 1200 musicians, including Lenny Bernstein, Carter, Piston, Thompson, and a certain Igor Stravinsky (pictured above.) I learned of her reversion to Catholicism, her attendance of daily mass, and her incredible piety.
Boulanger, it seems, was a secular nun of music, chaste and faithful, and rigorously demanding of her students.
Truth be told, I don't know if my rather fragile demeanor at the time would have fared well under her strict tutelage. Truth be told, I don't think I would have had the musicianship to last two days in her studio. Yet I remain grateful for the fact that she existed.
"Ye shall judge the tree by its fruit." From the centerpoint of Nadia Boulanger sprang much of the greatest music of the 20th century. Being surrounded by her students, I found myself reinvigorated about both music and humanity in general.
Most shockingly, the name of God and his desire for us was invoked repeatedly by various composers of various beliefs. These people were convinced not only that music was good, but that God wants us to write more of it. As a person of belief, I was honestly shocked to hear such a thing spoken aloud, at a liberal University, by a gathering of composers no less. Yet it pointed to the key missing ingredient in my creative search.
It was a great weekend, and it may have saved my life, let alone my career.
While I hate to write this, I am afraid that if the weekend had consisted of a gathering of former Schoenberg students, I would have likely quit.
What does it mean to live a life in music? Perhaps when I'm 70, I'll have a coherent answer to this question. Yet I'm quite sure I know what such a life is not meant to be, and by knowing the negative, the positive can begin to reveal itself.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Stravinsky's Crawl
"You know, I can tell when you're just composing to compose, and when it really means something."
...So said the punctually wise fellow-composer Michael Bratt to me one week, after I had just been criticized during a particularly unsuccessful group composition lesson.
My own inner-voice told me: "You know, if you had to stand there and explain what you were after, it doesn't work."
Yeah. I get it now. And Mike's words have made all the difference.
I could easily turn this into a commentary on words. Words have power, after all, and we should never underestimate the power of a personal statement. I can easily list the handful of personal and courageous statements which have changed the course of my life.
That being said, I'd like to talk about notes.
I'm generally full of theories as to why so much modern music doesn't work, yet given the nature of art, I'm willing to admit that often it's nothing more than opinionated grasping at aesthetic straws.
As to why certain music does work, however, things are far less mysterious in nature. There are really two levels of musical intent, and modern classical music seems to often miss the boat on both counts.
The first, as my good friend Mike expressed to me, has to do with personal meaning. Clearly, I'm an expressionist. When I acted on such things first and foremost, my work resonated with others. When I didn't, it fell flat.
I can follow this line of thought: clearly, all of our greatest musical expressions, be they the impossibly controlled fugues of Bach or the ripping-raw energy of my favorite Metallica song, all are works of deep personal expression.
I've received two kinds of post-concert handshakes. The first is the polite, contrite "I liked your piece" greeting. The second is the full-grinned and enthusiastic acknowledgment of a deeper connection. For me, there is nothing more gratifying.
I was shocked, when at ISU for the premiere of my Aevum, a woman came up to me after the concert. She said: "I'm a pianist I loved your piece. It grabbed me, and seemed to describe the very turmoils I've gone through this year. Thank you."
Wow. I was speechless. More often, after new music concerts, I'll hear things like "that piece was neat" --or-- "where did you derive your pitches from?" Ouch. I know what kind of comments I prefer.
How much serialism is concerned primarily with deep human expression and connection, as opposed to the extended expression of technique?
Reading the composer posts on www.newmusicbox.org, one can quickly identify the "self-conscious ipod listening-lists" given by so many, as if to prove they can feel as well as think. (For instance, it seems that every instance of Boulez must be balanced by the mention of a punk band. Fascinating.)
Where does such an implication come from? Has new music stopped being primarily concerned with expression? If so, what's the point of writing it?
Yet there is a second and more powerful element, though it is more rarely (in modern times) spoken of. This is the deific element in music, and the lack of it is the main reason that so much modernism falls flat.
When Kandinsky wanted an icon in his workspace, he asked for a solid black portrait. (I'll spare you the details of Kandinsky's and Schoenberg's mutual occult associations, though I'll give a special prize to the first person who can identify the mass-murdering dictator who followed the same philosophical principles!) John Cage, despite all of his ingenuity, ultimately embraced and propagated a relativistic and anti-humanistic philosophy in his life and work. Schoenberg may have been searching for new levels of meaning, but Boulez took his numbers and ran to a place of stifling formalism and seemingly meaningless abstraction.
This is not to say that these artists did not produce instances of haunting, beautiful, and deeply expressive work. It's to say that on the whole, something was certainly missing.
The reason so much modern art and music falls flat is simply because of the direction it points -- which is so often either nowhere, or to the figure of the artist.
Beethoven, for all of his supposed megalomania, never lost sight of his place in the universe, his music consequently pointed from the human creator to the one who created him. When I see Boulez conduct great music, I see a revelry which is ultimately self-contained (though brilliant nevertheless.) When I saw a tape of Boulez conducting his own music, I perceived a joy taken in human ingenuity.
Yet it went no further. The creator was present, but he did not acknowledge his place, only his own ingenuity. It was beautiful, in a way, but ultimately meaningless.
(Not to pick on Pierre: he's merely the great talent by which all of my statements can be tested.)
Take by contrast the (relative) soaring popularity of the "new spiritualists" in Gorecki, Tavener, Part & co. Certainly their compositional chops do not approach that of a Boulez or Ades, nor are they technical innovators. Yet their music rings clearly in places far deeper and lasting than the halls of academia.
I was told a story -- by a nun who once studied with Nadia Boulanger -- of Igor Stravinsky's attitude towards God. He and Nadia (a daily communicant) entered an Orthodox cathedral together one afternoon. Nadia sat to the side, while Igor slowly moved forward to the altar to pray. The closer he got, the more bent he became, as if a giant hand were pressing down upon him. He veritably crawled on all fours to the altar to grovel before his lord. When the entire display was done, the two went merrily on their way, thinking nothing of it. (Think of this the next time you listen to the Symphony of Psalms.)
Stravinsky knew his place.
In fact, if you compare the students of Boulanger to the students of Schoenberg & Co., you have a startling study in musical purpose. While I admire the technique and ingenuity of one side, my heart flutters to the music of the other.
...for a tree is judged by its fruit...
An analogy is perhaps helpful here. I was once told that an artist is like a small child, drawing a picture or doing a dance for their parent. To the parent's refined sensibilities, even the greatest effort of the child will fall artistically short. Yet the parent takes delight in the child's effort, praise, and love.
Some truths, while difficult to prove logically, resonate clearly in the realms of analogy, anecdote, and metaphor. So it is with music.
Regardless of your line of work, one should frequently ask: Are you the joyful child dancing for the love of your parent, giving forth your best effort out of the intuitive knowledge that it is good?
Or are you the selfish child, dancing only for yourself?
If we want to strengthen and build new audiences for modern art, there is only one sure way:
"Soli Deo Gloria."
...So said the punctually wise fellow-composer Michael Bratt to me one week, after I had just been criticized during a particularly unsuccessful group composition lesson.
My own inner-voice told me: "You know, if you had to stand there and explain what you were after, it doesn't work."
Yeah. I get it now. And Mike's words have made all the difference.
I could easily turn this into a commentary on words. Words have power, after all, and we should never underestimate the power of a personal statement. I can easily list the handful of personal and courageous statements which have changed the course of my life.
That being said, I'd like to talk about notes.
I'm generally full of theories as to why so much modern music doesn't work, yet given the nature of art, I'm willing to admit that often it's nothing more than opinionated grasping at aesthetic straws.
As to why certain music does work, however, things are far less mysterious in nature. There are really two levels of musical intent, and modern classical music seems to often miss the boat on both counts.
The first, as my good friend Mike expressed to me, has to do with personal meaning. Clearly, I'm an expressionist. When I acted on such things first and foremost, my work resonated with others. When I didn't, it fell flat.
I can follow this line of thought: clearly, all of our greatest musical expressions, be they the impossibly controlled fugues of Bach or the ripping-raw energy of my favorite Metallica song, all are works of deep personal expression.
I've received two kinds of post-concert handshakes. The first is the polite, contrite "I liked your piece" greeting. The second is the full-grinned and enthusiastic acknowledgment of a deeper connection. For me, there is nothing more gratifying.
I was shocked, when at ISU for the premiere of my Aevum, a woman came up to me after the concert. She said: "I'm a pianist I loved your piece. It grabbed me, and seemed to describe the very turmoils I've gone through this year. Thank you."
Wow. I was speechless. More often, after new music concerts, I'll hear things like "that piece was neat" --or-- "where did you derive your pitches from?" Ouch. I know what kind of comments I prefer.
How much serialism is concerned primarily with deep human expression and connection, as opposed to the extended expression of technique?
Reading the composer posts on www.newmusicbox.org, one can quickly identify the "self-conscious ipod listening-lists" given by so many, as if to prove they can feel as well as think. (For instance, it seems that every instance of Boulez must be balanced by the mention of a punk band. Fascinating.)
Where does such an implication come from? Has new music stopped being primarily concerned with expression? If so, what's the point of writing it?
Yet there is a second and more powerful element, though it is more rarely (in modern times) spoken of. This is the deific element in music, and the lack of it is the main reason that so much modernism falls flat.
When Kandinsky wanted an icon in his workspace, he asked for a solid black portrait. (I'll spare you the details of Kandinsky's and Schoenberg's mutual occult associations, though I'll give a special prize to the first person who can identify the mass-murdering dictator who followed the same philosophical principles!) John Cage, despite all of his ingenuity, ultimately embraced and propagated a relativistic and anti-humanistic philosophy in his life and work. Schoenberg may have been searching for new levels of meaning, but Boulez took his numbers and ran to a place of stifling formalism and seemingly meaningless abstraction.
This is not to say that these artists did not produce instances of haunting, beautiful, and deeply expressive work. It's to say that on the whole, something was certainly missing.
The reason so much modern art and music falls flat is simply because of the direction it points -- which is so often either nowhere, or to the figure of the artist.
Beethoven, for all of his supposed megalomania, never lost sight of his place in the universe, his music consequently pointed from the human creator to the one who created him. When I see Boulez conduct great music, I see a revelry which is ultimately self-contained (though brilliant nevertheless.) When I saw a tape of Boulez conducting his own music, I perceived a joy taken in human ingenuity.
Yet it went no further. The creator was present, but he did not acknowledge his place, only his own ingenuity. It was beautiful, in a way, but ultimately meaningless.
(Not to pick on Pierre: he's merely the great talent by which all of my statements can be tested.)
Take by contrast the (relative) soaring popularity of the "new spiritualists" in Gorecki, Tavener, Part & co. Certainly their compositional chops do not approach that of a Boulez or Ades, nor are they technical innovators. Yet their music rings clearly in places far deeper and lasting than the halls of academia.
I was told a story -- by a nun who once studied with Nadia Boulanger -- of Igor Stravinsky's attitude towards God. He and Nadia (a daily communicant) entered an Orthodox cathedral together one afternoon. Nadia sat to the side, while Igor slowly moved forward to the altar to pray. The closer he got, the more bent he became, as if a giant hand were pressing down upon him. He veritably crawled on all fours to the altar to grovel before his lord. When the entire display was done, the two went merrily on their way, thinking nothing of it. (Think of this the next time you listen to the Symphony of Psalms.)
Stravinsky knew his place.
In fact, if you compare the students of Boulanger to the students of Schoenberg & Co., you have a startling study in musical purpose. While I admire the technique and ingenuity of one side, my heart flutters to the music of the other.
...for a tree is judged by its fruit...
An analogy is perhaps helpful here. I was once told that an artist is like a small child, drawing a picture or doing a dance for their parent. To the parent's refined sensibilities, even the greatest effort of the child will fall artistically short. Yet the parent takes delight in the child's effort, praise, and love.
Some truths, while difficult to prove logically, resonate clearly in the realms of analogy, anecdote, and metaphor. So it is with music.
Regardless of your line of work, one should frequently ask: Are you the joyful child dancing for the love of your parent, giving forth your best effort out of the intuitive knowledge that it is good?
Or are you the selfish child, dancing only for yourself?
If we want to strengthen and build new audiences for modern art, there is only one sure way:
"Soli Deo Gloria."
Monday, June 2, 2008
Eighth Blackbird Concert Review
This past Thursday, I was privileged enough to be in the audience for Eighth Blackbird's "The Only Moving Thing." Having received rave reviews nationwide, I was anticipating this latest dose of blackbird quite eagerly.
The opening work was the Chicago premiere of Steve Reich's Double Sextet. Seeing the length of the piece listed at 22 minutes, I settled in for a typical Steve Reich trance-ride. While I genuinely enjoyed the work, it presented nothing truly special to my ears. The use of tape seemed almost superfluous to me, as it did not seem to achieve anything that a different orchestration could not have accomplished.
The highlight of the evening was "The Only Moving Thing," composed by the Bang-on-a-Can trio of Lang/Wolfe/Gordon. The work was clever, moving, and genuinely Mahlerian in how it seemed to confuse the audience's emotional responses. For instance: in one of the slow movements, clarinetist Michael Maccaferri was loaded down with various metal and percussive objects. He stood there uncomfortably, a pleading face directed towards the audience as a poignant flute and vibraphone ostinato tolled pathetically behind him. Slowly, the objects fell from his arms, clattering loudly to the floor in counterpoint with the pathetic sounds behind him. At first the audience laughed, then the laught diminished and turned sympathetic, and finally a general sense of sadness permeated the hall. It was a brilliant musical moment.
After all of the emotional movement of the work, the final movement (composed by Lang) presented the best of what the composer could offer, uplifting the listener with post-minimalist groove and ending in a resounding cut-off which seemed to resonate dramatically with all those assembled.
The evening was brilliant, and Eighth Blackbird certainly continued their tradition of presenting a difficult music in a way which is cool, energetic, and completely relevant. Of all the new music offerings I have seen, Blackbird remain my first choice for taking an "uninitiated" listener to their first new-music experience. Bravo!
The opening work was the Chicago premiere of Steve Reich's Double Sextet. Seeing the length of the piece listed at 22 minutes, I settled in for a typical Steve Reich trance-ride. While I genuinely enjoyed the work, it presented nothing truly special to my ears. The use of tape seemed almost superfluous to me, as it did not seem to achieve anything that a different orchestration could not have accomplished.
The highlight of the evening was "The Only Moving Thing," composed by the Bang-on-a-Can trio of Lang/Wolfe/Gordon. The work was clever, moving, and genuinely Mahlerian in how it seemed to confuse the audience's emotional responses. For instance: in one of the slow movements, clarinetist Michael Maccaferri was loaded down with various metal and percussive objects. He stood there uncomfortably, a pleading face directed towards the audience as a poignant flute and vibraphone ostinato tolled pathetically behind him. Slowly, the objects fell from his arms, clattering loudly to the floor in counterpoint with the pathetic sounds behind him. At first the audience laughed, then the laught diminished and turned sympathetic, and finally a general sense of sadness permeated the hall. It was a brilliant musical moment.
After all of the emotional movement of the work, the final movement (composed by Lang) presented the best of what the composer could offer, uplifting the listener with post-minimalist groove and ending in a resounding cut-off which seemed to resonate dramatically with all those assembled.
The evening was brilliant, and Eighth Blackbird certainly continued their tradition of presenting a difficult music in a way which is cool, energetic, and completely relevant. Of all the new music offerings I have seen, Blackbird remain my first choice for taking an "uninitiated" listener to their first new-music experience. Bravo!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tonality
Tonality, my friends, is like the circus.
Or, perhaps, I should say that "the evolution of musical language is like the circus."
Musically speaking, there are circus clowns, contortionists, and lion-tamers.
There are the circus-freaks, the ones we oogle at in wonder and pity.
There is the sword-eater, who wonders why we cannot eat swords as well.
There are, of course, the bystanders: they merely sit to the side and clap. After all, the show is for them. (Unfortunately, some composers get lost in this crowd.)
Then there is the trapeze artist. Somewhere along the way, men and women began to defy gravity and hurtle themselves brilliantly through the air, risking it all to create a higher poetry of motion.
The trapeze is probably the highlight of the classic circus: it pushes things to the limit.
Then, somwhere along the line, some trapeze-artists decided to remove the safety net beneath them. We watched in mixed wonder and horror as they tried to defy gravity, oblivious to the ground below.
We clap, relieved when the show is over. When one falls, however, our pity is limited. It's a shame, really, but it was their own pride which removed the net.
Or, perhaps, I should say that "the evolution of musical language is like the circus."
Musically speaking, there are circus clowns, contortionists, and lion-tamers.
There are the circus-freaks, the ones we oogle at in wonder and pity.
There is the sword-eater, who wonders why we cannot eat swords as well.
There are, of course, the bystanders: they merely sit to the side and clap. After all, the show is for them. (Unfortunately, some composers get lost in this crowd.)
Then there is the trapeze artist. Somewhere along the way, men and women began to defy gravity and hurtle themselves brilliantly through the air, risking it all to create a higher poetry of motion.
The trapeze is probably the highlight of the classic circus: it pushes things to the limit.
Then, somwhere along the line, some trapeze-artists decided to remove the safety net beneath them. We watched in mixed wonder and horror as they tried to defy gravity, oblivious to the ground below.
We clap, relieved when the show is over. When one falls, however, our pity is limited. It's a shame, really, but it was their own pride which removed the net.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Learning to Color: Stumbling Across Orchestration
The fifth grade was not kind to my artistic soul. I remember when we were given the assignment of coloring-in the outline of a large maple leaf. Unsatisfied with the results of my project, I grabbed a handful of gold and silver crayons and began to add highlights to my red and green leaf. My fifth grade teacher bounded up to me in a huff and accused me of scribbling. Little did I know it, but the little creative person inside of me had just received his first challenge. Normally quiet, I argued my point. I was not able to express it at the time, but I was seeking the realistic gleam of a leaf after it had begun to dry.
Not buying my poorly given argument, my fifth grade teacher made me stand in front of the first-grade art class, to learn how "good children" do their art projects. I've been obsessed with color ever since...
***
There was a time where I was silenced at the sight of a blank Orchestral score. It was simply too much to deal with, and my brain couldn't wrap itself around such a behemoth of color, sound, and passion. The ideas fizzled, and I was left standing in humble silence.
To this day, few compliments please me more than being told that I have orchestrated something well. As I approached the end of my Masters studies in composition, I was still handicapped by the large ensemble. This meant that I was essentially incapable of writing the orchestra piece that I needed to write in order to graduate.
Certainly I could have written a bad piece, but I promised myself long ago that I would never kow-tow to academic requirements in a way which sacrificed creative quality. Never.
Part of fearing the Orchestra and Wind Ensemble was fearing what monstrosity might come about as a result of my bringing my ideas into such a huge creative space. Inside of my head there were great colors, shapes, and swirls of energy brewing, but I was unable to open the door to fully access these ideas.
It was digital audio editing that changed that. I began to compose a piece called "Blood, Forgotten," for solo Violin and multimedia. The multimedia portion consisted of a video element, and a massive and continually evolving sound-world derived almost entirely from the sound of a single violin.
In the process of shaping and layering the hundreds of sounds clips which eventually became the full eleven minutes of "Blood, Forgotten," I ended up with something resembling -- but greatly outdetailing -- a classical orchestral score.
As I put the finishing touches on "Blood, Forgotten," I began to compose the Orchestral version of the piece. Still mired in trepidation, I was shocked to find that the floodgates had burst, and I was dancing joyfull on the the 11X17 field.
In the end, the orchestra piece was mediocre at best. The significance of the situation, however, is that working the digital medium helped me make the leap into writing for large ensembles.
Working with a digital-audio editor, you begin with recording sounds and manipulating them into new sounds. You work in a top-down-left-to-right approach as in an orchestral score. You are concerned with pitch, balance, color, layering, and progression.
Sound familiar? Such are the concerns which we encounter in any piece, with the concerns being multiplied to extreme levels with large ensembles.
Some might suggest that I was simply suffering from a lack of familiarity in the Orchestral Repetoire. In my case, this is untrue, as I had been ingesting large amounts of music for many years. I had done my score studies, made numerous sketches. I just couldn't ever get past the first idea in a large-ensemble setting.
The problem was comfort: I could not synthesize all of the necessary elements without being overly critical about myself as a composer, or being worried of the potential train-wreck which might result from such efforts.
The digital realm allowed me to experiment endlessly, with instantaneous results available. It helped build the confidence my inner-ear needed, and allowed the necessary mental-dancing to develop over ever-larger soundscapes. Soon I was thriving, and the transition was not a difficult one to make.
I wonder if any other young composers have had similar experiences. Perhaps one day, I will be afforded the opportunity teach a course dealing with such subject-matter. Orchestration is an art that one can continually improve upon. I'm just glad that I accidentally stumbled across the way to my own ability in this realm, and hope to help others do the same in the future.
Not buying my poorly given argument, my fifth grade teacher made me stand in front of the first-grade art class, to learn how "good children" do their art projects. I've been obsessed with color ever since...
***
There was a time where I was silenced at the sight of a blank Orchestral score. It was simply too much to deal with, and my brain couldn't wrap itself around such a behemoth of color, sound, and passion. The ideas fizzled, and I was left standing in humble silence.
To this day, few compliments please me more than being told that I have orchestrated something well. As I approached the end of my Masters studies in composition, I was still handicapped by the large ensemble. This meant that I was essentially incapable of writing the orchestra piece that I needed to write in order to graduate.
Certainly I could have written a bad piece, but I promised myself long ago that I would never kow-tow to academic requirements in a way which sacrificed creative quality. Never.
Part of fearing the Orchestra and Wind Ensemble was fearing what monstrosity might come about as a result of my bringing my ideas into such a huge creative space. Inside of my head there were great colors, shapes, and swirls of energy brewing, but I was unable to open the door to fully access these ideas.
It was digital audio editing that changed that. I began to compose a piece called "Blood, Forgotten," for solo Violin and multimedia. The multimedia portion consisted of a video element, and a massive and continually evolving sound-world derived almost entirely from the sound of a single violin.
In the process of shaping and layering the hundreds of sounds clips which eventually became the full eleven minutes of "Blood, Forgotten," I ended up with something resembling -- but greatly outdetailing -- a classical orchestral score.
As I put the finishing touches on "Blood, Forgotten," I began to compose the Orchestral version of the piece. Still mired in trepidation, I was shocked to find that the floodgates had burst, and I was dancing joyfull on the the 11X17 field.
In the end, the orchestra piece was mediocre at best. The significance of the situation, however, is that working the digital medium helped me make the leap into writing for large ensembles.
Working with a digital-audio editor, you begin with recording sounds and manipulating them into new sounds. You work in a top-down-left-to-right approach as in an orchestral score. You are concerned with pitch, balance, color, layering, and progression.
Sound familiar? Such are the concerns which we encounter in any piece, with the concerns being multiplied to extreme levels with large ensembles.
Some might suggest that I was simply suffering from a lack of familiarity in the Orchestral Repetoire. In my case, this is untrue, as I had been ingesting large amounts of music for many years. I had done my score studies, made numerous sketches. I just couldn't ever get past the first idea in a large-ensemble setting.
The problem was comfort: I could not synthesize all of the necessary elements without being overly critical about myself as a composer, or being worried of the potential train-wreck which might result from such efforts.
The digital realm allowed me to experiment endlessly, with instantaneous results available. It helped build the confidence my inner-ear needed, and allowed the necessary mental-dancing to develop over ever-larger soundscapes. Soon I was thriving, and the transition was not a difficult one to make.
I wonder if any other young composers have had similar experiences. Perhaps one day, I will be afforded the opportunity teach a course dealing with such subject-matter. Orchestration is an art that one can continually improve upon. I'm just glad that I accidentally stumbled across the way to my own ability in this realm, and hope to help others do the same in the future.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
New Music Advocacy
Recently the Canton Symphony asked me to give a presentation on music from the perspective of a young composer. After much thought, I've decided to call my talk "New Music: Part of the Problem, Part of the Solution." The below thoughts are merely a preparation for this talk, and I ask for your detailed (and if necessary, brutal) input on the matter.
***
For all of our griping, what exactly ARE we doing which is productively bringing new music to wider audiences?
I was recently sent comments from a talk by John Adams, in which he decries the overt conservatism of Orchestras and their audiences. He said that "all the interesting music being written now is generally not for Orchestra, as a result." (This is a loose paraphrase taken from a loose paraphrase.)
Mr. Adams is correct, of course: despite the many talented composers out there, our music is either not being performed, or being usurped by less-accessible "great" old-new music in Boulez-ite tradition. Another famous conductor, asked to defend such programming choices, said that the Bouleschoewebernites "need" such patronage.
Such programming attitudes beg the question: If 75 years of stuffing atonal-serialism down the throats of audiences has yet to do anything BUT alienate said audiences, at what point do we concede to the obvious?
While stubborn artistic directors and conductors seemingly purposefully only choose new (or, dubious 20th century) music to piss off their audiences, yet another generation of composers that DON'T sound like Boulez or any of the bergs and berns are being subsequently swept under the carpet of collective irreletivity.
If I didn't know better, I'd think that some of these "proponents of new music" were purposefully attempting to sabotage contemporary music.
I will propose that the average concert-goer over 50 doesn't realize that most new music being written nowadays is NOT being written in such inaccesible styles. In fact, I will submit (with personal experience) that most young conservatory students are equally in the dark as to what is available to us.
I've already named inaccessible old music and its entrenched proponents as part of the problem. I don't have a solution to this dilemma, but there are things that we can start doing TODAY to change the tide of artistic decline in America.
1.) Every graduate student or new professor who is "stuck" teaching music appreciation needs to quit bitching about it, and instead embrace the opportunity. What if every 200+ person lecture-course resulted in three passionate new music listeners? At over 10,000 universities in our country, we would be adding 20,000 new, hip, and curious listeners to the American audience. That's 200,000 potential new listeners per decade, which is easily enough to turn the establishment on its head by that time.
2.) In keeping with #1, education is always the key. Music teachers tend to be relatively ignorant about contemporary music as well, which is why composers need to start visiting classrooms. I know, I know, we're all ridiculously busy. But if every composer visited one classroom annually, we'd have over 5,000 classroom visits with which to inspire minds and build audiences every year. Think of it as contributing to your future audience, which definitely might make retirement a bit easier. I plan on making at least one visit before the school year is over.
3.) Groups such as Eighth Blackbird are putting on hip, varied, and wonderfully performed programs. In only a few years, they have nearly single-handedly revived the new music scene in Chicago. Here in Cleveland, I've become involved with what will hopefully be our equivalent. Any community with a few musicians can pull this off, and smaller communities are especially ripe for such endeavors. If 500 new groups of such a nature came about in the next five years, think of the possibilities for building audiences and getting new commissions!
4.) Wind Ensembles are our friend. To reject them is to do so at your own peril.
5.) Write music which is considerate of your performers, and treat your performers like gold. I recently had a musician from Taiwan tell me that I had "changed (her) opinion of composers for the better." She now plays in all sorts of new music projects in the area, all because a few composers were really nice to her. In contrast, I saw an established Cleveland-area composer selfishly berate a Pierrot Ensemble of younger grad-student musicians. He got his wish: a tight performance. The way he went about it, however, alienated his musicians from composers.
These are five steps which can change the musical landscape we live in. If we put down our bitterness and become real advocates for our art, the resulting tide will eventually sweep back onto the Orchestral stage.
Rather than be part of the generation of composers which has rejected tradition, I would rather be a part of the generation of composers which has revitalized it.
***
For all of our griping, what exactly ARE we doing which is productively bringing new music to wider audiences?
I was recently sent comments from a talk by John Adams, in which he decries the overt conservatism of Orchestras and their audiences. He said that "all the interesting music being written now is generally not for Orchestra, as a result." (This is a loose paraphrase taken from a loose paraphrase.)
Mr. Adams is correct, of course: despite the many talented composers out there, our music is either not being performed, or being usurped by less-accessible "great" old-new music in Boulez-ite tradition. Another famous conductor, asked to defend such programming choices, said that the Bouleschoewebernites "need" such patronage.
Such programming attitudes beg the question: If 75 years of stuffing atonal-serialism down the throats of audiences has yet to do anything BUT alienate said audiences, at what point do we concede to the obvious?
While stubborn artistic directors and conductors seemingly purposefully only choose new (or, dubious 20th century) music to piss off their audiences, yet another generation of composers that DON'T sound like Boulez or any of the bergs and berns are being subsequently swept under the carpet of collective irreletivity.
If I didn't know better, I'd think that some of these "proponents of new music" were purposefully attempting to sabotage contemporary music.
I will propose that the average concert-goer over 50 doesn't realize that most new music being written nowadays is NOT being written in such inaccesible styles. In fact, I will submit (with personal experience) that most young conservatory students are equally in the dark as to what is available to us.
I've already named inaccessible old music and its entrenched proponents as part of the problem. I don't have a solution to this dilemma, but there are things that we can start doing TODAY to change the tide of artistic decline in America.
1.) Every graduate student or new professor who is "stuck" teaching music appreciation needs to quit bitching about it, and instead embrace the opportunity. What if every 200+ person lecture-course resulted in three passionate new music listeners? At over 10,000 universities in our country, we would be adding 20,000 new, hip, and curious listeners to the American audience. That's 200,000 potential new listeners per decade, which is easily enough to turn the establishment on its head by that time.
2.) In keeping with #1, education is always the key. Music teachers tend to be relatively ignorant about contemporary music as well, which is why composers need to start visiting classrooms. I know, I know, we're all ridiculously busy. But if every composer visited one classroom annually, we'd have over 5,000 classroom visits with which to inspire minds and build audiences every year. Think of it as contributing to your future audience, which definitely might make retirement a bit easier. I plan on making at least one visit before the school year is over.
3.) Groups such as Eighth Blackbird are putting on hip, varied, and wonderfully performed programs. In only a few years, they have nearly single-handedly revived the new music scene in Chicago. Here in Cleveland, I've become involved with what will hopefully be our equivalent. Any community with a few musicians can pull this off, and smaller communities are especially ripe for such endeavors. If 500 new groups of such a nature came about in the next five years, think of the possibilities for building audiences and getting new commissions!
4.) Wind Ensembles are our friend. To reject them is to do so at your own peril.
5.) Write music which is considerate of your performers, and treat your performers like gold. I recently had a musician from Taiwan tell me that I had "changed (her) opinion of composers for the better." She now plays in all sorts of new music projects in the area, all because a few composers were really nice to her. In contrast, I saw an established Cleveland-area composer selfishly berate a Pierrot Ensemble of younger grad-student musicians. He got his wish: a tight performance. The way he went about it, however, alienated his musicians from composers.
These are five steps which can change the musical landscape we live in. If we put down our bitterness and become real advocates for our art, the resulting tide will eventually sweep back onto the Orchestral stage.
Rather than be part of the generation of composers which has rejected tradition, I would rather be a part of the generation of composers which has revitalized it.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Ugly Babies
I could feel myself sinking deeper into my chair, the eyes of my peers boring holes into the back of my head. It wasn't going to work. I had failed. As balances went askew and music devolved, I felt that I had lost my inner-ear. My imagination had led me astray.
Or so it always seems to go, the first time you hear a creation of yours attempted by real, living people.
New music is like an ugly baby, you see.
First, it comes out a big mess, too slippery to hold on to and not even capable of uttering a painful cry. A smack on the rear, and it starts to wail, albeit not out of joy. Snip the cord (chord?), do a quick clean-up job, and suddenly you have something that resembles the offspring of adult humans.
Still, newborns generally aren't the cutest straight out of the gate. Things change quickly, however. Slowly their eyes open, slowly they begin to accept their place, and surely they grow more powerfully cute by the day.
So it was with the orchestra readings I recently experienced. The first run was completely disheartening, the second a bit better. The recordings I took home gave evidence of a possibly good piece, but I still wasn't convinced. Somehow, by the time our second day of readings was over, I had a wonderful recording of my music, and people complementing me on a job well done.
That's one quick clean-up job.
So here's to ugly newborns, new music, and the willingness to bring new things to life. I'd like to think that the effort is certainly worth it.
Or so it always seems to go, the first time you hear a creation of yours attempted by real, living people.
New music is like an ugly baby, you see.
First, it comes out a big mess, too slippery to hold on to and not even capable of uttering a painful cry. A smack on the rear, and it starts to wail, albeit not out of joy. Snip the cord (chord?), do a quick clean-up job, and suddenly you have something that resembles the offspring of adult humans.
Still, newborns generally aren't the cutest straight out of the gate. Things change quickly, however. Slowly their eyes open, slowly they begin to accept their place, and surely they grow more powerfully cute by the day.
So it was with the orchestra readings I recently experienced. The first run was completely disheartening, the second a bit better. The recordings I took home gave evidence of a possibly good piece, but I still wasn't convinced. Somehow, by the time our second day of readings was over, I had a wonderful recording of my music, and people complementing me on a job well done.
That's one quick clean-up job.
So here's to ugly newborns, new music, and the willingness to bring new things to life. I'd like to think that the effort is certainly worth it.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
More about New Music
Are the dictates of modernism beyond repudiation, or is there room to launch an assault on the vaunted ivory towers of 20th century abstraction?
I love reading the posts concerning new music around the internet. The little bit of time that I have to keep track of "what's new" has brought me to a recent conclusion:
Musicians, especially composers, generally don't have a clue as to why they do what they do, nor do they have a clear idea of what music is.
Blame it on a shallow society. Blame it on a lack of (very necessary!) education in aesthetics. Blame it on a century of indeterminate creativity. Blame it on whatever you will, though the problem remains.
Some posit that music means nothing, without even scratching the nature of what we "mean" by "meaning." Some posters pitch the "art for art's sake" (whatever THAT means,) or the "I do it because I like it" modes of thought. (Both arguments are juvenile at best.) Others repeatedly try to justify music as a purely secular art, devoid of the necessity of any meaning or even coherent structure. I will humbly submit that such attitudes are what have alienated new music from performers and audiences.
I'll take the Beethoven-esque "artist hero" over the 20th century "invincible intellectual" composer any day of the week. Say what negative things you will about the Romantic Era's concept of the artist, but people as a whole actually liked it.
I'm not advocating that we throw out modernism as a whole. Far from it. The efforts of 20th century artists have greatly widened and matured our creative vocabulary. I only ask, for example, whether a poet who only writes with vowels would ever be taken seriously. (I know that somewhere out there, a vowel-poet must exist without a small but loyal following. I will question the sanity of such a following.)
In one of the more interesting (and rarely useful) posts on newmusicbox.org, a composer brought up a wonderful story about Moses and Schoenberg. Upon going back to the site to quote him and give credit, I discovered that the quote was gone. How sad.
Anyhow, Schoenberg said that a composer is like Moses going up to the mountain to talk to God. Upon his return, the prophet does not divulge the entirety of his divine communication, rather only giving the people what they can handle at the time. (Or, one could say, a little more than they can handle, to provide a challenge.)
In the case of Schoenberg, of course, we might be referring to another case of the Satanic verses...
Love him or hate him, I prefer Maslanka's take on music, which he divulged to us during rehearsals for the premiere of his 5th Symphony:
"Music is something from somewhere else, something that is constantly trying to batter its ways into three dimensional space. It comes, it is uttered, and it is never heard in the same way again."
Well, at least it gave ME goosebumps.
A century of agnostic politics has only given us a massive body-count. A century of agnostic art has only given us a lack of bodies to count. Is it perhaps possible to accept the grammatical expansion provided by modernism, while rejecting -- for the good of us all -- the philosophy of abstractness and relativism that comes with it?
I love reading the posts concerning new music around the internet. The little bit of time that I have to keep track of "what's new" has brought me to a recent conclusion:
Musicians, especially composers, generally don't have a clue as to why they do what they do, nor do they have a clear idea of what music is.
Blame it on a shallow society. Blame it on a lack of (very necessary!) education in aesthetics. Blame it on a century of indeterminate creativity. Blame it on whatever you will, though the problem remains.
Some posit that music means nothing, without even scratching the nature of what we "mean" by "meaning." Some posters pitch the "art for art's sake" (whatever THAT means,) or the "I do it because I like it" modes of thought. (Both arguments are juvenile at best.) Others repeatedly try to justify music as a purely secular art, devoid of the necessity of any meaning or even coherent structure. I will humbly submit that such attitudes are what have alienated new music from performers and audiences.
I'll take the Beethoven-esque "artist hero" over the 20th century "invincible intellectual" composer any day of the week. Say what negative things you will about the Romantic Era's concept of the artist, but people as a whole actually liked it.
I'm not advocating that we throw out modernism as a whole. Far from it. The efforts of 20th century artists have greatly widened and matured our creative vocabulary. I only ask, for example, whether a poet who only writes with vowels would ever be taken seriously. (I know that somewhere out there, a vowel-poet must exist without a small but loyal following. I will question the sanity of such a following.)
In one of the more interesting (and rarely useful) posts on newmusicbox.org, a composer brought up a wonderful story about Moses and Schoenberg. Upon going back to the site to quote him and give credit, I discovered that the quote was gone. How sad.
Anyhow, Schoenberg said that a composer is like Moses going up to the mountain to talk to God. Upon his return, the prophet does not divulge the entirety of his divine communication, rather only giving the people what they can handle at the time. (Or, one could say, a little more than they can handle, to provide a challenge.)
In the case of Schoenberg, of course, we might be referring to another case of the Satanic verses...
Love him or hate him, I prefer Maslanka's take on music, which he divulged to us during rehearsals for the premiere of his 5th Symphony:
"Music is something from somewhere else, something that is constantly trying to batter its ways into three dimensional space. It comes, it is uttered, and it is never heard in the same way again."
Well, at least it gave ME goosebumps.
A century of agnostic politics has only given us a massive body-count. A century of agnostic art has only given us a lack of bodies to count. Is it perhaps possible to accept the grammatical expansion provided by modernism, while rejecting -- for the good of us all -- the philosophy of abstractness and relativism that comes with it?
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