Tag Archives: composer

Music That Evolves


Lots of things Evolve: history, landscapes, relationships, your entire life! Even the size, shape and character of the universe is constantly changing. It’s all a work in progress, with Mother Nature leaving nothing stationary. The music itself Evolves from chaos to beauty. Evolve chronicles the process, which is similar for all of the above, and more. Pick something you’re familiar with that is still evolving, and listen along for stages and turning points.

Examples:

-The Universe Evolves: from perfect silence and nothingness, a slight little wobble off balance of the most basic chemical elements leads to a building tension. When they can no longer contain themselves, they erupt into a violent explosion that sets everything (and I mean “everything’) in motion. Chaos and disorganization spews out from the center with no rhyme, reason or destination, until stars can fly without constantly hitting each other, and things finally start to settle down.
There’s still very little sense to things, but gravity takes hold and begins to form galaxies, systems and spheres. From a distance, beauty takes shape but up close, the volcanic turmoil continues. Even after much time, landscapes cool, but trouble still bubbles beneath. Always changing, but in smaller ways, predictable patterns of shapes and currents become beauty and wonder. Though the music ends at this point, there may still be more to come.

-A Life Evolves: a microscopic change of plans bursts into an unstoppable and multifaceted explosion of growth. It takes some time before a recognizable form takes place, but even childhood awkwardness goes from cute to brilliant over time. As we all know, unsettled stages of turmoil can come at any time, and usually do. Often torn between our impulsive youth and a responsible future, years of emotional peaks and valleys lie ahead. Maturity usually brings a little order, confidence and stability.

-Relationships Evolve: An often directionless chance meeting can lead from one thing to another. Discovering another’s personality is challenging, yet inspiring. Held together by a personal gravity, navigating the twists and turns is fraught with emotion and tension. Periods of bliss regenerate the experience, and help us through tough times. Experience and familiarity brings happiness.

-Humanity Evolves: We all know the physical changes man has made since the amoeba, but when you follow that with thousands of years of intellectual development, historical upheaval and wars, our own work in progress seems like only few moments in time. From a daily struggle for survival, to periods of invention and industry. From dark ages and enlightenment, to Teslas and terror. It sometimes seems like one step forward, and one step back. This too, is still playing out in search of nirvana.

-Music Evolves: from ancient dissonant noisemakers and unpitched instruments, came rhythms and simple, crude and imperfect melodies. Beneath it all was the natural beauty of harmony rooted in physical science. Musicians and composers can only marvel at its impact, and try to unlock its secrets. That holy grail of reaching the perfect aural sunset, is often at the end of a very difficult road. But, beauty is often fleeting, and the forces of nature keep things moving. So, once the goal is in sight, it’s easier to plot a path to that golden sunset moment.

Advertisements

Classical Music’s Need for Speed

Is faster really better? Classical music performances are expected to be meticulous, impeccable and proficiently accurate. Artists hope to be called a “virtuso.”  All the thousands of notes must be delivered spot-on. So what then, distinguishes one soloist or ensemble from another performing the same timeless piece?

Interpretation is what it’s called, but what are the boundaries of interpretation in classical music? At least in jazz, that door is wide open. Musicians can choose their own notes and rhythms for a solo passage. Not so in classical. The only things that can be messed with are tempo and dynamics (loudness/softness). The notes (with only few exceptions) are etched in stone.

On paper, in the sheet music, tempo is notated with the use of descriptive words, not numbers: largo, moderato, andante, vivace. The dynamics are also written in a flexible way: pianissimo, piano, mezzo-piano, mezzo-forte, forte and fortissimo. Relative speed and volume are a matter of  taste.

This is why you might hear mood swings of tempo or dynamic variations. Given how lengthy some classical pieces are, you probably won’t hear an orchestra play one piece the same way another orchestra would. A familiar passage might clip along nicely as the New York Phil plays it, yet be noticeably drawn out by the LA Phil. What sounds soft and gentle in Boston, may be much more assertive in Chicago. This is really the only way for a conductor, ensemble or soloist to make a name for themselves, and deliver something in a way you may have never heard it before.

The familiar classical repertoire (the pieces we all know and love) is essentially a collection of cover tunes, played by different groups hoping to not sound just like the last one that played it.

But, with so little wiggle-room in interpretation, how does an artist stand out from the others and get noticed? For a soloist, usually the answer is speed. If you can play a difficult passage faster than someone else, an audience is more likely to be wowed by your performance. Fair enough, but what does that do to the music? How did the composer want it to sound? Will some notes fly by so imperceptibly fast that they will never be heard? Will some parts drag so slowly that you’ll lose the sense of melody, waiting for the next note?

Take for example, Tchaikovsky’s famous 1st Piano Concerto… a piece so well known, even listeners who are not regular classical concertgoers would notice variations. There are tens of thousands of notes, hundreds of multi-note runs, and many of Tchaikovsky’s signature grace notes (quick neighboring notes). The faster it’s played, the fewer the notes that can be savored, or even heard. A 64-note run can fly by in a 1.5-second blink of an eye.

However, knowing what we know about the composer, he may have even meant it to be just a challenge, that only a limited number of people can accomplish.

Still, some of the beauty and harmony of the music is often lost to the racing competition by its performers. You simply cannot enjoy a sound that lasts only a millisecond.

Composer Saint-Saëns was much the same. He was a child keyboard prodigy, and his piano works are often only played by those with hands as fast as the composer’s. For a composer to achieve fame in his or her lifetime, they too customize their music so that only they could play it. But, as pianist Arthur Rubinstein reached his later years, he began playing more deliberately, even  the Saint-Saëns pieces. As you can see in a number of YouTube videos with André Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra, as Rubinstein reached the age of 88, the musicality was much easier to appreciate without the flare and ferocity, that he was famous for as a younger man.

The need for speed is not unique to competitive soloists and small ensembles. Conductors will often push orchestral musicians to the envelope of their abilities with faster moments, and (even in the same piece) draw out the slower phrases to a snail’s pace, just for contrast.

So, that leaves us with a dilemma. What IS a good interpretation? As always, that depends on your interpretation of the interpretation. Given the limitations, is it okay with you that liberties taken with tempo and dynamics often change the character and flow of melodies to the point of distraction? Are you excited and impressed by extremes in performance, or would you prefer to hear the music without histrionics? Do the composer’s intentions have any relevance, or are artists free to manipulate?

Perhaps, as we hear different interpretations of the compositions we enjoy the most, we’ll reach our own conclusions about whose version was best. I’ve heard several recordings conducted by and performed by the composers themselves, that I thought weren’t as good as others I had heard. It is a matter of personal taste. Yet, I am always aware that every performer’s first job is to impress the audience, not just faithfully play a difficult work without any mistakes. Some musicians may see performance as an extreme sport, and pushing boundaries should be encouraged. But sometimes it can be distracting,

fingers 2

Do You Like the Lights On or Off?

Do You Want the Lights On, or Off?
… when listening to classical music? Do you like to close your eyes, or watch what’s going on? There are, of course, pros and cons to both.

Lights On:
Watching a great performance can be like the olympics. Musicians don’t just sit or stand there. It’s a physically demanding task that requires much control over both subtle and forceful movements . It takes a real physical talent.

If you’ve never been a musician yourself, one might think that all the histrionics are contrived and exaggerated. That’s not usually so. Many classical musicians often see themselves on video and gasp in embarrassment when they view their own contortions. It’s not always pretty to watch, but it still can be very exciting and entertaining.

No doubt, every profession has its drama queens. But, you just can’t get emotional music from your instrument by sitting stoically. Liszt composed very challenging pieces, and certainly let one know it by his performance. He was, perhaps, the flamboyant Liberace’s biggest influence.

A “micro” experience, like a performance video full of closeups, brings you closer to the details of the work. It’s the difference between viewing a painting with a magnifying glass to appreciate every brush stroke, and viewing it from 6-feet away, to take in the whole effect.

A “macro” experience, can leave you feeling like you’ve engaged all your senses. Like fireworks and the 1812 Overture, it adds a larger real-life dimension to the music. It can excite your brainwaves on many levels.

Declining concert attendances are forcing orchestras to think of new, and often visual ways to draw and entertain a crowd. A good music-synched show can brighten the score with flourish and bling.

But, do visuals (other than musicians performing) always bring attention to the music itself? Film and ballet scores have always added to storytelling, but can an accompanying plot enhance the music? Some say, the best film music is never heard, because it promotes the story so well, you don’t even know it’s there.

And then there’s YouTube. Now a primary source of music listening for millions, the classical music video collection is ballooning. Granted, some of them are only still photos of a composer or old album cover.

Unlike pop musicians, classical musicians aren’t always young and sexy, so the videos tend to be less storytelling, and more performance related.

Lights Off:
Shouldn’t music be heard, and not seen? Sounds are not visible, and we only use one of our five senses to hear them. Shouldn’t we isolate that sense, to avoid distractions, so we can enjoy and appreciate the subtleties of the many carefully chosen sonorities floating around our heads? The invisible twelve tones of western music mingle in so many wonderful ways. It’s as if musical notes were objects you could only see in a darkened room with a blacklight.

Much of my early adulthood was spent searching for really good headphones, speakers, tape decks and amplifiers. Now that you know about how old I am, you might understand why I find it amazing that none of that seems to matter much anymore.

Digital recordings are often compressed for sharing and streaming. Ear buds let in a lot of extraneous noise, and home audiophile systems are all but gone.

But, try this sometime:

Take the best headphones you can find, with a nice long extension to reach to your favorite recliner. Put on a quality cd recording of Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise. Turn out the lights, so you’re not tempted to open your eyes and stare at something. Then listen carefully to the dozens of beautifully crafted complex harmonies.

Don’t surf, post, or text… just listen! If the lights were on, likely all you’d hear is the melody.

If you really want to discover what makes a Bach fugue or concerto a masterpiece of organization, find a recording of the original Switched on Bach (1968), and listen in the dark, trying to follow each different synth sound, as they play parts of equal importance. You simply can’t do this with the lights on, and objects in the room to steal your attention. It requires too much concentration.

For a Space Mountain style adventure, try this with Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture. Be sure your easy chair has sturdy arms to grip.

To truly eliminate distractions, you might need to arrange some “alone time.” for this. But, even after sitting perfectly still, in a dark room, muted from the world through headphone muffs… if you listen carefully to all the nuances you can find, you might be exhausted after 20-minutes. Exhausted, yet exhilarated by the journey. And, you will have heard the music, not the music show.

Try it!

Image

Who Are We Applauding, Anyway?

Image

Who Are We Applauding, Anyway?
Next time you attend a concert, and stand to applaud a great performance, ask yourself, “Who am I applauding?” Is it the talented performer, “with a skillset I’ll never have,” or the creative mind behind that “brilliant piece of music I wish I could’ve written?” Consciously or not, it’s probably both. The composer is rarely in the room to take a bow, so the musicians soak up all the accolades and go home with the bouquets.
A beautiful piece of music can be so moving that you need to cheer, and a performance can be so amazing that you’d throw money, if you hadn’t paid for a ticket. But, take time to consider both sides of the equasion that brought you to your feet.
My dad loved crossword puzzles. One day, I found him starting on a blank grid, with no black squares, only numbers where the words began. Ten-minutes later, he was half done, and had figured out where all of the black squares belonged. That, to me, was amazing and had me thinking for the very first time about the puzzle creators.
Barber’s Adagio for Strings is like no other Adagio for Strings. Bach’s Fugues are crossword puzzles in their own right. Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue is practically it’s own genre. The architects of such brilliant structures deserve as much applause as the builders.
It’s rare to hear professional musicians make glaring technical mistakes, even on challenging pieces. Unless the work is a classic that you’ve heard a zillion times, like Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, you probably wouldn’t even notice a missed note in an unfamiliar piece. When a soloist takes on an extremely challenging concerto, hits every note where it belongs, and plays confidently, sometimes our applause may secretly be saying, “Wow, you did all that without screwing up once!”
To be sure, interpretation is the key to classical performance. I recently found a recording of Saint-Saëns himself playing excerpts from his beautiful Piano Concerto #2. As he raced through it, showcasing his talents as a performer, I shouted “Slow the f**k down! Play it like Rubinstein,” whose more deliberate interpretation brought out the piece’s enchanting mystery. The same was true of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2, which I’ve heard played at least a thousand equally-wonderful different ways, only to be charged through by Rachmaninoff himself.
When I vented this frustration on someone, they asked, “Well, which one’s right?” Actually, there is no right or wrong. Musical interpretation is like free speech. I guess my point was that great composers create works with flexibility of tempo and dynamics built-in. Going back to the architect analogy, even a 100-storey skycraper sways in the wind, taking on ever-changing dimensions.
So, as you slap your hands together with welled-up appreciation, clap a few more times for the creative and inventive ghost on stage, who put pen to paper, fitting the many pieces together just-so, in a puzzle of complexity and beauty for you.

 

Tchaikovsky’s Last Word

Forget everything you think you know about Tchaikovsky’s demise. Let’s look at his final work: Symphony #6 “Pathetique.”
The first movement begins much like the 5th, with a slow and contemplative low woodwind and bass theme. As it evolves through many wonderful melodies, it becomes sad and foreboding. He tries to put a happy face on it, but fails.
The second movement is prescribed and almost mechanical, by Tchaikovsky’s standards, as it puts the waltz in the #2 position, instead of #3. Juxtaposing movement traditions is a Tchaikovsky trademark (Manfred Symphony). This movement is curiously unremarkable, and seems to be almost rudimentary.
The third movement is a testament to Tchaikovsky’s long and nationalistic career, as a source of Russian music. He was clearly proud of what he had accomplished, and had good right to be. The long, and extended ending bears tribute to his accolades within his time.
The fourth, and final movement however, is a study in deterioration and decay. Instead of leading to a triumphant finish, with pomp and circumstance, Tchaikovsky leads us on a more realistic journey to disenchantment and debilitation. The latter years of life are rarely invigorating, but often weakening. It clearly ends with the final gasps of life, and a fade to silence.
You can draw your own conclusions as to whether he knew the end was near. But, whether he was preparing for retirement or death, the Pathetique is unlike any other symphony in structure and mood. Tchaikovsky was known for standing traditions on their heads, and the ending of Symphony #6 was no exception.Image