Since I started a new job last June, one which required me to make a much longer commute every morning, I’ve been listening to a lot of audiobooks to pass the time. I’ve found that, in audiobooks as well as print books, I generally prefer fiction to non-fiction titles. But I’ve noticed a difference in the way I listen to them. As you might expect, when I’m listening to an audiobook, every once in a while I’ll zone out, or have to merge onto a freeway, or something like that which takes my attention momentarily away from what I’m listening to, and I’ll miss a sentence or two. If I’m listening to a novel, I’ll just let it pass and keep listening. But if I’m listening to a non-fiction book, I find that I feel a little lost and I need to rewind it a bit and listen to whatever I missed. I’m not sure why that is. Perhaps the flow of thought and reasoning in a non-fiction book is such that missing a sentence or two disconnects it enough to disorient the listener from the continuing thought, whereas in a story the individual sentences are not connected quite so closely in thought, so he can continue on without losing the flow of the story.
Do you listen to audiobooks? Have you ever experienced this?
N.B. Thanks to my friend DJ for pointing me to this on Facebook….
This is cool. Composer Diego Stocco uses handheld microphones, a stringed instrument bow, a guitar pick, a pencil sharpener, a modified stethoscope, a MacBook Pro and ProTools to create music from a tree in his backyard. Check out the videos and photos here:
Then he did the same thing, on a smaller scale, with a bonsai tree:
Very creative, and it sounds cool too. I dig it. What do you think?
N.B. I’m back! I haven’t posted in a while because I’ve been studying for the GRE, and taking it, but now (thank all that’s good, true and beautiful) it’s all over, so I’m hoping to be able to post a little more frequently.
The “classical” music columnist for Slate yesterday posted an article called “A Grand Tour of Contemporary Music: All the new noise explained,” which is an interesting overview of the current state of “classical” music. He provides some good historical context and then describes three broad movements he feels the music of the day is following and which are attracting a “youngish” and “hippish” audience. Good thoughts–a bit long but worth the read.
I recently read Virgil Thomson‘s book Music With Words: A Composer’s View, which has as its subject pretty much what you’d expect from the title. I was a little disappointed in the book itself, but he had two passages where he talked about the state of modern composition that I thought were interesting. Here they are:
Symphonic composition, either [in England or America], I have little faith in. And chamber music everywhere is chiefly tolerable today as an experiment in methodology. Writing more solo works for the pianoforte, the organ, the violin, or the cello is looking backward to the masters who by creating for these instruments with so comprehensive a palette actually patented, and exhausted, the gamut of feelings that anybody now living can find urgent in the sound of those instruments. There is still fun to be had with woodwinds maybe, just maybe. And the concert song in English is, I fear, a never-never land from which few invaders bring home booty.
But opera composed in English is still unfinished business, worth working at, and possibly, in view of what has happened since 1930 both in the United Kingdom and with us [in America], possibly alive and certainly wiggling. (page x, in the Preface)
Choral writing goes on busily everywhere with great expertness, with the best intentions, and with enough good musical ideas to keep the choirs a part of the modern-music establishment. Opera writing too goes on apace, though with little sympathy, I must say, from the great houses anywhere except in France, and occasionally in England. But opera is all the same the musical domain where music’s life is least nearly extinct. Symphonic composition? Dead as a doornail. Important piano works? Yes, there are many. Chamber music has still some life in it too, though not much liberty. Musical fun and games, let’s face it, are today in the musical theater. And I don’t mean the theater of dancing, where audiences avid for bodies pay little attention to sound. I mean the singing stage, both popular and classical. In both these domains activity is constant. Should miracles begin to happen there none need be surprised. And not just one miracle but a chain of them, a going-on phenomenon of the kind that happens somewhere in music about every half-century with seemingly no preparation, no reason for it, and no promise in it save for the fact that it does keep going on.
That I should like to see; and indeed I may see it, since it is almost the only door in classical music still ajar. (page 25)
Thomson wrote the book in 1989 (and thus did not live to see the miracles he wrote of, since he died later that year). Now, 22 years later, what do you think? Do you agree with his thoughts on the various genres alive and lifeless in classical music? Were they true at the time? Are they true now? I’ll share my thoughts in a future post, but first I want to hear yours!
The other night my lovely wife and I watched the 1961 movie version of West Side Story, the musical with lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and music by Leonard Bernstein. It won 10 Academy Awards including Best Picture, the most Oscars ever awarded to a musical. My wife had seen it before but it was my first time. I enjoyed it for the most part, although both of us felt that the last third of the movie was a little weak, both dramatically and musically. But I was struck by the way that Leonard Bernstein handled the music at the end of the film.
In the closing scene, [SPOILER ALERT] after Tony dies, Maria tells off the rival gangs and they begin to disperse, there is a pause in the underscoring before Bernstein begins his final chordal progression. It consists of high woodwinds and strings playing a D-flat major chord, punctuated with a G-natural (the tritone to D-flat) in the low bass. (Incidentally, this is the same progression that Stephen Schwartz uses in the closing bars of the first song and the finale of Wicked.) It contributes to the uneasy feeling of the scene: peace has been achieved, at least for the moment, but it isn’t pretty and it wasn’t won without a terrible cost. In the end, the high D-flat chord is played and rings out before dying away, but the bass is not resolved to a D-flat as you expect, leaving the music hanging on a consonant major chord but without a feeling of satisfying resolution.
(Start the video around the 5:20 mark)
However, at the end of the final credits, Bernstein repeats the same progression–but this time, at the end, he resolves the bass to D-flat as well, so that the movie does close with a satisfying and grounded resolution.
(Start the video around 4:15 to see the slightly amusing way Bernstein highlights his own name in the credits; the final progression begins shortly thereafter)
It’s a great way to illustrate musically the emotion at the end of the movie, while still providing a satisfying conclusion at the very end.
… and we’re back! After 353 days of an unofficial hiatus, I’ve decided to start posting here on The Listening Blog again. I’ve had several ideas of things I wanted to post about recently, and I had an experience today that I wanted to write about, so I’m back. I still have little free time to myself, and what free time I do have is generally focused on making music rather than writing about it, so I won’t promise that I’ll write with any regularity; but I’m back for this post, at least, and I hope to post at least intervallically from now on, as I continue to try to encourage myself to listen to, think and write about music.
The impetus for this post is the book I’ve been reading over the past week, Kyle Gann‘s No Such Thing As Silence: John Cage’s 4’33”, published by Yale University Press last year. I’d read William Duckworth’s book Conversations With John Cage, Philip Glass, Laurie Anderson, And 5 Generations Of American Experimental Composers a while back, and been surprised to discover just how influential Cage had been in the latter half of the twentieth century. I don’t think there was a single composer interviewed in the book who didn’t mention Cage at least a few times. So when I saw Gann’s book at the library, I thought I’d pick it up. And it’s proved to be, as the same William Duckworth claims in his laudatory quote on the back cover, “an outstanding book.”
4’33”, for any of my readers who don’t know, is probably the most famous (or perhaps infamous) piece of American music composed in the twentieth century. It consists of 4 minutes and 33 seconds of silence, either of music manuscript paper without any notes or just the word “tacet,” depending on which score you look at. It’s been maligned and mocked by scores of critics both inside and outside musical circles, and branded as a joke, a hoax, a prank, the typical trash that passes for “music” in the modern world and worse. But I highly recommend Gann’s book, which is excellently written as well as being insightful. He thoroughly traces all of the influences in Cage’s thinking and music, from Erik Satie to Zen, to show that 4’33” was not a whimsical gesture by a crackpot or a provocateur but a carefully thought-through and even inevitable outworking of Cage’s musical (and general) philosophy.
In broad strokes, as Gann puts it, the piece is an invitation to (or, if you’re not aware of what’s coming, an imposition of) zazen, the Zen practice of meditation, and is among other things a philosophical statement that there is no such thing as silence. By framing the piece in the context of a concert music performance, Cage focuses the attention of the listener, not on sounds that he’s composed, but on the environmental and ambient sounds of the space in which the performance takes place, opening the listener’s awareness to sounds he or she would otherwise ignore. It’s a particular practice similar to Pauline Oliveros‘ “deep listening,” or what I’ve called elsewhere on this blog “comprehensive listening.” But for a more in-depth explanation, you’ll have to read the book.
In any case, on my way home from work this evening, I didn’t feel like listening to the audiobook I’m currently “reading,” nor could I think of any music I particularly wanted to listen to. So, several minutes into the drive, I decided to “perform” 4’33” for myself until I got home. And it was that experience that prompted me to write this post.
I’ve done comprehensive listening exercises before, but usually sitting down and with my eyes closed, so driving was a different experience. It certainly opened my ears to a number of sounds I normally wouldn’t hear, or hear every day but don’t listen to; but my experience of the sounds was different as well. One of the Zen ideas of the piece, as I understand it, is that the listener should be passive and receptive to the sounds one hears, without trying to impose any of one’s own thoughts or structures onto them. (Cage spoke of the purpose of music, quoting an Indian writer, being “to sober and quiet the mind and thus render it susceptible to divine influence.”) This was a struggle for me at first, as I tried to quell my thoughts, quiet the music playing in my head, and avoid thinking things like “That sounds like it could be played by a contrabassoon!” Early in the drive, in a moment where I feel like I succeeded at those things, I felt suddenly vulnerable–opening myself up to any and all of the sounds around me, putting up no defenses or filters. That was a strange and interesting feeling. But it also changed my perception of the sounds I heard. I was sitting at a stoplight as a truck turned in front of me, and the bed of the truck and the chains holding whatever was in the back squeaked loudly, a sound that normally might annoy me. But as I focused on it and really listened to it, instead of just hearing it, I realized it was actually a really cool sound that was pleasing to my ear and unique and interesting in its own right.
At another point, when I was on the freeway, listening to the whush of the air flowing past my car, the whirring of the engine, and the percussive punctuation of the bumpy road beneath me, a particular sequence of those sounds and others reminded me of the type of modern music where musical events seem to happen completely at random. That type of music is hard for me to listen to most of the time. But listening to the sounds around me, I wondered if that type of music is not so much random as just an attempt to imitate the sound environment that surrounds the composer.
I felt that by “performing” the piece myself, I did achieve a “higher consciousness” of a sort–not in a spiritual or mystical way, but simply a more heightened physical and mental awareness of what was around me. I’m not sure that I could draw any direct parallels from experiences like this one to being a better musician or composer; but certainly being a more active listener can’t do me any harm. Reading about Cage’s philosophy and the influences that led to 4’33” has led me to appreciate much more fully the thought processes behind the piece (though I still cheerfully and wholeheartedly disagree with his philosophy, and his assertion that all sounds are music). I’ll have to perform this piece more often.
(Thanks for reading this return post! I hope you’ll come back to read more–and I promise, they won’t all be this long…)
My lovely wife and I watched the 1949 movie The Third Man last week. It was a good movie, with an interesting mystery plot and featuring Orson Welles in what he called a “star role” (where people talk about his character for 45 minutes before he actually shows up). I was disappointed in the score, though. It was comprised entirely of zither music; the zither is a stringed instrument common in Eastern Europe, and since the movie was set in Vienna I suppose it made sense, as it would have been a style of music native to the movie’s time and place, and the carefree, happy folk music it played provided a nice artistic contrast to the film noir elements of the movie. But it did get annoying pretty quickly.
But it also set me thinking about the interesting challenge of setting the whole score of a movie for one instrument. I’ve written before of how I like the idea of a self-imposed limit on one’s palette of colors, and this seems like a great example. What would be a good instrument for such a challenge? (Solo piano doesn’t count.) Stringed instruments suggested themselves immediately; a violin or viola could certainly be used to striking effect, although a cello would have a richer tone and range. It’s hard to think of another instrument that could be used as effectively by itself throughout the course of a whole film (whether short or not). What do you think?
A fellow CFAMC composer recently shared a link to this post, called “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to the composer!” on the blog of John Adams, one of the most successful and widely-known of contemporary American composers. I liked the post and read through several others; Adams has a very entertaining and engaging writing style, and has a number of insightful comments on various musical and non-musical topics. I’ve added the blog, which is called “Hellmouth,” to my RSS feed, and I thought I’d share it with you, my loyal readers. Even if you don’t read the blog, though, you should definitely check out this post, entitled “Anger Builds at Dudamel’s Mishandling of Oil Leak” (some of the best work on the blog are these type of satire posts).
Hell Mouth is a blog about music (mostly contemporary), literature (mostly good), politics (mostly pernicious) and culture (mostly American). It is written by John Adams with the help of several “friends” who live in the redwoods of coastal Northern California.
I don’t normally post things that don’t have to do with music in particular (this is The Listening Blog, after all), but Doug Wilson says some great things in this video that more people in our culture need to hear. He rightly describes how artists in former times were considered craftsmen rather than “lonely isolated artistes” in “capes and berets;” the lofty ideal of the artist as a human being living on some higher plane is a recent idea from the Romanticism of the 19th century (and many “artistes” would do well to realize it). And his illustration of Tolkien’s “leaf-mold of the mind,” and how great art can only come from a good education in the grounding of history, is another excellent point. Enjoy!
This past Christmas my mother gave me a subscription to Listen: Life With Classical Music, “America’s classical music magazine,” which is published by Arkiv Music. In the Summer 2010 issue, there’s an interesting article about Brett Richardson, a pianist who performs regularly in a bar in New Orleans called The Spotted Cat. Along with the usual suspects–stride piano, ragtime, blues–he also plays Chopin, Poulenc, Bach, Prokofiev, Schumann, and the music of other classical composers. The article isn’t available on Listen‘s website, but Richardson had a couple of great quotes that I hope they won’t mind me sharing with you here.
“I’m disgusted with [the institution of classical music]. And I participated in it for a long time before I was able to articulate what bothered me. Basically, I don’t think the tradition is currently conducive to the masses. It’s a stuffy thing. To force someone to sit still and pay attention, it’s just alienating and furstrating. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone! But if you go somewhere and play some Scott Joplin, play some blues, and then sneak in some Beethoven, people are like, ‘Oh, man, that’s great! Some fine piano-playing right there.’ People like Beethoven, they really do. But if you present it in a lofty way, people will be put off, agitated, even insulted…. Ultimately, I would prefer to contribute to the atmosphere rather than be at the center of it. To be on stage and playing Rachmaninoff is a big responsibility. To say, ‘Okay, you have to be still and quiet and pay attention while I do this,’ well, hey, you better do it damn good. But if you’re playing where people are telling jokes and flirting and you’re contributing to that, that’s the whole point of sharing music. If people want to sit and listen quietly, they can do that, but if they want to get in fights, well, that’s fine, too.”
Although I wouldn’t say I’m “disgusted” with the institution of classical music, I do agree with his comments about it to some extent. That’s the reason why the institution is struggling all over the country–because it’s not conducive to the masses. And that’s why a lot of the contemporary classical music that matters isn’t being written for and performed in concert halls (though some of it is, to be sure). It’s being fused with popular music and played in spaces like galleries, lofts, and yes, even bars; places where it’s not portrayed as “sophisticated” or “high-brow,” for the “hallowed halls,” but for people to come together, hang out, share and enjoy. I certainly wouldn’t want my only experiences of listening to classical music to be in a noisy club. But if I knew of a bar nearby that played classical music, you’d definitely find me there a lot.