Proclaim Your Rarity

January 21, 2013 — 12 Comments
Stagecoach Music Festival - Day One

Willie Nelson performs at the Stagecoach Music Festival in Indio, California, May 5, 2007.
(Photo by Frazer Harrison/Getty Images)

I recently asked composition students at a major music school in the US to create a collective graphic notation piece on the blackboard and sing each sound they added. One student grumbled, “First, let me say that I don’t believe in melody.”

It seemed strange that this young composer would start his creative process by thinking about what to avoid instead of what he wanted to invent. The same guy later asked me what I thought of composer Brian Ferneyhough’s music, obviously one of his heroes. I answered honestly, “What difference does it make what I think?”

I was trying to impress upon these fledgling composers that they can be open to all musical and creative approaches. Both their own or other people’s judgments can only limit their creativity.

Sometimes academia can impose limits in styles and scope of writing music, though that is not as common as it was in the past. We all remember how certain major European composers in the ’60s and ’70s made pronouncements about how music should be written, that melody and tonality were dead. I still see traces of this old tight-jacket at universities I visit in the US.

I’m often asked, “Where do you think music is going?” And I answer, “You tell me. The future of music lies in the uniqueness of your vision.” The composition students give me the impression that they’re looking for “the way” to write music so they can jump on that bandwagon.  In the American academic world, that practice started in the ’50s with Hindemithian neo classicism; then it was Schoenbergian tone rows and Webernesque pointillism A more recent extreme is to find a simple phrase and repeat it endlessly in a form of minimalism.

I encourage composition students to shed the shrouds of other people’s thinking and give themselves more freedom for personal expression.  I understand that Willie Nelson looks in the mirror every morning and says, “Proclaim your rarity.”

More independence is seen in a number of new faces on the new music scene. Granted, some of the current music is overly simplistic, like a Hollywoodish kind of program music or a neo Mahlerian Romanticism, but there are also many signs of a great and original energy. Technology is making all styles from around the world available. Composers openly grab inspiration and create from jazz, rock, pop, atonality, polyphony, ethnic styles, baroque and the classical era.

University music schools offer a huge advantage for composers by giving opportunities to have their music played. They are also surrounded by highly qualified musicians, who can perform almost any newly minted work. The sky is the limit in this unique setting. Composition students should make the most of this fleeting opportunity to develop their personal voice, because they will find the world outside much more limited.

In Composing, Universities , , ,
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Twirling Batons

December 19, 2012 — 4 Comments
Gustavo Dudamel, conductor

Gustavo Dudamel, music director at the LA Philharmonic.

In my recent The Podium Mystery blog (Sept. 17), I asked how conductors get their results — what it takes to create a great performance. Several replies to my blog pointed out very correctly that the main work of the conductor is not done in the concert, but rather in rehearsals. It puts to rest the notion that a conductor is only beating time.

Here’s another blog, by Shankar Vedantam in Deceptive Cadence, looking into the ephemeral interaction between musicians and conductors.

Vedantam mentions a 2012 European study, “Leadership in Orchestra Emerges from the Causal Relationships of Movement Kinematics.” In this curious exercise, the researchers attempted to verify and analyze how the conductor’s “motor behavior” affects the “aesthetic quality of music.”

The researchers used infrared technology to pinpoint when and where the interaction between conductor and musician took place (in this case the violin section). The result was not surprising: the conductor leads and the musicians follow. I could have told them that.  As you probably know, the term Kinematics describes motion, most often in engineering and robotics.

There was more to this scientific study: two conductors lead the same orchestra. One was a seasoned conductor and the other an amateur. Who produced the most satisfying music? Surprise, surprise — the professional baton twirler. I’m now thinking I too could become a scientist or clairvoyant.

If an orchestra is coached properly I do think the conductor could be eliminated, but it would result in a lot of extra rehearsal time.  So the conductor not only provides the musical leadership, but is probably cost effective — besides people enjoy watching the person on the podium.

I think the bigger question might be, “How can we train conductors to handle all the responsibilities they are expected to do now?” A stimulating view of a conductor’s job is found in Leonard Slatkin’s new autobiography, “Conducting Business: Unveiling the Mystery Behind the Maestro,” which should be required reading for all aspiring conductors.  Concert-goers would also enjoy this fascinating and entertaining look behind the scenes.

One thing I’m still curious about is how conductors can work all over the world and cover multiple conducting contracts. They must attend fund-raising dinners and do interviews in between rehearsals. They also deal with the musicians’ union, management and the board, and charm the patrons of the orchestra. Oh, and don’t forget studying scores.

I suggest that conductors take classes in magic and find wrinkle-free clothing so they can catnap anywhere and still look good on the podium.

In Conductors, Orchestral Music ,
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Down the Rabbit Hole

December 4, 2012 — 11 Comments
Alice Enters the Rabbit Hole

A window display from Fortnum and Mason in London depicts Alice and the rabbit.

I just had a lively discussion with someone I disagreed with — myself! Deep down, I have always felt that artists come into this world with their work and creative paths already mapped out for them. I have followed my own path without hesitation, and so have many artists I know or admire. Our work becomes our identity.

Perhaps the act of creating something — be it music, poetry or painting — is so seductive that it can take over all other aspects of a person’s identity. It doesn’t mean that the writer or painter cannot also be a great chess player or tango dancer, but their overriding identity comes from the creative work they do.

So why am I arguing with myself? Well, after more thinking about such complete immersion into art, what happens to the basic self you were before you ever did a lick of work?  That unique identity that separates you from everyone and every thing else on the planet?

My better self won the argument: keep “doing” separate from “being,” or you might lose sight of what you are as a human being.  I recall the Hungarian poet George Faludy saying: “If all you know in life is electrical engineering, you are a moron.” Well, that was strongly said, but he never minced his words. If you identify yourself solely by your work, you could run into serious obstacles if for some reason you have to stop being an actor or scientist, if that was your basic identity.

I think artists have always struggled with the question of either handing their entire identity over to their work or dedicating their time to other jobs, wanted or not. The reluctance may come from the huge investment artists make through many years of solitary work and self-testing.

Poet ee cummings put it this way in his second Norton nonlecture at Harvard: “Poetry is being, not doing, If you wish to follow, even at a distance, a poet’s calling…you’ve got to come out of the measurable doing universe into the immeasurable house of being…and remember one thing only: that it’s you — nobody else — who determine your destiny and decide your fate. Toms can be Dicks and Dicks can be Harrys, but none of them can ever be you. There’s the artist’s responsibility and the most awful responsibility on earth. If you can take it, take it — and be. If you can’t, cheer up and go about other people’s business; and do (or undo) till you drop.”

That’s an exhilarating description of diving into the rabbit’s hole to a creative life. For those of us who did dive in, I recommend having more than one avenue to create an identity.

In Creativity, Psychology , ,
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FLASHMOBS—THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

November 5, 2012 — 6 Comments
flashmob

A flashmob in Sabadell, Spain, with the participation of 100 people from the Vallès Symphony Orchestra.

I got sucked into YouTube with several flashmobs happening in malls, train stations and other places in different parts of the world. Some of the scenes are worth sharing.

The great attraction to me is the spirit and goodwill of these events. To hear familiar music performed in new environments for an unsuspecting public gives it new life. Suddenly ordinary “shoppers” sing a scene from Traviata or Carmen in a department store. It completely reframes the music for me, as if a great director has turned a mundane world into a work of art. The people who are lucky enough to be near a flashmob are obviously delighted to see these scenes unfold in a familiar place. Suddenly spirits are lifted and everything seems possible. Here is a wonderful example.

The instant connection that is made between these opera characters and the general public really defies the notion that opera is an art form for the elite. When people hear it, they usually love it — as they do by the millions when the MET in New York transmits operas directly to movie screens around the world. The cost is close to a movie ticket. The “elite” label probably comes from the high price of going to an actual opera house, and the formal dress and behavior. Gone are the days when opera audiences booed and threw tomatoes.

Here is more flash-mobbing, which the performers seem to love as well.

Also dance flashmob events like these scenes in the Antwerp train station and in Moscow plaza are just plain fun and appeal for their energy and spontaneity.

The formality of music and dance concerts has always been awkward to me. The same goes for jazz. I especially feel I’m an outside observer when jazz is played in large halls and I’m sitting in a row of chairs instead of enjoying my beer in a club. The jazz musicians probably feel the same way, because they are generally less spontaneous in formal halls.

How can concert halls and opera houses imitate the feeling and excitement of flashmobs? Perhaps this is a question for architects and acousticians to work out — how to connect the public to the performer and remove what is known in the theater as “the fourth wall” and invite the listener in.

If you look at any of the links to flashmobs you’ll see in people’s faces what I’m talking about — curiosity, smiles, laughter, dancing, children waving their arms and jumping up and down, all the signs of happiness. The crown prince of Bhutan, Sasho Wangchuck, has just declared that his country is focusing on the “Gross National Happiness” rather than the GDP. Perhaps he is a fan of flashmobs.

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Music: A Psychic Experience?

October 9, 2012 — 3 Comments
THE RITE OF SPRING by Stravinsky

Dancer Steven McRae with artists of The Royal Ballet in Kenneth MacMillan’s choreography
of The Rite of Spring. Photo: Johan Persson / ROH

Is music a psychic experience? Stravinsky claimed that The Rite of Spring was already written and that he was simply the medium for it. I think many composers have had that feeling when creating works that are very special to them.

I know that when I feel stuck while writing a work and decide to take a break from it, I can resort to something inside myself to get things rolling again when the time is right. It’s as if I hand over the work to my subconscious. It has often done a much better job than my conscious mind, even though I think that can be pretty creative too by churning out all the possible solutions for a trouble spot. Call it the raw material for the piece. Then I walk away from it and another part of me seems to take over and do the work. I certainly can’t describe the process, but I know it is not intellectual or cerebral. It seems as though some kind of extra-consciousness appears from an almost secret place and invites me to play.

Perhaps all creativity has a psychic component — in art, science and all our daily creative pursuits. Many people resist or ridicule the existence of psychic reality, though there is much evidence that it exists — sometimes under different names, such as intuition, coincidence or luck.

In The Secret Life of Plants, Peter Tomkins and Christopher Bird tested the live plant leaf of a rhododendron with a polygraph to see if it registered emotion. Not only did the leaf register a strong pain response when they dipped one of its leaves in hot coffee, it registered an even higher reading when one of them simply thought about doing it. Did the plant read their minds? And if plants have such powers, why don’t we?

I have never wished for or searched for unexplainable experiences, but a couple have simply happened to me.

One incident was in a workshop, where I demonstrated dancing while balancing an imaginary little white feather on one hand. The group gave me a variety of instructions regarding the feather I was visualizing, shifting it from one palm to the other, imagining how it changed its color, weight and size. Suddenly they told me to stop and close my eyes. They asked me to describe the latest feather on my palm. “It has changed to a large feather in a brilliant purple color,” I said. When I opened my eyes, I saw they had placed a lady’s hat with a long purple feather on the floor in front of me. At that moment I saw a bright image of a newly renovated front porch with a large mirror and a hat rack next to it. When I described it to the group, a woman’s voice called out: ”That’s our new porch where I hang my hat”— meaning the hat that was on the floor.

Years later, I was composing a movement of music called “Ice and Light” in my work Arctic Dreams, which was inspired by a long stay with an Inuit family in Pangnirtung, Baffin Island. I had been concentrating intensely on this movement for several days, trying to capture the sonic effect of changing colors in a moving iceberg as the sun’s rays refracted in it. Then the phone rang and it was Rosie, my Arctic host, who hadn’t written or contacted me since I lived with the family three years earlier. I was thrilled and asked her why she called. She said, “I don’t know—Enukie and I were just sitting here watching an iceberg floating by with all the different colors and I said, ‘Let’s call Michael.’ ”

Some coincidence.

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