Like most kids, I didn’t really care for doing homework. And so like many youngsters, I decided the best way to do homework was to listen to music while I studied.

I put on the album Rubber Soul, The Beatles 1965 album. I tried, but it was hard for me to concentrate on my homework! Not with all that great music going on. During the song “You Won’t See Me” I truly learned what was meant by active listening.

It wasn’t Paul McCartney’s lead vocal that was drawing me in. Instead, it was the background vocal harmonies. This was before I knew much about music theory, but I recognized the dissonance of the major second being sung in harmony, and the stepwise motion to resolving the dissonance. As you can see from the example attached, the voices lead naturally to the harmony of the piece.

I remember losing myself in the piece so much, of not paying much attention to the words, but only to listening to the harmony and its resolution.

Active listening indeed! Homework had no chance.

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But if you consider the hero myth as an overall aesthetic goal–the heroic journey–you begin to hear it all over Beethoven’s music. In fact, it is so dominant that Scott Burnham wrote a book about it called Beethoven Hero (1995).

I’ve just completed a new piano solo called Dantes Variations in which I start with a heroic theme and submit it to many variations. Quite late in my composition process I came across this image from Wikipedia, and I thought I would share it here. Consider all the fantastic ways you can take your music if you think of some of these ideas: “call to adventure,” “threshold (beginning of adventure),” “helper,” “death and rebirth,” transformation,” “atonement,” “gift of the goddess.”

It sounds like a recipe for a great piece of music! And inspiring: what would be meant by the “helper” in a musical composition? Perhaps a secondary theme, but also perhaps simply an insistent pitch, or even a rhythm.

But I also wonder about how things can be changed up. For instance, what if some of these ideas were taken out of sequence? What if “gift of the goddess” comes first and then “death” with no rebirth?

One last consideration: There are so many variations of heroes. The tragic hero, the anti-hero, the super hero: Can any of these be expressed in a distinct musical way?

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Mr. Deemer narrows his query with some qualifications:

…when I first posed this question to most of the composers, usually they would begin talking about the first time they discovered composing before I had them go back and answer the original question. I thought this was a fluke until the fifth or sixth time it happened in a row, after which I had to specify “Why do you compose¬†now?” and mention that I’d follow up with the “discovery” question. I have found it interesting that so many of us equate “why we compose” with “why we started composing,” and hope that once this project is complete we can all have a clearer picture as to how and why composers get started (and obliquely, how to introduce composition to younger students effectively).

Interesting questions! I think many composers and many creative people can relate. There’s that initial itch to be creative, spurred by some feeling or experience of the aesthetic. For me, personally, I wanted to take up composition seriously when I heard Beethoven; I’ve always answered with, “The way Beethoven made me feel with his Moonlight Sonata, I wanted to do that for others.” This development generally leads to some style imitation, and is the why behind getting started. I must add that for me, my musical inclinations were long incubated by a love of pop music, especially The Beatles. I also wanted to imitate them.

But having first experience Beethoven at the age of 13, I began my piano studies in earnest, and broadened my musical horizons. I wanted to make others feel the way music made ME feel.

So that’s the¬†why. But as Mr. Deemer asks, “why do you compose NOW?” There must be another step beyond–not why did you get started with composing, but why do you keep at it?

I have become less concerned with influencing your feelings and more concerned with expressing my own. I wonder: Does this work the same way? Or in different ways?

Feelings, of course, are both personal and universal. We all feel sadness, elation, depression, or love (etc.) from time to time. The “big terms” are universal, but our own experience is quite personal. Two people may feel sad, but in the same way? This might help explain how Beethoven’s (or any composer’s) expression of feeling can be so personal and universal at the same time.

What does a composer do, then? I think you grant privilege to the personal and hope it appeals to the universal. This is the reverse of why I started composing. If music made me feel sad, then I wanted to write sad music. In time, it is hoped, a composer will transition to a specific, personal sadness (or other emotion).

I’ve seen much less “error” (for lack of a better word) when a composer speaks in personal musical terms. On the other hand, when a composer shoots for the universal, frequently he (or she) says nothing specific, but only general.

So, Mr. Deemer’s question, “Why do you compose now?” is very much worth considering. The reason I got into composing still exists, but my perspective on that reason has evolved. I’m less concerned with influencing your feelings, and more concerned with expressing my own.

It is worth the time for a composer to consider where he (or she) is on this spectrum.

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Coincidentally, at about the same time the obituary was published, I was thanked (thanked!) by a singer for paying attention to words and writing music that allows the singer to best express art in a natural way. I was puzzled by this, and the singer explained that not every composer seems to be working with the voice.

So this quote of Hoiby really struck me:

“Singers, you can’t fool them,” he said. “When they hear a song, they can tell right away if it’s going to make them sound good. And mine do.”

One can appreciate the confidence with which such a statement is made! But it is also worth considering the merit behind this idea. Instrumentalists, especially in an ensemble, can simply play the notes in front of them and trust that there is some internal logic in whatever the composer has written. (That’s not always true, by the way.)

But there is so much more at stake for a singer. Singers are much more sensitive to the natural rise and fall of language and the inherent drama in the music. They have to “get it” if they are to stand in front of an audience and successfully offer a musical experience. When any of this fails, the singer is not likely to sound good, however polished the performance.

I would suggest that Hoiby should have taken the quote a step further: Audiences can easily be fooled, but are less likely to be fooled by a song.

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…how to rectify our training with our wild-card penchant for creativity? Artists anywhere will instantly recognize the theme of craft resting on the precipice of abandon, of the intellect versus emotion.

A central problem here is that our education tends to be built upon teaching the craft and the skill. This suggests that artistry itself is not teachable — otherwise, why wouldn’t we just be taught the “art” side of things? Instead, musicians are taught their scales, dictation theory, etc.

That next leap to artistry is a challenge to teach, and this is an interesting element of Black Swan. Natalie Portman’s character is repeatedly admonished to let herself go, to dance with abandon, to seduce, and to not be so (for lack of a better word) perfect. In short, she needs to inject her intellectual side with some passion.

But what’s so wrong with perfect? I found myself thinking of a Beethoven symphony — take the slow movement of his Seventh. There is not a wrong note to be found, it is architecturally sound, it is superbly crafted from the simplest of rhythmic motifs. Much the same can be said for almost all of Beethoven’s music. Where exactly is the Dionysian abandon? If it is there, it’s not something we can exactly pinpoint and then teach to another generation of composers.

So then, what does a teacher say? What does a practitioner of art do? Essentially, how is this done? Natalie Portman spends half of the movie flailing in an attempt to find an answer and cross that line. We, the audience, watch her crack under this pressure. The nearest advice she is given is to go home and touch herself, a salacious suggestion, but one that has a larger metaphorical meaning, too. Getting in touch with yourself is a crucial aspect of artistry, and if you think about it, all the very best artists are representations of a self-aware individual. It’s personality that is expressed; the craft is only a medium to do so.

But there’s an important corollary. Over the last year I have begun to sense that the very best art is that perfect blend of intellect and emotion. The intellectual structure is needed, or it is all just a mess. But without the emotional element, we have only robotic perfection. There’s a “just-so” balance to be found which touches our hearts and our minds equally.

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But there are so many very rich themes in this movie. Alastair Macaulay, the chief dance critic of the New York Times, wrote the following thematic summary in the February 9, 2011 NYTimes: (I think this is all non-spoiler, but read on at your discretion)

It’s a backstager: Will poor hard-working Nina…get the white-black double lead role of Swan Lake, pull off its taxing demands, survive till the first night and vanquish her rival, not to mention her terrors? It’s horror: Nina’s life spirals out of control for alarming reasons apparently beyond her control and indeed her comprehension. It’s psychosexual drama: Those forces come from her confused perceptions of her mother, her sexual inhibitions, her ambitions and her increasingly schizoid fantasies. It’s a Tchaikovsky-soundtrack movie: Nothing about it is neater than the way Clint Mansell’s score is almost all taken from Swan Lake’s material, with a marvelous use of the slow chords prefacing the ballet’s most famous pas de deux for an offstage effect of psychological suspense. Most powerfully it’s a modern example of that old genre, the woman’s movie. Nina’s loves are seen as repressed and illicit, her successes are shown as triumphs in an unnatural and injurious art form, and she is duly punished for these transgressions.

It should be noted that Macaulay’s review is largely negative, and largely based on the view of a dancer. And I think he misses a very significant larger theme of the movie. He sees the movie in the tradition of classic dance movies, such as The Red Shoes.

I saw the movie through a different, personal lens. I am not a dancer, and don’t dare attempt to say that I am the least bit knowledgeable about the discipline. Instead, I am a creator: specifically, a composer. Several responses to Macaulay come to mind. First, I must disagree with his musical assessment; unless it was the raw Tchaikovsky score itself, I rather disliked the music’s borrowings of Swan Lake. But I do agree, secondly, that all of these themes are prevalent and significant to the achievement of the film. Yet they are subsidiary to the most significant theme.

And that theme (thirdly) is, most importantly, a theme Macaulay misses (or only hints) at: the film’s true theme. He off-handedly mentions the “white-black” duality required of the lead role. Natalie Portman’s character is perfect as the “white” swan–one who knows craft, technique, and seeks perfection in formalized terms. She is repeatedly admonished to let herself go, to be free and wild, to become (in short) the “black swan” (or to at least give in to his/her seductive qualities). Her character is asked to become a seducer. (What composer doesn’t want to seduce?) She is asked to use her craft in service to something that transcends craft. To me, as a creative person — as a composer — this is the most significant theme in the film.

For one thing, I thought of the famous split Schumann established for his artistic personalities. I thought that one can hardly count the significant examples in the popular consciousness of this kind of duality, certainly not in film. How does one represent the struggle of an artist to be both intelligent and emotional? In the film “Amadeus” (1984) we witness the polite formalism of Salieri pitted against the wild-child genius of Mozart. But for composers (and creators) everywhere, we recognize the common issue: how to rectify our training with our wild-card penchant for creativity?

Artists anywhere will instantly recognize the theme of craft resting on the precipice of abandon, of the intellect versus emotion. To me, this is the most fascinating aspect of the movie Black Swan, and I dare say that most artists of any stripe — composers, painters, what-have-you — will respond to this.

I’ll have more to say about this in Part 2. For now, I encourage you to see the movie and think over how your own personal artistry is represented on celluloid.

The post Black Swan’s composition lesson Part 1 appeared first on Richard D. Russell.

I thought of this years ago after one of my compositions was performed. I thought, “How will I ever top that?” My answer came from Beethoven, when I wondered if he must not have felt, “How will I top the Moonlight Sonata? The Fifth Symphony?” Of course Beethoven did not stop composing, and we have so many more musical riches because of that; I’m sure I need hardly mention the Ninth Symphony, the Appassionata, ¬†and the late quartets.

So it is interesting to read Mr Cuse’s struggle with what to do next, now that “Lost” has wrapped up its run. As he puts it,

…even the most talented among us, after an intense period of work on a project, struggle with the question, “What do I do next?”

Then there’s the typical struggle of wondering

…what, if anything, would get me excited to go back to work.

My answer has always been to keep writing, no matter what. Keep the creative habit going. Eventually you will find, as Mr. Cuse does here, that inspiration comes when least expected and in the strangest of places.

The full article can be found by clicking here.

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“It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled”

The Kennedy Center Honors were broadcast on tv recently. This year the honorees were Bill T. Jones, Oprah Winfrey, Jerry Herman, Merle Haggard, and Paul McCartney. (Notice that three of them are songwriters!)

As Sir Paul’s music was being performed on stage, the camera cut to the audience and I noticed Renée Fleming in the audience, and she was rocking and rolling and looking like she was having a great time. In short, she was having fun. I thought, “that’s something classical music really needs– the ability to just have fun.”

You never see an audience at a classical music in united rapture of one sort or another, yet you see this in pop music concerts all the time.

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And what I mean is: what do I want to leave my audience with? Do I want to leave them happy, sad, excited, what?

This might help you get your composing pencil moving.

The post First Question appeared first on Richard D. Russell.

Garry Trudeau

…but can you hear?

I thought of that as I read the October 14, 2010 issue of Rolling Stone magazine. There’s a rare interview with Doonesbury cartoonist Garry Trudeau. He describes his early days as an art student at Yale.

One of my first teachers at Yale was Richard Lytle. I waltzed into his drawing class with the bravado of a freshman art jock who thought he was going to make an impression on his professor, and I did. I whipped off the usual kind of drawings I was accustomed to making, somewhat effortlessly. One day, after about three weeks of this nonsense, we were working from a model, and he came over to my drawing board and ripped the drawing I was working on into pieces in front of the class. “Yes, yes, I know you can draw,” he said. “But what I want to find out is if you can see.” He wasn’t going to put up with this sort of facile art-student sketching that I had taken such pride in ‚Äî he wanted me to do the hard work of actually looking at what I was drawing.

I see (er, “hear”) the aural equivalent all the time. Composers who are quite facile at composing and getting lots of notes down on paper, but have they actually heard what they’ve composed? Have they taken the time to listen to its effects, what it communicates? A composer should always take a moment to dig a little deeper, to delve under the surface, and actually hear.

The full interview can be found by clicking here.

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