The First Line

I was listening to NPR, as I often do, and so should you, and I heard a story on the latest iteration of "Three Minute Fiction," where participants write stories that can be read aloud in three minutes or less, roughly 600 words.

The latest contest introduced a "first line/last line" element to the mix. (For anyone involved in improv comedy, this should be very familiar!) The guest judge, Michael Cunningham, provided the first line and last line of the story, and the writer is to supply everything in-between.

But this is not about that. Not exactly.

During the interview, Cunningham was asked if he struggles with developing the first line of a novel. He said, “I agonize for months over first lines.” Indeed, he also said (in my heavily edited version), “Once you have the language and the rhythm and the point of view and the tone of the first line . . . the novel has … begun to acquire its identity . . . and you know what version of the English language to write it in .”

Again, art is art.

Composers have the same issue: How to begin the piece? I would argue this is even more crucial in this age of sound bites and instant opinions: Grab the listener from the first sound.

Composers differ in the amount of pre-compositional planning they take part in. But in these days of "pan-stylism," where a composer has at his disposal the collected techniques of the previous six centuries (or more), it is more important than ever to determine what "universe" any particular composition will inhabit. "Tonal oder Atonal?" What will the pitch material be? Texture? Rhythm (or lack thereof)? Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Just like Cunningham and his prose, once a compositional universe is determined, the piece can begin. OR a composer may come up with an excellent beginning of a piece, and only THEN begin to work out the ramifications of what has been written.

Civilians have no idea of the struggles artists go through, whether music, writing, painting, whatever. But frankly, that's o.k. That's not their job.

You be the judge . . .

Listen to THIS,
then listen to THIS.

Hmm?

How about another:

Listen to THIS,
then listen to THIS.

Notice any similarities?

Just thinkin' out loud here.







#1: Footloose, Kenny Loggins, 1984
#2: Funk #49, The James Gang, 1970

#3: The University of Florida Fight Song, composed ???
#4: I'm Henery the Eighth I Am, originally written in 1911, popularized by Herman's Hermits in 1965

A thought from a veteran

Noted composer Don Grantham mentioned something the other night that got me thinking. It seems a perpetual question for composers: Who are you writing for? (And before you get all grammarnazi on me, it was a single 19th-century English writer who proclaimed the "never end with a preposition" rule, and everyone just went along with it. It is not holy writ!) Anyway, do you write for yourself, for your own artistic expression? Do you write for the audience, to give them an enjoyable experience? Do you write to challenge your audience, to make them uncomfortable?

Don is a practical guy. He said that, really, a composer needs to write for three groups: The person or organization commisioning the work, the musicians who will be performing the work, and the audience who will be (hopefully) supporting the work by their attendance and enthusiasm. And, of course, this all has to be done while satisfying the composer's artistic needs as well.

It always seems to come back to balance. Whether balancing work and family, good food and good for you food (back off!), or the needs of the various components of the artistic endeavor, it comes back to balance. The Middle Way. Some times we do better than others, but we always keep trying.

It's almost like we have to keep working at this our entire lives! What's up with that? :-)

Vocal music

I don't know exactly why, but there are very few contemporary vocal pieces I actually enjoy, let alone would want on my ipod.

First, let's set our parameters: I am not talking about opera here; that's its own subject, and a vast one at that. I am also not talking about choral music because, well, that's its own subject as well. I shall be speaking of the contemporary solo art song for singer and instrument(s). Most often it's a soloist with piano, but, for example, I saw one piece for voice, clarinet, cello, and piano. The solo voice is the key element here.

It must also be stated that I am by no means an authority: There are VOLUMES of vocal music I have not experienced yet! So there!

First of all, there's the vocal writing. So often, it seems unnatural for the singer. The composer creates angular, dissonant vocal lines. And I understand perfectly well the desire to create new sounds or a mood. But the voice (and the singer) is not the same as an external instrument (or instrumentalist). Already the manner of vocal production for the classical voice renders it alien to the average listener; at a certain point, it's just not pleasant to listen to (and certainly LOOKS uncomfortable for the poor singer).

All too often, the composer is simply insensitive to the text or the vocalist. He writes for the singer like he writes for trumpet. Or she simply writes to achieve a musical effect, while completely disregarding the text.

I know I'm old-fashioned; I know I lean towards the conservative; but I still prefer vocal lines to be somehow related to the natural stresses and emphases of the words.

Finally, there's the singer. I am completely aware of the physics and physiology of vocal production, especially "classical" voice. I know that in order to project in a hall and to protect the voice, much training is needed. But why do so many "classical" singers look like they're in pain? Even when they try to show the emotion of the song in their facial expressions, I still feel they need to make a trip to the bathroom.

Perhaps I'm just corrupted by musical theatre. Maybe I'm just too used to the directness of communication in that genre.

Or maybe some composers need to consider the text and the singer before they stroke their own ego.

Gosh, that was snarky, wasn't it?

Twins

[Reposted from 2008]

While visiting my sister in Washington, D.C., I thought it would be fun to go to a jazz club. Now, D.C. is not known for jazz clubs, at least not on the scale of New York or Chicago. But my sister and her husband (I guess he'd be my brother-in-law, huh?) had been to one particular club many times, and had enjoyed it. It's a small club (is there any other kind?) opened by sisters from Ethiopia. As my brother-in-law put it, they didn't know anything about running a club or restaurant, they just loved jazz. So things might not run as smoothly as a more "established" establishment. It was a Wednesday night, so we were expecting a small house, and the artist listed in the paper, a piano trio, was not a "name." But sometimes, those are the treasures to be discovered. And it was indeed a night of discovery.

The music was to start at 8. We arrived at about 7:50, after a half-smoked at Ben's Chili Bowl (look it up). There was a table of 4 next to us, and a tech setting up some mics on the piano. Nice baby grand. Drum set – hmm, no cymbals. And where will the bass player stand? (Welcome to the mind of a musician!) About 5 after 8, the tech comes over and sits with the 4 people, who know him. He's working on a glass of red wine. Dressed in black, 40s or 50s, gracefully balding with glasses and a touch of arrogance. Well, that gives him away – it's not a tech, it's the piano player! And apparently he was just fine-tuning the stage setup. A couple of minutes later he went back up to the stage and skooched the piano about an inch to the right. I guess that made all the difference. He then came back to sit with his friends. It was about 8:15. "What time is the 3:00 parade?" "When does the 8:00 show start?"

At this point the young woman with the revealing dress walks in. Well, not 'revealing' as much as 'suggesting', and she didn't really wear it that comfortably. She has brought his CDs and head shot for the display. As his – girlfriend? – daughter? – talks to the friends (we're seated about 18 inches away, but he never acknowledged us), we learn that she's an endocrinologist during the day, but she's planning on going to the conservatory. Oh, great. The girlfriend (daughter?) sings. We'll be hearing THAT later in the evening!

At 8:25, the piano player saunters up to the piano, saying, "the first song is pretty much a soundcheck anyway." That was a tipoff. He pulled to vocal mic closer. Uh – did it say he was going to sing? And we realize there IS no bass player or drummer. It's just this guy. Uh oh . . .

He starts off with a big flourish, sort of Billy Joel meets John Williams meets The Muppet Show. And as he starts playing some chords, two guys walk into the bar (what is this, some kind of joke?), and one says, loudly, "Boy, this place is empty!" Ahh, friends! The piano player stops, says "I was just waiting for you guys," goes over and repositions a mic, complaining about a bit of feedback. (There are nine people in the audience within 10 feet of the guy – what does he need a sound system for?) He then starts the song in earnest: "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," the Duke Ellington classic. He starts it as a ballad, which, ok, it could work. But the piano playing is a bit . . . how should one say? . . . hackish. Like unto a hack. But we are straying dangerously close to piano bar territory now. If I only knew . . .

By the way, at one point a man walked in off the street and asked if I wanted to buy a rose for the lady. I of course replied, say it with me here, "That's no lady – that's my sister!" Thank you. Try the veal.

And then he hits the fast part. Or, rather, where he goes into tempo. Where I expected swing, I got shuffle. Where I expected jazz, I got piano bar. Where I expected art, I got heartburn. And not from Ben's.

His dau…girlfriend is loving it. His 4 minions and 2 buddies are swaying, bobbing their heads, and smiling. They have no clue. My sister and I look at each other, horrified. Did I mention she's also an excellent musician and pianist? Right. It was loud, harsh, trite, and clichéd. He pounded the ivories. He almost jumped off the bench. He played lots of notes in a short amount of time, which, if you do the math, means he was very good. IN HIS MIND. My sister and I resorted to texting each other as to not make a scene. She suggested he may want to wear a top-hat (think showman). I suggested perhaps blackface (think tasteless showman).

We came up with a plan. My sister would "go to the restroom," pay the bill, and tell the restaurant lady how this was NOT what we were expecting (a trio was advertised, jazz was advertised, etc.). She did that, and basically told her this guy was awful. The owner didn't disagree. However, after Liberace threw in a musical quote of "Dixie" TWICE, I was ready to leave. When he started playing "Heart and Soul," I up and left. (This was all during his 20-minute solo in the middle of "Don't Get Around!" Just think what would be happening in the next 2 hours!)

After laughing all the way home, we checked out the guy's website. The lesson: Do your homework. If we had done that before, we would have never gone to the place! Lots of new-age multitracked vocals, songs for children, a dozen self-produced, marketed, and distributed CDs (want a CD? I'll burn it – give me just a sec!) – this was not what we were looking for. We went by the quotes in the paper (and what show did THOSE people see?)

Anyway, next time you're in D.C., go to Twins. It really is a cute place. I'd recommend the weekend, though!