“If you don’t know what to do, write crap.”
– Steven Mackey “If you don’t know what to do, write something stupid.” – James Mobberley “Don’t try to create and analyze at the same time. They’re different processes.” – Sister Corita Kent When I got to college, I found myself in awe. I was blown away by the quality of the musicians and composers in the environment that I suddenly found myself in. Though it was inspiring, like many, I also experienced some form of self-doubt when I looked at myself in this environment. In my third semester, this doubt grew to such an extent that I had a feeling of complete creative paralysis. Composition was exceedingly difficult; I would compulsively nit-pick and over-think. I could only get very little done, and I was routinely disappointed in the music I created. My way of breaking out from this place came, unusually, in the form of a music theory paper. I had allotted too little time to write it, and my only chance of finishing it was to complete an entire rough draft without any editing and then revise it. The process was absolutely liberating. The time constraint had forced me to write with less judgment, no expectations, and let my ideas exist before I tampered with them. I could see the larger picture of what I was trying to create without the distractions of its microscopic details. What I really learned is that I need place to start. You can’t do anything until you have something! When I used this process in composition, I allowed myself to write what felt like really, really, awful drafts in order to get to some good pieces. Recently, I’ve tried not to associate “good” or “bad” with my drafts and just let them be. (Not sure I’m successful yet, but things take time.) I like to explain my process using mining as an analogy. I begin with initial sketches and drafts (earth). As the piece progresses, gaining duration and structure, I constantly “dig” into the music, looking for its best qualities to use (desired minerals) and deciding what bits and pieces to leave behind (rubble). I’ve since come to use the process all the time, even in writing this very blog! It would be foolish of me to suggest that this process is effortless and smooth. Like any human, I am creating by stumbling along the way. In writing a piece, I feel there are so many questions to answer for myself and the accruing amount of rough drafts can feel overwhelming. (So much paper!) I frequently have to recycle my oldest drafts before printing or writing new ones. What this process has really allowed me to do, is gradually develop a way to create that feels more free and natural to me. Still, I have a lot to work on. I find myself wanting to spend more time visualizing a piece before working on it, so my larger ides are really set in place before beginning the first draft.
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I’ve recently had the opportunity to arrange Toy Chest and Music with Oliver, but I feel like it would be more accurate to say I have been “recomposing” them. In the process of losing the original ensemble, I gain a new one and likewise lose and gain compositional opportunities: interesting textures, instrumental timbres, extended techniques, etc. For me, the new opportunities must be explored and discovered, yet I cannot forget the purpose and sound of the first version. Balancing new opportunities and original intent is a delicate, frustrating, but rewarding process. Toy Chest: https://soundcloud.com/chris-neiner/toy-chest-2015 When arranging Toy Chest for flute, clarinet, and piano, I struggled to arrange the horn and violin parts for the woodwinds. (I had decided to not alter the piano part.) Often, the horn part was too low for either the flute or the clarinet. Passages utilizing violin pizzicato and muted horn needed equivalent color ideas in the later version. An early solution was to use the bass clarinet, but I quickly abandoned this idea in favor of using the lowest possible note on the typical Bb clarinet. There was never a good place for the clarinetist to switch between instruments and only using bass clarinet seemed like a bad idea. However, I did find the use of the piccolo to be very applicable. Color issues were solved by using slap tongue on the clarinet and pizzicato technique on the flute. Both techniques produce sharp, percussive pops by quickly articulating notes with greater use of the tongue. Opportunity seeking led me to exploit the dexterity of the clarinet with rapid descending scales at a pace not idiomatic for horn or violin. Toy Chest was arranged specifically for my friend Samantha Tartamella. She and her ensemble will premiere the arrangement on April 24 at Bowling Green University Music with Oliver: https://soundcloud.com/chris-neiner/music-with-oliver-ssmf-2015 Musical changes in Music for Oliver are best explained with score excerpts that show the differences quite clearly. Clarinet Version: Trumpet Version: In the trumpet version, the lowered key required me to alter the accompaniment to best match my original intentions of register. Ultimately, this meant creating reinforced octaves at the begging of the score, moving the run in m. 6 upwards, and using less dense chords at the beginning of the Lento section.
For exemplary arrangement models, I look to Ravel’s Le Tombeau de Couperin for piano or chamber orchestra and Jennifer Higdon’s Fanfare Ritmico for orchestra or wind ensemble. “If you develop an ear for sounds that are musical it is like developing an ego. You begin to refuse sounds that are not musical and that way cut yourself off from a good deal of experience.”
― John Cage No one is born with musical preferences, it all develops gradually in a rich mix of life experiences. As we grow up, we hear music of our culture in society. We hear sororities, chord progressions, timbre, forms, balances of consonances and dissonances, styles and aesthetics, etc. As we are repeatedly exposed to similar music we develop a familiarity with it that is both comfortable and enjoyable. We develop a preference; certain sounds in music become normal and easy while those heard much rarer strange and challenging. Society communicates us its musical values and dislikes, beginning our first definitions of what is good music and not good music. “The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is why do I think it's not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason.” ― John Cage With enough exposure outside are immediate preference over time we change and the definition of good music, even music itself, broadens. Beethoven’s late period is a common example; much of the music from his later life was found to be too dissonant and uncomfortable. Now, it’s performed, no one flinches an eyelash, and it’s highly praised by many. With great fortune, our personal curiosities and interests, societal and individual, lead us to discover music and define how we feel about it. “If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, then eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all.” ― John Cage Our immediacy to define music as bad is what fascinates me. It’s a product of our cultural values, experiences, growth, and I think an unfortunate, instinctive-like closed mindedness, a “fight or flight” mechanism set in the brain to try and prevent us from interacting with something perceived as dangerous. It isn’t that some music is bad, it’s that we haven’t developed a way to internally come to terms with the music. But if you ask John Cage, there will always be good music! During the past few months, this question has occupied my brain enormously. How is it possible that society and individuals readily categorize music as good or bad when there really isn’t a criteria for good music beyond “it sounds good”?
I remember attending a Don Freund masterclass in fall 2013 where he presented us with ten anonymous pieces from a former contest he had judged. He asked us to rank them as a class and decide 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners. After hearing excerpts of the compositions and looking at scores, we narrowed our selection down to the three compositions we felt were the best. Why these pieces stood out to us, I believe, is best summarized in an observation made by one of the doctoral students in the Freund studio that year. I don’t remember it verbatim, but it went something like this, “These pieces achieve the goals they set for themselves, artistically, technically, emotionally, intellectually, etc.” Today, this way of looking at a composition continues to resonate deeply for me. When I think about the music that I love, I find that these pieces don’t just achieve the goals they appear to have set for themselves; they seem to achieve them to the fullest, possible extent. There doesn’t seem to be any stone left unturned, any crack unexamined. By this achievement, every note, every expression, every timbre, really everything seemed to matter and take part in creating a higher, unified artistic purpose. When describing this sense of achievement and fulfillment, I like to use the term “compellingness.” For me, it accurately describes the integral use expressive and intellectual content I personally desire in music. However, the natural issue with trying to judge such a subjective topic as music is that individuals will perceive the "compellingness" of a work in several different ways. Even the concept of why we feel a need to define music as good or bad reveals something about us and society. (See Part 2: Why have it?) All this time in my life, and no one mentioned this perfect, accurate, and hilarious look into the composition process faced by composers. A must watch for all composers. |
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