Let's Hear It for Wrong Notes!

Today I had a revelation.  A young adult student who struggles with reading but whose ear is tops tops tops was making his way through a highly complex Beethoven minuet.  After 16 bars I asked him to show me where he had made errors.  The first one he noticed was not the first one I would have mentioned, but he was right.

It took a few minutes to figure out what had caused his error.  It was the first sound in which A did not appear, the tone which had been continuous in one octave or another since the beginning of the piece. 

I take this as a sign of just how well coordinated this man is in terms of his auditory / mental process, which is one of the hardest things to tap into once one has been trained to do vision-first reading.

Actual and Factual, to Borrow Albers's Precise Terms

The distinction may be applied to everything that exists at once in the scientifically measurable world of vibrations and in the sensibility of the perceiver.

Josef Albers applies the terms to color.  In Interaction of Colors he provides countless demonstrations of colors as actual, as they affect one another, in other words, of their mutability.

My work, Tonal Refraction, seeks to do this with tone.  Though, as Albers also notes, color and tone are analogous, in one respect they are entirely different.  A musician responds to tone specifically, i.e., in terms of a particular instrumental timbre, context within a key, and also memory and association.  Every single time the musician plays a given tone all of those factors come into play but never in a predictable comixture; every action of tones is subject to constant variation.

Add to this the remarkable power of a given composition to utterly transform a tone within the range of the composition itself--perhaps one reason why sonatas and symphonies have to have several movements.

Thinking About Time

Vibrations are not the smallest possible units of time but they will do as concrete experiences of the very small, since we have 16,000 vibrating hair cells in each cochlea with which to perceive them.  Eternity is somewhere on the opposite side of the spectrum.  Music inhabits both extremes at once.

The time in between -- what musicians call tempo / rhythm -- may be confusing if the time of vibration interferes with objective measurements of actual time.  The best analogy for this is the bedside heart monitor in the hospital: Marked off in seconds, the regular pulsating heartbeat is no problem to track.  Ring a doorbell and all hell breaks loose.  You are not going to tell me that one can possibly equate the seconds of regular ticking with that level of chaos!  

And so it is with musical vibrations.  Children perceive them in precisely that detail unless it is brainwashed out of them at an early age.

As for eternity, back to the Messe de Tournai.

Consonance Fixation

I fantasize about our culture's tremendous need for consonance, such that we find it difficult to accent non-chord tones, and to end phrases on unstressed beats.  Maybe it is all due to equal temperament: now that everything is more or less out of tune we crave anything that gives us an impression of being in tune.

Back in the pre-equal-temperament era, when instrumental intervals were closer to vocal intonation, people could take delight in the off sound just as they delighted in melancholy, these days a distinctly out-of-fashion mode of existence.

The great Anna Russell's blues lyrics come to mind:
"I was so happy when you made me miserable. Come back and make me miserable again!"

Children Listening

What expression of ecstasy can compare with the face of a young child entranced by the magic of vibrations?

Next week I begin a series of family gatherings in which young children will be improvising freely on percussion instruments while I play some of my favorite music on the piano: not "kid stuff" but the real thing -- lyrical works by Dvorak, Grieg, Brahms, Chopin, even Tchaikovsky, Bartok, Stravinsky, Henry Cowell--you get the picture.

Parents of very small children are invited to hold them on their laps while they engage in very light sounds to participate in the whole enterprise.

We will sing into the piano, lid up and pedal down.  Children may sit under the piano and play, if they so wish.

Nothing regimented.  All ear-play.

E-mail for more information.

Let Me Hear As I Hear!

Cultivating precision is a good idea.  I would go so far as to say it is probably one of my primary goals as a musician and as a teacher.  But what is precision when it comes to the life of the ear?

Or of the eye, for that matter?  Or of the general sensibility?

Ear training often assumes a delimiting of the faculty of hearing, working with definitions a priori rather than with sensations.  Tone is incredibly complex.  Why not grant that children -- even infants -- are more caught up in its magic than many MuzApped adults will allow themselves to be.

I was always impatient in theory class because it seemed to me that I was being told how to hear, rather than encouraged to hear and make sense of whatever that encompassed.  As a result of that training my growth was incredibly stunted for a long time, particularly on the piano, the sound of which is so remarkably complex as to defy electronic synthesis.

Now that I am going back over the repertoire that I first learned, alas, in adolescence, I am stunned at its subtlety and at how difficult it is to respond to it without the interference of narrow-minded pre-digested habits.

Last summer it was Bach Inventions.  This fall it is Mozart Sonatas.  Both huge undertakings.

Music Truly Transforms Time

Musing on my recent post about the Messe de Tournai:  It is still reverberating in my memory.  Alongside it is awareness of how the liturgy involves habits directly related to the repetition of the same texts, again and again except when, on special occasions, they are sung in unfamiliar modes or, as in this case, given some almost miraculously inventive festive treatment.

If the point were the text it would always only be spoken, never sung.

I was brought up in the Presbyterian Church where nothing was sung except hymns and anthems: there was certainly nothing resembling a sung prayer or psalm.

So, if the point of singing is, as St. Augustine so beautifully put it, to intensify the spirituality of the text, then it must be sung because only in singing is the soul uplifted.

What I am experiencing in relation to that splendid singing comes as close as I can imagine to Goethe's expression of Faust's deepest longing in relation to moments of great beauty: "Verweile doch! du bist so schoen!"