it will all come to pass....

Both the good and the bad. There are some days, like today, when I sit down at the piano and it really feels like 88 keys simply isn't enough. I wonder if all that needs to be said has already been said, and everything is now just superfluous. Have all these notes been spoken for? Today as I sat on the bench all I could think was, "I've heard these notes before." And I wonder how far we have to reach to create new music. How much has to be new, and how much of it is okay to be familiar? Is it enough for it to be good music? Has "new" become the bare minimum?

Nevertheless, I have hope other days that there's still room for one more piece.

going with the flow

Looking back at some assignments I did that were supposed to be written within the parameters of modality or tonality, one thing stood out. I was always in a rush to push the boundaries of the tonal framework. There are instances where it was obvious I was just dying to include a bII in a major key, or I just had to quickly modulate to bVII, or I thought it would be fancy to include some extra secondary dominants. And mostly it's not bad....just really obvious--especially as I listen to them because I know what that person was thinking. I hear those sections and they make sense, and they're "legal" moves, but it feels like the notes were just hovering over all the previous notes, waiting for an opportunity to leap in and add a little spice to the mixture.

I believe I was too eager to do something that would make the piece stand out, when in fact it just ended up making the section stand out. There's no subtlety. And I understand that at the time I was thinking, "I couldn't possibly write another ii-V-I. I haven't included a borrowed chord or altered dominant, that must be what's missing." And of course I was wrong. I think I was trying to "fix" a section, or make it "more interesting" without necessarily listening to the overarching scheme.

In fact, as listened to one piece I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I /had/ to include a particular progression. And it is so obvious. I hear it in other music too. Using "special" vocabulary really requires a lot of care. If I'm listening to a piece in common time that switches to 7/4 and I don't notice because it sounds so natural, then the composer has done his or her job. It really sounds so basic when I say it that way, but it's true. More and more I'm coming to see that organic composition is the key. You can throw pretty much whatever you want in a piece, and as long as it sounds like it belongs there, the end result will sound much more satisfying.

Accidents can happen

What was I thinking? That was over two years ago now, so I have no idea. And now that I'm composing again and going through old scores (and half scores and quarter scores, etc....), I'm finding all sorts of gems like that.

And don't get me wrong, I think this bar is marvelous. When I listened to it again, it fit perfectly. I just find it incredibly peculiar. The most interesting part for me is the ambiguity of notation. How many of those are supposed to be Eb? When I use Sibelius 7 now, if I were to write that top note, it would automatically give me a courtesy accidental (fourth wall broken!), as it would if I started a new bar with an E--provided I clicked the space for E without selecting sharp, natural or flat. However, when I wrote that in Sibelius 5, it obviously didn't do that.

It is entirely possible that I wrote it without realising. At the time that was composed I was working on two or three other pieces for quartet for composition class. I quickly dropped all of them but one, so I might have missed out on this little point. I knew I wouldn't be taking the piece any further, so I wasn't too concerned with details at this point; there were no dynamics, phrasing or articulation marks to be seen.

I think its nature being accidental makes the most sense. If I really had intended the high E to be natural, I would have notated it. But I still wonder if the next E is supposed to be Eb (which is how it is played back in Sibelius). I am neither keen on the picardy third nor the split third (neither of which really fit this position, but you get my drift), which makes me doubt that it was intentional.

And yet, it sounds really good. I both lament the fact that I don't think I would have thought of that and am grateful that I have moments of...convenient forethought? I'm actually discovering a lot of inspired moments in this piece. I've spent the last few days tempering my hastiness and reorganising my thoughts, which is making it much more coherent. Onwards!

Idea fixation

What happens to an idea after you’ve thought of it? Do they go anywhere? Do they get better over time if you think about them more? Do they disappear if you stop thinking about them? What if you write them down and forget about them? What does it mean when someone else has the same idea as you?

For various reasons I haven’t been very musically active for the past year and a half. Recently I recalled that I had started working on orchestrating a Sibelius sonatine almost two years ago but couldn’t remember where I had put it. Yesterday I found it and decided to pick up where I had left off. It was an odd experience. I recalled vividly many of the ideas that I had penned. I think this is a good thing because it shows a certain consistency; that is, there were still ideas I agreed with. It would have been frustrating to go back to ideas that I no longer thought were relevant or interesting. I studied this particular sonatine during my last year at MUN, and I still enjoy listening to it. I decided to arrange it for orchestra for two main reasons: 1) studying and playing it lent a certain insight that would have been missing if I hadn’t known it as intimately, and 2) I believed the piece had colours and ideas that could be exploited with an orchestra.

I’ve completed the first draft of the first movement, with minor revisions already to what I had written last year. But as I moved forward I ran into some interesting situations. Yesterday and today I came to the point in arranging where I was working with material that was now repeating in the piece. My dilemma was thus: do I go back and look at what I did for the similar section already and copy it? Is that considered “cheating?” I didn’t want two similar sounding parts being at odds with each other within the same piece, particularly when it is so short. I could try to remember what I had done, or come up with a different take on it. However, I would eventually be entering it into notation software and see what I had already written anyway. Would I lose integrity by “copying” my previous work? Would the music lose its integrity?

In the end I decided in favour of consistency. Even if I had continued on and devised contrasting material for similar sections, I would have seen in them side by side eventually, and most likely one of them would have had to leave. This situation aside, I will still run into consistency problems once I’ve laid all the parts out. After all, it is only a first draft, with two halves being written so far apart. When I started it, I would have had very specific ideas, and I was immersed in that music at the time. I think this is why some of the ideas stood out so strongly for me and I could still hear the sounds I had imagined. My main goal this time around was to get my brain thinking musically again. I found it surprisingly easy to get back into, in terms of productivity. There have been plenty of times when I have attempted to pick up where I left off a piece. Usually I cannot get myself into the mindset of composer; it’s as if I’ve been removed from the piece long enough that I’m just a listener now. I hear the ideas—some of them I like, some of them I know shouldn’t be there. But I’m at a loss for what to do. And sometimes I’ll return to the state I was in when I was last working; I’ll tweak what’s there and then stare at the notes for a while. I wonder what will happen with those ideas.

it takes four

In the spring I wrote a Quartet that, unfortunately, never had the opportunity to be performed. From its inception to its current state it has undergone many, many changes (though none of them radical). It began as a rather short prelude-style piece and evolved into some more than double the length and while maybe not more complex, definitely more fleshed out. (I still think the original could stand on its own, but I am quite happy with the "extended version.") I submitted a "completed" version for class in April, but I was on a roll and felt like I could keep on going.

I continued to work on it over the summer, expanded several sections and ideas, tightened up a few areas and ditched some parts that didn't feel right anymore. At a couple of points I sent versions of it to my friend Cameron MacLaine, who is working on his Master's in piano performance at the University of Regina. Eventually he asked if he could perform it in one of his recitals. Of course I was thrilled, and it gave me the extra kick to sit down and work out whatever kinks were left in the quartet. After several rehearsals I've also been able to get some feedback from him on what has and hasn't worked in playing it. It's been somewhat of a surreal experience having someone else play my piece without my direction and inject his own creative ideas into it. It's really quite exciting!

To add to the "woah" factor, the other two pieces that Cameron has billed in the recital are Shostakovich's Piano Trio No.2 and Hatzsis' Old Photographs! The performance was supposed to be tonight, but unfortunately the violinist fell ill and the recital has been postponed for another week. I'm really looking forward to hearing the premiere in their very capable hands.

The piece itself is quite the agglomerate. It took its basic ideas from a Chopin-style prelude, though in the end it almost sounds more like a baroque toccata. It has its roots in modality, and the first bar already announces a Db in an arpeggiation of a C minor chord, hinting at the phrygian mode, which becomes more obvious as the piece unfolds. In fact, I was very careful to avoid typical common practice progressions even though the piece uses many familiar sounding chords--not a single V-i cadence in the whole four and a half minutes! The opening figure in the piano actually generates most of the piece, and I was rather proud of myself for being able to keep it moving for so long, since I'm usually afraid of hanging on to an idea for too long. The first motive that appears in the cello and viola in the third measure also features prominently and undergoes various permutations.

Besides some of its modal characteristics, lots of modern sounds end up creeping in, sometimes quickly taking over the harmony, other times just hinting at another sound world. Amidst all these sounds, I think some of my heavy metal influence has come through, sometimes more just as a feeling than a distinct sound, but it's there nevertheless.

I'm really excited to hear how it turns out (as well as the rest of the recital!). Hopefully I should have my hands on a recording in a couple of weeks.

Mene, mene

In some ways I found this last project to be rather easy. Perhaps "easy" is the wrong word. I certainly put a lot of work into it, but maybe to say it came naturally would be better. There are a lot of reasons for this, I believe.

Firstly, I already had my creative juices flowing after the first project. I didn't do a whole lot over the summer, so sitting down in September and trying to crank a few pieces out was difficult at times. Not only did I have to get myself in the right mode, but I had to settle back into the school routine at the same time. After completing my Three Solitudes I only needed a short break before I felt ready to dive back into composing. In fact, I'd already had some ideas floating around my head well before the project began.

Combining music with poetry was also something new and exciting. And rather than slow me down in the compositional process, I actually found it helped out quite a lot. Not only did the text generate music, but I found the music was self-generative. I've never before told someone else's story in my own words (music). I've used my own text before to write songs, but in doing so I'm almost doubling my work because I have to tell the story through my words as well as through my music. If I get stuck in telling one side of the story, chances are the other side will also get stuck. But with this project the text was already there. I just had to know how retell it.

It helped that the poem is so beautiful anyway. I really felt a connection when I first read it, and knew right away that it was the perfect text to use. I still wish that I'd been the one to have written it first. So in that way, I wasn't even really telling someone else's story. It was already mine.

As I mentioned before, not using a piano in the ensemble also changed my compositional process. Rather than be concerned with my capabilities and limitations as a musician, I could focus more on the music and the sonic landscape. I allowed myself to write exactly what I wanted to hear and worry later about whether or not it could be done.

In a way it would almost appear that the piece has changed in little or subtle ways since its beginning, but it's deceiving. It's true that I changed little once I'd finally committed to a passage, but I probably spent just as long as I usually would have coming up with the right passage in the first place. So from one week to the next it might not look very different, but from day to day, or more likely hour to hour it could go through many changes.

Of course I say all of this without yet having heard the piece yet (I consider the MIDI file a rather poor representation). I finally have a rehearsal this week with my performers, so I will see what works and what needs work. I do not foresee any radical changes. I think I said what I needed to say and in the proper language too.

of shoes and ships and sealing wax...

On Wednesday I presented the first part of my new composition. I've selected a text in Finnish and have already set the first three lines with an instrumental introduction. The instrumentation is two violas, cello and countertenor. I'm very excited because I have a lot of ideas. I felt really connected to the poem as soon as I read it, and so far ideas have been flowing nicely.

I've separated the poem into three sections, which will allow me to develop particular ideas related to each (artificial) section.

This will be the first project I've written without piano in the ensemble, and already I feel like it's evolving in a new way. Without a piano I can remove myself from the performance aspect. I'm no longer limited to thinking of what my capabilities are. Obviously the capabilities of my performers are important considerations, but that comes about in different ways. In some ways I find this an easier way to compose.

On another note, I finally got my hands on the recordings of the last recital! I'm very impressed with the quality of the recordings. I thought we might lose a lot of the sound in the hall, but the mic managed to pick up some very minor details. I still think that the dream-encrusted window is best suited for a live, chamber music setting--actually, I think the performers are really the ones who are going to feel the piece the best. All in all, though I'm quite happy with how my Solitudes sound.