Ode to a Nightingale presents some difficult complexities in its composition. We are never quite sure about the chronology of the poem. Keats seems to weave in and out of the dream world, as well as ending where he began in the first stanza. Christi and I considered writing music for each stanza and then mixing up the songs out of order, but this didn’t work well at all. Even if the “time” of the poem is malleable, Keats’ words and lines are introduced for a reason. Instead, we decided to change our method of composing music altogether. We instead decided to create a musical quilt of thematic ideas rather than a stilted collection of songs. Like a recurring dream, Ode to a Nightingale consists of recurring characters and themes throughout the poem. Some of these themes and motifs are:
The Nightingale herself
Longing for escape/ drunken bliss
Sickness/palsy
Love of death
Darkness
The bell
Ruth
Themes should not be relegated to one stanza or song in this case. Instead, we decided that the entire piece should function like a collection of motifs rather than individual melodic sections. Even when new motifs are introduced, they are haunted by other images and characters in the poem. This changes the stability of the music. Listeners are repeatedly set off balance as melodic ideas fade in and out of the piece. This is not to say that our interpretation of Ode to a Nightingale lacks melody. In fact, the piece itself is highly melodic and follows a similar compositional structure to 18th century Sonata form.
The difference lies in the repetition of ideas and the contrapuntal voicing of the piano and violin. Two instruments are kind of lame when you think of the enormous palette Keats used to write the Nightingale poem. What we hope to achieve is to use the intimacy of these instruments as an interpretation of the narrator’s loneliness and loss in the poem. At first, we thought it might be interesting to have one instrument be the narrator and the other instrument the Nightingale, but the poem does not allow for this uniform characterization.
“Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy”
At times the narrator becomes the bird and hopes to “fly to thee” and form “wings of Poesy.” One could argue that the narrator never achieves his desire to become the bird, but to do this would undercut the importance of desire and dreaming in the poem. If the Nightingale is a dream, than he is an object of the narrator’s imagination. Therefore, we cannot and should not separate these two characters. So how do we address the nightingale in the music? Christi and I decided to create our central theme around the bird, and let this theme infect each and every stanza in a different way. Sometimes Keats directly addresses the Nightingale, and other times the bird is less apparent in the poem. Since every stanza includes a new musical idea, we can actually let the Nightingale change the direction of the theme in positive or negative ways depending on the stanza.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Performance Aesthetics [Razzi]
I do not envision the pieces necessarily connecting immediately for the listener. Slowly, as the song progresses and themes are established and recur, the pieces will begin to fit together—much like the actual process of writing the song.
We do plan to experiment with sound location and lighting effects to intensify the listener’s sensory experience. In the poem, the Nightingale seems to be singing from different locations. In order to emulate this effect, I plan to move about the room when I play the Nightingale theme. In this way, no two audience participants will have the same experience. The experience becomes very personal and allows the listener the opportunity to become the speaker and experience the speaker’s delights and frustrations with the Nightingale.
The lighting should be extremely simple. As the piece begins, we should have full lighting—perhaps even the audience should be lit. As the piece progresses, just as the poem, the lights should dim—VERY gradually—so that the audience does not perceive the change at first. Again, we are creating a full sensory experience. Sight and sound, as well as touch/feeling are involved in this performance. I say touch/feeling because the very act of creating music creates sound waves and vibrations that can be perceived by the listener.
We do plan to experiment with sound location and lighting effects to intensify the listener’s sensory experience. In the poem, the Nightingale seems to be singing from different locations. In order to emulate this effect, I plan to move about the room when I play the Nightingale theme. In this way, no two audience participants will have the same experience. The experience becomes very personal and allows the listener the opportunity to become the speaker and experience the speaker’s delights and frustrations with the Nightingale.
The lighting should be extremely simple. As the piece begins, we should have full lighting—perhaps even the audience should be lit. As the piece progresses, just as the poem, the lights should dim—VERY gradually—so that the audience does not perceive the change at first. Again, we are creating a full sensory experience. Sight and sound, as well as touch/feeling are involved in this performance. I say touch/feeling because the very act of creating music creates sound waves and vibrations that can be perceived by the listener.
Coffee Conversations [Kirchner & Razzi]
Musical expression is a continuation of writing Romantic poetry. It involves the use of multiple sensory experiences to convey an idea, a feeling, emotion, etc. In this way, music transcends the page, freeing the poem into a field of expression.
This is problematic. The poem itself is an act of music: there’s sound, rhythm and melody already present in its form. So the question really is—what are we transcending if we’re not transcending the poem itself? We’re transcending the act of interpretation (reading?). By converting or “translating” a poem into an act of sound we’re becoming a new kind of bard. This bard does not rely on the spoken word, but rather upon the emotive side of the poem.
_________________________________________________________________
So far we’ve worked on the middle of the poem [Ode to a Nightingale]. This is point where the false sense of security is there, washes away and the speaker connects with the Nightingale and “flies” with it. In terms of music, we have established a melodic Nightingale theme (which probably will be present throughout the rest of the piece in alternate forms) which moves into darkness/sickness…a very uncomfortable space. There are 2 themes of music playing out—escape or flight and the Nightingale melody. We still need a dark period that is neither escape nor melody, but rather illness and stagnation—i.e. musical chromaticism, instability. Right now we’re really at the stage of establishing themes—sounds for each feeling/mood/instance, but the connections between each stanza and establishment of time have yet to occur.
It would be extremely difficult and almost contrary to Romantic writing/the poem to write “in order” or sequence, basing each musical idea off of a stanza. Rather, it makes more sense to begin by identifying the themes and developing each into a musical idea that will later result in an interpretation of the entire poem. It’s like a puzzle. Each piece is developed and slowly sketched out and as each grows and connects to another piece, the entire “picture” or poem becomes clearer.
This is problematic. The poem itself is an act of music: there’s sound, rhythm and melody already present in its form. So the question really is—what are we transcending if we’re not transcending the poem itself? We’re transcending the act of interpretation (reading?). By converting or “translating” a poem into an act of sound we’re becoming a new kind of bard. This bard does not rely on the spoken word, but rather upon the emotive side of the poem.
_________________________________________________________________
So far we’ve worked on the middle of the poem [Ode to a Nightingale]. This is point where the false sense of security is there, washes away and the speaker connects with the Nightingale and “flies” with it. In terms of music, we have established a melodic Nightingale theme (which probably will be present throughout the rest of the piece in alternate forms) which moves into darkness/sickness…a very uncomfortable space. There are 2 themes of music playing out—escape or flight and the Nightingale melody. We still need a dark period that is neither escape nor melody, but rather illness and stagnation—i.e. musical chromaticism, instability. Right now we’re really at the stage of establishing themes—sounds for each feeling/mood/instance, but the connections between each stanza and establishment of time have yet to occur.
It would be extremely difficult and almost contrary to Romantic writing/the poem to write “in order” or sequence, basing each musical idea off of a stanza. Rather, it makes more sense to begin by identifying the themes and developing each into a musical idea that will later result in an interpretation of the entire poem. It’s like a puzzle. Each piece is developed and slowly sketched out and as each grows and connects to another piece, the entire “picture” or poem becomes clearer.
Romanticism [Razzi]
How is writing music based on poetry a Romantic act?
Romanticism places emphasis on the emotions—“trepidation, horror and awe”—and breaks through the boundaries of “reason.” The conversion of poetry to music (or music to poetry, for that matter) involves less reasoning and more mimetic “reenactment” of emotion. It is an act of translating emotion, feeling, senses, ideas…
Is it Romantic then? If we’re analyzing a poem and breaking it down and trying to “figure out” how to translate it into music, doesn’t that very act involve a form of reasoning contrary to the Romantic appeal? Perhaps. However, in my experience the act of reforming a poem into music is more of a conversion process—converting one expression to another. The music produced, regardless of style (abstract, modern, rock, jazz, indie, etc.) is based on Romantic ideals of emphasis on emotion and expressionism.
Romanticism places emphasis on the emotions—“trepidation, horror and awe”—and breaks through the boundaries of “reason.” The conversion of poetry to music (or music to poetry, for that matter) involves less reasoning and more mimetic “reenactment” of emotion. It is an act of translating emotion, feeling, senses, ideas…
Is it Romantic then? If we’re analyzing a poem and breaking it down and trying to “figure out” how to translate it into music, doesn’t that very act involve a form of reasoning contrary to the Romantic appeal? Perhaps. However, in my experience the act of reforming a poem into music is more of a conversion process—converting one expression to another. The music produced, regardless of style (abstract, modern, rock, jazz, indie, etc.) is based on Romantic ideals of emphasis on emotion and expressionism.
Mauler Rant [Razzi]
“If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music.” –Gustav Mahler
This statement from Mahler suggests that art is non-transferable. It suggests that Music is a higher art form than the written word. Can an artist truly rank forms of art? Does one form of expression express more than another or is it merely taking the easy way out? At a recent performance of music set to Blake’s poetry a Muhlenberg student asked about the process of writing—How did the music come to you? I laughed and began, “I wish I could be one of those artists who looks up at the ceiling and says, ‘It just comes to me. I don’t know how.’” A Jonathan Franzen. A Bridgette Mulligan. Interesting that I should pick writers instead of musicians. Typically I think of musicians taking the easy way out when explaining their art form. As if there’s some sort of stigma to discussing how the composition was created. As if they will lose their muse if they discuss it too much.
Writing on the other hand, is traditionally a more analytical art form. We analyze characters, we analyze plot, setting, the history behind the text, the motive for writing it. There is an analytical component to music but it’s more readily based on form rather than the reason for that arpeggio in the second bar. Interesting…it seems as though we do opposite types of analyses on music and writing. What if we flipped these? What if I were to analyze the form of writing—say the number of words per sentence on a page of Faulkner—and the character of music—say the implications behind the use of a harmonic e versus a regular e in the opening of de Beriot’s Concerto No. IX in a minor?
Mahler’s statement implicates that one art form cannot speak the same language as another. I beg to differ. The Blake performances were based heavily on music—as we were charged with writing music—however they were also heavily based in text. Music is an auditory art form. It immediately appeals to the senses, vibrates through your bones, and speaks to the rhythm of your body. Reading is more internal. Both are comprehensive—they evoke images, they have rhythms, they can be auditory. I don’t know what I’m getting at here. I guess if I go back to the first sentence in this paragraph I can turn back to what I was originally getting at, that art forms can speak the same language. A song like Human Abstract can butt right up to the poem and say and mean the same exact thing. They can also play with each other and stretch meanings.
Another topic (I’m jumpy today—hence why this is merely a rant or stream of consciousness)—if music truly were a higher art form and if we need not use writing if we could just say it in music, then why would we choose to add lyrics to a song? Thinking back to Renaissance Imagination/Collegium. Why would John Dowland be interested in writing a lyric poem and fitting it to music? Why would churches use Gregorian chant? History begs to differ with Mauler’s comment.
-->Clearly I need to come back to this because my thoughts are coming out in blips and are not fully developed.
This statement from Mahler suggests that art is non-transferable. It suggests that Music is a higher art form than the written word. Can an artist truly rank forms of art? Does one form of expression express more than another or is it merely taking the easy way out? At a recent performance of music set to Blake’s poetry a Muhlenberg student asked about the process of writing—How did the music come to you? I laughed and began, “I wish I could be one of those artists who looks up at the ceiling and says, ‘It just comes to me. I don’t know how.’” A Jonathan Franzen. A Bridgette Mulligan. Interesting that I should pick writers instead of musicians. Typically I think of musicians taking the easy way out when explaining their art form. As if there’s some sort of stigma to discussing how the composition was created. As if they will lose their muse if they discuss it too much.
Writing on the other hand, is traditionally a more analytical art form. We analyze characters, we analyze plot, setting, the history behind the text, the motive for writing it. There is an analytical component to music but it’s more readily based on form rather than the reason for that arpeggio in the second bar. Interesting…it seems as though we do opposite types of analyses on music and writing. What if we flipped these? What if I were to analyze the form of writing—say the number of words per sentence on a page of Faulkner—and the character of music—say the implications behind the use of a harmonic e versus a regular e in the opening of de Beriot’s Concerto No. IX in a minor?
Mahler’s statement implicates that one art form cannot speak the same language as another. I beg to differ. The Blake performances were based heavily on music—as we were charged with writing music—however they were also heavily based in text. Music is an auditory art form. It immediately appeals to the senses, vibrates through your bones, and speaks to the rhythm of your body. Reading is more internal. Both are comprehensive—they evoke images, they have rhythms, they can be auditory. I don’t know what I’m getting at here. I guess if I go back to the first sentence in this paragraph I can turn back to what I was originally getting at, that art forms can speak the same language. A song like Human Abstract can butt right up to the poem and say and mean the same exact thing. They can also play with each other and stretch meanings.
Another topic (I’m jumpy today—hence why this is merely a rant or stream of consciousness)—if music truly were a higher art form and if we need not use writing if we could just say it in music, then why would we choose to add lyrics to a song? Thinking back to Renaissance Imagination/Collegium. Why would John Dowland be interested in writing a lyric poem and fitting it to music? Why would churches use Gregorian chant? History begs to differ with Mauler’s comment.
-->Clearly I need to come back to this because my thoughts are coming out in blips and are not fully developed.
Speechless [Kirchner]
“If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music.” –Gustav Mahler
Why talk about music? Shouldn’t music speak for itself? After all, songs are inherently an act of sound: a language carried out through melodies, rhythms, and harmony. Often times, we think of music as a sheer channeling of the sublime, an unspoken religion of the ear. In some ways, music is no different than any other religion. We depend greatly on our faith in its silent Truths and wisdoms. Miracles occur through the acts of great composers and artists. We’re allowed to write about these saintly songwriters. We can even write down the notes to their songs. Maybe you can sound like the Beatles if you have their lyrics, tabs, or albums. Maybe you can put on your best Paul McCartney imitation and woo your friends. But how did he write that song? How did he learn to work with his fellow band mates and put those melodies together? Was it true that “Mother Mary came and spoke” the inspiration that eventually led to “Let it be”, or was there something else set in motion?
Perhaps there is a secret danger in talking about music. If we were to discuss composition as a larger being outside of its creators, the whole act could seem limited or pigeon-holed into one particular idea. It may oversimplify and harm those moments none of us can describe: how we respond and compose uniquely through a limited body of notes and sound. Yet aren’t these absences of words a limitation as well? No matter what your personal involvement with music is, it is likely that a song has moved you. Not speaking or thinking about music may cause us to ignore greater opportunities for understanding this wonderful art. There must be some way to converse about music to expand its possibilities. To do so, we must look at the musical process through a variety of lenses and experiences. We must also find a balance between the written word, language, rhythm, and music. Only then can writing about music make sense. How do these two distinctive languages depend on one another to exist? Is music greater than the written word? We will discuss these issues further.
Every time a song is given a definitive shape, transcribed, or even recorded, that song no longer carries the same set of possibilities as it did in its embryonic stage. Most composers will cite the beginning of a song as an idea or theme in their head. This process usually follows with an expansion of this idea into a cohesive hole. Even jam bands like Phish start with a skeleton of a song before rolling into twenty minute improvisations on stage. Such is the same with writing. As a writer, I usually write stream of consciousness; one idea often leads to another. After a series of edits and revisions, the work (hopefully) takes its final formation. Yet we speak all the time; our words are uttered and are incapable of being fully repealed. Spoken language can therefore be seen as a musical improvisation of the word. It follows no set formula or basis. There is a starting point of interest and a building process until the topic reaches a final climax or interruption. Unless we’re a politician or a celebrity, we are far less responsible for our spoken words as we are for our writing. Here’s an example: I hate Latinos. Let’s say this book gets published. Now I have a responsibility for saying that I hate the Latino population. After all, it was written that way. Let’s say that I was joking though. Let’s say I am half-Cuban (which is true) and the statement is just a little humorous anecdote. This is all very well and good, however does this same escape route function in music? Have you ever heard an artist say “Just kidding!” after they’ve completed a song? We probably haven’t, and would we accept the song as a joke? This may suggest a quintessential difference between the written word and music. We value music as a purist expression of sound, whereas the written or spoken word can be malleable to the intensions of its speakers. Perhaps one of the few artists that experiments with these particular theories is John Cage. (I’ll discuss more about Cage later)
If there is a hierarchical superiority between music and the written word, we are assuredly cheating music of its rightful throne. Why do we place those pesky lyrics on the majority of our favorite songs? It’s been nearly a century since Gustav Mahler was writing symphonic hits, and the majority of our current pop singles involve rhyming couplets about love and loss. As a solo pianist, I’ve often heard from listeners, that they prefer my music to have lyrics. Why is this?
Why talk about music? Shouldn’t music speak for itself? After all, songs are inherently an act of sound: a language carried out through melodies, rhythms, and harmony. Often times, we think of music as a sheer channeling of the sublime, an unspoken religion of the ear. In some ways, music is no different than any other religion. We depend greatly on our faith in its silent Truths and wisdoms. Miracles occur through the acts of great composers and artists. We’re allowed to write about these saintly songwriters. We can even write down the notes to their songs. Maybe you can sound like the Beatles if you have their lyrics, tabs, or albums. Maybe you can put on your best Paul McCartney imitation and woo your friends. But how did he write that song? How did he learn to work with his fellow band mates and put those melodies together? Was it true that “Mother Mary came and spoke” the inspiration that eventually led to “Let it be”, or was there something else set in motion?
Perhaps there is a secret danger in talking about music. If we were to discuss composition as a larger being outside of its creators, the whole act could seem limited or pigeon-holed into one particular idea. It may oversimplify and harm those moments none of us can describe: how we respond and compose uniquely through a limited body of notes and sound. Yet aren’t these absences of words a limitation as well? No matter what your personal involvement with music is, it is likely that a song has moved you. Not speaking or thinking about music may cause us to ignore greater opportunities for understanding this wonderful art. There must be some way to converse about music to expand its possibilities. To do so, we must look at the musical process through a variety of lenses and experiences. We must also find a balance between the written word, language, rhythm, and music. Only then can writing about music make sense. How do these two distinctive languages depend on one another to exist? Is music greater than the written word? We will discuss these issues further.
Every time a song is given a definitive shape, transcribed, or even recorded, that song no longer carries the same set of possibilities as it did in its embryonic stage. Most composers will cite the beginning of a song as an idea or theme in their head. This process usually follows with an expansion of this idea into a cohesive hole. Even jam bands like Phish start with a skeleton of a song before rolling into twenty minute improvisations on stage. Such is the same with writing. As a writer, I usually write stream of consciousness; one idea often leads to another. After a series of edits and revisions, the work (hopefully) takes its final formation. Yet we speak all the time; our words are uttered and are incapable of being fully repealed. Spoken language can therefore be seen as a musical improvisation of the word. It follows no set formula or basis. There is a starting point of interest and a building process until the topic reaches a final climax or interruption. Unless we’re a politician or a celebrity, we are far less responsible for our spoken words as we are for our writing. Here’s an example: I hate Latinos. Let’s say this book gets published. Now I have a responsibility for saying that I hate the Latino population. After all, it was written that way. Let’s say that I was joking though. Let’s say I am half-Cuban (which is true) and the statement is just a little humorous anecdote. This is all very well and good, however does this same escape route function in music? Have you ever heard an artist say “Just kidding!” after they’ve completed a song? We probably haven’t, and would we accept the song as a joke? This may suggest a quintessential difference between the written word and music. We value music as a purist expression of sound, whereas the written or spoken word can be malleable to the intensions of its speakers. Perhaps one of the few artists that experiments with these particular theories is John Cage. (I’ll discuss more about Cage later)
If there is a hierarchical superiority between music and the written word, we are assuredly cheating music of its rightful throne. Why do we place those pesky lyrics on the majority of our favorite songs? It’s been nearly a century since Gustav Mahler was writing symphonic hits, and the majority of our current pop singles involve rhyming couplets about love and loss. As a solo pianist, I’ve often heard from listeners, that they prefer my music to have lyrics. Why is this?
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