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?