The whole mission of Magister Perotinus could be summed up in those two words—classical education. What brings together the hodgepodge of posts on this blog is the idea that music is an essential ingredient of paideia and must be treated as such.
As I've mentioned before, this is the reverse of our usual categories. We think of music as an art derived and governed by certain scientific principles. It's all about overtones and neurology, but with the "passion" and "human ingenuity" that only our artistic sides can add to the music. The classical model is the reverse of this. Music is a part of the quadrivium, or four-way intersection, in Latin, of, mathematics, geometry, astronomy, and music. These are the four liberal sciences. The three liberal arts are grammar, logic, and rhetoric, forming the trivium (yep, three-way intersection). The arts (or, perhaps we could, as I mentioned earlier, think of them as "skills" as well as "arts") are like a template. Grammar isn't necessarily a study in itself (unless you're talking about syntax and construction, which is a different thing). You study the grammar of several different subjects, like geometry—theorems, common notions, axioms, that sort of thing—or like what we might call general science—Na is sodium, the Fall of Constantinople was in 1453, and combustion has something to do with oxygen.
What's the equivalent for music? Studying the grammar of music would be gaining a basic knowledge of musical nomenclature. Reading music, learning your dominants and submedians, plagals and deceptives, and fun stuff like that. The logic would begin to delve into the reasons behind these things, like harmonic and structural analysis, polyphony in general, counterpoint analysis, substitutions, etc. And the rhetoric is the application and outgrowth of that—now write me a fugue.
What we're seeing is a radically different picture than what we're used to. Many parents might assume that giving their kids a classical education in music necessitated them throwing their kids into piano lessons or clarinet lessons where they'd learn how to play piano or clarinet. Somewhere in there, they'd learn some "ear training" and "music theory". Just so they know how to play. Obviously, we don't necessarily want our kids to become music majors.
But this isn't what the classical model is talking about when they speak of musical education. If you're musically educated, you're educated to write music, not just perform it. Or, to put it more bluntly—you think you're an educated person? Then, you should be writing music. Crank out a fugue!
They will probably say I set my sites too high. But this is the goal of Magister Perotinus. A restoration of composition as a part of education. Take an example like the New Saint Andrews College undergraduate degree. My suggestion is this—if they really take their higher education seriously, they should be aiming towards giving every graduate the ability to write a good Bach-style chorale. Why? Because this is a part of what they're trying to do. This is classical education.
And, as always is the proviso, this is also generational. My hope is not to see kids five years from now at some higher education college writing fugues as an undergraduate requirement. But I think my great, great grand-children should be doing that.
Why this is, I think, necessary both from a theological and aesthetic perspective, I'll have to take up some other time. This is long enough.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Secularism Says Achievement, Not Genius
"Genius is nothing you can be born with. No one is born with it. Not Mozart, not Picasso, not Tolstoy. In any field, world-class achievement demands at least 10,000 hours of practice. According to Daniel J. Levitin in This Is Your Brain on Music, dozens of cognition studeies have produced the same result: geniuses practice more. Neural pathways require repeated stimulation to attain a 'genius' level of mastery. The neurons must be stimulated and restimulated, over and again." ("My Brain on My Mind" from "The American Scholar", by Priscilla Long, Vol. 79, No. I)
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Heifetz on Modern Music
I occasionally play works by contemporary composers and for two reasons. First to discourage the composer from writing any more and secondly to remind myself how much I appreciate Beethoven.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Monody Argument
Monody: "all styles of accompanied solo singing practiced in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (as distinct from monophony, which is unaccompanied melody)." (A History of Western Music, B., G., P., pg. 312)
The Argument: that the harmonic direction of Classical music was a direct consequence of Monody and the Florentine Camerata.
Camerata:
(a) founded for "the purpose of rediscovering the manner in which the Greeks had used music with the drama". (A History of Music, Finney, 228)
(b) "The sense of the drama depended upon the words being audible to the hearers, and the early experiments of the Camerata were directed toward the discovery of a style of music which would make that possible." (ibid.)
Consequently, "these men began by discarding the whole polyphonic method" because
(a) "Only a solo melody, [G. Mei] said, could enhance the natural speech inflections of a good orator or actor." (A History of Western Music, B., G., P., pg. 311)
(b) "When several voices simultaneously sang different melodies and words, in different rhythms and registers, some low and some high, some rising and others descending, some in slow notes and others in fast [i.e. polyphony], the resulting chaos of contradictory impressions could never deliver the emotional message of the text." (ibid.)
The Monody Argument asserts that this establishment of melody and accompaniment directed the course of this style of music [i.e. Classical music] towards a primacy of harmony because
(a) harmonic interest is a necessity of the dry recitative
(b) harmonic interest necessity of the primacy of emotion (at least in the mind of the monodists and consequently in the mind of Classical music)
The Argument: that the harmonic direction of Classical music was a direct consequence of Monody and the Florentine Camerata.
Camerata:
(a) founded for "the purpose of rediscovering the manner in which the Greeks had used music with the drama". (A History of Music, Finney, 228)
(b) "The sense of the drama depended upon the words being audible to the hearers, and the early experiments of the Camerata were directed toward the discovery of a style of music which would make that possible." (ibid.)
Consequently, "these men began by discarding the whole polyphonic method" because
(a) "Only a solo melody, [G. Mei] said, could enhance the natural speech inflections of a good orator or actor." (A History of Western Music, B., G., P., pg. 311)
(b) "When several voices simultaneously sang different melodies and words, in different rhythms and registers, some low and some high, some rising and others descending, some in slow notes and others in fast [i.e. polyphony], the resulting chaos of contradictory impressions could never deliver the emotional message of the text." (ibid.)
The Monody Argument asserts that this establishment of melody and accompaniment directed the course of this style of music [i.e. Classical music] towards a primacy of harmony because
(a) harmonic interest is a necessity of the dry recitative
(b) harmonic interest necessity of the primacy of emotion (at least in the mind of the monodists and consequently in the mind of Classical music)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
High Music and Folk Music, Part I
Johannes Tinctoris, in his treatise Concerning the Skill of Counterpoint, begins with a quote from Horace's Ars Poetica:
"Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons." That is, to understand or to have knowledge (sapere) is the first principle and the fountain (principium et fons) of writing well (scribendi recte).
It's worth noting that Tinctoris is drawing a pretty clear corollary between the skill of poetry (ars poetica) and the skill of counterpoint (ars contrapuncti). He's importing a principle from the one for the other so he can explain to his reader the difference between just scribendum (writing) and scribendum recte (writing well). The difference is sapere.
Understanding this in cultural context is important. In the 15th century, counterpoint is the not-uncertain capital of the Church. The French chansons, the obvious exception to the vast majority of contrapuntal pieces serving a liturgical function, was stylistically not all that different from the many of the liturgical pieces (take, for example, the similarity between Josquin's Absolon fili mi and his Je ne me puis tenir d'aimer). Obviously, because of the lack of commercialization and the printing press, the audiences to this sort of secular music was extremely limited, probably to nobility and their clergy.
So, when Tinctoris starts off saying that knowledge is key to writing well, he's not talking about writing a nice tune that a troubadour might sing or the latest local hit song in the tavern. Tinctoris is talking about High music. And the first thing he points out about this music that distinguishes it from just any music (hence the recte, "well" qualifying scribendi, "writing") is the possession of a body of facts concerning counterpoint.
Folk music is music centered around the village square or the domestic hearth. In the 20th century, with the rise of commercial music, it may center around the LP or the iPod, but I think it's still the same principle. There's a fundamental difference between this and High music. High music can be described as requiring ars or τεχνη or skill. That skill comes only through a knowledge of the theoretical techniques and musical precedent.
"Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons." That is, to understand or to have knowledge (sapere) is the first principle and the fountain (principium et fons) of writing well (scribendi recte).
It's worth noting that Tinctoris is drawing a pretty clear corollary between the skill of poetry (ars poetica) and the skill of counterpoint (ars contrapuncti). He's importing a principle from the one for the other so he can explain to his reader the difference between just scribendum (writing) and scribendum recte (writing well). The difference is sapere.
Understanding this in cultural context is important. In the 15th century, counterpoint is the not-uncertain capital of the Church. The French chansons, the obvious exception to the vast majority of contrapuntal pieces serving a liturgical function, was stylistically not all that different from the many of the liturgical pieces (take, for example, the similarity between Josquin's Absolon fili mi and his Je ne me puis tenir d'aimer). Obviously, because of the lack of commercialization and the printing press, the audiences to this sort of secular music was extremely limited, probably to nobility and their clergy.
So, when Tinctoris starts off saying that knowledge is key to writing well, he's not talking about writing a nice tune that a troubadour might sing or the latest local hit song in the tavern. Tinctoris is talking about High music. And the first thing he points out about this music that distinguishes it from just any music (hence the recte, "well" qualifying scribendi, "writing") is the possession of a body of facts concerning counterpoint.
Folk music is music centered around the village square or the domestic hearth. In the 20th century, with the rise of commercial music, it may center around the LP or the iPod, but I think it's still the same principle. There's a fundamental difference between this and High music. High music can be described as requiring ars or τεχνη or skill. That skill comes only through a knowledge of the theoretical techniques and musical precedent.
"The Obselescence of Epic"
Brooks Otis, in his Virgil: A Study In Civilized Poetry, devotes his second chapter to exploring the "epics" written after Homer, the Callimachan rejection of any sort of modern epic, and then the set-up in ancient Rome that would allow the Maecenas group (which included Horace and Vergil) to write polished, continuous epic once again. Otis notes several interesting things:
(a) Homer had written the Greek epic and it was the specific output of his culture and milieu. Callimachus and Theocritus argued that their contemporary relation to the subject matter of the Iliad and the Odyssey was such that a recreation of that was impossible. "It was not only the genius of Homer which made him unapproachable: it was also his age and his ideas." (Otis, Brooks. Virgil: A Study In Civilized Poetry. "The Obsolescence of Epic", pg. 6.)
(b) In positing that epic could no longer be written, Callimachus and Theocritus were not trying to subvert the path of poetry radically by killing or finishing off the epic form, saying "It's impossible to write epic any more. And, just in case it is possible, I'll give it a few more stabs." Otis says, "Unlike Euripides, [Callimachus and Theocritus] had no new, iconoclastic ideas, but at least they were willing to accept the results of his iconoclasm and to acknowledge the almost complete obsolescence of the heroic-mythical world view." (ibid., pg. 9)
(c) "The fact that long epics still continued to be written did not [for the Callimachan school] in the least alter this general situation." (ibid., pg. 16.)
(d) The definition of poetry, subsequent to Callimachus and the rise of "light" and lyric poetry, had been dominated by the Homeric subject matter to the degree that the Greeks hardly considered poetry not dealing with the heroics of men and the deeds of gods to be poetry at all. "This was [Homer's] mythical subject-matter—more exactly, his limitation of poetry's proper content to a cycle of heroic myths in which men were almost inextricably mingled with gods and other divinities.... Homer's influence and reputation had in effect fixed heroic myth as the proper subject of poetry." (ibid., pg. 6.)
(a) Homer had written the Greek epic and it was the specific output of his culture and milieu. Callimachus and Theocritus argued that their contemporary relation to the subject matter of the Iliad and the Odyssey was such that a recreation of that was impossible. "It was not only the genius of Homer which made him unapproachable: it was also his age and his ideas." (Otis, Brooks. Virgil: A Study In Civilized Poetry. "The Obsolescence of Epic", pg. 6.)
(b) In positing that epic could no longer be written, Callimachus and Theocritus were not trying to subvert the path of poetry radically by killing or finishing off the epic form, saying "It's impossible to write epic any more. And, just in case it is possible, I'll give it a few more stabs." Otis says, "Unlike Euripides, [Callimachus and Theocritus] had no new, iconoclastic ideas, but at least they were willing to accept the results of his iconoclasm and to acknowledge the almost complete obsolescence of the heroic-mythical world view." (ibid., pg. 9)
(c) "The fact that long epics still continued to be written did not [for the Callimachan school] in the least alter this general situation." (ibid., pg. 16.)
(d) The definition of poetry, subsequent to Callimachus and the rise of "light" and lyric poetry, had been dominated by the Homeric subject matter to the degree that the Greeks hardly considered poetry not dealing with the heroics of men and the deeds of gods to be poetry at all. "This was [Homer's] mythical subject-matter—more exactly, his limitation of poetry's proper content to a cycle of heroic myths in which men were almost inextricably mingled with gods and other divinities.... Homer's influence and reputation had in effect fixed heroic myth as the proper subject of poetry." (ibid., pg. 6.)
Friday, July 24, 2009
Atonality
"The forces that ultimately to lead to the breakdown of the tonal system, or at least the end of its dominance of Western music traditions, may be viewed as the logical extension of the direction in which music had been developing since the beginning of the nineteenth century.... We might also note that melody was gradually released from its traditional harmonic associations, with the result that melodic and harmonic successions began to exist in their own coloristic right." (Tonal Harmony with an Introduction to Twentieth-Century Music, Kostka and Payne, "Tonal Harmony in the Late Nineteenth Century.")
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Musical Education and Presuppositions
Lewis' quotation should have made the thoughtful, modern reader suspicious. If we were to educate our children, as Plato suggests, to have a specific emotional reaction to a waterfall or a Beethoven symphony demanded by the intrinsic value of the waterfall or the Beethoven symphony, we would be presupposing and imposing a conception of what is good, true, or beautiful on our children rather than educating them generally and allowing them to decide according to their own aesthetic intuitions. In imposing our cultural standards on our children, one might say, we are taking away a facet of their free will, and this, according to fellows like Kant and Locke, would be holding their individuality in contempt and thwarting their freedom to make choices based off who they are, rather than choices based off what their parents want them to be.
This sort of reasoning is primarily effeminate in its refusal to adhere to absolute values. To say that there is an absolutely wicked act or an absolutely magnanimous act is to suppose that, regardless of what other opinions are, the act is either wicked or magnanimous absolutely. It is not a matter for you to decide - it simply is. Hitler was a bad person. So far, my ostensibly effeminate audience would agree. But if I were to take this absolute truth to its obvious conclusion - that anyone who says otherwise is wrong (and is either ignorant and bad himself) - my audience would squirm and backpedal and qualify. No one would suppose that aesthetic tastes (especially musical tastes) are so clear-cut as moral judgments. But just because the path to adherence to an aesthetic standard is hard to follow does not mean that the path does not exist or should be abandoned.
This sort of reasoning is also foolish in its blind hypocrisy. Fish can't walk, donkeys can't fly, and men can't stop presupposing a conception of what is good, true, and beautiful. These cultural impositions on our children are always present, and never more than today. In the pedagogical act of refusing to draw a judgment on a waterfall or a Beethoven symphony for the sake of not imposing cultural, aesthetic standards, a teacher imposes the cultural, aesthetic standard that there are no cultural aesthetic standards. This is what he teaches, unwittingly or not, to his students with his ambivalence.
Musical education, like all education, always presupposes a conception of value. A student of Derrida or Nietzsche (as most modern educators are) would probably tell you there is no intrinsic value in art or music, which is, if nothing else is, a value judgment on the art or music. But a Medieval education presupposes that mimesis of the Trinity is always intrinsically good, true, and beautiful, which is why counterpoint, symmetry, and the antiphon demand a certain emotional response.
This sort of reasoning is primarily effeminate in its refusal to adhere to absolute values. To say that there is an absolutely wicked act or an absolutely magnanimous act is to suppose that, regardless of what other opinions are, the act is either wicked or magnanimous absolutely. It is not a matter for you to decide - it simply is. Hitler was a bad person. So far, my ostensibly effeminate audience would agree. But if I were to take this absolute truth to its obvious conclusion - that anyone who says otherwise is wrong (and is either ignorant and bad himself) - my audience would squirm and backpedal and qualify. No one would suppose that aesthetic tastes (especially musical tastes) are so clear-cut as moral judgments. But just because the path to adherence to an aesthetic standard is hard to follow does not mean that the path does not exist or should be abandoned.
This sort of reasoning is also foolish in its blind hypocrisy. Fish can't walk, donkeys can't fly, and men can't stop presupposing a conception of what is good, true, and beautiful. These cultural impositions on our children are always present, and never more than today. In the pedagogical act of refusing to draw a judgment on a waterfall or a Beethoven symphony for the sake of not imposing cultural, aesthetic standards, a teacher imposes the cultural, aesthetic standard that there are no cultural aesthetic standards. This is what he teaches, unwittingly or not, to his students with his ambivalence.
Musical education, like all education, always presupposes a conception of value. A student of Derrida or Nietzsche (as most modern educators are) would probably tell you there is no intrinsic value in art or music, which is, if nothing else is, a value judgment on the art or music. But a Medieval education presupposes that mimesis of the Trinity is always intrinsically good, true, and beautiful, which is why counterpoint, symmetry, and the antiphon demand a certain emotional response.
The Abolition of Man
"Aristotle says that the aim of education is to make the pupil like and dislike what he ought. ...Plato before him had said the same. The little human animal will not at first have the right responses. It must be trained to feel pleasure, liking, disgust, and hatred at those things which really are pleasant, likeable, disgusting, and hateful. In the Republic, the well-nurtured youth is one 'who would see most clearly whatever was amiss in ill-made works of man or ill-grown works of nature, and with a just distaste would blame and hate the ugly even from his earliest years and would give delighted praise to beauty, receiving it into his soul and being nourished by it, so that he becomes a man of gentle heart. All this before he is of an age to reason; so that when Reason at length comes to him, then, bred as he has been, he will hold out his hands in welcome and recognize her because of the affinity he bears to her.'" (The Abolition of Man, by C. S. Lewis, from "Men Without Chests", Collier Books, pp. 26-27.)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Musically Gifted
Evgeny Kissin, 38-year-old concert pianist, debuted with the Ulyanovsk Symphony Orchestra at the age of 10. At 13, he gained international recognition for playing and recording both Chopin’s piano concertos with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. He was, reputedly, able to hum a Bach tune along with his sister, who was then playing it on the piano, at the age of 11 months. So much for Wikipedia.
On YouTube, you can look up an interview with Kissin, who relates the instance of receiving a good review from a critic when he was 17, but with this barb at the end of the article - “In general, one gets an impression that, up till now, everything has been easy for Kissin in piano playing - sometimes even too easy. Both pluses and minuses of his art come from that fact. Now we only hear in his playing what comes from his great natural gift. This is, of course, wonderful, but in future, something definitely has to change. What? When? In which way? Everything will depend on that.”
Has everything been easy for Kissin in piano playing? When he was 17, he performed Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 with Herbert von Karajan. And this critic expects us to believe it was easy?
As a pianist (one, I might add, who is stunned by Kissin’s playing), I can confidently say that that is rot. My reader may say I’m being arrogant - supposing that my limited piano experience is vaguely the same as this child prodigy. But I still say it’s nonsense - Evgeny Kissin’s “great natural gift” consists of an environment saturated in great music, hours upon hours of disciplined practice at a young age, and memorization skills that were whittled when children eat memorization out of the can with a spoon. To suppose that it has been easy for Kissin, who ostensibly bears an inherent talent, is lazy of the critic and insulting to Kissin. He had to work to get where he was - to credit it to a “great natural gift”, like something he can’t control, represents a pathetic understanding the great pianists of our age.
Again, my reader may think I have turned into a soft-and-squishy liberal politician who can’t stand to see people not on an equal footing. I just can’t stand to be inherently unequal to Evgeny Kissin, so I’m stripping him of his natural talent. The same with Mozart. The same with Bach. Well, no, not exactly.
I’m taking my cues from Bach himself. According to Christoph Wolff, his most recent and well-respected biographer, Bach reputedly said, at the end of his life, that he had worked hard and achieved great things, and that anybody who worked as hard as he had could do the same things. This is coming from the man who is rumored to have improvised, upon request, a 6-part fugue for the prince of Germany. Can you do that? Could you do that if you worked hard?
Well, no, I don’t think you could in all likelihood. But Bach is speaking from a specific culture, and we can’t just throw his words out as the modest and humble words of a “gifted” man. Bach is speaking from a culture that, as Glenn Gould once related, considered family entertainment sitting around the fire and composing a “quodlibet” - a contrapuntal combination of two or more folk tunes into one coherent song. Imagine living in a culture where the standard for a 10-year-old’s entertainment was competing with his Dad at writing counterpoint. Now, would a Bach (or a Mozart) coming out of that culture be such an anomaly? And, yet, we wonder why there aren’t any Bachs or Mozarts today.
Gone is the notion of music as paideia. Music teaches. It educates. It trains. It disciplines. It cultivates. This was the opinion of Plato and Boethius, who both commented on what a sly weapon music was for propagandists. Music is a matter of education - if our children grow up in a culture of Lutheran hymns, quodlibets, Bach chorale preludes, and village performances of coffee cantatas, then what we could call “talented” musicians should pop up everywhere. And they do in Bach’s Europe. A few years after Bach died, Mozart was playing, blindfolded, for the Pope.
People think of “natural talents” in two ways - a gift from God to the child, as if his musical talent were some facet of his soul, sort of like a charismatic’s gift of tongues or prophecy, or perhaps a genetic disposition resulting from a sort of natural selection. The idea here is that many people start with piano lessons, but only the ones who have the right DNA and the parents with the most developed ear and limber fingers really have the chops. And they’re the ones that end up being on stage wowing us with their “talents”.
But, briefly, I’d like to remind those Christians out there who think I’m giving the glory to Kissin’s works rather than God’s grace, that the word the Old Testament uses for “artistic talent” is the same word it uses for “wisdom”. It’s something that God gives but that simultaneously a man acquires. That modern Christians see a tension between God’s grace and man’s works is not an excuse to rush after this idea of “natural gifts” but a clear indication that they need to read Thomas Aquinas, or, even better, John Calvin.
What about Jay Greenberg, the child with no musical parents, who attended Juilliard at 10 years old, composed an internationally broadcasted, fully orchestrated overture for the 9-11 terrorist attacks when he was the same age, and reputedly hears the music in his head - sometimes even several different pieces simultaneously - and writes it down just as he hears it? Surely this is a person with natural gifts and talents from God.
A very simple test can be done that reduces such claims either to absurdity or to a better grasp of reality. Imagine Jay Greenberg, if you would, born into a family of medieval aristocrats in the 14th century. Would he compose music that sounded like Rachmaninoff or Schoenberg or Beethoven or Bach, as he composes today? Or would it sound like Perotinus, Machaut, Dufay, and Josquin? His music bears the distinctive mark of environmentally induced music - the music he hears in his head does not come from some distant, detached spiritual psyche, granted to him by God upon birth. Yet this is seemingly the attitude that we take towards Greenberg.
To paraphrase Glenn Gould again, he also lamented the loss of equality between audience and performer. The performer is now lifted up as a talented genius, but Gould insists that this is the downfall of Classical music. He says,
“I think that what happened in the 18th century, when performers stopped being composers, was the great disaster for music. And I think that to look at it today as an irrevocable move and to say that this is not any longer correctable, that we cannot in fact get back to that glorious time when performers had a composer’s insight into music and when an audience consisted largely of people who performed and composed themselves - that we cannot get back to that is simply to say that music is finished. There are people around who would tell you that music in our purely occidental sense is indeed finished. I don’t share that gloom, I must say, but there’s good cause for it.”
On YouTube, you can look up an interview with Kissin, who relates the instance of receiving a good review from a critic when he was 17, but with this barb at the end of the article - “In general, one gets an impression that, up till now, everything has been easy for Kissin in piano playing - sometimes even too easy. Both pluses and minuses of his art come from that fact. Now we only hear in his playing what comes from his great natural gift. This is, of course, wonderful, but in future, something definitely has to change. What? When? In which way? Everything will depend on that.”
Has everything been easy for Kissin in piano playing? When he was 17, he performed Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 with Herbert von Karajan. And this critic expects us to believe it was easy?
As a pianist (one, I might add, who is stunned by Kissin’s playing), I can confidently say that that is rot. My reader may say I’m being arrogant - supposing that my limited piano experience is vaguely the same as this child prodigy. But I still say it’s nonsense - Evgeny Kissin’s “great natural gift” consists of an environment saturated in great music, hours upon hours of disciplined practice at a young age, and memorization skills that were whittled when children eat memorization out of the can with a spoon. To suppose that it has been easy for Kissin, who ostensibly bears an inherent talent, is lazy of the critic and insulting to Kissin. He had to work to get where he was - to credit it to a “great natural gift”, like something he can’t control, represents a pathetic understanding the great pianists of our age.
Again, my reader may think I have turned into a soft-and-squishy liberal politician who can’t stand to see people not on an equal footing. I just can’t stand to be inherently unequal to Evgeny Kissin, so I’m stripping him of his natural talent. The same with Mozart. The same with Bach. Well, no, not exactly.
I’m taking my cues from Bach himself. According to Christoph Wolff, his most recent and well-respected biographer, Bach reputedly said, at the end of his life, that he had worked hard and achieved great things, and that anybody who worked as hard as he had could do the same things. This is coming from the man who is rumored to have improvised, upon request, a 6-part fugue for the prince of Germany. Can you do that? Could you do that if you worked hard?
Well, no, I don’t think you could in all likelihood. But Bach is speaking from a specific culture, and we can’t just throw his words out as the modest and humble words of a “gifted” man. Bach is speaking from a culture that, as Glenn Gould once related, considered family entertainment sitting around the fire and composing a “quodlibet” - a contrapuntal combination of two or more folk tunes into one coherent song. Imagine living in a culture where the standard for a 10-year-old’s entertainment was competing with his Dad at writing counterpoint. Now, would a Bach (or a Mozart) coming out of that culture be such an anomaly? And, yet, we wonder why there aren’t any Bachs or Mozarts today.
Gone is the notion of music as paideia. Music teaches. It educates. It trains. It disciplines. It cultivates. This was the opinion of Plato and Boethius, who both commented on what a sly weapon music was for propagandists. Music is a matter of education - if our children grow up in a culture of Lutheran hymns, quodlibets, Bach chorale preludes, and village performances of coffee cantatas, then what we could call “talented” musicians should pop up everywhere. And they do in Bach’s Europe. A few years after Bach died, Mozart was playing, blindfolded, for the Pope.
People think of “natural talents” in two ways - a gift from God to the child, as if his musical talent were some facet of his soul, sort of like a charismatic’s gift of tongues or prophecy, or perhaps a genetic disposition resulting from a sort of natural selection. The idea here is that many people start with piano lessons, but only the ones who have the right DNA and the parents with the most developed ear and limber fingers really have the chops. And they’re the ones that end up being on stage wowing us with their “talents”.
But, briefly, I’d like to remind those Christians out there who think I’m giving the glory to Kissin’s works rather than God’s grace, that the word the Old Testament uses for “artistic talent” is the same word it uses for “wisdom”. It’s something that God gives but that simultaneously a man acquires. That modern Christians see a tension between God’s grace and man’s works is not an excuse to rush after this idea of “natural gifts” but a clear indication that they need to read Thomas Aquinas, or, even better, John Calvin.
What about Jay Greenberg, the child with no musical parents, who attended Juilliard at 10 years old, composed an internationally broadcasted, fully orchestrated overture for the 9-11 terrorist attacks when he was the same age, and reputedly hears the music in his head - sometimes even several different pieces simultaneously - and writes it down just as he hears it? Surely this is a person with natural gifts and talents from God.
A very simple test can be done that reduces such claims either to absurdity or to a better grasp of reality. Imagine Jay Greenberg, if you would, born into a family of medieval aristocrats in the 14th century. Would he compose music that sounded like Rachmaninoff or Schoenberg or Beethoven or Bach, as he composes today? Or would it sound like Perotinus, Machaut, Dufay, and Josquin? His music bears the distinctive mark of environmentally induced music - the music he hears in his head does not come from some distant, detached spiritual psyche, granted to him by God upon birth. Yet this is seemingly the attitude that we take towards Greenberg.
To paraphrase Glenn Gould again, he also lamented the loss of equality between audience and performer. The performer is now lifted up as a talented genius, but Gould insists that this is the downfall of Classical music. He says,
“I think that what happened in the 18th century, when performers stopped being composers, was the great disaster for music. And I think that to look at it today as an irrevocable move and to say that this is not any longer correctable, that we cannot in fact get back to that glorious time when performers had a composer’s insight into music and when an audience consisted largely of people who performed and composed themselves - that we cannot get back to that is simply to say that music is finished. There are people around who would tell you that music in our purely occidental sense is indeed finished. I don’t share that gloom, I must say, but there’s good cause for it.”
Monday, May 25, 2009
Liturgical Schizophrenia
Drum muß uns sein verdienstlich Leiden recht bitter und doch süße sein.
So his meritorious Passion must for us be truly bitter and yet sweet.
Where I live, the weather almost always gets drizzly around Good Friday. But the clouds aren't darkening like they are in winter. Usually, Daylight savings has already hit and the sun's angle makes the overcast seem brighter than usual. I can't help but thinking that's appropriate. Rainy weather is sad, but at the beginning of spring, it's bright.
As one wise guy once said, I don't think Bach's music needs justification by the weather. But I still think rainy weather fits it perfectly. J. S. Bach's music for the season of Lent serves its description of "Bright Sadness" so perfectly. And so, every year, my family sits around the couch with blankets and sleeve notes and reads along with the German of the Bach's St. Matthew Passion and glances at the English translation alongside. For whatever reason, it never fails to be a rewarding experience, but something concrete jumped out at me this year.
As usual, a lot of things collided all in a flash in my mind, things that I could momentarily connect, but there's no guarantee that I can do it now, like I'm trying to. That memory of M. C. DenHoed asking him why I sent him a piece of opera, when I had sent him Geduld from the St. Matthew Passion. I was utterly taken aback. Opera and Bach had never even occurred in my mind as overlap. Also, my Latin teacher, correcting a student's translation of "Merry Christmas" - the student had put something like "Happy Birth of Christ", and the teacher wisely pointed out that it wasn't the birth of Christ, it was the feast of the birth of Christ. And this quote of Paul McCreesh, whose recording we listened to this year - "All Bach's music, fast or slow, has an almost visceral connection with the dance. Why should we require the first chorus to be slow and solemn, when it is above all else celebratory? There's an almost ecstatic desire to share in the retelling of the Passion story."
There's tension in any feast like Christmas or Easter or Good Friday. But especially with Good Friday. We're Christians. We're immersed in the Bible and so we know what will happen. Even if we weren't Christians we would still know what happens. The tomb is empty. Prophecy is fulfilled. Things are really glorious. But on Good Friday, we're asked to remember the crucifixion. Our Good Friday services are somber and sad. This really bothers some evangelicals because they can't stand the tension. They think that the faith is all about the Resurrection (rightly), so why bother with the sad stuff? But this only shows that they are remembering Good Friday and its events. Not celebrating them.
Celebrating a Church holiday involves two things. Remembering it as a historical fact through the text that we're given - this is almost like the literal or grammatico-hitsorical level of hermeneutics. We just read the Gospels and refresh our minds as to the events and spend a day on this one and a day on that one. If we had this alone, we wouldn't feel the tension because we would know to just turn the page and read about the empty tomb. The second level of celebration is an allegorical, typological, sacramental and eschatological level. Mary Magdalene, Peter, Judas, and even Jesus are you. Allegorically, insofar as they embody abstract things like humility, restoration, treachery, and perfection. But, even better, you are a type of them. You're Mary Magdalene, a converted disciple who was demon-possessed. You're Peter, constantly showing signs of frailty but becoming loyal once again. You're even Judas sometimes and constantly attaining Jesus. Jesus, especially, is the character you become sacramentally through Baptism and the Lord's Supper and eschatologically, as we become the spotless bride of Christ and become one flesh with Him. Aways down the road.
And this is where that tension comes from. You're simultaneously in the story and out of it. You're a character in the book and you're reading the book. You're Frodo on Mount Doom once again, still as excited as ever - or more so - but this is the eighth time you've read Lord of the Rings. That's what a true celebration of a feast feels like. That's why, as the text to St. Matthew Passion puts it, his meritorious Passion must for us be truly bitter and yet sweet.
In approaching Bach's Passion, it's important to think of yourself as a congregant in the Lutheran Church of the early 18th century. The piece begins with a chorus, flung between two choirs, the first of which says,
Come, you daughters, help me lament. Behold!
The second choir immediately responds,
Whom?
Answered,
The Bridegroom. Behold Him!
How?
Like a lamb.
Then, if you were that congregant sitting in the pew, you would hear floating above the complex polyphony a familiar hymn, O Lamm Gottes unschuldig (O guiltless Lamb of God). This is an amazing moment, because you realize that Bach isn't just making these melodies spontaneously. He's made them exactly so that they would fit inside the hymn.
This language should connote something. If it doesn't, you should be worried. Bridegrooms and daughters is definitely the language of Song of Solomon and the language doesn't disappear throughout any of the piece. Certain arias are almost reminiscent of St. John of the Cross.
I will give my heart to Thee; Sink Thyself in it, my Salvation.
This language, the words of a lover, trips up a lot of modern listeners, primarily because they suffer under the delusion that Bach's music is highly personal. John Taverner remarked that Bach's music “is so concerned with the personal Christ, not the cosmic Christ.” Taverner, however, misses the Lutheranism of the day. In this schizophrenia we've set up, it's easy to see how the woman who sings the aria with Solomonic imagery is you plural. As a congregant, you are participating, along with the rest of the congregation, in a communal act of worship, which is embodied in this soprano singing. We are the Bride of Christ corporately, not individually. What Bach is not doing is setting up an erotic relationship between himself and Christ. We are corporately singing a love song to Christ.
And, you can't mention St. Matthew Passion without mentioning possibly the most famous piece from it (and from a lot of other Bach works). Again and again, the tune to "O Sacred Head, Now Wounded" comes up in the piece. But this song was originally a love song. A folk tune. Bach changed that. Is that coincidental?
This corporate nature of the characters within the Passion story is nowhere more potent than in the Passover narrative. Using the exact text of the German Bible, Bach puts the Scripture in a free-flowing recitative.
JESUS
Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.
Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.
EVANGELISTA
And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began everyone of them to say unto him,
CHORUS
Lord, is it I?
And, then, immediately, in a familiar hymn tune to the Lutheran congregant,
CHORALE
It is I. I should atone,
My hand and feet
Bound, in hell.
The scourges and the fetters,
And all that Thou didst endure,
That has my soul earned.
It is I. I should atone,
My hand and feet
Bound, in hell.
The scourges and the fetters,
And all that Thou didst endure,
That has my soul earned.
When listening to this, it feels a bit like Inigo must have felt when Fezzik put his head in the bowl of cold water and then in the bowl of hot water. Or when your teacher just explained something really amazing that you're having trouble keeping in your head. Things feel like they could pop at any moment. But that's the feeling of this dual reality in the liturgical setting - the feeling of being a character in the book and reading the book. It's like Aeschylus or Sophocles' chorus, but considerably more frightening, considering we believe these things are true. This hymn - It is I - that the Lutheran congregation might have even sung with the choirs and organ - would immediately press the corporate and communal reality of the Gospel into their faces.
This strange tension comes out in more grotesque ways as well. One aria is sung by Judas, just after the chief priests have told him to get lost with his 32 that he wants to give back to them. He sings,
Give me back my Jesus!
See, the money, the wages of murder,
The lost son throws at you,
Down at your feet.
See, the money, the wages of murder,
The lost son throws at you,
Down at your feet.
The "lost son" reminds one of Jesus' parable of the prodigal son, and, in keeping with the logic of previous arias, we have to assume that Bach wants us to be Judas in the story too. That's rather uncomfortable. But it isn't necessarily untrue. There's the same convincting sting that comes, like the Chorale "It is I." Strangely, however, the aria sung by Judas is perhaps the most exuberant in the entire Passion.
What bothers most people about the St. Matthew Passion is its ending. The final text from the Gospel used is "So they went, and made the sepulchre sure, sealing the stone, and setting a watch." And watch is exactly what a Lutheran congregant goes home to do. The final chorus is a solemn and dissonant piece that still retains the dance-like quality of the very first chorus. There's an undeniable sense of let-down and anti-climax. You've stopped it before the eagles have come to pick up Frodo and Sam. And you're waiting until Sunday morning to watch the rest.
But you still come away happy, on one level. And this is why it is not simply a nice thing for us to be joyful and sad at the same time. It's a must. His meritorious Passion must for us be truly bitter and yet sweet. It's sad, obviously, because you are still a character in Christ's Passion, eating with him, putting him on trial, executing him, and burying him. But it's joyful because you know what happens. And, again, this tension is not an optional thing in a liturgical setting. This post is not primarily descriptive. I'm prescribing something, not describing something. This schizophrenia is the Gospel. It must be truly bitter and yet sweet.
(Originally posted on Pontification Ad Nauseam.)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Pärt's Science
Thomas More's quote spoke of music becoming increasingly able to stir the emotions it was trying to produce in the listener. It's fascinating that Paul Hillier can sight in Pärt's tintinnabuli style three subdivisions of increasing response "to the words in ever greater detail, with a subtlety and variation unimaginable in the earlier works".
His divisions are, characteristic of a musical analyst, unhelpful and impossibly abstruse. "...the earliest, like drawing with just pencil and paper (the works of the later 1970s to early 1980s); the second, transferring this knowledge to the medium of fresco (mid-1980s to early 1990s); the third (mid-1990s to the present), now painting in oils...". But I suppose I can't blame him - there's only so much that sleeve notes can handle.
I might question the primacy of More's original goal - that the utopia for music is its increasing ability to stir specific emotions - but I think we can begin to see that general trend in a scientific approach to music. Pärt, in the 1970s, "began to study Gregorian chant (not to copy it, but to imitate the timeless quality of its ebb and flow); he also studied medieval and renaissance polyphony, and became fascinated, too, by the sound of church bells." This is music that is not so much concentrated on the Romantic ideal of "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" in Wordsworth's words, but music understood as a science - a part of the Quadrivium that included arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. Perhaps this is why, as Pärt's music develops as an "aesthetic" (according to Hillier), it becomes like More's utopia, "responding to the words in ever greater details".
His divisions are, characteristic of a musical analyst, unhelpful and impossibly abstruse. "...the earliest, like drawing with just pencil and paper (the works of the later 1970s to early 1980s); the second, transferring this knowledge to the medium of fresco (mid-1980s to early 1990s); the third (mid-1990s to the present), now painting in oils...". But I suppose I can't blame him - there's only so much that sleeve notes can handle.
I might question the primacy of More's original goal - that the utopia for music is its increasing ability to stir specific emotions - but I think we can begin to see that general trend in a scientific approach to music. Pärt, in the 1970s, "began to study Gregorian chant (not to copy it, but to imitate the timeless quality of its ebb and flow); he also studied medieval and renaissance polyphony, and became fascinated, too, by the sound of church bells." This is music that is not so much concentrated on the Romantic ideal of "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" in Wordsworth's words, but music understood as a science - a part of the Quadrivium that included arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. Perhaps this is why, as Pärt's music develops as an "aesthetic" (according to Hillier), it becomes like More's utopia, "responding to the words in ever greater details".
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Mood Modality
I was looking through Bach's Orgelbüchlen for a chorale prelude to play on Eastertide. I was surprised by how almost every single chorale for the season and its resultant prelude was in a minor key. And then I was surprised at my surprise. This is a way in which Classical music since Bach has seriously damaged our conception of what modes can express. We naturally assume that if it's a happy occasion we need a major key and if it's a sad occasion we need a minor key. Lost is the notion of an exuberant, zippy, joyful, lusty, minor-keyed piece.
When asked by Stephen Pettitt why he took such a fast tempo on St. Matthew Passion's Kommt, ihr Töchter, Paul McCreesh replied, "All Bach's music, fast or slow, has an almost visceral connection with the dance. Why should we require the first chorus to be slow and solemn, when it is above all else celebratory? There's an almost ecstatic desire to share in the retelling of the Passion story."
This is another area where we need to war against the idea that the solemn and the joyous are mutually exclusive. All parts of the Christian life are required to be both, especially the liturgy.
When asked by Stephen Pettitt why he took such a fast tempo on St. Matthew Passion's Kommt, ihr Töchter, Paul McCreesh replied, "All Bach's music, fast or slow, has an almost visceral connection with the dance. Why should we require the first chorus to be slow and solemn, when it is above all else celebratory? There's an almost ecstatic desire to share in the retelling of the Passion story."
This is another area where we need to war against the idea that the solemn and the joyous are mutually exclusive. All parts of the Christian life are required to be both, especially the liturgy.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Classical Music Is Dead, Part II
I'd like to clear up a few loose ends and objections that people have given me. This is an important premise in my larger argument for a return to the Medieval in composition (and a solution for the Church music crises).
Classical music is progressive. That's essential. But that's not the only thing that makes it classical. Something can be progressive and not classical. But something that isn't progressive is definitely not classical, no matter how hard it tries. Richard Wagner sounds very similar to John Williams sometimes. The difference is that Richard Wagner was from the 19th century and he leaned forward. John Williams is from the 20th century and he leans backwards. There is not enough in John Williams' music that is innovative in order for it, in a Classical setting, to be considered truly forward leaning. (As soundtrack music, I think he's extremely innovative and attention-arresting.)
There's a simple way to illustrate this - there are no composers who are considered universally classical that were not progressives and products of their time. An example of this would be, at random, Bach. It so happens Bach was extremely progressive. An example of this would not be a composer from the 20th century who was not progressive, because he would have to redefine what is historically the uniting principle of all Classical music in order to get his foot in the door.
But there are other things that make Classical music what it is. Classical music is an intentional expansion on the ideas of the Classical age. And by this, I do not mean Mozart, Salieri, and Haydn. I mean Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, who were asked by contemporaries the classical question, "What does it have to do with Dionysus?" The answer is, of course, that it has nothing to do with Dionysus. Classical is ars gratia artis - art for art's sake. It is secular. It is oriented around the stage, not Dionysus. It has nothing to do with the religious holidays anymore. It is now simply high drama for audiences in heels and ties. Or whatever they wore back then.
Classical music as we understand it is just this in a modern form. This can be shown clearly in the monodist movement of the 17th century. Monody was the birth of homophony, opera, and Classical music in its recognizable form. Their idea was not simply to nod back to Classical drama of ancient Greece but to manifest its rebirth and expand on its tradition. Out of this movement came a surge away from polyphony (music with many melodies) and towards the simpler homophony (music with one melody and some accompaniment) in high music.
This is why, properly speaking, anything before the rise of monodism or secular music in the West cannot be considered Classical music because it was not secular. It was religious. It answered the classical question posed above to Aeschylus differently - "It has everything to do with Dionysus." Or, more properly, Christ.
(Theodore M. Finney, A History of Music. Revised Edition. New York, 1947. As much as his analysis is atrociously anachronistic in some areas, he provides a helpful chart for those interested in the shape of music between the 9th and 18th century.)
Classical music is progressive. That's essential. But that's not the only thing that makes it classical. Something can be progressive and not classical. But something that isn't progressive is definitely not classical, no matter how hard it tries. Richard Wagner sounds very similar to John Williams sometimes. The difference is that Richard Wagner was from the 19th century and he leaned forward. John Williams is from the 20th century and he leans backwards. There is not enough in John Williams' music that is innovative in order for it, in a Classical setting, to be considered truly forward leaning. (As soundtrack music, I think he's extremely innovative and attention-arresting.)
There's a simple way to illustrate this - there are no composers who are considered universally classical that were not progressives and products of their time. An example of this would be, at random, Bach. It so happens Bach was extremely progressive. An example of this would not be a composer from the 20th century who was not progressive, because he would have to redefine what is historically the uniting principle of all Classical music in order to get his foot in the door.
But there are other things that make Classical music what it is. Classical music is an intentional expansion on the ideas of the Classical age. And by this, I do not mean Mozart, Salieri, and Haydn. I mean Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, who were asked by contemporaries the classical question, "What does it have to do with Dionysus?" The answer is, of course, that it has nothing to do with Dionysus. Classical is ars gratia artis - art for art's sake. It is secular. It is oriented around the stage, not Dionysus. It has nothing to do with the religious holidays anymore. It is now simply high drama for audiences in heels and ties. Or whatever they wore back then.
Classical music as we understand it is just this in a modern form. This can be shown clearly in the monodist movement of the 17th century. Monody was the birth of homophony, opera, and Classical music in its recognizable form. Their idea was not simply to nod back to Classical drama of ancient Greece but to manifest its rebirth and expand on its tradition. Out of this movement came a surge away from polyphony (music with many melodies) and towards the simpler homophony (music with one melody and some accompaniment) in high music.
This is why, properly speaking, anything before the rise of monodism or secular music in the West cannot be considered Classical music because it was not secular. It was religious. It answered the classical question posed above to Aeschylus differently - "It has everything to do with Dionysus." Or, more properly, Christ.
(Theodore M. Finney, A History of Music. Revised Edition. New York, 1947. As much as his analysis is atrociously anachronistic in some areas, he provides a helpful chart for those interested in the shape of music between the 9th and 18th century.)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Objective Emotions
"For all their musike bothe that they [the Utopians] playe upon instrumentes, and that they singe with mannes voyce dothe so resemble and expresse naturall affections, the sound and tune is so applied and made agreeable to the thinge, that whether it bee a prayer, or els a dytty of gladnes, of patience, of trouble, of mournynge, or of anger: the fassion of the melody dothe so represente the meaning of the thing, that it doth wonderfullye move, stirre, pearce, and enflame the hearers myndes." (Sir Thomas More, Utopia, from Robert Donington, The Interpretation of Early Music, "Music as Expression", pg. 111.)
Qualifying the Contemporary
As much as we must always seek to embrace the contemporary in our worship services, this is no excuse for apathy in the writing or the hearing. This requires a cordial and firm rejection of, however effective, mindless Scripture songs or repetitive and shallow ditties in Sabbath worship. (Which isn't to say all Scripture songs are mindless, but why them when you have Goudimel?)
This is not to say that simple music has no place, or that complex music is alone suitable. As the Episcopalian Music for the Church Year: A Handbook for Clergymen, Organists, and Choir Directors admirably says, "A great deal of the best church music is simple and easy and can be performed acceptably on very small organs or by beginning organists. When there is so much good church organ music available, it is nothing short of sacrilege to offer less than the best to God. It is just as easy to learn good organ music as bad, so an organist should not waste his own time, detract from the service, and offend the musically sensitive by presenting that which is not up to the reasonable Church standards."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Qualitative and Quantitative
I cringe whenever "traditional" and "contemporary" are pitted against each other, since they really go together like a horse and carriage. You can't have one without the other. This misguided notion of their mutual exclusivity is because we think of "traditional" as a quantitative term and "contemporary" as a qualitative one. In reality, it's just the opposite.
"Traditional" usually means something like, how many years of dust have piled up on the manuscript. But it's not a question at all of how many but of what kind. Something is traditional because of the tradition it plugs itself into. On the other hand, contemporary usually means (especially to the traditionalist) new and, hence, cheap. But this is misguided as well. This can all be illustrated by the simple fact that J. S. Bach was contemporary when he was writing his music. Who says it isn't traditional?
Once we release ourselves from this false conception of the traditional and the contemporary, the whole situation becomes much simpler. The Scriptural mandate for "new songs" and contemporary music is inescapable. It now depends upon what kind of contemporary music. This necessitates a method, a theory, an education, an analysis, a science, and a tradition of its own that Church composers can plug themselves into. This will make them simultaneously traditional and contemporary composers.
"Traditional" usually means something like, how many years of dust have piled up on the manuscript. But it's not a question at all of how many but of what kind. Something is traditional because of the tradition it plugs itself into. On the other hand, contemporary usually means (especially to the traditionalist) new and, hence, cheap. But this is misguided as well. This can all be illustrated by the simple fact that J. S. Bach was contemporary when he was writing his music. Who says it isn't traditional?
Once we release ourselves from this false conception of the traditional and the contemporary, the whole situation becomes much simpler. The Scriptural mandate for "new songs" and contemporary music is inescapable. It now depends upon what kind of contemporary music. This necessitates a method, a theory, an education, an analysis, a science, and a tradition of its own that Church composers can plug themselves into. This will make them simultaneously traditional and contemporary composers.
So, you ask, that's all very nice, but what's the concrete side of this? What musical science and analysis and theory and education and tradition should we be composing new music in? The answer is obvious - a culture, with its worldviews, doctrines, and presuppositions, that can produce music like Josquin, Dufay, and Perotinus is one that must have a coherent, methodological approach to it. Why else would he be called Magister Perotinus? He teaches something. All we have to do is teach it once again.
One more comment on tradition and the qualitative definition. As much as it is a qualitative sort of thing, tradition is inescapable. No matter how revolutionary your music is, it is always in some sort of tradition. As much as many people would like to think ex nihilo Schoenberg fit, even he can be traced through Wagner through Beethoven through Bach, all the way back to Magister Perotinus. You may digress from tradition and you may even revolt from it, but in so doing, not only are you still being affected by it, but all that you'll do is revolt into a different tradition. It's still always tradition, though. This holds true for Schoenberg and for Zep.
So, it becomes even more important when we approach what usually passes for worship music in, say, PCA, OPC, PCUSA, and all those other Reformed denominations. What tradition is your music plugging itself into? What culture does it sound like it's coming out of? Does it sound like, if you took away the words, it would be a bad imitation of a mild (or not so mild) pop song? It should be terrifying to us that our music is always traditional when we analyze what tradition it came out of.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Tintinnabuli In Short
I can't possibly analyze Arvo Pärt well, let alone in one post. But here is a short introduction to the style that I think is proof of this return to the Medieval in High music. Here is an excellent article on the universality and "Bright Sadness" of Pärt's music, fitting for the season.
Tintinnabuli is derivative of the Latin word for "bells" and is essentially built off the interplay of two voices - one melodic and stepwise and one bell-like. "Tintinnabular". The main voice and the tintinnabular voice are the basic unit of Pärt's music, and he extends the logic in his grander and fuller pieces, creating a splendid diversity of emotion and expression. An example of the breath-taking potency in some of his sparser music is this section from the Kyrie of his Missa Sillabica.
You can see that the upper voice moves along the notes of a d-minor scale and the lower voice moves along the notes of a triad. This provides for considerable dissonance, but it's dissonance that you can, remarkably, only help but enjoy. Here is a sample of his Berliner Messe here.
The transcription of Missa Sillabica is done entirely by ear from "De Profundis" by Arvo Pärt, recorded by Paul Hillier and the Theatre of Voices.
Tintinnabuli is derivative of the Latin word for "bells" and is essentially built off the interplay of two voices - one melodic and stepwise and one bell-like. "Tintinnabular". The main voice and the tintinnabular voice are the basic unit of Pärt's music, and he extends the logic in his grander and fuller pieces, creating a splendid diversity of emotion and expression. An example of the breath-taking potency in some of his sparser music is this section from the Kyrie of his Missa Sillabica.
You can see that the upper voice moves along the notes of a d-minor scale and the lower voice moves along the notes of a triad. This provides for considerable dissonance, but it's dissonance that you can, remarkably, only help but enjoy. Here is a sample of his Berliner Messe here.
The transcription of Missa Sillabica is done entirely by ear from "De Profundis" by Arvo Pärt, recorded by Paul Hillier and the Theatre of Voices.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Art as Adam's Commission
A quote of Birnbaum (the theological "mouthpiece" of J. S. Bach) from Christoph Wolff's introduction to Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician:
"The essential aims of true art are to imitate nature, and, where necessary, to aid it. If art imitates nature, then indisputably the natural element must everywhere shine through in works of art. Accordingly it is impossible that art should take away the natural element from those things in which it imitates nature - including music. If art aids nature, then its aim is to preserve it, and to improve its condition; certainly not to destroy it. Many things are delivered to us by nature in the most misshapen states, which, however, acquire the most beautiful appearance when they have been formed by art. Thus art lends nature a beauty it lacks, and increases the beauty it possesses. Now, the greater the art is - that is, the more industriously and painstakingly it works at the improvement of nature - the more brilliantly shines the beauty thus brought into being. Accordingly it is impossible that the greatest art should darken the beauty of a thing." (Christoph Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician, pg. 5, "Prologue: Bach and the Notion of 'Musical Science'")
But what does Birnbaum mean? He perhaps believes the natural realm has been affected by the "total depravity" of man's sin. But could he mean when he says that nature delivers us things "in the most misshapen states" that there are things inherently in nature that need the aid of man's art? Is he suggesting the conceited, humanist notion that God needs help making creation "very good"?
Or perhaps this is simply Birnbaum's exegesis on Adam's commission in Genesis 2 to "subdue" or "rule" the land. As one Old Testament scholar puts it, "When God creates the world, it is all good, so Adam does not have to 'subdue' wicked enemies. Still, Adam has to work hard to subdue the world. Even before Adam sins, it is not easy to rule creation. Animals need training, tress are tough to cut, the earth is hard to dig, and rocks are hard to break... He is supposed to find new ways to use what God has made, so that the whole creation serves man more and more... Today, thousands of years later, we are still learning new ways to 'subdue' creation." (Peter J. Leithart, A House For My Name: A Survey of the Old Testament, pg. 51, "Book of Beginnings")
"The essential aims of true art are to imitate nature, and, where necessary, to aid it. If art imitates nature, then indisputably the natural element must everywhere shine through in works of art. Accordingly it is impossible that art should take away the natural element from those things in which it imitates nature - including music. If art aids nature, then its aim is to preserve it, and to improve its condition; certainly not to destroy it. Many things are delivered to us by nature in the most misshapen states, which, however, acquire the most beautiful appearance when they have been formed by art. Thus art lends nature a beauty it lacks, and increases the beauty it possesses. Now, the greater the art is - that is, the more industriously and painstakingly it works at the improvement of nature - the more brilliantly shines the beauty thus brought into being. Accordingly it is impossible that the greatest art should darken the beauty of a thing." (Christoph Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician, pg. 5, "Prologue: Bach and the Notion of 'Musical Science'")
But what does Birnbaum mean? He perhaps believes the natural realm has been affected by the "total depravity" of man's sin. But could he mean when he says that nature delivers us things "in the most misshapen states" that there are things inherently in nature that need the aid of man's art? Is he suggesting the conceited, humanist notion that God needs help making creation "very good"?
Or perhaps this is simply Birnbaum's exegesis on Adam's commission in Genesis 2 to "subdue" or "rule" the land. As one Old Testament scholar puts it, "When God creates the world, it is all good, so Adam does not have to 'subdue' wicked enemies. Still, Adam has to work hard to subdue the world. Even before Adam sins, it is not easy to rule creation. Animals need training, tress are tough to cut, the earth is hard to dig, and rocks are hard to break... He is supposed to find new ways to use what God has made, so that the whole creation serves man more and more... Today, thousands of years later, we are still learning new ways to 'subdue' creation." (Peter J. Leithart, A House For My Name: A Survey of the Old Testament, pg. 51, "Book of Beginnings")
Simson on Nietzsche and Art
Von Simson also mentions, "for Nietzsche art is a lie, the consequence of the artist's heroic will to 'flee from "truth"' and to create the 'illusion' that alone makes life livable. The Middle Ages perceived beauty as the 'splendor veritatis,' the radiance of truth; they perceived the image not as illusion but as revelation. The modern artist is free to create; we demand of him only that he be true to himself. The medieval artist was committed to a truth that transcended human existence. Those who looked at his work judged it as an image of that truth, hence the medieval tendency to praise or condemn a work of art in terms of the ultimates of religious experience."(Otto von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral: Origins of Gothic Architecture & the Medieval Concept of Order, pg. xx.)
Doubtless we are picturing that a revolution in High music toward Medieval ideology would turn us into pious composers that only wrote pious-sounding pieces, and consequently, boring-sounding pieces. But isn't Flannery O'Connor a student of Maritain? Isn't she admittedly in her writing creating a mimesis of "the ultimates of religious experience"? If dissonance is possible from a Thomistic perspective in writing, then it is possible from a Thomistic perspective in music.
Doubtless we are picturing that a revolution in High music toward Medieval ideology would turn us into pious composers that only wrote pious-sounding pieces, and consequently, boring-sounding pieces. But isn't Flannery O'Connor a student of Maritain? Isn't she admittedly in her writing creating a mimesis of "the ultimates of religious experience"? If dissonance is possible from a Thomistic perspective in writing, then it is possible from a Thomistic perspective in music.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Simson on Medieval Aesthetics
For medieval man, the physical world as we understand it has no reality except as a symbol. But even the term "symbol" is misleading. For us the symbol is the subjective creation of poetic fancy; for medieval man what we would call symbol is the only objectively valid definition of reality. We find it necessary to suppress the symbolic instinct if we seek to understand the world as it is rather than as it seems. Medieval man conceived the symbolic instinct as the only reliable guide to such an understanding. (Otto von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral: Origins of Gothic Architecture & the Medieval Concept of Order, pg. xix.)
Cage on Music as Culture
John Cage describes his music as "an affirmation of life – not an attempt to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply a way of waking up to the very life we're living". Perhaps this is a greater proof than most that Classical music becomes absurd, if not impossible, in "the very life we're living".
Classical Music Is Dead
Had Brahms premiered a sonata that sounded like it belonged with powdered wigs, he would have come off stage with bits of rotten tomato stuck to his face. Mozart could write like Mozart, and Brahms could write like Brahms, and it's possible Mozart could have even written like Brahms, but Brahms could never write like Mozart. Nobody would listen.
Whatever Classical music is, it is progressive. It leans forward constantly. Any backward glance must be through this progressive lens, like Brahms glancing back at Haydn in theme and variation or like Grieg glancing back at the Baroque suite in the Holberg or like Vaughn Williams glancing back at Medieval fauxbourdon in O Vos Omnes. All of these works remain products of their time, however, and cannot be understand as anything other than the specific cultural output of the culture in which they were composed. Which is why Brahms would need to wear a powdered wig to write like Mozart.
This is a sine qua non of Classical music. Without this progressive element, it simply falls apart. Which is why it is impossible to consider the body of music currently being contributed into the Classical canon as valid Classical music. It isn't music that looks forward with any new theoretical lens. It isn't discovering chromaticism like Beethoven. It isn't dispensing with a consistent tonal center like Wagner. It isn't edging on modality like Ravel. It isn't using inordinate dissonance like Messiaen. It isn't being atonal like Schoenburg. It's pretending to sound like Rachmaninoff or Prokofiev or even Webern, but that's fallacious - Classical music must be a unique output of the culture in which it is placed, and our culture is distinctly different from the culture present in the 1950s or the 1920s or the 1880s.
Classical music is dead like Latin is dead. There's nothing new being added to it. You can take some roots and some prefixes and some suffixes and bring them together to have a slightly modified denotation, as might be necessary if you were working for the Vatican and wanted to put together a Papal encyclical. But Latin is still dead. It's not being changed or morphed inside the tongues and minds of Latinists. It's analyzed, studied, and prodded, but not spoken and certainly not changing.
But Classical music is only even possible in a society that values secularism and ars gratia artis. That's rendered moot by a society overrun with a strange mix of Kantianism and utilitarianism, which are, coincidentally, two of the monumental products of secularism. Classical music is oriented around the stage, which is itself only supportable in a society that values schola or leisure the way Rawls might value justice. Leisure, schola, and hence the stage are implausible constructs in a modern and post-modern society. Classical music is no longer possible since it would be a product of a society that cannot philosophically support the concept of classical.
There is a forgotten kind of High music, one whose teleology is lost on our music historians, analysts, and musicologists. It's High music that values leisure, necessitates schola, but rejects the stage, ars gratia artis, and other secular constructs. Music that centers around the altar, ars gratia Dei, etc. Because this is music, it is a product of a certain culture, but in this case, it is far more potent, efficacious, and sacramental in its makeup because it is the cultus, the center of worship. A culture that adopts an attitude of worship will see its culture molded and formed by the music it sings in its worship, since, at the center of every culture is cultus, your manner of worship.
What would our culture look like if we sang OCP? What would it look like if we sang Arvo Pärt?
Whatever Classical music is, it is progressive. It leans forward constantly. Any backward glance must be through this progressive lens, like Brahms glancing back at Haydn in theme and variation or like Grieg glancing back at the Baroque suite in the Holberg or like Vaughn Williams glancing back at Medieval fauxbourdon in O Vos Omnes. All of these works remain products of their time, however, and cannot be understand as anything other than the specific cultural output of the culture in which they were composed. Which is why Brahms would need to wear a powdered wig to write like Mozart.
This is a sine qua non of Classical music. Without this progressive element, it simply falls apart. Which is why it is impossible to consider the body of music currently being contributed into the Classical canon as valid Classical music. It isn't music that looks forward with any new theoretical lens. It isn't discovering chromaticism like Beethoven. It isn't dispensing with a consistent tonal center like Wagner. It isn't edging on modality like Ravel. It isn't using inordinate dissonance like Messiaen. It isn't being atonal like Schoenburg. It's pretending to sound like Rachmaninoff or Prokofiev or even Webern, but that's fallacious - Classical music must be a unique output of the culture in which it is placed, and our culture is distinctly different from the culture present in the 1950s or the 1920s or the 1880s.
Classical music is dead like Latin is dead. There's nothing new being added to it. You can take some roots and some prefixes and some suffixes and bring them together to have a slightly modified denotation, as might be necessary if you were working for the Vatican and wanted to put together a Papal encyclical. But Latin is still dead. It's not being changed or morphed inside the tongues and minds of Latinists. It's analyzed, studied, and prodded, but not spoken and certainly not changing.
But Classical music is only even possible in a society that values secularism and ars gratia artis. That's rendered moot by a society overrun with a strange mix of Kantianism and utilitarianism, which are, coincidentally, two of the monumental products of secularism. Classical music is oriented around the stage, which is itself only supportable in a society that values schola or leisure the way Rawls might value justice. Leisure, schola, and hence the stage are implausible constructs in a modern and post-modern society. Classical music is no longer possible since it would be a product of a society that cannot philosophically support the concept of classical.
There is a forgotten kind of High music, one whose teleology is lost on our music historians, analysts, and musicologists. It's High music that values leisure, necessitates schola, but rejects the stage, ars gratia artis, and other secular constructs. Music that centers around the altar, ars gratia Dei, etc. Because this is music, it is a product of a certain culture, but in this case, it is far more potent, efficacious, and sacramental in its makeup because it is the cultus, the center of worship. A culture that adopts an attitude of worship will see its culture molded and formed by the music it sings in its worship, since, at the center of every culture is cultus, your manner of worship.
What would our culture look like if we sang OCP? What would it look like if we sang Arvo Pärt?
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