Brubeck, Joyce, and the Relationship that Exists...

Years ago, when I was living in Chicago, there was  an elderly blues-man who often played acoustic guitar  in a coffee house in my neighborhood—I am sorry to say that I can’t remember his name. He began and ended every set with the song, “I’ll Fly Away.”

He wasn’t flashy either with his singing or his guitar playing, but he was always engaging and never failed to get his audience tapping their feet and clapping their hands to his music. His power emanated from his rhythm, though, on the face of it, he did not seem to do anything that was not characteristic of blues.

Other players, myself included, used these same rhythms, yet could not elicit the same response from our audiences—and I, for one, wondered why. I wondered what he had, or what he did, that we didn’t. I came to the conclusion that it was not what he had, but where he had it that made all the difference. I concluded that while I had the rhythms in my head, he had the rhythms in his body. I reasoned that since human beings respond to rhythm with their bodies, not with their minds, then if the rhythms came from a performer’s body, then it would be that which would make the difference—would give their rhythms power.

What does it mean to have the rhythm in the body? I decided that it was the body that had to understand the rhythm and that  being able to count and play a rhythm did not mean that the body understood it.

For decades I have been a full-time professional musician—performer and teacher. My studio is my laboratory. It is there that I study myself and my students in order to make us all better musicians. One thing that has become clear to me is that for the average student, rhythm is one of the last pieces to be fit into the matrix of their music. Again, I am not speaking about being able to count and play the rhythms, this ability usually develops pretty rapidly with traditional musical work, but to get the body to really understand rhythm and convey its power through the music takes a different kind of work—a different kind of awareness.

I think that James Joyce in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man was on to something when he said, “Rhythm is the relationship that exists between the whole and its parts; between any part and the whole; and between any part and any other part within the whole.”

The important word here, the key to his definition, is the word relationship. Rhythm is relationship and for a relationship to exist there needs to be at least two—two sounds, two people, two things.  Rhythm in music can thus be understood as the relationship that exists between a piece of music and every sound that makes up that music; between every sound and every other sound within that music; and also the relationship that exists between every sub-phrase and every phrase and even every chord within the whole piece of music.

The greatness of Joyce’s definition of rhythm is that it is not limited to the relationships that exist between the relative duration of different sounds in music; it can also be applied to the relationships that exist between the pitches of those sounds, and all of the distinctions of timbre and dynamics also. His definition applies also to painting, sculpture, dance, poetry, in fact, everything and anything that is made up of more than one thing—and perhaps even to all that appears to be only one thing when we consider that one can always be in relation to nothing.

And what is the basis of all rhythm—of all relationships? It is the self. What we understand as the self, ourselves, is the beginning of every relationship we contemplate, and to neglect this truth is to render any study of rhythm and relationship a non sequitur.

Please listen to this recording by the Dave Brubeck Quartet of Unsquare Dance in 7/4 time from his epic recording Time Further Out ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDB4K5zCcfk ).

Dave Brubeck, like the old bluesman, like James Joyce’s poetry and prose, had his rhythms in his body. He, like them, and the many others not mentioned here in this blog, communicated their rhythms in a very powerful way to others. They all inspire me, and hopefully, my music too, and that of the student’s also with whom I have the privilege to work.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igRMwiKPLrU&feature=youtube_gdata

                                                                                                © copyright Michael Kovitz, 2016

When a Sound is more than a Sound

What do Shamsuddin Farid Desai, John Coltrane, Toru Takemitsu, and Jimi Hendrix have in common?

The answer is that one cannot understand their music without being appreciative of sound. Of course all music is made of sound, but knowing that is not the same as being aware of it. You walk into a room and someone asks you if you were aware of walking into the room. You think back and remembering the entrance way and the fact that you were previously outside and that now you are inside, you answer, “Yes, yes I was aware of entering the room.”—but this is not necessarily true. Remembering that you did something is not a guarantee that you were aware of what you were doing at the time. And knowing that you just listened to this or that piece of music is not a guarantee that you were, at the time, aware of sound.

Sound, what is it? Let’s first  take a look at a sound, a single sound. A sound is not a note. Nobody hears notes. Note is, in fact, an abbreviation for notation—an indication of two aspects of a sound—pitch and duration. Notation works well in a system in which sounds with specific pitches and specific durations are used to create and express concrete musical forms—a music in which individual sounds are combined in various way to create forms. In this kind of music the sound is often subservient to what it creates.

But the music of Shamsuddin Farid Desai, John Coltrane, Toru Takemitsu, and Jimi Hendrix make sound itself equal to, or even superior to, what the combinations of sounds produce. For musicians like these, a single sound can have more than one pitch and duration of these sounds often cannot be measured out on a grid defined by a time signature. Also, from the timbrel point of view, sounds previously considered non-musical are sometimes embraced by musicians and composers. Want some concrete examples?

The Star Spangled Banner – Jimi Hendrix  –  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjzZh6-h9fM

Raga Yaman – Shamsuddin Farid Desai  –  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9L9YrMuXuI

Impressions (India) – John Coltrane  –  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSViN6lwGKU

From me flows what you call Time – Toru Takemitsu – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWipy3Q6gAI

A soundician is someone who works with sound. Not all soundicians are musicians and not all musicians are soundicians. But, it is my opinion, that the best musicians are also soundicians. Without an awareness of, and a feeling for, the living quality of sound, music seems somehow flat to me—like wallpaper—somehow two-dimensional instead of three—or four.

Technique is not only a matter of fingers or lips and tongues, and physical training can go only so far. Real technique results from a striving to create sound in accordance with one’s musical vision. To accomplish this, instruments are sometimes stretched to their limits and when they can stretch no further they are modified or replaced. Can the same be said for the ones who play them?

Spirit Garden

“Spirit Garden” is the title of an orchestral composition by Toru Takemitsu. It is also the name of one of his cds which contains an incredible collection of some of his greatest works. The following thoughts were inspired by listening to this cd.

“Little children remember, but only a few, and down they forgot as up they grew” – e.e. cummings

I think I nearly forgot—forgot that what attracted me to music in the first place was its power to alter my state (of consciousness/of awareness). The kind of music did not matter, it could have been jazz, or classical, or pop, or later, the music of the East; what did matter, was something quite intangible and subjective, it was whether the music touched something in me—opened some place—where everything was beautiful and made sense. Life has never made sense to me…

I have always known that it is the silence behind the music that gives music the power to transform my state. Music is beautiful; doing music can be a beautiful thing; but it is silence that I have always loved. What is silence? I am not speaking about merely the absence of sound; it is not the rests in music notation; nor is silence the canvas on which sounds are painted; silence is the very soul of sound—silence is sounds’ inner most dweller. Sound can be the messenger of silence when sound is aware of and experiences the silence within itself.

There is a story about a Perfect Master who favored a certain disciple—much to the consternation of His other disciples. One day they approached the Master and asked him why. He indicated that he would answer their question and promptly removed a magnificent gold ring incrusted with precious jewels from his finger. “What is the value of this ring?” he asked them. They replied that they did not know, saying that they knew nothing of such things, but, if the Master would allow them to, they would bring an expert to appraise the ring. The Master agreed, and an expert was brought, and the ring was appraised for some astronomic amount.

The Master then called the ‘favored’ disciple into the room. He had not been privy to the previous conversations. The Master gave him the ring and asked him its value. Without any hesitation he answered, “Like this, off your finger, it is worthless, on your finger, priceless!” 

Silence is the Master and music is the ring on the Master’s finger.

The music of Toru Takemitsu not only reminds me, but inspires me to experience that silence and that state of transformation that I have always found priceless. Was Toru Takemitsu aware that music can be the messenger of silence? He speaks of silence often in his writings and conversations. One of his books is titled, “Confronting Silence.”

When the casual listener listens to music it is melody and rhythm that creates a path for them to follow through the music. Toru Takemitsu’s music also has melody and rhythm, as well as harmony and dynamics. But the melodies of Takemitsu are not the tune-like melodies most listeners of classical, jazz, and pop music are familiar with, neither are his use of rhythms, harmonies, like those found in more familiar musical forms.

Without the familiar paths, many people feel at a loss to be able to follow, let alone appreciate the music of Toru Takemitsu…

Consider an artist who squirts ink into some container, then presses a piece of paper into the ink, and then pulls it away. What do think? It this art?

The best answer I ever heard to this question came from one of my students. Without hesitating he said, “I would have to see it.” Indeed…

Andre Segovia once said, “What the world does not need is another guitar player—what the world does need are musicians and artists who happen to play the guitar.” The guitar players works from the outside in. He is like a conductor that follows, rather than, leads the orchestra.

A musician works from the inside out. He is like a conductor who hears the music inside himself and finds the way to express it through the orchestra. An artist, not only creates music, he creates art—his music is art. Art has the power to transform the listener’s state, to wake the listener from his dream of life into the dream of that which is beyond life—the divine dream that ends in the experience of real silence.

Channeling the Inner Conductor

During intermission at an orchestral concert, my companion asked me about the role of the conductor. I thought this was very brave of her—most people don’t like to ask about things they think everyone else knows…

The orchestra is the biggest instrument in the world. It is like a huge living organ made up of all the instruments and the players who play them. The conductor is the musician who plays this instrument.  In concert, we see the conductor at the front of the stage facing the orchestra. We see him (or her) waving his arms around, body swaying…

But, watch his gestures carefully; notice how the gestures begin slightly before the musician’s response; notice how the musicians’ response is simultaneous with the end of the gesture. What this clearly shows is that the conductor knows what he wants to hear before he hears it. In other words, the conductor is not just gesturing along with the music, he is directing it.

A world-class conductor knows his music and its score. He has researched and studied the work and is well aware of the history of the work, its composer, and other conductor’s interpretations. He has a clear vision of the orchestration, tempo, dynamics, and nuances of acceleration and retard and crescendo and diminuendo he desires, and he has communicated all this to the members of his orchestra during a limited number of rehearsals before the performance.

Those of us who perform alone—as solo pianists, guitarists, etc. can learn a lot from studying and emulating the methods and techniques of world-class conductors. First, we should endeavor to understand all aspects of the pieces we are performing. We should know them  inside and out—their form and formal analysis, their history, the composers’ histories, and the interpretations of other world-class musicians—and we should feel totally confident in our ability to perform these pieces—like the conductor of a world-class orchestra is confident that his orchestra has the ability to follow his direction and actualize his vision.

Also, like a conductor, we have to be totally in the present of the music as we play it. This is a topic that is seldom discussed. What does a musician do when he is performing a piece of music? Does he think? And, if he does think, what does he think about?

The conductor of a world-class orchestra is focused on what he wants his musicians to do and does not concern himself about whether they have the chops to do it or not. In our case, the case of the solo performer, we have to play both roles—the player and the conductor. The player is the physical body—what is generally called the muscle memory.

Once the piece is in the body, the mind that has played the role of teacher—teacher to the body—is now free to become the conductor. The conductor plays the piece in his mind, staying in the moment—in the present—of the music as it manifests his vision in the present. It is in the present moment of the music that our inner conductor must remain. He cannot be thinking about the last measure that was played or the measure that is yet to come. He has to know the music that well.

Approximately 2,500 years ago the Buddha was explaining the mechanics of the universe and in the course of the explanation said that what is called the present lasts 1/17th of one trillionths of a second! How is it possible for a conductor or a musician to stay in the present of the music he is conducting? The answer is in the music itself—in following what is called the musical interest.

Musical interest (sometimes called melodic interest) is that place in the music where the music’s principle interest resides. Many patterns occur simultaneously in a piece of music—melodies and melodic rhythms, harmonies expressed both vertically as chords and horizontally as arpeggios, as well as the patterns of phrases, cadences, dynamics…

Examples of musical interest are delineated in the book, The Norton Scores – An Anthology for Listening. These scores are meant for listening to music and musical interest is always highlighted by a white band over parts of the score. Take for example Claude Debussy’s Prelude to “The Afternoon of a Faun.”  The piece begins with the beautiful opening melody played on the flutes. In the score, this melody is highlighted. Approximately halfway through the fourth measure the melodic interest moves to the French horns and the harp. In measures five – ten the clarinets and French horns are highlighted…

In ensemble music, musical interest most always can be seen to move from one instrument, or group of instruments, to another;  in music for solo instruments—music written to be notated in multiple line notation—the musical interest is often seen to move from one voice to another voice throughout the course of the piece. One consistency throughout all music is that there always can be found musical interest and it is always continuous from the beginning to the end of the piece. It is this musical interest that becomes the center of attention for both the conductor and the inner conductor of the solo artist. Musical interest is always in the present and being with it is the way the conductor and the inner conductor remain in the present of the music.

This can be a very subtle thing. Remember the Buddha’s description of the present as lasting 1/17th of one trillionths of a second. Now a musician can play notes very quickly, but I doubt that any musician can play a note in the time of a moment of the present. What this means is that any one note lasts longer than the time of the present and so, the present can actually be experienced as it moves through the three phases of creation – birth, life, and death. Staying in the present of the music allows us to experience these three phases of creation that exists in each and every sound. Play a note; let it ring for its full duration. First comes the birth—the articulation. Next the phase of life sustains the sound. Almost immediately, the life phase begins to give way to the death phase—the sound eventually dies away. What remains is silence, the place from where all sounds manifests and where all sounds dissolve...

As it is with every single sound, so it is with every group of sounds, and by extension, every piece of music. As the inner conductor learns to remain more and more in the present of the musical interest, more and more an interesting phenomena can be observed, the musician begins to disappear—begins to become invisible. When the musician disappears into the music he creates inspiring art. A good example of this disappearing can be felt in the recording of Paul Galbraith—especially his recording of Bach’s Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin.  There are moments when it can be felt that Mr. Galbraith is no longer there—that only the music is there. What an interesting irony, by staying more and more in the present moment of the music, the musician disappears.

Listen to this recording, see if you can hear what I’m talking about, and keep going deeper and deeper into your own music and begin to disappear—even to yourself!

(c) copyright Michael Kovitz, 2014