Structural Awareness in Music

Seven levels of structural awareness can be found within a complete piece of music. From the smallest units to the largest they are:

(1) Individual sounds, (2) Intervals, (3) Triads and Chords, (4) Motives, Figures, or Music molecules, (5) Sub-phrases and Phrases, (6) Sections and (7) Movements.

All seven levels of structural awareness are most clearly identifiable in classical symphonies, concertos, and suites. Simpler forms, like songs and individual pieces, sometimes contain only five or six of these levels; while in the practices of composition of the Middle Ages, and the music of much of Renaissance music, the concept of triads and chords did not exist—even though contemporary musicians do hear and see these harmonies in the music of these earlier periods.

Structure and awareness go hand in hand— their connection can be understood in this way: A piece of music is made up of many different sounds; when one is aware of these different sounds, but not of the connections among them, then awareness is only of the first level of structure—the single sound. This is often the situation with beginners whose awareness is primarily involved with trying to read and play individual notes, i.e. “This is a c note, that is an e note,” etc.

The second level of structural awareness is about the relationship among the sounds, i.e. about intervals. Here one is aware, for example, that there is a relationship between a c note and an e note and this relationship is designated and understood as a major third. Add another level of structural awareness, i.e., the awareness of the relationship among three sounds, and we have the awareness of triads, and by extension, chords. As it is with sounds, intervals, and triads, so it is also with motives, phrases, sections, and movements.

A word of explanation is also warranted regarding my use of the term, music molecule. Within the domain of music, common corresponding terms are motive and figure. They all mean about the same thing. In his book, Fundamentals of Musical Composition, Arnold Schoenberg said;

“The motive generally appears in a characteristic and impressive manner at the beginning of a piece. The features of a motive are intervals and rhythms, combined to produce a memorable shape or contour which usually implies an inherent harmony. Inasmuch as almost every figure within a piece reveals some relationship to it, the basic motive is often considered the ‘germ’ of the idea.” – Fundamentals of Musical Composition, by Arnold Schoenberg, page 8

Personally, I often use all of these terms somewhat interchangeably, but I particularly like the term music molecule. In science, a molecule is the smallest amount of a substance that still retains all of the qualities and characteristics of that substance. Here, the word substance is consistent with the material that makes up the whole of a given piece of music and the term music molecule is the smallest structure within that whole that identifies the unique quality of that whole piece of music.

Take, for example, the great old song, “Autumn Leaves.” Merely hearing the first sound will not identify the piece, nor will hearing the second sound, nor will hearing the third. But the first four sounds, corresponding to the words, “The falling leaves,” will identify the song to anyone who is familiar with it. Those first four sounds, their duration, and the harmony they imply create the first molecule of the song we call Autumn Leaves that through the processes of repetition and variation exhibit most all of elements of melody, rhythm, and implied harmony that are heard throughout the song.

It has been my experience that merely playing the correct notes in correct time does not create a satisfying interpretation and expression of a piece of music, but that the awareness of each of the seven levels of structure that make up the whole of a piece of music leads to an understanding and subsequent interpretation and expression of a piece of music that can be both competent and aesthetically satisfying.

I believe that aware of the music molecules, their repetition and variation, and how they combine to form sub-phrases and phrases, which, in turn, combine to form sections and then movements, is the key to that elusive quality that is called musicality. 

Listen to the first four notes, the first music molecule, of Autumn Leaves. This music molecule consisting of the words, “The falling leaves,” is followed by five notes corresponding to the words, “drift by the window.” Notice that those five notes have the same intervallic relationship as the first four notes corresponding to the words, “The falling leaves.” What makes them sound different is that the second five notes begins a whole step lower than the first four and the whole note that ends the first molecule is divided into two half notes in the second in order to accommodate the two syllable word, window.

Some might ask if the second molecule is a repetition or a variation of the first molecule. Personally I favor repetition, though I would not argue too strongly if someone preferred variation. What I think is more important, however, is that the two molecules are in an antecedent/consequent relationship, in other words, the second molecule is a response and completion of the first molecule. The antecedent/consequent relationship is so prevalent in all music that it is nearly impossible to conceive of music that does not exhibit it. It is found to connect molecules, phrases, sections, and even movements.

In Autumn Leaves, the first two molecules, corresponding to the words, the falling leaves and the words drift by the window, make up the first sub-phrase which is then followed by the second sub-phrase containing the words, the autumn leaves of red and gold. Notice that these two sub-phrases are also in an antecedent/consequent relationship, and that the first molecule of the second sub-phrase is a repetition of the very first molecule of the song, beginning on a note that is one-half step lower than the second molecule.

The next line, the autumn leaves, repeats the first molecule a whole step below the notes corresponding to the words, drift by the window and are then followed by a variation of the molecule corresponding to the words, of red and gold. That completes the first sentence of text and the first eight measure phrase consisting of two four measure phrases in an antecedent/consequent relationship.

Here, a phrase is taken to mean a musical sentence. A grammatical sentence needs a subject, verb, and object, for example, the sentence, “I went home.” Notice the similarity, but also the difference, between a phrase and a music molecule. A phrase is a complete thought, like a sentence, but a music molecule, though being the smallest unit that identifies the unique quality of that whole piece of music, is not, in itself, enough to make a musical sentence—a phrase.  

The next phrase of the song, “Autumn Leaves,”  corresponding to the words, I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sun-burned hands, I used to hold, is an exact repetition of the first phrase, but with a variation of the final (cadential) measure.

Which leads us to the second section—the bridge—beginning with the words, since you went away... This is a new molecule, and though it retains the three note step-wise movement found throughout the molecules of the first verse, the second part of this new molecule introduces a melodic skip from a chord tone to a non-harmonic tone and then returns to the same chord tone. The name of this particular type of non-harmonic tone is called a free tone. It resembles and auxiliary tone in that it is between two chord tones that are the same pitch, but differs from the auxiliary tone in that its distance from the chord tone is more than a step.

The next three music molecules, variations of the first, and  corresponding to the three groupings of words, since you went away, the days grow long, and and so I’ll hear, exhibit this same  free tone shape found in the first molecule of the bridge. The phrase ends with the words, old winter’s song, and the cadential consequent of the third molecule.

The next phrase of the bridge is the consequent of the first phrase of the bridge. It corresponds to the words; but I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall, and exhibit the greatest contrast, in the melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic materials that compose its music molecules.

Of great importance to the discussion of music molecules is the observation that the majority of all music molecules do not begin on the first beat of a measure not do they end on the last beat of a measure. Music molecules can be seen to exist over and between bar-lines while the harmonies often tend to change at the bar-lines. Failure to appreciate this distinction creates numerous problems.

For example, notice that in “Autumn Leaves,” the first music molecule that begins the song starts on the & of beat one of the first measure and ends on the first beat of the third measure. The second music molecule then begins on beat two of that measure and ends on beat one of measure five. But the chords, the harmonies that accompany this melody consistently change on the first beat of each measure. Hence, the music molecules begin after the chord changes, not on the chord changes. 

Amateur ensembles often have trouble with the timing of this song, trying to start the music molecules on the chord changes rather than after them. It would be like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole by filing down the edges of the square peg. Yet, the tension that exists between harmonies and melodies is one of the most important factors that contribute to a good piece of music.

Another common mistake made by amateur musicians and ensembles is the failure to appreciate the importance of the caesura—the moment between music molecules, phrases, sections, and movements of a piece of music. What is a moment and what is time? They are both states of awareness—interconnected and yet, independent of each other. We commonly think of time in terms of past, present, and future, but, a moment just is and has no specific measurement in time and has no past or future. A moment only exists in the eternal present.

In music, we establish time by designating tempos and measure time in units of beats and measures. But because the caesura exists outside of time, as a moment, it cannot be found in the beats and measures that measure the music. But it can be felt, and when the caesura is expressed by a great musician, it is always found to make the music feel right.

Segovia once told a student, “Both the good musician and the bad musician disrespects the music (notation), the difference is in how they disrespect it.”  The caesura disrespects the literal notation of tempo, beat, and measure, but when handled correctly, the caesura respects the music that is being indicated by the notation—the music that is the very reason for the notation.

As a musician my aim is to play music in such a way as to share the depth of joy that I feel while I’m playing it, and as a teacher, to help my students do the same. It is my conviction that knowledge plays a role in this process, but that knowledge has to be distilled and integrated into an almost instinctive feeling that goes beyond words and ideas.

I believe that listening is one of the keys to this distillation—listening more and more, and studying more and more, the works of great composers and great musicians.  Also, we should not forget the importance of listening more and more, and understanding more and more, one’s own music, for, in fact, we can really only play what we hear, and what we hear is not just defined by the physical organ ear, but is the result of the cultivated impressions of the mind that responds to and interprets the auditory sensations relayed through it through the ear, to the mind, and ultimately on to the Infinite soul that the body and the mind serve.

Music is a beautiful thing, the deeper one goes into it, the more beautiful it becomes, and the more amazing is the experience—amazing and fulfilling—and as in all things, the key is love.

“My teacher was telling the story, but he was the story itself. It was about Mr. Kubadi and Johann Sebastian Bach, the lover and the beloved, and God’s original question—‘Who am I?’ And it was about me too—and it was about love.” –  From Silence to Sound – Richard Kyle’s Journey to Musical Competency, by Michael Kovitz, page 73 (Available through the author at mekovitz@gmail.com).

  

                                                                                                            © Copyright, Michael Kovitz, 2017

    

A Review of Gurdjieff, de Hartmann, music for the piano, Volume III, by Charles Ketcham and Lawrence Rosenthal

It is interesting to compare this CD, done digitally, with the original analog recordings of Thomas de Hartmann circa 1950.  Technically, the recordings of Charles Ketcham and Lawrence Rosenthal are far better than the de Hartman which was done on amateur equipment. The instrument itself is better, the micing and mixing is better, and the recording equipment is all better than what was available to de Hartman. 

With regard to the playing there are also many differences—not necessarily better or worse, just different.  Ultimately, it may be up to the listener to decide if he or she prefers one over the other—personally I like them both, but if I had to choose, I would choose to listen to the de Hartmann.  

Charles Ketcham and Laurence Rosenthal are modern world-class pianists with wonderful touch, and tasteful use of dynamic change, nuance, and use all of the elements of musical language like acceleration, ritard, ritinuto, legado, staccato, etc. They bring a kind of clarity of line and structure to the music. And, listening to them, I feel their connection to the sacredness of this music.

So why do I still prefer the de Hartmann? There is just something, for me, in hearing the squeak in de Hartmann’s chair, the very occasional miss-played note, the slightly out of tune piano that brings me back to a moment that has passed, a moment, yes, to move on from, and a  moment to be both enshrined and built upon…

  There is a story attributed to the Sufi Mullah Nasruddin.

“A man knocks on the Mullah’s door introducing himself as a friend who has brought a chicken for the Mullah’s wife to cook into a soup. The Mullah invites him in, the wife cooks the soup, and the Mullah and the guest eat it.

“The next day there is another knock on the door. ‘ Who is it?” asks the Mullah. ‘I am the friend of the friend who brought the chicken—can I have some soup?’ The Mullah invites the man in and goes into the kitchen. There is a little soup left, but not enough, so the Mullah adds some water and serves the soup. The next day another man comes, ‘I am the friend of the friend who brought the chicken—can I have some soup?’

“Again the Mullah goes to the kitchen, adds more water, and serves it to the guest. This goes on for seven days, seven friends, seven watered down soups. Finally the last guest says, ‘This does not taste like chicken soup, it tastes like water!’

“The Mullah responds, ‘That is because it is the soup of the chicken, of the chicken, of the chicken, of the chicken, of the chicken, of the chicken, of the chicken, that your friend, of the friend, of the friend, of the friend, of the friend, of the friend, of the friend, brought to me!’”

                                                                                                 (c) copyright Michael Kovitz , 2016

The Alchemy of Transfiguration in Music

“A blueprint is a guide for making something — it's a design or pattern that can be followed.” —Vocabulary.com

After listening to John Fahey’s vintage album, The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death, I began thinking about transfiguration. My first step was to look up the word.  Transfiguration is type of transformation.

Transformation has many nuances of meaning. It could be something as mundane as simple change or something as profound as metamorphosis, or something even more than that— like transfiguration.  Change implies making different and different does not, in and of itself, imply either better or worse, while metamorphosis implies a change to another level, a higher level of consciousness or structure, like when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.

Transfiguration is something even beyond metamorphosis; like metamorphosis it is a change to another level of consciousness or structure, but additionally, that new level seems to imply aspects or qualities associated with divinity, perfection, ultimate reality, infinite beauty, infinite, bliss, and infinite consciousness—in other words, the highest strivings of creation. In music, transfiguration is when a musician raises his or her expression of the music to a level that inspires the mind and heart of the listener to contemplate the infinite and the eternal.

For there to be transfiguration, a kind of alchemy is required between the composer and his music, the musician who plays that music, and the occasion, or performance, of that music.

Andre Segovia was once asked by Studs Terkel about this alchemy and Segovia answered him by saying, “Lazarus was dead and in his grave and Jesus walked up to him and said, ‘Lazarus arise!’ and Lazarus arose and was alive. At that moment, Lazarus belonged as much to Jesus as he did to his own mother and father.”

The Scriptural context that Segovia was paraphrasing is found in Acts 20:7-12 “And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave clothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus said to them, ‘Loose him, and let him go.’”

So, the musician brings the music to life by playing it and, in that moment that piece of music belongs as much to the musician as it does to the composer. That is what Segovia was saying. But what I wonder is if all the music I hear is truly alive? Can the singular act of translating a blueprint into sound be enough to bring a piece of music to life? After all, the notation of a piece of music is only a blueprint that enables the thoughtful musician to arrive at an expression of the music that is acceptable to the composer, the musician, and the audience.

On another occasion Segovia told a young woman that she was disrespecting the music. She gasped and then fell silent. Segovia said that he would try to explain and went on to say that both the good musician and the bad musician disrespect the music. He said that difference was in how they disrespect it.

My understanding of his statement was that when Segovia said “the music,” he meant the notation of the music—the blueprint. I think he was saying that the lesser musician does not extrapolate all of the information from the blueprint and makes mistakes with it and therefore, what comes out, does not respect the music and the composer’s wishes. A good musician, on the other hand, goes beyond the limitations of the literal blueprint, understands beyond the explicit information of the literal blueprint, and creates an expression of the music that disrespects the literal blueprint by transforming it into something more.

As a musician and as a listener I begin to lose interest if a musician is merely translating a musical blueprint, even if the expression is superficially different than other expressions I have heard. I get more interested if the expression of a piece of music reveals something new to me about the music, something that I was not formerly aware of—something about its harmonies, or melodies, or rhythms, or structure. I am interested, yes, but still wishing, still yearning, for something more—something that can take me to a higher level of consciousness, a higher experience that touches the highest expectations of what art is and can be and inspires the deepest of longings for a real fulfillment of myself and the meaning of my world.  

When music realizes its potential to take us into places that cannot be described in words, places where one sees a glimpse, or hears a whisper, or senses an awareness of that which is real, that which is infinite, and eternal, then that music is not merely inspired, it is transfigured and it is the nature of that which is transfigured to transfigure all and everything that it touches.

© copyright, 2016, Michael Kovitz

  

Improvisation in Music - What is it?

I’m a questioner, always have been, probably always will be, but I’m not really looking for answers. I’m also not just trying to be contrary, but there are times when answers do not have that so-called ring of truth for me—do not leave me satisfied.

And so, I sometimes end up stopping others in the course of their explanations to question one or another of the assumptions upon which their explanations are constructed.

A good example is the numerous assumptions about what constitutes improvisation in music. The general thinking is that most classical music is not improvised and that most jazz and blues is.

Fair enough, until we dig a little deeper. Yes, classical music is written down and classical players play what is written. Jazz, on the other hand, is often based upon a form—a harmonic or melodic progression, or a tune—upon which the player is free to, so to speak, change it up and find places within the forms to create their own mini-creations—like solos.

Again, all well and good, but only until we begin to ask some of  those inconvenient questions like—is a classical musician just some kind of machine, like a CD player, that reads the information on the disk—in this case the musical notation or the music played from memorization—and then, via the body, convey that information into sound?

Studies have shown that different areas of the brain are activated when musicians are asked to play a scale or a melody from memory and then asked to improvise on that scale or melody. Specifically, an area of the brain involved with the process of self-monitoring is deactivated during improvisation. But my own experience of playing memorized music and improvising shows me that the situation is not quite so simple—not quite so black and white.

 What I observe is that when I play a piece of music, whether I am improvising or playing from memory, the music never comes out the same way twice. When I’m playing well and I'm in control of the piece, it comes out differently depending on my mood, the acoustics of the room, the instrument I am playing, and also what music and musicians I have been listening to recently.

So the question is this, if I really know the music and am not thinking about how to play it, but what I want to hear, and in the here and now of the moment I am intentionally projecting my vision, am I not improvising?

 But perhaps the answer depends on one’s definition of improvisation. If you think improvisation is only that which creates new melodies, chords, and chord progressions—new notes and different rhythm—then what I am describing is not improvisation. Again, all well and good, but personally, I am not satisfied.

Why not? Because I begin to question what is this new stuff that the improviser is improvising? Where does it come from? How did it get there?  And is the improviser channeling something beyond himself—something from the Universal Mind, or God or the cosmos?

Most jazz musicians will tell you that what comes out in an improvisation is what is already inside of them—is stuff that they have in their minds and have already programed into their bodies—the so-called muscle memory. How it comes out, when it comes out, and why it comes out is sometimes a mystery, but there does always appear to be some cause and effect at work in the process. Elements that I described that impact my expression of classical music seem remarkably like the elements that influence the improvisation of a jazz or blues musician—elements like the musician's mood, the room, the energy of the room, etc.  

In other words, it is my experience that when classical musicians play a piece of music that they have fully internalized and when jazz musicians improvise, there is not as much difference as is sometimes assumed. Of course, the deeper question for me still remains—how does either of them do it in the first place? Where is the line between musician and machine, or is the inconvenient truth that there is really no distinction all? Without the machine of the body and the impressions stored in the mind, neither the classical musician nor the jazz musician could play their music.

And so, I wonder, is the musician—is man—really a kind of sophisticated cyborg—not just in music, but on the whole vast field of life itself, running and being run by their impressions—their physical and mental programing?

My coffee cup sits near me next to my computer; I reach for the cup and take a sip. What just happened? Mind, monitoring my senses, becomes aware of the cup and desiring the experience of the coffee commands the body to do my mind’s will. The body is programed for the task of picking something up and moving it, in this case, to my lips to taste—to experience—the coffee.

But where am I in all of this? Who am I in all of this? And am I ever even here at all? One thing I know for sure, it is in the act of playing music that these questions are raised to a level beyond the theoretical and the abstract and in their contemplation I experience a unique joy and happiness—and can I ever ask for more?

                                                                                              

                                                     © copyright Michael Kovitz 2016

"What the world does not need is another guitar player."

I am helping one of my guitar students prepare for her college auditions.
I was struck by the wording of two of the requirements,
“two pieces, one of which is technical and the other melodic.”

The meaning is not unclear; they require one piece that demonstrates
the performer’s technical proficiency and another piece that demonstrates
feeling and expressiveness.

But if one looks a little more closely at these requirements, the distinctions between technical and musical
are not as obvious as they first seem and even seem to promote, perhaps at a subliminal level, a duality in music that is most unmusical.

Technique is, or always should be, the servant of the music.
Technique is the wings that allow musical vision to soar into the angelic realms
of the miraculous.

Though he was not speaking directly about music, I think this statement by

Meher Baba hits the nail right on the head:

“Mind and heart must work together.
Mind without heart is like a river bed without water—lifeless and dry.
Heart without mind is like a river without banks—the water having nowhere
to flow, becomes a swamp. Mind and heart working together is a beautifully flowing river,
lovely to behold.”

Paraphrased, the statement becomes:

Music without heart is like a river bed without water—lifeless and dry.
Music without mind is like a river without banks—the music having nowhere to flow,
becomes like a swamp. Music that has heart and mind working together is a beautifully
flowing river, lovely to hear.

Andres Segovia once said, “There are no technical problems—only musical problems.”

What this means to me is that a musician can only teach her hands to do what her mind conceives of—no more, no less. This is not to say that different bodies don’t have different capacities, but whatever the strengths and weaknesses of the body, somehow a good musician finds a way. Take for example the legendary jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt who made incredible guitar music with only two functional fingers on his left hand, or George Allen whose fingers were so thick that he was unable to fret a string without holding down another.

In other words, if the mind accepts a buzz or a wrong note, the body will create wrong notes and buzzes and this will establish a technique predisposed to wrong notes and buzzes. On the other hand, if a musician does not accept wrong notes and buzzes, she will create a physical technique that tends to keep them from creeping into her playing. As my old teacher Jack Cecchini used to tell me, “A good musician gets it right, even if he needs to play it with his nose.”

So, what was my student or I to make of this requirement? Did a ‘technical’ piece mean that it needed to be fast, or complicated, or really stretchy? And did a melodic piece mean a piece with a tune-like melody—like a song? Really, I could name many pieces that are slow and do not sound ‘difficult’ yet demand great control—a balance of head and heart—like Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata or Leo Brower’s Un Dia De Noviembre. And also, are there not many pieces that sound really ‘difficult’ that are in fact relatively easy to learn and to play?

In conclusion, I think that the requirements and pedagogy of many music schools and many teachers are promoting and sending the wrong message. With regard to the very wording of my student’s requirements they seem to be fostering a separation of the head and the heart rather than a harmonious union of the two. Again to quote Meher Baba, “There should be a balance between the head and the heart, but should one err, it should be on the side of the heart.”

Or finally, as Andres Segovia once said, “What the world does not need is another guitar player; what the world does need are musicians and artists who also play the guitar.”