Adventures in Music

I hate getting up early. Few things in life will make me as cantankerous as an alarm in the wee hours of the morning. But sometimes early mornings are necessary. The way the economy is right now, I think I'd be willing to get up at three or four in order to get a job if I did not have one. Overseas trips are another good reason. My wife and I got up at 4:30 AM the day we moved back to the States. But apart from jobs and travel, the only other thing that would wake me early is something that makes everyone shiver with excitement: music theory.

There's nothing like some German augmented sixth chords bright and early. Yes, I subjected myself to four straight semesters of 8 AM classes my first two years of college just so I could learn how amazing Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner were. Strangely (in my opinion), music theory is to music what organic chemistry is to science - a weed-out class, the class many music students have the most. But I loved it, from basic voicing to serialism and everything in between. And as a business student, while I always received puzzled looks from my teachers on the first day of class, I enjoyed the complete incongruity between this subject and my other courses.

The only other subject that music theory resembles significantly is English. In particular, music theory constitutes a sort of framework for poetic analysis. Early on we learned the basics: scales, chords, modes, inversions - analogs of rhyme, meter, and diction in poetry. We then piled on limitations - the rules of counterpoint (which are quite extensive), chord progressions, periodic structure. These are like the rules of grammar. Then we started getting dangerous - modulations, chromaticism. Eventually we ended up junking the rules and going atonal. And just like in literature, interpretations ranged from feminist to chauvinist to Marxist to fascist to Freudian etc. And there were mysteries and ridiculous theories about some works. Nobody really knows the function of the Tristan chord. And at least one critic thinks the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony (the Ode to Joy) depicts a rape scene. (This was brought to our attention the day of a concert featuring Beethoven's Ninth - it scarred several students for life.)

In addition to the vast amounts of information gleaned and the new ideas glimpsed, music theory emitted a wonder beyond the walls of the classroom. That wonder was found in many places, like the breakfast group that always met in an act of solidarity before the early class. We would arrive at the dining hall in our pajamas, eyes glazed over from a lack of sleep, but just the sight of other comrades kindled a fire inside. The attendance policy for the class was strict, so we often had to wake each other up via cell phone or door-knocking to avoid any fatal absences. Though sometimes vague in my mind due to the early hour, the memories of our breakfasts are very fond, full of terrible jokes, ridiculous food combinations, and friendship.

Then there was the "lab" that was a corequisite with music theory: ear training (officially, aural skills). In this class we learned how to translate what we heard into notes on paper. It started easy, but by the end of our fourth semester it was no walk in the park. By that time the melodies we wrote down sounded like random noise, and in fact, they were. They would tell us the first note and then proceed to play eight measures of complete musical nonsense, and we had to figure out what they were playing or pay the price. The excessive homework and frustrating practice of these skills bound us all together. (We also had to sing a string of random notes - I forgot to mention that.) There's nothing like a little hardship to solidify friendship.

Some people thought I was crazy for subjecting myself to such torture, but of all the classes I took in college, the music theory classes were the best. I met some of my closest friends there and we survived together. It was not easy, and sometimes not very fun, but few good things in life are easy. I could point to many other courses at college that were easy but which profited me nothing, intellectually or personally. With music theory I gained friends, memories, and needed skills. I cannot begin to tell you how many times a Neapolitan sixth chord has saved my life.

Many college students plow through college in a single field, not bothering to test the fertile ground elsewhere. After the core classes, it's all business or all education or all history. It is easy to become sequestered in one place, never attempting something new, never diversifying. After college it is easy to ignore literature as a business person or science as an English teacher. But knowledge easily cuts across fields. To limit yourself to one arena is to limit your capacity for ingenuity and to lead a much duller life than necessary.

I believe we overstress the need to discover early what we want to do in a career. College students seldom know what they really want to spend the rest of their lives doing, but many parents do not seem to recognize this (my parents, gladly, were very understanding). I have heard many stories of parents having conniptions when their son or daughter decided to change majors, realizing that the "dream" of becoming a doctor belonged to their parents, not themselves.

While finding a worthwhile and enjoyable career is very important, this search should not eclipse and is not exclusive of the need to develop personally and explore the vast worlds of knowledge. The more comprehensive a student's understanding of the world, from science to philosophy to business to the arts, the more employable that student is anyway. Every employer loves a worker who can offer new perspective on an issue and not just repackage the same old prosaic formulas.

So take those music theory classes, that seminar on the philosophy of religion, or read a book outside your normal range. Maybe while you explore something new, you will unwittingly gain friends and memories too.

Kangaroo Singing

I think at this point it's safe to say I am a non-denominational Christian. I grew up Baptist, later attended a Messianic Synagogue, went to a Methodist campus ministry, partnered with a Catholic church on a yearly basis, was the music director at a Baptist church, and am currently attending an Anglican church. So now all I'm missing are the crazy snake handling churches, and I plan to continue to avoid them. Each of these places of worship had unique aspects that I enjoyed, and, equally, they all had weaknesses as well. Coming to England, I knew there was a decent chance I would end up in an Anglican church, given their ubiquity. And as I have already shared in my "Oxfordian Paradox" post, one of the things I anticipated most was the rich and unique musical heritage of the Anglican church, one example being Evensong. It's old, being originally Catholic, but also new, being fundamentally non-Catholic. But as we all know, many churches have modernized not only in technology and methods, but also in music.

By way of explanation, let me give you a bit of musical background. As an undergrad student I took two years of music theory (good idea). Unfortunately for me, who was just taking the courses for fun, music theory is considered the weed-out class for music. So on top of being fairly difficult at times, it was also scheduled at 8 in the morning every day of the week (bad idea). Nonetheless, it was wonderful, both in terms of skills acquired and friends made. But that is completely irrelevant to my story; I just thought I'd tell you.

So getting back to it, in music theory we learned "proper" technique for writing music. One of the principle tenets of writing a good melody is that it be simple. If you turn on the radio and hear some of the popular songs at the moment (or at basically any moment in history, for that matter), they will all have relatively simple melodies. This fact, of course, is to make them easy to sing. If you can't sing along to it, it simply won't become popular. Likewise, in classical music, some of the most memorable and popular tunes are unbelievably simple. The challenge is to have enough variety to make it interesting while still keeping it easy enough to sing along to.

Well, I was surprised to find that modern church music here completely ignores this rule. Normally I would be hesitant to say this is a bad thing: many of you know I am prone to mocking the ridiculous simplicity and repetitiveness of certain popular Christian songs (one in particular that I despise says the word "Jesus" over thirty times in a row with the exact same tune each time, except every fourth "Jesus" - woo hoo). And while I don't necessarily mind the apparent English approach to praise songs, I do find it comical. Let me give you a run down of one of these songs.

The words are printed in the bulletin without any music, so I have no idea how the tune goes (it's too bad no one uses hymnals anymore; they often include better bass lines than I could naturally think of). The singers are up on stage, the music starts, and we're off! Things are going well for about four words; the melody rises one step higher per word. Then, out of nowhere, SQUEAK, the entire congregation cracks their voices straining for some absurdly high note, and then we are immediately back down to the normal pattern. We continue a few more words, and just as I am catching on to the pattern of the next line, ..... , the crowd goes silent, the melody having suddenly dropped so low that only James Earl Jones could hit it. Both extremes having been used up, I figure I am safe for the next line. How foolish of me. Right at the start of the next line: SQUEAK,.....,SQUEAK and then into a usual pattern. To put it mildly, it is completely impossible to follow.

In case you find my words obscure, here is a visual interpretation:
"praise the LORD all ye People - YES praise THE LOOOOOord HALleluJAH!!!!!"

This week at service, one song was so crazy that my wife and I couldn't help laughing every time we came to one of the random jumps. My theory is that they want to give you a feeling of accomplishment when you have finally learned to predict the awkward jumping. Either that or they think we are all kangaroos.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, for all ye music majors out there, the songs seldom end on the tonic, and I mean seldom. That's another big no-no for making singable melodies.

So that's pretty much it. Generally, I like to find some sort of application or moral or something to end my stories, but I don't think there is one. Sometimes, there's just a story, nothing else. But to indulge you, I tried. My best attempt produced this, and with it I will close:

Never exile your criminals to a big unexplored island; they will end up having cooler wild animals than you do, you'll get jealous, and your culture will reflect your jealousy for time immemorial.

I mean, really, how cool are kangaroos? Not to mention platypi. Australia rocks.

Saying Goodbye

Don't get too excited. Despite this post's title (and your soul's deepest desire, no doubt) I am not terminating this blog. You're still stuck with me.

Righto - let's begin shall we:

I find it unfortunate that English has failed to keep the distinctions that are availed to speakers of many other languages in saying goodbye. Although we can say bye, goodbye, see you later, farewell, until we meet again, etc., and they do all have slightly different connotations, I believe the general public does not clearly distinguish between which phrases should be used when. For instance, in French, you simply do not say adieu unless you do not know when you will next see the person with whom you speak. You literally entrust the person "to God" because only he could know what happens next. In German, I believe you would use auf Wiedersehen for the long-term goodbye, meaning roughly "until we meet again" (lit. "until next seeing"). I particularly like this one because of how vague it is. Until we meet again...I will think of you every night? Or perhaps, until we meet again, I will eat three meals daily? And then what if your implied promise is broken? It adequately captures the uncertainty - who knows what I'll be doing, but I'll be doing it, and I hope I'll see you again sometime thereafter. I find it extremely appropriate.

But for English speakers, particularly in America, saying goodbye can be awkward and embarassing if not properly thought out. I don't mean this to be harsh, but it doesn't really work to say see you later when it is very likely that you won't ever see the person again. It implies a complete lack of concern and understanding of the fact that the person is really leaving. And therein lies the issue. Although farewell carries a bit more finality than the others, it would not be unusual to hear someone using any of the other forms in both short-term and long-term settings. I think it would be best if until we meet again and farewell were reserved for long-term goodbyes to preserve their emotional connotation. Frankly, it is nice to feel like someone really does want you to "fare well," not merely be seen later. Likewise, it would be terrific to hold out hope that you would "meet again" with someone you believed was hoping the same. But see you later is naive and unrealistic, as if the speaker is sure he will see you later and thus is not required to feel any emotion at your departure. Nothing has changed - you'll see each other in a week or two, maybe do lunch. Then when that lunch never occurs, the speaker pleads ignorance. His plea is correct.

I realize, though, that sometimes people can have completely proper motives and are just awkward. I know this because I am definitely one of those people. In important final moments, I lose my ability to reason and just blurt out what I'm used to saying, which is normally "see ya later." And after that, it's either deal with it, or try to correct the blunder and become even more awkward in the process. So generally I opt for the former. You see, my problem is that I have never really had to say goodbye like this before. It was traumatizing enough for me to move from private middle school into a public high school where few of my friends were continuing their education. But we all still lived in the same places. Then there was high school to college, which was not very difficult because I could come home whenever I wanted.

That leaves now, and this time it's for real. If I'm going to see anyone, it will require an eight hour flight and an hour in a train. And although I have tried to adequately say farewell to various people in the past month, I think a piece of music sums it up better than I was ever able to communicate with speech. Beethoven's Les Adieux Sonata (No. 26) for piano opens with a movement called "Das Lebewohl," roughly translated to "the farewell," though Germans would say it means much more than that and cannot really be translated. I have only heard the entire sonata a handful of times, but I often play the first three chords because they express what I feel better than I am otherwise able. For those of you who play the piano, here is the beginning of the piece (sorry it's so small):
The first time I heard the piece I was truly struck by how well the opening chords perfectly sum up what it is to say goodbye, permanently. Although the progression is not unique, there is something painfully fitting about the transition from the simple major chords in the first measure, to the unfortunate, minor chord in the second. It feels like Beethoven is watching his lifelong love leaving in a carriage - I'm ok; I'm still ok; I'm definitely not ok. And in this case, the composer really spells it out for us: you will notice that above the first three chords he writes "Le-be-wohl," as if he specifically intended those three chords to signify everything that farewell connotes. Although Beethoven goes on to develop his notion of farewell throughout the piece, I feel sufficiently moved after the opening chords that I normally stop and soak it up. He must have had a very moving farewell at some point in his life - there is no other way he could so perfectly infuse three, elementary chords with such an effect.

So some of you reading this may have received a farewell from me that was lacking in appropriateness, and I do hope you will overlook my awkwardness. I assure you that any "see you laters" and "ciaos" were entirely a result of my inexperience in such times. (I do hope to be better the next time I leave some place for a long period). So to all my friends and family, I will miss you much and think of you often. It is difficult to leave despite the excitement, and I know I will have some "I'm definitely not ok" moments before settling into my new life. But life goes on, and I know eventually we get passed those first three chords and into the rest of the music. And there sure is a lot of music after that introduction.

There will always be vacancies on our floor for your sleeping bags.

Farewell.

Play It Again Sam

Music has always been one of the most emotive forces in my life, especially classical music. I began listening to Baroque music after my oldest brother bought a CD with Bach, Pachelbel, Vivaldi and the like - I think he wanted mood music to play in the car for a big date. But regardless, he was the cool, older brother in high school, and what he did, I did. So I checked it out. Somehow, certain pieces got into me enough to cause interest, even though I found most of the tracks entirely too boring. Harpsichords - I don't think so.

Shortly thereafter my brother graduated from high school and I was left without any classical influence at home. So like any middle schooler without a good influence, I experimented. I tried out all sorts of exotic and tempting composers: Beethoven, Brahms, Rachmaninoff - even those sensuous Impressionists. I was lost forever to the temptations of the Romantic era and beyond.

Obviously, this wasn't quite a tragedy, and I remember with fondness my middle school and high school musical discoveries. But among all the variety, one composer, and one piece, clearly towered above the rest: Rachmaninoff and his second Piano Concerto. I listened to this powerful piece over and over one winter in middle school; its melancholy melodies are forever molded together with the overcast skies of that season. To this day, when I hear any portion of that beautiful creation, I am transported back to my bedroom where I would sit and stare out the window upon the gray skies and listen. I could never listen too much because the emotion was intensely mournful, though somehow pleasing. At the end of many other pieces, the listener feels a sense of completion and is ready to move on to the next moment in time, but Rachmaninoff always left me feeling slightly unfulfilled, as if he beckoned for me to return at some later date to relive the whole experience just one more time. And I kept coming back, not because I wanted to catch a glimpse of completion, but because I knew this sense of incompletion in mourning was proper to our existence. I could not have placed the feeling at the time, but it resonated deep within me - unfinished work is profoundly human.

Whether or not musicologists would agree with me, death and mourning seem to be wrapped up in the essence of Russian music. In fact, all of Russian society seems to reflect that connection: alcoholism is rampant, violence and corruption are mainstays, and the arts simply interpret this fog over Russian life. The brutal winters probably do not help the mood in Moscow and St Petersburg either. But in a way, the harsh setting has allowed some of their great artists like Rachmaninoff to present a kind of prophetic vision of life near death. And this is why their music can be so powerful.

It is human nature that when someone is nearing death, he begins to realize that often what he has striven for is fruitless and what is worthwhile he has left unfinished. Who among us, dear reader, has not witnessed personally or heard witness of a relative on his death bed telling posterity to love their family and spend time with them, to come home early from the office to play ball with the kids, to keep the lower paying job in place of the more lucrative one that demands working nights and weekends? Everything is put in its proper place when the trappings of this life no longer matter, when the Rolls Royce and the Saturn are both sitting in the hospital parking lot side by side, empty. And I have never known a more poignant representation of this reality than in Rachmaninoff. It does not matter what came before the end because you want more regardless. But it's over - there is no more. This feeling of emptiness, of unfinished finality everlasting that I heard in Rachmaninoff was ruthless like the Russian winter.

No wonder I can still recreate the mournful skies out my window and the feeling of solitude in my bedroom as I replayed the tracks. What the Russian great had captured in his music was a feeling built into humanity; I was simply encountering it early and I didn't know how to escape it.

Obviously, I am still with you to this day and I have not suffered irreparable damage from my first real encounter with the prospect of my life's end. We all face it at some point, often more than once before we return to the dust. But my perspective has changed since my younger years. Now when I hear Rachmaninoff, I can remember what it thrust before me in yesteryear and remain unmoved. There is something more, dear reader. We are not meant to live as if we could never finish; when we come to the end, we do not have to leave begging for another playback.

Among my generation, thoughts of death seem to be few and far between. Occasionally an elderly relative will pass away or a tragic accident will end the life of a peer, but after a short period, death recedes, along with all of its troubling issues. To be frank, we often forsake those things we know to be most valuable because there are no ubiquitous reminders. Everything tells us to push the difficult issues to the side and face them only when you must. But then, when face them we must, we are too often unready.

Life at its best is joyful, and we should strive to live joyful lives, but we all need reminders about what lies ahead. Rachmaninoff was the first of many such reminders that caused me to reevaluate what I value most. These reminders can come in many forms, and heed them we must. For there are many questions of import in this life that we all must face, and as I learned in middle school, procrastinating never makes them easier.