Archive for February, 2012


A matter of taste

De gustibus non est disputandum – proverb

“Taste” is a tricky concept. It’s easy to countenance differences of opinion when the object of those opinions is something of little import, like T-shirt color. At the other end of the spectrum, where life and limb may be at stake, opinion has no place in the discussion. What we want in those instances are hard, objective facts about the proper way to proceed.

Certainly music is not a matter of life and death. But neither is it as trivial as T-shirt color. Very many people seem content to live life sans the pleasures of visual art or literature (nothing against those endeavors – I’m simply making an observation). But almost no one is very far for very long from their “tunes.” It seems to me music provides a more visceral enjoyment, and is the object of a more primal desire than the other arts are. But that’s a topic for another post. The point is that we have found music to be of some importance. Exactly where on the continuum it falls may not be clear.

Complicating the issue is the question of how to distinguish between matters of taste and matters of more objective superiority or inferiority. Person A may prefer Brahms. Person B may prefer Bach. Both are excellent composers, and we may not be able to discern which is superior. It’s probably silly to try – a sort of “apples to oranges” situation. But certainly we can say that Bach is superior to, say, Johann Gottfried Walther. There is an undeniable greater degree of logic and solid architecture in Bach’s work. We may not have the capacity to measure which peak on the musical landscape is highest, but we can certainly discern the peaks from the valleys. There comes a point at which one is not dealing anymore with “like vs dislike” but with “skilled vs unskilled.” Taste cannot, therefore, be the sole arbiter in the evaluation of a composer, or of an individual piece. We must take into account the intellectual content of the music, the skill with which the deep structure has been elaborated upon and transformed into the surface structure.

Brahms was getting at precisely this when he wrote in 1876:

In some of these you seem to be too easily satisfied. One ought never to forget that by perfecting one piece more is gained and learned than by beginning or half-finishing a dozen. Let it rest . . . and keep going back to it and working over it, over and over again, until it is a complete, finished work of art, until there is not a note too much or too little, not a bar you could improve upon. Whether it is beautiful also, is an entirely different matter, but perfect it must be.

“Whether it is beautiful also, is an entirely different matter, but perfect it must be.” This is such a profound insight. Superficial attractiveness is not sufficient. Conversely, a piece with no superficial hook or gimmick might be much more well-written than a piece full of attention-demanding flourishes and curlicues.

Now, in most cases, the perfect is identical with the beautiful. A piece’s perfection is what makes it beautiful. But even if you find yourself not particularly moved by the surface events in a piece by one of the masters, you have to acknowledge the quality of the writing, of the musical thought, going on at a deeper level.

So I was surprised to see a composer colleague admit that, after years of “not getting it”, he had finally come to respect Palestrina, and that perhaps this meant that respect for Robert Schumann might be forthcoming. Of all people, shouldn’t a composer be able to see the quality present in the music of Palestrina and Schumann, even if the music doesn’t always sweep him or her away? I’ll admit, Palestrina’s music might not be super catchy. But there is an unassailable logic governing the way the voices proceed. And I’m mystified by the Schumann remark. Consider this piece, for crying out loud!


The case for voice-leading

It’s 2012. Why would I waste time and effort considering a musical idiom that’s seen its day, as far as most contemporary composers are concerned? The avant-garde writes music in which pitch is either of little importance or absent altogether. Voice-leading is an obviously inapplicable notion in such a context. On the other hand, composers who use pitch more traditionally, and who might even adhere to tonality, seem to feel that ignoring voice-leading is licit simply because of the date. Time marches on, and as it does (the argument goes), it removes, one after another, previously established standards.

In the case of the former, I’d argue that things like this, or even this, are not actually music. Sometimes you see music defined as “organized sound.” I’d refine that a bit and say music is organized pitch. Pitch is an essential element in music. Trying to create music without pitch would be like trying to create food without flavor. Pitch is the substance with which one works. Is the chef not judged by how well or how innovatively she manipulates and combines foods with different flavor profiles? What would you say if you took a bite of something and tasted nothing? Texture (the tactile experience when eating) isn’t enough by itself, just as unpitched sound itself is not enough. If pitch is present, but its temporal location is not explicitly notated by the composer (having been left to chance), then in what meaningful sense can we say that the composer has actually composed the piece?

In the case of the latter, I’ll admit that the march of time and the change attendant to it are unavoidable, and often to be welcomed. But not on the basis of whim, or worse, of incompetence. It sometimes happens that dictionaries must acknowledge technically incorrect word spellings or usages, simply because so many people get it wrong. This is what has happened to voice-leading in contemporary tonal music.

The problem is that many contemporary musicians are unaware of how and why voice-leading guidelines came about. They were not imposed, top-down, by some individual who dreamt them up from whole cloth. They evolved, or perhaps more accurately, they emerged. They emerged from close listening, and consideration of harmonic/contrapuntal implications, by composers across the ages. One can observe how voice-leading guidelines gradually coalesced as monody gave way to organum, which gave way to ars antiqua, then ars nova, stile antico, and eventually culminating in the complex machinations of composers like Johannes Brahms. It was at this point that most composers felt some new means of generating content was necessary. Imagine, however, if scientists were to have said at some point: “the scientific method has been exhausted; we need some new means of producing reliable knowledge.” A keen observer might detect that those campaigning for the “new method,” in either discipline, had simply found the “old method” too challenging, intellectually, and were hoping to institute a more relativistic system with fewer standards. One certainly can’t argue that the “old method” led to scientific or artistic stasis. Just look where the scientific method has gotten us! And then look at the difference between Palestrina and Brahms! Yet the basic principles governing the production of content in both composers’ work are the same! As Schenker often said: “Semper idem, sed non eodem modo.” Not realizing voice-leading’s organic raison d’etre, contemporary composers suppose it can be unthinkingly dismissed as a superficial fashion of centuries past, an unnecessary conceit.

In most disciplines, practitioners usually try to proceed in the best way possible, and usually attempt to derive the best way possible in as objectively sound a manner as possible. Yet, even in mathematics, in order to make any progress, some things must simply be agreed upon, not necessarily because there is absolute proof for them, but because we agree they are more-or-less self-evident. These “first priciples” are called axioms, and in music, voice-leading follows from these two axioms:

1) Redundancy is to be avoided as much as possible.

2) Unqualified ambiguity is to be avoided as much as possible.

Inasmuch as we want to define a composition as skillful and obviously deliberative manipulation of pitched sound, these axioms are necessary to distinguish the composition from unskilled or completely random collections of pitched sound. Most instances of successive parallel perfect intervals breach both of these precepts.

I should hardly need to explain how parallel octaves, in two discrete voices, represent redundancy. Parallel fifths are redundant because the upper voice will really be nothing more than a doubling of the lower voice’s second partial. J. J. Fux had this in mind when he wrote, in Gradus ad Parnassum, that avoiding parallel motion is the primary way to achieve variety amongst the voices.

Parallel fifths are also ambiguous. As Schenker explained, one of the two voices will leave the key established by the other voice. For example, imagine this cantus firmus: C, B, C, E, G, F, E. This is an obvious and strong unfolding of a C-major triad. A voice in parallel fifths would proceed thus: G, F#, G, B, D, C, B. Our sense of C-major has been undone, and C-major is now competing with G-major. Which tonality is it?

At this point, it’s important to remember that avoiding parallel motion only in the surface-structure of a piece, that is, concerning oneself only with the motion from one note to the immediately subsequent note, is not sufficient. One of the primal functions of our brains is to seek pattern. Those who pay close attention when listening to music will relate not only immediately adjacent events, but also important events separated by spans of varying size. These important pitch-events, these harmonic and contrapuntal pillars (what Schenker would term the “middleground”) should also proceed according to the two axioms above.

In addition to the proscription against parallel perfect intervals, the axioms also prescribe a manner of writing that involves the setting-up and fulfilling of goals. Schenker famously wrote: “without a goal, there can be no content.” Indeed, a piece with no discernible direction, that isn’t about attaining harmonic or pitch goals that have been intentionally established – a piece that isn’t heading somewhere – doesn’t compel the listener to keep listening. Aimless meandering will disintegrate into redundancy, often accompanied by a decent helping of bad and unintentional ambiguity. Of course, the ability to establish goals rests primarily on the harmonic implications of the overtone series and the major triad which is derived from it. But that is a topic for another post.

Now, all this having been written, there’s no need to worry that the composer is locked into proceeding in just one, very specific, unimaginative way. On the contrary, there are many ways one can write legitimate parallel perfect intervals without transgressing our two axioms. And the reason the second axiom calls for the avoidance of “unqualified” ambiguity is that not all ambiguity is bad. Indeed, one of the tests for compositional skill is the ingenuity with which a composer can seemingly flout “the rules,” while beneath it all actually maintaining them.

The first “workaround” is that a composer may write parallel octaves and/or fifths with the understanding that the parallel notes all represent one voice. This is easiest to see in the left hand (bass) of almost any piano composition. The left hand is constantly required to play parallel octaves; but those octaves represent one voice – the bass. A similar phenomenon occurs with a style known as “planing”, for which Debussy was famous. For instance, the parallel octaves and fifths, for both hands, in the Sarabande from his suite Pour le Piano are not intended as individual voices. The injunction against parallel motion applies only to voices which are intended to be discrete. This is why organum was comprised entirely of parallel perfect intervals. Composers writing in that style were still thinking in terms of monody. The addition of a perfect fifth was not intended as an addition of a separate voice. No, the problem, which is all too common in contemporary tonal music, is when two or more voices proceed appropriately for a while, then suddenly engage in parallel motion which can’t be explained as a unisono or a tutti. 99 times out of 100 it’s because the composer was not in control of what he or she was putting on the paper.

Ambiguity can actually be a source of great beauty, provided the context makes it evident that a) it was intentional, and b) it doesn’t obfuscate the (hopefully present) perspicuity of the composer’s other intentions. The opening of the Adagietto from Mahler’s 5th symphony is an example of good ambiguity. The harp and strings sound only “A” and “C” for several seconds. We aren’t sure if we’re being fed the tonic and third of an A-minor sonority, or the third and fifth of an F-major sonority. When the violins ascend the tetrachord beginning on “C” and wind up asserting the tonic pitch “F”, via a heart-wrenching retardation on “E”, we melt. The ambiguity was brought into sharp relief and made all the more effective because it was dealt with: it was resolved. Ambiguities that are ignored, that are not resolved, are indistinguishable from ambiguities that are unintentional. (I feel I should add, here, that I’m not a particular admirer of Mahler. Much of his music is more gimmick/effect-driven than content-driven. But the opening of the Adagietto was undeniably a good and beautiful idea.)

I’ll close with another analogy. Even if you want to achieve a fresh sound, it behooves you to understand the medium with which you’re working as thoroughly as possible. Composers who don’t know how and why voice-leading guidelines came about, or worse, don’t know what those guidelines are, do not embark auspiciously on their careers. Here’s the analogy: world-renowned scholar and virtuoso organist Jacques van Oortmerssen remarked in a master-class that freedom with tempo means nothing if you, the performer, aren’t thinking of what the unfree, metronomic pulse is. The listener must be able to discern that you are approximating freedom from something. Carte blanche whim is no freedom at all. As philosophical free will deniers and incompatibilists respond, when confronted with the argument that quantum indeterminacy might salvage the classical notion of free will: randomness is not freedom. You have to know where music has been if you want to be involved in where it’s going.



I don’t think I’ve ever heard or read anything, by anyone, professional or otherwise, that didn’t express amazement at the work of Carlo Gesualdo.

Well, I’m not amazed (which should go some way in demonstrating that I don’t simply think old = great).

What is it that amazes everybody?  Singular ability for organic and logical architecture?  A knack for manipulating, while at the same time satisfying, our subconscious and visceral expectations (i. e., setting up and achieving goals)?  Clever or captivating motivic development?

I can’t detect any of these hallmarks of greatness in his music.  No, people seem to be completely twitterpated over the simple fact that he employs much more chromaticism than his contemporaries.  His music is unusual, and for some reason, most people have decided that “unusual” and “good” are synonymous.

His madrigal, Moro, lasso, al mio duolo, is typical of his style.  Chromaticism, all by itself, is not hard to achieve.  Just put it in there!  Chromaticism that means something, that will have consequences for the other parts and for what happens further along in the composition, requires much more compositional skill.  Gesualdo’s chromaticism exists completely on the surface.  He constructs only tiny little islands of relationship, often as tiny as two adjacent harmonies.  The result might be called “complicated but not complex.”  Despite the crazy veneer, there isn’t really anything in his work to sink one’s teeth into.

Now, all that said, chromaticism done right can be very effective.  There’s nothing wrong with unusual.  I only take exception to the way many musicians, in my experience, equivocate between “unusual” and “good.”


An analogy

I like peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches. I like them a lot. I like them for a variety of reasons.

I also like filet mignon Wellington and creme brûlée.

But I am fully prepared to admit that the preparation of a PBJ is easy. Almost brainless. The preparation of the other dish might quite rightly qualify as culinary art, if well executed. And you’d never get a job as a chef if all you could do was make PBJs.

So why do we defer to the tastes of the masses when evaluating music? I thought educated people understood that argumentum ad populum is a fallacy. The fact that you “like” something isn’t enough to support a claim that it has value which must be universally acknowledged. But for some reason people have enshrined the attitude conveyed in Frank Zappa’s famous quote: “if it sounds good to you, it’s bitchin’!” Which on a certain level is fine, as long as you don’t cross the line into canonizing the mundane and the easy. I think PBJs are bitchin’, but I also think they’re a poor example of culinary skill. You’ll never catch me donating to the Foundation for the Dissemination of Peanut-Butter-and-Jelly-Sandwich-Making Techniques. I’m not arguing that we shouldn’t enjoy peanut-butter sandwiches. Just that we should call a spade a spade.

So here I sit, watching in horror as people snarf down, almost exclusively all the PBJs on offer from bands like Coldplay, or “artists” like Ben Folds. Meanwhile, Bach’s creme brûlée is starting to grow mold. Those who consider themselves “omnivores” are no consolation. How can you equate peanut-butter and jelly with complicated dishes that require lots of knowledge and experience to create?

February 2012