One of our parishioners informed me recently that I play the hymns too fast. He followed up our conversation with a letter in which he listed some considerations I should keep in mind to play at the proper tempo. In our parish, he is not alone in his opinion. This is nothing new for me; in a previous church, one of the sopranos often told me (generally with a good dose of contempt for my lack of musicality) that it was obvious that I was not a singer. If I were, I would understand that my tempos were too fast.
I think that my tempos on the hymns are just right. Otherwise I would play them at a different tempo.
More seriously, they raise a question that is important for anyone who accompanies hymns. Are you going to play it safe, do nothing that will offend anyone? A lot of players do this – perhaps they have been beaten up too much over the years by parishioners and clergy. All stanzas on the same generic registration, a nice safe middle-of-the-road tempo on every hymn, no matter what the music or text might suggest. And they probably get fewer complaints than I do.
I do not worry about playing too fast. I worry more about playing too slowly – not on the hymns so much as with the organ repertoire. I seem to play almost everything slower than other people. I am not doing so because I cannot play faster; I play at what in my judgment seems to be the correct tempo.
Here is an example; my postlude at today's choral service. It is the manuals-only setting of the chorale Aus tiefer Not from Bach's Clavierübung. This afternoon, I checked YouTube for other playings of it; a search turns up lots of them. Of the dozen or so that I sampled, mine was by far the slowest. Most of them are on much larger registrations than my single 8' flute – I found only one other that agreed with me on registration; this one, by Jonathan Wessler. It is a fine performance, considerably faster than mine. I had not intended to post my version, knowing that so many others have this repertoire online. But I see that mine is at least unusual, whether it is any good or not.
At the contemporary service today, my improvisation was another attempt at sonata form, using two hymn tunes that would occur in the service. The first was “Deo gratias,” to the text “O love, how deep, how strong, how high,” in the key of E Dorian. For the second theme grouping of the form, I used the Shirly Erena Murray hymn “Touch the earth lightly,” which was a comment on the Old Testament lesson about Noah and the rainbow, and God's covenant with all living things. The tune is by Swee Hong Lim, sweet and gentle and very much in contrast with “Deo gratias,” and I put it in C major to allow the transition that you will hear. I like the uncertainty at first as to what mode it is - it is only after a few measures that one hears clearly that it is in major.
I think that the Exposition of these two tunes worked adequately. There were some good ideas in the Development too, but it was too long for the time available – for these improvisations do not occur in a vacuum; I am to finish precisely at 9:00 a.m. Thus, the Recapitulation was too abrupt. I wanted to give “Touch the earth” (now in the home key of E) two more variations as I did in the Exposition, but there was no time, and that was a musical flaw; the piece would have been more balanced with that extra playing.
I do not know if these efforts of mine are recognizable as sonata forms. Perhaps the idea of using two hymns in this manner does not work with the form. But it seems to push me in an interesting direction, and I hope to keep making the attempt from time to time.
And perhaps the point of tonight's essay is this: we never know with any certainty whether we are on the right musical path. We cannot adequately evaluate our own work. But we must go on the best we can.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Speak the Language (Part Two)
Last week I wrote about harmony, counterpoint, and listening to the Tradition. This week it is time to be more practical.
The manner in which Music Theory is taught is not immediately useful to the improviser. Most of the work is done with pencil and paper. How can the musician transfer this to the instrument?
One place to start: Harmonize a Scale. The book by Marcel Dupré (“Complete Course in Organ Improvisation”) begins here, and this is where I started. In his method, the student works out a solid four-part harmonization of a major scale with good voice leading, and plays it. Slowly. Over and over. Then in different keys. Then, the minor scales. Then with the scale in other voices: bass line (in the left hand, and also in the pedals), alto/tenor. By the time I had spent about a month doing this, it started to become easier. Dupré does not say so, but I would add the Modes (Dorian, Phrygian, etc.).
What made this skill come to life for me was accompanying the choir as they sing scales in warmups. In that setting, I cannot think much about the scale, for I am listening to the choir and thinking about them, so the scale and its harmony become automatic – eventually.
Gerre Hancock's book (“Improvising: How to Master the Art”) likewise begins with scales, but he suggests a less rigid approach – accompany the scale with a second voice, then three voices, then four, in various styles, various tempos, with rhythmic modifications. These are steps that the student must eventually take, even if she begins with Dupré's strict approach.
When you can play a scale and harmonize it, you can also play any stepwise passage. That is the next step: melodies that are mostly stepwise.
In a sense, this is the “top-down” approach. One can also work from the “bottom-up,” and that would be Figured Bass. I wrote of it here and here.
As an entrance into improvisation, Figured Bass provides a harmonic framework and a bass line, and the player must create the rest. There is no better training than this for practical keyboard harmony.
Yet another approach is by way of Counterpoint. For this, I recommend a little book by Jan Bender: “Organ Improvisation for Beginners” (Concordia Publishing House, 1975). He teaches the student to improvise two-part textures based on hymn tunes, then expanding to three-part contrapuntal textures, and finally free (non-hymntune) improvisation. The two-part work is the most useful, and not terribly difficult. Here is a review of the Bender.
Sadly, it appears to be out of print, and if it is on Google Books, I cannot find it. Copies are available on Amazon for outrageous prices ($40 and up, for this slender volume of 71 pages. I see a copy on eBay for over $200!) Don't pay that much, not even $40 – but see if you might be able to read it via interlibrary loan. You could pick up the basic ideas in less than an hour, take careful notes, and work on your own without the book.
I see that the Dupré is expensive too: volume one is in the Organ Historical Society catalogue for $65. For the serious student, that might be worth it, more so than the Bender. The OHS catalogue also has volume two for $79; hold off on that until you have completed volume one. In fact, you can harmonize scales without Dupré; save your money and work at this skill, and when you have mastered it, order a copy of volume one for the rest of his material.
It has been a difficult week, with another funeral. This time, it was a middle-aged father who died after a tortuous nine years of cancer treatments. He was a member of the contemporary congregation, and there was much grief among them. This morning, the day after the funeral, our Youth Choir sang at that service. We had one of the plainsong Propers for the day, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, and I improvised on it for the prelude. I hope that my little bit of music-making was a beginning toward the healing of grief, and of incipient breaches in our congregational life that have resulted from it. Or I should say “our” music, not just mine, for my work was altogether a preparation for the Youth Choir's singing of the chant, and an attempt to place it in the context of the congregation's sadness and “morning after” emptiness that many felt.
It took one verse from the end of the Gospel as an Antiphon, a line that can easily be overlooked:
Nor can we understand the suffering and death of a person in the prime of life, and the grief of his family. Not without the Cross. And not without the Resurrection.
Here is the improvisation.
The manner in which Music Theory is taught is not immediately useful to the improviser. Most of the work is done with pencil and paper. How can the musician transfer this to the instrument?
One place to start: Harmonize a Scale. The book by Marcel Dupré (“Complete Course in Organ Improvisation”) begins here, and this is where I started. In his method, the student works out a solid four-part harmonization of a major scale with good voice leading, and plays it. Slowly. Over and over. Then in different keys. Then, the minor scales. Then with the scale in other voices: bass line (in the left hand, and also in the pedals), alto/tenor. By the time I had spent about a month doing this, it started to become easier. Dupré does not say so, but I would add the Modes (Dorian, Phrygian, etc.).
What made this skill come to life for me was accompanying the choir as they sing scales in warmups. In that setting, I cannot think much about the scale, for I am listening to the choir and thinking about them, so the scale and its harmony become automatic – eventually.
Gerre Hancock's book (“Improvising: How to Master the Art”) likewise begins with scales, but he suggests a less rigid approach – accompany the scale with a second voice, then three voices, then four, in various styles, various tempos, with rhythmic modifications. These are steps that the student must eventually take, even if she begins with Dupré's strict approach.
When you can play a scale and harmonize it, you can also play any stepwise passage. That is the next step: melodies that are mostly stepwise.
In a sense, this is the “top-down” approach. One can also work from the “bottom-up,” and that would be Figured Bass. I wrote of it here and here.
As an entrance into improvisation, Figured Bass provides a harmonic framework and a bass line, and the player must create the rest. There is no better training than this for practical keyboard harmony.
Yet another approach is by way of Counterpoint. For this, I recommend a little book by Jan Bender: “Organ Improvisation for Beginners” (Concordia Publishing House, 1975). He teaches the student to improvise two-part textures based on hymn tunes, then expanding to three-part contrapuntal textures, and finally free (non-hymntune) improvisation. The two-part work is the most useful, and not terribly difficult. Here is a review of the Bender.
Sadly, it appears to be out of print, and if it is on Google Books, I cannot find it. Copies are available on Amazon for outrageous prices ($40 and up, for this slender volume of 71 pages. I see a copy on eBay for over $200!) Don't pay that much, not even $40 – but see if you might be able to read it via interlibrary loan. You could pick up the basic ideas in less than an hour, take careful notes, and work on your own without the book.
I see that the Dupré is expensive too: volume one is in the Organ Historical Society catalogue for $65. For the serious student, that might be worth it, more so than the Bender. The OHS catalogue also has volume two for $79; hold off on that until you have completed volume one. In fact, you can harmonize scales without Dupré; save your money and work at this skill, and when you have mastered it, order a copy of volume one for the rest of his material.
It has been a difficult week, with another funeral. This time, it was a middle-aged father who died after a tortuous nine years of cancer treatments. He was a member of the contemporary congregation, and there was much grief among them. This morning, the day after the funeral, our Youth Choir sang at that service. We had one of the plainsong Propers for the day, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, and I improvised on it for the prelude. I hope that my little bit of music-making was a beginning toward the healing of grief, and of incipient breaches in our congregational life that have resulted from it. Or I should say “our” music, not just mine, for my work was altogether a preparation for the Youth Choir's singing of the chant, and an attempt to place it in the context of the congregation's sadness and “morning after” emptiness that many felt.
It took one verse from the end of the Gospel as an Antiphon, a line that can easily be overlooked:
Tell no one about the vision that you have had this day, until the Son of Man has risen from the dead.To this it added two verses from Psalm 97:
The Lord is King; let the earth rejoice: let the multitude of the isles be glad. Clouds and darkness are round about him: righteousness and justice are the foundations of his throne.In rehearsals, we discussed this, concluding that the disciples were to be silent because people would not understand the Transfiguration without the Cross and Resurrection.
Nor can we understand the suffering and death of a person in the prime of life, and the grief of his family. Not without the Cross. And not without the Resurrection.
Here is the improvisation.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Speak the Language
The first stage of improvisation is to Know the Tune.
The second stage: Speak the Language.
A writer must know how the language expresses ideas. That involves such disciplines as spelling, grammar, composition of ideas into sentences and paragraphs. My impression is that modern education discounts such old-fashioned concepts, but the fact remains that deficiencies in these areas interfere with the readers' comprehension of the author's intent.
Beyond these foundational skills, a writer must read. She must read all the time, deeply and widely, immersing herself in the language and the art of storytelling, or poetry, or nonfiction writing, or (better) all of them. She reads and listens until what Tolkien called the Cauldron of Story is part of her soul.
It is the same for a musician. Here is where the academic coursework which is part of any music degree finds its application: harmony, counterpoint, musical analysis, music history. Beyond these things, every bit of music that the musician encounters goes into what one might call the “Cauldron of Song,” the great Tradition of which we all partake.
This is a good image in more ways than one. Both “cauldrons” exist more in oral transmission than in what our ancestors often called “book learning.” The books, if they are good, attempt to codify the untidy soup of words and archetypes and deeds – and tunes and rhythms and harmonies – that underlie the crafts of Story and Song. But it is the actual work – the stories, the novels, the poems and epics and fairy tales, the songs, the anthems, the jigs and reels, the ballads, the symphonic works, the hymn tunes, the sonatas – that are the genuine Language that we must know.
The musician (and the author) do not have to go to school to learn these things, not if they pay attention – “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” as the marvelous old Collect says. There are countless folk and roots musicians who have never come near a School of Music, and make better songs than people like me with my diplomas hanging on the wall. But many of us would not find our way through the thicket without some book learning, and even the folk musicians who have not been to a formal school almost always have had what amounts to an apprenticeship, listening to the old ballad singers, or sitting around the edges of bluegrass bands and occasionally getting a chance to play along, and then getting advice from the old-timers as to how it is done. That is what the books are doing, if they are worth studying. I think of old Fux and his Gradus ad Parnassum, or C.P.E. Bach and his “Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier” as two examples of such work. Or crusty old Schoenberg and his “Fundamentals of Musical Composition.” Or Hindemith and his “Elementary Training for the Musician,” a book that is so difficult that no one I know (and certainly not me) has gotten more than about a quarter of the way through.
Speaking the Language is often the barrier that keeps people from making their own music. Someone who has not had much formal training wishes they “knew the chords,” as it is sometimes expressed. But those who have a lot of formal education are equally paralyzed. “What if I play a parallel fifth? What if I don't resolve a dissonance, or use proper voice leading?” As soon as one starts thinking too much about such matters, it becomes impossible to play anything unless it is in black and white on the page: Real Music, written by a Composer.
To such people, of which I was one: Don't worry about it. Just play.
Yes, the proper voice leading helps. It is a tool that can make your music better, and the more skill you have with harmony and voice leading and counterpoint, the better. But at the moment of improvisation, you cannot be thinking about such things. Just play. The thinking comes in retrospect, when you realize why a passage did not come off the way you had hoped. It may lead you (as it does me) to practice progressions and cadences and suchlike that have caused trouble. And that will help you play better the next time.
When I am improvising, I am mostly keeping track of the Tune. A second level of thought is the Form, which I have often scratched out on a piece of paper, and it is usually a thought such as “Okay, I've got to get to G major from here.” A third level of thought is trying to keep the outer lines in contrary motion, and the most basic harmony – which for me is just trying to stay diatonic in whatever key I am in. Or if I am in a more chromatic language, maintaining that level of chromaticism. And while all this is happening, I simply try to go where the notes want to take me, for every musical statement, even just two or three notes, carries within itself implications that must be worked out.
It is very much like an author in the midst of a story: the characters and events that have brought him to this point have a certain inevitability that causes the story to continue in one direction and not another. At its most fundamental, it can be as little as one line...
-----
My music for this week is the prelude improvisation for the middle service . It begins with a song that was unfamiliar and needed some preparation (though only a handful of people were there early enough to hear it): the tune “Tucker” by David Ashley White, to the Fred Pratt Green text “From miles around the sick ones came,” a text that fits today's Gospel. I began by simply playing a verse of the tune straight from the hymnal, and expanded somewhat from there. The music continues with a well-known Scottish tune “Ye banks and braes,” for which John Bell wrote the text “We cannot measure how you heal.”
The artwork on the YouTube clip, a seventeenth century Ukranian fresco, is not about today's Gospel; it is, instead, about the time when the woman with an issue of blood touched the hem of his garment. And that was enough; she did not need him to go out of his way or take the time to lay hands on her. Perhaps her thoughts were like those of the centurion who said “Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof.” But Jesus would not leave it there; he stopped what he was doing (which was important: he was on his way to the house of Jairus, where a girl lay dead) so that he could tell the woman that it was her faith that had made her whole.
The second stage: Speak the Language.
A writer must know how the language expresses ideas. That involves such disciplines as spelling, grammar, composition of ideas into sentences and paragraphs. My impression is that modern education discounts such old-fashioned concepts, but the fact remains that deficiencies in these areas interfere with the readers' comprehension of the author's intent.
Beyond these foundational skills, a writer must read. She must read all the time, deeply and widely, immersing herself in the language and the art of storytelling, or poetry, or nonfiction writing, or (better) all of them. She reads and listens until what Tolkien called the Cauldron of Story is part of her soul.
It is the same for a musician. Here is where the academic coursework which is part of any music degree finds its application: harmony, counterpoint, musical analysis, music history. Beyond these things, every bit of music that the musician encounters goes into what one might call the “Cauldron of Song,” the great Tradition of which we all partake.
This is a good image in more ways than one. Both “cauldrons” exist more in oral transmission than in what our ancestors often called “book learning.” The books, if they are good, attempt to codify the untidy soup of words and archetypes and deeds – and tunes and rhythms and harmonies – that underlie the crafts of Story and Song. But it is the actual work – the stories, the novels, the poems and epics and fairy tales, the songs, the anthems, the jigs and reels, the ballads, the symphonic works, the hymn tunes, the sonatas – that are the genuine Language that we must know.
The musician (and the author) do not have to go to school to learn these things, not if they pay attention – “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” as the marvelous old Collect says. There are countless folk and roots musicians who have never come near a School of Music, and make better songs than people like me with my diplomas hanging on the wall. But many of us would not find our way through the thicket without some book learning, and even the folk musicians who have not been to a formal school almost always have had what amounts to an apprenticeship, listening to the old ballad singers, or sitting around the edges of bluegrass bands and occasionally getting a chance to play along, and then getting advice from the old-timers as to how it is done. That is what the books are doing, if they are worth studying. I think of old Fux and his Gradus ad Parnassum, or C.P.E. Bach and his “Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier” as two examples of such work. Or crusty old Schoenberg and his “Fundamentals of Musical Composition.” Or Hindemith and his “Elementary Training for the Musician,” a book that is so difficult that no one I know (and certainly not me) has gotten more than about a quarter of the way through.
Speaking the Language is often the barrier that keeps people from making their own music. Someone who has not had much formal training wishes they “knew the chords,” as it is sometimes expressed. But those who have a lot of formal education are equally paralyzed. “What if I play a parallel fifth? What if I don't resolve a dissonance, or use proper voice leading?” As soon as one starts thinking too much about such matters, it becomes impossible to play anything unless it is in black and white on the page: Real Music, written by a Composer.
To such people, of which I was one: Don't worry about it. Just play.
Yes, the proper voice leading helps. It is a tool that can make your music better, and the more skill you have with harmony and voice leading and counterpoint, the better. But at the moment of improvisation, you cannot be thinking about such things. Just play. The thinking comes in retrospect, when you realize why a passage did not come off the way you had hoped. It may lead you (as it does me) to practice progressions and cadences and suchlike that have caused trouble. And that will help you play better the next time.
When I am improvising, I am mostly keeping track of the Tune. A second level of thought is the Form, which I have often scratched out on a piece of paper, and it is usually a thought such as “Okay, I've got to get to G major from here.” A third level of thought is trying to keep the outer lines in contrary motion, and the most basic harmony – which for me is just trying to stay diatonic in whatever key I am in. Or if I am in a more chromatic language, maintaining that level of chromaticism. And while all this is happening, I simply try to go where the notes want to take me, for every musical statement, even just two or three notes, carries within itself implications that must be worked out.
It is very much like an author in the midst of a story: the characters and events that have brought him to this point have a certain inevitability that causes the story to continue in one direction and not another. At its most fundamental, it can be as little as one line...
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.That first sentence started Tolkien down a long path.
“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
-----
My music for this week is the prelude improvisation for the middle service . It begins with a song that was unfamiliar and needed some preparation (though only a handful of people were there early enough to hear it): the tune “Tucker” by David Ashley White, to the Fred Pratt Green text “From miles around the sick ones came,” a text that fits today's Gospel. I began by simply playing a verse of the tune straight from the hymnal, and expanded somewhat from there. The music continues with a well-known Scottish tune “Ye banks and braes,” for which John Bell wrote the text “We cannot measure how you heal.”
The artwork on the YouTube clip, a seventeenth century Ukranian fresco, is not about today's Gospel; it is, instead, about the time when the woman with an issue of blood touched the hem of his garment. And that was enough; she did not need him to go out of his way or take the time to lay hands on her. Perhaps her thoughts were like those of the centurion who said “Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof.” But Jesus would not leave it there; he stopped what he was doing (which was important: he was on his way to the house of Jairus, where a girl lay dead) so that he could tell the woman that it was her faith that had made her whole.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Snow Day
It snowed here Saturday night and all day Sunday, about a foot of it. As I often do when the weather is questionable for Sunday morning, I spent Saturday night in my office. That let me get sufficient practice for the morning's organ and piano music on Saturday, extending into the evening, then a good night's sleep, and a fine early start on Sunday.
Had I attempted to drive in on Sunday morning, I probably would not have made it. Only three of our choristers arrived: Bob, Perry, and Natasia. We cancelled our anthem and sang a congregational hymn, but Perry and Natasia sang a descant on the opening hymn and the four of us sang the Psalm.
We had put a lot of preparation into this month's Choral Evensong, being the Eve of Candlemas. It was not to be: given the forecast, we cancelled. Instead, I spent the afternoon and evening working on next Sunday's music: the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue. We shall see if I have sufficient time this week to pull it off.
This week's musical example is in two parts: First, Psalm 111 in plainsong with congregational antiphon. This is our standard form of psalmody for the Choral Eucharist; we sing Anglican Chant at Evensong. I am pleased with how this turned out today, even with our small group.
I have also included the Hymn that we sang before the Gospel: “Silence!
Frenzied, unclean spirit.” This is a very prickly hymn, and I believe that it has almost disappeared from view. But I would be hard-pressed to find anything better to accompany this day's pericope: St. Mark 1:21-28, wherein our Lord casts out a demon.
The text is under copyright so I cannot print it, but you can find it here with commentary by its author, Thomas Troeger. Thirty years ago, he and Carol Doran taught at the Episcopal seminary in Rochester, NY (an institution that has since closed). They collaborated on two slim volumes of hymns, with Doran writing tunes as unique as Troeger's texts. This one is not my favorite (that would be “Make your prayer and music one,” which is about Paul and Silas singing hymns in the Philippian jail), but it is indicative of the fine work that Doran and Troeger did. Notice how the tune hammers away at one note with lots of dissonance, reflective of the mental anguish of the person possessed by the demon.
I commend their hymns to you; search them out, and sing them.
Had I attempted to drive in on Sunday morning, I probably would not have made it. Only three of our choristers arrived: Bob, Perry, and Natasia. We cancelled our anthem and sang a congregational hymn, but Perry and Natasia sang a descant on the opening hymn and the four of us sang the Psalm.
We had put a lot of preparation into this month's Choral Evensong, being the Eve of Candlemas. It was not to be: given the forecast, we cancelled. Instead, I spent the afternoon and evening working on next Sunday's music: the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue. We shall see if I have sufficient time this week to pull it off.
This week's musical example is in two parts: First, Psalm 111 in plainsong with congregational antiphon. This is our standard form of psalmody for the Choral Eucharist; we sing Anglican Chant at Evensong. I am pleased with how this turned out today, even with our small group.
I have also included the Hymn that we sang before the Gospel: “Silence!
Frenzied, unclean spirit.” This is a very prickly hymn, and I believe that it has almost disappeared from view. But I would be hard-pressed to find anything better to accompany this day's pericope: St. Mark 1:21-28, wherein our Lord casts out a demon.
The text is under copyright so I cannot print it, but you can find it here with commentary by its author, Thomas Troeger. Thirty years ago, he and Carol Doran taught at the Episcopal seminary in Rochester, NY (an institution that has since closed). They collaborated on two slim volumes of hymns, with Doran writing tunes as unique as Troeger's texts. This one is not my favorite (that would be “Make your prayer and music one,” which is about Paul and Silas singing hymns in the Philippian jail), but it is indicative of the fine work that Doran and Troeger did. Notice how the tune hammers away at one note with lots of dissonance, reflective of the mental anguish of the person possessed by the demon.
I commend their hymns to you; search them out, and sing them.
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