I have a vision of the composer that I want to be: the one who walks through his day hearing pieces dictated to him by the breeze. The hours spent pouring over paper scores, adjusting phrasing, and reworking small passages for maximum effect. I think that there would be nothing cooler than a bag full of notebooks and pens filled with my ideas. I want that vision of Beethoven that the lesser history books share of a man walking through the woods trapping inspiration with a giant butterfly net.
But that’s not me.
I don’t plan. There might be an idea that simmers for a few months, but I never write it down. My notebooks read like the chicken scratches of someone in a desperate hurry to get nowhere. Random bits of poetry, names of software packages, links, phone numbers, book titles. Nothing that adds value to the time I spend actually composing. Nothing that even leaves my bag when I’m in the studio.
What really happens probably looks a lot more like what I would fantasize about than it actually is. I find myself sitting in front of my laptop at the keyboard or some MIDI controllers or with a guitar wondering where I will begin. I hit record and go. Most of the time, something cool comes out (eventually). Some nights are frustrating and nothing works. But each night the process is the same: enter the studio, sit down, start.
On paper this sounds pretty good. It would appear that it’s like mowing the lawn. Do it and it gets done. I acknowledge that the fact that I create anything I value is pretty impressive, but I don’t do it with flair. No accessories or wild systems. You know, the cool stuff that you get to talk about with other people who do creative work. There’s nothing here to write a book about. And that’s the catch, maybe.
When I was in school I often dreamed of creating a system for composition. Some algorithm or process that I could follow to the hidden pot of golden compositions. As I delved deeper in to serial music and, at the other end of the spectrum, the music of John Cage, I felt that a composer needed a process. There had to be something to wrap up the product. A protective blanket that explained or justified the outcome. To some extent, that’s still there. I would like to hear a passage in my work that is awkward and be able to point at it and say, “well, that’s just how the numbers turned out.” And perhaps that’s what I’m reacting to now.
I’ve mentioned that if you don’t know the rules you can’t really break them with authority. The huge disappointment that hit me with the music of Cage when I was in graduate school was that anything goes. 4’33” and pieces like it justified putting a start and end point to any sound and calling it music. But that feels like something that is far too conceptual for the person I am today. Almost foreign. What I really want as a composer is to point to a piece of music and say “I did that.” For better or worse, every sound that is made and when it is made and how it is made falls on me. I want the responsibility for what I make.
Being responsible for something implies a level of care and that takes me back to the beginning. There is an overwhelming desire to prepare for my studio time. When I sit down, I want to know what I’m going to do. Instead, I simply start and hope for the best. Something always follows, for good or ill, but it isn’t necessarily intended. Someday I’ll know why that’s so important or how it relates to my thesis that art is all about intent.
Also of note, I’m tired of not posting new tunes. I have three tracks that are pretty darned good but I promised myself they’d be released as a unit with the nine that are left to follow. This means I’ll have to work double time to get something put up on the site. Why? Because I like to share and it feels dumb to post my updates to 1,000 social networking sites with no music attached. So something will show up next week. Stay tuned.
0 Comments.