“They’re definitely open to learning this way. They seem to show a bit more resilience rather than instantly getting fed up, feeling like they’re not musical or talented. It’s proving that you can teach creativity without requiring the skills of years of piano lessons and they’re making something cool.”
“It’s basically a contrast effect induced by filtering the frequency of your tinnitus from the music or sound you’re listening to. This contrast effect is extremely precise and causes nerve cells to reconnect and adapt. The neurological reaction is not only leveraged to treat tinnitus but also stroke patients. Not every single piece of music or sound is suitable for the treatment, though. Audio books, for instance—and speech in general—has a very limited frequency range. Also, classical music can be difficult.”
“Different cultures may use different media to express those base patterns—with different ingredients, for instance, depending on what’s available. But they are, at heart, doing the exact same thing. They are fundamentally playing the same music. And if you can recognize that music, you’ll blow people’s minds with a paradox they can taste: the new and the familiar woven together in a strange loop.”
“What Bach teaches us is the primacy of the musical material, the value of each note and each combination of notes, of each melodic line and each combination of melodic lines. The beauty of Bach inheres as much in the parts as in the whole. Every separate line possesses its own interest, vitality, and autonomy; every moment is capable of standing alone before music’s and Bach’s God. Thus what we learn from Bach is that every note, every player, every musical thought counts.”
“Through their music, the band quickly became reliable purveyors of self-actualized individuality, and in exchange for that feeling, in order to make it more than what it was (a commodity), the band demanded you work for it.”
“We resist evidence suggesting that music can cloud reason, stir rage, cause pain, even kill. Footnoted treatises on the dark side of music are unlikely to sell as well as the cheery pop-science books that tout music’s ability to make us smarter, happier, and more productive. Yet they probably bring us closer to the true function of music in the evolution of human civilization.”
“If you look too closely at the form, you’ll miss the essence.” – Rumi
I recently came across this quote by the 13th-century Persian poet Rumi and found it interesting enough to stop and consider it, turn it around things I know. At first it brought to mind architectural objects–I pictured New York skyscrapers, all parallel lines in glass and steel, and then the Rubik’s cube, all colored patterns waiting to be reconfigured. But really it can applied to anything.
The Rumi quote came to mind again as I was listening to a recording of remarkable pianist playing some of his improvised pieces. Some the music’s form I thought I understood: repetitive patterns, both hands moving in rapid parallel gestures up and down the keyboard, totally tonal (e.g. I, II, IV, V, and VI) chords, sustain pedal down, and a general sense of slow change over time. Yet it was the music’s essence that captivated me: how the sounds could conjure what felt like a kind of aura or affect halo around themselves. This aura or affect halo was distinctive too: the essence of this music was a mix of urgency and melancholy–it was as if someone had pressed Play on a mental videotape of years of my memories from all over and now they were spinning around, overlapping. Listening to the music I felt as if I could feel its essence as a kind of mild delirium. I skipped around to some other pieces by the same musician and, like a those comic book exclamatory captions put it–baam!–the essence regenerated itself. Different pieces, same essential essence. How does music do this?
We often grapple with the relationship between musical form and its meaning. This relationship is slippery and difficult to explain because musical materials are not straightforward signifiers and their semantics always open-ended. Thus, over the years writers on music have offered many elegant observations relating to why discussing music is problematic. The depth and affective power of musical action are a function of how music acts as revelation, pointing towards experience “beyond the acoustic” (Robert Fink) without directly representing it. Music is “a language of sonic gesture” (Michel Chanan) “denied referential specificity and cognitive differentiation, but [is] profound in content” (Mikhail Bakhtin) and “a meaningful context which is not bound to a conceptual scheme” (Afred Schutz) that retains “a wide-open semiotic dimension” (Susan McClary and Robert Walser). Music is neither a universal language nor even a language; in its interpretive openness it is more like a sonic Rorschach test whose sense shifts depending on the values we bring to its forms. Music invites us into blurred experience which, like poetry, dissolves meaning and then reveals it on another plane (Anca Rosu). Perhaps this expressive multivalence is what makes music an imaginative Swiss Army Knife for understanding who we are. On a fundamental level it is a perceptual tool for engaging the hidden complexities of our worlds (Alva Noë): music virtually models “the urgencies and the passions of living” (David Burrows), our structures of feeling “as they are actively lived and felt” (Raymond Williams), and “offers a means of thinking relationships” (Richard Middleton). Think and be through me music says, by letting me engage you.
Anyway, back to Rumi. Rumi urges us not to get carried away with the form of a thing or experience lest we miss the essence of it. And so as I was listening to this piano music and thinking about Rumi’s quote, two streams of inquiry merged into questions: What is the relationship between the music’s form and the music’s essence? Does the form produce the essence? Or is essence somehow– almost miraculously–self-generating? Is it possible that the most stimulatingly delirious aspects of musical experience have little or nothing to do with the sounds themselves? If so, where does essence come from? Where does it reside? These questions bring to mind something the percussionist Ken Hyder said in his memoir about drumming and shamanism: “It’s not the music which creates the magic, it’s the magic sitting over, under and all through the music.”
“All ‘realism’ grounded in the confidence of art’s ‘fidelity’ to reality is a conceit of certain technologies.”
– Virginia Heffernan, Magic and Loss, p. 127.
Among the many pleasures of reading Virginia Heffernan’s Magic and Loss, a wildly creative, energized, and forward thinking meditation on the Internet and online experience as a global collaborative artwork, is the author’s observations on the life of music in the digital era. Heffernan notes how the MP3 format tricks the senses into believing “that one slice of data, skimmed off the top, can communicate a sound made in time and space by multiple bodies, collisions, textures, and movements” (194). In other words, digital music–like digital socializing generally (i.e. browsing Facebook)–is and isn’t real. It’s a hyper realistic representation of an experience we are already familiar with from the physical world. Heffernan shares with us her excitement back in the pre-streaming era when iTunes and iPods changed her listening life, enabling her to make playlists of her favorite MP3 tracks for private listening. Then she moves back to macro mode to reflect:
“The music that we hear on mobile devices is not music exactly, but a representation of music, in bits. Like other representational arts–realist painting, journalism, photography, film–MP3 music is an extremely persuasive and pleasurable illusion. The MP3 representation is so seductive, in fact, that we regularly take it for the thing itself. We’re like the mythical birds said to have pecked in vain at Zeuxis’s fifth century BC trompe l’oeil painting of grapes, with their illusion of volume” (181).
Elsewhere in the book I was struck by how Heffernan’s thoughts on reading, writing, and technology might also apply to listening to music. If readers is “another name for moral agents in a world of symbols” (56), perhaps listeners are agents awash in an ocean of sound symbols? If reading is “reverie–and profoundly selfish. It’s play and only play” (75), how too is music listening a cognitive-educational game? If the special pleasure of technology is a function of it being “in productive tension with other technology (83), maybe we can consider musical style in a similar dialectical fashion? And if digitizing written language “restores something…call it mentalness, proximity to pure thought” (85), what has digitizing done to music? How is music adapting to our era’s “profound psychic shift” brought about by technologies like the iPhone? (117).
“Art doesn’t have to please, make you happy or sad.”
“We’ve adopted the Google ideal of the mind, which is that you have a question that you can answer quickly: close-ended, well-defined questions. Lost in that conception is that there’s also this open-ended way of thinking where you’re not always trying to answer a question. You’re trying to go where that thought leads you. As a society, we’re saying that that way of thinking isn’t as important anymore. It’s viewed as inefficient.”
“Monopolizing the microphone may be a key to political success. We typically attend to politician’s words—the “message”—but merely having the mic gives any message a shot. And the bulk of mic-monopolizing may be simply claiming a microphone to begin with—and fending off anyone else who comes for it.”
One way to listen to music–and by to I mean up and over and through and around music–is to imagine it as proposing a set of ideas for our consideration. From this perspective we can think about any music as sonically embodying, modeling, and organizing itself through these ideas. As we listen the ideas become present through the evanescent flow of the music as its sounds resonate and evaporate over time.
Mark Fell’s “Multistability 6-B” (henceforth M6B) is composed of just a few synthetic sounds: warbling synth, traces of a bell-like aura, hand claps, a pitched hi hat sped up into white noise, and a stuttering kick drum that effectively doubles as a gritty bass. As I listened to the track and wondered about the sources of its enchantment I took to trying to focus on the ideas the music’s flow seemed to embody. Could I enumerate them? I can try. First, and most noticeably, M6B incorporates displacement–parts that you expect to be in one place seemingly are and aren’t at the same time. Sometimes this appears to be a function of the placement of individual sounds, other times a matter of the piece’s overall fluctuating tempo. I first noticed this with the piece’s hand claps: they seem to be squarely on 2 and 4 but then keep sliding over ever so slightly in one direction or another, a detail I confirmed only when trying to snap along with my fingers. Second, M6B uses repetition and stasis: the same parts–displaced or not through placement or tempo–keep going and going which creates a pleasing sense of stability. Except sometimes this going and going is subtly more than that, which brings us to a third idea, contraction and elongation, which I noticed somewhere around 1:42, where that stuttering kick drum first begins changing the length of its phrase, as if opening and closing. Though these contracting and elongating fluctuations are continuous in the music I noticed some major ones beginning around 5:00 until the end of the seven minute piece. It’s one of the oldest musical devices: play a phrase, then make it progressively shorter or longer. There’s a mathematical logic to this kind of transformation that is always pleasing to behold, no? This brings us to a fourth idea, density: those stuttering kick drum fills and hi hat speeding into a hi hat blur fill a lot of the music’s space; the keyboard and hand clap parts are merely tracing broad outlines on top. A fifth idea is what we might call spatiality or the stereo sense produced by the warbling synth and the bell-like aura: we hear those parts subtly bouncing from one ear to another which lends the piece space (perhaps a respite from the kick drum and hi hat density) through another kind of motion. All this leads to a final idea suggested by the music: utility. This may be the most important question to ask of any music we encounter. With regards to Mark Fell’s M6B: What is this music for? You can’t dance to it. It isn’t ideal for selling cars. It’s not a love song. Yet it is tonal, consonant, kinetic and organized–the opposite of noise. I like this music because it perceptibly and beautifully grasps at things, moving this way and that, provoking us to think about the modes of thinking contained within itself.