Tell Me a Story

One of my favorite places to go to when I’m in Las Vegas is the Nine Fine Irishmen pub in the New York, New York casino. They serve good Irish food and have a nice variety of Irish beers and whiskeys, but the real reason I go is to hear the music played by the band Sin e Ri-Ra. The group does a wonderful job of presenting a nice mix of traditional Irish tunes and more contemporary Irish songs.

My Irish heritage probably contributes to my love of the Irish songs that speak of the hardships faced by the men and women from that land. But you do not have to have Irish blood to appreciate the tales. You are Irish, at least for the moment, if your ancestors were ever poor, persecuted, forced to emigrate, prejudiced against, or compelled to fight for their freedom; if they ever struggled with their inner demons, celebrated life with family, friends, and a good drink, or held on to faith in the face of a stern reality. At their core, individual cultures are all encompassing.

Musically, the material is fairly simple: primary chords, diatonic melodies, song forms, and chord based textures. To be sure, the band is composed of good musicians, and the fiddle player especially provides some very nice solos, but the real charm of the band lies in their ability to tell a story through music in a sincere and moving way. For the most part this is due to the talents of the singer, Darryl Conlon.

Listening to his Irish brogue, I can easily imagine that I’m sitting in a pub in Ireland while he tells his friends tales of good times and bad. He pauses in the right places to build affect, he gives a knowing grin as he tells an off-colored joke (“Seven Drunken Nights”), and his voice has a bitter sweet edge as he sings of love and despair (“Dirty Old Town”).

He lives the words as he sings them, and what amazes me is that he has sung them hundreds if not thousands of times. I’ve been coming to hear the band for several years now, and though many of the songs are the same, they are always fresh.

I think one can only do that if one loves telling the story as much as the actual story its self. The joy of communicating, the delight in reaching an audience, the pleasure of moving people's hearts: this is where the focus is.

It is not always easy to do that in choral singing. For one thing, everyone must be telling the same story – not simply literally, but interpretively. Where is the wink of an eye; which word should be stressed; what vocal tone best conveys the emotions of a section? Everyone needs to be clear on the musical message.

And the singers must really feel that message. The whole choir must first internalize the text in order to externalize it – pass it on to the audience. Music, when done well, has the unique ability to cut straight to the deepest parts of our heart and brain – vocal music perhaps even more so. Vocal music is a communication that at once embraces language and transcends it. Or one might say it is meaning enhanced language.

In the end, being musical is about loving the music and having the will and skill to communicate it affectively at the most intimate level.

Mozart and Blues

My wife and I were in Las Vegas recently on vacation. One morning, while my wife was at the pool, I began to analyze some Mozart symphonic scores I had brought along. (Hey, doesn’t everybody bring a few Mozart scores along on their vacation to Vegas?) As is usual when I study Mozart, I was soon impressed and humbled at how subtly he manipulates his musical forces for affect and variety.

Those forces were constrained by the style and musical language his time - so everything had to count. For example, the orchestra in Mozart's day was primarily made up of strings and a few winds, a fairly bland color compared to orchestras 100 years later. But Mozart, with subtle doublings and nuanced instrument voicings, gets a remarkably varied sound that adds to the music's expressiveness. One can find similar examples with his use of harmony and rhythm.

The constraints of Mozart's era did not hamper his artistic ability - just the opposite. Mozart understood that within the limitations was a world of subtlety. This is where Mozart's genius flourished.

So what does all this have to do with the blues? What can the restrained emotional style of the classical period have in common with the heart ripping emotions of the blues?

The blues, like the music of Mozart's time, is also a tightly constrained art form. In most songs, the harmony and structure can easily be related to the standard 12 bar blues progression. The texture is predominately homophonic, and melodies are tied closely to the pitches of a blues scale. In addition, a blues band has a relatively limited range of instrumental colors to work with.

Because of all this, everything counts, and like in Mozart, subtlety is essential.

I think this is why I like very few blues groups, but the ones I like I really love. Real emotions are most often a complex blend of conflicting and supporting feelings. Simplistic musical performances cannot convey that. Subtlety is a necessity.

Later during our vacation, my wife and I decided to go to the House of Blues and listen to one of the blues bands performing there. Even though the band was a bit of a pickup band – members of the Michael Grimm band with singer Ronny Rose filling in for Michael, most of their numbers really cooked.

Rose skillfully used every aspect of his voice for the precise emotional affect he wanted: big ballsy full voiced tones, raspy growls, clear as a bell pianissimos – all delivered without any of the clichés one finds in a blinged-out, over ornamented, narcissistic pop music diva. He was subtle, economical, and to the point.

The guitar player, John Wedemeyer, also really impressed me. He made wonderful use of subtle dynamic shading. Some phrases would tail away into nothingness, some notes would pop out of the texture, hints of ghost notes would be followed by aggressive runs. He also coaxed a variety of colors out of his instrument: dark muted tones, artificial harmonic screams, staccato passages, and wailing bends.

This description may not sound like a subtle performance, but his handling of these techniques - the how and when of it - was. Everything was delivered with taste and nuanced musicality.

So, while there would seem to be little connection between the refined elegance of the classical period and the visceral punch of the blues, there is common ground. Where there is constraint, subtlety is critical. The ability of a composer or a performer to create a rich world of subtlety is what gives depth and humanity to the music.

The Significance of E Sharp

The back wall of Taft's choral room is decorated with a mural of the music to Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. It was painted several years ago when Capital Arts Entertaniment filmed a scene from American Pie Presents Band Camp in the room. (I confess that I have not seen that cinematographic masterpiece but I am sure that it is a classic filled with complex character development and subtle literary references. I will therefore put off viewing the film until I have ample time to devote to all its artistic qualities.)

Despite the no doubt many fine aspects of the movie, there is one major flaw that haunts me every time I enter the choral room. It is found in the music written on the back wall. I can overlook the cutesy scrolling of the staff, or even the little artistic touches given to some of the rests. BUT, the key signature to Eine Kleine Natchtmusik is wrong! Mozart's little gem is in G major which requires a signature of one sharp - F. Despite the fact that I gave the film company the correctly notated music, the artist replaced the F sharp with an E sharp!

E sharp! Sacrebleu! What was the philistine thinking? It ruins the whole wall, makes a mockery of Mozart, and thumbs its nose at over 200 years of music theory! Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Burn the boorish boob at the stake!

Of course, there was no key using just E sharp in Mozart's time, so at best this is an outrageous anachronism. Further, it betrays a complete lack of musical education on the part of the artist, not to mention that it permanently displays the artist's inability to copy accurately.

When I pointed out this atrocious blunder to the artist, he seem unconcerned. To him, it was a minor oversight (forgive the pun). The little number sign was just a tad too low. No big deal. What's the fuss? For him, the symbol had no significance other than design. I was clearly overreacting.

I tried to explain the issue to him: The opening two measures are in the tonic - on a G major chord. In the simplicity that is Mozart's genius, he balances that statement with an answering phrase on the dominant chord - what should be D major. But without the F sharp, it becomes D minor. That not only sounds bad, but throws everything out of whack! Talk about bad Feng Shui! Talk about bad karma!!!

It was no use. No theoretical, historical, or artistic explanation could convince him that it was worth his time to correct the error. But I fear that there is more at play than just the blunder of an ignorant artist.

Here is the real problem. When we don't appreciate the significance of something; when we don't understanding a thing's function; when we don't recognize its importance or value to others; we fail to comprehend its true meaning.

Music notation signifies something deeper than just it's literal musical translation. A slurred phrase or a staccato passage means more than just a way of playing the notes. The markings refer to a musical gestures that have specific meaning within the time period it was written. Notation carries in it emotional and artistic subtleties that a sensitive performer understands and transmits to an audience.

When we as performers fail to grasp or convey this deeper meaning, we do the music a disservice. When an audience doesn't catch this deeper meaning, they are deprived of the complete musical experience. As musicians it is our job to illuminate the score's artistic qualities in a way that is true to work, the composer, and the musical language of his or her time. As educators it is our job to guide our students to an awareness of the artistic nuances of this musical language.

So, the E sharp remains on the wall. I grudgingly use it as a teachable moment for my class - "Who can find the flaw in the music on the back wall?"

There is, however, even a greater lesson here that goes beyond music into the realm of language and culture. How much do we fail to understand of people and the world because we misinterpret or undervalue the symbols (words, gestures, etc.) used to communicate? What appears insignificant to us can embody deep meaning and great importance to others. How adept are we at getting past the literal meaning of a symbol and internalize it's full value? And how sensitive are we to reading the extent to which others really understand us? Do we just assume that because we've said it that it is comprehended?

So now, considering all of the above, the E sharp carries new significance to me. I guess meaning can be found in serendipitous mistakes too!