The Joys and Frustrations of Electronic Music

Even though I graduated with my doctorate in music composition a mere six years ago, the face of electronic music has changed dramatically.  It's become a complex market of software and plug-ins and virtual instruments created from high-quality samples of almost any real-world sound you can imagine.  "Kids" who are barely teenagers are composing artful remixes of popular songs, and professional orchestrators are creating virtual recordings of familiar classical pieces that are in some respects better than a live performance. 
When I compose a piece of music for acoustic performers, I accept that not every note and articulation is going to be the same in every performance.  Not only will different performers put their personality into interpreting a piece, but the same performers won't play a piece exactly the same every time.  It's one of the things that makes live music interesting, actually.  Hearing what a performer brings forth from a piece goes beyond the sterile and absolute ideal of what's on the printed page.

Purely electronic music is different.  There are plenty of pieces (both art music and popular music) that combine the sounds of electronica with aspects of live performance.  My first real exposure to it was Caution to the Winds (James Mobberly) for piano and tape, which I performed on my senior piano recital as an undergraduate.  Since then, the entire "live performer with electronics" genre has grown by leaps and bounds, and it's one of the few areas in which cross-pollination between popular music and academic music makes the boundaries almost too blurry to identify in places.  Some of these pieces incorporate the electronic aspects in such a way that a performer still has a great deal of freedom; a performance of the piece on one night might be completely different from the performance of a piece on the next.  The work that I'm doing right now aims at creating a finished product, though: music to be heard, not performed.

 James Mobberly's Caution to the Winds, as performed by Kristina Sandulova.



Like the music on a CD or one of those orchestrations of a famous symphony with "virtual" instruments, once a piece of purely electronic music is in recorded form, it becomes fixed.  You always know when a particular swell will happen in the tune, because it's recorded and it isn't going to change.  The notes and articulations will always be exactly the same from one listening to the next, although some people may claim that a recorded piece of music can still vary in the impact it has on them, based on their own emotions when they listen to it.  I won't debate that.  I'm concerned with the idea that once the piece is "finished", there is no altering it.  There is no "next performance" to tweak or adjust or "get it right."  There is the obdurate and unchanging sound of the piece, for better or worse, just as it was created.


This has a tremendously attractive side to it.  I can hear what I have created immediately.  When a piece is composed for live performers, there is really no guarantee that it will ever get performed, and in today's bizarre climate of neophilia there is very little chance that a piece will get performed twice.  A performer has to take the music, rehearse it, make some interpretive decisions, and then create something that hopefully has some approximation to the idealized piece on the printed page.  This process could take months.  An electronic piece is immediately available for listening.  I can actually physically hear the piece as I am working on it, and as soon as it's finished, I can send it to other people within minutes.  On top of that, they will hear exactly the same music everything they listen.  They may hear different things within the music, but the music itself will always be available and consistent.
 
As you might imagine, this changes the way I compose a piece.  When I am writing for a live musician, I actually want some of their personality to enter into the sound of a piece.  I might leave some things a little vague or explicitly improvisatory because I'm interested in giving that performer the space to create.  When I'm working with electronic sounds, I'm not creating something that another person will infuse with their personality.  I'm creating the finished product.  It's up to me to get the sound of the piece exactly how I want it to be, and if there's something I don't like, I can't chalk it up to a performer's interpretation.  In some ways, it's a bit daunting, and in other ways it's very satisfying.  Getting a rhythm just right in a printed piece of music doesn't guarantee that every performer is going to play it just right.  Getting a rhythm just right in a piece of electronica means that it will always and forever be exactly what I intended.

But it's much easier to get bogged down in minutiae.  Sometimes, I feel like I am painting a face, but I get drawn into the details of the ear.  And because of the technology, I can get very, very detailed about how the ear looks.  I can fine tune exactly where a little mole is positioned, or how a tiny sliver of shadow falls within the curvature of cartilage.  Then, I take a step back and remember that I have an entire face to paint, and what I've done to the ear has an impact on how the rest of the face appears.  Besides, what viewer is really going to notice how perfectly positioned a tiny mole or shadow is?  Does it really matter?

That last question gets tricky.  Does it really matter in the grand scheme of life itself?  Probably not.  Does it really matter in the aesthetics of the piece?  Maybe it does.  Does it really matter to me?  And there is the heart of it.  What makes the whole endeavor worthwhile is how satisfied I am at the end of it.  If getting a particular sound just right will increase my enjoyment of what I'm creating, it's worth it.  Even if no one else notices, it's worth the time and effort.  And if a detail isn't important to me--if it doesn't really enhance my enjoyment of the process or the final product--I can learn to let go of the minutiae and move on.

By the way, if you haven't already heard the first bit of electronic music I created for the Status Quo project, you can listen to it via the link below, just so you can hear where I'm setting the bar with my current efforts.

Status Quo

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1527746583/the-status-quo-project

Creativity Breeds Creativity



Sometimes creativity is like a
hidden staircase.



Last week, I finished a theater piece for woodwind quintet.  At times during the process of composing it, I struggled with the idea that being creative means not being responsible or dependable.  I have this idea in my head that one can potentially lose oneself in creative pursuits -- that giving in too much to creativity can lead one far from "normal" society.  I know this is a ridiculous thing for a composer to believe, but since I was raised with the idea that it's very important to be a responsible, mature person, it's a challenge when creativity seems to threaten that.

I'm probably a bit more conscientious than necessary most of the time.  Truth be told, I'm not at risk for being labeled unreliable by anyone who knows me.  When I was in the midst of this woodwind quintet piece and I felt that I was limiting myself, caging in what I allowed myself to create, I made a different decision than what I have sometimes made.  I leapt over the precipice of creativity without worrying about any beliefs that might tether me in some imaginary place of safety.

Something happened.  Not only am I very satisfied with the piece I just completed, but in the past few days, I composed a set of improvisatory miniatures.  I just followed a little germ of inspiration and allowed my creativity to be important.  I've also started formulating a plan to find or assemble an ensemble in Fort Worth, I'm continuing to move forward with a libretto for a first opera, and I've begun to assemble some writing for self-publication.  I also started a new blog a couple of weeks back to articulate some thoughts about spirituality.  And all of these projects are stimulating and exciting.

Fully claiming the identity of creator disallows feeble excuses and supercharges intention.  Instead of complaining that a certain situation doesn't exist or may be difficult to find, I'm realizing (again) that I'm responsible for creating the situations I want in my life.  And being creative with one thing has sparked my creativity across the board.  I haven't heard any reports that I've become unreliable or irresponsible.  What I am in this space is more reliable and responsible to myself.  I know that there will be challenges at some point, but it's always easier to return to something once I know what it feels like.

Creating Experiential Music (as the economy and technology impact art music)

Depending on who you ask, art music faces its share of challenges in America right now.  Popular music also has its share of difficulties, although live concerts are still lucrative enough forms of entertainment to keep booking them.  When the topic turns from popular musicians to orchestras, operas, and other classical musicians, organizations have had an increasingly tough time selling tickets and getting enough revenue to stay in operation.  This is the point at which nearly everyone becomes an economist, at least as far as their own survival in a field goes.  Some people believe in waiting for a return to the way things were, and for some companies this probably makes sense, especially in terms of my personal conclusion: just sitting and listening isn't enough for most people anymore.

The younger the generation, the more likely they are to be in a constant state of activity, perpetually typing or browsing tweets and updates on Facebook, or emails if they're feeling "old school," listening to a carefully selected stream of music that suits their personal tastes, perpetually mentally active in jumping from one focus to another.  This isn't a judgment against anyone, it simply is the way a lot of people operate.  Technology has become more portable, and more pervasive in people's lives, which may be leading to the normalization of shorter attention spans.  It certainly means that people never have to be lacking for a distraction if they get bored for a moment.

No one frowns on a distracted outdoor audience member texting.

At a sporting event or a rock concert, a person can whip out a smartphone and send off pictures of everyone having fun without causing any sort of disturbance.  At a movie theater, it becomes invasive, but some people still can't resist the urge to pull up that bright distraction at a slow moment--or maybe they're just enjoying themselves so much that they feel compelled to share it with someone who isn't there.  Audience members in a concert hall for a classical music performance are not encouraged to exercise the same freedom of distraction.  The music is expected to be engaging enough that people shouldn't have trouble paying attention for an entire symphony.  It almost becomes an unspoken bit of snobbery that if you can't enjoy sitting quietly through a performance, then you don't belong in the classical music audience.

This would be a great perspective if classical music performances were consistently sold out, but the American art music audience is shrinking.  Rather than suggesting that people be encouraged to multi-task themselves through a boring moment in [insert name of well-known dead composer here], I believe that musicians and organizations interested in growing an audience of music lovers can do some things to make performances more consistently engaging.  This belief is informing the music I've been writing.

I've seen plenty of great ideas poorly executed.  I've been to concerts in which some kind of slide show was projected onto a screen while music was performed, "to engage the senses" or something of the sort.  I've also been to small recitals where the live music was alongside experimental film that added another dimension to the subject matter and emotional content of the music.  At a well-choreographed ballet, there is always something to pay attention to.  Even when everything is still, there is an anticipation that something is about to move.  In an opera, audience members are watching a story unfold, and the emotions of the characters get much more attention than the often two-dimensional characters in movies.  So, there are already precedents for art music to be more engaging that just sitting and listening, and some organizations carry it off very effectively.

For the music that I'm composing, I am thinking more in terms of a theater piece than a recital.  When music can be downloaded and heard at the listener's convenience, I think a live performance has to be more than just the sound of a piece.  While a performing ensemble can take steps in that direction, I'm composing more than just notes in my current projects.  It's not a new idea by any means, but it is taking a step beyond where I have previously been as a composer.  It's helping me to think more intentionally about what the audience will experience.

The unknown challenge before me next is to connect with performing ensembles that are interested in going a little beyond the norm in a public performance.  Essentially, that translates to marketing my music.  Even though this requires an entirely different skill set from the actual composition of the piece, it's another vital step in the creation of a compelling performance.  More to come on where that process takes me.

Taking the Music Where It Wants to Go

Earlier this year, I started work on a woodwind quintet.  I had been thinking about the piece for awhile, but it wasn't until a few months ago that I set aside time to actually put notes down on the page.  For a few weeks, the writing was going well.  We were busy with a move and getting settled in a new city, but I was able to work on the piece consistently enough that the ideas were cohesive.  Since I had a clear impression of the musical ideas I was using, the composition flowed fairly easily.  That is, until it didn't.

At one point, in early May, I hit an obstacle with the piece, and I didn't know what it was.  I was simply dissatisfied with what I was creating.  The piece was becoming complicated, unwieldy to perform, and overly demanding to the listener.  I was not enthusiastic about working on the music, and I found myself making excuses or finding distractions to avoid the piece.   I knew that I had somehow gone astray with the piece, but I wasn't sure what to do about it.

So, I worked on other things for awhile.  I allowed myself to set the quintet on a back burner and started doing more with recording, focusing on a completely different kind of piece.  After a few weeks of wrestling with computer issues, fine-tuning virtual drums, and learning more about vocal recording, I had a good start on a recording of an original song.  Somewhere in the midst of that process, I also realized something about the quintet: I was trying to take the piece in a direction it didn't need (or want) to go.

Although it may be a strange way to look at musical ideas, there are a few natural directions for them to evolve over the course of a piece and there are tons of awkward, tedious, or uninteresting directions they can go.  In working with the quintet, I had begun to make things more complicated than they needed to be, taking the music in directions that were forced and unnatural.  Once I realized that by keeping things simple I could actually create a more effective piece, I was ready to dive back into composing the quintet.

At this point, I'm expecting to complete the writing-the-notes-down-on-the-page portion of the compositional process in the next couple of days.  Then there are some other performance elements of the piece that I am eager to tackle, keeping in mind that these things can be both simple and effective.  Working with creative ideas is a partnership of sorts, whether it's music or color or words or movement.  There are certain traps I sometimes fall into about how complicated or difficult a piece of music has to be in order to be considered "legitimate".  When I remember that I care more about the music being an effective and compelling experience for the listener, my choices almost always become clearer.

The Sacredness of It All

I had the opportunity to view the movie Howl, referring to Allen Ginsberg's poem of the same name.  The film is really three themes woven into one tapestry: the story of the obscenity trial focused on the publication of the poem, biographical information about Ginsberg (taken mostly from an interview with the poet) which serves to elucidate much of the personal references in the poem, and the poem itself, set to animation inspired by Illuminated Poems, a collaboration between Ginsberg and Eric Drooker.  It had been some time since I had read or heard the poem Howl, but what struck me once again was the final section of the poem, which the author actually called Footnote to Howl. 

One word dominates Footnote, and that word is 'Holy'.  Perhaps Ginsberg was being a bit absurd or provocative in the specific things he dubbed 'holy', but the overall theme that comes across to me is that everything is sacred and nothing is excluded from having innate worth.  It is a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree.  Certainly, different things have different value, and different people will value some things more than other things.  Beyond personal preference, though, beyond opinions and market analysis, I feel a sense of grounded calmness when it sinks in that everything in nature, and every person, and everything that every person creates, has an intrinsic quality of holiness.


My bachelor's degree was specifically focused on "sacred music".  As a pianist, I spent a great deal of time practicing, just like any other classically trained musician, but I also spent concentrated time studying "the use of music in sacred settings" and "music intended for worship, specifically in a Christian tradition."  It is remarkable that it was never driven home to me how sacred all music is.  That it is music is enough.  I suppose more accurately, that it is is enough for it to be sacred on some level.



On my senior piano recital, I programmed a piece by John Cage called Water Music.  There was some piano playing involved, but it also included the sounds of water being poured into containers of varying sizes, and a radio -- sometimes on an actual station, sometimes sitting on the static between stations.  At one moment, the only sound was that of the radio, which was playing some kind of instrumental electronic dance tune as we all sat and listened within the context of this unique performance of Cage's piece.  Then, a voice in the midst of the electronic sounds came across the radio and into our focused listening in that recital hall.  It said, "Do it ... Do it doggie style."

And then the piece continued with me dealing cards into the piano or whatever part of the piece came next, but that moment was profound.  There was laughter and perhaps embarrassment, our high brow artistic expectations challenged by something that bordered on vulgar, which was perhaps perfectly in line with what Cage would have relished.  Yet holy.  On some level, sacred.  I didn't necessarily think so at the time.  Nor did one of my professors, who thought that it made something of a mockery of the college recital environment.  My perspective has evolved since that time.

Over the past year, I have spent innumerable hours pondering what music I should be writing.  What will get played?  What will excite a performer?  What will fit what a film producer or advertiser is looking for?  What will compel people to listen?  As if the approval of a certain number of listeners was actually the goal.  One of the most inspiring aspects of our upcoming relocation is that it gives my mind a bit of a reset.  I really want to write music that is inspiring to me, music that expresses something compelling to me, music that is personally satisfying.  In the act of creating, I am engaging in divine work in a very human way.  And whatever I create will be worth my creating.  On some level, sacred.  Intrinsically holy.  Like you and me.

The Truth About Rejection

My wife picks over bananas each week in the supermarket, carefully selecting a couple that were still green, a couple that were solid bright yellow, and two with peels that are being overtaken with brown spots.  She knows that the bananas will ripen over the week, and she knows from experience what degree of ripeness she prefers.  So with her, bananas have an equal chance of being selected no matter what their degree of ripeness.  Entire piles of bananas still get rejected by her each week, but only because we can't possibly eat every banana in the store.  She doesn't think much about the feelings of the bananas that get left behind (or the ones she buys).

A friend recently purchased a new truck.  It looks a lot like his old truck, except that it's a little bit bigger and it has fewer miles on it.  Before he got to the dealership, he had already rejected many possibilities of cars, minivans, and SUVs.  He had some very good reasons for wanting a truck, and he wasn't concerned about how all those cars would feel when he didn't even give them a glance.  Somebody else will likely prefer a car over a truck and the cars will get their chance.

We make selections every day about things, which means we choose some ideas and reject others.  We absolutely have to reject some ideas, otherwise we would be paralyzed by the number of choices we have.  When it comes to food or cars or other purchased goods, it's easy for us to narrow down our options based on what we want.  When people get involved, rejection becomes a much more loaded issue.  People actually have feelings that we intrinsically care about, and we know from personal experience how many decisions we make every day out of fear of rejection.

Why do we hold acceptance in such high esteem?  Do we really believe that any person can be accepted by everyone?  Or do we care more about what it says about us when someone rejects us?  Something must be wrong with us if we get rejected, right?

But, wait a minute.  Nothing was really wrong with all of the bananas left for other shoppers at the grocery store; it was a simple matter of knowing how many we can eat in a week.  And nothing was really wrong with all of the vehicles my friend passed by to get to the truck he wanted; they just weren't what he wanted.  When we face rejection ourselves, it's really about someone else expressing a preference.  On the one hand, we would like to be "preferred" for a relationship or a job.  On the other hand, we wouldn't necessarily enjoy just any relationship or job.  We have our preferences, too.


I want the music I write to have broad appeal, but everybody isn't going to like it.  The key is for me to find the people that prefer what I compose and focus on partnership with those people.  It doesn't mean that I have been rejected as a human being just because my music wasn't chosen for a particular project, and it also doesn't mean I need to change what I am writing into something universally appealing.

The same is true as I continue to build my coaching practice.  If I try to be all things to all people, I will fall short.  I have areas of strength, and there are honestly some people I would prefer to work with.  By defining a niche, I focus my energy and my attention.  Choosing to focus on a certain group of people means setting myself up for rejection by people who are not part of that group.  When that happens, it will be an indication to me that I have defined a niche well, and hopefully the people who are a part of that focal group will be able to see that as an advantage for them.

Whether it's with the music I compose, the people I choose to coach, or the relationships I nurture, the key is to be honest about what I want in my life.  Some would call this authenticity.  When I am being true to myself, there are some people who love being a part of what I am creating, and there are many others who ... well, reject me.  That's alright.  It means that I have defined myself more clearly for anyone who sees me.  And when I'm being honest about who I am, and when I'm not afraid of rejection, being seen becomes a much easier thing to do.

Having What I Want

Last month, I told you about a piece I had begun for solo flute. Since then, I made the time to complete the piece and enter it into music publishing software (so that a performer is looking at a page of professional-looking music rather than the original hand-scrawled version!). A few days ago, I received feedback from a couple of flautists about the piece.


What I wanted from this piece was to tap into my own playfulness and compose a piece of music that would be satisfying to play and accessible to young performers. And I wanted to write something that had the potential for multiple performances. Composing this piece also gave me an opportunity to conquer the belief that I need several hours set aside if I want to be productive. Much of the actual creation of the piece happened as I had a few extra minutes waiting in a restaurant or a parking lot, which was possible because I had such a clear impression of the piece in my mind. For that alone, the project has been valuable to me.

My fear was that I had made some sections too virtuosic or that I had written a piece that sounded cliche. I learned about the capabilities of the flute. I've heard dozens of solo flute pieces. I've worked with several flautists as an accompanist. And yet, the underlying fear was that I didn't know what I was doing. It was important to me to run the piece past a performer or two, in order to verify that I had accomplished what I wanted. To be blunt, I wanted someone else to tell me that I knew what I was doing so I had an external reason to let go of that fear.

So much of what I have been wrestling with has been the belief that I can't have what I want. Whether it's about my music, my business, my relationships, or my finances, my first hurdle is convincing myself that I can actually have what I want. It's a challenge to even clarify what I want if I believe that I can't get it anyway. And my fears seem very reasonable in that space, even though I know that they are products of my creativity running unproductively rampant.

Deep down, I know that I am a capable composer, and I know that this piece is all that I wanted it to be: playful, playable, short, accessible, idiomatic, and fun. I didn't really need someone else to tell me those things. But the confirmation from other trusted sources helped me to verify which beliefs were on target, and that in turn weakened the bite of my fears about the piece and myself. By getting feedback from others, I also learned that I had written a piece with pedagogical value, which means that a flute teacher has more of a reason to give it to a student.

So my next step is to find performers who are interested in programming the piece. Which brings me to the realization of what I most want. In everything that I am doing, in every aspect of my life and career, the thing that ties it all together for me is connection with others. That connection even plays an important part in keeping me centered with myself. What I want most is deep connection and meaningful engagement with others. And I believe I can have that.

Emerging

When my wife and I visited Florence, we made it a priority to see some of the sculpture of Michelangelo in person. Impressive as every completed work was, the most striking image for me was the hall of unfinished "slave" sculptures that were originally intended for the tomb of Pope Julius II. Nine-foot-tall figures emerging from blocks of stone. Even though they are quite static in reality, I imagine them to be in a continual state of casting off the raw marble and stepping out into full view.

I have been thinking about those sculptures this week as I submit music to a few competitions and opportunities for performance. I am categorically an "emerging" composer. Although there are likely many definitions for that label, my sense is that an emerging composer is one who has received some acknowledgment and achieved some success but has yet to gain broad name-recognition, an international reputation, or prominent creative position. I am working toward becoming a sought-after composer, although that's not an official category, but I have realized this week how much I fit into the "emerging" category as a human being.

Since I began writing this blog a little over a year ago, I have gone from playing it safe to more consistently claiming my strengths. I have been developing skills and behaviors that wind up serving every area of my life, whether it is in teaching communication skills, working with other musicians, or the lessons learned in starting a business and networking. I have stepped more fully into local leadership of an international non-profit organization, and I have stepped away from environments that kept me from engaging my full capability and creativity.

Now I am learning again that everything I do in a day's activities can be things I truly want to do. Especially when I realize that how I am being is more meaningful that what I am doing. My attitude and my willingness to remember why I want to do those things makes the difference between a day of burdensome obligations and a day of playful engagement. So, in the midst of all my other activity this week, when I put aside another piece I was working on to start composing a flute piece that was in my head, I found the entire process to be rather playful.

Not only were some of the musical elements playful, but my way of approaching the piece was light. There is no reason I have to compose this piece, but the ideas seem more of a natural response to how I am wanting to be. And that opens up possibilities for the music that I am not always willing to pursue. I am already thinking of the flautists and flute teachers with whom I can share this piece, and what kinds of audiences I can engage. Recognizing why it is important to me that my music is performed and heard, without being attached to any specific outcome, helps me balance boldness and playfulness at a level I have not often been willing to trust. And I have no idea what will come of it.

So as I become more comfortable with what it means for me to be engaging life 100%, I am recognizing more opportunities to create and to have a positive impact on others' lives. Perhaps someday soon I will see results that place me in a "sought-after" category as a composer. Perhaps not. Either way, as a human being, I plan to keep emerging.

Going with the Flow

Photo: AP
Over the last several days, I have taken a little time here and there to sketch out a plan for a new piece. I find that the music I write makes more sense if I know where I am going with it. Deciding on a overarching form, and creating a "schematic" of how the instruments will interact with each other, provides some general boundaries for a composition. It is rather like looking at a map and planning a route to get from the first sound to the last, even before I know what those sounds are exactly.

Today was the first day I actually put notes on a page, using my preparatory work as a loose guide. I like what I wrote, and I have some great ideas for where it can go. But it is obvious to me at this point that some of my initial thoughts about the piece will be discarded. The route I had mapped out didn't take into consideration that a bridge was out. Or that there is a particularly beautiful stretch of road I would be missing.

Some of the music I wrote while I was in school took on a pedantic feel when I was unwilling to give up a carefully planned concept for the sake of aesthetics. I don't enjoy listening to music that is more intellectual than it is expressive, but that is exactly what I wound up creating when I was inflexible about my plans for a piece. I am proudest of my works that are engaging, even when this meant sacrificing a bit of the intellectual design to give the musical ideas their own space. I want to write more music like that.

And I want to be living like that as well. Dancing with what happens and still keeping a general sense of what I want to be about. I may wind up creating something unexpected, and it may be different that what I originally conceptualized. But the alternative is to work against what life brings me, and "lifeless" isn't an adjective I want applied to anything I create.

Defining the Path

When I first started submitting music to competitions and performance opportunities, I was often frustrated by the kinds of pieces people wanted. It was all "art music," but the parameters were usually very specific, and I didn't always have a piece that fit the bill. There were (and still are) competitions for pieces of 12 minutes or less for trombone, ukulele, and pipe organ, or other unusual groupings. Some prizes are awarded to orchestral pieces written by students under the age of 30. There are calls for unaccompanied vocal music with texts dealing with living harmoniously with technology. Maybe that's a bit extreme, but the point is that I felt lucky when I came across an opportunity that actually matched up with music I had composed.

Now that I am also looking for opportunities to get my music into films or television spots or advertisements, I am noticing some similarities. One opportunity might be for downbeat Electronica instrumentals. Another might be for quirky pop tunes with female vocals. Or dark heavy metal ballads about losing someone. Then, there will be a rare gem of an opportunity that seems perfect for what I have written. At least the people working on these projects seem to know exactly what they're looking for.

At one point, I was looking at all of this very much from a poverty perspective: There aren't enough opportunities for my music. Which means I can't succeed. What I've created isn't what other people want, so I either have to write something I don't want to or just give up altogether. In other words, the epitome of hopeless victim-hood. It can be quite a temptation. Especially when it means that I don't have to try to create what I want or to be "successful" because I can't have it anyway. And it won't be my fault because external forces were conspiring against me from the very beginning. Melodramatic perhaps, but I would bet that something similar goes on inside everyone's mind from time to time.

What's true is that I can compose whatever I want to. Opportunities for that music might fall into my lap, or I might have to do a little work to get a piece out into the world. Either way, there are plenty of ways that a piece of music can be heard. On top of that, I have enough experience now that I know what kinds of ensembles are consistently looking for new music. And I know what styles of music are constantly being sought by television networks and film projects. If I want to, I can write something that fits the bill with some confidence that it at least has a market.

Of course, a big part of it is recognizing how my strengths as a composer match up with the available opportunities. It will be a while before I have an opera ready to workshop, and it will be even longer before I become a yodeling female singer/songwriter. Those kinds of opportunities are actually in the minority, though, and there is a wealth of possibility when I am willing to see it. Besides, just doing what I'm passionate about engages my creativity a lot more than coming up with reasons why I shouldn't even try.

Intention

There was a woodpecker hammering away at the gutter of our house this morning. He was making an awful racket, and I was a little bit afraid that he was damaging something. I knew I had just cleaned out the gutters a week ago, so I was a bit annoyed at the idea that there was anything tasty lurking around for him to eat. I thought about chasing him off, and then I admitted to myself that I had better things to do than guard the gutter all day to keep a woodpecker away from it. As I watched him, he decided it wasn't such a great idea after all and flew off.

I've been doing that in my life, too. There are some things that at one time seemed like really appropriate things for me to believe and do, but I'm realizing that they don't really provide what I'm looking for. I can hammer away at a metal gutter all day long, and it won't ever be as satisfying as getting into a real tree crawling with tasty bugs. For me, the metal gutter has been playing small: not speaking up when I see something I would like to change, not being comfortable talking about my own endeavors, not taking a chance on something unless I could reasonably predict how things would turn out.

This week, I have had several opportunities to try out some new ways of being, and they have actually been much more satisfying than playing small. I can speak up tactfully and with integrity. What I offer to the world is worth me letting people know about it. And I can break free of the limitations I put on myself if I am willing to be surprised by possibilities. In becoming comfortable with some new ways of thinking and expressing myself, I realize that there is a powerful motivation at work. It would be easy and comfortable to keep doing things the way I have been for years. It wasn't satisfying, but it made sense to me. What has truly changed now is an awareness of my intention. Being able to articulate a purpose, both in the macrocosm of my life and in each day's decisions, means I recognize how what I choose is in alignment with who I am.

As I was talking about Mysteries in a radio interview yesterday, I had great clarity about the value and purpose of that project, and it was natural for me to want to share that very personal music with anyone who was interested. I avoided this kind of publicity for a long time, using all manner of excuses. I still don't need for anyone to listen to my music, but I sometimes forget that my intention for composing music is to communicate something meaningful in an expressive and compelling way. In that case, of course I want to tell people about what I've been creating musically! And in other areas of life, it has proven equally true: When I remember to acknowledge my deepest intention, the commitments and the decisions I make just naturally follow.

The View From Here

Photo by Ceiniog

My journey in many ways has involved me choosing a path and then looking at my feet as I take every step. I've known exactly where my feet were landing, I've recognized the path, and I've had some idea of my destination, but I've also missed a lot of enjoyment along the way. Now, in relishing my view from this spot where I am right now and letting my feet sink into one step at a time, I recognize just how poised I am for the things that are about to happen in my life.

In a couple of days, I have an interview with a local radio station about my piano CD, Mysteries. A few days after that, I'll be completing my training to teach a course called The Power of Connection, which is a brand new six-week curriculum focused on communication and developing the myriad relationships we have in our lives. I'm composing an experiential piece with a different creative perspective than I have taken in the past, and I'm on the leadership team for creating the August More To Life Weekend in Houston. At the same time, I am able to devote time to many rich relationships, and I have a job that continues to challenge me in ways I don't always expect.

I recognize that I am indeed moving forward, in many directions, even when I'm not consciously watching where my feet are landing. I can trust that they will land on solid ground and enjoy the scenery a bit more. What I see gives me evidence toward the things that are true about me: Rather than being lazy, I am purposeful and I can set realistic goals for myself. Rather than being selfish, I actually care a great deal about people, and I am dedicating time to guiding other people in more effective and intentional communication and relationship with one another. Looking up and enjoying each step as I journey not only lets me see other people more clearly, but it gives me a chance to really see myself.

Who's Going to Play This?

For most of my compositions, I have a clear understanding of who will play the piece. At least the first time. Although I hope for many, many performers to program my works, there is a specific musician or ensemble I have in mind when I am writing. What I know of their abilities, their likes and dislikes, and even their personalities have played a part in my decisions. It feels like a partnership, and I like the opportunity to receive feedback about what I've written and to make changes when something just doesn't work.

Now I find myself working little by little on a piece without a predetermined performer. It fits with my new practice of committing to a purpose because the outcome is important to me, even if I can't see clearly how to get from where I am to where I want to be. I know where the first step is, though. Once I get there, and take enough time to enjoy that bit of the journey, I can figure out where Step #2 lies. I find that I am on several different journeys, and their steps are not all moving at the same pace. It is a rather invigorating dance when I take a moment to think about it.

With this project, I am envisioning sound relationships in a more idealized way. I'm not sure what the end result will be, but it is a liberating process. There may be many changes once I have an opportunity for the work to be performed, but I believe that it is a very honest representation of my creativity so far. It is a bit slower going than some of my other compositions, but I am not in a hurry. I am listening deeply and consciously to what I have written, so I feel much more in tune with every detail of what I am creating. I am being a bit meticulous about knowing what comes next, and I am waiting to create more of the piece until I am in a place of trusting myself and the music. And the rest of my life's dance continues around it and within it.

Warrior's Music

There have been some compositional ideas rattling around in my head since my time at Way of a Warrior last week. Much of the training was quite experiential; there was something to be learned in physical action rather than just sitting and listening to a lecture. One morning, exercising outside, I was visually taking in a beautiful serene mountain lake, smelling clean air and freshly cut grass, feeling the dew on my leg cooled by the morning breeze, and hearing bird calls from close by and a far off train. I was reminded of John Cage's philosophy as I thought: What incredible music!

For some of my ideas I want to submit for film or television scores, it works to keep it simple without being simplistic. But too often, I limit myself in my other compositional efforts by believing that I have to write something "accessible" or at least something that musicians will want to perform. It can be paralyzing at times, because ultimately I have to admit that I don't really know what other people will listen to or want to play. I can also get into telling myself that I won't write anything worth people's time or effort. Certainly not a motivational place to be.

Today I had a little time to start re-conceptualizing a piece I started a couple of months ago and dropped. After my trip to New York in March, there were wondrous ideas for a percussion piece floating around in my head, but when I started to get them on paper I was dissatisfied with the result. Now I am thinking about that piece in a new way... as a potential experience rather than mere sounds.

It's not a completely novel idea, but I don't really believe that everything (or anything) I do has to be completely novel. Still, I haven't often allowed myself the free rein to be as creative as I can be. Now I have been reawakened to the potency of experiential art, and I want to approach the music I write as openly as I can, stretching that aspect of myself to the fullness of its capacity as well. When I am excited about what I want to write, I am much more likely to carve out time to create. And when I pour my complete self into what I am creating, I know my effort won't be wasted.

Context for Composition

I've been working on a piece of music, and I am frustrated by the same doubts that usually creep in while I'm writing. It's almost like I am two people, one composing and one critiquing over my own shoulder. The composer side is making judgments about the expression of the piece, the nuts and bolts of pitch and duration and intensity, the precision of the notation. I can be fully engrossed in the sound I want from the performers and how best to communicate that with markings on a page.

And yet, the critic side still finds a few brain cells to tap into. And his argument is almost always the same, although he disguises it from time to time for variety. It boils down to: This music isn't intellectual enough. Which, of course, reduces to: You're not a good composer. Actually it's "I'm not a good composer," but putting my critic in the third person seems more natural. In actuality it provides an illusion that an objective outside party is drawing the conclusion.

The argument doesn't even make sense, but it seems to when it comes from my own mind. I blame graduate school. There we listened to famous works of art music that I had never heard performed live, and we dissected the construction of these pieces and how effective and brilliant they were. But they almost never get performed except at music schools, because however brilliant their construction, they aren't appealing pieces of music to most people's ears. I truly enjoy listening to some of these pieces, and I have most of my favorites on CD. But I have to admit that most people I know wouldn't choose to sit down and listen to this "brilliant" music.

In combating the critic, my response to myself is to create context. I do not compose so that a bunch of music students might be able to dissect my work in fifty years. I do not compose to show anyone how smart I am. I do not compose because my job demands that I produce something, regardless of its quality, in order to get tenure. I compose because I have something to communicate, and music provides a graceful and engaging vessel for that communication. Recognizing why I do what I do takes the critic's bite away. He doesn't ever really shut up, he just sounds much less convincing.

An Opera

I've got my composer brain working after seeing a performance of Il Trovatore at the Met last night. It has a couple of memorable melodies, particularly the Anvil Chorus, and there is some truly virtuosic vocal work throughout. Still, the bulk of the vocal writing is rather forgettable and the basic plot is a tragic set of convoluted decisions made by people with an archaic worldview and an incredibly unhealthy view of themselves and their relationships.

Yet, it remains a popular opera despite these things. Perhaps people remember that they were really impressed with the singing even if they can't recall exactly what was sung. Maybe people appreciate a certain nostalgia for a time when revenge was a life-long endeavor and killing oneself was a reasonable alternative to marrying someone you really didn't like. I can't say for sure what goes on in people's minds. And to a certain extent, that is the source of some of my frustration.

I have begun the conceptual phase of an opera: selecting a story, working with a librettist, and making some rough sketches of the kinds of sounds I'd like to work into it. But why am I considering writing an opera? So much of the genre is dominated by works that are over a hundred years old, and when a new opera is written, it's often given a premiere performance and then put on a shelf. It almost seems that a "modern" opera is such a novelty that it isn't really considered legitimate, especially if the composer is still alive. There are exceptions, of course, but it seems unrealistic to hope that a new opera will be heard a proportionate amount to the time it takes to create such a massive work.

Part of the problem is that the filter of time allows us to look back and critique a piece of art from over a hundred years ago more objectively than we can judge a contemporary work. And many composers of vocal works in the last several decades have chosen to write distinctly un-vocal lines for singers. Whatever my opinion of Il Trovatore, it certainly was not difficult to follow musically.

So, given these extra challenges of the genre, why would I want to write an opera? I do have some confidence that I write well for the voice, and this belief has been confirmed time and again by vocalists and informed listeners. Most importantly, I want to communicate something with every piece of music I write. So I would only be willing to dedicate the time and energy to composing an opera if I have something valuable to communicate. So it boils down to that question: Is what I have to communicate worth anyone hearing?

Degrees of separation

When I spoke to some pleasant people at the Jones Graduate School of Management today, there was nothing that really slammed me. There wasn't any real effort on their part to convince me that it was in my best interest to get an MBA, although they were confident that the program at Rice is the best around, of course. It was kind of a very sweet "you need us more than we need you." Much more kindly phrased than that, but that was more or less the message at its heart.

I'm not sure that another graduate degree is really a necessary step for me, whether it be an MBA or an MSW. It seems to me that what I want is to develop the skills that will help me create something satisfying, not a credential that will get me somewhere I don't really want to go. I'm not enamored with the corporate world, and I don't see myself becoming enmeshed in that environment just to make money. It wouldn't necessarily allow me any more flexibility of time or geography than what I'm doing now, and it could potentially distract me from what I'm really going for.

So what am I going for exactly? Well, I want to be spending my time and energy on my innermost passions. Those passions include composing music and challenging others to greater, healthier awareness. There are a few other interests that are strong for me, but those are the big two. Of course, along with composing music, I have a strong interest in my music being performed and heard. And there are nearly limitless ways in which I can challenge people to deeper awareness. It boils down to connecting. I want to create music and I want to create connections with people.

So where does another degree fit in with that? For the social work angle, I see the connectivity of that. My greatest concern there is that I am ignoring a significant piece of my self when I push musical creation to a back burner. It's what I find dissatisfying about my current position and the way my time and energy is spent. A business degree might open some doors for me to meld making money and making music, so that survival is not an issue, but in the end I go back to: do I need a degree to do that? It's really the skills I'm after.

What I would really love is to find a business partner who is gifted at thinking entrepreneurially and energized by marketing ideas. I don't gravitate naturally toward these things, and although I can learn them for myself, a partnership with someone who has similar vision would be even more sharpening. I do pretty well at the strategic side and the long-range planning. It's what composition is in large part. But I am not a great self-promoter (yet), and I don't know how to create a viable business plan for some of the creative ideas I have. Yet.

My conclusion on the degree front: No for now. To both the MSW and the MBA possibilities. Entering into another graduate program will not inevitably connect me with my goals. Gaining another degree does not relate directly to my deepest intention. The skills to extend my reach and expand my potential would be helpful, but there are other (less costly) ways to develop those skills that will contribute toward creating what I want. And I could benefit from a partnership with someone who possesses those skills and has a complementary mindset to my own.