Wozzeck: Alban Berg Teaches about Creating Deep Understanding

Some people are intimidated by foreign films because they don't understand the language.  Some just say they don't want to read their way through a movie.  I usually read the subtitles, but I also find that the most essential content is conveyed pretty clearly even though I don't understand the actual words.  If I miss a line here or there, I don't find it necessary to rewind the movie in order to read what I missed.  I often think that some people just like what's familiar, and they don't care to risk investing time and energy into an unknown quantity.  There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose.

People are not all that different about music.  We turn up our noses at music that isn't our preference, and we settle into listening patterns that are comfortable to us.  A new song in a familiar style is only slightly intimidating, if at all.  Throw an entirely unfamiliar style of music at someone and I think most people would be quick to judge it unappealing.  I think this becomes more true if that unfamiliar style of music is somehow challenging to start with.

Which brings me to Wozzeck.  I had the great pleasure of seeing the Santa Fe Opera production of Alban Berg's first opera this week.  The work met with great success during Berg's lifetime, even though it presents some challenges to the audience.  Musically, the opera does not follow a traditional understanding of tonality.  No major or minor keys, and no melodies that sound like ornamented folk songs.  The story itself focuses on poor people and those who take advantage of them.  The main characters of the story are not really likeable, and at the same time there is something captivating about them.

Santa Fe Opera/photo by Ken Howard

If someone knew absolutely nothing about opera, Wozzeck might not be the first performance you'd think of suggesting, but I believe that Berg might be just right for a 21st century opera neophyte.  The composer knew what he was creating held some challenges, and he made some decisions that actually help the listener follow the dramatic and emotional flow of the opera.  For one thing, the music still sounds like the mood of the characters, even if it isn't overtly predictable.  A lullaby still sounds like a lullaby, and someone descending into madness in a tavern sounds like someone descending into madness in a tavern.  Berg also uses recurring melodic patterns (leitmotifs) that become recognizable even though they may not sound "tonal".  Within each scene, there is also a focus to the music that fits the scene, whether it is an ominous focus on a single pitch in the orchestra or a rhythm that defines the scene.  In other words, the music makes sense. 

Santa Fe Opera/photo by Ken Howard

While another composer deciding to create an "atonal" opera might write a frustrating and illogical barrage of unrelated pitches, Berg allows the external and internal drama of the characters' lives to dictate the music.  He introduces musical conventions that are now familiar to anyone who has heard a movie soundtrack in the past 30 years, because they are so incredibly and effectively evocative.  Even though these elements may not sound like Mozart, they are easy to hear, and they help the music create the appropriate mood for what is happening dramatically.  The music creates a depth of understanding instead of merely being an accompaniment or backdrop for the story.

Berg was doing something new, and he did it in such a way that his audience would have some access points.  Yes, he challenged some well-established expectations, but he led listeners into understanding what he was doing rather than daring them to sit through an entire performance.  I have sometimes done the latter, and not just musically.  In expressing new ideas or challenging old ones, I have sometimes thrown down a gauntlet instead of leading people into understanding what I see.  Sometimes I have even convinced myself that blatant opposition is the only way to get someone's attention.  It's more dramatic to spit venom and dare people to oppose us, but that approach rarely actually gets us where we want to go.  Berg managed to create connection, even when what he was doing was bound to challenge some people's way of seeing (or hearing) the world.  So, it's possible.  Perhaps as the visionaries and thought-leaders that we are or can be, we can do the same thing: create connection and lead people into understanding what we see. 

Changing Horses Midstream

In the midst of composing a theater piece for woodwind quintet and a set of miniatures for chamber ensemble over the past several weeks, I've also started the libretto for a first opera.  The story is familiar, and it's been told many times over on the screen, and that's a good thing for a new opera.  It's also a rather convoluted story, though, which means that a lot of information has to be conveyed to the audience in order for everything to make sense.  That's more of a challenge in an opera. 

Maybe it's worth taking a moment to explain that comment.  In a book or a movie, even in a ballet, a great deal of information can be communicated through visual cues.  When the camera pans to a particularly illuminating piece of evidence in crime drama, no one really has to say anything for the audience to interpret that it's significant.  Some stories are about car chases and explosions and stunning visual effects.  Operas are about emotion.  In an opera, the most significant moments are when the momentum of the story stops and one or more characters reveal emotional responses to their circumstances that the audience relates to on a very deep level.   Those moments are more difficult to plan when a great deal of detailed factual information has to be communicated as well.

It's possible that I chose poorly in terms of opera subject, but as I was thinking of this a few days ago, the thought occurred to me: Well, what story would make for great opera, given this understanding of the art form?  So I outlined a different tale altogether, conscious of where arias and ensembles would work well, and limiting the amount of factual information that would have to be communicated at any given point in the story.  What I wound up with is a compelling and interesting tale with plenty of opportunity for the characters to give us some glimpse into their psyche.  My only concern with its viability at this point is that it's not a story everyone already knows, and most new operas are adaptations of best-selling novels or award-winning films. 

Still, it isn't easy to let go of the original plan.  I had shared the idea with a few trusted people.  I've already done quite a bit of work on it.  It seems like a bit of a failure to give up on the idea and switch to something else.  Of course, I'm not deleting what I've written so far or throwing my hard drive into the fire, and I can come back to it at some later date.  But there are so many societal lessons that I'm ignoring about perseverance, staying the course, sticking with the plan, and on and on.  You aren't supposed to change horses midstream, right?  I know the new story has more potential as an effective opera, and I'm pretty excited about telling that story.  There's just a bit of judgment against changing course that's getting in the way of fully embracing it.

Sometimes changing course is the wisest decision.

Idioms and platitudes aside, the new idea is more workable, and I'm going to follow through and see what I'm able to create with it.  I actually think that starting with the more challenging idea is what got me to the better idea, so it wasn't wasted time in the least.  There are times when the bit about staying the course might make sense, but there is no reason to remain loyal to a plan that is clearly fraught with problems when another plan avoids those problems while still getting to a desired outcome.  After all, my purpose--my desired outcome--is to compose a compelling and enjoyable opera.  Sometimes, radical change to a plan of action just makes the most sense.