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 Price of Cognitive Dissonance

I am reading Robert Burton's On Being Certain: Believing You Are Right Even When You're Not, and like many authors who write on similar topics, he discusses cognitive dissonance: the unsettling phenomenon of adhering to two conflicting beliefs at the same time.  In a strange bit of synchronicity, I received some practical advice from another composer this week about pricing music composed for advertising.  He has done quite a bit more negotiating than I in this arena, and he has worked out a system which makes a great deal of sense.  There was one bit that he said that completely floored me, however: "Basically, just figure out the rock-bottom dollar amount you need from the project and start the negotiations at ten times that."

Cognitive dissonance sets in for me because I am confident that he knows what he's talking about, and yet I have concerns about pricing myself out of a project.  The underlying belief is that my time or my abilities aren't worth that much to other people.  It isn't that I think my time or talent isn't valuable -- although I'll freely admit that my mind can slip back to that paraphrasing rather easily.  When I dig down into it, it's the belief that other people don't see the value of what I have to offer, and therefore I can't possibly start off negotiations by asking for ten times what I absolutely need to make.  Three times that figure, maybe.  Any more than that just flies in the face of what I think about other people's ability or willingness to value... well, me.

I know that negotiations for a commercial project are different from collaboration with a music non-profit or a specific chamber ensemble, but in the more "artistic" arenas, I am even more likely to sell myself short because of my beliefs about non-profits and musicians and money.  The key part of my fellow composer's advice, though, is to start negotiations at ten times what I absolutely must make to undertake the project.  That also implies a willingness to come down as far as what I determine to be rock-bottom.  If I start at rock-bottom, I have no room to negotiate, and I won't be giving anyone a chance to see greater value in what I have to offer.

If I never challenge my beliefs about what value other people are capable or willing to see, they are not likely to change. But having a concrete dollar figure as a starting point for negotiation gives me a framework to experiment with my beliefs, which is in my opinion, a healthy way to confront cognitive dissonance.  If I believe two conflicting ideas, I could just choose one arbitrarily.  I could just live with the mental discomfort.  I could develop other beliefs to make sense out of the dissonance.  Confronting the competing beliefs head-on has the potential to lead to a stronger conviction in one direction or the other, and the best way I know to confront the beliefs is to test them where it's possible to do so.  Spiritual beliefs are somewhat immune to testing, but beliefs about negotiating a price for a project (and many other beliefs about myself and other people) are quite easily tested.

So, basing my numbers on a formula that has been tried and tested by a reliable source, I can determine the absolute minimum amount of money I need to receive in order to make a project worthwhile, and I can resolve not to allow negotiations to dip below that absolute minimum amount.  Multiplying that figure by ten gives me the starting point for my end of the negotiations, combined with the time-frame I believe I'll need to complete the work.  From there, the experiment will play out, hopefully over a series of projects, and I'll have a set of clear empirical data against which I can measure my beliefs about what my work is worth.  I can formulate hypotheses ahead of time, but the strong beliefs I have are hypotheses in and of themselves.  Ten times what I absolutely must make still seems exorbitant, and yet a part of me knows that it's an appropriate place to start.  The most challenging part may be to set aside the cognitive dissonance for awhile and allow my beliefs to be effectively tested.  The reward is a sense of personal value based on actual experience rather than whatever I invent inside my own head.  In other words, the high stakes are worth the challenge. 

Musical Safety

Thinking of me only as a pianist and not realizing that I am a composer, another musician told me of his first experience with a professional orchestra.  He was filling in for a member of the orchestra who was away, and he was very anxious about doing well.  A wave of relief came over him when he learned that they were performing a piece by Tan Dun rather than a well-known piece from Mozart or Beethoven.  Why?  Because, according to him, "it didn't matter what I played."  He perceived a certain vulnerability with the standard, familiar works from what is known as the Common Practice Period (roughly from 1600-1900), but there was room to hide in the unfamiliarity of a contemporary piece. 

European music from that three-hundred-year span has become predictable to our ears, we can tell when it sounds "right" and when something sounds a bit off because we have heard enough of it to form clear expectations.  Even when that music takes a surprising turn, it stays within expected parameters.  There is some comfort in that from the perspective of a listener.  Some musicians apparently find it a bit nerve wracking, though. 
Any mistake is much more exposed in music that has such familiar characteristics.  A more contemporary piece that doesn't follow the same expectations can seem safer because most audience members won't detect any missed notes or rhythms.  So a musician's pride is a bit more protected behind unfamiliar music.  Or even music that an audience expects to be dissonant or difficult to appreciate.

As a composer, of course this is all a bit frustrating.  I don't write music with a 17th- or 18th-century mindset, and at the same time, I don't intentionally create music that is challenging to understand.  I want an audience to be able to find value in every moment of a piece, even if different moments evoke different emotions or ideas.  Fortunately, most of the musicians that have programmed my compositions have accurately represented my intentions for the music.  I am grateful for that.  But in that recent conversation I couldn't help but wonder how much public opinion of "modern" art music is influenced by how musicians treat it.

One need not be an advocate of the avant-garde in order to appreciate music, however.  Technology has made it possible for us to have access to an immense diversity of styles, whenever we care to listen.  For many people, there is no need to attend a live musical performance because an mp3 will suffice.  In fact, musicians are gradually becoming obsolete as technology improves as well.  A composer could conceivably record an entire symphony with virtual instruments and never interact with another living musician.  Hatsune Miku, a popular Japanese singer, is actually a hologram whose voice is created by a computer program called Vocaloid, developed by Yamaha.

So where does this leave me as a composer living in a time when some musicians consider new music to demand less accuracy than more familiar works, when audiences are able to get their fill of music without ever attending a live performance (or listening to anything composed past 1920 if they choose), and when computers are beginning to replace flesh and blood musicians?  I start from the purpose(s) behind what I do in the first place:

1. I create because I am creative, and
2. I compose music to share that creativity with other people.

At the end of the day, I hope to have a positive impact on other people, and music is one powerful way I can do that.  Everything beyond that is just details.  There are certainly some things that a computer can do more efficiently than a person.  Embracing that fact offers me a wealth of possibilities.  I believe that live performances can still have great value as well, so I want to distinguish between pieces that lend themselves to meaningful audience experiences and pieces that can be highly satisfying as a downloaded recording.  In other words, I have a purpose for doing what I do generally, and I have a purpose for each individual project.  Beyond that, it comes down to a matter of trust for the musicians and listeners that take over where my part in the process ends.

Stravinsky's Wisdom

There are some quotes that return again and again like a perfectly appropriate refrain for many different experiences.  I have mentioned before the value I find in Stravinsky's words, "The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self."  The key, of course, is determining where those constraints come from.  External controls are a bit more difficult to embrace as desirable, but deciding for oneself where to create boundaries for a project helps define, focus, and inspire.

Q&A with August Bradley

My Dark Little Room by August Bradley

What I am finding with my current project, however, is that I sometimes fail to distinguish between what I want to create and what I must create.  I wind up thinking things like, If I compose a piece for an ensemble of this size, it will be a challenge to ever get it performed... I should go with something smaller.  That isn't really all that inspiring a decision, to be honest.  It's much more inspiring to consider what the perfect set of instruments would be for a particular piece.  It might be a full orchestra, or it might be just a quartet or trio.  That kind of constraint, being very specific about what is desirable, is what most easily opens the door to freedom.  It requires focusing on what I want rather than misconceptions about what must be done.

While that may not seem like a constraint, it does eliminate possibilities.  Once I consider that the perfect ensemble for a piece is a woodwind trio, I have no reason to consider how a violin or trombone could add to the sound.  I am free to focus on the instruments I have chosen as most desirable options, and I can go on to make further constraints about the piece based on the music and what I see as its ideal incarnation.  It becomes a matter of composing passionately rather than composing "correctly".


My own thoughts get in the way sometimes, though.  I can't start off this quietly and slowly; a piece has to grab the audience right off the bat.   Nevermind that thousands of very effective pieces start quietly and slowly, including a couple I've composed.  I can't repeat that entire section of the music; that's lazy and uninteresting.  Nevermind that repetition is an incredibly important and commonly used element of musical form that can have a musical purpose.  I have to add more complexity to this music; no one wants to listen to a piece that's too simple.  Nevermind that there have been musicians in every age who gained fame from simple pieces because so many people listen to them, or that some of the most memorable and well-loved works of music are just simple, well-written pieces that communicate something of value with compelling aestheticism.   Why in the world would I want to set up such frustrating constraints when the music itself suggests a different direction?  That doesn't create freedom.

So, as I conceive this piece, I am conscious of the kinds of constraints I am using.  I want nothing to do with the voice that claims to know how things must be, especially if those ideas lead me away from the direction of inspiration.  I want to create constraints that are based on my vision for the piece.  Freedom emerges when I am willing to set aside all of the conceptions about how the music must be and define its boundaries by what I want the piece to be.  It may take on its own twists and directions as I compose, but I will be more aware of them and better able to let the music "breathe" within well-defined boundaries.  If only the rest of life were as simple as setting aside the beliefs about what must be and focusing on what is possible.  If only. 

Obsessing Over Originality

It is hard to imagine Mozart, looking at the flow of harmonies in a piece he has just completed and saying, Crap, that sounds just like Haydn!  Or Beethoven writing a major scale in the middle of a piece and thinking, I can't do that; it's been done before!  Looking back, we know that every Western composer writing during the same era as Mozart and Haydn had the same harmonic aesthetic, and it even persists today in a ton of music.  The same goes for major scales, and yet it isn't inaccurate to say that Mozart and Beethoven were both innovative composers in their own ways.

George Crumb's Makrokosmos II, Mvt. 12

Originality seems to have a high place of honor in our thinking (mine at least), and yet our society doesn't respond with much enthusiasm for completely original thoughts.  Off-the-wall solutions that no one else has conceived are often met with ridicule and judgment.  One has to think almost like everyone else with just enough originality to captivate and inspire.  Too much innovation and people's minds rebel.

So why, when I am composing a piece of music, do I have this running criteria that it must be "original," that is must have completely new ideas that no other musician has ever considered?  Some composers manage to do that some of the time.  A century ago, the Impressionist movement (the most prominent figures of which were Debussy, Ravel, and Respighi) turned traditional harmony on its head.  Debussy took it a step further and slipped out of traditional musical forms as well.  But this didn't revolutionize the way people listened to music.  We still hear the traditional harmonies and forms every time we turn on the radio.  The influence of that innovation from a hundred years ago may be threaded into our 21st century musical expectations, but it didn't completely override the previous 200 years of musical development.

Harry Partch's quadrangularis reversum

Other composers have done very innovative things as well, and many of these people are the composers I most admire.  Yet even they used musical elements in common with other composers.  My mental criteria that what I write must be completely unique is not only unreasonable, but literally impossible.  It focuses my attention away from the actual music I am composing and onto some strange value for originality that doesn't even play out in practical reality.  Even the most compelling piece of music I can write will have some common elements with other music, and I would go so far as to say that the common ground is what makes new music accessible to people's ears.

So, I am releasing myself from the requirement that I must be an innovator.  At the same time, I recognize that if I am simply true to my own creativity, the music I compose will convey my unique voice.  Which is to say that I don't have to evaluate the originality of each discrete element in a piece in order to look at the completed product and see something of value.  Perhaps this idea extends beyond the realm of composing as well.  Perhaps there will be a time when we all set aside the obsession with originality and evaluate each idea on its own merit.

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.

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.

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.

Being Greedy

Over the past year, I have been committed to stretching beyond my comfort zone and engaging my full capability in the world. I'm not there yet. Granted, it's a moving target, since my capability will hopefully continue to grow in different ways. But, there are still some things that keep me from allowing myself to shine as brightly as I could be. A year ago, I was placing the blame on external circumstances, but when I look at things honestly, most of the limitations are still coming from the same place they always have been. Me.

In the noblest part of me, I want what I create to contribute to making a more harmonious world. This goes for musical creations and otherwise. I want my music to be a part of creating a sustainable culture of grace, integrity, and gratitude. So, when someone asks what I want to do with my music, the answer has been deepening even as it has grown in clarity. It's certainly a long range goal, but there is no honest reason for me to avoid working toward it right now.

It has been more challenging for me to pin down an answer to the question: How much money do you want to make from your music? In some moments, I don't really believe I deserve anything for it, and in others I am disheartened that some of my pieces haven't earned more. When I try out a dollar figure, though, it often strikes me as being greedy. I somehow lose sight of what I actually want to create when money enters the picture. It becomes a bit of a stumbling block.

What I am realizing is that, although money is not the end in and of itself, it is a significant factor in allowing my music to have the impact I want. It seems logical to conclude that if I want what I create to make a difference in the world, it would have to be out in the world being heard or experienced. And if I earn money because of royalties, it means that my music has been out in the world being heard. Which means that when I cling to a belief that I am being greedy if I want my music to earn money, I am actually working against any efforts I may take toward putting it out into the world. I am at cross purposes with myself.

While I don't know what is possible, I do know that I have been in some ways keeping myself from reaching as far as I can be. I am willing to let go of the "greedy" label. What I actually want is more valuable to me than the lie.

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.

Composing the Music I Want To

I can be highly critical of my own artistic endeavors. I think this comes with the territory, and to a certain extent I think it plays a necessary role in achieving true satisfaction with the end result. When I was in grad school, I found myself adopting an interesting measuring stick to critique my compositions. It wasn't about the sound of a piece so much as how intelligently written it was, how sophisticated its construction, or how innovative its techniques.

I still like some of those pieces a great deal, but the truth of the matter is that most listeners won't be evaluating how marvelously intelligent I am to have written that piece of music. And they probably aren't going to spend a great deal of time considering how intricately woven all of its musical elements are. Most of them are honestly listening more than anything else for whether or not they like it. Does it hold their attention? Does it please them on some level? Do they remember anything about it once the last note has been played?

I find myself in an interesting process now of conceptualizing music for potential use in television and film productions. Although the time I allow in my life for composing is at this point a fraction of what I would like to spend, when I do have the time, there are a few ideas already taking on flesh in my mind. I'm not worried so much about how intelligently written, sophisticated, or innovative they will seem; on some level, I am just assuming that they will be all of those things because of who I am. My primary goal, though, is to create effective and evocative music. It's something that requires much less intellectual critique and allows for much more rampant creativity. And it's actually quite a bit of fun.

Finding My Way into the Music

I was working on a piece of music for a solo instrument. My idea was initially to write it in such a way that a variety of soloists could perform the piece, whether they be vocalists, wind players, or string players. The more I worked on it, the more I found myself being pulled in one direction or another that I would stifle because it wouldn't work well in just any timbre. After setting a few of these limitations, I started to be less interested in the piece. Small wonder. The musical material wanted to grow into something that I wasn't allowing.

Recognizing that I was essentially binding my piece into an unnecessarily rigid shape, I started working from a few inspirational points to create something unique yet related for various colors, not worrying about whether just any instrument would be able to play a particular passage. What has begun to emerge is a set of related pieces that each express similar material in different ways, not only due to a specific timbre, but also because I am allowing the music to become idiomatic for different instruments.

The realization and the resulting freedom and renewed excitement for this piece prepared me for another limitation I was trying to set, this one notational. I wanted to indicate a particular sound, but I was insisting on using traditional notation. I kept trying to figure out the perfect way to write down what I wanted, but I was ignoring a broad range of possibilities. It was a bit paralyzing. Until I took a breath, stepped back from the piece, and became aware that I was doing it again. I was essentially deciding why I couldn't write the piece I really wanted.

What I wound up with notationally is not terribly avant garde. At most it's a bit unorthodox. And it is perfect for what I hear in my head. As I find my way into (and maybe even get a little lost in) the musical material, I am more and more captivated by what I allow myself to hear and write. Why would I keep trying to put limitations on that?

Unreal Music

Yesterday, I received a CD and DVD in the mail from Gregory Wiest. On March 29, he included my song cycle Chasms on a concert, and he wanted to let me see and hear it since I couldn't make the trip to Munich. Actually, the original arrangement of the songs were for soprano and piano, but I made an arrangement for tenor, piano, and double bass to send to Mr. Wiest. He had sung a previous set of my songs, Pax Americana: Songs of Protest quite well, and I was curious about what he would do with the Sara Teasdale settings of Chasms.

As I listened to the performance and watched both Gregory and soprano Elaine Ortiz-Arandes (whom he enlisted to sing the songs from Chasms that had more of a female persona), I was aware of a pair of thoughts that kept bubbling up. The first was something like: Wow, that was perfect... just like it was in my head. The second was some variation of: Huh, I didn't expect that... I never thought of it/heard it that way. As a composer, this was a particularly interesting phenomenon. I was being reminded again that "my" music is actually an abstract and unreal article. What gets created and heard is a collaboration of my creative efforts and the interpretation of a group of performers.

As I write this, the Lord of Life Lutheran Church Choir is rehearsing a piece I finished this afternoon. Talk about getting things in just under the wire! Right now, the piece only exists in my imagination. I've notated the sounds I imagine to the best of my ability, and they will have the (hopefully enjoyable) task of translating it into actual sound. And no matter how many times they sing it or how many other choirs perform it, the piece will probably never sound exactly the same twice. More to the point, I doubt anyone will ever hear exactly what I imagine when any of my pieces are performed.

I actually love hearing how performers interpret my music (despite the fact that I am a pretty nervous audience member until about a minute into a piece). Of course, I want a piece to approach the idealized sounds I have in my head, and some performances are closer than others. But the fact that people choose to perform my music in the first place is flattering. When I can tell that they are pushing themselves a little bit and still having fun, it's even more satisfying. I used to think of composing as a rather isolated endeavor, and some phases of the process certainly are. But the more I broaden my understanding of exactly what happens with a piece of music, the more I recognize how relational the whole process is. And I want to write more.

The Case for Live Accompaniment

I've been accompanying young musicians for some intermediate school competitions over the last few weeks, playing the same piano parts several times in a day. Some students choose to use a CD accompaniment, perhaps for a variety of reasons. The CD is predictable and consistent. They may have practiced many times over with the recording. The CD doesn't cost them anything additional to show up at the competition.

A live accompanist is an asset, though, as many teachers point out in their letters to parents. A live pianist can follow a student who rushes ahead or holds a note too long. A live accompanist can adjust the balance of the instruments more effectively. And a live accompanist can provide feedback in a rehearsal. But I've been thinking today about what I get out of it.

Sure, I get paid. It's not enough to call it a second job, but it is a little extra to help out with infestation recuperation. In truth, it's not enough money to be worth the effort by itself. What I have concluded is that it is a matter of connection.

Music was initially designed to communicate and to connect people. And we still use it for the same purposes. Alan Merriam's list aside, people value music because of its ability to connect us to one another, to our beliefs, to our history, to nature, even to God. Music connects us to distant times and cultures as well as to the world around us right this moment. And although we can get some of that impact from a recording, live music is exponentially more connecting.

I still believe that musicians should get paid, don't get me wrong. But the real payoff is in the opportunity to connect with one another and to communicate through the music. It's what makes the difference between an accurate performance and a truly beautiful one. It's the part of music that can't be as easily taught in a classroom. That what I get to be a part of. No wonder I get such a kick out of it.

Making Things Difficult

On Saturday I accompanied a ton of intermediate school musicians at a local competition event. At their level, the piano parts were not terribly difficult and the judges were mostly there to encourage the students to stick with their musical training. It was fun to work with them, and I made a little money. Over lunch, while sitting with one of the event organizers, I even made a couple of strategic suggestions that may improve their scheduling system in the future. The most flattering part, though, was when one of the teachers pre-booked me for next year's event.

I walked away from that event believing that I was a skilled accompanist, an insightful strategist, and a valued musician. Then I went to work on some of the high school accompaniments I am preparing for a couple of weeks out. These piano parts are a bit more challenging, and I was really struggling with a couple of them. One in particular was marked "Allegro con Vivo," which I was interpreting to mean "faster than you would like." It was a difficult piece of music. Nearly at the limit of my ability.

Then, I rehearsed with the saxophonist Monday morning. I asked him about his tempo, since "Allegro con Vivo" is a rather subjective marking. I was astonished that his speed was nearly half the speed I had been practicing. It still sounded fast, and it still had liveliness. But now it was suddenly an easy piece of music. Of course, I'll still practice it and prepare for this student's performance, but I won't dread it or use it as evidence that my skills aren't enough.

Now I'm wondering what else seems to be at the limit of my ability. What else am I making more difficult than it actually has to be?

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.