HALFMOON CAFE
All Natural:
Sharp Observations, Flat Denials
By Bill Mitchell of The Accidentals.
So I'm sitting in the bathtub or aerobically vacuuming, or I'm standing in a
sardine-can rush-hour subway train, or I'm in bed with a fever and wondering
when I'm going to die, when it hits me.
Bam! Inspiration.
A whole piece of music, start to finish, including four-part vocal harmony, orchestral
accompaniment, maybe even dancing. And lyrics that rhyme in all the right
places. Stephen Sondheim would be jealous.
That's always how it happens, right? And by the time I get to a piece of
paper or a keyboard or a tape recorder, most of my inspiration has flown the
coop. Then I try to reconstruct it all, and usually can't, but sometimes I
end up with something halfway decent anyway, albeit not what I started out
with. In any case, the whole process prompts one to ponder the metaphysics
of creating--What happens to all the brilliant material that gets away?--and
in the end one decides to become a Zen Buddhist and spend the rest of one's
earthly life musing on the infinite mystery of it all. One never knows, do
one?
But on a less astral plane, I must address the issue of key. When I first
think up a new piece, I happen to hear it in a certain key, and when I have
to change that key I become very unhappy. This doesn't seem to be a problem
for most people, but I hold very definite opinions about keys (I hate F#, for
instance, and I'm not too fond of B minor). Some people associate keys with
different colors, but that strikes me as a little precious. Anyway, from the
very outset of a piece I lock into a key and try to stick with it for the
duration, unless the soprano line threatens to bring on self-immolation or a
lawsuit. One rule I've learned to follow unfailingly: never cross a
soprano.
So now I've settled on my key, worked out my inspiration (or a variation
thereof), and contemplated the cosmos. Next comes the tryout: a run-through
with trusted friends. And what a surprise! That clever and charmingly
unexpected modal modulation is impossible for anyone to sing. And those
sweet eight-part chords sound incredibly muddy when performed by non-pianos.
And whose idea was it to bury the alto lead under six lines of polyphonic
counterpoint, anyway?
So we adjust, and we entertain suggestions from the studio audience, and the
whole thing becomes a collaborative effort, which usually makes any piece a
lot stronger and more organically effective. And involving the performers in
the creative process gives them a "buy-in" and heightens their commitment to
the finished product. Ultimately the piece reflects the sensibility of the
group overlaid on top of one person's vision, which means that the whole in
its entirety transcends the sum-total of the component parts. Or something
like that.
But what about improvisation? you ask. My general rule is no more than four
bars of improvising for every four minutes, 37 seconds of music, and even
then I encourage a pre-set sort of improv (worked out beforehand so that
nothing is unpleasantly spontaneous). This is chamber music, after all, and
coordinating the efforts of eight headstrong people is hard enough as it is.
Give them too much slack and you court disaster.
How long does it take for a piece to travel from conception to fruition
(fruition being the first public performance)? Anywhere from six months to
two years. One of my pieces erupted in my brain shortly after the general
election of 1992, but didn't get staged until summer of '94. Other pieces
have had shorter gestations, but a full year is not uncommon. Still, it's
the process that's important, not necessarily the end-product (in my Zen
moods I tell myself this, and occasionally I believe it). As long as it's
fun, as long as it's a stretch, as long as it's a learning experience, as
long as I don't quit my day job...
If you are interested in more of Bill Mitchell's insights on the Zen of composition,
please be sure to e-mail us at:
halfmoon@idt.net