Sunday, July 19, 2009
Music = Language?
I just realized that the development of music skills in my life is similar to the development of language skills. I've mastered English, that is to say, I'm fluent and I can express myself with it in an effective and occasionally artistic manner. Likewise, I feel fluent in rock/pop music for the same reasons. But the language of bluegrass mandolin or jazz piano, 2 other areas I would like to develop, are not things that I have mastered. I took 4 years of Spanish in high school; So my working knowledge of Spanish is better than someone with no experience, but not good enough to really express myself in the language, or to converse with a native speaker. I have some vocabulary, some understanding of the grammar, and a idea of the inflections, but I have not developed any of these things to the point of a language that I can really "speak." The parallel to bluegrass and jazz should be pretty obvious then. And by its nature, I think that classical music plays by different rules (that's probably a bullshit excuse). Anyway, I guess I need to practice.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Muddy Thursday.
Thursday 8.21
I am tired. Today was a really good day though. Woke up early-ish again, before 8:00, and set out immediately for Cascade with backpacks full of granola bars, peanut butter crackers, a loaf of bread and 3 liters of water. Signed into the trailhead at 8:45, and we were on our way. Down into the little cascade valley and then UP! This hike was not too steep, in fact it was pretty pleasant and moderate the whole way up. And Meghan sets a good pace. But what it was; Muddy! Very muddy. The whole trail was a reminder of the wet summer we’ve been having and we slogged through lots of muck. I tried my best not to sink my sneakers 3 inches deep into the liquid Adirondacks, but I still wound up with dirty shoes, and a few close calls with a sprained ankle for my rock-hopping efforts.
The hike is 2.1 miles to the intersection with the trail to Porter, and it took us a little under 2 hours, which I blame entirely on having to navigate so many soggy patches. From there we took the ¾ mile jaunt over to the top of Porter Mtn. (4080 ft). The trail descends a bit, through what was essentially a running stream bed, before climbing back up to the summit, which, although tree-lined still had some really wonderful views of the high peaks. And they were so much closer than either of our previous viewpoints. And Porter being of little import to the day hiker with Cascade on their mind, we were even able to spend a couple minutes completely alone at the top.
After about a half hour we headed back over to Cascade. Shortly after the intersection you get out to the bare rock and start heading toward what you think is the summit. And then you get there. And then you climb another little ways to get to the actual summit (4098 ft). It’s totally bare. The views are really wonderful, although I felt after having been on Porter, that the view of the high peaks was somewhat similar, except that Porter was now in the way. Nonetheless, Cascade gives you the crisp panorama that you do not get at the top of Porter. And again, there is just no real reason to make an attempt at describing the view. I can show you pictures. But you really need to go up yourself.
Summit fever is real. But then we started descending and I started wishing we’d had that weird Whiteface elevator to bring us down. But now, achy legs and all, I’m starting to think about what I want to hike next, and I’ll deal with that descent when the time comes. All told today’s trip was somewhere between 5.5 and 6 hours, roughly 2200 feet of climbing and about 6.5 miles round trip and I’m so glad that we did it. I’m ready to do it again, even if my knees are currently pitching a fit and my toes are aching from almost face-planting on the way down.
I’d also like to mention the exquisite pleasure that is the post-hike shower. Which is equally as great as the post-camping shower. Words cannot describe. We stopped for a six pack on the way back, and had a post shower beer, which is also nice. Went into Saranac Lake village after sitting around a bit, walked more (I don’t know why) and then had wood-fired pizza at a little family joint which Meghan informed me did not exist when she lived up here. It was really good. And though I’d sorta planned on going to a Piano/Cello recital in town here tonight, Meghan wasn’t really up for it, and I’m probably not either. So we’re here at the motel for our last night, reading and writing outside, because it’s finally warm enough, and preparing to watch the sunset over Lake Flower. A well spent day means an early bed time.
I am tired. Today was a really good day though. Woke up early-ish again, before 8:00, and set out immediately for Cascade with backpacks full of granola bars, peanut butter crackers, a loaf of bread and 3 liters of water. Signed into the trailhead at 8:45, and we were on our way. Down into the little cascade valley and then UP! This hike was not too steep, in fact it was pretty pleasant and moderate the whole way up. And Meghan sets a good pace. But what it was; Muddy! Very muddy. The whole trail was a reminder of the wet summer we’ve been having and we slogged through lots of muck. I tried my best not to sink my sneakers 3 inches deep into the liquid Adirondacks, but I still wound up with dirty shoes, and a few close calls with a sprained ankle for my rock-hopping efforts.
The hike is 2.1 miles to the intersection with the trail to Porter, and it took us a little under 2 hours, which I blame entirely on having to navigate so many soggy patches. From there we took the ¾ mile jaunt over to the top of Porter Mtn. (4080 ft). The trail descends a bit, through what was essentially a running stream bed, before climbing back up to the summit, which, although tree-lined still had some really wonderful views of the high peaks. And they were so much closer than either of our previous viewpoints. And Porter being of little import to the day hiker with Cascade on their mind, we were even able to spend a couple minutes completely alone at the top.
After about a half hour we headed back over to Cascade. Shortly after the intersection you get out to the bare rock and start heading toward what you think is the summit. And then you get there. And then you climb another little ways to get to the actual summit (4098 ft). It’s totally bare. The views are really wonderful, although I felt after having been on Porter, that the view of the high peaks was somewhat similar, except that Porter was now in the way. Nonetheless, Cascade gives you the crisp panorama that you do not get at the top of Porter. And again, there is just no real reason to make an attempt at describing the view. I can show you pictures. But you really need to go up yourself.
Summit fever is real. But then we started descending and I started wishing we’d had that weird Whiteface elevator to bring us down. But now, achy legs and all, I’m starting to think about what I want to hike next, and I’ll deal with that descent when the time comes. All told today’s trip was somewhere between 5.5 and 6 hours, roughly 2200 feet of climbing and about 6.5 miles round trip and I’m so glad that we did it. I’m ready to do it again, even if my knees are currently pitching a fit and my toes are aching from almost face-planting on the way down.
I’d also like to mention the exquisite pleasure that is the post-hike shower. Which is equally as great as the post-camping shower. Words cannot describe. We stopped for a six pack on the way back, and had a post shower beer, which is also nice. Went into Saranac Lake village after sitting around a bit, walked more (I don’t know why) and then had wood-fired pizza at a little family joint which Meghan informed me did not exist when she lived up here. It was really good. And though I’d sorta planned on going to a Piano/Cello recital in town here tonight, Meghan wasn’t really up for it, and I’m probably not either. So we’re here at the motel for our last night, reading and writing outside, because it’s finally warm enough, and preparing to watch the sunset over Lake Flower. A well spent day means an early bed time.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Day, the Second
Wednesday 8.20
Day two. Even more exciting than the first. Woke up earlier (7:45) and stopped by the office after a shower for a muffin and a coffee for Meg. Then sat out on the lawn and watched one of the little Quebecois boys unhook and subsequently wander all over the grounds clutching the adolescent, oxygen-starved northern pike that he had apparently just caught off the dock. I think he even took it in the office. After this we took a paddle about halfway down Lake Flower. Then it was time to officially start the day.
We set off for Whiteface around 10am, headed the backway through Bloomingdale to get there. It looms large in front of you once you get in the vicinity, and I was a little worried to see the top rimmed in clouds much as Algonquin and Marcy had been yesterday. When we got to the gatehouse the sign said 40 miles visibility at the top, with 5-15mph winds and a temperature of a balmy 49 degrees.
It’s a special pleasure, being able to drive almost all the way to the top of the 5th highest peak in the Adirondacks. The Whiteface Memorial Highway was some sort of New Deal project in the ‘30s, and one, I learned from its pamphlet, which would be impossible to pull of these days. And it’s probably good that this is the only one because it was a bit of a strange feeling taking an elevator down off the summit with a bunch of prospective AARP members playing grab-ass. But I still think it’s a nice thing to have available to the public. Whiteface is quite separated from the rest of the high peaks region and its isolation made it an excellent candidate for that sort of project. After all, the elderly and the lazy deserve to revel in nature’s wonders as much as the seasoned outdoorsman.
The road climbs 2300 feet over five miles and deposits you in a parking lot right at the edge mountain, 250 or so feet below the summit. I guess the view probably isn’t worth trying to talk about, but it was spectacular, and it ramped up my excitement for Cascade even further. The high peaks are there again, but the difference between Whiteface and yesterday’s trip up Baker is about 2,300 feet in point of view. Even so, the view in the distance might be similar, but on a smaller mountain you just don’t have that seemingly never-ending slope of trees sliding away from you as you stand at the top. Whiteface also has some impressive slides, and of course, it’s always fun to look down onto a ski park in the summertime. We climbed up the last 250 feet over some very treacherous but user-friendly, railing-protected rock to the actual summit (cold and windy, alternating with downright pleasant), took all the tourist pictures, and then headed back down.
After being at such a considerable height it really felt a bit disappointing to be back down closer to sea level, and no longer with a bird’s eye view of the world. I kept looking up from route 86 at the gondola and the weather station and wishing I could go back up and just hang out. But there were more things to do. Lunch at an A&W was a nice treat of Americana. The next stop was an unplanned visit to the Wilmington Flume on the Ausable, which was a quick rock-scramble, photo-op, on our way to the High Falls Gorge, just down the road on the west branch of the Ausable. It was an attractive set of waterfalls through an impressive gorge. But I’ve been to a few places now where the trail head is a gift-shop and the hike costs 10 bucks and it always has a tendency to deflate the impact of the nature’s wonders for me. Still, nice, and I learned that it takes 100 years of lichen growth to create one inch of soil on bare rock. Chew on that!
On to the Village of Lake Placid. A Tourist’s delight. We parked and walked. Two book stores right next to each other is always nice. The inevitable Ben & Jerry’s and Starbucks. A variety of Junk shops and souvenir sellers. An Adirondack crafts and housewares store with 3 floors of “rustic” décor, gifts and attire. And on their directory describing each floor, they included the “rustic” qualifier for each one. Finally, having run out of faux log furniture and stuffed bears to look at we grabbed a lemonade and sat down in a park on the shore of Mirror Lake. A band was setting up in the gazebo with a poorly set-up drum kit and a keyboard. A clean cut guy (loafers, tucked in polo, Keanu shades) was onstage with a 12-string strapped on. I spurted a bit of a diatribe against the instrument to Meghan as he strummed a bunch of open chords, the usual 12 String fodder (G, Cadd9, D). A youngish drummer came up and joined, they were bad together. A lady came up and plugged in yet another 12 string. There were multiple miniature stand-mounted monitors. And 3 microphones clustered together on one side of the stage. “This is a Christian act,” I said. And then the guy began soundchecking his keyboard and vocal mike. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Lord, blah blah, etc, etc…” Bam! It was a proud moment for my powers of speculation, and yet another sad moment in the history of music. We left, quickly. Dinner at the Lake Placid Brewery. Beer sampler. Cheeseburgers. Slow Service. Stopped at the Price Chopper to stock up for our hike tomorrow, and then grabbed an ice-cream cone next door to the motel. And now here I am, ready for bed.
Day two. Even more exciting than the first. Woke up earlier (7:45) and stopped by the office after a shower for a muffin and a coffee for Meg. Then sat out on the lawn and watched one of the little Quebecois boys unhook and subsequently wander all over the grounds clutching the adolescent, oxygen-starved northern pike that he had apparently just caught off the dock. I think he even took it in the office. After this we took a paddle about halfway down Lake Flower. Then it was time to officially start the day.
We set off for Whiteface around 10am, headed the backway through Bloomingdale to get there. It looms large in front of you once you get in the vicinity, and I was a little worried to see the top rimmed in clouds much as Algonquin and Marcy had been yesterday. When we got to the gatehouse the sign said 40 miles visibility at the top, with 5-15mph winds and a temperature of a balmy 49 degrees.
It’s a special pleasure, being able to drive almost all the way to the top of the 5th highest peak in the Adirondacks. The Whiteface Memorial Highway was some sort of New Deal project in the ‘30s, and one, I learned from its pamphlet, which would be impossible to pull of these days. And it’s probably good that this is the only one because it was a bit of a strange feeling taking an elevator down off the summit with a bunch of prospective AARP members playing grab-ass. But I still think it’s a nice thing to have available to the public. Whiteface is quite separated from the rest of the high peaks region and its isolation made it an excellent candidate for that sort of project. After all, the elderly and the lazy deserve to revel in nature’s wonders as much as the seasoned outdoorsman.
The road climbs 2300 feet over five miles and deposits you in a parking lot right at the edge mountain, 250 or so feet below the summit. I guess the view probably isn’t worth trying to talk about, but it was spectacular, and it ramped up my excitement for Cascade even further. The high peaks are there again, but the difference between Whiteface and yesterday’s trip up Baker is about 2,300 feet in point of view. Even so, the view in the distance might be similar, but on a smaller mountain you just don’t have that seemingly never-ending slope of trees sliding away from you as you stand at the top. Whiteface also has some impressive slides, and of course, it’s always fun to look down onto a ski park in the summertime. We climbed up the last 250 feet over some very treacherous but user-friendly, railing-protected rock to the actual summit (cold and windy, alternating with downright pleasant), took all the tourist pictures, and then headed back down.
After being at such a considerable height it really felt a bit disappointing to be back down closer to sea level, and no longer with a bird’s eye view of the world. I kept looking up from route 86 at the gondola and the weather station and wishing I could go back up and just hang out. But there were more things to do. Lunch at an A&W was a nice treat of Americana. The next stop was an unplanned visit to the Wilmington Flume on the Ausable, which was a quick rock-scramble, photo-op, on our way to the High Falls Gorge, just down the road on the west branch of the Ausable. It was an attractive set of waterfalls through an impressive gorge. But I’ve been to a few places now where the trail head is a gift-shop and the hike costs 10 bucks and it always has a tendency to deflate the impact of the nature’s wonders for me. Still, nice, and I learned that it takes 100 years of lichen growth to create one inch of soil on bare rock. Chew on that!
On to the Village of Lake Placid. A Tourist’s delight. We parked and walked. Two book stores right next to each other is always nice. The inevitable Ben & Jerry’s and Starbucks. A variety of Junk shops and souvenir sellers. An Adirondack crafts and housewares store with 3 floors of “rustic” décor, gifts and attire. And on their directory describing each floor, they included the “rustic” qualifier for each one. Finally, having run out of faux log furniture and stuffed bears to look at we grabbed a lemonade and sat down in a park on the shore of Mirror Lake. A band was setting up in the gazebo with a poorly set-up drum kit and a keyboard. A clean cut guy (loafers, tucked in polo, Keanu shades) was onstage with a 12-string strapped on. I spurted a bit of a diatribe against the instrument to Meghan as he strummed a bunch of open chords, the usual 12 String fodder (G, Cadd9, D). A youngish drummer came up and joined, they were bad together. A lady came up and plugged in yet another 12 string. There were multiple miniature stand-mounted monitors. And 3 microphones clustered together on one side of the stage. “This is a Christian act,” I said. And then the guy began soundchecking his keyboard and vocal mike. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Lord, blah blah, etc, etc…” Bam! It was a proud moment for my powers of speculation, and yet another sad moment in the history of music. We left, quickly. Dinner at the Lake Placid Brewery. Beer sampler. Cheeseburgers. Slow Service. Stopped at the Price Chopper to stock up for our hike tomorrow, and then grabbed an ice-cream cone next door to the motel. And now here I am, ready for bed.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Travel Writer?
So. I'm going to write a travelogue of my vacation this week. Here goes nothing...
Tuesday 8.19
Woken up by Meghan in robe and toweled hair. “It’s too early” I say. Well actually it was almost 9 am. Hit the road around 10 or 10:30, Meghan at the wheel. She knew I would want to gawk, and I did. Once we got on route 73 I was like a child riding in a cart at the grocery store. Ooh, Ahhh; I want this, I want that. And I would consume these mountains like a box of animal crackers if it were possible. Giant seems to be the first really big thing you see, and it lives up to its name, isolated as it is from the rest of the high peaks. And we passed Cascade, which we have planned for Thursday, our first high peak, and I’m uncontrollably excited about it.
After a driving tour of all Meghan’s old stomping (teaching) grounds, we pulled into the motel a bit after 1:00, checked in, unloaded and then took a walk up to the deli to get lunch. “Italian Mix” of turkey, ham and salami. Oh well. They had good chips. A cool breezy lunch, it’s only been around 60 degrees up here today, and a bit windy off of Lake Flower, but not totally unpleasant.
After lunch we set off for Mt. Baker, practically right in town, a short .9 mile hike up 900 feet to the top (2452 ft). The trail proved to be full of families, obviously taking advantage of its ease of use. Encountered at least a handful of grandparents on the trip, as well as the usual French-Canadians and some nice dogs. The trail was rather poorly marked, but due to the heavy use and relatively thin growth it’s pretty easy to find your way to the top. There is a bit of a flat stretch after the initial climb, followed by some more substantial climbing in the last 1/3 of the hike and the views occur about 50 feet below the actual summit on a rocky ridge. And they were good. The whole high peaks region stretches out in front of you from east to west. Giant cuts a significant profile and the tops of Algonquin and Marcy were just barely frosted with clouds. Through my binoculars I watched the clouds burn off Algonquin’s summit and then sit just above. It looked like you could put a step-ladder on the summit and climb right back into them. And the view of the Saranac Chain as well as the village was beautiful as well. While the high peaks present a tangible, imposing and relatively close barrier, to the west and southwest the park seems to stretch endlessly away.
The hike was quite short, half an hour up, 45 minutes at the top and half an hour down. After an aborted stop for beer at the Grand Union on the way back (poor selection, I think I might need some bourbon), we’ve been relaxing at the motel. Meghan is reading, I’m listening to Charles Ives as I write and watching Jack, the motel’s dog, get a bath out on the lawn. Regarding the motel, its nice and simple. The beds have really nice quilts, I’m assuming made with love by somebody’s grandmother, or family friend. And the toilet has a note about country plumbing and not flushing anything you didn’t eat, but the thing is a turbo-flush nonetheless. Anyway, out to dinner and wandering around town tonight.
Tuesday 8.19
Woken up by Meghan in robe and toweled hair. “It’s too early” I say. Well actually it was almost 9 am. Hit the road around 10 or 10:30, Meghan at the wheel. She knew I would want to gawk, and I did. Once we got on route 73 I was like a child riding in a cart at the grocery store. Ooh, Ahhh; I want this, I want that. And I would consume these mountains like a box of animal crackers if it were possible. Giant seems to be the first really big thing you see, and it lives up to its name, isolated as it is from the rest of the high peaks. And we passed Cascade, which we have planned for Thursday, our first high peak, and I’m uncontrollably excited about it.
After a driving tour of all Meghan’s old stomping (teaching) grounds, we pulled into the motel a bit after 1:00, checked in, unloaded and then took a walk up to the deli to get lunch. “Italian Mix” of turkey, ham and salami. Oh well. They had good chips. A cool breezy lunch, it’s only been around 60 degrees up here today, and a bit windy off of Lake Flower, but not totally unpleasant.
After lunch we set off for Mt. Baker, practically right in town, a short .9 mile hike up 900 feet to the top (2452 ft). The trail proved to be full of families, obviously taking advantage of its ease of use. Encountered at least a handful of grandparents on the trip, as well as the usual French-Canadians and some nice dogs. The trail was rather poorly marked, but due to the heavy use and relatively thin growth it’s pretty easy to find your way to the top. There is a bit of a flat stretch after the initial climb, followed by some more substantial climbing in the last 1/3 of the hike and the views occur about 50 feet below the actual summit on a rocky ridge. And they were good. The whole high peaks region stretches out in front of you from east to west. Giant cuts a significant profile and the tops of Algonquin and Marcy were just barely frosted with clouds. Through my binoculars I watched the clouds burn off Algonquin’s summit and then sit just above. It looked like you could put a step-ladder on the summit and climb right back into them. And the view of the Saranac Chain as well as the village was beautiful as well. While the high peaks present a tangible, imposing and relatively close barrier, to the west and southwest the park seems to stretch endlessly away.
The hike was quite short, half an hour up, 45 minutes at the top and half an hour down. After an aborted stop for beer at the Grand Union on the way back (poor selection, I think I might need some bourbon), we’ve been relaxing at the motel. Meghan is reading, I’m listening to Charles Ives as I write and watching Jack, the motel’s dog, get a bath out on the lawn. Regarding the motel, its nice and simple. The beds have really nice quilts, I’m assuming made with love by somebody’s grandmother, or family friend. And the toilet has a note about country plumbing and not flushing anything you didn’t eat, but the thing is a turbo-flush nonetheless. Anyway, out to dinner and wandering around town tonight.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Crisis Averted
The past few days I had a bit of a psychological crisis. Tuesday night I went to see Wilco at Tanglewood. I really enjoy their albums and their overall aesthetic. It was my first time seeing them live and at one of my favorite places on a beautiful summer night. A recipe for success, but the show left me underwhelmed. What the hell? They played a lot of their songs that I like, and they played them well. They wore nudie suits. But for some reason I just felt kinda blank about the whole thing. There is definitely a list of possible reasons. I had a disengaged companion (she doesn't like them) and I couldn't really see what the band was doing so I had no visual cues. Most importantly, they didn't stray much from what the recorded versions sound like. And the more I think about it the more I suppose I have to chalk my disappointment up to this factor. I expect some sort of deviation and unpredictability in live performance. I didn't expect Wilco to stretch anything out like Phish or the Dead, but I was not expecting the performance to so closely match the album sonically, energetically and in musical content.
Notwithstanding my love of acts like the Dead, this impulse toward variation in live performance is not something that seems inherent to other artists whom I have enjoyed in a live setting. The last show that I really enjoyed and became absorbed in was the Avett Brothers. And their show did not take their songs to extraordinary lengths. But, there was a ramped up energy that crackled through their set and particularly informed their vocals. And I felt connected to them as performers in a way that I hadn't when previously listening to their records. And now I listen to them in a new light. Sharon Jones was a similar experience with me. And when I've seen Ray Lamontagne there is a bit of play in his vocal articulation, arrangement and mood. I didn't experience any of these things at the Wilco show, and so I remained disconnected.
So this has been dragging on me for the past few days. I found myself wondering whether I'd really enjoyed any concert I'd been to (I certainly have!), and wrestled with an irrational feeling that I couldn't emotionally connect with music as a performer or even a as listener. How could I go see a band that I like, under such good circumstances, and not enjoy it? And if I wasn't feeling anything when I was listening, or playing, why was I doing it anyway? But on the way home I had a moment to remind me the silliness of the whole internal dialog.
"Resurrection Fern" by Iron & Wine. Driving in twilight and here is this song I've listened to many times. From a record I got last fall and played regularly through the winter. And as Sam Beam sang "the black bear claw, that took her dog" I got hit with a slap of emotional recall that took me totally by surprise. It was that pleasant feeling of unwinding melancholy that I often feel driving home on a cold winter evening. This in the middle of August. But it was there, and it was visceral and physical, I could feel my knees tingling. I wanted it to be December or February, and cloudy, with leafless trees, a dusting of snow and curlicues of smoke coming from a chimney. And it was all precipitated by a song.
So I guess that my crisis was pointless. I don't know why the conditions around that listening aroused such a sensation, and the equally fitting conditions of the concert did not. But I know that I can feel a deeply emotional connection with music, and also that I can't assume that it will happen when I expect it. And that's probably what makes it so powerful when it does.
Notwithstanding my love of acts like the Dead, this impulse toward variation in live performance is not something that seems inherent to other artists whom I have enjoyed in a live setting. The last show that I really enjoyed and became absorbed in was the Avett Brothers. And their show did not take their songs to extraordinary lengths. But, there was a ramped up energy that crackled through their set and particularly informed their vocals. And I felt connected to them as performers in a way that I hadn't when previously listening to their records. And now I listen to them in a new light. Sharon Jones was a similar experience with me. And when I've seen Ray Lamontagne there is a bit of play in his vocal articulation, arrangement and mood. I didn't experience any of these things at the Wilco show, and so I remained disconnected.
So this has been dragging on me for the past few days. I found myself wondering whether I'd really enjoyed any concert I'd been to (I certainly have!), and wrestled with an irrational feeling that I couldn't emotionally connect with music as a performer or even a as listener. How could I go see a band that I like, under such good circumstances, and not enjoy it? And if I wasn't feeling anything when I was listening, or playing, why was I doing it anyway? But on the way home I had a moment to remind me the silliness of the whole internal dialog.
"Resurrection Fern" by Iron & Wine. Driving in twilight and here is this song I've listened to many times. From a record I got last fall and played regularly through the winter. And as Sam Beam sang "the black bear claw, that took her dog" I got hit with a slap of emotional recall that took me totally by surprise. It was that pleasant feeling of unwinding melancholy that I often feel driving home on a cold winter evening. This in the middle of August. But it was there, and it was visceral and physical, I could feel my knees tingling. I wanted it to be December or February, and cloudy, with leafless trees, a dusting of snow and curlicues of smoke coming from a chimney. And it was all precipitated by a song.
So I guess that my crisis was pointless. I don't know why the conditions around that listening aroused such a sensation, and the equally fitting conditions of the concert did not. But I know that I can feel a deeply emotional connection with music, and also that I can't assume that it will happen when I expect it. And that's probably what makes it so powerful when it does.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances
Today I'd like to take a few minutes picking apart a piece I've been working on, the Six Romanian Folk Dances (sz 56) by Béla Bartók. These were published first as a piano work in 1915, later orchestrated for a small ensemble. I've been putting them together off and on for the last few months and I've nearly got them committed to memory. Hopefully solid interpretation is just a few steps down the line from there. With any help this exercise in description and analysis will help me on my way to a better understanding of the piece, as well as most likely offend many Bartók scholars, and probably some Transylvanians.
To my best knowledge, and research on the piece yields very little until I can get to a good library, the six dances are actually fiddles tunes from Transylvania, transcribed by Bartók with original accompaniments.
The First Dance is titled JOC CU BÂTĂ, a stick dance described as energetic and merry. I hear it as something of a drinking song. If you can picture a bunch of Transylvanians' arms entwined, beer mugs in hand, apparently with a stick in the other, you have some idea of the character of the piece. It begins with a sort of stuttering, lurching rhythm and a melody that escalates in the halting manner that an inebriate might work his way toward the door until collapsing (a grace note of fifth landing on a staccato tonic chord in bar 4) mid-phrase and then making one more half-hearted attempt to start back up again before settling back, this time to the tonic major at the end of the first phrase. Now that brings to light the interesting aspect of this tune. Bartók has started the song firmly in the key of A minor, even going so far as to essentially outline the melodic minor scale, and he lands on a tonic chord mid phrase. And there is a V-I cadence, but it is actually in this case a v-I, the dominant being minor and the phrase seeming in theory to be a half cadence toward the key of D. And in fact the next phrase does begin harmonized by a D major chord, but immediately returns to A minor and its relative C major before landing again on that v-I cadence. This continues through the dance, phrases all seeming to live in the land of A minor, C naturals abounding, but every time without fail the phrase cadences on a Major triad. So rather than define a key in the major/minor sense, we are left with only a key center (A) around which the piece revolves in multiple modalities. This slippery sense of tonality will come up again.
The second dance is titled BRÂUL or "waistband dance," a title that certainly sounds like it could be something slightly inappropriate. In fact the dance somehow or other entails a cloth belt, which is what lends the song its title. It's a quick happy little thing in D minor, with no key signature, and it's the shortest dance of the six. Structurally on the page it forms sort of a mirror image of itself, the top and bottom lines being nearly same, and the middle two being likewise similar. It reminds me of a cartoon scene with some mischievous character or other sneaking around on tip-toe and pausing behind a tree before starting out again.
PE LOC is a stamping dance in which, and this is important to me, the participants do not move from a certain location. The description points out the small intervals of the melody, which indeed only spans a major sixth and stays in small, ornamented circular figures. And the stamping must be pretty light because the dynamic never gets above piano. It is described as similar to bagpipe music, and it certainly sounds very ethnic, perhaps more so than any of the others, but I hear it as a tune for some sort of rough-hewn wooden flute, like a shakuhachi. It is one of the six that actually has a representative key signature, B minor, although the harmony is certainly not "functional" by any means.
The fourth dance is one of my favorites. BUCIUMEANA is a hornpipe dance, nothing like the fiddler's hornpipes I am familiar with from celtic and bluegrass music. It's a haunting and expressive melody (for once I buy the editorial description) in triple meter, over an accompaniment that is frequently in duple meter, and reminiscent of tolling bells in the distant. Here we run into Bartók's slippery tonality again. The piece again hovers around a key center of A, but if one were to do a pitch catalog the result would almost undoubtedly be D harmonic minor. And yet, with the half-step distribution of that pitch aggregate Bartók is able to use the C# to imply only an A major triad, and the B-flat becomes the key defining half step, descending to the tonic instead of ascending. I think all this elegantly contributes to the sort of exotic and lonesome nature of the melody.
POARGA ROMÂNEASCĂ is a polka, and a children's dance. The grace note staccato figure of the melody makes this abundantly apparent, as does the boom-chick of the left hand. Structurally, the tune is essential the same melody repeated, transposed, and re-harmonized in four phrases. The theoretically D-oriented pitch collection of the previous dance makes clear sense in this dance, which also carries a representative key signature of D major. Thus the final tonic A major chord of the Buciumeana (importantly carrying a fermata) becomes a half-cadence resolved decisively and immediately at the start of this fifth dance. The final phrase is another half-cadence and transitions with no pause into the final dance.
MĂRUNŢEL is a fast and lively finish to the set. The dance apparently calls for small steps in movements, which must be out of necessity resulting from its fast tempo. In this dance we deal one final time with Bartók's shifting modality. The song begins firmly in D as proposed by the key signature following the half cadence at the end of the preceding dance. But after two measures it's clear we are really in D lydian, with a g-sharp playing a major role in the melody. The first section ends on what appears to be another half cadence. In a great moment of surprise and one of the most harmonically exhilarating spots in the set, we take off again, at a slightly faster tempo, with a new, albeit similar melody focusing around the key of C, or according to the key signature change, G. So what is it? Well, it looks and sounds like C lydian more than anything else. There are plenty of f-sharps, but also plenty of implied dominant relationships built around G and it is followed by a new phrase, presumably at the sub-dominant, with a preponderance of f-naturals, ending in a half-cadence on G. So back to the C melody you say, and Bartók gives it to us, BUT, this time he's harmonized it in A mixolydian. And when the second theme returns it's harmonized in C but cadences in A, and on it's repeat Bartók again (much as in Buciumeana) uses the half step between B-flat and A to firmly entrench the harmony in the key of A major before a jangling and energetic landing to end the piece.
The beauty of all this harmonic slipperyness to me is that, in the bigger picture the piece is almost unquestionably in the key center of A, with various excursions, never too far from home. I've been studying Schumann's Kinderscenen concurrently with the Bartók and I see the similarities between the two. The Schumann, though on a larger scale, begins and ends its journey in the key of G, with the tonal excursions right in the middle of the set and a somewhat delayed landing back at the tonic. We see it in the Bartók also. Leaving A in the second and third dances. And while the fourth dance sonically seems to fit back into the key of A, if can easily be considered (especially given its brevity) as a sort of set-up for the strong D Major of the fifth dance, which is sustained and bent through the first two thirds of the final dance before finally bringing us home to bright, splashy A Major.
I think these Bartók dances are endlessly hip in their harmonization and presentation. I have a strong affinity toward sets of miniatures, which is why I find myself so drawn to these as well as the Schumann. I really feel that the small scale of pieces says nothing of the magnitude of their content, which in this case is quite interesting and refreshing. The set has a clear sense of direction, fascinating contrast and makes a rich and satisfying journey out of relatively simple means. I'm a fan!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a link to Bartók himself playing them, and a link to the sheet music so you can follow along.
To my best knowledge, and research on the piece yields very little until I can get to a good library, the six dances are actually fiddles tunes from Transylvania, transcribed by Bartók with original accompaniments.
The First Dance is titled JOC CU BÂTĂ, a stick dance described as energetic and merry. I hear it as something of a drinking song. If you can picture a bunch of Transylvanians' arms entwined, beer mugs in hand, apparently with a stick in the other, you have some idea of the character of the piece. It begins with a sort of stuttering, lurching rhythm and a melody that escalates in the halting manner that an inebriate might work his way toward the door until collapsing (a grace note of fifth landing on a staccato tonic chord in bar 4) mid-phrase and then making one more half-hearted attempt to start back up again before settling back, this time to the tonic major at the end of the first phrase. Now that brings to light the interesting aspect of this tune. Bartók has started the song firmly in the key of A minor, even going so far as to essentially outline the melodic minor scale, and he lands on a tonic chord mid phrase. And there is a V-I cadence, but it is actually in this case a v-I, the dominant being minor and the phrase seeming in theory to be a half cadence toward the key of D. And in fact the next phrase does begin harmonized by a D major chord, but immediately returns to A minor and its relative C major before landing again on that v-I cadence. This continues through the dance, phrases all seeming to live in the land of A minor, C naturals abounding, but every time without fail the phrase cadences on a Major triad. So rather than define a key in the major/minor sense, we are left with only a key center (A) around which the piece revolves in multiple modalities. This slippery sense of tonality will come up again.
The second dance is titled BRÂUL or "waistband dance," a title that certainly sounds like it could be something slightly inappropriate. In fact the dance somehow or other entails a cloth belt, which is what lends the song its title. It's a quick happy little thing in D minor, with no key signature, and it's the shortest dance of the six. Structurally on the page it forms sort of a mirror image of itself, the top and bottom lines being nearly same, and the middle two being likewise similar. It reminds me of a cartoon scene with some mischievous character or other sneaking around on tip-toe and pausing behind a tree before starting out again.
PE LOC is a stamping dance in which, and this is important to me, the participants do not move from a certain location. The description points out the small intervals of the melody, which indeed only spans a major sixth and stays in small, ornamented circular figures. And the stamping must be pretty light because the dynamic never gets above piano. It is described as similar to bagpipe music, and it certainly sounds very ethnic, perhaps more so than any of the others, but I hear it as a tune for some sort of rough-hewn wooden flute, like a shakuhachi. It is one of the six that actually has a representative key signature, B minor, although the harmony is certainly not "functional" by any means.
The fourth dance is one of my favorites. BUCIUMEANA is a hornpipe dance, nothing like the fiddler's hornpipes I am familiar with from celtic and bluegrass music. It's a haunting and expressive melody (for once I buy the editorial description) in triple meter, over an accompaniment that is frequently in duple meter, and reminiscent of tolling bells in the distant. Here we run into Bartók's slippery tonality again. The piece again hovers around a key center of A, but if one were to do a pitch catalog the result would almost undoubtedly be D harmonic minor. And yet, with the half-step distribution of that pitch aggregate Bartók is able to use the C# to imply only an A major triad, and the B-flat becomes the key defining half step, descending to the tonic instead of ascending. I think all this elegantly contributes to the sort of exotic and lonesome nature of the melody.
POARGA ROMÂNEASCĂ is a polka, and a children's dance. The grace note staccato figure of the melody makes this abundantly apparent, as does the boom-chick of the left hand. Structurally, the tune is essential the same melody repeated, transposed, and re-harmonized in four phrases. The theoretically D-oriented pitch collection of the previous dance makes clear sense in this dance, which also carries a representative key signature of D major. Thus the final tonic A major chord of the Buciumeana (importantly carrying a fermata) becomes a half-cadence resolved decisively and immediately at the start of this fifth dance. The final phrase is another half-cadence and transitions with no pause into the final dance.
MĂRUNŢEL is a fast and lively finish to the set. The dance apparently calls for small steps in movements, which must be out of necessity resulting from its fast tempo. In this dance we deal one final time with Bartók's shifting modality. The song begins firmly in D as proposed by the key signature following the half cadence at the end of the preceding dance. But after two measures it's clear we are really in D lydian, with a g-sharp playing a major role in the melody. The first section ends on what appears to be another half cadence. In a great moment of surprise and one of the most harmonically exhilarating spots in the set, we take off again, at a slightly faster tempo, with a new, albeit similar melody focusing around the key of C, or according to the key signature change, G. So what is it? Well, it looks and sounds like C lydian more than anything else. There are plenty of f-sharps, but also plenty of implied dominant relationships built around G and it is followed by a new phrase, presumably at the sub-dominant, with a preponderance of f-naturals, ending in a half-cadence on G. So back to the C melody you say, and Bartók gives it to us, BUT, this time he's harmonized it in A mixolydian. And when the second theme returns it's harmonized in C but cadences in A, and on it's repeat Bartók again (much as in Buciumeana) uses the half step between B-flat and A to firmly entrench the harmony in the key of A major before a jangling and energetic landing to end the piece.
The beauty of all this harmonic slipperyness to me is that, in the bigger picture the piece is almost unquestionably in the key center of A, with various excursions, never too far from home. I've been studying Schumann's Kinderscenen concurrently with the Bartók and I see the similarities between the two. The Schumann, though on a larger scale, begins and ends its journey in the key of G, with the tonal excursions right in the middle of the set and a somewhat delayed landing back at the tonic. We see it in the Bartók also. Leaving A in the second and third dances. And while the fourth dance sonically seems to fit back into the key of A, if can easily be considered (especially given its brevity) as a sort of set-up for the strong D Major of the fifth dance, which is sustained and bent through the first two thirds of the final dance before finally bringing us home to bright, splashy A Major.
I think these Bartók dances are endlessly hip in their harmonization and presentation. I have a strong affinity toward sets of miniatures, which is why I find myself so drawn to these as well as the Schumann. I really feel that the small scale of pieces says nothing of the magnitude of their content, which in this case is quite interesting and refreshing. The set has a clear sense of direction, fascinating contrast and makes a rich and satisfying journey out of relatively simple means. I'm a fan!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a link to Bartók himself playing them, and a link to the sheet music so you can follow along.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Insight?
Today I want to talk about a word. Insight.
Here are its definitions, both nouns.
1. an instance of apprehending the true nature of a thing, esp. through intuitive understanding.
2. penetrating mental vision or discernment; faculty of seeing into inner character or underlying truth
But I don't want to talk about that as much as just the word itself, and why it has blown my mind without even requiring me to ingest any drugs. So now, for two paragraphs allow me to generalize and make no apparent sense strictly in service to intellectual excitement incited (oh shit, don't even get me started on the homophones!) by a single little word.
The obvious etymological basis of the word is "In" + "Sight" and according to the online etymology dictionary it dates back to circa 1200 (innsihht). But that is not the final answer for me. Which of the two components is the more important one? IN-sight, sight which occurs internally within the mind? That would appear to line up more with definition number two. Or in-SIGHT, becoming clear, which would seem to align itself more closely with definition number one? Maybe neither are really more important, and I think perhaps they're too tightly entwined to even cleave the word into two different levels of meaning.
I guess the whole purpose of this little ramble is that the more I've thought about this word the more I've been impressed with the beauty of its construction. Insight. Understanding/Apprehension (SIGHT) of an internal/intellectual phenomenon (IN) which due to this Insight is now actually "In Sight". And it isn't the sensory "sight" but rather a mental/rational "sight" which returns us to the beginning of the previous sentence. Its like a linguistic mobius strip that keeps turning in on itself. Whoah!
Here are its definitions, both nouns.
1. an instance of apprehending the true nature of a thing, esp. through intuitive understanding.
2. penetrating mental vision or discernment; faculty of seeing into inner character or underlying truth
But I don't want to talk about that as much as just the word itself, and why it has blown my mind without even requiring me to ingest any drugs. So now, for two paragraphs allow me to generalize and make no apparent sense strictly in service to intellectual excitement incited (oh shit, don't even get me started on the homophones!) by a single little word.
The obvious etymological basis of the word is "In" + "Sight" and according to the online etymology dictionary it dates back to circa 1200 (innsihht). But that is not the final answer for me. Which of the two components is the more important one? IN-sight, sight which occurs internally within the mind? That would appear to line up more with definition number two. Or in-SIGHT, becoming clear, which would seem to align itself more closely with definition number one? Maybe neither are really more important, and I think perhaps they're too tightly entwined to even cleave the word into two different levels of meaning.
I guess the whole purpose of this little ramble is that the more I've thought about this word the more I've been impressed with the beauty of its construction. Insight. Understanding/Apprehension (SIGHT) of an internal/intellectual phenomenon (IN) which due to this Insight is now actually "In Sight". And it isn't the sensory "sight" but rather a mental/rational "sight" which returns us to the beginning of the previous sentence. Its like a linguistic mobius strip that keeps turning in on itself. Whoah!
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