Sunday, December 1, 2013

Back to Our Origins

In my third blog post, "Early Polyphony, Architecture and Minimalism", I discussed similarities between the music of Steve Reich and Perotin. The idea that two composers living a millenium apart would have striking similarities in their music might be shocking. However, when listening to Reich I can't help but think of Perotin. It is as though the spirit of Reich's compositions is a twentieth century reincarnation of of the sounds produced at Notre Dame in the thirteenth century.

I was reminded of Perotin while listening to Reich's Come Out (1966). This tape piece was commissioned as a response to the brutal beating of six African American boys in Harlem in 1964 (stevereich.com). Reich chose the voice of Daniel Hamm for this work. The excerpt of recording used is that of Hamm explaining the degree of his injuries. He says,


"I had to, like, open the bruise up and let some of the bruise blood come out to show
them.."

Reich loops the full quotation twice before repeating the phrase "come out to show them" for the remaining 12:45 minutes of the work. In this repetition, Reich lays a foundation similar to the chant used in Perotin's polyphony. Around the 1:05 mark it becomes obvious that the recorded segment is being gradually slowed on another track, creating a sense of imitative polyphony. This repetition slowly expands. As it does, many rhythmic combinations occur. The rhythm is felt by three plosive consonants in Hamm's voice- the [k] sound in "come", the [t] sound in "out" and "to", and the [sh] sound in "show". While the meaning of these words have special significance, I think Reich surely chose this clip for its percussive consonants as well.

At 2:52, a third and/or fourth (its hard to tell) loop is introduced creating a sense of canon. A similarity can be drawn here to the three and four part voice texture used in Perotin's organum. At 8:31, the pieces of recording are brought together forming a rhythmic pattern similar to that of a train engine. The words become harder to interpret, and the sound becomes ominous and somewhat unsettling. Perotin's music does not create the same unsettling feeling heard in Come Out, but it does have the atmospheric, hallucinatory qualities created in this work.

Maybe in the big scheme of things, music's journey is on a circular path.


Impressionism

The arrival of the twentieth century brought with it an abundance of new, distinct styles. For what seems like the first time in music history, composers chose the path of their liking to create their own unique sound. This independence led to an explosion of style in the story line of music history and included movements such as Expressionism, Exoticism, Impressionism, Primitivism, ism, ism, ism... The list could go on.

My favorite of these new "isms" originated in France at the end of the nineteenth century. Impressionism, as it is known today, deals with sensual beauty. It seeks to capture the immediate impression of a sudden glance. Because the eye does not retain distinct features such as line and form in a moment's glimpse, Impressionist art does not have sharp lines or defined forms. Each color and line flows freely into its neighbor, creating an inviting, flowing palette of color and sound on which the senses can feast. Below are two works of Claude Monet, Impression: Sunrise (1872) and San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk (1912). Notice the melding of colors, the unfocused lines and the glimpse of consciousness that Monet communicates.









Similar impressionist effects were created in the music of Claude Debussy. Just as Monet created ambiguity with blurred lines and merging colors, Debussy puts little emphasis on the form of his compositions. Of higher importance in his music is the timbre of instruments and the awakening of colors through harmonic language. In his Prelude to "The Afternoon of a Faun", Debussy employs glimpses of the whole tone scale to create a cloudy sensation. The colors of the flute and harp seem to go hand in hand with the colors of Monet's works shown above. Classical era musicians who glorified the use of form would have been lost in their search for structure upon hearing this work.

I've included two renditions of the piece below. The first is the original Debussy score. The second is a jazz/funk influenced version. If for no other reason, this shows a glimpse into the explosion of genres that were taking shape at the beginning of the twentieth century.







Saturday, November 30, 2013

Old vs. New

I think it is important when studying history to pause and consider the story... How have things changed? What has stayed the same? Who are the significant figures? etc. In doing so, one is able to notice common threads in an ever changing story. I'd love to give a short lesson, but that would make for an oversized blog post. However, one aspect that remains inevitable in history is change. Musicians in the second half of the nineteenth century had a hard time agreeing on exactly what kinds of change music should be making.



One argument was that music should continue in the same traditions of the past century, glorifying form and employing  a conservative use of tonality. Today, these composers are known as the Late Romantics, and include names such as Brahms and Bruckner. The other voices, known as Post Romantics, included Wagner and Liszt. This group pushed for "the music of the future" which freed itself from formal structure and strict tonality. The different aims of these two school produced two distinct sounds. Below are two examples of music from the second half of the nineteenth century. The fourth movement from Brahms' Symphony No. 4 in E minor is emblematic of the Late Romantics. Wagner's Prelude to Act I of  of his opera Tristan und Isolde represents the ideals of the Post Romantic school. Listen and take note of the differences you hear. What about the Brahms says, "We are holding onto the past!"? What do you hear in the Wagner that announces "the music of the future"?



Without getting into the score and just using my ears, I notice these differences:

  • The Brahms remains rooted in tonality while the Wagner floats between different tonal realms. 
  • The sense of rhythm is strong in the Brahms. Wagner's Prelude does not have an easy to follow downbeat. 
  • The mood of both works are similar, but the Wagner provokes deeper emotions. 
  • Maybe its because I know the pieces, but Wagner's work sounds more "futuristic" than Brahms'.
Regardless of difference in taste and ideals, both the Post and Late Romantics knew change was inevitable in their beloved music. While it is hard for me to pick a side in this debate, i found Liszt's words to ring true that, 

"art cannot escape the necessary evolution that belongs to all that Time produces. Its (Art's) life principle, like that of humankind, remains, like the life principle of Nature, inherent in certain forms only for a period of time, and it passes from one to another in a constant process of change and drives people to create new ones to the same extent that they abandon those that have decayed and past their prime"

If they only knew what was about to come.

Romanticism

In 1848, political uprisings occurred across Europe. As the public became empowered by a new sense of individualism, they demanded their voices be heard. By doing so, the rigid political systems in existence were challenged and expanded. A similar phenomenon occurred in the arts. As artists became aware of their individualism, they challenged the formal structures developed by classicism. The desire for balance, order and symmetry had been fulfilled. Artists began turning inward. By tapping into deep emotions and personal thoughts, artists poured forth a wellspring of rich, deep-rooted work. The newfound voice of the Romantic era could not be detained by the bars of classicism.

Romantic art, with its deep emotion, commonly deals with themes such as love, nature, death, and the supernatural. Although these topics appear in previous eras, Romantics conveyed these themes in a new, more intense manner. An example of this Romantic approach to music can be found in Beethoven's Piano Sonata in C minor, op. 13, mvt. 1. I chose this piece as an example for a couple of reasons:

1) The genre- In my last post, I wrote about Mozart's Piano Sonata in F major, K. 332. By looking at another piano sonata, it will be easier to draw parallels.

2) The date of composition- Beethoven composed this sonata between 1797-98, Mozart composed his between 1781-83. Although they are close in age, fifteen years allowed for much change in the development of the piano sonata.

Beethoven's sonata follows the outline of sonata form, but takes advantage of the flexibility more so than Mozart. Beethoven shapes the form to allow his emotions more freedom. One characteristic of Romantic music found in this sonata is the juxtaposition of extremes. In the first six measures, Beethoven takes the listener from piano to fortissimo volumes, with sforzandos thrown in between. In the Mozart, the dynamic contrasts are separated by section. This use of dynamic extremes is used throughout the first movement of the C minor sonata.

The Beethoven seems to have an emotional narrative, or "voice" that speaks throughout the piece. This idea is described in the Norton Anthology as "grief vs. determination". One can hear the grief and pain in the introduction (m. 1-10). This emotion is countered by a drive to overcome the grief at the outset of the first theme (m. 11). While Mozart's sonata involves emotional contrasts, it is more difficult to identify a "voice" or emotional narrative.

Friday, November 29, 2013

Beautiful Simplicity

With the dawn of the Enlightenment, artists began to seek balance and form in their works. The inspiration was rooted in the spirit of Graeco-Roman art, which had become a topic of interest among artists due to archeological discoveries. We see this influence in visual art, particularly in the work of Jacques Louis David. His painting Oath of the Horatii  shows the ideal balance, order and simplicity sought by many artists in the mid-18th century.



As in visual art, music of this period was also influenced by a desire for symmetry and order. For centuries, music was able to take shape in accordance to the text which it accompanied. However, with the invention of new and more advanced instruments composers began writing more purely instrumental music. With a demand for structure and form, but no text to give shape to instrumental works, a new means of organization was needed. This need gave rise to the sonata form.

In its broadest terms, sonata form can be described as the harmonic movement from tonic ( I ) to dominant ( V ) and back to tonic. This tonal map helps to organize the different themes definitive of sonata form (primary theme, transition, secondary theme, and closing). While sonata form has a definite structure, its limitations are minimal. This form satisfied the appetite for order, while allowing composers to display their creative genius. A display of this creative genius can be found in Mozart's Piano Sonata in F major, K. 332. Mozart makes use of sonata form in the first movement of this work for solo piano.

Taking a broad look at this opening movement, we see the tonal passage of tonic-dominant-tonic. The piece starts in F major, begins transitioning toward the dominant (where it arrives in m.41) and then develops (m. 94-133) back to the tonic. Taking a closer look at the composition reveals idiosyncrasies that show Mozart's skill. He begins the work in a simple fashion- a singable melody placed on top of an Alberti bass harmonic progression. The playful energy continues as Mozart mimics natural horns as they call for the hunt (m.12-14). Mozart plays with the emotions of his listeners by taking a sharp turn into a minor tonality, using dissonances and fully diminished chords. All of this in twenty two measures. A further investigation would give light to more of the genius decisions made by the composer, but it does not take a sharp eye to notice how Mozart capitalizes on the flexible structure of sonata form to demonstrate his compositional ability.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Bach

Most musicians have landmark memories of experiences that shaped them as artists or reaffirmed their love for music making. Bookmarked in the pages of my musical memories are an assortment of these experiences. One that rises above others is my encounter with J.S. Bach's monumental
B-minor Mass. Many hours of work went into preparing this piece for performance. I had never encountered a work that challenged me as a singer like this one did. By breaking down each vocal melisma and minute detail, I found myself face to face with the mental genius of a composer who (I believe) rises above any other on the heavily debated frontier of Western Music History.

Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) bridges the divide from the Baroque to the Classical era. His music, written primarily for practical purposes, encompasses nearly every genre of music known in his day. While contemporary composers such as G.F. Handel travelled extensively through Europe sharing their music, Bach never ventured beyond his homeland of Germany. Although he is undoubtedly a figurehead among classical composers, Bach's music did not originally enjoy the prominent status it does today. Many saw his work as outdated and excessive. Seaton includes in his text the account of Johann Adolph Scheibe who refers to Bach's music as "impossible" to perform and, despite "tedious work and extraordinary effort" applied in composition, his efforts are "in vain, since it strives against nature".

While I can empathize with Schiebe on his use of "impossible" (performing Bach is no walk in the park), I find it a bit extreme to to label such music as "against nature". Of course, the musical appetites of Bach's contemporaries were craving the structure and 'natural' form of the approaching Classical era, but in doing so were missing the main course served by Bach himself!

One compositional technique found in many of Bach's works is the fugue. The Organ Prelude and Fugue in A minor, BWV 543 is a prime example of the composer's genius use of this technique. The subject of this four-voice fugue is a five measure phrase consisting of 55 different pitches. Needless to say, his subjects were often melismatic and full of difficult fingerings (and footings) for the performer. I found this video of organist Jay Ju performing the Prelude and Fugue. The fugue begins at 3:00 minutes and the final subject is introduced at 4:00 minutes. Notice the coordination and difficulty of the passagework.

Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, BWV 62, a sacred cantata composed in 1724 shows Bach's genius in the realm of vocal writing. More stunning than the composition itself is the fact that he composed a new cantata weekly for two of the four churches in Leipzig where he served as music director. In addition, Bach's cantatas use various styles and genres between movements. This particular cantata includes a Lutheran chorale, chorale motet, Italian opera, cantata, and concerto, and French dance (Burkholder). I particularly like Masaaki Suzuki and the Bach Collegium Japan's recording for the color of tone and the quicker tempo that seems to embody the anticipation of Advent- this cantata was performed on the first Sunday of the liturgical season.



Bach's music, although confusing and impossible to some, is what I consider genius. After reading the Scheibe comment, I was reminded of a quote from Iris Murdoch I came across this past summer. Perhaps if Mr. Scheibe was alive today I would respond to his critique with Murdoch's words that, "form in art is properly the simulation of the self-contained aimlessness of the universe. The best art melds the minute and absolutely random detail of the world together with a sense of unity and form".

Bach's style may not have fit the rigid form of the dawning Classical era, but I'm certain that the aimless universe welcomes it with open arms.


Monday, October 21, 2013

Affection


In my last blog post I wrote about how music had changed from the 9th through the 16th centuries. Music began its history in the church, slowly changing by the incorporation of rhythmic modes and polyphony. As it expanded, music began measuring itself in terms of time. We then see its departure away from symbolisms in rhythm and the use of plainchant as a foundation, toward a new appreciation for text. Music clothes itself in language, giving rise to the practice of text painting. As mannerisms arose in this practice, notably in the music of Gesualdo, music began to look for new meaning. The dawn of the 17th century and its new philosophy of rationalism enabled music find its new mantra- affect. While composers from the late 15th through 16th centuries sought to mimic the text of their music, 17th century convention sought to penetrate further into the mind of the listener. Instead of painting a picture with sound, this new music aimed to give rise to certain emotions and kindle a particular mindset. Music’s purpose was to make the listener feel a certain way. To create this experience, composers had to look beyond poetic imagery of texts and into the manner in which the speaker of the poem might deliver it. Or, as Monteverdi said himself, “make the words the mistress of the harmony and not its servant”.

“When I am Laid in Earth” from Henry Purcell’s opera Dido and Aeneas is a definitive example of this new kind of music. By using a chromatically descending ostinato as the foundation, Purcell constructs a hauntingly beautiful melody for soprano that awakens deep emotions. In the recitative particularly, his use of chromatics in the vocal line pierces the ears of listeners, communicating the despair experienced by Dido. This occurs in m. 2 (darkness) and m. 6 (death). I am particularly drawn to Lorraine Hunt Lieberson’s recording of this aria. Her tone, while clear and light, carries a weight of honesty and depth that illicit despair. She does a brilliant job cultivating the affect Purcell and other 17th century composers strived for in their music.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

A Quick History


One of the questions posed in our last class was “How has music changed over the 500 years we have studied thus far?” An easy answer to this loaded query might be “A LOT”, but let’s look a little closer.

Music in context of the Western classical tradition has its origins in the Roman Catholic Church. We began this semester studying plainchant liturgy, which dates to pre-10th century. Aside from courtly music, the church served as music’s residence for the next few hundred years due to its ubiquity in culture and monetary power. We see the development of polyphony occur in the church from the troping of chants and the birth of the motet. Polyphonic ideas grew in this arena, notably at Notre Dame through the work of Leonin and Perotin. As musical ideas expanded, new compositional techniques were needed. This gave rise to Franconian notation, developed by the theorist Franco of Cologne and described in his treatise Ars cantus mensurabilis. With this development, musicians became aware of duration and note values. Time imposes itself on music.

The Ars Nova- early 14th century- continued the progress of measuring and notating musical time. Such progress brought about notational issues, which lead to the development of mensuration. This was a turning point for Western Music. Until then, triple rhythms dominated due to their symbolic value of divine perfection. Shaking the bias toward triple rhythms opened unchartered territory for composers of the Ars Nova.

After nearly half of Europe’s population was wiped out by the gruesome Black Death pandemic (1348-1350), secularization of culture began to increase, taking power away from the church. This gradual shift produced the secular formes fixes in France as well as the madrigal, ritornello, and ballata in Italy. Composers of the Ars Subtilior- late 14th century- refined these forms using extreme subtleties in their compositions.

As the church’s grip continued to loosen, secular thought gave rise to Humanism. In this tradition we see the glorification of human emotion. Thus, composers shifted their attention towards revealing the emotion veiled in the texts of their music. This movement set the stage for vocal music of the 16th century, particularly the madrigals we are discussing this week.

Il bianco e dolce cigno is filled with text painting. The text, although it appears innocent, proves to be evocative. Arcadelt matches the misleading sweetness of the poem in his composition by using gentle harmonies of thirds and sixths. The height of the piece occurs in m. 20-24 where Arcadelt employs minor harmonies and chromaticism to paint the suggestive text “and I die happy” – death drawing parallel meaning with sexual climax. This piece was sure to satisfy the amateur musicians who likely performed it in its earliest years.


Clergy gathered at the Council of Trent
Palestrina’s Missa Papae Marcelli satisfies a different passion. In response to the Reformation, which challenged the Church’s authority, Catholic leaders were compelled to reevaluate the stance of Catholicism on a variety of topics, music being one of them. This occurred at the Council of Trent (1545-1563). Polyphonic music was a heavily debated issue among the clergy gathered at Trent. Palestrina, as legend has it, singlehandedly saved polyphony from being taken out of Catholic worship by composing sacred music that did not obscure the text. The Credo from this mass is quite remarkable for two reasons. First, it is written predominantly for six voices, which Palestrina employs equally throughout the movement. Second, the credo text is by far the longest text of the mass ordinary. The fact that Palestrina was able to use such vocal forces for such an extended text all the while satisfying the high expectations of 16th century church fathers is significant. One can imagine Palestrina clearing the air with “minimal dissonance and gently pulsing rhythmic flow” in a room full of stuffy old men as the sounds of his mass “wrapped the listeners in a blanket of mystical peace” (Seaton).

Monday, September 30, 2013

Dunstable, Contanance Angloise, Humanitatis

The English Channel separates the British Isles from
continental Europe. 
Despite his celebrity status in Western Music History, little is known about the life of the Englishman John Dunstable (c.1390-1453). What we do know is found in a handful of documents dating from the early 15th century. Perhaps the most telling of these is an epitaph found in the London church of St. Stephen, describing Dunstable as a man "who enclosed Heaven in his breast" and was "the confederate of the stars". The epitaph writer continues to describe the deceased saying, "This man was thy glory, thy light , thy chief, O Music. One who scattered thy sweet arts throughout the world". It goes without further explanation that Dunstable was VIP status in his day. For his music to be spread "throughout the world" in a time of limited transportation is quite an achievement. While many epitaphs can be misleading with embellished descriptions of the dead, we know that this writer is reliably matter-of-fact. The majority of manuscripts bearing Dunstable's music have not been found in England, but in countries throughout western continental Europe, particularly France.

It is widely accepted that Dunstable served as a secretary/musician for the Duke of Bedford, who resided in Paris during the Hundred Years War. It is believed that Dunstable accompanied Bedford on his travels across the channel. With him, he brought the English style of writing, or what the poet Le Franc dubbed as Contenance Angloise. This "English Guise" is defined by its use of thirds and sixths -harmonies that, at the time, were considered dissonant- as well as simple rhythms that followed the natural rise and fall of speech. This simplicity was attractive to the French musicians. 

Quam pulchra es is an excellent example of the appealing style of Contenance Angloise

Immediately, the listener hears a major third sung by the top voice in the first measure. The downbeat of the second measure establishes a first inversion major triad; a sonority that remains constant through the piece. These sweet sounds offer an obvious contrast to the more angular sound of Machaut, who sparingly used the harmonies of thirds and sixths in his works. While today's standards find thirds and sixths as basic building blocks of harmony, it is likely that fifteenth century French artists were shocked,   perhaps offended by the consistent use of these harmonies. If there were any naysayers among those first hearing Dunstable's work, they were quickly hushed by the others who were drawn to his distinct English sound. It is hard to protest such beauty. Thus, Dunstable marked his place in music history.

Dunstable uses other original techniques in addition to his harmonies. Unlike prior motets that used chant and isorhythms, Quam pulchra es simply looks to the text to define it's form. The evocative text comes from the Song of Solomon 7:4-12, which places the piece under the umbrella of the established motet genre. This shift from constructing music around ratios and chant sections to constructing it based on the text is an important bookmark in the saga of music history. Dunstable leads the parade away from the mathematical quadrivium to the demonstrative humanitatis.


Monday, September 23, 2013

Early Polyphony, Architecture and Minimalism

I had two recurring thoughts while listening to the two, three and four part organum from this past week's listening:

1. The influence of architecture on the music being made

2. Steve Reich

Allow me to explain.

The music of early polyphony is most frequently tied to two composers, Leonin (c. 1169-1201) and Perotin (c. 1198-1236). These musicians produced a substantial amount of music during their time at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. Using the existing chant as a foundation, Leonin produced a collection of organum, known as the Magnus liber organi (Great book of organum). These works were substituted  for portions of the chant during major events throughout the liturgical year. This substitution allowed musical diversity; for me, a welcomed step away from the ubiquitous plainchant. Although it is hard to notice without looking at the score, the original chant remained in tact during these new polyphonic sections. Sections of the chant were simply augmented to add the additional voice (duplum). Augmenting the chant and placing a florid line above it created an atmospheric, entrancing sound. While the unison chant promotes a certain mindset, it (in my opinion) does not create the sense of wonder found in polyphony. Listening to the recording of Viderunt Omnes provoked ethereal, unearthly feelings. Although the music is simple, employing only two vocal lines, it is complex in the emotions it evokes. For me, the augmented chant sections that serve as the foundation keep the listener grounded, while the florid duplum awakens the imagination. It is no wonder that Leonin was creating music of this spirit. He likely spent most of his time composing at Notre Dame, a place that still today, despite our advancements in technology and architecture continues to draw people from around the world to witness it's awesome beauty. If we today are still astounded by this architecture, imagine how inspiring it must have been to someone 900 years ago.

Continuing on the idea of atmospheric sounds and awakening the imagination, as well as chronologically, it is natural to now consider the music of Perotin. Perotin expanded the work of Leonin by adding a third (triplum) and fourth (quadruplum) voice to the texture.
Doing so added weight and color to the sound. This addition of voices is similar to the concurrent additions being added to the Cathedral. As the structure extended upward, adding more mass and detail, so did the music that was being produced within it's walls. The auditory effect of adding these new colors to the music creates a similar consciousness I experience when listening to minimalism; particularly the music of Steve Reich. Structurally, the music of Leonin and Reich are surprisingly similar. They employ the use of repetitive rhythms built on top of a slow moving harmonic foundation. The music also shares audial similarities. I use words and phrases such as "meditative" or "a cloud of sound" to describe what I hear when listening to this music. I find it very interesting that identical emotions are awakened when listening to music that spans such a vast amount of time. Because of the striking similarities, I did a bit of reading to see if Reich draws on the music of Perotin for ideas in his own compositions. Here is a quote I found in an interview between Reich and Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker. Reich says:

Machaut's  isorhythms are of real interest to me, but my heart belongs to earlier music by Perotin at Notre Dame in Paris in the late 12th century... for Perotin it is the idea of taking a line of Gregorian Chant and augmenting its duration enormously so that instead of a melody it becomes a series of long drones. He (and Leonin) originate what we would call today very slow harmonic rhythm. 


So the similar experiences I have when listening to these two composers is rooted in the foundation, or harmonic rhythm of their music. For Leonin and Perotin, the foundation was built on the original chant that  served as a reminder of the generations of church musicians who had sung the same repertoire. By building on the ideas of their predecessors, they expanded the genre to create an ethereal experience. Reich does the same. By looking back to the days of early polyphony, on which Western music is built, he is able to produce an identical mindset. We may not be able to travel back in time, but music will always serve as a vehicle to channel the same emotions experienced by those who have come before us.


Suggested listening:  



Monday, September 16, 2013

Listening to Early Music

Listening to music from its earliest stages in Western thought using a modern ear, one might say "it all sounds the same". The music usually involves only one vocal line, stays in a conservative range, and is typically in a language that most people don't speak anymore. Sacred music employs only voices, and the instrumentation used in secular music is thin. For the average 21st century listener, music from the tenth-twelfth centuries might seem rather dull. This makes sense considering we are used to hearing the symphonies of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich as well as dozens of popular genres played in public places. But all of these characteristics deal strictly with the sound. To understand music from ancient eras, I think we must look beyond the aesthetics. We have to use our imagination, continually ask "why?", and strongly consider the text being sung.

The recordings of chant from week one all have a similar sound and communicate sacred texts. I particularly liked the recording of Viderunt Omnes. The singers do a great job giving life to the chant by shaping the phrases and giving contour to the melody. I also enjoyed the echo effect, inviting the listener to imagine the cavernous sanctuaries in which these chants were originally sung. The text is clear- something clergy expected from the music. For me, it does not evoke any particular emotions, but offers a calm, peaceful atmosphere. I understand why this music is still used today. The effect it gives offers listeners an opportunity to step into a mindset ideal for worship. 

It is no surprise that church leaders strongly protested the sounds of secular music making its way into worship services. To modern ears, troubadour songs of courtly love don't sound evocative, especially when put up against modern "romance" music. For many, troubadour songs likely sound similar to sacred chant. Taking a closer look at the text and concentrating on the performer's voice will allow one to see the stark contrast. I particularly enjoyed the recording of Comtessa de Dia's A chantar m'er. The singer does a nice job of immediately evoking emotion in her initial unaccompanied line. By using untraditional vocal technique she effectively communicates the pain in her heart singing:


I am obliged to sing of that which I would not

So bitter am I over the one whose love I am



Troubadours were wealthy, well trained members of the French upper class and nobility. The courtly love they sing about in their chansons often involves love for a married man or woman. The music is sensual and alluring and often invites a character to abandon their spouse. It is no wonder that the church had strong opposition to this music. Not only does it challenge the sacred concept of marriage, but it uses seductive musical features to do so.

Below are two recordings of the pieces mentioned above. Listen for yourself to the contrast in emotion that each piece evokes.


Sunday, September 15, 2013

A Fresh Start

It's been a while since I've studied music from the twelfth century.

If you were to ask me before last week to tell you something that what was going on in music during that time, my thoughts would have been limited. I'm sure it would have included something about plainchant, organum and a list of two or three other vocabulary terms I faintly remember from my lackluster undergrad music history course. During my first study of the music from this era, I had a hard time connecting with the content. One can't blame me for the lack of understanding. I was a sophomore in college being taught musical concepts from another millennium in a basement classroom during my lunch, by an adjunct professor who found more enjoyment in researching music history than teaching it.  However, after reading the first four chapters of Douglass Seaton's Ideas and Styles in the Western Musical Tradition and doing a little extra reading of my own, I've found a new interest in this music. What was nothing more than boring monophony in a dead language has suddenly come to life.

Most music history courses start their narrative with plainchant. While this makes logical sense, I think many students are left under the impression that music was nothing more than simple monophony during this time because that was the extent of the western world's musical knowledge. As an undergrad, this was a dilemma for me. It didn't seem to make sense that hundreds of years before the chant repertory was transcribed, societies existed with brilliant artists and thinkers who were surely capable of dreaming up melodies more complex than chant. While this idea is likely true, music history courses (at least from my experience) do little to address this dilemma. So I rested on the thought that music started in the eighth or ninth century and began to expand from there. It wasn't until reading chapter three of the Seaton that I began to consider other possibilities. Seaton writes:

The chant's monophonic texture and the suitability of the music for singers of modest technical qualifications bear special significance. The unity of the "community of believers" finds expression in the uniting of voices in a single statement, especially within the religious cloister, where all the members of the monastery or convent participate in singing the Divine Office. Thus the chant's unification of worshipers' voices into a single line both embodies this idea and facilitates it in practice; its simplicity should not by any means be regarded as evidence of primitiveness (p. 30)

Things suddenly began to make more sense. What I had thought of as 'primitive' was actually a conscious decision by composers of chant. The music went from being a genre I felt obligated to know as a "real musician" to a lively, meaningful chapter in our musical story.