音楽

 I suppose I’m a weirdo. I’ve been a musician since I was fifteen, and I never thought music HAD meaning. It simply is. I know a lot of people think that music has to communicate something, like emotion or something, but I never thought that was an essential part of it. Sometimes music communicates something, usually through prior association, but that is usually just coincidence, or conscious pandering on the part of the musician (like the “sexy saxophone” communicating horniness in a film, or a bassoon solo indicating a pompous person.) I don’t think music has any intrinsic meaning any more than a mountain does. Now, one very intelligent linguist who is a friend of mine pointed out that some of music is interpreted by the brain in the same places that language is, therefore music has some aspects of language in it, including Noam Chomsky’s famous “innate syntax”, so it must have meaning. But the research on that is very skinny indeed, and so far, understanding of music seems to be almost entirely cultural (so, NOT innate, nor universal!) I will await the results of future studies with bated breath. 

William

     

 A sigh. An exasperated breath. A hesitant reach for the keyboard. A withdrawal. A long glance at the ceiling. A gasp. An idea. A melody. A rhythm. A chord progression. Success! This is the composition process, one known to every composer and song artist who has ever walked the earth. And while the precise steps one follows on this journey of creation may differ slightly, the process is the same. For with such a diverse spectrum within this medium of music, its creation is the one thing that all compositions have in common. One does not need any tools for this other than perhaps a small amount of musical knowledge, and maybe a pen and paper. The most important ingredient is the story. It begins with an idea, a miniscule thought that one day pops into the composers head. Perhaps the symphony played by the local orchestra inspired a melody. Something classical, but with a bit of a jazzy twist; a seventh chord, maybe? Or the rhythmic pattern of a train as it rumbled towards the coast, the new, shorter, passenger cars thumping out something with more of a “poppy” feel to it. Or maybe even a poem; a sad account of loss and death twisting and reforming into something new and darker. These ideas come from everywhere, everyone, and everything. They surround us, waiting to be found and discovered, to be reshaped and turned into something new. They blend with us; with our emotions, with our mind, transforming into something truly unique and personal. Ideas can be quickly jotted down on paper, recorded, spoken, entered into composition software, or even stored in the composers memory. Then comes the hard part: writing the story. All music tells a story, whether it be one of love, of heartbreak, of adventure, or maybe just a game of pong. And to have a story, you need a beginning. Perhaps something calm, a farm boy running through a field, the tall waves of grain painted by cellos. The hues of the setting sun are written in the soft lagato of the piano, mixing and blending with young child's joy. His pure delight is felt through the high, airy notes of the flute, rising and falling as his mind takes in the wonder of the world around him. Next, the conflict; a bass, timpany, and muted trumpets. A strange feeling, the smell of fire, a pillar of smoke in the air. Running faster, the flutes playing higher. The sound of the bass drum as the realization dawns on the boy that the smoke is coming from the direction of his house. His heart races with the beat of a smaller drum, and is one listens closely, the flute can be heard again, if now only a faint glimmer of the joy that was. A glimmer of hope, hopelessly drowned out by the symphony of his beating heart. Finally, the resolution; the spike of joy and the key change. His heart still pounding, but his mind now a delighted major, any thoughts of the previous minor key now gone as he realizes that his father was simply burning the field. A story can start from anywhere: the melodical joy of the introduction, the rhythmic pounding of the heart as despair begins to overwhelm, or even perhaps the conclusion. The story can have plot twists and key changes, surprises and strange chords, several chapters and movements. Different characters and instruments, hidden meanings found only when closely inspecting the original work. There can be a whole world to the one composition, from side stories and short pieces, to fan fiction and remixes. Music is a story, a story that is hidden in each of us, a story of love and loss, of riches and poverty. A story of pure joy and happiness, a story of fear and incomprehensible darkness. It is there, inside of you, dear reader. And us composers let it out. 

M. Kross

     

 There is almost always a song in my head. It might be from the radio. It might be from a dream and continued after I woke. It might just be a rhythm or melody that put itself there. I suddenly notice my head is full of music at odd hours. Music links me to moments. I sing “the bear went over the mountain” and “do your ears hang low” and can picture my bedroom, feel myself sitting in the sun-warmed spot on the carpet, playing with Barbies and legos. I hear “nothing but the blood” and remember belting out the lyrics with my friend in the back seat of my mom’s car as we’re leaving the grocery. I hear “amazing grace” and tears slip slowly down my face as I remember singing at my grandpa’s funeral in 11th grade. I sing “can’t hold us” loudly and excitedly, just as I did on the way to senior prom with my best friend and cousin. I hear “abide with me” and remember the love of my husband, my family, and my friends as we all prayed at our wedding for God to be with us as we began married life. I am linked to memories by music. It is such a powerful, emotional tool, and one I am so thankful to have. 

Vane