There's a paradox at the heart of being a singing teacher, at least for me. On one hand, I want my students to feel uninhibited and unconditionally accepted as they explore their vocal capabilities; on the other, I want them to embrace the idea of craft -- that developing skills over time increases expressive ability and enjoyment.
The "Gospel Music Community" workshop I took last summer at Omega Institute emphasized the first of these aspects by creating an invitational, non-judgmental environment. Singers were encouraged to find their voices primarily through their emotional openness to the music, and the results were powerful: on the first morning, many of us were moved to tears from singing a simple, unison Gospel song. Something in our receptivity and shared intention allowed this devotional music to be transformative, even though we didn't share common religious beliefs.
But music isn't built on intention, alone. Its scientific elements of tonal and rhythmic organization also have a lot to do with our emotional responses. Gospel's vocal harmonies, for example, are voiced in particular ways -- often with the third of the chord (not the melody note) in the lowest part, and the resulting sound accounts for at least part of Gospel's appeal. When our workshop proceeded to three-part singing, the other tenors and I continued to sing our hearts out, but we also regularly missed the particular pitches we'd been asked to sing (most often we doubled the soprano note an octave lower, instead -- a common mistake of inexperienced singers). As a result, we missed creating Gospel's characteristic harmonic vitality.
Getting it "right," which was within our capability, would have required attending more purposefully to the music's objective elements, making corrections, and perhaps taking musical target practice until we succeeded. We needed more than emotional openness to find our voice as a tenor section; we needed to embrace the craft of executing precise harmonies, and that wasn't the workshop's focus. Could we have done so without sacrificing our unguarded openness or the transformational potential of the music?
Too often, the needs of craft and expressive freedom are seen as competing forces, rather than complementary viewpoints. To be sure, either view can be overemphasized. I've known many classically schooled musicians who've had their musical joy trained out of them, for example, and we've probably all heard a note-perfect performance that left us unmoved. But, on the other hand, if we strive for feeling expressive freedom at the expense of all critical distinctions, have we gone too far the other way?
Music's full power is unleashed when both the subjective domain of personal intention and the objective needs of craft are attended to and held in balance. In coming together, they create a larger, overall experience, mood, or taste -- something the aesthetic philosophy of India refers to as "rasa." Silvia Nakkach, one of my teachers, says rasa "describes a state of heightened emotional perception triggered by the presence of musical energy...rasa does not belong to the work of art, the musician, or the listener, but unites them all in the same state of consciousness."
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Is Everybody a Singer?
Can you sing? When did you decide? People who say they can't sing, I've noticed, usually trace their conclusions to a defining moment or two in their pasts -- often brief and sometimes years or decades old -- such as being rejected from an elementary school chorus or receiving instructions to "mouth the words;" or, perhaps hearing a friend or family member say "you don't have a good voice." End of story.
Why are such experiences so powerful? Human voices, like our facial muscles, are extremely sensitive to, and revealing of, our emotional states. Singing, a particularly heightened use of voice, is inherently intimate. In the presence of others it carries the possibilities of joy and connection, but also the risks of hurt and exclusion, if it's not well received. Wounds from singing criticism are often deeply felt, and they can be difficult to overcome.
In addition, singing is regarded by many of us as an either/or proposition -- the domain of the talented -- as opposed to an activity that thrives on guided practice and, like a sport, includes a learning curve and regular "falling down" experiences. As a result, people may conclude they can't sing without having had much experience, or without having received adequate encouragement.
Positive identification as a singer, in our culture, seems to require not only a lack of discouragement but repeated opportunity and affirmation. I once had a student, for instance, who took three years -- first through third grade -- before he matched pitch, and who by high school had become a relatively confident singer. An unusual case, to be sure, but singing students of all ages need an actively cultivated, positive environment that encourages vocal exploration, as well as guidance that reframes and counteracts some of the discouragements they may encounter elsewhere.
As if in response to the collective musical wounds of a high percentage of our population, recent years have seen an explosion of workshops at holistic learning centers with titles like "Discovering Your True Voice," "Singing Without Shame," or "Music for Everyone." Curious, and as part of my on-going quest for new ideas and repertoire, last summer I took such a class at Omega Institute called "Gospel Music Community."
Most of the twenty or so singers there were adult amateurs, a few of whom had never sung, and the focus was ecumenical and non-judgmental. Our teacher, Sister Alice, was fun, energetic, and kind, and she taught us traditional three-part Gospel songs by ear. On the second day, a new arrival in his mid 50s joined our tenor section and stood next to me. Full of vibrant enthusiasm, he immediately sang without reservation, at full volume, even though he'd missed everything we'd learned the first day. He seemed to have a good ear and usually found a note somewhere in the chord, but was unconcerned if he didn't.
What was his story, I wondered? Had he sung in high school? Does he sing now, in a chorus at home? When I asked him, he explained he'd never considered himself able to sing, ever, until two years ago when he took a vocal discovery workshop.
"I had a revelation!" he said, with a smile. I asked him to explain.
"It doesn't matter if you sing the right notes!"
Why are such experiences so powerful? Human voices, like our facial muscles, are extremely sensitive to, and revealing of, our emotional states. Singing, a particularly heightened use of voice, is inherently intimate. In the presence of others it carries the possibilities of joy and connection, but also the risks of hurt and exclusion, if it's not well received. Wounds from singing criticism are often deeply felt, and they can be difficult to overcome.
In addition, singing is regarded by many of us as an either/or proposition -- the domain of the talented -- as opposed to an activity that thrives on guided practice and, like a sport, includes a learning curve and regular "falling down" experiences. As a result, people may conclude they can't sing without having had much experience, or without having received adequate encouragement.
Positive identification as a singer, in our culture, seems to require not only a lack of discouragement but repeated opportunity and affirmation. I once had a student, for instance, who took three years -- first through third grade -- before he matched pitch, and who by high school had become a relatively confident singer. An unusual case, to be sure, but singing students of all ages need an actively cultivated, positive environment that encourages vocal exploration, as well as guidance that reframes and counteracts some of the discouragements they may encounter elsewhere.
As if in response to the collective musical wounds of a high percentage of our population, recent years have seen an explosion of workshops at holistic learning centers with titles like "Discovering Your True Voice," "Singing Without Shame," or "Music for Everyone." Curious, and as part of my on-going quest for new ideas and repertoire, last summer I took such a class at Omega Institute called "Gospel Music Community."
Most of the twenty or so singers there were adult amateurs, a few of whom had never sung, and the focus was ecumenical and non-judgmental. Our teacher, Sister Alice, was fun, energetic, and kind, and she taught us traditional three-part Gospel songs by ear. On the second day, a new arrival in his mid 50s joined our tenor section and stood next to me. Full of vibrant enthusiasm, he immediately sang without reservation, at full volume, even though he'd missed everything we'd learned the first day. He seemed to have a good ear and usually found a note somewhere in the chord, but was unconcerned if he didn't.
What was his story, I wondered? Had he sung in high school? Does he sing now, in a chorus at home? When I asked him, he explained he'd never considered himself able to sing, ever, until two years ago when he took a vocal discovery workshop.
"I had a revelation!" he said, with a smile. I asked him to explain.
"It doesn't matter if you sing the right notes!"
Sunday, December 2, 2007
What's Music?
One of my favorite musical stories features Pythagoras, the great mathematician, philosopher and scientist of ancient Greece, and I recently told it to a group of parents during a curriculum night at the high school where I teach.
According to legend, Pythagoras was walking home one day about 2500 years ago when he passed a blacksmith shop and something piqued his curiosity: the sounds of multiple hammers simultaneously hitting metal, he noticed, were sometimes pleasing to the ear and sometimes not. Wondering what caused the tone combinations to be harmonious or discordant, he devised a series of experiments to find out. Changing the weights of the hammers and trying different combinations, he eventually discovered musical intervals – like the octave, fifth, and fourth – were the result of precise mathematical proportions, such as 2:1 and 3:2 (in this case, the proportional weight of the hammers). Pythagoras went on to invent the Monochord, a one-stringed instrument with adjustable tuning, to teach about musical intervals, and the rest is history. Western music theory had begun.
Pythagoras believed numbers, generally, and musical proportions in particular, were keys to understanding the structure of the universe; the concept “Music of the Spheres” dates from his time and refers to the belief that celestial bodies are spaced according to musical proportions and through their movements create heavenly sounds. For Pythagoras, music was synonymous with science, and it was relevant to the deepest questions of the day.
I like this story because it reminds us music is precise, measurable and scientific – something that’s often overlooked these days. It also calls attention to how much our understanding of music has evolved since 500 B.C.E. It’s still science, of course, but these days we have more diverse conceptions of what music actually is, variously regarding it as an art, craft, entertainment, social identity, commodity, therapy, healing medium, or transformational practice.
We all have relationships with music that rest in one or more of these domains. Most music educators I know, for example, emphasize developing craftsmanship and artistry and consider them gateways to music’s transformational powers. Students, on the other hand, often look to music first for entertainment value and for strengthening their social identity, while parents tend to have a more therapeutic view – music should be enriching and creative, as long as it’s fun. Some spiritual seekers take yet another view and practice devotional chanting as a means of transforming consciousness.
With all these possibilities, it’s hard to know exactly what people mean when they say, “I love music!” How are they connecting to it? How do you? And what should music education programs emphasize?
According to legend, Pythagoras was walking home one day about 2500 years ago when he passed a blacksmith shop and something piqued his curiosity: the sounds of multiple hammers simultaneously hitting metal, he noticed, were sometimes pleasing to the ear and sometimes not. Wondering what caused the tone combinations to be harmonious or discordant, he devised a series of experiments to find out. Changing the weights of the hammers and trying different combinations, he eventually discovered musical intervals – like the octave, fifth, and fourth – were the result of precise mathematical proportions, such as 2:1 and 3:2 (in this case, the proportional weight of the hammers). Pythagoras went on to invent the Monochord, a one-stringed instrument with adjustable tuning, to teach about musical intervals, and the rest is history. Western music theory had begun.
Pythagoras believed numbers, generally, and musical proportions in particular, were keys to understanding the structure of the universe; the concept “Music of the Spheres” dates from his time and refers to the belief that celestial bodies are spaced according to musical proportions and through their movements create heavenly sounds. For Pythagoras, music was synonymous with science, and it was relevant to the deepest questions of the day.
I like this story because it reminds us music is precise, measurable and scientific – something that’s often overlooked these days. It also calls attention to how much our understanding of music has evolved since 500 B.C.E. It’s still science, of course, but these days we have more diverse conceptions of what music actually is, variously regarding it as an art, craft, entertainment, social identity, commodity, therapy, healing medium, or transformational practice.
We all have relationships with music that rest in one or more of these domains. Most music educators I know, for example, emphasize developing craftsmanship and artistry and consider them gateways to music’s transformational powers. Students, on the other hand, often look to music first for entertainment value and for strengthening their social identity, while parents tend to have a more therapeutic view – music should be enriching and creative, as long as it’s fun. Some spiritual seekers take yet another view and practice devotional chanting as a means of transforming consciousness.
With all these possibilities, it’s hard to know exactly what people mean when they say, “I love music!” How are they connecting to it? How do you? And what should music education programs emphasize?
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