Archive for May, 2004

Quickies

Why have I only just realised Alex Ross has a blog? Well, that’s certainly one for the sidebar. Good stuff.

As is Jessica Duchen’s classical music blog. I will get around to this, soon…

On an utterly unrelated note – I was worried that my feedroll-powered bookmarks had died for good, until aworks spotted that there are some funny shenanigans going on between feedroll and del.icio.us, which hopefully will be resolved before long. And probably means that e-mail I sent to the feedroll people was one of about 40,000 they’ve received along similar lines. Sorry about that guys!

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Why do we do it?

Only just got round to reading this post at silverdollarcircle. Has anyone ever come across a blog about the act of blogging? It would probably be pretty dull, come to think about it, but it would serve a point. And that is to demonstrate exactly what Simon’s talking about. There has been, recently, some sort of crisis in confidence around this corner of the net, and it certainly seems true to say that these things come in waves. Permit me to don my white coat, and I’ll explain why I think this is. And if you could just lie on that couch over there. Splendid.

Two things: firstly, if one major/influential/well-regarded blogger starts to express his doubts about what he’s doing, that’s bound to make a lot of his readers exmine themselves in a similar fashion. That seems self-evident. The second point is that with blogging there seems to be a pretty well-defined pattern of development which, for the almost-one year I’ve been doing this, I’ve certainly followed, and plenty of others have more-or-less followed too. It goes a little something like this (if I knew about flow diagrams I would probably introduce one at this point):

1) Start blog. Lots of enthusiasm, some good opening posts. After all, you’ve been thinking about doing this for a couple of weeks now, so there are some good ideas stored up waiting to get out.

2) Bit of a lull once the initial ideas run out. A few fall by the wayside at this point.

3) Crisis of confidence passes. Decide some sort of coherent agenda might be required, or at least a broad reason for writing the darn thing.

4) Start to build up a decent audience

5) Another minor crisis as responsibility to your readers begins. Referral stats take on a sick fascination. Maybe have to start scheduling blog time.

6) Blog starts to take over life. As someone once observed, “you start to think of every event in your life as a potential post”. Some call it a day at this point too.

7) Have a redesign
8) Minor crisis of confidence.

9) Remember why you started in the first place, and what you wanted to achieve, plough on

10) Sitemeter and Technorati become your life

11) Have a redesign

[repeat 8-11, to rhythm of deep breaths ...]

Personally speaking, while it’s saddening to see anyone I enjoy reading stop writing, I almost always appreciate the reasons why. I set this thing up so that I had a reason to write something almost every day, to exorcise a whole bunch of thoughts that couldn’t usefully be turned anywhere else, to sharpen up my ideas, and maybe – just maybe – do something I’m proud of. Most of those are ongoing projects anyway, so although I frequently think of giving it up, I don’t imagine that I actually will any time soon. I am proud of what I’ve done here (it’ll be on my next CV when the time comes for one), but I still have the ideas, and I still have the desire to write them down. I think at some point in that cycle I’ve described above, there comes a point when you stop being self-conscious about what you’re doing, and you’re able to break through that wall and have pure confidence in what you write. That, for me, is one of the most useful lessons I’ve learnt from blogging – the inevitable disposability of writing. You have to let it out there, and let it go, otherwise it’s not writing, it’s just electric pulses in your head. All the best blogs I read appreciate this, and the really good ones got it very quickly. One day, I hope, so will this one. In the meantime, it remains a very enjoyable and rewarding (for me, anyway) means to an end. Once it stops being so, have no fear I’ll be off.

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Rodeohead

Ever wondered what a medley of Radiohead songs might sound like if played by a bluegrass fiddle band? Of course you haven’t, but now that I’ve brought it up, you probably want to find out anyway.

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It’s not a complete surprise that Nasser Hussain has decided to quit cricket after his match winning performance on Monday. Hitting a century with your favourite shot to win a Test at Lord’s must be most players’ choice of farewell. And, amazingly, he leaves the team in better with him out of it, which he admits was behind his decision. With the return of Michael Vaughan in the next test or two, and Strauss taking Nasser’s place full time, this has to be one of the most exciting young England teams we’ve had for years.

Cheers Nasser – a great job, right to the end.

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That Fire.

Jonathan Jones makes some very good points on the Saatchi warehouse fire. Including the following:

“British art in the 1990s insisted on the here and now, never caring much about the future and perhaps never destined to exist there. In a way, this might be its best fate – to go up in a blaze of glory, never having to be exhibited in some provincial museum in 30 years’ time, as dull as most 1960s pop looks today, to embarrass and bore our children. Now it can be remembered in the same way as James Dean – forever young; forever new. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?”

OK, he acknowledges that this is irresistible exaggeration, but it’s always somehow comforting to see the romance and the mythology being built up, right from the start. The ritual of mourning, I guess. And I for one agree. I never saw the Chapman’s Hell (in fact I’ve only seen a few of their pieces), and until yesterday although I knew it was a great piece I never got as far as missing it. Now I do, and it feels like a loss.

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New blog alert! Musical Perceptions is written by Scott Spiegelberg, and looks to be specialising in Classical music. Good post on the Rite of Spring riots which is worth a read. He’s dead right that the fact was that Parisian audiences of the time just enjoyed a good riot, and it had very little to do with the music. Milhaud makes much the same point in his autobiography (the nauseatingly sweet My Happy Life), as he had to deal with his fair share too.

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Cunning. And the record companies seem only too glad to sell their artists’ work as ‘that bastard phone that ruined the film for half the cinema’, rather than ‘this stunning track I’ve just got from Soulseek’. Marketing is everything.

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It seems like I may just have kicked off a mini-meme. Well, after Michael Brooke” spotted my bookmark link to Tim Smith’s outstanding site of Well Tempered Clavier analyses,
Crooked Timber have picked up on it – which pretty much makes it a meme, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I came across the WTC link a few days ago going through a big Work database of music-related links (most of which, depressingly, are pretty dire, it has to be said), and this one just stood out a mile. For anyone wanting to know anything about counterpoint, Bach, the 48 Preludes and Fugues, or musical analysis in general, this is where to go. Anyone who reckons musicology is the worst of all meaningless, ivory-towered, navel-gazing occupations (which for the most part it is), or who believes passionately that there is no reason why it need be (which for the most part I do) should also pay a visit. This is a joy to behold.

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Music since 1960: Riley: In C

Forty years of modern composition and what this music means to me.

Index here.

Now here's a tough one. Terry Riley's In C (recording) is, like John Cage's 4' 33", probably one of the most written-about works of the 20th century. What can I add? Fortunately for Riley, his piece hasn't had to stand up to quite as much idiotic criticism as Cage's, but even so it remains one of those pieces that seems easy enough to talk about, even without having heard it.

The catch, of course, is that this is in theory an infinitely varied and complex work, of which no two performances are the same, and they may even be radically different. For those that don't know it, the score looks like this (there's also a pdf available here, which includes performing instructions). Riley's accompanying notes ask that the performers play each musical unit, in order, with as many repetitions of each as they like. Performers may begin and end units when they like, and include gaps in between, so the overall effect is of a tapestry of interlocking mini-canons. Riley's skill in constructing the piece has been in the way this tapestry progresses, and for all the freedom granted to his performers, he retains great control over the linear shape of the piece, and its structures of stasis and activity.

For example, whilst Riley absolves control over the number of performers he would like (although he expressly prefers larger ensembles of 30+ players, but such performances are very rare), there is a very definite shape to the opening bars of the work.

Throughout the piece, Riley advises keeping a steady quaver C pulse going on a keyboard or percussion instrument: this pulse on its own is traditionally how the piece begins, and it remains until the end. From this C, the shape of an upward C major arpeggio is drawn, with a prominent E in the first measure, to prominent Gs in the fourth and fifth measures, to sustained Cs an octave above the starting point in the sixth measure (by now we're four or five minutes into the piece), followed by stammers on the lower, original C. After this, in measure eight, we have more long-sustained notes (the effect of this is to compress movement of the players, since by now the majority will be playing the long notes of this or the sixth measure). The staccato judders of the opening sound more like bell tones; what is more, we are moving to a sort of cadence, as the note F becomes prominent, and rather than a C major chord, a dominant 7th on G is suggested. Similarly to Bach's Prelude in C from the first book of The Well-tempered Clavier, the busier surface activity creates and conceals longer melodic and harmonic shapes.

The Bang on a Can performance I've suggested comes very highly recommended. Seeing them perform In C live at the Queen Elizabeth Hall a couple of years ago was extremely impressive. They're great champions of this sort of music anyway, but they gave it a real strength and depth that can easily be overlooked I think (as is so often the case) when performers get distracted by the 'conceptual' nature of a work. As a piece of iconoclasm, In C is pretty important, but iconoclasm is rarely enough on its own. In C is one of a number of works of the 60s which – while always appreciated for their originality – were tacitly believed by many to lack anything beyond the surface concept. BOAC at least push In C into musical maturity, playing it as more than a proto-minimalist concept piece, making it almost symphonic in its organic development of themes.

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