Musical purpose & happiness

"I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves -- this critical basis I call the ideal of a pigsty. The ideals that have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. Without the sense of kinship with men of like mind, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors, life would have seemed empty to me. The trite objects of human efforts -- possessions, outward success, luxury -- have always seemed to me contemptible." -Albert Einstein

Like Albert Einstein, I feel that happiness is not the purpose of life. Instead, my purpose lies with the world--in making and learning things, and in so doing satisfying some primal urge to live and to be fully. 

Perhaps it is egoism that drives me to this. I feel profoundly that I have something to say. In creation, specifically musical performance, I truly feel like my voice is heard. It's me playing and all I have is myself to make a statement with. 

I want, right before I die, to look back and know that I lived. And I want to know that I made people high--high on music, high on beauty--not because I think it will make me happy, but because I think it's the best thing I can possibly do with my time.


I feel there is great good in communication of life's experiences. To make the internal the external is to understand the internal well enough to externalize it--to understand yourself well enough to tell others of your feelings. 


The musical experience, in many ways, is an empathetic one: music conveys emotions. It's character, its motion, rises and falls, dynamics, all communicate sensations. And, these sensations are not random; with a well-enough written composition, one can grow and learn of life and beauty. Thus, communicating the most intimate of life's nuances is an empathetic experience.


Listen and learn.

Analysis: Beethoven’s 30th Piano Sonata in E Major, Op. 109, Mvt. 1

I was initially very attracted to this piece when I first heard it in History of Western Music II. It strikes me as a piece out of time: it doesn’t sound like 1822. Like many of Beethoven’s late pieces, it inspired generations of composers, changing the musical landscape from the classical to romantic aesthetic.

Beethoven is known for altering the strict sonata form of the classical era, especially in his late works. The piece, which was composed between 1820 and 1822 (Beethoven died in 1827), is no exception. There is no exposition repeat, though Beethoven maintains the traditional modulation to the key of V between the first and second themes.

Additionally, the first theme melody is voiced differently during the recapitulation and, though the texture of the second theme remains the same, it is completely changed, containing a near harmonic mirror of its original form. The alteration is reminiscent of the third movement of the piece, which is based on a chordal texture and similar harmony. This is highly unusual, and, with Beethoven’s other developments, marked his move towards romanticism and away from the strict formal rules of classicism.

The first theme is based upon a traditional chorale tune that Beethoven modifies and changes rhythmically. Instead of a straight quarter note melody with chord accompaniment throughout, Beethoven gives the melody to both hands and alters the rhythm, changing the straight quarter notes to a series of sixteenth-dotted eighth followed by two sixteenths. Beethoven changes the time signature between the two themes, moving from 2 /4 to 3 / 4.

The second theme is quite contrasting, as I’ve noted, and is transitioned to with an arpeggiated diminished seventh chord. Beethoven employs, cleverly, then-advanced 19th century techniques for the modulation to the key of V for the second theme. The arpeggiated diminished seventh in E, D# diminished 7, becomes, by means of common-tone diminished relationships, a D# major arpeggio. D#, which is major III in B major, the key we’re heading to, is a major third away from B; Beethoven employs the chromatic-mediant relationship between D# and B, and so our D# major harmony nicely transitions to a B major harmony.

Besides all of this, this piece is beautiful. Call the harmonies what you will, Beethoven’s voice in this piece is that of a man who has endured immense suffering and relished in great genius. In 1822, the year this sonata was completed, Beethoven was nearly completely deaf, and most certainly could never hear this work. What tragedy, to possess such enlightenment, such art, and never be able to experience its richness.

Hindenburg

Five minutes. Five minutes. Mark thought it again: Five minutes. It seemed the only thought he was capable of.

He was standing in a small crowd, backstage. The crowd was amoebic, and though not consciously centered on him, Mark was its natural focal point. And, though each component had his or her dignified reason for being backstage at the last Hindenburg concert of 1972, it seemed to Mark like they were all there to, sinisterly, impress their emotions upon him. Try as they might, the only one he was feeling was panic.

Zeb, his manager, was closest to Mark, and noticed him staring into space. Five minutes, Mark thought. Zeb caught Mark’s eye, and spoke. “Hey—Mark—forget about last night, will ya? Listen, everybody has a bad night every once in a while, right? Relax. I, uh…”

He placed his finger to one side of his nose, inhaled sharply, placed his finger to the other side, inhaled, and then put his hand down.

“I got Benny to get something a little special,” he continued. Mark was staring at a purple light fixture above Zeb’s left ear. He was thinking about what Rob, his crewman in charge of production had told him: Five minutes.

“Mark, are you listening to me? Snap outta it, man!”

Zeb slapped Mark. This caused a stir, though not a big one. Most of the backstagers—notably, Mark’s girlfriend, Teresa, his bandmates, Eric Hamil, the bassist, and Luke Cartwright, the drummer—were inebriated and in their “party-zones.” They didn’t give a fuck about anything for longer than two seconds unless it was a threat to their good time. And Zeb was known for his theatrics.

The slap worked, to some extent. Mark realized he had been listening, at least in part, and his brain regurgitated an abstraction of Zeb’s words to him: Zeb wanted Mark to relax, and he mentioned that he purchased some “special” cocaine, whatever that meant.

Ah, yes, the cocaine. Mark could go for some of that right about now.

“Zeb.” Mark barely spoke. His mouth was dry. It tasted of cigarettes and stale whiskey.

“Let me get somma that.”

Zeb knew what was up. He took out a small bag (he had more in the back, I assure you) with a small rubberband coiled around one end. He opened it, laid it down, and cut it right there, on a small table fashioned just for the purpose. He took out a bill, rolled it quickly and expertly, and handed it to Mark.

Mark didn’t speak. He was no longer thinking about time; he was thinking about getting high. He waited, attentive to Zeb’s every movement. He was caught somewhere between dreaming of joy and lightness and feeling the dread and weight of what he knew was bad for him.

That was part of his trouble. Mark wasn’t stupid—he was brilliant. He made it. His craft, his rock and roll guitar playing, was the undoubted cornerstone of Hindenburg’s success—not to mention his song writing and good looks.

He had a lot going for him. He managed to be amazingly famous and still personably likeable, was great in bed, a favorite of the ladies, and extremely wealthy. He graduated from high school at the top of his class.

He was aware. He bent down, put the rolled bill to his nose, and inhaled strongly.

His head rushed back. He pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Yes, thought Mark. Yes, yes, yes.

Zeb bent and repeated Mark’s ritual.

“Hey, man, think I could get one?” It was Teresa, Mark’s girlfriend. She was blonde, pretty, with blue eyes, the color of lake, which at present had red streaks through the whites. Mark loved those eyes, could see simultaneously a beautiful, confused girl and himself, a lonesome traveler.

She slid her arm around Mark’s waist, seductively. She never bought her own drugs. Only yesterday, right before Mark went catatonic on stage, Mark saw her and Zeb making love in a dressing room. Mark now began thinking about this.

It wasn’t that he loved her—he did, though, for the record. It was that he saw her, saw her actions and emotions truly, and so saw his life. He was sick, desperately sick: all the cocaine and the drunken nights and the senseless groping in the dark, as if for a fleshy proof of human unity. He saw himself as a broken man, of only the capacity to make and use pleasure; a wielder of great “art,” and simultaneously great nonsense. For what is music but sound?

He ran, right then and there, two minutes till show time, October the thirteenth, an audience of twenty-two and a half thousand people, all hungry for him, crying his name into the night.

The Symphony in my Kitchen

I love the sound of my dishwasher. It is melodic and rhythmic; it swells and falls, moving through its cycle in beautiful, oceanic fashion. Sometimes, I'll turn off my stereo, start a load, and do my homework. In other words, my dishwasher makes music.


I like my dryer too. It's a little more punchy, a bit more uptempo, and is characterized by unpredictable sforzando flourishes that catch me off guard. It's spunky. The washing machine is pretty good too, and includes lots of water squirting noises, but it doesn't touch me the same way as the dishwasher and dryer.


Sizzling vegetables tantalize my taste buds and my ear buds. Mixing my macaroni with cheese powder produces are liquidy-slurp. Boiling water rumbles and pops pleasantly.


All of these things are acoustic sound generators. No speakers--the music is coming directly from the instrument, resonating and moving in whatever way it will given the shape of the objects and the room. It's very organic in this way.

Just because it's not written out, doesn't make it not music. Just because no one thought about the aesthetics of their dishwasher sounds, doesn't make it not music. It is music because I like it (and because it's made of sound waves and has rhythm and pitch, of course).

Private Investigator

Artie is a detective--well, Private Investigator, actually. He's quite skilled, I assure you. I think you'll find his work of the highest quality.

I spent some time with him yesterday. He was busy though, distracted. He told me he was on-case investigating a Fatham M. Whitechurch, OBE, though from the looks of it he was simply eating a sandwich outside a cafe in downtown Portland. Mr. Whitechurch (OBE) had been accused, Artie told me, by a Mr. Wigijigiwig Smith of callously curtailing creative catharsis.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wally Wicktenstien ponders the meaning of life. And jelly donuts.

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