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From Sound to Symbol and Back Again: Transcription/Composition
Jack Body
The
inter-relationship between the development of Western musical notation and Western
traditions of music making is a fascinating one. Whereas in its earliest forms
notation was regarded as an aid to memory, contemporary views of the function
of the notated score tend to see it as a highly specific text intended to be read
(realised in sound) with precision and accuracy, tempered by the current conventions
of taste and performance practice. But most composers also acknowledge the integral
part that notation plays in the creative act - the writing down of notes is seldom
simply a specific representation of an imagined sound phenomenon since the notation
itself can suggest complex possibilities which the ear and mind, unaided, might
never be able to encompass. This can lead composers into new areas of exploration
and experimentation. The development of Western tonal harmony might be linked
directly to the use of notation, just as the rhythmic complexity of much of the
so-called avant garde music of the 1950s and 60s is fundamentally a "paper
music". This fascination with the process of composition as the manipulation
of notational symbols is not new - the Ars Nova composers of the fourteenth century
were as absorbed in the possibilities notation had to offer as any Stockhausen
or Cage. Indeed the increase in complexity of the Western notational system over,
say, the last two hundred years is probably symptomatic of the growing separation
of the roles of the composer and the performer, and the alienation of the composer
from his audience.
Thus notation is at once a medium for liberation and
alienation. The magnificent edifice of tonal harmony might well be largely attributable
to the Western notational system, but Western music arguably lost as much as it
gained. Comparatively, the rhythms of Western music can seem rather stiff, regimented
and essentially simplistic beside the living corporeality and sophistication of
many Indian and African musics. (Of course, other music traditions have their
own notational systems, but they are seldom as specific in detail as Western notation,
and more often than not function simply as memory aids to the performer). Although
many Western composers in the last forty years have challenged the traditional
concepts of the use and function of notation, the prevalent Western view is that
the notated score is an authoritative text created by the composer, highly specific
in its details, a set of performance instructions which permit little or no argument.
The score takes on a sacrosanct quality. It becomes "the music", while
a performance is only "a performance", "an interpretation".
Notation has been put to other uses however. Transcription, the representation
in notation of a music heard (but not yet seen!), is one of the most important
tools of ethnomusicology. This reversal of the symbol-to-sound compositional process
makes possible detailed analysis and discussion of the sonic phenomenon which
we call music. Notation, the two dimensional spatial representation of an immaterial
temporal event, is the means whereby we can grasp the intangible. The obvious
trap however is that the notated representation can be misread as an "authoritative
text", and the music itself perceived as a "performed version"
of this text. Worse still is when the notation is taken as a substitute for the
sound phenomenon, itself becoming the subject of commentary and analysis without
reference to the music as sound.
For over a decade I have had an ongoing
interest in musical transcription. It has occupied me at those times when I've
unable to focus on original composition - I recollect that Ravel is said to have
used orchestration (of his own and other composer's music) in similar circumstances.
In the first place I am drawn to a music in which I sense a particular quality,
melodic perhaps, or rhythmic, which my ears find attractive but which I have difficulty
in deciphering. I want to understand what is happening in this music, what it
is which gives it this special quality. My idea is to learn something that I might
be able to apply in my own composition.
In practice however I frequently
find myself so astonished by, and in admiration of the music I am transcribing
that I have little inclination to try to compete with it. Instead I try to recreate
it in another form, and through this recreation transmit at least something of
those qualities to which I first responded. My "arrangement" is not
a replica of the original, nor is it a substitute. For me this exercise of "double-transcription"
from sound to symbol and back into sound again, is a fascinating process. Firstly,
I am forced to be painfully specific about what I think I am listening to, about
what my brain perceives of what my ears hear. I must try to distinguish the essential
from the unessential - speed of vibrato might be more important than concepts
of fixed pitch for instance. Mine is not an ethnomusicogical study, even though
I might refer to authoritative documentation. I consider the music simply as a
sound phenomenon which I trying to make sense of.
In attempting to notate
what I interpret as the essential features of what I hear I have to find, invent
or adapt symbols which best represent my perceptions. This makes me very conscious
of the conventions of notation, how these conventions function and the limitations
they exercise over the music we make and how we listen. Once I have some kind
of abstract notation I am free to consider how this music might be recreated in
a form playable by Western musicians, more or less following the conventions of
Western notation, and yet preserving what I see as some of the essential qualities
of the original music.
As I composer I have found this whole process
of "deconstruction and reconstruction" invaluable for the insights it
has given me and the skills I have had to learn. At Victoria University for the
last decade or more I have supervised a transcription project for third year composition
students. I always expect to be challenged to justify the inclusion of such a
requirement in a composition course but I'm seldom asked - it doesn't take long
before students become absorbed by the fascination and rewards of transcription.
At the very least it's a superb ear training exercise, and all composers know
the value of sharp ears!
My borrowings from other musical traditions
might be construed as a type of cultural exploitation - certainly current attitudes
about cultural property in New Zealand makes one particularly sensitive about
these issues. But intercultural exchange is a universal phenomenon. In my own
work I try to fulfil some basic responsibilities towards the material I "appropriate":
- Wherever possible I use recordings that I have made myself. This means
that I have some knowledge of the social and cultural context to which the music
belongs, and will have negotiated some kind of relationship with the original
performers.
- When I use music from sources other than my own recordings
I try to acknowledge the source, giving if possible the title of the work, and
the names of both performer and recordist.
- My transcription generally presents
the original music in its entirety, either simply as itself, translated into another
medium or as a identifiably separate entity around which I build an additional
musical superstructure.
The first work of mine that developed out of
this double-transcription process was Melodies for Orchestra, commissioned in
1982 by the NZSO to celebrate the centenary of the University of Auckland. For
this I chose three unrelated pieces of music:1) a Greek dance, a horos, played
by a lyra, a two stringed fiddle, 2) a melody played by an open ended vertical
flute, the saluang, from West Sumatra, Indonesia, and 3) a popular song played
by a street band of trumpets, clarinets and drums in Pune, India. The choice of
these three examples was quite arbitary- it simply happened that these were pieces
that I had been listening to at that time, music that caught my ears and fired
my curiosity. The horos for instance had a rhythmic ambiguity that my ears could
not unravel. (Ex.l)
The
music moved at such speed that it could almost fit into a simple triple time.
Yet I sensed that beneath this surface there was a fundamental asymmetry. By slowing
down the tape (a common transcribing technique) I could trace more precisely the
grouping of the beats. Taking the ornamental figures as accented beats it seemed
that the music fell into the improbable sub-grouping of 5+5+4 - I say improbable,
because of the fantastic tempo of the music and the fact that I couldn't find
any reference to such a grouping in writings about Greek music. (Ex.2)
The regular repetition of this asymmetrical group was itself subverted by
changes to a new pitch level which sometimes occurred halfway through a group.
When I came arrange this horos in terms of a western orchestra I faced a
dilemma. No orchestral musician could duplicate this pattern with sufficient accuracy
at such a hectic tempo. Even if two solo violinists were able to maintain something
resembling this pattern, how could the rest of the orchestra synchronise with
them? My solution (which I thought quite elegant!) was simply to superimpose a
regular 3/4 so that the soloists are displaced an additional half beat every bar.
(Ex.3)
This
slightly distorts the particular rhythmic character of the original, but in its
own terms I think the orchestral result is vigorous and exciting. (Ex.4)
The second section is based on a fragment of saluang playing. Generally this
instrument accompanies singing, but before the voice enters the flute plays an
opening gesture, which, as far as I can ascertain, is always the same. This introduction
contrasts dramatically with what follows - whereas the singing is strongly rhythmic
with fast circular movement within a very narrow pitch range the introduction
is more static with some very wide, dramatic leaps.
The final section
of Melodies uses a recording of an Indian street band playing film music themes.
This ensemble of Western drums, clarinets and trumpets plays a wild and boisterous
music with the instruments largely in their uppermost registers. The music is
a wonderful example of heterophony with each instrument playing its own particular
variant of the basic melody. (Ex.5)
While one might imagine that this music would translate easily to a Western
orchestra, I discovered that the rhythmic drumming lost its essential driving
quality. In retrospect I concluded that the original drummers were propelling
the ensemble forward by slightly anticipating the beat. Orchestral percussionists
had learnt all too well to play in time, on the beat! (Ex.6)
My next transcription was of two examples of music for the valiha, one of
the most characteristic instruments of Madagascar. It is a tube zither, generically
related to similar instruments I've seen in Indonesia and the Philippines. Of
the two examples I chose the first is the most remarkable with its astonishing
switching between compound and simple groupings. (Ex.7)
The virtuosity in the speed of the performance and the imaginative constantly
varied recycling of motives was something I tried to capture in my version for
two guitars. (Ex.8)
In spite of the excellence of these two performers, indeed perhaps because
of it, the vigour of the original performance has been reduced. And this is a
frequent paradox I find, since the Western musicians who have the necessary degree
of skill, often find it difficult to discard the evenness and refinement of tone
and sense of rhythmic accuracy (according to my notation) which they have taken
years to acquire. But it is this unevenness of tone and rhythm in the original
performance that gives it such an explosive energy.
This same valiha
piece became the central movement of my next transcription work, Three Transcriptions
for String Quartet.
Here the transformation process is even greater.
In string quartet terms this movement is virtuoso in the extreme - an extended
movement, pizzicato throughout, at the limit of possible tempo. (The players complained
of sore and blistered fingers!) Yet in comparison with the original this version
sounds subdued and mellow. Even though the pitches and rhythms are reproduced
fairly accurately the slower tempo and changed timbre give this piece a quality
quite different from the original. (Ex.9)
The first of these Three Transcriptions
was taken from a recording sent to me by a friend in China. I recognised it as
the sound of a multiple Jews harp. I've long been fascinated by music based on
the overtone series, and Jews harps in particular have had a special appeal. The
player creates melodies by reinforcing within his mouth cavity selected harmonics
of the fundamental tone which sounds as a drone. These melodies are often difficult
to perceive unless the ear is carefully focused. By using more than one instrument,
each with a different fundamental, the player considerably increases the number
of possible harmonics he can work with. (Ex.10).
By retuning some of
the strings of the lst violin and cello to match the fundamental tones of the
original instrument I was able to reproduce most of the melodic line on natural
harmonics. (Ex.11).
Another transcription work is Interior, commissioned
by the Karlheinz Company of Auckland University in 1987. The composition layers
live music over a tape of field recordings made in China. A comparison with my
Melodies for Orchestra of l982 is perhaps instructive. There I transcribed the
"found musics" for Western instruments reproducing the originals as
closely as possible. These "literal transferences" became the core of
the work, a skeleton around which I could weave an orchestral fabric. In Interior
the source material is presented as original field recordings which remain in
the foreground throughout most of the composition. The live ensemble functions
more as an enhancement - analogous perhaps to the kind of "electronic enhancement"
to which many less than perfect recordings are subjected. The intention of this
"enhancement" however is to direct our listening into the interior of
the music. The first section for instance features the three pronged Jews harp
of the same type that I used for the first movement of Three Transcriptions, though
on this occasion my own recording. (Ex.12)
The live instruments pick
out odd notes of the overtone melody and so focus our listening. As the movement
proceeds the live ensemble gradually takes over from the tape. (Ex.13)
The second movement presents a vocal music of great power and simplicity. Here
the instruments are almost silenced and do little more than provide a kind of
sympathetic echo to the singing.
Gradually the ensemble returns providing
a background for a solo lusheng mouthorgan. This eventually leads to a spirited
dance for a group of lusheng. The live ensemble joins in, doubling some of the
melodic lines, thus clarifying the essentially polyphonic structure of the music.
By the end everyone is having a good time, and the two ensembles, one live and
one on tape, seem to merged and become one....(Ex.14)
The sounds of an
Indonesian street hawker of candy-floss (Indonesian 'arum manis', American 'cotton
candy') became the basis of a work for string quartet and tape. The hawker plays
a Chinese-styled fiddle, which he called a rebab. In my composition, called Arum
Manis, he becomes the soloist, in absentia, with the amplified string quartet
weaving a filigree texture around the recording of his playing. (Ex.15)
I don't regard my work with transcription as an end in itself, even though it
produces transcriptions / arrangements / compositions which are played. It is
the process itself which excites and stimulates me, for the way it challenges
my preconceptions about how I hear and perceive music, as well calling into question
the function and limitations of notation. I even feel that my compositions not
directly related to transcription are frequently enriched and fertilised by my
transcription studies.
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