Saturday, September 11, 2004
The first Young Composers' Forum has got to be one of the best musical sessions I've ever encountered.
To the very deepest it is truly a forum: six young people and three adults.
The auditorium at La Salle College of the Arts is truly a musician's playground. Upon entering it, you see instruments strewn about the floor and on the stage. There are two grand pianos: one is a Yamaha C5 whose keys have yellowed from age; the other is none other than . . . STEINWAY AND SONS (although I didn't have a look at the model). Close to the Steinway are percussion instruments of all shapes and types, including this very interesting instrument called the crotales. Think of smaller McMuffins placed side by side in a keyboard layout, supported on a stand. The sound it produces is a close between the tubular bells and the glockenspiel. Not too deep, not too sharp. Beautiful.
* * *
For the first time I am witnessing the possibilities that can be created out of percussion instruments.
I realise percussion is actually one of the greatest and most versatile musical combinations that ever exist. Just like the piano: you can do every single damnable and praiseworthy thing on it. You could play it normally by depressing the keys with your fingers; you could do glissandos; you could pluck the strings (of a grand piano); you stuff paper underneath the dampers and the resulting sound becomes something like that of a harpsichord or a synthesiser. There's no end to what timbres one may produce.
We often tend to stereotype instruments. The percussion section has often been misunderstood to play an insignificant part in the symphony orchestra. It is a pity that few people have really explored the possibilities of percussion, that they can virtually bring out any kind of sound that other instruments might be limited to. Life is percussion. The banging of doors; the sound of people as they click their heels or shuffle their feet as they move along the marble floors of the underpass (I'm thinking back to the underpass at Bedok MRT station); the steady hum of the generator (thanks to Jun Kai, who told me to consider the sound of this mechanical monster when I told him I was thinking of a piece using motifs that are derived from everyday sounds, such as the chimes on the MRT train, the Reminder alert on a mobile phone, etc).
Too often percussion instruments are categorised into some sort of fixated sections, namely (1) the pitched percussion, for instance, the marimba, vibraphone, xylophone and glockenspiel; (2) un-pitched, where you have your drums and gongs. Lastly you have the whole assortment of things like whistles and the like. There's no saying that this must go with that, for instance Mr Tan quotes the example of a flute playing lower than an oboe. The oboe just eats up the flute. Or, a clarinet doubling a horn. Likewise, the clarinet gets eaten up. While composing "Xin Chao" myself I was biting my fingernails over this issue. I had been afraid to set the xylophone and marimba on the same stage, because both have wooden keys and their timbres could therefore clash with one another. So I placed a vibraphone in. Mistake. The vibraphone is pretty weak, despite the use of hard mallets and the use of two vibraphones during the Humanities Week concert last year, when "Xin Chao" first took to the stage in a live performance. In the rewrite, I exchanged the vibraphone for the xylophone. It turns out that my fear was unfounded. The xylophone is sharper; the notes produced are more detached. It distinguishes itself from the marimba, whose tone is more rounded thanks to its resonators.
Mr Tan hands us assignments. We are all to create short compositions on the instruments we are given. Jun Kai has to work out something on the conga, BUT he cannot change the timbre of the instrument. That means he can only use the drum skin, and not any other part of the instrument. He employs techniques such as beating with the fingers like a tabla player, stroking the surface of the drum skin, or even creating a hollowed sound by cupping his hand before striking the drum.
Ruth is to treat the double bass like a percussive object. She and Mr Tan play a percussive duet on the instrument, hitting almost every part of it. The resulting effect is something similar to that of Japanese gagaku, with prancing drum-like rhythms and the occasionally plucking of the samisen. Sorry Emz . . .
Two people whom I can't really remember their names: one of them is to work with three similar pitched percussion instruments. He chooses the marimba, glockenspiel and the crotales. The crotales make a pale, thin wispy cry when a double bass bow is drawn is drawn across its side. Think along the lines of harmonics performed on a violin. The other guy is supposed to work with a tam-tam, while reciting words at the same time. He has no poem in mind, so he picks the text on a sign near the door that says "No smoking / No eating / No drinking". The idea is that his recitation of the words and his strokes of the tam-tam should syncopate one another. The first version he creates is pretty sad and depressing; he reads in a monotone, and the deep boom of the gong further promotes this feeling. Mr Tan then asks him to create a happier one. The creation is damn cool: he plays the tam-tam like a rock drummer and speaks like a rapper.
For Zhangyi and me, we are tasked to the marimba and piano respectively. Our assignment follows this order: (1) the marimba is to play something that has no connection to what the piano is playing; (2) the marimba is to play the role of a counter-melody to the piano; (3) the marimba is to harmonise whatever the piano is playing; (4) the marimba will play the melody while the piano accompanies. Somehow I have no idea why I picked "Mary Had a Little Lamb". I think I got inspired by the playing of the nursery song in the minor key last year, while shipping the marimba from the recital room back to the band room. Anyway picking a theme or melody that both of us know will make our task easier. We spend most of our time rehearsing our sequences instead. We actually improvise on the spot. It's pretty fun, I wish I can do it again!
* * *
Dr Sharpley has a penchant for collecting exotic instruments. Part of his inventory is this huge gong that is about a metre long in diameter, and is as thick as the tyre on your car. This gong is a representation of the evils of urbanisation. It belonged to a tribal group in Borneo (think Anaconda: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid) and by ritual, was only struck once every twenty years. Due to deforestation, the inhabitants of this tribe were forced to move into housing development buildings in the urban areas. Thank goodness the gong wasn't sold off as scrap metal.
Sound bathing is like this: you sit behind the huge gong, facing the back of the gong (i.e. the concave part). You close your eyes and relax, not thinking about anything. Don't even concentrate on what is about to happen, or even be intellect about the sound you are about to experience. Just close your eyes and relax. Someone will beat the gong from the front, at a volume of about mezzo piano - for God's sake, don't whack it at fortissimo, or the person at the back will awake to see stars! Anyway, when the gong is struck, it will vibrate. You will feel the vibration, and this constant, gentle motion penetrates your body and soothes you. It is very therapeutic; a musical spa.
There is a tam-tam in the auditorium. Not as big and greater an effect as Dr Sharpley's one; nevertheless can be managed with. One by one we sit on the podium behind the gong. One after another, we draw closer and closer to the gong. At first we are not sure what to expect, so we keep a safety distance from the metal surface. Everyone rises from their "bath" with a smile. "Breathtaking" "Overwhelming" "Great"
When Dr Sharpley strikes the gong, I feel an instant warmth travel around my body. I don't know whether it is my imagination, or is Dr Sharpley's breath (as he says when I describe the sensation that I felt to him)? But the constant, steady and gentle pulse of "wom-wom-wom-wom" is just so nice. Like someone gave you a massage. But this massage is extremely delicate that you don't feel any intrusion at all.
Damn, if I were still in the Chinese Orchestra, I'd gone for sound baths at the practice room during my spare time between lectures . . .
Last notes. . .
We step out of the auditorium. As we exchange parting words, a car trying to manoeuvre out of the car park reverses way too much and bumps into a stationary truck with a crash. Everyone's attention turns to the little incident - or rather, miniature accident.
Composers are certainly a weird bunch of people. Dr Sharpley, pointing to the crash site: "See? That's percussion!"
Because it made a sound!
* * *
Credit must be given to Jun Kai for organising this event. It is the first time I have ever been to such a musical session before, and I must say for the first time, a musical discussion has ever been this fun. It's not exactly a lesson - it's more of an interactive roundtable where the composers share their experiences in writing music and their opinions, while we listen, intrigued, and sometimes add our ideas and comments. Plus, as composers, we do bizarre things inside the auditorium, away from the prying eyes - and ears - of other musicians about the La Salle complex. They'd probably scream when they see what we've been doing to their instruments throughout the three hours.
Sincerely this is the way composition ought to be thought. Informal sessions, hands-on, discussions on an equal level. The teacher-student scene is discarded. Instead, the learners sit around the storyteller as he unfolds his tales and passes his knowledge and lessons to us. It could have been the case, if not for the requirements for the examinations, one of which is to answer for your actions. You have to do a write-up on WHY you wanted to do this; WHAT inspired you; HOW you perfect your piece and so on. It's pretty shitty and restraining, and perhaps this has been stifling my own musical language. I don't think I have been daring enough in the composition of my post-exam works - the need to ask myself "Why am I doing this" returns constantly, even though I'm not answerable to anybody for that. Our job ought to (1) communicate to the audience, make a statement; (2) shock our audience or intrigue them. That's what drives us to create music.
¶ 9/11/2004 03:31:00 pm To the very deepest it is truly a forum: six young people and three adults.
The auditorium at La Salle College of the Arts is truly a musician's playground. Upon entering it, you see instruments strewn about the floor and on the stage. There are two grand pianos: one is a Yamaha C5 whose keys have yellowed from age; the other is none other than . . . STEINWAY AND SONS (although I didn't have a look at the model). Close to the Steinway are percussion instruments of all shapes and types, including this very interesting instrument called the crotales. Think of smaller McMuffins placed side by side in a keyboard layout, supported on a stand. The sound it produces is a close between the tubular bells and the glockenspiel. Not too deep, not too sharp. Beautiful.
* * *
For the first time I am witnessing the possibilities that can be created out of percussion instruments.
I realise percussion is actually one of the greatest and most versatile musical combinations that ever exist. Just like the piano: you can do every single damnable and praiseworthy thing on it. You could play it normally by depressing the keys with your fingers; you could do glissandos; you could pluck the strings (of a grand piano); you stuff paper underneath the dampers and the resulting sound becomes something like that of a harpsichord or a synthesiser. There's no end to what timbres one may produce.
We often tend to stereotype instruments. The percussion section has often been misunderstood to play an insignificant part in the symphony orchestra. It is a pity that few people have really explored the possibilities of percussion, that they can virtually bring out any kind of sound that other instruments might be limited to. Life is percussion. The banging of doors; the sound of people as they click their heels or shuffle their feet as they move along the marble floors of the underpass (I'm thinking back to the underpass at Bedok MRT station); the steady hum of the generator (thanks to Jun Kai, who told me to consider the sound of this mechanical monster when I told him I was thinking of a piece using motifs that are derived from everyday sounds, such as the chimes on the MRT train, the Reminder alert on a mobile phone, etc).
Too often percussion instruments are categorised into some sort of fixated sections, namely (1) the pitched percussion, for instance, the marimba, vibraphone, xylophone and glockenspiel; (2) un-pitched, where you have your drums and gongs. Lastly you have the whole assortment of things like whistles and the like. There's no saying that this must go with that, for instance Mr Tan quotes the example of a flute playing lower than an oboe. The oboe just eats up the flute. Or, a clarinet doubling a horn. Likewise, the clarinet gets eaten up. While composing "Xin Chao" myself I was biting my fingernails over this issue. I had been afraid to set the xylophone and marimba on the same stage, because both have wooden keys and their timbres could therefore clash with one another. So I placed a vibraphone in. Mistake. The vibraphone is pretty weak, despite the use of hard mallets and the use of two vibraphones during the Humanities Week concert last year, when "Xin Chao" first took to the stage in a live performance. In the rewrite, I exchanged the vibraphone for the xylophone. It turns out that my fear was unfounded. The xylophone is sharper; the notes produced are more detached. It distinguishes itself from the marimba, whose tone is more rounded thanks to its resonators.
Mr Tan hands us assignments. We are all to create short compositions on the instruments we are given. Jun Kai has to work out something on the conga, BUT he cannot change the timbre of the instrument. That means he can only use the drum skin, and not any other part of the instrument. He employs techniques such as beating with the fingers like a tabla player, stroking the surface of the drum skin, or even creating a hollowed sound by cupping his hand before striking the drum.
Ruth is to treat the double bass like a percussive object. She and Mr Tan play a percussive duet on the instrument, hitting almost every part of it. The resulting effect is something similar to that of Japanese gagaku, with prancing drum-like rhythms and the occasionally plucking of the samisen. Sorry Emz . . .
Two people whom I can't really remember their names: one of them is to work with three similar pitched percussion instruments. He chooses the marimba, glockenspiel and the crotales. The crotales make a pale, thin wispy cry when a double bass bow is drawn is drawn across its side. Think along the lines of harmonics performed on a violin. The other guy is supposed to work with a tam-tam, while reciting words at the same time. He has no poem in mind, so he picks the text on a sign near the door that says "No smoking / No eating / No drinking". The idea is that his recitation of the words and his strokes of the tam-tam should syncopate one another. The first version he creates is pretty sad and depressing; he reads in a monotone, and the deep boom of the gong further promotes this feeling. Mr Tan then asks him to create a happier one. The creation is damn cool: he plays the tam-tam like a rock drummer and speaks like a rapper.
For Zhangyi and me, we are tasked to the marimba and piano respectively. Our assignment follows this order: (1) the marimba is to play something that has no connection to what the piano is playing; (2) the marimba is to play the role of a counter-melody to the piano; (3) the marimba is to harmonise whatever the piano is playing; (4) the marimba will play the melody while the piano accompanies. Somehow I have no idea why I picked "Mary Had a Little Lamb". I think I got inspired by the playing of the nursery song in the minor key last year, while shipping the marimba from the recital room back to the band room. Anyway picking a theme or melody that both of us know will make our task easier. We spend most of our time rehearsing our sequences instead. We actually improvise on the spot. It's pretty fun, I wish I can do it again!
* * *
Dr Sharpley has a penchant for collecting exotic instruments. Part of his inventory is this huge gong that is about a metre long in diameter, and is as thick as the tyre on your car. This gong is a representation of the evils of urbanisation. It belonged to a tribal group in Borneo (think Anaconda: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid) and by ritual, was only struck once every twenty years. Due to deforestation, the inhabitants of this tribe were forced to move into housing development buildings in the urban areas. Thank goodness the gong wasn't sold off as scrap metal.
Sound bathing is like this: you sit behind the huge gong, facing the back of the gong (i.e. the concave part). You close your eyes and relax, not thinking about anything. Don't even concentrate on what is about to happen, or even be intellect about the sound you are about to experience. Just close your eyes and relax. Someone will beat the gong from the front, at a volume of about mezzo piano - for God's sake, don't whack it at fortissimo, or the person at the back will awake to see stars! Anyway, when the gong is struck, it will vibrate. You will feel the vibration, and this constant, gentle motion penetrates your body and soothes you. It is very therapeutic; a musical spa.
There is a tam-tam in the auditorium. Not as big and greater an effect as Dr Sharpley's one; nevertheless can be managed with. One by one we sit on the podium behind the gong. One after another, we draw closer and closer to the gong. At first we are not sure what to expect, so we keep a safety distance from the metal surface. Everyone rises from their "bath" with a smile. "Breathtaking" "Overwhelming" "Great"
When Dr Sharpley strikes the gong, I feel an instant warmth travel around my body. I don't know whether it is my imagination, or is Dr Sharpley's breath (as he says when I describe the sensation that I felt to him)? But the constant, steady and gentle pulse of "wom-wom-wom-wom" is just so nice. Like someone gave you a massage. But this massage is extremely delicate that you don't feel any intrusion at all.
Damn, if I were still in the Chinese Orchestra, I'd gone for sound baths at the practice room during my spare time between lectures . . .
Last notes. . .
We step out of the auditorium. As we exchange parting words, a car trying to manoeuvre out of the car park reverses way too much and bumps into a stationary truck with a crash. Everyone's attention turns to the little incident - or rather, miniature accident.
Composers are certainly a weird bunch of people. Dr Sharpley, pointing to the crash site: "See? That's percussion!"
Because it made a sound!
* * *
Credit must be given to Jun Kai for organising this event. It is the first time I have ever been to such a musical session before, and I must say for the first time, a musical discussion has ever been this fun. It's not exactly a lesson - it's more of an interactive roundtable where the composers share their experiences in writing music and their opinions, while we listen, intrigued, and sometimes add our ideas and comments. Plus, as composers, we do bizarre things inside the auditorium, away from the prying eyes - and ears - of other musicians about the La Salle complex. They'd probably scream when they see what we've been doing to their instruments throughout the three hours.
Sincerely this is the way composition ought to be thought. Informal sessions, hands-on, discussions on an equal level. The teacher-student scene is discarded. Instead, the learners sit around the storyteller as he unfolds his tales and passes his knowledge and lessons to us. It could have been the case, if not for the requirements for the examinations, one of which is to answer for your actions. You have to do a write-up on WHY you wanted to do this; WHAT inspired you; HOW you perfect your piece and so on. It's pretty shitty and restraining, and perhaps this has been stifling my own musical language. I don't think I have been daring enough in the composition of my post-exam works - the need to ask myself "Why am I doing this" returns constantly, even though I'm not answerable to anybody for that. Our job ought to (1) communicate to the audience, make a statement; (2) shock our audience or intrigue them. That's what drives us to create music.
