The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

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Slint's 'Nosferatu Man' from Spiderland

Up till now I've been concentrating mostly on Classical music - the only exception being the example of Japanese Taiko drumming from Kodo in the article on rhythm - and I hear you all clamouring (something along the lines of): 'What is this - a twenty-one year old lad in the twenty-first century, or a monastic hermit from hundreds of years ago? Where's the rock 'n' roll, dude?!' I certainly ain't monastic, of any kind, but I may be a hermit (at heart, at least), and I certainly am a twenty-one year old lad in the twenty-first century. But the rock 'n' roll isn't going to come, I'm afraid. Rock 'n' roll just doesn't cut the mustard for me. It doesn't have enough ginger in it for my liking. But I am being deliberately mischievous, here. The rock 'n' roll I'm talking about is, of course, that which is for some people the stuff of legends: the Elvis Presleys, Roy Orbisons, Bill Haleys, Cliff Richards; those folks which come under the banner of "rock 'n' roll". In fact, most rock - just general rock - I don't care too much for. But talk to me about Post Rock, and you'll be talking my language.

Post Rock, simply put, is (naturally enough, from the name) what comes after Rock; it's where you go when the limits of speed and volume have been reached in Rock music. But I'll try not to go into this just yet, leaving it as completely as I can for the next article, for I want now to talk a little about Slint. And it will be a little, for there's nothing worse for a person than to over-expose them to something wonderful to such an extent that they cease to feel the magic in it. Something akin to the Duke of Illyria's observations which begin Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, with which you will be familiar.

Slint's music, for me, is timeless. It will never grow old, and as such, I still feel like I'm a relative newcomer to this miraculous band, about five years after first being introduced to them, and after seeing them perform live twice. This song you're hearing now, 'Nosferatu Man', was the first song I heared by them. I was sent it by my friend James Cooper, with whom I was at that time exchanging a fair amount of interesting and stimulating music, and I remember as it started playing I couldn't really work out what I was listening to. I hadn't heared anything like it before. Even the very first seconds - the count-in on side-stick and snare by the genius Britt Walford - was a whole new world; although on first listen I don't doubt that it drifted right over me, for I distinctly remember that sinister guitar line and 5/4 time-signature having the greatest effect on me. It wasn't just a riff, merrily (or not so) strummed out at top volume, as I was used to back then; it was composed. The drums weren't just a generic rhythm, keeping along with the tune - indeed, 5/4 isn't your typical time-signature to begin with - throwing in a fill every four bars; this rhythm also was composed. And the hushed, spoken vocals were a whole new musical colour for me. It was something like stepping onto an alien planet, listening to this music filling my mind, my body, my soul. In fact, after further listens, it became more than that. The first steps were ones of discovery, of seeing 'something else' out there, that isn't usually seen. But this music, it became a part of me. Or, rather, it was always a part of me. And I realised that it wasn't this music that was alien to me, but rather that everything I'd been listening to up to that point was alien. That I'd only assimilated all this stuff because of my need to listen to music. But this new music, this fantastic music that Slint had been creating only a few years after I was born, this was my home. It was completely natural to me, and no concessions were made for it to be so. In short, this is the first music that I loved. This epoch of my life - which hasn't been all sunny days and strolls in the forest, I grant you - but I say, this epoch began with Slint, and since then I have gone some way to finding myself, and on to bigger and better things (than I had formerly, of course - I don't mean bigger and better than Slint). But in this finding myself, I've been becoming further and further removed from much of civilisation, and it seems I really need to find something else. In music I've been becoming more and more content, but in life it hasn't been so. I think I need something which will do for life what Slint did for music. Something that will take me out of this world of unnatural assimilations, and off onto an alien land. An alien land, which will be, and always has been, completely natural to me, which I will love, and which will be home.

Is there such a thing?

Word of the Week

Dynamics

dynamics n.pl. 1 (usu. treated as sing.) a Mech. the branch of mechanics concerned with the motion of bodies under the action of forces. b the branch of any science in which forces or changes are considered (aerodynamics; population dynamics). 2 the motive forces, physical or moral, affecting behaviour and change in any sphere. 3 Mus. the varying degree of volume of sound in musical performance.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

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Ravel's 'Forlane' from Le Tombeau de Couperin

So we've looked at some of the subjectivities with regard to the technical aspects of music; now, for the rest of the chapter, we will delve further into the realms of subjectivity, with a look at a small selection of the music that I personally enjoy and possibly, dare I say, love.

And I can think of no finer piece of music to begin with than Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin; or, more specifically, his 'Forlane' from that suite of pieces - this beautiful piece of music you hear now, being played by Pascal Rogé. It so suitably, I feel, blends the three musical elements introduced earlier in the chapter, and delivers a wonderful concoction of them all at their highest potential - all three: rhythm, melody and harmony.

I remember when I first heared this 'Forlane', sitting innocently by the radiator in my bedroom - reading a book if I remember aright - when this wonderful music starting coming out of my radio. It was Ravel's orchestral arrangement of the piece - I can't remember which orchestra or conductor it was, indeed I don't know that I ever knew - for I was absolutely intoxicated by this beautiful music: by the never-ending phrases that I couldn't predict, the sprightly dancelike rhythms, the 'off-key' melodies, the close harmonies, the interplay between the instruments; but most of all by the wonderful rhythm of that phrase - the one that begins the piece - that oozes on and on, across the barlines, and doesn't seem to have an end, for it melts back into the beginning of itself, until it's played through again, endlessly, and then on into the next section of the piece. But it's that first phrase that still gets me - just those first eight bars (the piece is written in 6/8, and the first three notes constitute an anacrusis, for those counting along). Indeed, knowing that those first three notes are an anacrusis makes the rhythm of this phrase even more intoxicating, even more endless, since it now becomes a strange task to find the end of it (the phrase), because you're working against what you expect it to be - i.e. one would expect the piece to be beginning at the start of the bar, and the phrase to last a whole eight bars from there. It does last eight bars, but the divisions are in the middle of bars, between barlines: not at the barlines. I find these sorts of rhythms fascinating.

But it isn't just a one-trick-pony, this 'Forlane'. I also love deeply the second (or third, depending on how strictly you divide) section, with the almost mournful, heart-rending falling melody, the notes clashing, but at the same time sounding clean and pure, ringing out from the depths of the soul. But it never becomes morbid, the dancing rhythm is always there - for a forlane is a type of dance - as is Ravel's playfulness with our sense of harmony, using chords not in the 'chord book', and of course the general lightness of touch with which it is all played.

Now, the title of this article, you will notice, is "Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin". 'What about the rest?' you ask. It is true, I am only writing about the third movement, the 'Forlane', but the whole of the suite is truly beautiful. But to write about all six movements now is too much for my little brain (ah! I mean big brain - apparently bigger brains are less intelligent than smaller ones), and indeed any more will probably wear it out entirely. So I'll leave it there. Ravel's 'Forlane' from Le Tombeau de Couperin as played by Pascal Rogé, beautifully presented to you by myself, Miblo del Carpio, now signing out, and will see you next week, when we have a listen and a read about some newer music. Moving into the Twentieth Century! Ah, no - Ravel himself is from our century. Moving later, then, into the Twentieth Century, to the 1990s! Tune in next time we play... Just a Minute! Oh, no... that's another programme. Oh well. Farewell.

Word of the Week

Impressionism

impressionism n. 1 a style or movement in art concerned with expression of feeling by visual impression, esp. from the effect of light on objects. 2 a style of music or writing that seeks to describe a feeling or experience rather than achieve accurate depiction or systematic structure.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

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Chopin's Nocturne in C# minor

So far in this chapter we've looked at some of the skills and qualities contributed to music by Rhythm and Melody; progressing as we are gradually in complexity through the chapter, this week's article is logically devoted to Harmony. Harmony's primary role in music may be described as a sort of 'suitable accompaniment' to the all-important diva which is Melody, but this is to do Harmony much less than the service it deserves - a disservice, as we call it in the trade. Although Harmony is frequently found in this role of 'suitable accompanist', it is more than capable of standing on its own two feet. Indeed, observed on its own, the skills and qualities displayed by harmony are not too dissimilar from those relating to Melody as presented in the previous article. (For a refresher on those qualities, please refer to said article.) Harmony can well create worlds of its own - worlds without melodies soaring above the land, attracting the attention of all but the most astute to watch and follow the course of their flight - and indeed it can be said that melodies would have a hard time justifying themselves if their suitable accompanist were to go on indefinite leave. Harmony helps to put melody in context, to give the listener clues as to where it might go next, to give meaning to the music. And at its best - as in Chopin's Nocturne in C# minor which accompanies this article - Harmony can work both with and against Melody, to at once provide some sort of context, and as well wrong-foot the listener, leading him/her to expect one thing from the Melody only to get one completely different, and to have the effect of tearing our hearts clean in two. High praise, maybe, for a suitable accompanist, but its truth is borne out in this and plenty more music.

Word of the Week

Harmony

harmony n. (pl. -ies) 1 a a combination of simultaneously sounded musical notes to produce chords and chord progressions, esp. as having a pleasing effect. b the study of this. 2 a an apt or aesthetic arrangement of parts. b the pleasing effect of this. 3 agreement, concord. 4 a collation of parallel narratives, esp. of the Gospels.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

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Debussy's Syrinx

Arguably more ethereal than rhythm, melody can have the power to enchant with its loveliness (à la Mozart), to inspire awe with the acrobatic leaps it can make from one end of an instrument's register to the other (as with Liszt), to haunt us with its sinister atmospheres (à la Slint), and to pull irresistibly and until breaking point at ones heart-strings with its sheer beauty (as Chopin so skilfully achieves, still, over a century and a half after his death). Indeed, the possibilities of melody are even more limitless than those of rhythm, and these are only a few examples from the countless I could have chosen. It's probably fair to say that melody offers more possibilities in terms of mood, emotion and creativity than any language on Earth could describe. Now, admittedly, I know little more than this about the precious subject - certainly less so than I do about rhythm, if I may make so bold - thus you can expect this overview to be shorter and even less in-depth than the previous one. But let us take a look at what the dictionary has to say about this most elusive of subjects:

melody n. (pl. -ies) 1 an arrangement of single notes in a musically expressive succession. 2 the principal part in harmonized music. 3 a musical arrangement of words. 4 sweet music, tunefulness.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

That's all well and good, but not all melodies are sweet and tuneful, I'm sure you'll agree. Take some particularly atonal examples of Schoenberg as an illustration of this point: you'll have to take your own, for I'm less than well-acquainted with his music, and certainly not enough so to offer examples of my own. Indeed, a melody can be written with the express intention to inspire such feelings as discomfort and violence, and is it any less a melody for doing so? But this definition isn't anything to worry about: melody, as with music in general, is completely subjective, and to pin down a firm definition of it is far from straightforward.

As a fledgling creator of music, myself, I find melody particularly difficult to compose. It doesn't come as naturally to me as rhythm seems to do. So I've found that I'm most successful in my music making when I don't put supreme emphasis on melody, but concentrate on chord progressions and harmonic development; as well as the obvious (and mostly lazy) trick of coming up with one idea and repeating it over and over. A custom that Claude Debussy, the composer of the music accompanying this article, didn't need to lapse into, such was his genius. But as with the cries from the people of the previous article that rhythm, on its own, needs 'something else' to make it musical, similar people may have a similar view about Debussy's Syrinx. I wouldn't agree with them in the slightest, but I'm sure there will be something to satisfy these people in the next article, when we deal with the illustrious subject of harmony. But remember: none of these musical elements would exist, were it not for rhythm.