What's the Score?: Recent Episodes

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What's the Score Episode #2: "Composition, Arrangement, Orchestration -- What's the difference?"

Recommended Listening: "In Memory" by Joan Tower. Tokyo Quartet.

List of compositions in response to 9/11

(6 Sept 2020)

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What's the Score? Episode #1: "Introduction to host and composer Debra Lynn: her background and composition process"

(30 Aug, 2020)

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25 July 2020

Musicians have a rather unique relationship with sound. We are always keenly aware, I think. There's not really any such thing as "background noise." It all comes through loud and clear. I have a Synesthetic response to sound that is additionally unique, and causes me to experience all sound (not just music) through sight and touch. (For more information, see my post "Confessions of a Synesthete")

Because my eyesight has always been quite poor, my memories are more vivid through sound and touch. For instance, when I see names in my address book or think of friends and family, I don't imagine their faces as much as I recall the timbre of their speaking voice. When I remember pinnacle moments in my life, I remember sound and atmospheric elements (temperature/weather, surface textures, etc.) more accurately and immediately than my visual impressions of these events.

In my most recent composition, I attempted to convey atmospheric elements about some of the more impactful places I've visited in my life. I just completed the work, a concerto for viola with chamber orchestra entitled simply "Spaces." It has five movements (I had sketches for 12, originally), each titled by the space conveyed through the music. Program notes and photos are below. Pictured above is one of two dedicatees for the work: Derek Reeves, principal violist of the Fort Wayne Philharmonic. The photo shows (L to R) Derek, myself, and brilliant composer Stewart Copeland , both of whom have served as helpful soundboards for my ideas during this composition process. I am also deeply grateful to my dear friend (and MSO concertmaster) Elizabeth Smith for her careful scrutiny and guidance regarding string techniques. The other dedicatee is Jen Drake, principal violist of the Boise Baroque Orchestra.

MIDI-rendered recordings follow program notes and photographs for each movement. As soon as the composition is premiered (probably a little over a year from now), I will replace these computer generated recordings with live ones. For now, the robotic MIDI sounds will have to suffice.

Program Notes for "Spaces":

I am fascinated with the sound of the viola, especially its wide pitch and timbre range. It makes a lovely solo instrument, and yet there are so few concerti written for it. So, I decided to offer up a composition of my own for this highly versatile and unique member of the string family. With this composition, I hope to convey the atmosphere of five spaces that have had a profound impact on me through sound.

I. Green Room. In any performance space, the "green room" is where the featured musician prepares to go onstage. Traditionally, these rooms were green, hence the name; however, they vary in color nowadays.

This movement offers a humorous nod to virtuoso Niccolò Paganini and composer Hector Berlioz. In 1833 Paganini, best known for his pyrotechnic feats on violin, had purchased a Stradivarius viola and commissioned a concerto from his friend Berlioz. The composer obliged with the beautiful and expansive piece “Harold in Italy,” but Paganini felt the work would not exhibit enough of his technical virtuosity, so he refused to play it. This is a setting of what I imagine their argument would have sounded like set to their own tunes. Berlioz’ voice sings themes from “Harold in Italy” as if trying to convince Paganini of its musical merit and beauty. Paganini responds with his own very famous Capriccio No. 24, a tremendously virtuosic theme and variations for violin, as if to say “why couldn’t you compose something like this, Hector?” As with most arguments, there are moments where the themes interrupt one another and are heard simultaneously.

Specifically for me, the opening of this movement reflects my green room experience at Carnegie Hall in May of 2001 as I was preparing to conduct there for the first time. I can remember thinking about Leonard Bernstein nervously pacing the floor in that same tiny room, about to make his own 1943 debut with the NY Philharmonic, filling in on short notice (with no rehearsal) for ailing Maestro Bruno Walter. Bernstein later described the experience as being dream-like, and he really didn’t remember much of it. Similarly, what I remember most is the sound of the musicians warming up and tuning onstage before I made my entrance. Their cacophony swirled around me like a tornado of color that threw my adrenaline into overdrive. I remember breathing very deeply and reminding myself not to rush my tempi. Beyond that, everything is a bit of a blur; but my mind is immediately transported back to the Carnegie Hall green room every time I hear an orchestra tuning up.

II. Stadium. I grew up in a family of baseball fans. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t love playing or watching baseball. We lived near Kansas City, Missouri, home to Kauffman Stadium, one of the most beautiful in the world. This movement is a play-by-play aural illustration of my first experience attending a Royals game with my dad. The musical sentences are an odd length (10 measures instead of 8), to convey the sporadic, excited gait of a child tugging at the hand of a parent who won’t walk fast enough. It includes many familiar reminiscences: ascending the steps and escalators that reach to the sky, squeezing past people apologetically to get to the correct seats, the echoing of our national anthem as it bounces from one concrete wall to another, the food vendors shouting and selling their wares, the crack of the bat as it hits the ball, and the cheers in response. After the game, we come down the steps and happily make our way back to the parking lot, hoping to return to the stadium again soon.

III. Sanctuary can mean a lot of things. I had the wonderful experience of visiting Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England during a 7 a.m. Druid healing ceremony which had an extraordinary impact on me as the sun rose and the fog lifted across the boulders, even though I was an observer rather than a participant. I also remember hearing Benedictine monks singing in perfect organum at a monastery in Italy, which is expressed through one of my favorite Gregorian chant tunes: “Sanctus” (Holy) from Missa XI, orbis factor in the Liber Usualis. From Tibetan monks to Baptists in Tennessee, humans seem to yearn for a spiritual connection through places of worship. Sanctuary in the broader sense is what I find most compelling here: a safe refuge at times when we are most vulnerable. This movement explores all types of sanctuaries, from gothic cathedrals to home and family, and even shelters for those who find themselves displaced, endangered, unwelcome, or exiled.

IV. Aviary. When I search for true peace, I listen to birds. This movement comes from my love of birdsong as I remember leisurely walking through an aviary for the first time years ago. It is intentionally more atmospheric than melodic in nature. The upper strings and woodwinds represent various bird noises while the lowers offer nature's foundation of soil, plants, and trees. The harp is the breeze and dewy atmosphere through which the violist strolls, basking in the sensory elements of the space.

V. Buttery-Bar. Although I don’t drink much alcohol and I haven’t found a beer I like anywhere, I still enjoy the unique sound of a lively pub. This movement is reminiscent of a specific pub in Stratford upon Avon called The Black Swan (or The Dirty Duck, depending on the door through which you enter). Since Medieval times, the Buttery Bar refers to the shelf that protrudes from beneath a cut-away window in a pub or pantry door. This is traditionally where the ale is handed to thirsty customers. Even now, many universities in England have a “Buttery,” which is an on-campus cafeteria or pub. There’s a slow build up as weary patrons drag themselves in after a long day of work, but once the musicians start playing and the ale begins flowing, everyone’s spirits rise. It’s a wonderful communal lift that can only be found among friends and neighbors (or college cronies) whose lives are much like our own. Together, we find a way to put hardships on hold long enough to celebrate good company, food, and beverage.

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2 May 2020

On March 29, 2020 Krzysztof Penderecki passed away. I am not exaggerating when I say this man was like the Beethoven of the 20th century. He broke all the rules and forced us to consider all sound as music. He wasn't the only composer of his generation to do that, but he was certainly one of the best. He fired up our neurons and rattled our eardrums through the experience of being fully engulfed in aural stimuli. Is there a single college-educated musician alive today who cannot remember the moment they first heard his 1960 ground-breaking masterpiece Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima? Even those who don’t like the piece must admit to its impact. It shook the foundations of everything we thought we knew music to be.

Probably the most well-known and ground-breaking of his compositions are Threnody (as it’s come to be known) and his 1968 oratorio St. Luke Passion, inspired by the Passions of J.S.Bach. These innovative, aleatoric compositions were part of Penderecki’s reactionary outburst that began during his college years when Stalin was overthrown, freeing artists and composers to break with tradition and swing the creative pendulum waaaaaay outside the box. But then, in the 1970s, Penderecki veered away from youthful revolutionary experimentalism, and began to embrace some of the forms and foundations laid by his musical forebears.

My favorite among these later works is another of his oratorios: his 1980/84 Polish Requiem. I am fascinated with Requiem Masses anyway, and even developed a course (for non-music majors) on the subject at Manchester University. Penderecki’s is one of my favorites from this genre. Although the overall form is traditional in nature, the expression of sound clearly reflects his own unique harmonic language, developed during those years of experimentalism. This work grew from a single commission in 1980 by Solidarity (the Polish trade union) for the unveiling of a statue at Gdańsk Shipyard commemorating those killed in the 1970 anti-government riots in Poland. Several other commissions followed with dedications of a similar nature, so Penderecki decided to combine them all together into one Requiem Mass dedicated to Polish people who have suffered persecution or worked to protect victims of persecution in the 20th century. It uses the traditional Latin Requiem Mass text, with occasional interpolations of the Trisagion (a Polish prayer in times of danger).

Some movements are dedicated to specific persons or are in memory of certain tragic events in recent Polish history: * Dies Irae commemorates the Warsaw Uprising of 1944 to liberate Warsaw from German Occupation during WWII * Recordare Jesu pie is dedicated to Maximillian Kolbe, a Franciscan Friar who volunteered to die in place of another prisoner (a stranger to him) at Auschwitz. * Lacrimosa is dedicated to Lech Walęsa, 1983 Nobel Prize winner, and the first President of Poland elected by popular vote * Ciaccona (an instrumental movement: strings only) is dedicated to Pope John Paul II * Libera me commemorates the 22,000 victims of the 1940 Katyn Massacre in which the Soviet Secret Police killed its own citizens and buried them in mass graves in the Katyn forest.

The entire mass offers four “experiential planes of absorption.” This involves more than hearing. Penderecki’s creative genius is his ability to transport us to a time and place where his sounds completely envelop us in the empathic vibration of an event. We know in our gut what the dedicatees heard, saw, smelled, tasted, and felt. The four planes are: 1) the Horror of Victimization, 2) Communal Prayer, 3) Human Introspection, and 4) Historical Reflection – like a Greek chorus reminding us of lessons learned and warning us not to repeat history’s horrors.

One of my favorite movements is the Agnus Dei, in which the orchestra falls silent and the chorus offers an a cappella plea to the Lamb of God for the eternal rest of the dead – specifically the persecuted victims of Poland’s tragic past. This movement is dedicated to Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński who worked to hide Jews during the Nazi occupation of Poland during WWII. He also resisted post-war communism and was imprisoned and tortured for his activism. He is scheduled for canonization on 7 June 2020, so it seems fitting to listen to this particular movement at this particular time.

The translation of Agnus Dei is simple: “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant them rest eternal.” In this movement, Penderecki strips away the orchestra to surround us in the sacred atmosphere of communal prayer. What fascinates me about this movement is that it forms a perfect arc from utmost humility, quietly murmuring and prostrate before Christ, through the mournful cries of pain and suffering, which seem to mix with echos of Gregorian chant as if we are struggling between some presumed obligation to piety and our yearning to be heard by God. Finally, at the pinnacle (and on the word “peccata” or “sins”), we find ourselves shouting and shaking our fists in the face of God as if to say “Why do you allow these things to happen?” “What sort of God are you, anyway?!” This is the most dissonant and heart-wrenching moment in the movement, and for me the entire Requiem. After a grand pause, Penderecki sends us back down the path we already trekked and returns us to awestruck, or perhaps awful silence. No matter where you are in your faith journey or your current attitude before deity, this movement hits home at some point or another.

As we consider the times in which we find ourselves now – faced with this pandemic that has taken (and continues to take) so many lives all over the world – I invite you to find a quiet space and take 7 minutes to listen to this movement with your eyes closed and nothing to distract you. Let Penderecki’s sounds take you through the gamut of emotions we all feel now. Join in this communal prayer (regardless of your own faith background or current belief) and remember victims who are helpless to save themselves and wholly dependent on the mercy of others (or destiny, or even God). Look inside yourself and think about what you can do to make the world better for someone, anyone. Then heed the warning of the chorus not to return to ignorance but to move forward, enlightened and aware of those who have truly suffered and those who suffer still. Let this great composer lead you to these mystic planes. Allow yourself a few moments of vulnerability and absorb the humanity of your soul.

Recording: Jadwiga Gadulanka & The Royal Stockholm Philharmonic Chorus (Chandos 1996)

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20 April 2020

All creatives have what I call "isms." These are idiosyncracies that naturally evolve or become apparent as one builds up a body of work. Each time we encounter a blank canvas, sheet of staff paper, or whatever medium with which we express ourselves, the goal is to create something new and different -- not only from what we ourselves have done before, but what everyone else has created throughout history. It's a daunting concept if you stop and think about it! In spite of our most valiant efforts to avoid them, our "isms" come through. For instance, I tend to rely on certain altered tones in my compositions (specifically raised 4ths and lowered 7ths) and also borrowed chords (that's a music term, not a copyright infringement) when I want to tug a little harder on the heart strings or add more "zing" to a piece. I used to wince when some well-meaning musician would read through one of my works and say, "Oh, that sounds so much like you!" But, eventually I learned to embrace my "isms."

This self-awareness is the foundation for each new composition. Without completely changing direction, I veer a little to gain a different perspective while retaining a few Debra-isms from my own familiar toolbox. For instance, I recently wrote a vocal solo in French, which was a new language for me to explore. I like to score for instruments I've never tried before; most recent ventures have been hammered dulcimer, classical guitar, and taiko drums. Then, there are instruments that continue to challenge me, so I keep coming back to them in order to become more proficient. I seek to add new color hues to my palette, so I experiment with them until I understand their useful properties. How will they blend or contrast with others already in my musical vocabulary?

Piano is one of those challenging instruments, even though I play at an advanced level. I also play flute and sing, yet these are instruments for which I almost never struggle to compose. Piano just plain confounds me at times. So, when I have the time and energy to really get it right -- I return to the piano again and again. I love its timbre, its articulation possibilities, and there are few instruments that can outdo it in terms of range.

Last summer, I began work on a piano duo piece (for two pianos). I usually have a particular musician's sound in mind when I compose. My aural model for this work is my dear friend and colleague (in the office next door) Dr. Pamela Haynes. My favorite of Pam's many strengths is her ability to "voice" well on piano. This means she approaches the music more linearly than chordally. Her hands make the piano sing and phrase more than percuss. Pam is also a fierce pedagogue. So, with Pam's voicing, her love of teaching, and my own composer "isms" in mind, I set three very clear parameters for myself as I conceptualized this piece:

1. Whereas most piano duo pieces are composed for pianists of equal skill level, I want to make this Piano I part playable by an intermediate-to-advanced student, yet keep the PIano II part interesting and challenging for the teacher.
2. Create a piece that requires students to think both linearly and vertically. There are melodies and counter-melodies the pianists need to pass back and forth seamlessly, while negotiating a backdrop of minimalist ostinato patterns. It requires pianists to listen attentively and yield to one another expressively.
3. Create a piece that is entirely diatonic. That means zero altered tones. No raised 4ths and no lowered 7ths allowed; yea nary an accidental anywhere on the page. For me, this is the greatest challenge of all!

The composition is entitled "Tapestry" because of that second goal listed above: the interweaving of melodic threads through a larger harmonic texture. It will be three movements when it is completed. (Composers like to work in threes... what can I tell you?) Each movement is titled after two colored threads adjacent or near to one another on the color wheel (the way pianists sit when they play together), but with peculiar qualities all their own.

I completed the third movement in about 2 days last summer. It is titled "Scarlet and Amber." I easily avoided altered tones by focusing on tone clusters. This gave me the dissonance I love without having to sneak in pitches that aren't part of the original scalar material. The momentum in the piece comes from a lickety-split tempo, accented offbeats, and an exciting articulation scheme. A MIDI-rendered recording is below:

I started the second movement last summer, but had to put it aside in order to get some big projects organized for the 2020-2021 academic year (the work I actually get paid to do).  I finished that movement a couple of days ago.  It is titled "Azure and Violet." This movement is slow, legato, and consonant -- so the temptation was strong to lean on my old non-diatonic pitch friends. I stayed within my set limits, though and was pleasantly surprised by the result. A MIDI-rendered recording is below:

The first movement is mapped out and currently titled "Sage and Ivory" (this is subject to change of course). I hope to finish by the end of April, or perhaps mid-May.

Pictured with me below is my colleague and very dear friend, Dr. Pamela Haynes, to whom this work will be dedicated upon completion.