Answering the Call for Scores - Practical Notes for Composers

I've been busy going through submissions of new works received through the Northwest Symphony Orchestra’s Call for Scores. It would be quite impossible to give each composer personalized feedback, so here I answer the call for scores with some practical notes for composers.

First, know your instruments.

I prefer transposed scores, the ones NOT in C. According to the Music Arrangers website

“In the transposed score the focus is on the language of the player, the parts are written as the player reads them.”

It is perhaps a bit old school, but I want to know what the player is playing. From the looks of what I have seen from many composers, I suspect many people are composing at the piano, without regard for what the players will be doing with their bow arm, fingers, breath, lips, reed, etc. When you assign a note to an instrument, do you know what you are asking the player to do?
Yes, as a composer you have the ‘right’ to write whatsoever you wish, and ask players to do whatever you wish.

However, just as in theater and film production, there is good casting and bad casting.

If you have a passage that makes huge leaps all over place, consider assigning it to a wind instrument, clarinets perhaps. I see quite a bit of big leaps in the string parts. Violins like little motifs that move within the span of four fingers, doodling back and forth, or chromatic lines. Celli do well with intervals of a third. Large swaying leaps work well on a keyboard, but are out of character for most string instruments. If you want the violins to do that, perhaps your piece should be for string quartet. One virtuoso player can present those leaps with more integrity than a whole string section.

This calls in the idea of “thread count.” One violinist on a line is much different than 5 or 15 players all speaking the same line. Such big swings played by a higher thread count will loose clarity and edge, and almost look comical.

Another keyboard-ism is the repeated chord.

It is pianistic to repeat chords in order to sustain the sound, carry the harmonies over time, and fill texture. Schubert does this brilliantly in his Erkonig. Orchestral writing, however, easily creates a sustained sound through held notes, keeps the ear interested through the use of vibrato, and develops texture over time.

If you need to create those repeated, pulsing chords, however, consider this technique.

Instead of:

Dovetail the repeated notes. The result removes any sense of stuttering and makes for a much more coherent, flowing sound.

In orchestral writing held notes build energy and tension; quick short notes disperse energy. 

The keyboard and the orchestra are very different, please treat them differently.

The keyboard also makes octave changes look easy. For most orchestral instruments however, a change in octave means using completely different fingerings, breath support, air speed, bow speed, or lip placement. Repeating a passage up (down) an octave isn’t “just the same note, an octave higher (lower).” 

Also, please note that sharps and flats are quite different. For most orchestral instruments an A-sharp differs from a B-flat. Where the note sits will be subtly different; there is also a psychological difference, too. A passage consisting of numerous flats has a different feel and character from one with numerous sharps, even though it may be an exact enharmonic version. It may be all the same to someone composing or playing at a keyboard, but you set up definite context with your choice of notes.

Version 1

Is different than Version 2

And different than Version 3

The context, not just the pitch name, changes.

Grasping ideas with the eye – this is important. Even though I know that as a composer you may have a very specific visual sense as to how a piece should look, be aware how this affects the performer. The faster any musician can grasp your musical material, the better. 

You want players to spend more time polishing your musical message than trying to figure out what in the world you ask of them.

I’m seeing quite a few scores where I think the composer is trying to be “key-less.” From appearance all the parts are written in C (no sharps of flats) rather than commit to any  key. The result is an ad hoc combination of sharps and flats, not to mention a score and parts which are awkward to read. I understand that a modern composer would want to shape music without key signatures, yet the notation gets messy.

For example, this is what a composer* wrote:

(*exact notes and rhythms have been changed to protect the composer’s identify.)

In this original version the composer makes it unnecessarily difficult for the player’s eye to grasp the passage or motif as an idea within a context. There is a randomness which makes it feel sequentially detached, like reading a text without punctuation or without space between words. Yes, you may write this way, but your works may lack conviction from your players.

This option would work better, especially for most wind players.

This option works better for most string players.

The original version is unnecessarily chaotic.

Realize that the player will need to remember for the duration of the measure, all the accidentals that have already happened. It is very unusual and odd to remember a mix of sharps and flats.  Again, you can write what you wish, but there is already so much standing between your work of art and it ever being played, practiced, performed for an audience and understood. 

Do your work a favor and produce a reader-friendly copy.

Another notation issue that can waste rehearsal time is beams and stems of notes. This type of notation brings music-reading to a halt.

 - whereas this is instantly graspable.

In terms of orchestration, the doubling of parts at an octave and unison is another issue which is often weak. Depending on the instruments, when one line suddenly moves into parallel octaves or in unison with another, the result is as if one line has dropped out. There is a sudden weakness rather than a thickening of sound. Violas and celli an octave apart sound empty. The violas in unison with violins add weight; but the violas an octave lower than violins add darkness.

Know your instruments. 

Know which notes tend to be ‘wolf tones,’ which are brittle or dull, or a bit unwieldy.

Do you know what this note will be like for the bassoon player?

Or this?

To make this clarinet combination sound OK you’ll need to trust the conductor or players to make it work. First, know these aren't the most pleasant pitches, being throat tones. Second, writing for clarinets at the octave creates some funky intonation issues. Good players or a word from the conductor will get the dynamics re-balanced so the tuning sits right. Better, however, would be to use good character casting and avoid clarinets in octaves. (in fifths and fourths, too.) These intervals suit other instruments much better.

I’m surprised to see dynamics still added to scores en masse in the style of the 18^th century. Granted, a good conductor will re-finesse your dynamics, re-stack your chords, and re-pace your crescendo or decrescendo, but if you as the composer know what needs to be done in order to achieve the gesture you seek, why not obtain the skills to notate this? Here are some general crescendo/decrescendo concepts. Crescendi start from the lowest notes. Once the high voices add their force, the crescendo won’t appear to grow any more. (Organists know this well.) The reverse, of course, works for the decrescendo. The high notes need to lessen in energy first, before the listener will agree to hear a convincing decrescendo.

Also, be aware that for a player, it is very easy to join in and play louder because you hear everyone else getting louder. With decrescendi, however, it is very difficult to notice when others are beginning to play quieter than yourself. The conductor will help with this, but a well-notated decrescendo is a plus.

Tempi for the piano differ from tempi for the orchestra because tempo is more than just a quota of time. I’d love for composers to dig deeper into the world of time and time perception. How do composers create sensations of time? What are your tools for shaping and manipulating time? What is your preferred manner for relating to time, both as a human being and as a composer? How are you asking the players and listeners to relate to time? 

First, consider that in general, 52 beats per minute is the lower threshold for a conductor to beat. (Although triple meters are easier to conduct at a lower tempo than duple meters.) So this notation:

Will be seen and heard as this:

There are ways to create stillness, or slowness; using a slow tempo marking is only part of the effect. Also, be aware that tempo affects color and texture, too.

Tempo and time are two different concepts and experiences.

Some further tips for seeing your music received well:

Please include rehearsal markings in your score and parts. Measure numbers alone are useless should conductor and players ever need to quickly confirm a place in the music.

Comb bindings – at least for the conductor – should be a size or two larger than usual. This allows for turning the pages without tearing the paper and, perhaps more importantly, turning pages quietly.

When given a choice of notation for rests, I prefer showing the smaller unit rather than a large unit. A player will experience Version 1 differently from Version 2:

Version 1

Version 2

You would want the players to be thinking the first version. 

Thinking like a player will help you choose notation that benefits the performance. 

I personally go so far as to write out measures, which I know players will tend rush, with more space between the notes. I stretch the formatting to give the illusion of there being sufficient time (space) between notes, so there is less chance of rushing.

I also prefer to cue all my parts. This way no player is off in a separate realm of sitting and counting. Everyone is involved with the occurring notes and music. As a composer this also gives me a chance to prepare the performer with a specific line, instrument, or pitch that I want the player to be hearing in their head before entering with their notes. Not all conductors will convey this type of information to the players, so the more you can use notation to quicken the preparation of a piece, the better.

There’s much more, of course, to the art of communication through sound and time; I’m still learning, too.

But knowing your instruments and thinking like the performer will improve the welcome your work receives. If we don't choose your work this year, consider these practical notes for composers, and I welcome your submission next year!

And finally, please refrain from imitating Wagner and writing 9-note chords for the harpist.

Cheers! A wine-tasting approach to music benefits performers.

Wine-tasting and listening to music pair well, of course, and share some important traits. First, both are perceived by a ‘hidden’ sensory organ. Tasting and hearing happen inside the head in a way that makes it very difficult to point out to another person just what, where, or how an object is to be perceived. Unlike visual perception, there is nothing to nail down for all to witness. Second, wine-tasting and music are both about metaphor. When speaking of wines we use words and phrases such as: silky, lingering, steely, intense; rich in blackcurrant, vanilla and spices; shades of damp leather; notes of dark chocolate. All this from grapes. With music, we may speak of golden sunsets, cold solitude, remorse, lush pools of color, stark terror, or possibly re-live an earlier moment in time, or discover a sudden recognition. All this from sounds. Clearly there are no gooseberries in a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, nor majestic mountain peaks in a symphony, yet we connect to wine and music through these types of metaphors. Music, especially, is full of metaphor. Call a note ‘high’ or ‘low’ — and we’re already in the world of metaphor.

Nonetheless wine and music are matters of serious human concern – and affection. For me classical music is an art to enjoy, explore, and savor. Just as you can explore the palette of your taste-buds, you can explore the palette of your ears.

This is exactly what I do as the Classical Connoisseur, a program series I began over two years ago, and now present at four public library districts in the Chicago and northern Illinois area. The Classical Connoisseur is about awakening the palette and finding the connection between sounds and meaning. The format is very much like wine-tasting, where music is ‘tasted’ with brief samples of 10 seconds to two minutes of duration. The excerpts are short, but we may repeat listenings numerous times.

For example, I was once asked to explore "loving and longing in music" with a woodwind quartet of flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon. We explored not just how a composer might create loving and longing in music, but how musicians can shape music to make connections between sounds and meaning. We can try out the character of individual intervals, for example, and hear how small changes will create completely different characters and gestures in the music. We can hear varieties in breath, vibrato, articulation, dynamics, energy levels, pacing, color, phrasing, etc. The tool box for creating and expressing music is wonderfully bottomless when guiding performers through how they can create metaphor and how the composer may be asking them to create metaphor. Why is this passage written in the lower register? How does the melodic interval create a distinct quality? Why would too much vibrato kill the mood? Which note carries rhetorical weight? Would a faster bow make the sound less personable? How long does a sustained note carry meaning?

One of my favorite aspects of music is time. Music uses time, composers use time, and listeners are asked by music to relate to time. I love exploring time because it is a very personal and human part of every musician’s and listener’s life. This important and musical art of using time is a skill which can only be learned in front of an audience. Most musicians play, and are trained to play, according to the clock. In other words, the clock or ticking pulse, dictates events rather than the musician or composer. But how quickly is quick enough for this moment? How does a split second of silence shift the inflection of a phrase? At what tempo does color fade into texture? How do we create and pace expectation, or prolong anticipation?  

Conductors often make such choices of metaphor building. For example, in a presentation on Sound Qualities working with CD recordings,I offered two versions of the opening of the Andante of Bruckner’s 7th symphony. One conductor stacked the viola/tuba line with the brass tucked homogeneously inside the violas, resulting in a very passionate, pulsating, and human effect. We heard full viola vibrato performed in a mid-range, resonant tessitura. Another sample, however, offered the five tubas as the main event, stacking the top tuba line as a solo melody. Without the viola line and its flavor exposed, the result was very different – muscular and majestic. Here, instead of the influence of string vibrato, we heard the breath required by the brass players and how it adds its own expressive nuance. When working with live musicians I provide hands-on opportunity to explore musical choices and offer insight as to how these choices affect a listener’s concept, enjoyment, and understanding of a piece.

The goal of making classical music meaningful to our listeners and ourselves is a vital artistic endeavor. Unfortunately classical music and wine have a common ability to terrify those who feel uninitiated or “uneducated.” In the wine world, Leslie Brenner has a book called Fear of Wine. The opening sentence reads perfectly for the world of classical music:

“How in the world did we manage to get so far in life and still wind up so terribly afraid of something that’s just – dare we say it – a beverage?"  -- Leslie Brenner, Fear of Wine.

Indeed, how did we manage to get so far in life and still wind up so terribly afraid of something that’s just sounds? My presentations as the Classical Connoisseur demonstrate that listeners are highly perceptive. A wine-tasting approach gives them the skills to overcome what previously had been carried as a burden of ignorance or fear: “Well, I didn’t like that, but if it’s a superstar performer then it must be good. The problem is me - I must not understand music.” The benefits of a wine-tasting approach to music include developing an ability to discuss and articulate what was heard, a better understanding of ones personal tastes, and an increased comfort level -  what I call being ‘many-eared’ -  when hearing new works and varied styles.

For professional performers whose studies are focused on technique, historical-traditional, and textual correctness, the Classical Connoisseur approach provides concepts for recognizing how composers use their tools of metaphor and how a performer’s musical choices may affect a listener. Musicians then develop a process for seeing beyond the notes to a deeper layer of musical intent and meaning. With this insight a performer has a rich array of communicative tools and a direct understanding of their implementation.

Today’s musicians want to reach audiences in a way that creates a vivid experience for the listener and an artistically satisfying moment for the performer and composer. The Classical Connoisseur events allow me to coach listeners in the art of experiencing the magic of music, and to coach players in the art of making magic out of sound.

I leave musicians with these three wishes as they continue on as a Classical Connoisseur:

♦ Be driven by curiosity and wonder, rather than the need to be right, or knowing.

♦ Be many-eared, as there is no single style of listening that reveals the whole.

♦ Insist that music and its practitioners – composers, performers – honor the metaphor.

It is through this imaginative realm of metaphor that we, perhaps, become less of a stranger to our self, each other, and the human experience.

Do you play Diehnelt or Caprio? Revamping the role of composer.

With an approaching premiere of the work premiere of CAPRIO, for oboe and strings I’ve had lively conversations with performers and music-lovers. One striking question keeps appearing: Does the performer play Diehnelt the composer, or Caprio the work-entity?

Music, unlike literature and theater, tends to perceive the composer - or “the composer’s intent” - as the aspect to dwell on, explore, and attempt to ‘channel’ while preparing a piece for performance. We think almost exclusively in this manner. How else could it be?

I love crossing over to theater for ideas on the art of presenting live performances from a text-source. In theater, it is the character and its role which receives in-depth study by the performer. How do I, as Othello, portray and bring to life this character with a sense of understanding, depth, and truth? The actor rarely thinks: How do I portray the playwright? The playwright continues as an essential part of the process, yet remains behind the scenes, if you will.

We speak of actors owning or embodying a role. So-and-so’s Othello, another actor’s Nora. Rarely do we speak of an actor being a great Shakespeare, or identifying a performer with Ibsen.

With music, we leave out the intermediary character role. Here, the performer presents the playwright. We play Beethoven. We debate performers’ versions of Mozart; we give artists ownership of their Wagner, their Chopin, their Bach. This direct text-maker to stage-performer connection is unique to music, coming to the fore in the early 1800’s as composers, and instrumental music, gained status as being capable of independently speaking ‘truths.’

But when working with musicians on my own works in the present era, I find it odd they insist on reproducing me in the music. For example, Caprio is not me in guise of an oboist and string orchestra. It’s Caprio – almost a living character by itself. Indeed, the creative compositional process seems one of ‘bringing into life’ of a new entity.

I remember very strongly the reactions I went through while composing Postscript for solo cello . The plan in my head was not happening. Instead of moving toward the key-center, character-change I had planned out, the piece just wouldn’t ‘go there.’ After struggling numerous times to make the music stick to my plans I gave up and let the cello line go where it wanted. This experience seems in line with the experience of writers who may have a specific plan for a novel, but find that a character high-jacks the plot and compels its own unfolding. As with Caprio too, at some point this character propelled the music line forward to fulfill the character’s intent. (There may be an illusive art to knowing when to quiet the composer’s intent and listen carefully to the created entity.)

Yes, my works will always have Kim-isms, just as any playwright and their era has a particular style. I will always be interested in the use of time, give attention to how sounds combine to create metaphors, and resist the urge for unnecessary repetition.

However, this being the 21^st century, I’d like to offer musicians the task of getting less inside the head of the composer and more into questioning “what does this musical ‘character’ ask of me?" Creating compositions of this sort gives the performer homework and decisions. Rather excitingly, it allows for more than one authentic way to present a work.

I encourage performers to take the risk and challenge to chew over the character/s that each piece presents. I will do my best to provide each member of the cast with lines worth speaking, worth mulling over for nuggets of depth and beauty.

Fortunately, Caprio is in good hands this week. Oboist Joni Day and Music Director Stephen Blackwelder are both capable of acknowledging the composer while courageously tending to the spirit of the music’s intent. We will hear a living, breathing, authentic Caprio!