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# 2022-04-13 - What To Listen For In Music by Aaron Copland
I found this book for a dollar in the thrift store and decided to
check another book off my high-school reading list. To my surprise,
this book seemed more accessible and less dry than i expected from
the title. It was written in clear, plain English. The descriptions
of musical terminology and forms reminded me very much of technical
documentation about digital formats. It mainly covers classical
music in an organized and chronological manner.
> Music can only be really live when there are listeners who are
> really alive."
Below are my notes from the book.
# Foreword
The very process of hearing music has changed enormously, and mostly
for the better, since Aaron Copeland compiled this "owner's manual
for music," as I like to call it...
# Introduction
Listening to music is a skill that is acquired through experience and
learning. Knowledge enhances enjoyment.
The first prerequisite for listening to music is so obvious that it
seems ludicrous to mention, yet it is so often the single element
that is absent: to pay attention and to give the music your
concentrated effort as an active listener.
# Preface
The put down as clearly as possible the fundamentals of intelligent
music listening is the object of this book.
Given the chance, every composer would like to know two very
important things about anyone who takes himself [or herself]
seriously as a music lover. He [or she] would like to know these two
things:
* Are you hearing everything that is going on?
* Are you really being sensitive to it?
Or, to put it differently:
* Are you missing anything as far as the notes themselves are
concerned?
* Is your reaction a confused one, or are you quite clarified as to
your emotional response?
# Chapter 1, Preliminaries
All books on understanding music are agreed about one point: You
can't develop a better appreciation of the art merely by reading a
book about it. If you want to understand music better, you can do
nothing more important than listen to it. Nothing can possibly take
the place of listening to music. Everything that I have to say in
this book is said about an experience that you can only get outside
this book. Therefore, you will probably be wasting your time in
reading it unless you make a firm resolve to hear a great deal more
music than you have in the past.
There is however, one minimum requirement for the potentially
intelligent listener. He [or she] must be able to recognize a melody
when he [or she] hears it. ... [then] the key to a deeper
appreciation of music is in your hands.
# Chapter 2, How We Listen
In a certain sense, we all listen to music on three separate planes.
For lack of a better terminology, one might name these:
1) the sensuous plane
2) the expressive plane
3) the sheerly musical plane
The simplest way of listening to music is to listen for the sheer
pleasure of the musical sound itself. That is the sensuous plane.
It is the plane on which we hear music without thinking, without
considering it in any way.
The sensuous plane is an important one in music, a very important
one, but it does not constitute the whole story.
The second plane upon which music exists is what I have called the
expressive one.
This whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking, "Is there a
meaning to music?" My answer to that would be, "Yes." And "Can you
state in so many words what the meaning is?" My answer to that would
be, "No." Therein lies the difficulty.
Still, the question remains, How close should the intelligent music
love wish to come to pinning a definite meaning to any particular
work? No closer than a general concept, I should say. ...no
appropriate word can be found to express the music's meaning...
The third plane on which music exists is the sheerly musical plane.
... music does exist in terms of the notes themselves and of their
musical manipulation. Most listeners are not sufficiently conscious
on this third plane. It will be largely the business of this book to
make them more aware of music on this plane.
What the reader should strive for then, is a more ACTIVE kind of
listening. Whether you listen to Mozart or Duke Ellington, you can
deepen your understanding of music only by being a more conscious and
aware listener--not someone who is just listening, but someone who is
listening FOR something.
# Chapter 3, The Creative Process In Music
But whatever form the composer chooses to adopt, there is always one
great desideratum: ... every good piece of music must give us a sense
of flow--a sense of continuity from first note to last. Every
elementary music student knows the principle, but to put it into
practice has challenged the greatest minds in music! Music must
always flow, for that is part of its very essence, but the creation
of that continuity and flow--that long line--constitutes the be-all
and end-all of every composer's existence.
# Chapter 4, The Four Elements of Music--I. Rhythm
* Rhythm
* Melody
* Harmony
* Tone Color
These four ingredients are the composer's materials. A complete
understanding of the separate elements belongs with the deepest
technicalities of the art.
Most historians agree that if music started anywhere, it started with
the beating of a rhythm. Even today our system of rhythmic notation
is far from perfect. We still are unable to note down subtle
differences such as every accomplished artist instinctively adds in
performance.
[Here is a relevant quote on rhythm:
> May not the agreeable impression produced by the rhythmical flow
> of the waves, and the soothing murmur of running water, have led
> various nations, independently of each other, to the wide-spread
> conception that they obtained their favourite instrument of music
> originally from the water? --Engel's "Musical Myths and Facts"
]
When musical rhythm was first put down, it was not measured off into
evenly distributed metrical units, as it now is. It wasn't until
about 1150 that "measured music," as it was then called, was slowly
introduced into Western civilization. ... it had both a liberating
and a restraining effect on music.
Up until that time, much of the music which we have any record of was
vocal music; it invariably accompanied prose or poetry... From the
time of the Greeks, the rhythm of music was the natural, unfettered
rhythm of prose or poetic speech. No one then, or since, has ever
been able to write down that kind of rhythm with any degree of
exactitude.
The fascination and emotional impact of simple rhythms such as these
is quite beyond analysis. All we can do is humbly to acknowledge
their power and often hypnotic effect upon us.
Polyrhythms--the combination of two or more independent rhythms at
the same time. Don't imagine for an instant that such rhythmic
complexities were unknown until our own time. On the contrary, by
comparison with the intricate rhythms used by African drummers or
Chinese or Hindu percussionists, we are mere neophytes.
All jazz is founded on the rock of a steady, unchanging rhythm in the
bass. When jazz was only ragtime, the basic rhythm was merely that
of march time: ONE-two-THREE-four, ONE-two-THREE-four. This same
rhythm was made much more interesting in jazz by simply displacing
the accents so that the basic rhythm became one-TWO-three-FOUR,
one-TWO-three-FOUR. But over and above [this foundational rhythm]
are other, and freer, rhythms; and it is the combination of the two
that gives jazz whatever rhythmic vitality it possesses.
Some of my more informed readers may be wondering why I have made no
mention... of that phenomenal School of English composers who
flourished in Shakespeare's day. They wrote hundreds of madrigals
which are overrun with the most ingenious of polyrhythms. ... The
characteristic feat of the rhythm of the madrigal composers is the
lack of any sense of strong down beat. The effect is anything but
primitive. Therein lies its main difference from the modern brand of
polyrhythm, which depends for its effects upon an insistence on
juxtaposed down beats.
The lay listener is asked to remember that even the most complex
rhythms were meant for his [or her] ears. They need not be analyzed
to be enjoyed. All you need to do is to relax, letting the rhythm do
with you what it will.
# Chapter 5, The Four Elements of Music--II. Melody
Melody is only second in importance to rhythm... if the idea of
rhythm is connected in our imagination with physical motion, the idea
of melody is associated with mental emotion. The effect upon us of
both these primary elements is equally mysterious.
A beautiful melody, like a piece of music in its entirety, should be
of satisfying proportions. It must give us a sense of completion and
of inevitability. To do that, the melodic line will generally be
long and flowing, with low and high points of interest and a
climactic moment, usually near the end. ... most important of all,
its expressive quality must be such as will arouse an emotional
response in the listener. That is the most unpredictable attribute
of all, for which no guiding rules exist.
From a purely technical standpoint, all melodies exist within the
limits of some scale system. There have been four main systems of
scale building: Oriental, Greek, Ecclesiastical, and Modern. For all
practical purposes we can say that most scale systems are based on a
chosen number of notes between a given tone and its octave. In our
modern system, this octave span is divided into twelve equal tones,
called semi-tones, and together they compromise the chromatic scale.
Most of our music is NOT based on this scale, however, but on seven
tones chosen from the twelve chromatic ones...
This arrangement of seven tones is called the diatonic scale in the
major mode. Since there are twelve semitones within the octave span,
on each of which the same seven-toned scale may be formed, there are,
of course, twelve different, but similarly constructed, diatonic
scales in the major mode. There are twelve more in the minor mode,
making twenty-four in all.
[The relationship between music and time is revealed by the numbers
alone. Seven days in a week. Twelve months in a year. Twenty-four
hours in a day. And so forth.]
The seven degrees of the scale also have definite relationships among
themselves. They are ruled over by the first degree, tone 1, known
as the tonic.
Next in power of attraction is the fifth degree, or dominant, as it
is called; followed in importance by the fourth degree, or
subdominant. The seventh degree is named the leading tone because it
always tends to lead to the tonic.
Whatever the quality of the melodic line considered alone, the
listener must never lose sight of its function in a composition. It
should be followed like a continuous thread which leads the listener
through a piece from the very beginning to the very end. Always
remember that in listening to a piece of music you must hang on to
the melodic line.
# Chapter 6, The Four Elements of Music--III. Harmony
Harmony, in the sense that we think of it, was quite unknown in music
until about the ninth century. The birth of harmony is generally
placed in the ninth century, because it is first mentioned in
treatises of that period. The earliest form was called "organum." So
that organum is simply a single melody, plus the same melody repeated
simultaneously at the fourth or fifth interval below or above,
respectively.
The second of these early forms was not developed until another two
or three hundred years had passed. It was called "descant"... In
descant, there was no longer a single melody moving in parallel
motion with itself, but two independent melodies, moving in opposite
directions.
The last form of earliest counterpoint was called "faux-bourdon"
(false bass). This introduced the hitherto forbidden intervals of
the third and sixth, which were to form the basis of all later
harmonic developments. Credit for this step is given to the English,
who are said to have "harmonized in thirds," in their popular singing
long before faux-bourdon made its more formal entry into art music.
The sounding together of separate tones produces chords. Harmony,
considered as a science, is the study of these chords and their
relations among one another.
Harmonic theory is based on the assumption that all chords are built
from the lowest note upward in a series of intervals of a third.
...practically most of the music we know is based on the ordinary
three-toned chord known as the triad. A full chord is always made of
three tones or more; two-toned "chords" are too ambiguous to be
counted...
[chords can be doubled, inversed, and altered.]
The entire history of harmonic development shows us a continually
changing picture; very slowly, but inevitably, our ears are enabled
to assimilate chords of greater complexity and modulations to further
off keys.
To say that a consonance is a pleasant-sounding chord, and a
dissonance unpleasant, is making the case much too simple. For a
chord is more or less dissonant to you according to the period in
which you live, according to your listening experience, and according
to whether the chord is played fortissimo in the brass instruments or
caressed pianissimo in the strings. So that a dissonance is only
relative--relative to you, your epoch, and the place that it holds in
the piece as a whole.
[Polytonality] introduced the idea of sounding two or more separate
tonalities simultaneously.
# Chapter 7, The Four Elements of Music--IV. Tone Color
The intelligent listener should have two main objectives in relation
to tone color:
* to sharpen his [or her] awareness of different instruments and
their separate tonal characteristics and
* to gain a better appreciation of the composer's expressive
purpose in using any instrument or combination of instruments.
The idea of the inevitable connection of a specific color for a
specific music is a comparatively modern one.
Orchestral instruments are divided into four principal types, or
sections:
1) strings
2) woodwind
3) brass
4) percussion
Each of these sections is made up of a related group of instruments
of similar type.
The main thing you can do in listening to the orchestra, aside from
enjoying the sheer beauty of the sound itself, is to extricate the
principal melodic material from its surrounding and supporting
elements. The melodic line generally passes from one section to
another, and you must always be mentally alert if you expect to be
able to follow its peregrinations.
# Chapter 8, Musical Texture
There are three species of [musical] texture: monophonic, homophonic,
and polyphonic.
Monophonic music is, of course, the simplest of all. It is music of
a single, unaccompanied melodic line. The line itself... is of an
extraordinary finesse and subtlety, making use of quarter tones and
other smaller intervals unknown in our system.
Homophonic texture... consists of a principal melodic line and a
chordal accompaniment.
Music that is polyphonically written makes greater demands on the
attention of the listener, because it moves by reason of separate and
independent melodic strands, which together form harmonies. The
difficulty arises from the fact that our listening habits are formed
by music that is harmonically conceived, and polyphonic music demands
that we listen in a more linear fashion, disregarding, in a sense,
those resultant harmonies.
Polyphonic texture implies a listener who can hear separate strands
of melody sung by separate voices, instead of hearing only the sound
of all the voices as they happen from moment to moment.
There is also this to be said for polyphonic music: that repeated
hearings keep up your interest better than music of a homophonic
texture.
Not all music, of course, is divided into one of these three
different kinds of texture. In any piece of music, the composer may
go from one kind to another without transition.
# Chapter 9, Musical Structure
Structure in music is no different from structure in any other art;
it is simply the coherent organization of the artist's material. But
the material in music is of a fluid and rather abstract character;
therefore the composer's structural task is doubly difficult because
of the very nature of music itself.
The prime consideration in all form is the creation of a sense of the
long line which was mentioned in an earlier chapter. That long line
must give us a sense of direction, and we must be made to feel that
the direction is the inevitable one.
One all-important principle is used in music to create the feeling of
formal balance. That principle is the very simple one of repetition.
The largest part of music bases itself structurally on a broad
interpretation of that principle.
Speaking generally, music that is based on repetition for its spinal
structure may be divided into five different categories.
1. Exact repetition (aaaa)
2. Sectional or symmetrical repetition (aba)
3. Repetition by variation
4. Repetition by fugal treatment
5. Repetition through development
The only other basic formal categories are those based on
non-repetition, and the so-called "free" forms. (a b c d)
... these repetitional principles apply both to the large sections
which comprise an entire movement and also to the small units within
each section. Musical form, therefore, resembles a series of wheels
within wheels, in which the formation of the smallest wheel is
remarkably similar to that of the largest one.
# Chapter 10, Fundamental Forms--I. Sectional Forms
* Two-part
* Three-part
* Rondo
* Free Sectional Arrangement
The simplest of these is the two-part, or binary, form, represented
by A-B. Two-part form is very little used nowadays, but it played a
preponderant role in the music written from 1650 through 1750.
The second type of sectional form is three-part form, represented by
the formula A-B-A.
The third important type of form which bases itself on the sectional
principle is that of the rondo. It is easily reduced to the formula
ABACADA, etc. The typical feature of any rondo, therefore, is the
return to the principle theme after every digression.l The main
theme is the important thing; the number or length of the digressions
is immaterial. The digressions provide contrast and balance: that is
their principal function.
The fourth, and final, type of sectional build-up cannot be reduced
to any one formula, because it allows for any free arrangement of
sections which together make a coherent whole.
# Chapter 11, Fundamental Forms--II. Variation Form
* Basso Ostinato
* Passacaglia
* Chaconne
* Theme and variations
Before going further, the reader should be warned that the variation
in music has two different aspects and that they must not be
confused. The first aspect is that of the variation used as a device
in music, in a purely incidental way. That is, any of the elements
in music may be varied--any harmony, any melody, [and] any rhythm.
Likewise, the variation as a device may be applied momentarily to any
form--sectional, sonata, fugal, etc. But the second aspect must not
be lost sight of--the variations as used in the different variation
forms proper, where it is the sole and exclusive formal principle.
It is this second aspect that I propose to treat here.
Of the four types of variation forms, the basso ostinato, or ground
bass, is the easiest to recognize. It might be more properly termed
a musical device than a musical form. Literally translated, it means
an "obstinate bass," which is more or less an exact description of
what it is. A short phrase--either an accompanimental figure or an
actual melody--is repeated over and over again in the bass part,
while the [other] parts proceed normally. It provides an easy method
for writing "modern music" of the 1920 vintage, the left continuing
always in the same way, the right hand left to its own devices.
Perhaps because of that, for a time the basso ostinato exerted too
strong a charm on the newer composer.
Note that once the ground bass is firmly established in your
consciousness, it may, to a certain extent, be taken for granted,
thereby permitting a greater concentration on the remaining material.
The passacaglia is the second type of variation form. Here, again,
as in basso ostinato, an entire composition is founded upon a
repeated bass part. But this time, the ground bass is invariably a
melodic phrase, never a mere figure. It is also open to more varied
treatment, as we shall soon see, than the literal repetitions of the
basso ostinato.
A passacaglia invariably begins with a statement of the theme
unaccompanied, in bass. Since it is this theme that is to form the
foundation for all further variation, it is of paramount importance
that the theme itself be well established in the mind of the
listener. Therefore, as a rule, for the first few variations the
theme is literally repeated in bass, while the upper part begins a
gentle forward movement.
The chaconne is the third type of variation form. It is very closely
related to the passacaglia. In fact, the differences are so slight,
that at times there has been considerable arguments among theorists
as to whether to label a piece a passacaglia or a chaconne, if the
composer himself [or herself] has neglected to do so.
But unlike the passacaglia, it [the chaconne] does not begin with an
unaccompanied bass theme. Instead, the bass theme is heard from the
start with accompanying harmonies. This means that the bass theme is
not given the exclusively important role to play that it occupies in
the passacaglia; for the accompanying harmonies are also sometimes
varied in the chaconne. So the chaconne is a kind of stepping stone
between the passacaglia and the "theme and variations..."
The theme and variations is the last, and most important, of the
variation forms.
The theme that is adopted for variation is either original with the
composer or borrowed from some other source. As a rule, the theme
itself is simple and direct in character. It is best to have it so
in order that the listener may hear it in its simplest version before
the varying process begins.
There are different types of variation which may be applied to any
theme. Five general types may easily be distinguished:
1) harmonic
2) melodic
3) rhythmic
4) contrapuntal
5) a combination of all four previous types
No textbook formula could possibly foresee every kind of variation
scheme that an inventive composer might hit upon.
It is customary with most composers to stay rather close to the
original theme at the beginning of a composition, taking more and
more liberties as the piece progresses. Very often, at the very end,
the theme is stated once again in its original form. It is as if the
composer were saying: "You see how far away it was possible to go;
well, here we are back again where we started."
# Chapter 12, Fundamental Forms--III. Fugal Form
* Fugue
* Concerto Grosso
* Chorale Prelude
* Motets and Madrigals
## Fugue
If you really wish to hear what goes on in these [fugal] forms, you
must be willing to go after them again and again. More than any
other formal mold, fugal forms demand repeated hearings if they are
to be fully heard by the [lay person].
... in texture all fugues are polyphonic or contrapuntal (the terms
are identical in meaning). Therefore, it follows that all fugal
forms are polyphonic or contrapuntal in texture.
It goes without saying that contrapuntal writing is not confined to
any form, so in the same way a contrapuntal texture may occur without
preparation in almost any form. Be ready, in other words, to listen
polyphonically at any moment.
A certain number of well-known contrapuntal devices are used whenever
the texture is polyphonic. They are not invariably present, but they
may put in an appearance, so the listener must be on the lookout for
them.
The simplest of these devices are: imitation, canon, inversion,
augmentation, [and] diminution. More recondite are cancrizans (crab
motion) and the inverted cancrizans.
Imitation is the simplest device of all. The imitation need not
start on the same note with which the original voice begins.
Canon is merely a more elaborate species of imitation in which the
imitation is carried out logically from the beginning of a piece to
the end. In other words, canon may be spoken of as a form, whereas
imitation is always a device.
Inversion is not so easily recognized. It consists of turning a
melody upside-down, as it were. The melody inverted always moves in
the opposite direction from the melody of its original version.
Augmentation is easily explained. When you augment a theme, you
double the time value of the notes, thereby making it twice as slow
as it originally was. Diminution is the opposite of augmentation.
It consists of halving the note values, so that the theme moves twice
as fast as originally.
Cancrizans, or crab motion, as the name implies, means the melody
read backward. In other words, A-B-C-D becomes, in cancrizans,
D-C-B-A.
The ability to listen contrapuntally, plus a comprehension of these
various devices, is all that is necessary in order to prepare oneself
to hear fugues intelligently. Most fugues are written in three or
four voices. They are not, however, continuously present in the
fugue, for a well-written fugue implies breathing spaces in each
melodic line. So that in a four-voiced fugue, the listener seldom
hears more than three voices at a time.
But no matter how many voices may be going on at the same time, there
is always one voice that predominates. Just as a juggler, handling
three objects, draws our attention to the object that goes highest,
so, in the same way, the composer draws our attention to one of the
equally independent voices. It is the theme, or subject, of the
fugue that takes precedence whenever present.
All fugues begin with what is called an "exposition." Every fugue
begins with an announcement of the unadorned fugue subject. ... the
subject will appear for the first time in one of [the] voices. ...
the subject is heard in each one of the voices, one after another.
It goes without saying that when the second voice enters with the
subject, the first voice does not stop.
When once the subject and countersubject are exposed in any one
voice, it is free to continue without restrictions as a so-called
"free voice."
In some fugues it is not feasible to go directly from one entrance of
a voice to the next without a measure or two of transition, because
of tonal relationships too technical to be gone into here. The
exposition is considered to be at an end when each of the voices of a
fugue has sung the theme once. (Certain fugues have a re-exposition
section in which the exposition is repeated but with the voices
entering in different order.)
The exposition is the only part of the fugue form that is definitely
set. From there on, the form can be summarized only loosely.
Speaking generally, a series of episodes alternate with statements of
the fugue subject; seen each time in new aspects. An episode is
often related to the same fragment of the fugue subject or
countersubject. It is seldom made up entirely of independent
materials. Its principal function is to divert attention from the
theme of the fugue, so as better to prepare the stage for its
re-entrance. Its general character is usually that of a bridge
section--more relaxed in quality, less dialectic than the fugue
subject developments.
... there is no actual repetition in a fugue except for the kernel of
the fugue subject itself, and the countersubject which often
accompanies its every appearance.
A stretto in a fugue is optional, but when present it is usually
found just before the final cadence. Stretto is the name given a
species of imitation in which the separate parts enter so immediately
one after another that an impression of toppling voices is obtained.
Whatever the nature of a fugue, the end is never casual. It brings
with it, as a rule, one final, clear statement of the fugue subject;
and an insistence on the establishment without question of the tonic
key.
The fugue asks for concentrated listening and is therefore not very
long, a few pages at most.
## Concerto Grosso
It should not be confused in your mind with the latter concerto,
which is written for a virtuoso soloist accompanied by orchestra.
The origin of the concerto grosso is attributed to the fact that
composers in the second half of the seventeenth century became
intrigued by the effect to be obtained from contrasting a small body
of instruments with a large body of instruments. The smaller group
called the concertino, might be formed of any combination of
instruments pleasing to the composer. ... the form is built around
the dialectical interchange between the concertino and the larger
body of instruments, or tutti, as it is often called.
The concerto grosso, then, is a kind of instrumental fugal form. It
is generally made up of three or more movements.
## Chorale Prelude
... less definite in outline than the concerto grosso and therefore
more difficult to define with any degree of exactitude. It had its
origin in the chorale tunes that were sung in Protestant churches
after the time of Luther.
## Motets and Madrigals
I hasten to add that a motet or madrigal is not a form, properly
speaking; but since they will be listened to with increasing
frequency and definitely belong with the contrapuntal forms, their
proper place is here. One cannot generalize as to their form,
because they are choral compositions, sung without accompaniment and
dependent on their words in each individual instance for their formal
outline.
... the motet is a short vocal composition on sacred words, whereas
the madrigal is a similar composition on secular words. The madrigal
is generally less severe in character.
# Chapter 13, Fundamental Forms--IV. Sonata Form
* Sonata as a Whole
* Sonata Form Proper
* The Symphony
Fortunately for the lay listener, the sonata form, in any of its many
manifestations, is, on the whole, more immediately accessible than
some of the other forms we have been studying. That is because the
problem it presents is not one of listening for detail in separate
measures, as in the fugue, but of following the broad outlines of
large sections. Also the texture of the sonata, as a rule, is not
nearly so contrapuntal as that of the fugue. As texture, it is much
more all-inclusive--almost anything goes within the broad confines of
the sonata form.
Before venturing farther, the reader should be warned against one
other possible confusion regarding the use of the term "sonata form."
It is applied, as a matter of fact, to two different things. In the
first place, we speak of sonata form when we mean an entire work
consisting of three or four movements. On the other hand, we also
speak of sonata form when we refer to a specific type of structure in
music generally found in the first, and often also in the last,
movement of an entire sonata. Therefore, you must keep in mind two
things:
* The sonata as a whole and
* The sonata form proper, sometimes referred to as, sonata allegro,
or first-movement form, the sonata allegro referring to the fact
that almost all first movements of sonatas are in allegro (or fast)
tempo.
There is still another distinction that must be kept in mind. When
you go to a concert and find listed on the program a sonata for
violin and piano by Handel or Bach, do not listen for the form under
discussion here. The word sonata was used at that time in
contradistinction to the word cantata--sonata being something to be
played, and cantata something to be sung. Otherwise it bears little
or no relation to the later sonata of Mozart and Haydn's time.
Three or four movements comprise the sonata as a whole. The most
obvious distinction between the movements is one of tempo: in the
three-movement species, it is fast--slow--fast; and in the
four-movement sonata, it is usually
fast--slow--moderately-fast--very-fast.
As has already been said, the first movement of any sonata is always
in sonata-allegro form.
The second movement is usually the slow movement, but there is no
such thing as slow-movement form. [It could be any number of various
forms.]
The third movement is usually a minuet or scherzo. In either case,
it is the A-B-A, the three-part form which was discussed under
Sectional Forms. Sometimes the second and third movements are
interchangeable...
The fourth movement, or finale, as it is often called, is almost
always either in extended rondo form or in sonata-allegro form. Thus
it is only the first movement of the sonata that presents an entirely
new physiognomy for us.
## Sonata-Allegro, or First-Movement, Form
It is one of the more remarkable features of the sonata-allegro form
that it may so easily be reduced to the ordinary tripartite formula:
A-B-A. As far as its broadest outlines are concerned, it does not
differ from the tiny section analyzed in the chapter on Musical
Structure or from the various kinds of three-part form considered
under Sectional Forms. But it must be remembered in this case that
each of the sections of the A-B-A represent large divisions of music,
each of them lasting as much as 5 or 10 minutes in length.
Exposition | A:| {a: tonic, b: dominant, c: dominant}
Development | B | {a,b,c: foreign keys}
Recapitulation | C | {a,b,c: tonic}
As may be seen, the A-B-A of the formula is, in this instance, named
exposition-development-recapitulation. In the exposition section,
the thematic material is exposed; in the development section, it is
handled in new and unsuspected ways; in the recapitulation section,
it is heard again in its original setting.
The exposition section contains a first theme, a second theme, and a
closing theme. The character of the first theme is dramatic, or
"masculine," and it is always in the tonic key; the character of the
second theme is lyrical, or "feminine," and it is always in the
dominant key; the closing theme is less important than either of
these and is also in the dominant key. The development section is
"free"; that is, it freely combines the material introduced in the
exposition and sometimes adds new material of its own. In this
section, the music moves into new and foreign keys. The
recapitulation restates more or less literally what was found in the
exposition, except that all the themes are now in the tonic key.
This juxtaposition of one group of themes denoting power and
aggressiveness with another group which is relaxed and more song-like
in quality is the essence of the expositional section and determines
the character of the entire sonata-allegro form. In many of the
early examples of the form, the ordering of the material into first
and second themes is more strictly adhered to, whereas later on we
can be sure only that the two opposing elements will be present in
the exposition, without being able to say in exactly what sequence
they will appear.
The last theme, or themes... constitutes a closing sentence or
sentences. Therefore it maybe of any nature that leads to a sense of
conclusion.
One other element is important in the exposition. You cannot very
well go from one mood that is powerfully dramatic to another that is
lyrically expressive without some sort of transition. This
transition, or bridge section, as it is often called, may be short or
fairly elaborate. But it must never be of equal significance
thematically with elements a or b, for that could lead only to
confusion.
It is the development section that gives the sonata allegro its
special character. In no other form is there a special division
reserved for the extension and development of musical material
already introduced in a previous section. It is that feature of the
sonata-allegro form that has so fascinated all composers--that
opportunity for working freely with materials already announced. So
you see that the sonata form, properly understood, is essentially a
psychological and dramatic form. You cannot very well mix the two or
more elements of the exposition without creating a sense of struggle
or drama. It is the development section that challenges the
imagination of every composer.
No rules govern the development section. One can only generalize
about two factors:
* That the development section usually begins with a partial
restatement of the first theme in order to remind the listener of
the starting point; and
* That during the course of the development the music modulates
through a series of far-off keys which serve to prepare a sense of
homecoming when the original tonality is finally reached at the
beginning of the recapitulation.
The recapitulation is, as its name indicates, a repetition of the
exposition. In the classical sonata allegro, the repetition is
generally exact, though even here the inclination is to omit
nonessentials, leaving out material already sufficiently heard. In
later times, the repetition became more and more free until it
sometimes is a mere wraith of its former self.
Two important extensions were added to the form while it was still in
the early stages of development. An introductory section preceded
the "allegro," and a coda was tacked on at the end. The introduction
is almost always slow in tempo, a sure indication that the allegro
section has not yet begun. It may consist of musical materials which
are entirely independent of the allegro to follow; or it may be that
a slow version of the main theme in allegro is given out to further
the feeling of unity.
## The Symphony
The symphony had its origin not in instrumental forms like the
concerto grosso, as one might have expected, but in the overture of
early Italian opera. The overture, or sinfonia, as it was called, as
perfected by Alessandro Scarlatti consisted of three parts:
fast-slow-fast, thus presaging the movements of the classical
symphony. The sinfonia, around 1750, became detached from the opera
which gave it birth and led an independent life in the concert hall.
One important innovation was introduced during [the nineteenth
century] as regards symphonic form, namely, the so-called cyclic form
of the symphony. It was an attempt to bind the different parts of
the entire work by unifying the thematic materials. Sometimes a
"motto" theme is heard at unexpected moments in different movements
of the symphony, giving an impression of a single unifying thought.
At other times--and this is more truly cyclic form--all thematic
material in an entire symphony may be derived from only a few primal
themes, which are completely metamorphosed as the work progresses, so
that what was first given out as a sober introductory theme is
transformed into the principal melody of the scherzo, and similarly
in slow movement and finale.
# Chapter 14, Fundamental Forms--V. Free Forms
* The Prelude
* The Symphonic Poem [AKA Tone Poem]
All forms that do not have as a point of reference on of the usual
formal molds are technically "free" forms. We also put the word
"free" in quotation marks because, properly speaking, there is no
such thing as an absolutely free musical form. No matter how free a
piece may be, it must always make sense as form.
In general, vocal compositions are "freer" in form than instrumental
works.
Among instrumental pieces, piano and orchestral works are more likely
to be in "free" forms than chamber music. This may have come about
because "free" forms are so often used in music in connection with
extra-musical ideas, and chamber music almost always fits into the
category of so-called "absolute music."
It is obviously impossible to make generalizations about "free"
forms. Nevertheless, it is safe to say that we are likely to meet
them in one of two types of composition: the prelude and the
symphonic, or tone, poem.
The prelude is a very loose term for a large variety of pieces,
generally written for piano. Prelude is a generic name for any piece
of not too specific formal structure. Many other pieces with
different names belong in the same category--pieces that are called
fantasy, elegy, impromptu, capriccio, aria, étude, and so forth.
Pieces such as these may be "freely" treated. The listener,
therefore, must be on the alert if he [or she] expects to follow the
composer's structural idea.
Since Debussy's time form has tended toward greater and greater
freedom, until it now presents serious obstacles for the lay
listener. Two things make music easy to listen to: a melody that is
straightforward and plenty of repetition. New music often contains
rather recondite melodies and avoids repetition.
## Symphonic Poem
The reader should clearly distinguish in his [or her] own mind the
difference between program music, which is music connected in some
way with a story or poetic idea, and so-called "absolute" music,
which has no extramusical connotations. To use music as a means of
describing something outside itself is a perfectly natural, almost
childlike idea. It is a rather old idea, as a matter of fact...
Speaking generally, there are two kinds of descriptive music. The
first comes under the heading of literal description. A composer
wishes to recreate the sound of bells in the night. He [or she]
therefore writes certain chords... which actually sound like bells in
the night. Something real is being imitated realistically.
The other type of descriptive music is less literal and more poetic.
No attempt is made to describe a particular scene or event;
nevertheless some outward circumstance arouses certain emotions in
the composer which he [or she] wishes to communicate to the listener.
... the point is that instead of literal imitation, one gets a
musical copoetic transcription of the phenomenon as reflected in the
composer's mind. That constitutes a higher form of program music.
The bleating of sheep will always sound like the bleating of sheep,
but a cloud portrayed in music allows the imagination more freedom.
One principle must be kept firmly in mind: No matter how programmatic
or descriptive music may be, it must always exist in terms of music
alone. In short, story interest can never take the place of musical
interest; nor can it be made an excuse for musical procedure. In
other words, the story must never be more than an added attraction.
Romeo and Juliet is one of Tschaikovsky's best pieces even if you
don't know the title.
# Chapter 15, Opera and Musical Drama
Opera in our day is an art form with a somewhat tarnished reputation.
There was a time when opera was thought of as a more advanced form
than any other. But until quite recently, it was customary among the
elite to speak of the operatic form with a certain amount of
condescension.
Moreover, quite aside from Wagnerian musical drama, it might
truthfully be said that the public that flocked to hear opera did the
form little credit. On the one hand, it became associated with what
was sometimes called a "barber public"--musical groundlings for whom
the real art of music was assumed to be a closed book. On the other
hand, there was the "society public," turning the opera into a
fashionable playground, with an eye only for its circus aspect.
Moreover, the repertoire currently performed was made up for the most
part of old "chestnuts," out-moded show pieces that were fit only to
strike awe in the mind of a movie magnate.
Finally, there is the matter of the recitative--that part of an opera
which is neither spoken nor sung but rather is half sung--telling the
story part (especially in old operas), without any attempt at
stimulating musical interest. When an opera is sung in a language
unfamiliar to the listener, as most operas are in English-speaking
countries, these recitative sections can be of surpassing boredom.
... In short, what I have been trying to convey is that in order to
enjoy what goes on in the opera house you must begin by accepting its
conventions.
It is surprising that some people still consider opera a dead form.
What makes it so different from any of the other forms of music is
its all-inclusiveness... In other words, it is almost impossible to
imagine any type of musical or theatrical arts that would not be at
home in an opera house.
The problem of writing an opera is the combination of all these
disparate elements to form an artistic whole. It is anything but an
easy problem.
Operatic composers have in practice done one of two things: Either
they have given the words a preponderant role, using the music only
to serve the drama; or they have frankly sacrificed the words, using
them merely as a peg on which to hang their music. So that the
entire problem of opera may be reduced to the diametrical pull of
words on the one hand and music on the other.
[It was around the year 1600 that operatic history began.] It was
the result of the meetings of certain composers and poets at the
palace of one Count Bardi in Florence. Remember that serious art
music up to that time had been almost entirely choral and of a highly
contrapuntal and involved nature. In fact, music had become so
contrapuntal, so complex, that it was well-nigh impossible to
understand a word of what the singers were saying. The "new music"
was going to change all that. Note immediately two fundamental
qualities of opera at its very inception. First, the emphasis on
stressing the words, making the music tell a story. Second, the
"high society" aspect of opera from the very start. (It was forty
years before the first public opera house was opened in Venice.)
The ostensible purpose of the men who met at Count Bardi's was the
revival of Greek drama. They wished to attempt the recreation of
what they thought went on in the Greek theater. Of course, what they
accomplished was a completely different thing--the creation of a new
form, which was destined to fire the imagination of artists and
audiences for generations to come.
If any of my readers still doubt the viability of modern opera or,
for that matter, theatrical music in general, I ask them to consider
this final fact. Three of the works that proved to be milestones in
the development of new music were works designed for the stage.
Moussorgsky's Boris, Debussy's Pelléas, and Stravinsky's Rite of
Spring have all contributed to the advance of music. It may very
well be that the next step forward will be made in the theater rather
than the concert hall.
# Chapter 16, Contemporary Music
Even today there still persists the idea that "classic" and "modern"
represent two irreconcilable musical styles, the one posing graspable
problems and the other fairly bristling with insoluble ones.
The first thing to remember is that creative artists, by and large,
are a serious lot--their purpose is not to fool you. This, in turn,
presupposes on your part an open mind, good will, and a certain
a-priori confidence in what they are up to.
The key to the understanding of new music is repeated hearings.
# Chapter 17, Film Music
Film music constitutes a new musical medium that exerts a fascination
of its own. Actually, it is a new form of dramatic music--related to
opera, ballet, incidental theater music--in contradistinction to
concert music of the symphonic or chamber-music kind.
Knowing more of what goes into the scoring of a picture may help the
movie listener to get more out of it. Fortunately, the process is
not so complex that it cannot be briefly outlined.
In preparation for composing the music, the first thing the composer
must do, of course, is to see the picture. Almost all musical scores
are written AFTER the film itself is completed.
The first run-through of the film for the composer is usually a
solemn moment. After all, he [or she] must live with it for several
weeks.
The purpose of the run-through is to decide how much music is needed
and where it should be. (In technical jargon this is called "to
spot" the picture.) ... the score will normally consist of separate
sequences, each lasting from a few seconds to several minutes in
duration. A sequence as long as seven minutes would be exceptional.
The entire score, made up perhaps of thirty or more such sequences,
may add up from forty to ninety minutes of music.
When well-contrived, there is no question but that a musical score
can be of enormous help to a picture. One can prove that point,
laboratory fashion, by showing an audience a climactic scene with the
sound turned off and then once again with the sound track turned on.
Here briefly are listed a number of ways in which music serves the
screen:
* Create a more convincing atmosphere of time and place.
* Underlying psychological refinements--the unspoken thoughts of a
character or the unseen implications of a situation.
* Serving as a kind of neutral background filler.
* Building a sense of continuity.
* Underpinning the theatrical build-up of a scene, and rounding it
off with a sense of finality.
Having determined where the separate musical sequences will begin and
end, he [or she] turns the film over to the music cutter, who
prepares a so-called cue sheet. The cue sheet provides the composer
with a detailed description of the physical action in each sequence,
plus the exact timings in thirds of seconds of that action, thereby
making it possible for a practiced composer to write an entire score
without ever again referring to the picture.
Let us now assume that the musical score has been completed and is
ready for recording. The scoring stage is a happy-making place for
the composer. Hollywood has gathered to itself some of America's
finest performers; the music will be beautifully played and recorded
with a technical perfection not to be matched anywhere else.
Most composers like to invite their friends to be present at the
recording session of important sequences. The reason is that neither
the composer nor his [or her] friends are ever again likely to hear
the music sound out in concert style. For when it is combined with
the picture most of the dynamic levels will be changed.
The dubbing room is where all the tracks involving sound of any kind,
including the dialogue, are put through the machines to obtain one
master sound track.
# Chapter 18, From Composer to Interpreter to Listener
... practically considered, almost every musical situation implies
three distinct factors: a composer, an interpreter, and a listener.
They form a triumvirate, no part of which is complete without the
other. Everything in music may be said, in the final analysis, to be
directed at you--the listener.
Always remember that when you listen to a composer's creation you are
listening to a man [or woman], to a particular individual, with his
[or her] own special personality.
If we examine this question of the composer's individual character
more closely, we shall discover that it is really made up of two
distinct elements: the personality with which he [or she] was born
and the influences of the time in which he [or she] lives.
[The interpreter is the performer(s).]
The problem would probably be solved, up to a certain point, if a
more exact way of noting down a composition were available. But,
even so, music would still be open to a number of different
interpretations.
For a composition is, after all, an organism. It is a living, not a
static thing.
... no finished interpreter can possibly play a piece of music or
even a phrase, for that matter, without adding something of his or
her own personality. To have it otherwise, interpreters would have
to be automatons. Inevitably, when they perform music, they perform
it in their own way. In doing so, they need not falsify the
composer's intentions; they are merely "reading" it with the
inflections of their own voice.
The combined efforts of composer and interpreter have meaning only in
so far as they go out to an intelligent body of hearers. But before
one can understand music, one must really love it.
To lend oneself completely inevitably means, for one thing, the
broadening of one's taste.
Music can only be really live when there are listeners who are really
alive. To listen intently, to listen consciously, to listen with
one's whole intelligence is the least we can do in the furtherance of
an art that is one of the glories of [hu]mankind.
# Epilogue: "Since Then"
The end of World War II left many people in the arts--and in other
walks of life as well--with an obsession to form new beginnings, to
invent new modes of expression starting virtually from point zero.
By the 1980's electronic-music laboratories had become a standard
adjunct to most universities, and electronic music had moved out of
its sound-effects stage and into a more serious kind of music.
The limitless sound potential of electronic music seemed, in a
delightful if curious way, to stimulate some composers into expanding
what they might do with "normal," or at least nonelectronic
[acoustic] means.
author: Copland, Aaron, 1900-1990
(TXT) detail: gopher://gopherpedia.com/0/Aaron_Copland
LOC: MT6.C78 W4
tags: book,music,non-fiction
title: What To Listen For In Music
# Tags
(DIR) book
(DIR) music
(DIR) non-fiction