Also...
I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.
The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.
We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.
At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Chords
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That's one way to think about chords.
They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.
Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.
I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.
When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.
Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?
Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.
They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.
Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.
I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.
When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.
Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?
Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Writing the Bridge
Sometimes I'm writing a song, and the verses and choruses are going well, when I think "Uh-oh, it's time for a bridge".
The bridge is tough. That's the section near the end of the song that takes the melody and lyric in a new direction, adding some kind of twist or transformation that makes the whole song more meaningful.
Some songs don't need a bridge. Their structure is "verse, verse, verse", or "verse, chorus, verse, chorus". Some songs have something called a pre-chorus too. Some songs (like "O Canada") don't have distinct, repeating verses or choruses.
When I'm writing a song, I know when it needs a bridge. I can feel it. To NOT write one would feel lazy...and would make the song incomplete.
That means I have to work a little harder, to come up with new material that hasn't appeared in the song so far and to truly understand where exactly my song is going and what it means.
Sometimes life needs a bridge too. Lately I've been feeling that a bridge is coming up in my life, and I have the familiar feeling of not knowing quite how it will look or sound.
As I begin to make this transition (the nature of which is still unclear) I need to do what I do when I'm writing a song: experiment.
What passage feels most natural? Does the song seem to call for a particular type of change, faster/slower, major/minor, a new key? Am I making little slips or mistakes that can show me a new direction? What just "sounds right"? Is there a transition that would bring all the verses and choruses so far into sharper focus?
Writing the bridge can be one of the most difficult aspects of the songwriting process, but when it's done well, it can elevate the whole song to a higher level. Knowing that helps me look ahead to transitions in life, trusting that they're necessary and worth the trouble.
The bridge is tough. That's the section near the end of the song that takes the melody and lyric in a new direction, adding some kind of twist or transformation that makes the whole song more meaningful.
Some songs don't need a bridge. Their structure is "verse, verse, verse", or "verse, chorus, verse, chorus". Some songs have something called a pre-chorus too. Some songs (like "O Canada") don't have distinct, repeating verses or choruses.
When I'm writing a song, I know when it needs a bridge. I can feel it. To NOT write one would feel lazy...and would make the song incomplete.
That means I have to work a little harder, to come up with new material that hasn't appeared in the song so far and to truly understand where exactly my song is going and what it means.
Sometimes life needs a bridge too. Lately I've been feeling that a bridge is coming up in my life, and I have the familiar feeling of not knowing quite how it will look or sound.
As I begin to make this transition (the nature of which is still unclear) I need to do what I do when I'm writing a song: experiment.
What passage feels most natural? Does the song seem to call for a particular type of change, faster/slower, major/minor, a new key? Am I making little slips or mistakes that can show me a new direction? What just "sounds right"? Is there a transition that would bring all the verses and choruses so far into sharper focus?
Writing the bridge can be one of the most difficult aspects of the songwriting process, but when it's done well, it can elevate the whole song to a higher level. Knowing that helps me look ahead to transitions in life, trusting that they're necessary and worth the trouble.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Step Away from the Computer!
Recently I was talking with a friend about doing some research. Feeling charged up, I headed for my computer and did a few searches. I was immediately deluged with information for aspiring songwriters.
According to Google, there are more than eight million matches for the word "songwriting" on the Internet. (In a previous post, I reported that there are also millions of entries for "making it in the music business".)
Why are there so many? I think it's because so many artists today, on the periphery of the commercial entertainment industry, share an intense hunger for validation. We are shadowed by the myth that only large audiences count, and that fame is a measure of self-worth.
Unable to shake that feeling that we're supposed to "make it" (that is, make ourselves matter), we turn to the Internet. And, on the surface, we find what we're looking for, in the form of those eight million entries. But soon it can turn into an unhealthy distraction. It can prompt us to spend large amounts of money on song contest submissions (paid easily with a credit card). It can take time away from the most important career-building activities: developing our craft and making genuine connections with real people, whether they're fans or people in the music industry. For anyone who's introverted (as many artists are), Internet-based connections can take the place of real interaction.
The Internet distances us from spiritual practice, solitude, direct observation of life...the things that make us better artists and more resilient and compassionate human beings.
Of course, the Internet has been an asset to some songwriters' careers. Take Jonathan Coulton for example, a 38 year old guy who (like me) writes a song a week and (not like me) produces them at home in really cool styles and markets himself effectively on the 'Net, to the tune of $3,000 to $5,000 per month.
It's great for him, and I know I could find it inspiring, but actually I end up having the opposite reaction. I end up thinking negatively about my own accomplishments. As useful as the Internet can be, cyber-comparison is an unhealthy habit I need to consciously avoid.
It's easier to do when I spend less time on the computer.
According to Google, there are more than eight million matches for the word "songwriting" on the Internet. (In a previous post, I reported that there are also millions of entries for "making it in the music business".)
Why are there so many? I think it's because so many artists today, on the periphery of the commercial entertainment industry, share an intense hunger for validation. We are shadowed by the myth that only large audiences count, and that fame is a measure of self-worth.
Unable to shake that feeling that we're supposed to "make it" (that is, make ourselves matter), we turn to the Internet. And, on the surface, we find what we're looking for, in the form of those eight million entries. But soon it can turn into an unhealthy distraction. It can prompt us to spend large amounts of money on song contest submissions (paid easily with a credit card). It can take time away from the most important career-building activities: developing our craft and making genuine connections with real people, whether they're fans or people in the music industry. For anyone who's introverted (as many artists are), Internet-based connections can take the place of real interaction.
The Internet distances us from spiritual practice, solitude, direct observation of life...the things that make us better artists and more resilient and compassionate human beings.
Of course, the Internet has been an asset to some songwriters' careers. Take Jonathan Coulton for example, a 38 year old guy who (like me) writes a song a week and (not like me) produces them at home in really cool styles and markets himself effectively on the 'Net, to the tune of $3,000 to $5,000 per month.
It's great for him, and I know I could find it inspiring, but actually I end up having the opposite reaction. I end up thinking negatively about my own accomplishments. As useful as the Internet can be, cyber-comparison is an unhealthy habit I need to consciously avoid.
It's easier to do when I spend less time on the computer.
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