Part 1: Pre-Composition
The first stage of beginning any new piece is research. This stage
involves studying other composers’ works, as well as familiarizing myself with
the particular instrumentation for which I’ll be composing. For instance, when
I wrote Helios for brass quintet (an
ensemble that consists of two trumpets, horn, trombone, and tuba), I acquainted
myself with the ensemble by studying brass quintet repertoire, listening to
recordings, and attending live concerts. These activities helped me to
ascertain the ensemble’s strengths and weaknesses, as well as to detect possible
performance issues (the tuba, for instance, needs a lot of air to produce sound
and tires quickly, so a composer must leave ample time between passages for the
performer to breathe). The more I understand how the ensemble works, the better
I’ll be able to compose for the group.
Along with conducting research, I brainstorm about possible
sources of inspiration. When a work is a commission, I find out from the
commissioners what their interests are, and incorporate these interests into my
brainstorming process. In the case of Noir
Vignettes, my double bass and piano piece, the commissioner told me of his
fondness for movies, and of his particular interest in the director Alfred
Hitchcock. I watched Hitchcock’s Vertigo
and Rebecca, and while I didn’t care
for Hitchcock’s filmmaking style, I became very intrigued with film noir, the
genre in which both of these movies exhibit characteristics. I watched several more
movies in the genre, including The Lady
from Shanghai, Double Indemnity, This
Gun for Hire, and The Maltese Falcon.
After watching each movie, I wrote down my thoughts on various aspects; for
instance, a femme fatale could have
an exotic, enchanting sound, whereas a gumshoe detective smoking his last
cigarette of the day should sound slow and jazzy. Alternately, if the commissioner
wants me choose the work’s topic, I select a subject that is of personal
interest to me. Recent topics include the Greek myth of Icarus, the boy who
flew too close to the sun, and a depiction of the starkness of Wyoming’s
landscape.
At some point during the brainstorming stage, I start putting pencil
to paper. This can be a rather daunting moment. What if the notes
I write down aren’t interesting? How can I possibly fill up the entire page
with thought-provoking, well-conceived music? Self-doubt and high expectations
can make it quite difficult for a composer to compose. To aid myself through
this part of the writing process, I use a strategy: whenever I begin a new
piece, I write one minute of music a day for seven days. It doesn’t have to be
a great minute of music, or even a good minute, but it has to be one full
minute. The music need not be continuous – I can compose three different ideas,
each twenty seconds long. Giving myself permission to compose without judgment
is an essential element of the strategy. While the first few days of composing
are typically challenging, I eventually produce ideas that have real potential.
I also get increasingly focused on how to creatively use the instruments.
Once
I have written several minutes of music, the sorting process begins. I select
out the strongest, most intriguing ideas and start to flesh them out further.
To do this, I analyze the musical material from every angle. What musical pitches
comprise the melody? What are the intervals between each set of pitches? How
would it sound if I turned the intervals upside down, or reversed their order?
Can I extend these ideas into longer phrases? What if I move the pitches higher
or lower? I will often cover entire tabloid size pieces of paper with various
configurations of each musical idea, and refer to these papers throughout the entire
composing process when I need more material from which to draw.
As
my musical materials become more substantial, I create the overall formal
structure, or “roadmap,” of the
entire piece. Having a roadmap is critical, for how can a piece have direction
if you don’t know where it is going? Building from the musical materials that
I’ve been developing, I draw a graph for the work, with the x-axis representing
time and the y-axis representing the level of tension in the music. The graph can
show many other elements as well: how many sections or movements the piece will
have, what musical characteristics each section or movement will contain, and
so on.
Part II: Composition
Once I’ve developed enough
pre-compositional work, I delve completely into composing. This is the most exhilarating
stage of the process; I am entirely engaged in sketching and developing my
musical materials into full sections. For a while, I am quite conscious of
every decision that I make while composing; however, the further I get in
composing a piece, the more these decisions are being made subconsciously. I
tend to write faster as this process moves along, as well as find it difficult
to do anything but compose once I’ve fully
hit my stride. Going to concerts, seeing friends for dinner, running errands –
all of these can break my concentration on the piece and make it hard to resume
where I left off. As a result, I generally find it easier to compose in large
blocks of time, usually anywhere from two to four hours. Once I’ve reached a
natural resting place, such as break between sections or the end of the
movement, then I will stop for the day.
In the initial
brainstorming stages, I sketch ideas using pencil and paper. Sometimes I’ll use
my piano to tinker with possible ideas, while other times I’ll sketch directly
from my head onto paper. I will work in this manner long enough for the ideas to
take shape on the staff paper; then I move over to a computer. I use a software
notation program that allows me to hear the music that I put on the staves, as
well as to create a beautifully engraved final score. Computer programs are a
tremendous help to composers – you don’t have to wait until you rehearse with
musicians to hear how your music will sound – but you need to use these
programs carefully. Software programs never achieve an accurate, realistic
balance between instruments, and composers must account for balancing issues
themselves. Nonetheless, I find this playback to be very useful, as I can check
to ensure that my rhythms, tempi, and pitches are to my liking.
Every now and then, I need
to evaluate what I’ve composed thus far. Is the music on the right track? Do
the various musical ideas work together, or has something shifted? While these
assessments are valuable for a piece of any length, I find them to be even more
so when composing a long piece. For example, when I wrote my piece Sanctuary for violin, cello, and piano,
I wanted the piece to start at a point of complete relaxation and, over the
course of thirteen minutes, progressively get more and more tense. This
movement ends at a moment of extreme tension, which nicely sets up a very quiet
beginning to the second movement. The first idea I composed seemed suitable to
open the first movement, but after brainstorming additional ideas, I realized
that the initial material would work far better if it occurred around the
fourth minute. What had changed? I finally realized that my first idea had too
much tension already and couldn’t be used at the beginning of the work! This realization
helped me to compose a slow, mysterious opening that gives the piece ample room
to grow.
Occasionally
while composing, I will arrive at a spot in which I can’t seem to progress any
further. Some people call this writer’s block. When I reach such an impasse, I back
up to a few measures prior to the trouble spot and rewrite the passage at least
two additional times, each time leading to a different musical outcome. Within
an hour or so, I have developed three or more possible options to consider. Not
only does this method usually unearth a new way to proceed, but it also
supplies additional musical material that I can use elsewhere in the piece.
This strategy also serves to bring home the point that there’s no one exact
path that a composition needs to follow; instead, there are several potential
paths, each with its own strengths and weaknesses.
Once all of the notes are in the computer, I proceed onto the
final stage of composing: adding all of the details. These details include anything
that shapes the music and gives it nuance. While these details may seem not as
important as the choosing of pitches and rhythms, the truth is quite the
opposite. Imagine hearing an entire orchestra playing loudly, followed a moment
of silence, and then single trumpet enters quietly. Now imagine if the orchestra
plays very quietly, and – without a moment of silence – the trumpet enters obnoxiously
loud. While the notes and rhythms didn’t change between these scenarios, the
details did, and with startlingly different results.
Part III: Post-Composition
Now that the composing
phase is complete, I move on to proofing the full score and making parts. I don’t particularly enjoy this phase – it is tedious
compared to the excitement of composing – but if I don’t work carefully, then rehearsals
could be disastrous as the instrumentalists encounter mistake-laden scores. In
addition to a full score that shows all of the instruments that play in the
piece, each instrument requires its own individual part (for a string quartet,
this would result in four separate parts for the ensemble’s two violins, viola,
and cello). Once I have made all of the instrumental parts, I check these
against the full score three times to ensure that I have caught any
inconsistencies and errors. This phase can easily
take just as long as composing the piece, if not longer, depending on the
number of instruments involved.
I also need to
give the piece a title. Technically, this phase can happen prior to composing the
work, or at any stage along the way, including after composing is done. Sometimes,
I’ll think of a title that shapes the brainstorming phase of pre-composing.
This was the case with the double bass and piano piece; once I figured out that
the piece would reference film noir, I easily came up with the title Noir Vignettes. At other times, however,
I struggle to find a suitable title even after the piece is completed. Recently,
I composed a piece in honor of Cedille Records’ 25th Anniversary
season. James Ginsburg, the label’s president, mentioned that he had an
interest in street musicians (or “buskers”) he encountered in the city of
Prague. The word “buskers” didn’t appeal to me as a title, nor did a string of
unfortunate titles that followed. I finally decided on Bohemian Café, as it aptly describes the carefree, freewheeling atmosphere
that I invoke with the music.
No piece is
ever complete until I have rehearsed it with performers. In this phase, I can
make adjustments to various musical elements – increase a dynamic here, or change
an articulation there – to bring out more subtleties in the music. This is also
the phase in which I finally discover what passages don’t sit well in a
performer’s hands. Performers generally begin rehearsing without the composer
present; I will listen to one or two rehearsals as the premiere draws near.
This allows the musicians to work out the music for themselves and to create
their own interpretation of my piece before I give them my thoughts.
The final phase of any
piece is its premiere. This is a thrilling moment! My adrenaline is pumping
throughout the event, from any pre-concert discussion I have onstage for the
audience, to listening to the musicians play the piece, as well as conversing
with audience members afterward. I greatly enjoy this wonderful moment; at the
same time, I am assessing the music as it is played, ascertaining where
adjustments need to be made. I usually make a small round or two of revisions
after the premiere, which I test out at the piece’s next performance. By the
third performance, I have worked out all of the kinks, and can finally consider
the work finished. When the composing process is complete and I’m pleased with
the final results, then I have successfully navigated the composing process from
the first note to the final score.
