Tag: Music

how is musical theatre shifting?

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Q: What’s been the biggest shift in musical theater in the past few years?

A: I don’t know if i can identify the biggest shift, but here’s one: our direct awareness of stories.

We’ve gone meta. While we’re inside of a story, we’re also thinking about how that story is being told.

  • in Hamilton: “who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”
  • in Hadestown: “it’s a sad song, but we sing it anyway”
  • in the film Everything Everywhere All at Once: the active use of genre as a tool to tell stories; and the central question: with all these parallel universes and possible stories, how is it possible to choose the story you’re living right now?

Perhaps it’s not surprising, because in a world where we are blasted with so much information, there is increased pressure on the storytelling that each of us has to do about ourselves. We are so bombarded with other people’s stories, that it’s hard to create our own.

At the core, it’s a realization that the way we choose to tell our own life story, significantly affects our lives.

  • how might art help us tell our own stories?
  • what does it mean to see ourselves as heroes?
  • what does it mean to see ourselves, period?
  • what stories about love, actually help us find love?
  • how do find some sense of meaning and intention, when it feels like the world refuses to change?

I’m really excited about this development. With this increased awareness of how stories shape us, society is ready and excited for more complex stories. Truths that we once thought were black and white, we’re learning to see as a spectrum. We are ready to see each other as containing multitudes, and so we are ready for art that gives us greater empathy for each other.

In musical theatre in particular, we often treat music as the source of truth, so I find it so exciting when writers instead explore: when is music lying to us? At Here Lies Love, the audience was prompted with festive, pumping music to dance in celebration to for some people who have done very bad things. How do we reconcile our attraction to beauty, spectacle, longing, with our need to wrestle with the sometimes very ugly truth?

Thank you to Esme for inspiring this post.

artistic questions

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in the same way that scientific researchers will articulate their research questions, i’ve been working as an artist on articulating the artistic questions that i investigate in my work. here are the five themes that keep resurfacing in my work, that i can’t seem to get away from—all under the umbrella theme of deep caring.

[0] DEEP CARING

  • what do we care about deeply, and why?
  • what is worth tremendous sacrifice for, and why?
  • when do we “fail to care,” or fail to live in accordance with our values?

[1] TRANSCENDENCE

  • “significance” “meaning” “beauty” “the sublime”
  • how might we build connection with something larger than ourselves?

[2] TRUTH

  • why do we believe what we believe?
  • how do good people come to believe in such conflicting perspectives?
  • how might we build a more nuanced understanding of what is true, what is good?
  • and how might we do so without being overwhelmed, inundated?

[3] PRIVILEGE

  • how do we coexist, given the various privileges, injustices, and differences that we carry?
  • how does caring for others intersect with caring for ourselves?
  • what stories do we tell ourselves about our privilege?
  • how might we use the privilege we have?

[4] STORYTELLING

  • what makes a story satisfying is different from what makes real life satisfying. so, how might we create stories that help us face reality more than they let us escape it? how might we create stories that expand empathy more than they encourage crippling expectations?
  • how might created stories fit into a person’s total “information diet”?

[5] COMMUNITY

  • how do we meaningfully connect? how do we meaningfully gather?
  • how might we create spaces where people feel like they belong?
  • how might we navigate the tension between the vibrancy of individuals and the “sheepleness” necessary for collective action?

auditory illusions

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In Grapefruit, Yoko Ono writes the following instructional poem:

OVERTONE PIECE

Make music only with overtones.

1964 Spring

Though most likely intended as conceptual art, I’ve wondered whether it’s possible to create OVERTONE PIECE. When a physical instrument creates a pitched sound, the fundamental tone has to exist in order for the overtones to exist. But with digital technology on our side, could we subtract the fundamental tone from a sound? For example, by using phase inversion or a very sharp EQ cut?

After some unfruitful research and experimentation, I stumbled onto the auditory illusion of the missing fundamental. It turns out that even when the fundamental frequency itself is missing, if the overtones imply a fundamental frequency, then we perceive the fundamental frequency to be there. (!)

Indeed, this auditory illusion is what makes it possible for crappy speakers without a real low end to “produce” low bass sounds: if you leave out the actual low bass fundamental frequencies but leave in the higher overtone frequencies of that same low bass, when you listen to the track, you’ll hear the illusion of a low bass. That’s right: the speaker plays no actual low frequencies, but because we hear the higher overtone frequencies, our brains act like those low frequencies exist. Wild, right?

So, if we try to make music only with overtones, our brain goes ahead and perceives those fundamental tones anyway. Which means that music only with overtones probably wouldn’t sound that novel…more an intellectual experience than a felt one.

But why not venture down the rabbit hole of auditory illusions! My favorites are now the Shepard-Risset glissando (an infinitely descending glissando), the Risset rhythmic effect (an infinitely accelerating breakbeat), and the Deutsch’s scale illusion (where what seem like two series of unconnected notes played to separate ears combine into a single recognizable idea). Shepard tones already flow through the musical culture, from The Beatles’s “I Am the Walrus” to Super Mario 64‘s never-ending stairs to The Dark Knight‘s Batpod motorcycle. Perhaps one of these new favorite auditory illusions shall lead to musical fruit.

cultivating inspiration as a long path

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A few posts ago, I talked about the skill of chasing inspiration—how there are concrete things that we as artists can do in order to find things that “juice” us and plant the seeds for future creativity. I’ve been thinking lately about how good ideas come about and wanted to share a few stories and reflections about how the path toward exciting ideas can be long.

The Triangle. The creator of one of my favorite musicals once told me that the show was born from a triangle of three key moments, moments that happened months apart. First, he had a conversation with a close collaborator in which they discovered that they both loved the same Greek tragedy. Second, he happened to meet an incredible performer who totally stunned him, for whom he passionately wanted to write. Third, a family member who had just moved to a new location gifted him a book with one line about a particular historical figure—one whose life corresponded closely with the main character of the Greek tragedy, and whom the incredible performer could star as. With that third moment, suddenly the triangle came together, and the first song was born. Months of conversation and experiences, some in unintentional and unrelated places, gave birth to the core idea of an amazing work of theatre and art.

Jelly Time. An artist once shared that every day, she gifts herself “jelly time,” a time when she follows her curiosity and lets it ooze freely. For me, my jelly time manifests as reading articles or books that sound interesting even though they don’t help with what I’m working on at the moment, listening to new music others have shared with me, playing or analyzing music I love to understand how it works, and composing either without an end goal or with the freedom to wander away from the end goal as I explore.

Sometimes there is no output, immediately or with time. But other times, this process bears sweet fruit. For example, a month ago, I loosely searched for inspiration gems from Central and Eastern European culture, and I let myself be distracted by the idea of Bulgarian dance rhythms. At the time, I was desperately trying to finish two songs, neither of which needed such rhythms, and I worried that this delightful excursion had been an indulgent waste of time. Earlier this week, however, I needed to quickly write several transformations of a musical theme, and with a particular Bulgarian dance rhythm in mind, I was able to come up with a really cool transformation in a short time. Even when I am able to work quickly, I feel that I am often most successful at this when I am leaning into ideas that have come up during jelly time.

Nebula Time. Nebulas are the birthplaces of stars! And most mornings, I gift myself “nebula time,” a time when I give myself space to reflect on what matters to me, what I’m proud of, what I’m grateful for, and what I hope for that day. My nebula time sometimes naturally spins into jelly time. I might write more about nebula time in a separate post.

the skill of chasing inspiration

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During my second semester of graduate school, I began to mentally sort my projects into three categories.

  1. Projects that feel like my heart’s work.
    This is the gold. When the story you’re telling and the words & music you’re writing feel aligned with your inner sense of purpose. When your idea fuels your inspiration and your heart wants intently to discover this thing you’re making. I pretty much always wish I were writing pieces in this category.
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  2. Projects that feel like skill-building opportunities.
    Especially when deadlines loom, we don’t always have the luxury to discover the work that feels like our heart’s work. Even if we don’t feel inspired about the ideas themselves, we can find inspiration in the opportunity we have to build our skills so that when we find project ideas that do feel like our heart’s work, we have the tools in our toolkit to make the most of those moments of inspiration.
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  3. Projects that feel like doing laundry.
    Occasionally, we run across projects that we have to do in order to be reasonable graduate students, even though we struggle to find the excitement for them. These exercises can feel like going through the motions without aim; these are the most frustrating pieces to write. To minimize the frustration, I often give these exercises as little time as possible; whatever comes out of me goes into the piece without much foresight or afterthought.

This mental sorting has been helpful for me, enabling me to prioritize my favorite projects while behaving reasonably about my least favorite projects.

However, I’m beginning to understand that part of being an effective artist means knowing how to bring a project from a lower category to a higher category.

I call this the skill of chasing inspiration—of noticing when you aren’t feeling inspired and venturing out in search for a kernel or framing that re-sparks your excitement.

Sometimes, this skill will feel like an active “chasing” or “pursuing.” Other times it will feel like a natural “following” or “finding.”

This skill becomes especially necessary as we begin to write longer pieces. Of course, we should avoid embarking on a longer piece unless we already love the idea enough that it drives us out of bed in the morning, but if we start to feel lost and uninspired—and inevitably, we will—we must know how to find the tinder and kindling to reignite our own inspiration.

We don’t always have to do this alone. Our collaborators, teachers, and supporters can help us. But we will get stuck. So we’d better cultivate the skill of getting unstuck.

the bogus condition

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In The Musical Theatre Writer’s Survival Guide, author David Spencer proclaims:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WRITER’S BLOCK. NOT WHEN A musical with a decently developing foundation is under way.

There is emotional turmoil and personal mishegoss that can interfere with writing, to be sure; and certainly the need to juggle a pay-the-bills “civilian” job with limited creative time can sap one’s energy and concentration—at least until you figure out how to prioritize and pace yourself. But allowing for the absence or the moderation or the mastery of such real-life distractions, and the presence of even mild professional-minded functionality, writer’s block is a mythical malady borne of four quite real symptoms:

1. You don’t have enough information.
2. The song or scene you’re trying to write is resisting you because the underlying premise is false.
3. Something is intrinsically amiss with your story structure or your underlying theme, and in trying to accommodate that flaw, you’re running up against its limitations.
4. What you’re trying to write simply isn’t good enough by your own standards, and your internal barometer is urging you to start again.

What I like about this framework is that if you can categorize which symptom you are experiencing, you can take concrete actions to resolve the “block.” If 1), you need to study your character more closely, or research the parameters of the situation, or find music that inspires the sound palette you want. If 2), you need to rewrite the scene or musicalize with a different moment or a different character. If 3), you need to re-examine your assumptions about the larger story and see if one of those premises is problematic. If 4), you just need to identify the part that’s dissatisfying and rewrite it completely, or even start the whole song over from scratch. And if you’re not sure which symptom it is, you can try any number of these solutions, and see what works.

advice for writing lyrics, for beginners

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A friend recently asked me if I had any advice for writing lyrics. I’m not sure I have especially profound songwriting advice to share, as I still feel very much like a beginner myself, but here are a few thoughts on songwriting that I found helpful when I got started.
  • Look at and learn from songs you like! How the writer moves between ideas, uses structure, chooses words, etc. Lorde’s “Liability” is one that I’ve enjoyed studying this way.
  • It’s okay for lyrics to not feel right / up to your aesthetic standard in the first draft. Rewriting is very common and normal. Getting better at something over time is normal, too.
  • Many—most?—successful songs are about one core idea. Ideally, the core idea will develop or vary throughout the song so that it’s interesting for the listener. In typical song structures, the core idea is in the chorus, and the variation happens in the verse—but you can play with that. 
  • You don’t have to rhyme. Also, playing with “near rhymes” can be really fun. Jason Mraz’s “A Beautiful Mess” is one song I love that uses near rhymes in a neat way.
Getting stuck while writing a song is normal, too. Depending on the type of stuck-ness you are experiencing, different things might help:
  • Go back to the character. Who is singing this song? What’s happening in their lives, and what would they want to say about it? This is especially helpful for musical theatre lyrics.
  • Freewrite. Choose a topic or symbol in the song and write whatever comes to mind about it, just to get yourself expressing (however unartfully) about the song’s key ideas. Describing the five traditional senses (and the less traditional senses, too) as they relate to your idea/symbol can open up your writing. Sometimes, an interesting idea will pop up and you can capitalize on that.
  • Let your thesaurus & rhyming dictionary spark new ideas. Picking a few keywords and then roaming through a thesaurus or rhyming dictionary with them can generate unexpected ideas.
  • Ask other folks to read/listen. Though it’s often good to take folks’ advice with a grain of salt, folks tend to represent their own reflections fairly honestly, and you can use that information to influence your writing.

Thank you to Nathan for inspiring this post.

modern stories of love

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There’s a new crop of stories emerging that try to center on more realistic views of romance and relationships. Examples include Alain de Botton’s novel The Course of Love, John Bowe’s collection of anecdotes Us: Americans Talk About Love, The New York Times’ Modern Love column, Sue Johnson’s couples therapy book Hold Me Tight, and Esther Perel’s couples therapy podcast Where Should We Begin?. All of these works have their flaws, and it’s no surprise that only the first of the five is a work of fiction; the rest rely on the fact that the stories are real in order to engage their audience.

An alternative to telling realistic stories is using hyperbolized humor to reveal the underlying problems with idealized romance. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend does so with aplomb, and even Disney has begun to caricature its own romanticized world with Frozen’s “Love is an Open Door.” The heightened emotional nature of song and dance that audiences love might not suit a low-drama, high-realism story, but it can suit an obviously exaggerated situation. By redirecting those heightened emotions for satiric occasions rather than realistic ones, humor could play a fascinating role in influencing us to examine our unhealthy assumptions about love.