jwilzewske: rap

Showing posts with label rap. Show all posts

Thursday, May 17, 2012

MUS-501 final exam question: Late Schumann Lieder were hip-hop anthems. Evidence? Discuss.

I n 1989’s ‘Fight the Power’, Public Enemy’s Chuck D spits a working definition of rhyme’s reason: ‘As the rhythm’s designed to bounce / What counts ... is that the rhyme’s / Designed to fill your mind.’ He is speaking of ‘rhyme’ here both as the practice of patterning sounds and as a name for the verse as a whole. In both meanings, rap’s rhymes have filled our minds with many things, not all of them good. But it is more than a matter of content—be it women and cars or prisons with bars; it is also a question of poetic form.”
— Adam Bradley, p. 55.

T he prominence of dark themes in Schumann’s lieder in 1851 and later, featuring violent language and desultory circumstances and the characters’ defiant reactions to them, is strong evidence in favor of this thesis. Likewise, there is a radically different relationship between the music and the text compared to Schumann’s earlier lieder: in the late lieder there is a much stronger emphasis on syllabic stresses, on rhyme, and on systolic pulsatility of the voice strongly sync’ed to the instrumental beat. Schumann’s settings of Kullmann poems especially are, essentially, rap over music.

D ominated by the energy of insistent repetition—from perfect rhymes to assonance and consonance—delivering on the promise... apocopated rhymes, where a one-syllable word rhymes with the stressed portion of a multisyllabic word. He matches the first line’s monosyllabic internal rhymes ‘last’ and ‘blast’ with an apocopated rhyme ‘fastball’ on the next line. He does the same thing in reverse with another rhyme as well—using ‘hit’ to rhyme with ‘splitter’. This creates a structure that binds the two lines together... almost every word is doing some kind of rhyme work... using rhyme to fashion rhythm.”
— Adam Bradley, p. 62.

Und die mich trug im Mutterarm	And she who carried me in arms
Und die mich schwang in Kissen	And rock me in the nest
Die war ein schön, froh, braunes Weiß	She was beautiful, happy, *red*—hot—but
Wollte nichts vom Mannsvolk wissen	She never want to mess
Sie scherzte nur und lachte laut	‘Round... She only joke and laugh,
Und liess die Freier stehen.	Dissin’ those who hit on her.
„Möcht’ lieber sein des Windes Braut	“I’d rather be fucked by da wind
Als in die Ehe geh’n!”	Than have sex with any of you!”
Da kam der Wind, da nahm der Wind	And dat wind came, and dat wind chose,
Als Buhle sie gefangen,	And beat her and rape her too,
Von dem hat sie ein lustig Kind,	And that how she birthed me, packin’ heat.
Jung Volker, mich, empfangen.	Know dis: Jung Volker is my name.
—Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)	Op. 125, No. 4 (1851)

P ianist Graham Johnson maintains that Dichterliebe (Op. 48) contains what is arguably “the nearest thing in lieder to the modern phenomenon of ‘rap’ ” (liner notes to Vol 3, Hyperion CDA67676, pp. 101-2, specifically regarding ‘Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen’, No. 11, a song about a young man’s rejection by the woman he loves). In my opinion, dubstep is the sound that Schumann was going for, instead of brostep. And a ducking ‘pump’ sound that you hear in techno and electro that comes from side-chaining. That and electro house drums. Kind of a ‘dark garage’ hip-hop dubstep with kicked-up bass. The late lieder would be great with custom Ableton controllers for that sound. Don’t get that on no Hyperion CD, though!

C ogan’s timbral reading of a piece is informed by the words sung in the performance. In his ‘Sounds of Song’, Cogan compares spectrographs of four recordings of Robert Schumann’s ‘Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet,’ a song he describes as ‘always obsessive, but uncertain, lost — quite literally traumatic.’ ”
— Smith Reed, Univ Pittsburgh, 2005.

Der leidige Frieden	Peace make me nervous,
Hat lange gewährt—	It last too long—
Wir waren geschieden,	We ‘part for weeks,
Mein gutes Schwert!	My blade, its song!
Derweil ich gekostet	Down in the cellar
Im Keller den Wein—	I drink dat wine—
Hingst du verrostet	You hanging rusty
An der Wand allein.	By the wall, bidin’ your time.
Von Sorte zu Sorte	Each juice
Probiert’ ich den Wein—	I tasted when my turn to—
Indessen dorrte:	Meantime, dat blood:
Das Blut dir ein.	It’s dried on *you*.
Ist endlich entglommen	Battle when you right
Der heisse Streit,	Ain’t no crime—
Mein Schwert, und gekommen	Blade, here comes
Ist dein Zeit.	Your thirsty time.
Ich geb’ deiner Klingen,	Wipe some more,
Den blanken Schliff:	You bright, smooth steel:
Ich lasse dich singen	I let you rap
Den Todespfiff.	Your deadly spiel.
Im Pulvernebel	In gunpowder haze
Die Arbeit rauscht—	You slash, rip steep—
Wir haben, o Säbel,	You ’n’ me, Blade,
Die Freuden getauscht.	We put ’em all deep.
Im brausenden Moste,	In foamin’ wine,
Mein durstiges Erz	Blade thirsty and smart,
Betrinke dich, koste	Drink deep and taste
Von Herz zu Herz;	From heart to heart;
Derweil du gekostet	While you’ve been tastin’
Das rote Blut,	Your crimson blood,
Is mir eingerostet,	My throat—it’s parched,
Der Hals vor Glut.	Waitin’ for a flood.
—Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850)	Op. 117, No. 2 (1851)

O bscure poems that portray dysfunctional or oppressive gender relations, cars and money or jewels, and weapons—a throw-away objectification of people and ‘live-for-the-moment’ violent materialism—are also characteristic of these late Schumann lieder, in a fashion that presages modern hip-hop themes and postures. Braggadocio and lyrics that proclaim the singer’s greatness—these appear in Op. 117, Op. 104, and others.

W hile rap may be new-school music, it is old-school poetry. Rather than resembling the dominant contemporary form of free verse—or even the freeform structure of its hip-hop cousin, spoken word, or slam poetry—rap bears a stronger affinity to some of poetry’s oldest forms, such as strong-stress meter of ‘Beowulf’. As in metrical verse, the lengths of rap’s lines are governed by established rhythms—in rap’s case, the rhythm of the beat itself.”
— Adam Bradley, p. xv.

Du nennst mich armes Mädchen	“Po’ ho’,” you call me;
Du irrst! Ich bin nicht arm!	You full o’ shit! I’m not po’!
Entress dich, Neugier halber,	Wake up, you pimp,
Einmal des Schlafes Arm und schau’	from yo’ drunk-ass sleep,
Mein niedres Hüttchen	An’ look at my mansion
Wenn sich die Sonne	Wit da paradise sunrise
Hold am Morgenhimmel hebet:	When da morning sun come to me:
Sein Dach ist reines Gold!	Dat roof is pure gold!
Komm’ Abends, wann die Sonne,	Or come in da evening when da sun,
Bereits zum Meere sinkt,	Sinking in da sea,
Und sieh’ mein einzig Fenster,	See only my window,
Wie’s von Topasen blinkt!	Sparklin’ wit da topaz jewelz!
Du nennst mich armes Mädchen	“Po’ ho’,” you call me;
Du irrst! Ich bin nicht arm!	You full o’ shit! I’m not po’!
—Elisabeth Kuhlmann (1808-1824)	Op. 104, No. 3 (1851)

E mblematic of all rap music is constructing an image of power through gestural cues, which may be in the words or the music or both. The cues include punched-up rhythms and phrases about money, expensive clothing, jewelry, killing and dying, and going places and doing things. Late Schumann lieder got those!

T he situational exigencies of late Schumann lieder are accessible to anyone whose mind is open, and are not dependent on exterior markers for their manifestation. Instead, they are rooted in demonstrating values in interacting with others—values such as defiance, aggression, and action; support, mutuality, and reflection—‘power over’; ‘power with’. Don’t need no fancy or subtle analysis to identify features of hip-hop in late Schumann. Jus’ need to open our minds to the sonic and textual evidence that’s right there in front of us.

T wo hundred years ago popular music and art music were joined at the hip. Beethoven’s works and the birth of the Romantic Era coincided with the rise of the middle classes. Franz Schubert and Robert Schumann composed lieder that could be sung and played in the home by amateur musicians. At the same time that the middle classes expanded, they received a more formalized and substantial education and formulated an idea of art and music. The masses were able to sing and play music that did not require the same technical ability as music that one would ﬁnd in the concert hall, but was more suited for the salon. The music was ‘attainable’, and it featured poetic verses with melodies that were relatively easy to sing.”
— Gabe Kanengiser.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Enjambing with Kurtág: Lyricism Doesn’t Need Imagery, Only Rhythm

Jakobson once showed how Pushkin’s famous two-stanza poem ‘I Loved You Once’ (Ia vas liubil) depends only on sound rhythms, not on imagery. The same can be true of minimalist chamber music.

It’s possible to make music with practically nothing.”
— György Kurtág.

If you’ve not already done so, you may like to look at the DVD Matchstick Man, Judit Kele’s biographical documentary of renowned composer György Kurtág. Among other things, Matchstick Man sheds light on Kurtág’s sessions in 1957 with psychoanalyst Marianne Stein, who led him to explore his creativity by putting matchsticks together. This simple exercise of arranging matchsticks made a strong impression. Kurtág avers that he still knows nothing about composing, but from time to time his muse or alter ego—some mysterious entity who does apparently know things about composing—pinch-hits for him. Empirical composing, using ‘found’ materials, including rhythmic materials such as poems: the epitome of minimalism.

Here in this DVD we have Kurtág as experimentalist, laboratorian, empiricist—here is Kurtág delighted by his ‘found objects’, fascinated by happenstantial relationships among them, passionately engaged by the symbolic connections that they suggest. The film enables us to see and hear how this self-effacing and modest composer creates. What matters to Kurtág is mostly the present, not the past. He rehearses two young players in Schubert’s ‘Arpeggione’ Sonata D.821 in A minor. Ideally, rehearsal is a paradigm in which all participants (the composer, the librettist, the conductor, and the performers) have a ‘say’ in the creative process. But it often doesn’t turn out that way, as this segment of the film suggests.

I understand music really only if I teach it.”
— György Kurtág.

In Játékok, Kurtág finds freedom in minimalism. There are interesting enjambments—rhythmic staggerings and offsets between the parts; couplets and tercets; staggered lines. Just as in poetry where the appeal is partly in the visual instability that the enjambments cause for the eye as we scan the page, so too in this music the appeal is partly in the auditory/motivic instability that Kurtág sets in motion. A tercet always feels that it’s pulling toward the missing line, pulling the eye down with urgency to the next thing, to the thing that must happen. Such imbalance seems appropriate to poems about the human condition. Likewise, Kurtág’s instrumental enjambed phrasing feels like pulling, one line for the next, pulling the ear onward with urgency. The rhythmic ‘pull’ and imbalance are central to the beauty of the music. In that regard, these Webern-like miniatures interspersed with folk music-derived pieces and citations of Bach have something in common with rhythmic structure in hip-hop and rap.

Something in common, too, in terms of their aphoristic idiom, if you think about it. By now, the aphoristic song cycle is Kurtág’s signature. He has set a number of the poems of Rimma Dalos, a Russian poet who has lived in Hungary since 1970. Dalos grew up in the Ural mountains and studied German history at Lomonossow University in Moscow. She currently works at the Budapest office of the Friedrich-Ebert Foundation. Her works include the a volume of lyric poetry entitled ‘Ohne Dich’ (Without You).

Kurtág’s emphasis on metrical qualities of Russian is much broader than the Rimma Dalos settings, though. He borrows epigrams from a number of Russian poets, including Lermontov and Blok. In the 1970s he became deeply fascinated with Russian literature and took courses in Russian to be able to read Dostoyevsky in the original. His compositions are not all Russian gravitas, however. There is humor in Kurtág’s writing; it is not all confessional and dark and sorrowful. ‘O Love, the Edifier!’ (Omaggio a Luigi Nono, Op. 16) and other pieces are passionate and emphatic and and ironic and full of life. (Just the same, ‘Epilogue’, subtitled ‘A dispirited wail’ and marked ‘Desolato’, and other Kurtág meditations do not contradict their dour markings.)

Omaggio a Luigi Nono (poems in Russian, four of the six being by Rimma Dalos) and Eight Choruses to Poems by Dezső Tandori are comprised of short pieces, most of them less than two minutes long. Songs of Despair and Sorrow are much larger; the longest of the seven is about as long as the entire Omaggio a Luigi Nono, whose six movements take just nine minutes. Songs of Despair and Sorrow is scored for accordion, brass, strings, keyboards and percussion—a 28-member ensemble. This orchestration produces a narrative of alienation and angst that is social or ethnic in scale. By contrast, Omaggio is has a highly personal texture.

Kurtág takes each haiku-like aphorism/poem, assimilates its meter, and creates instrumental enjambments that nicely complement the text. Kurtág’s attention to rhythm is extreme. The first foot of the Lermontov piece that opens Songs of Despair and Sorrow, ‘So Weary’, matches the rhythm of the Russian text very closely. The music has a rise and fall that evokes the idea of world-weariness. The Russian rendering is perfect. It’s hard to imagine this being quite as effective in translation into any other language.

The rolling rhythm, the assonance of it, is one of the built-in features of the Russian language. Technically, assonance is the acoustic mimickry between vowels followed by different consonants in two or more stressed syllables. But here the assonance is architectural for the vocal part and the instrumental parts. The voice is an instrument among equals, and no instrument is sentenced to merely accompany. Kurtág delivers these rhythmic features with crystalline perfection. The stresses are dovetailed between the parts, capturing an important slice of what it means to be Russian.

In other words, these poems—and Kurtág’s setting of them—are perfect icons for the thoughtful use of enjambment, or ‘run-on’ lines. Normally the end of a verse is marked by a syntactic break – the end of a sentence or clause. But with enjambment, the break occurs within the line rather than at the end. In one enjambment in a Dalos poem, the words ‘snow’ and ‘blanket’, linked to form a composite ‘snow-blanket’, are separated by an internal prosodic-syntactic pause. The second line contains a carry-over from the first line, the word ‘pokrova’ (blanket), as well as the first word of a second phrase, ‘came’.

In stanza No. 13, the phrases ‘snow-blanket’ and ‘guest-sorrow’ are structurally parallel, but they also take each other’s metric place in the poem. The enjambment separation of ‘blanket’ from ‘snow’ is deliberate and destabilizing. But blanket-of-snow is a commonplace idiom in a way that juxtaposing ‘guest’ and ‘sorrow’ is not. Dalos doesn’t split them but instead puts them next to each other in the same line. The phrase ‘кo мнe гocтья—тocкa’ (sorrow) is an interesting poetical choice—it easily could’ve been something else: ‘gost’ia-pechal’ (guest-sadness), ‘gost’ia-odinochestvo’ (guest-loneliness), ‘gost’ia-pustota (guest-emptiness). But the rhythm of ‘toska’ is what Dalos selected, and what Kurtág respected.

1.
Пpиди,
я pyкy пpoтянy.
Teплoм cвoим
твoй xoлoд пpoгoню.
O, кaк дaвнo
я в yгoлкax дyши
Xpaню нeнyжныe гpoши.

2.
Oт вcтpeчи
дo paccтaвaния,
oт пpoщaния
дo oжидaния
пpoлeг мoй бaбий вeк.

3.
Пpocтитe, милocepдныe,
зa cлaбocть мoю жeнcкyю,
зa тo, чтo пoлюбилa я
дyшoю юpoдивoгo.

4.
Пoзвoль мнe
пpикocнyтьcя к тeбe,
pacплaвитьcя, pacтвopитьcя.

5.
Bce выбиpaлa—
вce пpoглядeлa.
И дocтaлacь мнe любoвь
изpяднo пoтpeпaннaя.

6.
Cнитcя oдин и тoт жe coн:
близocти твoeй пpoшy.
Tы пpиближaeшьcя,
я oттaлкивaю тeбя.

7.
Гoвopилa, нeльзя,
гoвopилa, пpoйдeт,
гoвopилa, гoвopилa…
Зa тyмaнoм тex днeй
нe видaть aлыx зopь
зa минyтaми cчacтья—
бoли paзлyки.
Былo cчacтьe y нac,
и paзлyкa былa…
Гoвopилa, нeльзя,
гoвopилa, пpoйдeт,
гoвopилa, гoвopилa…

8.
Пpикpoю дyшy
фигoвым лиcткoм
и yбeгy из paя.

9.
И в пик-чacы
кaтитcя бeз пoмex
тpaмвaй дyши мoeй.

10.
Xoтeлocь явитьcя тeбe
нeбoжитeльницeй
в cиянии звeзднoгo нимбa,
a пpишлocь oтвopить двepь
зaмapaшкoю
c вeникoм в гpязнoй pyкe.

11.
Я cнoвa ждy тeбя.
Kaк дoлгo
нe пpиxoдит пocлeзaвтpa.

12.
Boт oпять
вocкpeceньe пpoшлo.
Знaчит, нacтyпит cлeдyющee.

13.
B бeлoм xoлoдe cнeгa—
пoкpoвa пpишлa
кo мнe гocтья—тocкa.

14.
Умнpeт любoвь,
зaчaтaя
в вeceннeй
cпeшкe.
A y тeбя в caдy
pacтeт
тpaвa
зaбвeнвя.

15.
Oт вcтpeчи
дo paccтaвaния,
oт пpoщaния
дo oжидaния
пpoлeг мoй бaбий вeк.

1.
Come,
here’s my hand:
with my warmth
I melt your frost.
Too long I’ve kept
in my soul’s depths—
these useless cents.

2.
From meeting
to parting,
from leave-taking
to awaiting
—that was my woman’s lot.

3.
Merciful ones, forgive me
this woman’s weakness,
that I so loved
this holy fool.

4.
Allow me
to touch you;
to melt, to dissolve in you.

5.
Here and there I picked and chose
till all my chances slipped away
and I was left here with this love so
ragged and tattered, torn
   and frayed.

6.
Every night, the same dream:
I beg you to come near,
You approach—
I push you away.

7.
I said: it cannot be,
I said: it will pass,
I said, I said…
Beyond the mist of days,
the purple dawn cannot be seen,
nor can the pain of parting
beyond the moment’s bliss.
Bliss we had,
a parting too.
I said: it cannot be,
I said: it will pass,
I said, I said…

8.
I cover my soul
with a fig-leaf
and flee paradise.

9.
Even in the rush-hour
the tramcar of my soul
cheerfully rolls along.

10.
I wanted you to see me
like some goddess in the glory
of the starry sky:
but then I opened the door
all ragged, a broom in my
dirty hand.

11.
I’m waiting for you again,
How slowly comes
tomorrow.

12.
That’s another
Sunday over.
That means
The next will come.

13.
In a cold blanket of snow
a visitor called: sorrow.

14.
The love
conceived
amid
the haste
of Spring
is dying.
But in your garden
grows
the grass
of oblivion.

15.
From meeting
to parting,
from leave-taking
to awaiting
—that was my woman’s lot.”

  — poems by Rimma Dalos, music by György Kurtág,

     СЦЕHЫ ИЗ POMAHA:
     15 ПЕ СЕH HA СTИXИ
     РИММЬI ДAЛОШ.

In stanza No. 13, ‘gost’ia’ and ‘toska’ are closely connected through the sibilant ‘s’ sound, which is also present in the first line of the poem—the word ‘cнeгa’ (snega, snow). So we get ‘snow’, ‘guest’, and ‘sorrow’ in one evocative metric group. The metaphor ‘gost’ia-toska’ is beautiful, but if the two words were separated from each other on the page, Dalos would have made the reader wonder. If the cimbalom and violin and double-bass parts were separated from the voice in Canto No. 13, Kurtág would’ve made the listener wonder. So Dalos transmutes words: she pairs ‘blanket’ with ‘snow’ and comingles ‘warmth’ with the image of snow and cold; she uses enjambments to separate two opposites while simultaneously uniting them. And Kurtág’s writing can be regarded as doing the same thing—transmuting meanings; pairing cool phrases with warm ones; juxtaposing a phrase that evokes doubt with a phrase that doubts the very validity and worth of the act of doubting.

Maybe Sofia Gubaidulina’s composition ‘Jetzt immer Schnee’ (a setting of poems by Gennady Aigi) is a close comparable in terms of a felicitous pairing of composer and poet and in terms of a composition’s respecting a poem’s enjambment and other metrical features. These enjambments function like the conduction system in the heart. The heart is under a compulsion to beat, up until the moment we die. Diastole on one line leads to a systole when we begin the next line of the poem, the continuation of the phrase in Kurtág’s music or Gubaidulina’s music. Our understanding and enjoyment of Kurtág’s music—especially these existential and rhythmic qualities of it—are significantly enhanced by this Kele film. Our understanding and enjoyment of Kurtág’s music were also enhanced by Marino Formenti’s exquisite performance last April at the de Young Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco, and by studying the scores from Editio Musica Budapest, in which the rhythmic linkages are readily apparent. Beautiful!

T he only political duty ... is a duty to translate the fiction and poetry of other countries so as to make them available to readers in his/her own language. I consider translation a political act because the relations between any two countries are not determined by economic and political interests alone, but also by the degree to which the inhabitants of each are able to understand what the inhabitants of the other are thinking and feeling, and the novelists and poets of this country are the only people who can give one this understanding.”
— W.H. Auden, The Plough and the Pen, p. 10.

(Beginning at age 14, Kurtág took piano lessons from Magda Kardos and studied composition with Max Eisikovits at Temesvár. When he was 19 he moved to Budapest in hopes of studying with Bartók at the Franz Liszt Academy, a hope that was preempted by Bartók’s death. Kurtág and György Ligeti became friends during their time together as students in Budapest. At the Budapest Academy, Kurtág studied the piano with Pál Kadosa, composition with Sándor Veress and Ferenc Farkas, and chamber music with Leó Weiner. Kurtág graduated in piano and chamber music in 1951 (at age 25), and received his graduate degree in composition in 1955 (age 29). In 1957 Kurtág worked in Paris with the Hungarian psychologist Marianne Stein and did coursework with Olivier Messiaen and Darius Milhaud. Between 1960 and 1968, he worked as répétiteur for the Hungarian National Philharmonia. In 1967, he became Professor of piano and chamber music at the Budapest Academy. He retired from those positions in 1986. )

W as wissen wir von Rußland und den Russen? Daß die Russen eine »bipolar Mentalität« besitzen, die in sich die widersprüchlichsten Gefühle der »rätselhaften russischen Seele« vereinigt und widerspiegelt, und zwar mit einer Spannweite des Verhaltens, die »von Sanftmut bis zum Zorn, von der Erstarrung bis zum Aktionismus, von der Entsagung bis zum zügellosen Genuß, von der Entwicklung großer Ideen bis zum Phlegma« reicht? Und daß diese Widersprüchlichkeit und Zerrissenheit, die Koexistenz extremer Polaritäten, ein immerwährendes charakteristisches Merkmal der russischen Kultur sind? Dies alles kann man auch heute in verschiedenen westlichen »Reiseführern durch die Labyrinthe der russischen Seele«. Da findet man wieder die beliebigen Stereotypen und Klischees vom ewigen exotischen Russen, eine alte Erfindung des Westens.

[ What do we know of Russia and the Russian? That Russians possess a ‘bipolar mentality’ that unites and is reflected in the contradictory feelings of the ‘mysterious Russian soul’ and expansive behavior, from meekness to wrath, from stiffness to berserking, from self-mortification to unrestrained hedonism, from big ideas to the phlegmatic picayune? Is the coexistence of extreme polarity a fundamental characteristic feature of the Russian culture? One can read this and more in different western guides through the mazes of the ‘Russian Soul’. There one finds again the perennial stereotype and cliché of the eternal exotic Russian, an old invention of the West. ]”
— Russische Dichtung.