What Lies Beneath? Part 1 of 2

Some researchers posit two aspects of emotion (Gazzaniga, 2008, pp. 166-167).  There is the conscious aspect of emotion, the ken of why the emotion is felt, and there is an aspect of emotion, mood, which is below consciousness, formed in the shadowy, netherworld of the subcortical brain, the limbic system.  Music may, under certain, controlled conditions, spark imagination and evoke both aspects of emotion through imitation of a physical object or condition and the context of the imitation.  If the music is powerful enough, if the musical motif, the aural hook, is memorable, the imitation may become a personal or cultural symbol.

Jaws, the 1975 Steven Spielberg film from the Peter Benchley novel, provides the context for John Williams’ score, a score that conveys the behavior, movement, and menace of the perfect predator it imitates, the Great White Shark.  The imitation is so perfect, and the context is so powerful that the shark motif of the film score entered American pop culture as a symbol of underwater menace in the summer of 1975, and it later became a general symbol of imminent danger.  The score is one of the most memorable film scores of all time (AFI, 2009), and I need only hum a few notes in that “buhhhh-dup” low-pitched rhythm to see smiles of recognition on the faces of those who hear it.

Sharks remain in motion so they can extract oxygen from water running over their gills and because they have no air bladder for buoyancy.  They hunt primarily through olfaction and can smell prey a quarter mile distant (Calkins, 1991).  This movement and hunting behavior is expertly imitated in the opening stanzas of the City of Prague’s Philharmonic Orchestra’s, Jaws – Main Theme. Two elongated, slow, low-pitched notes are created by bows of double basses slowly sawing across the strings.   The notes suggest girth and power; the slow rhythm imitates the leviathan’s initial search for the scent of prey.  As the rhythm increases, the elongated, soft legato articulation yields to more intense, staccato bursts simulating the shark’s success in locating quarry. Bold, low-pitched brass notes, attacked with vigor and abruptly ended, mimic the arousal of the shark as it begins its attack run and serve notice that this beast is something to fear.  Horns sound recognizable hunt motifs and amplify the fear. Upon repetition, the forceful shark motif begins a mechanical sounding, diesel-driven, locomotive rhythm.  The implication is that this organic menace has adapted so perfectly and precisely to its niche, that it has almost become a mechanical entity, an automaton of death.  

Tension and Release Part 2 of 2

Sexual connotations are abundantly expressed in classical music, but they are often more subtle to the casual listener’s ear than sexual suggestions in more contemporary music genres. In contrast to the graphic lyrical or physical imitation of sex in popular music, classical music employs the basic pattern of tension and release, arousal and relief created through the use of musical elements such as imitation, timbre, intensity, rhythm and register.

An excellent example of the representation of desire, arousal, and sexual tension in classical music is “Dance of the Seven Veils,” in Richard Strauss’ opera, Salome.  Based on Oscar Wilde’s play, the opera is the Biblical story of spurned love, incestuous arousal and murder. Stepdaughter of Herod Antipas, Salome becomes enamored of John the Baptist.  The prophet spurns her, and in a fit of pique, Salome determines to have him murdered.  Salome performs an erotic striptease for her stepfather at a palace banquet, and he grants Salome her wish. Tympani and brass begin the dance with a fanfare that foreshadows the lust and desire that the dance will provoke in Herod.  Violins, oboes and flutes seemingly tease and caress sensual phrases out of the night air.  Quick, light descents down scales imitate the one-by-one removal and falling away of silken veils, revealing more and more of Salome and increasing Herod’s desire. Triangle, castanets and finger cymbals provide exotic color for the erotic dance.  Heavy, engorged horn leitmotifs sound occasionally and imply the affect the dance is having on the concupiscent king.  Rhythm and intensity wax and wane during the course of the dance, increasing the tension and imitating the king’s craving for the relief that is just out of reach as Salome tantalizes Herod.  At last, the final veil is removed, and percussion and horns explode in energetic frenzy as the music rises in crescendo and at last, peaks.  Release of the king’s distended desire is imitated and symbolized by the brief, oboe and flute duet, which holds the listener’s ear in splendid relief until a concluding orchestral exhalation of satisfaction. 

I wonder if those wishing to protect America against what they considered lewd in popular music in the eighties would have sought a “Parental Advisory” label on Strauss’ work if they had understood the vocabulary of classical music?

Tension and Release Part 1 of 2

In 1984, some “nattering nabobs of negatism,” to re-purpose the Spiro Agnew/William Safire phrase, believed that one of the reasons America was going to hell in a handbag was the depiction of sex or sexual acts in popular music.  Perhaps they thought enough is enough, but sex in popular music had been with us for some time, maybe just not as overtly depicted as the song that incited the outrage, “Darling Nikki,” and the lyrics, "I knew a girl named Nikki/I guess you could say she was a sex fiend/I met her in a hotel lobby/Masturbating with a magazine.” How many or how few sexual references are heard in music depends on the vocabulary employed and whether the listener understands the vocabulary.  Surely, Elvis’ pelvic thrusts and hip gyrations as he sang “Burning Love,” or “All Shook Up,” didn’t leave much to the imagination.  What else did Marvin Gaye mean when he sang, “Ohh baby, I’m hot just like an oven/I need some lovin’/And baby, I can’t hold it much longer/It’s getting stronger and stronger,” in his hit “Sexual Healing” of 1982.  Sometimes the vocabulary is less obvious; sexual depictions are not always so “naked.”  Dusty Springfield’s breathy and coolly understated interpretation of Bacharach and David’s “The Look of Love,” or June Christy’s soft, husky delivery on “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy,” (giving new meaning to the phrase “I never get enough of that wonderful stuff”) are examples more nuanced references to sexuality.

Tired Eyes

I met Mark while working for a wireless equipment maker in the late 90s.  Slight of frame, bright of mind and sunny in outlook, Mark was one of those people that could get along with anyone…the kind of person whom you gravitated to at a party because you knew he would be glad to see you and take interest in what you had to say, no matter how weighty or inane.

I last saw him at a lunch we shared in February.  We had not had much contact after we both left our former employer, but I wanted to ask him a few questions regarding a job search I was doing.  An hour or two before we were supposed to meet I got a text message from him.  He didn’t want to startle me when I saw him…he had some recent health problems and would be dragging an oxygen tank with him to lunch.

Mark arrived at the restaurant and looked frail.  The warm smile and sunny disposition were still there, but you could see weariness in his eyes.  He spoke a little about his condition…doctors were running tests/they didn’t know the root cause of the illness/he might need to take a leave to get some specialized help.  Mostly, he and I spoke about friends in common, what each of us was doing now, the usual kinds of lunch chitchat.  We left the lunch vowing to stay in touch.

Last Friday I got a text message from another friend who said that Mark had died the day before of cancer.  Quite a shock.  Mark was in his 40s, still vibrant, but another victim of the Big C.  The flame cast by Mark is now snuffed out.  A little less light in the world. Another friend gone.