Yesterday was a particularly rigorous day for me in composition. I spent about three hours working on fifteen seconds of music, which I may yet go back and change--we'll see. In such a period, I also dwelt on what I observe are some perhaps compositional idiosyncrasies, maybe stylistic particularities. I'll share them with you.
I'm a melody guy. This is not to say that I am necessarily a tunesmith, but that I think of things linearly, that a piece directed by aspects more melodic than harmonic or rhythmic (or coloristic); however, this does frequently manifest in clear melodies. If I am working with blocks of harmony, there must be at least one voice who moves in a distinct, interesting manner, but I frequently try to have more. I latched on to this a short while ago when I realized that it a.) gave me a foundation for logical movement from spot to spot, and b.) opened up more interesting harmonies that I was constantly seeking, as opposed to the more traditional ones that I had relied on. However, I also noticed that this linear approach has been present from the start; but earlier, vertical sonorities were pretty tame--passing from one to the next was the jarring aspect; now, there is more nuance and variety in my verticalities.
Following the linear aspect, my writing is frequently polyphonal. One of my favorite genres is the quodlibet (Latin for "what you will"), where you pile on various tunes in wonderful harmony. This, combined with my interest in teleological genesis (a term used in discussing Sibelius' musical procedures), intrigues me very deeply as a means for dynamic music, particular for opera music. I will likely touch upon this subject at a later time.
When I compose, it is a very physical process. I used to think I worked things out better by singing, but now I realize that action with more of the body, or all of it, spurs my drive. Sometimes it's dancing, sometimes it's conducting, other times it's performing on an air-instrument: usually it's a combination of these three, and others (such as indicating line through hand gestures). It perhaps started as a need to entertain myself through the often dreary sessions of sitting and thinking, but I now fully embrace it. At least it's some exercise.
I naturally lean towards deeper sounds. There is something about feeling the vibrations that makes it seem very alive, while not overbearing (as a piccolo can be). It also allows for a richness of sound. However, I used to focus much too much on this, and I am working on opening my range. In the same vein, I also gravitate towards open harmonies, and this does lead to trouble, particularly when you are dealing with limited ranges.
Some specific things now. In counterpoint classes, melodic voices are supposed to move in predominantly conjunct motion (step-wise), and harmony in disjunct motion (leap-wise), usually the bass. This flips for me, I find, and, as I mentioned above, my harmonic notes somewhat slide about, or move conjunctly, while my melodies have frequent leaps, and are therefore disjunct. For instance, I find I am using a good amount of fifths in my melodies, a large interval indeed. I also use a preponderance of augmented triads, particularly at half cadences or climax points. There is very little that is vague or foggy about this chord; for me, it doesn't have so much an indefiniteness of sound and direction as an urge to go somewhere.
Overall, there has to be a reason for every single note, and every single move these notes take. Very rarely do I do something just because it sounds good, though I am allowing more of it (if it's good) because of the possibilities it presents; if I happen upon an intriguing sound, I have to find a way to rationalize its incorporation. My reasons may be directed by the rules of theory, or they spring from deep within, which may be little more than it just sounding good. Too often I hear composers who, in rebelling against this logical method, write pieces that are little more than a collection of interesting sounds, though there is the common paradox that an overabundance of intriguing things saps them of their interest, and they become dull. I once did this, and sometimes still do, but it's a process, and I hope to have it more under control soon enough.
Now for a thing of beauty (or perhaps rambunctiousness): the third movement from Dvorak's Symphony No. 6, the Furiant, which is Czech dance style. This is an absolutely, wildly fun piece.
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