This week is Source Song Festival in the Twin Cities -- one the biggest celebrations of art song in Minnesota each August! It also is a celebration of the singers, composers, and lyricists that make this art form unique and provides opportunities for the next generation of art song devotees to hone their craft and ample premieres by Minnesotan composers. Earlier this summer, I recorded an album of several art song cycles that will be released early this fall and thought it would be a good moment to answer the question: Why Art Song? (and give a little sneak peek of what will be on the album!)
So, why art song? What about this genre would appeal to a composer?
At its essence, art song explores the most direct connection between poetic ideas (text) and musical expression (singing). The bonds between words and music are strongest here! There are many types of song that use text, but if you think about the chemistry between text and music there can be stronger or weaker bonds depending on the genre.
In opera or musical theatre, for example, the text functions in two ways. First, the text has a narrative or plot-driven function to tell the story (recitatives), but secondly, it is used as a palette for beautiful, and often virtuosic singing (arias). A good libretto or operatic text understands the tension (or chemical bond) between these two ways of singing and uses them to drive the opera forward both as narrative and musical showcase. Furthermore, the words and music are concerned most with character arcs, storytelling, and drama, not necessarily the words and music on their own terms.
In popular music or folk music, the words are important but (depending on the genre) it is the music that does the heavy lifting. If a song has a good beat, or a catchy hook or melody, or some great vocal or instrumental moments, it will be successful. There can be degrees of sophistication in popular music styles, of course, but the bond between a specific text and its specific music is weaker. Words and music fall into regular patterns and forms: looped chords and beats; verses, bridges, choruses and pre-choruses. In folk music, the song is more about a way of life, or rites of passage, or the personal story of the singer. And in a lot of cases for these genres it's more about the vibe of the music (or the dancing!)
I love opera and I love popular music and folk music! But, there is something special about art song that those forms of expression don't embody as strongly: poetry. And by poetry, I don't mean lyrics. Poetry goes beyond lyrics. Poetry goes beyond a libretto. Poetry goes to the core of human expression in the most abstracted way. Poetry can have layers upon layers of meaning, teased out by multiple readings, obscured or revealed in surprising ways by the poet. In other forms of song, the words serve the plot or the story or the vibe-making of the song. Additionally, lyrics are crafted for those purposes and forever tied to their accompanying music. But in art song, the poetry likely existed before the music. The music simply shines new light on the words to illuminate their nuances. Good poetry contains multitudes of meanings and interpretations and the music helps to unlock those multitudes through the human voice and accompanying musical language.
Some say that in art song the music serves the words, or that it is subjugated to the words. But there is an implication then that the music is being confined to the words, or that it must somehow not be "too musical" and risk outshining or obscuring the words that it serves. There is some wisdom in this, but there is also the risk of writing dull music that in turn does nothing to elevate or illuminate the words. Instead of using terms like service or subjugation, I think of setting words to music like setting gemstones in jewelry. The gemstone (poetry) is quite beautiful on its own, but when set within the right musical context it can sparkle even more brilliantly. The music is fitted to the qualities of the poetry, highlighting and magnifying its nuances. The music can be more than just a utilitarian frame, it can be finely wrought from precious metal. If done right, both the poetry and the music will shine more brightly together than separately.
Another feature of art song relates to the musicians and performance itself. Because the singer is not a character (like in opera) or singing something about their own lives (like a singer-songwriter) there is a layer of abstraction that points us to the primacy of the text and music. If art song is about the strong bonds between poetry and music, then the singer's role is to be a direct conduit into the universe formed by that bond. There is a directness and simplicity in art song. In most cases, it is singer and piano, choosing to sing beautiful words and music that are rich and nuanced in meaning. That is a powerful combination and at the heart of why composers gravitate to art song!
There is so much more I could say about art song! (and perhaps I'll write more later) but I wanted to share some insights about my approach to art song as I prepare to release my first album dedicated to this genre.
But first, a quick sneak peek of a few excerpts from art songs that I've composed over the years!
So, why art song? What about this genre would appeal to a composer?
At its essence, art song explores the most direct connection between poetic ideas (text) and musical expression (singing). The bonds between words and music are strongest here! There are many types of song that use text, but if you think about the chemistry between text and music there can be stronger or weaker bonds depending on the genre.
In opera or musical theatre, for example, the text functions in two ways. First, the text has a narrative or plot-driven function to tell the story (recitatives), but secondly, it is used as a palette for beautiful, and often virtuosic singing (arias). A good libretto or operatic text understands the tension (or chemical bond) between these two ways of singing and uses them to drive the opera forward both as narrative and musical showcase. Furthermore, the words and music are concerned most with character arcs, storytelling, and drama, not necessarily the words and music on their own terms.
In popular music or folk music, the words are important but (depending on the genre) it is the music that does the heavy lifting. If a song has a good beat, or a catchy hook or melody, or some great vocal or instrumental moments, it will be successful. There can be degrees of sophistication in popular music styles, of course, but the bond between a specific text and its specific music is weaker. Words and music fall into regular patterns and forms: looped chords and beats; verses, bridges, choruses and pre-choruses. In folk music, the song is more about a way of life, or rites of passage, or the personal story of the singer. And in a lot of cases for these genres it's more about the vibe of the music (or the dancing!)
I love opera and I love popular music and folk music! But, there is something special about art song that those forms of expression don't embody as strongly: poetry. And by poetry, I don't mean lyrics. Poetry goes beyond lyrics. Poetry goes beyond a libretto. Poetry goes to the core of human expression in the most abstracted way. Poetry can have layers upon layers of meaning, teased out by multiple readings, obscured or revealed in surprising ways by the poet. In other forms of song, the words serve the plot or the story or the vibe-making of the song. Additionally, lyrics are crafted for those purposes and forever tied to their accompanying music. But in art song, the poetry likely existed before the music. The music simply shines new light on the words to illuminate their nuances. Good poetry contains multitudes of meanings and interpretations and the music helps to unlock those multitudes through the human voice and accompanying musical language.
Some say that in art song the music serves the words, or that it is subjugated to the words. But there is an implication then that the music is being confined to the words, or that it must somehow not be "too musical" and risk outshining or obscuring the words that it serves. There is some wisdom in this, but there is also the risk of writing dull music that in turn does nothing to elevate or illuminate the words. Instead of using terms like service or subjugation, I think of setting words to music like setting gemstones in jewelry. The gemstone (poetry) is quite beautiful on its own, but when set within the right musical context it can sparkle even more brilliantly. The music is fitted to the qualities of the poetry, highlighting and magnifying its nuances. The music can be more than just a utilitarian frame, it can be finely wrought from precious metal. If done right, both the poetry and the music will shine more brightly together than separately.
Another feature of art song relates to the musicians and performance itself. Because the singer is not a character (like in opera) or singing something about their own lives (like a singer-songwriter) there is a layer of abstraction that points us to the primacy of the text and music. If art song is about the strong bonds between poetry and music, then the singer's role is to be a direct conduit into the universe formed by that bond. There is a directness and simplicity in art song. In most cases, it is singer and piano, choosing to sing beautiful words and music that are rich and nuanced in meaning. That is a powerful combination and at the heart of why composers gravitate to art song!
There is so much more I could say about art song! (and perhaps I'll write more later) but I wanted to share some insights about my approach to art song as I prepare to release my first album dedicated to this genre.
But first, a quick sneak peek of a few excerpts from art songs that I've composed over the years!
Setting, Keeping, or Changing the Mood
When I approach a text in art song, I first spend a significant about the time with the text on its own. Every major decision about the music starts from the text, or is related to the universe of the text. One of the most important things that the music does in this relationship is establishing the mood of the text. This goes beyond happy vs. sad; slow vs. fast; loud vs. quiet. What is the mental state of the poetry? Are the words confident or timid? Are they honest and direct? Are they hiding something from us? How does the music evoke these moods and how do those moods evolve as the poetry continues. Does the mood stay the same or shift? Is it unified or disjointed? Are there important shifts in mood, or turning points where something changes?
One of the best examples of this "mood pacing" is in the opening of "July" from Seasons : Five Poems of Louis Jenkins. We open with a wide establishing shot of a perfect summer summer day - an endless blue sky!
Temperature in the upper seventies,
a bit of a breeze. Great cumulus clouds pass slowly
through the summer sky
like parade floats.
The mood is leisurely and expansive, with the piano slowly building until the opening motive is transformed with runs of sixteenth notes as the music starts "filling the whole sky." That mood then shifts, the flowing sixteenth notes carrying the mood to a more intimate, close up shot.
And the slender grasses gather round you,
pressing forward with exaggerated deference,
whispering,
eager to catch a glimpse.
But another shift in mood is underway. Those sixteenth notes are transformed into something with hidden menace -- a nagging thought, a hidden truth, a price to pay.
Yet there's a nagging thought:
that you don't really deserve all this attention,
and that, come October,
there will a price to pay.
The temperature has dropped. Mysterious chords that will come back later in the cycle make their first appearance. But the music presses us forward into the next movement
One of the best examples of this "mood pacing" is in the opening of "July" from Seasons : Five Poems of Louis Jenkins. We open with a wide establishing shot of a perfect summer summer day - an endless blue sky!
Temperature in the upper seventies,
a bit of a breeze. Great cumulus clouds pass slowly
through the summer sky
like parade floats.
The mood is leisurely and expansive, with the piano slowly building until the opening motive is transformed with runs of sixteenth notes as the music starts "filling the whole sky." That mood then shifts, the flowing sixteenth notes carrying the mood to a more intimate, close up shot.
And the slender grasses gather round you,
pressing forward with exaggerated deference,
whispering,
eager to catch a glimpse.
But another shift in mood is underway. Those sixteenth notes are transformed into something with hidden menace -- a nagging thought, a hidden truth, a price to pay.
Yet there's a nagging thought:
that you don't really deserve all this attention,
and that, come October,
there will a price to pay.
The temperature has dropped. Mysterious chords that will come back later in the cycle make their first appearance. But the music presses us forward into the next movement
All of these emotional shifts are present in the text. They aren't imposed upon the words, or completely servile to the words. Instead, they go hand in hand to tap into the universe of the poetry, seeking to add weight and nuance. By looking at the poem through this broad lens, it becomes less about setting the words word by word, or line by line, but rather finding and massaging the mood shifts of the poetry to make it seem like words and music are evolving side by side
Thematic Unity and Through Line
In most cases, even though the mood of the music shifts, I try to develop a through line for the entire piece, often a recurring motive. A great example where a motive links together a series of poetic vignettes would be "Interrupted Message" from The God of Material Things. In this poem, the singer witnesses several signs of spring: the just-rising sun, a tree filled with red-winged blackbirds, a soft breeze, a woodpecker, and diving finches. Each vignette is interrupted by the next distraction, but through it all there is a motive being developed -- a sort of grand design behind it all.
The opening grace-note gesture links together these different elements until it is revealed that it represents the letters S - P - R, the answer to a riddle that the poet doesn't answer. But still, we come to learn that all these images and motives point to spring. The music is encoded in the same way as the text, with snatches of bird song taking on something of cryptic wonder.
In some poems, the mood doesn't shift at all, but still there must be a sense of arrival or realization. In my setting of "A Prayer" from The God of Material Things, the poetry unfolds over an A-flat drone with broad chiming chords. Very little changes in the musical texture other than the rising and falling of chords over this drone, like the large branches of ash trees clattering in the night. This musical restraint helps frame the poetry as a single thought. One idea stretched over a few minutes of music. One realization that this poem isn't just about thanking God for ash trees, or that ash trees are beautiful, but that all the twisting, starting, and stopping of life, our haphazard juts and turns, those too are made beautiful by some divine force. The ash tree is a mirror reflecting back God's grace which makes all things beautiful. In the same way, the music must contain that simple yet profound truth. That tremulous confidence that you are loved, that you are beautiful. How does music embody tremulous confidence? Perhaps by shifting constantly over an unshifting truth of an A-flat major 7 chord?
A similar thing happens in a more extreme way in "Monotony" from Voices: Five Songs of Cavafy in which a E natural is repeated 257 times across 65 measures of music as monotonous eighth notes accompanied by only the white notes on the piano. That persistence helps convey the psychological state of the poetry -- one where the "same things will happen again, and then will happen again, the same moments will come and go." But something happens in these moments, the harmonies shift day by day, subtly going from E minor to A minor, or C major, or F major 7. Even within the monotony of the E are moments of great beauty and forward motion. This opening movement plants the seeds for the rest of the cycle, which explores various states of mind, cycles of memory, and those E naturals and related harmonies come back in many guises later: when the wistful, nostalgia of Mvt II "Long Ago" is suspended in A major over a E drone in the bass (like an unstable memory that could collapse at any moment), or when most phrases in Mvt III "Gray" start and end on a E natural before the whole movement slips into the lush and blissful memory of Eb major, or when the melisma on the word "moment" is echoed in Mvt IV "Voices" and those F major 7 chords reappear, or when the frenzied pace of Mvt V "Candles" capitulates to a devastating A minor over E.
That one idea -- a repeated E natural -- comes to represent a sort of mental and musical prison filled with memories, both pleasant and sad, but a prison nonetheless that needs to be there to set aflame Cavafy's devastatingly beautiful words.
The opening grace-note gesture links together these different elements until it is revealed that it represents the letters S - P - R, the answer to a riddle that the poet doesn't answer. But still, we come to learn that all these images and motives point to spring. The music is encoded in the same way as the text, with snatches of bird song taking on something of cryptic wonder.
In some poems, the mood doesn't shift at all, but still there must be a sense of arrival or realization. In my setting of "A Prayer" from The God of Material Things, the poetry unfolds over an A-flat drone with broad chiming chords. Very little changes in the musical texture other than the rising and falling of chords over this drone, like the large branches of ash trees clattering in the night. This musical restraint helps frame the poetry as a single thought. One idea stretched over a few minutes of music. One realization that this poem isn't just about thanking God for ash trees, or that ash trees are beautiful, but that all the twisting, starting, and stopping of life, our haphazard juts and turns, those too are made beautiful by some divine force. The ash tree is a mirror reflecting back God's grace which makes all things beautiful. In the same way, the music must contain that simple yet profound truth. That tremulous confidence that you are loved, that you are beautiful. How does music embody tremulous confidence? Perhaps by shifting constantly over an unshifting truth of an A-flat major 7 chord?
A similar thing happens in a more extreme way in "Monotony" from Voices: Five Songs of Cavafy in which a E natural is repeated 257 times across 65 measures of music as monotonous eighth notes accompanied by only the white notes on the piano. That persistence helps convey the psychological state of the poetry -- one where the "same things will happen again, and then will happen again, the same moments will come and go." But something happens in these moments, the harmonies shift day by day, subtly going from E minor to A minor, or C major, or F major 7. Even within the monotony of the E are moments of great beauty and forward motion. This opening movement plants the seeds for the rest of the cycle, which explores various states of mind, cycles of memory, and those E naturals and related harmonies come back in many guises later: when the wistful, nostalgia of Mvt II "Long Ago" is suspended in A major over a E drone in the bass (like an unstable memory that could collapse at any moment), or when most phrases in Mvt III "Gray" start and end on a E natural before the whole movement slips into the lush and blissful memory of Eb major, or when the melisma on the word "moment" is echoed in Mvt IV "Voices" and those F major 7 chords reappear, or when the frenzied pace of Mvt V "Candles" capitulates to a devastating A minor over E.
That one idea -- a repeated E natural -- comes to represent a sort of mental and musical prison filled with memories, both pleasant and sad, but a prison nonetheless that needs to be there to set aflame Cavafy's devastatingly beautiful words.
Beyond Text Painting, or Text Mirroring
Another aspect of text setting for art song relates to the idea of text painting. Sometimes the idea of text painting gets a bad rap because it can be too "on the nose." And while I do agree at times with that sentiment, it is still a very powerful idea worth exploring when writing art song. Instead of thinking of the music painting the text, I like to think about how it mirrors the text so that it is less about imposing (or painting) an emotion onto the text, but rather highlighting something that was already there. This also can guide the music deeper into the layers of the text rather than only responding to the painted surface.
One example of deliberate text painting is in "Morning News" from The God of Material Things. Here, the baritone imitates four mourning doves. When the tenor stretches his neck to hit the high notes, the singer does the same. And when the bass is a little flat, the singer also sings flat. The accompaniment also loosely references the characteristic cooing of mourning doves. All of these musical devices are very on the nose, but it fits the carefree, Sinatra-esque crooner persona that the singer embodies before pulling the rug out and shouting the cruel, discordant news of the day (imitating crows instead of doves). The artifice of musical text painting (and the nostalgic memories we might associate with it) is violently destroyed by the cruel realities of our contemporary life. This bait and switch wouldn't be possible without more literal text painting.
Another more subtle example is in "Cave Dwellers" from The God of Material Things. The chaotic scene of school-children playing and chasing each other on their winter playground is fast-paced and unpredictable. There are shrieking high notes and an abrupt, unceremonious end to the phrases. Then the scene shifts to the demure and tidy music of secretaries and professors. At first, it seems to be a complete 180 -- the music is twice as slow and much more refined. But as in the poetry, there is a parallel drawn between these two worlds. The minds of children and scholarly creatives are far more similar than they might appear on the surface. The melodies and harmonies for both sections are cut from the same musical cloth. If one had chosen separate music for children and professors, this vital connection between the two would not have been clear, leaving the meaning of the poetry less fulfilled.
One example of deliberate text painting is in "Morning News" from The God of Material Things. Here, the baritone imitates four mourning doves. When the tenor stretches his neck to hit the high notes, the singer does the same. And when the bass is a little flat, the singer also sings flat. The accompaniment also loosely references the characteristic cooing of mourning doves. All of these musical devices are very on the nose, but it fits the carefree, Sinatra-esque crooner persona that the singer embodies before pulling the rug out and shouting the cruel, discordant news of the day (imitating crows instead of doves). The artifice of musical text painting (and the nostalgic memories we might associate with it) is violently destroyed by the cruel realities of our contemporary life. This bait and switch wouldn't be possible without more literal text painting.
Another more subtle example is in "Cave Dwellers" from The God of Material Things. The chaotic scene of school-children playing and chasing each other on their winter playground is fast-paced and unpredictable. There are shrieking high notes and an abrupt, unceremonious end to the phrases. Then the scene shifts to the demure and tidy music of secretaries and professors. At first, it seems to be a complete 180 -- the music is twice as slow and much more refined. But as in the poetry, there is a parallel drawn between these two worlds. The minds of children and scholarly creatives are far more similar than they might appear on the surface. The melodies and harmonies for both sections are cut from the same musical cloth. If one had chosen separate music for children and professors, this vital connection between the two would not have been clear, leaving the meaning of the poetry less fulfilled.
Pushing a Text Further
One challenge of text setting is choosing a interpretation or emphasis for a word or idea that could mean many different things. For example, in the opening sentence of "Voices" from Voices: Five Songs of Cavafy:
Loved, idealized voices of those who have died,
or of those lost for us like the dead.
At first glance, a composer might see the words "died" and "dead" and think that they are part of the same idea -- a sad idea, a minor chord, somber and funereal music. Yes ... but when we push the text a bit further, it reveals something more tragic. For those "who have died," there is closure, there is finality. We mourn them, but might hope they are in a better place and that we can move on. But for those "lost for us like the dead," there is ambiguity. The pain of those relationships is different. Perhaps those lost to us are estranged family members, or a former lover that wounded us, or a distant friend that we haven't spoken to in years. Perhaps those relationships could heal with time, perhaps not, but that pain and longing is markedly different than death itself. In my setting, I chose to end the first phrase on a F major chord. This is a bit surprising in context, but dipping into the relative major key in this moment feels like releasing a deep sigh and sets up the journey for the rest of the movement which eventually ends in F major. But that subtle shift also sets up the next line which reveals the greater pain of losing someone like the dead.
Loved, idealized voices of those who have died,
or of those lost for us like the dead.
At first glance, a composer might see the words "died" and "dead" and think that they are part of the same idea -- a sad idea, a minor chord, somber and funereal music. Yes ... but when we push the text a bit further, it reveals something more tragic. For those "who have died," there is closure, there is finality. We mourn them, but might hope they are in a better place and that we can move on. But for those "lost for us like the dead," there is ambiguity. The pain of those relationships is different. Perhaps those lost to us are estranged family members, or a former lover that wounded us, or a distant friend that we haven't spoken to in years. Perhaps those relationships could heal with time, perhaps not, but that pain and longing is markedly different than death itself. In my setting, I chose to end the first phrase on a F major chord. This is a bit surprising in context, but dipping into the relative major key in this moment feels like releasing a deep sigh and sets up the journey for the rest of the movement which eventually ends in F major. But that subtle shift also sets up the next line which reveals the greater pain of losing someone like the dead.
Abandoning Text, Abandoning Singing
The final idea I consider when approaching a text is when to abandon it entirely. In poetry, there is a lot left unspoken between the lines and the music can help fill in that meaning and emotion. Sometimes that means abandoning the structure of text and letting the music take over. One of the most powerful moments in Voices: Five Songs of Cavafy happens before a large climax in Mvt III "Gray." The piano has a sweeping ten measure interlude that feels almost orchestral in natural. The piano represents this memory of the singer's past lover that they have conjured up for a moment. The singer needs time to relive that memory, to see those eyes blazing like grey opals, before begging memory to "keep them the way they were" as they start to fade into the darkness. That climax needs to be earned and it wouldn't work as well to jump immediately to the next line without a few emotional beats taken by the piano.
There are also times where it makes more sense to abandon the music, or more specifically, the singing to better reflect the text. In "Mother's Songs" from The God of Material Things, there are two critical moments where the tenor stops singing and begins to narrate. The first is when describing a scene from his childhood where his mother listens to an opera broadcast to their "dusty little town" over the radio. The music is diegetic, a sort of misremembered bel canto aria akin to Bellini's "Casta Diva" from Norma. The narration makes this moment tender and passionate while also showing the importance of music to the poet's mother by citing a favorite aria. A few moments later, when the tenor asks his ailing mother if she would like to listen to an opera, she says "Oh, no. No record. No music please." He switches again to narration, the tragedy of this moment too much for singing. But later, he finds his voice again when singing a wordless descant over the final verses of "My Jesus, I Love Thee," a hymn sung by his family the day before the funeral. Shifting between speaking, singing, or vocalise in these moments underpins the rich tapestry of the poem as it is woven together through the poet's memory. Eventually, the different strands of song and the memories associated with them all come together in the final phrases, where tenor sings with a vocalized memory of his mother while accompanied by a chorus in a dreamy landscape where "snow billowed like dreams in the wind and the earth turned white."
There are also times where it makes more sense to abandon the music, or more specifically, the singing to better reflect the text. In "Mother's Songs" from The God of Material Things, there are two critical moments where the tenor stops singing and begins to narrate. The first is when describing a scene from his childhood where his mother listens to an opera broadcast to their "dusty little town" over the radio. The music is diegetic, a sort of misremembered bel canto aria akin to Bellini's "Casta Diva" from Norma. The narration makes this moment tender and passionate while also showing the importance of music to the poet's mother by citing a favorite aria. A few moments later, when the tenor asks his ailing mother if she would like to listen to an opera, she says "Oh, no. No record. No music please." He switches again to narration, the tragedy of this moment too much for singing. But later, he finds his voice again when singing a wordless descant over the final verses of "My Jesus, I Love Thee," a hymn sung by his family the day before the funeral. Shifting between speaking, singing, or vocalise in these moments underpins the rich tapestry of the poem as it is woven together through the poet's memory. Eventually, the different strands of song and the memories associated with them all come together in the final phrases, where tenor sings with a vocalized memory of his mother while accompanied by a chorus in a dreamy landscape where "snow billowed like dreams in the wind and the earth turned white."
That sort of layers-deep musical landscape is why I love art song! I love to find those moments where the text can soar, or a singer can turn a phrase, or the music keeps reality suspended, while something beautiful, or tragic, or magical can happen.
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