On the Benefits of Laziness, Part II

Well, that last post turned into something entirely unintended. You see, normally when I write anything I have an outline with me. Sometimes it's very thought-out with a point-by-point progression of ideas, sometimes it's just a few notes scribbled on a piece of paper. The scribbles for that last post are still sitting next to me, but they're definitely not what wanted to be written. It's a nasty thing, posts that insist on writing themselves without my input. I would shake a disapproving finger at my monitor, but I don't think it'd do much good.

At any rate, I figured it would be worth it to attempt a second time to expand upon what was my original idea. It'll probably be just a basic sketch, but who knows? It might actually want to be written now.

***

So the original "thesis" for that last post was not going to be in reference to the very specific laziness which is a vacation--whether a three hour long vacation on a Thursday night or a nine-day vacation over the winter holiday--but instead cultivated laziness in certain situations. Though even the definition of laziness in this situation is different from the last post--the last post dealt with actual laziness, whereas for this purpose I merely mean "laid-back": which is to say, relaxation. Which is to say: the title of this post is a complete misnomer and what I really meant to talk about is how to relax.

My original sloppy talking points got half-covered in the last point, so I will try not to bore you with revisiting the same material. I will try to talk through the bits that didn't quite get covered.

***

As part of my self-imposed pop-culture rehabilitation program (Step I of Recovering from Graduate Studies) I've been listening to the Decemberists, among other bands. In all my travel on planes, trains, and automobiles this month I've had a lot of time to listen, and one of the things that struck me about pop music is the lack of obvious micro-managing when it comes to tempo. I am a bel canto enthusiast and will proselytize for hours about the indefinite art that is rubato and I wouldn't give that up for anything; however, I must say that there was something infinitely relaxing about being able to depend on periodically getting back to the same tempo for a long stretch of time. It gives a delicious sense that the music itself is solid somehow--that music is definite.

I'm not sure if it's my fault or the fault of accompanists and conductors I've been working with or a little bit of everyone combined, but I haven't experienced that consistency in tempo in a long time. I realize that with many musicians, we have this desire to push the tempo. As though we'll lose the audience's interest if we give them a moment to think about it, we go faster, trying to hold their interest. As a coloratura, I'm known for blazing through cabalettas at suicidal speeds trying to show off my facility. However, I can't help but think that this is wrong-headed. Worse, I can't help but think that this is tension-inducing for everyone involved.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love me some dramatic tension (uhm, hello, it's opera) but pushing tempi to create it is just doing the wrong thing. Here I'm getting off track again. Let's see if I can put it this way...

Changing your tempi to create dramatic tension only works if the audience and musicians have a definite tempo established as a reference point. We have to know without a doubt that this acceleration, this deceleration, this sudden wholesale change is something of import. They can't just sit there scratching their heads thinking to themselves, "Well, gosh, I know something has changed, but what?" They must sit up straighter in their chairs, the air suddenly electric because something different is happening. The audience isn't stupid by any means, but they can't know that something different is happening unless we establish an undeviated baseline long enough that the audience can find their way back to it by instinct. It is only once the audience becomes comfortable that it becomes effective to change tempi.

It is here we have to relax. We have to resist the urge to make something happen right now because in doing so we render our musical choices moot. We have to allow the music to happen, trust the notes on the page, and wait for just the right time to act.

This same principal applies to technique. Who ever produced a high note while micromanaging it? Who ever sang a high F worth singing by obsessing? This might have a place in a practice room while you're finding your way, but in a performance you'll be completely hamstrung.

The lesson in this case, might be this: that to create a product worth experiencing requires relinquishing one's neuroses and abandoning the concept of music being a linear experience where the point is to get to the finish line.

In fact, the point of this blog may yet be the journey of just that--how to have a career with myriad failures and successes while jettisoning the idea of it being any sort of a linear experience. It's not a race, it's not a game. You're not racking up points or trying to get a better time.

You're trying to make art.

So, you know, relax.
(If you manage to do that, please tell me how!)