(Originally posted on April 8, 2002)
The author offers the following advice to beginner composers:
It is impossible for a beginner to compose a piece in its entirety in his imagination. He must proceed gradually, from the simple to the complex. (…) I find it most effective for a beginner to start by building with musical blocks, and to relate them intelligently. (p. 17 of the Japanese edition)
Here, “musical blocks” refers to things like phrases and motives. I believe the content of each “block”—its shape, size, and weight—changes depending on the composer. For me, this metaphor of “stacking blocks” is more than just a figure of speech; it’s something I feel viscerally.
When I start composing a piece, I don’t necessarily have a clear vision of the final form. In fact, I sometimes begin with only a vague idea of the instruments I’ll use. You could say it’s a state where I simply have an impulse to create. Then, I craft fragmentary phrases or chords, like “motives,” and construct the entire piece based on them.
It is in this “process of construction” that the analogy of “musical blocks” becomes a reality. The idea of gravity in music (the flow of time), which I discussed in “Architecture is Frozen Music”—Thoughts on “The Wonder of Music”, becomes critically important here. Now, there are certain models for how to stack these blocks—in other words, “musical forms”—and a great deal of music exists that adheres to these models. This is particularly common in pop music and classical music from the Classical period.
These models include forms like “Intro-Verse-Bridge-Chorus” or “Sonata form” and “Rondo form.” They are very convenient as vessels into which you can pour fragments of musical ideas (phrases, motives, etc.), and they also help to enhance the appeal of those ideas. Pop composers who use such models unconsciously are, in fact, reaping their benefits without even realizing it. A shared model between the creator and the listener greatly aids mutual understanding.
However, if I may say so, I believe that form should inherently be one with the uniqueness of the piece itself. Form doesn’t come first, dictating the composition; rather, form emerges as a result of the act of composing. For example, suppose a piece takes shape as a result of the composer’s honest creative process. Even if it strikes the listener as departing from familiar forms, its value doesn’t change one bit if that form was necessary for the piece to be what it is. In fact, I see it as the emergence of a new form. This is precisely what happens when new forms are named after original composers.
For this reason, I often compose without consciously thinking about a model. Often, the result incidentally aligns with a common model or form, and in those cases, I believe it’s because that form was a perfect fit for the character of the piece all along. Specifically, my compositions, whether melodic or sonically-focused, often end up in a “ternary form.” I frequently find myself recalling the opening section (the exposition) in some way towards the end of the piece.
I mentioned that the concept of gravity (the flow of time) is crucial in this construction process. What does this mean in practice?
At the beginning of a piece, I create some kind of musical unit from a motive or similar element. This might be a fragment of melody and accompaniment of about 8 bars, or it could be a melodic flow spanning several dozen bars. Once that’s done, I listen to it repeatedly—sometimes objectively, sometimes completely immersed. Then, I create another new unit that can be stacked on top of it.
Then I listen again, repeatedly, to everything I’ve built up so far. At that point, I carefully savor and judge the “state of the stack.” Is the structure awkward or unnatural? Or is its awkwardness a good accent? Could its unnaturalness provide momentum for the next step? These are the things I assess.
It’s also possible that something that seemed fine at one point turns out to be unsuitable for the piece as a whole when I look back later in the composition process. When that happens, I have to dismantle it and rebuild. Sometimes I might insert “reinforcements” to compensate for weak parts. When I do that, the piece begins to show a new face, and the overall image I had of it can change dramatically.
As I continue composing this way, I begin to see a faint outline of “the shape the piece wants to take.” Once I reach this stage, completion is just around the corner. The reason I don’t (and can’t) envision the final form from the start is that I want to cherish this natural “tendency to cohere.”
For composers who struggle with “not being able to bring a piece together” or “not being able to finish it,” how about trying this: for a moment, forget about fitting your music into existing forms. Instead, try to compose until you reach a point where you “can’t or don’t want to stack any more,” all the while sensing the direction your piece is heading and how it’s building up. Even if you end up with a wondrously strange piece of music, it is, without a doubt, your music.
