Simplicity

In light of tritone substitution, modal mixture, upper extensions, and chromatic alterations, it can be easy to lose track of the music-making process. For a number of reasons, the study of music leads to the study of exceptions and oddities; some of these are technical -- we all know how to voice a major triad, but how do voice a major 9#11 chord? – some are compositionally based – how do I achieve a new sound in an old context ? – and some are historical – studying your predecessors' answers to the previous question. Unsurprisingly, as students largely study exceptions, their own creative output is bound to reflect this, most likely as an inorganic collage of learned techniques. As a beginning, this is good, and facilitates the learning process quickly, as an end, this is undesirable, largely resulting in mediocre or worse music. The bridge between student and musician – whether it be as an improvisor or composer – is crossed through moderation. As we've spent considerable time talking about the precise technical qualities of music, we'll devote some future posts to more abstract concepts. Because of this, immediate gain from these next few posts may not be as great and the ideas involved may not provide any definite answers, but consideration of the concepts discussed will lead to greater musicianship on a holistic level.

The first step in this process is the ability to consider an object's multiple levels of complexity and simplicity and the spectrum that connects the two concepts. Can an object be considered both complex and simple simultaneously? If something is made up of an intricate array of straight-forward processes, on which side of the spectrum does it lie? Similarly, if something is created by a small number of highly detailed components, is it easier or harder to understand than the last object? One answer to these questions questions the point of view of the observer. Your own computer provides a good example. On the most fundamental level, digital logic can't be any simpler, allowing for only one of two possible options: 0 or 1. Zoom out a bit and you'll begin to see a highly elaborate system that relies on a number of physical components and the software the allows these components to function. Finally, from your chair, the computer is fairly easy to comprehend: it has a keyboard and mouse, which take the input, the tower which processes the input, and a monitor which displays the output. Returning to music, this idea can relate to the level on which you analyze any given piece. Are you looking at individual chords, harmonic progressions, melodic processes, or large-scale form? The level of complexity of any given piece will be different in all of these areas.

Let's consider some examples. J.S. Bach's C Minor Fugue, BWV 847, provides an intricate display of motivic development (ignore any connotations this term may have in the traditional sense), ultimately basing almost every melodic line off the original fugal subject. On the other hand, the large-scale form – like it is in most fugues – is fairly simple: the composer introduces the melody in all of the voices, 'improvises' some contrapuntal sections, and ends whenever he sees fit, needing no preparation for the finale. As a counter-example, John Coltrane's “Giant Steps”, as it was originally recorded on the album, provides a complicated harmonic setting on which a limited amount of melodic material is prevented (it's worth pointing out that in the European worldview, the form of “Giant Steps” is about as simple as is possible, but in the context of jazz, it's highly complex). There's no specific lesson to be taken from these examples, but consideration of them is important.

If you begin to transcribe your favorite artists or review the scores of your favorite pieces, it's almost a certainty that the most stunning things will be the simple ones: Bill Evans soloing with the notes of the minor triad that's called for on the lead sheet, Shostakovich using triadic harmony in the slow movement of his cello concerto, the relative brevity of Beethoven's development sections, and the pentatonic solos of John Coltrane. While each player's final reaction to these qualities will differ, the important thing is to consider the implications of what you see. In closing, consider this question.

Bill Evans – a piano player whom the vast majority of the piano-playing populace dreams of sounding like – opens his solo to 'Nardis' on Explorations with only the notes F# and A. Why does he do this?