Playing With Expectations (Part Three)

My previous blog on this topic (part two) just scratched the surface in exploring ways in which Beethoven plays with listener expectations in his Piano Sonata No. 21 ("Waldstein;" op. 53). If examining this aspect of the "Waldstein" interests you, I recommend listening to the rest of the first movement several times if possible (video of this with scrolling score embedded at the end of today's blog entry), trying to identify places in which something unexpected occurs.

However, if you have the entire movement memorized, perhaps nothing would come as a surprise; you would presumably be expecting everything that occurs!

Or would you?

I discuss the "Waldstein" sonata every year when I teach musical form, and every time I hear it I am delighted/excited/amazed, and yes, even surprised, when we reach the recapitulation. Without getting too specific,¹ Beethoven does some absolutely outrageous things during the recapitulation, and even though I know what's coming, it doesn't temper my visceral reaction of surprise when they happen.

Why is that?

It could be because I am slow of mind, incapable of remembering what's coming next. I won't deny that my brain is occasionally slower than I wish it were, but I think there may be another explanation for this, and it is related to dropping a heavy object on my toe last summer.

Here's what happened: I was helping one of my kids assemble an office chair in his room, and an extremely heavy part (the pneumatic gas cylinder – the central metal post upon which the chair rests) dropped onto my foot. I vividly remember that the pain was about as extreme as anything I had ever felt, but I don't remember the pain itself. Put another way, I remember that something really painful happened, and I remember the cause, but I cannot recreate the visceral quality of the experience itself, unless I were to drop something heavy on my toe again. I do not plan on doing this, although life being what it is, I'm sure something similar will occur at some point in the future… :(

Here's another analogy, this time involving no pain: There are some roller-coasters that I have ridden so many times that I know in advance what to expect, and yet they thrill me every time.

Remembering an emotional response is not the same as experiencing it.  When I hear the first movement of the "Waldstein" sonata, I know what is coming next. I also know that in previous hearings I was astonished at various points in the piece by the ways in which Beethoven plays with our expectations, but this knowledge does not prevent my experiencing a similar level of astonishment — I can't believe he just did that! AGAIN! — every time I hear this composition.

This strikes me as one measure of a work's greatness; it can astonish, surprise, delight, or otherwise move you every time you hear it, even if you know what is coming next.

For composers, this is extremely valuable information! If we find ways to engage our listeners and play with their expectations, there's a chance our music will continue to have a similar effect on people for a very long time to come.

If you'd like to listen to the entire first movement of the "Waldstein" sonata, here's a video with scrolling score:

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^{1. I often ask students to identify the various unexpected/surprising things that occur during the recapitulation of this sonata, which is why I am not being more specific here. I don't want to give too much away, because I would like students to discover these wonderful moments for themselves.↩}

Oh, the pain of it all!

Is composition sometimes painful for you?

A composer I know once told me that you have be a masochist to be a composer. That might be overstating things, but it got me thinking.

Many things in life are painful, yet we do them anyway. Perhaps the most extreme example of this is giving birth, which, as I understand it, can be profoundly painful.

And yet, despite this, many women knowingly and deliberately give birth, often more than once.

Are they masochists?

I don't think so. I suspect that the motivation is simple: Their desire to have children is so strong that they are willing to endure the pain that comes with giving birth, and the further frustrations, stress, and challenges that come with raising children.

I think it is similar with composition. Sure, you have good days in which you feel you are making progress on your piece, and you like what you have written, but you also have periods where you struggle, perhaps to the point of wanting to give up, and if you struggle a lot with a composition, you might well find yourself wondering why you ever thought it would be a good idea to write music in the first place. Wouldn't lying on a nice beach in the tropics be preferable? Or playing video games?

Every composer must discover and own their motivation for writing music, but I suspect for most of us the motivation is similar to the desire to have kids: At the end of an often painful process, you will have in your hands something that came from some mysterious place inside you, about which you can hopefully feel good for the rest of your life.

And, speaking only for myself, there are few experiences in life that can compare to the satisfaction of a completed composition that I like (as opposed to a completed composition that I don't care for very much!), which is why I keep at it.

But still, the pain of it all can be daunting at times. If you find yourself feeling discouraged, it might be comforting to know that most, and probably all, composers have experienced what you are feeling on a pretty regular basis. It seems to go with the territory.

I think overcoming discouragement can be particularly challenging during the first few years of composing, since after going through all the labour pains involved in creating a composition, the completed work often does not turn out to be as good as we had hoped.

You almost need to be delusional to persevere beyond these disappointments! Or, if "delusional" is an attribute not held dear to your heart, perhaps "really optimistic" is a better descriptor... The point is, when you begin developing your skills at anything, you tend not to be as good at it as you will become if you persevere doggedly for several years, and it helps if during this early period you can find positive aspects to ensure you are sufficiently motivated to continue.

So, rather than dismissing the results of your compositional efforts ("OMG, my piece sucks!" Or, "how embarrassing! Won't somebody PLEASE drop an anvil on my head?"), it is useful, even essential, to identify the positives ("I really like the tone colour (or harmony, or texture, etc.) of that section!" Or, "the first thirty bars turned out better than I expected!"), while at the same time recognizing that some aspects of your composition(s) need work.

A positive attitude and a good work ethic may be two of the most essential qualities in becoming a good composer, but, unfortunately, the former can be the greater challenge. But take comfort in the knowledge that it is something with which all composers struggle from time to time; sometimes, it's just part of the process.