The Carnatic Jazz Experiment

September 11, 2009 — toby

The Carnatic Jazz Experiment:CJE1 The influence of Carnatic music on my composition and improvisation practice.

by Toby Wren

This blog is a research blog for my Masters in Music degree. It contains the dissertation and all of the bits that couldn’t fit in the dissertation. Originally it was intended that this blog would BE the dissertation, but current university policy does not allow submission in this format.

Here you will find a collection of thoughts about my investigation and syncretisation of Carnatic music and jazz. This research project was investigated through a combination of composition, improvisation, collaboration, lessons and listening. The investigation is ongoing. On this site I have documented the two concerts (March 13 and May 15, 2009) which were also a part of my assessment and a lecture-demonstration explaining some of the approaches I developed towards cross-cultural music.

The site can be read in several ways:

The research is intended to be read in a non-linear fashion. You are encouraged to make your own path by clicking on the links and topics that most interest you. In a blog, information is presented as ‘posts’ which appear on the page in the order that they were written, it is however, possible to filter the information that appears on the page using the ‘categories’ on the left.

web structure

Clicking on the categories in the left column will narrow the number of blog posts on this page. If you click on the category called “The CJE”, for example, you will see everything – all of the posts including the ’support material’.
If you click on “Dissertation” you will see only the posts that comprise the written dissertation.
If you click on individual headings within the dissertation you can read the dissertation ‘in order’ – ie, Introduction, Body, Conclusions, Reference List. Or even, specific sections such as the Rationale.
If you are looking for specific information you can also search using the box on the right.

* Some posts are protected because they contain the opinions of interview subjects. Once final approval is given the posts will be made public.

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1 – Introduction

November 25, 2009 — toby

1      Prologue
[Audio: Prologue, recorded in rehearsal, 2008.]

My plane landed at MAA (Madras International Airport) at 10:30pm. I was half asleep, but I did notice that the processing was unusually efficient and the wait for baggage was unusually long. They must have been checking bags carefully.

I was outside by 11:30pm and into the humid hustle bustle of Chennai winter. The monsoons had just finished. Each day leading up to my trip I would check the weather for Chennai on my iPhone. Each day was the same – 31c, thunderstorms. I would look at the blue Brisbane skies and try to imagine the never-ending heat and rain in Chennai. The previous week the flooding in Vadapalani (where U Srinivas lives) had reached crisis point. The mosquitoes were breeding and spreading disease, the sewers had burst and the daily storms made rivers of the streets and brought down live power lines. People were dying of disease, electrocution, drowning…

But now it’s ok.

India can be efficient when it wants to be. And the rains have stopped now.

At the time I was surprised at how busy it was at the airport. I hadn’t read the news; I was busy being ripped off in Singapore by an unscrupulous video camera vendor while my wife was paging me on the airport public address.  I had 5 minutes at an internet terminal in Singapore and I chose to read the news on ‘The Hindu’ website rather than the ABC. In trying to get my head ready for the task ahead I had missed the breaking news. The latest intel on the Mumbai terrorist attacks suggested that the 11 gunmen on  November 26 were part of a larger crew of 25 and that the next targets were going to be the five major airports in India (of which Madras International is one) on December 6. I arrived at 10:30pm on the 5th. If I had heard the intel, if I had heard my wife trying to page me in the airport while I was still in Singapore, I might not have made it here. And now, sitting in my hotel room in Nungambakkam writing this, I am not sure it was such a good idea, but I am pretty sure I will not be going home until I get what I came for. I am not particularly brave but neither am I excessively careful: I’m not dodging bullets but I like to think I am running through life with an egg on my spoon.

If there was an alert like that at an Australian airport I am not sure how we would react, but I suspect the airport would be deserted. In India, the news had brought half the city to the airport to make sure their loved ones arrived safely. I was too tired to notice the sandbagging and the fixed guns on the roof. I was oblivious to the 24 hours of panicked terror that my wife had been through worrying about the imminent explosion of my plane when she finally called my hotel room in Chennai at 2:30am. I assumed she had made a miscalculation with the time difference – added instead of subtracted (or the other way around?).

The taxi driver and the hotel manager advised me not to leave the hotel tomorrow. It is the anniversary of the Babri Mosque demolition. I don’t have any lessons scheduled, but I did want to go to some concerts and pick up a few supplies. I will only be in Chennai for 2 weeks. Enough time to see 20 concerts and have 16 lessons (what was I thinking?) and compose and practise and eat and buy CDs.

­        1.2   Introduction

This dissertation explores the central question: How can I reflect the influence of Carnatic music on my composition and improvisation practice?

The central question can be divided into four elements, or secondary questions: What ideas in Carnatic music are influencing me? What techniques can I develop to reflect the influence in my composing? What techniques can I develop to reflect the influence in my improvising? And, what are the significant steps or moments in my investigation that could have parallels in other musical genres, or other disciplines?

The central research question has remained consistent throughout this research project, but the means to answer the question has been constantly re-evaluated, and new approaches developed.

My research began at a specific moment. It began, when, as an established jazz musician with 15 years experience, I heard Carnatic music for the first time. I had been listening to the world music group Remember Shakti, featuring the Carnatic mandolin player U Srinivas and I thought I would like to hear more of his music. I found the CD Dawn Raga (1995) online and nearly didn’t buy it when I read the information and saw that he had not composed any of the tunes, but eventually thought I would take the risk. Halfway through the first track, Siddhivanayakam, I was completely hooked. The rhythms in particular seemed like the perfect expression of concepts that I had already been developing in my own compositions while the ornamentation of the melodic line was at once baffling and beguiling. I was also fascinated by the structures the musicians were using for improvising although at this stage I had no idea how much of the performance was improvised and how much was pre-composed.

After this initial encounter I began to listen to other recordings and reading texts on Carnatic music, then as Carnatic music grew as an influence in my life and career, I wanted to reflect that influence in my playing and composing. Unfortunately (or fortunately), my progress was slow because of an absence of specific literature or method: I had to invent and refine my own methods. My continued fascination with Carnatic music made reflecting it seem inevitable, but there were elements of Carnatic music that seemed at odds with my understanding of music that made syncretisation a challenging prospect.

The difficulties I encountered made this research necessary for my own development, and hopefully my solutions to these difficulties mean it is relevant to practitioners contemplating similar endeavours. With current technologies and levels of interaction between people of different cultures it certainly seems more likely that cross-cultural projects such as this will be more and more commonplace.

This research draws heavily on the lessons I took with U. Srinivas and R. Prasanna during my first study tour to India in 2006 (with assistance from Arts Queensland). These lessons introduced me to the techniques of playing Carnatic gamakas (ornamentation) on a fretted instrument and to the structure of Carnatic compositions. I continue to study gamakas and compositions in Brisbane with the veena player Rajyashree Josyer Srikanth (from 2007-2009). My interest in the rhythmic intricacies of U. Srinivas’ playing led me to take solkattu (vocal percussion) lessons with Brisbane mridangist Eshwarshanker Jeyarajan (2007-2008) and eventually to travel back to Chennai, India to have lessons from two of the leading rhythmic thinkers in Carnatic music, Palghat Raghu and Karaikkudi R Mani in 2008 (with assistance from the Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University). My research has also drawn on the available literature in this area, including recordings by other artists working in Carnatic music fusions.

Some of the research questions have been answered more fully in other stages of this investigation which are documented in detail on my research blog www.carnaticjazzexperiment.com. These performance-based investigations, including compositions and improvisations, were developed, tested and concluded through a performance of eight compositions across two concerts (13 March and 15 May, 2009). A lecture demonstration (11 August, 2009) gives further insight into some of the compositional method. The research outputs demonstrate different perspectives of the same research question – as if chipping away at different sides of the same piece of marble in an attempt to reveal the sculpture within.

The compositions performed in the concerts demonstrate the various compositional approaches I took at different stages of my investigation, as my approach to the topic developed and matured. The compositions also reflect the process of collaborating with Carnatic musicians who were instrumental in shaping and reshaping the compositions that were eventually performed. The importance of these collaborations cannot be underestimated – they receive the attention they deserve in my research blog.

The improvisations, some of which appear on the enclosed recording, were an extension of the concepts explored in composition. Improvisation in this paper, in line with conventional scholarly definitions, is considered to be “the creation of a musical work…as it is being performed” (Grove, 2008) or “spontaneous composition” (Coker, 1964, p.2). By Derek Bailey’s definition (1992), I am a performer of ‘idiomatic improvisation’ (although I do not believe that a ‘non-idiomatic’ improvisation exists). My own improvisation draws heavily on the grammar of jazz and seeks to draw on the grammar of Carnatic music. Regardless of whether improvisation is idiomatic or non-idiomatic, it is performed as it is conceived, without opportunity for reflection and refinement and as such, it can be considered the true test of the syncretisation of Carnatic concepts and the true test of the research question.

By considering composition and improvisation as forms of investigation, this research is consistent with changing research paradigms in other art forms, including, as Vincs has noted “a shift from dance as an object of investigation to dance as a means of investigating” (2000). In my research, improvisation, composition and text are afforded the same status. In future research a longitudinal study to examine how a practitioner’s improvisations change over time to reflect new influences would illuminate elements of the creative process, syncretisation and cognition.

The central research question of how the influence was reflected in my practice is illustrated in this dissertation by analyses of two compositions from different stages of the creative process and through a discussion of the mechanisms of influence and music acquisition. It draws on the emerging methodology of autoethnography aiming to “connect the personal to the cultural” through a personal narrative (Ellis & Bochner, 2000, p. 740). Central to this narrative is my own artistic practice and its evolution.

In Chapter 3, I analyse the work Ramanaa (for solo guitar) from the first Carnatic Jazz Experiment concert. I examine the influences on the composition, including the lessons I was receiving, and how these relate to specific musical instances. Certain performative issues are raised and explored in terms of their implications for future improvisational research. The work is contextualised in the continuum of the research and my practice.

In Chapter 4, I look at the work Kannakku (for ensemble) which was composed some months after Ramanaa. I look at the influences on the composition, including learning and teaching of Carnatic music, and how the influences are combined in the compositional approach of the work. Comparison of Kannakku and Ramanaa leads to conclusions about the syncretisation of elements at different stages of the research.

In Chapter 5, a discussion of the literature relating music to language arises out of a turning point in my understanding of Carnatic music. I explore how treating Carnatic music as a separate musical language enabled me to better understand my creative processes and develop approaches to the research question.

1.3    A 3-Stage Model of Investigation

There were three discreet stages in my investigation:

  • Understanding Carnatic music;
  • Practicing Carnatic music; and,
  • Syncretising Carnatic and jazz music.

There was overlap between the stages – each new discovery influencing the way other stages were approached. During each stage there have been multiple methodologies employed. In the first stage of investigation there was a literature review (including the recorded literature), the knowledge of which was expanded and clarified by attending concerts and lessons in Chennai (in 2006 and 2008). The second stage ‘practicing Carnatic music’, included practicing Carnatic compositions and techniques on the guitar and as solkattu (rhythmic vocalisation) and also transcribing from Carnatic recordings.

In this dissertation I use Chapman’s definition of syncretism as “the creation of something new from at least two other sources and bear[ing] reference to those sources” (Chapman, 2008). Syncretisation is considered to be the process of development of a personal musical language through combining two influences on my practice rather than learning a new style of performance. To achieve this I developed practice exercises, wrote compositions and composition exercises, collaborated with Carnatic musicians and consciously employed Carnatic techniques in non-Carnatic settings.

It is the third stage that is the focus of the dissertation.

1.4    Research Design

The diagram below (Figure 1) shows a broad chronology of my research. It shows the investigation of Carnatic music as cultural object, the practice and syncretisation of Carnatic ornamentation and as the practice and syncretisation of Carnatic rhythms. The diagram shows the emergent nature of the research design and methodologies – each dead end influencing the next stage of the investigation. One can note for example, that my progress in learning Carnatic rhythms was convoluted. I assumed I would be able to learn Carnatic rhythm easily because I had a fairly advanced understanding of western rhythms, but the diagram is testament to the fact that I had to approach Carnatic rhythms from many different angles and sources before I began to gain some facility.

There was an absence of continuity in the research. Often issues that seemed important at the time seem trivial upon reflection while certain important elements went unremarked at the time. This is because the investigation was broad and the significance of its various components was determined later, in relation to what could effectively be concluded at the time of writing. Future investigations and writing on my research blog will illuminate different perspectives of the investigation.

Surrounding the diagram I ask the reader to imagine an invisible meta-bubble, which represents the different approaches I took to explain or understand my creative processes concurrent with the core investigation. As an example of one of the more significant meta-issues, I demonstrate and analyse how thinking about Carnatic music as a second language informed my process in Chapter 5. Tied to the understanding of language is the idea of building a body of knowledge against which to contextualise any new information.

1.5   Rationale

The presentation of this dissertation was originally conceived in a blog format. While the current university submission policies do not allow for this as a final submission format, it is important to note the rationale behind my decision to use a blog, and how this format mirrors the creative process.

Currently, blogs offer the creative practitioner the most flexible and easy to use format in which to integrate text, video, sound and image (Stephenson, 2008). In my research it allows rigorous investigation of the question without privileging text-based descriptions of ideas that are more effectively expressed through the use of sound files, pictures or scores (Dillon & Brown, 2006, p. 419). The added availability of an on-line document has the potential to engage the wider research community and the music community at large, enabling professional development and serving as a resource for educators (Allen, 2008).

What is particularly appealing for the creative practitioner is that a non-linear presentation seems to closely mirror the creative process: conclusions are drawn often and frequently and sometimes before we are aware that there was even a question. A blog is also read in an order determined by the reader and is searchable by theme, providing the opportunity to present the many sides of a creative practice without imposing the artificial hierarchy or order that a linear narrative can imply. While quantitative dissertations may explore a single subject from hypothesis to conclusion, creative ‘problems’ are more nebulous, less causal (Perkins, 2001; Pinker, 1997) and can be explored and discovered in a more nebulous, less causal fashion. This also means that the blog becomes a performative act rather than a static report: It invites the reader to be an active participant in the creative journey. And, in designing a dissertation as a performative act, the creative practitioner effectively makes the dissertation a part of their artistic practice rather than a reflection on it.

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Music and Language

November 14, 2009 — toby

5      Music and Language

[It is] like saying a certain r is characteristic of French. Learning that sound is one thing, and having a native-sounding chat in Paris another. (Sudnow, 2001, p. 22).

The composer reveals the inmost essence of the world and utters the most profound vision in a language which his reason does not understand. (Schoenberg, cited in Gardner, 1985, p 103).

In this chapter I will discuss a particular aspect of my attempts to explain my own creative processes. In doing so, I am moving from an analytical discussion of the compositions to a more speculative, philosophical exploration of the creative process of learning a second style of music. The similarities of music and language are explored as a method of understanding the creative process and the implications for the way music is learnt. I begin by examining the views surrounding the ability of music and language to express concepts and continue with a personal exploration of my syncretism of Carnatic and jazz in reference to language acquisition.

Music has similar characteristics to language in the way it is structured and learnt and it appears to excite similar patterns of neurons in the brain to language (Patel, 2008; Pinker, 1997), although infants take longer to develop an understanding of the grammar of music than the grammar of language (Patel, 2008, p. 372). Music and language are also found in all human society (Mithen, 2007) although there is no consensus on what purpose, if any, music has. There is general agreement that music cannot express many of the concepts that language can. Stravinsky spoke of the powerlessness of music to express anything (1936, p. 53), a point of view reinforced by Kivy: “Music… cannot be a source of philosophical insight and illumination” (2009, p. 3). This seems at odds with the current trends in academia to include performance as a method of investigation (Vincs, 2000) supported by this dissertation.

My position is not in complete disagreement with Stravinsky or Kivy, but I think it is useful to place their comments in a slightly different context. It is true that music cannot often be used to effectively express concepts that have been expressed with words. But, it is also true that words are often incapable of describing music effectively. According to Merleau-Ponty both music and language are ‘equally uncommunicative of anything other than itself’(cited in Sudnow, 2001, p. i). I propose that rather than being unable to communicate anything, music simply communicates differently to language and that what one can say, the other is powerless to say.

While music has similar characteristics to language (and is processed in a similar way by the brain) it is not possible to make a one-to-one comparison between the grammar and syntax of music and language that holds up to rigorous analysis. Fascinated by the structural similarities and by the generative linguistic theory of Noam Chomsky (1972), Leonard Bernstein (1976) and more recently Steinl (1995) have attempted such a comparison. While these theories are certainly interesting there are many problems with such a comparison as pointed out by Keiler (1978 cited in Patel, 2008). While aware of the limitations of such a comparison, I have outlined a scheme below that enabled me to better understand the way I was learning Carnatic music and may enhance an understanding of the similarities and differences between the ways we learn language and music.

The basic letters of music could be considered the 12 notes of the chromatic scale. Syllable combinations and words can be created by combining letters (as chords in western music, or ornamentation in Indian classical music). Words can be put together to form phrases, phrases come together to form sentences. Sentences relate in a logical way until an argument or story is made (I am talking here of the musical argument or story independent of the story that the lyrics of a song might describe).

In both language and music, there are degrees of complexity of expression. In some musical languages the phrases and grammar are easy to understand (think of the musical component of nursery rhymes), in some it is extremely difficult (I think immediately of jazz and Indian classical music). The beginner in jazz is encouraged to learn words and phrases that typify the language, first learning to repeat them verbatim (Coker, 1964; Berliner, 1994) Gradually the player’s vocabulary is expanded until at some magical point they are able to rearrange and recombine the words and phrases to create their own sentences and eventually acquire the ability to tell a story (Berliner, 1994; Steinl, 1995). I have seen my daughter follow the same steps in learning to come to grips with the English language. It takes a long time before the meaning of enough of the individual words is understood that she is able to effectively to generate new meaning and sound natural doing so.

As a student brought up in a diverse but western musical background, I had developed a grammar of music that was based initially on popular music and later expanded through exposure to jazz and classical. I eventually developed enough familiarity with this grammar that I was able to freely adapt to many different musical situations, including classical, jazz and even other world musics. I consider jazz, classical and popular music to be different dialects that share an alphabet, grammar and many similar expressions.

At times when I have studies other musical languages, for example Flamenco, I was still able to contextualise it in the broader framework of western harmony-based music because the chords, chord progressions and melodies can be described to a certain extent using western terminology. I was able to understand latin American music this way also. It may be that my study of these musics has been limited by attempting to understanding them with western eyes: I can order lunch and talk about the weather in Flamenco, but that’s about it.

It is therefore not surprising that when I came to Carnatic music I attempted to learn it in the same way. I employed western theoretical frameworks. But in the case of Carnatic music, they didn’t work, and I wasted a lot of time trying to adapt them to make them work. Western paradigms such as notation, harmonic progression and even the relationship between improvisation and composition are upset by Carnatic music. In terms of the language analogy, Carnatic music was not only a different language, it used a different alphabet and different grammatical structures. It is easy to understand that Carnatic music has no harmony, but it is much more difficult to understand that the relationship between melody notes changes in the absence of harmony. In western music, the melody is heard in the context of the current harmony or even the implied harmony (explained below, Trainor and Trehub, 1992), but in Carnatic music it is the contour, place in the rhythmic cycle and place in the harmonic spectrum that give a melody its meaning (my own interpretation). Western rhythms are understood in a similar way: by their context relative to the beat, where in Carnatic music they are understood as phrases that combine to take up a certain period of time.

The collapse of several of the standard tools I had for dealing with new forms of music led me to think of Carnatic music as a separate language with a separate alphabet. This in turn affected the methods I used to learn Carnatic music. In the Carnatic tradition these tools are very transparent and up-front: you listen and you copy. The practical application of my discovery seemed to be, to abandon all attempts to ‘understand’ ragams in relation to western scales and harmonies, to abandon all attempts at notation and simply rely on memorisation and attentive listening as the primary learning tools.

This change of perspective was significant for me and was a turning point in my understanding so I began to look for comparisons between language acquisition and music acquisition. The research of Trainor and Trehub contributes to our understanding of the way children acquire music by pointing out how sensitivity to some elements is developed while others decrease:

In 1992, Trainor and Trehub tested babies and adults ability to notice changes in a melody. They found that while the babies will notice if the note that is varied in any way, an adult will often not notice if a melody note is changed to another note in the implied harmony. In their test they used the melody: C, D, E, F, D, G, C, E, D, C (played with a triplet feel) which clearly outlines a harmonic progression of I – V7- I in the key of C. In subsequent repetitions, they varied the note ‘G’ to G#, B and A. Not surprisingly, adults found it easier to detect the chromatically altered G# change than the change to B (which is contained within the implied V7 harmony and the prevailing key). Surprisingly, babies noticed any changes to the melody equally. (Deliege & Sloboda, 1997)

While not the conclusion of Trainor and Trehub, the research suggests that as children develop sensitivity to harmony they lose sensitivity to melody. This research mirrored my personal experience in which I was often unable to attentively listen to long periods of Carnatic melodic improvisation without rhythmic accompaniment:

“I had to leave the concert early, I was overloaded … they started a long alap, which I was cool to sit through but then they started tanam [another stage of a long alap] and that was the final straw!” Diary excerpt, December 14, 2008.

When I began listening to Carnatic music I certainly felt that I was somehow missing a lot of the melody because I was unable to hear it through the ornamentation. It could be argued that the more deeply the first language is formed, the more difficult accessing a second language is. This may be especially true when moving from a fundamentally harmonically based language, to one without that aspect. Focus on harmony is not a bad thing of course, it has been the basis for most of my creative output to date, but it was hindering my ability to hear and absorb the details of Carnatic music.

As I listened to more and more Carnatic music I began to feel that I was like an infant absorbing grammar – the logical and structural rules that govern the composition of sentences, phrases, and words syntax and phrases of a new language (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammar). And, as had happened when I began to absorb the grammar of jazz, as I began to acquire more Carnatic grammar I began to play more convincingly with the Carnatic musicians I was rehearsing with. As I gradually absorbed the structure of the language, my improvisations began to sound more whole, the transitions between ‘Carnatic style’ and ‘jazz style’ became less obvious.

Sudnow’s analysis of his process of learning, I discovered recently, mirrored my recent efforts. He uses a language analogy to describe the shortcomings of his own learning process:

In first language acquisition, one initially gains facility with restricted little movements, then heads for ever more extensive gestural trajectories. But I was aimed from the outset, and nearly always, for the most complex of doings, as though trying to speak a new language by ridiculously plunging into a serious conversation at the usual adult pace. This without really knowing how to say “words” properly, only making little bits of sound that could here and there be heard to fall within the language. (Sudnow, 2001, p. 39)

As an overconfident western musician, I, of course, had been guilty of ‘ridiculously plunging’ into Carnatic music. I have always been attracted by the complexities of music and Carnatic music was no different. Like Sudnow, I had aimed from the outset for the most complex of musical doings. Unlike Sudnow (who was learning to ‘speak jazz’), I was not trying to speak Carnatic, merely to be influenced by it. While there were words I was borrowing from Carnatic music, and even some small phrases, I was not attempting to speak like a native. Rather, I was attempting to speak like myself, influenced by Carnatic music. Perhaps this is the point at which I finally concede defeat with my language analogy – because it begins to sound as if I am trying not to speak Tamil, but to speak English with a Tamil accent.

While considering Carnatic as a new language helped me to appraise and understand it afresh, my research is not just to hear these new Carnatic influences, but to reflect them in my playing and composing. To embody the Carnatic influences, I also had to develop a grammar of performing. It is only through repetition that musical ideas reach a point of familiarity where they can be drawn upon in improvisation.

I began to consider that Carnatic was a different musical language at the end of 2008, at the approximate halfway point of my master’s research. I realised that my internal musical library was from a specific cultural vantage; the embodied knowledge of playing the guitar, playing the piano, playing percussion, conducting, leading a band, composing and improvising. Many of my habits had to be relearned as I learnt to negotiate a music without a harmonic framework, with an additive rhythmic system and with a highly ornamented melody that made initial comprehension difficult. Since doing so, I have begun to hear Carnatic melody more effectively. In simple terms, I am able to listen intently to longer excerpts of Carnatic melody without my mind wandering, or without listening only to the mridangam player, or analysing the quality of the recording. While Carnatic rhythms could already keep me enthralled, now Carnatic melody has begun to exercise a similar influence on me (other non-harmonic Asian musics also became much easier to follow).

The grammar of my personal musical language has also evolved to reflect the influence of Carnatic music. One of the most important if subtle changes is that I now place much more emphasis on listening and nuance than on notation. Since moving to a more Carnatic, less western style of learning Carnatic music, I have become more efficient at learning and also in developing my own hybrid language. In the terms of this chapter, it is the gradual absorption of Carnatic musical grammar that led me to more naturally and genuinely reflect its influence in my practice.

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Introduction to Solkattu

September 30, 2009 — toby

Here is some basic solkattu. You can use these phrases to vocalise the moras and korvais in this website that are shown with numbers (Rhythmic Cadences that everyone should know). For example, a phrase of 5 can be spoken as 2+3 (Tha ka Tha ki ta) or a phrase of 3+2 (Tha ki ta Tha ka) or Tha di gi na thom – I have capitalised the accents and separated the syllables with a space. Any consonant followed by an ‘h’ is aspirated. For example, ‘Tha’ sounds like ‘The’ with an ‘a’ at the end, and also sounds like ‘Dha’ – the important thing is that the ‘h’ is clearly voiced.

1    Dha
2    Tha ka
3    Tha ki ta; Thaangu (the ‘Thaa’ sound lasts 2 matras, the ‘gu’ sound lasts 1)
4    Tha ka dhi mi; Tha ka jo nu; Ki ta tha ka; Tha ri ki ta
5    Tha ka Tha ki ta; Tha ki ta Tha ka; Tha dhi gi na thom; Tha di ki ta thom
6     Tha ka Tha ka dhi mi
7    Tha ki ta Tha ka dhi mi;  Tha ka dhi mi Tha ki ta
8    Tha ki ta Tha dhi gi na thom
9    Tha ka dhi mi Tha dhi gi na thom

Pancha Nadais are phrases that are developed from the standard 5 phrase Tha di gi na thom (also pronounced Tha di ki ta thom), which often becomes the basis of a rhythmic composition.

5    Tha di gi na thom
6    Tha di , gi na thom  (the comma is a pause of one matra or subdivision)
7    Tha , di , gi na thom
8    Tha di , gi , na , thom; Ta dhum , Tha di gi na thom
9    Tha , di , gi , na , thom; Thath , dhit , Tha di gi na thom
10    Tha ki ta thom , Tha di gi na thom
11    Tha ki , ta thom , Tha di gi na thom

other variations are of course possible. Often players develop characteristic ways of playing phrases. For example, Palghat Raghu has many compositions that feature variations on the phrase “Tha di ka Tha ki ta Tha ka dhi

Palghat Raghu

Palghat Raghu

na”. The variation in the length is achieved by adding matras to the “ka’s” in the phrase.

14 (7)   Tha dhi , Tha , ki ta Tha , ka , dhi , na ,
16 (8)   Tha dhi , ka Tha , ki ta ta Tha , ka dhi , na  ,
18 (9)   Tha dhi , ku , Tha , ki ta ta Tha , ku , dhi , na ,
20 (10) Tha dhi , ku , , Tha  , ki ta ta Tha , ku , , dhi , na ,

Posted in Carnatic rhythm, The CJE. 2 Comments »

Rhythmic Cadences that everyone should know

September 26, 2009 — toby

When I was learning rhythmic cadences – moras, korvais and yatis – it took me a long time to figure out that simpler is often better. Especially if you are playing with people who haven’t been brought up learning additive rhythms (any western musicians). Even when playing with others who can be relied on for keeping good time sometimes it is the slower, boxier rhythmic cadences that are the most satisfying. You can play the following ideas at any speed (quavers, hemi-demi-semi-quavers, triplets etc), but faster is not necessarily more interesting. The drama of the rhythmic cadence can be more effective at medium speeds.

Anyway, this is a list of rhythmic cadences that I consider essential. There are of course many other possible permutations – I am not really suggesting that everyone should know the same bunch, but this would be a good start if you were interested in learning some Carnatic rhythmic cadences. You can also compose your own. Where possible I have indicated where I learnt the pattern. For me the art of playing them and not sounding superficial doing so, is to work them into whatever has come before it. This comes from Carnatic percussion performance practice, where a theme is established, before being used in korvai. For example, you could set up an attractive phrase that is 8 quavers long and repeat it a couple of times, then lead in to a mora such as 8 (4) 8 (4) 8  using the same attractive phrase for the 8s. There are of course infinite possibilities for developing phrases that are 8 subdivisions long.

4 (2) 4 (2) 4
8 (4) 8 (4) 8

These are the ubiquitous moras that you will hear over and over again in Carnatic music, and in Hindustani music (called Tihai) in eight or 16 beat thalams. They can be modified to suit other thalams such as misra chapu (7):

4 (1) 4 (1) 4
8 (2) 8 (2) 8

Or Rupaka thalam (3 or 6):

6 (3) 6 (3) 6

Any mora like those above can be played in its plain form or as a yati. ie,  3 (2) 4 (2) 5 or, 5 (2) 4 (2) 3. This is unique to Carnatic practice, but creates aesthetically pleasing and logical but unpredictable.

555
666
777
888
999
10 10 10
11 11 11

The above moras should all be practiced at semiquavers, quavers and triplets in a variety of time signatures, so that you can begin to feel where they are supposed to start. (It’s pretty easy with triplets, you’ll see why).

These moras and korvais will fit into 1 cycle of Adi Thalam: 2 bars of 4/4 in semiquavers:

3 3 3 3 3   5 , 5 , 5

10 , 10 , 10

11 11 11  [this one actually starts one semiquaver earlier]

555 (5) 666 (5) 777 [this one takes 2 cycles of Adi Thalam: 4 bars of 4/4]

Some longer korvais: (all take 3 cycles of adi thalam: 6 bars of 4/4 in quavers)

10 (4) 10 (4) 10 (4) 777 666 555  [Karaikkudi R Mani]

6 , 6 , 6 (2) 5 6 , 6 , 6 (2) 5 5 6 , 6 , 6 (2) 5 5 5  [Palghat Raghu]

6 6 6 (2) 6 6 6 6 (2) 6 6 6 6 6 (2) 6 6 6 [PR - play the bold phrases differently to the non-bold phrases]

4 (2) 4 (2) 4 (2) 7 4 (2) 4 (2) 4 (2) 7 7 4 (2) 4 (2) 4 (2) 7 7 7  [PR]

7 9 7 99 7 999  [PR - the 7s are half the speed of the 9s, eg 7s are quavers, 9s are semi-quavers]

6 10 6 10 10 6 10 10 10 [PR - the 6s are half the speed of the 10s]

5 11 5 11 11 5 11 11 11 [PR - the 5s are half the speed of the 11s]

16 (4) 5 2 16 (4) 5 5  2 2 16 (2) 5 5 5  [PR - in this and the following korvai the '2s' function as pickups to the 16 phrase]

12  2 , 2  5 (2) 2 12 2,2 5 (2) 2 2 12 2,2 5 (2) ,2 5 (2) ,2 5 [PR]

6666 4444 2222 777 (4) 888 (4) 999 (KRM – *takes 4 cycles of Adi Thalam]

8 (4) 7 (4) 6 (4) 5 (4) 4 (4) 3 (4) 2 (4) 1  [John Rodgers, Viv's Bum Dance sketch]

10 cycles in Rupaka Thalam (10 bars of 3/4 in quavers) :

4 (2) 4 (2) 4 (2) 3 (2) 3 (2) 3 (2) 2 (2) 2 (2) 2 (2) 1 (2) 1 (2) 1 (2) 0 (2) 0 (2) 0 (2)  (U. Srinivas, 1994).

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Conclusions

September 23, 2009 — toby

This dissertation presents a window into an ongoing investigation into the creative process of developing a cross-cultural music language. The investigation has been necessarily broad and the conclusions have been equally diverse. The conclusions could be considered somewhat subjective because they relate specifically to my practice, but by contextualising that practice in the wider field of cross-cultural music making and creative practice the conclusions are also real and transferrable.

While not a focus of the dissertation, the prologues have illustrated my various encounters with Indian teaching and learning methods which have in turn affected the way I approach teaching music and the way I learn new materials. The strength of Indian teaching as I perceive it, is that the student, in repeating music aurally and by rote, is forced to address aural musicianship, memorisation, attention to detail and musicality all at once. The more I learn and teach in this way, the more I feel that a reliance on printed music is an opportunity to hide from many of these fundamental skills. While I still feel that notation and the depth of analysis that it enables is one of the strengths of western method, I certainly feel that my earlier reliance on printed music hindered my musical development in several areas.

Music and language acquisition is a growing field with many conflicting theories. In Chapter 5, I proposed that rather than being unable to communicate anything, music simply communicates differently to language and that what one can say, the other is powerless to say. My research is unlikely to contribute any understanding to linguistics, but points to a possibility for more research into the link between the learnability of music and language. In my own experience I have shown that considering Carnatic music as a separate musical language was a turning point in my ability to hear and practise Carnatic music and cross-cultural music. By using the structure of language as an example I showed that it is the unconscious absorption of the grammar of music through listening and playing that is the determining factor in developing the ability to hear and understand a second musical language and also to reflect its influence in creative practice.

The transformation of my compositional language was demonstrated through an analysis of the two compositions from different stages of the process. In comparing them I noted that the compositions of the first concert (Prologue, Sth Mada St, Blues for Palghat Raghu, Ramanaa, Nataraja) differ fundamentally from those in the second concert (Kannakku, Tisra Jati, Holed up in the Palmgrove), the first set being primarily about the combination of ideas from Carnatic music and jazz, and the second set reflecting the more syncretised influence of both genres. For example, in the first concert I wrote jazz chord progressions that would fit with the steady presence of a drone, and in the second concert I conceived the drone as the basis of a harmonic system that would include jazz-like harmonies. This subtle but definite shift in perspective can be understood as evidence of the continued absorption of the grammar of Carnatic music. Any further conclusions about syncretism can only occur with reference to future stages of composition and improvisation, a possible avenue of further research.

In terms of specific techniques, the possibility of combining (improvised) Carnatic ornamentation and jazz harmony raised by Ramanaa led to extensive expressive possibilities which will continue to be explored, but may require further composed exemplars before a familiarity is well enough established to translate to real improvisational freedom with the technique. Similar combining of these techniques has occurred between jazz and Carnatic musicians in the past (Shakti, 2000) and in different layers of a composition (Prasanna, 2006), but not to be performed concurrently by a soloist. The technique could become the basis for a longer exploration and eventually the basis of a style of playing and composing.

The possibility of following the melodic rhythm suggested by Carnatic mridangam practice seems similarly ripe for investigation, but requires a high level of familiarity with compositions and with the quirks and habits of the performer you are accompanying. Using this approach on the guitar is complicated by having to negotiate harmony and melody as well as rhythm, but on familiar compositions, or with further experimentation with the technique, it may be possible that this approach produces results that go beyond simple combinations.

Other avenues for further compositional research including the juxtaposition of Carnatic alap and western-style ‘free’ improvisation and development of harmonic materials from ragas or raga-like scales. These techniques have become a part of my compositional language during the process and are likely to continue to inspire further research. The techniques as I use them are sufficiently different from previous Carnatic/jazz fusions that they can be considered new research. Although John McLaughlin has been developing harmony from ragas since the first Shakti album (1976), my own approach is more compositional and less guitar-based and draws on techniques from western art music composition. A comparative study of approaches to developing cross-cultural music would further illuminate the differences.

It is perhaps most difficult to draw conclusions about the improvisations, which of all of the investigations is the least resolved at the time of writing. As stated in Chapter 1.2, the improvisations can be seen to be the true test of the syncretisation of musical influences, because they require demonstration in real time (as opposed to composition which provides the opportunity for reflection and refinement). It is possible to hear a progression from earlier improvisations in which I deliberately combined jazz and Carnatic concepts, to later improvisations where the influences seem to have been internalised more. A longitudinal study that examines the gradual syncretisation of cross-cultural influences by analysing a chronology of recorded improvisations is another avenue for further research. In Chapter 5, I attributed the changes in my improvisations to a gradual absorption of the grammar of Carnatic music. This gradual emergence of a hybrid style can also be seen to relate to my discussion of creativity as the combination of influences in Chapter 3.3. Initially Carnatic music was difficult for me to comprehend because it was understood in the context of a lifetime of accumulated knowledge of western music , whereas now, each new piece of Carnatic music is understood based on several years of listening to and playing Carnatic music and Carnatic fusions.

In the time since the two Carnatic Jazz Experiment concerts I have continued to build this basis for comparison, a natural process of syncretising the two influences in my own playing. While there is still some deliberate combination going on, there is also a personal language that is evolving and taking its place somewhere in between the jazz and Carnatic influences. I notice this halfway-language in jazz gigs when I find myself playing a jazz melody with Carnatic ornamentation, and sometimes a constant stream of notes becomes subject to a rhythmic process that I have repeated so often that it has (it actually, finally, really has) become internalised.

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Chennai Music Festival

September 23, 2009 — toby
U Srinivas at Kalarasana, December 2006.

U Srinivas at Kalarasana, December 2006.

Also known as Madras Music Festival, Music Month, and Marghazi.

Quite possibly the largest music festival in the world. There are nearly a hundred sabhas (music organisations) that each put on between 1 and 4 concerts every day in the Tamil month of Marghazi (roughly December 15 – January 15). Plus, there are lots of fringe events. That makes somewhere between 6000-10,000 concerts in a month!

The schedules are published towards the end of November each year, but almost any Carnatic artist you can think of will be performing at some time during the month.
www.kutcheribuzz.com has some good information on artists and schedules, but the most up-to-date is the blog ramsabode.wordpress.com.

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4 – Kannakku

September 16, 2009 — toby

*Kannakku was commissioned by Jazz Queensland with financial support from the Queensland Government under the Q150 Community Funding Program.

[audio: http://www.carnaticjazzexperiment.com/images/kannakku.mp3

Performed by the Carnatic Jazz Experiment, May 15, 2009. Recorded by Mark Smith.

In this chapter, I look at the work Kannakku which typifies the second Carnatic Jazz Experiment concert (May 15, 2009) by reflecting the syncretisation of Carnatic concepts into my compositional language rather than experimenting with combinations in the manner of Ramanaa. I begin with a prologue about my first lesson with Palghat Raghu in December 2008, which became an important influence on Kannakku. In contrast to the first concert, the second featured a rethinking of the fundamental theoretical foundations for each piece. As such, it outlines a trajectory in my research from combination (typified by Ramanaa) to syncretisation of concepts. This chapter begins with an analysis of the melodies and form of the work and goes on to analyse in depth the rhythmic approach taken in the work.

4.1    Prologue: Lesson One with Palghat Raghu

Oh my god! (A good ‘oh my god!’)

I just had my first lesson with Palghat Raghu and I am completely buzzed…

I arrived early and got the auto-rickshaw to drop me at the end of the street. I had to ask a couple of people for directions because the name of the street he lives on is actually given two streets at right angles to each other. Once I arrived in his section of the street it was very beautiful - large trees shaded the street and the children of the construction workers played in the street and regarded me with curious smiles as their mothers carried loads of rubble on their heads around the building site. Everything in Chennai seems to be made of reinforced concrete. There is a blue ironing cart on the footpath. I am envious – I wish there was an ironing cart on my street in Brisbane.

Because I am early I squeeze in some more solkattu practice. I am really just coming to grips with the long moohara-korvais that Esh gave me (so why am I bothering one of the greatest rhythmic thinkers alive?) When it is finally time, I climb the steps and ring the wrong doorbell. They know who I am looking for and direct me. Palghat Raghu’s daughter answers the door and then a frail grey-bearded gentleman comes to the door with a walking stick. At first I don’t recognise him. Can this be ‘The General’? It certainly doesn’t look like the heroic figure I have been watching on youtube; that I saw perform in 2006…. But as he comes closer and I see his eyes I realise it is him. I am saddened. I have a grandfather about his age. He tells me that he has recently stopped performing. Will he still be able to teach me? I don’t want to over-exert him. But when he starts to do solkattu, his face comes alive and the most thrilling energy fills his form and the room. When he does solkattu he seems strong again.

He sits in a chair in a room that I have seen in documentaries and he asks me to show him something I have learnt. I show him a moohara-korvai in Misra Chapu (7) [see Glossary]. He asks me to repeat the korvai portion and I make a mistake. It takes us several minutes to figure out what it should have been. His solution is different to the one I learnt. I have forgotten what it is now, and I will never know, because this is before I have turned on the audio recorder.

I also repeated one of Palghat Raghu’s own exercises, which I came across in the Solkattu Manual (Nelson, 2008):

Tha , , , ki , , , ta , , ,
Tha , , ki , , ta , ,
Tha , ki , ta ,
Tha ki ta
Dha , ,   x 3  (the last ‘Dha’ should land on beat one). [See Appendix B: Guide to Solkattu Notation.]

I recited the above example in Rupaka Thalam (3 beat cycle). I think this pleased him and we did all of the variations – 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 but all in Adi thalam (8 beat cycle). I hadn’t realised, but they all come to samam (beat one) in Adi thalam and all take the same number of thalam cycles as the grouping chosen – eg, the example above using a phrase of three (Tha ki ta) will take three cycles of Adi thalam. A phrase of 5: “Tha ding gi na thom” will take 5 cycles of Adi. And so on. The complete set of variations for this exercise are notated below.

[In all solkattu transcriptions, syllables and commas are of equal duration. See Appendix B.]

Phrase of 3 (taking 3 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ki , , , ta , , ,
Tha , , ki  , , ta , ,
Tha , ki , ta ,
Tha ki ta
Tha , ,      x3 (repeat the whole exercise three times to resolve to beat one)

Phrase of 4 (taking 4 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ka , , , dhi , , , mi , , ,
Tha , , ka , , dhi , , mi , ,
Tha , ka , dhi , mi ,
Tha ka dhi mi
Tha , , ,   x3

Phrase of 5 (taking 5 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ding , , , gi , , , na , , , thom , , ,
Tha , , ding , , gi , , na , , thom , ,
Tha , ding , gi , na , thom ,
Tha ding gi na thom
Tha , , , ,    x3

Phrase of 6 (taking 6 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ding , , , , , , , gi , , , na , , , thom , , ,
Tha , , ding , , , , ,  gi , , na , , thom , ,
Tha , ding , , , gi , na , thom ,
Tha ding , gi na thom
Tha , , , , ,   x3 [“Tha ding , gi na thom” can be rendered as “ThakaThakadimi” to make the exercise easier.]

Phrase of 7 (taking 7 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ki , , , ta , , , Tha , , , ka , , , dhi , , , mi , , , etc.
[For an extra challenge, try “Tha , ding , gi na thom”.]

Phrase of 8 (taking 8 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ki , , , ta , , , Tha , , , ding , , , gi , , , na , , , thom , , , etc.
[For an extra challenge, try “Tha ding, gi, na, thom”]

Phrase of 9 (taking 4 cycles of Adi thalam)

Tha , , , ka , , , dhi , , , mi , , , Tha , , , ding , , , gi , , , na , , , thom , , , etc.
[Try “Tha , ding , Tha ding gi na thom”; or even: “Tha , ding , gi , na , thom”.]

We also did the generic beginner’s exercise*:

x 3

Tha ka di mi                  x7
Tha ding gi na thom    x4

Tha ka di mi                  x6
Tha ding gi na thom    x4

*Karaikkudi Mani teaches the same exercise but prefers to maintain the mathematical integrity of the phrase by repeating the first section 4 times and allowing the exercise to resolve to beat 2.

4.2     Structure and Melody

I decided that as Kannakku was a commissioned piece I would write ‘a substantial work’, both in duration and conception. Because of the amount of research I had done, I already had several ideas for the composition before I had started:

> Use musical analogues of kriya. (Hand gestures that keep the thalam are common in Carnatic performance and show where each rhythmic cycle begins. In the absence of a thalam-keeper, I wanted to show thalam aurally using ostinati).
> Plan a form that integrates the tani avartanam into the flow of the composition
> Plan a form that includes an alap at a compositionally useful spot, but not at the start.
> Develop a harmonic system that is based on the drone (rather than designing a harmony that has to fit in with a drone).
> Write some interesting kannakkus (calculations) that are extensions of Carnatic rhythmic structures.

Kannakku went through multiple drafts and rewrites (and may yet go through more). The main theme came from an earlier composition exercise, which had not made it to performance, but which contained rhythmic tensions that made it worth revisiting:

Figure 6. Kannakku ‘A’ theme, b. 19-22.

kannakku a theme

The ragam is my own invention based on principles of Carnatic ragams. The scale is D, E, F#, A, Bb, C#, with some symmetrical phrases that can be played that introduced a C natural.

This melody contains some features which I will use to illuminate the Carnatic rhythmic approach. Carnatic percussionists, beginning with Palghat Mani Iyer (1912-1981) will often follow the melodic rhythm of a piece rather than simply provide the beat or groove (personal communication, Palghat Raghu, December 16, 2008). In this respect, Carnatic music is unique. For example, the second two bars would seem an obvious place for a percussionist to double the melodic rhythm. A first examination could label the groups of quavers as 4 (2) 3 (2) 5 (irregular phrase lengths). But the phrase could also be considered as a rendering of the mathematically regular mora: (1) 5 5 5, In this reading, the first two groups of 5 are articulated as 3+2, and the last as 2+3. This approach is further reinforced by the note choices – the F# has already been established as a strong note in the previous bar, which can be exploited to give the impression that the ‘E’ at the start of the third bar is an upbeat. The regularity of the 52525 mora would be preferred in Carnatic music to the irregular 42325. When teaching this piece to the percussionists Eshwar and Tunji, I did not need to point this out. As a result of their training, they were able to pick up on the implied grouping of notes.

The first two bars of the melody could also be treated in a similar fashion, although this did not occur in our performance, it shows another example of a Carnatic approach. The F# in bar 2 could be treated as a false downbeat, creating the feeling of 5/4 followed by 3/4 in the first two bars. An appropriate rhythmic accompaniment pattern for this idea could be:

Dha , ki ta Dhi , ki ta Dhom ,
Dhi , ki ta Dhom ,
(Each syllable and comma is equal to a quaver or eighth note. I have offset the second line to demonstrate the reduction of the first phrase.

While this simple regrouping seems like it would not be particularly disorienting, it is often the case that unusual phrasing of larger units is more disorienting than smaller units because they play with the listeners perception of the strong beats. Coupled with the treatment of the second 2 bars we now have an interesting rhythmic phrase:

Dha , ki ta Dhi , ki ta Dhom ,
Dhi , ki ta Dhom ,
Dhom  Tha , ka dhom , Ta , ka dhom , Tha , ka dhom ,  :| |

[4 4 2
4 2
(1) 5 5 5]

Different Carnatic percussionists will accent a melody to varying degrees. Often senior players walk a fine line between maintaining the thalam and following the melodic rhythm of the composition. One of my favourite examples of this is on the recording Bhavalu/Impressions (Palghat Raghu, 1970). I have also heard some remarkable accompaniment by Sri Umayalpuram K Sivaraman in concert in Chennai with Neyvali Santhanagopalan, the Malladi Brothers and Sikkil Gurucharan (Chennai music season, 2008). The approach of Carnatic percussionists to accompaniment has had an influence on my own approach to accompaniment on the guitar. Shadowing the melodic line, can be problematic in jazz because of liberty taken by some singers with the composed material but is possible in certain places in the composition especially when closely observing the singer (as Carnatic accompanists do). Leaving silences and accompanying with a minimum of material, which distinguishes the accompaniment of Umayalpuram Sivaraman, has also been influential on my accompanying style.

The harmonies in Kannakku were developed from the same invented ragam used for the melody. The harmonies tend to be tertial and quartal. The ragam can be considered as a harmonic major scale without a 4th degree, but is also contains five notes from a whole-tone scale when including the additional pitch ‘C’ (D, E, F#, Bb, C). It contains a major tonic triad and, because of the harmonic minor quality of the upper tetrachord, an implied 1/2 diminished ii and V7b9 dominant chord. The most effective treatment of the harmonies in Kannakku is when they are explored rather than used in a quasi-functional way, in the same way a Carnatic melody explores all of the expressive potential of a ragam. In the introduction, slow-moving harmonies are treated as colours based on the tensions they produce and the changing densities from one chord to the next, creating the impression that they are emerging from and sinking back into the drone.

Figure 7. Kannakku. b. 1-4.

kannakku intro chords

A subsequent development of the idea sees the chords move in parallel harmonies (a technique prevalent in Debussy and Messiaen):

Figure 8. Kannakku. b. 9-15.

kannakku intor pllel chords

The feeling of this introduction recalls the earlier work Prologue (Carnatic Jazz Experiment concert one, CD Audio Track 7) which itself is influenced by the steadily building percussion in Siddhivanayakam (U. Srinivas, 1995).

This chordal introduction can be heard in Audio Track 3 of the accompanying CD. An arguably less effective use of harmonies occurs as the guitar and double-bass trade solos. In this section, triadic harmonies are used in imitation of a jazz chord progression. It may be that harmonies in this style of music are better ‘explored’ rather than used in a quasi-functional way, or it may be that the association with mainstream jazz is too strong at this point to allow the section to sit comfortably within the larger structure:

Figure 9. Kannakku. b. 142-145.

gtr-bass trade kannakku

The harmony is one way in which the basic materials of the ‘A’ theme are developed. The overall effect was supposed to be that the composer and improvisers were exploring the ragam in various ways, but this was only partially successful, the effect at times (especially in Figure 9 above) more closely representing collage.

The ‘B’ theme for Kannakku also came from an earlier composition exercise, which was an exploration of the raga Hamsadhwani that I learnt from U. Srinivas in 2006. ‘D’ was used as a tonic for the second concert giving the notes D, E, F#, A, C# for raga Hamsadhwani. Western musicologists will note that this as a subset of the raga used for the rest of the composition (D, E, F#, A, Bb, C#). Carnatic musicians would refer to the smaller ragam as a janya (child) of the larger ragam, but would still consider that we have changed ragams at this point, especially because Hamsadhwani is considered to be a janya of raga Shankarabharanam (like the western major scale) and not of my invented ragam. While my idea of using a subset is influenced by western compositional practice, I also consciously chose to create a different mood in this section which is consistent with the way ragas are understood in Indian classical music.

Figure 10. Kannakku. b. 162-173.

kannakku b theme

In the figure above, the first stave introduces a new theme that climbs toward the upper tonic. All of the note durations in the first 3 bars are 3 quavers long. Because patterns of 3+3+2 are prevalent in western and Indian classical music, on first listening, the example seems to be falling into this common pattern – the repetition of the F# at the end of bar 2 even reaffirms this idea, until it appears to go on for too long, finally breaking the ties between the melody and the pulse. When a reference point is finally provided in bar 4 (leading tone resolving to tonic), it too is a deception, based on the tendency for the ear to hear the tonic as indicative of a strong beat in the melody. The overwhelming impression is that we have lost a beat somewhere. This is due to a technique that I have noted in many Carnatic krithis, where the listener is deceived into thinking the beat is somewhere else, because a progression from leading note to tonic, or from the 5th degree to the tonic, has occurred at a place other than ‘samam’ (beat one). For example, in Maha Ganapathim (Dikshitar), the tonic is consistently played on the offbeat to beat 5 (the ‘&’ of beat 5). The effect can be enhanced further by the percussionists using the methods I discussed earlier.

These 2 sections form the basic construction of the piece. The two sections are developed in uneven proportions – the first section becomes the basis for improvisation of various kinds, which takes up the majority of the work before the ‘B’ section concludes the piece. [This idea comes from my experience with Sth Mada St (Carnatic Jazz Experiment concert 1) wherein Rajyashree introduced me to the idea that Carnatic improvisation could occur after any of the three sections of a krithi.]

4.3    Improvisations

The alap, an unmeasured and unaccompanied exploration of the ragam, is placed at the approximate 1/3 point of Kannakku. In Carnatic music, the alap is used to introduce the key phrases and pitches of a ragam before the composition begins, and therefore always occurs before a composition. For some time, I had considered the idea of putting the alap at a different point in a composition and during the composition of Kannakku this point suggested itself. It occurs after a composed chordal introduction, a statement of the ‘A’ section melody (Figure 6) and a violin solo. The momentum is built through these sections and then there is a release when the alap begins, and measured time is temporarily suspended. The alap itself also shows another interesting contrast between jazz and Carnatic approaches, and becomes a point at which the traditions can blend seamlessly. There was a simple instruction for the alap: the guitar begins by playing a quasi-Carnatic alap; then the other melody instruments join in until it develops into ‘free’ improvisation. The instruction points out a difference in the Carnatic and jazz understanding of what ‘free improvisation’ is: the Carnatic interpretation being: ‘without rhythm’; the jazz interpretation being: ‘without rhythm or tonality’. In the resulting improvisation, you can hear the gradual shift from a Carnatic exploration of ‘swaras’ to a more textural, gestural approach (CD Audio Track 4).

4.4    Rhythm

There were several rhythmic ideas that I wanted to incorporate in Kannakku:

> korvais that are played in two speeds (ie, in quavers then in triplets),
> a korvai that included ‘yatis’ on several different organisational levels,
> a ‘tani avartanam’ that is built into the structure of the work.

Korvais that are played in several speeds require a number of calculations. If we wish to design a normal, single-speed korvai we simply need to make sure the number of ‘matras’ (subdivisions) in the korvai is equal to the number of matras in the thalam (rhythmic cycle). For example, if we are in Adi thalam (8 beats), ‘chatusra nadai’ (semiquaver subdivision) we should compose a korvai with 32 matras to take up one cycle of the thalam. A simple 32-matra korvai could be

3 3 3 3 3
5 (1) 5 (1) 5

If we wish to design a korvai that lasts for more than one cycle of Adi thalam we need to write to multiples of 32 matras. A korvai of 64, 96, or 128 matras will last 2, 3 or 4 cycles.

If we wish to design a korvai that can be played in two speeds (‘nadais’ or subdivisions) we need to compose a korvai that has a total number of matras that will suit both nadais. For example, if we wish to play a korvai in chatusra and tisra nadai (semiquavers and triplets) in Adi thalam, we need to consider the total number of matras for each subdivision.

In Chatusram (4 notes per beat), the number of matras in a cycle or cycles is: 32, 64, 96, 128, 160, 192, 224, 256, 288,   etc.
In Tisram (3 notes per beat), the number of matras in a cycle or cycles is: 24, 48, 72, 96, 120, 144, 168, 192, 216, 240, etc.
In Khandam (5 notes per beat), the number of matras in a cycle or cycles is: 40, 80, 120, 160, 200, 240, 280, etc.

From this, we can see that korvais of 96, 120, and 160 and 240 matras will fit more than one subdivision. For example, if we write a korvai that has 96 matras it will fit into 3 cycles of Adi thalam at chatusra nadai and 4 cycles of Adi thalam in tisra nadai. There are actually many korvais that are 96 matras long, reflecting the economy of Carnatic learning: korvais of 96 matras can be used in many different situations: as chatusra and tisra nadai korvais in Adi thalam; or, as a chatusra nadai korvai in Rupaka thalam (3/4).

In the preparation for Kannakku, a calculation was done for a korvai that could be played in tisram, chatusram and khandam (quintuplets) but this was found to be too long to fit comfortably in the composition. A korvai that can be played in chatusra-, tisra- and khanda-nadai must be 480 matras long (taking up 15 cycles at chatusram, 20 cycles at tisram, and 12 cycles at khandam). If you do the same calculation for a bar of 4/4 (rather than 8/4) then a more manageable korvai of 240 matras can be played in chatusram, tisram or khandam. Here is one example:

10 10 10 (8) 7
2 10 10 10 (8) 7 7
2 2 10 10 10 (8) 7 7 7
7 7 7  (3)  8 8 8  (3)  9 9 9

Below is an example of a korvai in two speeds from Kannakku (violin, bb. 73-95):

Figure 11. Kannakku. bb. 73-95.

2 speed korvai kannakku

The above example can be heard in Audio Track 5 on the accompanying CD. This korvai can be expressed numerically:

4(2)4(2)4(2)  5  3(2)3(2)3(2)  5  2(2)2(2)2(2)  5  1(2)1(2)1(2)
9 9 9

The korvai is 96 matras long, making it playable in chatusram and tisram. However, in this instance, when the korvai is played in tisram (b. 13-22) it is not repeated exactly. A 12-matra fragment of the ‘A’ section melody is inserted between the final groups of 9:

4(2)4(2)4(2)  5  3(2)3(2)3(2)  5  2(2)2(2)2(2)  5  1(2)1(2)1(2)
9 (12) 9 (12) 9

Figure 12. The tisram section of the korvai with the ‘A’ melody highlighted.

2 speed korvai kannakku w highlights

While this still causes the korvai to resolve at beat one this sort of variation would generally not be permitted (or desirable) in Carnatic music. The reason for this is that korvais would rarely be discussed and rehearsed before a performance – percussionists would simply figure out what the soloist is doing the first time through the korvai and then play it with them the second and third time (personal communication with Ghatam Suresh, October 17, 2009). Changing the third repetition by inserting another fragment would make it impossible for the accompanists to follow and would be considered unaesthetic, as the rhythmic pattern has been developed in an illogical way. In the context of Kannakku, it works as a compositional device, introducing the melody back into the composition and marking a return to thematic material and reflecting an intention to make rhythmic devices function structurally within the context of the larger composition.

The korvai above emerges out of the alap (free improvisation) and leads in to the first section of tani avartanam in tisra nadai (triplet subdivision). A Carnatic tani avartanam usually features improvisation in several nadais and the second section of this tani is in chatusram (semiquaver subdivision). I composed another korvai that would link the tisram to the chatusram sections of the tani. This section became one of the most important sections of the work, as well as the most difficult section to perform.

The second section of the korvai is a simple mora: 555 4 555 4 555, but the first section contains multiple levels of yati (expanding and contracting phrases). It is an elaborate extension of concepts I had encountered in Carnatic rhythm. Recently I was able to confirm with Karaikkudi R Mani the ‘correctness’ of the korvai (personal communication, October 15, 2009). One could also note the similarity to the reduction exercises in the Prologue to this chapter by Palghat Raghu. The korvai is as follows:

Figure 13. Large korvai from Kannakku.

A section
Tha , , , , , , ki , , , , , , ta , , , , , ,
Tha , , , , , ki , , , , , ta , , , , ,
Tha , , , , ki , , , , ta , , , ,
Tha , , , ki , , , ta , , ,
Tha , , ki , , ta , ,
Dhum ,
Tha , , , , , ka , , , , , di , , , , , mi , , , , ,
Tha , , , , ka , , , , di , , , , mi , , , ,
Tha , , , ka, , , di , , , mi , , ,
Tha , , ka , , di , , mi , ,
Tha , ka , di , mi ,
Dhum ,
Tha , , , , ding , , , , gi , , , , na , , , , thom , , , ,
Tha , , , ding , , , gi , , , na , , , thom , , ,
Tha , , ding , , gi , , na , , thom , ,
Tha , ding , gi , na , thom ,

B section
Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom
Dhaa , ge Dhaa , ge  (3 3)
Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom
Dhaa , ge Dhaa , ge
Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom Tha di gi na thom  ||  (Dha)

The ‘A’ section of the korvai has three parts, the first of which is based on the phrase ‘thakita’ (3 matras), the second on the phrase ‘thakadimi’ (4), and the third on the phrase ‘thadinginathom’ (5). This expansion of phrase length in this manner is called a ‘srothavaya yati’. Each phrase, however, follows a process of contraction – each syllable becoming shorter with each reiteration (in this first line, each syllable of the ‘Tha ki ta’ is 7 matras long, in the second line, each syllable is 6 matras long, and so on). This contracting process is called a ‘cowputcha yati’. Each section moves one step further towards a single-matra-per-syllable iteration, the thakita condensing to 3 matras per syllable, the thakadimi to 2, and the thadiginathom to one matra per syllable whereupon it is elided with the first phrase of the ‘B’ section mora. This blurring of the sections is common in Carnatic practice.

Below is the same korvai expressed numerically:

A section:
777 666 555 444 333 (2)
6666 5555 4444 3333 2222 (2)
55555 44444 33333 22222 [11111]
B section:
5 5 5  (33) 555 (33) 555

Notice the elision between the sections in which the 5×1 at the end of the ‘A’ section becomes the 1×5 at the start of the ‘B’ section. We can see here the difficulty of expressing such a korvai in numbers. While illuminating on a structural level, the numbers do not show the way in which the phrases are articulated. I have attempted to demonstrate that the last phrase is of the ‘A’ section becomes the first phrase of the ‘B’ section with an arrow. This numerical representation however, corresponds closely to the approach taken by Tunji Beier, who can be heard in the performance reciting the solkattu for the phrase (Audio Track 6).

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Cross-Cultural Musicianship 2008-09.

September 15, 2009 — toby

In 2008 and 2009 I taught a subject at QUT Music and Sound called “Cross-Cultural Musicianship”. The course was established by Dr Robert Davidson with aims to teach students to make sense of the multiplicity of musical influences around them by teaching them the compositions, techniques and cultural context of, in my case, Carnatic music, and allow students to develop approaches to cross-cultural music through compositions and performance. (From the ‘Unit Outline’ of Cross-Cultural Musicianship, a Unit in the Bachelor of Music program at QUT Creative Industries http://qut.com/study/courseinfo/).

In fact, it was a microcosm of my masters research, and became an important method of testing ideas I had about the learning of Carnatic music and about cross-cultural music making.

In teaching the unit, I tried to convey to students what I felt were the key elements in my own learning. I followed an integrated, Comprehensive Musicianship-style approach (Rogers, 1984), combining western and Indian techniques, aural and notated. For example, in the very first lecture I briefly explained the structure of the course and then asked them to take their shoes outside and sit on the floor, whereupon I began to teach them a Carnatic composition, Carnatic-style. They learnt the krithi “Vatapi Ganapathim” (M. Dikshitar) aurally, line by line. In doing so, I was recalling when, in 2006, I was taught the same piece by U Srinivas (see Carnatic Lesson Format). I demonstrated to them, as had been demonstrated to me line by painful line, that a western musician, with years of training and professional experience, can still be a rank amateur at music. Any specialist in her field invariably feels like Socrates, at some point, that the more they learn the more there is to learn, but it is unusual to feel like one’s knowledge has been stripped away. I had not felt like a beginner at music since I was 8 years old. As the lesson progressed, I could feel the same realisation dawning in the group.

In some ways it is a kind of cruelty, but in my case, I felt like a veil had been lifted. I knew that Carnatic lessons were aural, but I had taken aural lessons at the conservatorium. In every text I had been told that nothing can substitute for lessons, but it was not until I was actually floundering about that I realised the truth. I was floundering for a number of reasons. The situation was unfamiliar, the musical language was unfamiliar, and the process was unfamiliar (see Carnatic Lesson Format).

In my experience, I was a westerner immersed in Carnatic music culture. In my reconstructed experiment, we are ‘playing Carnatic’, in a western style classroom, with a western teacher that is ‘pretending’ to be an Indian teacher, creating what Clifford calls ‘true fictions’ (as quoted in Campbell, 2005, p.13). Despite this, the point of the lesson is still effectively demonstrated. In my experiment, the western students feel more able to communicate their discomfort to me (because we are ‘playing Carnatic’), but they are still going through the experience of learning in a different way. In their faces I can see a new appreciation for Carnatic music when we listen to some examples later. They realise the extent of the compositions (having struggled to learn less than a 1/3 of one in an hour). And, they realise the effort of learning a composition in a traditional manner. It effectively strips away any notion of the superiority of western music, by highlighting the fundamental differences in musical language (see Changing Perspectives). I had learnt about world music at university, but it was not until I had the experience of playing an other music that I understood the difference, that I gained respect for the music of study, that I moved away from the ‘multicultural’ and towards the ‘transcultural’ (Schippers, in Campbell, 2005).

In Cross-cultural Musicianship, students were not only taught about Carnatic music, they had to perform Carnatic music (rhythmic and melodic compositions) and they were expected to use Carnatic music to inform their own practice through composition. The compositions had to merge elements of Carnatic music practice with their own artistic practice, but the way in which this was acheived was up to the student. In the interests of my own research, I was not specific about how this should be achieved, because I was interested in the variety of approaches that could be generated (not least because of the implications for my own research). A student who usually composed electronic dance music submitted a techno piece based on an evolving drone (which was expected), that featured Yatis (expanding and contracting rhythmic phrases, see Glossary) of various types used to break the flow of the bass drum beat (which was completely unexpected). While the result was unquestionably still techno it was also unquestionably process driven and fascinating. The student has performed the piece live on many occasions, although I have not heard any feedback about its dance-a-bility(!).

Another student consulted with me often during the semester about her anxieties about the process. She felt that as a second year student she had not developed a distinct artistic identity with which to combine the Carnatic influence. For her and others the task became a dual process of identifying their own artistic practice before they could augment it with Carnatic concepts. For this particular student, the challenge came at the right time and she was able to reflect and identify her own practice alongside her examination of Carnatic music. It resulted in a sublime composition with traces of old-school funk and folk within a framework of Carnatic ragam and well executed korvais and yatis. In the process of clarifying her approach, the student was able to design her approach to include Carnatic concepts, something I am still struggling to do.

========================

Campbell, P.S. et al. (Eds.) (2005). Cultural diversity in music education: Directions and challenges for the 21st century. Brisbane: Australian Academic Press.

Rogers, M.R. (1984). Teaching approaches in music theory: An overview of pedagogical philosophies. Illonois: Southern Illonois University Press.

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Musical Language

September 15, 2009 — toby

[it is] like saying a certain r is characteristic of French. Learning that sound is one thing, and having a native-sounding chat in Paris another. (Sudnow, p. 22., 2001)

The composer reveals the inmost essence of the world and utters the most profound vision in a language which his reason does not understand. (Schoenberg, quoted in Gardner, 1985, p 103).

Stravinsky spoke of the powerlessness of music to express anything (1936, p. 53) and goes on to say that any percieved meaning that music has has been ‘thrust upon it’. This popular view is echoed in science by Stephen Pinker (1997) and Kivy, in his introduction to Antithetical Arts, (2009) in which he takes as given the knowledge that “Music… cannot be a source of philosophical insight and illumination” (p. 3). Patel (2008) offers the more moderate view that while music doesn’t contain syntactic content it can at times suggest semantic concepts (p. 328.) and notes that “the relationship of musical meaning to linguistic pragmatics [how listeners add contextual information to semantic structure and how they draw inferences about what has been said] is virtually unexplored” (p. 327). In the academy music has already begun to be considered a form of research itself; “a shift from dance [or music] as a object of investigation to dance as a means of investigating.” (Vincs, 2000). This uneasy relationship between words, music and meaning has been the subject of much debate in the philosophical and musical worlds, but has barely begun to be explored by the cognitive sciences (Patel, 2008, p. 3.).

Musicians and composers certainly become aware of the awkward relationship between music and words, when they are asked to describe their music often resorting to genre descriptions. However, people continue to be impelled to try and express their feelings about music with words despite their awareness of the inadequacies of the language to do so. My reaction to Stravinsky, is that I believe that music actually does express something, but that we are incapable of expressing in words what that something is.

In the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921), Wittgenstein describes anything that words cannot express as the mystical. While it seems that we are incapable of describing with words what music expresses, the opposite is also true - music is incapable of describing anything that can be expressed with words. I would like to propose that spoken language and musical language are exclusive sets, wherein anything that one can say, the other is powerless to say; and anything that one struggles to say, the other can say most eloquently.

Even if we concede that music does express something, describing music as a language may still seem far-fetched. Yet, music certainly has similar characteristics to language in the way it is structured and learnt and it appears to excite similar patterns of neurons in the brain to language (Pinker, 1997; Patel, 2008). Patel notes similarities of organisation, the presence of heirarchies, distinction between ’structural’ and ‘elaborative’ elements (2008).

If music is a language of sorts, and let us assume for the moment that it is, the basic letters of music can be considered the 7 notes of a scale and the variations of those notes (sharpened or flattened). Syllable combinations and words can be created by combining letters (as chords in western music, or ornamentation in Indian classical music). Words can be put together to form phrases, phrases come together to form sentences. Sentences relate in a logical way until an argument or story is made (I am talking here of the musical argument or story independent of the story that the lyrics of a song might describe). Such reductions can be problematic in analysis, but a sort of loose correlation is useful for my purposes.

In some musical languages the words are easy to understand (think of nursery rhymes), in some it is extremely difficult (I think immediately of jazz and Indian classical music). The beginner in jazz for example learns words or phrases that typify the language, first learning to repeat them verbatim in certain situations. Gradually the vocabulary is expanded until at some magical point the player is able to rearrange and recombine the words and phrases to create their own sentences and eventually acquire the ability to tell a story. I have seen my daughter follow the same steps in learning to come to grips with the English language. It takes a long time before the meaning of enough of the individual words is understood that she is able to effectively to generate new meaning and sound natural doing so. In music it seems, infants are particularly drawn to music indiscriminately until they learn to be selective [Dowling et al. (1988) found that 3-year-olds could just barely discriminate tonal from atonal melodies (in Patel, p. 373)].

The research of Trainor and Trehub demonstrates the ways in which our listening habits begin to change at an early age.

In 1992, Trainor and Trehub tested babies and adults ability to notice changes in a melody. They found that while the babies will notice if the note that is varied in any way, an adult will often not notice if a melody note is changed to another note in the implied harmony. In their test the used the melody: C, D, E, F, D, G, C, E, D, C (played with a triplet feel) which clearly outlines a harmonic progression of I – V7- I in the key of C. In subsequent repetitions they varied the note ‘G’ to G#, B and A. Not surprisingly, adults found it easier to detect the chromatically altered G# change than the change to B (which is contained within the implied V7 harmony and the prevailing key). Surprisingly, babies noticed any changes to the melody equally. (Deliege & Sloboda, 1997).

What can be inferred is that recognising melodic contour gradually becomes subsumed by exposure to harmony. Once we start to recognise familiar harmonic patterns and the melodies that accompany them, it appears that our ears start to get lazy at recognising the subtle differences between melodies. This is particularly relevant to my study, where I was finding that my sophisticated knowledge of harmony was impeding my ability to perceive the nuance of Carnatic melody.

I began to consider that Carnatic music was a different musical language towards the end of 2008. This was not a defined moment, but rather, a gradual unfolding of realisation, facilitated by the reflexivity of my practice-as-research. I also began to realise that my own expertise of jazz and other western musical languages had created an expectation of the grammar and syntax of music generally, an expectation that was now not being met. I had built up a vast library of knowledge of music from a specific cultural vantage. Some of the knowledge was learned, textualised information, but much of it was the embodied knowledge of playing the guitar, playing the piano, playing percussion, conducting, leading a band, composing and improvising – all of these in a western, harmony-based musical paradigm. From the radio stations my parents listened to, to the Bach my grandfather played, melody and harmony were inextricably joined, and rhythm was expressed as divisions of a steady pulse. This had shaped my expectations of how music is ’supposed’ to unfold and develop.

Carnatic required me to change the way I thought about the functionality of notes in a scale, relationships between melody and harmony, and between rhythm and pulse. These things are mentioned in the general literature on Carnatic music, but in writing them down, as I have just done, it tends to somehow gloss over the actual process of learning to hear and understand the differences. While it is a relatively straightforward process to add new bits of knowledge (learn new facts, understand new concepts) it is rather more difficult to embody that knowledge. This explains why, after reading about Carnatic music for so long, listening to recordings and even practicing rhythmic ideas, I was not able to play them in improvisations without it sounding artificial, tacked on.

It may be that in my case, this shift in perception was particularly difficult to achieve. I was particularly enamoured with harmony and harmonic intricacy early on [after learning to play 'Book 1' and 'Book 2' piano, I moved straight to the 'Moonlight Sonata' despite the protest of my piano teacher (see Mrs Tothill and the Needles)]. I played chordal instruments from an early age and composed harmony based music: I learned to hear melodies in relation to chord changes. (This was not an entirely a bad thing of course, it has been the basis for most of my creative output to date.)

In my lecture demonstration (11 August, 2009) I described the tendency for western musicians to learn other musics in reference to western music as as wearing ‘jazz glasses’. Jazz glasses are extremely useful, because they provide a comprehensive understanding of functional harmony and a context for examining non-functional harmony. Jazz glasses enabled me to understand rock, pop, folk, jazz and western art music, and some other world musics such as flamenco, cuban and bossa nova that I was interested in at various points. But it was not getting me very far with Carnatic music. In analysing these styles of music the melody is always contextualised by the harmony (or implied harmony), and in Carnatic music, as in many asian musics, there is no harmony. This does not completely solve the issue however, because there is a drone against which we may measure the melody. In a jazz melody for example, an ‘E’ melody note against a G dominant 7th chord sounds like a 13th – it doesn’t sound like an E (unless you have perfect pitch), it is heard in the context of the harmony. Indian melodies can be heard in this manner also, against the drone pitch, but I believe this is less important than the horizontal movement of the melody – the flow of notes in time. It is this horizontal listening that was causing me the most trouble, and I only began to realise some success when I actively stopped listening to the vertical context. In learning to hear harmony, to a large extent, I had sacrificed my ability to hear melody. I took the jazz glasses off.

It was a symbolic gesture, but like many symbolic gestures it was of great import. Whether by consequence or coincidence I began to hear Carnatic melody. In simple terms, I was able to listen intently to longer exerpts of Carnatic melody, without my mind wandering, or without listening only to the mridangam player, or analysing the quality of the recording. While I still had no idea what they were singing about, I was able to listen to the story of the music and to be carried away. While Carnatic rhythms could already keep me in thrall, now Carnatic melody began to exercise a similar influence on me [Hindustani music also became much easier to follow]. For anyone who is able to grasp Indian music intuitively this will seem incomprehensible. I don’t mean to suggest that Carnatic music seemed like noise before my realisation, but I was certainly less able to notice difference, variation and form in Carnatic melody when I began to listen to it.

I began to consider that Carnatic was a separate musical language with a separate alphabet, where before I had been trying to learn new words using the same alphabet. Tamil, of course, has a separate alphabet which is why there is so much variation in spelling: mridangam, mrudangam, mrdangam, muruthangam, etc. There is not a one-to-one equivalence of Tamil to English letters (in fact Tamil is syllabic, containing 247 separate symbols of consonant plus vowel, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamil_script) so why would there be a one-to-one equavalence of musical alphabets? While I already considered that Carnatic music had a vocabulary that was different to jazz, I now began to think of Carnatic swaras as being different to western notes.

Shortly after this, I began to play more convincingly with the Carnatic musicians I was rehearsing with. My improvisations began to sound more whole, the transitions between ‘Carnatic style’ and ‘jazz style’ became less obvious. In the words of David Sudnow, “I began to sound like someone trying hard to say something” (p. 45, 2001). Sudnow’s analysis of his process of learning to play jazz, I discovered recently, mirrored my recent efforts. He describes his own learning as ‘backwards’.

In first language acquisition, one initially gains facility with restricted little movements, then heads for ever more extensive gestural trajectories. But I was aimed from the outset, and nearly always, for the most complex of doings, as though trying to speak a new language by ridiculously plunging into a serious conversation at the usual adult pace. This without really knowing how to say “words” properly, only making little bits of sound that could here and there be heard to fall within the language. (p. 39, 2008).

As an overconfident western musician, I, of course, had been guilty of ridiculously plunging into Carnatic music. I have always been attracted by the complexities of music and Carnatic music was no different. Like Sudnow, I had aimed form the outset for the most complex of musical doings. Unlike Sudnow (who was learning to ’speak jazz’), I was not trying to speak Carnatic, merely to be influenced by it. While there were words I was borrowing from Carnatic music, and even some smaller phrases, I was not attempting to speak like a native (which leads me to the terrifying realisation that I may be learning to speak a language that nooone understands).

ex.

The reason this shift in thinking was so necessary, besides the self-improvement of learning to see another aspect of music, was that I could not begin to think of how to be influenced by Carnatic music until I began to understand it’s grammar – the logical and structural rules that govern the composition of sentences, phrases, and words (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammar).

It is difficult to say if I have changed grammars, but perhaps I have modified the grammar I was using; perhaps it is one of my own design now. I find the language analogy extremely illuminating, but it is an analogy that was developed at the close of this research. It may be possible for future research to analyse more closely the relationship between the acquisition of language and musical language.

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Deliege, I. & Sloboda, J. (Eds.). (1997). Perception and cognition of music. East Sussex, UK: Psychology Press.

Kivy, P.  (2009). Antithetical arts: On the ancient quarrel between literature and music. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Patel, A. D. (2008). Music, language and the brain. New York: Oxford University Press.

Pinker, S. (1997). How the mind works. London: Penguin books.

Sudnow, D. (2001). Ways of the hand: A rewritten account. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Stravinsky, I. (1936). Igor Stravinsky: An autobiography. New York: Norton & Company.

Vincs, K. (2000). Rhizome/MyZone: A case study in studio-based dance research. In Barrett, E. & Bolt, B. (Eds.), Practice as research: Approaches to creative arts enquiry (pp. 99-112). New York: I.B. Tauris.DeBono, E. (1998). Simplicity. London: Viking.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamil_script, retrieved on 15 September, 2009.

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Lecture Demonstration

September 15, 2009 — toby

This lecture demonstration was the third part of the assesment for my masters research. It covered the compositional process with reference to some musical examples from the two Carnatic Jazz Experiment concerts (assesment items 1 and 2).
It was given to the combined jazz and composition departments of the Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University, on 11 August, 2009.

It includes examples of the compositions and how they came about and were evaluated.

Powerpoint of Lec-Dem.

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