fun void tuning ( time ) {
begin;
}
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Tuning is a function of time
It's a bit strange to see all your belongings that you've lived with for the last year in either one suitcase or a big garbage bag for secondhand clothing, which is to say, most of my clothes. Not to mention, they will definitely go over the weight limit, probably charging me an extra $300 that I don't have, as well as trying to carry on two laptops, a guitar, and a violin. I'm going to wear a suit, if that counts for anything. Mostly, because I don't want it to get too wrinkled and smelly in the suitcase, but secretly because I want people to take me seriously when I'm trying to check a half dozen bags, or rather carry on two instruments.
Anyway, travel is the least of my worries, primarily because it should be over by the end of tomorrow. I spent all day today having coffee or Guinness with friends, just saying goodbyes and trying to keep in touch. It's tough to tell, at this short time, who I will or won't see again. It's tough also, then, to avoid turning inward once I realize that there are, in fact, fairly important people that will become consistently less and less important as time goes by. But there's something to be said for sealing people in a particular place and time, and whether or not I see them again they will still be distinct entities apart from their 2007/2008 selves.
I remember some essay by John Cage, or Louis Andriessen, or La Monte Young or someone, saying that, in music, we can control pitch, rhythm, volume, timbre, or anything else except for time. The one constant element of music is time: linear, continuous, and inexorable (beware, this is a paraphrase of I don't know whom). Or the composer Morton Feldman, who wrote four-hour string quartets, and who said that he never repeats himself because, even if he did (which he does), it is now different, because it's happening at a different moment in time.
Well, let's cut the allegory short and get to bed, because it will be an early morning, and although I'm leaving some of you I'm going back to others of you. But this will be my last (substantial) post here; I may add something linking to a new site, probably something fancier, probably something with another black-and-white picture of me with a sheet of composition paper or an Apple laptop. For now, though, it's time to move on. Most bars in the U.S. don't serve anything on nitrogen.
Anyway, travel is the least of my worries, primarily because it should be over by the end of tomorrow. I spent all day today having coffee or Guinness with friends, just saying goodbyes and trying to keep in touch. It's tough to tell, at this short time, who I will or won't see again. It's tough also, then, to avoid turning inward once I realize that there are, in fact, fairly important people that will become consistently less and less important as time goes by. But there's something to be said for sealing people in a particular place and time, and whether or not I see them again they will still be distinct entities apart from their 2007/2008 selves.
I remember some essay by John Cage, or Louis Andriessen, or La Monte Young or someone, saying that, in music, we can control pitch, rhythm, volume, timbre, or anything else except for time. The one constant element of music is time: linear, continuous, and inexorable (beware, this is a paraphrase of I don't know whom). Or the composer Morton Feldman, who wrote four-hour string quartets, and who said that he never repeats himself because, even if he did (which he does), it is now different, because it's happening at a different moment in time.
Well, let's cut the allegory short and get to bed, because it will be an early morning, and although I'm leaving some of you I'm going back to others of you. But this will be my last (substantial) post here; I may add something linking to a new site, probably something fancier, probably something with another black-and-white picture of me with a sheet of composition paper or an Apple laptop. For now, though, it's time to move on. Most bars in the U.S. don't serve anything on nitrogen.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Irish Whiskey, English Mustard, American Pie
But not like that, sicko. I never noticed it before I was here, but it's tough when one of your three favorite foods is turned into a cultural sex toy. "Do you have pie?" when I rarely eat out, then even more rarely order dessert, in fact, I don't think this has ever happened "But not beef and Guinness pie, American pie, with fruit" which sounds like you're playing a joke, and no, tarts are not okay.
Anyway, the line between Richland and Dublin cooking is really very thin and full of Crisco, and by that I mean it consists of pie. I never even bothered trying to make my mom's pies (except once, when I really ruined the crust and she had to save it thereby also saving Christmas) even though I watched her make it several times a year (Dad's birthday, my birthday, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, potlucks) and am pretty good at cutting in the shortening, at least when I make scones, and can handle rolling dough fairly well, when I make pizza, but I still worked away in total fear, following the recipe (strawberry rhubarb) to the letter, which is something I haven't done to a recipe in years and years. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and although I managed to skip the pie-feasts of Dad's birthday, Thanksgiving, potlucks, and most recently the Fourth of July, I could not let my own birthday slip through the cracks. Needless to say, I botched the crust by not dusting the cutting board with flour, so I rolled that one back up and made it into a makeshift top, thank God it was a two-crust pie, while I went in for round two on the new bottom crust, taking six times as long as my mother, and forgoing a rolling pin for an empty bottle of Jameson whiskey, which put all these little backwards signatures of "John J. Jameson" on the crust, a sign of quality. So, I ended up patching the parts that needed patching, drawing an ocean scene with a fork on the top crust, and it still somehow managed to come out all right, even though I used Crisp n' Dry, which sounds like a deodorant, because I couldn't find Crisco.
And, really, from the first bite, it was worth it. The crust really did pay off, although it kind of fell apart since I didn't have a pie-scoop, but then it did that landslide thing and melted the ice cream (also the first time I've had ice cream at home here), and there was some left over, even. Which is to say, it was definitely a hit of nostalgia having the pie last night, but reheating the pie this morning with coffee? a full-on overdose.
Anyway, the line between Richland and Dublin cooking is really very thin and full of Crisco, and by that I mean it consists of pie. I never even bothered trying to make my mom's pies (except once, when I really ruined the crust and she had to save it thereby also saving Christmas) even though I watched her make it several times a year (Dad's birthday, my birthday, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, potlucks) and am pretty good at cutting in the shortening, at least when I make scones, and can handle rolling dough fairly well, when I make pizza, but I still worked away in total fear, following the recipe (strawberry rhubarb) to the letter, which is something I haven't done to a recipe in years and years. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and although I managed to skip the pie-feasts of Dad's birthday, Thanksgiving, potlucks, and most recently the Fourth of July, I could not let my own birthday slip through the cracks. Needless to say, I botched the crust by not dusting the cutting board with flour, so I rolled that one back up and made it into a makeshift top, thank God it was a two-crust pie, while I went in for round two on the new bottom crust, taking six times as long as my mother, and forgoing a rolling pin for an empty bottle of Jameson whiskey, which put all these little backwards signatures of "John J. Jameson" on the crust, a sign of quality. So, I ended up patching the parts that needed patching, drawing an ocean scene with a fork on the top crust, and it still somehow managed to come out all right, even though I used Crisp n' Dry, which sounds like a deodorant, because I couldn't find Crisco.
And, really, from the first bite, it was worth it. The crust really did pay off, although it kind of fell apart since I didn't have a pie-scoop, but then it did that landslide thing and melted the ice cream (also the first time I've had ice cream at home here), and there was some left over, even. Which is to say, it was definitely a hit of nostalgia having the pie last night, but reheating the pie this morning with coffee? a full-on overdose.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Drones (We Are) - Valediction
More drones, I know. I even gave it (the mp3) an album name, sort of a pun. My intonation isn't perfect on this recording, but I feel that I manage to hit enough 7ths, major 3rds, and that E-natural well enough to make it at least work. For those of you asking "what does Just Intonation sound like?" this is what it sounds like, but usually better assuming someone is playing it who can actually play the violin.
Valediction: For any number of strings, Indeterminate duration.
Tune violins a whole step lower; tune strings IV, III, and II of cello and viola a whole step lower (C-F-C-G-D). Tune to perfect fifths.
There are about a dozen patterns here, as well as a drone on the F. All the patterns are overtones of that F from a 9-note scale (Ionian plus Lydian plus Mixolydian, or the standard Western I-IV-V). Each player should move about these patterns at will, although not jumping more than a few patterns at a time, to preserve some continuity. Players may repeat the patterns as many times as needed, and skip patterns if they wish; however, it is highly advised that someone always be playing a held F (drone), and, if there are enough players, someone should be playing a held C as well, for tuning purposes. Optionally, the players may be spread around the performance space, behind, above, or underneath the audience. They may also be amplified, and spatialized, although not with artificial reverb or effects. Finally, it may go on as long as it needs to; there is no limit (either maximum or minimum) to the duration.
If anyone wants to perform this, let me know and I'll write up the score. Mostly, it's either in my head or on scraps of paper in a half-dozen notebooks scattered around my room.
Please suffer my four-violin recording.
http://www.willamette.edu/~acsmith/valediction.mp3
Valediction: For any number of strings, Indeterminate duration.
Tune violins a whole step lower; tune strings IV, III, and II of cello and viola a whole step lower (C-F-C-G-D). Tune to perfect fifths.
There are about a dozen patterns here, as well as a drone on the F. All the patterns are overtones of that F from a 9-note scale (Ionian plus Lydian plus Mixolydian, or the standard Western I-IV-V). Each player should move about these patterns at will, although not jumping more than a few patterns at a time, to preserve some continuity. Players may repeat the patterns as many times as needed, and skip patterns if they wish; however, it is highly advised that someone always be playing a held F (drone), and, if there are enough players, someone should be playing a held C as well, for tuning purposes. Optionally, the players may be spread around the performance space, behind, above, or underneath the audience. They may also be amplified, and spatialized, although not with artificial reverb or effects. Finally, it may go on as long as it needs to; there is no limit (either maximum or minimum) to the duration.
If anyone wants to perform this, let me know and I'll write up the score. Mostly, it's either in my head or on scraps of paper in a half-dozen notebooks scattered around my room.
Please suffer my four-violin recording.
http://www.willamette.edu/~acsmith/valediction.mp3
Monday, July 28, 2008
Genre
When pirating music, sometimes it appears in iTunes intact with artist names, sometimes album information, and if you're very lucky it comes with a genre. Rebuilding my music collection, since I somehow can't access the 60 GB of (mostly) my CD collection on my dying external hard drive, my favorite genre was "Unclassifiable," for a Larry Polansky (electronic, microtonal, acoustic, heavily distorted guitars, sometimes a choir, teaches at Dartmouth) album "C H A N G E," but that has now been eclipsed by a Keyboard Study from the album par le GERM split LP by minimalist founder Terry Riley, Genre: Unknowable. For some reference, he is also listed under folk, rock & roll, "instrumental," jazz, "misc," avant garde, and (where do we draw the line?) classical. To be fair, he probably belongs in electronic, world, and new age as well.
My dream is to perform his signature piece "In C" at Wulapalooza, or anywhere else with a semi-captive audience. It's a series of 40-something loops for any number of musicians with any instruments, where you move forward at will, with no conductor. It is, as I believe, a deconstruction of the Western tradition. There's really no acceptable YouTube video for this, but I have a recording from the Node Ensemble concert somewhere, on another computer.
My dream is to perform his signature piece "In C" at Wulapalooza, or anywhere else with a semi-captive audience. It's a series of 40-something loops for any number of musicians with any instruments, where you move forward at will, with no conductor. It is, as I believe, a deconstruction of the Western tradition. There's really no acceptable YouTube video for this, but I have a recording from the Node Ensemble concert somewhere, on another computer.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Oh no.
http://salem.craigslist.org/etc/766600084.html
I am addicted to craigslist. Don't even get me started on "missed connections."
I am addicted to craigslist. Don't even get me started on "missed connections."
Pancaking
As part of an ongoing quest to use all my remaining baking ingredients, I made pancakes for breakfast. Except, there's a problem in halving the recipe when the four-serving version calls for one egg. Normally, I might just leave the egg the same and reduce the others, making extra-eggy pancakes--but, no, that would be capitulating. Now it's a challenge, and you, about.com, are about to lose.
I remember in sixth grade someone (Alan, in case anyone is interested) invented a word, "pancaking," for my current state. It's the act of eating pancakes drawn as a larger allegory: beginning something whole-hearted and enthusiastic, a delicious first bite, soon settling into the rhythm of things, then even sooner overwhelmed by the mass and monstrosity of what's on the plate in front of you, but determined to go on. Obviously, in a literal sense, this applies quite well to my present state, yet I believe it ranks with the Odyssey and the Gospel of John as a legitimate classical myth-structure; indeed, it applies to watching a Meg Ryan movie (funny and heartwarming; expected that joke, sure; isn't this over? where's Tom Hanks?) to Samuel Beckett (any elaboration needed? Good.)
Pancaking is never really done with. The current plate is finished, yet there is still almost a whole bag of white flour left, not to mention all the multi-grain flour, yeast, baking powder, baking soda, etc. But now, at least, I'm satisfied with a job well done, and also there's syrup all over my computer.
And now for a picture that I'll probably end up regretting when I apply for a job where they're likely to Google my name (which job is that?):
I remember in sixth grade someone (Alan, in case anyone is interested) invented a word, "pancaking," for my current state. It's the act of eating pancakes drawn as a larger allegory: beginning something whole-hearted and enthusiastic, a delicious first bite, soon settling into the rhythm of things, then even sooner overwhelmed by the mass and monstrosity of what's on the plate in front of you, but determined to go on. Obviously, in a literal sense, this applies quite well to my present state, yet I believe it ranks with the Odyssey and the Gospel of John as a legitimate classical myth-structure; indeed, it applies to watching a Meg Ryan movie (funny and heartwarming; expected that joke, sure; isn't this over? where's Tom Hanks?) to Samuel Beckett (any elaboration needed? Good.)
Pancaking is never really done with. The current plate is finished, yet there is still almost a whole bag of white flour left, not to mention all the multi-grain flour, yeast, baking powder, baking soda, etc. But now, at least, I'm satisfied with a job well done, and also there's syrup all over my computer.
And now for a picture that I'll probably end up regretting when I apply for a job where they're likely to Google my name (which job is that?):
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