Lessons in Music Form. Percy GoetschiusЧитать онлайн книгу.

      LESSONS IN MUSIC FORM.

      CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION.

       Table of Contents

      THE NECESSITY OF FORM IN MUSIC.—So much uncertainty and diversity of opinion exists among music lovers of every grade concerning the presence of Form in musical composition, and the necessity of its presence there, that a few general principles are submitted at the outset of our studies, as a guide to individual reflection and judgment on the subject.

      Certain apparently defensible prejudices that prevail in the minds of even advanced musical critics against the idea of Form in music, originate in a very manifest mistake on the part of the "formalists" themselves, who (I refer to unimpassioned theorists and advocates of rigid old scholastic rules) place too narrow a construction upon Form, and define it with such rigor as to leave no margin whatever for the exercise of free fancy and emotional sway. Both the dreamer, with his indifference to (or downright scorn of) Form; and the pedant, with his narrow conception of it; as well as the ordinary music lover, with his endeavor to discover some less debatable view to adopt for his own everyday use—need to be reminded that Form in music means simply Order in music.

      Thus interpreted, the necessity of form, that is, Order, in the execution of a musical design appears as obvious as are the laws of architecture to the builder, or the laws of creation to the astronomer or naturalist; for the absence of order, that is, Disorder, constitutes a condition which is regarded with abhorrence and dread by every rational mind.

      A musical composition, then, in which Order prevails; in which all the factors are chosen and treated in close keeping with their logical bearing upon each other and upon the whole; in which, in a word, there is no disorder of thought or technique—is music with Form (i.e. good Form). A sensible arrangement of the various members of the composition (its figures, phrases, motives, and the like) will exhibit both agreement and contrast, both confirmation and opposition; for we measure things by comparison with both like and unlike. Our nature demands the evidence of uniformity, as that emphasizes the impressions, making them easier to grasp and enjoy; but our nature also craves a certain degree of variety, to counteract the monotony which must result from too persistent uniformity. When the elements of Unity and Variety are sensibly matched, evenly balanced, the form is good. On the other hand, a composition is formless, or faulty in form, when the component parts are jumbled together without regard to proportion and relation.

      Which of these two conditions is the more desirable, or necessary, would seem to be wholly self-evident.

      The error made by pedantic teachers is to demand too much Form; to insist that a piece of music shall be a model of arithmetical adjustment. This is probably a graver error than apparent formlessness. Design and logic and unity there must surely be; but any obtrusive evidence of mathematical calculation must degrade music to the level of a mere handicraft.

      Another and higher significance involved in the idea of Form, that goes to prove how indispensable it may be in truly good music, rests upon the opposition of Form to the material.

      There are two essentially different classes of music lovers:—the one class takes delight in the mere sound and jingle of the music; not looking for any higher purpose than this, they content themselves with the purely sensuous enjoyment that the sound material affords. To such listeners, a comparatively meaningless succession of tones and chords is sufficiently enjoyable, so long as each separate particle, each beat or measure, is euphonious in itself. The other class, more discriminating in its tastes, looks beneath this iridescent surface and strives to fathom the underlying purpose of it all; not content with the testimony of the ear alone, such hearers enlist the higher, nobler powers of Reason, and no amount of pleasant sounds could compensate them for the absence of well-ordered parts and their logical justification.

      This second class is made up of those listeners who recognize in music an embodiment of artistic aims, an object of serious and refined enjoyment that appeals to the emotions through the intelligence—not a plaything for the senses alone; and who believe that all music that would in this sense be truly artistic, must exhibit "Form" as the end, and "Material" only as a means to this end.

      Still another, and possibly the strongest argument of all for the necessity of form in music, is derived from reflection upon the peculiarly vague and intangible nature of its art-material—tone, sound. The words of a language (also sounds, it is true) have established meanings, so familiar and definite that they recall and re-awaken impressions of thought and action with a vividness but little short of the actual experience. Tones, on the contrary, are not and cannot be associated with any definite ideas or impressions; they are as impalpable as they are transient, and, taken separately, leave no lasting trace.

      Therefore, whatever stability and palpability a musical composition is to acquire, must be derived from its form, or design, and not from its totally unsubstantial material. It must fall back upon the network traced by the disposition of its points and lines upon the musical canvas; for this it is that constitutes its real and palpable contents.

      THE EVIDENCES OF FORM IN MUSIC.—The presence of form in music is manifested, first of all, by the disposition of tones and chords in symmetrical measures, and by the numerous methods of tone arrangement which create and define the element of Rhythm—the distinction of short and long time-values, and of accented and unaccented (that is, heavy and light) pulses.

      This is not what is commonly supposed to constitute form in music, but it is the fundamental condition out of which an orderly system of form may be developed. As well might the carpenter or architect venture to dispense with scale, compass and square in their constructive labors, as that the composer should neglect beat, measure and rhythm, in his effort to realize a well-developed and intelligible design in the whole, or any part, of his composition. The beats and measures and phrases are the barley-corn, inch and ell of the musical draughtsman, and without these units of measurement and proportion, neither the vital condition of Symmetry nor the equally important condition of well-regulated Contrast could be clearly established.

      The beat is the unit of measurement in music. The measure is a group of beats—two, three, four, or more, at the option of the composer. The bounds of the measures are visibly represented (on the written or printed page) by vertical lines, called bars; and are rendered orally recognizable (to the hearer who does not see the page) by a more or less delicate emphasis, imparted—by some means or other—to the first pulse or beat of each measure, as accent, simply to mark where each new group begins. Those who play or sing can imagine how vague, and even chaotic, a page of music would look if these vertical bars were omitted; and how much more difficult it would be to read than when these (not only accustomed, but truly necessary) landmarks are present. Precisely the same unintelligible impression must be, and is, conveyed to the hearer when his landmarks, the accents, are not indicated with sufficient emphasis or clearness to render him sensible of the beginning of each new measure.

      The same primary system of measurement and association which is employed in enlarging the beats to measures, is then applied to the association of the measures themselves in the next larger units of musical structure, the Motive, Phrase, Period, and so forth. Unlike the measures, which are defined by the accents at their beginning, these larger factors of form are defined chiefly at their end, by the impression of occasional periodic interruption, exactly analogous to the pauses at the end of poetic lines, or at the commas, semicolons and the like, in a prose paragraph. These interruptions of the musical current, called Cadences, are generally so well defined that even the more superficial listener is made aware of a division of the musical pattern into its sections and parts, each one of which closes as recognizably (though not as irrevocably) as the very