So, I haven’t actually learned or sung a piece of classically composed or based music since…Spring of 2008. And right now…I’m learning some. It’s the weirdest experience doing this all again; I hadn’t ever really given much thought to whether I’d sing any classical piece ever again. I had kinda been content in leaving it behind, along with all the construed emotions and memories I had with it, and never going back. But here I am, going over German, thinking of my intervals, reminding myself how I like to remember melody tricks in my head. All those little things that…I had forgotten so long ago.
What’s odd is the process of learning a piece is, strangely like riding a bike or sex (I’m not trying to be vulgar. I promise.) I look at the notes, I read the spaces, I look at the text, and know exactly where I begin. The rhythm starts first, where with syncopation and beat I see moments where the melody matches the rhythm, perfectly pinned to the text so perfectly set. The pitches come next, learned without words. Words just get in the way at first (this is kinda where the sex part of the analogy comes in…); I try to work in the words first, but they confuse mind, batter the rhythm, and overall make something fluid and tender a very choppy, mundane, and rough experience (see. There.)
So, it’s all about motion and line. A single vowel through the whole piece at first; flowing, caressing, moving. A line that lets you develop the mood, the texture, the thought…and see where, without words, the emotion of tone is written by the composer. Without words at all. I start to find the sadness, the love, find the ache, the bittersweet, the triumph, the joy, and even the solace. Without words you discover that each word is written by pitch, waiting for the words to match their inherent emotion.
So you add the words, where you roll r’s and aspirate t’s and focus vowels. And, without knowing, you slip back five years and discover you’re back in a practice room, or the library, or Buck Hall. You hear the drifting sound of lessons being held, of classes being taught, of laughter from the facilities office. Or for the lucky, the person who snagged a classroom for a practice room. Through the window you look and see the trees and ivy, creeping up the side of the nearest building, whether is be the library, Faye Spanos, Bannister Hall, or even across the lawns to the distant Greek houses. Suddenly, without warning, you’ve drifted back into this world you had disappeared from. Yet every detail is fresh, every moment is clear, every sight and sound complete in accuracy. For a moment, you are home in Stockton, on the campus of University of the Pacific, young and wide eyed and no longer weary. For a moment, you are young.
It only lasts that moment. And suddenly, I’m back in my apartment in Vancouver, where it’s gray and blustery with no ivy to be seen out the window. It is silent, except the fan above my laundry closet. I’m back from my dream, and there is still music in front of me, connecting me to that distant memory. Connecting me to so much that I hold dear.
So after rhythm, melody, emotion, and words, there comes that moment you piece them together. That moment comes, and there is accomplishment, and finality. I’ve connected back to something precious. In my head, in the distance, I hear the carillon of Burns Tower, wafting through the air. Singing the songs of its daily recitations.
I haven’t learned a piece of music in a very long time. If these are the things that come with it, I may have to keep learning more.
Much Love,
K.E.
Kevin, in just the title of your post you took me back to the past in the way you describe, and in the way only music can. Thanks for the post.