The Grooved Whale Project

I wonder if we’ll ever discover the overall code for human music – one massive algorithm that would allow us to press a button and presto! a new song pops up. While I’ve seen many attempts at creating this code, most fail miserably imho, either creating stuff too out there or too boring for consumption.

What I’ve been paying attention to lately are the transition zones in pieces I compose- areas where the beauty/groove no longer reigns and the song becomes seemingly less musical. Hold this transition for too long and you lose the listener.   Forget to put a transition zone in and the song fails to progress.

The trick for me is to create these transition zones in a live setting, where loops and layers have already been established. I love the freedom electronic gear ultimately gives me but sometimes the constraints are annoying. I miss the freedom of creating with just my violin, where my whim is at my fingertips.  Ahh well, it wouldn’t be an exciting world without challenges, would it?

I’ve been exploring one of my favorite rhythms for awhile now. Its a 6/8 pattern which has a bell part that seems to tap directly into the primal beat. When I listen to it, I trance immediately.

Why is it that this particular group of beats has this effect? This particular organization of sound? And how does one explain the trance state that it creates- where I’m still conscious of my surroundings but in a much different way than waking reality?

There remains so many mysteries to music . Music is much more than a sum of its parts – the individual notes or phrases or themes- somehow they all combine to loft the resulting mix into the realm of music and away we go.  Our bodies and minds get wrapped up in it and we dance and sing.

If we are open to the potential of another creature having music we need to understand the essence of music, not just the aesthetics. Each time I pick up my violin, program my drum machines or play with other musicians I am thinking bout what lessons I can learn from my behavior. Why do I choose certain notes over others? Why and when do I change the patterns I’m playing? What is human -specific about what I’m creating?

Had a wonderful time at Entheos this weekend. Gave my first ever workshop on my research with music and whales. It felt really good to do – to finally release some of my ideas out there and get feedback. A rite of passage.

Back in the studio tonight, preparing for Shambhala. I’ve been working closely with two amazing musicians, Kirk Watson and Alcvin Ramos, focusing our creative efforts on how best to combine our acoustic instruments (violin, bass, shakuhachi) with technology. We will now be joined by a third amazing musician, live PA artist Haagen who will bring his gear into the mix. Together, we will be exploring the creation of human music.

Working with these fellow musicians has definitely broadened my horizons in terms of understanding music. First and foremost they release me from playing every role in the creation of a song. I can better concentrate on specific aspects of sound. I can take time to listen to what’s evolving outside the realm of my own creation. I can rest, recharge and wait for musical inspiration to hit.

The communication that is created between musicians is one of the most intriguing features of music. How do we know what to play and when to play it? What are the cues we are listening for? Why do we have these cues and where do they come from? Is music an innate language or one that we learn as we grow as musicians?

When I look at the many different avenues I have explored over the past decade in my search for music in other species, one of the main differentiators I see between us and other creatures is that the human species has many songs and we have to create each and every one of them.

How is a song brought into being? Why is it brought into being? What is its lifespan? Why do some outlive others? Can everyone create music? What is the ratio of creators to listeners? Why do composers compose? Why do I compose?

What would the human species look like if we only had one song? Would we still consider ourselves be a musical animal?

Much has been written about how music can heal, but can music harm?

Since first traveling to Alaska to hear the Humpback feeding call in 1996 I have often wondered if these animals had a root sense of music. The patterned play of notes seemed too close to my ear to discount this possibility.

On my journey from being a musician to being a “music researcher” I had to drastically change the way I interacted with sound. Basically I had to remove all of music’s hold on my brain so that I could study it without being influenced by it.

My main technique was to compose with tracks out of alignment, making my music sound absolutely horrendous. Listening to my creations caused multiple physical reactions – from my back tensing up, to jaw aches and migraines.

Not many people get a chance to listen to “wrong” music (as opposed to bad music or music you might not understand) as by the time a song hits production, the alignment and symmetry of a piece are usually fixed but if music can heal, can it also harm?