I've recently been thinking a lot about musical expression, and specifically where it originates for a performer. It's an interesting topic that to me speaks of what it is to be human. Not in some abstract, metaphysical sense, but in a physical, mechanical sense: how we perceive, learn, experience, etc.
As much as I love music, singing, etc., upon starting any kind of practice session -- whether individual or ensemble -- my default mode of operation is primarily cerebral. It's been this way as long as I can remember. The musical engagement focuses on technical matters of execution: proper breath support, vowel placement, phrasing, ensemble awareness, and so on. All important things crucial to keep in one's attention, but not necessarily giving any kind of emotional connection. Yet the emotional connection is the only reason to do such things, and is certainly the only reason to ask people to listen. Without it, who cares?
Finding the emotional connection requires an act of will; it doesn't just magically happen on its own (for me, at least).
I consistently find musical inspiration from mundane mechanical matters. Specifically, from the union of legato singing and word stress.
Legato singing to me means a lot more than connecting pitches; it means proper breath support to sustain the lines, a constant sense of linear motion, of directedness. A smooth, moving legato line brings a kind of tension; not vocal tension, of course, but a musical tension. The line is going somewhere and that trip brings musical intensity.
Breath support and vowel placement as technical concerns are subsumed by the focus on legato singing. You do them because they support what you're doing, rather than treating them as a primary goal. This is how it should be with technique: it is the means to an end, not the end itself.
But word stress is where it really comes alive for me. This draws attention to the text, but at a higher level than mere pronunciation. Attention goes to the actual language, the fabric of the text, and you suddenly consider not just words over syllables but groups of words and entire phrases, so you can shape the syllabic stresses to match strong/weak patterns within both polysyllabic (is that a word?) words and whole sentences.
Vowel placement and attention to diction naturally come in to support this, so as with legato singing the technical attention is there to accomplish a larger goal.
The union of these concerns therefore accomplishes a number of things:
- Attention goes to larger-scale structures. Groups of notes over individual notes. Entire phrases. This is where the music lives.
- Important technical concerns automatically come into focus, but in a supporting role.
- It naturally increases awareness of the interplay between melodic shape and the flow of the language.
- It feels really good. Seriously. It's physically enjoyable.
I find that no matter the circumstances, how I'm feeling, etc., focusing on these two concerns inevitably overcomes distractions and the limitations of my analytical tendencies. They bring deeper, musical engagement that is both a lot of fun and self-enforcing. This engagement feeds on itself: you start to observe ever more nuance in the musical fabric, to feel the dance of word stresses across meter, across harmonic motion, all of which make for a deeper experience and, hopefully, a more rewarding performance for a listener.
"Inspiration" is a loaded word in our culture; one that I typically regard with deep skepticism. We attribute it with grandiose qualities that stray from the personal nature of it (or maybe just I do). Yet, it best describes how I feel when applying these practices. How it would make a listener feel is anyone's guess and beyond the performer's control. But who am I singing for, ultimately? Feeling inspiration myself is a good motivation to keep going.
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