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A typical song begins with a short introduction that establishes the setting, moves into a verse that moves the narrative forward, moves through a bridge or B-section that complicates matters, and arrives at a chorus that provides emotional release. These sections are so short that you usually have to repeat this entire structure two or three times to create a three-minute song.
The four-movement symphony follows the same essential structure but on a very different time scale, and with very different intentions. The songs return, while the symphony moves forward. Songs derive their power from repetition, while symphonies derive their power from variation.
In a song, a chorus remains largely unchanged, accumulating emotional force through growth. A symphony rarely offers that luxury. Themes return changed, hazy or bright, fractured or resolved, depending on what has happened to them. They have memory.
Historical fiction also works in much the same way. A small incident from 1905 may reappear forty years later with a completely different meaning, because history itself has changed the listener. The epic historical narrative, with its long memory and changing themes, naturally aspires more to the symphony than to the lyric. But we writers of historical fiction, focusing on the vast flow of time and change, should never forget that the symphony itself is made up of lots of little songs.
A song is not a symphony. A symphony is not a play. The play is not a novel. But behind their differences lies a common grammar of tension, growth, change and liberation.
There are many lessons beyond structure that can be learned from music writing. When I was a boy and learning to play guitar and piano, I initially saw music as a series of blocks – basic chords with a chord on top. As an untrained guitar player, when I saw the “G chord” on the page, I put my hand in the shape I memorized as the “G chord”. It is the same with the piano. I had not yet learned what a raga was. I thought it was one block in a series of consecutive blocks, when in reality, a raga is a moment of temporary agreement between independent voices, all on their own journeys. This is a valuable lesson for a novelist.
“It’s like you’re writing music,” Hans said. “Okay, what should I do?” I asked him. “Telling the story,” he said.
Several years later, after a long and relatively successful career in music, with a two-year-old son, I thought I should learn to work with an orchestra, and possibly do more film scoring. I studied for about three years and then took that inadequate training to work in Hollywood, writing instrumental music for films under the tutelage of Hans Zimmer and his army of talents.
Writing orchestral music, even pseudo-orchestral music using samplers and synthesis, is fundamentally different from songwriting. Far from block chords, most instruments in an orchestra play only one note at a time (except keyboards, harps, and some other polyphonic instruments), so all chord changes, extensions, harmonies, and dissonances arise from the interactions between this army of one-note instruments. Every voice has its own tone, its own tune, its own desire. As a result, the notes and strings are in a constant state of change, moving together more like clouds of strings or small fish than a single frog jumping from one stone to another. Every voice is important. Each voice is a character; They’re all sweet lines, and together they can create an organic, almost casual-looking mosaic or tapestry.
Another lesson can be learned from Zimmer for writers of any type. Early on in our conservatory, I wrote a three-and-a-half-minute piece that I really liked for an emotional scene. Hans rejected it outright. He said, “It’s like you’re writing music.” “Okay, what should I do?” I asked him. “Telling the story,” he said.
Which brings us to the second part of the song: the lyrics. The song also contains many useful lessons for the novelist. I’ve always seen songs as dialogue, or at least one side of a conversation. Whether it’s a maniac screaming at the universe, or a drunk terminally ill voice at the bar, or a lonely call at night to an ex-boyfriend’s dead phone, I always try to understand not only who the singer is but who they are addressing and what they want. To do this consistently and quickly, I’ve learned to think like an actor – to subtly trick myself into becoming the character I’m writing for. This is invaluable for a novelist.
A lyricist learns economy. Songwriters have to make sure the listener sees the whole situation by the end of the first verse. In the case of the first successful record that I was involved in, welcome to boomtownThe first poem was of 29 words.
Ms Christina drives 944
Satisfaction drips from his pores.
She puts rings on her fingers,
Marble on its floor.
Cocaine in his dresser,
And bars on its doors.
(My lyrical inspiration at the time was police reports.)
Words contain not only information, but also rhythm. Sometimes, in our pursuit of short, declarative sentences after Hemingway we can forget that like a song, a scene should flow, it should have underlying melodies. It should pulsate. In Murakami’s essential book of conversations with the great symphony conductor Seiji Ozawa, he says candidly, “I think a person who writes without rhythm lacks the talent to be a writer.”
There is one last lesson I would like to take from the great symphonies and great novels of the past. Discipline. I knew that I was taking on the responsibility of writing fire agent It was no small task. I had never done anything on this scale and in the end, it took eight years to write. It covers a large span of history, from 1900 to the beginning of the Cold War. It demanded everything I had ever learned and exposed everything I hadn’t. It seduced me, fascinated me, even overpowered me at times. And without the guidance of music, I would have been doomed from the start.
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fire agent By David Baerwald Available through Spiegel & Grau.
