Notes on Bach

Bach's music was seldom appreciated in his lifetime; and it seems an opinion of 20th/21st century musicologists that his pieces, even once they began to be posthumously performed, did not receive admiration in a manner relative to, as it were, an original performative character until arguably the late-19th/20th century. This topic interests me, because I think the popular consciousness often assumes that, based on his current standing, Bach was a contemporary star, or that, upon his death, the European world suddenly wept for its own ignorance and maltreatment of a treasure and inserted Bach into the musical canon. A weak, although doable, parallel to this in the visual arts may be the person and work of Leonardo da Vinci. Today, Leonardo stands upright among culture as a legend, yet when alive he completed very few projects (rather than his art, I think the more impressive legacy is his observational writings), and even fewer of those projects remain for us now. We understand Leonardo to be a legend because his personhood has been branded as such through a vox populi loop: he is "a legend because he is a legend." This is the real parallel between the two -- only, with Bach, the loop of legend-status erroneously folds back hundreds of years.

Bach was an anachronism in his own time. Although he was respected as an organ player, his music, an elaboration on the blending of North-European/German music & Italianate elements, was treated with condescension and hand-waving. After Bach died, his music lived on only through his sons and fringe musical groups or single persons with deviant taste. The most well-known of Bach's sons, C. P. E. Bach, did not play his father's music, outside of borrowing parts for a Mass. C. P. E. subscribed to the style of the day, and was critical of his father's material. As Glenn Gould put it, Rationalistic music took pleasure in the cadence, in termination. Bach's music was tirelessly unfolding and unresolved, too "irrational" and "complex" for the Age of Reason. Its time came upon the advent of the Romantic sentiment, one that prized the ineffable and the sublime. Exposure started with vocal music and motets; then, cantatas, Masses, and Passion music. Note, though, that Goethe was one of the first and few people in this period to try and come to terms with Bach's art in a way that did not judge it for not being "modern" -- even the so-called romantics tried to remove Bach's pieces from the astringent rigidity of the clavier, coupling them instead with the lush emotionality of strings and making "palatable" compositional adjustments.

As the 18th century came to a close, the bourgeoisie started to become the bearer of culture. Here, the citizen was the interpreter of their art, assuming the roles of the musician and singer. One such example would be the Berliner Singakademie, founded by Carl Friedrich Christian Fasch. This development illustrates music's evolution from an occasional and privatized existence to something that increases in dissemination. Looking at history, one notes that art of every kind detaches more and more from its marriage to religion. Bach's music was written as church music, and Bach was a dogmatic Lutheran, lending the angle that Bach's music was to be for the glory of God, and that Bach wished for this glory to be filtered through a Lutheran perspective. But the religious standards changed, and so too did the musical practices. Bach's music, in part, was passed down through amateur enthusiasts. Today, as far as church is concerned, Bach's music is performed in a variety of denominational settings. Past the religious housing, our most popular conception of Bach's music is as concert music, where it takes the shape of a secularized (and, in a way, museum-ified) music of the cultured.

To form a fuller picture of where Bach's music was taken, and to really substantiate my claim of others' claims re: the arrival of an "original performative character" in pieces' renderings/playings, more reading and thought on my part is required.
Until then, these notes (yes, brisk) are incomplete.

FEAROFDARK || MOTORWAY

Stephen Hemstritch-Johnston's greatest success on his album, Motorway (released under his alias, Fearofdark), is a breathtaking ability to make happy music that is profound. Very often, I think our go-to emotional or descriptive pairings for aesthetic depth lean toward the problematic, the furrowed brow, the shattered pane of glass; and while these reflexes and expressions are fine and admirable, it seems that types of luminous joy are underrepresented. In the most powerful of Motorway's pieces and moments, joy is made more joyful by a melancholic silver lining -- there is a narrative of transience (and what better medium for that than the most transient one of all?), and an understanding of the strange, unexpected joy that can develop out of one's understanding of what is temporary. Melodies at once sing out enthusiasm for their ability to simply be alive and also contemplate, welcome, as if with hot tears, their own tender, fading substances. And even with all that the music invents, it yearns for an expression, a state of unnamed happiness that's extra-unknown. Motorway is an album of sensucht. 

Motorway has become one of my favorite albums -- all categories be damned -- since its November, 2012 release, and has allowed me to develop a brand of relationship with it that I'm realizing is all too rare -- yet, all the more wonderful for it. If you haven't, check it out.

A quick look back at Vurgon

Vurgon’s tracks were mostly not written under the idea that such-and-such a piece would be alongside another. The idea did come up, but only near the end as I refined pieces that were basically complete, or close to being such. Selecting the tracks was a matter of finding the material I felt happiest with and which, when brought together, could create some sort of emotional arc. My method of composing tracks followed a fairly standard personal method. I usually start by figuring out a chordal pattern that interests me as an isolated form and as a thing ripe with developmental suggestions. I also tend to treat chords percussively, prioritizing rhythm and voicing over vertical movement (e.g., the nineteen-second mark in “Glaustarr”). I think that this a result both of my own physical limitations and a fondness for Steve Reich’s music. I treat these chords as a bed of implications that can be danced upon by a melody and additionally motored by a bassline. This produces a somewhat fractured effect, since I’m often conceiving of and applying elements in layers.

The mixture of my habit of keeping my hands close together when playing and my love of frictional, dense utterances leads to tone clusters and, sometimes, block chords. It’s almost as if I perceive the chord as a sort of fruit, and the relative closeness of notes is a way of squeezing out the ripest juice and fragrance. Tetrads, historically, have been the minimum for me. More recently, around the time I submitted Vurgon, I realized that frequent clustering may stifle ideas’ expressions, as a huddled voicing can degrade the touchier parts whose context needs finer definition; and also that it’s not right for every situation.

I never wrote any of Vurgon’s pieces with a general structure in mind, although I’m aware of patterns that developed. Composing was pretty much a matter of following each idea into the next and finally reaching that indefensible and temporary (as in, when I listen to the tracks now, I hear all sorts of new possibilities (a common thing among composers?)) point of exhaustion that constitutes the end. The bulk of the pieces have a modest motivic thrust. In “Vurgon”, for example, the melodic “head” that appears at the 1:28 mark continues to return in fragmented ways until its final, most crazed formation – which also includes the hilly motif from 30 seconds – at the 3:00 mark (and is thereafter, at 3:26, usurped by a strange newcomer that adopts and warps a couple of the preceding motivic traits).

Motivic compositions particularly interest me because they seem to bring me closer to perceiving the music as an aural character. By this I don’t mean that I hear such-and-such and have a mental image of a person or creature; rather, that I hear such-and-such and its characteristics contribute to a sense of a being’s, an entity’s presence and unfolding existence. I might also hear a piece of music and interpret it as a gathering of characters in conversation or in the flow of narrative. It’s hard to tell just what exactly produces these phenomena, though my guess is that it involves linguistic corollaries. Let me take this opportunity to say that Final Fantasy Tactics is one of my favorite videogame soundtracks.

As far as writing the melodies went, it was usually a case of improvising, making a false final decision, and then treating that decision as a base that I built off of through mental additions or humming. As a terrible musician, I’ve found humming/wordlessly singing very useful in writing music, especially when it comes to discrete accompaniment, as it’s a way of idealizing content and bypassing the technical constraints of performing on an instrument. Luckily, I’m a decent singer. The challenge upon getting an idea via humming is to hold onto it long enough to insert it into the actual piece (very tough when you’re out and an hour away from home!). Now and then, around, say, thirty-seconds’ worth of material – maybe broadly or exactly – would lay itself out in my head, and all I had to do was transcribe it and fill in the gaps that my head glossed over. This was, for example, how I developed the introductory melody in “Tuulu.”

I meant the idea for the cover art (thanks again to Jason) to be representative of Vurgon’s attributes and general ideas I have about instrumental music. Vurgon’s tracks strike me as having a rigidity to their architecture, and an often mysterious attitude; ergo, the odd façade. More generally, the cover appeals to my belief that instrumental music tells no tales – that it’s a language, a system of ideas, unto itself. In a sense, as Edward Said wrote, all music is really only about music. This is probably why it’s the hardest art form to write about. The cover’s façade is clearly the result of some sort of effort at aesthetic organization, but its window-mouths only offer blackness, the hint of a dark, spacious life within that awaits, yet resists, exploration.

Below are the pronunciations of the track titles, in case anyone was interested and/or having trouble saying them. The phonetics arose in accordance to what their own sound and surrounding sounds implied to me, so you could say that my method was a dribble-free adult version of “baby talk.” “Clankendrung” is a pretty explicable example, I think. That track felt the most metallic and hardy of the pieces, so I led with “clank” (an English onomatopoeia or noun designating a hard, metallic sound), and ended with “drung”, which to me feels like a submerged stressing of the words “drag” or “drug” (not proper past tense, but whatever), implying blunt power or labor. The “en” is a sort of medial connective tissue for rhythm, and also a fun little link to the German term, “Sturm un Drang.” “Mahanambulov” is harder to unpack and perhaps impossible to justify. The reduplication present in “mahanam” connotes to me extensiveness, tying into the spacier arena of the track, and the wide softness of the syllables therein bring out a touch of empathy and embryonic comfort. “Bulov”, for whatever reason, sounds like a circle to me, and – also for whatever reason – ”Mahanambulov” appears (if that is the right word) to me as a circular piece of music. Perhaps it’s the preponderance of that five-note pattern that embeds a cyclical, and then circular, notion.

Vurgon: Vur (R having a retroflex flap) gawn 

Glaustarr: Glau (AU sounding like the exclamation of pain “ow) star (R having an alveolar trill)

Fallaloopavan: Fah lah loo pah vahn 

Terevigliar: Tair (like the ripping action “tear”; R having a retroflex flap) uh vig lee ahr (R having a retroflex flap)

Tuulu: Too (T having a voiced dental fricative) loo 

Clankendrung: Clahn (like the first syllable in “Klondike”) ken droong (R having a retroflex flap)

Mahanambulov: Mah hah nahm byoo (like the first syllable of “beautiful”) lohv (like “loaves”, as in bread)

Listen to Vurgon here.

Misc. Notes for March, 2013

Some of Debussy's characteristics:

1) The predominance of suspended harmonies that he liked to lengthen
2) The resonance of seventh and ninth chords approached without preparation or left without consonant ending
3) A frequent use of the whole-tone scale and of its series of tritones
4) Frequent musical suspensions and appaggiaturas/ornamental notes
5) Avoided resolutions
6) Ambiguous modulations

Some of Messiaen's characteristics (also shared by Debussy):

1) The concept of pure sound in itself as an important creative element
2) The love for successive major ninths
3) A slow harmonic movement created by the use of the modes of limited transposition that produces a static effect
4) Asymmetrical phrase groupings
5) The use of silences
6) A love for poetry

~

Why is "convincing" such an oft-used complimentary term by listeners of concert (baroque, classical, romantic, etc.) music?

~

Interesting how the idea of nationalistic music has basically died out, or is now grouped with highly constrictive regimes. What form would unaggressive nationalistic (incompatible?) music take in the year 2013? What would it mean? And who would its composers be? Is John Adams' "On the Transmigration of Souls" a nationalistic piece of music?

~

A quote by Bartók: "I never created new theories in advance, I hated such ideas. I had, of course, a very definite feeling about certain directions to take, but at the time of the work I did not care about the designations which would apply to those directions or to their sources. This attitude does not mean that I composed without [...] set plans and without sufficient control. The plans were concerned with the spirit of the new work and with technical problems (for instance, formal structure involved by the spirit of the work), all more or less instinctively felt, but I never was concerned with general theories to be applied to the works I was going to write. Now that the greatest part of my work has already been written, certain general tendencies appear -- general formulas from which theories can be deduced. But even now I would prefer to try new ways and means instead of deducing theories."

~

If we accept the definition of instrumental music as "a class of non-verbal languages that use sound to produce narratives (compositions) that are indistinctly symbolic, and therefore do not reference specific material objects or actions," then how do we approach the idea of revulsion as the creative core in a piece of music? How do we benefit from "ugly" music? How do we understand a piece such as Penderecki's "Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima"?

Presentness

A couple of my previous entries here have made mention of a slight desensitization towards music that I've experienced over the past few years. One of my hypotheses for this was that turning to composition has put me in a competitive dynamic, and that that lessons sensuality. A newer, and probably more obvious, hypothesis I want to propose for a cause of this desensitization is the ease with which I and most everyone else can access and listen to music now. We shouldn't forget that, for the majority of human history, music was a special event -- one that depended upon performers and listeners being physically proximate; and that, say, just two centuries years ago in Europe, it wouldn't have been out of the question to only hear a given piece once or twice in a lifetime. Put simply, if you wanted to hear music, you had to play an instrument/sing yourself, or be in the right place at the right time.

I've refused to use an MP3-playing device while on the go since moving to Boston in 2010. This is not an encouragement to do the same, or a sneering, ludditical sentiment, but an example of one way that I've attempted to control my intake of music; yet, despite this choice and having limited concert exposure, my intake feels surplussed. So I wonder if I'm not properly respecting my habit of focusing on a small range of subjects before moving on. That is: if I enjoy a song by an artist who's new to me, my traditional response is to narrow in on that piece and/or another by the same artist for days, rather than to go ahead and, say, listen to a whole album by said artist. Or if I like an album I'll narrow in on that album. And this tendency seems to have served me well. Making these aesthetic connections on a bit-by-bit level of progress is enjoyable. It gives me time. The idea of mass-accumulating so-and-so's oeuvre after having a good, novel listening experience could not be less appealing. In fact, a big reason why I dropped the website turntable.fm is because it's defined by a constant intake of various musical material.

If I've cited ease of access as a hypothetical, then the means of access should be cited, too. In fact, the sparks for this article were born when I attended a playing of Handel's Messiah late last November. What was surprising about this event was that it excited emotions in me that I've never felt in relation to the work, as familiar with it as I am. As I walked into the upper seating area of Boston's Symphony Hall, I felt that distinct heaviness in the chest and throat that precedes tears; something about the space's beauty, the audience's presence/density, and the real-time actualization of the music (with all of those acoustic particulars arising from composition, ensemble, skill-level, and interior building materials) disarmed me, making what was familiar impressive. On a smallish level, this occasion embodied what I mean when I espouse music's power to dissolve the listener, to make us both profoundly removed and involved. And I believe this effect can more ably arise with live music.

My hypothesis-within-a-hypothesis is that there're a connection between emotional profundity and the lack of control we have over live music. In the cases of MP3 players, phones, laptops, and so on, the control that's granted is close to, if not fully, absolute, and this may color participative experience on an unacknowledged (i.e., we are, or I am, not consciously having these thoughts) level. Live music denies us the option to rewind, or fast-forward, or to pause, or whatever, even as unused possibilities. Furthermore, the song is not, when visually consulted, a bar of literal duration accompanied by a title within a box; rather, the song is an unseen thing that arises out of the living efforts, the breathing intent, of living subjects, and is subject to an immovably constant self-destruction as each fresh moment buries the tones of the last. Today, I was near a classroom in my campus' music building, and heard a person practicing on what sounded like a tonbak; it was such a pleasure to observe that what might have simply distracted me in recorded form was endowed with an alluring vitality as a present fact.

What is this wonderful mystery of presentness?

What may have been

I have to admit that I'm sort of disappointed in Allan Holdsworth's music. And that's annoying, because I've found in it a vibrating, revelatory, unique character. After rolling some ideas around in my head, I've started to think of Holdsworth's compositions in a permutational sense; i.e., their main goal seems to be the scalar exploration of a harmonic framework. With many a Holdsworth piece, it appears possible to divide the composition into a threefold structure: an establishment of the chordal bases, a subsequent melodic dissection of those bases (the longest part), and a re-establishment of the introductory chordal bases as the conclusion. I think this is comparable, in certain respects, to Bach's historicized role as an explorer of counterpoint. Of course, there is already a discrepancy in the comparison, since Bach's aim, let's say within BWV 1080, was to weave melodic voices together using a musical mode that produced an interdependent whole, while Holdsworth is giving us a fairly one-voiced result, via his guitar/guitar-like instrument, that is bolstered by the rest of his ensemble. But I don't want to be exact; for me, then, the comparison works when it identifies either composer's primary interest generally and understands the music as explicit explorations of melodic suggestions.

Perhaps, however, we can bury this comparison by simply linking Holdsworth's aims to that of jazz. I'm not sure. After all, Holdsworth treats the main meat of his compositions -- the melodic dissection -- as open to continual dissection itself, which is why many of Holdsworth's listeners may identify a note-by-note recreation of a guitar solo by another listener on their own guitar as a point-missing exercise. The most consistent part of Holdsworth's songs (putting studio recordings next to live performances) is their fundamental harmonic framework; and this framework is what propels the players into and what gives the general guiding baseline for the ensuing improvisation. One might be compelled to say that a good artist or band will present reinventions every time they perform a preexisting piece of theirs. Holdsworth meets this expectation at a high level by radically evolving the syntax each time.

My problem with Holdsworth is that I'm more interested in that framework, that baseline. This is sort of funny, because what's pushing me away is what's motivating Holdsworth and attracting the bulk of his listeners. To be sure, I can emotionally follow Holdsworth's improvisations to varying lengths. It is when the barrage of notes hits that I remember why (in part) a lot of jazz has little effect on me: my mind, my disposition, my intuitive approach -- whatever you want to call it -- can't interpret the scalar flood as anything more than what it literally is. My experience of the music becomes mere observation. Let me return to Bach and say that what interests me about his music is that it retains memorability within its complexity (despite my last article, let's temporarily use "complexity" in the popular musical sense). And, at first, I may assume that memorability is what Holdsworth's virtuosic solos lack. A double-take, however, seems to show that memorability isn't such a sustainable condition for qualitative assessment. After all, we sometimes characterize things that we really don't like as memorable in spite of that distaste ("I hate [X], but it's stuck in my head/so catchy!"), so can memorability be necessarily attached to standards of success? Furthermore, memorability is not always immediate, even though it's often linked to immediacy. We can make something be (relatively) memorable by repeated exposure. One might try to divide the word into a less substantive, short-term form and a more substantive, long-term form and thus make it qualitatively usable. I'm not sure about that division, though.

Even with the above points, perhaps we can use memorability if we're defining it as the degree of the impression of an experience we have with a given song, as opposed to our ability to mentally recall the specific components of said song (as it were, my ability to mentally "hum" or "drum" or whatever) -- so, value-wise, if we see it as experiential profundity and not as a sort of proof of discrete retention. On these grounds, sure, Holdsworth's scalar barrages (for me) retard memorability. But there's something else here. I'm tempted to use the phrase "Technical for the sake of being technical," although my current ideal of music is "Music for the sake of music," so I don't know how self-reference within self-reference is wrong. Finally (not to say that I've exhausted all routes -- only the ones that I've so far thought of), I'm drawn to the notion that I am, indeed, thinking of these scalar improvisations as "melodies," and that they are not fitting into a vague, personal contextual idea of what a melody variously embodies when I enjoy it. Maybe I need to reorient my what words I'm attaching to these songs' parts. Seeing as how my main approach to music is sensual, however, I doubt that shaking up the lexicon would be deeply affective. It seems that melodies most easily engage me when they have a quality for which I have no other word than "lyricism." Note that I am not using "lyricism/lyrical" in the cheap and common way of indicating [X]'s being "beautiful", "fine", or "elegant", like when a subject is described as "poetic." Instead, I mean that the melody imparts upon me a linguistic intelligibility -- as if the melody is speaking or singing in the place of no actual lyrics. It is common to refer to music as a separate language, and I think this is true, but in the cases I am talking about, that characterization assumes a realer form. Sad to say, this is as far as I can take this line of thought right now.

Hamauzu / "SF2" / Complexity

Since 2005, I've had Masashi Hamauzu's album, "Piano Pieces 'SF2' Rhapsody on a Theme of SaGa Frontier 2" (let's shorten it to "SF2"), playing during quiet times, or times that need to be imbued with quietness -- like last night, while working on charcoal drawings in my studio. "SF2" is a collaborative album, with multiple arrangers and performers, almost all of them classical performers. "Rhapsody on a Theme of SaGa Frontier 2" makes reference to the album's last six songs that switch from the prior solo piano emphasis to an ensemble set-up (piano, strings, horns, etc). Even though this is advertised as the album's jewel, the solo piano pieces are my preferred feature. Over time, with more work under his belt, Hamauzu has come to be defined by the piano and violin, rather than just the piano. It may be an issue of immovable taste that this blend has rarely worked out for me; an issue of formality; or an issue of what sort of imaginative state the duo affects upon my emotions (e.g., a certain Baroque-era piece might sound limited to me because of what social/cultural associations I connect to that era, or my associations to what I perceive as others's associations); etc. There's something outside of my ability to express about such a brand of sweetness in these pieces' handling of the violin that prevents access to deeper, impassioned emotional responses

Listening helps, so here are a few piano-only "SF2" tracks. Of course, I recommend the rest.

"+4" 2

"+4" 3

"α" 2

"β" 2

"γ" 1

If you've ever heard the tracks (from the 1999 PlayStation game, SaGa Frontier 2) on which these recordings are based, the impulse might be to call "SF2"'s versions verbatim-faithful, and thus unambitious. The primary changes were putting them on a real piano's sound, modifying tempos, and reorganizing originally ensemble tracks for the piano. In other words, this is not an album full of complex dissections of antecedent innards. I think, though, that if you're willing to see them as a baring of the original objects -- that is, how the game's songs might've first been formulated by Hamauzu, prior to translating them over to the respective soundfont --, they can become much more interesting, expressive, and legitimate. At the very least, just on the level of comparative instrumental quality, "SF2" makes its soundtrack parallels pretty much irrelevant. SaGa Frontier 2's OST is done through emulative instruments, and the emulation is average to mediocre. For instance, sustained chords on strings sound flat, since there's no dynamism after a given chord has been hit; there is simply a straight extension of that initial state. Just two years later, Hamauzu would deliver the exact opposite, with lush, mature contributions to the Final Fantasy X OST that put Uematsu's pieces -- dated sounds and mundane musicality (likely due to creative fatigue) -- to shame.

One of my favorite things about "SF2"'s piano pieces is their pervading sparseness, large breathing spaces, and measured respect paid to Hamauzu's harmonic craft. "'+4' 2", for example, has pedal work and tempo adjustments to grant it a fragrant sumptuousness that's as much about the compositional fact and registering of the chords as it is about their resonant intermingling -- the sweet, faint dissonance of abutting tonic transitions. And "'4' +3", for another example, seems to have been stripped down to an absolute form that contemplates itself; the listening experience becomes about following the fading trails of the very individualized chords. It's possible that this sparseness could lead to a judgment of "lacking ambition" by some listeners. A little less than three years after "SF2", Hamauzu released "Piano Collections Final Fantasy X", which proved beyond a doubt that Hamauzu had, and has, the talent to reform his pieces to a degree that imparts a history of substantial creative reimagining ("Decisive Battle", off that album, is the definition of a virtuoso piano piece). This, coupled with the short span of time between "SF2" and "Piano Collections" -- i.e., Hamauzu did not become a brilliant arranger after only three years --, makes it apparent that "SF2" is a product of conscious choice. Hamauzu, after all, had a hand in its arrangements, and presumably set in place a standard, with contextual liberties, for the other arrangers. Under this lens, the question becomes one not of absent or present intent, but of how we are to react to such an intent.

"Complex dissections," as a thing that I've claimed "SF2"'s music is not, raises the topic of what I or anyone else means by complexity when it comes to music. For instance, to me, "complexity" has immediate implications that seem to be derived from the word's meaning in natural science, where it takes on the characteristics of density, intricacy, and productive success (that is, the achievement of a consistent and coherent goal (chaos can be complex, but complexity is not chaos)). Visually, "musical complexity" translates to sheet music with many notes and rhythmic devices which, when put into the context of performance, make a high demand of the performer. Therefore, J. S. Bach's music becomes an easy, popular example for complexity, partly for cultural atmosphere (the thing that makes so many people believe that the Mona Lisa is the greatest painting ever painted), and partly for our own associations that we spread thin over various departments for casual, communicative convenience. The problem that I see with this definitional tendency -- with its implications, anyway -- is that it suggests that musical complexity is an informational state unto itself. This produces the question of why musical complexity could then ever matter experientially, since music is a human creation made for other humans. And if musical complexity does matter, what is its connection to quality, and is this connection consistent enough to be developed into a standard?

This is not to suggest that musical theorists and composers have and still are working under fallacious assumptions of complexity; just that, based on my experiences, many of us seem to have a curiously irrelevant or inapplicable definition of musical complexity. I should say that I have no conclusive answers for myself right now; or, what answers I do have tend to grind against one another in endurable cognitive dissonance. For example, although I lack a coherent definition for musical complexity, I would still say that I value musical complexity as a general standard. What does this mean, then, when I'm impressed by "'4' +3" but am hesitant to categorize it as complex? One possibility is that it does fit outside of my definition of complexity, and that I'm making an exception based on yet-undefined factors. Another possibility is that it is indeed within my definition of complexity, and that its technical make-up is an unusual kind of complexity.

Some of these questions may seem ridiculous when one can ask, "Is there, in fact, any reasonable doubt as to whether this or this has a higher degree of complexity?" You or I might guess that most would say that the Mathias piece is more complex, and say that that shared ground helps in the search for meaning. So there may be more certainty in the concept when the content is stratified in a relatively traditional way (Hamauzu's track is shorter, has a higher rate of repetition, small thematic development, is easier to play, has more distinguishable and predictable harmonies, etc). But what happens when we contrast Mathias' sonata against, say, Debussy's "La plus que lente", or, better yet, Liszt's "Piano Sonata in B minor"? As complexity -- what we think of complexity -- gets more relationally equalized, it becomes harder to cement. Of course, the prior examples depend on my definitional presumptions, and I've yet to clarify those, giving us an analytic paradox; but maybe that can be ignored for the sake of expedience. What makes all of this the most difficult to nail down, it seems, is that music, like all art, is a subjective phenomenon -- it comes out of, and is made explicable by, consciousness; yet, unlike other art, it is non-denotative. Although there may be an average consensus between humans on what sorts of sounds and tones elicit certain emotional responses (perhaps anticipated by the phonetic qualities of language), these emotional responses can be the totality of meaning itself; and this meaning is bound to the ineffability of non-semantic sound.

One avenue of thought all this can lead to is that the start point for assessing musical complexity might not be the music -- rather, it might be subjective reactions to the music. Is this avenue rife with problems of its own? Do we measure these reactions in the scientific arena of monitored brain activity? Do we measure it by a person's ability to speak on or write about their relationship to a song? Do we aggregate results into a generalization, or do we take it case by case and make the definition hyper-subjective?

Stuff to mull over.