A COMPOSER'S PROGRESS
- OR RECESSION?
by
Arthur Butterworth
Musical analysts or
historians have generally had a way
of categorising the music of a composer
into set periods of development, so
that one is told that, for instance,
the early works of Beethoven belong
to his so-called ‘first’ period, others
to a ‘second’ and the later works to
a final or ‘third’ period. How valid
are such, often seemingly arbitrary,
categories? The probable implication
is that a composer, or other creative
artist, begins by being rather simple,
even naive, and through the process
of experience, evolves a more original,
and ultimately unique or even profound
utterance. It is true that in the case
of some composers this way of evaluating
their music is an obvious one, a generally
agreed assessment by most commentators
and critics.
It is, however, often
a matter of personal opinion as to where
the line - probably always a hazy one
- might be drawn between one work and
the next in a composer’s complete oeuvre.
What, in any case, might be the criteria
for separating them? A reasonably obvious
definition could be that the earliest
works bear distinct signs of crudity,
a lack of expertise in contriving musical
form or the way the chosen medium is
handled: writing for voices, the keyboard
or skill, or lack of it, in orchestration.
Perhaps also that the earliest works
lack originality and give the impression
of echoing the manner of the student
composer’s teacher. The second period
might be said to show a distinct sign
of having gone beyond the apprentice
stage. What of a third period? Does
this imply having reached a unique,
truly original voice and manner, a complete
technical assurance in all aspects of
creating music and perhaps a measure
of profundity ?
Do some composers display
more than three periods, or others no
marked difference between what they
create at the beginning and that at
the end of a lifetime? There could be
any number of conflicting views on this.
Whether there appear
to be clearly-marked periods or none
at all, it is not to be assumed that
a composer’s style and manner invariably
progresses from the naive to the sophisticated
as he gets older. Not infrequently a
relatively young composer appears on
the scene fully developed: bringing
a new manner and originality. Later
years might then seem to be less exciting
since there appears to be nothing really
new for him to say. While this might
also give the impression of a retrograde
step it can have a value. Composers
in this category can often reveal a
clarity of thought not evident before,
as if their albeit original or startling
earlier works, while causing a sensation
at the time were in effect struggling
incoherently to get their message over;
the irritating incoherence often regarded
as a new kind of message; maybe puzzling
to listeners at first, but mistakenly
thought to imply depths of profundity
which ultimately turn out to be shallow
and not having said anything worthwhile
after all. Whereas their later, but
simpler work is eventually recognised
as having overcome the puzzling incoherence
and pseudo complexity of youthful inexperience.
Clarity of expression at last rising
to the surface with the realisation
that it is often preferable to express
things simply than to try to be too
clever or seek originality just for
its own sake. Although this is only
a personal opinion, two very distinguished
20th century composers who started out
being enfants terrible ended up creating
music that was lucid and comprehensible
to unsophisticated listeners: Bartók
and Hindemith. They were not alone.
Of course their opposites could also
be quoted: probably none more so than
Beethoven of the last string quartets.
What might also be
realised by the critic or shrewd, informed
listener is something that probably
most composers, would admit: the old
saying that "The child is father
of the man". In the same way that
coming across old school exercise books,
and seeing again one’s own youthful
handwriting, while amusing and a shade
embarrassing, can be revealing to discover
how one’s mature hand has been formed
from early childhood patterns of development
and basic learning. The same is true
of composers’ handling of their own
way of approaching a musical style.
This can, of course, be a bit disconcerting
especially if one has always imagined
that youthful inexperience in matters
of style have long been superseded and
effectively developed. It will be of
interest to quote Sir Charles Villiers
Stanford, who stated in his well-known
treatise on "Musical Composition":
"At the age
of fourteen I began to write a song,
but the latter part of it was beyond
my abilities, so it was put away in
a drawer and abandoned. Ten or twelve
years later having long-since forgotten
the original attempt at setting these
words I sat down to set this poem
and did so without a hitch. The surprising
thing about this "unconscious
cerebration" came many years
later when I chanced once again to
come across the original, unfinished
juvenile attempt, and discovered to
my surprise that the completed song,
made in my mature years, was in fact
virtually identical in melody, harmony
and style with the original, uncompleted
childhood attempt made so many years
earlier".
Within the past few
years I have unexpectedly come across
things that I composed in earliest youth;
having long forgotten about them and
quite consciously put them out of mind
decades ago. It has been intriguing
then, to re-discover such youthful strivings
at self expression and to see in them
the very seeds - in matters of melodic
shapes, harmonic flavour. rhythmic style
and general manner of creative approach
- that have unconsciously moulded my
mature works. This despite long adult
experience and the contemplation and
influence of much other music that was
unknown to me as a child. It illustrated
yet once more the facets of the argument
as to which is more important or influential:
"nature or nurture".
This is an argument
that could be hotly disputed: whether
to be swayed by the multifarious new
experiences and changing styles that
influences one as times passes: nurture,
or as I am now inclined to believe:
nature.
I am reminded that
Vaughan Williams remarked: "What
matters is not originality but to be
true to oneself"
Arthur Butterworth
January 2005
