Archive for the 'Music' Category

Question and answer: nonverbals

April 9, 2018

We say what we’ve been waiting all day to say to someone else, ourselves, God, etc.

We test our luck, probe for a smile, a squirm, a down-ranking, chagrin, c’est la vie.

We flirt, stare, wince, admire, react, flatter, or reach out to help someone save face.

We hold back and release our frustrations on each other, ourselves, or the following person in line.

We ignore hints, insults, being ignored, crime, fear, impatience, embarrassment, or efforts to elicit a smile or a laugh. We ignore pointedly, thoughtlessly, or with apologetic glances indicating that we will be paying attention again in just a moment.

We appease, intimidate, cut down, build up, stereotype and deploy microaggressions with the direction and movement of a neutral gaze.


We score, keep score, watch our averages, count our eggs, lick our wounds, celebrate, or shrug.

We mark time, sustain disjointed rhythms, impose habits on the people around ourselves, enforce routines, train one another to go with the flow, jazz things up, wind it down, let missed beats go, learn to get our lines out in one breath, and get cross when third parties interrogate us before we’ve paused for breath or when our breath was appointed to someone else ahead of them in line, withholding, getting steamed.

We daydream, plan, ruminate, second-guess, people-watch, and chit chat.

We make eye contact, glare, anticipate, let our gaze slide, tighten the muscles between our eyes, cock an eyebrow, squint with pleasure, mock in play, look away, look again, apologize with our  eyes, blink too soon, too significantly, relax, regret, recognize.

We smile easily, less easily, with or without joy, with stage feeling, formally, informally, as if sharing a secret, with familiarity, belatedly, with a sense of compunction, habitually, slightly, ironically, cynically, obsequiously, casually, cheerfully, contentedly, with worry or with warmth.

We turn in, aside, towards, to broadside, askew, away, at once, too abruptly or slowly, too mechanically or aggressively, in embarrassment or in concert.

We move, musically or unmusically, in a certain key or chromatically, gently or not.

Attention jockeying, humor and forgiveness

April 2, 2018

To quote Albert Finney’s memorable quip in A Good Year, and Russell Crowe’s recap of the line in the same film, “Timing” is the secret – to comedy, to success, and I would argue, to persuasive delivery of informative messages, to effective hand-offs, and to common courtesies.


It can be a matter of waiting one’s turn to talk, taking a breath in time to respond punctually to a question, juggling multiple conversations at once adroitly across multiple live channels, or jockeying successfully for attention in the decision-making process when delivering actionable intelligence, complex evidence assessments, or public service announcements intended to compete effectively with the currency of “ad culture” in the media mix.

Humor is a sort of quality criterion in evaluating one’s timing in communication – good timing is sometimes pointed enough to be funny, and never takes the air out of the room, so to speak. And to the extent that attention jockeying is intrinsically rude (politically aggressive in the game theory of the attention economy), the comedic value of good timing elicits forgiveness for having presumed on someone’s patience by having one’s own views to air.

Bad timing is a running joke in 2017’s captivating comedy of errors Easy Virtue, and the ease with which the everyday supplies plausible openings for such errors is charmingly illustrated in the domestic life of this film’s hilariously ordinary aristocratic family. Bad timing, one might say, is par for the course. “Good enough” timing is the difference between leaving shock waves of irritation in one’s wake everywhere one goes, and not having ruffled anyone’s feathers much.

Good timing, in my experience, takes considerable and continuous effort in itself. But good timing, in communication of whatever sort, might be the difference between exercising influence and “pissing in the wind” – between successful networking and lone wolf syndrome – between a recipe for failure and success.

Can “good timing” be taught? Is it a moving target, an index of competitiveness in a “nature red in tooth and claw” attention economy of cultural norms in prosody and panache? I find it challenging but learnable, and believe it is at least somewhat related to perspective-taking and listening skill/effort, as well as strategic breathing habits. I also find it totally contingent, dyadic, multiply inflected with cultural overtones and race/class-conflict baggage, and in tension – all conversations, I feel, boil down to the competitive “question and answer” badminton rhythms of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead on some primal level.


Breathing habits have a habitual character, a performative, musical and mimetic dimension, a personality of their own.  But flexibility and clairvoyance in sensing when it would be best to breathe is surprisingly important in achieving good timing, in practice, especially when there are multiple speakers or conversations taxing one’s attention at once. The breathturn, as Paul Celan put it [Atemwende], helps decide how emphatic, receptive, conditional and considerate we sound when we express ourselves with a given tone of voice, word choice and level of strain/volume/articulation/etc.

The search for one’s turn to breathe, one’s turn to speak, one’s turn to pause, one’s allowance of time to answer a question – this is not a contemplative endeavor, however profound the consequences might be. Everything is now, now, now. Live in the now, we are told. What perhaps we should be told is, choose your timing carefully, constantly, reflexively, and before it’s too late!


Syncopation and coincidence: a problem poem

September 15, 2016

Turning to Robert Browning’s Fifine at the Fair as an exemplar of quantitative meter in English verse requires a disclaimer. I have it only on authority that this poem scans in quantitative dactylic hexameter at all – while of course an alexandrine line can be divided into four groups of three syllables evenly, in no instance does the poem appear to actually use four dactyls in a line, be they accentual-syllabic or quantitative.

What Browning does instead is use syncopation, alternating iambs with anapests in symmetrical lines that scan like this:

The tumbling troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage

u S u s u S u S u s u S

_ __ _ _ _ __ _ __ _ _ _ __

Here there is perfect coincidence between syllables with a strong stress (S) and a long duration (__), but this is actually the exception to the rule – take the stanza this line appears in for example:

Oh, trip and skip Elivire! Link arm in arm with me:

Like husband and like wife, together let us see

The tumbling troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage

Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

Each line again has four strong stresses, two iambs and two anapests, but in quantitative scansion there is no coincidence and no regularity. Take the last line for example:

Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

s S u s u S u S u s u S

__ _ __ __ _ __ __ _ _ _ __ __

The alexandrine (iambic hexameter) line is in French poetry what iambic pentameter is in English – a virtual necessity for serious poets using meter and rhyme. Even Shakespeare’s plays make extensive use of blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter) for speeches and soliloquies. Browning’s justification for using the alexandrine is clear – his characters in this dramatic poem make up a love triangle drawn from Moliere’s Don Juan.

His short prologue to the poem is in the more familiar English verse form of ballad meter, or alternating four-foot and three-foot lines. These lines achieve syncopation instead by skipping initial unstressed syllables in places and alternating iambs with trochees, as in this meditation on a butterfly seen by a swimmer:

Does she look, pity, wonder,

At one who mimics flight,

Swims, – heaven above, sea under,

Yet always earth in sight?

S u S S u S u

u S u S u S

S S u u S s S u

u S u S u S

The third line might be said to have an iamb (or a trochee) with a skipped syllable, followed by a dactyl, a spondee and a trochee, and in quantitative meter there is almost perfect coincidence, again starting with an iamb or trochee with a skipped syllable:

Swims, – heaven above, sea under,

__ / __ _ _ / _ __ / __ _

Whereas the first two lines have a slightly more awkward pattern of near-coincidence, with perhaps too many skipped syllables for any sense of regularity:

Does she look, pity, wonder,

At one who mimics flight,

__ / __ __ / _ __ / __ _

_ __ / _ _ __ / __

The last line, however, has pleasing near-coincidence, this time without any skipped syllables:

Yet always earth in sight?

_ __ / __ __ / _ __

Overall, there are precious few dactyls to be found, but a triple rhythm is nevertheless evident and significant to the poem’s skipping and tripping style, which makes light of the traditional duple feet of English-language poetry, even though it does not take much forcing of the language to impose a sing-song iambic hexameter on each line. Indeed, if you remove the visual device that primes the ear for a rhythmic subtext, that is, the knowledge of the orthographic code, if you will, the hexameter is the remainder – the most obvious rhythm in each line.

All this leaves me curious as to whether Moliere used any triple rhythms to introduce variety to the twelve syllable lines in his Don Juan – but I have not studied French, so on this I cannot comment.

Measuring rhythms in English verse

September 7, 2016

Taking a break from history for a while, I’ve decided to revisit territory I covered closely several years ago and then set aside, knowing someday I would pick up the thread again, but still unsure where it would all lead. Out of nostalgia for a very energetic period of creative writing, and to take advantage of two book length poems I’ve since been able to acquire my own copies of – Robert Browning’s Fifine at the Fair, and Cayley’s (notably obscure) translation of the Iliad. I quickly found myself making notes in their margins.

When I first began experimenting with quantitative meters in poetry, I had a very definite goal in mind – to write an epic in Homeric hexameters myself. But the more I learned about these exotic classical verse forms, the more academic my interest became. Ultimately, I became reserved about the possibilities of using such a meter (although I am still happy with some of the experiments I produced with it then).

In graduate school, I undertook a self-study course on the subject with the permission of a poetry instructor who had introduced me to Tennyson’s Ulysses and Dryden’s verse. I studied Renaissance and Victorian poetry in classical meters, and learned the Latin rules of quantitative scansion that they had adapted, with difficulty and with no consensus on the best approach, to the English language. The Latin rules, in turn, had been developed in imitation of the Greek classics.

Interestingly, neither Latin or Greek vernacular poetry or spoken language resembled, in rhythm, the movement of the hexameter line so well known from Homer and Virgil. Although the Latin rules bore some correspondence to what is now understood to have been Latin pronunciation, in each instance the rules were orthographic rather than auditory in application – an artifact of written literature that could only be reproduced aurally by artificial elongation of the “long” syllables (a foot scanned according to stress in accentual-syllabic versification is scanned according to duration in quantitative meter; in quantitative music two short syllables equal one long in duration). To complicate matters further, Renaissance and Victorian authors were educated in a Latin that had lost correspondence to classical pronunciation (which has been more successfully reconstructed since then). So to the extent that Virgil’s hexameters could be heard in Latin, these students of classical poetry were at a loss as to how.


Instead, they arranged their quantitative lines orthographically – that is, according to the arrangement of letters into diphthongs, digrams, pairs of consonants, and types of vowels. Syllables with “tense” vowels do tend to be pronounced “long” in English as in Latin, and diphthongs and consonant clusters can also lengthen the duration of a syllable, but often silent consonants were scanned identically to other consonants, and the tendency for English pronunciation to lengthen certain syllables in a line in connection with syntax or word prominence was long ignored.

e.g., the long e in “The scene was beautiful” is longer than the long e in “The scenery was beautiful” (Schuman 1977)

The first English poets to achieve audible quantitative meters were those who exploited coincidence, that is, the tendency of an accented syllable to sound longer in duration than an unaccented syllable. Here the Victorian poets experimenting with classical meters were aided by the phenomenon of isochronism – the tendency of English verse to give equal time intervals between stressed syllables in a line, so that in a line running

/ ‘ ‘ / ‘ / ‘ / ‘ ‘ / ‘ ‘ / ‘

the duration of the first two unstressed syllables is one beat, and the duration of the second syllables in each of the second and third feet is the same as the stressed syllables. Hence in quantitative meter, you have a dactyl and two spondees – spondaic substitution being permissible in all but the penultimate foot in an epic hexameter line, whereas the last two feet must be a dactyl followed by a spondee. This is important for the quantitative hexameter at least, because trochees and iambs are excluded in this verse form, whereas they are almost inevitable in English accentual-syllabic scansion (some experts would argue that there is no such thing as a true accentual-syllabic spondee in English, due to the rising and falling pattern of our speech habits, which strongly favor iambic pentameter lines).

I remember in my term paper on Tennyson’s Ulysses for this same professor, I introduced an alternate approach to scansion which distinguished between strong stress and weak stress to account for the difference between prominent stressed syllables and words that only acquired stress by virtue of their position in the line (i.e., because of rising and falling speech patterns and the momentum of the iambic pentameter rhythm).

My teacher found this system very confusing, but I still find it very useful, because in iambic pentameters, I very often feel I have come across a dactyl-iamb pair that violates the sing-song conventions of versification and introduces a sense of relief from the constrictions of blank verse without interrupting the regularity of ten syllable lines. Take this line – here the downhill movement of the water carries the stress away from the second foot, but the need for a break from the unstressed syllables and the mid-point of the line assigns prominence to a word that would not normally be emphasized (“from”):

e.g., “These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs”

u S u s u S u S u S

Tintern Abbey, Line 3

In contrast, had the waters been rolling breakers on the open sea, the second foot would have laid more stress on “rolling”, I think. Here there are opportunities to introduce tension between verse forms within blank verse, with some lines having a triple rhythm, some a tetrameter, and some passages evoking ballad meter (tetrameter alternating with trimeter for a seven beat enjambed line). The following line, for instance, can be reduced to three beats:

“With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again”

u u S u u S u s u S

Here listening for the beat, in particular for isochronism, as opposed to counting the syllables and enforcing an iambic rhythm on the line, yields a more complex sense of movement and pause to a very familiar poem.

I’ll return to Tintern Abbey later, but first, I want to focus on Browning’s poem. Unfortunately, just introducing the subject has taken up most of my time (and a great deal of space), so I will get to Fifine at the Fair in my next blog entry.