BY SEAN X. QUINN, COMPOSER
We would like to welcome Sean in his first story as a CutCommon contributor!
I have always looked at myself as an observer, an outsider, an introvert.
I come from a background of classical training, and while growing up had listened to a variety of music ranging from rock and pop, through to eclectic bands such as ELO and Tubular Bells.
But the one thing that I learnt through all of this time was to listen deeply. Pauline Oliveros established the thought movement Deep Listening®, which I follow with keen ears and admire for its continuously meditative yet enriching state (read more from our lead critic Mark Bosch).
Whilst a kid, I was restless, reckless, and rough around the edges with my musical playing. Music had begun to frustrate me: the strive for perfection and precision almost drove me away. I got to the age of 15, however, and with the assistance of my marvelous piano teacher, I was able to explore new facets of classical music that had previous mystified and even deterred me.
I thrust myself into the music of the 20th Century, at first with the works of Igor Stravinsky. The first time I properly listened to The Rite of Spring, I almost collapsed. The contrast of colours, the dense orchestration, the intensity brought by the score’s impurity; this all got me thinking harder about the nature of music.
I had begun to pick up composition slowly, writing simple melodies on the piano to little effect and scrawling them out on a notation software somewhere online. But after the introduction of the avenues of contemporary music, I started to become a little jaded in my thinking of classical music, particularly the ‘old’ produced before 1900. It took me a while to come around to the serial movements of the early and mid-20th Century. And yet, I am still baffled by the extent to which composers went in order to control music’s outcomes: its academic precision and refinement; so deterring yet so inviting at the same time.
I became an avid score reader, picking up or looking up any score I could find. Not many kids can say that they got the Dover edition of Stravinsky’s three Ballets Russes for their 17th birthday – and fortunately (and kind of sadly), I can. I was inquisitive with musical possibilities, leading me to exploring alternative notation, the boundaries of fixed practice, and how we express ourselves as musicians via interdisciplinary collaboration.
A lot to take in at the age of 17.
It was in 2016, when I saw the Australian World Orchestra with Simone Young perform Messiaen’s Turangalîla-Symphonie, that I truly had my ears opened. I had the second The Rite of Spring revelation that most musicians have in their life; the moment when you realise the power music has, the emotional depth, the symbiotic nature of music’s language, and above all the universality of it all.
In the worlds of music, no matter how complex, one could be free to do what they wanted
The polar comparisons I had previously made started to blend into a big ideology – one that I have further developed and researched in the youth of my career, and that I will most likely keep for the rest of my life.
Music is everywhere!
Being blessed (or cursed) with perfect pitch was becoming less of a gimmick and more of a device in discovering sound. I have an affinity with found objects, and through the quality they exude I became more aware of an instrument’s capabilities – how extended techniques could be used to the effect of dimensional growth rather than just exotic sounds. My compositional language grew rapidly, forming a pool of possibilities into which I could take my music. It was at that time, when I was peaking into the art of European discovery, that I finally came across Australian composers.
With a lack of exposure to Australian composers in concert and educational environments, I had grown to disregard those close to home, writing them off as a copy of what was overseas: Why bother with Australian composers when there’s so much good stuff over there?
How naïve I was.
It was when I did further reading into the music of Peter Sculthorpe and Ross Edwards that I began to understand the power of rejection, imperfection, and connection. I had felt so isolated from the rest of the world, as though I was only like people in Europe; I associated my own emerging musical voice with the trends of Ligeti and Messiaen in the fact that it had started to share similar qualities. But the unearthing of Australian music meant a drastic change in perspective.
This discovery ran concurrently with my coming across the ‘New York School’ of art and music – artists such as Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, and then composers such as John Cage, Morton Feldman and Christian Wolff.
My mind was overwhelmed with the ocean of possibilities for musical expression that had inundated me. I felt as though in the worlds of music, no matter how complex, one could be free to do what they wanted.
I was not popular amongst my colleagues, and luckily that allowed me to drive beyond the norm
From the point of my education, when I realised music was the path I wanted to follow, artistic license was something I was always adamant about holding. I felt more than what the lines and dots allowed me to express. I can only imagine the frustration I caused my teachers, but the difficulty I had in reconciling how I felt about music was distressing for my own understanding of my practice. I had begun to feel even more isolated in my musical thoughts; my peers resented my change of approach, no matter how critical I was to them.
I was not popular amongst my colleagues, and luckily that allowed me to drive beyond the norm. I began to reject old practices. I openly said to many people: “I hate Mozart’s music”. I am proud to state it, because of the renaissance I was undergoing in my musicianship. I no longer sought technical perfection over expressive quality – and it was truly liberating!
My compositional practices grew more and more opaque to the younger audience – silent ridicule was painted over everyone’s face at the thought of my music being played. At first, this affected me, and in many ways my practice. But then, I began to realise that newer practice had its place – not necessarily in everyone’s face, but alongside the others.
Whilst I don’t always agree with this, I understand it: music has a tradition, and that tradition is not going to be broken in a month, year, decade, or even a century. We have to be patient, but shouldn’t be discouraged by those who shun our creativity. No matter what level of new music you write, there will always be complaints and questions asked.
I am content with who I am, what I have become, and where I am going
I assure you that not every musician or artist will go through the trials and tribulations that I have undergone, nor do I wish it upon anyone to feel the pain of isolation and indifference. I am content with who I am, what I have become, and where I am going. That is true artistic license – the feeling of being able to express oneself without the concern of an audience. I will always endeavor to engage an audience, but I have learnt that you cannot please everyone, even yourself, all the time.
I would advise fellow artists to listen, learn, and live – three words that constantly repeat as a mantra for musicianship.
Listen to the world around you; feel connected to sound at different levels. Don’t become paranoid, but think about how sound affects you as an artist, and more importantly how it affects others.
Learn about your practice; don’t walk into an exercise blind. Take the time, even if only 10 minutes, to research and read about what you are doing. Music is a deep and dark world of convoluted concepts, and taking time to process them is important.
And finally, live; embrace every opportunity to do the prior two Ls. The more you immerse yourself in the world of music, the more you’ll feel comfortable with who you are as a musician, and who you align with.
Diversity of practice is key, too. Don’t feel drawn to one thing; live in the moment!
We all undertake the artform of music as a form of expression, and those who continue to practice that expression will encounter every twist, turn, and tumble. But at the end of the day, music is everywhere.
No matter whether you’re doing it for – pleasure or pay – you’re a musician. And that’s the part of your life that never goes away.
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Image supplied. Credit: Cameron Jamieson.
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