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Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Creators: A Dithyramb
As the word "creative" is generally understood, your Curmudgeon is not a particularly creative sort. He writes a little fiction. Once upon a time, he dabbled in song and poetry, but to no great effect. In consequence, he admires those who display great ability in the artistic sphere. He tends to gush over them, which has given the C.S.O. some uncomfortable moments. More, he finds himself wondering how anyone could fail to appreciate them.
There are levels and degrees of achievement, of course. Derivative creations, performances that require extensive technical enhancement, and performances that display either esthetic or virtuosic gifts but not both, are less to be esteemed than wholly original works, performances that owe nothing to agencies other than the human voice and hand, and performances that marry great beauty and great skill in equal measure. These latter creations are the rarest of all Mankind's works. To stumble upon one is to be privileged indeed.
But privilege always carries responsibility. In this case, the discoverer is morally bound to bring the glad tidings to as many others as he can.
The epic poem of true lyric form is an endangered species. Most "poets" -- yes, those are sneer quotes -- disdain such conventionalities as rhyme, meter, and a sensible story with a moral point. The phrase "as satisfying as tennis with the net down" comes to mind.
It speaks volumes that the best lyric poetry of the post-World War II era is almost entirely to be found in song. There's both money to be made and appreciation to be had in the music field, whereas most "professional poets" -- yes, yes -- either work at other trades for their daily bread or die insane and penniless. But this is not a curse; rather, it's a signpost that points us toward where we might find what we seek.
As for the epic poem, where is that to be found today? Your Curmudgeon is aware of very little of a recent vintage; Claudio Salvucci's Laviniad and Robert Kauffman's Mask of Ollock are the only two published examples he can cite. It stands to reason, of course. The audience for the form is very small, and the understandable reluctance of publishers to get involved with it severely hobbles the epic poet's ability to gain the notice of others. Still, there's a sense that something has been lost here. Works of beauty and majesty, comparable to the Aeneid, The Faerie Queene, and John Brown's Body "should" be no less a feature of our time than of earlier days.
But once again, there are markers to guide us to where we can find what we seek. The nimblest artists of any sort know how to ride the waves of commerce and popular taste. Perhaps 99% of the wave will be crud, unadulterated by the taint of quality, but if we pursue it with determination, we'll find a remnant that will be worth our time.
An epic poem titled The Lay Of Lirazel has just broken upon our shore. Its author, Steve Babb, is best known for his musical gifts and achievements. He's not yet widely known as a poet or storyteller.
He will be.
About a week ago, your Curmudgeon was lucky to hear a performance by a brilliant young guitarist during "open mike" night at a local blues club. This young man, who gave only the name Bob, appeared to have the mastery of every known style of play. In the space of an hour, he demonstrated them all. When your Curmudgeon approached Bob to shake his hand and offer his compliments, he got the sense of a forelock being tugged. Bob appeared to be uninterested in a wider audience. He even seemed a little embarrassed to be recognized for his gifts.
Your Curmudgeon had to ponder the thing for a while. Men being what we are, quite a lot of us don't want the responsibility that accompanies great power of any sort, even the artistic variety. We might enjoy it in constrained settings, where no great degree of public acclaim, and the concomitant demands, can attach to it, but shy back from wider exposure that might compel us to acknowledge our ability to affect the hearts of others, and the implications of how that power could be used.
Obviously, that attitude is a poor fit for someone who actively wants to affect a large number of others...but that doesn't keep it from albatrossing many a fine writer, artist, or musician, like Bob above, who can feel the danger of unwanted responsibility lurking behind every handshake and every accolade. There's a seductive power in such things. They can lure the artist into playing to the crowd rather than to his own visions and convictions. Many who trust totally in their gifts have quite a bit less confidence in their strength.
This might help to explain the proliferation of modern performers and composers who deliberately skirt the mass audience and the mass channel of distribution. They might seek modest audiences because they feel safer that way. Of course, it has the undesired side effect of denying many persons knowledge of music that would cleanse and exalt them as nothing else can. But this is inherent in the avoidance of publicity.
Recently, a composer-performer named Fred Schendel, in partnership with the aforementioned Steve Babb, has quietly issued a series of works that demonstrate both a soaring artistic vision and a virtuosity near to unknown on the keyboard instruments. Up to about 2003, those creations, produced and sold by Babb and Schendel themselves as an "indie" group, had reached a modest and very appreciative audience, but had not approached the threshold of mass recognition. But with his most recent emission, that could be about to change quite dramatically. Your Curmudgeon hopes Schendel, who seems unusually modest and self-effacing, is ready.
All too frequently, the whole is less than the sum of its parts. This has been the case with many attempts to fuse the forms of modern music with classic stories or mighty works of fiction or poetry. A feel for the one does not guarantee a feel for the other. Jeff Wayne and the Moody Blues succeeded with War Of The Worlds, a rare feat. Emerson, Lake, & Palmer tried to pull it off with Modeste Mussorgsky's Pictures At An Exhibition, but failed to connect. Only a few songwriters have managed the thing, and then usually with minor stories from the Childe Catalog or similar sources of tales and folklore.
When the proposed marriage is between an entirely new epic poem, written in classical form and centered on deathless themes of right, wrong, love, loyalty, and family, and a musical score of symphonic scope and grandeur, written to punctuate and dramatize those themes, the undertaking is at its most hazardous. There are innumerable ways to trip, stumble, and fall. Innumerable ways to display weakness instead of strength. Innumerable ways to prove oneself not a creator blazing a trail of new glory in the arts, but an arrogant, impudent, self-important fool.
But if one should succeed...
It's a presumption of sorts to write about such a thing. The great Gregory Benford, in the first of his Galactic Center novels, In The Ocean Of Night, described a similar attempt to analyze a haiku as "crushing the butterfly beneath a muddy boot." Besides, adjectives are no substitute for the real experience.
Accordingly and with great gladness, ladies and gentlemen, your Curmudgeon gives you Glass Hammer's The Inconsolable Secret!
Comments
Ouch. Goes to show you, it takes all types. Thank Heaven for variety!
Posted by og on 07/12/2005 at 10:50 AMAnd with Roger Dean artwork, too!
Posted by Thibodeaux on 07/12/2005 at 12:52 PMThe dean artwork rocks, I must say, I’ve been a huge fan of deans work forever.
Posted by og on 07/12/2005 at 01:31 PMGlass Hammer offers no clips, that I can find anyway. When will bands realize that a plug is no good without a sample!
Posted by dilys on 07/13/2005 at 11:31 AMDilys, try this page:
http://www.glasshammer.com/pages/features/samplers/inconsolable_sampler.htmlPosted by Thibodeaux on 07/13/2005 at 02:00 PM
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