Defining "A Composition"
In discussing my compositional praxis, I feel it essential to discuss how I conceptualise and relate to the concept of "a composition" in my artistic praxis. There are several theoretical approaches to this topic: Is the composition the score itself, the intent of the composer(s) predating the score, the audience's perception, some aspect of the auditory realisation, etc? What is it that makes several different and unique musical performances be experienced as essentially the same "composition"? Ringer & Crossley-Holland states in Encyclopedia Brittanica that the concept of a composition "presume a tradition in which musical works exist as repeatable entities..." [Ringer & Crossley-Holland, 2008]
This entails that that the "thisness" of a composition, the properties and characteristics that make it a particular composition, lies in its potential for repetition. A composition has, in this sense, an element of similarity across different renderings, constituting its unique character. Ringer & Crossley-Holland lays the composition's ontological foundation in stability of auditory realisation, not in the score itself. This contrasts a notation-centred view of composition, including oral composition in their definition.
Yet, the criteria of potential repetition poses challenges for jazz-oriented compositions, as the quote continues: "...in this sense, composition is necessarily distinct from improvisation." [ibid] The argument might go: due to improvisation's spontaneous and ever-changing nature, it self-evidently contradicts the repeatability of compositions. Composition and improvisation are different worlds, forever separated by their different nature. However, Ringer & Crossley-Hollands distinction between composition and improvisation does not resonate with my artistic praxis in this aspect.
Composition -> Improvisation
In my artistic praxis, composition and improvisation are thoroughly integrated. I am always looking to create compositions that evoke improvisation for the performers. I want the composition to give a kind of creative energy that fuels improvisation. I use notational approaches, manipulate the musical flow or instruct orally in a way that I hope inspires the musicians to co-create the resulting sound. I will give some simple examples:
For a notational approach: in the tune Epiphany [Thomas Lossius Septet, 2021], I add intentional open space in the music and write "fill the space" in the score. By giving room and responsibility, I elicit improvisation from the performing musician.
Another approach which is difficult to name, but which I call manipulating the musical flow, I exemplify with the tune "Yeah!" [Briotrio, 2021]. In my compositional space, I experiment with performing over many variations of the chord changes, in order to find a variation that feels inspiring to improvise over. If the changes are too simple, I tend to only improvise known patterns and melodies, getting no creative input from the composition. Too hard, and the mathlike manoeuvring hampers my improvisational flow. I compose, looking for potential avenues where the musicians have room to improvise and express. How they respond to this depends of course on the genre the performers are trained in and their individual approach, but what I describe is a clear experience in working with jazz musicians. In this example, the original variation had just slightly too much detail and the small simplification of removing the D+7 chord had considerable effect in easing the flow.
For an oral approach, I sometimes don't write chord changes for solos at all in advance, but improvise in rehearsals and find a structure that works, such as for the tune Ethereal Brother [Briotrio, 2021]. Here, I knew the original chord variation had too little variation to work well for a piano trio by my aesthetics, but I had no ideas for an alternative. So, we freely improvised the solo section in rehearsals and it gradually took form, working well.
Composition <- Improvisation
After finishing the score (though it may be revised), I present it to the band and encourage them to relate to it as an outline or blueprint, co-creating the actual sounding music. I hope for them to approach it with the mindset that "seen in the context of performance cultures, scores are much more like theatrical scripts than the literary texts as which musicology has traditionally understood (or misunderstood) them." [Cook, 2013, p. 1]
When we start performing, sometimes the musicians suddenly improvise something I would never expect. It fits perfectly and now the composition seems bland without it. We decide to always do it, to repeat it at every performance. What was once improvisation has now become part of the composition (as defined by Ringer & Crossley-Holland's criteria [2022] as that a composition is a repeatable musical entity ). The musicians participate actively, and their improvisations impact and change the composition, in line with Cristopher Small's observation that "composing begins when a performer, liking what he or she has just done, repeats it."[1998, p. 113] An example of this phenomenon is the decision in Alice [Briotrio, 2021] for the drums to groove very much and be highly active in sections - whereas I originally imagined it more introspective.
This raises the question: whose composition is it now? I laid a framework that encouraged improvisation and creative participation, but it was the musicians who co-created and developed the composition. This contrasts stereotypical concepts of what the composer is. "The idea of the composer as the sole, solemn genius author of the musical work has not always existed, but is estimated to have consolidated during early romanticism." [Groth, 2017]
The process of composing and improvising in my artistic praxis work in tandem, in synergy. Improvisation births the composition. The composition evokes improvisation. Improvisation crystallises into the composition (in that certain parts of the improvisation becomes the composition through constant repetition). So and so on, the interaction goes and the composition keeps evolving. The composer who finalised the score is not the only composer, but every performer who participates is in some manner a composer, co-creating the composition through their performance.
I relate this to Dewey's process-oriented concept of art production: "The process of art in production is related to the esthetic [sic] in perception organically - as the Lord God in creation surveyed his work and found it good. Until the artist is satisfied in perception with what he is doing, he continues shaping and reshaping." [Dewey, 1980, p. 49] The process of shaping and reshaping is for me the essential work of composition, or perhaps of artistic production in general. In slight contrast to Dewey, however, I feel no need to define an end for the artistic process and rather see it as an ever ongoing process. Occasionally, the process of composition may have a momentary end in a composition being finalised and polished for performance in concert or recording. But once those performances are concluded, the creative process starts anew and the composition is once again considered mouldable.
A Compositional Process: Ndiyabulela Dizu
To give an example of a compositional process, I will detail the process of creation9 for the work Ndiyabulela Dizu (translating to "Thank you, Dizu" in isiXhosa). The background for this work were my studies in South Africa, where African neo-traditional musician Dizu Plaatjies taught me the basics of the instrument Uhadi10 and the musical style it is part of.
The composition emerged from improvisation and experimentation on the instrument by myself. I had practiced mostly existing repertoire but been encouraged to compose new works. The rhythm of a triplet-subdivided 6/4 appealed to me with it's many polyrhythmic possibilities, and this particular pattern stuck with me. This recording is recorded during the improvisational conception of the composition.
In transferring the composition to piano, the affordances of the instrument changed the approach to the composition. From being rhythmically and melodically oriented, the harmonic potentialities of the composition became a focal point. I experimented with how the ideas of the composition could be developed and form a compositional whole. This excerpt is clipped digitally from a span of approx. three minutes to briefly show the central ideas I improvised around in the compositional process.
I had to decide which band I felt the tune would fit the most within, and decided for the project under my own name, Thomas Lossius Septet. In writing the sheet, I decided to omit the harmonic varieties I just explored. This is due to an ideal I have explored in my previous project that I term unfinishing a composition, stripping the composition to it's bare bones and to it's central idea. This gives more room for the performers to co-create the work, to fill in the details I as composer could have filled in but decided not to. I could have written down chords and idea developments that I had made, but preferred to keep it open to encourage active co-creation.
The composition was set as an interlude on the album. The general idea was presented briefly orally on a reherseal, but the score was not presented until in studio. This was due to time constraints, but generated a positive kind of intensity. I decided to perform the composition on double bass rather than Uhadi to make it different from the Xhosa music from which it is inspired and rather in the style of the overall album. We decided to do the melody as a call-and-response pattern, leading into collective improvisation until I signalised the end of the composition.
For the release concert, I wanted to not replicate the album, but rather play the songs in such a way that they sounded new. The reimagining it in the way that this composition, rather than being a piece by itself, was set directly as a coda to the tune Jacob's Ladder, continuing the built up energy of that performance. It then deconstructs into a keyboard solo ended by musically cuing on to the tune Incarnation. At times during this performance, all original elements of the composition had been removed except the time signature. The key is changed from the initial idea, the bass pattern simplified to rhythmical drone playing, the melody is playfully interpreted and the chord structures are related to freely. New elements such as call-and-response patterns, dialogic improvisation and a general playful attitude has in time become an essential part of the composition through collective creative processes.
A Dynamic Conception of The Composition
One might ask why discussing the meaning of the term "a composition" is so essential to me. The reason is to make an artistic claim in defining composition in my artistic practice. For me, I define "a composition" as a stability in flux. It is that which is stable within a musical performance. It may be the result of a physical sheet, oral composition and/or crystallised improvisation. Yet, over a span of time, this stability is not stable. It morphs and develops, ever in flux. This is why I do not define it as a stability between performances, but in performance. The stability that constitutes the core of a composition is for me ever changing, being refined and influenced by its performers. The composition's interpretational history bleeds into its very being, making the memory of interpretations as central to the conception of the composition as the sheet music or recording itself.
Dethroning the notated sheet from being conceptualised as The Composition Itself, to rather being the outset for a creative process, frees me as a performer from a self-conscious mindset, focusing on my mistakes and failures to perfectly execute the composer's vision. It instead reorients my thinking towards aesthetic creativity, seeking to bring forth the musical beauty11 of the composition, wherever I see it. These are perspectives that emerge from seeing the interrelated subjectivity of being both composer and performer, and they are further explored in the performer section.
Min Kompositoriske Prosess
Til slutt på denne siden vil jeg beskrive min kompositioriske prosess, og har skrevet dette på norsk. Det gir meg en bedre språklig flyt og uttrykksmulighet å bruke morsmålet når jeg snakker om en slik veldig personlige prosess.
Min komposisjonsprosess starter sjeldent ved bassen, men heller ved pianoet. Pianoet gir meg større mulighet til å høre og skape en musikalsk helhet. Det gir også en viss avstand mellom komponist og utøverrollen, som gjør at jeg kjenner meg mindre bundet av komposisjonene når jeg plukker opp bassen for å fremføre de.
Komposisjonsprosessen starter. Jeg setter på et opptak på mobilen og spiller noen toner på pianoet - noen ganger med øynene lukket for ikke å falle inn i kjente mønstre. Tonene setter i gang assosiasjoner, de vil et sted. Det kjennes som de har en vilje i seg selv. En ledetone vil gjerne oppløses, men jeg ønsker ikke en ren konsonans. Jeg lar den gjøre som den vil, den skal få oppløse seg - men jeg endrer tonene rundt så de skaper ny spenning.
Noen ganger treffer jeg en akkord jeg ikke planlagte, en "feil." Jeg prøver å gi den en sjanse, justere litt, høre for meg om den kan være spennende og lede til noe nytt. Ofte må jeg stoppe opp - vente, lytte - slå akkorden én gang til for at klangen skal vare. Jeg lytter for å se om klangen modner for meg. Om jeg liker akkorden bedre etter hvert som jeg venner meg til den. Jeg slår den én gang til, prøver å forestille meg hvor det kan bevege seg hen, hva denne akkorden vil.
Jeg blir ofte veldig påvirket av sinnstemningen jeg kommer til pianoet med. Noen ganger har jeg masse energi - jeg hamrer løs på tangentene rytmisk og utforsker bitonale muligheter. Jeg følger energien, heller enn å tenke. Andre ganger kan jeg komme til pianoet nedstemt. Jeg setter meg ned og starter rolig. Det føles som å øse ut følelsene i pianoet og se de bli omformet til noe vakkert. Det som før var vondt er nå blitt en ressurs for å skape vakker kunst. Andre ganger kommer jeg til pianoet av plikt, sliten og lite kreativ. Da tenker jeg konseptuelt, utforsker et nytt akkordsystem, leter etter nye muligheter. Musikken får et mer analytisk og teoretisk preg, men virker ikke av den grunn mindre estetisk vakker.
De gangene som føles mest meningsfulle, kjennes komposisjonsprosessen for meg nærmest åndelig. Det kjennes som jeg lar meg drive av en kraft utenfor meg selv. Jeg lar meg lede av en strøm av inspirasjon. Det dukker opp idéer på tangentene, idéer som føles dypt meningsfulle og viktige. Det føles ikke som jeg er opphavsmannen til idéene, men jeg lar de strømme gjennom meg og repeterer de som et slags ritual. Plutselig bommer jeg. Det er noen noter som ikke passer inn, magien blir brutt. Jeg prøver å famle tilbake til der jeg var, men selv om jeg spiller akkurat det samme kommer ikke den samme stemningen. Tonene føles tilgjort og presset, de mangler den uanstrengte flyten. Jeg leter videre en liten stund før idemyldringen roer seg.
Jeg kjenner meg igjen i erfaringene til billedkunstner Gunhild Sannes: "Når jeg tenker meg om så opplever jeg ikke egentlig maleprosessen som bønn, den er bønn. Men hva betyr nå det? Det er som at jeg vet det er bønn, uten helt å klare fatte dybden i hva det innebærer." [2021] For meg er det uforståtte i dette noe av det som gjør det vakkert. Jeg gir meg over til noe som kjennes som en kraft utenfor meg selv (og som jeg identifiserer som Gud), og opplever en veldig kompositorisk energi utifra dette.
En vanlig idemyldring varer i 10-20 minutter. Jeg skrur av lydopptaket på mobilen. Så føler jeg meg tom. Tappet, tom for energi, tom for kreativitet. Det er grunnet disse øyeblikkene at opptakene er så viktig i min kompositoriske prosess. Jeg klarer ikke å gjenskape øyeblikkene, de er borte når de er ferdig, og jeg mangler energien til å notere de umiddelbart.
Men jeg tar vare på opptakene. Når jeg reiser eller venter, hører jeg gjennom de. Jeg vurderer hvilken som er verdt å jobbe videre med, for når jeg idemyldrer prøver jeg å være fri fra selvkritikk. Jeg klassifiserer de beste opptakene i hvilket band de kan passe til. Jeg tenker på hva de forskjellige musikerne kan synes er spennende å spille. Noen opptak liker jeg godt, men passer ikke til noen band, men kan kanskje bli til et nytt prosjekt 5-10 år frem i tid. Jeg noterer ned kjerneidéene på noter, så jeg kan jobbe videre med det en annen gang.
Senere kommer jeg tilbake til idéene. Jeg utforsker potensielle kontrastdeler. Jeg prøver å lage det man i literaturen kaller en disposisjon - en oversikt over hva som skal med og hvordan rekkefølgen skal være. Jeg jobber vertikalt med elementer som form, struktur og helhet. Jeg har erfart at hvis jeg blir for fornøyd med en del for tidlig, ønsker jeg at alt må bli like bra som den - og får skrivesperre av presset jeg gir meg selv. Jeg lar derfor alt være løst og udefinert frem til jeg ser en kontur av helhet. Så begynner jeg å jobbe horisontalt - med momentane elementer som arrangering, melodier, orkestrering, presis notasjon etc. Til slutt tar jeg et steg tilbake og vurderer om jeg kan fjerne detaljer for å gi rom til musikerne så de kan forme komposisjonen.
Notasjonsformatet er forskjellig for forskjellige band. For Thomas Lossius Septet gir jeg musiker-spesifikke noter til alle, som gir meg mye arrangeringsmuligheter. I den foreløpig navnløse Kvelvane/Berntsen/Lossius/Sagebø-kvartetten har jeg heller jobbet med lead sheet-formatet for at vi skal kunne utarbeide låtene i fellesskap. En låt til septetten kan ta opptil 40 timer å lage, mens noen lead sheet-baserte låter har vært ferdig på et par timer arbeid, spredt utover tid. Det tar ofte et par år fra den første ideen i en komposisjon kommer til den er ferdig og fremføres.
Idéen blir så presentert på bandøvelser, som jeg beskriver i seksjonen om øvingsprosesser.
My Compositional Process
In concluding this page, I will describe my compositional process and has written this in Norwegian (with translation here). I get a better linguistic flow when use my mother tongue in discussing such a personal processes.
My compositional process rarely starts with the bass but rather with the piano. The piano gives me greater possibility to hear and create a musical whole. It also gives a certain kind of distance between the composer and performer roles, which makes me feel less limited by the compositions when I pick up the bass to perform them.
The compositional process starts. I click record for a voice memo on my mobile, and play some notes on the piano - sometimes with eyes closed to not end up in known patterns. The notes give associations, they want to go somewhere. It feels as if they have a will by themselves. A leading tone wants to be resolved, but I don't desire a pure consonance. I let it do as it pleases, I let it resolve - but I change the notes around it to create new tension.
Sometimes, I hit a chord I didn't plan, a "mistake." I try to give it a chance, adjust it, see if it can be exciting and lead to something new. Often, I have to stop - wait, listen, play the chord once more for the sustain to last. I listen to see if the sound matures for me. Whether I like the chord better as I get used to it. I play it once more, try to imagine where it can move, what this chord wants.
I am often very influenced by the mood I am in when coming to the piano. Sometimes, I have lots of energy - I go crazy on the keys rhythmically, exploring bitonal possibilities. I follow the energy rather than think. Other times I may come to the piano low-spirited. I sit down and start calmly. It feels like pouring my emotions into the piano and see it be remade into something beautiful. What was previously negative has now become an asset for creating beautiful art. Other times, I come to the piano from duty, tired and not so creative. In such cases I think conceptually, explore a new chord system, look for new possibilities. The music becomes more analytical and theoretical approach, but not necessarily less aesthetically beautiful.
The times that feel most meaningful, the compositional process feels almost spiritual for me. I feel in some way moved by a force outside of myself. I let myself lead by a stream of inspiration. There seems to appear ideas on the piano keys, ideas that feel deeply meaningful and important. I don't feel that I am the originator of the ideas, but I let them flow through me, repeating them as a kind of ritual. Suddenly, I miss. I play some tones not fitting in, and the magic is broken. I try to stumble back to where I was, but even if I play exactly the same, the energy I experienced is nowhere to be found. The notes feel insincere and forced, they lack the effortless flow. I explore further for a little while before the exploration falls to a rest.
The experience of visual artist Gunhild Sannes resonates with me: "When I think it through, it is not that I experience the painting process as prayer, it is prayer. But what does that mean? It is as if I know it is prayer, without fathoming the depth of what that entails." [2021, my translation] The inability to understand this phenomenon is part of what makes it beautiful to me. I give myself over to what feels like a force outside myself (and which I identify as God), and I experience a strong compositional energy arising.
A usual exploration of ideas lasts 10-20 minutes. I stop the voice memo. After the exploration, I feel drained, out of energy, out of creativity. It is because of these moments that voice memos are so important to my compositional process. I can't recreate these moments, they are gone when finished, and I do not have the energy to notate them immediately.
But I keep the voice memos. When I travel or wait somewhere, I listen through. I now judge which ideas are worth developing, as I try to be free from self-criticism when exploring. I start differentiating the best recordings, deciding which band they can fit. I think about what the different musicians might like performing. There are some recordings that I like I like, but doesn't fit any band, and perhaps develops into a new project 5-10 years in the future. I notate the core ideas so I can develop them further later.
Later, I return to the ideas. I explore potential contrasting parts. I try to create a disposition, as they call it in the literature - an overview of what is included and in which order it is presented. I work in a vertical manner with elements such as form, structure and the holistic vision of the composition. I've experienced that if a section becomes too developed too early, I want everything to be as good as it, and get writer's block from the pressure I put on myself. Therefore, I let everything be loose and undefined until I see a contour of the whole. Then I start working horizontally - with detailed elements like arrangement, melody, orchestration and precise notation. Finally, I take a step back and consider whether I can remove details to give room for the musicians' co-creation.
The notational format looks slightly different for different bands. For the Thomas Lossius Septet, I give musician-specific sheet music to everyone, giving me a lot of arranging possibilities. In the as-of-now nameless quartet Kvelvane/Berntsen/Lossius/Sagebø, I've rather worked with the lead-sheet format so that we can work the tunes out collectively. A composition for the septet may take up to 40 hours to compose, whereas some lead sheet based tunes may be finished in a couple of hours work, spread out over a stretch of time. An idea usually takes a couple of years from initial idea to being finished and performed.
The ideas are then presented in band rehearsals that I describe in the section on rehearsal-processes.