Hello all!

The blog is finally back up and running after far too many months. I’m planning on posting a list of all of the musical/life events that occured over the past two seasons (I miss the Texas winter and spring more and more as we slowly approach surface of the sun temperatures), but I figured a purely musical post would be appropriate to get the ball rolling again.

Anyways, on to the music:

This past Monday, Lindby’s bassist and my good friend, Kyle Claset,  gave his Theory Capstone Presentation. For those of you who haven’t delved too deeply into the world of Music Theory majors, a capstone is the equivalent of a senior recital.

Performance majors put on concerts to show their skills. Composition majors (like myself) have a bunch of different people perform their portfolio of works. Theory majors write epic papers (backed up by powerful powerpoint presentations) and argue a certain, specific point in a certain realm of the musical world.

As an example, Kyle tried to persuade his audience of professors and peers that a new type of sonata should be acknowledged and classified alongside the existing five types. The meat of his argument came from providing musical examples that fit into multiple categories and could not be constrained by one classification.

It was certainly a compelling argument and really got me thinking about the nature of compositon versus theory. Creation versus definition. Chaos versus order.

As a composer, I have a natural bias that would have me leaning towards the idea that compostion came before theory. The first mental image I conjure up is that of our ancient ancestors sitting around creating rhythms with primitive drums and perhaps singing in form or another.

However, if I look at it from Kyle’s point of view, I would have to admit that the very act of defining rhythm and providing even the most basic of structures would reside in the world of theory.

It’s very much in the vein of which came first, the chicken or the egg.

Kyle and I have actually discussed how the ideas of composition and theory are essentially at war with each other. Composers create what they feel/think sounds good. Theorists try to make sense of it and define it. Of course, even though they’re at war with each other, one could never exist without the other.

And upon further thought, this conflict between the two arts actually helps both of them progress forward towards further innovation.  Composers always want to break new ground and come up with ideas that have never been tried. This partially stems from the fact that theory has defined and classified what has already been done. If a composer succeeds at this goal, then theorists suddenly have a plethera of new work ahead of them. It goes hand in hand, and one fire basically feeds the other.

It’s ying and yang. It’s life and death. It’s order and chaos. It’s the power and drive of opposites.

It’s theory and composition: the backbone of the musical world.


For those of you who haven’t been keeping up with this blog from the beginning, I encourage to check out the first Mozart story that I posted awhile back.

I’ll wait here till you’re finished.


Pretty great, right? Nothing like one of music’s most brilliant geniuses meowing and hopping around in a bout of boredom.

So, to honor the master composer and his quirky ways, here’s another story I heard this past week.

Before the story begins, I’m putting up this keyboard picture (a Casio – yes!) to use as a reference for those of you who don’t spend large amounts of time in front a piano.

On with the Amadeus tale:

Mozart loved to joke around and make seemingly impossible claims.

In this instance, his claim revolves around a pianist’s ability to only play four of the same note at once. For example, if we choose the note C, we have plenty of C’s across the span of the keyboard. However, due to having two hands and the fact that each hand can only reach two C’s (one with the thumb and one with the pinky), most people can only play four C’s.

Mozart boasted he could play five at once.

Flabbergasted, people demanded to see proof.

What did the brilliant master do?

Simple: he played the standard four C’s with his hands. The fifth? He place his face down on the keys and used his nose!

Oh Wolfgang, you clever joker.