In Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino wrote that Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places. As is usually the case, Calvino's got it just right, and I was reminded of this idea of his while walking through the Swiss Alps last week. His point naturally holds true for geography -- I'd have been hard-pressed to not remember aspects of Vermont, my former home and erstwhile alpine playground while yodeling my way around an instantly familiar St Moritz -- but is easily extendable to other regions as well. Given that Nimble Tread is more or less a music blog, it's worth considering how Calvino's notion applies to the medium (music, not blogging).
Music is the most abstract art form, and when it's at its best it establishes a unique relationship with its listeners wherein a hearer not only interprets the music, but also creates the intellectual and emotional framework with which to do so. Unlike literature, film, or fine art, whose meanings are all inextricably linked to a social or historical context, music enjoys the flexibility of interpretive autonomy and lets us make of it what we will. This even applies to program music, the most literary of instrumental forms. We may have been given a story to help us navigate the piece, but we're certainly not obligated to limit our experience of the music to the confines of the literary fence posts. If we were to replace a novelist's suggestions with our own, we'd end up awash in confusion -- or in certain extraordinary instances, prolific irony -- but we can get away with treating a composer's ideas in such a manner. Think of all the possible ways a piece of music, even highly structured music, can be understood. A composition might be wedded to a particular story, but not knowing that story doesn't render the music unintelligible. In fact, countless alternative narratives can be invented, and each one can theoretically be as valid as the actual source. It all comes down to how the listener perceives what she's hearing, and it's in this capacity that Calvino's idea of foreign familiarity comes into play. The music we love is held in such high esteem because of the way it makes us feel, not just emotionally, but cognitively as well. Our favourite music is at once familiar in its presence and beguiling in the way it keeps us convinced that clarity and inspiration are perpetually just a thought away. It's as though we're about to be reminded of something we've forgotten but can't remember we've forgotten, and so we're titillated rather than annoyed by the situation. I think that's why a good composition can be listened to time and again: we never tire of making little discoveries and deriving new connections. It makes us feel smart and in good company, and those are two things that should never be taken for granted.
