So far, I haven’t written about the song. I will now. Singing is the fullest, most intimate, most powerfully moving and most profoundly touching form of expression. Generally speaking, it is available to everybody. The oldest existing form. The source of any expression – not only artistic, but expression understood more broadly as sending a message. Terrestrial and aquatic mammals sing, birds sing and, most probably, dinosaurs used to sing too. To a bit of generosity, we can accept that amphibians and insects to sing as well. It turns out that also fish deliberately let out acoustic waves, e.g. while mating.

But the human song is unique. Like all spheres of our lives that have developed out of earlier animal survival features. As evolution progresses, some things get complicated, and others are redefined. Awareness emerges and grows at the sacrifice of taking on and turning down behaviours in a mindless, problem-free way. There is an endless conversation about decay, about departing from the roots, about the “golden ages” and about the still-grieved-for forms and manifestations of life and action that were supposedly closer to nature. From my standpoint (which is neither especially grounded nor unequivocal), I can confess what I assume: everything that exists is natural by definition, but it does not mean it’s inevitable and always equally good. The one and only thing that seems inevitable is to navigate. Even in the absence of a clear aim. Back to the point, singing seems essential to us and it does not seem to be in decline, even as we continue to undergo other essential transformations.

 

One could say that, as a medium of getting a message across, singing is ineffective. It significantly slows down communication and hinders comprehension. Given the involvement of basic life functions, quite often pushed to the limits of health and comfort, it seems downright grotesque. Apparently, we enjoy watching someone struggle with their own physiology while producing lengthy impractical sounds. With thinly disguised effort visible on their reddish face. The key to understanding this phenomenon lies in what’s most uncanny about it. As beings dependent on breathing, we are at all times dozens of seconds away from possible death. We rely on the volatile gas balance of our planet’s atmosphere. Deep in our souls, perhaps at the back of our organic memory, we are well aware that this balance is no sure thing. From a broader perspective, it’s an anomaly, a momentary luxury. Singing makes us see it and embrace it. It both forces us to be conscious of it and allows to get to grips with it. Tangibly and somatically. Singing makes us embrace the possibility of each breath being our last.

 

From another perspective, I could say that singing has a disarming power. Like Crumb’s infantile mysticism that I mentioned before. Singing is primal; it’s somewhat analogous to the behaviour of a baby, who produces sounds not only to communicate their needs but also, in the absence of any needs, simply to play with sound. The baby can hear themselves and, thanks to the sound, they can perceive for the first time that there is a certain feedback loop between themselves and the observable world. To my mind, self-awareness is primarily based on sound. Singing refers to this experience, thus breaking out of the cognitive constructs that were subsequently built. It refreshes our experience of the world. At the same time, it exposes another human being to us. While singing, one cannot really hide. Whoever sings is exposing themselves almost fully, in their bodily authenticity, and engaging their whole self in the piece sung – again, thus resembling a child, whose behaviour is subject to a particular, more open-minded judgement and interpretation. Or at least this is how it feels to the listeners and, as far as I know, most often to the singers as well. It partly entails surrender, sacrifice and trust. It also builds an intimate bond. An intensive bond, even though almost completely separate from the features of particular individuals. In a way, universal and pure. Transcendent, if you will.

While composing, I don’t necessarily take all that into account. It’s more about following the lyrics while trying to decode and reflect something I would describe as a picture lasting over a period of time (apart from the general meaning, of course), while also trying to preserve the emotional “tone” stemming from the broader context and the linguistic prosody. I believe language strongly shapes our experience. In a nutshell, in each language we are somebody else and we experience something slightly different. It’s not necessarily about different languages: even within one, there may be, of course, a variety of dialects, accents or, in short, differences and ambiguities in terms of sound and structure that subtly shape our perception of people and situations. In music, we need not, or even cannot reflect it fully. Singing works in a way different than speaking. However, to a certain extent, speech echoes in the song – or at least it should. By the way, in music, when the very speech is brought to the forefront, it is almost always an unpleasant dissonance for me. Music in the background of speech, for instance in the theatre or film – yes, by all means, but musical pieces with spoken parts that do not undergo any musical or related modification somehow sound wrong to me. I need at least minimum and, if possible, far-reaching alterations to rhythm and pitch. The result is normally something between a recitative and an aria, with local deviations in both directions. With a definite predominance of syllabic singing, in a free rhythm, with specific values yet without a clear pulse. In notation often without metre. Therefore, it poses a certain challenge to control the instrumental parts, that is, to write down the score in such a way that the texture is under control but the soloist remains unrestrained. It works well with a system of arrows/signs for the conductor and the musicians, as well as frames and lines allowing to write down what’s continued or repeated. For example:

To a certain degree, this system of writing evolved thanks to the remarks by Maestro Gabriel Chmura, who listened to the rehearsals of “Space Opera” and commented on them openly a few times, saying that “the conductor waves his hands in four-four time but nothing happens”. He was clear in saying that it was badly written. I hereby thank Maestro Chmura. I hope it’s better this way.

 

In the “Siren”, the singing parts will feature three soloists whom I have already met a few times. In the title role, a mezzo-soprano: Ewa Biegas; as Puella / Woman, a soprano: Asia Freszel; and as Puer / Man, a counter-tenor: Kuba Monowid. I said at the beginning that I would dedicate a whole post to the performers. Now that I think of it, I will not. Whatever I write will be unnecessary and won’t do them justice. Let me just say that all three are excellent and I feel greatly honoured to have them. And perhaps also that now, after all our previous encounters, they are almost universal models and benchmarks in my perception of these types of voices and of singing in general.

I'm already at the harbour. I’ve docked, although I’m not quite finished yet. I must still “clear” the deck. It's a nice custom, by the way, that a yacht in the harbour has to be tidy. It's not a matter of artificial polish, but rather of practical order. Before I consider a score finished, I like to put the finishing touches to it till it reaches a state essentially requiring no further edits. Naturally, it’s never fully possible, but the closer I get to it, the better I feel I’ve done my job.

The last stage before arriving at the harbour can be difficult. At some point there is no turning back, you have to sail on till you arrive, and there are ever more challenges, e.g. increased traffic in the harbour area. The shape of the bottom begins to matter: there are shoals, rocks and wrecks, and you have to watch out for land and sea signs, lights, etc. It can be tiresome, especially in terms of physical condition. It can happen that after a dozen or more hours of tense, incessant, exhausting concentration on trying to dock, when you finally do, you just collapse, almost unconscious. This is how I felt yesterday late at night.

As far as the Siren-related challenges are concerned: it’s good to measure time. The ending was supposed to fade out relatively slowly, bringing up several previous themes. In a way, to open up to eternity, to an incessant continuation. However, not too long. Eventually, the last part lasts ca. 18 minutes, and its lyrics are the following:
 

MAN / PUER

I desired something I could not name.

What did I desire when the wind was

tossing my ship’s rectangular sail?

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

You wanted me to desire you,

your might and fame, and wealth.

 

MAN / PUER

Wealth? I departed this life naked, after all.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

You desired power. I did not need it at all.

 

MAN / PUER

Yet you praised the sharpness of my sword,

when I said that in Normandy years last longer

and the soil, more fertile, yields three times the crop.

Did you not embark on the knarr willingly, with the children,

sheep and slaves, and did you not sail with me

through the cold ocean, never looking back?

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

You left me no choice.

 

MAN / PUER

Yet you were not hungry there, in the old country,

and you enjoyed the slave’s service.

All my days, weeks, months at the sea,

all that was for you.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

No, not for me.

You sailed there for power, not for me.

It was all for you.

 

MAN / PUER

Yet I returned.

I returned to you.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

You returned... tired.

You returned to rest.

But did you achieve victory, or did you bring the spoils?

 

MAN / PUER

I brought the American cup and Irish monasteries' gold,

I sailed around Africa and brought spices from India,

I loaded the holds of my galleons with golden Aztec masks,

I was the first to bring tea to London.

I circumnavigated the Earth by myself, never once calling at a port.  

Yes, I achieved victory.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

Yet I asked you then if all that would be enough.

 

MAN / PUER

I no longer wanted to go out to sea.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

The gold will end someday, I would say.

I dared not ask you to set off.

Though I wanted you to.

 

MAN / PUER

I only wanted to know

what is truly good for a human being.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

Your fame faded away; people forgot you.

Were you ready to lose all you had fought for?

 

MAN / PUER

I did not care for the fame. I did not want to go back there.

To the fear, cold and death at every turn.

I only wanted to know what was best.

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

You said so because you were tired.

I supposed you would desire adventures again the next day.  

That the sea would call you. It had to be this way; you desired power.

 

SEA / SIREN

All of you desire one thing.

You come on board together.

She is not forced to sail,

And he is not driven by illness.

 

She is not weaker, he is not stronger.

He does not abandon her; she does not wait.

 

I do not call for you;

you call for yourselves.

You govern yourselves

With the rule of your barbaric law.

 

Such is your nature.

You ever existent true.

Forever.

In misery, in hazard and in toil.

 

I will tell you what is best for you.

I will tell you the wisdom of Silenus.

The best is beyond your reach,

as it would be best not to exist at all.

Yet as you do,

it is best for you to simply

die.

 

MAN / PUER

I feared...

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

I waited...

 

SEA / SIREN

To die...

 

MAN / PUER

I asked...

 

WOMAN / PUELLA

I knew...

 

SEA / SIREN

To die...

 

ALL

To die.

One more thing regarding my previous post. There’s a bit of incoherence that’s been bothering me. I referenced Jerzy Pilch’s prose as an example of humour, previously having spoken of a situation in which humour goes beyond form, while a joke can either be funny or absolutely not, depending on who tells it, when they tell it and how they do it. Prose is formally closed, so while a reader reads it, the author has no access to it whatsoever. So, the comicality would have to only stem from the structure, that is, from the form and content. Yet, to my mind, there still seems to be an analogy here. Perhaps it’s the reader who, in a way, tells a joke to themselves, following a recipe provided by the author, but not in a strictly planned manner. Taking into account individual circumstances. The situation stays vivid and open to the unexpected. In this case, the analogy to music is even better, since the listener does not merely take a passive role, but also actively co-creates their own experience, despite the fact that the score is predetermined and finished.

 

In a week, a recap.

 

(transl. Zuzanna Wnuk)