As a singer-songwriter, people often ask me about my influences or, as I like to call them, my sonic lineages. And I could easily tell you that I was shaped by the jazz and hip hop that I grew up with, by the Ethiopian heritage of my ancestors, or by the 1980s pop on my childhood radio stations. But beyond genre, there is another question: how do the sounds we hear every day influence the music that we make? I believe that everyday soundscape can be the most unexpected inspiration for songwriting, and to look at this idea a little bit more closely, I'm going to talk today about three things: nature, language and silence -- or rather, the impossibility of true silence. And through this I hope to give you a sense of a world already alive with musical expression, with each of us serving as active participants, whether we know it or not.
Si kengetare-tekstshkruese, njerezit shpesh me pyesin se kush me inspiron, ose si deshiroj t'i them une, prejardhja ime e zerit. Dhe shume lehte mund t'ua tregoj qe jam rritur duke degjuar xhaz dhe hip hop, nga trashegimia e paraardheseve te mi etiopiane, ose nga pop-i i viteve 1980 qe kam degjuar ne radio stacione qe prej femijerise. Por pertej zhanrit, shtrohet nje pyetje tjeter: si tingujt qe i degjojme cdo dite kane ndikim ne muziken qe e krijojme? Une besoj qe tingujt qe i degjojme çdo dite mund te jete inspirimi i papritur per te shkruar tekste, le te shikojme me shume se çfare dua te them rreth kesaj, sot do te flas per tri gjera: natyren, gjuhen dhe qetesine -- ose me mire t'a quajme, pamundesine e vertete te qetesise. Dhe nepermjet kesaj shpresoj te percjell nje bote ne te cilen eshte e pranishme me ane te muzikes, me secilin nga ne qe te sherbej si pjesemarres aktiv, me dijenine apo pa dijenine tone.
I'm going to start today with nature, but before we do that, let's quickly listen to this snippet of an opera singer warming up. Here it is.
Sot do te filloj se pari me natyren, po para se te filloj, le te degjojme nje pjese te nje kengetari opere duke e nxehur zerin. Le t'a degjojme.
(Singing)
(Kendim pa instrument)
(Singing ends)
(Te kenduarit mbaron)
It's beautiful, isn't it? Gotcha! That is actually not the sound of an opera singer warming up. That is the sound of a bird slowed down to a pace that the human ear mistakenly recognizes as its own. It was released as part of Peter Szöke's 1987 Hungarian recording "The Unknown Music of Birds," where he records many birds and slows down their pitches to reveal what's underneath. Let's listen to the full-speed recording.
Eshte shume e bukur, apo jo? Ju zura! Kjo ne fakt nuk eshte tingulli i nje kengetari opere duke nxehur zerin. Ky eshte tingull zogu, Eshte nje kenge e laureshes qe leshohet ne nje ritem qe veshi i njeriut gabimisht e identifikon si ze te vetin. Eshte leshuar si pjese e albumit hungarez te Peter Szöke ne vitin 1987 "Muzika e padegjuar e zogjve," kur ai incizon tone te shume zogjve dhe e ngadaleson deri te toni qe te zbuloje se cka ka perbrenda. Le te degjojme nje version te shpejt te incizimit.
(Bird singing)
(Zogu duke kenduar)
Now, let's hear the two of them together so your brain can juxtapose them.
Tash, le t'i degjojme te dyte bashke duke kenduar ne menyre qe truri juaj te bej dallimin.
(Bird singing at slow then full speed)
(Zogu duke kenduar shpejt dhe ngadale)
(Singing ends)
(Te kenduarit mbaron)
It's incredible. Perhaps the techniques of opera singing were inspired by birdsong. As humans, we intuitively understand birds to be our musical teachers.
Eshte e mrekullueshme. Ndoshta teknikat e te kenduarit te operes ishin te frymezuar nga tingulli i zogjeve. Intuita njerezore, na bene te kuptojme qe zogjte jane mesuesit tane muzikor.
In Ethiopia, birds are considered an integral part of the origin of music itself. The story goes like this: 1,500 years ago, a young man was born in the Empire of Aksum, a major trading center of the ancient world. His name was Yared. When Yared was seven years old his father died, and his mother sent him to go live with an uncle, who was a priest of the Ethiopian Orthodox tradition, one of the oldest churches in the world. Now, this tradition has an enormous amount of scholarship and learning, and Yared had to study and study and study and study, and one day he was studying under a tree, when three birds came to him. One by one, these birds became his teachers. They taught him music -- scales, in fact. And Yared, eventually recognized as Saint Yared, used these scales to compose five volumes of chants and hymns for worship and celebration. And he used these scales to compose and to create an indigenous musical notation system. And these scales evolved into what is known as kiñit, the unique, pentatonic, five-note, modal system that is very much alive and thriving and still evolving in Ethiopia today.
Ne Etiopi, zogjet konsiderohen si nje pjese perberese e vet muzikes. Tregimi vazhdon keshtu: para 1,500 vjeteve, nje burre i ri kishte lindur ne Perandorine e Aksumit, nje qender e madhe tregtare nga koha e lashte. Emri i tij ishte Yared. Kur Yared ishte vetem shtate vjeç, i vdiç babai i tij, dhe nena e tij e dergoi ate, te jetonte me xhaxhain e tij, qe ishte nje prift i tradites ortodokse etiopiane, qe eshte nje nder kishat me te vjetera ne bote. Tash, kjo tradite ofron shume bursa dhe studime, dhe Yared kishte vetem per te studiuar e studiuar, dhe nje dite ai ishte duke mesuar poshte nje peme, kur tri zogj iu afruan. Nje nga nje, keta zogj u bene edhe mesuesit e tij. I mesuan muziken -- posaçerisht, notat. Dhe Yared, qe me vone u be i njohur si Saint Yared, i ka perdorur keto nota qe te kompozoje pese volume te psalmeve dhe himne per lutje dhe festime. Dhe i ka perdorur keto nota qe te kompozoje dhe te krijoje nje sistem muzikor indigjen. Dhe keto nota kane evoluar ne ate qe tashme eshte e njohur si kiñit, nje sistem modal unik, pentatonik, pese-noteshe, qe eshte teper i pranishem ne maje te suksesit dhe qe eshte ende duke evoluar ne Etiopine e sotme.
Now, I love this story because it's true at multiple levels. Saint Yared was a real, historical figure, and the natural world can be our musical teacher. And we have so many examples of this: the Pygmies of the Congo tune their instruments to the pitches of the birds in the forest around them. Musician and natural soundscape expert Bernie Krause describes how a healthy environment has animals and insects taking up low, medium and high-frequency bands, in exactly the same way as a symphony does. And countless works of music were inspired by bird and forest song. Yes, the natural world can be our cultural teacher.
Me pelqen shume ky tregim sepse eshte i veçante ne shume nivele. Saint Yared ishte nje figure e vertete historike, dhe vete natyra mund te jete mesuesi yne i muzikes. Dhe kemi mjaft shembuj te kesaj qe po them: Pigmit e Kongos, melodine e instrumenteve e kane akorduar me tonin e zogjve te malit perreth tyre. Muzikanti dhe eksperti i tingujve Bernie Krause pershkruan se si nje ambient i shendetshem ka kafshe dhe insekte qe perdorin bandat e frekuencave te ulta, mesme e te larta, sikur te ishte nje simfoni. Dhe shume vepra muzikore jane inspiruar nga zogjte dhe kenget e malit. Po, bota e natyres mund te sherbeje si mesuesi yne i kultures.
So let's go now to the uniquely human world of language. Every language communicates with pitch to varying degrees, whether it's Mandarin Chinese, where a shift in melodic inflection gives the same phonetic syllable an entirely different meaning, to a language like English, where a raised pitch at the end of a sentence ... (Going up in pitch) implies a question?
Le te vazhdojme tash me menyren unike te gjuhes njerezore. Çdo gjuhe perdor tonin e vet, qofte gjuha kineze mandarine, ku nje ndryshim i melodise i jep te njejtes zanore fonetike nje kuptim krejtesisht ndryshe, nje gjuhe si anglishtja, ku nje rritje e tonit ne fund te fjalise ... (duke e rritur tonin) nenkupton nje pyetje?
(Laughter)
(Te qeshura)
As an Ethiopian-American woman, I grew up around the language of Amharic, Amhariña. It was my first language, the language of my parents, one of the main languages of Ethiopia. And there are a million reasons to fall in love with this language: its depth of poetics, its double entendres, its wax and gold, its humor, its proverbs that illuminate the wisdom and follies of life. But there's also this melodicism, a musicality built right in. And I find this distilled most clearly in what I like to call emphatic language -- language that's meant to highlight or underline or that springs from surprise. Take, for example, the word: "indey." Now, if there are Ethiopians in the audience, they're probably chuckling to themselves, because the word means something like "No!" or "How could he?" or "No, he didn't." It kind of depends on the situation. But when I was a kid, this was my very favorite word, and I think it's because it has a pitch. It has a melody. You can almost see the shape as it springs from someone's mouth. "Indey" -- it dips, and then raises again. And as a musician and composer, when I hear that word, something like this is floating through my mind.
Si grua ameriko-etiopiane, une jam rritur ne gjuhen e Amharik, Amhariña. Ishte gjuha ime e pare, gjuha e prinderve, nje nder gjuhet kryesore te Etiopise. Dhe ka nje milion arsye per tu dashuruar me kete gjuhe: thellesia e saj poetike, kuptimet e dyfishta te saj, dylli dhe ari i saj, humori i saj, fjalet e saj te urta qe ndriçojne mençurine dhe marrezite e jetes. Por kjo gjuhe ka edhe melodine, nje muzikalitet te brendshem. Dhe kete e gjej te distiluar me se shumti ne ate se cfare deshiroj t'i them une si gjuhe e theksuar -- gjuhe qe eshte krijuar te te theksoje ose te nenvizoje ose qe lind nga befasia. Te marrim nje shemull, fjala: "indey." Tash, nese eshte ndonje etiopian ne publik, ata ndoshta jane edhe duke nenqeshur me veten e tyre, sepse kuptimi i fjales eshte dicka si "Jo!" ose "Si ka mundur ai?" ose "Jo, ai nuk e beri." Varet nga situata. Kjo ishte fjala ime e preferuar si femije, dhe mendoj sepse e gjitha varet rreth tonit. Ka melodi. Pothuajse mund t'a shohesh formen e kesaj fjale kur e shqipton. "Indey" -- ulet, dhe ngritet perseri. Dhe si nje muzikante dhe kompozitore, kur e degjoj kete fjale, dicka si kjo qarkullon rreth mendjes sime.
(Music and singing "Indey")
(Muzika dhe kendimi i "Indey")
(Music ends)
(Muzika mbaron)
Or take, for example, the phrase for "It is right" or "It is correct" -- "Lickih nehu ... Lickih nehu." It's an affirmation, an agreement. "Lickih nehu." When I hear that phrase, something like this starts rolling through my mind.
Ose si shembull, fraza per "Eshte ne rregull" ose "Eshte e sakte" -- "Lickih nehu ... Lickih nehu." Eshte nje pohim, dhe nje pranim. "Lickih nehu." Kur e degjoj kete fraze, dicka si kjo perseritet ne mendjen time.
(Music and singing "Lickih nehu")
(Muzika dhe kendimi i "Lickih nehu")
(Music ends)
(Muzika mbaron)
And in both of those cases, what I did was I took the melody and the phrasing of those words and phrases and I turned them into musical parts to use in these short compositions. And I like to write bass lines, so they both ended up kind of as bass lines.
Dhe ne te dyjat raste, ajo çfare kam bere eshte se kam marre melodine dhe menyren e te folurit e ketyre fjaleve dhe frazave dhe i kam shnderruar ne pjese muzikore ne keto kompozime te shkurta. Dhe me pelqen te shkruaj rreshta basi, ne menyre qe te dyja te perfundojne si rreshta basi.
Now, this is based on the work of Jason Moran and others who work intimately with music and language, but it's also something I've had in my head since I was a kid, how musical my parents sounded when they were speaking to each other and to us. It was from them and from Amhariña that I learned that we are awash in musical expression with every word, every sentence that we speak, every word, every sentence that we receive. Perhaps you can hear it in the words I'm speaking even now.
Tash, kjo eshte bazuar ne punen e Jason Moran dhe te tjereve qe kane punuar gjate tere kohes me muzike dhe gjuhe, por eshte gjithashtu dicka qe kam pasur ne mendje qe prej femijerise, sa melodik prinderit e mi kane tingelluar kur kane folur me njeri-tjetrin dhe me neve. Ishte prej atyre dhe prej Amhariña qe me mesuan qe jemi zhytur ne shprehje muzikore ne çdo fjale, ne çdo fjali qe flasim, çdo fjale, çdo fjali qe e marrim. Ndoshta mund t'a degjoni ne fjalet qe jam duke folur tash.
Finally, we go to the 1950s United States and the most seminal work of 20th century avant-garde composition: John Cage's "4:33," written for any instrument or combination of instruments. The musician or musicians are invited to walk onto the stage with a stopwatch and open the score, which was actually purchased by the Museum of Modern Art -- the score, that is. And this score has not a single note written and there is not a single note played for four minutes and 33 seconds. And, at once enraging and enrapturing, Cage shows us that even when there are no strings being plucked by fingers or hands hammering piano keys, still there is music, still there is music, still there is music. And what is this music? It was that sneeze in the back.
Ne fund, vazhdojme me Shtetet e Bashkuara ne vitet 1950 dhe veprat themelore dhe kryesuese te te kompozimeve te shekullit XX: John Cage "4:33," e kompozuar per çdo instrument ose kombinim te instrumenteve. Muzikanti ose muzikantet jane te ftuar te ecin ne skene me nje kohemates dhe te hapin pjesen, qe eshte blere nga Muzeu i Artit Modern -- pjesa. Dhe kjo pjese nuk ka as edhe nje note te shkruar dhe nuk eshte as edhe nje note e luajtur per kater minuta e tridhjete e tre sekonda. Dhe, ne nje moment te ngazellyer e te terbuar, Cage na tregon se edhe nese nuk ka tela te cilat jane keputur nga gishtat ose duar qe jane duke goditur çelesat e pianos, ende ka muzike, ende ka muzike, ende ka muzike. Dhe çfare eshte kjo muzike? Ishte ajo teshtitje prapa.
(Laughter)
(Te qeshura)
It is the everyday soundscape that arises from the audience themselves: their coughs, their sighs, their rustles, their whispers, their sneezes, the room, the wood of the floors and the walls expanding and contracting, creaking and groaning with the heat and the cold, the pipes clanking and contributing. And controversial though it was, and even controversial though it remains, Cage's point is that there is no such thing as true silence. Even in the most silent environments, we still hear and feel the sound of our own heartbeats. The world is alive with musical expression. We are already immersed.
Jane tingujt e perditshem qe lindin nga vet publiku: te kolliturat e tyre, psheretimat, shushurimat, peshperitjet, teshtitjet, dhoma, druri i dyshemeve dhe i mureve zgjerimet dhe kontraktimet, kercimet dhe ofshamat me te nxehtin dhe me te ftohtin, me vringellimet e tubave duke kontribuar. Edhe pse ka qene i debatueshem, dhe si i tille mbetet gjithmone, pikepamja e Cage eshte qe nuk ka qetesi absolute. Edhe ne vendet me te qeta, ne ende degjojme dhe ndjejme tingullin e rrahjeve te zemrave tona. Bota eshte gjalle fale ketyre shprehjeve muzikore. Dhe ne tashme jemi te zhytyr ne te.
Now, I had my own moment of, let's say, remixing John Cage a couple of months ago when I was standing in front of the stove cooking lentils. And it was late one night and it was time to stir, so I lifted the lid off the cooking pot, and I placed it onto the kitchen counter next to me, and it started to roll back and forth making this sound.
Une kam pasur nje moment, le te themi, te remix John Cage disa muaj me pare kur po gatuaja thjerrza mbi sobe. Dhe ishte naten vone dhe ishte koha t'i perzieja, keshtu qe hoqa kapakun e tenxheres, dhe e vendosa mbi banakun e kuzhines afer meje, dhe filloi te rrotullisej para mbrapa duke e bere kete tingull.
(Sound of metal lid clanking against a counter)
(Tingull i kapakut metalik duke u kerkellitur perkundrejt banakut)
(Clanking ends)
(Te kerkelliturit mbaron)
And it stopped me cold. I thought, "What a weird, cool swing that cooking pan lid has." So when the lentils were ready and eaten, I hightailed it to my backyard studio, and I made this.
Dhe u shtanga. Mendova, "Çfare ritmi te çuditshem, paska kapaku i tenxheres." Kur thjerrzat ishin gati per tu ngrene, e kapa shpejt dhe e lash ne studion time ne kopsht, dhe e krijova kete.
(Music, including the sound of the lid, and singing)
(Muzika, duke perfshire edhe tingullin e kapakut, dhe kendimi)
(Music ends)
(Muzika perfundon)
Now, John Cage wasn't instructing musicians to mine the soundscape for sonic textures to turn into music. He was saying that on its own, the environment is musically generative, that it is generous, that it is fertile, that we are already immersed.
John Cage nuk i udhezonte muzikantet te germojne ne tinguj qe te shnderrojne teksturat zanore ne muzike. Ai ishte duke percjelle qe, vet ambienti eshte prodhues muzikor, qe eshte zemergjere, pjellor, qe tashme jemi zhytur.
Musician, music researcher, surgeon and human hearing expert Charles Limb is a professor at Johns Hopkins University and he studies music and the brain. And he has a theory that it is possible -- it is possible -- that the human auditory system actually evolved to hear music, because it is so much more complex than it needs to be for language alone. And if that's true, it means that we're hard-wired for music, that we can find it anywhere, that there is no such thing as a musical desert, that we are permanently hanging out at the oasis, and that is marvelous. We can add to the soundtrack, but it's already playing.
Muzikant, hulumtues i muzikes, kirurg dhe ekspert i degjimit Charles Limb eshte nje profesor ne Universitetin e Johns Hopkins dhe studion muziken dhe trurin. Dhe ka nje teori qe eshte e mundshme -- eshte e mundshme -- qe sistemi degjimor tek njerezit faktikisht ka evoluar te degjoj muzike, sepse eshte shume me e komplikuar se sa ka nevoje te jete nje gjuhe ne vete. Dhe nese kjo eshte e vertete, nenkupton qe ne jemi te lidhur ngushte me muziken, qe mund t'a gjejme kudo, se nuk ekziston diçka si shkretetire muzikore, qe ne pergjithmone jemi duke qendruar mbi oaze, dhe qe eshte e mrekullueshme. Ne mund t'i shtojme diçka, por tashme eshte duke luajtur.
And it doesn't mean don't study music. Study music, trace your sonic lineages and enjoy that exploration. But there is a kind of sonic lineage to which we all belong. So the next time you are seeking percussion inspiration, look no further than your tires, as they roll over the unusual grooves of the freeway, or the top-right burner of your stove and that strange way that it clicks as it is preparing to light. When seeking melodic inspiration, look no further than dawn and dusk avian orchestras or to the natural lilt of emphatic language. We are the audience and we are the composers and we take from these pieces we are given. We make, we make, we make, we make, knowing that when it comes to nature or language or soundscape, there is no end to the inspiration -- if we are listening.
Dhe nuk po them qe te mos studioni muziken. Studioni muziken, ndiqni shtegun e tingujve tuaj e kenaquni duke eksploruar. Por eshte nje prejardhje e zerit te cilet ne te gjithe i perkasim. Atehere heren tjeter kur jeni duke kerkuar per inspirim, mos shikoni me tej se gomat e juaja, derisa bejne rrotullisjen e pazakonte ne autostrade, ose shikoni pllaken e sobes suaj dhe menyren e çuditshme se si kercet derisa behet gati te ndizet. Kur jeni duke kerkuar inspirim muzikor, mos shikoni me larg se agimi dhe muzgu i orkestres se cicerimave ose kadencen natyrale te gjuhes se shprehur. Ne jemi publiku ne jemi vet kompozitoret dhe marrim prej ketyre pjeseve qe na jane dhene. Ne krijojme, krijojme, krijojme, krijojme, duke ditur se kur vjen fjala te natyra ose gjuha ose tingulli, kemi inspirim te pafund -- nese jemi duke degjuar me kujdes.
Thank you.
Faleminderit.
(Applause)
(Duartrokitje)