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.
Kao pevačicu i kompozitorku, ljudi me često pitaju ko je uticao na mene, ili, kako ja to volim da kažem, o mom zvučnom poreklu. Mogla bih lako da vam kažem da su me oblikovali džez i hip hop uz koje sam odrasla, etiopska tekovina mojih predaka, ili pop 80-ih godina na radio stanicama u mom detinjstvu. No, nevezano za žanr, tu je još jedno pitanje: kako zvuci koje čujemo svakoga dana utiču na muziku koju stvaramo? Smatram da svakodnevna zvučna pozadina može biti najneočekivanija inspiracija za pisanje pesama, a da bismo sagledali ovu ideju malo bliže, danas ću govoriti o tri stvari: prirodi, jeziku i tišini, ili bolje, o nemogućnosti prave tišine. Time se nadam da ću vam dati osećaj sveta koji već vrvi od muzičkog izraza, u kome svako od nas služi kao aktivni učesnik, znali mi to ili ne.
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.
Započeću danas sa prirodom, ali pre toga, hajde da brzo poslušamo ovaj odlomak operskog pevača koji se zagreva. Evo ga.
(Singing)
(A kapela pevanje)
(Singing ends)
(Pevanje se završava)
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.
Prelepo je, zar ne? Prevarila sam vas! Ovo zapravo nije zvuk operskog pevača koji se zagreva. To je zvuk ptice usporen na ritam koji ljudsko uho pogrešno prepoznaje kao svoj. Objavljena je kao deo mađarskih snimaka Pitera Zokea iz 1987. godine „Nepoznata muzika ptica“, gde on snima brojne ptice i usporava njihov ton da bi otkrio šta je ispod toga. Hajde da čujemo snimak u punoj brzini.
(Bird singing)
(Ptica peva)
Now, let's hear the two of them together so your brain can juxtapose them.
Hajde da ih sada čujemo zajedno tako da vaš mozak može da ih sagleda jedno uz drugo.
(Bird singing at slow then full speed)
(Ptica peva sporo, a zatim punom brzinom)
(Singing ends)
(Pevanje se završava)
It's incredible. Perhaps the techniques of opera singing were inspired by birdsong. As humans, we intuitively understand birds to be our musical teachers.
Neverovatno. Možda su tehnike operskog pevanja inspirisane pesmom ptica. Kao ljudi, intuitivno razumemo da su ptice naši muzički učitelji.
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.
U Etiopiji, ptice smatraju sastavnim delom porekla same muzike. Priča ide ovako. Pre 1500 godina, jedan mladić je rođen u aksumskom carstvu, velikom trgovačkom centru antičkog sveta. Zvao se Jared. Kada je Jared imao sedam godina, njegov otac je umro, a majka ga je poslala da živi sa ujakom, koji je bio sveštenik pravoslavne etiopske tradicije, jedne od najstarijih crkava na svetu. Ta tradicija je podrazumevala veoma mnogo obrazovanja i izučavanja, i Jared je morao da uči i uči i uči i uči, i jednog dana je učio pod drvetom, kada su mu prišle tri ptice. Jedna po jedna, ove ptice su postale njegovi učitelji. Naučile su ga muzici - lestvicama, u stvari. I Jared, na kraju priznat kao Sveti Jared, koristio je te lestvice da komponuje pet tomova napeva i himni za bogosluženje i svetkovine. Koristio je te lestvice da bi komponovao i stvorio autohtoni sistem muzičkog obeležavanja. Te lestvice su se razvile u nešto što je poznato kao „kanjit“, jedinstveni, pentatonski, petonotni, modalni sistem koji je veoma živ, uspešan i još uvek se razvija u Etiopiji danas.
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.
Volim ovu priču jer je istinita na različitim nivoima. Sveti Jared je bio stvarna, istorijska ličnost, i svet prirode može biti naš učitelj muzike. Imamo mnogo primera ovoga: Pigmeji u Kongu štimuju svoje instrumente prema tonovima ptica u šumi oko njih. Muzičar i ekspert za zvučnu pozadinu u prirodi, Berni Kraus opisuje kako zdrava sredina ima životinje i insekte koji proizvode muziku sa rasponom niskih, srednjih i visokih frekvencija na potpuno isti način kao što to simfonija čini. Bezbroj muzičkih dela je inspirisano pticama i šumskom pesmom. Da, svet prirode može biti naš učitelj kulture.
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?
Hajde da sada pređemo na jedinstveno ljudski svet jezika. Svaki jezik komunicira različitim visinama tona, bilo da je to mandarinski, gde promena melodijske modulacije daje istom fonetskom slogu potpuno drugačije značenje, do jezika kao što je engleski, gde povišen ton na kraju rečenice... (Povisuje ton) podrazumeva pitanje?
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
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.
Kao etiopsko-američka žena, odrasla sam uz amharski jezik, „Amarinja“. To je bio moj prvi jezik, jezik mojih roditelja, jedan od glavnih jezika Etiopije. Postoji milion razloga da se zaljubite u ovaj jezik: njegova poetska dubina, njegova dvostruka značenja, njegova očigledna i skrivena značenja, njegov humor, njegove poslovice koje rasvetljavaju mudrosti i ludosti života. Takođe, tu je i melodičnost, muzikalnost koja je ugrađena u njega. Smatram da je to najčistije prisutno u onome što ja zovem izražajnim jezikom - jezik koji treba da istakne ili naglasi, ili koji proističe iz iznenađenja. Uzmite, na primer, reč „indej“. Ako ima Etiopljana u publici, verovatno se smeškaju sami za sebe, jer reč znači nešto poput: „Ne!“ ili: „Kako je mogao?“ ili „Nije valjda.“ Zavisi od situacije. Kada sam bila dete, to je bila moja omiljena reč, a mislim da je to bilo jer ima naročit ton. Ima melodiju. Gotovo da možete videti oblik dok izlazi iz nečijih usta. „Indej“ - pada, a zatim se ponovo podiže. Kao muzičar i kompozitor, kada čujem tu reč, ovako nešto mi prolazi kroz um.
(Music and singing "Indey")
(Muzika i pevanje „Indej“)
(Music ends)
(Muzika se završava)
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.
Ili uzmite, na primer, frazu „To je tačno“ ili „To je ispravno“ - „Liki nou... liki nou.“ To je potvrda, slaganje. „Liki nou.“ Kada čujem tu frazu, ovako nešto počne da mi se vrti po glavi.
(Music and singing "Lickih nehu")
(Muzika i pevanje „Liki nou“)
(Music ends)
(Muzika se završava)
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.
U oba slučaja sam uzela melodiju i formulaciju tih reči i fraza i pretvorila ih u muzičke delove da bih ih koristila u ovim kratkim kompozicijama. A ja volim da pišem deonice za bas, tako da su obe završile kao bas deonice.
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.
E sad, ovo je zasnovano na delu Džejsona Morana i drugih koji prisno rade na muzici i jeziku, ali to je takođe nešto što sam imala u glavi otkad sam bila dete, kako su moji roditelji muzikalno zvučali kada su pričali međusobno i sa nama. Od njih i od amharskog jezika sam naučila da odišemo muzičkim izrazom svakom rečju, svakom rečenicom koju izgovorimo, svakom rečju, svakom rečenicom koju primimo. Možda to možete čuti čak i sada, u rečima koje izgovaram.
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.
Konačno, idemo u SAD 50-ih godina i najuticajnije delo avangardne kompozicije 20. veka: „4:33“ Džona Kejdža, napisan za bilo koji instrument ili kombinaciju instrumenata. Muzičar ili muzičari se pozivaju da dođu na pozornicu sa štopericom i otvore partituru, koju je zapravo kupio Muzej moderne umetnosti - partituru, to jest. A u toj partituri nije zapisana nijedna nota i nijedna nota se ne svira četiri minuta i 33 sekunde. Istovremeno razjarujući i oduševljavajući, Kejdž nam pokazuje da čak i kada nema žica koje okidaju prsti, niti ruku koje udaraju po dirkama klavira, i dalje postoji muzika, i dalje postoji muzika, i dalje postoji muzika. A koja je to muzika? To je bilo kijanje pozadi.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
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.
To je svakodnevna zvučna pozadina koja proističe iz same publike: njihov kašalj, njihovi uzdasi, šuškanje, šapati, kijanje, prostorija, drvo sa podova i zidova koje se širi i skuplja, škripi i stenje na vrućini i hladnoći, cevi koje klepeću i doprinose tome. Kontroverzna pomisao je bila, i mada ostaje kontroverzna, Kejdžova poenta je da ne postoji prava tišina. Čak i u najtišim okruženjima i dalje čujemo i osećamo zvuk naših otkucaja srca. Svet vrvi od muzičkog izraza. Već smo zaronjeni u njemu.
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.
E sad, imala sam svoj momenat, da kažem, remiksovanja Džona Kejdža pre par meseci kada sam stajala ispred šporeta kuvajući sočivo. Bilo je kasno jedne noći i bilo je vreme da promešam, pa sam podigla poklopac sa šerpe, stavila ga na radnu površinu pored sebe i počeo je da se vrti napred-nazad praveći ovaj zvuk.
(Sound of metal lid clanking against a counter)
(Zvuk metalnog poklopca koji zvecka o radnu površinu)
(Clanking ends)
(Zveckanje se završava)
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.
Zapanjilo me je. Pomislila sam: „Kako čudan, kul ritam ima poklopac šerpe.“ I kada je sočivo skuvano i pojedeno, pohitala sam u moj obližnji studio i napravila ovo.
(Music, including the sound of the lid, and singing)
(Muzika sa zvukom poklopca i pevanje)
(Music ends)
(Muzika se završava)
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.
E sad, Džon Kejdž nije nalagao muzičarima da iz zvučne pozadine izvlače zvučne sklopove i da ih pretvore u muziku. On je poručio da, sama po sebi, životna sredina proizvodi muziku, da je darežljiva, da je plodna, da smo već zaronjeni.
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.
Muzičar, istraživač muzike, hirurg i stručnjak za ljudski sluh, Čarls Lim, profesor je na Univerzitetu Džons Hopkins i izučava muziku i mozak. On ima teoriju da je moguće - moguće je - da je ljudski auditivni sistem zapravo evoluirao da čuje muziku, jer je toliko kompleksniji nego što treba da bude radi samog jezika. Ako je to istina, to znači da smo predodređeni za muziku, da možemo da je pronađemo svuda, da ne postoji muzička pustinja, da se stalno nalazimo u oazi i to je čudesno. Možemo da dodajemo zvučnu pratnju, ali već se svira.
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.
A to ne znači da ne izučavate muziku. Proučavajte muziku, pratite zvučno poreklo i uživajte u tom istraživanju. Ipak, postoji zvučno poreklo kome svi pripadamo. Dakle, sledeći put kada tražite inspiraciju za perkusije, ne gledajte dalje od vaših guma, dok se kotrljaju preko neobičnih brazda na auto-putu, ili od gornje desne ringle na šporetu i tog čudnog načina na koji klikće dok se priprema da zasvetli. Kada tragate za melodičnom inspiracijom, ne tražite dalje od ptičjih orkestara u zoru i sumrak ili prirodne raspevanosti izražajnog jezika. Mi smo publika i kompozitori i uzimamo iz tih komada koji su nam dati. Stvaramo, stvaramo, stvaramo, stvaramo, znajući da, kada se radi o prirodi ili jeziku ili zvučnoj pozadini, nema kraja inspiraciji - ako slušamo.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)