I apologise as this is a bit of a longer one, and thank you for those that have the time to read it, but it came to mind after reading ‘s
Sahar’s wonderful post resonated in some way and reminded me of the music in my own writing. My story was also inspired by my own time at the Conservatorium where I studied music composition. So, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the following story, full of dissonance and the cages of sound that surround us…
***
“A little pedestrian.” Goldberg eyed Layla from above his glasses. “Play it again.”
She placed her fingers on the keys and played the exposition of her piece. It was a simple subject, but arresting, she thought. Something to grab the listener’s attention.
Goldberg interrupted her before the development. “No, no. It’s trite, Layla. A cliché. Have you tried inverting the subject later in the piece?”
“No. I’m sorry, sir. I spent all night on it.”
“It’s gauche. Antiquated even. I really must pull you into the twenty-first century.”
“Yes sir. I understand.”
“I have an assignment for you, Layla, for next week.” Goldberg picked up a printout from his desk. “Here, take this. It is a twelve tonal matrix. I want you to free yourself from standard melodies and modulations. Let’s begin with the twentieth century, shall we? Listen to Schoenberg, Webern and Cage. But promise you won’t listen while you’re driving. You could have a nasty accident.” Layla quickly scrawled their names down on a piece of paper. “And I want you to compose a serial composition using the matrix. Remember you are free to use your own dynamics, rhythm, and register. Paint with the numbers supplied by the rows. But promise me you’ll stick with them. Do not cheat.”
“No, sir. I won’t.” And with that Layla’s session was over, a new assignment which she had little interest in awaited.
When Layla got home from the University, she threw her bag down on the kitchen table and kicked away the chair. It had been a frustrating day. Her composition for the chamber group had been passed over. She had only got ninety-eight percent in the aural test and the lecture had been dry, a history of Napoleon to better understand the Eroica Symphony. And then Goldberg had called her music pedestrian. Gauche even. It was too much to take. Layla sat down at the piano and began playing her Piano Sonata in C Sharp Major. She thought the exposition was good, something new. A fresh idea. “Who cares what Goldberg thinks,” she thought. But she did care. She had admired his music since she was young. He had been a prodigy. She thought he might understand her. But he had become complacent in his later years, after getting tenure. Then he was made Head of the Music Department, which had gone straight to his head, Layla thought. “Nothing more than a trumped-up old fool who’s squandered his talent. Traded them in for a comfy post at the university,” Layla said to the keys of the piano. She slammed the lid down and went to bed. The composition could wait until the next day.
Over the week, Layla listened to the serial composers, the jarring melodic lines, the jumps in register. She found Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire the most disturbing. Something about the atonal melody of the soprano was off putting, creepy. Layla applauded it for its compositional genius. But she didn’t like it one bit. Webern was no easier to take. Static rhythms and bold melodies. Unnerving. Unsettling. With one day left until her meeting with Goldberg, Layla reluctantly picked up her pencil and began filling out the twelve-tone matrix. She started with the prime row, making sure that all of the twelve notes were used. She played it on the piano. “Haunting in a way,” she thought to herself. It was then a matter of filling it out, like a sudoku, making sure each of the rows contained all twelve notes, both up and down, left to right, with no doubling. It took a while to construct her rows, but when she had finished, she was pleased with the result. And with her matrix complete, it was time to translate it on to the manuscript. She decided to leave the piece without a strict rhythm or meter. Just a blank manuscript, up to the interpretation of the pianist. The first row was left as a line of crotchets, simply marked ‘pianissimo’. After that, she began to play with the rows, inverting them, making combinatorial sets from various phrases on the matrix. She played the sets as she wrote them down. “Ghastly,” she thought, but kept on. She tried to create a shape to the music by changing the length of the notes and by adding more dynamics and articulation. She returned simply to the initial theme at the end, rounding out the composition with at least a modicum of structure. Layla attempted to play through the piece all at once, but found it to be like a mental exercise, more than a fluent piece of music. It was well into the wee hours when she finally made it to bed. Nevertheless, it was done, and she could bring something to Goldberg the next day.
“Well? What have you got for me?” Goldberg sat in his armchair next to his desk, a score of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto folded over his lap.
“It’s a bit rough, sir. I’m not sure it will be to your taste.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure it will meet my expectations. Let’s hear it.”
Layla gently rested her hands on the keys and slowly began playing the opening row at the start of her piece. Goldberg nodded his head gently, taking it in. As the piece progressed, Layla felt the crunching of the notes rubbing against each other, the painful, unresolved dissonance in every phrase. Like a rusty old car with its motor showing, the piece wheezed and spluttered on, wobbling from one clash of tones to another, the tension building, reaching a crescendo. Layla shot a look at Goldberg to see what he was thinking. Something very strange had happened. Goldberg had dropped the Tchaikovsky score from his lap and seemed entranced. He was lolling his head from side to side, his mouth open, his tongue laying thick on his bottom lip. Layla wasn’t sure if she should stop. She thought, perhaps he might be having a stroke. But he seemed to be enjoying it at least, so she pushed on, following the dynamic markings, making the atonal melody sing a strange, haunting song. At the end, the initial theme repeated, Goldberg snapped back to reality and looked around the room, with no idea where he was or where he had been. He looked at Layla, his eyes trembling. And then he wept, great gushes of tears, his nose snorting his lips smacking. It was such a scene; Layla was worried something awful had happened. But his weeping lessened, and he started to speak through his tears, “Layla. Oh Layla. That was… profound. I’ve never felt such anguish and pleasure all at the same time. H-how did you do this?”
“Oh. Thank you, sir.” Layla was shocked. She had thought it was mediocre at best.
“We must show this to the faculty as soon as we can. Yes, I will organise a meeting of the lecturers tonight for supper. You can come and show them there.”
Layla was delighted. She couldn’t believe her piece had moved Goldberg so. It was set. They would meet in the conservatorium study at eight o’clock. All Layla need bring was her manuscript.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking about this all day. I can’t wait for you to hear it. I have never been so proud of one of my students.” Goldberg stood sipping a sherry, talking to two elderly men in corduroy, their chins permanently held upward, as to expose the inside of their nostrils. A younger woman sat on the periphery, looking wistfully out of the window.
“Ah Layla. You’ve arrived. Have you met Huddlesworth and Genk? And Ms. Curiosa over by the window.” Curiosa raised a hand but did not avert her gaze from the lawns outside.
“Yes, thank you sir. I’ve been in their lectures. Wonderful to meet you all.”
“A prodigy, I tell you. An absolute prodigy.” Goldberg was excited to see their reactions.
“We’ll see, Goldberg. You know how this went last time you put a student forward.”
“No, this will be different, I promise you. I was so moved, pure rapture-”
“Um… should I begin?” Layla interjected.
“Yes, Layla of course. Please do.” Huddlesworth and Genk took their seats in the adjacent armchairs.
The first note, simple and pure. Her hands shook nervously but she kept steady enough to voice the simplicity of the opening phrase. And soon, Layla was moving through the piece, those same collisions and clashes ringing out from the piano. Layla glanced up from the piano. “Extraordinary,” she thought to herself. All four lecturers, their eyes rolled back, their arms straight to the floor, experiencing some kind of rapture. Layla kept going, pushing through the more difficult sections of the work, until finally reaching the simplistic phrase to end the piece. There was silence for a moment. Huddlesworth and Genk had passed out completely, their chins resting on their chests. And Goldberg and Curiosa wept. The same blubbering as Goldberg’s display earlier in the day. They crossed the room to one another and openly embraced, holding each other’s face in the palms of their hands. Through their tears, they stared into each other’s eyes, and without thinking, kissed passionately only to be brought back to reality by Layla closing the lid of the piano.
“Oh… yes… right.” Goldberg moved away from Curiosa, looking sheepishly around the room.
“Wake up! Wake up!” Curiosa clapped her hands in front of Huddlesworth and Genk, waking them from their slumber. “O happy day! I’ve never felt so alive!”
Huddlesworth and Genk began to cry uncontrollably holding each other in their arms.
“Goldberg, this truly is a masterwork. It must be heard by the world!”
“I told you. Didn’t I tell you? We must get this to Pierre, a deal signed immediately.”
“Layla my dear, you are a genius. It’s like the music moved through me. Made me feel everything all at once. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Curiosa. I really don’t know what to say.”
“Leave it with me, Goldberg. I will set up a special concert for all the conservatoriums around the country. This music must be heard!” Curiosa could barely contain her excitement.
At the end of the evening, Layla was exhausted. She didn’t know what had happened. Could her music really have had such an effect, she thought. A week passed, the lecturers requesting repeat performances once a day. Always to the same effect. Their heads lolling, their eyes rolled back. Curiosa got in touch to confirm the date of the big performance. All the staff from all the conservatoriums around the country would be there. The biggest performance Layla had experienced in her life was in high school during an assembly. Far from the academic world of the university and its patrons. She slept fitfully the night before, the haunting opening phrase on repeat in her head.
The opening acts, played nervously by the other students at the university, were met with indifferent applause. One of Goldberg’s own pieces had been played, receiving a mere smattering of claps from the audience. It was old hat. He’d written it two decades earlier and it had been performed a million times. It was a full house, luminaries from universities across the country. Their partners. Pierre Lezard, the eminent studio manager, responsible for recording new, daring avant-garde works had also been invited. It was dark inside, but Lezard had kept his sunglasses on, in case he was dazzled by the evening’s performances. The camera was rolling too. Layla’s performance was to be shared with the world, only further adding to her nerves. When the time came for her to take the stage, there were murmurs amongst the audience. The word had got around that something very special was about to happen. Layla took her seat at the piano and a hush fell over the crowd. A tension in the air, like a lightly vibrating c string on a cello, a deep humming passing through Layla, in her arms and hands. It began, the opening phrase once again quietly introducing itself. It had become familiar to Layla, rising easily from beneath her fingers. She moved through the machinations of dissonant progressions, following the road map of dynamics she had set out at the beginning of her composition. And as she did, she could hear a rustling from the crowd. She peeked up from the keys, looking out at the sea of black suits and ballroom gowns. It was happening. Their heads swaying, their eyes upward. Some of their arms were outstretched, like zombies reaching out to take her from the stage. Their smacking lips, audible groans. The video operator had passed out, the camera laying unmanned, facing the floor. Layla kept playing, still assaulted by the crashing of intervals, the complete lack of tonality. She pressed on to the final phrase, the last few notes echoing around the auditorium. It was done, and there was silence. Layla didn’t know what to think. Had they liked it? Was it as good as Goldberg and the others had said? A moment later, the bodies in their seats started to shuffle. Tear filled eyes looked up at Layla. The audience began embracing and weeping openly. The noise was horrendous, so many people crying at once. Soon, the crying subsided and all eyes were on Layla still sitting behind the piano. As one, the audience rose, and Layla was met with rapturous applause. They hooted and hollered. Blew kisses, yelling “bravo!” Layla was taken aback. She had never experienced anything like it. It felt good, to be adored by so many people all at once. She made her way off the stage, the applause still ringing out, back behind the stage curtain. Layla took a deep breath and held her hands together to gather herself. It had been an unmitigated success.
Pierre Lezard eyed Layla closely in the green room behind the auditorium. He held his palms together, his fingers up next to his mouth, as if he was in prayer. “That was tres magnifique, my dear Layla.”
“Well thank you, Pierre.” Layla smiled back at him politely. But she was wary of Lezard. He looked like a man who was always on the hunt for something.
“We must talk business now of course. We need to get this music out to the people. Bridge the gap between avantgarde and popular music.” Lezard spoke intensely.
Layla nodded. It sounded like a fantastic opportunity. She couldn’t believe that her music was finally making its mark.
“We can sign the papers tomorrow. We are going to make a lot of money, dear Layla.” Lezard rose from his chair and headed out of the green room. Layla was finally alone for a moment to take it all in. A night of adulation, Layla was the centre of attention. She was relieved to get home shortly after midnight, kicking off her shoes and flopping on to the lounge. She fell asleep, still in her sequin dress, not waking until the early hours of the morning.
There was much difficulty in recording Layla’s music. At the studio, operators kept losing themselves in its strange atonality, some of them passing out completely. They were finally able to get a clean recording, leaving the microphone on and letting the tape run.
“It is time to share your music with the world, dear Layla.” Pierre rubbing his hands together excitedly. “But first, it needs a name, no?”
“Oh, right.”
“It has to be something about the process, the artistry involved in composing the piece. I was thinking, the matrix, but it sounds a little derivative. No, something else.”
“What about Dodecaphony?” Layla suggested.
Pierre thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I like it. It is pretentious enough that people will have to look it up. It works on so many levels!”
So, it was decided, Layla’s piece, Dodecaphony, would be released to apps and online stores across the world. Layla was ecstatic. But in the back of her mind, she wondered what all the fuss was about.
Within two weeks, Dodecaphony was the highest selling single in every country across the world. The first avantgarde work to ever reach a top ten in the popular charts. Across the globe people had listening to it on repeat, some for days on end. It had become so popular that people had skipped work, just to listen to it. Weeks passed, and Layla’s music continued to sell at an amazing rate. But Layla had reservations about playing it live. She wasn’t sure what the reaction would be in such a large audience. She worried it may end up doing more harm than good. Eventually, Pierre convinced her to play. It was Wembley Stadium. She couldn’t say no.
The stadium was filled with lights, the crowd waving their phones like a sea of tiny stars, all in anticipation to see Layla perform. Layla had put down some conditions if she was going to play Wembley. She wanted to play some of her other music, the stuff that Goldberg had called ‘pedestrian’. She wanted to prove him wrong. When she entered the stage, the crowd went mad, yelling and clapping their hands. Some had taken their shirts off and rode on the shoulders of their friends to get a better look at the genius, Layla Cho. She thanked the crowd for coming and started to play her Piano Sonata in C Sharp Major. The exposition rang out through the speakers, reaching the ears of the audience in the seats furthest away from the action. There was confusion. The clapping stopped. The crowd was silent. A few boos floated onto the stage, reaching Layla as she played. She kept on regardless, hoping that they would hear her sonata for what it really was. The boos intensified, and soon the chant bellowed out across the stadium, “Dodecaphony! Dodecaphony!” It was too much. Layla’s music was drowned out by the crowd. She stopped playing and looked down at her hands. She knew what she had to do. She would give them what they want. When the opening phrase played over the giant stadium speakers, there was a roar of appreciation from the audience. Everyone knew that phrase. It was the rest of the song that no one could remember. And it was like a drug passed out throughout the crowd. A communal trip, so large in scale, every member of the ninety thousand strong crowd was intoxicated, paralysed by extasy, enthralled by Layla’s music. Thousands sat down, crossing their legs, their hands in their laps. Others swayed from side to side, their heads bobbing to the strange rhythm being played. And when the final phrase played, and the crowd came around from their dreamlike state, ninety thousand people roared, jumped on the spot, clambered over each other to reach the stage. They hugged and kissed passionately, lost in the moment, as if it was the eleventh hour, just before the end of the world. The chant rang out, “Dodecaphony! Dodecaphony!” And it did not stop until Layla started the famous phrase again. Ten encores, all the same song. The crowd and Layla were exhausted. She finally backed away from the stage to groans and boos. The sounds of disappointment. “Just one more time!” they cried. As soon as Layla left the stage, the crowd pushing hard against the protective barrier, the line of security broken. Fans rushed the stage, punching and clawing to get over each other. Fights erupted, pockets of violence sparking off in the stands, on the ground. A helicopter landed behind the stage, winching Layla to safety. And as she flew over the stadium, the lights illuminated a sea of violence and rage. Bodies on top of each other, crushing against the signs and barriers. Spot fires starting in the stands. Gomorrah had landed at Wembley Stadium. The helicopter turned and flew away, Layla spared from the aftermath of her performance. As they cruised slowly upward into the clear night sky, Layla vowed she would never play Dodecaphony again.
Less than a year later, countries across the world passed legislation, banning the use of Dodecaphony. Hospital admissions tripled in the space of a year. Consumers felt the emptiness, the void left by the banning of twelve tonal music. People had been found malnourished, sitting alone in apartments, listening to the atonal music on repeat for days on end. Families were broken by absent parents, who had given their lives over to the song. Without it, people suffered withdrawals, acts of random violence were on the rise. People injured and killed. But it was impossible to take back what had already been distributed. Authorities tried their best to stop the flood of bootleg copies and video links passing through the dark web. All in vain. The music circulated through the streets, on people’s laptops, in businesses, libraries and people’s homes. And Layla became a recluse, shutting herself from the anger, the hatred of the mob. She had stopped making music entirely. As the years passed, Dodecaphony remained a threat to society. Governments upped their rhetoric, waging war on serialism in all its forms. And Layla sat at home on her piano stool. The piano had been untouched for years, but for some reason, that day, the keys had called out to her. She picked up the sheet music for her Piano Sonata in C Sharp Major. The exposition rang out boldly from the piano, but Layla couldn’t find the soul trapped behind the cage of western tonality in front of her. She threw the sonata to the floor, and, as if by some compulsive, automatic impulse, she found herself playing the opening phrases of Dodecaphony. The collisions of notes, the dissonance and despair. She closed the lid of the piano and reached for the bottle of gin on the countertop. The music had died, and harmony had lost its meaning. There was nothing left but the crunching dissonance, the sounds of cars bumping and honking on the street below, the whirring of the air conditioner, the polyrhythm of the dripping tap, the chaotic warbling of the birds, the distant footsteps on the metal stairs, reality’s chaotic score. Layla had been born into the world of sound around her, the instruments of nature and civilisation. And she felt resigned, as she realised, life lives in the dissonance, the never-ending anticipation of the final cadence, the ultimate, deceptive resolution…
Now tear was. Awesome