This is a chronological collection of original musical compositions of mine over a twenty-year period, beginning from when I was teenager. As the vagaries of life seem always to intrude, I have not composed anything in nearly 30 years, but as I approach what must surely be the end of my time on this earth, I feel compelled at age 60 to revisit my music from the past, with the goal of sharing it with the world.
What makes this collection worth sharing? Perhaps nothing. I never seriously considered making music my profession, although during the relevant twenty-year period, it was my fervent avocation, to the point where I could not imagine going for any length of time without expressing myself musically; nonetheless, that unimaginable cessation of musical creativity obviously did come to pass. The lack of professionalism, and hence, the absence of training beyond some piano lessons and a few college-level music theory courses many years afterward, may indeed render these compositions unworthy of even memorializing, let alone sharing generally. Ironically, my musical naïveté is precisely what makes me unqualified to judge their merits, which I must leave to others; what I do know is how passionate and driven I was to create them, and that suggests they are a uniquely human experience, possibly making them eligible to be called art.
I refer to them as fragments because, despite being separated into (numbered) pieces, the demarcations exist only when I felt at the time the concatenation of musical ideas was somehow complete, or I had trouble keeping the entire fragment in memory before it was recorded. I strove to infuse as many ideas into each fragment as I reasonably could, with the hope of later developing each of them into a coherent whole, a process that never did occur, at least in my own lifetime.
A few rules always governed my composing.
First, any phrase that sounded like something I had heard before had to be abandoned as unoriginal. I sense that composers cannot help but be influenced by other music they have encountered, and motifs enter the subconscious without attribution. Thus, this rule cannot be absolute in practice, even as one makes every effort consciously to enforce it. I apologize if anything familiar emerges from this collection. It was never my intent to plagiarize, although I have left intact similar sequences whenever my composition clearly preceded others in time. One of the early phrases in Fragment #13, in particular, is nearly identical to a released recording (Seal’s “Kiss From A Rose” in 1994), which I here acknowledge, but I composed it years (actually, more than a decade and a half [indiction]) beforehand in 1977: that does not legally constitute plagiarism. Nor would self-plagiarizing be particularly wrong, as at one point, I apparently adopted the practice of linking consecutive “pieces” by including a single common theme between them.
The second rule was to never repeat a musical idea more than once, or twice at the most. Music, particularly from the era in which I composed, very much relied on repetition, especially in establishing a rhythm. What could possibly be added, however, by endlessly repeating an idea? Once for emphasis, yes; that is understandable. But the third, fourth, or tenth time represents merely a robotic lack of imagination. Packing as many different ideas into each fragment was always my goal.
A third rule was continually to allow the music to express some underlying idea or emotion. That corresponds to my own theory of art as a form of communication. The artist has an idea or emotion, encapsulates it in the medium of choice (music, painting, sculpture, poetry, etc.), so that, when a member of the audience engages the work, the original idea or emotion is re-created in the mind of that audience member, allowing him or her to visualize or feel how the artist felt when creating the piece. If the audience is unmoved or feels something inappropriate (laughs at sorrow or cries at mirth), then the artist has failed. In this view, a work of art never stands on its own but is forever tied to the mind of its creator. The more abstract artwork is, such as dripping paint on a canvas, however, the less likely it will succeed in communicating a specific mental state; for all the contention that the drippings are not random but purposeful, the abstract approach seems to ignore any potential audience, which no artist can afford to do when communication is the aim. In this instance, any of my fragments fails if its notes express nothing coherent or if it leaves the audience unmoved.
Fourth, I abjured what might be called “meandering melodies,” typical of many classical pieces, where a composer teasingly dances around a tonal destination without striking a definitive assertion until the final note. In contrast, popular music is often very definite about the notes it pounds out, perhaps too definitively. I do not mean here the notion of inevitability but simply purposefulness. If you have something to say musically, then say it: do not liltingly stall for time, as is so easy to do melodically. Consequently (and somewhat paradoxically), I personally do not care for most of the classical music oeuvre, although almost all of the music I do like happens to be classical, or more precisely, baroque.
(Note: Fragments #90 through #102 now seem to me a bit meandering in parts, though not when they were composed.)
In addition, I instinctively always included a bass line for harmonies, usually in the form of ubiquitous chord triads, to avoid mere naked melodies. It not only sounds better, but it provides much-needed structure. I rarely availed myself of the opportunity for counterpoint afforded by configuring a bass line, but it was always there, sometimes relentlessly and with admittedly little musical merit.
My method of composition mostly involved tinkering at the keyboard. This is an acknowledgement of the mathematical aspect of music. In some instances, it became less about the notes themselves than the geometry of the keys that produced the notes. Such an approach can yield results that are, shall one say, interesting.
A sixth rule would be the absence of academic restriction. Teetering between the ridiculously pedestrian and (one hopes) the undeniably brilliant, no objective filter was ever applied, other than that it was preserved if, at the time and entirely as a matter of at-the-moment taste, it sounded good. I found the twelve-tone chromatic scale too dissonant but did experiment with odd rhythms, sudden modulations, and abrupt progressions, even if they sounded weird (so long as they still sounded “good” to my ear).
I must also confess my view that there must always be an aspect of art that is entertaining, since it is unwise to test any audience’s tolerance for tedium. Art has to be alluring, even if the attraction is purely intellectual. The danger is when the entertainment side threatens to eclipse the strictly artistic side altogether. That is what seems to have happened to music in the last century; the gauge is no longer how inspiring or mentally stimulating a piece of music is but rather whether, put simply, one can dance to it. If being a purist makes me a snob, I make no apology for my elitism. So-called popular music -- wasn’t a recital during the baroque or classical period “popular” at the time? -- epitomizes the devolution of music as an artform; progress has been derailed as we have returned to the stylings of the Stone Age cavemen, rhythmically banging sticks and rocks together, expressive of nothing but a primal urge to make noise. That is not to say there isn't still genuinely heartfelt, wrenching, emotion-laden, and beautiful music in every genre; it is all the more exceptional, though, for being out-of-the-norm these days.
The point I am making, perhaps even offensively to some, is a warning that my own music is likely bereft of much value as entertainment: No one would be apt to dance to it. The fragments are purely intellectual exercises, but they are, I hope, imbued with meaning, however personal that meaning may be, given that I never imagined I would be sharing them with anyone, much less the public at large. I make these observations, not to dissuade anyone from examining my work but, to manage expectations that the music I created was always aimed at artistic expression instead of what one might call the direct enjoyment of the listener.
The earlier fragments, which are the product of an adolescent, are decidedly less sophisticated than later ones. Maybe the transition itself would prove instructive, from childlike melodies to somewhat more intricate harmonies. The inclusion of the earlier fragments is justified in order to show the arc of development in the emergence of an overall musical style. Judging the Songbook entirely by these early works would be unfair, so to avoid the perils of such pre-judgment, I urge anyone interested, before deciding on whether to acquire the Songbook, to listen to the WAV files (or convert the XML files into playable MIDI files) or download the PDF sheet music that are in the comprehensive index on my publisher’s website at https://www.phrasebound.com/books/songbook-of-musical-fragments/smf-downloads (chronological order).
Although numbered, none of the fragments are named or have accompanying lyrics, although I do recall having certain words in mind for a few of the compositions. Fragment #76, for example, might have been titled “Cat with Cancer,” as it was composed after a beloved pet was euthanized; rather than being somber, it has an oddly hopeful mood, based on the memories of happier times. Another example is the end of Fragment #82, which might well have had the following accompanying lyrics: “When the sun goes down, at the end of the day... When the sun is down, there’s no time to say... That it almost feels like it is yesterday, ’til the morning comes.”
This collection is not intended as a pathetic attempt at a legacy. When I am dead, it will not matter a whit to me whether my thoughts, music, or words are being contemplated by any living person. Rather, these fragments represent one human being’s inexorable urge to express himself musically. If it fails, then let it perish on the bonfire of forgotten dreams; if, however, any part of it serves to inspire, evoke emotion, or (shudder) entertain, then here it is.
Sherman O’Brien, Woodland, California, USA, September 2023