In a recent posting I touched on the wit and wisdom of jazz pianist Thelonious Monk, citing his profound and poetic definition of the word genius (“the one most like himself”).

This time around I’d like to take a closer look at another all-too-true Monk aphorism: “What you don’t play can be more important than what you do play.” A decade after Monk uttered these immortal words, Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen restated the theme when he reportedly instructed the group’s backing musicians to pay more attention to the space between the notes than the notes themselves.

Of course, for centuries beforehand, classical composers were, to great effect, employing the stark contrast between lots of notes and few (or none) of them. Some scholars say that it was Ludwig Von Beethoven who pioneered the method. His Eighth Symphony, for example, has been described as “compression and containment … the art of interruption and sudden spillover. Cadences stop, start and stop again; they play games with our sense of order.” From LVB’s masterpieces to the finale of Sibelius’ Symphony No. 5, with its huge closing chords and even huger gaps of silence, to Barber’s Adagio for Strings, with its long gasp of nothingness that presages the orchestra’s timid re-entry, the message is clear: Less can be more. (A concept taken to its absolute extreme with John Cage’s 4’33”, which consists of four minutes and 33 seconds of … absolutely nothing.)

Probably the musician who best characterized this approach was the enigmatic jazz trumpeter Miles Davis, who early in his career developed an improvisational style that was based on the way Picasso used a canvas, where the focus was not on the objects themselves, but the space between them. As best-selling author (and fellow Yamaha blogger) Dr. Daniel J. Levitin has written, “Miles … described the most important part of his solos as the empty space between notes, the “air” that he placed between one note and the next. Knowing precisely when to hit the next note, and allowing the listener time to anticipate it, is a hallmark of Davis’ genius.” Nowhere is this more apparent than in Miles’ breakthrough 1959 album Kind of Blue, where his methodically disciplined phrasings are interspersed with long silences that are sometimes as long as the phrases themselves. Yet his solos on that album are nothing short of riveting, particularly in the way they contrast with the busier passages played by John Coltrane and Julian “Cannonball” Adderly — fellow jazz legends who acted as sidemen on this seminal recording, along with pianist/composer Bill Evans. Even if you don’t consider yourself a fan of jazz, you owe it to yourself to give this gorgeous, deeply meditative album a listen.

In the rock world, most soloists are, of course, guitar players, and they generally pride themselves on their ability to cram as many notes as possible into each moment. (As the old joke goes, “What’s the difference between a shredding guitarist and an Uzi? An Uzi can only repeat itself 10,000 times a second.”) One exception to that rule is Eric Clapton, who in his younger days was nicknamed “Slowhand” for the way he eschewed rapid-fire solos in favor of a more languid — but no less effective — approach. (Yes, he may have temporarily abandoned this tactic during his stint with ’60s supergroup Cream, but one could argue that his lead lines were often less dense than the bass underpinnings being woven by Jack Bruce.) For examples of how restraint can work better than bombast, check out Clapton’s lead work on his hit single “Wonderful Tonight” or his (uncredited) solo on The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

But it isn’t just in terms of soloing that silence is key. It can be a powerful tool in musical arrangement, too. As an example, check out “All Right Now,” a 1970 hit for the English rock group Free. The way the verses jump out at you is not only due to the stripped-down instrumentation accompanying Paul Rodger’s vocal (just drums and one solitary guitar — not even bass) but because of the long gaps between the guitar chords, populated with just a hint of percussion. When the choruses and solos kick in with fuller instrumentation (including bass), the contrast is an attention-grabber.

Speaking of bass, the best four- and five-string players know the importance of leaving space for the vocals and melodic instruments. Session bassist Chuck Rainey is perhaps the perfect example, renowned for a spare approach that supports but never detracts from the central melodic content. No coincidence, then, that Rainey appeared frequently on Steely Dan recordings, having clearly won the approval of the aforesaid Donald Fagen.

Mozart was once asked what the greatest effect in music was, and his reply was, “No music.” Pithy, yes, but something worth keeping in mind the next time you begin crafting a song or musical arrangement … or the moment you step into the spotlight to take a solo.

Check out Howard’s other postings.

You’re stuck. There is no word in the world that, as John Lennon put it, tells the truth and rhymes. You’re sure your song needs a bridge but what else is there to say? Or worse yet, you haven’t been inspired for weeks. Maybe you should have gone into accounting.

So you get angry with yourself. And scared. And insecure! If you were a real writer, material would be coming out of your ears, you say to yourself. If you were a real writer you’d be bursting with inspiration. But you’re empty. Will you ever get it back?

Listen, it happens to everyone. Trust me. Maybe some people won’t cop to it but it does. And it’s OK.

It’s just writer’s block — a temporary affliction. It’s hard to remember that, though, when you’re right smack in the middle of it. This isn’t the first time you’ve had it, right? Why is it so easy to forget that you survived it before?

It might cheer you to know that there are things you can do to relieve the frustration. But before you do any of them, stick with it … and write as much as you can. Journal (used here as a verb) or strum past the emptiness. Why? Because sometimes the magic line, melody or chord progression reveals itself five pages (or five measures) past the pain. And if that happens, don’t question it. Receive it as you would a gift. Open your arms to the heavens and just say “thank you.”

That said, if you’ve been at it for hours and you’re ready to pull your hair out …

Take a walk. Go for a drive. Do what you have to do to get away from your screen, your journal, your keyboard or your guitar. Go to the mall or the movies … but stay away from the fridge; no amount of emotional eating will free you up faster. Get a beer or a mani-pedi. My activity of choice is making soup. (Green pea and mint is my favorite.)

Stand up! Better yet, pace. The movement alone can stimulate thought and keep you from freezing up mentally. Go to the gym. Get your blood flowing. Hang upside down so it gets to your head! I do this for one minute after every work-out. It’s also therapeutic for back issues.

Or do the exact opposite: Take a nap. I’m serious. If we’re really-really-really-lucky, after hours of obsessing it’s possible to dream the answer. Then the trick is to wake up and document it ASAP. I’ve heard that we lose 90% of our dream recall within 10 minutes of waking up, and I believe it.

OK, so what if you’re in a writing session with collaborators and can’t head out or grab that nap? Either would be kind of rude, right? Well, then …

Excuse yourself for a toilet break, whether you need one or not. Get in there and shut the door. Sometimes when you’re alone and not feeling self-conscious about being on your game (which can happen, especially when you’re with other writers — people you understandably want to dazzle), a line or melody will come more naturally. At which point you can walk back into the room with the money.

If all these exercises fail, don’t panic. Take solace in the knowledge that creative shut-downs are actually quite constructive. They’re telling you that your unconscious needs to work on its own for a while without your help. The nerve! Yet isn’t it reassuring to know your brain is churning away even when you’re not actively in the driver’s seat? So why not let it?

In other words, Surrender!

Then don’t be surprised if, when you return to your work-in-progress, it all comes together without a hitch — a delayed result with no effort on your part. You already did the work.

So ignore writer’s block like the pesky fly on the wall that it is. Don’t give the debilitating power of writer’s block the dignity it wants to rob you of. Think of it as a staring contest and try not to be the first to laugh. Just keep staring. Eventually, you will win.

Photo courtesy of the author.

Check out Shelly’s other postings.

We all have our musical heroes. If you’re like me, you probably think of one or more of them as “geniuses.”

But are they really worthy of the term?

In a recent posting I talked about the art of arranging, citing the genius of Brian Wilson as an example. It’s an appellation often given to the famed leader of the Beach Boys, and in his case I think it’s justified, but as I was writing the piece it got me thinking about what the word actually means.

The Oxford Dictionary tells us that it signifies “exceptional intellectual or creative power or other natural ability.” But I feel that a far better definition was provided by Thelonious Monk. The legendary jazz pianist was almost as well known for his dispensations of wisdom as he was for his distinctive composing and playing skills. As scribbled down by one of his sidemen (soprano sax player Steve Lacy) in a spiral-bound notebook way back in 1960, Monk’s primer of do’s and don’ts have become a kind of bible for musicians everywhere.

There’s lots of timeless advice here (“What you don’t play can be more important than what you do play”; “A note can be small as a pin or as big as the world, it depends on your imagination”), but the observation that’s made the most impact on me is this one:

“Whatever you think can’t be done, somebody will come along and do it. A genius is the one most like himself.”

There have been many inspiring examples of people coming along and doing the “impossible” throughout history. From the light bulb to recorded sound (incredibly, both inventions from the mind of one man — Thomas Edison), from the automobile to the airplane, from the telephone to the smartphone, from the computer to the internet, these are all parts of our everyday life that would have seemed unthinkable not all that long ago.

But more importantly, I think, is the second part of Monk’s assertion. What he’s saying (much more poetically than I ever could) is that a genius has to be an individual and have the courage of their convictions … no matter what.

Brian Wilson faced ridicule in the early stages of his career. His soaring falsetto was viewed by many at the time as “sissy” music, and many of his initial songs — driven by record company pressure to cash in on fads such as surfing and hotrods — were characterized by puerile lyrics and simplistic melody lines. But even as a teenager, Brian knew that the music deep inside him had worth, and he kept at it. Eventually he matured into one of the twentieth century’s most inventive and influential songwriters, giving the world masterpieces like “God Only Knows” and “Good Vibrations.”

It’s fine to be influenced by your heroes, at least early in your musical career. But the ultimate path to genius lies in being yourself. Some years ago, I had the opportunity to interview veteran engineer Humberto Gatica (who’s worked with a star-studded list of artists that includes Celine Dion, Barbra Streisand and Josh Groban), and the advice he offered to aspiring young record producers and musicians came down to just that. Here’s what he had to say:

“Be open to trying things, and you will find your sound. At the end of the day, it’s what you think sounds good and what feels good to you. It might be in line with other people who will want to work with you because they love the way you hear things. Or it might work against you because they don’t like what you do.” In other words, irregardless of opinion, you need to follow your own path.

So be unafraid. Do the undoable. Be yourself. Have the courage of your convictions and the strength to stand by them even in the face of adversity. Achieve these goals and someday you just might find yourself on someone’s list of musical heroes (not just your mom’s! LOL) … and they might even think of you as a genius.

Photo of Humberto Gatica courtesy of Uno Productions.

Check out Howard’s other postings.

Whatever they say about exercise releasing endorphins, it’s all true. Moving one’s body has blissful and liberating benefits that will help you up your game. Whatever that game is.

Substitute the cardio of your choice, but for me, it’s running. Whenever I run (not coincidentally the title of a song I wrote with Keith Urban), whatever was holding me back minutes before no longer has any power over me. I’m a racehorse at the starting gate. Chomping at the bit. And when that gate opens, I’m transformed.

When I run, my blood sends all those juices to my brain. Creativity unleashed! The gap is closed on that lyric that was impossible to take full circle when I woke up in the morning, and now I know exactly how to approach it. Its story unravels before me in slow motion as if it were on a screen and I was watching a movie I directed.

Ten minutes ago I was invisible; now I’m Superwoman. I’m at pace with my drummer, nobody else’s. I’m able to fill all those half-empty glasses in my head — the ones that have left me so thirsty. They overflow with detail and tangents and color and possibility and positivity. Whatever pains me, heals me. I get stronger. And if I need to forget a certain something or somebody, it’s not as hard to do — at least for the rest of the day.

Why didn’t I feel this way before breakfast? Am I the same person?

I notice a F6 chord in the song I’m listening to. What a lovely alternative to an otherwise generic 1-3-5 triad! Its nuance takes me to a slightly more nostalgic place — a welcome diversion from the ordinary. It’s the lime in my gin and tonic. The garnish on my dessert. I’ve always loved a good 6 chord. Why don’t I implement them more often? Have I been playing it too safe? Would I be asking myself these questions if my body were not in motion?

Running is my drug. It’s my fuel. It makes me fierce. Confident. I stop worrying about what anyone else thinks or says about me. I stop chasing that last hit and ask myself how my heart feels. What’s that Oscar Wilde saying? Be yourself; everyone else is taken. I believe this more than ever whenever I run.

I may wake up tomorrow and feel blocked, defeated, deflated, downtrodden, overwhelmed. But I know that I can get back on track and in the middle of my first mile, I will be revived. I will remember who I am.

Is it all in my mind? Perhaps. But that’s all that matters.

Free your mind. The rest will follow.

Check out Shelly’s other postings.

September: The last rays of summer, the first blush of fall … and, for many of us (or our kids), back to school.

This time of year I often find myself reflecting on my own school days. I wish I could say that I had many influential music teachers who shaped the course of my life, but the truth of the matter is that the state of public education in Brooklyn, where I was raised, was woefully inadequate in that area, at least in the years that I was a cog in the system. I did have one pretty cool professor at the university I attended — a gentleman and scholar by the name of Peter Winkler, who actually viewed popular music as worthy of study, in stark contrast to most of his rather snobbish peers, for whom classical was the only music to be taken seriously.

Fortunately, I think most people had a better scholastic experience. I know that Brian Wilson, the famed leader of the Beach Boys, did. In his 2016 book I Am Brian Wilson, he talks about a high school music teacher by the name of Fred Morgan, who actually failed the burgeoning young composer because Brian didn’t know how to write classical music. Despite that, writes Wilson, “He got me thinking about some of the different ways music can work. … He taught us that music was a contrast, pale parts versus emotional parts, and that not all the instruments in a song had to go in the same direction.”

What Brian’s teacher was talking about, of course, was arrangement — the art of bringing variety to a melody, and an integral part of what makes a piece of music special.

The classical world has offered brilliant arrangements and orchestrations for centuries. From Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to Ravel’s Bolero to Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, composers have found imaginative ways to utilize and blend the tonalities of traditional instruments — and sometimes non-traditional ones too (think Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, with its climactic volley of cannon fire). The same can be said of the jazz and big band arrangements of Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, Glenn Miller, Count Basie, Nelson Riddle, Quincy Jones and others.

But it can be argued that until Sir George Martin brought his classical training to the melodies of The Beatles, arrangement usually played only a very minor role in pop music. Songs written in that genre tend to be played by very small ensembles consisting of guitar, keyboard, bass and drums, sometimes augmented by a saxophone and/or small horn section. (The exception, of course, being Phil Spector productions!) Sure, most pop and rock records start off soft and end loud, with dynamic and tonal contrasts between verses and choruses, as well as layers of instruments and vocal harmonies being added as the song goes on — but that’s about it in terms of arrangement. Martin brought a deft touch and enhanced instrumentation (much of it symphonic) to many of the Beatles recordings — particularly later ones, like “Hey Jude” and “Something” — that gave pop music a new degree of sophistication and made it more interesting to the ear. Since then, modern-day producers such as Max Martin, Mark Ronson and Paul Epworth have taken up the mantle, bringing sonic diversity to contemporary hits.

Brian Wilson — who, despite failing music in high school, went on to become one of the most significant composers of the 20th century — became a master arranger too. Nowhere is this more evident than on the 1966 Beach Boys Pet Sounds album, which features Brian’s spectacular arrangement of the traditional folk song “Sloop John B” (incredibly, created in just one night, yet so much more intricate than the rather pedestrian Kingston Trio version he based it on). It’s also an album that boasts a ton of “ear candy” courtesy of esoteric percussion instruments such as sleigh bells, timpani, güiro, vibraphone and bongos … supplemented at times by empty soda cans and water bottles.

Even before Pet Sounds, Wilson had taken the art of arrangement to a whole new level by using the human voice as a primary instrument. As his brother (and fellow Beach Boy) Carl once explained, “Our vocals were voiced like horn parts, the way R&B records make background vocals sound like a sax section. It sounded big, because the four parts were all within the same octave; that was really the secret. [Brian] used a lot of counterpoint, a lot of layered sound; it had a real depth to it. We didn’t just duplicate parts; we didn’t just sing octaves; that would sound really lame.”

There are many examples of genius in Brian Wilson’s vocal arranging skills. Check out the stunning a cappella breakdown in “Sloop,” or in the lesser-known “Heroes and Villains,” or the round that concludes “God Only Knows.” You’ll hear a depth of complexity cloaked in an illusion of simplicity — much the same way virtuoso instrumentalists make everything they play look easy.

So next time you listen to a piece of music, try to focus on all the embellishments and underpinnings swirling around the central melody instead of just the melody itself. You may be surprised at just how much is going on beneath the surface!

Photo courtesy of Beachwood Entertainment Collective

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The first band I was ever in was your classic two-guitar, drum and bass lineup. We were all high school buddies, and none of us was a particularly good singer, so we simply learned the outlines of some basic songs by favorite artists, ranging from Jeff Beck and The Allman Brothers to Yes and King Crimson. From there, we used those outlines to jam, stretch and grow. We made up songs with weird chords, odd time signatures and unusual sounds from our instruments and amps.

Simply put, we improvised.

Time Well Spent

As we all went off to college, we stayed in touch with each other and, to this day, we still manage to find time to get together on occasion and jam. But all these years later, I’m still realizing how influential that development time was to me.

My work involves creating music for a wide variety of television shows, and I rarely if ever find myself at a loss to coax creative and interesting sounds out of my instruments and my computer. I attribute at least part of that to the time I put in learning how to improvise — how to work around chords, melodies, time signatures and song structures. What’s more, the ability to improvise not only informs my work as a composer, it also somehow finds its way into many of my daily activities, from running my business to the way I cook!

Surprised? I was too … until I began looking into the reasons why.

Training Affects The Brain

Recent research shows that long-term high level musical training has a broader impact than previously thought. In fact, musicians have an enhanced ability to integrate sensory information from hearing, touch and sight. In addition, the brain circuits involved in musical improvisation are shaped by systematic training, leading to less reliance on memory and more connectivity within the brain. Simply put, learning an instrument and how to improvise on it can have profound effects on our mind, body and spirit.

Always Be A Student

An article entitled “What Neuroscience Teaches Us About Fostering Creativity” notes that “technology is changing how students’ brains are wired, setting expectations for faster, more interactive learning, according to neuroscientist and best-selling author David Eagleman. And the most important thing that schools should be teaching students is “cognitive flexibility”: the ability to be creative and put ideas together in new and innovative ways.”

I feel that the art of improvisation is just that, with the ultimate goal of achieving a unique result. But that doesn’t mean you can tell your brain to just start creating. You have to work at it and it may not come easily. With that in mind, you should always try to be a student. Even if you have to school yourself, it’s valuable to absorb as much knowledge as you can, using the latest technologies and resources (including this blog). Having that knowledge tucked away in your back pocket allows you to push the boundaries of improvised creativity.

Bend, Break and Blend

“The unconscious brain is ruthlessly efficient,” Eagleman continues. “It is looking for the easiest path [to a solution]. You have to shake off that path.” And one of the ways to help push past that boundary, he suggests, is to do something called bend, break, blend — to practice changing objects or ideas to suit a different purpose, break them into smaller components and then blend or remix them to create new objects or ideas. This is something I do constantly to foster creativity. I find that I often have to take an idea and bend, break and blend it into something it wasn’t before I started.

For example, I might take a piano chord and reverse it in my DAW, then blend in a large amount of reverb and delay. From there, I might route it into a guitar amplifier plugin and add an unusual amount of distortion and edge. Voila! What may have started out as a nice piano chord for a travel documentary might now be better suited for a crime drama or police show — all because I was able to bend, break and blend it. And because I’ve taken the time to learn my craft, it becomes a skill I can use during improvisation.

It Isn’t Just About Music

As I mentioned earlier, learning how to improvise not only can help your music, it can enhance your life generally. In the kitchen, I tend not to follow recipes exactly when cooking. Instead, I use them as an outline, then add a dash of this and a sprinkle of that to bring my own flavors to the dish, based upon past experience of knowing which combinations will taste good and which won’t. I improvise daily in my business approach too. For example, I will prioritize a job that needs immediate attention over what I’m currently working on at the time, even though I may not feel like doing so.

It’s all about learning to go with the flow and knowing what will best help you get the end results in a timely and well thought-out fashion. Don’t get frustrated if it doesn’t just happen. Push through the challenges and know that new ideas will come out of your hard work. Believe me, it’s worth it.

Check out Rich’s other postings.

A good marriage is a team, right? It’s when two people complement one another, each making the other look better. A balanced, harmonious effort from both parties will yield the best results. Same as in a song. But if the words fall short, worthy music can be left alone at the altar. 🙁

I’ve been mentoring at a few different music festivals recently, helping aspiring (and some relatively advanced) songwriters better understand their craft. In critiquing their work, I’ve noted a number of common missteps when it comes to lyrics.

Here are some of them. You might think these are no-brainers, but it can be hard to have perspective while you’re in the heat of the moment writing a song.

– The First Line: This is sometimes the hardest of all the lines. It may take you as much time to write it (or rewrite it) as the rest of the song. Make sure it’s attention getting. Make it impossible for me to ignore you.

– Context: In high school we’re taught that in the first paragraph of an essay we should reveal things like who-what-when-where. Remember? (I hated it!) Well, the same goes for song lyrics. A little orientation in the first verse gives the listener some frame of reference as to what’s about to unfold.

– Pronoun Consistency: Is it “I”? Is it “You”? Is it “We Are The World?” Pick one. And stay there. Or else I’m not going to know whose point of view the song is coming from.

– Tense: Are we in the past? Is this happening now? Is it something you imagine for the future? Be consistent here too. Yes, we can be in the present looking back and remembering when, but make sure to be clear that you’re looking over your shoulder.

– Mood: Are you hopelessly in love? Irreparably devastated? (I hope not.) Are you sick of the world? Feeling empowered? Keep the thread of that emotion throughout.

– Flow: There can be a stream of tasty ingredients adjacent to each other line after line, but if they don’t logically connect to each other the listener is going to be confused. (My husband often reminds me that the audience isn’t in my head. What? I assume that they’re going to know what I mean even if I leave out that one thing. Sadly, they won’t.)

– Concept: It may be a noble effort, but saving the planet is too ambitious to realistically solve in one song. A song should zero in on a brief moment in time. If you put it under a microscope there is usually much to say about it.

– Overthinking: Did you have me at hello and then jump the shark with TMI? Less is more.

– Variation: If all your lines are the same length and cadence I’m going to be yawning by the second verse. Mix ‘em up. Long, short, full sentences, snippets. (You’ll find more about this in our blog article Words and Music.)

The funny things about these observations is that I learn so much about making my own lyrics tighter by listening to yours. The most important takeaway (and the one I’m constantly reminding myself of, even after 20 years of professional songwriting) is: Be Yourself. What makes a song remarkable and memorable is a universal concept with a unique point of view — something that everybody can relate to but nobody has ever said “quite like that.” So ask yourself what makes you you and try to avoid chasing the last Taylor Swift hit because nobody is going to write her song better than she is.

Last but not least, I have been surprised to hear some writers say that they write just once a week. I don’t get it. Writers write! They get better by writing. Try to put time aside every day to “journal” even when you’re not in the mood, or nothing in particular happened lately that you feel is worth journaling about. You might be surprised. It’s the best way to get through the noise and stumble on the magic.

Check out Shelly’s other postings.

Have you ever read something that “clicked” and stayed with you a long, long time? Ever hear a piece of music that did the same?

You may be surprised to learn that the reasons you fall in love with a song (or symphony) are very similar to those that make you connect with a short story (or novel): Something in it “speaks” to you, making you feel as though the songwriter/composer/author were addressing you, and you alone.

It might seem that this comes down to emotional impact, and to a large degree, that’s true. How you are feeling at the time — the trials and tribulations of life that you’re going through when you’re first exposed to the work — has a huge bearing on how something resonates. I know that, for me, the songs I strongly related to as an adolescent (as well as some of the books I read at the time) are the ones that have stayed with me throughout my entire life, and that seems to be true for most people I know. There have been numerous scientific studies that prove the point empirically, but really this is just one of those common sense things: The angst we all go through in our teenage years and early 20s — when we are trying to figure out who we are and how we fit into the world around us — not only creates lasting memories but shapes (and to a large degree determines) lifelong affinities.

In terms of music, it’s true that, in some cases, the words being sung are what “speak” to you, but I think that relatively few people gravitate to a song for that reason alone. After all, nobody goes around humming lyrics! Besides, there are plenty of powerful and enduring musical works that are purely instrumental.

I would argue that, most of the time, what makes us relate to a song, sonata or symphony is the way the music itself is constructed, in the same way that what appeals about a short story or novel is the way the sentences are constructed (or, in the case of poetry, the way the words are strung together). I was reminded of this recently when I came across the following quote from the late Gary Provost, a noted author and writing instructor:

This advice was, of course, aimed at writers, but it could just as easily be applied to songwriters and composers, as well as to musicians of every stripe.

Put in musical terms, what Provost is describing is phrasing, a word that Wikipedia defines as:

The way a musician shapes a sequence of notes in a passage of music to express an emotion or impression. A musician accomplishes this by interpreting the music … by altering tone, tempo, dynamics, articulation, inflection and other characteristics. Phrasing can emphasize a concept in the music or a message in the lyrics, or it can digress from the composer’s intention.

This is pretty much on the money, though I personally would amend the first and second sentences to include songwriters and composers, who have an equal capacity to shape music to convey emotion. John Lennon, who seemed to have an inborn instinct for phrasing, is perhaps the perfect example. Listen closely to the way he shifts the lead vocal patterns in his song “I Am The Walrus,” creating interest in what is essentially just a fairly boring five-note melody. Or check out “Strawberry Fields Forever,” with its abrupt meter change from 4/4 to 3/4 in the chorus that adds a sense of urgency and contrasts powerfully with the laconic and rhythmically straightforward verses.

Frank Sinatra was another master of phrasing. The way he stretches some notes and clips others, starting some on the beat, others just before or after it in his rendition of the song “New York, New York” is the secret sauce that makes the recording iconic. Or, for another great example of the way a vocalist can bring new life to a song, take a listen to Bobby Darin’s still astonishingly hip 1959 recording of the song “Mack the Knife,” which was composed by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht for light opera way back in 1928. Of course, there are a slew of modern vocalists, from Sam Smith to Ed Sheeran, Celine Dion to Adele, who pour a ton of emotion into just about every note they sing, giving each song their personal stamp.

Phrasing is also what distinguishes one instrumentalist from another. Take any classical or jazz composition and listen to how it’s played by any four skilled soloists. You’ll likely hear four quite different interpretations of the same piece — sometimes subtle, sometimes radical, but with each adding new intent to the composer’s original conception, as memorialized in dots on a line.

It’s all deeply personal and subjective, of course, but I think we can derive some universal truths about the importance of phrasing, in both the literary and musical worlds. And so, with a nod to Gary Provost, this is the advice I would offer to writers of words and writers of music alike … and to performers of music as well: Don’t just write words; craft lasting documents that sing to the reader. Don’t just compose (or play) notes; create lasting works that speak to the listener.

These are the guideposts to originality … and the keys to success in your chosen field.

Check out Howard’s other postings.

There’s a specific time of day when each of us is most focused and prolific. Knowing your personal optimum time will serve you well, especially if you’re a writer — a writer of music, lyrics, books, journals, blogs, anything.

For me it’s MORNING MORNING MORNING. While my brain is calm and clear. Before that little voice in my head starts bossing me around and the clutter of extraneous thought accumulates. Thoughts such as:

• I wonder if these eyelash extensions are working for me?
• I’m so tired of throwing money away on bad watermelons
• I can’t believe he didn’t consult me before he “machete’d” my bangs
• What’s the weather like? Where am I? What year is it?

Ya know — life.

This clutter is to my brain as plaque is to my teeth.

The ideal order of all-things-morning for me (after a few minutes of enjoying the ceiling fan whirling overhead) goes like this:

• Slippers or Clogs?
• Coffee (with 1% milk microwaved for exactly 60 seconds)
• NPR
• Play a round of Words With Friends with my buddy Kevin Cronin

Then I glide into my office and fire up the laptop. I tap for about an hour. A lyric. A blog. Whatever needs release.

As soon as there’s a lull in enthusiasm I remind myself to STOP. Because sometimes I forget that in extending that first hour, I pass the point of optimum productivity.

Protein shake? Yes, please, at least on weekdays. Yogurt +  banana + coconut water. That’s it. I don’t need other stuff. There’s too much kitchen choreography involved in chopping parsley and juicing apple cores. Having the same breakfast five days a week saves me the three minutes involved in making a decision about an alternative. Time is precious. There’s never enough. Especially on days when I’m inspired. Eggs are something I save for the weekend.

Then … to the gym I trudge. It’s a hate/love thing in that order. I dread having to allocate the hour, but it doesn’t take long before I remember that movement helps digest work (and protein shakes). The “love” part is when I’m finished — when I return to my computer and realize everything is flowing more freely. Thank you, treadmill. It’s all your fault.

Next … errands. I suggest doing the one you’re resisting the most first, lest the procrastination hold you back in more ways than one. If you have no errands (who has no errands?) then go for a drive. If you live in a city, go for a walk. In other words, give your brain a break.

The irony is that our brain is working extra diligently during the break. I’m no psychologist but I’ve been writing long enough to have noticed. When I pull back into my driveway I’m searching madly for a receipt on which to scribble details that emerged from within while sitting at a red light: a superior verb, a rhyme I hadn’t considered before I left the house. It’s the letting go. I’m sure of it.

Soon it’s time for shutting down. Hey, a girl’s gotta rest.

There are tons of us who would reject the morning as their creative sweet spot in favor of the mid-afternoon, following a cat nap. Good luck to you. That’s when I’m thinking about my martini.

Others would prefer the evening — after all the chores are done, dinner dishes washed and school lunches packed. Good luck to you too. That’s guilty pleasure TV time for me, followed by a bubble bath, after which I go directly to sleep so I can rise again at 6 a.m. and start again.

So these are my Words of Wisdom for the month: Pay attention to and honor thy mental peaks and valleys. And if you have the freedom to do so, arrange your schedule around them. You’ll get more done and have more fun doing it.

That’s it for now. 5 p.m.? I’m ready for my cocktail, Mr. DeMille.

Talk to you in the morning.

Check out Shelly’s other postings.

In a previous posting, I discussed the physical aspects of how a sound is created. This month, I want to talk about the other half of the equation: the way we perceive a sound.

Most of us are familiar with optical illusions — visual anomalies that seem real, but are in fact just trickery. Two examples that are part of our everyday lives are television and movies, both of which are actually a series of still pictures moving so fast that we perceive motion that isn’t actually there. Or check out the image on the right. Does it seem as though some of the black and dark gray circles in the middle are moving? They’re not. This isn’t an animated GIF, or a video: it’s just a plain old JPEG. But due to the physiology of our eyeballs and optic nerves, many people will swear that those circles are pulsating.

There’s an argument to be made that if you see motion, then there is motion, even if the facts say otherwise. It’s a hypothesis that can be summed up in three words: Perception is reality.

Or are only facts reality … even if your perception says otherwise?

I happen to suffer (well, “suffer” is really too strong a word) from a mild form of something called deuteranomaly — a fancy word for the common affliction of being red-green color blind. Most brown objects appear green to me, and a lot of green objects appear beige, brown or even black, depending upon how light or dark they are. This has been the source of endless debate with my Significant Other, who once stopped me from purchasing what I believed was a cool-looking mint green car on the grounds that she wouldn’t be caught dead riding around in a vehicle she described as being painted a “nauseating shade of putty.”

Yet that car was green to me, despite what S.O. (and, according to her, the rest of the world) thought.

So was it a cool shade of lime green, or a nauseating shade of putty? The battle rages on. But the point is that the eye can definitely play tricks on the brain. Did you know the ear can, too?

Sure you do, at least if you expressed any interest in the Yanny/Laurel meme that was consuming social media not long ago. In case you were hiding in a cave, here’s what the fuss was all about:

What did you hear? “Yanny”? Or “Laurel”?

If you listened to it on your smartphone or earbuds, you probably heard “Yanny.” But if you listened on a reasonable quality speaker — even a small computer speaker — you most likely heard “Laurel.”

What the heck is going on here?

Let’s take a look at the facts. This was actually a recording of an actor saying the word “laurel,” created for the dictionary entry of the same name on the vocabulary.com website. However, if you listen to the high frequency content in the recording alone — which would happen when listening on earbuds or poor-quality speakers incapable of reproducing low frequency content — it sounds eerily like the word “Yanny” instead. (Whoever this Yanny guy actually is.)

Don’t believe me? Check out the New York Times online tool that lets you literally dial in the point at which Laurel magically changes to Yanny. (There’s also a good explanation there about how this whole craze likely got started.)

This is a great example of an auditory illusion. Another famous one is the Shepard Tone, named after cognitive scientist Roger Shepard. This is a sound consisting of a series of simple sine waves (pure tones with no overtones) an octave apart but with the bass pitch moving upward or downward. It creates the illusion of a tone that continually ascends or descends in pitch, yet ultimately seems to get no higher or lower — an endless scale that in some people induces queasiness or even headaches. If you’re as much of an auditory nerd as composer Hans Zimmer (who famously used Shepard Tones to great effect in the film Dunkirk to create the sense of ever-increasing intensity across intertwined storylines) and you feel like playing around with this on your own, you can find a way cool interactive online ST generator here.

Neuroscience has proven that our auditory (and visual) perception is affected by a wide range of factors. We may think we perceive the world around us as it really is, but our brain is actually a massively complex filter, and every brain is wired slightly differently.

In other words, hearing occurs in the ear, but listening occurs between the ears. Take that into consideration the next time a parent or a friend gives you a hard time about the music you are passionate about … or the next time you feel like disparaging the tunes that they love.

 Check out Howard’s other postings.