Evil Kramer's Theory Corner

While searching for inspiration for this month's column, I happened upon a technicolor photograph of yours truly on the third anniversary of his birth, sampling what appears to be my first, in what would be a long standing love affair with, what the Italians call, latte con ciocolato scurro. I remember it so clearly. It was refreshing and cold and thick with a delicious consistency reserved for it’s self and it made my budding infant taste and olfactory senses burst with delight as I praised the precision loving Swiss for bearing the master craftsmen title they so richly deserve. Also, it was a successful party for a young me, having received Mozart's 41st Symphony and an LP of Chopin's "greatest hits". (It would be an entire year before I realized my undying love for L.V. Beethoven and yet another beyond that before I fell, ears first, for that musically Shakespearian rascal, Johann Sebastian Bach).

Upon closer inspection of the photo, I spied the good-natured gift from my Auntie: a 45 r.p.m. record, clutched in my tiny hand, as well as the intense furrow wrinkling my youthful brow as I realized the contents of that small vinyl disk. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" was written on the label sticker, like Mauler himself, laughing at my fragile three-year old ego. I hadn't cried that much since Mother, bless her heart, attempted deception by substituting formula for the creamy sweetness of the milk that the family goats had so kindly provided me. Twinkle, Twinkle, little star?! What prescription drug du jour is Auntie Gert currently ingesting, I directed the thought to my mother. Does she think I still in the womb?

I was devastated, with its 1-5-6 major scale grocery-store-ramen-packaged-with-"oriental"-flavoring trappings. I stuck it on the bottom of the pile and there it remained, sequestered for weeks, while the lush orchestration of Mariner's interpretations rang forth from my quadraphonic stereo, like so much roasted garlic, spread on kiln-baked, fresh Italian bread, dipped in warmed, extra-virgin olive oil.

After tiring of Chopin's Sonatas and Mozart's "Jupiter", I, with much trepidation, thought I would amuse myself with that childhood horror, "Twinkle, twinkle". I laid the platter on the turntable and steadied myself for the onslaught when something miraculous happened. The record played and I became... mesmerized. I played that little 45 over and over again, three weeks straight, enchanted by it's juicy potential. Much like basmati or firm tofu, its need to be marinated with rich sauces and exotic spice intrigued and captivated me. I had unwittingly discovered the basis of the canon, the fugue and, for the modern rock afficionado, what is commonly referred to today as the "hook".

To break it down: a canon is a simple piece of music with a developed theme that is repeated, often after the expiration of a predetermined set of beats, to create what is called a "round", (the most famous of which may be Handel's "Water Music"), much like that other ghastly pre-pubescent number, "Row, row, row your boat". A fugue takes that same principle but spins the theme off into variations: i.e. embellishment as well as other non-thematic related melodies, reference to other aspects of the key signature (i.e. tonic, dominant, etc.) and modulation (e.g. a change in key signature. Stay tuned next month to learn how to utilize these concept in your own delicious musical endeavors.). Our friend Bach created an entire vocabulary from this ingenious idea. A hook, of course, is that annoying melody that gets lodged into your hippocampus and inspires you to skewer your eyes with the blunt end of a fondue fork that one would otherwise wisely use to dip bite-sized pieces of slightly hardened rye bread into an exquisite mixture of thick, gooey Swiss and white wine before savoring it with a satisfying and comforting gulp.

While I have since moved on to more interesting, singular melodies, Twinkle, twinkle little star started me on the quest to find simple musical pleasures and to expand upon those until I can’t recognize them anymore. If one were so inclined, mightn't one create a new and interesting melody and proceed to twist and mold it at ones will. Or mightn't one use one the many melodies that have already been created since the dawn of music and do the same. Created by the men and women who laboriously slaved hours and weeks and years, fretting over what might be the most definitive note and the - oh, look! Brie!


-EK