January/February 1997		Volume 7, Number 3

(mirrored from http://www.usc.edu/isd/publications/Networker/96-97/Jan_Feb_97/feature-muse.html)

It's not unusual today for musicians to comb through dry technical manuals with the zeal of a circuit designer, chasing down the latest gizmo that promises to make the creation of "art" a little more convenient.

Convenient? Whoever said art was supposed to be convenient?

For better or worse, digital technology has left an indelible mark on music. In the home, behold the CD player - the first device to deliver clear-as-studio sound reproduction. In the recording industry, digital technology has sparked a complete rethinking of the way music is captured, mass-produced, distributed and promoted. In schools, it's crashing through the roadblocks that make music education laborious and dull. (See related stories, "Easy as ABC", "High-Tech Fidelity")

But it's the artist - the songwriter, performer and producer - for whom the benefits of digital technology are most significant, and most controversial. Few musicians today can honestly say that technology has had no effect on their creative expression.

"Technology has become a huge asset," says Chuck Wild, a writer/producer/recording artist on the forefront of synthesizer-as-instrument exploitation. Wild was a member of the popular 1980s techno-rock sextet, Missing Persons, and he is the composer of countless cues and scores for television series, including "Max Headroom," "Falcon Crest" and "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."

"There's nothing like being able to sit down, sketch out everything and then be able to print out a score from your sketch," says Wild.

Thanks to a MIDI interface on his acoustic piano, Wild can compose from his favorite instrument, record the performance digitally onto his computer, and have free reign to completely transform the music at the editing stage.

"You can cut and paste, transpose, delete and add. All these functions are made easier by technology," he says.

Matt Reid, musician, composer and former synthesist for another '80s techno-pop band, Berlin, can't conceive of any other way to make music.

"I take for granted that I can call upon so many different tones and timbres from my synthetic orchestra," he says.

Byting Off More Than They Can Chew?

But has this new-found power of composition advanced the ultimate goal: the creation of better songs? Or is it a high-tech ball-and-chain that weighs down musicians and songwriters?

"I think [technology] hindered me," says Berlin songwriter and bassist John Crawford. "I was impatient, so it got in the way. The difficulty of learning it all frustrated me."

Wild also struggled with the learning curve. "For a period of a few months, I felt overwhelmed. But as soon as I was even moderately proficient, I started using it in the creative process."

Crawford and Wild were not alone in their initial awkwardness. Though technology and music share some core elements, these elements lie far beneath the surface. The creative act is fundamentally at odds with the logic-driven flow of technology. Artists are accustomed to creating through bursts of inspiration. Acoustic guitars, pianos and even pen-and-paper are native and predictable media for self-expression.

But synthesizers and, to a greater degree, computers feel alien to the traditional musician. Even when technology lies silent and idle, it has a way of menacing the artist. That intimidation has discouraged many players from taking the digital plunge, despite its obvious benefits.

How did Crawford compose his synthesizer-dominated band's hits? On an acoustic guitar.

"There's something pure and natural about just a guitar and a voice that forces you to hear the music," he says.

Not all musicians share Crawford's ambivalence toward technology. USC associate professor of music history and literature Gilbert Blount is a hard-core believer. Blount rejoices in digital technology's power to ease some laborious aspects of composition and scoring.

"It is possible for composers to 'play-in' their draft scores using a MIDI controller - be it keyboard, guitar or violin - whichever they are most comfortable with," Blount says. The technology lets them edit using the computer software of their choice, and print out full scores and individual parts that "look better than 90 percent of the musical scores currently on university library shelves," he says.

Despite the habits acquired through 12 years of formal piano study, Wild has taught himself to compose electronically. "During the creative process, I use technology as a 'note pad,' the same as I might have used a sheet of score paper in the old days. Technology is just quicker, easier and more flexible than score paper. I keep a monitor close by, so that I can glance at the notation screen while I'm writing. This helps to connect me to the formal side of my education."

Are "They" Taking Over?

Even the most ardent supporters of music technology have, from time to time, had to take a step back. Welsh-born composer and sound designer Andy Thomas has had an impressive run with technology, dating back to the earliest modern music machines. Thomas has either played or designed sounds for such techno-savvy artists as David Bowie, Steve Winwood and the band, Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Even in pre-MIDI days, Thomas was using sequencers, which were at that time limited and awkward at best.

Initially, he welcomed the new horizons opened by MIDI and computer-based sequencing software. But Thomas eventually reconsidered.

"I had to stop [using sequencers]. It got to the point where I didn't believe I could play anymore. Everything I recorded, I immediately went to edit before I actually even listened to it. Over the past three or four years, I've thought, 'sod that!'"

Thomas continues to use technology today, but keeps it in check. He's always looking for the "happy accidents" and human feel that come from manual playing.

Concerns like these strike a chord with many musicians. Though a fan of the synthesizer, keyboardist Reid admits he's never owned a sequencer and still has not bought a computer. "At home, my creative process involves me playing everything live to tape, except drums. I'm increasingly enjoying the results I get, though I wish I had a drummer in my closet," he says.

Wild sees this fear of techno take-over as a sign of weakness. "I make technology prove itself to me," he says. "If it can save me time without sacrificing an idea, then I use it. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it passes that test. I've been using sequencers for over 15 years. There have been times when I didn't feel comfortable, but never did I feel that I was not in control."

Ghost-Writers in the Machine

But in one sense, the machines are terrifying. Critics of the earliest computer composition systems may have been right to warn of the dangers of a paradigm that "deletes" the performer from the composer-performer creative equation. (See related story, "Technology and Music - the Blessed Union") Today, entire bands are sometimes absent during their own recording sessions.

Andy Thomas was in London's Battery Studios during the recording of Frankie Goes To Hollywood's Welcome to the Pleasuredome. The sessions demonstrated an emerging trend, he says.

"Frankie was driven more by the producer [Trevor Horn] and his henchmen than by band involvement. It got to the point where the band [members] seemed to be losing touch with their composition," Thomas says. He recalls a state-of-the-art studio, equipped with a plethora of the finest digital audio gear available and more hired musicians than band members.

Across the pond, some producers in America were exploring the same "creative" model. Berlin's Crawford recalls a visit from manager Perry Watts-Russell shortly after the group had finished recording its second album.

"He came to my house and said he had something he wanted me to hear," Crawford says. "He put a tape in; I sat and listened. At first, I didn't know what I was hearing other than it sounded like Berlin. Within a few moments, I recognized it as someone else playing a Berlin song, but not one from the first album - one we had just recorded two weeks earlier!"

Crawford learned that Geffen Records was not happy with the way two songs had come out, so it had hired producer Georgio Moroder to re-record them. The record executives hoped that Moroder - well-known for his work with disco diva Donna Summer and various hits from the Flashdance movie soundtrack - would push the Berlin sound in a more commercial direction. Berlin's lead singer was brought in to re-record the vocal, but the rest of the tracks were finished with minimal band involvement. For better or worse, this end-run would have been impossible without extensive use of technology.

All this begs the question: whose songs are they anyway?

Moroder's own creative involvement was limited to issuing a few preliminary commands to his underlings and then listening to the final product.

"He told them to use the BPM [beats-per-minute] of the fastest hit song from the previous year, I think it was 'Maniac' from Flashdance," Crawford says, "and to use an intro sound-effect they'd used previously on a Deborah Harry single that never charted. He said he liked the effect and didn't want it to go to waste."

Moroder took his assembly-line production method one step farther with Berlin's hit single, "Take My Breath Away." This time, the band members weren't even invited to the sessions. Though Berlin's singer, Terri Nunn, did the vocals, no one else from the band participated in either the writing or recording processes.

Record executives saw Moroder's recycling of sounds and tempos from previous singles as "efficient," because it cut back on expensive studio time. Burned by the excesses of 1970s megabands, wary industry executives in the '80s looked for ways to contain costs. Keyboard parts as simple as those in most pop recordings, they reasoned, could be played by anyone. If the part entailed holding a single note on a synthesizer for a long time or playing simple melodies, what difference did it make whose fingers actually touched the keys?

Not surprisingly, the artists had a different opinion. "It bothered me," says Reid.

Rise of the MIDI-ocre

But tight budgets might not be the only explanation for the practice of "hijacking" sessions. Some argue that it's a way to compensate for a talent-deficit in a band.

Technology has, in many ways, eased the process of playing music. Has it eased it to the point that mediocrity can be polished to perfection?

"I think it's clear that digital technologies have, in some instances, given voice to the musically inept and uninformed," says composition professor Gilbert Blount. "A button-pusher, knob-twirler sub-culture does exist in this country, and elsewhere, producing quick-and-dirty drivel and dreck for mass consumption. Music often becomes vapid theater or spectacle designed to titillate the visceral and sensual, rather than to stimulate and galvanize the probing intellect."

Spoken like a true scholar.

But pop musicians like Crawford see things differently.

"I think it depends on your definition of 'talent,'" says Crawford. "To me, the talent that matters most is writing the song. You can start with a bad song, and you may even be able to make it sound good in the studio. But then, all you have is a good-sounding bad song. Bad songs don't sell records, but bad playing can become classic."

Some of the world's greatest pop bands are famous for their questionable musicianship, Crawford points out. "Look at the Rolling Stones. There's some very sloppy playing on their albums, but the songs are consistently strong," he says.

Whether or not it fuels mediocrity, the creative power unleashed by music technology leads to an equality-of-access that Thomas finds very appealing. "I love the fact that you can put previously expensive multitrack technology into the hands of the masses," he says. "I think a lot of people will benefit from it, though I'm not sure if the masses will benefit from a lot of recycled ideas. There are many untalented people achieving success because of technology, but who am I to judge their talent?"

Initially, technology may give the mediocre a boost, but in the long run, creative survival favors the fittest.

"I think both formal training and technology are necessary these days," Wild says. "It's not an 'either-or' thing, it's a 'both' approach that works the best. Why would anyone want to limit themselves? It's about expansion, not limitation."

When it comes to making art, though, there's something that trumps both formal training and technological wizardry: it's called inspiration. Crawford, who had no musical instruction of any kind, still enjoys great songwriting success a decade after Berlin disbanded.

"Berlin was often shunned as one of those no-talent techno-pop bands, especially compared to Missing Persons, because those guys were all such great musicians," Crawford says. "Does it bother me? No. To me, it's about the song, not the training. No one can teach you what you need to feel to write."

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