Due to a roleplay I'm having -though currently on hold until after christmas or so- I've been thinking about this every now and then. How do you describe music -or sounds in general- adequately in a medium that cannot be heard? I've always found it difficult, more difficult than helping my fellow roleplayers visualize what the characters are seeing, smelling, touching or tasting. Sure, you as the player might know what the Moonlight Sonata sounds like, but what if the pianist sucks really bad? How are they playing it wrong? Or what if the piano itself is out of tune?
Just say "The pianist is playing Moonlight Sinata, but they suck and the piano is out of tune".
Never gave it much though honestly.
Never gave it much though honestly.
I would generally say something along the lines of.
"The pianist danced across the keys of the piano, playing out the beautiful and elegant tune of the familiar tune, Moonlight Sinata. One note lead to the next in a flurry of sound that would have been perfectly executed, had it not been for the piano itself. The sounds were generally perfect, but one note was off. A key that the pianist had to play repeatedly throughout the song. It was off slightly, and as the pianist went on, the key brought a shrieking distortion in the resonance of the notes around it, ruining the melody completely."
You don't necessarily have to be exact, but like with most sensory details in writing, you're aiming for an idea. And the reader, much like when they're dreaming, fills in the idea with their own image or sound. You won't be able to ever be exact unless you give them the notes and or a link to the song or sound you want them to hear, but you can definitely give them a good gist of what is going on.
The sound of a metal bridge shifting:
"The metal of the long and suspended bridge shifted in the wind, producing a sharp creek with every movement. The kind of noise that would make you think the metal was going to shatter at any moment."
Or like this, you can do it the same with any sound.
"The pianist danced across the keys of the piano, playing out the beautiful and elegant tune of the familiar tune, Moonlight Sinata. One note lead to the next in a flurry of sound that would have been perfectly executed, had it not been for the piano itself. The sounds were generally perfect, but one note was off. A key that the pianist had to play repeatedly throughout the song. It was off slightly, and as the pianist went on, the key brought a shrieking distortion in the resonance of the notes around it, ruining the melody completely."
You don't necessarily have to be exact, but like with most sensory details in writing, you're aiming for an idea. And the reader, much like when they're dreaming, fills in the idea with their own image or sound. You won't be able to ever be exact unless you give them the notes and or a link to the song or sound you want them to hear, but you can definitely give them a good gist of what is going on.
The sound of a metal bridge shifting:
"The metal of the long and suspended bridge shifted in the wind, producing a sharp creek with every movement. The kind of noise that would make you think the metal was going to shatter at any moment."
Or like this, you can do it the same with any sound.
From a RP of my own, one section where music played a big part...
For the part, I describe the emotion, and not often the music itself. Technique helps, as well. But again, I leave the composition itself to the imagination.
Quote:
"Four legs, two legs, three legs..." Sighing again, giving a cough to clear his lungs, the drifter started playing. A screeching sour note caused some hard stares and some laughter, but he kept going. The bad playing continued, but quickly the audience came to realize that he was getting better... That the bad playing was on purpose. Finer and finer he became, with more energy and passion in his playing, still hitting bad notes but with a regularity that made it obvious that it was purposeful, and then they started to fade away, his passion mellowing into majestic art. Better and better he soared, sounding just like the redhead in form and ability, then even higher heights were reached. Slowly, however, the passion died, his sounds coming weaker and almost spidery. Several old men in the crowd had begun to openly weep, for in the startling start, the magnificent middle, and the declining end, the saw their own lives mirrored.
For the part, I describe the emotion, and not often the music itself. Technique helps, as well. But again, I leave the composition itself to the imagination.
This is a really good question!
I haven't had to portray much music yet, but so far I've done it two different ways:
1) One was a very short description, containing the name of the piece. It was related to a dancer, so I put more description into the movements of the dancer.
2) A description of the music and the instrument carrying out the music, and then I described which kind of mood the music brought with it. The piece had a song to it, so I described how the singer's voice matched the song and the singer/player's skills with the instrument and song.
At least, this is how I think I remember I did. I was too lazy to find the posts.
I haven't had to portray much music yet, but so far I've done it two different ways:
1) One was a very short description, containing the name of the piece. It was related to a dancer, so I put more description into the movements of the dancer.
2) A description of the music and the instrument carrying out the music, and then I described which kind of mood the music brought with it. The piece had a song to it, so I described how the singer's voice matched the song and the singer/player's skills with the instrument and song.
At least, this is how I think I remember I did. I was too lazy to find the posts.
I generally throw around a lot of musical vernacular and hope for the best. =x
For example:
An ominous melody set a foreboding backdrop, it's monotone pitch broken only by the occasional streak of a brilliant extended crescendo. Each rising scale was complemented by a thunderous applause of a deepened note, hijacking the attempt of one hand to outdo the other. The crackling rhythm sizzled with power, an unquenchable yearning to unleash a violent vivacissimo of tempo, restrained only by the consonance that birthed the blazing cadence. The chord was deep, the timbre dark, and both were encompassed by the chorus of explosive harmony grudgingly settling into its timeless chant as it hovered over the smoky room.
For example:
An ominous melody set a foreboding backdrop, it's monotone pitch broken only by the occasional streak of a brilliant extended crescendo. Each rising scale was complemented by a thunderous applause of a deepened note, hijacking the attempt of one hand to outdo the other. The crackling rhythm sizzled with power, an unquenchable yearning to unleash a violent vivacissimo of tempo, restrained only by the consonance that birthed the blazing cadence. The chord was deep, the timbre dark, and both were encompassed by the chorus of explosive harmony grudgingly settling into its timeless chant as it hovered over the smoky room.
Well. Looks like my writing skill needs some work, everybody else's examples were showing, I was telling. Something I need to work on I guess.
Dragoncat wrote:
Well. Looks like my writing skill needs some work, everybody else's examples were showing, I was telling. Something I need to work on I guess.
You're style is your style. Don't let others' work put yours down.
I myself have trouble describing a lot of other things.
PerryInc wrote:
You're style is your style. Don't let others' work put yours down.
I myself have trouble describing a lot of other things.
I myself have trouble describing a lot of other things.
If I may give my own example, because it's a topic I resonate with:
~~~~~
Her lips tasted like copper grown cold as ice beneath my own. Our ears were chipped at by dulcet tones, but I couldn't hear them. I felt the glide of warmth spiral down my spine, still tasting the tortellini that left my tongue bashful. I tried to temper courage for a new delight, but my teeth nearly chattered and snapped the tip of my own plunge into my lover's mouth. Still, to the flickering lights washed past my closed eyelids; to the harmonic bedding of soulful trumpets and aged guitar strings that seemed bound for snapping from such venomous guile; to the transient hum of approval seeping from various tables adjacent our own...
I kissed my beloved and opened my eyes to see her dead pupils watching my own. The taste of her began staining my memory until I almost forgot about the waiter standing there beside us, tilting the wine in wait of my judgement. It spilled over my heart just as I waved a careless hand past the bottle. The waiter - unknowingly - took to metaphor a reality, red liquid filling my companion's glass. My own followed.
I heard a voice burst like shrapnel through closed wooden doorways. It came from my back, but still I kept my eyes forward. I'd heard of her, but now I knew her, because she demanded to be known. My date parted from me and embarrassed my advances by showing more radiance upon tasting her drink than spending time locking lips with me. So I countered by leaning back into the spicy net being woven thirty odd paces behind, strobe lights unable to pierce the velvet that made each strand. The words sung were foreign to me (much like the woman's name), but I understood. She was a seductress, and what to me was a band of wages and artifice was her family. Her weapon and lure.
Were I alone, I would have ventured.
Yet I was simply being played, much like the instruments that courted the midnight air as we sat, dim but for the showing. The waiter nodded and vanished, weaving through the crowd because he could. My beloved giggled, drunk in many ways, and for a moment I couldn't help but wonder where she'd been built. Her tone wasn't anything like that of the singers, being so flighty and sharp. Her hair fell golden down about her, not a single strand out of place, curling as it hit her shoulders. She gazed at me, seeking out my thoughts, knowing that my eyes were lowering even as the music began to increase in pace and the floor began to rumble beneath our feet from the sway of those no longer seated.
In some ways, I was still kissing her, peeling the glitter from her neck and the make of her gown thrashed away as the woman behind me held a note I didn't know could be held.
My wine glass hit the ground just as I removed myself from my seat. I took her by the wrist, only just above, and led her out. I'd heard enough. Seen enough. I didn't need wine and I wasn't really one for dancing - even to a rhythm that intrigued. Sometimes, red is just red.
We made love on the patio of the private cafe, and mid-way through I saw down below us that the band was packing up. But I didn't see the singer. Never did. Just heard her. Heard that one, elongated note. Kept me warm, even then...
I heard later that month she'd gotten turned out. Made into a satchel, like the girl I was with that evening. For all I know... she works for me now. But I doubt she remembers how to hold tune, if that's the case. All my goons play a different kind of song...
~~~~~
Her lips tasted like copper grown cold as ice beneath my own. Our ears were chipped at by dulcet tones, but I couldn't hear them. I felt the glide of warmth spiral down my spine, still tasting the tortellini that left my tongue bashful. I tried to temper courage for a new delight, but my teeth nearly chattered and snapped the tip of my own plunge into my lover's mouth. Still, to the flickering lights washed past my closed eyelids; to the harmonic bedding of soulful trumpets and aged guitar strings that seemed bound for snapping from such venomous guile; to the transient hum of approval seeping from various tables adjacent our own...
I kissed my beloved and opened my eyes to see her dead pupils watching my own. The taste of her began staining my memory until I almost forgot about the waiter standing there beside us, tilting the wine in wait of my judgement. It spilled over my heart just as I waved a careless hand past the bottle. The waiter - unknowingly - took to metaphor a reality, red liquid filling my companion's glass. My own followed.
I heard a voice burst like shrapnel through closed wooden doorways. It came from my back, but still I kept my eyes forward. I'd heard of her, but now I knew her, because she demanded to be known. My date parted from me and embarrassed my advances by showing more radiance upon tasting her drink than spending time locking lips with me. So I countered by leaning back into the spicy net being woven thirty odd paces behind, strobe lights unable to pierce the velvet that made each strand. The words sung were foreign to me (much like the woman's name), but I understood. She was a seductress, and what to me was a band of wages and artifice was her family. Her weapon and lure.
Were I alone, I would have ventured.
Yet I was simply being played, much like the instruments that courted the midnight air as we sat, dim but for the showing. The waiter nodded and vanished, weaving through the crowd because he could. My beloved giggled, drunk in many ways, and for a moment I couldn't help but wonder where she'd been built. Her tone wasn't anything like that of the singers, being so flighty and sharp. Her hair fell golden down about her, not a single strand out of place, curling as it hit her shoulders. She gazed at me, seeking out my thoughts, knowing that my eyes were lowering even as the music began to increase in pace and the floor began to rumble beneath our feet from the sway of those no longer seated.
In some ways, I was still kissing her, peeling the glitter from her neck and the make of her gown thrashed away as the woman behind me held a note I didn't know could be held.
My wine glass hit the ground just as I removed myself from my seat. I took her by the wrist, only just above, and led her out. I'd heard enough. Seen enough. I didn't need wine and I wasn't really one for dancing - even to a rhythm that intrigued. Sometimes, red is just red.
We made love on the patio of the private cafe, and mid-way through I saw down below us that the band was packing up. But I didn't see the singer. Never did. Just heard her. Heard that one, elongated note. Kept me warm, even then...
I heard later that month she'd gotten turned out. Made into a satchel, like the girl I was with that evening. For all I know... she works for me now. But I doubt she remembers how to hold tune, if that's the case. All my goons play a different kind of song...
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