The Autumnal Equinox came and went without comment.
Summer is officially over and the calendar now reads Fall. This morning my
neighbor’s redwood deck is shining from last night’s rain. The bright orange of
the wood pleases the eye and signals some hope for rains to come in
drought-stricken California. Last night, we ate dinner in the dark and it was
only 7:15 pm. The few deciduous trees in San Francisco all seem to be on our
driving route to school and the first splashes of color have emerged. Though
the days are shorts-worthy, the feeling of Fall is in the air and it’s a
welcome one.
Of course, I love Summer, with its long days of
freedom, its sunny exterior and bright optimism. It’s the time to run and jump
into the arms of the natural world, dive into the waters of the lake or ocean,
tramp up a mountainside with you backpack on your back, picnic in the park,
swing in a hammock and look up at the clouds. Its music is the major scale all
the way— happy, bouncy, open.
But Fall holds a special place in my heart, even if
the San Francisco variety is so far away from my East Coast childhood. The days
grow shorter, the air has a smell to it, nights begin to beckon you to curl up
on the couch with your Dickens novel and maybe it’s time to light a fire. The
dinner table is heaped with the harvest of squash in its many glories, crisp
apples and pears, sweet potato soups, fresh bread from the oven, a thicker,
heartier fare to fortify you for the winter days to come. The music of Fall is
minor all the way— not sad, but with a hint of sweet melancholy, intimate,
inward-turning, poignant. Nature is glorious in its color, but it is the human
community that rises to the forefront, the sense of huddling together with
steaming cups of hot cider.
Equating Fall with the musical minor scale got me thinking—why is the minor scale so evocative? One theory has
to do with the harmonic series. This is the law of physics that explains that
when a string is struck or a column of air blown through a tube, there
is a fundamental vibration that creates a note, say C. But there are also
sub-vibrations— the string vibrating at half its length that creates an
overtone, a much softer tone that blends with the fundamental. The first
overtone is C an octave higher. Then comes G, then another C. This is why the
oldest elemental form of music— be it bagpipe, didgeridoo, Indian tambura or
Orff bass xylophone— plays a drone to create the solid ground from which the
melody flies— C and G, Do and Sol, 1 and 5. The next overtone is E and lo
and behold, there’s the major triad that we’re so familiar with—C-E-G (though in a different order: C-G-E). From here the
overtones pile up in smaller and fainter intervals.
The minor triad—in this case, C Eb G— is minor
because of that Eb. And it turns out that this note is the 19th
overtone! Way up there, far away from the natural elemental sounding of the
first overtones. Some have theorized that this is the attraction of the minor
sound and its association with human emotion over the natural world. We are 19
tones removed from our home ground, feeling a little alienated, exiled, wistful
and yes, sad, and turning to each other for company and solace. Not a proven
scientific theory, but interesting, yes?
How does this actually play out in the world of
music? Well, Autumn in New York and Autumn Leave are both in minor keys, but
then again, so is Gershwin’s Summertime. Vivaldi’s three movements in
the Autumn part of The Four Seasons are in major, minor and major respectively.
Robin Williamson’s October Song is in major, the Mama and Papa’s California
Dreamin’ in minor. So much for my theory. But that’s the way of art— no
simplistic formulas, many faces to any theme and yes, major music can be
wistful and poignant (I once made a 5-year old cry singing Go Tell Aunt
Rhody) and minor songs upbeat and energetic (the version I do of a ring
play called Soup, Soup).
Whether major or minor or in-between, Happy Fall to
all!
