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Silence Is GoldenHow a pause can be the most devastating effect in music.

In the Met there's a painting by Vermeer called Girl Asleep at a Table. It's an oddly arranged picture, the subject off to one side dozing on her hand, her elbow on a table with a bunched carpet and objects including a wine jug, an overturned large drinking glass, and, near the girl, a more delicate wine glass with some dregs. Just off-center of the painting is an open door. X-ray studies show that originally a cavalier stood in the doorway. Vermeer painted him out, leaving a door opening onto an unoccupied room with a table and mirror on the other side. This change was an utterly Vermeer move. With a guy in the doorway, we know who left the overturned glass, and we have a painting about something on the order of sex. With a void in the center, we have a painting about a girl dreaming of something we don't know about after having a drink with somebody we don't know. The empty doorway shapes a mystery.

Vermeer understood the power of withheld information. Composers have a similar understanding that in shaping sound, a nothing can be just as expressive as a something. It depends on the frame, what it is that echoes in the silence.

Some musical silences are simple enough. Recall the end of Handel's "hallelujah" chorus in Messiah, the brief pause of anticipation before the timpani-pounding climax.

In his Mass in B Minor, Handel's contemporary J.S. Bach used silence at the end of the "Crucifixus" movement symbolically: The music sinks into a dark emptiness as into the grave, followed by an explosion of joy in the "Et resurrexit."

This is more than a simple depiction: The pain of death, the abyss of the grave, and the triumph of resurrection depend on one another for the hair-raising effect of that moment. The silence is as necessary as the notes.

Joseph Haydn was much given to musical wit, and the manipulation of silence had a place in his bag of tricks. There's the sublime joke that ends his string quartet from Opus 33, whose nickname is, in fact, "The Joke." It works like this. The piece ends and the audience applauds. Then inexplicably the music starts again. The embarrassed listeners quiet down. The piece ends again. The audience applauds again, a little tentatively this time. Once more the music cranks up. It ends. There are a couple of tentative claps. The music starts once more and finishes, leaving listeners with their hands in the air, afraid to applaud and, as the silence goes on, cracking up. It's the funniest silence in music, an effect that would be familiar to comedian Jack Benny. Robber: "Your money or your life! … Well?" Benny: "I'm thinking."

Haydn's most famous joke plays on a combination of two factors: his ability to convince you he's nice and predictable, while he actually sneaks around to kick you in the pants, and the presence in a slow movement of a pause that ends a rather dinky little tune. As soon as we've concluded we know how this tune works, things go boom.

Thus Haydn's so-called "Surprise Symphony." The point is that the surprise requires the previous silence for its setup. This is just one example of a remarkable quality in Haydn and his peers in the Classical period: their ability to be logical and surprising at the same time.

Beethoven was perhaps the first composer to treat silence as an actual motif, part of the basic conception of a piece. His overture to the tragedy Coriolan starts with some of the most searing silences in music.

At the end, when the hero falls on his sword, his faltering theme represents Coriolan bleeding away bit by bit. The course of the tragedy is captured in the journey from the active, violent silences of the beginning to the deathly silences of the end.

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Jan Swafford is a composer and writer. His books include Johannes Brahms: A Biography and Charles Ives: A Life With Music.
COMMENTS

I remember looking at the score for Berlioz's Symphonie fantastique and seeing SILENCE written above a 3-measure rest just before rehearsal mark 11 in the first movement. The rest mark in the score was sufficient ("Hector, shall we ad lib here?" Uh, no.), but the SILENCE really underlined the drama of a great piece of music.

Film buffs may remember a dramatic musical pause in Alfred Hitchcock's 1956 film, The Man Who Knew Too Much. Arthur Benjamin's cantata, "Storm Clouds," featured a cymbal crash which was chosen by an assassin to cover the sound a gunshot; but (if memory serves) the silence before the crash was broken by the scream of a woman who was onto the plot.

-- stancordray
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Make me smile (come up and see me) by Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel is a classic rock song where the pause is used to heighten the emotional impact of the music.

A big hit in the UK, I don't think it did much in the USA but worth checking out on youtube etc.

-- steelbucket
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