Melanie Spiller and Coloratura Consulting
Copyright 2020 Melanie Spiller. All rights reserved.
Editing Test: Why I Chant
Melanie Spiller and Coloratura Consulting
I admit that originally I was drawn to chant music as a sort of adolescent rebellion against the
baroque music to which my father listened (and which I loved), the jazz and folk songs to which my
mother listened (and which I loved), and the rock and roll of my brother and my peers (which I did
not love at all, but was clearly expected to love). I also found the floating, melodically limited songs
compelling and trance inducing, and I became addicted.
The term chant includes music from many cultures. African and Native American chants are often
rhythm-driven. Asian Indian (Carnaic) chant uses melody, rhythm, and repetition. European chant
(Gregorian, Ambrosian, Mozarabic, Carolingian, the chants of Hildegard von Bingen, Jewish chant,
and others) is usually drone-based and arrhythmic.
I like them all, but the type that gets me tickled to my core is the European chant. I have a
particular fondness for Hildegard’s chant, but I’ll get into that in another essay. First, we need to
have a little Chant 101 so we’re all playing with the same toys.
Modes
European chant is modal. This means that the scales used to construct the melodies are not
exactly what you’re used to hearing. You know what a major scale sounds like if you just sing “do-
re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do.” If you found a C on the piano and played up eight notes, you’d use only the
white keys to make that nice major scale. Now, move your fingers up one key and play up eight
notes USING ONLY THE WHITE KEYS. You’ll think something is wrong, because the half step
(where there’s no black key between two white keys) is in the “wrong” place. In modern music, a
scale that starts on D like that would have a black key (F#) instead of the white “plain” F and a
black key (C#) instead of the white “plain” C, in order to be a major scale. In modal music, using
only the white keys starting on D is called the dorian mode. The mode starting on E is Phyrgian,
the one on F is Lydian, and so forth.
Don’t get me wrong, the black keys get used in modal music; this was just a nice simple way to get
us all on the same page, as far as understanding what a mode is. In modern music, a D scale
always starts and ends on a D. The Dorian mode, however, can begin on any note, as long as that
half step is in the correct position. A mode is a kind of scale, but a mode is not an immutably-
placed scale.
NOTE: If you need the “math,” here it is. In the C scale, the half steps are between the third
and fourth notes and between the seventh and eighth notes
(whole+whole+whole+half+whole+whole+whole+half). That’s nice and symmetrical; you just
remember three whole steps and a half, and repeat. Dorian “moves” the half steps to the left
and puts them between the second and third notes and between the sixth and seventh notes
(so that’s whole+whole+half+whole+whole+whole+half+ whole). Now its two whole steps, a
half step, three whole steps and a half step, and one final whole step. It’s not as easy to
remember as that C major scale, that’s for sure. Each mode places the half step in a certain
place; the mode is defined by where the half steps are, not by which notes are played.
Within the modes there are two forms. The earliest (ancient Greek, most likely, and persisting until
about the 8th century A.D.) used five-note scales (pentatonic), so you’d only sing do-re-me-fa-sol.
Later scales finished the cycle and added the final notes to get the eight notes you know when you
think of a major scale (diatonic). In early chant, you’d have to modulate modes to move out of the
five-note scale. Later chants were diatonic, so less “math” was required by the singers to keep the
half steps in their proper place.
Historically, there are two types of modes, church and plagal. The story I heard is that someone
went to Rome, where they were beginning to document the modes, in about the second century
A.D., and brought them home to northern Europe. His memory wasn’t entirely accurate, and
although he got the concept right, he reported the modes in a slightly different place, giving us
modes that begin on other notes than do, re, mi, fa, and sol. These have different names
depending on with whom you speak (like Ionian, Aeolian, and so forth, or hypolydian,
hypomixolydian, and so forth), but the results are the same. Ionian and hypolydian are the same
mode—both have the half steps between the third and fourth and the seventh and eighth steps
and sound just like the key of C major that you sang as do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.
Melodies
European chant melodies are constructed within the modes. Leaps of fifths (both ends of a major
chord—five steps apart, counting the first note as “one”-and the one at the other at the end of the
chord as “five”) are uncommon but not unheard of. Octaves (eight-note leaps, or from "do" to "do")
are not usually present in step form or in leaps (because the original modes had only five notes,
presumably). Most of the time, chant melodies move up or down one step at a time, or by a third
(skipping a note step-wise). Sometimes there are leaps of a fourth (four steps, counting the first
note as “one”), but these typically accent the text and are not typically there for melodic reasons.
For the most part, there isn’t much symbolism or word painting in European chant. If the word
being sung means "angry," the notes don't necessarily make you think the word "angy" if you heard
them without the word. Occasionally, you’ll find the shape of the cross (C-G-B-A—if you drew
those notes on the staff, you’d see the shape, vaguely), and sometimes there are other shapes
(like a spear when you’re singing the word for “shield”). But mostly, the chants are based on the
various aspects of the mode.
By the tenth century, Gregorian chants were being documented and they started ascribing certain
moods to the modes (solemnity, dignity, sadness, quiet joy etc.). By the 17
th
century, the modes
had become modern scales form most compositions and the moods were ascribed to them as well.
(Documentation of Gregorian chant is spotty. Pope Gregorius and his henchmen in the ninth
century, and who gets credit for all these anonymously composed chants, began collecting them.
Until nearly the end of the 19
th
century when a Liber Usualis was compiled, there wasn’t a good
single source for the chants. Of course, over time, the skills of the various scribes were quite
varied, and there is no way to know if the documentation that survived is accurate.)
Many of the melodies are familiar to non-chanters, as later era composers used the chants as the
basis for their works. Ave Maris Stella and Ubi Caritas are particularly popular examples, with
compositions based on the chants right up to present times.
Lyrics
Gregorian chant uses lyrics from the bible, both Old and New Testament. The Psalms are
particularly popular choices. Other forms of European chant use combinations of biblical text and
colloquial versions of the same stories. Hildegard wrote her own experiences and stories to
illustrate Christian principles. She used particularly elegant descriptions of nature as metaphors to
make her point, and that is the primary reason I find her work so mesmerizing. (The church was
slow to approve this departure from tradition, and she spent many years of her life trying to gain
approval for this more personal form of worship.)
Not all the stories chosen for chant lyrics have much happening in them. Sometimes, the excerpt is
only significant if you know the surrounding stories as well. The chant was meant to be used
throughout the liturgical day as part of mass celebrations, so the chants often illustrate something
relevant to a particular feast day or saint’s life.
Gregorian chant is in Latin; Hildegard’s chant is in German Latin, which means that she tossed in
the occasional German word if she needed something that wasn’t in her Latin repertoire, and that
the Latin is sung as if the words were German (a slight change in pronunciation from Roman
Latin).
Sheet Music
Gregorian chant and its predecessors was meant to be learned by rote. If there was a leader, he (it
was typically a monk or priest, but occasionally an abbess led a group of nuns) would move his
hands in such a way that the higher and lower notes were revealed, as were the accents, the
lengthened notes, and so forth. The rhythm (if you can call it that—perhaps “forward motion” is a
better term) of the song was entirely determined by the words of the song, and extra meaning or
implications were provided by melisma (passages of wandering melody on a single syllable). Some
chant passages change notes with every syllable and others use the vowel sounds to carry a
melismatic passage.
Originally, European chants were documented in neumes. These little hen-scratchings reveal that
there is a change in note and where emphasis should be placed (or “weight)”, but not necessarily
the interval between the notes or how much emphasis to provide. The leader interpreted the
neumes and directed the group by waving his hand in a way that reflected the gesture of the
neumes. It is most likely that the neumes evo!ved specifically to provide suitable hand-gestures.
Because these neumes are so non-specific regarding the intervals between notes and the duration
of notes, even when later scribes began placing the pneumes on lined parchment, there is no way
to know if we can replicate the music as it would have been heard a thousand and more years ago.
Around the 12
th
century A.D., block notes developed on a four-line staff. Although the “do” note is
movable, it was finally possible to know whether the approximate note intervals were reproduced.
Masses and Feast days were also documented in block notes, so we can be pretty sure that we
are doing the same thing as the documenter. (The “round” notes that you see on today’s five-line
staff were developed around the 14
th
century, and were based on the block notes. It wasn’t until
the 16
th
and 17
th
centuries that the complete modern form evolved to its current state.)
Rhythm
There isn’t any regular pulse in European chant, such as you might find in later music. Any tempo
or sense of rhythm is entirely interpreted by the performer or the leader of a group, based on
personal taste and the text. The block notes (squares and diamonds on a four-line staff) provide
only the most meager information about how long a note is or whether there should be emphasis
placed on a note by lengthening or intensity. Neumes provide more information about emphasis,
duration, and weight, but do not provide any specific limits.
Badly performed European chant puts equal weight and equal duration on all the notes in a chant.
It clumps along, and is not very accessible to the listener. If you’re really unlucky, the performer will
slide and slither from note to note, and you really won’t have a sense of the chant at all.
Well-performed European chant is mesmerizing. You can feel how much closer to the earth and its
elements the singers were than are modern folk, because the words themselves influence the
duration of the notes. You feel pulled forward into the music, eager to see where it goes. Formulas
that became so omnipresent in later music (by Bach’s time, formulas were all the rage) are
completely absent, and the lack of rhythm and modal nature of the melodies keeps you guessing
about where the chant will go musically.
The Drone
Not all European chant was meant to be sung against a drone. A drone is a single note, usually the
“base” note of the scale (the "do") or the fifth step up from the base note, held for the duration of
the piece or until the mode changes.
Although you could sing Gregorian chant against a drone, it wasn’t really done that way.
Hildegard’s chants (she lived from 1098-1179, by the way) are often sung against a drone. A lot of
Celtic music (chants included) are performed against a drone.
Something amazing happens when you provide a drone. A drone builds a kind of foundation upon
which the other notes depend. Sometimes the drone provides a rudimentary harmony, at other
times a dissonance. But there is a kind of homing sensation about it. You feel the tension created
by the changing notes and look forward to the resolution when the melody note matches the drone
again. The same thing continues to hold true in modern music; you wait for the root chord (the
base note's chord) of the scale of the piece to know that the piece is finished.
As a singer, performing against a drone provides a real sense of time and space that I have never
experienced with any other kind of music. I become more aware of the personal space that I
occupy--my own size and shape--and the size and shape of the space or room in which I stand. I
am more aware of my breathing, and of how much breath I spend when I sing, of the sounds
coming from the room itself, of any sounds outside the room. I slow down, and really get the point
of the chant, really feel it in my body, hear from the space when the notes should change to make
the meaning clear. I become part of the chant, and the chant becomes part of me.
I had a conductor (David Babbitt of the San Francisco Bach Choir) who said that chant is like a
garden hose. Since humans began to vocalize, someone somewhere has chanted. If you take a
moment and breathe quietly in the space where you are, you can feel when it’s your turn to come
in. Chant is passed along through time and space from person to person, like water through a
garden hose. For me, the drone helps my hectic modern mind connect to the hose of history and
the future and take my turn.
My Motivation
I’m not a Catholic—I’m not even a Christian—so it might seem a little odd that I have this strong
interest. Well, there are many things that contribute to my fascination.
As you can tell from the preceding paragraphs, I find the musicology and the history of chant
interesting. I also find that the Christian church, in all its forms, has inspired the vast majority of the
music I like. That’s the majority of why I chant: I simply like the music.
But I also feel strongly that it’s important not to forget the past, both for history and for music. I
don’t really believe that modern sensibilities can fully understand what it means to connect to a
more spiritual side of themselves without some connection to the beginnings, when times were
simpler, when having dinner meant going out and catching it or digging it up, and where reading
and making music was a luxury or reserved for clergy.
Many of the people who are currently involved in “early music” (European music before 1750) are
deeply committed to researching and exploring, to ascertain how this music might actually have
sounded. (There’s no way to truly know.) Many of them, like me, are moved by the interesting
sounds and shapes and rhythms that came out before musicians figured out how to assemble a
chord, or that a regular rhythm might be a useful tool to keeping the performers together and
providing another element that passive listeners could grab onto and use to climb into the music.
Many practitioners of chant and early music are scholarly and dedicated. I love being around
people who are fulfilled by their avocation, don’t you?
And I suppose, some of my continuing pleasure harkens back to those early days when I first
discovered chant. It’s not quite as eccentric to chant now as it was in my youth, but almost. I’m a a
kind of musical rebel.