Though it’s not really his fault, the dad in this song isn’t exactly the model of good fatherhood: A boy and his father ride through the woods. The boy says that the “Erl-king” (evil-elf-king) is beckoning to him. The father tells his son that it’s just the wind, the mist, the trees. When the two reach home, the father looks down and finds that his son is dead.

While this is not a story of a particularly good father, I do think it’s a good “dad story” – the kind of story that a father tells his kids, giving them a chill, maybe a little scare, and ending with hugs and giggles. And Franz Schubert does a marvelous job at storytelling, dad-style. The piano’s driving octaves sets the scene of a horse racing through the woods. The music is written for only one singer, who has to portray three different characters: the father sings in a reassuring lower range; the son in an intense middle range; the Erl-king in a pianissimo, almost-falsetto high range (which makes him really creepy – a rational, twisted baddie, not just a wild monster).

Though Schubert did not have any children of his own, I’d like to imagine him at a friend’s house, scaring the living daylights out of the kids with music like this. Hmmm … I know what I’ll be doing for my children this Father’s Day!

There are certain melodic ideas that come up over and over again throughout the history of music.  My choir members know I am famous for finding the first four notes of “How Dry I Am” in practically every piece ever written. There’s a reason for this – the shape of this phrase is beauty itself. A leap of a fourth, going from a weak beat to a stronger beat, gives the impression of suddenly turning one’s head to pay attention. Then, a simple three-note rising scale continues to lift the head – making us feel taller, alert, and engaged with the world. A bit of a stretch? Perhaps. But I believe there is something deep here that evokes a universal (or at least nearly universal) response in every human.

Another universally loved musical gesture is the melodic shape found in “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Here, the melody rises a fifth (creating tension), then gentle falls back down to the starting note by gradually descending. The effect? We start from a place of bored contentment. Then, we ascend to a high note – there is tension and excitement in our lives! What will happen? Well, one note at a time, we relax until we have returned to our starting place. However – we are no longer bored, because we have just had a thrilling journey! A bit of a stretch? Perhaps. But maybe this overly-simple example can give us an idea of what makes great pieces of music, well, great.

Here is a movement from “My Homeland” by Bedřich Smetana, a gorgeous musical painting of a Czech river, Vltava. You can hear the little rushing brooks, eventually flowing into a wide expanse of water. The melody, though, is the same as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, only beginning in a minor key, and triumphantly ending in major.

A couple of years ago a I composed an opera based on H. P. Lovecraft‘s short story “The Beast in the Cave.” There’s an aria in it where the main character falls into despair and basically gives up on life. I was particularly proud of the sweeping, romantic melody I came up with for this aria. That is, until I later realized that I didn’t write the melody at all; it was identical to a melody from a trombone piece I played as a teenager.

The notes were floating around in my head, and I hadn’t heard or thought about that melody for twenty years when I was composing the opera. I suppose it was lying dormant in my brain until I needed it. Maybe the opera character’s despair somehow channeled my teenage angst. I don’t know. But I’m not going to change it now. Thankfully, the piece, Morceau Symphonique by Alexandre Guilmant, is in the public domain, so I need not fear any copyright lawyers.

And it is a smashing good melody. I’m so glad I thought of it.