If you think about it, writing (musical or text) is just the older way to record sound. To preserve an image through eternity, you paint a picture. To preserve a sound for eternity, you have to use a code which tells you how to recreate the sound in the present – whether that code is phonetics, hieroglyphs, or notes on a staff. If a human isn’t recreating the sound (out loud or in the mind), the writing is just visual patterns.

As history progressed, music notation became more and more complex, giving composers complete control over the music they wanted to preserve or create. More and more musical terms and symbols made their way into scores from the 18th to the 19th centuries. By the 20th century, scores were expected to be precise down to the most miniscule subtlety. If it wasn’t written down, the performer didn’t do it. There also opened up fields of musical scholarship that studied the older scores and tried to detoxify them of modern performance practices. For example – if Bach wrote a little squiggly line above a note (called an ornament), what exactly did that mean? play an extra note below the printed pitch? two? or above? above and below? fast or slow? etc. etc. etc.

This is similar to a lead sheet – sheet music regularly used by jazz, pop, and rock musicians. It displays the melody of the piece with chords labeled above the melody. It allows the performers a good deal of freedom – they can choose which instruments to use, what sort of beat to play, and how the accompaniment will work. Take “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, which is famous in two versions – the original and the ukulele. So, if you have a lead sheet to “Bad Romance“, you could perform it as a polka if you really wanted to (why has nobody done that yet?)

Occasionally I will dream about a new piece of music – when I awake, I desperately try to cling to the notes flying in my head and, in my tired, confused state, write them down before they evaporate forever. Musical dreams are fascinating, and I’m certainly not the only person who has them. Take, for example, composer and violinist Giuseppe Tartini …

Tartini had one of these musical dreams which he describes thus:

In 1713, I dreamed that I sold my soul to the devil. Everything went perfectly – the devil fulfilled any desire I named. I handed him my violin to see if he could play; he began to play a marvelous sonata which had me completely enraptured. Never could I have imagined such beautiful music. I was so moved that I woke up in a cold sweat, and running to my violin, I tried in vain to remember the music I had heard. What I did write down, however, is the best music I have ever written; even so, I would destroy my violin and forsake music forever for a chance to hear the devil’s music once again.

Now, this description was not written by Tartini, but related in a book by his friend, so it is very possible that it is completely made up! Even so, it makes a great story.

Making a deal with the devil is a common theme in literature was well as in music. The sonata Tartini ended up writing down (whether or not he actually composed it) is called the “Devil’s Trill Sonata” – perhaps because the devil was the composer, but more likely because of the devilishly difficult double-stops (playing two violin strings at once) and trills in the work. It’s a classic example of a baroque sonata for solo instrument and basso continuo (fancy word for bass accompaniment, which was provided by cello, bass, harpsichord, organ, theorbo, guitar, or a combination of those instruments.)

Misleading title – the jury is still out on who wrote Dracula‘s favorite Halloween piece, the Toccata and Fugue in d minor by Johann Sebastian Bach. An amazing amount of research has been done trying to solve the great mystery of its composer.

To sum up the debate:

• The work’s style is … strange. The toccata is very free-form, similar to the earliest immature works of the young master, and nothing at all like his mature works. The fugue is in four voices, but most of the time, only three sound (uncharacteristic of Bach.) It plays more like a violin piece than an organ work.
• The earliest copy of this piece was written around 1740, by an unimportant organist named Ringk. (Most music at this time was copied by hand, so it’s not so strange that a work by Bach would have been hand-copied by another musician.) People have deeply studied Ringk’s handwriting in order to pin down the approximate date of this single copy.
• It would be possible that Bach wrote the piece as a young man, and Ringk copied it when Bach was old, but then the question is, why did he choose this piece to copy? Why not something else, something better?
• Could Bach have copied this piece into his own library, only to have Ringk later copy it from him, falsely attributing the work to the great master?

Whatever the history, and whoever wrote it, this work has become Halloween staple. A gothic organ sound playing its twisted, dark harmony can chill your soul; the opening motif catches your attention immediately. No wonder hearing this piece brings up images of Dracula, or maybe the Phantom of the Opera. Its appeal has helped it overcome its compositional flaws; it has been arranged for all sorts of solo instruments (most famously for piano, but also violin and guitar) and ensembles (most famously for orchestra, but also saxophone choir (because, why not)).