December 1st, 2007
Vibrato, so noticeably absent in the compositions of the Renaissance & Baroque, in throbbing abundance centuries later.
Vibrato, the wobble, the waver, the uncertain spasm, the sine wave.
Vibrato was always there, waiting like a snake in the boughs; early composers just denied it and stretched the spasm to a straight line.
Sine wave, sin wave. The heady decadence of the throb and pulse.
Vibrato. As true as it can be, as beautiful as it can be in its honest correspondence to inner states of tumult and passion, it can also be just as false, full of handwringing and desperate jerking.
I cannot sing without vibrato. When I do I get restless, even in the space of a bar. I long to, maybe for the same reasons the early composers wrote without vibrato. Not to lie but to quiet the anxious waver within; as defense against that succulent spasm.