That narrowed it down to two suspects. Hutchins put both theories on trial. He explored perception first. Hutchins tested non-musicians and musicians with at least seven years of experience, requiring them to reproduce synthesized vocal tones that he made with a computer. First, they matched the note using a slider, a simple device in which a sliding button changes the pitch of a sound, like sliding a finger up and down a guitar string.
Both groups eventually were able to make the match, suggesting perception was not the problem. What accounted for the difference? Even when he played the same note more than 20 times, the non-musicians who got it wrong the first time could not reproduce the pitch. Tellingly, they often sang the same erroneous note over and over, as if they were locked in. He even allowed them to use a computer for help, with a program that depicted the pitch of their voice as a bar on a screen.
But those same brains give our vocal cords faulty instructions. The term for this error is imitative deficit. The brains of bad singers associate a note we hear with the wrong muscle movement in the voice. The wires are crossed. In my case, when I hear an E and call upon my brain to reproduce it, my brain commands my voice to produce a G sharp. My ear knows better, which is why I cringe when I hear myself, but I cannot easily reprogram my brain.
Researchers studying brain trauma and damage have found that remapping the brain is possible, but for adults it can be a very laborious task, requiring practice every day for years.
When I ask Hutchins if there is hope for us poor singers, he laughs. Practice, practice, practice. A good vocal teacher and patience will help. But there the equivalency ended. The singer was a hot-tempered boozer, a brawler who wore his nerves on his sleeve. The arranger was quiet and introspective, with a sardonic wit born of a grim childhood.
But Sinatra was known for a short attention span when not actually recording and after giving a few detailed instructions he would drift into vagueness, finally telling Riddle to do what he felt was best. Riddle listed a third key ingredient. Sinatra was an activist in the studio.
Though he did not read music, he was a superlative musician who knew what he wanted to capture on disk and was quick to spot and question flaws. He might skip an arrangement and move on to the next number, but never in anger. He expects your best—just that. Sinatra did hand out a few compliments in a talk with Douglas-Home. Nothing ever ruffles him. Recorded over six days in January in Capitol Studio A at Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles, the album was done live—singer and musicians in the same studio.
After running through the number the first time the musicians gave him a spontaneous ovation. The brass section microphone was suspended overhead.
On take 10, Bernhart said, the engineers asked for more volume. Sinatra fetched a box for Bernhart to stand on, putting the bell of his horn nearer the mic. Sinatra had many other musical peaks, often with Riddle.
There were valleys, too, but never again did Sinatra stand at the brink of failure the way he had before signing with Capitol. Eventually his arrangement with Capitol chafed. He left the label in for Reprise Records, which he founded to escape corporate control. Once his own Capitol contract ended, Riddle arranged five albums for Sinatra at Reprise.
Sinatra could not read music, but Riddle helped him learn to be a conductor. The partnership foundered in , when Sinatra abruptly canceled an appearance at a tribute for Riddle, a slight the arranger could not forgive.
The two never recorded together again, although Sinatra hired Riddle as musical director for a Ronald Reagan inaugural concert in January Nelson Riddle died that October 6, not long after charting with albums of standards he arranged and conducted for pop singer Linda Ronstadt that capitalized on his Sinatra sound. When Sinatra died in , he was celebrated as a giant of American popular music, a status grounded by the musical foundation Nelson Riddle provided.
The beginning of the Frank Sinatra we all knew and loved—I think Nelson had a massive impact on that. It's a deceptively simple song built around a quirky ukulele riff, but the chorus sticks like Velcro. Like, 'Yes! Her painstaking perfectionism reaches a pinnacle in the vocals. Tove is understated and conversational, making you lean in to the song's coquettish flirtation, where most pop divas would have belted out the melody in one take and gone home for a sandwich. Like, how do I sing this line?
How much strength do I put into it? How can I make this melody as interesting as possible? How can I communicate this feeling even more. It's like, ' Arrroooggahh! If you force the brain into shutting off then, suddenly, something will just come out of your mouth that fits. Her mother was a ballet teacher; while her father was a musician, whose band Max Fenders scored a number one hit in with the song Vindens Melodi Wind Melody , and who set Tove on the path to musical stardom when he gave her her first synthesiser.
At the age of 16, she entered the TV talent show Swedish Idol, finishing in third place. It delivered her a solid fanbase, but she's not particularly enamoured of the experience. And afterwards, that's when you start making music. Post-Idol, Tove released a rushed, self-titled album which went platinum in Sweden.
But she was unhappy with the way she was being presented, and took a three-year break, moving back home to immerse herself in music and work out who she wanted to be.
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