2013 is coming to a close.
It has been quite the year. Back in March, I had a post go viral. For a blog that's been around for 5 years at that point and garnered no more than a few hits, it was astounding. That post got me linked and quoted on several sites, including an NPR station and several bloggers. I was also able to email some people in the San Francisco Orchestra, and learned more about what was happening.
From there, my readership has stayed somewhat steady, small, but steady. The year was spent more in cultural commentary and reactions, from what happened to opera to a long series of posts about "entrepreneurship" and the arts.
I jumped headlong into those conversations, had a length discussion with Jeffrey Nytch and others over at Greg Sandow's blog. It was a good conversation, and Nytch and I further sent off a few emails to each other, started mainly because his audio players weren't working well on his site, and I wanted to listen to his music!
April was a crazy month that saw my first 10 minute play, The Story: Alec and Grugh, get performances during InTENsity 2.0, produced by Frank Higgins and Tony Bernal at the Fishtank in Kansas City. It played to packed audiences (though a couple seats short of a sold-out run. SO CLOSE!) and I got to work with some of the best actors in Kansas City.
At the same time, Black House and KCEMA was ramping up rehearsals for Rites of Being. Rites was an evening of brand new short operas, all having some sort of electronic component. It was an incredibly varied night of entertainment, from the more abstract stories to fun satires, and music going from post-minimalist to improvisational to more modernist. My opera, Till Death Do Us Part, was given a great premiere by Stacey Stofferahn and Nathan Granner. Special thanks to Eli Hougland, Simon Fink, and Stamos Martin for their string work, and Brad Van Wick for hitting play on samples.
That production also saw me return to the podium as a conductor. It's something that I seem to do once every couple years, tackling projects that just happen to fall in my lap. Conducting is a fantastic challenge, and something I'd like to do more often. Some may not know, but I was originally going the route of a conductor, many moons ago, before deciding on composition. First a high school director, then wanting to go professional. The first visit for my masters was to University of Washington, to go in conducting.
The Spring stayed busy--I had scores to prepare and send for June in Buffalo and a presentation to prepare for Electroacoustic Music Studies Conference 2013 in Lisbon, Portugal. But it was the email I received at the end of April that changed my 2013 more than anything else.
I was sitting in my medieval music history course when my phone went off. I was beyond annoyed; usually I'm a good student and have my phone off or on silent during class, but my brain was foggy from too many late nights. I pulled it out to silence it and say the sender was "Fulbright." So much for classroom etiquette. I opened the email.
I got as far as "we are happy to inform you..."
Then I threw my phone. Yes, I threw my phone, in class. Everyone stopped and stared at me, so I did the only thing I could do--I quickly added to the conversation happening in the class. I have no memory of what was said, or even the topic for the day. I do remember my friend Joey coming up to me afterwards and giving me a look of "what the fuck was that?" So I told him.
Then went outside and started screaming and laughing. I fell over in the damp morning grass laughing louder than I had ever laughed in my life. And I called everyone.
April was a crazy month.
Rites of Being went splendidly. In June, I traveled to Buffalo for JiB and had a fantastic time. And I wrote a series of posts describing the experience and the various insights from the festival. I returned for a short while, the I flew off to Lisbon, Portugal for EMS 2013. I love EMS, made some new friends, and loved Lisbon.
July passed quietly. August saw me move back to Indiana for a few weeks, staying with my brothers. Most of my possessions were stowed in the empty basement of some dear friends in Kansas City (shout out to Justin and Jamie!), while various music books, my electric piano, and my recording equipment were loaded into my Jeep to go to Indiana.
It marked the last major trip for my 1995 Jeep Cherokee.
August was a wash--I was broke, living with my brothers, and just biding my time till I left for Stockholm. I did get one last trip in--my bff took me to a Cincinnati Reds game. Nothing like the American past-time right before I left the country for 10 months.
The day before I left, I was still broke. I had borrowed money from my brother to pay for my apartment. For food money...
I sold my Jeep. I had owned it since 2002, a graduation gift, partially paid for by me, and partially paid for by my parents. I put my old car down, plus another $1200 from my pocket...so about $3K down. My parents covered the rest on the car payments. It had driven all over the US, to Denver, Kansas City, Lawrence, Milwaukee, Chicago, Traverse City, Cincinnati, Columbus (OH), Dayton, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Princeton, NYC, Boston, Syracuse, Rochester (NY), Wilmington, Baltimore, Morgantown, Paducah, and many more. I put roughly 175,000 miles on it myself. I never did get to all 48 contiguous states, nor to Canada like I had hoped. Still...to have a car for 11 years. It was sad to sell it for $350. I was happy for the money. I could eat. And it wasn't worth much more than that, honestly...
The first month in Stockholm I was sick and adjusting. I also wrote a great many posts about outreach, symphonies (and why I don't write them), and lots of cultural critiques, most interestingly on why I don't care that a famous person dissed a young artist. And it goes on to explain why historical context is so important.
My time in Stockholm has been amazing. I've written one 10 minute piece, wrote a piece of software for algorithmic composition (a skeleton of what I plan to use in my opera, hopefully...), got a commission from the Ghettoblaster project, which is nearly finished. And wrote a bit about what noise means to me. I've been to a ton of concerts, both metal and classical. I've finally started befriending people in the metal scene, and hopefully will get more interviews as time goes on.
But I've already gotten one HUGE interview--Anders Bjorler! Such a big deal. Anders is a great guy, and I had tons of fun in Gothenberg. Hopefully this will spell more interviews in the spring!
In the meantime, I've done a lot of anecdotal research, looked at crowds, made comparisons, and did tons of research. I found tons of songs using folk material, from various settings of Bellman's Epistles of Fredman No. 81, to less distinct influences. I found references to folk tales here and there. And started looking more into the political usage of the music. This has really stepped up after talking to Anders and hearing about the different ways that the people he knows deals with music.
The opera is going swimmingly. I did NaNoWriMo, more or less, and wrote the entire libretto. And then revised it. And revised it. And then five more times. I've written a bunch of melodic material, and come January 3rd, the blitz is on...every day in a studio working as many hours as I can...no excuses.
So, 2013 has been a year to remember. Hopefully, it's just the beginning of even more grand adventures.
Showing posts with label JiB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label JiB. Show all posts
12/31/13
7/6/13
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly
This is probably my last rant about this years June in Buffalo. Feel free to peruse the rest. And I do mean peruse, not skim.
Also, what follows may be Good, Bad, or Ugly. I don't know yet. Let me know what you think! Sorry to those that have synesthesia, as this may just be annoying or confusing.
Whenever you go to a festival of any kind, it always happens: the awesome piece that blows you away; the bad pieces you shrug and try to forget; and the train wrecks that we wish we could un-hear/see but will stay with us forever.
I said last time that I had no plans on writing reviews. This is still entirely valid. Instead, this is about concepts, philosophy, craftsmanship, and trends.
There were 13 concerts during JiB. Over 7 days, that can drain a person. This is especially true when a large portion of the music is dense and challenging--awash with sounds, swirling timbres, and intense moments.
The Good: 13 concerts usually means a wide variety of music. It can keep you on your toes and provide a myriad of experiences in a short time.
The Bad: Coherence. Half the concerts, roughly, were of participant works or from the performance institute. These concerts caused lots of strain--sometimes things were so dissimilar it was hard to concentrate. Other times you end up with a concert that was nearly the same throughout. The concerts by visiting groups were much more well planned. This is just a side-effect from the judging process. (Remember, The Bad isn't The Ugly. Sometimes, The Bad just happens as a side-effect.)
The Ugly: 13 concerts is unlucky. That means that there will be quite a few pieces you severely dislike. The Law of Ugly states that there will be one piece per concert that you revile. That's a lot of Ugly.
*************************************************
That being said, what did I observe? Again, no specific critiques. Instead, let's look at some trends. Let's start with the concepts and philosophy of music, shall we?
The Good: JiB had a large number of people that had strong, coherent philosophies. The variety was high (the previous Good, and something I'm holding onto as we move forward), and the conversations led to lots of peer learning. The most interesting were those far different than my own.
The Bad: Sometimes, those philosophies, no matter how interesting when we were discussing them, just didn't work. The Good from this are the composers that stated "I was trying something, and, yeah, this was a danger. And it didn't go as I planned. Whoops..." The Bad was when they didn't see that it didn't really work the way they had hoped.
The Ugly: When The Bad goes too far, it becomes Ugly. A failed philosophy is always a learning experience. The Good comes from learning, The Bad comes from ignoring the learning, The Ugly comes when it fails, you ignore the learning, and you are derisive toward other people's philosophies. Pieces fail--some philosophies are much harder to implement than others. Some ideas work wonderfully musically while others, well...may not be suited to music at all. This is fairly subjective, but not always--craftsmanship is a different Ugly, however. But remember that first Ugly--with 13 concerts, and The Law of Ugly in effect, sometimes things can go horribly wrong.
The Good: When participants took the next step in a philosophical thought. They weren't rehashing John Cage, Helmut Lachenmann, Arvo Part, Tristan Murail, or Brian Ferneyhough. Instead, they were taking ideas and making a unique perspective, often times mashing up ideas. One of my favourites came from Andrew Greenwald, whose work reminds so much of the direction I had once been going many years ago. The philosophy was clear, the craftsmanship strong, and what came out was, whether you aesthetically like it or not, incredibly successful music. Yes, much of what he was doing owes itself to Lachenmann and those ilk, but it's "in the vein of" not a copy. And that is a Good distinction.
The Bad: The same old philosophies of the aforementioned group (and more, of course), and copying of their styles, philosophies, and music. Put your own spin on things! Go out there and do something that is you! As Augusta Read Thomas said "Always put yourself into the music--you are what you listen to, but don't lose who you are." (this is paraphrased from two separate masterclasses, and is my interpretation of her words)
The Ugly: Oh, it's not your idea, how this music should go? Oh, it's a bad copy of "So-and-So." Uh, ya know, "So-and-So," the guy that wrote these famous pieces? Don't know him? What about these guys? Dunno them either...What about this movement? Any of these pieces? Oh...hmm...well...uh, you should listen to those and examine what you wrote. The Ugly rears its head high when a composer is unaware of where his music fits in time, others that have done similar works in the past, and all the previous moments. When composers try to completely reinvent the wheel, it seems to turn into a square. And a square wheel is quite Ugly.
*************************************************
Onto something less subjective: craftsmanship.Certain styles require a huge amount of care in the creation All music requires a huge amount of care in its creation. All things, really. This blog-post is no different. Even as I try a different style of narrative, I'm constantly thinking about the craft--and am completely aware that I am a composer first, a trombonist second, an audio engineer third, a video game player fourth, a chef fifth, and somewhere down at place 72, a writer. And because of the narrative shift, every word will be carefully scrutinized, by myself and by my avid readership (HA! it's a joke).
The Good: Ferneyhough, Thomas, Wyner, Murail, Felder, Wuorinen; they are all master crafters. Many of the participants were able, and sometimes even quite good at their craft. JiB actually had some of the finest crafter participant works of any festival I've attend. Granted, I don't go to many acoustic festivals, but that shouldn't alter things (electroacoustic or acoustic doesn't matter--at least, it shouldn't).
The Bad: Certain things are difficult to be convincing. If you are writing in a triadically based Romantic style, you've got a lot of history going against you. The tradition dictates certain forms of construction, structuring devices, and forms. When you try something different, it's obvious what is different because the "learned" audience knows from whence it was derived. The Bad comes when it fails--a collective groan goes up as things go south. But, often times, there are redeeming qualities, and it turns itself into something the listeners can still make it through without anger.
The Ugly: You've got an idea for a piece--whatever it is, you better do it all the way. Oh, crap, it's being somewhat half-assed. Uh-oh, it's entirely derivative and being half-assed. Well, maybe it'll go by quickly. THE PIECE IS TWENTY MINUTES?!? You've gotta be friggin' kidding me! No? The Ugly comes from these moments. Each moment isn't carefully considered and crafted. Maybe you're doing a specific construction, a fugue for instance, and you start to play with the idea of the fugue. That has to be incredibly carefully considered, each moment crafted as lovingly as possible. Or perhaps you're working from a framework of silence being of importance. Remember that when sound occurs surrounded by silence, the audience attends to that sound even more strongly. Make the sound worth it. If you don't, well...an audience following The Ugly isn't as forgiving as The Bad.
The Good: The piece got in, made it's statement, and got out. Each moment was crafted, each idea and theme afforded the time it needed. This is a wonderful show of craftsmanship. At JiB, happily, it wasn't just the guest composers that pulled this feat off.
The Bad: A piece slightly overstayed its welcome, was long-winded, or cut off without really saying what it needed to say. This happens to us all as we compose. Ferneyhough called me on it quite effectively. No man can avoid The Bad forever. The audience smiles a wane smile, the composer winces a bit as s/he realizes it didn't quite go as planned. Always be cognizant of time--Ferneyhough is good at it, Mozart and Bach are masters. Bruckner shows what long-winded speeches can say. And Feldman shows the kind of material that can be spoken like Old Entish--important things can take a long time to say. This relates to a theme in playwriting: the longest scene is often the most important. It's important to remember what Ferneyhough told me because he is quite correct.
The Ugly: Did I mention 20 minute pieces? What about 45 minute? Ok, that only happened once and it did technically demand at least that much time. As stated above, often times The Ugly comes when The Bad has gone way too far, like those refried beans you had meant to throw away a couple weeks ago, and now the entire container is thrown away (or cultivated for a new kind of mold that seems to be all colours all at once). When you have an idea, say exploring a certain set of pitch relationships, you better know exactly how many relationships there are, how many permutations of those relationships there are, and the ways to best show them to the audience...because if you've only got about 20 permutations with only a few really effective ways of navigating them, and your piece goes for 20 minutes, well...You better be Morton Feldman and know how to craft all those moments.
******************************************
I think I've been vague enough not to ruffle too many feathers, but specific enough to make my points. It seems like The Good gets short-changed, but, for me at least, The Good always seems to be able to be recalled with only the slightest bit of description. Remembering that transcendantal moment, that sublime instant when all music made sense is something I revel. I hold those moments in brain as the fondest of memories. These are technically The Best, but they're only derived in relation to The Good. The Bad are common occurrences, things encountered at every concert. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right words, but we've all encountered them. The Ugly don't happen too often, but The Law of Ugly is pretty strict in its "One Per Concert" rule. But we block it out, so it's important to hold The Ugly up to a mirror.
All three (or four, if you're lucky and get The Best as well) are equally important experiences. As a composer (or any artist), you will run into all these at various times in your own endeavors. We all try exceedingly hard for The Good; The Bad pops up often; we avoid The Ugly as best we can, but sometimes through stubbornness, bad luck, ignorance, or any number of other factors, The Ugly rears its deformed head; The Best is what we all dream for any performance--it's important to take it in context after The Euphoria fades from the performance and really work retrospectively critical.
All in all, JiB was definitely a member of The Good. The Good outweighed The Bad and The Ugly. While following a standard statistical deviation in concerts, masterclasses and lectures where all members of The Good.
I've done as JiB told me. Now onto his ornery aunt, Ems. Actually, they're not related, just happened within a week of each other this year.
Also, what follows may be Good, Bad, or Ugly. I don't know yet. Let me know what you think! Sorry to those that have synesthesia, as this may just be annoying or confusing.
Whenever you go to a festival of any kind, it always happens: the awesome piece that blows you away; the bad pieces you shrug and try to forget; and the train wrecks that we wish we could un-hear/see but will stay with us forever.
I said last time that I had no plans on writing reviews. This is still entirely valid. Instead, this is about concepts, philosophy, craftsmanship, and trends.
There were 13 concerts during JiB. Over 7 days, that can drain a person. This is especially true when a large portion of the music is dense and challenging--awash with sounds, swirling timbres, and intense moments.
The Good: 13 concerts usually means a wide variety of music. It can keep you on your toes and provide a myriad of experiences in a short time.
The Bad: Coherence. Half the concerts, roughly, were of participant works or from the performance institute. These concerts caused lots of strain--sometimes things were so dissimilar it was hard to concentrate. Other times you end up with a concert that was nearly the same throughout. The concerts by visiting groups were much more well planned. This is just a side-effect from the judging process. (Remember, The Bad isn't The Ugly. Sometimes, The Bad just happens as a side-effect.)
The Ugly: 13 concerts is unlucky. That means that there will be quite a few pieces you severely dislike. The Law of Ugly states that there will be one piece per concert that you revile. That's a lot of Ugly.
*************************************************
That being said, what did I observe? Again, no specific critiques. Instead, let's look at some trends. Let's start with the concepts and philosophy of music, shall we?
The Good: JiB had a large number of people that had strong, coherent philosophies. The variety was high (the previous Good, and something I'm holding onto as we move forward), and the conversations led to lots of peer learning. The most interesting were those far different than my own.
The Bad: Sometimes, those philosophies, no matter how interesting when we were discussing them, just didn't work. The Good from this are the composers that stated "I was trying something, and, yeah, this was a danger. And it didn't go as I planned. Whoops..." The Bad was when they didn't see that it didn't really work the way they had hoped.
The Ugly: When The Bad goes too far, it becomes Ugly. A failed philosophy is always a learning experience. The Good comes from learning, The Bad comes from ignoring the learning, The Ugly comes when it fails, you ignore the learning, and you are derisive toward other people's philosophies. Pieces fail--some philosophies are much harder to implement than others. Some ideas work wonderfully musically while others, well...may not be suited to music at all. This is fairly subjective, but not always--craftsmanship is a different Ugly, however. But remember that first Ugly--with 13 concerts, and The Law of Ugly in effect, sometimes things can go horribly wrong.
The Good: When participants took the next step in a philosophical thought. They weren't rehashing John Cage, Helmut Lachenmann, Arvo Part, Tristan Murail, or Brian Ferneyhough. Instead, they were taking ideas and making a unique perspective, often times mashing up ideas. One of my favourites came from Andrew Greenwald, whose work reminds so much of the direction I had once been going many years ago. The philosophy was clear, the craftsmanship strong, and what came out was, whether you aesthetically like it or not, incredibly successful music. Yes, much of what he was doing owes itself to Lachenmann and those ilk, but it's "in the vein of" not a copy. And that is a Good distinction.
The Bad: The same old philosophies of the aforementioned group (and more, of course), and copying of their styles, philosophies, and music. Put your own spin on things! Go out there and do something that is you! As Augusta Read Thomas said "Always put yourself into the music--you are what you listen to, but don't lose who you are." (this is paraphrased from two separate masterclasses, and is my interpretation of her words)
The Ugly: Oh, it's not your idea, how this music should go? Oh, it's a bad copy of "So-and-So." Uh, ya know, "So-and-So," the guy that wrote these famous pieces? Don't know him? What about these guys? Dunno them either...What about this movement? Any of these pieces? Oh...hmm...well...uh, you should listen to those and examine what you wrote. The Ugly rears its head high when a composer is unaware of where his music fits in time, others that have done similar works in the past, and all the previous moments. When composers try to completely reinvent the wheel, it seems to turn into a square. And a square wheel is quite Ugly.
*************************************************
Onto something less subjective: craftsmanship.
The Good: Ferneyhough, Thomas, Wyner, Murail, Felder, Wuorinen; they are all master crafters. Many of the participants were able, and sometimes even quite good at their craft. JiB actually had some of the finest crafter participant works of any festival I've attend. Granted, I don't go to many acoustic festivals, but that shouldn't alter things (electroacoustic or acoustic doesn't matter--at least, it shouldn't).
The Bad: Certain things are difficult to be convincing. If you are writing in a triadically based Romantic style, you've got a lot of history going against you. The tradition dictates certain forms of construction, structuring devices, and forms. When you try something different, it's obvious what is different because the "learned" audience knows from whence it was derived. The Bad comes when it fails--a collective groan goes up as things go south. But, often times, there are redeeming qualities, and it turns itself into something the listeners can still make it through without anger.
The Ugly: You've got an idea for a piece--whatever it is, you better do it all the way. Oh, crap, it's being somewhat half-assed. Uh-oh, it's entirely derivative and being half-assed. Well, maybe it'll go by quickly. THE PIECE IS TWENTY MINUTES?!? You've gotta be friggin' kidding me! No? The Ugly comes from these moments. Each moment isn't carefully considered and crafted. Maybe you're doing a specific construction, a fugue for instance, and you start to play with the idea of the fugue. That has to be incredibly carefully considered, each moment crafted as lovingly as possible. Or perhaps you're working from a framework of silence being of importance. Remember that when sound occurs surrounded by silence, the audience attends to that sound even more strongly. Make the sound worth it. If you don't, well...an audience following The Ugly isn't as forgiving as The Bad.
The Good: The piece got in, made it's statement, and got out. Each moment was crafted, each idea and theme afforded the time it needed. This is a wonderful show of craftsmanship. At JiB, happily, it wasn't just the guest composers that pulled this feat off.
The Bad: A piece slightly overstayed its welcome, was long-winded, or cut off without really saying what it needed to say. This happens to us all as we compose. Ferneyhough called me on it quite effectively. No man can avoid The Bad forever. The audience smiles a wane smile, the composer winces a bit as s/he realizes it didn't quite go as planned. Always be cognizant of time--Ferneyhough is good at it, Mozart and Bach are masters. Bruckner shows what long-winded speeches can say. And Feldman shows the kind of material that can be spoken like Old Entish--important things can take a long time to say. This relates to a theme in playwriting: the longest scene is often the most important. It's important to remember what Ferneyhough told me because he is quite correct.
The Ugly: Did I mention 20 minute pieces? What about 45 minute? Ok, that only happened once and it did technically demand at least that much time. As stated above, often times The Ugly comes when The Bad has gone way too far, like those refried beans you had meant to throw away a couple weeks ago, and now the entire container is thrown away (or cultivated for a new kind of mold that seems to be all colours all at once). When you have an idea, say exploring a certain set of pitch relationships, you better know exactly how many relationships there are, how many permutations of those relationships there are, and the ways to best show them to the audience...because if you've only got about 20 permutations with only a few really effective ways of navigating them, and your piece goes for 20 minutes, well...You better be Morton Feldman and know how to craft all those moments.
******************************************
I think I've been vague enough not to ruffle too many feathers, but specific enough to make my points. It seems like The Good gets short-changed, but, for me at least, The Good always seems to be able to be recalled with only the slightest bit of description. Remembering that transcendantal moment, that sublime instant when all music made sense is something I revel. I hold those moments in brain as the fondest of memories. These are technically The Best, but they're only derived in relation to The Good. The Bad are common occurrences, things encountered at every concert. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right words, but we've all encountered them. The Ugly don't happen too often, but The Law of Ugly is pretty strict in its "One Per Concert" rule. But we block it out, so it's important to hold The Ugly up to a mirror.
All three (or four, if you're lucky and get The Best as well) are equally important experiences. As a composer (or any artist), you will run into all these at various times in your own endeavors. We all try exceedingly hard for The Good; The Bad pops up often; we avoid The Ugly as best we can, but sometimes through stubbornness, bad luck, ignorance, or any number of other factors, The Ugly rears its deformed head; The Best is what we all dream for any performance--it's important to take it in context after The Euphoria fades from the performance and really work retrospectively critical.
All in all, JiB was definitely a member of The Good. The Good outweighed The Bad and The Ugly. While following a standard statistical deviation in concerts, masterclasses and lectures where all members of The Good.
I've done as JiB told me. Now onto his ornery aunt, Ems. Actually, they're not related, just happened within a week of each other this year.
7/4/13
The Performances! Oh, the Performances!!!
This is a continuation of the series related to June in Buffalo. The original post has been updated with links to the topics listed by bullet points
June in Buffalo is many things--lectures, masterclasses, rehearsals, and performances of attendees and by resident ensembles generally featuring the works of the guest composers. There were two performances every day during JiB, except Sunday that just had a performance by the Buffalo Phil.
One of my first ideas going into JiB was to write concert reviews. That's been a running theme for me, eh? Not writing the reviews, but the IDEA of writing the reviews. But, after attending a few concerts, I thought better of it. My acerbic wit and biting criticism don't mesh well with the current climate of music criticism. Instead, I'll focus on broad themes rather than specifics.
First off, the rehearsal experience with Ensemble Signal. Awesome. Rehearsals during JiB are often open. However, Brad Lubman, esteemed conductor for Signal, called for their first rehearsal to be closed. I thought (as most composers probably do) that this meant everyone but them. So I wandered in, shook some hands, and then Brad told me "The first rehearsal is closed to everyone. We'd like time along work through the piece, figure things out, then bring up concerns, ideas, and such tomorrow" (paraphrased, of course. It HAS been a month).
My first reaction was "huh?" That was soon followed by "FUCK YEAH! GREAT IDEA! PEACE!!!" I didn't quite say it that way...but it was close. I think I said "Oh, that's a great idea! I have no real reason to be here anyway, I'm sure all of you "get" the piece and will do awesome. I'll drop by tomorrow then. Have fun!" Yeah, that seems more like what I said. I do wonder what they thought as I almost skipped out of the auditorium, more than happy to let an ensemble do what it will do.
The next day I came by and there were, of course, concerns. A notational thing here or there, better to write things this way, this might sound better up an octave. I took a bunch of it in stride, made a few quick choices, scribbled all over a score. When asked, I made quick decisions, described what I wanted, frowned when I realized things didn't work and scribbled away. I never once asked them to stop, rather content to accept my defeats and fix them in a resulting later draft. There were only a few small changes to things, namely a few horn bits that moved from stopped to open, and a note or two changing octaves. Easy stuff.
What happened in the concert, however, was exactly what I wished to have happen. I wished my piece came later in the week, being on the second attendee concert only gave the piece so much "weight." Perhaps I should say...levity? The first two pieces were fairly long, somber, and somewhat Romantic in style. I glanced around the auditorium often, seeing people straining to keep attention through the 15+ minute works. We were all still acclimating--not quite used to the week, but not quite falling over tired (as happened on Saturday during a particularly long concert). We were adjusting.
The first couple concerts provided music that were somewhat expected--the first was percussion ensemble Talujon playing attendee works. Most of the pieces went well over 10 minutes, up into the 15+ range. There was an extreme focus on timbral combinations, which is quite in vogue these days. The evening concert with Talujon and JACK went from classics, such as Reich's Drumming, to a newer Ferneyhough work, Exordium. Still, the landscape was what I expected in most "new music" concerts.
I tell you this to setup what happened when Signal play All Things Are Not Equal--Sinfonietta Edition. This piece is not standard new music fare. It's a jazz/funk/groove piece reorchestrated for a classical group. It's what a jam band might play on a Saturday night gig when everyone wants a solo (along with Street Cleaning, of course). My thought, in re-orchestrating the piece, was to create something that a group could put on a concert that'd change the mood, break the all too powerful fog of concentration, and give everyone something fun to do.
My piece starts with what I'd like to think of as a fake out. It's not the most convincing fake out (Augusta Read Thomas had some things to say about it...), but, it's something that I think, in context, worked really well. Everyone hears large snap pizz chords in a somewhat off kilter rhythm. The winds come in, same idea, then--glissandi, harmonics, a smattering of melody in the horn. It's just a fake out...
In a concert of new works, the hope is the beginning gets people thinking "Ok, some sort of post-minimalist thing, maybe some sort of standard new music idea..."
Then the groove starts. And it's funky. In fact, it's a pretty straight forward funk tune.
And then the groove keeps going. and going. Little bits layer in over top, but it's about that groove. Then, the groove switches, and solos start.
By the time the solos start, I'm hoping everyone has gotten the joke, and tongue in cheek "HA! It's a funk/jazz tune and you thought it was gonna be something else! Now relax, because music can be fun!"
After the piece finished, the applause was more than polite. I won't say it was "enthusiastic" but it was an applause that definitely said "Thank you!" Thank you for something different, thank you for a breath of fresh air, thank you for something that's nothing more than what it is, simply, music.
Ensemble Signal played the hell outta the piece. They made it work. They deserved the clapping far more than I. And I did what any good composer would do, offered to buy them drinks. Sadly, they didn't come out to the post evening concert carousal, but my pocket book probably thanks them for it. I WOULD have bought an entire round--with 9 players, that would have a been a bit expensive, but completely worth it.
A final quick note. I waited till the aisles cleared a bit, then bee-lined for the stage, shaking hands, sincerely offering drinks, and congratulating all around. One other composer had headed down quickly...the others headed down after I started shaking every hand in sight. Always remember to thank the performers during your applause AND after the concert! Music happens on stage, after all. Don't be timid or nervous about it, but jump right into the fray. I'm NOT particularly a people person, and I dislike crowds in small spaces (by dislike, I meant I have some mild anxiety about it), but I am always as gracious as possible to my performers, no matter how tight the bar happens to be.
********************************************************************
The series is moving right along. Perhaps I'll talk about some more generalities on what I heard at the concert, as far as "good, bad, and ugly." But, more than likely, I'll wrap up some ideas later. There was, after all, this academic conference in Portugal I went to where all sorts of interesting things happened...
June in Buffalo is many things--lectures, masterclasses, rehearsals, and performances of attendees and by resident ensembles generally featuring the works of the guest composers. There were two performances every day during JiB, except Sunday that just had a performance by the Buffalo Phil.
One of my first ideas going into JiB was to write concert reviews. That's been a running theme for me, eh? Not writing the reviews, but the IDEA of writing the reviews. But, after attending a few concerts, I thought better of it. My acerbic wit and biting criticism don't mesh well with the current climate of music criticism. Instead, I'll focus on broad themes rather than specifics.
First off, the rehearsal experience with Ensemble Signal. Awesome. Rehearsals during JiB are often open. However, Brad Lubman, esteemed conductor for Signal, called for their first rehearsal to be closed. I thought (as most composers probably do) that this meant everyone but them. So I wandered in, shook some hands, and then Brad told me "The first rehearsal is closed to everyone. We'd like time along work through the piece, figure things out, then bring up concerns, ideas, and such tomorrow" (paraphrased, of course. It HAS been a month).
My first reaction was "huh?" That was soon followed by "FUCK YEAH! GREAT IDEA! PEACE!!!" I didn't quite say it that way...but it was close. I think I said "Oh, that's a great idea! I have no real reason to be here anyway, I'm sure all of you "get" the piece and will do awesome. I'll drop by tomorrow then. Have fun!" Yeah, that seems more like what I said. I do wonder what they thought as I almost skipped out of the auditorium, more than happy to let an ensemble do what it will do.
The next day I came by and there were, of course, concerns. A notational thing here or there, better to write things this way, this might sound better up an octave. I took a bunch of it in stride, made a few quick choices, scribbled all over a score. When asked, I made quick decisions, described what I wanted, frowned when I realized things didn't work and scribbled away. I never once asked them to stop, rather content to accept my defeats and fix them in a resulting later draft. There were only a few small changes to things, namely a few horn bits that moved from stopped to open, and a note or two changing octaves. Easy stuff.
What happened in the concert, however, was exactly what I wished to have happen. I wished my piece came later in the week, being on the second attendee concert only gave the piece so much "weight." Perhaps I should say...levity? The first two pieces were fairly long, somber, and somewhat Romantic in style. I glanced around the auditorium often, seeing people straining to keep attention through the 15+ minute works. We were all still acclimating--not quite used to the week, but not quite falling over tired (as happened on Saturday during a particularly long concert). We were adjusting.
The first couple concerts provided music that were somewhat expected--the first was percussion ensemble Talujon playing attendee works. Most of the pieces went well over 10 minutes, up into the 15+ range. There was an extreme focus on timbral combinations, which is quite in vogue these days. The evening concert with Talujon and JACK went from classics, such as Reich's Drumming, to a newer Ferneyhough work, Exordium. Still, the landscape was what I expected in most "new music" concerts.
I tell you this to setup what happened when Signal play All Things Are Not Equal--Sinfonietta Edition. This piece is not standard new music fare. It's a jazz/funk/groove piece reorchestrated for a classical group. It's what a jam band might play on a Saturday night gig when everyone wants a solo (along with Street Cleaning, of course). My thought, in re-orchestrating the piece, was to create something that a group could put on a concert that'd change the mood, break the all too powerful fog of concentration, and give everyone something fun to do.
My piece starts with what I'd like to think of as a fake out. It's not the most convincing fake out (Augusta Read Thomas had some things to say about it...), but, it's something that I think, in context, worked really well. Everyone hears large snap pizz chords in a somewhat off kilter rhythm. The winds come in, same idea, then--glissandi, harmonics, a smattering of melody in the horn. It's just a fake out...
In a concert of new works, the hope is the beginning gets people thinking "Ok, some sort of post-minimalist thing, maybe some sort of standard new music idea..."
Then the groove starts. And it's funky. In fact, it's a pretty straight forward funk tune.
And then the groove keeps going. and going. Little bits layer in over top, but it's about that groove. Then, the groove switches, and solos start.
By the time the solos start, I'm hoping everyone has gotten the joke, and tongue in cheek "HA! It's a funk/jazz tune and you thought it was gonna be something else! Now relax, because music can be fun!"
After the piece finished, the applause was more than polite. I won't say it was "enthusiastic" but it was an applause that definitely said "Thank you!" Thank you for something different, thank you for a breath of fresh air, thank you for something that's nothing more than what it is, simply, music.
Ensemble Signal played the hell outta the piece. They made it work. They deserved the clapping far more than I. And I did what any good composer would do, offered to buy them drinks. Sadly, they didn't come out to the post evening concert carousal, but my pocket book probably thanks them for it. I WOULD have bought an entire round--with 9 players, that would have a been a bit expensive, but completely worth it.
A final quick note. I waited till the aisles cleared a bit, then bee-lined for the stage, shaking hands, sincerely offering drinks, and congratulating all around. One other composer had headed down quickly...the others headed down after I started shaking every hand in sight. Always remember to thank the performers during your applause AND after the concert! Music happens on stage, after all. Don't be timid or nervous about it, but jump right into the fray. I'm NOT particularly a people person, and I dislike crowds in small spaces (by dislike, I meant I have some mild anxiety about it), but I am always as gracious as possible to my performers, no matter how tight the bar happens to be.
********************************************************************
The series is moving right along. Perhaps I'll talk about some more generalities on what I heard at the concert, as far as "good, bad, and ugly." But, more than likely, I'll wrap up some ideas later. There was, after all, this academic conference in Portugal I went to where all sorts of interesting things happened...
7/2/13
The Importance of Leaving...
...the goddamn bubble. I remember in undergrad, professors always spoke of the "DePauw bubble." I didn't get out a whole lot during undergrad, but I luckily had enough sense to realize that what I was doing probably wasn't new, exciting, or different, and that people had great ideas all over.
During my Masters, I didn't have to go out much. Something about Brooklyn, NYC, and being around a wide variety of composers. I definitely didn't go out nearly enough, and that's my own fault. But I did listen to a lot of new music. No festivals or anything like that though--my mentors at BC weren't too keen on the competition circuit, and neither was I.
A piece of me agrees with my teachers during my masters--the competition and festival circuit can be a bit of a racket. Lots of submissions ask for money, and there's only so much I'm willing to shell out for competitions. You've got to pick and choose.
But it's important to go, especially if it's an opportunity with guest ensembles, lots of composers, and possibly guest lectures and masterclasses. Even the smaller festivals can provide experiences that your institution probably can't.
**********************************************************
This is a continuation of my series based on my experience at JiB. Past entries include posts about Charles Wuorinen and entrepreneurship, Brian Ferneyhough and treating music properly, and Augusta Read Thomas, Yehudi Wyner, and criticism.
Going into JiB, I knew what it was: it's more than a festival, more like a week long hardcore workshop. You work with an ensemble, go to tons of concerts, a few masterclasses, and lectures. You attacked by music. From 9am-9pm, I was busy with some requirement, with brief moments to grab food between them--that's the one big issues with JiB...it can be difficult to find dinner!
In one week, I met 20+ composers, far more than my department turns over in year. 20 new people, with new ideas, and new music. There were four special guest composers giving masterclasses (Raphael Cendo, Ferneyhough, Thomas, and Wyner), another guest lecture (Wuorinen), and of course David Felder. There's also rehearsals with an ensemble, in my case Ensemble Signal. That's more new faces than I meet in a standard semester at any of the schools I've attended, and all the people came prepared with their own music and presentations.
But it's ever so important. First off, you gain a much wider view of music. What ARE people doing around the country? What approaches are being taken? It's a difficult thing to understand when you're stuck in your department. You gain new techniques and new appreciation.
You gain friends, contacts, and associates. Your name gets known to a wider group of a people, people that you can call when you need a drink in a foreign city, or who may run ensembles themselves one day. The ensemble that plays your piece may like the piece and keep it around. A music critic may hear your concert, enjoy your piece, and want to do a write-up.
Let's be honest, those things don't happen too much on most campuses. Of course, there are exceptions (Manhattan based schools, I'm looking at you!) but even the more "professional" concerts I've done in KC go unreviewed, and the contacts remain somewhat minimal...granted I suck at hobnobbing afterwards, which probably limits the contacts heavily.
In the masterclasses, you have a chance to make an impression with a well known composers--this could ingratiate you, and they therefore remember your work when it comes time for judging a competition. Yeah, that is a horribly grim outlook on it, but it's entirely true. Nepotism in music is a very real thing, and until the next generation decides to forgo it and become a "meritocracy," we're stuck with it.
The biggest thing is the music and the ideas. JiB is unique in that you're somewhat forced into groups thanks to the masterclasses. After a day or two, you've found at least a small clique worth hanging out with. Or, if you're like me, you'll flit around a bit at the periphery--it's not that I disliked anyone, it's that I dislike large groups, and those had a tendency to form!
Still, the thoughts flowed freely. Composers discussed each others music, their institutions, gave and received advice, socialized, told stories, got drunk. And listened to music. So much music. Minds were expanded, exploded, and changed.
That's really what festivals are about. A good festival/conference/workshop will invigorate you. New ideas will come rushing in, old ideas will be made more clear, and new friends will challenge or affirm your positions. Someone like Charles Wuorinen will incite a group into heated discussions, while the direct criticism of Ferneyhough will make an entire room really delve into what they could improve.
And it's this influx of ideas, the meeting of minds that is so important. It's easy to get stuck--four years in undergrad, two or three for a masters, two to four for a doctorate. Same three or four teachers revolving around, you form your clique and maybe hear some different music. You might have one new complexity guy, a hardcore French-style acousmatic composer, maybe a spectralist, a neo-Romantic, a sound artist, and a couple post-minimalists. And you'll get along, but in the end, you'll face the same questions and affirmations.
It's great to see how people across the country (or world) deal with music. And it's as important for development as standard schooling.
So yes, it can be a racket. It can be a pain in the ass. But festivals are worthwhile and important experiences for musicians of all ages. Just be sure to research what you're getting into first before sending in your app and fee. And find yourself some funding through grants.
And then head off for an experience that will fill in tons of gaps left by a "traditional" educational model.
During my Masters, I didn't have to go out much. Something about Brooklyn, NYC, and being around a wide variety of composers. I definitely didn't go out nearly enough, and that's my own fault. But I did listen to a lot of new music. No festivals or anything like that though--my mentors at BC weren't too keen on the competition circuit, and neither was I.
A piece of me agrees with my teachers during my masters--the competition and festival circuit can be a bit of a racket. Lots of submissions ask for money, and there's only so much I'm willing to shell out for competitions. You've got to pick and choose.
But it's important to go, especially if it's an opportunity with guest ensembles, lots of composers, and possibly guest lectures and masterclasses. Even the smaller festivals can provide experiences that your institution probably can't.
**********************************************************
This is a continuation of my series based on my experience at JiB. Past entries include posts about Charles Wuorinen and entrepreneurship, Brian Ferneyhough and treating music properly, and Augusta Read Thomas, Yehudi Wyner, and criticism.
Going into JiB, I knew what it was: it's more than a festival, more like a week long hardcore workshop. You work with an ensemble, go to tons of concerts, a few masterclasses, and lectures. You attacked by music. From 9am-9pm, I was busy with some requirement, with brief moments to grab food between them--that's the one big issues with JiB...it can be difficult to find dinner!
In one week, I met 20+ composers, far more than my department turns over in year. 20 new people, with new ideas, and new music. There were four special guest composers giving masterclasses (Raphael Cendo, Ferneyhough, Thomas, and Wyner), another guest lecture (Wuorinen), and of course David Felder. There's also rehearsals with an ensemble, in my case Ensemble Signal. That's more new faces than I meet in a standard semester at any of the schools I've attended, and all the people came prepared with their own music and presentations.
But it's ever so important. First off, you gain a much wider view of music. What ARE people doing around the country? What approaches are being taken? It's a difficult thing to understand when you're stuck in your department. You gain new techniques and new appreciation.
You gain friends, contacts, and associates. Your name gets known to a wider group of a people, people that you can call when you need a drink in a foreign city, or who may run ensembles themselves one day. The ensemble that plays your piece may like the piece and keep it around. A music critic may hear your concert, enjoy your piece, and want to do a write-up.
Let's be honest, those things don't happen too much on most campuses. Of course, there are exceptions (Manhattan based schools, I'm looking at you!) but even the more "professional" concerts I've done in KC go unreviewed, and the contacts remain somewhat minimal...granted I suck at hobnobbing afterwards, which probably limits the contacts heavily.
In the masterclasses, you have a chance to make an impression with a well known composers--this could ingratiate you, and they therefore remember your work when it comes time for judging a competition. Yeah, that is a horribly grim outlook on it, but it's entirely true. Nepotism in music is a very real thing, and until the next generation decides to forgo it and become a "meritocracy," we're stuck with it.
The biggest thing is the music and the ideas. JiB is unique in that you're somewhat forced into groups thanks to the masterclasses. After a day or two, you've found at least a small clique worth hanging out with. Or, if you're like me, you'll flit around a bit at the periphery--it's not that I disliked anyone, it's that I dislike large groups, and those had a tendency to form!
Still, the thoughts flowed freely. Composers discussed each others music, their institutions, gave and received advice, socialized, told stories, got drunk. And listened to music. So much music. Minds were expanded, exploded, and changed.
That's really what festivals are about. A good festival/conference/workshop will invigorate you. New ideas will come rushing in, old ideas will be made more clear, and new friends will challenge or affirm your positions. Someone like Charles Wuorinen will incite a group into heated discussions, while the direct criticism of Ferneyhough will make an entire room really delve into what they could improve.
And it's this influx of ideas, the meeting of minds that is so important. It's easy to get stuck--four years in undergrad, two or three for a masters, two to four for a doctorate. Same three or four teachers revolving around, you form your clique and maybe hear some different music. You might have one new complexity guy, a hardcore French-style acousmatic composer, maybe a spectralist, a neo-Romantic, a sound artist, and a couple post-minimalists. And you'll get along, but in the end, you'll face the same questions and affirmations.
It's great to see how people across the country (or world) deal with music. And it's as important for development as standard schooling.
So yes, it can be a racket. It can be a pain in the ass. But festivals are worthwhile and important experiences for musicians of all ages. Just be sure to research what you're getting into first before sending in your app and fee. And find yourself some funding through grants.
And then head off for an experience that will fill in tons of gaps left by a "traditional" educational model.
6/29/13
Wyner and Thomas laid a litte smack down
And I'm more than ok with that. Criticism is an art that seems to be falling away in the arts. There's not enough "holy crap, this sucks! and let me tell you why I think it sucks!" We coddle the youth, say "that's nice, but you could maybe do this thing a bit better," and when they don't change it we chalk it up as a learning experience. It's a mindset I've actually been trying to change in myself.
Socratic method is all well and good. Leading people to their mistakes. But, sometimes, the best way to do that is to give your honest opinion. "I don't like this passage. I think it's this problem. Why don't we find out why?" rather than "That's nice, I like it. But..." It's a change, and one that needs to happen.
And that's exactly what I got from Yehudi Wyner and Augusta Read Thomas. I played Till Coffee Do Us Part for Wyner. He praised the lyricism of the vocal writing. And attacked the instrumental writing quite heavily.
Wyner felt that the instrumental writing was getting in the way of the singing. It was at times too dense without any harmonic support for the singers. I shrugged at that, since that was more or less the style I was going for in the beginning. However, he didn't even like the later parts that were traditionally founded. Wyner thought the harmonizations in the strings got in the way, and that they didn't offer much harmonic support.
I appreciate those comments. I will take a look at the beginning again--it is very likely that the thick nature is causing issues. In a previous editing, that section was thinned out, and an entire section removed, but I may not have gone far enough. Time for some erasing.
Then there was the plot. Boy did Wyner dislike the plot. Elevating coffee to being an opera, creating a farce. He thought I failed miserably. But he couldn't give me a why. Another student in the masterclass did, after much questioning give me a good solid answer: The conflict starts too early, and that makes it not seem like it's going anywhere. AH! That's some incredibly good criticism. And there's a damn good chance he's right. In fact, I'm pretty sure I agree with him. But, it took some intense questioning, more or less forcing an articulate answer to get it from him.
All in all, I agreed with a lot of what Yehudi Wyner said--vocal writing is hard, opera is even harder. Setting prose is a bitch, and it's very easy to let the background, and your grand theories, get in the way of good writing. Can you write a dense, complicated opera? I totally think so. Shadowtime by Ferneyhough is fantastic. But it will be a tough piece to sell.
And that farce and parody are not everyone's cup of tea, and people are much less forgiving on it. A good farce is worth a million dramas, but people forgive a drama.
*********************************************************************************
Augusta Read Thomas was the same as she's ever been. Many years ago, I was in a masterclass with her--it was 2005, I believe, and the piece was one of my first. Possibly my first to really be played in public. A little duet from trombone and marimba. It used mutes, some dead strokes, mallet changes, all sorts of things I felt to be very "avant-garde." I was, after all, the "crazy composer" in the group. LOL
I remember a few things from that masterclass. One was Thomas praising my lyricism in my writing AND playing. Bad idea--never nurture a musician, they might see you 8 years later! lolz. Another bit was being able to sing your music. I nailed that bit, but others had some difficulty. Of course, I was also PLAYING mine, so it's almost like cheating--singing what I play was a normal part of my trombone lessons. And I remember something she said to another student: "I hear Beethoven, a Schubert, and maybe a little Brahms. But I don't hear any of you! You are what you eat--or listen to. Listen to yourself!"
Ah, for a 20 year old just starting in composition, this was a big eye opener!
With that knowledge, I entered my masterclass with All Things Are Not Equal: Sinfonietta Edition, recently recorded by Ensemble Signal, Brad Lubman conducting. It's a piece that's about as unpretentious as you can get. Straight forward, jazz and funk "inspired" (hell, it's easier to classify in those terms than "contemporary!"), and by todays standards, somewhat short. The performance is solid, and it was obvious the group had fun.
I came prepared. Thomas listened, gave some initial thoughts. The biggest one? She didn't think it went far enough. I stayed tied to my groove, let the groove playout, and didn't do much variation. True enough. And I didn't set out to do much variation. And then the singing started.
First it was "sing the first groove." Easy enough. Alright, now do a simple variation. Then another. Alright, now do something far away from the groove, harmonically and stylistically. Ok, do another, but add in longer notes.
I did all these without breaking much of a sweat. I did have a tendency to speed up, which annoyed me .As I was snapping and improvising, I actually said "I keep speeding up. Ugh," then went back into the singing. I added in all sorts of things--pitch, percussive sounds, all sorts of consonants and vowels, mixed and matched from whatever...and I always made a point to end by grabbing the groove right where it should be when I ended. Ok, that last bit was me showing off.
The looks from the assembled group were, well...worth the showing off. Even Augusta Read Thomas looked suitable impressed. Of course, I knew something like this was coming--I had practicing the grooves a bit, and had all the lines in my head, so I could sing them. And while I'm a crappy improviser on trombone, that's a problem with my control of the instrument, not the brain. This played into my strengths. And when it was done, I already knew where it was going...
Hey, John, since you can come up with all these ideas spur of the moment, why aren't any in here? Where's all that crazy improvisational writing? I sputtered the easy answer: "You write a simple tune to allow people to improvise around. In this case a groove, and setting up a certain feel. Then the soloist would do their thing. Guess I flubbed a bit when I reduced the improvising..."
Ah, see, I had. And Thomas called me one it. She more or less had said that in her comments, that it didn't go "far enough," but she wanted to prove that point unequivocally. And she did. I softball'ed the transcription. The statement of "I did it in 24 hours and didn't give it much thought," is a poor answer, so I didn't give it. There's no reason for half-assed work. And it All Things is a bit half-assed. Written quickly (over about 4 days), re-orchestrated even quick (24 hours over about 2 days). It was half-assed. And I rightly got called on it.
*********************************************************************************
Really, Wyner and Thomas were telling me the same thing--I hadn't treated the material with enough care. This echoed Ferneyhough's earlier masterclass. It seems to be an issue. And all three pieces were developed quite differently. It took me 8 months or so to write Dance. Till Coffee was a solid 2-3 months, though definitely rushed toward the end. All Things was about a week total. And yet they all had issues with "care."
I just finished revising Cake for a performance in November. The same could easily be said of that score, and I spent about a year on it! A YEAR! And while, musically, I think it's alright, notationally it was horrid. Lack of care, in this case toward the presentation.
So, two things came out of this--1) Direct criticism is a good thing! 2) Don't be a jerk and half-ass any of your work. Even if you worked your ass off on the first draft, you've got three or four more to go!
More than one draft? IN MUSIC?!? SHEER FOLLY!
Bruckner would disagree, I think...
Socratic method is all well and good. Leading people to their mistakes. But, sometimes, the best way to do that is to give your honest opinion. "I don't like this passage. I think it's this problem. Why don't we find out why?" rather than "That's nice, I like it. But..." It's a change, and one that needs to happen.
And that's exactly what I got from Yehudi Wyner and Augusta Read Thomas. I played Till Coffee Do Us Part for Wyner. He praised the lyricism of the vocal writing. And attacked the instrumental writing quite heavily.
Wyner felt that the instrumental writing was getting in the way of the singing. It was at times too dense without any harmonic support for the singers. I shrugged at that, since that was more or less the style I was going for in the beginning. However, he didn't even like the later parts that were traditionally founded. Wyner thought the harmonizations in the strings got in the way, and that they didn't offer much harmonic support.
I appreciate those comments. I will take a look at the beginning again--it is very likely that the thick nature is causing issues. In a previous editing, that section was thinned out, and an entire section removed, but I may not have gone far enough. Time for some erasing.
Then there was the plot. Boy did Wyner dislike the plot. Elevating coffee to being an opera, creating a farce. He thought I failed miserably. But he couldn't give me a why. Another student in the masterclass did, after much questioning give me a good solid answer: The conflict starts too early, and that makes it not seem like it's going anywhere. AH! That's some incredibly good criticism. And there's a damn good chance he's right. In fact, I'm pretty sure I agree with him. But, it took some intense questioning, more or less forcing an articulate answer to get it from him.
All in all, I agreed with a lot of what Yehudi Wyner said--vocal writing is hard, opera is even harder. Setting prose is a bitch, and it's very easy to let the background, and your grand theories, get in the way of good writing. Can you write a dense, complicated opera? I totally think so. Shadowtime by Ferneyhough is fantastic. But it will be a tough piece to sell.
And that farce and parody are not everyone's cup of tea, and people are much less forgiving on it. A good farce is worth a million dramas, but people forgive a drama.
*********************************************************************************
Augusta Read Thomas was the same as she's ever been. Many years ago, I was in a masterclass with her--it was 2005, I believe, and the piece was one of my first. Possibly my first to really be played in public. A little duet from trombone and marimba. It used mutes, some dead strokes, mallet changes, all sorts of things I felt to be very "avant-garde." I was, after all, the "crazy composer" in the group. LOL
I remember a few things from that masterclass. One was Thomas praising my lyricism in my writing AND playing. Bad idea--never nurture a musician, they might see you 8 years later! lolz. Another bit was being able to sing your music. I nailed that bit, but others had some difficulty. Of course, I was also PLAYING mine, so it's almost like cheating--singing what I play was a normal part of my trombone lessons. And I remember something she said to another student: "I hear Beethoven, a Schubert, and maybe a little Brahms. But I don't hear any of you! You are what you eat--or listen to. Listen to yourself!"
Ah, for a 20 year old just starting in composition, this was a big eye opener!
With that knowledge, I entered my masterclass with All Things Are Not Equal: Sinfonietta Edition, recently recorded by Ensemble Signal, Brad Lubman conducting. It's a piece that's about as unpretentious as you can get. Straight forward, jazz and funk "inspired" (hell, it's easier to classify in those terms than "contemporary!"), and by todays standards, somewhat short. The performance is solid, and it was obvious the group had fun.
I came prepared. Thomas listened, gave some initial thoughts. The biggest one? She didn't think it went far enough. I stayed tied to my groove, let the groove playout, and didn't do much variation. True enough. And I didn't set out to do much variation. And then the singing started.
First it was "sing the first groove." Easy enough. Alright, now do a simple variation. Then another. Alright, now do something far away from the groove, harmonically and stylistically. Ok, do another, but add in longer notes.
I did all these without breaking much of a sweat. I did have a tendency to speed up, which annoyed me .As I was snapping and improvising, I actually said "I keep speeding up. Ugh," then went back into the singing. I added in all sorts of things--pitch, percussive sounds, all sorts of consonants and vowels, mixed and matched from whatever...and I always made a point to end by grabbing the groove right where it should be when I ended. Ok, that last bit was me showing off.
The looks from the assembled group were, well...worth the showing off. Even Augusta Read Thomas looked suitable impressed. Of course, I knew something like this was coming--I had practicing the grooves a bit, and had all the lines in my head, so I could sing them. And while I'm a crappy improviser on trombone, that's a problem with my control of the instrument, not the brain. This played into my strengths. And when it was done, I already knew where it was going...
Hey, John, since you can come up with all these ideas spur of the moment, why aren't any in here? Where's all that crazy improvisational writing? I sputtered the easy answer: "You write a simple tune to allow people to improvise around. In this case a groove, and setting up a certain feel. Then the soloist would do their thing. Guess I flubbed a bit when I reduced the improvising..."
Ah, see, I had. And Thomas called me one it. She more or less had said that in her comments, that it didn't go "far enough," but she wanted to prove that point unequivocally. And she did. I softball'ed the transcription. The statement of "I did it in 24 hours and didn't give it much thought," is a poor answer, so I didn't give it. There's no reason for half-assed work. And it All Things is a bit half-assed. Written quickly (over about 4 days), re-orchestrated even quick (24 hours over about 2 days). It was half-assed. And I rightly got called on it.
*********************************************************************************
Really, Wyner and Thomas were telling me the same thing--I hadn't treated the material with enough care. This echoed Ferneyhough's earlier masterclass. It seems to be an issue. And all three pieces were developed quite differently. It took me 8 months or so to write Dance. Till Coffee was a solid 2-3 months, though definitely rushed toward the end. All Things was about a week total. And yet they all had issues with "care."
I just finished revising Cake for a performance in November. The same could easily be said of that score, and I spent about a year on it! A YEAR! And while, musically, I think it's alright, notationally it was horrid. Lack of care, in this case toward the presentation.
So, two things came out of this--1) Direct criticism is a good thing! 2) Don't be a jerk and half-ass any of your work. Even if you worked your ass off on the first draft, you've got three or four more to go!
More than one draft? IN MUSIC?!? SHEER FOLLY!
Bruckner would disagree, I think...
6/27/13
Ferneyhough and Me (part 2)
Many moons ago, I wrote a blog entry about Brian Ferneyhough. At that point, I had not met him. My thoughts came from various quotations from a rather old article/interview with Ferneyhough.
A few weeks ago, I got to meet Brian Ferneyhough. My first impression actually came through talking to a few of his students in attendance. We traded stories over some fabulous Korean food. Getting the "inside scoop" from his students was nice--I got to hear the good and the bad. And from two different types of students: one an ardent supporter; the other more disillusioned. Both agreed, however, that whether or not you buy into Ferneyhough's aesthetics or theories, that there's no denying he's brilliant.
I went into the masterclass a bit worried. What would I show him? I was assured that Ferneyhough actually didn't push his aesthetics onto composers, and worked from within the pieces. So, I thought I'd bring a piece that's a couple years old, but one dear to me that I honestly think is a pretty good piece--Dance of Disillusionment and Despair. Dance is a piece I've always enjoyed, and many others seemed to as well. However, I haven't been able to get it a life outside the 2 performances in 2011. I've been showing it in masterclasses, hoping to figure out what I can do to bring it along. John Corigliano really hated it.
Ferneyhough, however, didn't hate it. He did, however, dislike the contraints I put on the music. By choosing (arbitrarily) to make each movement 1 minute, he felt like I shortchanged the material. Almost every movement he would say: I like where this is going, you're starting to make something, then it ends.
At first he wasn't sure about the construction, with some movements having dense material, other movements being incredibly sparse (especially pitch-wise). When I told him the decision came from mapping measures in the first movement through the whole piece, he flipped through the whole piece, skipped to the beginning a few times, and said (paraphrased, of course. as was the earlier): Ah, ok. Fair enough. It appears you stuck pretty well to that. Sometimes, I don't like what happens, but it's a clear reason and you stick to it. Fair enough.
Finally, he came to the main points. And they were quite poignant. I had written a 17 minute piece...that was meant to be 35-45 minutes. I shortchanged my material in every movement. And, the endings...By making so many endings, I played out the possibilities.
Food for thought from Brian Ferneyhough: There are a million ways to begin a piece, but only a dozen or so ways to end one.
And when you have 13 endings, you're bound to have repeats.
What struck me about Ferneyhough was how romantically he talks about music. He quickly fell into the world of Dance, which is fairly Romantic. And then, during his talk, he referred to his own music in much the same way. Systems be damned, it was supposed to be musical, even Romantic. Ferneyhough seemed to use the different systems and construction methods just as a structuring device, a way to limit his own thought moving through his pieces.
When you look at a Ferneyhough score, "Romantic" isn't the first word that pops into your brain. When you hear some recordings, "mechanical" seems more like what should be heard.
I got to hear five pieces by Ferneyhough during June in Buffalo: Incipits, Exordium, Terrain, Mnemosyne, and Intermedio alla Ciaccona. This festival was the first time I've ever gotten to hear any of Ferneyhough's music live. And it was a treat. I'll even forgive JACK Quartet for changing their program and playing Exordium instead of String Quartet No. 2, even though SQ No. 2 is one of my favourite pieces of all time.
It's a great mix. Terrain and Intermedio had Irvine Arditti as the soloist, Terrain with Ensemble Signal. Terrain was handled masterfully by Talea Ensemble, JACK took on Exordium, and Mnemosyne was performed by Keiko Murakami (I believe) of Ensemble Linea (I can't find my program, but she's listed as the regularly flutist with Ensemble Linea).
Everyone played passionately. This doesn't mean they missed notes--they were all inscrutably perfect. But there was music in every note. Every awkward leap, every crunchy harmony, all the subdivisions within subdivisions moving at different time ratios, every nuance had meaning. Watching Arditti play Terrain and Intermedio was astounding. There was no break, no phrase that wasn't carefully attended to. JACK playing Exordium was masterful, with Arditti watching from the audience (and clapping quite enthusiastically when I stole a look in his direction).
This all leads me to one major thought: Ferneyhough, while writing in a method that some would call "dense," is still trying to reach people. He still wants an audience to get a reaction from the piece, to be drawn into that world. In the masterclass, the way he talked about my piece was more about how I failed to do exactly that. And hearing his music live, I was drawn into the music, the drama, the entire experience. During his pieces, I found myself moving closer to the edge of my seat, listening with full attention. If I didn't have full attention, I'd miss a single detail, and the following sequence may be rendered meaningless.
Ferneyhough creates experiences. Let go of the preconception, of the "i don't understand." Stop trying to understand and just listen, be a part of the music. Maybe, eventually, you can listen and "understand" but that's not really the point. He's giving you all the information, and, just like in a certain author's books, you don't have to READ the whole page, just relax, and skim, and the information will "magically" come to the surface. Ferneyhough is like that.
And what I learned from him is I'm not there yet.
A few weeks ago, I got to meet Brian Ferneyhough. My first impression actually came through talking to a few of his students in attendance. We traded stories over some fabulous Korean food. Getting the "inside scoop" from his students was nice--I got to hear the good and the bad. And from two different types of students: one an ardent supporter; the other more disillusioned. Both agreed, however, that whether or not you buy into Ferneyhough's aesthetics or theories, that there's no denying he's brilliant.
I went into the masterclass a bit worried. What would I show him? I was assured that Ferneyhough actually didn't push his aesthetics onto composers, and worked from within the pieces. So, I thought I'd bring a piece that's a couple years old, but one dear to me that I honestly think is a pretty good piece--Dance of Disillusionment and Despair. Dance is a piece I've always enjoyed, and many others seemed to as well. However, I haven't been able to get it a life outside the 2 performances in 2011. I've been showing it in masterclasses, hoping to figure out what I can do to bring it along. John Corigliano really hated it.
Ferneyhough, however, didn't hate it. He did, however, dislike the contraints I put on the music. By choosing (arbitrarily) to make each movement 1 minute, he felt like I shortchanged the material. Almost every movement he would say: I like where this is going, you're starting to make something, then it ends.
At first he wasn't sure about the construction, with some movements having dense material, other movements being incredibly sparse (especially pitch-wise). When I told him the decision came from mapping measures in the first movement through the whole piece, he flipped through the whole piece, skipped to the beginning a few times, and said (paraphrased, of course. as was the earlier): Ah, ok. Fair enough. It appears you stuck pretty well to that. Sometimes, I don't like what happens, but it's a clear reason and you stick to it. Fair enough.
Finally, he came to the main points. And they were quite poignant. I had written a 17 minute piece...that was meant to be 35-45 minutes. I shortchanged my material in every movement. And, the endings...By making so many endings, I played out the possibilities.
Food for thought from Brian Ferneyhough: There are a million ways to begin a piece, but only a dozen or so ways to end one.
And when you have 13 endings, you're bound to have repeats.
What struck me about Ferneyhough was how romantically he talks about music. He quickly fell into the world of Dance, which is fairly Romantic. And then, during his talk, he referred to his own music in much the same way. Systems be damned, it was supposed to be musical, even Romantic. Ferneyhough seemed to use the different systems and construction methods just as a structuring device, a way to limit his own thought moving through his pieces.
When you look at a Ferneyhough score, "Romantic" isn't the first word that pops into your brain. When you hear some recordings, "mechanical" seems more like what should be heard.
I got to hear five pieces by Ferneyhough during June in Buffalo: Incipits, Exordium, Terrain, Mnemosyne, and Intermedio alla Ciaccona. This festival was the first time I've ever gotten to hear any of Ferneyhough's music live. And it was a treat. I'll even forgive JACK Quartet for changing their program and playing Exordium instead of String Quartet No. 2, even though SQ No. 2 is one of my favourite pieces of all time.
It's a great mix. Terrain and Intermedio had Irvine Arditti as the soloist, Terrain with Ensemble Signal. Terrain was handled masterfully by Talea Ensemble, JACK took on Exordium, and Mnemosyne was performed by Keiko Murakami (I believe) of Ensemble Linea (I can't find my program, but she's listed as the regularly flutist with Ensemble Linea).
Everyone played passionately. This doesn't mean they missed notes--they were all inscrutably perfect. But there was music in every note. Every awkward leap, every crunchy harmony, all the subdivisions within subdivisions moving at different time ratios, every nuance had meaning. Watching Arditti play Terrain and Intermedio was astounding. There was no break, no phrase that wasn't carefully attended to. JACK playing Exordium was masterful, with Arditti watching from the audience (and clapping quite enthusiastically when I stole a look in his direction).
This all leads me to one major thought: Ferneyhough, while writing in a method that some would call "dense," is still trying to reach people. He still wants an audience to get a reaction from the piece, to be drawn into that world. In the masterclass, the way he talked about my piece was more about how I failed to do exactly that. And hearing his music live, I was drawn into the music, the drama, the entire experience. During his pieces, I found myself moving closer to the edge of my seat, listening with full attention. If I didn't have full attention, I'd miss a single detail, and the following sequence may be rendered meaningless.
Ferneyhough creates experiences. Let go of the preconception, of the "i don't understand." Stop trying to understand and just listen, be a part of the music. Maybe, eventually, you can listen and "understand" but that's not really the point. He's giving you all the information, and, just like in a certain author's books, you don't have to READ the whole page, just relax, and skim, and the information will "magically" come to the surface. Ferneyhough is like that.
And what I learned from him is I'm not there yet.
6/9/13
JiB Told Me to Do It
This week has been insane. Completely. Effing. Insane.
In all the best ways.
Too many things happened this week, and I have been far too busy and exhausted to begin to sort it all out. But here are some highlights that I plan/hope to discuss and put into a larger context:
In all the best ways.
Too many things happened this week, and I have been far too busy and exhausted to begin to sort it all out. But here are some highlights that I plan/hope to discuss and put into a larger context:
- Charles Wuorinen's talk--mainly in the context of the current context of "entrepreneurship."
- Brian Ferneyhough's talk, focusing on his interesting ideas on musicality (and some great examples from the festival. Linea KILLED Incipit. Jack killed Exordium. And Irvine Arditti killed Terrain. GODDAMN what a week!)
- Masterclass with Ferneyhough--Beginnings, Endings, and what materials demand
- Masterclass with Yehudi Wyner- musical expression, vocal writing, and "not getting in the way"
- Masterclass with Augusta Read Thomas- Don't half ass your work!
- The experience with Ensemble Signal, premiering a piece no one really expects in a festival like this, and the reaction to this unexpected piece.
- The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly--Beautiful Structures, Rough Performances, and WTF was That?!?
- JiB in context of the college experience--How a hardcore festival/workshops like June in Buffalo may one of the greatest things possible. Not for the performance, and the resume padding, but for all the RIGHT reasons.
These topics may all be discussed. Sometimes they'll get shoved together, more than one in a post. Maybe they'll span more than one post. I have no idea at this point.
But this process will be mostly for my own benefit. It's about decompressing all the information that's been shoved into my poor little brain. But hopefully more people will get a great deal out of it.
Ya know the worst part? I don't really have time to write these or decompress. On Saturday, I leave for Lisbon, Portugal, and Electroacoustic Musical Studies Conference 2013. So, instead of really being able to reflect, I'll be preparing for round 2, this time all EA instead of acoustic.
Shift gears, be prepared for anything
But this process will be mostly for my own benefit. It's about decompressing all the information that's been shoved into my poor little brain. But hopefully more people will get a great deal out of it.
Ya know the worst part? I don't really have time to write these or decompress. On Saturday, I leave for Lisbon, Portugal, and Electroacoustic Musical Studies Conference 2013. So, instead of really being able to reflect, I'll be preparing for round 2, this time all EA instead of acoustic.
Shift gears, be prepared for anything
And always, ALWAYS be prepared to sing. Because ya never know when you'll be singing all the lines from your own piece, or as a great singer found out, auditioning for some opera and/or ensemble solo work.
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