"There are no two points so distant from one another that they cannot be connected by a single straight line -- and an infinite number of curves."
Composer Lawrence Dillon creates works that connect past and present in attractive and unexpected ways, provoking Gramophone to exclaim, “Each score is an arresting and appealing creation, full of fanciful and lyrical flourishes within traditional forms that are brightly tweaked." His music is characterized by a keen sensitivity to color, a mastery of form, and what the Louisville Courier-Journal has called a "compelling, innate soulfulness." Despite losing 50% of his hearing in a childhood illness, Dillon began composing as soon as he started piano lessons at the age of seven. In 1985, he became the youngest composer to earn a doctorate at The Juilliard School, and was immediately appointed to the Juilliard faculty. Dillon is now Composer in Residence at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, where he has served as Music Director of the Contemporary Ensemble, Assistant Dean of Performance, and Interim Dean of the School of Music.
Dillon's music, in the words of American Record Guide, is "lovely...austere...vivid and impressive." Three recordings of his music were released in 2010-2011 on the Bridge, Albany and Naxos labels. His works have been commissioned and premiered in the last four seasons by the Emerson String Quartet, Le Train Bleu, the Ravinia Festival, the Daedalus String Quartet, the Lincoln Trio, the Seattle Chamber Music Society, the Cassatt String Quartet, the Mansfield Symphony, the Boise Philharmonic, Wintergreen Summer Arts Festival, the Salt Lake City Symphony, the Quartetto di Sassofoni d’Accademia, the University of Utah and the Idyllwild Symphony Orchestra.
In October 2010, Bridge Records released “Insects and Paper Airplanes,” a disk of Dillon’s chamber music featuring the Daedalus String Quartet and pianist Benjamin Hochman. Gramophone called it "highly recommended," saying, "Just when you thought the string quartet may have reached the edge of sonic possibilities, along comes a composer who makes something novel, whimsical and haunting of the genre."
Dillon’s recording “Appendage and Other Stories” made Fanfare Magazine’s 2010 Want List. Raymond Tuttle wrote of it, "This is a terrific work. In fact, it is so good it made me weep. And Dillon, with his vivid imagination and his ear for vocal and instrumental color, seems to be a terrific composer.”
In April 2011, Naxos released “Violin Music of Lawrence Dillon” featuring Sphinx Grand Prizewinner Danielle Belén. MUSICWEB INTERNATIONAL described it as "an hour of music that is often profound without being pretentious, sometimes light-hearted but never 'lite', humorous without being arch, and immensely appealing but never frivolous."
Lawrence Dillon is represented by Jeffrey James Arts Consulting.
The CanAm Piano Duo is in town for a concert this Tuesday night. They’ll be playing John Corigliano’s Kaleidoscope, but the real attraction for me will be the premiere of Dak Van Vranken’s Lights on the Water. Dak is a sophomore here, studying with Kenneth Frazelle.
In other news, I’ve completed Rapid Eye and mailed it off to the Carpe Diem String Quartet. Since it’s the sixth and final work in a cycle I’ve been working on since 1998, I have even more heavily mixed emotions than I usually have when finishing a major work. Maybe I will be able to address those feelings in a meaningful way in some later post, but I’m not making any promises. It may be best, after all, to stick to making music.
Classes are resuming this week around the country in institutions that reactionaries and radicals have found common ground over, labeling them elitist and out of touch with the real world. Yes, I’m referring to the so-called academic strongholds, portrayed as well-armed fortresses by those who would like to see them overthrown, while those of us who are temporary occupants can experience them more like delicate membranes of inclusiveness, ready to be blown away by the slightest ill-timed gust.
We start up today, here at the UNC School of the Arts, helping curious minds to think with depth and precision about dance, design, drama, filmmaking and music. This is our real world — far more real, from our perspective, than many others. It’s no paradise, and it certainly doesn’t resemble an ivory tower, it’s just where we gather to share ideas about the things we love.
While I prepare to join the imaginative journeys of my wonderful students, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give two cheers for Low and Lower for bringing my music to two esteemed learning locales this week. On Tuesday night, they’ll be playing at the University of Michigan (Ann Arbor) and on Friday they will take their act to the Cleveland Institute of Music. If you see them there, give them a Poke for me.
It’s the shortest day of the year, the beginning of winter and the end of our Intensive Arts session. We flew in Steve Mackey, one atom at a time, on Wednesday, hosting him as a Skype guest for our Composition department. He was a lovely guest, though the method of transportation left him necessarily two-dimensional.
To prepare, our students broke into four groups, each group studying a specific work: Beautiful Passing, Dreamhouse, Lonely Motel, and Physical Property. Each group gave a report on their piece, discussion followed, then we grilled the composer for ninety minutes. He answered all of our questions with sincerity, humor and insight. The whole process was very rewarding.
Now a three-week break before we resume with a gentle January and a fierce February. Time for me to go jingle some bells.
Hearing complaints these days about the Classical scene being inundated with centennials and bicentennials. Another common complaint is the central place Beethoven is given in the Classical canon. In response to those two complaints I think it’s safe, in 2013, to point out that the opportunities for Beethoven bicentennials over the last 10 years have been largely ignored. Consider all the pivotal works and warhorses that poured from his pen in the early 1800s:
Considering the attention that was paid to the Sacre and Pierrot centennials, it seems a number of well-known Beethoven works were given short shrift – I certainly didn’t hear any fanfares about these bicentennials. And now we have five relatively fallow years before the next wave, when we reach the 200th anniversaries of Beethoven’s late works.
Not that I’m complaining: I’ve had enough of the centennials myself. I’m just pointing out that things could be far worse.
While I’m at it, though, here’s a pet peeve: How can it be that we still don’t have a comprehensive chronological numbering of Beethoven’s completed works? Opus numbers are charming, of course, but relatively meaningless. Who really cares, at this point, in what order the works were published? Wouldn’t it be far more illuminating to name them by the order they were completed? And yes, I know all about the Biamonti catalogue, but that includes every sketch and aborted idea – it’s so cluttered as to be almost as useless from a practical standpoint.
The world is so full of a number of things,
I ‘m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
- Robert Louis Stevenson
The title of this post will raise some hackles, as there are gobs of composers who style themselves postmodernists as a cover for lazy composing. But the practitioners of every style, every genre of music throughout history, are mostly hacks, so we shouldn’t be surprised if the rule holds true for this one.
Lazy composing, post-postmodern-style, can mean slapping borrowed ideas together randomly, without purpose, to cover up an inability to devise ones own thoughts, or to cover up the inability to investigate the potentials of a given thought.
Lazy composing, post-postmodern-style, can also mean license to revel in old techniques, to hang onto compositional habits derived from ways of viewing the world that are inappropriate for our times.
Postmodernism has been defined as “the violent adjacency…of pure expressivity and pure accessibility,”* a definition that carries equal parts truth and vitriol. Classic Postmodernists (to coin, tongue-in-cheek), overwhelmed by the sheer velocity of civilization, resorted to the shock of clashing ideologies: a wallop of Beethoven with a smack of Beatles. The world is so incoherent — they seemed to say — that coherent art is a lie. To the postmodernists, art had to be chaotic, a chaos comprised of coherent parts combined in ways that subverted their meaning. The postmodernists had been born into the certainty of modernist aims and felt assaulted by, among other things, the rise of pop culture, which called those aims into question.
The children of postmodernism, on the other hand, were not raised in the purity of modernist pursuits. We were born into a multicultural world, a world of parallel, powerful (yet distinct) value systems. Rather than railing at the lack of uniformity, we rather enjoyed having a multiplicity of options. Rather than bashing the heads of opposing viewpoints against one another, we sought common denominators for distant equations.
It’s taken me an awfully long time to comprehend the meaning of the postmodern inheritance in my work, but an awfully long time is a wonderful thing to have when it comes to meaning. At this point, with 30+ years of compositional adventures behind me, so much more is clear. I was, from early on, powerfully drawn to postmodern impulses, yet strangely distant as well. From my current vantage point, I can see I was taking postmodern techniques and applying them in a way that reflected my time: I have lived in an era of muchness, an era when all of history is part of our present, all of our world cultures mingle in our living rooms. This plenitude is its own form of chaos, and its own form of coherence.
The artists I admire are the ones who can find agreement where previous generations found conflict, rhymes where history has taught us we should find randomness.
I’ve found myself, and many others of my generation, drawn to a pursuit that seems both timely and easily disdained in these days of shattered focus. We have wanted to create works that try to resolve possibly unresolveable tensions, hoping that at least the effort might prove of value.
Some broad generalizations in all of this, but the broad view is helpful from time to time. As Popeye knew, and all children must discover, we yam what we yam: conveyers of a legacy and challengers of that legacy. We don’t have a name for the artists who grew up in post-postmodern times, but they’ve grown up, and are having their say.
This past week has seen three major deadlines come and go for my students. First, and biggest, was the deadline for compositions for the nu ensemble, the new-music band batoned by Saxton Rose. Their concert is on February 22nd; this past Wednesday was the deadline for penultimate drafts, so parts could be assigned. Now the composers have until January 15th to make whatever tweaks they please to make the pieces as fine as they can be. We’ve got a horde of pieces, from solo piano to chamber orchestra.
Next up was the deadline for flute ensemble works, organized by Tadeu Coelho. Tadeu was looking for pieces for 7-14 players, bass to piccolo, for a concert on March 22nd, a tour, and publication. After the seminar we had on flute ensemble back in September, students had a fair sense of the strange range of possibilities from various combinations of flutes. We had five submissions, ranging from prickly aleatoric to sweet lullaby. With all the flute ensembles out there (seriously, there are gobs of them), performance opportunities abound.
And last was a deadline for guitar ensemble works, for a performance on April 1st featuring music from the 16th and 21st centuries. Three guesses which century our students were charged with representing.
All of these deadlines have had my inbox and outbox jammed with PDFs, as I shared years of proofreading experience with relative neophytes. Now that all those deadlines are past, I’d like to take a deep breath – except Composition Jury packets are due this Thursday.
Gave a seminar on my music here last week. I’m 54 years old, and almost all of our students are considerably younger than that, so I began with an attempt to define the differences between my concerns 30+ years into a career in composition with the challenges that face them closer to the outsets of their compositional journeys. My purpose was to make sure they weren’t trying to do things that didn’t fit the stage their work was in. I told them I can dress like a 20 year old, but it’s best for everyone if I don’t. In the same way, I can write music like a 20 year old, but the results are more embarrassing than enlightening. All by way of illustrating that it’s important for them to do the things that one can only do at their age, and use me as a model either for the things they’d like to be doing down the line, or for the things they’d like to avoid as they get older.
Of course, these aren’t hard-and-fast rules, just guidelines. Fine for me to dress like a 20 year old in the privacy of my own planet.
A common truism in our profession is that Beethoven’s late quartets are still contemporary, that they stand outside of time. I can acknowledge the spirit behind this assertion, but I think students have long been misled by many teachers’ emphasis on these late works. For young composers, it’s important to place these works firmly in the 1820s, emerging from the pen of a guy who had a complete grasp of his materials and was stretching them beyond what had previously been imaginable. “Study the late quartets,” I told the class, “but also study Beethoven’s early quartets, from opus 18.” That’s when he was patiently mastering every element of the music of his time, making it his own, and writing excellent compositions to boot. I’ve seen young composers miss out on that step in the process of finding their way, reaching for the mastery of the late quartets without realizing that the path to mastery is a long one. (Another way to look at it: if you master something on the first or second try, you aren’t really setting your sites very high.) In particular, I’ve seen young composers who were singled out for their remarkable achievements struggle to find any depth in their work because their progress was short-circuited by being thrust under the spotlight.
I pointed out two opposing traps that young composers often fall into:
Sticking with what you are good at. Over time, artists tend to focus their work on the things that are most important to them. If you start from a very narrow foundation, you will focus yourself out of existence. Use this time to try things that are out of your comfort zone. The benefit down the road is huge.
Fear of commitment. Somehow (I have a few theories on this) it’s become fashionable for composers to feel like every piece has to invent its own rules and materials. To a degree, this is healthy. But at some point, we have to wonder when the relationship between composer and materials will ever get beyond the point of superficial acquaintance. As uncomfortable as it can be, one has to be able to say, “This is me, warts and all.” Make the commitment. Or you can be like me: make several.
Hopefully the students kept those ideas in mind as I proceeded to dig into my own work. I’m happy to be where I am at this point in my life, but I also know the value of young ears – that’s something I will never have again, and anyone who has them should make good use of them while they last.
Tonight is the first of seven performances of Fall Dance here, featuring the premiere of Brenda Daniels’ What Happened choreography. I wrote What Happened in 2004-05; how fantastic, all these years later, to see it come to life in physical gestures, gestures I never could have imagined when I wrote the piece but that seem perfectly right when I watch the dance unfold.
I won’t catch it tonight, but I’ll be there for the official opening night tomorrow night, and rumor has it that I’ll be onstage afterwards for a little post-premiere discussion. I’ll believe it when I see it.
I’ve mentioned a few times the piece I wrote – Passing Tones — in memory of Toby Saks back in August. Now the whole memorial event is on YouTube. The entire hour and ¾ is an amazing watch – fantastic performances by some of the finest musicians in the country, interspersed with tributes to this wonderful artist and human being. My piece shows up at 59:30, four minutes of a lovely, finely detailed performance by James Ehnes, Jeremy Turner, Robert deMaine and Andrés Díaz.
A full listing of all the performers, speakers and works can be found here: