Philip Glass Solo
Philip Glass, piano
Orange Mountain Music
This is the second piano album made by Philip Glass. Solo Piano (1989) contains some overlap of tracks with the latest recording, Philip Glass Solo (2024), but there are distinct differences between the renditions on each. At 87 years of age, and in demand from opera houses, symphony orchestras, chamber ensembles, and filmmakers for a steady spate of new works, a solo performance recording might seem like an unnecessary addition to Glass’s catalog. But it is in those aforementioned differences found in the music that he shares a different vantage point on his work.
Timings suggest tempo and, in the case of Glass’s music, tempo fluctuations. “Mad Rush,” a work that many pianists have interpreted, here appears like it is being created before the listeners’ ear, lasting a few minutes longer than the previous recording, with a sense of suppleness that belies the motoric fashion many adopt when playing it. “Opening” has a pulsation to the ostinato patterns that shimmers, different voices accentuated in the texture to create a gesture akin to windmills instead of, again, motors.
Four of the “Metamorphosis” movements are programmed. Here, there is a positively Romantic ambience that in “Metamorphosis 1” recalls the shifting appearances of Schumann’s “Papillon.” “Metamorphosis 2” has soaring high melodies like those of Chopin, while thunderous bass, modal mixture, and hemiola give a Brahmsian cast to “Metamorphosis 3.” “Metamorphosis 5” is girded with chromaticism of a Lisztian variety.
“Truman Sleeps” is one of the most memorable sections of Glass’s score for The Truman Show. Here, he builds from a delicate, rubato opening to virile verticals and a gripping, arcing melody. The piece’s coda moves the material down to the bass register, its chord progression both eminently memorable and vintage Glass.
On Sunday, March 24, 2024 the Pasadena Conservatory of Music presented the second in this season’s Wicked GOAT concert series of Contemporary Music for Young People. The concert is free to the Conservatory community and every seat in Barrett Hall was filled with eager faces and proud parents. The theme for this occasion was Stories and a stellar group of Los Angeles-based performers were on hand to bring four new music compositions to life, including a world premiere. Sopranos Hila Plitmann and Elissa Johnston brought their extraordinary voices to the stage, and this was the first Wicked GOAT concert to include vocalists. Alyssa Park and Timothy Loo of the Lyris Quartet accompanied, along with Brian Walsh of Brightwork New Music and Conservatory piano faculty members Nic Gerpe and Katelyn Vahala. Jane Kaczmarek contributed her excellent narration for the final piece. Three of the composers were in attendance and gave introductory remarks in person and the fourth, Paul Moravec, addressed the audience via video.
First on the program was a world premiere, The Poetry of Nature (2020), by Gernot Wolfgang. Wolfgang noted that he composed this during the long months of Covid isolation and that for him, nature is a religious experience that starts three miles from the trail head. The piece is a cycle of four songs about nature with texts taken from well-known poets and sung by noted soprano Hila Plitmann, accompanied by pianist Nic Gerpe. Daylight and Moonlight, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was first, and this began with strong piano chords and soft vocals. Hila Plitmann’s pure tone and clear diction perfectly fit the direct language and thoughtful images of the Longfellow poem. The text was displayed on a large screen while Ms. Plitmann’s supple voice allowed the words to comfortably fill the performance space at all dynamic levels. The haunting and elegant feeling of this music made for an effective portrayal of moonlight and daylight.
The next song was based on Blue Butterfly Day, by Robert Frost. This opened with a series of rapid, fluttering figures on the piano and solid vocals, all in a good balance. Ms. Plitmann’s voice was effective over an extended range and demonstrated a carefully controlled intensity at all pitches. More impressive, perhaps, was the fact that she sang the entire song cycle from memory. Rumors from an Aeolian Harp, by Henry David Thoreau, followed. This was quiet, cautious music at first, reserved and introspective. A strong soprano passage reached up to the back row of the hall, confirming Plitmann’s extraordinary vocal skill and control. As the piece proceeded, it alternated between soft and forceful, always with just the right amount of power from the vocalist.
The final song of the work was based on Afternoon Upon a Hill, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. This was upbeat and full of motion with many changes to dynamics and tempo in the piano line. The brightly expressive feel was nicely captured by the fine coordination between Gerpe and Plitmann. A quietly effective ending brought this piece to a close. The Poetry of Nature is a solidly contemporary piece, yet accessible to all audiences.
The second work on the concert program was Three Folk Songs (2016) by Gabrielle Rosse and this was performed by soprano Elissa Johnston accompanied by Katelyn Vahala of the Conservatory piano faculty. The texts were drawn from traditional folk songs, the first being Black is the Color followed by Pretty Little Horses. Black is the Color opened with slow, dark piano chords that created a dramatic setting. The soprano vocals were very expressive, aided by the rich fullness of Ms. Johnston’s voice. The words floated out to the audience with a lush warmness that provided a strong foundation for the easygoing melody. When called for, Ms. Johnston could summon a powerful sound with good dynamic range, but the warmth in her voice always came through in the music. As the piece proceeded, there were often changes from quiet to strong but these were skillfully navigated and always under control.
The second piece, Pretty Little Horses, was quiet and almost like a lullaby. The haunting feel of this piece was delivered with careful attention to nuance and detail. Rosa de Sal (2020), by Reena Esmail, followed, and this was also performed by Johnston and Vahala. The text was by the poet Pablo Neruda and sung in Spanish. The piece opened with a quiet piano figure as the soprano entered in a low voice. The piano moved to a smoothly active line, adding a sense of drama. The vocals followed the accompaniment with beautiful singing and a soaring passage that filled the space with a robust sound. As the piece proceeded, the dynamics often changed between loud and soft with Ms. Johnston in complete control. All of the vocal music in this concert struck a fine balance between contemporary abstraction and accessibility for the listening audience.
The final work in the program was the Pulitzer Prize-winning Tempest Fantasy (2003), by Paul Moravec. This was an instrumental piece scored for piano, violin, cello, and clarinets with Nic Gerpe returning to the piano. There were five movements in all, a meditation on the characters of The Tempest, by William Shakespeare. Before the various movements were presented, Jane Kaczmarek’s brief narrations were invaluable for establishing an Elizabethan ambiance. The words were delivered without a microphone, but her rendering of the Shakespearean texts was clearly understood, even in the far upper reaches of the audience.
Of all the pieces on the program, Tempest Fantasy was easily the most intense. “Ariel”, the first movement, set the pace with a fast tempo, broken rhythms and an energetic feel. Only masterful coordination among the players kept this piece on track, and a nice groove soon developed. “Prospero”, movement II, was in sharp contrast with long, sustained tones and languid harmonies. An expressive violin solo rising above the texture, inviting a questioning feel. A steady tutti section towards the finish proved darkly dramatic. The sense of mystery deepened in “Caliban”, movement III, with Brian Walsh’s bass clarinet adding a brilliantly sinister touch. Violin and cello combined in a halting melody that featured excellent coordination between the players. As the tempo and complexity increased, all the players joined in a purposeful tutti section at the finish.
Movement IV, “Sweet Airs”, was just that with quiet piano chords underneath a lovely violin solo by Alyssa Park. The other instruments joined in to create a fullness that was introspective and almost nostalgic. The dynamics rose and the rhythms became more active, only to fall back to a slow and graceful finish. “Fantasia”, movement V, was the rousing climax to the work and this opened with rapid piano passages. The cello and clarinet soon joined in, adding to the excitement, and a smooth, declarative violin line arced over the active texture below. As the piece progressed, the rhythms seemed to deconstruct into separate, broken lines that further increased the choppiness. At one point, Timothy Loo could be seen almost jumping out of his chair in an attempt to keep his cello in the mix. The intensity increased before falling back, and then increased again just before the finish. The “Fantasia” movement was quite a ride and put an exclamation mark on Tempest Fantasy.
Afterwards, a group of Conservatory students skillfully performed covers of popular music during the post-concert reception held in the assembly hall. The Wicked GOAT concert series is becoming a fine tradition for the Pasadena community and continues to facilitate the appreciation of new music to a growing audience. Altogether it was a good way to spend a rainy afternoon.
If you’re up for seeing Maestro, Bradley Cooper’s much-heralded Leonard Bernstein biopic, then try to do it now, in a movie theater, before it gets remanded permanently to Netflix. The big-screen experience is worth it, for reasons I’ll get to momentarily. But let me preface this by noting that—as was the case with Todd Field’s Tár—the last place to look for cogent analysis of Maestro as a film is the throng of classical music professionals offering strong opinions about its errors and omissions. Maestro—again like Tár—is permeated by music but is not primarily about music. It’s ultimately a Hollywood love story about a historical figure, like Oppenheimer without the hearing scenes.
Maestro begins with a short prologue featuring an elderly Bernstein seated at a living-room piano. As a camera crew looks on, he plunks out sparse, bitter music that he reads from a handwritten score, before confessing how much he misses his late wife Felicia (née Felicia María Cohn Montealegre). Although not acknowledged in the dialogue, the music comes from Bernstein’s late opera A Quiet Place, a distended portrait of a dysfunctional family, including an estranged gay son whose mother has just died.
Lenny debuts at Carnegie Hall
The story then commences in earnest with a flashback to 1943 and the fateful early-morning phone call informing Bernstein that his services as the New York Philharmonic’s backup conductor would be required that afternoon. The tableau is striking: a groggy Bernstein grasping a telephone in a dark room faintly illuminated by slivers of light leaking past an enormous curtain that resembles a proscenium drape but turns out to be an apartment window. When Lenny leaps out of bed, we see that it’s shared by another young man (later identified as David Oppenheim, a clarinetist who went on to head Columbia Masterworks). Lenny rushes down the hallway which transforms into the wings of Carnegie Hall, from which the nascent superstar emerges onstage for his triumphant, nationally-broadcast debut.
Young black-and-white Lenny (Bradley Cooper) and Felicia (Carey Mulligan)
Soon we’re at the 1946 piano party where he and Felicia meet. With Lenny’s bedroom habits already revealed, the film now enlists the tension between his sexual dependence on men and his emotional dependence on women as the primary driver of the ensuing drama.1 The performative nature of the couple’s future lives is prophesied in a flirtatious vignette where Felicia—an actress by trade, who’s later shown filming Walton’s Façade for CBS—leads Lenny to an empty theater where the two sweethearts reenact a love scene from a play.
The events of the 1940s and 50s are depicted with black-and-white imagery shot in the 4:3 aspect ratio of the classic Edison rectangle. As the narrative advances through the 60s and 70s, the clothes and hairstyles change accordingly, but so does the cinematography, evolving to color and then widescreen photography by the end. The impact is greatest when seen projected in a large theater, but you can sample the effect at a more modest scale in the film’s trailer.
Middle-aged color Lenny
Along the way, we encounter Mahler (Cooper’s widely-seen reenactment of the 1973 Resurrection Symphony at Ely Cathedral), Lenny’s agonizing choice between a career in musical theater versus becoming “the first great American conductor”, his and Felicia’s extramarital dalliances with men, and Felicia’s death from cancer in 1978. A poignant moment comes during a period of estrangement from his family when a bearded, disheveled Lenny introduces Shostakovich’s gloomy 14th Symphony at an open rehearsal as a plea for aging artists to act and create as authentically as possible. Afterwards, we see him drinking, smoking and snorting cocaine with several men. Ironically, neither Shostakovich, trapped in the yoke of Soviet totalitarianism, nor Bernstein, trapped in the closet of sexual politics, were ever able to live their lives truly openly.
Cooper’s portrayal of Bernstein has been aptly praised: a genuine tour-de-force, the result of six years of dedicated study and practice (and up to five hours a day in makeup and prosthetic nose prep). So impeccably does Cooper capture the mannerisms of his subject that archival footage of the real maestro can be inserted over the end credits with no loss of continuity. His counterpart Carey Mulligan is less impressive, giggling too much as young Felicia while adopting a stiff actor’s English as middle-aged Felicia. But her character admittedly presents fewer opportunities for range or development. Among the other cast members, Sarah Silverman stands out as an inspired choice to play Lenny’s snarky sister Shirley.
Also noteworthy—and easier to appreciate in a theater equipped with Dolby Atmos—is the audio production skill on display here. All of Maestro‘s dialog was captured in real time during filming. Even the musical performances were recorded live, not pantomimed, as evinced by the exaggerated “conductorial” bow strokes seen from the concertmaster in the Ely Cathedral scene. It wasn’t that long ago that extensive ADR, pre- and post-recording, and Foley artistry would have been required to deliver these results.
“Listen, there’s something you might wanna know about my brother…”
I would have appreciated more glimpses of Bernstein the craftsman. The penultimate scene, in which the widowed master critiques a conducting student’s gestures during a fermata in the first movement of Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony,2 is a rare occasion where the technique of rehearsing an orchestra is deftly depicted (Yannick Nézet-Séguin was one of Cooper’s advisors on the project). At a disco party that evening, Lenny aggressively flirts with the male student as the young crowd dances to Tears for Fears’ Shout, an allusion to the indiscretions that plagued Bernstein once he no longer had someone in his life to tell him “no”. The film mercifully declines to linger on this however, returning quickly to the scene of the suburban prologue before giving the last, silent, word to the image of a healthy Felicia, the bereft maestro’s quondam muse.
Old widescreen Lenny
The inauspicious track record of composer biopics tempers one’s expectations for a film like Maestro, even as its craft and realism evince a quantum leap from the likes of The Music Lovers and Un grand amour de Beethoven. Beginning as it does with the quote “A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them”, it’s perhaps disheartening that when either Lenny or Felicia asks “Any questions?” in Maestro, they’re met with silence from their audience. Aside from Amadeus—which of course isn’t a true biopic—films of this genre have had trouble captivating viewers who are not already fascinated by their subject. But in its willingness to embrace the complexity and imperfections in its central characters, Maestro succeeds better than most in conveying an insight into the dilemmas and contradictions that have burdened many a creative genius.
Bernstein’s friend Shirley Rhoads Perle said in an interview that she felt he “required men sexually and women emotionally”. ↩︎
“You’re ritarding into the fermata…what happens afterwards? What are you going to do? ‘cause they don’t know. You gonna bleed out of it? Are you gonna drip out of it? …Leak out of it, that’s what it sounds like…”↩︎
Just before the NY Philharmonic concert began playing Turangalila by Olivier Messiaen at David Geffen Hall on Saturday, the stranger sitting next to me asked if I thought he would like it. I told him it’s very different and very thrilling. Just keep an open mind.
For classical music enthusiasts of a certain ilk, a performance of Turangalila is a hotly anticipated special occasion. It doesn’t get performed all that often, perhaps because it requires additional personnel on stage (ten percussionists!), it takes up an entire program, AND you have to find an ondes martenot (an early 20th century electronic instrument) and someone to play it. Although it was written nearly 80 years ago, it still sounds radical.
Hearing the Philharmonic perform the 80 minute piece, led by Jaap van Zweden with pianist Jean-Yves Thibaudet and Cynthia Millar playing ondes martenot, was indeed a thrill. The music is full of contrasts, which the Philharmonic’s musicians brought out well. Sweet winds, acerbic brass, sharply staccato percussion and thunderous tympani. And that was just in the Introduction, the first of ten movements. By the end of Turangalila II, the seventh section, the ensemble was whipped into a frenzy, the music resolving into a massive major chord in a flourish of brass, strings and winds. Throughout the work, every section of the orchestra was used to maximum potential, practically a concerto for orchestra.
During the long and wildly enthusiastic ovation, the gentleman next to me turned to me and said he liked it! He described it as Holst fighting against Stravinsky, with Bartok poking at them. That sounded pretty accurate to me.
After the performance, I lingered in Geffen Hall’s lobby, sipping a cappuccino and admiring the sizeable crowd in a post-concert schmooze – a new experience since the recent renovation now boasted a comfortable space with generous seating and a cash bar that was still open after the concert.
Gamelan Dharma Swara at Lincoln Center (credit Gail Wein)
Next, I planned to attend the Philharmonic’s “Nightcap” concert, scheduled for 10:30 pm in the Sidewalk Studio, an intimate space created during the 2022 renovation of the building. Performing in this small space was Gamelan Dhamra Swara, a New York-based Balinese gamelan ensemble. The musicians gathered around two dozen gendèr (Indonesian xylophones), with four suling (flute) players and a couple of performers at drums and gongs. From the first rhythmic clanks of metal on metal, I was taken back to 2010, when I travelled with group to Bali (and filed this report on NPR).
It’s a lot of noise for the small space, and the sound of the percussion was loud and visceral. Once I got past the ear-pounding volume, the effect was mesmerizing. Through several selections, some modern, some traditional, the group showed off its musical mettle, along with performances by two dancers clad in ornate traditional costumes. Through the floor to ceiling windows looking out over Broadway, I could see passersby stopping to listen, gaze over the line of taxis on the street and hear the sirens of the inevitable emergency vehicles.
NEscapes Records has released Cloud Atlas Symphony, by Gene Pritsker, performed by the MDR Leipzig Radio Symphony and choir, conducted by Kristjan Jarvi. Some ten years in the making and based on music from the film ‘Cloud Atlas’ by Tom Tykwer, Jonny Klimek and Reinhold Heil, Cloud Atlas Symphony is a re-imagining of the film music into the wider context of a contemporary symphonic performance. As the composer writes in the liner notes: “I wrote this symphony because I was inspired by this story, by this movie and by a new concept of taking music, that was created specifically for film, and re-interpreting in a more abstract symphonic context. Putting some of this material into the more conceptual world of a symphony.”
Gene Pritsker has been a presence on the new music scene for many years as the founder of Sound Liberation and the Co-Director of Composers Concordance. He has written over 800 compositions and has a busy performance schedule in the US and in Europe. His work is not limited by genre or category and often crosses boundaries. Pritsker is at home with mostly smaller ensembles, but has also written chamber works and pieces for larger musical forces. Cloud Atlas Symphony, although owing much to the original film score, clearly qualifies as one of his more ambitious projects.
The first movement, “Evolving”, is typical of the entire symphony. All of the orchestra sections participate, often in layered phrasing and with strong dynamics. The brass and percussion are featured in an opening full of warning and premonition. As the tempo increases, great masses of sound build up, leading to a climatic cymbal crash. The woodwinds then enter with short, active cells while sustained notes in the brass echo the opening. There is a grand feeling to all of this; a majestic portrayal of nature expressed in the formation of high cloud banks. The texture ebbs and flows as different sections of the orchestra enter and exit, and this produces an active sense of evolution. Clouds are portrayed here as serious weather, never angry or menacing, but possessing a raw, untamed power. The orchestration is forthright and muscular, with gestures reminiscent of the first movement of David Diamond’s Symphony No. 1.
“Meditation”, the second movement, retains the same general form but is much more subdued. Soft, calming strings open with a quiet, flowing feel, followed by an expressive violin solo. Tension is introduced with a slightly dissonant clarinet passage and the theme is picked up by the horn. There is some really lovely orchestration here resulting in a sweetly introspective feel. A lush symphonic palette is liberally employed and this is also the case for many of the other movements. Pritsker happily piles up the sounds as if he is afraid of losing them for lack of use, but always with a good sense of color and balance. The playing by the Leipzig Radio Symphony is controlled and precise throughout.
“March”, the sixth movement, opens with slow piano chords in foreground against sustained strings underneath. This has an introspective, nostalgic feeling and the piano leads with declarative phrases in simple, spaced chords. At 2:31 the lower brass dominates with a series of long soaring lines. Woodwinds are above in staccato counterpoint and this leads to a more purposeful feeling, as in a slow but resolute march. This piece starts quietly and builds continually into a final statement from the brass that is full of power and triumph at the finish.
Some movements betray a more experimental influence. “Groove Travelers”, for example, has a distinctly percussive nature with gruff rhythms dominating in the foreground. Other movements are variously mysterious, dramatic, nostalgic or purposeful – all artfully add to the overall cloud portraiture. Capturing the variations of ever-changing cloud formations is a formidable task, both in film or in music. Cloud Atlas Symphony applies a full range of contemporary orchestral colors to create a vivid listening experience that convincingly evokes the majesty of clouds in nature.
A digital release of Cloud Atlas Symphony can be found here.
April the First proved a propitious date for the New York Classical Players’ much anticipated program featuring a new collaboration – and premiere – with the Parker Quartet. In the mere twelve years since their inception, NYCP has consistently brought spirit and devotion to so much of what they do, and this early Spring concert at W83 Auditorium was no exception. In many respects, the highlight of the evening was Jeremy Gill’s joyous new work, “Motherwhere,” a concerto grosso for the Parker Quartet and NYCP. But well-worn, oft’-loved music by Tchaikovsky was also on offer, delivered with great heart. And that is how the evening began:
Opening the program as soloist in the Andante Cantabile for cello and strings, Madeline Fayette, (NYCP’s own), commanded centerstage. Forthright, with an immediate brand of lyricism, Fayette radiated warmth from her cello, upheld by a muscularity of execution. Her global tone seemed born of a seductively dark palette. While lush and nourishing was Fayette’s romantic sense, the coloring became all too similar at times. One hankered for more variety in sonority, extracted from the piano end of the dynamic spectrum. Brighter hues too, would have enhanced an admittedly emotionally satisfying reading. Conductor Dongmin Kim guided the chamber orchestra deftly, ever sensitive to Fayette’s richly etched lines. Notably, Tchaikovsky’s moments of silence were realized expertly by Fayette, aided again by the orchestra’s soft touch. At times it seemed as though conductor Kim was a little too aloof and might well have taken opportunity to invigorate the proceedings with contrasting textures and inner accompaniment parts, especially from the upper strings.
Photo credit: New York Classical Players
From the start, it was apparent that NYCP has an affinity for Tchaikovsky and such canonic works remain a hallmark of their repertoire. The second Tchaikovsky item on the program was the irresistible Serenade for Strings of 1880. It can easily be observed that the New York Classical Players straddle two worlds: that of a high-level ensemble who don’t really need a conductor, and that of the effortless sinfonietta who follow their leader with attentive skill and palpable delight. NYCP’s performance of the Serenade threw both spheres into sharp relief.
From the outset of Movement 1, this “Pezzo in forma di sonatina” bristled forth with an excess of springtide energy and conviction. Every single player was committed to the sum of the parts and proved adept at sweeping, upsprung passages. The full-blooded fortes were ever impressive, generous in their tonal production. The orchestra seemed less able to dig into the finer work of textural detail and soft timbres; refined aspects of blending were, at times, problematic. Nevertheless, moments of delicacy and whispered tunefulness were gloriously realized in the third movement, the Élégie.
In what has come to be earmarked as a personal work from Tchaikovsky, the Serenade’s folksy tendencies were cleverly enlightened by NYCP. At times, the spirit of Dvorak came to mind, as dance elements and rhythmic physicality were exemplified by the orchestra, flattering much of the performance. Kim’s conducting was precise and encouraging yet missed the larger picture. A “bird’s eye view” of this music would have been more satisfying.
A particularly memorable solo from the concert master nearly stole the show but it seemed to encourage the entire ensemble to really shoot for the top in the final movement, rhapsodically reaching every phrase with a breadth of expression. (This approach does prove effective – and often necessary! – in Tchaikovsky’s music.)
The evening’s premiere, Jeremy Gill’s Motherwhere, leapt to an earnest start, giving ample platform to the Parker Quartet’s myriad attributes. Vitality and playfulness abounded as this concerto grosso was set A-reveling, an ideal showcase for what the Parkers have become celebrated for. Characteristics of each of the four solo instruments (the concertino) bubbled happily to the fore, where divergent gestures narrated a candid mode of expression, integral and benevolent, perfectly suited to the musicians Gill so reveres. During a recent interview, the composer declared his affection for the Parker Quartet: “Writing for them is a joy, and I hope that joy is manifest in the notes I write for them.” He also emphasized his desire for “creating ideal environments in which ensembles can play and sound their best.” Motherwhere boasts eclectic source material, various in its own inspirations. Night School: A Reader for Grownups (2007) is a book of stories by author, Zsófia Bán. This was the starting point for Gill in an endeavor to “evoke, musically, the experience of reading her book.” The structure of Gill’s musical “metamorphosis” indicated itself, as he converted Bán’s “bag-of-tales” into a tightly wrought, nearly continuous set of twenty-one bagatelles. Self-proclaimed, this represents his objective to “match up the emotional evocations of the music and the tale.”
Composer Jeremy Gill; photo by Arielle Doneson
The Parker Quartet divine much from Gill’s 슬롯사이트 economy of means, transforming terse, even simple motives into a lingua franca for the listener to relish. Elements of familiarity are welcomed, as Gill’s sunny, near-hummable lines ring of truth and of beauty, distilled with a congenial dose of Americana. His carefully considered formal structures urge a dramatic, even theatrical, listening experience. Also finding folk aspects implicit to the string orchestra profile itself (cf. Tchaikovsky), Gill’s penchant for highlighting the concertino serves his purposes well; lower strings were especially punctuated. Some extended techniques proved effective throughout Motherwhere, often serving as percussive devices (ie. pizzicato, strumming and glissandi). The unison passages, while arresting, posed intonation challenges and became cumbersome, if not gritty.
Jeremy Gill’s vision of form, interaction and brightness of spirit must be thoroughly commended here. Through strength of artistic vision, technical expertise and familiarity with the commissioning ensemble, the composer has achieved a kind of cinematic, fictive musical world, jolly and inviting.
Equal enthusiasm for Zsófia Bán’s literary talent cannot be overstated. Indeed, her “bag-of-tales” might be requisite reading after this musical premiere. Bán herself mused on the “accidental encounter” that composer Gill had with her work. She likened it to “the clicking of two billiard balls on a global pool table.” And the entire performance at West 83rd Street, on this first April night in 2022, had that very air about it: a spirited, celebratory meeting of like-minded colleagues and friends. The specter of Antonio Vivaldi, with his ubiquitous provenance of “Spring,” saluted us too from on high.
NOTE: This concert review dates from a performance on Friday, April 1, 2022 at W83 Auditorium, New York
The Pasadena Conservatory of Music has recently produced The Vexations, a new YouTube video that is an overview of the life of Erik Satie as based on the novel by Caitlin Horrocks. Part of the Conservatory’s Musical Interludes series, this video features narration by actress Jane Kaczmarek in the role of Satie’s sister Louise, along with Nic Gerpe and Kathryn Eames performing on the piano. Filmed in the warm acoustic of Monk Space with a credible staging of Belle Époque Paris, The Vexations is an appealing and accessible way to a greater understanding of the life of Satie and his music.
Although a product of the late 19th century, Satie is rightly esteemed by those who follow new music in the 21st century. His place in the Paris avant-garde along with Debussy, Georges Auric, Louis Durey, Arthur Honegger, Germaine Tailleferre, Francis Poulenc and Darius Milhaud put Satie in strong musical company and his influence prefigured the development of minimalism and ambient music decades later. His contacts extended into literary circles as well as visual artists such as Picasso, Georges Braque, Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray and others. Financial success always seemed to elude Satie and he lived the iconic life of a poor artist, huddling in a rundown Paris flat. His centrality to the cultural currents in Paris at the turn of the 20th century and his colorful life make the story of Satie an excellent choice by the Pasadena Conservatory for a dramatic re-telling.
The Vexations opens in Satie’s darkened apartment after his death in 1925. Jane Kaczmarek as his sister Louise, quietly describes the clutter of the place: the composer’s collection of walking sticks, a stack of 86 handkerchiefs, six identical gray velvet suits, the battered piano and mountains of old newspapers. Ms. Kaczmarek sets the scene perfectly. The bare brick walls of Monk Space along and the dim lighting establishing at once the sense of eccentricity combined with poverty that marked Satie’s life. Louise describes how a copy of the score for Vexations is discovered inside a ruined grand piano that Satie had used as a sort of catch-all filing cabinet. The video cuts directly to what might be a cabaret after hours. A few minutes of Vexations is played by Nic Gerpe at the piano, marked by his customary sure touch. Louise then describes some of Satie’s early musical acquaintances and this is followed by Gnossiènne No. 1 (1893), and Debussy’s Estampes, “Pagodes”, both performed with great elegance by Kathryn Eames. This sets the pattern for the video: a narrative description of Satie’s life combined with appropriate musical interludes.
More history and music follow. Satie’s career as a long-time cabaret pianist is described by Louise and exemplified by Ragtime Parade, played by Kathryn Eames. His brief affair with artist’s model Suzanne Valadon is mentioned – Satie’s only love interest during a lifetime of confirmed bachelorhood. Nic Gerpe next plays Embryons desséchés, a trio of pieces about sea life, and dedicated to Ms. Valadon. An explanation of Satie’s idiosyncratic performance notes written on his scores is given by Louise, followed by the three movements of Sonatine bureaucratique, performed by Nic Gerpe at the piano. The sound quality in this video is excellent throughout, and the piano playing captures every nuance of the music.
An important historical perspective is given by Louise with a discussion of ‘Les Six’, a group of young composers who were attracted to Satie’s music later in his life. For Les Six, Satie’s music represented a return to practical simplicity and was a welcome counter to the heavy romanticism of the late 19th century. A generous series of musical examples from Les Six follows: Prélude by Georges Auric, Romance sans paroles by Louis Durey, Sarabande by Arthur Honegger, Mazurka by Darius Milhaud, Valse by Francis Poulenc and Pastorale by Germaine Tailleferre. All are expertly performed by Nic Gerpe and nicely illustrate how clearly Satie’s influence was felt.
The video concludes with Satie’s best known work Gymnopedie No. 1. Although written early in his career in 1888, Gymnopedie is the piece most associated with Erik Satie, and it perfectly captures the tranquil sensibility of late 19th century Europe before the horrors of the wars that were to come. The popularity of the piece has only increased with time, and fortunately did not spoil Satie’s independent outlook. Kathryn Eames plays Gymnopedie No. 1 with exactly the right languid restraint and careful articulation.
There is nothing more to add to the evaluation of Satie’s music – it belongs to the ages. The Vexations video is a carefully crafted vehicle that adds to the understanding of Satie’s life and increases the appreciation of his work. The combination of staging, narrative and music is perfectly proportioned to engage the listener so that the arc of Satie’s musical career is fully visible. With this excellent video, the Pasadena Conservatory has simultaneously enhanced its musical appreciation pedagogy and made Satie more accessible for the rest of us.
After a decade-long studio hiatus, Beth Gibbons steps from behind the curtains with a project that feels as organic as it does surprising. Organic because its integration is undeniable, and surprising only to those unfamiliar with her trajectory. The Portishead frontwoman has always been known for her intensity as singer and songwriter, navigating a range uncommon both within and without the scene to which she has been aligned. The darkly inflected splash of Portishead’s 1994 debut, Dummy, threw her and bandmates Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley into a drawer marked “Trip Hop,” a label that risked gessoing over the genre-defying shades of her vocal palette even as it gave listeners a viable canvas upon which to paint their appreciation. By 1997’s self-titled follow-up, strings had become a haunted theme of their sound, reaching ecstatic heights in such singles as “All Mine,” wherein Gibbons unleashed her soul through an emotional megaphone of fractured magnitude. All of this came to a head that same year when the band fronted a full orchestra at the Roseland Ballroom in New York City. The spirit of that concert seems to have planted a seed in the singer’s heart, easing her shift from a distance into the contemporary classical space of Henryk Górecki’s Symphony No. 3.
Those who grew up with the successful Nonesuch recording of this “Symphony of Sorrowful Songs,” featuring Dawn Upshaw and the London Sinfonietta under the baton of David Zinman, will have a thick cluster of brain cells to unravel in order to make room for yet another version, for since then a number of recordings, each with its merits, has appeared. Ewa Iżykowska’s on Dux (2017) arguably fills the finest diurnal cast, while Joanna Kozłowska’s on Decca (1995) is a close second for its cantata-leaning gradations. That said, and despite its muddy production, the Nonesuch blend of tempi and intimacy struck a profound chord with its 1992 release. For the present album we find ourselves in passionate redux. Given the current sociopolitical climate, when division has become the rule beyond exception, its immediacy is sure to ripple across the minds of new and familiar listeners alike. And if any conductor is worthy of ensuring that resonance, it’s Krzysztof Penderecki, here leading the Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra in a live recording from 2014. Whether or not you agree with the concept (Górecki’s family reportedly wanted nothing to do with the project, and even Björk once turned down an offer to sing the Third), it’s difficult to push against the candor therein.
Long before Gibbons breaks the ice of our expectations, however, the violins in the first movement cry out with vocal integrity, enlivened by Penderecki’s own compositional reckonings with tragedy. The pacing is compelling yet offers enough breathing room for the piano’s restorative metronome. Gibbons makes an arresting entrance, noticeably different from predecessors not only in her ability to cut heart strings by force of a mere syllable but also for being fed through a microphone, thus lending an otherworldly appeal. Yet despite the technological intervention, if not also because of it, her honesty cultivates shared vulnerability. In that respect, it’s worth reminding ourselves of the words she’s singing—all too easy to forget when the meaning of this music has faded in favor of an effect cherished by popular imagination. Knowing that this centuries-old lamentation of a mother to her son occupies the center of an orchestral palindrome like a relic encased in glass provides insight into the worldview of a composer whose love for God embraced every note.
The second movement is built around an inscription by an 18-year-old girl to her mother found on a Gestapo prison wall. Unlike the desperate cries of innocence and revenge that surround it, Górecki was moved by its prayerful bid for forgiveness, unfettered by talons of war. Gibbons approaches this text with a remarkable combination of mature and childlike impulses, navigating both sides of life in poetic truth as Penderecki wraps her in a cloak of empathy. Her effort to understand the nuances of a language not natively her own, taking on the trauma of its becoming, is obvious and translates through her bravery.
The third and final movement centers around a folk song dating back to the 15th century, in which the Virgin Mary begs to share her Son’s wounds on the cross. The sheer humanity Gibbons draws from these verses shows in the urgency of her delivery as she follows the score with fluid precision, at once floating over and entrenching herself in the orchestra’s insistent pulse. In the process, she illuminates the fear churning at the bottom of all faith and the moral resignation required to turn it into knowledge.
Górecki once said in an interview: “I do not choose my listeners.” And yet, there’s a sense in which his music seeks out listeners more than ever, binding to flesh and spirit as if to make up for his death in 2010. All the more appropriate, then, that this piece should resurface in the present decade, when its connotations of genocide and sacrifice might ring truer even to those who once treated this symphony as a pretty backdrop. We live in harsh times when excuses for ignoring history are thinner than ever, and when a piece like this deserves a reboot to examine its inspirations more deeply. For while the Symphony No. 3 has been read above all as a critique of the Holocaust, Górecki clearly wanted to keep the font of his most personal work untainted by the fingertips of politics. If anything, an overwhelming maternity, compounded by the fact that the composer lost his own mother at the age of two, prevails, lighting a humble candle—not a universal torch—that continues to burn in his absence.
This album and its accompanying film are scheduled for a March 2019 release on Domino.
We Who Walk Again
Ghost Ensemble
Indexical LP/Download
Since 2012, New York’s Ghost Ensemble has pursued a deep listening ethos that incorporates a range of repertoire, both pieces by ensemble members and works by composers such as David Bird, Kyle Gann, Giacinto Scelsi, and Gerard Grisey. Any ensemble in the US that references “deep listening” invariably is also interested in Deep Listening, the piece that evolved into a discipline and subsequent body of musical and theoretical work from sound artist Pauline Oliveros.
Since its inception Ghost Ensemble has been associated with Oliveros’ work, both her compositions and sound practices. It is fitting that We Who Walk Again, their debut recording, features the first studio recording of the Oliveros piece “Angels and Demons.” A text score from 1980, its primary guideline is as follows: “any sound that has been heard inwardly first may be made.” Players may take on the role of “Angels,” the meditation’s “guardian spirits,” or Demons, “individual spirits of creative genius;” they may also switch back and forth between roles. Here the piece manifests itself in an initial testing out period of slow individual tones that is gradually varied by means of timbre, density, and use of dissonance. Starting in the Feldman realm of spare pianissimo fragments, a long range crescendo shapes the piece. It is enabled by successively more penetrating held pitches, extended techniques, syncopated percussion, and an eventual blossoming of rangy melodic gestures. A belated denouement supplies a few furtive valedictions, but no dramatic close is supplied (nor does one seem necessary).
The group’s oboist Sky Macklay is also a composer on the rise, with a number of high profile performances and commissions to her credit. Macklay’s 60 Degree Mirrors revels in extended techniques available to winds. Her command of multiphonics and microtones on the oboe is prodigious and she gives flutist Martha Cargo a detailed part as well. The piece also has spectral roots, with shimmering overtones, particularly “crunchy” upper partials, demonstrating an edgier side of the “deep listening” continuum. 60 Degree Mirrors is not just technically sophisticated; it has considerable dramatic heft and proves to be a thrilling listen.
Ghost Ensemble founder, accordionist and composer Ben Richter, provides the recording’s other piece, Wind People. More than double the length of the Macklay and Oliveros performances, it affords the group the opportunity to stretch out and engage in the shaping of a larger arc. Long glissandos played by bassist James Ilgenfritz provide a particularly resonant touchstone, and similar sliding tones from violist Hannah Levinson and cellist Maria Hadge underscore its structural character. Meanwhile, the winds explore all manner of overtones, sometimes punctuating the proceedings with held pitches appearing in contrast to the yawning slides, at others engaging in pitch bends of their own. Percussionists Chris Nappi and Damon Loren Baker provide under-girding drums, subtle yet insistent. Richter and harpist Lucia Helen Stavros sometimes pepper the texture with melodic gestures, but more often are the harmonic “middle” that sustains the fabric of the piece. Over time, sustain becomes a powerful force traversing all instruments and registers, and sumptuous overtone chords saturate the work. A coda provides a long diminuendo in which overtones fade into thrumming drums, drones, and string glissandos. Wind Music is a well-crafted and eloquent work.
Of Wind Music, Richter says that he sought to “draw a sense of peace and comfort from our smallness, transience, and fragility in the face of an overwhelming immensity, the music mirroring the constant ebb and flow visible when zooming in or out to quantum or geological time.”
Amid today’s tumult, drawing peace and comfort from deep listening is a worthy goal, one that Ghost Ensemble appears poised to attain often.
David Lang’s symphony without a hero received its premiere on February 8/10 by its commissioner, Seattle Symphony and Music Director Ludovic Morlot. As usual, Lang spells his title in all lowercase letters, a gesture of acquiescence that particularly befits the resigned tone of this work’s namesake, Poem Without a Hero by the Soviet writer Anna Akhmatova. Lang, who is quite the Russophile, took his inspiration from Akhmatova’s wartime lament for her hometown Leningrad (St. Petersburg), besieged and abused at the hands of both Nazis and Stalinists. Lang’s reflections present as a single-movement essay that, regardless of one’s feelings toward postminimalism or orchestral composition in general at this stage of the 21st century, surely deserves to be ranked among his most compelling works.
Lang conceived symphony without a hero as the unfolding of “a melody that goes from the beginning of the piece to the very end—a 28 minute tune”. This melody, closer to 23 minutes at Morlot’s tempo, lies in the bass instruments: a gruff pseudo-ostinato that constantly tries to climb a C♯ minor triad (C♯ G♯ C♯ E) without ever literally repeating itself. It’s somewhere between a “real” tune and a clumsily-executed arpeggio exercise (imagine the fragmentary musical gestures of The Little Match Girl Passion, but louder and harsher). Above it the high strings, coupled with other treble instruments, spin a tonally ambiguous web of overlapping sustained tones derived from the bass tune, creating an effect akin to the angelic choir atop Ives’ texture in the Prelude to his Fourth Symphony. There’s little going on in the middle registers—it’s as though each instrument is compelled to choose between bass and treble. As Lang puts it, the two sides “don’t talk to each other”.
As from a tower that commands the view From nineteen-forth I look down. As if I bid farewell anew To what I long since bade farewell, As if I paused to cross myself And enter dark vaults underground.
(1941, Leningrad under siege)
– Anna Akhmatova, translated by Nancy K. Anderson
David Lang (photo: Dacia Clay/Second Inversion)
Lang has spoken about being led into composition through his early encounters with Shostakovich. And the tone of his symphony is akin to Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony shorn of its triumphalism and cumulative effect. I kept thinking of that piece’s notorious first movement, but with its melodic and harmonic details blasted away, leaving just the repetitive martial rhythms as symbolic foundations to the bombed-out buildings of wartime Leningrad whose smoldering shells remain but whose trappings of life have been pulverized and left to circulate as a disorganized cloud in the smoky air. As if to reinforce the siege metaphor, Morlot positioned the drums at the left of the orchestra with the lower strings and brass on the right, effectively enveloping the jumbled and pleading voices of the treble choir. There’s definitely an edge to this music that you don’t always get with Lang.
Halfway through the symphony the quasi-ostinato stops, leaving the web of treble instruments standing alone. Most prominent here are the violins, supported by some high woodwinds, harps and a celeste. The bass reenters, but now with an alternation of sustained chords a half-step apart, reminiscent of Philip Glass (for whom Lang once worked as a copyist, meticulously typing the lyrics of Akhnaten into the score). As before, bass and treble proceed independently until the bass finally drops out entirely, leaving the violins (just as in Ives’ Symphony) with the last word.
To complete the evening Morlot paired Lang’s symphony with its putative opposite, Strauss’ Ein Heldenleben (A Hero’s Life) from 1898. The antebellum naiveté of that old warhorse has long screamed out for revisionism, and programming it after the brutal honesty of the Lang only seemed to emphasize its insouciance. If there was a moral to the evening, it was that true heroes are the ones bearing hard witness to bitter truths. In that light we can be grateful for Seattle Symphony’s long record of supporting contemporary music, a record that one hopes will continue despite the imminent departure of both its Music Director Morlot and its President/CEO Simon Woods.
