jonforshee's Xanga

Monday, October 17, 2005

Mon, 17 Oct 2005 15:03:01 GMT

Paul Hindemith
Cardillac
L´Opera Bastille
28-09-2005

It must nearly be a cliché that ‘Hindemith’s genius for opera is largely unrecognized’ because for sure I’ve heard and read versions of this statement for years; it was not until Kent Nagano’s direction of the Orechestre et Choeurs de l’Opera National de Paris for a performance of CARDILLAC at l’Opera Bastille that this cliché has ever stood to reason.

The story, synthesized by librettist Ferdinand Lion from E.T.A. Hoffmann and Otto Ludwig, is spectacle enough (even for Hoffmann). The setting and orchestration, however, throws down everything that an aficionado of Hindemith’s music loves, including a heaping of verve and bravado that an aficionado bent by habit towards Hindemith’s instrumental music does not often hear.

Remember too that CARDILLAC comes from 1926, four years after the immensely febrile Kammermusik Nr. 1...imagine that music with four years of polish and there is something close to the imagination which unsprung CARDILLAC.

But the particularities of individual experience during ONE duration of ONE orientation toward ONE piece of music crowd in, especially in this case: currently and recently pre-occupied with several of Benjamin Boretz’ texts from the ‘70s (“In Quest of the Rhythmic Genius”, “Musical Cosmology”, “Composing with Electronics”, “what lingers on…” et al.), enwrapt in the atmosphere of the opera house (and Paris), and newly re-engaged with personally practical contrapuntal considerations, the 1 _-hour listening situation of CARDILLAC poured through several refractive conceptual lenses.

Make no mistake: these considerations are initiated by what Hindemith wrote, and no doubt would be, and would have been, different if oriented to music by another composer. But it remains, intense commitment to the listening experience in this experience called forth unexpected, though not necessarily un-invited, re-considerations of, for one, what was actually happening in the midst of this committed listening experience and, necessarily, in light of other present conceptual concerns? Intention is not in question here: I am here to see and listen to this performance of Hindemith’s CARDILLAC. What is in question is all of what is entailed in this intention; what are the internal co-incidences occurring while engaged with music, with this music?

Chronologically anatomizing mentally internal phenomena encouraged by the (frankly frontal) orientation to this Hindemith-engagement in light of the aforementioned conceptual filters yields no further insights than such as journalistic documentation may offer; rather, common zen savvy suggests that what is most often the case in such listening orientations is that orientation sui generis fuels the experience (in this case musical) toward an inertia closely super-musical: ignited by sensuously provocative earfuls of Hindemith the input/output nature of this listening reaches velocities close to outright distracting abstraction. Endemic to committed listening (though (perhaps) restricted to musics of committed interest) is the assured return to the aural engagement, suddenly and happily bereft of the aloft-floating fantasies incurred throughout.

And this is the case inside a listening to Hindemith’s CARDILLAC: throughout the unfolding plotlines, the “only Hindemith could do this” orchestrational and contrapuntal profiles, and the intersections of all of these, are the mental infusions, the inspirations that only the composer of this opera may (at this particular time) lay claim to.

Whatever one, at any time, may say about “lesser” musical thought and musical works, one may invariably say “at no time did I wonder what I was doing.”

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Thu, 21 Jul 2005 03:52:10 GMT

Treize Couleurs du Soleil Couchant by Tristan Murail

I have often wondered at why sunsets are always so momentously striking, how the colors of the sky during sunset seem so vibrant, and yet why, in painting, the colors of sunsets so often come off as, well, garish, nowhere near the real deal. I never gave this much thought, really, just noticed this was the case. (In fact, I chalked this discrepancy up to the fact that the sky is just so big, and that paintings can not come near encompassing the breadth of what we really see during sunset.) A few years ago I began spending a lot of time intently listening to the music of Gerard Grisey, Tristan Murail, and Horatio Radulescu, and got hooked for a while on Murail's “Treize Couleurs du Soleil Couchant”; reading his remarks on the piece I realized the discrepancy I had noted between sunsets and paintings of sunsets was addressed: It isn't the colors of the sunset in themselves that are so striking during a real sunset, but the ways in which the colors of the sunset changed over time. That this change was so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable drove the point home for me.

I mention this personal story because it addresses a true change in the ways in which I think about music, about writing music, and about interacting with music in general. This is important to me because through my upbringing and formal education, I had generally come to believe that a thing (be this a pitch, a set, a row) was that with which I should be concerned in writing music and being a musician. I wrote a lot of music thinking this way, and what's more analyzed a lot of music thinking this way. I found this to be a rigid, yet ingrained, way of thinking. To witness a fundamental shift in the ways in which I viewed and thought about music was not an easy or little thing for me; suddenly, thinking about sunsets and Murail, I began to think it wasn't things in and of themselves that truly interested me, but the relationships between things, and particularly the ways in which relationships between things change over time. Looking over what I've written I feel a little silly that such a shift in my thinking should come about in part because I think paintings of sunsets are usually so garish, but there is more to it than just this, I just don't quite know how to put it all down in words; for sure, that's a reason I write music scores more often than texts.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Fri, 15 Jul 2005 19:02:55 GMT

A PARAPHRASED LECTURETEXT ABOUT Benjamin Boretz' UN(-) :

[clears throat]

Outside there once was a Dragon, a Lady, a Knight, a Rose, a Stone, an Oboe, a Tooth, a Poet, and this was on an Island in an Ocean 10,000 years ago. Beneath the Island, Void; above the Tooth, Sky.

Such is the way of a sounding,

Such is the way of a speaking,

the way of that which is sought in order to sound a thinking:

Such is UN(-), a music for mystic orchestra.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Tue, 01 Mar 2005 04:25:13 GMT

Takacs Quartet, The Bartok Cycle

Carnegie Music Hall, Pittsburgh, PA

Takacs Quartet completed their second night playing through the Bartok quartets, the final concert featuring Quartets numbers 2, 4, and 6. The performance of each quartet (that is, 2, 4, and 6) was exciting and engaging in its own way...the 2nd was especially lyrical, with a decided focus on connecting, and extending, Bartok's long lines and evolving melodic-rhythmic phrases. The middle movement, Allegro molto capriccioso, was played with real belly-fire...the mid-section mute-passage entirely surprising, dramatic in the sudden dynamic shift. It's the last movement, though, that I'll remember most from Takacs' performance: gradual, ascendant, indeed, devoted. The quartet maintained a rigorous guidance to the development of the longe-range formal agenda of this movement. In particular, a point I hope to read about (or write about) is the way in which Bartok re-contextualizes what are, in other environments, nearly quotidian harmonic materials. What I mean is, there is a point in the grradual accumulative harmonic growth of the movement that, I am sure (and I intend to find out for sure) culminates in a major triad. "Major," sure, but it sure does'nt "sound" major, and it's certainly not functional in a tonal kind of way...Bartok makes something entirely new out of a basic, even common, material...the notes of this chord seem an inevitable conclusion of the novel pitch-structures.

The 4th quartet was equally thrilling, but here again it's the slow movement, the middle movement, the movement that showcases a profound cello solo, followed by solos from each of the members of the ensemble, each solo surrounded by an effervescent shimmering chord-spiral, never static, never quickly changing either. Of course, I hope to remember for a long time the performance of the 2nd and 4th movements...the pizzicato was riveting.

I came to a different, a new, understanding about the 6th quartet listening to Takacs....the main difference is my renewed perception of the last movement...gentle, longed-for.

Takacs Quartet:

Edward Dusinberre, violin; Karoly Schranz, violin; Roger Tapping, viola; Andras Fejer, cello.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Thu, 13 Jan 2005 16:29:42 GMT

        The Arditti Quartet concert at Carnegie Hall's Zankel Hall on December 4th was expectedly phenomenal. The program boasted (and was our biggest draw) Elliot Carter's (b. 1908) Quartet Nr. 5. Also dished up was Ligeti's (b. 1923) 3rd Quartet, Lachenmann's (b. 1935) 4th Quartet, and Nancarrow's (b. 1912) 3rd Quartet...(actual order: Nancarrow, Carter, Ligeti, Lachenmann).
        Little could be more difficult than giving a full assessment of the Carter; this chiliagonal work is topographically declamatory, engaging each instrument through the meticulous development of a series of unique sonic profiles. The first 2-3 minutes of the work suggest some possible teleologies of the opening gestures. The logic of the un-folding of these developments is not, to my ears at least, predictable, but logical nonetheless. I find this often in Carter's music: the extension, extrapolation, and embellishent of primary gestures, or 'motives', or 'situations' seem in retrospect quite reasonable, even inevitable, but often seem impossible to predict. When this occurs above a subjective threshold of frequency, it occurs to me that I don't "connect" with the work. The ability to acknowledge a lack of connection with a work, while still engaged with the music's internal activity and flow, seems to me a fundamental, and trying, development of listening.
        The Helmut Lachenmann, Quartet nr. 4, was remarkable, showcasing the composer's highly innovative regard of timbre and instrumental technique. One possible issue in music that is engineered with instruments' and performer's capabilities in mind (as Lachenmann's seems to me to be) arises when the listeners' attention to the flow of the work is directed, however unwittingly, to the special techniques employed. Happily, while Lachenmann borders (at times) on this edge, nowhere does his music become shallow or 'technique-driven.' Rather, the surface of his works is rich and variecolored, embracing all posibilities of the discourse rather than 'ecploiting' the virtuousities of the musicians. Does the music of Brian Ferneyhough fall into the exploitative camp?

Monday, December 27, 2004

Mon, 27 Dec 2004 08:05:52 GMT

This does'nt happen often lately, but I'm always pleased when it does. That is, when I come across a performance of a composition that I've never heard, but (perhaps) always thought I should know. In these instances, I find that I listen with a focus and dispersed-intention that I don't always achieve when listening...usually, I'm listening something, some hook or handle, or listening for what another has told me is useful to listen to...

        As I've said above, I also appreciate and anticipate those times when I'm listening without any mission or agenda, only to listen. The latest occassion for this kind of listening (for me) is Francis Thorne's Symphony Nr. 5. For some reason I have confused, (well, till now), Francis Thorne with Andrew Imbrie and (sometimes) with Irving Fine. Why do I do this? There is a particular harmonic glow that accompanies the music of these composers, and this glow is not dissimilar to that achieved by Walter Piston, Roy Harris, William Schuman, and even Carl Ruggles and Wallingford Riegger. I don't think, similarities notwithstanding, that I'll be confusing Thorne with these composers any longer.
        The Symphony Nr. 5 is compact in design, straightforward in execution, elegant linearly, and carefully wrought harmonically. My wont is here to write 'rugged', but this term, while appropriate, has become so far entwined with descriptions of Ruggles, and in a way that I find offensive, that in good conscience I can only mention the term in passing...more of a hint of how I found this piece on my listening.
        One train of thought that recurred to me over and over again was a train of thought that said to me: "that's a nice trumpet line; what a nice english horn solo!; ooh, Thorne wrote that picc. line very well..." and other things like that. As I consider why I think these isolated judgements, instead of, say, judgements about the phrase-rhythm of harmony, or about the cohesion of the formal design, etc., I began thinking of Plato's Thaetetus, and the discussion there about the relationship of parts to a whole, or totality. Why is it, with this piece, there are passages, textures, ideas, features of the work that I admire very much, and yet I'd probably listen to several other pieces before I return to this work and listen to it again.
        The facts: Thorne was born in 1922 in Bay Shore, New York. He did'nt work professionally as a musician until his early thirties when he quit his day job on Wall Street to play as House Pianist for some ritzy-sounding place on 52nd street. At some time he studied formally with Paul Hindemith at Yale, and also studied with David Diamond in Florence. The Symphony Nr. 5 dates from 1984, and the recording I have is with the composers orchestra...that's all that was on the burned cd...anyhow, it times in at about 24 minutes. The scherzo is great.