Posts Tagged music
Premieres of New Music…right here!
Normally, we don’t advertise individual concerts much here on Guidonian Hand. You, dear reader, could be anywhere when you’re reading this…well, maybe not anywhere. I’d say there are at least…four…no, five different places you could be right now. Anyway, we don’t mention these events because the chances are not good that you’re going to be near enough to stop by. Now, if you are capable of reading this sentence, you are capable of seeing a live performance of new music.
That’s right, tune in here on the blog, or over at UStream.tv for a live webcast of Premieres of New Music by Michigan State composers at 7:30pm EST tonight (Tues., 20 Oct, 2009). No signing up or logging in required either here or at Ustream!
We’d also love your feedback here in the MSU Composition Channel Chat, or on in the comments field on our UStream.tv page
Enjoy!
(NOTE: To watch the webcast, you’ll have to load this page AFTER we’ve started broadcasting. If it’s getting close to showtime, and you don’t see anything, try clicking your browser’s “refresh” button.)
Better Know a Sequenza (part 3)
In an effort to share the music of Luciano Berio with the world, we here at the Guidonian Hand bring you part two of our fourteen-part series, Better Know a Sequenza.
In this installment: My personal favorite of the cycle, Sequenza VII for oboe, and it’s alternate for soprano saxophone. VII is special for a couple of reasons. First, it is one of the handful of “alternate” sequenzas in the collection. It was originally written for oboe, but do to the nature of oboe literature (and the nature of oboists–ZING!), it’s more frequently performed on soprano saxophone as Sequenza VIIb. Additionally, VII is one of only two sequenzas (along with X for trumpet) that has a second “part.” Berio asks for a drone to sound on any instrument (or voice) throughout the work on the pitch B.
I’ve seen the work performed a few times, and I’ve heard of the drone being produced any number of ways: a digital tuner, a pre-recorded loop of the soloist, a group of other players, and even asking the audience to hum the B. Humming the B sounds cool, but I think I’d get tired of it by the sixth or seventh minute of the piece.
YouTube offers us many complete recordings of some very impressive performances of VIIb, but only a few excerpts of VII. Saxophone friends have told me that they have heard that Berio himself grew to prefer the piece played on soprano saxophone. However, in doing research on the piece, I was not able to corroborate this. Personally, I prefer it on oboe. Here are a few Sequenza VII videos.
First, we bring you the incomparable Alex Klein, principal oboe of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. You can hear the audience humming in this one.
This next video features another excerpt from the beginning section of the work. This time, the drone is being passed around a group of oboists.
Berio’s use of the drone is one of the things that first draws the listener in at the beginning of the piece. The soloist begins with a sharp, short B, and the audience initially hears the drone as an ethereal reverberation. The next half-minute or so is controlled by the soloist playing the same B with different fingerings to get slightly different timbres and tunings, and the drone is thoughtfully provided as a reference point to compare each new sound as it is introduced. Throughout most of the piece (leading up to the climax, near the “golden section”), the range of the oboe is gradually expanding in both directions from that B. The ending of the piece features some instrumental calisthenics and some timbral heroics, thanks to some really cool multiphonics. I like the bright, piercing quality of the oboe multiphonics, but the equally harsh, fuller-sounding multiphonics on the soprano saxophone are nice, too.
In conclusion we bring you a very thoughtful and enthusiastic performance of Sequenza VIIb played by Taimur Sullivan. Also, this one is the whole work, so you get to luxuriate in Berio’s formal design.
Guido, let’s put Sequenza VII up on the Big Board! The fightin’ VIIth!
Response aka I’m back (insert swear word)<— sorry about that.
Posted by Igor in Uncategorized on October 9th, 2009
I wanted to post something I thought was cool and then saw this discussion going on about music and meaning. I’ve been reading and thinking about this lately; I’m starting to go into sociological ideas about art. So I’ll add a couple of thoughts.
Well, I think one of the problems in discussing music and meaning is that the subject (the listener) and the object (the work) are often separated. If the music is not experienced by an individual, it can be said not to exist for him/her. It would be interesting to think about a piece of music very visible in a certain society that is not experienced by some person in that society. What would that dichotomy produce? I know that since I am unfamiliar with many of the musics you guys have grown up with here in the USA, I often feel no emotional or intellectual connection when those musics are discussed in a group. I feel I am “missing out” on something.
Since I have been living with Geoff, I have listened to a lot of hip hop, and he has been nice enough to explain to me what goes on in the music. Before coming to the US, hip hop was cool beats and video clips on tv. Now it is something more, and it isn’t necessarily political or social or anything of the sort. I have experienced hip hop in a culture where it is practiced. I have a way of understanding, of thinking about the music through labels, artist names, city names, club names. I guess it helped that the sounds interest me, but without knowledge (and I don’t mean academic labels and models) I would have tin ears – the music would be like a fascinating object I look at from a distance in a museum.
The first time, I watched Jon Stewart, I thought he was stupid. The way the person framed his work didn’t help (“it’s fake news”); his show is one of my favorites, three years later! Same reasons why that happened: watching it, understanding it, reading Stewart, talking to people about him, noticing how serious this guy is (or usually is) behind all the joking.
Another idea in an article I was reading about children’s music education is how music tends to provoke different reactions in people, some not related to music: beliefs, ideas, images. So, yes the music itself has no meaning, but that is of no use to me, like talking about a live human being only made up of a skeleton. John Dewey wrote that written/spoken language tends to dominate in society while itself not able to fully articulate other forms of perception. It is sometimes difficult to imagine how we perceive the world without putting linguistic labels on these stimuli because many of us have not been educated to do so. Nattiez’s quote from Geoff’s post says it better than I. Although I wonder what Geoff means when he writes that meaning is arbitrary in music. If it is that the same music has different meanings to different people, I agree. But I could counter and say that the musical relationships – which are meaningful because they involve agreement and disagreement, consonance and dissonance – in a fugue are intentional if I limit myself to observing the music.
Even the Threnody example… funny that you mentioned it Sam, because I remember thinking that there was no relationship to Hiroshima whatsoever the first time I heard it. Then I just convinced myself that it must have some emotional connection. On the other hand, what if it were called “A Sunny Afternoon in San Fransisco?” It wouldn’t make sense to me. It would be a joke or a comment. So there must be some direct connection between the title and the music in this case. I agree with Matt when he says that an evocative title could provide a reference (or entry) point for the listener, but I sometimes think titles coerce people into going a certain direction. So Beethoven’s 6th is all about storms and pastures because it is the Pastoral (while the first movement is an excellent example of abstract music derived from few motifs exposed at the start). On a little tangent, I have always thought if it would be possible to condition people to experience “happy” when exposed to music in a minor key.
Which brings in the article I am reading today. It mentions this anthropological theory by Gell that looks at art as an integral part of social relations. For example, when art is given as a gift, it anticipates a certain change in a social relationship, but at the same time, the object is changed in the process. Gell gives the example of a picture of a nude woman that was slashed by a feminist. Whatever the initial impetus that led to it’s painting, it’s “meaning” or “status,” what provoked her reaction, was different to the slasher. A less graphic example of how an artwork is changed is seen in Wagner’s work, used – or hijacked – by Hitler as an expression of anti-semitism. (I haven’t heard the operas, but Daniel Barenboim suggests that the Ring Cycle has no anti-semitism in it. Apparently, Wagner’s writings expose his anti-semitic views.) Even Stravinsky was dialoguing with himself and those around him at the time. True, minor chord does not equal teary face, but Stravinsky understood the world, fulfilled himself, expressed himself in musical terms. I don’t know if musical knowledge has an inherent utilitarian use, but it is a way of being and experiencing one’s surroundings. Through this process, objects become means to adapt and harmonize with the world; they acquire meaning. And so much for the myth of “original” meaning. No one can really know that. No one today can know what made Dave write his sax quartet. Heck, he might probably not know all the reasons behind his desire to write it!
There is another interesting example in the article about Gell’s theory used in today’s digital world. Hip hop beats that are popular in the US take months to get to Asia. When DJs in Asia become aware of them, they use them for the purposes of their societies, which is apparently why Asian hip hop is different. There is another article posted on Dr. Largey’s billboard about rap in China, how it adapts as an underground movement, how artists strive to use Chinese words and proverbs instead of English, how the groups stay under the government radar.
In Lebanon, I found out that Jon Stewart airs on cable tv every evening. My family watches him sometime. I wonder what it means to them? I remember watching it with my sister one night. I found out that I missed the US and hadn’t noticed how I missed the show itself after not having watched TV for a while. I knew something about the show, through experience, that my family couldn’t know. I felt that I somehow belonged to the culture of the show more than they do, even though they laughed along with Stewart. Even if the show is the same, what it means to an American, an immigrant, and a Lebanese who has never been to the US varies. And I am pretty sure that an Arabic adaptation of the show’s idea would feel different. That is how art is more visibly transformed as it is received by different people.
Now, what about older, traditional works? How are they changed with time? I’m thinking of one example, the use of period vs. modern instruments in performance and recording. Definitely, there is an ideology behind period-instrument performances, that of reproducing an “original” sound. (Heck, I could get picky even with this: how was it recorded, what venue, how many audience members, what were the acoustics like, what were the audience members wearing, what were they thinking about.) The scores are the same – or are they with all this stuff about Urtext vs. publisher/performer editions – but that doesn’t mean anything. Remember when I posted the stuff around school during my first year here, pissed off at classical musicians? I later watched the documentary about the Venezuelan Youth Orchestra and the system behind it. Criticize them all you want, but I remember thinking that I’d never post anything like that in Venezuela (nor in EL anymore. I’ve softened up a bit since). Beethoven means something different for these people there that makes them alive!
I guess what I am saying in a nutshell is that music is a part of culture and man’s activities.
Program notes for tonight’s performance…
I find one of the most difficult things a composer can be asked to do—right up there with starting a new piece and coming up with a title—is to write program notes for his or her music.
My teacher is trying to convince me that what my next piece really needs is some kind of extra-musical concept to tie it all together. A program, a story, a poem, an image, a character, a game, an object. I don’t buy such things. They’re fine for other people if they want to organize their thoughts, but I’ve never listened to Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring and thought to myself, “Hey, that sounds just like the rolling hills of West Virginia and parts of twelve other states.” Have you? I just got home from the premiere of my friend Matt Schoendorff’s wind ensemble piece The Standard Model, which is a set of character pieces inspired by the standard model of particle physics. It was an incredible piece, but never did I think to myself, “Wow, so that’s what the Higgs boson would sound like if it existed!” (+5 nerd points if you got my quantum physics joke). I think of music as a complete abstraction. There are exceptions, obvious among them are songs with words. But in general, I think the only thing music is “about” is music.
I have a piece being played by the incomparable h2 quartet on their program Thursday night at 6:00 in the MSU Music Auditorium. If I had a concept like Aaron’s or Matt’s program notes would still not be easy, but at least I’d have somewhere to start. Compounding my problem is the way I come up with titles. I write most of the piece, and then I think to myself, “You know, this kind of reminds me of …” and I come up with titles like Falling Up the Down Escalator and Inner/Outer Monologue (which for about a year, my mother thought was Inner/Outer Mongolia).
The first of those titles is the piece being played this week. I can’t say, “This piece is about some guy falling on an escalator that is moving down, but somehow he’s falling up it, against gravity.” I can’t say that because 1) It’s not true, and 2) It doesn’t really make much sense. Here’s the problem: if my music is as I posit, an abstraction, how can I write meaningfully about it in a program note? It’s not impossible, but it’s very very tricky. Considerations of audience are key. No one wants to read a theory paper in their concert program, not even a theorist. Also, you don’t want to spoil any surprises. My piece has a section (which for the sake of mystery, I will not name or describe) that I like to think of as a social experiment, but it wouldn’t really work if the audience knew it was coming.
Here’s what I came up with for the note. It’s short, but I think it’s solid:
Falling Up the Down Escalator was influenced by jazz, blues, and contemporary concert music. My hope is that the piece will reorient the listener’s concepts of what is musically “comfortable.” The piece presents musical ideas that are generally considered uncomfortable (groupings of 5 notes, for example) and uses them as though they are not, in some ways, inverting the senses of consonance and dissonance.
So, how do you feel about extra-musical concepts? What do you want to read in your program? Tell us in the comments!
You can write in any style you want. No, don’t write like that.
Not that long ago, composition teachers were primarily interested in developing students who would write music that sounded like theirs. If you went to study with a Serialist, you were expected to write serial music. With very rare exceptions, this is no longer the case. You can study with a minimalist composer and write aleatoric music if you want. In general, you can write in any “style” that you want.
I shall henceforth number my composition students in this blog to protect their anonymity. Student 4 came in last week with the beginnings of a piece. He had some very promising material. It had some of the typical fingerprints of a young composer: lots of material in short period of time, very busy. We talked about those issues, but the whole time we were doing that, I was trying to think of a way of saying, “You can write in any style you want. No, don’t write like that.”
The thing is, I don’t want him to write like me, I want him to write like him. However, I also want him to write something that’s a bit more harmonically adventurous. It was clear that this guy knew his theory, but there wasn’t anything in his tonal language that really grabbed me by the horns. I suppose this would have been ok if something else had grabbed me so.
One of my favorite teachers at Missouri once told us, “If you studied Beethoven really closely and learned to write music that sounded just like Beethoven, who would play your music instead of his, the original?” Or more colloquially, “Imagine a Rolling Stones cover band. They could practice all day and night and sound exactly like the Stones. They’d be a great bar band, but nobody would buy their CD when they could buy the same music by its originators.”
I told my student these two stories, the Parable of the Zealous Theorist and the Parable of the Bar Band. But as I told all of my students from the beginning, at the end of the day, I’m just the composition teacher. He’s the composer. He is ultimately responsible for the sounds in his music, and he is free to ignore any advice or suggestion that I give. We’ll see how the music looks next time.
[The much more experienced composer and pedagogue Kyle Gann presents his thoughts on similar issues in a recent post called "The Outside-One's-Ism Student" in his excellent blog, PostClassic]
News, Views, and a bit of Therapy for the Muse
Greetings Guidonians of Bloglandia! It has, indeed, been a good while since I posted anything here. The present is as good a time as any to rectify the situation. Much has happened between my cherry-popping freshman outing as a blogger and now. The biggest event, though, is that I am now a doctor of music composition. It’s a goal I have wanted to achieve ever since I was fifteen. I always thought how cool it would be to be able to put the “Dr.” title in front of my name. Granted, it is kinda cool. But it doesn’t really occupy a large part of my day-to-day thought processes (at least not after the first week or so of graduating), nor does it satisfy and fill any given void. So far, the biggest difference since graduating is that I miss being a grad student. I got good at that. REALLY good. Ah well, what is life if not constant change?
I’ll tell you what it is: an opportunity for shameless plugs! One great thing about being a doctor of composition is that the dissertation document is – *drum roll* – a composition! (Convenient, eh?) My document ended up being a three-movement set of character pieces for wind band based on the standard model in particle physics. Appropriately enough, I named it The Standard Model. If you are anywhere in the Lansing area on Tuesday, Sept. 29 at 7:30pm, please come by the Cobb Great Hall in the Wharton Center to hear the MSU Wind Symphony premiere it under the direction of Mr. Jamal Duncan. Jamal is a life-long friend of mine and one of the best musicians and conductors I know. It’s gonna be an awesome premiere! (shamless plug #1)
Anyway, reading the previous post (Dave MacDonald’s post regarding the teaching of composition) got me thinking. I had to address this very issue in a chapter I wrote for Composers on Composing for Band, Vol. 4. (shameless plug #2) Since I already had to give this a lot of consideration, I thought I’d take the opportunity to excerpt and paraphrase some of my own thoughts:
Admittedly, my experience in teaching composition is limited. While I still (and probably always will) consider myself a composition student, I have noticed a few stages that developing composers do go through. I went through these stages, and I am sure many fellow composers will recognize them as well. A good composition teacher will also recognize these different levels of development and approach students at these different stages appropriately. Young composers just starting out usually have a lot of enthusiasm, but not enough experience to optimize their enthusiasm. They should begin by learning the basics of music theory. Now, it is certainly true that great music can be written without a firm grasp of its inner workings. Sometimes people just have the gift. They can hear something in their head and find ways to translate it into notes on a page…and it will sound really good! But the rest of us mere mortals can benefit from knowing the tools of the trade.
I think of theory in the same way that a carpenter probably thinks of his hammer and screwdriver. True, you can build a shed without great knowledge of how to do so or even how to properly use a hammer and screwdriver. But it will be a long and frustrating process. Knowing the tools and how to use them provides shortcuts to finding exactly which harmonic progression, rhythm, orchestration, developmental technique, etc., will work best in a given situation. Young composers should study theory and do A LOT of listening and score study. Imitation of great music reveals what makes it great, and research does pay off in the long run.
The next stage of composition I dub the “sophomoric stage.” Basically, at this stage, the composer has had some success. He or She has discovered that, by writing down instructions in the form of music notation, people can play it, and the composer can hear the music come to life! It may sound obvious, but it’s a complete revelation the first few times it happens. It is easy for the composer to feel a little bit of power in “controlling” such a strong force as music, and a so-called god complex may develop. In other words, the composer’s train of thought will go something like this: “I am AWESOME! What do you do? You’re a biology major? Well, I am a COMPOSER! Yeah, take that.” I have noticed that this stage kicks in sometime in the later undergraduate years.
Then, the composer will reach graduate school and suddenly realize, “Wow…I have NO IDEA what I’m doing! Why didn’t anybody tell me this before?!?” (Chances are, somebody DID tell you, but you were too busy being the big fish in the little pond. You were just too damn full of yourself at the time to let the words of the wiser fish from the bigger lakes and oceans sink in.) Humility sets in. The composer realizes that to be the consummate musician s/he thought s/he was, there’s going to be
a lot of work and study and trial-and-error in the future. However, it is also during this period that the composer tends to develop an original voice and a unique style of composition.
Once the composer begins to develop this original voice and has a firm background and degree of experience in music theory and composition (ability to write a fugue and analyze a Beethoven piano sonata, for example), then this composer is best left to his/her own devices to follow individual paths of interest. At this point, the composer needs less instruction from a teacher. Rather, the teacher should become a wise and experienced sounding board (a “Yoda,” if I may…) for the composition student’s ideas, and make suggestions where appropriate to help focus the ideas. The composition teacher’s end goal should be to become obsolete. If, at some point, the composition student has outgrown instruction from a teacher, then the teacher has successfully trained the student.
Finally, how DOES a teacher deal with such an elusive subject as music composition? Honestly? I don’t know. Since the compositional decisions students may make are entirely dependent on the context of the medium, current project, etc., these decisions are rarely black-and-white wrong-or-right. Instead, they occupy a vast gray area of musical possibility that must be explored ultimately by the student. I liken it to therapy (bear with me here…). Consider the student as a patient with a pathological music composition “disorder.” The teacher is then the therapist guiding the student through the various obstacles within their own minds to help them complete a composition, thereby curing a specific set of neuroses. (Example: “So, <student>, you decided to address the rhythmic patterns that showed up in our earlier sessions. How does that make you feel?”)
I meant that as an analogy. But now that I reflect on that last paragraph, I’m not so sure…
Teaching what I know and what I don’t
This is my fourth year as a graduate teaching assistant here at Michigan State. Each year, I’ve gotten a different teaching assignment: freshman theory, sophomore theory, theory for non-majors, and now composition. I’m starting to get the theory teaching thing down, but composition is a very different animal.
I feel like composition is a thing I know how to do, but how do you teach someone to write music creatively? I have four students, all of whom I teach on the same day. A couple of weeks ago, we had our first lessons.
My first student is a very ambitious Ph.D. music education student who is also teaching grade school general music. He tells me in the first lesson that he wants to write an original musical for his first graders to sing and play based on Where the Wild Things Are. I have two nearly simultaneous thoughts: 1) That’s the coolest thing I’ve heard in a while, and it could be an amazing piece. 2) Holy crap. I don’t know anything about writing for 1st grade singers and Orff instruments. We talked about some of his plans, and I sent him away for the week to work.
Then, student two comes in. She would like to work on a sample-based electronic piece based on a character from Japanese manga. Again, two thoughts: 1) Could be another interesting piece. 2) She’d better know how to use whatever software she needs, because I won’t be able to help her with that at all. We talked about some of her ideas. I tried to sell her on interactive computer-based electronics; she didn’t want any of it. I tried to sell her on a visualization, since the manga is such a visual inspiration; I’m still waiting to see if she decides to tame that particular beast.
I went to lunch after these two lessons not knowing really what to think about my expertise in composition. Can I really help any of these composers even though I have next to no background in the media they are wanting to use? I suppose that remains to be seen. Updates to follow.
I’m confident that I can help them through some of the more general compositional and conceptual steps of their process, but I still worry that these two pieces may be missing that one thing that can take them to the next level because I didn’t know what to tell my students about filter sweeps and formant values. On the other hand, as a composition teacher (and not the composer of the works in question), is it really my job to tell these composers about such things? I’m still not sure. Here’s hoping these guys do a lot of listening.
Wandering in the Wilderness Vol. 2: The Sound of Silence
And the sign said,
“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence”
- from “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel
In this installment of WitW, I would like to discuss the use of silence as a compositional tool. I don’t mean short, dramatic uses, such as the GP commonly found in classical music, but significant spans of time devoted to silence for compositional reasons. To this end, we will explore three distinct approaches to silence by three different 20th/21st centuryAmerican composers. Any discussion of silence as a compositional device, of course must begin with John Cage’s 4′33″.
4′33″ is the infamous piece of silent music, whose entire score consists of three movements of indeterminate length, each marked “tacet” (the movements are traditionally, but not necessarily, marked off by the performer in some way). For Cage, any sound was music. He is quoted as saying that he would rather listen to the sounds of traffic than to the symphonies of Beethoven (I’m paraphrasing from memory, although I’m pretty sure that’s the essence of it). 4′33”, therefore, is a framing device. It sets a certain boundary, and says, “anything within this boundary is art, pay attention to it.” Consider the following images:

Some urinals
Both images are of urinals. The first, however, is found in an art gallery, while the second image is from a public restroom. While both objects are essentially similar, the context, or the framing, of these objects significantly impacts the way we think about these objects. With the first, we may think of questions like “Is this really art?” or “If I pee in this, where would the pee go?” or “Would I get arrested if I tried to pee in it?” or “Why did I let Ty drag me to this modern art museum?” With the second, this is a context in which we (at least those of us who are male) are used to encountering urinals, and little thought is given to them (with the exception of special rules which apply to public urinals). Anyways, back to John Cage. The brilliance of 4′33″ as a framing device is that any sounds that arise during these boundaries are unintentional, the sounds that are normally blocked out or ignored during “normal” performances. It provides a new context for listeners to consider sounds which would normally be dismissed.
While a recording of 4′33″ is not necessary (one only needs a stopwatch to perform the piece in the comforts of one’s own home), I couldn’t resist linking to this performance, which I find particularly compelling.
Another interesting use of silence is found in the music of Morton Feldman. Feldman once said that the most beautiful thing a sound ever does is decay. In his works, the textures are often very sparse, so that you can appreciate the sound in its entirety, decay and all. Feldman’s counterpart in the visual art world is Mark Rothko, who uses simple designs to invite the viewer to appreciate the subtleties of color and texture in the works. For an example of Feldman’s use of silence, check out this recording of “The King of Denmark” for solo percussionist:
In “The king of Denmark,” the sparse textures isolate individual sounds and allow the listener to appreciate their qualities more fully than they might in a more dense musical situation.
The final composer I will discuss in this post is Thomas DeLio. In addition to being an influential composer, DeLio is also one of the foremost scholars in contemporary music, with a special interest in the music of Morton Feldman, John Cage, and Iannis Xenakis. The most striking characteristic of DeLio’s music is his use of long periods of silence. In a few of his pieces, the total duration of the silences is greater than the total duration of the musical material. The reason for this is that DeLio approaches silences functionally in a way that is fundamentally different from that of Cage or Feldman. For Cage, silence was a framing device to invite the unintended; for Feldman, it was a blank canvas on which individual sound colors are accented. DeLio’s use, however, is to frustrate the listener’s memory. The natural tendency of listeners is to process sounds by putting them in the context of sounds which proceed and follow them. This is a natural process, and most music relies on this contextualization to create coherent musical ideas. DeLio, however, attempts to isolate musical material by use of silences, so that each sound or gesture can be appreciated individually. The listener hears a gesture, followed by a long span of silence, and by the time the next gesture occurs, the listener has forgotton what the preceding gesture had sounded like. This music can seem strange and even unsettling to the casual listener; such long spans of silence are very uncommon in music, and create a certain amount of tension between the audience and performer. To give you an example of DeLio’s music, here is a performance of this author performing DeLio’s wave/s for solo percussionist:
This concludes my look at three different composers and how they use silence in unique ways. I hope you have found this interesting and that it gives you another point of view as you approach contemporary music. See you next time, when we’ll explore…something. I don’t have a topic picked out, and I am open to suggestions. Peace.
I’m not above shameless self promotion.
(alternative title: Better Know a Contemporary Percussion Artist)
Over the next few weeks, I am going to be releasing videos of my recital onto Youtube, one video at a time, once a week, until I am out of videos. My reasoning is that anytime someone I like posts six or seven new videos, I watch two or three before my ADD kicks in and I am drawn to some gem in the “related videos” window, and soon my whole afternoon has disappeared. This approach hopefully avoids some of that, by only asking the viewers to give me 10 mins. of time per week to check out my videos. I’m not sure if it will work, or how I would even know if it does work, but I think it’s worth a try.
Now, time to catch up those of you in the Guidoverse (Dave – I’m copywriting the word “Guidoverse.” Bam. That just happened.). I actually started this project last week, and intended to post something about it here, but for various reasons, not the least of which being the setting in of summer laziness, I am only now getting to it. I also really wanted to get to it yesterday so I could squeeze “youtubesday” into this post, but an unforeseen personal event (read: impromtu round of frisbee golf) prevented me from doing so. Regardless, I posted my second video today, so there are now two videos for you to check out. With no further ado, Recital video #1!:
Flame Head for percussion and electronics by Joseph Waters
Most of the rhythmic material in Flame Head is derived from Haitian ritual drumming. Like many Afro-Caribbean styles, Haitian drumming often uses ambiguous patterns which can be heard simultaneously in either 6/8 or 3/4 time signatures. The version in this video is for fixed audio on an mp3 track, but another version exists which uses a second performer who triggers samples in real time. I am hoping to perform this version sometime in the near future.
Recital Video #2:
Improvisado for solo marimba by José Luis Maúrtua
This is a piece I comissioned from Dr. Maúrtua with funding from the College of Music and the Graduate School at Michigan State University. This composition is based on Afro-Caribbean and South American dance rhythms. Overall, it is in a large scale ABA form, with the outer movements sharing a similar character and tempo. This form is reflected at a smaller level in the individual movements, which feature an exposition/digression/recapitulation form.
That’s all for now. Stay tuned for new blog posts.
(updated 5/3/09: fixed link to second video)
Recommended Reading: Queer Identity in Popular Music
This is another really cool blog by a really cool person. Lauron Kehrer is a friend of ours who is in the beginning stages of research for what will be her masters thesis in musicology at the Eastman School of Music. She’s sharing her experiences here at Queer Identity in Popular Music. This kind of research is a lengthy process, and it seems that Lauron’s topic is still a bit nebulous. In a way, this is one of the cool things about the blog, though. The focus of the blog isn’t just presenting her research, but following her work itself. Basically, it combines the non-stop action of musicology with the thrill and excitement of reading! Ok, so that doesn’t sound very cool, but Lauron’s blog is. Trust me, you’ll like it.

