This post was written by Timo Andres, one of Metropolis Ensemble's featured composers in Spring 2010, for the upcoming Reverb concerts at (Le) Poisson Rouge.
There's a long tradition of composers finding inspiration in Balinese music, from Poulenc and Britten to Evan Ziporyn and Ingram Marshall. A trip to Bali was also the genesis of Vivian Fung's piano concerto, subtitled Dreamscapes. She traveled there in the summer of 2008 to study traditional music and dance, play in a gamelan orchestra, and indulge her voracious appetite for Asian folk music of all kinds. But don't call her an ethnomusicologist: "I'm less concerned with replicating anything akin to an exact version of these works than with the way I have internalized the shimmering harmonies and interlocking rhythms of their traditions into my own original voice."
I asked Vivian about formulating a voice, which she says is one of the most difficult aspects of a composer's development. Growing up in Edmonton, Alberta and later studying at Juilliard, she was steeped in the canon of Western 20th-century music: Stravinsky, Debussy, Schonberg. It was not until she reached her mid-twenties, at the urging of a friend, that she undertook a comprehensive exploration of Chinese art and music, which also became an important method of self-discovery. Her listening soon widened to the music of other Asian countries. Eventually she found something which she'd felt had been missing from her "musical vernacular" all along: a connection to her ethnic roots.
The origins of her musical material were not a primary concern when Vivian conceived of Dreamscapes; rather, she turned first to her Western models to see how they structured and developed their materials (planning ahead, she says, is key). She ended up with less a traditional piano concerto than a series of vignettes. Each paints a unique sonic portrait, like a travelogue. To this end, the musicians sometimes become foley artists, calling upon a pile of toys and effects: a chorus of bird whistles (purchased from a street vendor in Ho Chi Minh City), a piano "prepared" to imitate the sound of a gamelan orchestra, and, at the end, musical use of a familiar household object which Vivian intends to keep a surprise.
Dreamscapes is scored in bold and brilliant colors, and never settles in one place for too long. Like a tourist's first visit to an unfamiliar city, there's a sense of needing to cover a lot of ground, take in a great many sights, try unrecognizable foods, and somehow have it all take on personal meaning. Vivian writes that "the sounds of Bali haunt my dreams... getting up in the early morning and seeing the morning mist covering the rice paddies [and] hearing a symphony of birds, some of which actually chirp in a gamelan-like rhythm. Occasionally, one also hears frogs and cicadas. Those moments I have remembered and are the inspiration of the opening of the concerto."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Jakub Ciupinski and the Art of Repetition
This post was written by Timo Andres, one of Metropolis Ensemble's featured composers in Spring 2010, for the upcoming Reverb concerts at (Le) Poisson Rouge.
The title of this concert, Reverb, seems especially meaningful to composer Jakub Ciupinski. "I absolutely love churches for their long reverb. Very often in my music I use a thin, hocket-like texture full of single, short notes that almost never overlap. Harmonic structures can only emerge through reverb or the listener's memory." Jakub favorite musical space is an abandoned salt mine near Cracow, in his native Poland, where "irregular shapes create the most smooth and perfect reverb I've ever heard."
Le Poisson Rouge is also underground, but seems better suited toward one of Jakub's other obsessions: electronics. Many of his recent works are written for acoustic instruments augmented and supported by electronic textures ("like the back row of an orchestra"). His approach to writing this kind of music is architectural, focusing on soundscapes, timescales, and overall continuum rather than the details of a notated score.
Electronica provides more than just a backing track - it also informs content and structure. Jakub's music is built on "loops": short musical phrases that repeat, layer, and evolve - and, like electronic dance music, it often has a very strong groove. This tended to be a source of discord with his composition teachers when he was studying at Juilliard. "For traditionally-oriented composers, having a regular 'beat' seems too casual, [like a] profanation of high art." On the other hand, he appreciates New York's artistic pragmatism, which is refreshing. In Poland, he says, artists are more appreciated for being "original and sometimes weird."
Jakub's art testifies to his easygoing demeanor. He's been straddling musical cultures for several years now, and perhaps realizes it's just as well not quite fitting into any of them. Instead, he strives for "acoustic experiences. I try not to think or analyze." That's not to say he has no time for craft; quite the contrary. "Writing quasi-minimal music... is about finding these little unique jewels with potential so great that even after many repetitions they sound equally fresh... they can resist the destructive power of time."
The title of this concert, Reverb, seems especially meaningful to composer Jakub Ciupinski. "I absolutely love churches for their long reverb. Very often in my music I use a thin, hocket-like texture full of single, short notes that almost never overlap. Harmonic structures can only emerge through reverb or the listener's memory." Jakub favorite musical space is an abandoned salt mine near Cracow, in his native Poland, where "irregular shapes create the most smooth and perfect reverb I've ever heard."
Le Poisson Rouge is also underground, but seems better suited toward one of Jakub's other obsessions: electronics. Many of his recent works are written for acoustic instruments augmented and supported by electronic textures ("like the back row of an orchestra"). His approach to writing this kind of music is architectural, focusing on soundscapes, timescales, and overall continuum rather than the details of a notated score.
Electronica provides more than just a backing track - it also informs content and structure. Jakub's music is built on "loops": short musical phrases that repeat, layer, and evolve - and, like electronic dance music, it often has a very strong groove. This tended to be a source of discord with his composition teachers when he was studying at Juilliard. "For traditionally-oriented composers, having a regular 'beat' seems too casual, [like a] profanation of high art." On the other hand, he appreciates New York's artistic pragmatism, which is refreshing. In Poland, he says, artists are more appreciated for being "original and sometimes weird."
Jakub's art testifies to his easygoing demeanor. He's been straddling musical cultures for several years now, and perhaps realizes it's just as well not quite fitting into any of them. Instead, he strives for "acoustic experiences. I try not to think or analyze." That's not to say he has no time for craft; quite the contrary. "Writing quasi-minimal music... is about finding these little unique jewels with potential so great that even after many repetitions they sound equally fresh... they can resist the destructive power of time."
Erin Gee Finds Her Voice
This post was written by Timo Andres, one of Metropolis Ensemble's featured composers in Spring 2010, for the upcoming Reverb concerts at (Le) Poisson Rouge.
As a composer, Erin Gee seems to have emerged fully-formed. She's reluctant to ascribe any personal experiences or motivations to her work; quite the opposite, in fact. This is unexpected, even contradictory, because she plays an irreplaceable role in her pieces: as vocal soloist, performing in a made-up non-language constructed out of disconnected phonemes, vowels, sung tones, clicks, whistles, and sighs- a style she calls Mouthpiece.
To hear her describe it in precise, almost scientific terms might lead one to believe that Erin is not her music's best salesperson; that is, until she gets on stage. She is a dynamo, unleashing torrents of non-words, at once somehow familiar and foreign-sounding. Emotionally and dynamically restrained, she nonetheless conveys a Pierrot-like dichotomy; playful, acrobatic, even funny, but with underlying melancholy (her brother, it just so happens, is a performer with the Cirque du Soleil). "As much as possible," she says, "I wanted to try and remove the ego, identity, or character... moving in the direction of voice as a pure instrument."
The process of formulating her unique vocal style appears to have been similarly dispassionate. "The Mouthpiece series grew out of a search on my own voice for possible sounds... looking most intently for timbral possibilities within a soft dynamic, and ways of quickly interspersing percussive sounds with disjointed and sparse sung tones." What resulted from this search is a series of 19 works (so far), all titled Mouthpiece and all featuring Erin's own voice. Though some are structured based on existing texts (some refer to ancient Japanese or Sanskrit), Erin uses those structures linguistically, divorced from any literal meaning. She's re-thought a process humans execute without thinking - the formulation and vocalization of language - and put it in a blender.
Erin grew up in Iowa, but has studied and lived in Germany and Austria. The active surfaces of her music refer to a certain contemporary European sound, composers like Beat Furrer and Brian Ferneyhough, who write music of such complexity that it becomes a kind of minimalism. Yet one comes away from a piece such as Mouthpiece X with a sense of relentless stasis. Details fly by at an uncountable rate; but zoomed out, they become a heterophonic entity, like a stew with a vast number of ingredients, or a midwestern prairie viewed out the window of a speeding car. Erin describes it as "The shift between human and mechanical, psychological and physiological... an experimental non-language, containing the virtuosity of a native speaker."
As a composer, Erin Gee seems to have emerged fully-formed. She's reluctant to ascribe any personal experiences or motivations to her work; quite the opposite, in fact. This is unexpected, even contradictory, because she plays an irreplaceable role in her pieces: as vocal soloist, performing in a made-up non-language constructed out of disconnected phonemes, vowels, sung tones, clicks, whistles, and sighs- a style she calls Mouthpiece.
To hear her describe it in precise, almost scientific terms might lead one to believe that Erin is not her music's best salesperson; that is, until she gets on stage. She is a dynamo, unleashing torrents of non-words, at once somehow familiar and foreign-sounding. Emotionally and dynamically restrained, she nonetheless conveys a Pierrot-like dichotomy; playful, acrobatic, even funny, but with underlying melancholy (her brother, it just so happens, is a performer with the Cirque du Soleil). "As much as possible," she says, "I wanted to try and remove the ego, identity, or character... moving in the direction of voice as a pure instrument."
The process of formulating her unique vocal style appears to have been similarly dispassionate. "The Mouthpiece series grew out of a search on my own voice for possible sounds... looking most intently for timbral possibilities within a soft dynamic, and ways of quickly interspersing percussive sounds with disjointed and sparse sung tones." What resulted from this search is a series of 19 works (so far), all titled Mouthpiece and all featuring Erin's own voice. Though some are structured based on existing texts (some refer to ancient Japanese or Sanskrit), Erin uses those structures linguistically, divorced from any literal meaning. She's re-thought a process humans execute without thinking - the formulation and vocalization of language - and put it in a blender.
Erin grew up in Iowa, but has studied and lived in Germany and Austria. The active surfaces of her music refer to a certain contemporary European sound, composers like Beat Furrer and Brian Ferneyhough, who write music of such complexity that it becomes a kind of minimalism. Yet one comes away from a piece such as Mouthpiece X with a sense of relentless stasis. Details fly by at an uncountable rate; but zoomed out, they become a heterophonic entity, like a stew with a vast number of ingredients, or a midwestern prairie viewed out the window of a speeding car. Erin describes it as "The shift between human and mechanical, psychological and physiological... an experimental non-language, containing the virtuosity of a native speaker."
Cristina Spinei in Constant Motion
This post was written by Timo Andres, one of Metropolis Ensemble's featured composers in Spring 2010, for the upcoming Reverb concerts at (Le) Poisson Rouge.
For Cristina Spinei, writing music is inextricably linked to dance, her study of Brazilian folk music, and, at times, the sounds and rhythms of her commute on Metro-North railway ("Does that make me sound too much like a dorky composer?" she wonders aloud). Dork or not, Cristina hardly conforms to the stereotypically cloistered life of a composer. She's more likely to be found salsa dancing at the Copacabana or Sounds of Brazil, covertly taking notes on the bands she hears. "For me, the best way to learn about music is to participate in it."
Cristina studied composition at Juilliard, beginning when she was a teenager. She grew up listening not just to Latin dance music, but also to Italian opera; her favorite composer was Rossini (she attributes both tastes to a flair for the dramatic). Though her pieces exist as fully notated scores, she's refreshingly unconcerned about the details. "I'd rather the musicians be freed from the exact notation... and learn how to better embody the feel of it." This is contrary to much conservatory training. "Classically-trained musicians... aren't used to making something 'swing' or adding a certain amount of groove... they are so bound by wanting to execute precisely what the composer wants."
Perhaps for this reason, Cristina is happy to pick and chose from different worlds when she chooses musicians to write for. She befriended the members of Ogans, the Sounds of Brazil's house band, and has written for Meia Noite, who plays berimbau (a tall, single-stringed instrument resembling a bow and arrow with a resonating chamber). Malian kora player Toumani Diabate is another favorite. "I'd love to write a concerto around him... it's better to let the traditional player perform what they know and compose a piece around what they're playing."
Despite her conservatory training, Cristina's music shares more of the fundamental structure of jazz. Jolt, which she originally wrote for a small band of piano, percussion, bass, and traditional Brazilian instruments, moves along briskly in groove-based sections, including improvisatory episodes highlighting individual players' virtuosity. A new version, which will be premiered on Reverb, augments the band with strings and winds, creating a more concerto-like setting for the percussion and piano parts. But it's still far more salsa band than Rachmaninoff.
A teacher once voiced concern that Cristina's music was "always moving, it never sits still for a moment," imploring her to write something "calm, suspended." But staying in one place doesn't seem to come naturally; "So far," she says, "that hasn't happened."
For Cristina Spinei, writing music is inextricably linked to dance, her study of Brazilian folk music, and, at times, the sounds and rhythms of her commute on Metro-North railway ("Does that make me sound too much like a dorky composer?" she wonders aloud). Dork or not, Cristina hardly conforms to the stereotypically cloistered life of a composer. She's more likely to be found salsa dancing at the Copacabana or Sounds of Brazil, covertly taking notes on the bands she hears. "For me, the best way to learn about music is to participate in it."
Cristina studied composition at Juilliard, beginning when she was a teenager. She grew up listening not just to Latin dance music, but also to Italian opera; her favorite composer was Rossini (she attributes both tastes to a flair for the dramatic). Though her pieces exist as fully notated scores, she's refreshingly unconcerned about the details. "I'd rather the musicians be freed from the exact notation... and learn how to better embody the feel of it." This is contrary to much conservatory training. "Classically-trained musicians... aren't used to making something 'swing' or adding a certain amount of groove... they are so bound by wanting to execute precisely what the composer wants."
Perhaps for this reason, Cristina is happy to pick and chose from different worlds when she chooses musicians to write for. She befriended the members of Ogans, the Sounds of Brazil's house band, and has written for Meia Noite, who plays berimbau (a tall, single-stringed instrument resembling a bow and arrow with a resonating chamber). Malian kora player Toumani Diabate is another favorite. "I'd love to write a concerto around him... it's better to let the traditional player perform what they know and compose a piece around what they're playing."
Despite her conservatory training, Cristina's music shares more of the fundamental structure of jazz. Jolt, which she originally wrote for a small band of piano, percussion, bass, and traditional Brazilian instruments, moves along briskly in groove-based sections, including improvisatory episodes highlighting individual players' virtuosity. A new version, which will be premiered on Reverb, augments the band with strings and winds, creating a more concerto-like setting for the percussion and piano parts. But it's still far more salsa band than Rachmaninoff.
A teacher once voiced concern that Cristina's music was "always moving, it never sits still for a moment," imploring her to write something "calm, suspended." But staying in one place doesn't seem to come naturally; "So far," she says, "that hasn't happened."
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