If you see something, say something

from Tuesday, October25th of the year2016.

Beloveds.  It’s been a minute since I’ve blogged about it, but now I’ve got something to blog about, so blog about it I shall. Over the last 18 months, I’ve been actively trying to be more assertive. I have a real difficulty standing up for myself personally and professionally, mainly because I’m so desperate to be loved (or similar) that I’ll basically do whatever and then be confused about why I’m doing something that I never wanted to do in the first place.  Part of this also means that I’ll arbitrarily decide that over the course of a project that I can put my foot down about something only thrice, and that’s it. So sometimes I’ll get to day two of something and realize that I should have just been really upfront about my intentions from the beginning and that in reality, everybody responds positively to that. We live and we learn. I’ve been driven acutely crazy by an artist’s manager for the last 2 months and I finally stood up to his ass on the phone yesterday and while it felt great, I still felt like a little kid trying to fight an un-winnable fight.  I’ve vowed to speak my mind more in times of Calmneƒƒe and not just when it gets stressful and I blurt everything out and feel awful afterwards.

Let me tell you a story.

I find doing press sometimes really frustrating. You have to do it, basically, because that’s how people know to come to the show, and it’s how we keep the Conversation™ about music afloat. My general philosophy has been to trust the press officers of the presenting organizations of whatever project I’m doing and just say yes to everything because it feels rude to not do that.  Sometimes, around a big project or tour or show, there will be a little snow flurry of things to do — a bit of radio, a bit of phone interviews, a few things via email. Ideal world: it all gets consolidated and you knock it out like a video game, even if the radio is in a random place and the phone stuff is at weird times.  Sometimes something great happens — you’ll get an interviewer who asks you a probing question you’ve never thought of before, that shines light on your work or your process or life in general in a fresh and surprising way.  I was asked a few such questions by Debbie Millman this last year, I had a great interview with somebody in Ireland this year who made me rethink how I write programme notes, a few years ago somebody asked me such smart questions about Philip Glass’s Piano Études that we are still friends to this day (I literally just offered him the use of my hotel bathtub in London, long story).  The thread that ties all these things together is not just research but genuine curiosity.  It’s not about knowing every biographical detail about the subject, or every piece of trivia about the topic at hand (although it helps).  It’s about knowing that you can treat the conversation as precisely that — a fluid, elegant dialogue, even if it’s over email.

Occasionally, you get an interview where you quickly realize that there is a really basic Message the writer is trying to get across — and indeed, oftentimes it’s just “you, the reader, should come to this show.”  I’m fine with that — this is when Paper and Orchestra are in an (1) friendly cahoot and the paper asks the composer to say three things about the piece, two things about how nice it is to be in Orchestraville, one wacky detail, and is there anything else you’d like to add thank you so much see you on Friday.  Other times, though, you get something like what I’m fixing to show you here. This is the Prove My Thesis interview.  This is when the writer has in mind a Way that the world works (the implication being in this worldview that there is only one possible way) and that the interview subject is going to Confirm this Genius Idea in neat quotes.  This is the work of That Guy from Class — remember him?  Where it’s not like he didn’t read the book, because his eyes certainly passed over the pages, but it’s more like he took everything wrong out of the text, and then wants to get weird about “isn’t there no wrong answer in literature?”  It reminds me of when you buy a cat a present and all the cat wants is the box.

I found myself in the presence of just such an interview the other day.  I should preface this by saying that of course — of course! — this was one of those “I need the answers right away” interview requests, and the press agent is nice and a friend of a friend and I was like, okay great, I can hook you up, send the questions.  So of course — of course! — Dude™ sends the questions like, a day later, because it’s Dude™, and I should have known right away we were in for a treat.  I did the “Standing Up For Myself Email” to the press agent, which reads:

For future reference, if somebody’s like “i need them ASAP” and then doesn’t actually send them ASAP, I become inclined not to do them ASAP, as it were.  I set aside time to deal with all this kind of stuff this morning, and am now about to go into a tech rehearsal for 14 hours, so, I don’t know what his deadline is… anyway, whatever.
She responded, indicating that actually he had “ASAP’d” her for a few other artists he was trying to get in touch with for the same article and had then taken his time to compose the questions.  This should have been a red flag.  I then later found out that he emailed all of us basically the same set of questions with a few tailored to our own bawdee of work.  Fine. Meanwhile I said I would do this damn thing so I set aside the therapeutic hour of 5:45 AM to 6:30 AM to address this, got up, addressed myself to Miss Nespresso du Val, padded out to the table and fired up Chomper here, to discover a litany of some of the dumbest Prove My Thesis questions I’ve come across in a long-ass time. I present them to you here, with my replies, in full, with no edits made save a few tiny things in brackets.  Some names changed to protect the innocent.

I want to also say this, and this is important: I’m sure this dude is actually a really nice guy and I wish him no ill which is why I’m not putting his name on this. H9 the sin and love the sinner. I just want to have a conversation, amongst friends, about how fucking impossible it is to talk about one’s own music (or anybody else’s music) in this kind of environment where you’re working in somebody else’s crazy intellectual ecosystem.  I don’t read a lot of writing about music, so interview questions are, for me, a good weather report about the way people are talking about what’s up. For me, my first port of call with other people’s music is usually the music itself, live, or on recording and with the score if that’s a thing; I know that this is a luxury and that many listeners first hear about music in print or online, and usually as a result of the good efforts of Dude to champion the music he likes. So I am not, in any way, trying to set Dude on fire. I’m sure if we had been in the same room, it would have been different, and from the sounds of it, he actually probably likes a lot of the same music I like, and perhaps even my own music.  It’s just one of those “I got up at five o’clock in the morning to answer these ASAP questions and I wish you had had two genuine questions rather than half of an idea and I wish you had asked questions based on curiosity not on some insane set of presumptions.”

Hi.  I feel like you are operating under a bunch of really stressful misconceptions about how music works, but I think I made it through [these questions] with only a few singed eyebrows.

MAIN PROBLEM: you have not asked a single question about notes and rhythms, just about like, perception of scenes that don’t exist?  But we will address that, and various problems, as they arise in this enfilade of horrors.

First things first: a number of people with whom I have spoken over the past five years – and who are associated with the scene variously known as ‘new classical’, ‘post-classical’ and ‘neo-classical’ – are uncomfortable with the terms. Do you see them as applicable, and why (or why not)? Is the term ‘classical’ even relevant? Are there terms – whether applied to the music or not – that you find more acceptable? Given that I am being encouraged to put you all under the same roof, what would be the most satisfying term I could use?

I’ve never heard any of these terms before.  Read this.  — who is encouraging you to use them? [NOTE FROM NICO: really do read this.  It’s got the Thing I Think About That Thing in it.]

You may have answered this above, but… Is it appropriate to suggest that artists as diverse as yourself, Nils Frahm, Johann Johannsson, Hauschka and Tim Hecker are part of a similar ‘movement’, or does that seem as suitable as grouping Britney Spears, Foo Fighters and Nick Cave together? What, if anything, do you think you all have in common?

Tim Hecker is involved now?  I mean… look, taxonomies work in a lot of different ways.  You can organise things however you want, really, but it’s definitely never (v important) the job of the composer or artist to do this, because then you’re writing to your bio, rather than writing music.  Every second a composer spends thinking about this is a second she should have been using to write music.  That having been said, sure, I’ll buy it, but I’d also say that I have a lot in common with composers like Andrew Norman, Missy Mazzoli, Sean Shepherd inasmuch as we all write large orchestra music, firmly rooted in the classical ‘concert’ music tradition.  You could also, if you wanted, say I have a lot in common with Tom Adès because we both derive musical material from the past — in his case, the ecstatic harmonic motion in Couperin, and in my case, Tallis and Byrd.  You could say I have everything to do with Timo Andres because we are both over six feet tall and love capers.  The point of all the record stories dying — thank GOD, by the way — is that we don’t have to have these physical taxonomies anymore where you go into the special porn room to buy classical music.

Do you see yourself and those mentioned above (and others often grouped with them) as your contemporaries? Do you relate to, or admire, any of these artists in particular? Are there others about whom you hold strong opinions whom you’d like me to consider, or wish to champion?

You’ve worked with a diverse range of musicians who aren’t necessarily associated with this ‘scene’, including Rufus Wanwright, Sufjan Stevens and Antony & The Johnsons. Do you find that there’s a tightly knit community surrounding this music, and is it as unusual as outsiders think for musicians working with, for instance, rock music, to want to experiment in other fields?

I don’t understand the question and you misspelled Rufus’s last name.  I’ve never worked with any of the people you talked about above (Haushka et al) so I’m not sure which tightly knit community you’re referencing?  Also “outsiders think?”  Who are these outsiders?  You?  Which fields?  This whole question is word salad.

Some people consider ‘new classical’ music to be loftier and more intellectual than ‘rock’ music. Is this a patronising view, and do you think that the attitude is changing?

When you write “some people,” what on earth do you mean.  Citation?

Furthermore, there was a time when the idea of a ‘rock’ musician working within these realms was considered slightly laughable. I think, for instance, of the insults levelled in the past – by some people – at people like Paul McCartney and Elvis Costello, and back in the 1970s it would have been seen as the height of prog rock indulgence. Why do you think audiences are more willing to take this seriously?

Which realm!?!?!  I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.  Elvis Costello!?

Instrumental, classically influenced music emerging through the independent scene (and indeed major labels) isn’t exactly a new thing. I think, for instance, of Mute working with Balanescu Quartet and Holger Czukay, or plenty of Nonesuch’s releases. Is the volume of music being released now any different to years past, or do you feel – as others do – that it’s not just a matter of a spotlight being put on it and that in fact there’s far more being released than ever?

Ugh, I find your questions increasingly frustrating.  What spotlight are you talking about?  I feel like you are operating under a set of premises or assumptions that are unprovable and are based on your perception of other people’s (or the press’s, more probably) perceptions of the attention given to a made up group of artists.  THAT HAVING BEEN SAID I will throw you a bone to say that this isn’t new.  CF Philip Glass & Ravi Shankar, the Mute/Balanescu thing is a good example, Nyman + McAlmont — it’s 6 in the morning so I can’t really think of more but… you know.

I believe that you were classically trained (as music journalists like to put it!). How did you come to work as a composer? When did you start writing music like this? Were you brought up on pop and rock, or was ‘classical’ music always your foremost interest? Have they both always been vital to your musical existence, and do you still listen to other kinds of music?

I was classically trained; I went to Juilliard for 5 years, I have a masters’ degree in the classical composition.  I was brought up as a chorister,  here, read this:, — the backbone of everything I do is renaissance choral music.  From there, I learned the piano, and from there, realised I was a lousy enough pianist that I had to start writing my own things.

You’re unusual within this ‘movement’ in that you tend to compose music for others, whether it be Metropolitan Opera, St Pauls Cathedral, The Library Of Congress etc. This is, in a sense, a far more old fashioned approach to composition. Do you find it frustrating that you hand over your music to others to perform, or does this in fact free you up to focus more on writing? 

I can’t with you and this movement shit again.  It’s so lazy and it makes me want to throw the laptop across the room.  You could shine a light through my work and hit all the things you talked about above and never hit anything that I imagine you think is part of this ‘movement.’  I don’t think what I’m doing is unusual; I’m just doing the things I’m good at, with some stretching at the margins.  I don’t like the idea that you’ve created this artificial ‘scene’ and then put me as the family crayzee cousin, always writin’ wacky music for the Lord’s House!

I’m struck, I have to say, by the breadth of your work. Does the fact that so much of your music is commissioned mean that you are limited in any way by the approach of those who’ve invited you to work with them, or does it in fact allow you to work in milieu that would otherwise be impossible? And is it accurate to say that you are approached, or do you also approach others?

Good question.  I would say that most of my music is commissioned.  I find the restrictions of a commission to be very very helpful.  A lot of times a commission is really open ended (“write 20 minutes for orchestra”) but other times it’s really specific (“We’re doing a concert where all the texts are about sleep, or sleeping, and you have five minutes.”)  I like these restrictions.  I’ve been very, very lucky inasmuch as I haven’t had to approach others in this way, although there are sort of dream projects where I do try to shop it around a bit.  My viola concerto is a good example of this.  I imagine you have a recording of it seeing as how you got here via Bedroom Community /[publicist] She can send it to you if you haven’t.  That is a combo platter — a piece I’ve wanted to write since 2001, but also something that four different orchestras co-commissioned.  After six months writing that, when the phone rings and Joanna Newsom wants a string and oboe arrangement, there is nothing more delicious because it’s a similar muscle but doing something for somebody else — it’s like going over somebody else’s house and cooking and being useful and friendly.

Why do you think that there’s been such a surge of interest from music fans in instrumental music that rejects traditional rock music structures (verse / chorus / verse etc) and arrangements (guitar, bass, drums etc) in favour of more ambitious melodic narratives and more traditional instrumentation (pianos, strings, brass etc). I’ve wondered, for instance, if it’s due to the need for people to find a refuge away from the ubiquitous sound of ‘pop’ music? Or away from the chaotic political and social times in which we live, and which confront us, thanks partly to social media, in a far more aggressive manner than before (refugees, gun crime, the American elections, Syria etc)?

Now, this I’ll buy, maybe.  I don’t know if we need to get Syria involved.  I also don’t know that this surge you reference is something that exists in what I like to call Reality.  I think a lot of people — thinking, for instance, of my parents, who are in their early 70’s — took a big detour from listening to pop music qua pop music and settled in Joni Mitchell world.  That kind of songwriting — with chapters, rather than traditional verse/chorus structures, has been around forever!  And didn’t die either — think about Joanna Newsom, think about longform Björk of late, think about Sun Kil Moon etc… Think about the folk tradition, think about really anything.  I’m not sure that the world is organised into “Britney” and “Not Britney.”  I think a lot of people grew up listening to jazz and have never stopped.  I think a lot of people just have more access to the music that their peers are making.  Also: one week ago I literally flew to Las Vegas and saw the Britney Spears residency show.

To employ significant numbers of musicians is obviously a costly endeavour. Has the fact that instrumental music is more acceptable to big, funded venues – such as London’s Barbican or Royal Festival Hall – made it easier to work in these realms? Have the actions of such venues – inviting more bands to perform within them at events such as the UK’s Meltdown – helped bring an audience to ‘new classical’ music by broadening their horizons and making it seem less intimidating to attend shows that seem more ‘serious’?

Now, this might be an opportunity for you to do some Serious Journalism™.  Ring up the Barbican’s PR office and ask them to set up an interview with you and the classical music programmer Chris Sharp, and with the “other” music programmer Bryn Ormrod.  They will know the answer to this as it relates to money, numbers, and the raw data.  Time, money, and space are complicated things, but unless u, as an artist, are totally self-producing, it is sage, I think, to take advantage of the wild luxury of the fact that somebody else is buying dinner.  Also, the relationship between ensembles (which is to say, orchestras) and the halls who present them is a financially complicated one — but again, for me, as a creator of the notes on the page and occasionally a performer, I don’t rea-a-a-a-lly have to worry about it.  Maybe that’s a bit grand, or naïve, but that’s all I got.  But seriously call them.  I’d actually be interested to know what they say.

Do you think the ‘greying’ of the music-buying audience – who, in past generations, would have shifted over to buying classical music and abandoned rock – has also ensured that so many people are interested in ‘new classical’ without investigating more long term, traditional established composers like Beethoven and Bach, to whom they would once have turned? Perhaps it provides them with an opportunity to enjoy more complex music without apparently ‘giving up’ on their musical roots?

I just don’t know.  I’m probably the worst person to ask about this.  When I go all up into the concert hall, I see young people.  I still actually disagree with most of the assumptions in the question, if I’m parsing the grammar correctly.

Music like yours has increasingly found itself working alongside other disciplines, notably film and dance. (I’m thinking in particular of OSTs like Nils Frahm’s Victoria, Johann Johannsson’s and Max Richter’s regular soundtrack work etc.) Has this helped you find a wider audience? Is the success of other artists in these realms in any way responsible for a general crossover? Does it alter the manner in which you compose? And is it important for you that such music is also able to stand on its own, or do you see the two disciplines, when they are interlinked in this way, as inseparable?

Good question.  Yes.  All of this is a good thing.  Music for use, as it were, has value.  If your friend asks you to write a piece for a ballet, or a film, do it.  It’s so great.  See above about open-ended commissions — this is the opposite of that, where you get instant feedback from your collaborators, and the music is only successful if it works in the context of the overall collaboration.  I wish more people did it.  Learning to work quickly and collaboratively has helped me with everything I do, from making dinner to writing concert music to everything!!!

There seems to be a canon of influences named by musicians from this ‘movement’: Arvo Pæart, Steve Reich, Philip Glass, Michael Nyman, Penguin Café Orchestra, Kronos Quartet, Harold Budd, Erik Satie, Gorecki etc. Do they play a big role in your work? What do you think they share in common? Are there others that you feel are important to mention? How did you come to be familiar with them, and was it hard to find a way to integrate the inspiration they offered into your work?

Lord have mercy.

One artist with whom I have been talking has said that a decade ago he felt his contemporaries exhibited a “strong individual language” which has since become synonymous with “soft piano music and compositions that I can’t identify with”. Certainly, it sometimes seems as though nowadays I am sent ‘new classical’ music on an almost daily basis, and I would be lying if I said it all excites me. Some seems to be derivative and comparatively unimaginative – often, for instance, with a heavy emphasis on arpeggios – as though the very fact that the artists are simply rejecting traditional structures and arrangements is enough to justify its existence. Do you feel that the growth of interest in the music has led to a ‘blanding’ of the scene, and is there a danger that this will eventually lead to a dead end? And is there a danger that the ‘novelty’ this offers to those otherwise interested in rock and pop is in danger of fading?

Sure?  I mean, there’s more bad music in the world than good music, but I don’t feel the need to extrapolate some kind of grandpa-ass world view about it.  Tell your artist friend to spend less time having thoughts about what other people are doing and get back to the manuscript paper.  She sound mean and jealous.

Do you consider yourself to be an ‘indie artist’? Does such music sit comfortably under this (admittedly huge and nowadays rather vague) umbrella? Is it possible to consider oneself as indie once one has experienced success on the scale that you have? Why do you think independent labels are signing music outside the realms of what is normally considered ‘indie’ music?

Rock ‘n’ roll has, since punk at the very least, prided itself on breaking conventions, with untrained musicians applauded for refusing to conform to tradition. Do you think these possibilities have now been exhausted?

See blog link above

Do you think your music is attracting people that wouldn’t normally listen to anything but ‘popular’ music simply because of the record label on which it appears?

Well, I hope it isn’t that simple.  I think you’re not giving listeners the benefit of the doubt about what they listen to.  They’re like “ooh, label I like!  Ooh, boring piano music with arpeggios.  Welp, must be good!”  HOWEVER.  I would like to think that the label system of organising music would draw the ear not just to my music but the other way around.  For instance, Bedroom Community has been incredibly good about this.  People who know my music from, for instance, the choral music universe suddenly have a path through to Sam Amidon’s music, or Ben Frost’s.  This can only be a good thing, and yes, it does take a label, I think, to at least uphold a formal structure for this to happen.  I find myself doing this too — for instance, your boyfriend Nils is on Erased Tapes; through his music I’ve found other artists on that label I wouldn’t have had access to otherwise — and by access I mean that I don’t spend a lot of time fishing around for new things, about which I feel bad!  So the label shortcut can sometimes be useful.  But this relates to my big disagreement about a lot of these questions, which is that People who listen to music aren’t like, moths drawn to flame, the flame being soft piano arpeggios.  People, as far as I can tell, trust their friends, talk to each other, and still are ready to be surprised.  I think that all artists need to be evangelists for not just their own music but for the music they love.  A lot of the music *I* love sounds very little like my own, but still you will find me on the street corner with a tin foil hat talmbout “listen to more Takemitsu.”

At a time when it’s getting harder and harder to make money from making music, and artists are being advised to tour in order to make money, isn’t it a tremendous gamble to record something that requires a significant number of musicians to perform it on the road?

Yes.  But it’s so worth it.

Popular music’s appeal has often been based upon the performer as much as the music, but your music can be performed by anyone who can read sheet music, just as classical music was in the past (albeit with instrumentation that was perhaps not available in the past). Does the idea of your music being performed by others appeal to you, and is that a goal when you’re writing?

Yes!  This is a good question.  This is one of the great mysteries and funz of the classical tradition.  What happens is that your music starts to mean different things to different people.  Having music in the fingers of strangers is a beautiful and strange feeling.  Nothing makes me happier to think that people I don’t know have spent hours, days, weeks, learning my music.  Particularly because so much of my music starts as music for friends — cf all my work with Nadia Sirota — when suddenly a violist pops up in Finland playing those pieces, it feels like a small miracle and a beautiful, unexpected connection.

Do you think that there will come a time when the traditional divisions between the classical and popular music worlds will no longer exist?

Jesus take the wheel.

Given that popular music emerged as a reaction to the staid world of classical music, and that liking classical music has for many years been ‘uncool’, do you think that ‘classical’ music is the new rock ‘n’ roll, in that it represents a rejection of contemporary musical trends? Can you imagine kids trying to annoy their parents by playing your records in years to come?

Baby girl, I’ma stop you right now about your origin theory of popular music!  Is that literally what you think!?!?!?!?  Are you English?  I think you’re probably English.  I would take a second and rethink how this works vis à vis everything.  Think: African Diaspora.  Think: folk traditions — even in the +44!  I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask this but I would not encourage you to ask other people this same thing in this way because they are going to think that you are Touched.

Is there anything else you would like to add (assuming you’re not already exhausted!)?

Yes.  It’s a dude called Will Robin who has written an entire thesis about this idea of “indie classical” music.  Apparently he has my name in his mouth; I haven’t read it because I’d rather write music.  BUT a link to his thesis is attached, and I’d recommend that you read it as it touches on a lot of things you’ve asked.  I’m sorry to be so tart with thee but this feels like a weird combination of answering things I always have to answer but also that I’m on the wrong train in which I’ve just spent a million years talking about everything about music except for the actual music herself.  I feel like you’ve engaged in a lot of un-interrogated thought about these peripheral matters and I’d love to see what you divine from Will Robin’s thesis.

Fall Back

from Monday, September12th of the year2016.

Many exciting releases and projects are all coming together at the same time this fall! In no particular order: a million years ago, Teitur and I made a piece together called Confessions, based on boring YouTube videos and the people who make them. We recorded it, and mixed it, and then eight thousand other things got in the way and suddenly it was seven years later. So it is with great pleasure that we can announce that this thing is finally coming out! It’s on Nonesuch, and you can buy it here and learn more about the project here. We are doing two shows of the whole album in order in New York and London and I expect to see all of you there.

Then! Longtime collaboratrix Nadia has made a record with two pieces of mine on it. The first is Keep in Touch, which is the first long-form piece I wrote for her when we were both fresh out of grad school. We made a version of it on my album Speaks Volumes, for which Anohni did the vocal arrangements, and Valgeir and I went nuts with the electronic elements. So, ten years (?) later, Chris Thompson made an arrangement for Nadia and the wonderful chamber group Alarm Will Sound. It’s so cool to hear a piece reimagined a decade after its birth. The second piece is the viola concerto I wrote for Nadia, which was a longtime dream of ours; we’d sit at the bar and be like, “hey wouldn’t it be cool if someday…” and then somebody arrived a few years ago when a handful of orchestras agreed to co-commission this thing, and then we made a recording with the Detroit Symphony and then Valgeir mixed it and it sounds awesome and it’s all on Bedroom Community and you can buy the whole thing here. Nadia and I are going to do a show about it on the 27th of September, and you can get tickets here and we both expect to see all of you there!

A while

from Tuesday, August16th of the year2016.

I know I haven’t updated this in a while, and I feel crazed about it. I’m going to write more soon, but in the meantime, get excited! Nadia Sirota’s album is coming out soon, with my viola concerto and a newly (by Chris Thompson) orchestrated version of Keep in Touch on it, plus an album with Teitur, six years in the making, plus the Bedroom Community shows in London & Krakow. It’s a lot going on, y’all, and while it isn’t quite the day of the show yet, it will be soon.

John Scott

from Thursday, August13th of the year2015.

John Scott died yesterday. I wrote this:

So, I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon driving around Santa Cruz listening to every recording of John Scott in his various guises as conductor and organist I could find on my phone and other devices. It turns out there are LOADS there: hours, days, even? His recording of the chant for psalm 37 on volume ninety-seven-jillion of the Psalms from St Paul’s series remains one of my favorite things in the world. I emailed him this fact five days ago, and he wrote back from Sweden (his first trip, apparently!) seconds later, “Oh those divine Howells chants!” with his typical enthusiasm and joy. This was a man deeply devoted to the tradition of music and the music of tradition, to his service to the church, and to his ability to transmit the possibility of the divine to friends and strangers. It is insane to me that he died – like, actively unbelievable. There are so many of us whom he touched as a recording artist, as a conductor, organist, educator, mentor, hero, husband, father, martini partner and interlocutor. He loved plainchant — Lent has never been so austere! — but could throw down a Howells Coll Reg with the lashings of cream and coulis required by such music. Any of the choristers — now grown — with whom he recorded in 2003, I’m sure, remember his insistence on the distance between repeated notes in Tallis’s Salvator Mundi; when he played my music at the organ in 2013, I was consistently humbled by the freakish connection between his technical abilities and expressive musicianship; to watch him conduct the choir for a random Thursday’s evensong was to watch an essay on simultaneous restraint and spontaneity: centuries of performance practice reanimated, stylised, and tightened. I think of his influence as a form of epidemic: a great choirmaster infects everybody near him with an evangelical love for the music, the tradition, and the rigor required to get it done correctly but in the (liturgical) background: music for use, but music for the only use worth using. Even though the world feels dimmer without him in it, I am excited to spend tomorrow, the rest of the summer, and the rest of my life listening to his recordings, thinking about his influence on all of us, and thinking about the subtle magnificence of his contribution to the world in which we all live. We are all better musicians because of John.


from Thursday, August6th of the year2015.

I realize that I should use this space to say more what’s going on with my work, so here is a little update.  In September, I’ll be in Paris working on a ballet with my old friend & collaborator Benjamin Millepied.  There is a bunch of upcoming work at the Wigmore Hall with dear Iestyn. In October, I’ll go to Detroit with Nadia to hear the US premiere of the viola concerto I wrote her.  Please note that this concert also features Eine Kleine Literal Nachtmusik. There’s a big piece for the Utah Symphony, which is great because I love Utah in the winter; I am going to ski down the world’s smallest hill.  One of the stranger things about what I do is that plans are made so far in advance and it’s difficult to 4C how things are going to actually align, so occasionally it’s nice to zoom out and see how a season is actually going to look.  This is one of the first seasons where I have the space now, in August, to look at it and emotionally prepare for the travel, and for the potential tectonic rubbing of project against project.  The classical music season is essentially an academic one, and I still feel, in August, this urgent need to run out and buy a trapper keeper and all new pencils.  I wish you all a productive August and a bonne rentrée.

Thoughts on being well

from Wednesday, May27th of the year2015.

I have been, it turns out, unwell for a long time. I didn’t really start realising how unwell I’d been until I suddenly — over the course of three months, got a little bit better. The long and short of it is that I’d had an ugly mental health episode about ten years ago, and got immediate treatment, but then, as a result of my own laziness, punishing travel schedule, and being convinced that I needed to see a shrink who takes my insurance, what had been an emergency solution to clinical manic depression became a permanent cocktail of medications, taken every day, for ten chemically-unexamined years.

Recently, I thought to myself, in a moment of rare clarity about my own life, that maybe I wasn’t feeling as great as I might. From 2009-2014, I wrote two operas, several orchestra pieces, a few film scores, tons of choral music, and a pile of chamber music. I was constantly busy, and all of my projects were great ones to have and all of my collaborators were stellar and it was all, on paper, going fine. Something a friend’s mother said to me kept haunting me, though — she’d come to the Met premiere of my opera Two Boys in 2013, and the opening night crowd was enthusiastic and was, as is the custom at such events, clapping enthusiastically as I took a bow. She said to me afterwards, “Wow! You must feel ten feet tall.” I said thank you and smiled but I couldn’t shake that comment from my head. I thought about it a few months ago and realised that no, I really didn’t. It wasn’t the opposite — I didn’t feel “small,” but I felt empty, or invisible. This physical manifestation of the work wasn’t something I’d made; it was something that was happening around me to which I was a passive and silent witness.

I tried, at that moment a few months ago, to sort out the difference between ‘pride in having made something’ and ‘feelings of happiness with a project’ and the dual senses of personal satisfaction, professional satisfaction and/or ‘achievement’ and realised that I didn’t have any way of teasing them apart, because they were foreign feelings; I hadn’t had them in years. All I had was a sense of gnawing anxiety, tempered, usually, by a feeling of displaced pride in other people having done the work for me — the conductor, the orchestra, the librettist, the stagehands, the wig-maker. I thought back on less complicated projects; one of the best things I’ve written, I think, is a song Old Bones for my friend Iestyn. I felt like I’d achieved, somehow, having made good something for him, which in turn makes him happy, but I couldn’t save anything for myself in that transaction.  I’ve written for Nadia, and for Pekka, and I was ‘happy’ because I love writing for people I love, because it makes them shine, and even though I think the pieces are fine, the satisfaction, for me, is displaced.

Once I had that revelation, I didn’t panic, but I thought: have I really not been happy or satisfied during any of this work for over a decade? I thought, as an anxious extension, about my obsessive relationship to working and work and what it even means to work. It’s not that I’m “a workaholic,” it’s just that I don’t know any other way to engage with the world. My work — in which I include writing emails, cooking, thinking — is the only way I know how to engage with anybody or anything. You turn an interaction, any interaction, into a kind of project, and then do it the best you can. This is related, I think, to doing “the best you can” in general, but in a specific, focused way, in which each task is divided into a sequence of sub-tasks, each of which has its own economy of goodness.  This is inherently a dangerous way to behave, because it can sound (and feel to others) craven and plotting, as if being friends with somebody is a project to be in some way completed or a problem to be in some way solved.

I still didn’t panic. I thought back over the past ten years, and then I had a vision: this sense of work dominating everything made me highly irritable in many professional and personal interactions. In the closed systems of my own processes, I can run quality control obsessively over everything I do: I can stay up until two in the morning editing clarinet parts, and I can worry about how for that clarinettist, her first experience of my music will be this four page document, I can slice the garlic how it needs to be sliced and I can butcher the meat in the right way for the task at hand. Once I get anybody else involved on any level, though, I expect, unfairly, for them to have spent the same amount of time and energy doing their jobs as I’d done mine, which is to say: expended a violent breath of energy at the thing, continuously, all day, every day. I became angry — and directionlessly choleric, as my body got hot, I sweated, I shook — at the objects that surrounded me. The noise of traffic would send me into a tailspin of not just anger, but despair at not having my environment coöperate with me. A honking truck became not, as it should be, a part of the sonic landscape of a city, but instead it came to represent a broken contract between me and the world. A sense of magical thinking arose naturally, where the only explanation for things not going as I wanted them was that I wasn’t working hard enough, that I wasn’t devoted enough to the task, or that I wasn’t giving enough of myself to anything or anybody to warrant getting anything in return.

I found myself, particularly when tired (which was always), or after having had too much to drink (which was often), irascible and shouty, telling people they were doing their jobs badly or bungling something when it was really not my place to say anything. I cussed people out for doing what, in the economy of my work, would be unacceptable, but which, in reality, was perfectly fine.  I was unable to distinguish people deliberately doing or saying hurtful things (which, at the age of 33, still happens to me from time to time) from forgetting to dot an i or cross a t. I could feel my body pointedly roiling — the sweat, yes, but a gut-clenching sense of a drop from a high place — at the accumulating details of my life. A little cut on the hand, agitated into a wound, the noise of laughing children on the street, the edge of the dog’s toy getting caught in the wheel of my work-chair, the feeling of my stomach touching the fabric of my shirt, the acute knowledge of the various asymmetries and plumpnesses of the body. All of these things were incendiary and dangerous: the arsonist’s last glug of gasoline thrown on the carpet before lighting the match.

After these episodes — which could last days, or weeks — there could arrive a period of calm. I would try to reconcile with those I’d wronged, but found it difficult to understand what I was apologising for, precisely. They had, after all, misspelt something important, or taken too long to write back to an email, or been lazy about a complicated project, and they needed to know. Right? I found myself physically angry at people for whom work wasn’t a consuming fire but for whom was, at most, a part of their day which could be offset or justified by taking vacations, sleeping late on purpose, taking an hour for lunch and sitting in the park, or getting str8 married and taking time off to do this. I was furious with musicians who lived off of their parents’ money, I was furious with people who dared to plan their careers in units of ten years. I was furious with myself for being furious about these things. I was impossible with my boyfriend with whom I share a small apartment, because each of his movements was another shot fired in my already complicated battle with my environments both physical and emotional. He’s only known me within the space of this 10-ish years of treatment, and never really knew any other conditions aside from my slightly terrifying and almost religious relationship to my work and my community as the only worthwhile transactions in a life lived vigorously.

At the end of these daily forceful and exhausting immolations, the only thing that could bring me something resembling peace was watching somebody do something – anything – well. I live in Chinatown, and there is nothing more calm-inducing than watching an old man work a meat cleaver expertly. I am soothed by watching a woman pinch a dumpling together, and I am soothed by watching the Man Who Grills Meat fan the meat just-so with his meat-fanning fan. I could no longer read new books or the newspaper; I had to read books I already knew that I liked, because I couldn’t be let down by them or tricked into going along with somebody else’s uninteresting plan. I could only listen to music I already knew, because the shock of something new would send me into a state of heightened agitation. I developed an agoraphobic anxiety and found myself only able to explain it to virtual strangers, and fibbed my way out of going to any live music for almost two months. I found myself not craving but needing routine in an almost aspergic way, but with a life completely and necessarily noncondusive to even being able to do the same thing three days in a row.

So I sought help. I found a new doctor, who does not take my insurance and therefore costs as much as my rent, literally no joke. She looked at my medical history with what I would generously call the world’s subtlest cut-eye; I’m sure that doctors don’t like to second-guess what another doctor thought best ten years ago, but within 30 minutes of being there, she was like, “we gotta get you off of this stuff.” I went off of it, and onto something else. My body ached and I was confused all the time. I told her that I had three goals: to not be angry all the time, to be able to engage with my environment and friends and boyfriend and collaborators in a healthier way, and to start seeing if there was a way to start to feel happy about my work — or not really the work, even, but about myself as it related to the work, or about myself as it related to anything.

Medication helps with a lot of these things — within a few weeks, the constant agita let up, confirming to me that it was actually chemical and not some devil perched in the back of my skull. I’d been told that the drugs working correctly might feel like a veil lifting, but in my case it was more like a kabuki-drop: a sudden whoosh of waking up without a clamor of small pressurised objects rattling around. As a result of this clarity, I was able to think about the very rare times that I’d felt happy about my own self. I realized that the thing I’ve made of which I am the proudest — or, perhaps the only thing I’ve made about which I feel even a nominal amount of pride — is my community. It’s a large and multi-faceted creature, with ever-widening spaces between its elements as we all age, but it’s a collection of people for whom I have a near obsessive love.

I’ve never really bought the concentric-circle model of friendships. My model is much more “let’s just go for it all the way,” which I think can be off-putting for people. I am in a near constant dialogue with myself thinking about other people — oh, this funny image, I hope T— has seen it, or I really should email M— about that piece of his which I liked and which I listened to, or I feel like the world would be a better place if N— had read this book. When people text me, I text them right back. I write back to emails quickly and try to stay connected to everybody and be au courant with my friends’ lives in as generous a way as I can. I write back to professional out-of-office emails with bitter, scathing essays about why it is that they can’t manage to make their iPhones work in whatever sad holiday destination (Alicante, usually) they’ve chosen instead of performing professional immolation on the fires of productivity.  I’ve never gotten an out-of-offce reply when I haven’t been nine miles deep into a river of work, and you can imagine the resentment and fury that creates.

Once the new medication had sorted a few things out, however, I started accessing an emotional register of genuine sadness surrounding my community, something I’d not felt in years. My obsessive communications with my friends: what if this was actually a huge chore for them, and that my vigor (and rigor) in that part of my life could never be reciprocated? If a loved one doesn’t write back, does that mean that I am specifically unlovable, doomed to a life of sending unreturned emails and un-replied-to texts? The machinery of my head has been, until recently, too busy to really let that feeling in for analysis, and I managed to actually write a whole opera about it as a giant, expensive act of displacement and disengagement. “Are you there,” the opera asks; nobody answers, and the boy at the centre of it gets a knife to the heart. Letting this feeling in — to use the somewhat three-little-pigsian argot of pop psychology — has been, I think, one of the more difficult things I’ve done as an adult. Why won’t she write back? Why won’t he text back? What does that have to do with meeeeee? I found myself hoarding kind words from any of my friends or even passing acquaintances like a squirrel with his nut: a tiny compliment from a friend stored in the back of the head to be taken out and surveyed in darker moments.

After so many years of never thinking about myself — emotionally paying myself last, as it were — I feel an enormous guilt in spending the time thinking about myself at all. I am (or perhaps was?) a big proponent of the “it’s not about you” strategy of dealing with emotional conflict: always assume that the offended party is the correct one, and ignore any evidence that you, too, might have been wronged, and it’ll all be alright. I felt that self-care was a nonsense excuse to not do one’s job, and that taking time to think about these things, even in the context of the doctor’s office, was a form of extreme and dangerous narcissism born out of Tumblr and Twitter activism, or out of the thickets of trigger warnings that surround the castle of anything difficult to think about.

I haven’t yet managed to shake my molten rage at administrative things in my life going wrong.

I feel bad even retelling this story, but I think it points towards a few important things. I had a concert in a church the other day, and I had been in communication with the producer and his staff about wanting to set aside some seats for friends, and he had a very welcome ‘no problem’ kind of attitude. It was a free concert but one which needed tickets. I was very grateful for their help with all of this and tried to be as on top of the ticket situation as possible, sending names via email, confirming, double-checking that the number (12) was alright. An hour before the show I checked again with Capable Seeming Ticket Lady, and confirmed that the names would indeed be left at the door, and gave her another name I’d just gotten via SMS. Now. I then went for a little stroll and had a bracing lager, and I came back from this stroll to discoverer two strange tableaux-vivants. The first tableau was a bunch of my friends — who, in this case were all tall blond English men, don’t judge me, u don’t know my journey — clustered around the door next to a confused-looking woman with a clipboardt. She was not, however, as confused as the blind woman with her collapsible cane, wearing what looked like corrective shoes, precariously hobbling over the uneven cobbled surface of the churchyard, tripping on bollards and chain gates and heading the wrong way towards a certain spill against a leaning plane tree. So, I ran to the blind woman and took her arm and began to escort her towards the door, at which point I sort of nervously looked at the clipboardt lady and discovered that all of the name-emailing I’d done had resulted in the Seemingly Capable Ticket Lady scrawling MY last name, misspelt, with a blue pen, and then “+12” next to it. Now. How are these tall English boys going to get access to the Lord’s House when I had told them to just give their name at the door and it would all be okay? Also present in this dozen people was one of the performers’ momma. Not nann one of the names I’d emailed and confirmed had made its way to the door. This is an good example of a contract with the world being broken.

What I should have done is taken a deep breath and moved on with my life, chalking this particular incident up to the fact that arts administrators and their underlings are, I’m sure, hideously overworked people — although, me too: I am chained alway by devils to my desk writing music for their employers, gnashing my teeth and suffering the self-induced psycho-electrical shocks of self-discipline and profound fear), but, at that particular time in front of the church in London, the combination of my friends being inconvenienced, the appalling bootleg fuckery of my scrawled name, and the idea that the door staff were letting this blind woman trip all over the cobblestones sent me into a 2011-style ragefest galore. I was not asking for an extinct animal to be brought before me, I was not asking for some kind of exotic honey to applied to my body for reasons of allergies.  I just wanted my friends to be able to arrive at a door, give their name, and be granted access to the space behind the same door, at that time.

So, furiously, I marched back to the vestry, found Seemingly Competent Ticket Lady, and I am sorry to say that, beloveds, I read her for filth. I told her what time it was in every timezone.  I let it all in, and then I let it all out, in her face, at that time. But something curious happened: I found that my rage had three dimensions and an origin story: I could see the whole thing, I could understand its weight, and I understood, at that time, that the whole thing was springing from this inner vacancy and sadness, with the idea of my writing a piece of choral music (for which I am now able to feel a tiny shimmer of pride!) that asks “are you there” being answered, in an acute sense, by this organisational incompetence. I heard myself saying all these terrible things, and once it started, it all spilled out like change from a torn pocket. During this diatribe, I left myself momentarily, and had a conflicting group of emotions, which were: first I have to stop yelling, but also: I know both why I am yelling on a small level (she did totally fuck up and should have been pilloried before the village) but also on a large level (I am a person slowly getting better who is not yet better) and also: I finally know how this relates to larger problems about whose nature I am finally learning.

I am sorry, truly and deeply and honestly (despite my flippant attitude in the previous paragraph), to have lost it at this woman who I’m sure forgot to do her job for perfectly good reasons. The details are lost to history. It is never appropriate to turn into a volcano of rage no matter what has happened to you, and I speak as a volcano who has erupted a number of inappropriate times, despite my goal of dormancy and peace.

I’m telling this story to say that the nature of getting better, of becoming well, is not that you will automatically stop doing bad things, or that you will stop letting bad things happen to you. Getting well is going to involve sometimes doing these awful things and experiencing these terrible things and having those bad things done to you, but having, at the same time, a growing understanding of their beginnings and middles, and an awareness of the effort it is going to take to herd them towards their ends.

At the end of that concert where I lost my mind, the choir sang Benjamin Britten’s Rejoice in the Lamb, which is one of my favourite pieces of art ever in the world, and which is one of the reasons I am a composer now. Its text is by Christopher Smart, who spent a good deal of his life in an insane asylum. The text — of which Britten sets only a part — is an ecstatic journey of religious devotion through mania and altered states: Smart offers us the wordplay of the schizophrenic and the self-annihilating coldness of the depressed at the same time. At the end of one of the particularly excited sections describing a heavenly orchestra of instruments, Smart describes the hand of God cutting through the joyfully chaotic cacophony to play the harp. Britten treats the ensuing text with an almost maternal delicacy, relishing, in a lambent and suspended F-major chord, the symmetries of the music the text suggests, and tells us, with gentle hopefulness:

For at that time malignity ceases
And the devils themselves are at peace.
For this time is perceptible to man
By a remarkable stillness and serenity of soul.

I don’t think I am yet at, or even near, that time, and my flightpath might be asymptotic to that time, but I like seeing, through the flashes of fire and reminders of difficulty, a path towards stillness and serenity.

[Two notes: this post uses English spelling because for a variety of indescribable reasons my computer has to be set that way, as I’m in London right now, and two, the Britten link is to the UNT choir, which is the school at which my uncle Martin “Mickey” Mailman taught composition for many years, so I’m trying to keep it, as it were, in the family].

Nico Muhly Talks Madonna’s Rebel Heart

from Tuesday, March10th of the year2015.

A lifelong Madonna fan contemplates her new album, the role she had in his life and the role she’s had in everything. Read the full article at the talkhouse.

Look Upon These

from Tuesday, March3rd of the year2015.

Videos that Sam made:

Think fast

from Tuesday, July1st of the year2014.

Boop!  A strange thing happened today, which is that an article for which I gave an interview in January in Pittsburgh has just now materialized, and I’ve gotten in some mild internet trouble for some of the things I said, which I just wanted to clarify, mainly because it’s interesting how these things have the ability to recycle in strange, unexpected ways, and because the things that seem to have been the most objectionable are, actually, the things I believe in the strongest, but with some caveats.  Also: it feels right to articulate, in my own, typed words, these thoughts as it seems as if my rapid-fire interview is being scrutinized in some detail!  Now, here is the article in question, by Elizabeth Bloom if you care to look at it. Please note that the reason I sat for it was that my chamber opera, Dark Sisters, was being presented by Pittsburgh Opera, and I went out there for a few days to help do press for it, sit in on some rehearsals, etc.  This was in January.  I don’t understand why it has dropped, as it were, six months later.

The first point of clarification: “He thinks, for example, that classical music could learn from how pop uses music software and recording studios. (“I think classical electronic music always sounds like trash,” he said.)”  Now, that is a crazy statement!  I’m not 100% sure what I was referring to, but certainly I can use myself as an example here.  When I first wrote this piece called Keep in Touch, for Nadia and Antony and what essentially amounts to pre-recorded tape, I made the electronic elements myself using basically souped up GarageBand.  It wasn’t until Valgeir Sigurðsson started fondling it that I realized how trashy it sounded; it sounded about as trashy as when you turn on the radio and hear a great song but with MIDI strings. You’re like, “all that money and then this?” I think that the non-classical universe has citizens who simply spend more time in front of electronic instruments and computers, and it is meet and right to ring them up and ask for their counsel and assistance when dabbling in the more plugged-in corners, I think. I certainly wouldn’t dare try it totally alone. In the same way that I spent years in a darkened room basically snuggling with the score to Petrouchka, there are people who spent those same years of their lives making samples, designing synthesizers, sitting in a darkened room of their own. So, that’s what that’s all about; I can’t actually think about any “Classical electronic music” off the top of my head, with the possible exception of Jacob Cooper’s Silver Threads, which you should all buy, and also which came out three months after I said this so obvz I hadn’t heard it, and also which I think sounds great, partially, I imagine, because he rang up Damian Taylor, who, in addition to having the same birthday as I do, is one of the smartest and nicest and most sensitive programmer/engineer/computer types around.  I certainly didn’t have anything else in mind, with the possible exception of those v.v.v.v. early Babbitt pieces that just sound like straight up R2D2, but that’s more funny to me than anything else.  Bleep boop!

Then, a more delicate situation here:

“I’ve always found the best thing to do is to make work that doesn’t have to happen in a huge space. I think it would be fine if major orchestras closed,” he said. “In a lot of cases the halls are too big. I went to see a huge orchestra concert at Avery Fisher Hall, which is an excrescence in New York…and it’s like, let it close. That’s fine; it’ll be fine. They’ll find somewhere else.”

Okay, so this is an example of me saying two things at once, for which: my apologies.  Actually this is three things at once, in a jumble that, I see here, looks really inflammatory and ugly on the page.  What I was trying to say was I was SO excited when there was that three second period when the New York Philharmonic was going to play in Carnegie Hall full time. I’m told the seating capacity is more, which, might be true?  But I guess things in Carnegie always just seem more fun to me, and it sounds great in there, as if each sound was dipped in butter. I don’t like going to Fisher; I literally just don’t like being in there. I can never find the men’s room, the architecture gives me the shiverz. When I gave this interview, I had just been to something — Sibelius and Esa-Pekka and randomly the Mother Goose suite — there, and I hadn’t been in maybe five or six years, and two things happened. First, the orchestra sounded great and LOUD. The horn section was heroically, heroically great in Sibelius 5 and the Salonen concerto was tight and precise. However, I was just shocked by the strange dimensions of the stage, the slight sense that I couldn’t quite hear anything — as if there were a membrane between me and the musicians — the acoustic panels, the very depressing narrow side-areas for donors…don’t front like you haven’t seen those areas. My sense is that if they shut down Fisher for a few years, or moved the orchestra, the Phil itself would still be fine. I’ve seen that ensemble more, I realize here, looking through my calendar, at Symphony Space, in the parks — once even in Queens!  I went to Queens to see the Phil! – than in that hall. They are doing just fine when they go to other spaces and, actually, I buy all of their live recordings on iTunes anyway which sound great. So that’s what that was.  I’ve said maybe six thousand times online, offline etc. that I want the Phil to be awesome because they are my home team orchestra and I want for them to be the most kick-ass orchestra in the world with the most kick-ass hall etc. Again, I apologize for the seemingly flippant/aggressive snippet; it’s not something I would have said today, with the Phil’s neighbors at the Met involved in such a tense and acrimonious negotiation, much of which seems to be playing out in the press and on various blogs and Facebook &c. to the benefit of perhaps nobody.

The final thing I want to say here, which is perhaps more to the point, is that the way music gets paid for is really unknowable to me. I can’t pretend to understand it. In the time that I wrote this blogpost, in fact, a really awful cut to the ENO’s budget in London was announced; I love that company and love working there and with them — it can only be bad news, and yet, they seem to have spun it as potentially okay news?  I tried to follow the Minnesota negotiations and between the paper, Facebook, blogs, in-person conversations — at a certain point I just got so exasperated and frustrated by the idea of this semi-visible world of fighting people messing up our lives — it feels like Zeus and Hera, with their eternal squabbles and jealousies and resentments — people telling half truths, leaking information, good faith and bad faith arguments in the same sentence, with various intermediaries and intercessors throwing incense around. San Diego felt rather the same way; what’s going on at the Met seems the same way. It feels, sometimes, that the adults are fighting and that we’re the kids, cowering in our rooms pretending not to hear. I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s fantasized about just running away from home, and trying to find a more direct way to communicate between musicians and audiences, all of whom, I think, are going to figure it out in spite of these crises and inevitable transformations both real, imagined, and somewhere in between. Sometimes, I wonder if a closing doesn’t, in some way, shift energy: has anybody else noticed a wonderful explosion of chamber opera, a heightened attention to the 20-person operation compared to the slightly larger model recently in New York and elsewhere?  I feel like in London I can’t open a door without a brilliant amplified chamber opera popping out; this isn’t to say that it exists to the exclusion of Don Carlo, it’s just a different model.

It seems, though, that many places that have been In Trouble are no longer In Trouble — is that not the case?  Remember turning on the internet during the San Diego thing and it really felt like La Jolla would be a nuclear wasteland by nightfall with zombie opera singers preying on the flesh of the living and gay people sacrificing lambs to a makeshift statue of Maria Callas by that fig tree, and now it all seems to be, more or less, Fine?  Musicians are resilient as anything, and audiences are hungry for music, and I don’t think that has really changed. Audiences are even hungry for orchestral music! They go to see it in parking garages in South London, they go to Carnegie Hall, they go to the Phil. I love writing orchestral music; it is thrilling to write. It is also crazy; it’s a crazy thing that we do and it’s a crazy thing that it still exists, and I will do everything I can in my power to keep it alive, which, in my case, essentially means writing orchestra music, as is my plan — I’ve got a thing for Philly, a thing for Utah, and I’m giddy at the prospects, and from this point on I will shut up about anybody closing down.

And one final thought, more shop talk than anything else. For young composers, writing an orchestra piece can feel like the ne plus ultra of achievements, the distant summit to climb. As I said, writing for orchestra is amazing and I love it, but it doesn’t have to be for everybody. Think about Steve Reich, for whom you all know I have deep deep love. Homegirl has written, what, two pieces for orchestra (The Four Sections, and Three Movements, one movement of which is repurposed)?  I guess The Desert Music counts too but that works way better in the small, Alarm Will Sound edition.  In a long-ass career, the pieces of his that are the most defining, the closest, I would argue, to the heart of the artist, are the ones for small amplified ensemble with voices pre-recorded on a tape or live or both: Different Trains, The Cave. Then, looking back another third of a century, the early works — the ones that made him a sort of household (u know what I mean) name, are for his friends: Music for 18, Music for a Large Ensemble.  I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but his is a career — as, I would argue, is Philip Glass’s — that was built on a foundation of knowing, in some fundamental way, that orchestras weren’t going to want to commission them ever ever, as I’m sure it must have seemed in the 1960’s and 70’s. Even though that changed for Philip — and he would be the first to tell you that it was a surprise, and indeed, the result of having made his name writing music outside of that tradition —  the music of his that, for me, bears a more intimate touch is the music he wrote for his friends. Going back to what I said in Pittsburgh  (“I’ve always found the best thing to do is to make work that doesn’t have to happen in a huge space”), I think the advice is solid. Knowing how to make music despite the Arts Council is practical and sensible. It doesn’t mean that in such a making, one is saying that DIY music is the only way forward; it’s just a different skill-set. Writing a chamber opera doesn’t mean you don’t believe in grand; writing a piece of electronic music doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned the viola.

The experience of writing a new piece for orchestra is very scary; I’ve had some wild rides where you find yourself quite bumped up against the wall of the way the week in which your piece is premiered is scheduled. Things they don’t teach you in school turn into the biggest logistical obstacles: unexpectedly reduced strings for the Mozart means a tech call to move the chairs for your piece which means 20 minutes less rehearsal which means… and so on.  I’ve written before about the craziness of recordings in these situations.  It is very high-stress and I still get “first day of school” jitters in front of orchestras and usually need to sit down in a dark room after the first rehearsal, with a serious glass of wine. I have fought fought fought fought fought for more rehearsal time for new music; I have embarrassed myself, I have totally nailed or messed up the Confucian rituals of obeisance and deference some groups need, I have had nightmares about it, I have, in the thirty-nine seconds a composer is given to make comments, said clever things and blunt things and stupid things and funny things and things that fell flat. All of that having been said, there is nothing like that first moment when things start to emulsify in the room with the orchestra, when the little idea you had at your tiny desk has bloomed into this pulsing, shimmering thing, beautiful and ugly and surprising. It’s the Sorcerer’s Apprentice but strangely sanctioned — you’ve been allowed to manipulate seventy plus people, with their years of training and musicianship, into this twelve-minute distillation and explosion of an idea. It’s an experience I wish everybody could have, and it’s an opportunity for composers that I will fight for, both online and off.

I am wishing you all a very happy 4th of July weekend and a joyful Canada Day if that’s ur bag.

PS I stand by the record store thing 100%. Nothing freaked me out more than having to go into the classical — or god4bid opera  — section of Tower Records by Lincoln Center. I haven’t bought music clothed in years and I love it.

Nico Muhly Talks Coldplay’s Ghost Stories

from Thursday, May22nd of the year2014.

This is a repost from The Talkhouse, originally published May 20, 2014.

I have always liked Coldplay. There is something inherently honest-seeming about their faces, and I liked how once they got paid, they could afford to steal (in the most loving way) from other bands who also got paid — there is something much less offensive, I think, about people who own homes with nice linens and stuff taking artistic cues from other people who own homes with nice linens. For that reason, when I smell a texture taken pretty explicitly from Sigur Rós or Arcade Fire, it feels like a lateral homage rather than the ugly “who did it first” business we suffer through in the discourses surrounding borrowing from people who are, perhaps, slightly less paid.

What I like about this new album, Ghost Stories, the band’s sixth, is how unchallenging it is. I don’t mean this in a snarky way; it is unchallenging in the way a conversation with an old friend always has an ease and fluency to it. The rhymes are so symmetrical, so square, that you can predict the end of the line based on the first word alone. The musical phrases are similar: listen to the hook that begins “Ink” — it’s a little curlicue of a phrase that could only do one thing, and it does it confidently. Very satisfying.

The album begins with “Always in My Head,” which features one of these Lovingly Borrowed from Sigur Rós textures, a sort of processed thing that contains voices (did they use one of them little Casio keyboards that enjoy such cachet in certain circles?), and then a looped guitar with delay over a plodding bass line. It unfolds perfectly, like a row house: there is no other place for the toilet to go, so obviously it goes there, at the top of the stairs. There is no other thing to do at the chorus than to bring back that guitar loop, so here it is! It is very satisfying. Incidentally, if you squint at the cover art, it looks like a very specific piece of Sigur Rós merch; I think I have it on a tote bag somewhere.

In “Magic,” we get a taste of electronic drums and a bass moving in 10ths, and gloriously, the voice is presented in an unaffected and straightforward way, and we can really hear the grain of Chris Martin’s voice, by which I mean all the little tics and rasps that make us human. This is a welcome moment. I sort of can’t bear anybody setting the word “you,” which is difficult in the English language, but we seem to be stuck with it. Martin tries, here, several variations, ranging from “yeh” to “yoo” to the slightly Texan possibilities of “yew.” He performs a moist sandhi on “but you,” rendering it slightly more like “butt chew,” for what it’s worth. “You” is a hard word to sing.

We have talked about “Ink” already.

I’m really unclear about the merits of calling your song “True Love.” It has processed beds of strings, and a pointedly uneven vocal performance — Martin approaches the microphone from various angles, and shows his work, and one gets a sense of the challenges of his range in the slightly liquid phrase endings. They start high, in the falsetto range, and slither down through various passages and rooms and end in a conversational baritone. It’s sort of a handbook of how to use one’s entire range. There is a string arrangement that is disappointingly on the nose: it moves at exactly the same time as the chords, so why is it there? It’s like having a giant picture of your body printed on your body instead of wearing clothes.

“Midnight” begins with a looped and rhythmic texture. The voice comes in like that Imogen Heap song we all bought the shit out of — what was that called, “Hide and Seek?” Love that song. “Midnight” is super exciting to me because it sort of doesn’t do anything — there isn’t really a structure so much as a sequence of concentric circles surrounding the same chord. At the midway point, there is a thickening, a tumescence, over wordless singing in the stratosphere, which then expertly melts back into the polyphonic (Imogen) heap of textures, and then, obviously, straight into four-on-the-floor, but so satisfying. An arpeggiated synth! We are at the kluhb! Sidechain gate on the processed hi-hat — it’s all here. A build and a breakdown: they’ve done everything right here. It’s ritualistic and understated, and banks not on raw power but on a slow accumulation of elements.

“Another’s Arms” feels like it sits in precisely the wrong range of Martin’s voice. I can’t quite ever tell what he’s saying — sitting on the couch watching TV? — and he’s affected too wide a range of what sound like American pronunciations of words to have the sentiment land correctly. “Me” comes out as “Meh,” and quite right, too; the effect is bland, anonymous, and the exact opposite of the vocal honesty we found in “Magic” and “True Love.”

They appear to have hired either real human beings to play violins near the beginning of “Oceans,” or at least a very expensive sample library of harmonics. I am going to hold my tongue about the success of that arrangement because I’m actually just bitter they didn’t call me; ooh, the thangz I would have done to that song! What I like about this song is that it’s really an acoustic guitar jam with a little sonar ping instead of a snare drum, and the guitar performance is natural and unquantized, which is to say, sometimes it doesn’t align perfectly, and it makes me like it more. Then there is a random electronic looped outro that delivers us directly into:

The festival jammer! “A Sky Full of Stars” is what we’re dealing with here. “‘Cause you’re a sky full of stars/I’m gonna give you my heart.” I mean, that is not a cute lyric. It sounds like the little hooks of inspirational jib-jab that are sung over dance music in the gay clubs: “Keep going/Keep reaching /I believe in u” and things of this nature. The song proceeds in a professionally straightforward way; he wants to die in [our] arms, the electronic beats break down into just a single acoustic guitar. There is good news, though: the vocal performance is delicious. He is absolutely in control of each element of range, technique, volume and vibrato. It’s too bad the lyrics are so gayspirational, though, or, perhaps not gayspirational enough?

The album closes with the enigmatically titled “O,” built on a lovely sequence of piano arpeggios. The piano is played (and recorded) beautifully, and while it is deeply repetitive, it is surprising in its lazy circles: it feels like an organic process slowly unfolding. The arrival of the bass is a welcome grounding effect. The lyrics are dead simple but here take on an almost Japanese obliqueness of image and intent; there are large pauses between the phrases, reminding us that actually the piano is the point of the song. Martin’s voice is actually at its most beautiful here: controlled but fragile, with a warmth and openness that sits in loose counterpoint to the loneliness of the song.

Like I said, I’ve always liked this band. I thought that song “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” was an absolute triumph, and “Reign of Love” is a thing of exquisite beauty. This album is texturally beautiful: they steal from the best. There is a small tragedy in the emotional anonymity of the lyrics, and in the uncommitted sonic landscape as it relates to acoustic instruments: is there not an additional shade to be found from a really turn’t-out string arrangement, or a little mechanism made from pointed flutes? When Martin is singing athletically — as opposed to from the couch in the TV room — he is in top form. It’s comfortable and confident: the voice of an old friend on the phone, a neighborhood bar, a question to which you already know the answer.