On June 12th the Flux Quartet performed this piece in Philadelphia, the finale of American Sublime, a festival devoted to Feldman’s late music. The concert, which took place in the sanctuary of Philadelphia Cathedral, began at 2 p.m.; it ended around 8 p.m. The program notes said: “Audience may come and go as they please.”
I don’t win stuff. I don’t even enter things—contests, sweepstakes, lotteries—that would give me a shot at winning stuff. Until yesterday, that is.
Yesterday morning, driving home after dropping my son Luke off at work (7 a.m. can be a pretty brutal starting time for a 20-year-old), I was listening, as I often do while driving, to our local public radio station (WBEZ-FM), which, I learned, was in the midst of a fundraising drive. “Pledge,” they said, and “you’ll be entered in drawings for an iPad 2,” which were going to be made throughout the day. The earlier you pledge, they said, with what seemed unassailable logic, the better your chances of winning. I hadn’t sent them any money in a while so, when I got home, I went on-line and pledged. A couple hours later, a friend sent me an email: “Congratulations on your iPad.”
When bad stuff happens, particularly bad stuff that’s unexpected and outside my control (as often seems to be the case), my tendency is to try to let it go. Why invest bad experiences with ill-fitting, after-the-fact meanings? This is different. This experience I’d like to invest with all kinds of after-the-fact-meanings, ill-fitting or not. I’d like to see this as a favorable omen, one that portends all sorts of wonderful stuff—things that, at the moment, I can’t even begin to imagine. Goofy? Yeah, I suppose. But is it any nuttier than any number of other stories we tell ourselves to get us through the day?
Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975), String Quartet No. 15 in E flat minor (1974)
Excerpt (1st Movement)
‘Play it so that flies drop dead in midair, and the audience starts leaving the hall from sheer boredom,’ the composer told the players preparing its premiere in 1974.
If you’re away from home, how good it is to find a musical sanctuary, as I have the last two Fridays at Harvard’s Paine Concert Hall; last night I heard this string quartet play, wonderfully, music by Brahms and two contemporary composers (Adam Roberts, James Yannatos).
Chiara Quartet, Jefferson Friedman: String Quartet No. 2 (excerpt)
Live, New York (Le Poisson Rouge), 2010
Vodpod videos no longer available.
Are we ever better—more focused, more receptive, more supple—than when we’re listening to live music?
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lagniappe
art beat
Edward Hopper, Room in Brooklyn (1932), Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
I find it hard to understand why some folks wall themselves off from classical music. Jazz, blues, rock, classical: it’s all music. Sure, the musical lines and paragraphs—the units of expression—are usually (though not always) longer and more complex in classical music. But that’s simply a matter of form. Raymond Carver and Marcel Proust, for all their formal differences, both take you places you can’t get to any other way. So too do both Beethoven and Art Pepper, both Magic Sam and Mozart.
Bela Bartok, String Quartet No. 1 in A minor, 3rd movement
The Parker Quartet, live, 11/23/09
Mozart was a kind of idol to me—this rapturous singing . . . that’s always on the edge of sadness and melancholy and disappointment and heartbreak, but always ready for an outburst of the most delicious music.
—Rachael Z., the 20-something stylist who cuts my hair
The Brandt Brauer Frick Ensemble, live (rehearsal), Germany (Berlin), 2010
Vodpod videos no longer available.
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lagniappe
reading table
Teenager
Me — a teenager?
If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me,
would I need to treat her as near and dear,
although she’s strange to me, and distant?
Shed a tear, kiss her brow
for the simple reason
that we share a birthdate?
So many dissimilarities between us
that only the bones are likely still the same,
the cranial vault, the eye sockets.
Since her eyes seem a little larger,
her eyelashes are longer, she’s taller
and the whole body is closely sheathed
in smooth, unblemished skin.
Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world almost all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.
We differ so profoundly,
talk and think about completely different things.
She knows next to nothing —
but with a doggedness deserving better causes.
I know much more —
but nothing for sure.
She shows me poems,
written in a clear and careful script
that I haven’t used for years.
I read the poems, read them.
Well, maybe that one
if it were shorter
and fixed in a couple of places.
The rest do not bode well.
The conversation stumbles.
On her pathetic watch
time is still cheap and unsteady.
On mine it’s far more precious and precise.
Nothing in parting, a fixed smile
and no emotion.
Only when she vanishes,
leaving her scarf in her haste.
A scarf of genuine wool,
in colored stripes
crocheted for her
by our mother.
I’ve still got it.
—Wislawa Szymborska (trans. Clare Cavanagh & Stanisław Barańczak; Here [2010])
Babbit was not quite as difficult as he seemed. He may have been dealing in abstruse relationships among myriad elements, but his listeners didn’t have to digest too many at once. From Webern, Babbit learned the art of deriving a set from successive transformations of a group of just three notes (“trichord”), which becomes a microcosm of the series. With these tiny motives in play, the texture tends to be less complicated than in the average post-Schoenbergian work. Composition for Four Instruments gives the impression of economy, delicacy, and extreme clarity; flute, clarinet, violin, and cello play solos, duets, and trios, coming together as a quartet only in the final section, and even there the ensemble dissolves into softly questing solo voices at the end. Thick dissonances are rare; like Japanese drawings, Babbitt’s scores are full of empty space.
—Alex Ross, The Rest Is Noise (2007)
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There was only one. There were no “simultaneities” in this particular musical equation. Milton Byron Babbitt stands alone. He will never be popular. Nor will he cease to inspire.
Some music circles back on itself, over and over, slowing time.
John Luther Adams (not to be confused with the other John Adams)
“In the White Silence,” 1998 (excerpt)/The Oberlin Contemporary Music Ensemble, Tim Weiss, conductor (2003 recording)
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“Red Arc/Blue Veil” for piano, percussion, and tape sounds (excerpt)/live, Kentucky (Lexington [University of Kentucky]), 2008/Clint Davis, piano; Charlie Olvera, vibraphone, crotales
Vodpod videos no longer available.
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lagniappe
musical thoughts
Adams talks about his music
Vodpod videos no longer available.
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I admire a radio station where you can’t be certain when you first tune in—as happened to me yesterday afternoon, while working, when I turned on WKCR-FM (broadcasting from Columbia University)—whether they’re playing a recording or having technical difficulties.