Staying in tune

The equal-tempered scale, where the octave is divided into twelve equal chromatic steps, has dominated western music for over a century. We have been made to believe that its use has been standard since times of Bach, but actually its exact measurement dates back only to the second half of the 19^th century, when a new unit of measurement was introduced: the cent. Thus we know now that one chromatic step consists of 100 cents and that 1200 cents make up an octave. But there are several other tuning systems. Let’s take a look at some of them.

Pythagorean tuning. In this tuning the perfect fifth is king because all frequency relationships are based on it. As a result all fifths are pure, but other intervals, like the major third, end up being too large. In equal temperament, the major third consists of 400 cents, while in Pythagorean tuning it contains 407.82 cents. An interesting by-product of this tuning system is the discrepancy between seven octaves and twelve justly tuned perfect fifths; this discrepancy is called a Pythagorean comma. In their quest for new interval and harmonic relationships, some contemporary composers have used this kind of tuning. See Lou Harrison’s Sonata in Ishartum for guitar.

Just intonation. Mathematically speaking, just intonation is based exclusively on rational numbers: the octave is 2/1, the perfect fourth is 4/3 and the perfect fifth is 3/2. The major and minor thirds in the Pythagorean tuning were practically unusable, therefore musicians made some adjustments in order to make them consonant. A Pythagorean major third can be expressed as 81/64 but in just intonation it is rounded up to 5/4. The minor third was also adjusted from 32/27 to 6/5. This was a fantastic advancement but not without its problems. The main limitation being that you couldn’t modulate without retuning your instrument. Modulation therefore was nearly impossible. Listen to Terry Riley’s Land’s End for just intoned piano.

Meantone temperament. In terms of endurance, meantone temperament remained the norm for about four centuries. In it, each key has a certain character. There are several kinds of meantone tuning, but one of earliest and most colorful was championed by Nicola Vicentino in the 16^th century. Vicentino divided the octave into 31 equal parts and went as far as building an instrument, called the archicembalo, which made it possible to play in all keys. His research coincides with an increased interest at the time in chromaticism and Greek music theory. His contemporaries had great difficulties in performing his vocal works, so the archicembalo was supposed to serve as an aid. And although Vicentino was convinced that his system would eventually prevail, history took a different turn.

Well temperament. Although most of us have been taught that Bach composed his Well-Tempered Clavier in order to demonstrate the advantages of equal temperament, the truth is he never advocated its use. In fact, for Bach each key had a characteristic sound world and each prelude and fugue was written in order to exploit these differences. There are several kinds of well temperament, but the term refers to a kind of irregular tuning where the octave is divided into twelve unequal parts and where each tone is tuned in such a way that it is possible to play in most keys without them sounding out of tune. Listen to the iconic C Major Prelude from Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier in well temperament.

Harmonic series. The harmonic series is an arithmetic series that consists of a fundamental frequency and a series of overtones. The equal tempered scale is out of tune with many of the natural harmonics, especially the 7^th, 11^th and 13^th. When an overtone is out of tune it produces inharmonicity. The harmonic series is not a scale or a tuning system in itself, but it generates chords that are not achievable using other tuning systems, at least not with the same degree of accuracy. Partly because of this it has attracted a number of composers, especially those belonging to the Spectral school, who have built their compositions on their analysis of sound spectra. Listen to Gérard Grisey’s Partiels.

Personally I have never ventured beyond the equal tempered scale, and even within it composers have found room for innovation using intervals such as quarter tones, sixth tones and eighth tones, which belong to the realm of microtonality. There are several composers who have made used of microtonality throughout the centuries, but that would merit another article in itself. In fact, some of the tuning systems we discussed here are a window to the world of microtonality, which is commonly understood as the use of intervals smaller than a semitone or one hundred cents.

There are two main hurdles for the performance of microtonal music. First, the instruments that make up the standard western symphony orchestra are generally designed with the equal tempered scale in mind. It is of course possible to bend sounds a little, but not all instruments are capable of doing this. In terms of flexibility, the piano and all keyboard/mallet instruments are the least flexible, while the string instruments are the most flexible. The winds fare somewhere in between, but their construction is such that microtones are at best inaccurate and at worst impossible. There have been several attempts at building instruments capable of producing microtones, but none of them has become standard. Listen to a quarter tone trumpet.

The second reason is music education. All modern western musicians are taught that the semitone is the smallest interval. In addition to this, the vast majority of Western music written during the last five hundred years or so is written with twelve tones in mind. The repertoire of microtonal music is minimal in comparison, so teachers and students alike see no need in incorporating microtones to their vocabulary. What is interesting to note is that most musicians use microtones in the form of tones that are slightly deviated from their originally intended tuning. This happens especially in the case of enharmonics. For example, although a G sharp and an A flat sound exactly the same in the piano, a string musician will most likely bend the sound a little higher or a little lower depending on where the note is going. But these of course are just slight deviations from the equal tempered scale and not a systematic use of microtonality in its own right.

Many composers refuse to be discouraged by these facts and continue writing microtonal music. Some of them out of conviction that microtonality will become the norm in the future while others do it simply because they are interested in the new harmonic and timbral relationships that emerge out of it. I have been in love with the symphony orchestra since my beginnings and, as many of my colleagues know, the symphony orchestra is a very well established institution that doesn’t allow innovation every other day. This is why contemporary microtonal composers have preferred to focus on writing for chamber ensembles. Some notable ensembles are the Ensemble Intercontemporain  and the Nieuw Ensemble Amsterdam.

When I’m asked why I haven’t incorporated microtones into my musical language my first reply is that, so far, I haven’t felt the need to do it. I have experimented with them but they never quite materialized into my compositions. This doesn’t mean I don’t like them; in fact I admire composers like Gérard Grisey and Georg Friedrich Haas who have made extensive use of them. It is ultimately a personal choice, but if a composer does feel the need to use them, he/she should go for it without letting the establishment hinder his/her creativity. Of course we need to make compromises now and then, especially when our ideas turn out to be impractical, but we should not compromise our core values. Us composers should not measure our success based on whether our ideas become standard practice or not, what really matters is the quality of the music itself.

A place in history

Whenever I encounter an article trying to make a ranking of the greatest composers of all time, I usually turn away and try to make better use of my time. But the sheer amount of people ardently defending or diminishing this or that composer makes me think that the issue is truly important for some, the reasons not being very clear to me yet. Admittedly there are great and greater composers, but wouldn’t it be better to simply make a list of our favorite composers and leave it at that? Why do we passionately want our favorites to be everyone else’s favorites as well?

I would approach the issue from a different perspective. In all fields there are people whose impact reaches only those immediately surrounding them. Then there are those who have an impact on their communities. Some can have a strong influence on their nation as a whole, while others can make an impact on their time. Finally, there are those who transcend time. Not everyone aspires to be great and not everyone can achieve greatness, but that does not take value away from his or her contribution no matter how small it may seem. Let’s take a look at each one of them.

A composer who transcends time is usually a visionary, a man who was capable not only to master his art but also to elevate the field to a whole new level. Those are the men who change the course of history and whose music we still listen today almost everywhere. The icons that almost everyone in the planet knows by name and whose music is still inspiring people of all ages around the world and will continue resounding for centuries to come.  Among them are Bach, Mozart and Beethoven (just to mention a few); men who have transcended language, culture, politics, war, nationality and time. They are the immortals, and they still live among us.

Those who are widely recognized as great during their lifetimes are capable of producing works that capture the zeitgeist or spirit of their time.  A composer like this is celebrated around the world during his lifetime and beyond, but his light starts to dim gradually after a few decades. His works are played less and less and only a few compositions survive. With time, this composer becomes increasingly associated with only one or a few of the many compositions he wrote, and although some of his works have managed to transcend time, the composer did not transcend himself. Yes, his name will be remembered, but only in regards to a specific work; his oeuvre as a whole has not survived the test of time. These are the Albinonis, the Pachelbels and the Orffs and although their legacy might have been reduced to a single piece, let’s not underestimate these men; very few people are able to accomplish this incredible feat.

A composer whose music is capable of reaching a whole nation has enjoyed a considerable amount of international success during his lifetime; his name sounded loud and strong among his contemporaries. He might have occupied important administrative positions in his country and was capable of shaping the future of music and music education within his borders. His works are still performed, but mainly in his country of origin. Some musicians from other places might have interest in reviving his works but this is usually done at a modest scale. None of his or her works has been capable of capturing the public imagination at a worldwide scale, and today their names are obscure and practically unknown to general audiences outside their countries of origin. Some examples are Panufnik, Myaskovsky and Kuula. They are cherished in their respective countries and justifiably so. Their light is dim, but still shines for a few.

Composers who had an impact on their communities are unknown to us. But some of their compositions have survived, although the original scores might be lost forever. They are behind the works that are labeled “anonymous” and “traditional”, and they created something that meant a lot for their people. Their creations have undergone change after change and their music is now the result of a collective endeavor. Although they are not remembered by name, their contribution has made its way to us.

Finally, not a single note has survived from those who had an impact to those immediately surrounding them. But although their compositions might be completely forgotten, perhaps they taught composition at their local music school and shared their knowledge with their family and especially their children. Although their works might never get a chance to be performed again, their impact, albeit an indirect one, cannot be underestimated. A great composer is a rare gem and many great composers learned their art from men and women whose names and works have fallen into oblivion.

Of course we could make more subdivisions, especially between the “immortals” and the one-piece composers, but what I’m trying to point out here is that, although some composers might be greater than others, nobody is entitled to belittle anyone else’s work. I feel that a ranking does not do justice to anyone and does not quite contribute anything to our understanding of music and musicians. This is why here I have approached the issue from the point of view of transcendence and influence (time is the best tool we have at our disposal when measuring these factors) rather than determining who is categorically better or worse. Admittedly, some are born with greater talent than others, but what really matters is how we all make use of our talent. We should always strive to achieve the maximum within our own possibilities without establishing comparisons. Comparisons can work both ways, they can help us go forward but they can also lead us to stagnation. It is always better to look inwards and constantly demand the maximum from us.

Ultimately, the contribution of every musician -no matter how small- is still felt today either directly or indirectly. Yes, there are a few names that stand out in History, but music is a collective experience; we build up on each other’s achievements and we will continue creating and recreating music for as long as our race exists. Like the stars, the contribution of each individual composer has a place in the night sky, some shine brighter than others, but they all shed their light upon us.

Mastering time

Is it possible for man to master time? Music is a temporal art par excellence, therefore time plays an essential role in the creation of a piece of music. In our effort to understand time we divide it and subdivide it into units that lie within the lifespan of a human being. As ephemeral as we are, our units are rather short: seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, decades, etc., and practically all musical compositions written to date last anytime between a few seconds to a few hours (with one notable exception: the John Cage Organ Project in Halberstadt, Germany, which will last for 639 years). This, however, hasn’t thwarted our attempts to achieve transcendence. We have sought immortality by building pyramids, writing books and composing symphonies; creating works of art that survive the test of time and transcend human life. All of this would be futile, of course, were we not capable of giving birth to new generations and sharing our knowledge with them. But humankind hasn’t stopped there; some of us have refused to accept mortality altogether and have placed our belief in an immortal soul; a matter of faith that would merit a separate discussion by itself. That aside, over the centuries man has shown his desire to prevail over time, and in the process he has realized, time and over again, his insignificance in the overall scheme of creation. Personally, I would not be discouraged by this realization; we might have virtually no impact in the life cycle of a supernova, but we can still have a great impact on the life of another human being.

Time is a difficult concept to grasp. We perceive the passing of time but that is no guarantee that time is indeed passing. We conceive time as a linear succession of events that cover past present and future, but we have no certainty that time is indeed linear. The moment we think about the future, we are already in the future; the moment we talk about the present we are already talking about the past. In a way, time is a frame from which we can’t escape, but our imagination has allowed us to by-pass this barrier and create temporal worlds of our own of which we are masters and commanders.

In theater, film and literature the creators are capable of telling a story from beginning to end or from end to beginning. Seconds can last minutes and centuries may be compressed into just a few pages. This power to manipulate time is not as explicit in purely musical forms. Can we actually start a symphony from the middle? We could certainly take a few measures from the middle and play them at the beginning, but how do we convince our listeners that those first measures are not the beginning of the piece but rather the middle? Moreover, once we come to the middle of the piece their reaction will most likely be “oh, I have heard that before, this was at the beginning of the piece”. If you start a story with a grown up man and toward the middle of the film you show that same man as a baby, we know immediately that we have gone back in time. Not so with musical themes. I’m afraid that no matter how much effort we put into it, the first sounds of a piece will always be considered the beginning.

You may be asking why this is important. The manipulation of time is rarely taught as a separate concept at conservatories; it is a given. Western music has always placed great importance to the beginning of each piece. In the Baroque era, when polyphony was the most esteemed compositional device, composers played frequently with the displacement of time. Of all the techniques they used, the Canon is the one that exemplifies this most clearly.

The canon is a masterful combination of circular and linear time. Circular because the harmonic structure of a canon repeats itself in cycles, and linear because there is only a single melody all throughout, but it is perceived as many melodies simply because the melody has been displaced in time. It is the equivalent of juxtaposing the still images of a man in motion and getting, as a result, a man with several limbs, like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man (this drawing was made to illustrate proportions, but it serves to illustrate my point as well).

Later on, Beethoven set a new ideal and composers started to create large works out of small musical cells, such as the motif; thus the motif became the seed from which a large symphonic work could sprout. We would watch it unfold gradually in time, as if witnessing the growth of a living being, because every time the motif came back it would be slightly transformed, albeit always recognizable. This recurrent motif would provide us with a connecting thread that would establish a solid link between past and present and which would remind us that the work we were listening to had its origins at a singular point in time.

So although composers can’t travel in time as easily and explicitly as filmmakers, writers or playwrights, we do share with them the capacity to generate a static state of time, and it is here that the inability of absolute (abstract) music to portray reality in a literal sense can turn to our advantage. As Heidegger would put it, there are three ecstasies of temporality: past, present and future. Our future plans influence our present decisions as much as past events determine our present situation. When writing a score, all ecstasies of temporality interact with one another and the final product is the result of a creation process that takes place in a, sort to say, static time zone. At first the work must be composed note by note, but once it is complete, our minds will allow us to travel from any point to any other point in time within the universe of that specific composition. Once we grasp a temporal work of art we can travel within its universe at the speed of thought. This is possible for a composer who knows his work by heart, but what about the listener?

Before going there, let me clarify the concept of stasis in music. When talking about this concept, perhaps Morton Feldman or Javanese gamelan music might come to mind. But this is not what I am talking about. I am not referring to music that appears to be static (which is anyway an illusion, since movement is required to produce vibrations and vibrations are perceived by us as sounds), but rather to the perception of time. Time and the way we perceive time it are not one and the same. Our perception of time may vary drastically depending on the situation; under certain circumstances a few seconds may appear to last forever and a couple of hours might feel like a few minutes. Of course we need a point of reference in order to coordinate our timetables, and that point of reference is independent of our perception, but when we listen to a piece of music, the passing of time will not be perceived by everyone in the same way. As a result, although a composer may have control over the succession of events within his piece, he won’t be able to control the way it is perceived. The Universe he has created will enter the field of perception of another human being, and once that happens he must surrender sovereignty. So going back to the role that the listener plays in all of this, the capacity to perceive a piece of music as static requires the listener to know and recreate every passage at any given time, which is achievable through repeated listening. The same is true for the other arts.

Let’s think of a book, we know the whole story is contained within it and we can jump to any page at anytime and therefore travel through that universe where past, present and future coexist. When looking at a DVD we are looking at the whole movie simultaneously, so in order to unfold it in time we need to watch it first from beginning to end. A musical score is no exception to this rule, but its abstract quality gives it an added advantage. A story line must have a series of events arranged in chronological order. It does not need to be told in chronological order, but there must be a temporal line underlining the whole story. In a musical score the story line does not require a beginning or an end, in fact there is no need for a story line at all, just a succession of events that have been organized by a composer. Some composers have chosen to emulate literature; the “tone poem” for example, is based on extra musical elements. But when a piece of music is based solely on sounds, time unfolds simultaneously although it is perceived chronologically. In other words, the piece exists first as a whole in a purely abstract realm, but in order to be perceived, it must be listened to.

Even if man is incapable of mastering time, he can surely master the way he perceives it. And what is time if not just an ontological necessity? For all we know, it may not even exist, but this is something I am not concerned with. As a composer I am mostly interested in our perception of time, and this perception is what makes it possible for music to exist.

Standing firm

When I decided to become a composer back in 1991, practically no one took me seriously. Had my parents not supported my decision, I might not be right now on a plane, on my way to my next performance.

I grew up in a city of eight million people, one symphony orchestra and one conservatory. I don’t think most people in my country know exactly what I do for a living, and if they do, they might not even consider it a profession. That was my experience back in high school. Many tried to persuade me that music was a hobby, not a real career. The greatest disappointment came when one of the teachers in my school actually tried to convince my parents that it was imperative to change my mind. In his opinion, I was just a teenager who didn’t know what he really wanted so my parents, as adults, had to act responsibly and dissuade me from wasting my intelligence in such a fruitless endeavor. Fortunately for me, my parents did not pay heed to his unwise words.

At the beginning, when I performed my own compositions in public events at my high school, the other kids would mock me, but with time they just started to accept that I was simply a little different and I was not ashamed of it. The creation of a second orchestra in 1994, the Lima Philharmonic, came as a blessing for me. An exceptionally fortunate chain of events led the orchestra’s founder, Miguel Harth-Bedoya, to choose my school’s auditorium as a venue for his orchestra’s rehearsals. In time, the orchestra musicians started teaching us all orchestral instruments, our school invested heavily in the music department and I became assistant librarian to the Lima Philharmonic.

If people’s skepticism had been first directed toward my choice of profession, it later started to be aimed at my talent. My first compositions were not met with an enthusiastic reception. I showed them to several people, including a piano teacher who once pointed, “the fact that you are very self-confident doesn’t mean that your music or your playing is good”. Not everybody was critical, of course, my piano teacher from childhood had an unwavering conviction that I would get far, and so did my parents. At that age and at such a crucial stage in life the support of your loved ones can make the world of a difference.

I wouldn’t be sharing this if I didn’t know that lots of kids are going through the same situation right now. Ignorance and lack of education are responsible for most misconceptions people have about this profession. Only many years later I learned that my parents had held a long struggle not only with their own doubts, but with other people’s skepticism as well. The parents of other kids at school would tell them that being a musician was synonymous of being lazy and bohemian. Obviously none of those people ever studied music because otherwise they would understand the degree of discipline required to master an instrument or to write a work for symphony orchestra. One of my teachers once asked me what were my plans after high school, and I said I would go study at the Conservatory. “How long is the career?”, he asked, “Well, one has to start early, but I expect to graduate in five years”, I told him. “Five years? Can you study music for that long?”. I knew he was asking in good spirits because he truly didn’t know, so I went on to explain that one has to study several courses including analysis, history, solfège, instrumentation, orchestration, counterpoint, harmony, performance, composition, etc. He seemed truly baffled that one could study music for so long. I think he would be even more surprised now, because even though our conversation took place 16 years ago, I still have one year left before I finish my PhD.

If you are young and you want to become a musician, you are very lucky if you were born to a musical family or in a country where music is truly appreciated. For the rest of us, whose parents are not musicians and whose environment feels rather hostile toward this profession, I recommend lots of determination. Be confident about your capacity, no matter what other people say. You need a great deal of confidence if you want to step on stage, in front of hundreds of people, and give a two-hour recital. You need to be confident if you want to tell an orchestra of 80+ musicians that you know what you are doing and they need to follow you. You need confidence to attend the premiere of a work you spent months working on, be destroyed by a critic in next morning’s newspaper and continue to work in spite of this. Music is not for the faint hearted; you have to be fully invested in it and you need to be ready to display, in public, the deepest corners of your soul and mind. It is psychologically demanding but is also incredibly rewarding. Some of the most significant moments of my life are contained in my music, and some of the greatest memories I have, have to do with music. And if a person you love is there to witness those moments with you, you can consider yourself very, very fortunate.

How do you gain this confidence? By being good at what you do, and this often means working really hard. You can’t build a career based solely on your talent. Self-confident people who have no other virtue but being confident are empty, and this emptiness will be quickly perceived by everyone around them. Don’t rush; go out to the world and show what you have, but only when you are ripe. There has been an obsession in recent years for even younger conductors and composers, but these professions are not like sports, they need more time to mature. However, don’t wait for too long, you might burn the cake. You will know when you are ready, and as soon as this happens, make sure to share your talent. You were given this talent for you to share with others, not to keep it to yourself. Be ready to be praised and criticized, and remember that your confidence does not depend on other people’s perception of you, but on yourself. If you let yourself be seduced by praise, you will end up seeking praise and therefore trivialize your art. If you let yourself be affected by criticism, you might get depressed often, and this will in turn lead to poor health and less productivity. Do not be deaf to criticism; otherwise you will succumb to your own pride, but do not let it destroy you. Remember that what other people say is just their opinion, not the absolute truth. It is especially important to remember this at the beginning of your career, when very few people believe in you, but you must also remember this throughout your entire life.

As my plane nears its destination (Lima, my home city) I recall all those years of struggle with a sense of satisfaction. I didn’t give up, and because I didn’t give up I am going to witness my third performance with the National Symphony. I am nowhere near completing my mission as a composer, but I know that my once dream of becoming a composer is now a reality. I encourage every young aspiring musician to follow his/her heart, and I encourage every parent out there to listen to their children. Listen to what they have to say, because sometimes your kids know exactly what they want, and if they are determined, nothing is going to stop them.

From symbol to sound

As a child, most of the standard classical repertoire was unknown to me so when I started listening to classical music in my early teens, every piece I listened to was a startling discovery. Some pieces I liked, others I loved, and the ones I loved I listened to over and over again. At that time I had no capacity to discern between a good and a bad interpretation, so I would not think too much before buying a record as long as the piece and the composer were right. Later on, as I listened to the same pieces over and over again, I started to notice a subtle difference between orchestras, soloists and conductors. As I listened more intently, those differences became greater and greater to the point that I could not tolerate some versions at all and I had to put them aside altogether.

The more progress I made in my piano lessons, the more I understood the difficulties of performance. My goal was never to become a pianist, but I did put a lot of effort into delivering as good a performance as I possibly could. I learned to admire the painstaking process of practicing for several hours and working on a single page for days or even weeks. But this effort paid off; the more I played a piece the more I discovered in it. Great performers have a unique capacity to communicate the fruits of their labor to us; they have the physical dexterity, mental concentration and emotional intelligence needed to bring the best out of the most intricate scores with such ease that we might even forget the long hours of hard work behind each performance. But a great score is essential; a score able to withstand hundreds of performances yet still remain fresh and rewarding. The combination great score-great performer is a luxury that cannot be overestimated.

Listening to live performances sharpened my ears and made me more aware of the enormous influence that a performer can have over the audience’s reception. Debussy is the type of composer who, in my opinion, cannot withstand a bad performance. His orchestral colors, refined textures and delicate instrumental balance are so hard to bring about that a bad performance would simply destroy his music. And although in truth, no piece of music can withstand a bad performance, I would argue that a symphony by Beethoven, for example, can somehow get its message across even if it is not played very well. This, of course, has nothing to do with the quality of the music; instead it might be related to the fact that Debussy calls for much more subtle instrumental techniques (which are essential if one is to understand his music) while Beethoven’s focus on motivic treatment and development gives the listener clear, recognizable landmarks from which to cling on to and therefore follow the structure of the piece with less difficulty.

But in the end there is no better way to acknowledge the relevance of a good interpretation than to listen to one’s own music played by different performers. I have been fortunate enough to have my music played by different soloists, ensembles and orchestras and I can certainly tell that the very same piece can sound surprisingly different depending on who is on stage. When talking about great orchestras the differences are not so much in quality but in style, and they will mostly depend on the conductor’s understanding of the piece. The greatest instance to appreciate these subtleties is not during the concert but in rehearsals; the least I have to say during a rehearsal the more satisfied I am, because this means that the performers have anticipated my thoughts and opinions leaving me with very little to say. I love when the performer transcends the written notes and impresses his/her own vision upon the piece. Sometimes this vision might be in accordance with mine, sometimes not. If I feel strongly against it I will of course let the performer know, but most of the times this happened it meant kind of a revelation for me too, as if the player was able to discover something that had been hidden even to me. And this is a magic moment because it means that the piece has started a life of its own.

Some of my the best collaborations have been with close friends, especially when featuring them in a soloistic capacity. There is no greater reward than listening to a performer who is truly invested in our work and who understands us, not only as composers, but also as artists and human beings.  Composers would do well in nourishing these kinds of connections because those players will become the true ambassadors of our music.

This feeling is even more patent when working with professional orchestras. If the conductor is a friend, the connection with the orchestra will be strong; if not, we must work hard to establish a connection throughout the rehearsals. If we achieve this connection, things can turn out to be successful, otherwise it’s likely we’ll go through a very disappointing experience.

Young composers know about the difficulties of having their works performed and the limited amount of time destined to the rehearsal of new works. This is a fact: we must accept it and work with it. After all, we are professional musicians so we should be all able to develop a cordial relationship with our fellow musicians even if we haven’t worked with them before. Rather than looking at it as a limitation we should seize the opportunity to establish new contacts and create new friendships. After all, we will find ourselves in these kinds of situations more often than not.

Interpreters and composers have a symbiotic relationship; we need each other for our mutual survival. Composers provide the music; interpreters provide the sound. Throughout history the line has been blurred by composer-performers and performer-composers, but in both cases the issue of interpretation is eliminated because there are no intermediaries between composers and audiences. This, however, is only possible in limited occasions and certainly not after the composer’s death. So even if us, composers, perform our own works frequently, it is crucial to develop relationships with performers in order to create a tradition around the performance of our music.

Interestingly enough, although we live in a highly literate society, a crack remains when it comes to performance practice (and I certainly hope this will continue to be the case). The scores are printed, but the conventions of how to play a specific composer of a specific time and place are passed orally from generation to generation. And no matter how much effort we put into writing about these practices, the fact remains that the most effective way to transmit this knowledge is by sharing it directly with the younger generation of musicians. This is how our art remains alive and how pieces that were written 300 years ago keep surprising us. As composers, we can only hope that our scores will be rich enough to survive the test of time, and that interpreters will still find them worth the effort.

…und…

During the summer of 2009 I spent five weeks in Freiburg, Germany working on “Incubus III” at the SWR Experimentalstudio with Gregorio Karman. The premiere of this work took place during the Donaueschingen Contemporary Music Festival later that same year. Gregorio and I met after the concert and he said that Georg Friedrich Haas had found my piece fascinating, although different from everything he writes. Haas was already a familiar name to me, but his music was not; after his comments on my piece I was determined to know his music better. This is how I came to know “…und…”; it was love at first listen. I was living in Paris when I discovered this piece (composed in 2008) and I still recall taking my iPod and listening to it repeatedly while visiting some of the most iconic Parisian museums. But listening to it was not enough, so I decided to make an in depth analysis that would also serve as the centerpiece for my qualifying exams at UC Berkeley.

“…und…” exploits the relationship between electronics and chamber ensemble. The electronics serve as a hearing aid for the players when trying to achieve the intonation of microtonal pitches. The composer knows that the level of precision required to perform these microintervals exceeds human capacity, but the friction caused by those imprecisions is, in fact, desired. At first, the instruments are almost fully attached to the pitches of the electronics but in the end they break free from it.

What follows is a technical analysis of the piece. I cordially invite both, musicians and non-musicians to read it, although I should mention that the content of the analysis might be difficult to comprehend without prior knowledge of music theory.

This piece is scored for flute (+picc; alto fl) 2 clarinets, 1 horn in F, 2 trombones, percussion, piano, accordion, 3 violins, 2 violas, 2 cellos, 2 double basses and electronics. The composer divides the ensemble into two main groups. Both groups initially play a single harmonic field, but they are later divided into two independent harmonic fields, which are confronted against each other. Toward the end, both groups meet in unison.
- Group one includes flute, 1st clarinet, 1st trombone, 1st violin, 3rd violin, 1st viola, 1st cello and 1st double bass while
- Group two includes 2nd clarinet, horn, 2nd trombone, 2nd violin, 2nd viola, 2nd cello and 2nd double bass. In addition to these groups, we can distinguish three additional categories:
- Instruments with fixed pitch: piano, accordion, marimba, crotales, vibraphone, timpani (this last instrument has a movable pitch, but its glissando properties are not exploited in this piece).
- Instruments with indeterminate pitch: güiro, tam tam, gran cassa and cymbals and
- Instruments with exact intonation (in cents): electronics.

Spectral chords, if played properly, are almost entirely free of beating. Two juxtaposed spectral chords, however, generate some sharp beatings. Also, the group of instruments with fixed pitch cannot change their intonation, unlike strings and winds, which can bend their pitch. As a result, the world of equal temperament is set against that of spectral harmonies. At the end of the piece the melodic line moves entirely independent of the harmonic sound space.

The overall form of the piece is presented here in detail:

OVERALL FORM
SECTION NUMBER	MEASURE NUMBERS	SUBSECTIONS	MOST SALIENT ASPECT
I	1-50	Transition (T): 44-50	Sustained pedal notes in unison
II	51-95	T: 87-95	Single harmonic field
III	96-120	IIIa:96-111	Strong presence of fixed pitch instruments
		IIIb:112-120
IV	121-185	IVa:121-146 T: 143-146	Two clashing harmonic fields
		IVb:147-179T: 180-185
V	186-209	T: 206-209	Thirds
VI	210-255	T: 253-255	Electronics come to foreground
VIII	256-307		Melody in unison

Here follows a detailed description of each section:

I. Sustained pedal notes in unison. This section marks the beginning of the piece. A single sustained note (g quarter tone sharp) makes its first appearance in the cello (muted sul ponticello); shortly after that it also appears in the electronics. Other string instruments follow suit, always in unison, each one with its own dynamic fluctuations. Woodwinds get added to the texture in bar 10. The composer starts the piece, as it were, by presenting us with an empty canvas; we can perceive a texture (different sound sources and different modes of sound production) but he restrains from showing us the harmonic spectrum that is implied in this single sustained tone. Starting on bar 16 he makes an association between dynamics and timbre by associating ordinario with pp and sul ponticello with mf. In bar 23 the Tam tams make their first appearance, blurring the clarity by introducing their own inharmonic partials.

At bar 29 we see the introduction of a new tone (f) by the Timpani; electronics and low strings follow suit immediately after. Bar 36 sees the overlapping of two fundamental tones, thus anticipating a procedure that will be exploited to the fullest in section IV. The bells blur the clarity of the harmonic spectrum starting on bar 43 with their sound rich in inharmonic partials. The accordion makes a significant -almost subversive- gesture by playing a cluster (bar 45) in the low register, which creates a notorious disturbance in this context due to the presence of what could be understood as multiple fundamentals. Here we see how Haas apparently undermines his own structures, but in fact I believe he highlights his procedures by underlining the stark contrast between harmonic/inharmonic fields and between fixed pitch instruments and instruments with flexible intonation.

II. Single harmonic field. In a personal conversation with Gregorio Karman (who collaborated with Haas in the creation of “…und…” at the SWR studio), Haas said that this work is set out as an etude, presenting the partials of the harmonic series in a completely didactic manner (this explains the extensive numerical labeling present throughout the score). Haas is consequent with his words because in this second section we see the introduction of the upper partials of the harmonic series right after the introduction of the fundamental. The first double bass introduces the new fundamental at the end of bar 50, followed by other low strings and the electronics a few moments later. By this point in time, we are already very familiar with this procedure, but at bar 54 the woodwinds come in playing partials number 11, 8 and 6 as indicated in the score (the electronics play only the fundamental and partial 11). Haas changes the fundamental at bar 59 (which overlaps briefly with the previous one) and starts presenting the partials belonging to this new fundamental. In this section the division into groups hasn’t taken place yet, thus all instruments in the ensemble play the partials corresponding to a single fundamental. From bars 59 to 86, Haas makes a gradual ascending glissando on the fundamental (and therefore also in the whole harmonic field). This process is led by the electronics, which serve as a guide to the rest of the ensemble. Haas does not expect the musicians to be capable of producing such refined differences of intonation, in fact he wishes for the “inaccuracies” that come as a result. These slight differences of intonation between the ensemble and the electronics add an element of friction, contributing to the oscillations and beatings that occur when two close frequencies interact. This constitutes Haas’s world, particularly in this piece.

III. Strong presence of fixed pitch instruments. An apparently innocuous gesture in the piano at mm. 87-89 announces a severe disruption in the harmonic field. This disruption is perpetrated naturally by the fixed pitched instruments whose equal temperament tuning seems coarse in comparison with the refinement with which the electronics and the rest of the ensemble paints the harmonic overtone series. Haas underlines this coarseness by adding violent, repetitive chords in the piano (duplicated by the accordion), which seem almost unidiomatic. Starting at bar 112 Haas continues with the repetitive chords in the fixed pitch instruments while he dramatically changes the writing for the ensemble. Two things catch our attention: the reappearance of the initial gesture, that is to say sustained notes in unison, and the considerable shortening of their length, therefore leading to a greater amount of fundamentals (always triggered by the electronics) within a shorter period of time.

IV. Two clashing harmonic fields. This is the first time that Groups one and two make their appearance. Here the electronics play two simultaneous fundamentals while each group plays the harmonic field corresponding to each fundamental. This is one of the most aurally interesting sections in the piece. Haas helps us identify each harmonic field by writing different dynamic markings for each group. The range is considerably large (pp to ff ) and it helps the listener discern between both harmonic fields. Here too the fixed pitch instruments intervene, but as it can be observed on mm. 141-142, they now take part in the harmonic field of either Group one or Group two. Since they use the equal tempered scale, their participation can only be approximate. Let’s observe bar 142 where the accordion has an A natural as the lowest note, which corresponds to the fundamental of the first harmonic series. Its next note (Eb) however, cannot be found among the partials of the first harmonic series, but if we turn to the second harmonic series, we will notice that it starts in Eb. In the same fashion, the piano finds itself playing notes belonging to both harmonic fields. At bar 155 both fundamentals join and the division between groups disappears, but just briefly because fundamental number two changes in the following bar. The composer himself points out another curious effect at bar 157 where the B quarter tone flat (3^rd violin) ends up belonging to both harmonic fields, as the 9^th and 11^th partial respectively. The same thing happens at bar 165 where the D quarter tone flat (3^rd violin) is the 9^th and 13^th partial of each harmonic series. These procedures underline Haas’s refinement. He not only looks to create clashes between two sharply distinct harmonic fields but he also tries to intensify the friction between them by incorporating common tones among the upper partials. At bar 176 both fundamentals join but this time they do not separate anymore. At bar 177 all instruments of the ensemble form part of the same “group”. Bars 179-185 not only serve as a transition to the next section but they also help clear the ear from the saturation of the harmonic filed. The transition is goal oriented: we have a return of the bells and tam tam while all strings execute an ascending glissando; the piano and accordion play figurations reminiscent of those first heard in section III.

V. Thirds. What at first could be interpreted as two separate fundamentals being played together, ends up being something entirely different. The ratio (expressed by the composer where needed) gives us a hint. The electronics are separated into two staves, the upper staff indicates two sustained partials and the lower one contains a brief appearance of the fundamental tone. Only two partials are sustained at once and the distance between each other remains roughly within the range of a third during the whole section. Other partials appear briefly on the horn (4^th partial), 1^st double bass (6^th partial) and 2^nd double bass (2^nd partial). Here Haas makes an increased use of sul ponticello creating a richer and noisier harmonic field. At the end of bar 204 Haas reintroduces the striking low cluster in the accordion, which we first heard at bar 45, but this time reinforced by the gran cassa. The build-up to the next section is masterful. Both instruments have alternating dynamic schemes, very much in accordance to earlier procedures, especially when dealing with two separate harmonic fields. The intensification by means of a written ‘accelerando’ leads to section VI.

VI. Electronics come to foreground. Until this point the electronics have successfully merged with all acoustic instruments, but at this point (bar 210) the electronics come to the foreground by performing a loud, short iteration of the fundamental. The ensemble is again subdivided into two groups, each performing a different harmonic field. Haas uses a different type of writing for this section and gives greater power of decision to the conductor. The section is subdivided into 19 small blocks whose duration is suggested by the composer, but which “may be greatly prolongued”. Each section sees the appearance of a new fundamental in the electronics as the composer suggests which partials should be brought to the foreground. The process of communication is brought here to another level of sophistication and the success of this section depends greatly on the capacity of the performers to stay synchronized. The ensemble fades away gradually and leaves the electronics fully exposed sustaining an octave (f#-f#). The recorded version of this piece includes a final appearance of the repeated notes in the piano right before bar 256, however this does not correspond to the available score.

VI. Melody in unison. In this final, moving section, the composer brings the electronics to a standstill. The rest of the ensemble unites in a single voice resembling a heartbreaking lamentation. This final melody is in fact a setting word by word of a poem by German poet Else Lasker-Schüler (1869 – 1945, a Jewish-German poet and playwright and one of the few women affiliated with the Expressionist movement. Lasker-Schüler fled Nazi Germany and lived out the rest of her life in Jerusalem):

Maienregen

Du hast deine warme Seele

Um mein verwittertes Herz geschlungen

Und all seine dunklen Töne

Sind wie ferne Donner verklungen.

Aber es kann nicht mehr jauchzen

Mit seiner wilden Wunde,

Und wunschlos in deinem Arme

Liegt mein Mund auf deinem Munde.

Und ich höre dich leise weinen,

Und es ist – die Nacht bewegt sich kaum –

Als fiele ein Maienregen

Auf meinen greisen Traum.

May Showers

You have your warm soul

To wound my weathered heart

And all its dark tones

Are like distant faded thunder.

But it cannot rejoice

With its wild wound

And in your arms, desireless

my mouth lies on your mouth.

And I hear you cry softly,

And it is – the night barely moves -

remembered as the showers of May

in my aged dream.

This melody is in high contrast with the rest of the piece. …und… is built upon harmonic blocks, here however we have a melody with a clear contour that emerges out of the fundamental. Here the intervals are larger (we are basically constricted to quarter tones) but friction (beating) is present all the way due to the inevitable imprecisions in intonation by the players.

Finally, it would be interesting to note that the poet has another short poem called “…und…”.

und…

und deine sinne sind kühl,

und deine augen sind zwei morgenfrühen…

and…

and your senses are cool

and your eyes are two early mornings…

“…und…” remains for me one of the most interesting pieces of the past decade, and certainly Haas is positioning himself as on of the most respected composers of today. I will continue to follow his work closely and I consider myself lucky for having worked with people such as Gregorio Karman and the members of the Jack Quartet, all of whom have worked and continue to work closely with Georg Friedrich Haas.

Sound of sorrow

It is October 6, 1802 and we are in a little town called Heiligenstadt, a Vienna suburb. A 28-year old Beethoven is writing of one of the most heart wrecking testimonies ever to come from an artist. His hearing had been faltering, leading to a life of embarrassment and isolation: “…it was impossible for me to say to people, ‘Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf.’ Ah, how could I possibly admit an infirmity in the one sense which ought to be more perfect in me than others…a little more of that and I would have ended my life – it was only my art that held me back. Ah, it seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me.”

Does great suffering lead to great art? Do artists need to experience great pain in order to reach the deepest realms of human emotion? Or can we lead a comfortable life and still produce works capable of creating a profound emotional impact on the listener? Beethoven has come to exemplify the romantic composer par excellence. A tormented genius, often misunderstood during his time, who conveyed his own suffering through his music, creating in the process some of the most sublime music ever written.

Although music has always carried an emotional weight, composers before the Romantic period would not always seek to convey their personal emotions; their music would, more often than not, serve the commissioner’s needs rather than being a vehicle for their own feelings. When asked to write music for the church, a banquet, a coronation or a royal wedding, they were expected to match the mood of the event. However, this didn’t stop them from conveying their emotions in more personal works; such is the case of Mozart’s Piano Sonata No.8 in A minor, K. 310. Written in Paris during the summer of 1778, it is one of Mozart’s darkest works and it was composed shortly after Mozart’s mother’s death.

There is no doubt that extreme circumstances can bring the best (and worst) out of us. Heroic acts, for example, generally occur during life threatening situations, but such circumstances can also trigger the creation of great works of art. Olivier Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time” is such an example. Written within the walls of a concentration camp, it is a testimony to humanity’s enduring faith in times of war.

If we take a detached look to the forms of entertainment we humans have created, we will notice that we are often in search of strong emotions, but mostly within the safety of our homes or the comfort of our seats. When we go to see a drama, or a tragic opera for example, we want to be moved to tears but we don’t want to suffer ourselves, instead we are content with experiencing someone else’s fictional suffering and being touched by it. When we go to a concert hall we are not only in search of pure and simple entertainment, we are also in search of the transcendental, we want the artist to take us along a journey of joy and suffering that can bring us away from the routine of our daily lives. I would argue that this is what Beethoven exemplifies, the sublimation of human suffering and its transmutation into a tool for achieving transcendence.

Arguably, artists are generally more sensitive or develop a greater sensitivity than the average human being. This sensitivity allows them to experience life with a higher level of intensity. This intensity might lead in turn to experiencing stronger emotions. But unless we have the capacity to convey all these emotions effectively, no one else will be able to experience them but ourselves. In other words, the artist has to take the extra step to learn how to externalize his inner world, which can be an incredibly daunting task.

Few things can be asserted in this topic, but one thing is clear, there is no linear relationship between the suffering an artist experiences and the greatness of his art. Joseph Haydn for example, led a relatively calm and stable life yet he created some of the greatest masterpieces of all time. As important as outer circumstances may be, if they do not resonate within us, nothing we experience will be of use to us or anybody else for that matter. It is the wealth of our inner world what determines our capacity to absorb and process the events in our lives. We can be exposed to the most beautiful of landscapes yet we might be incapable of appreciating it. Our receptivity and sensitivity are crucial. The photograph of a child, the song of a bird or the colors of dawn can be an overwhelming source of inspiration in themselves, yet most people won’t see anything beyond the ordinary in them; the same may apply to suffering. It is not the amount of suffering that we experience what counts (in fact this whole discussion could be about happiness and our conclusions wouldn’t differ much) it is simply a matter of how we go about experiencing every single moment in life. Are we still capable of being marveled at the intricate architecture of a flower? Has the abundance and immediate availability of water in modern society made us forget how dependent we are on it for our survival? Let’s not take things for granted; doing that can lead to unnecessary suffering. It is in this permanent capacity of being awed by simple things that we will find one of the greatest sources of inspiration.

There is no point in trying to create artificially strenuous circumstances in order to find inspiration; if we look intently we will realize there is enough drama and tragedy around us already. Our challenge is in fact the opposite: to strike a balance. Composing is not solely an intellectual activity; it also entails a great degree of emotional involvement. Because of this, we need to keep our emotions under control in order to maintain our mental and psychological sanity.

None of us wishes to be miserable. Every one of us has the right to pursue happiness. Sorrow is an inevitable part of life and we will encounter it whether we want it or not. What matters is what we make out of it. As composers we are privileged to have in music a fantastic tool of sublimation. Let’s take all the anger, frustration and pain that suffering can cause and transform them into something wonderful, something that can positively influence the lives of many. Our sense of self-accomplishment will be greater if we chose this road; or at least we will know that we did not suffer in vain.