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.

Overcoming composer’s block

I have the greatest sympathy and respect for those who cultivate music in their free time; their passion and dedication are essential for the survival of our profession. For an amateur musician, playing an instrument, singing in a choir or even writing music can be the highlight of the week. Being a professional musician, however, often involves practicing even when we have no desire to do so or writing music when we are completely out of ideas. I have no doubts that those who choose composing as a profession do it out of love (especially because it usually implies a rocky path toward financial stability) but surviving in the professional circuits can be extremely taxing, particularly when confronted with deadlines that add pressure to an already demanding activity.

Let’s face it: inspiration, world premieres and travels don’t account for even a fourth of our time. When music making is our main source of income, the act of composing is a little less glamorous. For the most part we find ourselves in solitary seclusion, battling against time while seeking perfection and artistic realization. Sometime we are full of ideas and we suddenly feel that everything flows naturally. But what to do when the blank staff paper in front of us remains blank for hours or days and no ideas worth noting down come to our aid?

With time, each composer develops his/her own strategies to overcome a composer’s block, but there’s not a lot of advice out there on this topic. In this article I don’t pretend to lay out a guide out of the maze, but at least I can share my own experience.

I suggest we start by setting a deadline. This deadline should be reasonable and should contemplate enough time for preparation/research, composition and edition. If we have a publisher, we also have to take into account the time required to produce the parts. Setting a reasonable deadline is the very first step. It is not healthy to take commissions that we simply cannot fulfill on time or where trying to fulfill them would inevitably lead to sleepless nights and lots of stress. Sometimes no matter how many precautions we take, these can’t be avoided, but we can improve our chances of having a smooth working period if we know and accept our limitations and estimate the delivery times accordingly.

Rest should be included in our self-imposed schedule. When nobody is regulating us and we are masters and commanders of our own time, achieving a high degree of discipline can be a difficult task. This is not a job where our progress is being monitored, so our schedule must contemplate rest in order to ensure the quality of our work. The way I do this is by staying away from composing at least one day of the week. It helps dissipate my mind and start the week with renewed energy. If you go to the working desk drained and exhausted, I can guarantee you: ideas won’t be flowing out of you.

Know when to stop. It’s important to set a time of the day to start working but it is equally important to know when to give up, at least temporarily. Trying to force ideas out of our heads might lead to frustration. And even if you manage to write a few more bars, you might regret those bars the next morning. I prefer to compose only when I am completely sharp and all my faculties are at their best. Since we supervise ourselves, we must be critical but not to the point where we simply can’t go on because we end up being unsatisfied with everything we write down.

However, if days go by and absolutely nothing comes out, we might need to change strategies. In this case I would suggest sitting down and writing something. There is a time for criticism, but when we are trying to overcome composer’s block, we need to write down whatever comes to mind (no quality control at this point) so that ideas start flowing. It might be a good idea to sit at the piano or our instrument of choice and improvise for an hour or so until some musical gestures catch our attention. Next, we can take those ideas and start developing them.

Don’t try to write chronologically. Ideas don’t always come in a chronological order and trying to arrange them this way may hinder their potential. Let’s suppose we start with a motif and develop it for a while. One day we suddenly come up with a gesture that is not directly connected to it. At this point we can choose to continue with the previous idea, develop the new gesture or try to connect them both. If both gestures are incompatible but we nevertheless force a connection, we might be doing double damage: the first idea will not develop to its full potential and the second idea won’t be able to shine, even if it had the potential to spark a whole new composition by itself. The best course of action is simply to explore the second idea and develop it. Who knows, it might become another movement or we can save it for another occasion and use it in a later piece.

One of the first times I faced composer’s block was about ten years ago, when writing “Vortex”, a short piece for piano. A friend of mine, Sampo, was going through a similar experience so he suggested meeting everyday and showing each other our progress. We did so for the first week and although we didn’t continue, the strategy worked and generated enough motivation within us to continue on our own. The reason why I was facing a block at that moment was because I was exhausted. I had had no rest for many months and yet I had to write this piece. Today I would probably refuse, but back in the day I hadn’t yet learned to say no. In any case, I decided to devote exactly one hour each day to writing the piece. This worked marvelously because this constraint meant that during that one hour I was extremely concentrated. Eventually, ideas kept coming to my head throughout the day to the point which, when the moment came to write them down, I was in a race against the clock to write everything down rather than forcing myself to writing something.

There is no question that maintaining a daily routine can help. After all, composing can also be thought as mental gymnastics. The moment of inspiration is usually so brief that when it is gone, all we are left with is blank paper and hard work. Developing a routine helps keep ideas flowing at all times. Many of us might have noticed that although we are not in front of the piano or the working desk, our brains keep working on solving problems that were posed before. Sometimes we find solutions while working on them, but this can also happen while taking a walk, working out or even during our sleep.

Sometimes it can also help to work on two pieces simultaneously, so if we meet a dead end on one piece, we can switch to the other one. In 2004 I worked simultaneously on my ballet “Los Magos del Silencio” and “Varem”, my concerto for koto and orchestra. Transitioning from one piece to the other was hard at first, but as I did it more often I realized it was becoming easier. Both pieces were very different from each other. Varem had a very well-thought-of harmonic, rhythmic and formal plan. In fact, I composed the six movements in reverse order. The ballet on the other hand, was freer and although the order of all dance numbers had been decided beforehand, everything else had to be started from scratch. I liked the contrast between these pieces because it was precisely their difference that made it easier for me to compartmentalize them within my brain and work on them simultaneously without letting them influence each other.

It might be somewhat comforting to know that even great composers have gone through difficult times trying to overcome composer’s block. During the last 30 years of his life Jean Sibelius composed very little, while Rossini mysteriously retired at 37. On the other end of the spectrum we have Händel who famously composed his entire Messiah oratorio in 24 days. It might also help to take ourselves more lightly: “Composer’s combine notes, that’s all” Stravinsky would tell Robert Craft in his dialogues. In moments of hardship it is essential to ask ourselves “what brought us to music in the first place?” It is the answer to the question that will invariably lead us to the fertile grounds of our own creativity.  As Debussy would say: “It is necessary to abandon yourself completely, and let the music do as it will with you. All people come to music to seek oblivion” [1].

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[1] The Cambridge Companion to Debussy (2003) by Simon Trezise.

Music and national identity

After listening to my string quartet “La Caresse du Couteau”, composer Toshio Hosokawa confessed to being disappointed at not finding any traces of Peruvian music in it. He then went on to encourage me to utilize folk music from my country in order to give my compositions a personal seal. After the lesson, I exchanged impressions with a Korean composer who had also had a meeting Mr. Hosokawa that same week. He had suggested her to infuse her music with references to her native homeland. I understand why he would say this; Hosokawa’s music is truly indebted to the music and culture of his native Japan; but I am not sure this formula works well for everybody. Later that same week, during a public conference, I told Hosokawa that the westernization of my native country and that of Japan were completely different. Peru is multiethnic; Japan is homogenous. In Japan, Westerners came gradually and the original culture was not entirely obliterated. The Conquest of Peru by Spain, on the other hand, was extremely violent and it brought along the imposition of a whole new set of values, including a new religion, a new language and the extermination of large part of the native population.

I lived in Lima until I was 21 years old and I had always considered myself a Limeño. I had no real connection with the Andes or the rainforest of Peru. I did not see myself as a direct descendent of the Incas or the Spaniards, I just saw myself as a city dweller who had more in common with an inhabitant of any other major city in the world than with a person from the Andes. Traffic, smog and the sea were real to me, while Machu Picchu, llamas and 3500 meters of altitude felt like a world apart. In other words, my understanding of my country was limited to my immediate surroundings. Luckily, this changed when I moved to Finland, where I gained perspective and took conscience of the multiplicity of cultures and races that make up my home country.

The classical music market is practically limited to Europe and the United States and any composer who wants to make an impact on the field usually needs to emigrate to one of those places -at least temporarily- to get an education or further his/her career. Most record labels, publishing houses and symphony orchestras are based there, and although there is a growing market in Asia; it will take some time until the latter can shift the balance. Latin America does not have many towering figures in the field, and my country is yet to produce one, as a result I have always been perceived as exotic. As an immigrant, one is faced with a dilemma. One can get absorbed into the culture, that is one can adapt to the local taste and therefore sound like another local composer, or one can exploit one’s exoticism by drawing on the native culture of one’s country of origin. I am yet to solve this dilemma for myself, but I am gradually reaching a middle ground where I start to feel more comfortable.

Commissioners and concert programmers are often concerned with ways to sell a product and the best way of doing this is by placing labels on composers. No matter how hard we try, we will be labeled eventually as “minimalist”, “spectral”, “microtonal” or any other easy-to-remember label that may suit their marketing strategies. In this context, those who are not originally from Europe or the US will be expected to bring something fresh and exotic to their music. This expectation can place some unfair pressure on the composer, but it is not to be dismissed entirely.

Enrique Iturriaga, my first composition teacher, advised me during a recent conversation to go back to Peru to teach to a new generation of composers. The offer is tempting because I want to contribute to the development of the musical scene in my country, but I am also conscious of the enormous limitations that a composer has to face back home. However, his most persuasive argument was that the place where a composer lives has a definite influence on his music. Plainly put, Sibelius would not be Sibelius had he moved permanently to Palm Springs in an early stage of his career. Now that I have gained a renewed interest in my own country I am tempted to go back there and admire the landscape, speak the language and breathe the culture so that these too can make their way through my music. However, the fact that I have lived abroad for more than a decade has turned me into a cosmopolitan person. I am no longer interested solely in the culture of Peru but also in other cultures, countries and past civilizations and I think this is a perfectly valid point, especially today where information travels fast and the world is more interconnected than ever before.

The name of Béla Bartók can’t be absent from any discussion dealing with music and national identity, precisely because he exemplifies the ideal of how a composer can create a personal language albeit rooted in the folk music of his/her country. My admiration for him is great but I feel neither well equipped nor motivated to conduct an exhaustive ethnomusicological research; instead I would work toward blending influences that have made a deep impression on me. In 2002 I wrote “Aires de Marinera”. This piece is inspired on a folk dance from the north of Peru called “Marinera”. I made every effort to make it mine by changing the harmonies, rhythmic patterns and timbral sonorities associated with this genre. The piece had to be scored for big band; a very interesting constraint, so I went on to study both, Marinera and the literature for Big Band. After the premiere, I asked a friend who is specialized in Jazz to listen to the recording. He said it was not accurate to say it was scored for Big Bang because although I was using the right instrumentation, the instrumental groups were not interacting in the same way they do in a traditional Big Band composition. He said it would be more accurate to say it was scored for wind ensemble. Intrigued, I went and asked a friend who was very knowledgeable in Marinera to listen to it. He said my piece could not be considered a Marinera at all because it lacked some of the basic traits that make up a Marinera. None of them liked the piece -unlike a group of colleagues and the also audience, who has always reacted positively. This experience made me realize that I had actually succeeded. The piece was neither a Marinera nor a piece for Big Band. It was something else; it was mine. I didn’t create a new genre, but I had assimilated and dissolved both genres to the point that they were almost unrecognizable and where my own musical language had prevailed. This was a valuable lesson for me. There are clear allusions to Peruvian dances in other works of mine (in some they are obvious in others less so) but what is important is to have control over these factors and not let the material overwhelm the composer, or else the composer will have simply succeeded in writing a good transcription.

In the end the question of whether there is still place for national identity in music is truly a personal one. There is no wrong or right answer. An artist needs to work with whatever inspires him or her. If this means writing music based upon the native culture of our own countries, so be it. If what inspires us is something completely foreign but equally fascinating for us, fine: go for it. We don’t need to create labels for ourselves; there will be plenty of people trying to do that for us. I know composers who seek to make political statements with every piece they write,  others prefer purely musical abstractions such as “piece for piano” or “suite for orchestra” while others draw on their country’s musical heritage. What is important is that, when writing music, composers are trying to express something meaningful to them at a very intimate level. If the subject of inspiration is not meaningful to the composer, it won’t make for a good piece of music. That at least, we can be sure of.

The art of intuition

The 20^th century saw the birth of new compositional techniques, but it was not until the second half of that century that a generation of composers collectively embarked on a mission to create music based entirely on abstract logic. The situation is different today, but some composers still hold steadfast to the ideals of that bygone era.

I don’t think a composer needs to rationally justify every single note on his/her score to prove the quality of the music. Having this as a goal might eventually lead to tailoring our compositions for music analysts. What is even worse, some compose with the analysis already in mind. It can lead to some recognition from our peers, but in the end those of us who rely too heavily on mental constructs run the risk of becoming predictable.

Make no mistake; I do not advocate a purely intuitive style of composition. I have been studying music since I was a child, including two years privately, two more at the National Conservatory of Lima, seven years at the Sibelius Academy and four years at UC Berkeley. But it is precisely because I have lived within the walls of academia for so long that I value the power of intuition even more.

The word intuition has already accrued several definitions by psychologists and philosophers so I won’t go on a quest to find yet another one. What is important to me is that musical intuition has been responsible for breaking ground in our field. When we, composers, face uncharted territory we can’t rely on pre-designed structures, if we do this we won’t get too far.

Both, serialist composers and composers using chance procedures were trying to dissociate themselves from the artistic outcome, probably with the aim of eliminating the composer’s personality from the finished piece. But no matter how hard they tried; they couldn’t achieve it. This, of course, doesn’t take the historical significance and artistic value away from any of their compositions, but in truth their works were the result of sound combinations that they already had in mind before facing the empty staff. Whether deliberately or not, they manipulated their systems in order to produce music as close as possible to their aesthetic ideals, a sort of mechanical, dehumanized art. In other words, serialism (and chance procedures) provided a system by which music of a certain aesthetic inclination could be created. Chance procedures, as used most notably by John Cage, also had the objective of separating the creator from the created object. The problem there is that so many arbitrary decisions are left to the composer that in reality it is not possible to have control over all parameters. When making those decisions we are generally governed by personal taste. That is, we create the music we want to listen to.

Attempts at bringing serialism to its maximum possible extreme by Milton Babbit led to interesting music from an analytical point of view, but not always engaging to listen to. This statement is of course based on my personal taste, but I say this because, for example, for Babbit to have all parameters under control he had to limit himself to the use of 16^th notes as the basic building blocks. He needed to simplify his rhythmic structures so that he could have control over all durations contained within a given piece. He came from a mathematical background so I understand his desire to do this, but by imposing those limitations upon himself, he also narrowed his musical vocabulary considerably. In this sense, I agree with author Jackson J. Spielvogel when he says: “Serialist composition diminishes the role of intuition and emotion in favor of intellect and mathematical precision”. Spielvogel, Jackson J. Western Civilization, Volume II: Since 1500, Seventh edition.

Xenakis, on the other hand, makes a more interesting use of mathematics. He used stochastic processes belonging to the field of probability, but he had a more textural approach. Before applying the math, he had already musically conceived the sound masses and processes found in his music. Mathematics was just the tool he used to carry out his ideas.

While a student in Helsinki, I volunteered for a psychological research that compared the perception of basic musical processes between musicians and non-musicians. After introducing myself to the researcher in charge she attached a number of electrodes to my scalp. I was told the test had two parts. First, I would listen to a series of sounds on a pair of headphones while watching a silent film. I was asked to concentrate as much as I could on the film, therefore ignoring the sounds entirely. During the second part I was asked to turn off the TV and pay close attention to the sounds coming through my headphones. My task was to press a button whenever I detected a change of pattern. What was striking to me was how simple the sound track was. Actually, there were no more than two or three different tones and two or three different rhythmic patterns. When I finished the test I asked the researcher why didn’t she use real music in her experiment and she replied by saying that in real music there were so many patterns and variations that it was nearly impossible for anyone to have control over all those elements and to draw any conclusions from such data.

Our brains are so complex and rich and our brain cells are interconnected in such unpredictable ways that if we aim at having conscious control over every single element present in our compositions (thus making it easier to understand and explain every minuscule detail in a rational way), we would need to simplify our music to a point where it might just become too simple, predictable and uninteresting. According to Carl Jung, intuition is perception via the unconscious, it “is a way of comprehending perceptions in terms of possibilities, past experience, future goals, and unconscious processes…Because it often includes unconscious material, intuitive thinking appears to proceed by leaps and bounds”. Personality and Personal Growth (6th ed.)
Frager, R., & Fadiman, J. (2005). New York: Pearson
Prentice Hall.

Intuition is our only weapon when exploring uncharted territory; we have to rely in our past experiences a make a connection with the present in order to write the music of the future. Trying to rationally and consciously understand every single note we write will ultimately impoverish our musical language. This can be an interesting task for an analyst, but it could be crippling for a composer. A solid academic training is of course required but we must take care not to completely inhibit that raw, animal aspect of ourselves which puts us in connection with our own humanity.

Ultimately music should be analyzed a posteriori; trying to lay out our system a priori seems to go against the way history has evolved and this is why, in my opinion, twelve tone technique did not have its hundred years of reign as Schoenberg wanted, because although he saw it as an inevitable consequence of previous historical events, it was more of a laboratory product where the system came first and the music followed.

In this sense I share Jules Henri Poincaré’s vision that although methods of logic are certain and reliable, logic alone does not teach us how to build a proof. According to him it is intuition that helps mathematicians find the way of assembling basic inferences into a useful proof. “It is by logic we prove, it is by intuition that we invent” Poincaré said, “Logic, therefore, remains barren unless fertilized by intuition.”

Style or technique?

A quote attributed to Thomas Jefferson reads: “In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock”.  I would be tempted to replace style for technique and principle for style. Composers face the question of style on an everyday basis; for some, developing a personal style is a real concern, others prefer to focus on more practical matters. I used to belong to the second group until about a year ago, when the subject was brought to my attention; since then, it has interested me more and more.

I have always taken pride in my personal capacity to compose in ‘different styles’ but not without imprinting my personal seal, regardless of the style in which I am writing at the moment. Ultimately, the multiplicity of styles found in my music is the result of an inner need to incorporate elements from different time periods and geographical locations, it doesn’t come as a result of external pressure. Until now, I have not written for films or theater so when I combine tonal elements, Peruvian folk music, Latin-American rhythms, 20^th century harmonies, non-western instruments and pop music, I am simply paying heed to my personal aesthetic needs.

Last year I attended a composition master class in Québec, Canada where I presented three works: ‘Avec Swing’ for chamber ensemble, ‘Incubus II’ for two saxophones, piano and percussion and ‘Of Bells and Broken Shadows’ for cello and piano. During the course I was fortunate enough to have private lessons with all three composition professors: Denys Bouliane, John Rea and Philippe Leroux; all of them felt compelled to address the eclecticism present in my music, and they did so from very different angles.

Leroux, as I would expect from a composer trained in the French tradition, suggested me to choose a single path. He made it clear he would not make the choice for me, but he thought it necessary for a choice to be made. He said that ‘cleaning the house’ and getting rid of our belongings is always painful, but this had to be done were I to find what was truly mine. Bouliane, on the other hand, said I should try to integrate all different styles present in my music, and that this could result in a fascinating blend never heard before. He added I might need a unifying factor; he went on to suggest looking back into the music of my own country, Peru. Some of Bouliane’s recent works are inspired on music from Native Canadians, so I believe his views are genuine, unlike those of other artists who use their ethnic or racial background as a marketing tool. Finally, Rea said he thought it a talent to be capable to compose in such distinct styles and that he saw no problem in doing this. These conversations were truly enlightening. First, I realized that the multiplicity of styles present in my music poses a challenge to the listener. Second, I concluded that there is no single solution to this issue, and finally I realized that –apparently- this was something that had to be resolved, although I had never thought it needed resolution.

As part of the preparation for my qualifying exams last year, I had to study the works of several composers, among them John Corigliano’s Third Symphony, a very eclectic work. One day, while I was searching online, I found an interview that precisely addressed the above-mentioned issue. The interviewer went on to say that Corigliano’s music often moves freely between various styles, to which Corigliano replied:

“When you say the word ‘style’, it’s a very loaded one. Because style implies the way a composer writes, and if you say he writes in many different styles, it suggests he doesn’t have a style of his own. And actually, I thought that too, but I was corrected by Leonardo Balada, a composer from Pittsburgh, who came over to my house. When I said that to him, ‘I don’t care that I don’t have a style; I use what’s around to make music, because I think my vocabulary can expand and can include all things..’ He said, ‘Oh, but you do have a style – those are just techniques.’ He said, ‘If you want to use a 12–tone technique, or a minimalist technique, or any other technique, it’s just: a technique.’

Exclusive Interview with composer John Corigliano: Dec. 22, 2009 by Nolan Gasser.

Corigliano goes on to develop this concept but what was important for me from this interview is that a multiplicity of techniques can coexist within the same composer and yet he can still have a personal style.

The question kept lingering in my mind months after reading this interview. But it was only until recently that I took an important step toward resolving it. UC Berkeley devoted a week of concerts and colloquiums to Swiss composer Beat Furrer. Although I had met him and I had listened to his music before, it was only now that I realized how well his music and his personality matched. His calm demeanor, quite speech and fragile physical appearance made an impact on me, especially because I felt that all of these qualities were reflected in his music, making it honest, heartfelt and incredibly expressive. Then I thought to myself: “Does my music reflect my personality? Because if it doesn’t something is off”. This question triggered an exhaustive self-examination that led to deeper self-understanding.

It turned out that the multiplicity of techniques present in my music have a direct correlation to the equally abundant facets of my personality. This has become my new filter, now I have a way to measure what is truly mine and what is not. It turned out all three composers at the Québec master class were right in their own way. Yes, I need to choose that which is genuinely mine; the unifying factor that blends all of those different techniques is myself, meaning my personality as a whole; and finally all of those different techniques can coexist within the same composer and yet his music may have a distinctly personal style. In light of all this, I came to realize that although it is desirable for a composer to achieve a personal voice, this should not translate into limiting oneself to a single technique. The challenge thus remains (for us composers who are keen on incorporating different techniques into our musical language) to continue the quest for a personal voice, not by hindering our versatility but by working on improving our capacity to integrate seemingly disparate techniques into a single, unified style.