14 August 2016
For the next 29 days, you can catch a preview of a short piece of mine, Lament, from Robert Irvine’s new Delphian CD Songs and Lullabies: new works for solo cello, courtesy of BBC Radio 3’s Record Review programme. Those in the UK can listen to the programme on iPlayer.
24 November 2015
Here are some excerpts from my recent work with Lucy Boyes, a dance/music piece called Sandglass. Sandglass was commissioned by Sound Festival and DanceLive and had its first performance in October this year at The Lemon Tree, Aberdeen. The work is based upon a series of interviews and workshops conducted for this project in Summer 2015 in which people of Aberdeen discussed past, present and predicted cultural changes witnessed over their lifetimes in the North East of Scotland on land and at sea.
5 November 2015
Back in August, I performed Independence by John De Simone with Ensemble Thing as part of the Made in Scotland Showcase at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. One of our performances, at Summerhall, was captured by director Sarah Hodgetts for her work-in-progress film about John and the personal stories behind his music. The video above is just a snippet from Sarah’s footage. The audio is raw and unmixed — and best listened to through headphones — but the film gives a good impression of what we were up to with Thing this summer.
26 May 2015
I’m happy to share with you this recording of a recent piece of mine for solo harp. The Joy of Shipwrecks comprises three miniatures, each based on a work by Italian poet Giuseppe Ungaretti (1888–1970). Each of the three poems — Half Asleep, Nostalgia and The Rivers — were written whilst Ungaretti served in the trenches of the Italian front during the First World War. Each of my pieces reflects on the imagery, mood, and autobiography of these remarkable but fragmentary poems. The title, borrowed from Ungaretti’s second collection, stands in the poet’s own words for the “exultation that the moment gives, as it happens, because it is fleeting; the moment that only love can wrench from time”.
This work was a response to the Composers and Conflict online exhibition I curated last year, and a small commemoration of the sacrifice made by so many one hundred years ago. For the exhibition, I researched how composers in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries have responded to the topic of warfare and I wondered how I might do the same, particularly as a pacifist who has (thankfully) never experienced war at first hand. In some ways, responding to Ungaretti’s poetry made the process easier: it allowed me to create a response to another artistic artifact rather than attempting to tackle the incomprehensible barbarity of warfare in a musical work. However, this method came with a responsibility to carefully respect the original poems — Ungaretti’s war poetry is revered in Italy in the same way the work of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen is treasured in the UK — which weighed upon the composition process.
This was (surprisingly) the first time I’d composed for harp. The construction of the instrument means it can be quite hard to write for — its idiosyncrasies often drive composers around the bend. However, I enjoyed writing for these quirks and composed the piece for the sympathetic Nana Sotirova, who you’ll hear in the recording.
24 September 2014
Here are two new videos from performances of my work that have taken place this year.
The first is two extracts from Elbow Room, the piece I wrote as part of my Sound and Music Embedded Residency with the Red Note Ensemble. The piece explores the psychogeography of cites: how we affect them, and them us, and tells the story of the real mid-twentieth century plan to demolish Glasgow and replace it with a high-rise concrete utopia.
The second video is a complete movement from Replaceable Parts for the Irreplaceable You which was performed by Ensemble Thing as part of the Made in Scotland Showcase at this year’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe. This particular movement, Instructions for Curing the Human Heart, comes at the very end of the work which is concerned with what it means to be human in a world inundated with machines.
Both videos were filmed at Summerhall in Edinburgh by the lovely folk at Dotbot.
1 September 2014
This is an edited version of a paper I gave at the RMA Student Conference in January 2013.
So often in the concert hall, music is prefaced by writing. Or rather, reading. The music I am talking about here will be no exception: I fully expect most audience members to read the programme note for My Life in Ventriloquism, a piece I wrote between 2011-’12 for clarinettist Jenny Stephenson as part of my practice-based research at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland. This programme note is deliberately terse, however, and only the title hints at how I borrowed a few ideas from the world of ventriloquism during the composition process:
My Life in Ventriloquism is a virtuosic piece for solo clarinet in three continuous movements. It lasts about eleven minutes.
As you probably noticed, there is a performance element to this piece. In case you missed it, it appears at times that Jenny is playing things that are impossible on the clarinet, either because they are polyphonic, too high, too low, or performed at a super-human speed. These effects were all reproduced live simply by playing pre-recorded samples of real and MIDI clarinet sounds through a hidden speaker located in the darkness behind the performer. However, this performative element is such that if you were to listen to the piece on CD, for example, it would make musical sense but you’d lose the visual clues which create a disjunct between what you, as an audience member, see and what you hear. Any meaning the piece has, therefore, is not fully realized until it is experienced in performance.
It’s this relationship between composer, performance and meaning that is my area of research. Traditionally this relationship is based on a simple model of meaning concerning composers, performers and listeners: the composer is placed at the head of a chain of Chinese Whisperers, their original, brilliant utterances are finally handed-down to listeners via a cohort of performers who do their best to realize the composer’s intentions with studious exactitude. However, this model fails to consider the very act of musical performance as significant in its own right. Also, there is the implication that musical performance is a form of pedagogy, the audience remains passive at all times as they receive meaning from the concert-platform.
My research project assumes that meaning is reception-based. That is, any meaning a work has is created in the minds of the audience and is not intrinsic to the notes on the page. Furthermore, meaning can be influenced by non-musical elements of performance which could include physical gesture and elements of theatre, all of which can be designated by the composer. Consequently, the act of composition is seen as the creation of a musical performance in its entirety rather than than the writing of a score which is presented within the context of a pre-existing performance grammar.
The model of meaning fundamental to Vaudeville-style Ventriloquism (that is, ventriloquism as comedic entertainment) has given me some ideas on how to balance the role of the composer with the desire to grant agency to the audience in a performance-led artform. My first interest in ventriloquism with regards to music was metaphorical; having written a piece in 2011 about authority (in which a recording of my voice issued occasionally-frantic instructions to an ensemble of five instrumentalists), I felt in some way all composers are ventriloquists — we are forever forced to speak through others, an instrument or singing voice sounding on our behalf. There is some evidence of this metaphorical approach in the piece you’ve just heard — rhythmically the piece is constructed like written-out rubato over a steady pulse, all expression having been allocated in advance by the composer, a sort-of master puppeteer. However, it was the ability of a ventriloquist act to be perceived in several ways simultaneously which influenced my composition the most.
In this short clip from 2005 the British ventriloquist Nina Conti, with Monk the monkey, plays with the two ways of perceiving a ventriloqual exchange. As outlined by philosopher David Goldblatt, the ventriloqual exchange can be viewed either as Conti talking to the monkey, or as Conti talking to herself. Crucially, both modes remain identifiable during proceedings even when one is foregrounded over the other (such as when Conti talks to her own hand). The act continuously slips between privileging one way of perceiving proceedings and the other; much of the routine’s humour derives from the jolt we feel when the gear suddenly shifts and we remember that the monkey’s words are in fact spoken by a ventriloquist.
Despite appearing like a right-on post-modern deconstruction of the artform, Conti’s routine is only an exaggerated form of the traditional Vaudeville ventriloquist skit in which the dummy, or “figure”, acknowledges its true, inanimate nature. Seemingly, comedic ventriloquy has always been incredulous towards its own believability. The legendary American ventriloquist Edgar Bergen was often chastised by his acerbic dummy Charlie McCarthy in this way. “You don’t know what you’re saying”, says Bergen, “Yes I do, I can see your lips move” replies Charlie. Bergen, like many comic ventriloquists, regularly undermined his own routine to force an interplay between the two ways of perceiving the act.
Although Bergen’s implicit self-criticism may have been justified, his technical shortcomings did little to detract from the accomplishment of his act, perhaps because, somewhat surprisingly, he first found widespread appeal performing on American radio from 1937–1955, the allure of his act being not a physical display of basic ventriloquy but the rapid interplay between ventriloquist and figure; the kind, long-suffering Bergen versus the rude, argumentative Charlie McCarthy, whom the audience knew were voiced a single performer.
For David Goldblatt, the dual modes of perception indicate the uniqueness of ventriloquism as entertainment. Unlike magic shows or special effects in films, ventriloquism is “illusion without deception” — we may not be able to replicate the act ourselves but we at least understand how the effect is achieved. If we were truly deceived by a ventriloquist, if we believed that the fibreglass humanoid held by the entertainer was really alive and capable of independent thought and speech, the logic of the act, along with some of the humour, would be compromised.
Crucially, the ventriloquist act only comes alive in performance: if we were to examine a script of Conti’s routine, which would be the equivalent to our musical score, it would just read like two people having an amusing argument. It lacks the nuances encoded in the act’s binary perception.
These two modes of perception enable a complex, fluctuating relationship, or “slippage”, between the dramatic narrative (say, a sketch where the dummy goes to the shops…with hilarious consequences) and the meta-ventriloqual narrative that explores the logic of the act. Furthermore, because these two modes persist at all times, the final meaning of the routine is constructed entirely in the minds of the audience who are free to prioritize a reading of one mode above the other, or both simultaneously. Like music in our tradition, this ventriloquist sketch uses a pre-scripted text but the meaning gleamed through performance is not limited to just that text. The ventriloquist’s script is not ventriloquy in the same way that our musical score is not by itself music. By it’s very nature, the ventriloquist’s act has an element of enforced performativity.
To translate, as it were, this model of meaning into musical performance I conceived my solo clarinet piece with two narratives; the musical narrative and a theatrical narrative that concerned the dislocation of sound and instrument. It was the theatrical narrative that was written first by deciding when the audience might be able to notice the illusion and how striking the illusion should be at any one point. Naturally, these two narrative strands made demands of, and imposed conditions upon, each other during the composition process but both were granted equal status. This method creates the possibility of slippage between these two layers, the “pure” musical content, and the metapraxical element of the miming illusion, during performance.
Despite calling this presentation Lies, damned lies and clarinettists, there is, I believe, only one (white) lie in this piece; the programme note. Programme notes are a very powerful thing and tend to shape how an audience perceives a work, how they understand the structure of the composition and interpret the meaning of the music. In the programme note for this piece there is no mention of the electronic soundtrack that allows the clarinettist to perform out-of-range musical material or at superhuman speed, and certainly no indication that the clarinettist is miming to this soundtrack some of the time. This programme note doesn’t contain spoilers.
Because of this secrecy, the audience is left to discover the two distinct narratives in the piece by themselves. In keeping with my desire to grant agency to the audience, rather than have them receive handed-down pre-determined meaning, there is no obvious indication as to where the first “throwing of the musical voice” takes place or as to how much of the performance is “real” and how much “fake”.
By creating musical performance which is capable of multiple modes of perception you invite the audience-spectators to partake in the construction of meaning as a dialogue with the work; an active communication with it, not simply a subjective reaction to it. However, this is quite unlike the relationship between audience and ventriloquist. Unlike the ventriloquist’s illusion without deception, where you go into a ventriloquist show complicit with the act by knowing about the theatrical conceits and mechanisms that propel the one-performer double act, the “lying” involved in my own work creates a very different relationship between audience and piece. This piece is still only ventriloqual in the metaphorical sense, it is not a piece of ventriloquism in the truest sense. Instead, Vaudeville ventriloquism has been a vehicle for exploring how to create an enforced performativity in a musical work.
28 July 2014
Here’s a new recording of my piece Nightmusic for solo violin. This performance was given by violinist Kay Stephen at the beautiful Sherbrooke St. Gilbert’s Church in the Southside of Glasgow. The recording was made by Timothy Cooper and partly funded by Sound and Music for inclusion on the New Voices website.
31 October 2013
I’LL CADENCE WHEN I DIE! is my new podcast about new music and sonic art in Scotland. I started producing the show earlier this year in an attempt to showcase some of the brilliant and diverse work that’s going on here, work that often gets overlooked by more mainstream media.
Each month I interview a composer who lives in, or is visiting, Scotland about their work. There’s no script and very few prepared questions. The interviews (so far, at least) can meander into some interesting and unexpected areas. Not all this material makes the final cut, of course, but hopefully listeners find out a little more about what, why and how the featured composer composes. We get to hear some of that composer’s music along the way, too.
As a composer myself, I often talk about music and compositional “issues” with other composers. I’d always felt that edited versions of this shop talk may be of some interest to listeners; these sprawling discussions, and frequent disagreements, often see my fellow composers speak about music in simple and accessible terms far removed from the Academicese that often blights programme notes and other formal, written, discussions of music.
After considering creating a website or e-zine to allow these discussions to reach a wider audience, I decided on the podcast format after hearing WNYC’s Radiolab and Roman Mars’ 99% Invisible. While I wouldn’t want ICWID! to be compared with these brilliant and slick shows, the way both make obscure subject matter accessible and enjoyable has been a great inspiration.
There have been five episodes of ICWID! released so far. In the most recent episode, composer François Sarhan discusses his upcoming show Enough Already! (or, Lâchez Tout!) – a surreal and political work which combines film, speaking musicians, an actor and two Foley artists – which is to be performed by Red Note Ensemble this winter in Glasgow, Edinburgh and at HCMF//.
In September’s edition, composer Bill Sweeney talked about the influences behind his recent music for cello, including the work of poets Hugh MacDiarmid and Jorge Luis Borges. Always blending the traditional with the cutting-edge, Bill discusses how imitating Gaelic psalm singing and using Pure Data both contribute to his soundworld. The episode also features wonderful performances of Bill’s work by cellist Robert Irvine.
Earlier shows have featured diverse styles of music: Episode One saw composer John De Simone explain why (and how) he escaped the influence of Dutch-style minimalism to write a Neo-Romantic (-ish) violin concerto. Episode Two featured Sound and Music Embedded Composer Shiori Usui discussing her music derived from the sounds of the human body and includes a brilliant performance of Shiori’s work In Digestion given by A Far Cry. Episode Three saw Scottish Opera’s Composer-in-Residence Gareth Williams talk about two of his site-specific operas, one which took place at the top of an Aberdeenshire lighthouse and another that played-out in a Glasgow pub (whilst the pub was still open).
31 December 2011
A little confession: I’m not entirely sure this piece works as an audio recording. If you do listen, bear in mind that the voice of the composer is disembodied – the “composer” isn’t in the room and his voice is delivered through loudspeakers. Without pictures, however, you won’t see the physical exertions of the ensemble as they react to this voice. It’s deliberately physical music.
As normal, Struction was conceived as a concert piece (and these days I’m always thinking about the relationship between music its context) and hearing this recording reinforces my belief that live musical performance and audio recordings are two completely different mediums, each with their idiosyncrasies. Why do we so often consider them the same when composing?
19 August 2010
Here is a short sketch of mine that was performed by the ReDo string quartet during the 5th International Workshop for Composers in Mazsalaca, Latvia, last week. I can’t praise ReDo highly enough; they are four young, very talented players with so much warmth and enthusiasm for music (“we’ll play anything so long as it’s good”). It was a pleasure to spend time in their company, in and out of the rehearsal room.
ReDo with composers: back row l-r; Peteris Ozolins (cello), Rei Munakata (composer), Arturs Gailis (viola), me, Konstantins Paturskis (2nd violin); front row l-r; Anitra Tumsevica (composer), Madara Jaugiete (1st violin); Photograph by Andris Dzenitis.