A Review of Pasatieri's "Jew" from "Letter to Warsaw"

Instead of posting a review of Pasatieri’s recently premiered Symphony on the blog, I decided to explore some other works by the American composer, finally settling on his 2003 song cycle, Letter to Warsaw. In this work, Pasatieri sets to music six texts by poet/cabaret artist Pola Braun. Written by Braun in the Warsaw ghetto and in the Majdanek concentration camp (where she died in 1943), the texts are made all the more powerful by Pasatieri’s musical environment and by the commemorative spirit which they now embody.
Here, I will review the first piece in Pasatieri’s song cycle, “Jew.” This work is a dialogue between child and mother, in which the two question what it means to be a Jew. The English translation, done by Barbara Milewski, is sung in this recording by Jane Eaglen.
The song opens with several minutes of instrumental music, pairing the styles of romanticism and film music in a syrupy, contemplative setting. A common motive, made up of two groups of semi-tones, unifies the introduction; its chromatic ascension seems to hint at a dark future. Pasatieri makes an excellent use of the various instruments in this section, with the eerie-sounding motive being passed from strings and clarinets, French horns, then to be imitated in a piano statement, and finally through the voice of a muted, distant-sounding trumpet. Texturally, Pasatieri also provides plenty of variety, creating contrasting thick and thin, homophonic and polyphonic textures. The motive is passed around the ensemble, is transformed rhythmically, transposed chromatically, stated in chains of sequence, and yet remains easily identifiable throughout the introduction—in other words, behaving exactly as a well-written motive should. The often happy, carefree-sounding musical background is paired with this distinct, yet slightly mysterious and foreboding, motive.
Next, the vocalist enters, portraying the questioning daughter in a disjunct, atonal-sounding melodic line. The instrumental accompaniment maintains a certain amount of independence, and seems to shift tonalities so frequently; they do little to establish a harmonic center. The familiar motive of the introduction is heard in repeated chains of sequences in the strings, happening simultaneously with the child’s question “Tell me, dear mama, is it a disgrace, That I am such a little Jew?”
Her response, however, is recognizable only through the text; Pasatieri uses no “Erlkönig”- type registral shifts to indicate the sudden change in character. The vocal line of the mother remains similar to the daughter, continuing to sound disjunct leaps and atonal sounding melodic lines, which are now imitated in the instruments. The music supports the text at several instances here. For example, upon the mother’s mention of hope and of the “believe in the future” that Jews hold, both instrumental and vocal lines suddenly become more romantic-sounding, more tonal. This stylistic shift, paired with the mother’s ascending, increasingly loud vocal line, creates a climactic and hopeful, yet temporary, musical setting of Braun’s text. Upon the mentioning of the “trembling heart” of the Jew, however, both lines descend, grow softer, and seem to move away from the promising lines stated just before.
Additionally, Pasatieri does an excellent job in portraying the daughter’s second response, in which the child recalls being laughed and sneered at, asking “Are Jews good for nothing?” The quickly rising motivic sequences in the instrumental line crescendo, portraying her frustration. The song continues with the mother’s final response, in which she attempts to encourage her daughter once more. Here, however, her efforts seem in vain: upon singing, “A Jew is… Wait, I know what to tell you…” the instrumental music dies off, leaving the mother singing monophonically, searching for the answer but faltering… Her response this time seems forced, (“Jew is a mighty word, believe me,” with a triumphant-sounding major chord sounded upon the word “mighty”). Finally, the song ends with the lines “A Jew is very likely the only person, Who knows truly bitter tears,” after which the strings take over, imitating the shape of the mother’s last words. The woodwinds hold a sustained chord as the strings return to the motive first heard in the introduction of the work, repeating it in chains of ascending sequences until the dynamics grow so low that the music fades to nothing.
Despite the sometimes overly-romantic styling and movie-music sounding brass timbres, Pasatieri’s “Jew” does an excellent job of setting Braun’s words to music. The questioning, despairing attitude of the child is contrasted with the encouraging, informative one of the mother, and the composer uses several instances of word-painting-like musical lines. When I first began listening to this work, I expected something that was either depressing, or disturbing, considering that this is a song cycle commemorating the Holocaust. Pasatieri, however, picks up on the complex emotions that are Braun expresses in the two characters, mixing optimism, hope, fear, and frustration into his music at the appropriate times. The motive serves as a unifying device, running throughout the song and occasionally connecting the instrumental and vocal lines through imitation. Pasatieri does an excellent job of providing enough interest for the listener (texturally, timbrally, and harmonically), yet still maintaining clarity in the vocal line and portraying the deeper meanings found in the poetic text.

Why E.T.A. Hoffman would never be published in 2011

Several years ago, I read an article on reading - how funny. The author described how he used to be able to devour 300 page novels in his younger years without difficulty. But in the past 5 years, he noticed a decline in his ability to focus for even 10-20 pages. He found himself skipping through sentences, not able to fully absorb their content as he once did. His explanation was that we rarely read for pleasure anymore, we skim for information. With the rise of the internet opening the door to millions of literary resources, we simply don't take time to really read something. "Just the facts, m'am" has become a kind of motto for our worker bee society.

Reading the review of E.T.A. Hoffman reminded me of this stark contrast between the poetical, supernatural outlook of many in Hoffman's time to our own empirical, concise, "get to the point" attitude. As I read Hoffman's review of Beethoven and his music, I, like the author above, kept loosing focus. I found myself skimming the flowery language and just looking for "the point". As a busy doctoral student of the 21st century, I find the business-like prose of today much less cumbersome. Don't bother me with talk of the supernatural and the beams of light that burst from Beethoven's 9: get to the point! Wait... the point? What "point" am I looking for? Just the "facts"? What facts? Was I trying to reduce Hoffman to 5 short bullet points that I can shove in my pocket and race on to the next thing in my schedule? In the writing style of Hoffman, I began to see it as a commentary on our approach to music and on society as a whole.

Who would expect to browse though an article published by the American Musicological Society and read this casual sentence about Beethoven: "Burning flashes of light shoot through the deep night of this realm, and we become aware of giant shadows that surge back and fourth, driving us into narrower and narrower confines until they destroy us - but not the pain of that endless longing in which each joy has climbed aloft in jubilant song sinks back and is swallowed up, and it is not only in this pain, which consumes love, hope, and happiness but does not destroy them, which seeks to burst our breasts with a many voiced consonance of all the passions, that we live on, enchanted beholders of the supernatural!" (ONE sentence). Ladies and Gentlemen, we live in an era that has no time for sentences like this, no time for the "supernatural", no time for the "endless longing" Hoffmann describes. The reason why Hoffman would never be published today is because we don't have time for him. We only have time for "the facts".

I say let's make time for writing and thoughts that transcend the earthly, material, and the empirical and risk embracing something that you might not be able to "prove". It's often in the intangible things that true life is found.

Pasatieri - and his music.

The Louisville International Airport seems unusually quiet at 4 in the afternoon: very few people walking around, some seated at the bar, everything very calm. I get my cup of coffee, sit down on a bench near the arrival gate, and wait. I am early, but so is Mr. Pasatieri’s flight, and after a couple of minutes I see a tall man approaching me with a big, friendly smile on his face. He greets me in Italian. Pasatieri has very long grey hair and in a way an imposing bearing, but his manners reveal right away a very delicate, sensitive personality, and so does his voice, and his eyes. There is a mixture of elegance and sweetness in the way he talks and relates to you. But I feel also, right away, a great passion, participation, emotional engagement in every one of his gestures and words: his Italian heritage, some would probably say. On our way back to Lexington, we cannot stop talking for a second, about opera, about Italy, about Pasatieri’s new symphony, about people, music, life. All those things that I felt right away, the second I met him, are confirmed, even reinforced. In a way Pasatieri - the man - is very much like his music: in his “Symphony”, written two years ago, specifically for the UK Symphony Orchestra, you find the tenderness and elegance of gracious pastoral rhythms and playful, dance-like woodwinds phrases in the middle section, the Allegretto grazioso in 6/8, and you may think of Ravel’s Tombeau de Couperin, or maybe recall some 19th century Viennese imagery; on the other hand, you have the passionate, dark melody of the main theme, vibrantly played by the string at the beginning, then suddenly revealing an agitato character in a slightly different version… perhaps the inner turbulence of an overly sensitive soul? In the Adagio section, you can easily abandon yourself to the elegant, transparent melody in the oboe solo, floating above the warm, embracing accompaniment of the muted strings, beautiful in its pureness and still full of emotion, deeply romantic.

There is the imposing orchestration, the large use of brass and percussion, the majestic pace and spectacular conclusive gestures in the final Maestoso on one side; and the elegance of the structure, based on two main ideas, and the refinement and lightness of touch in many small details of the instrumental writing. And there are also moments where you may catch a glimpse of a lonely, introverted character beyond the notes, a solitary soul, agitated by profound passions but also in a way lost and confused in a society less and less responsive to art, to music, to poetry and beauty. It is, at least, what I glimpsed in the French horn cadenza and then in the trumpet cadenza responding to it: I see a pensive melancholy there, and a sort of disoriented feeling - I see the childish fear in Pasatieri’s eyes when, at the front desk of the hotel, he cannot find his wallet, and when it finally turns up, with an innocent smile of relief he tells me how hard it is to be well organized and take care of practical things when you are alone.

The next day, Pasatieri and I are on the radio, for a live interview, and with us is also Maestro John Nardolillo, the director of the UK Symphony, and a violinist from the orchestra. It is a long interview, from 8 to 9pm, but it feels more like a very relaxed, one-hour informal chat. Pasatieri loves to talk, and when it comes to describing his symphony, he quotes the words once used to define his music by one of its performers: it is like “drinking a glass of apricot brandy that has a piece of glass shattered in it”. All the presents find the description very appropriate, and I feel it is a good way to say something about “Symphony” in a few words. During the radio show Pasatieri talks also about the fact that he had never physically heard his creation before that day, it was only in his mind, while at UK we had been working on it for a couple of weeks, and the orchestra and everybody present in rehearsal at the very first reading of the symphony (which I happened to conduct) had experienced this music long before its own creator.

In a way it is hard for me to say something very simple and direct about this piece: I have had the score in my hands for a month, I have studied it in detail, I have worked on it with the orchestra, have heard it many times in rehearsal and conducted three performances of it in the last couple of days. Funnily enough, the only thing I cannot really talk about is the first official performance and world premiere of the piece, last Friday at the Singletary Center of Lexington with John Nardolillo at the head of the UKSO: as assistant conductor, I had backstage and managing duties during the concert and could not really enjoy the performance in the best way.

I can say that I know the symphony very well now and I especially enjoyed conducting it. And I can certainly say that I see Thomas Pasatieri in this music, at least as I have gotten to know him in these past days. Besides any technical or aesthetical evaluation of this work, “Symphony” seems to have a great quality, in that it is an immediate and honest reflection of the personality of its composer, and, even being a somewhat articulated musical structure, it keeps a spontaneous, true quality to the writing, a sort of innocent, pure expressivity that sometimes seems lost in many contemporary compositions.

Our use of the last name of a composer to indicate both his/her person and historical figure on one side, and his/her music on the other, is in a way almost a given fact of the language and its semiotic: Mozart is often described as a jolly man, at times childish and inclined to foolishness and obscenity - but also Mozart is often described as elegant, refined and at the same time profound and sublime. Well, in the case of Pasatieri I feel that we wouldn’t ever need two separate sets of opposite adjectives, but we would probably use the same or very similar words to talk about the man - and about his music.

Bartman as Inspiration

"This time it was personal."

The transference of knowledge from one domain to another has never been one of my shortcomings, not only in one academic musical setting to another - such as, perhaps, music theory to performance - but in seemingly unrelated endeavors as well. I've often received great insight into music through watching sports. For instance, while at UK football games, I can't help but think of the musical aesthetics of Cage, Penderecki, and Xenakis. While watching great tennis players, such as Nadal and Sharapova, their ability to stay calm and almost mechanical while performing with immense enthusiasm and passion is better advice than I've obtained in several years of private instrumental lessons. Since beginning this endeavor of music criticism, I've probably read more sport criticism than music criticism. This, however, has not halted my progress in learning style, rhetoric, and most importantly, how to tell a story.

Last night, ESPN's award-winning documentary series, "30 for 30", premiered its newest episode, "Catching Hell: The Steve Bartman Story". I've long viewed this series as perhaps the best story telling on television, but this episode was more thought provoking than ever. Its attention to detail, pacing, different view points, and interviews with the top sport critics made the 2-hour span pass in mere minutes. As each sports critic spoke, I listened for special wordings, turns of phrases, and trains of thought that I could apply to my music criticism. It is fitting that of all the critics and journalists they interviewed, my favorite, Bob Ryan of the Boston Globe, said only one sentence that shaped the rest of the broadcast - "This time it was personal." No other critic could sum up a city's emotions quite so simply and exact.

If nothing else, I write this blog in hopes that we can draw inspiration as music critics from other genres than music. I encourage everyone to read some of Bob Ryan's immense body of work (he's been at a long time.) and perhaps view an episode or two of "30 for 30" to get a feel of what I estimate to be some of the most inspiring documentation around.

Beautiful or merely a cover-up?

“Don't strive for perfection, because perfection is in conflict with beauty.” – Nicholas Harnoncourt

If beauty and perfection are in conflict, then the glossy sheen of the modern record industry is a cover-up. For this very reason, when I was a fledgling teenage music student, I became enthralled with the mostly unedited recordings of Kreisler, Elman, Heifetz, Milstein, Rabin, Ysaÿe, Menuhin, etc. Immediately, I then fell absolutely in love with the recordings of conductors such as Celidibache, Klemperer, de Sabata, Furtwängler, Mengelberg, Munch, etc. How could one not be drawn to the arresting virtuosity and astonishing accuracy of Heifetz and Rabin or the tonal opulence of Kreisler and Elman? The recordings of Menuhin and Furtwängler seem to encompass the entirety of the human existence while those historic Boston Symphony and Munch recordings singularly define French music in its entire sensual splendor – notwithstanding his race to the scaffold which probably is exactly opposite of Berlioz’s intentions. Not to be misunderstood, I loved – and still love – the magnificent recordings of Karajan. That gloss that only he could achieve was truly remarkable, but why did every piece have to have the same luster?

Of late, I have been most intrigued by the Austrian Conductor, Manfred Honeck. Music director of the Pittsburgh Symphony, he brings a personality steeped in the Austrian traditions to Pittsburgh’s polished ensemble. (He was once a member of the Vienna Philharmonic and his brother is a concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic.) Humanity, sensuality, virtuosity, tonal opulence, and even that occasional sheen are all found in his performances. The performance delivered in Berlin by the PSO and Honeck on September 11, 2001 is no exception. I “attended” the performance via streamed video produced by the Berliner Philharmoniker’s incomparable Digital Concert Hall.

Opening with Mahler’s fifth symphony, the orchestra brought Honeck’s viewpoint to life. It is almost as if he was continually selecting portions of Mahler’s narrative and pressing the bold, italic, and/or underline buttons so that the listener heard everything. I was wondering how he was able to achieve such tender playing, raucous bursts, lush sonorities, brilliant passagework, and idiomatic playing all in the same performance. Sometimes the results were rapturous and other times they were perplexing, but is that not the music of Gustav Mahler?

What followed defied my every expectation. After motioning the audience to stop its standing ovation and rousing cheering, Honeck led a performance of Josef Strauss’s Dragonfly which was as Viennese as any you might ever hear. In fact, I have never heard an American orchestra play Viennese music so idiomatically. The final encore, the Waltz from Der Rosenkavalier, would have made Carlos Kleiber – Honeck’s idol – very happy.

In conclusion, the performance was dazzling. Sometimes the intonation erred and a few phrases may have been misshapen, but the performance was masterful. I wondered what Boulez would have thought.

"As for dazzling brilliance, I don't believe in it at all! I can't point to any specific conductor, but how can you be dazzling with disorderly phrasing, with out-of-sync chords and tempos, with muddled entrances? I wouldn't call that dazzling--I'd call it a coverup." - Pierre Boulez

So is this performance beautiful or a cover up? Are recordings which are edited to the point perfection in intonation, phrasing, and ensemble beautiful or are they a cover-up? Or can Boulez’s and Harnoncourt’s viewpoints both be true? Perhaps, Honeck and the PSO have embedded an answer in this performance.

Hometown Heroes

I didn’t attend the premiere of Pasatieri’s magnum opus over the past weekend. Instead, I spent my Friday night convalescing from a sinus infection that rendered me a festering mess of concentrated contagium for much of last week. I felt better by Monday—so much better, in fact, that I was able to sing as part of Asbury University’s annual alumni recital.

As small, privately funded, Christian liberal arts institutions go, Asbury University (formerly Asbury College) has a striking collection of performers and career musicians within its ranks of alumni and alumnae. Their strong suits have always been their brass, vocal, and keyboard departments: one recent organist alumnus went on a performance tour of Italy and was offered a full ride to Eastman for his DMA before playing his second senior recital. Another, a classmate of mine and a pianist, is now studying at Indiana University at Bloomington for her master’s in piano performance—she turned Juilliard down to come to Asbury as an undergrad. Another alumnus, a vocalist, is the director of the Pauls Foundation, while yet another wound up as the assistant principal trumpet for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

But last night’s program was void of those. Instead, it gave an opportunity for the other Asbury music alumni to shine, those alumni who are working in the musical world unnoticed: educators, grad students, and restaurateurs—people for whom music forms such a vital facet of life. These are people whose talent and determination are just as enfleshed and fiery, but who don’t have prestigious titles appended to their names in concert programs.

And last evening’s performance showed that. The usual shows of talent, heart, and sweat present in any departmental recital were just as present last night, and just as enjoyable as usual. Kristi Nevill offered a careful, if tentative, Alla Pollacca from Weber’s second clarinet concerto with virtuoso accompaniment by Mary Ann Wilder. Flautists Amanda Bailey and Courtney Jespersen together presented a flawless Kuhnau duo brillant from his op. 81 set. Todd Montgomery shared a spirited (and brave) Weiss guitar sonata, pinched frets and all, and Lisa Hall finished the program with the obligatory organ piece on Akers Auditorium’s baroque-flavored organ, Danza del Espiritu Santo by Robert J. Greene.

Not a bad program at all. But it was too safe.

The selections as a whole lacked élan—with the exception of one piece, the composer’s offering. Enoch Jacobus (a Ph.D. candidate in theory at UK nowadays) presented a Latin setting of Isaiah 9:2 (“the people walking in darkness have seen a great light…”). I did know this piece the best, considering I was the solo bass 1 for its premiere last night. Beyond that, however, the piece had a certain spark that was absent from the other interpretations on the program.

The piece was risky, and that’s what made it.

We’d only had three hours of rehearsal to perfect the subtly shifting chromatic harmonies and Whitacre-scented tone clusters in it (you can smell his hair product from here). But Enoch writes in his own idiom beyond a wholesale imitation of Whitacre’s style and adapts certain elements of Whitacre’s tonal language and transforms them into something different, a challenge virtually all up-and-coming choral composers face. As savory as some of these sonorities are, they still don’t sit in the singers’ throats easily, so Enoch’s premiere had the added kick of being performed by an ensemble vibrating with adrenaline. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing remains yet to be seen: we made it to the end of the piece holding onto our folders for dear life.

It’s just a shame that this was the first number on the program, as if the challenging material was something to be endured quickly and set aside. Granted, the staging informed that more than anything (moving a choir on and offstage), but the side effects were unfortunate. And as for Enoch, as with any developing composer, I fully expect Enoch’s musical language to mature and rarify further: he already understands how to stretch both the listeners and the performers without resorting to compositional kitsch. And, perhaps in experiencing this, Asbury’s other music alumni will be reminded to recapture their élan, take risks, and continue astonishing us.

At the reception, the organizer of the event invited me to be the featured composer for next year's recital. Perhaps I'll write safe music. But I probably won't.

Comparing Critiquers: Virgil Thomson and Ned Rorem

By another of the happy coincidences that seem to frequently and undeservedly bless my life here in Lexington, I stumbled upon the works of two major 20th century music critics just before I was asked to do the same in an assignment. For one connection I can blame my friend Todd - if you do not check out that library book in your hands, I will be happy to do so instead - and the second connection I can blame on my ceaseless urge to browse secondhand bookstores. This is why in a few short weeks I had collections by Virgil Thomson and Ned Rorem open in front of me.

The first author is one whom I had only previously known as a composer (and disliked.) Virgil Thomson's Symphony on a Hymn Tune is solid American Neo-Classicism, picked up in Paris by diligent study with that indefatigable teacher Nadia Boulanger. Unfortunately, solid American Neo-Classicism is a style that has turned me off for years. I prefer the Parisian strain of Poulenc and Milhaud; music that seems to have been as fun to compose as it is to perform. Nevertheless, I am happy to report that solid American musical criticism, written mostly during the 1940s, is something I thoroughly enjoy reading.

Thomson's style of writing is clear and no-nonsense. He neither minces nor wastes words. A typical review of a performance is under 500 words and as even-handed as a human being can be. Thomson never issues praise or blame exclusively, but mixes them. If this implies his writing is dull, it is emphatically not. Thomson's judgments are often pithy and can be all the more effective for being understated in tone. For example, from a performance conducted by Charles Munch (spelled "Muench" by Thomson): "All the same, and with a vast experience behind him on both sides of the Rhine, [Munch] remains Alsatian. You never know quite where his musical sympathies lie."

Here is the opening sentence of another review: "Tossy Spivakovsky, who played a recital last night in Carnegie Hall, is a sensationally effective violinist when he is effective and a major disappointment when he is not." There follows a succinct analysis of exactly why Spivakovsky is not always reliable, down to a discussion of how he holds his bow. Even when Thomson does not enjoy the music or its interpreters, he still writes as accurately and objectively as possible in accordance with one of his core principles, set forth in the introductory essay: "Service, indeed, is the price of any profession's toleration by society."

This truth may explain why most of Ned Rorem's published prose comes from his personal diaries. A professional composer, Rorem is perhaps better known for his writing than his compositions. I cannot compare them, not yet having been exposed to his music, but his prose is blunt, biased, witty and compulsively readable. He seems to divide the world of music into two clear categories: music that is French and music that is not. Though American-born, Rorem is a self-described Francophile who emigrated as a young man, remaining in France for many years. He writes, "My early emigration to France was not that of an American in need of a change; I had felt myself born out of context and wanted to go back to a different womb." His new countrymen's reply after "spilling forth my oh-so-sensual Gallic wit to comprehending ears"? "Their reaction was: Why so cold and humorless, Ned, so Nordic and inhibited? Be more French."

Within his black-and-white world, Rorem further divides music into that which he cannot comprehend (anything by Richard Strauss, particularly Der Rosenkavalier) and that which he loves passionately but still criticizes (anything by Francis Poulenc or Maurice Ravel.) Writing always about composers and their compositions, never about specific performances, Rorem rhapsodizes over these and other Gallic masters while gleefully pointing out all the instances of plagiarism in their works: "Nuages paraphrases Mussorgsky's Sans Soleil, as does more than coincidentally, Stravinsky's prelude to Le Rossignol. But by the turn of the century Debussy had become himself: himself in a position to be stolen from."

This is one of Rorem's main points, at least in this collection: all composers beg, borrow, or steal material from each other. This may be certain chord progressions, or details of ornamentation or instrumental scoring. The genius lies in how they make this stolen material their own. "The professional disguises a theft by stamping it with his trademark. The amateur has no trademark; he doesn't know he's stolen; he peddles black-and-white reproductions."

Quite a provocative thought, just as those Richard Taruskin wishes to plant; perhaps the next step for me could be trying to identify the musical thefts of Ned Rorem. Then again, there is always the possibility of tracing the critical thefts - the ideological thefts? "Paraphrasing" or "misreading" would be more polite - of the authors whose works we will read in this course.

A Performance of Possibilities

Disclaimer: Unable to attend the concert because of an out-of-state conflict, I attended the Thursday rehearsal/recording session in order to hear Pasatieri’s Symphony. The other piece performed on the concert, Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, is accordingly absent from my review.

The University of Kentucky Symphony Orchestra premiered Thomas Pasatieri’s first symphony Friday night. While this may be the composer’s first contribution to this specific genre, Pasatieri is by no means new to the field: a student of Nadia Boulanger who has to his credit almost 50 years of composition, including almost two dozen operas and many more chamber works, and numerous orchestrations for film. His compositional style lies comfortably in the Neo-Romantic Hollywood pastiche. His symphony, while not perfect, presents Pasatieri as himself.

The one-movement work opens with a fierce dissonance without function or resolution that recurs throughout the piece, interrupting a variety of passages. The primary theme is introduced by the strings, which quickly establish themselves as the section of the orchestra with which Pasatieri is most comfortable. Closer to a tone poem in the thematically transformative vein of Liszt, the theme soars through two different presentations by the strings, before conceding its place to a horn solo, unaccompanied. Pasatieri utilizes soloists throughout his composition to provide textural variety, but from the moment the horn begins, one can tell that Pasatieri is slightly out of his element in the brass section. The solo is cumbersome to the soloist, who valiantly performed a seemingly impossible request on the part of the composer. The primary theme returns, but cedes again to other soloists—oboe, trumpet—that provide welcome textural changes and reprieve for the already overly exercised theme. Pasatieri moves to other means of variety with a woodwind feature, backed by percussion that was a bit overpowering for the Singletary Center stage. The emotional peak of the work follows a violin/cello duet performed with heart-wrenching passion by the collegiate ensemble’s talented cast. After being joined by the full ensemble of strings, the emotional moment is almost lost due to an awkwardly constructed brass fanfare featuring equally unwieldy interjections from the woodwinds. After two reminders of the works opening discord, the primary theme appears utilizing the full ensemble to its maximum potential for the first time. Building into Mahlerian tension, the discord returns once more, only to finally reveal its function, purpose, and resolution, bringing Pasatieri’s work to a stirring and emotional conclusion.

Despite writing outside of his operatic/film comfort zones, Symphony is wholeheartedly Pasatieri’s. The neo-Romantic thematic material, coupled with beautifully composed string moments provides a stirring introduction to what Pasatieri is capable of as a composer of symphonic music. However, there remains work to do. His use of brass and percussion tends to feel awkward and forced, the work feeling as though he utilizes them because he feel obligated, evidenced not only in the fanfares, but also the horn and trumpet solos. Even these shortcomings do not prevent Symphony from being a valuable piece of music, and its triumphs make obvious Pasatieri’s valuable possibilities as a composer of symphonic literature.

John McCluskey

Magic

Sorry about all the blog pollution... but I wanted to share a review of the Canadian Brass concert I went to at Transy last Wednesday. Anyway, here it is:

Brass quintets are not known for their ability to captivate the imaginations of children. Children are not known for their capacity to sit still for two hours. People from poor urban neighborhoods are not supposed to get excited about hearing excerpts from French ballet. One doesn't usually recommend listening to excerpts from Bizet's Carmen as an evening activity for a single mother and her three kids. And no one thinks Canadians are funny, eh? But sometimes music captivates, and sometimes music calms. Sometimes music excites, and sometimes music enthralls. On Wednesday night, as the Canadian Brass performed as a part of Transylvania's Dorothy J. and Fred K. Smith endowed concert series, music was magical.

One of the hats I wear is that of the music director at the Salvation Army in Lexington, Kentucky. One of the goals of my job is to make music available to children who may not have access to musical experiences otherwise, be it as a result of their families socio-economic condition or cultural barriers. We provide instruction and instrument rentals free of charge. Most of the children in our program have never been exposed to art music of any kind, or in any way. So when Dr. Ben Hawkins, from Transylvania University, approached me a few weeks ago, wondering if I would be interested in bringing some of our students to the Canadian Brass concert, without hesitation I said yes.

With eyes opened wide my rag-tag bunch of little musicians marched their way into Haggin Auditorium's balcony. This unruly bunch, which based on appearance looked more prepared for a soccer match then an "endowed concert series," made their way in with their ticket in one hand and the program in the other, wearing an expression on their face that reflected the excitement they felt inside. They had never been to a concert before, and what was about to unfold before them was mysterious and exciting. I had seen this look before. I had been in this situation before. This was not MY first time at the rodeo... I mean, concert hall. I had taken groups of students to concerts in the past, and I knew how these looks of excitement would soon be washed away by the horror inducing task of sitting still and listening to music. So I did my best to temper expectations and remind them of the importance of not screaming in the middle of a piece of music. I was already preparing to present with them with a revisionist history on the drive home, in an attempt to convince them that they had just enjoyed the hour they'd spent picking their nose and counting light bulbs in the hall. We would only be an hour because I'd been here, and done this before; I knew we'd have to leave early when the cold, annoyed stares of the crusty faithful would become too much for me to bear. But sometimes music transcends.

While the stage was still unmounted, the music began. The quintet began playing Just A Closer Walk in the fashion of an old New Orleans Dixieland band as they marched in below us. Climbing to the edge of their seats my students alternated looks for any sign of the mysterious quintet they could only begin to imagine, and glances at me in hopes of a clue. When the quintet finally emerged they seemed as confused about the appropriate apparel for this event as my bedazzled band of little bandsmen. Their nicely tailored suits were accented by matching pairs of white and pink tennis shoes. And where were the seats these Canadians would sit motionless in, anyway? Casting aside traditional elements and expectations for an evening of "serious" music they continued to play. One piece after another they played their repertoire, and with only one or two exceptions they played the concert entirely from memory. The performance was so engaging, visually and musically, that even the most seasoned and critical concertgoer forgot to be bothered by the halls poor acoustics and the occasional missed note. The comedic shtick and elaborate choreography would have seemed contrived if not for the exceptional musicianship. Even as they "danced" to selections from French Ballet, with a tutu-ed trombone to boot, the music never seemed to be overcome by the goofing around. And the kids listened, really listened.

Usually kids can't wait for a concert to end. They often communicate this desire by continually asking if it is, in fact, over yet. But tonight was different, after intermission they hurried back to their seats and eagerly waited for the second half. As the quintet played excerpts from Carmen while dressed as the four main characters (plus the tuba being dressed as a bull) from the opera, the kids sat with their attention fixed on the performance. Gabrielle, a single mother who had come along with her three children, looked back at me from her seat a few rows in front of mine. Her tear-filled eyes expressed a sincere gratitude too deep for words. For at least one night, the financial burdens so ever-present in the life of a poor single mom seemed far away, and the pressures of raising three kids all alone, that weigh so heavy, seemed just a little lighter as she sat there with her three kids and listened to the music.

When I took the kids home I didn't have to trick them into thinking they had fun. Actually, I didn't have to say much at all. I just listened to the best sounds I heard all night, the sounds of kids dreaming out loud. They made plans to start their own brass quintets. They asked me if I was that good, and they told me that they would be that good one day. They bounded from the bus and burst into their homes and I heard the stories begin to run as they told their parents all about Carmen, bulls and tutu-ed trombones. And I was reminded of something I often forget - that music can be magical.

Nice

What are we expecting when we go to hear an orchestra perform? All too often we go hoping to hear the depths of our soul explored profoundly in sound. We arrive at the hall hoping for a transformative moment of technical perfection and artistic mastery. If you went to Singletary Center of Friday night to hear the UK Symphony Orchestra seeking a moment like this, you probably left disappointed. That is, unless you were the mother of one of the bepimpled Tubists who had their first chance, and likely their last, to take center stage and play a melody, a real melody. So what if it was the Dies Irae, a tune about the day of wrath, your boy finally got to be a star. But I digress, the evening wasn't a perfect performance, and no ones life was changed. If your standards for evaluating a performance depend on technical perfection, this was just another night amidst what will be a lifetime of musical disappointments.

The evening started with Les Torreadors from Bizet's opera, Carmen. The piece doesn't really relate to the others performed, but it seems that conductor John Nardolillo wanted to start the evening with energy and excitement, and Les Torreadors did the trick.

The premiere of Pasatieri's first Symphony was nice. It avoided tired cliches and presented a number of bright young performers the opportunity to show their capacity to tackle a challenging solo and make good art. This one movement symphony is unlikely to make its way into the repertoire of any major orchestra, but it is also unlikely to disappoint an honest audience when it is played.

Symphonie Fantastique, went like it usually does; the audience and performers alike, just waiting for the final two movements to arrive. The orchestra had some really nice moments, particularly at the high energy bits. The more exposed parts were somewhat less successful, even predictably so. An english horn betrayed its english hornist in the way that english horns so often do. And the varied attacks on the strings sections unison pizzicatos reminded everyone just how hard it is play together. But all in all, the mistakes were not too egregious to ruin what was otherwise a really nice performance. No, lives weren't changed and history was not made, but music was, and I'm glad I went.

The UK Symphony at Singletary

UK's Symphony Orchestra is certainly a crackerjack ensemble. On Friday, under John Nardolillo's direction, they pulled off a virtually flawless first concert of the season which consisted of the opening Prelude from Bizet's Carmen, the world premiere of Thomas Pasatieri's Symphony (written for the UK Symphony), and Berlioz' monumental and dazzling Symphonie Fantastique of 1830. With this early-season leaning toward things French, Nardolillo must be perfecting the orchestra's Gallic timbre for Gounod's Romeo et Juliette, which will be presented by UK's Opera Theater next month at the Lexington Opera House.

Although it seemed well-played by the orchestra, Thomas Pasatieri's Symphony, composed this year after some forty years of churning out operas, concertos, sonatas, chamber music, songs, and scoring music for films, has to be one of the most hackneyed and unimaginative pieces of music that I have heard in a long time. The cloying opening theme (one imagines seeing "opening titles" marked in the score), presented numerous times without variation, would appear to have been inspired by Richard Rodgers' "The Sweetest Sounds" from 1962, which itself had been inspired by the second Brahms piano concerto from 1878. It all might have worked as a collage or even a spoof of where generic background music had been in the 1940s or 50s, but I was left with the impression that Mr. Pasatieri had actually been earnest in this first symphonic effort. It is utterly amazing to me that the most daring, adventurous, and all-out audacious composition on this concert was the one written first.... in 1830.

Ophicleides and Other Rarities

On Friday evening, the UK Symphony Orchestra performed one of the most peculiar works to have emerged during the early nineteenth century – Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique (1830). The combination of neuroticism and magnitude in Symphonie Fantastique is humorous, but its robust presence in the Western musical canon is indisputable and well deserved. Berlioz, as a master innovator and orchestrator, reveals his skills in this work. His bold attitude toward orchestration and his unusual combinations of timbres are apparent throughout the piece. Composing an orchestral work in the shadow of Beethoven (i.e., just 3 years after Beethoven’s death) requires something particularly unusual or “fantastique” – if you want your work recognized, that is. In my estimation, Berlioz was very successful at achieving this goal.

The orchestra, under the baton of John Nardolillo, performed this work in a fearless, though sometimes reckless, manner. Does this approach reflect the spirit of Symphonie Fantastique? Absolutely. I applaud Nardolillo and the members of the orchestra for their spicy performance of this piece.

While the orchestra played with a confident and wild spirit throughout much of the work, some tender moments were at hand also. The charming ballroom scene in the second movement and the pastorale scene in the third movement provided a quiet space, which nicely contrasts the movements that follow. Overall, the performance was persuasive and effective, particularly in the last two movements. The orchestra successfully captured the furious drama and intensity of the end of the work. All that was lacking was an ophicleide or two.

When Love Grows Up: A Program

When your first symphony shares its premiere with performances of Les Toreadors and Symphonie Fantastique, at least you know the house will provide its own dramatic energy. No stranger to drama himself, Thomas Pasatieri has orchestrated films and staged operas and wears shoulder-length hair. At 65, however, he had never premiered a symphony--until tonight.

Pasatieri's piece was not shy about its Hollywood connections. A single movement in three sections, its score ranges widely, including both long virtuosic solos and massive tutti passages that demand and reward full harmonic series. Now militant, now lyrical, now overpowering, the 3D soundscape is perfectly at home in large spaces. While not perfect, the UKSO under John Nardolillo was convincing. The effect, though, was better at the end than the beginning.

The piece begins with profound stage whispers lying forcibly still between brassy cannonades. This contrast of forces immediately sets up an epic distance between heights and the depths, between publicity and intimacy. So my first disappointment was the entrance of the theme. It's a fine theme as themes go--a little chromatic longing here, a little mezza di voce there. But my first reaction was that it was too snappy, that it did no justice to the introduction's glory and sorrow. It seemed to me that it had no wherewithal to seek its own salvation, unless it communicated as deeply as the conflict did. And I wasn't getting the depth.

There were beautiful momements throughout--especially the violin-cello duet near the end. The low strings often achieved the sound of deep, dark waters. The brass shone a silver light across the waters, and all was well. The attacks on the theme continued, however, and the theme had to respond. Each time it came back, I believed it a little bit more. But the final entrance of it, now augmented, broke down my last defenses. What had sounded naive at first, as if failing to realize the weight of the world, now was able to take the world with all its ills in stride. I was swept away into the deep waters, but now I was headed in the right direction. Love had grown up.

All this is not to say that I noticed any great tonal design or formal innovation or cosmic ambition. Love overcoming obstacles, however, is something I can appreciate. I know my own loves need to grow deeper lest they wither away. And thanks to Thomas Pasatieri's symphony, I have a resolve to do so.

A Few More Links

Here are a few more links which relate to the previous class period.

John Adams' book Hallelujah Junction

John Adams' Julliard Address

George Packer's piece from the New Yorker ("Coming Apart")

And for pure personal enjoyment: NPR's Performance Today has posted video of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra and Manfred Honeck's complete performance of Mahler 5 on their website. I am working on writing a review for the performance and will post it in the next few days.

Opening Lyrics - David Bazan

I recently had the privilege of attending a David Bazan concert in Lexington. Most known for his work as the primary songwriter and singer for the band Pedro the Lion, Bazan has been performing under his own name for the last 5 or so years. Though his philosophical viewpoints and harmonic language has evolved over the course of his 16-year professional music career, his ability to immediately grab a listener's attention with an intriguing opening lyric(s) has remained constant. Since we've been discussing good opening sentences in criticism, I thought I'd post a few of my favorite opening Pedro/Bazan lyrics.

"This is how we multiply / Pity that it's not my wife" - Rapture

"A white ghost is making his way up the west coast / Trying to focus his high hopes on a vagina or two / He's taking his chances - Cold Beer and Cigarettes

"I clung to miracles I had not seen / From ancient autographs I cannot read" - Bearing Witness

"They might have burned / But the priests were all taking turns / Showing nuns what they had discerned about their bodies in the dark" - Harmless Sparks

"My jail shoes on / The well kept cemetery lawn / Both of them weeping / Their one good son now is gone" - Bad Things to Such Good People

"Having no idea that his youngest son was dead / Farmer and his sweet young wife slept soundly in his bed" - Discretion

"And when his tiny head emerged from blood and foils of skin / I thought to myself if he only knew he would climb right back in" - I Do

"Blood stains on the carpet / Blood stains on my hands / Drag her toward the kitchen / Hide the evidence" - Never Leave A Job Half Done

On Thinking of Reviewing Transmigrations

***Warning: The author of this post is shamelessly writing to finish an assignment and has not actually listened to the piece under consideration. He is, however, a fine fellow in most other respects.***

How do you review a monument? (That goes to the tune of "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria"?) Every commemoration of 9/11 is one. On what grounds do you evaluate it? Barzun has said that the critic's task is to evaluate a thing's true effect against its intended one. If the intended effect is to memorialize an event with effects at once so universal and individual, I know of no sound basis for following Barzun's advice.

It seems that any given person's response to 9/11 will be intimately connected with that person's view of human nature, the history and role of America, and the relationship between the dead and the living on both sides. Aesthetic philosophy then determines the acceptable parameters of expressing that response. Every single one of these issues is so divisive that any attempted evaluation stands open to charges of worship (over agreement) or intolerance (on disagreement).

So on the grounds of cosmological impossibility--but mostly because I haven't listened to it, don't know much about John Adams's style or philosophy, and don't have any time--I will not review the piece.

"The Dead of September 11" Poem

If you are interested in the Toni Morrison poem "The Dead of September 11," you can find it at the URL below.

http://vintageanchor.tumblr.com/post/10080542498/the-dead-of-september-11-2001-by-toni-morrison

"On the Transmigration of Souls"- An Musically Appropriate Product

When I listen to his piece, I can’t help but compare it to Penderecki’s “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima” (and, I admit, this is one of the easiest ways for me to write a review of the work). Upon first listening, the quiet dissonances and characteristically minimalist technique of slow and subtle musical change frustrated me. For many Americans, September 11^th was a shock; I expected to hear that in the music, in the same way Penderecki’s work seems to almost programmatically tell the events of that day.

Instead,” On the Transmigration of Souls” begins with the sounds of New York city streets. Ironically, the “quiet before the storm” that Adams conveys with this “musique concrete” technique isn’t quiet or calm at all—instead, we hear the sounds of busy New Yorkers rushing by, as if Adams is commenting on the nature of the city’s residents as they continued about their New York minutes, clueless as to upcoming event that would change many of their lives.

As the music progresses, we hear a young boy announcing the names of victims over a choir singing an eerily atonal harmonic progression, the music set to no words. Slowly, more announcers are added, and the texture of the work becomes thicker: sorrowful strings mimic the vocal line, various percussive effects add timbral variety, and a trumpet and soprano sax melody, reminiscent of Charles Ive’s “The Unanswered Question,” floats on top of the quiet, slowly unfolding chaos. The vocal line becomes increasingly polyphonic and antiphonal, with the choir members now describing the crumbling towers and giving voice to the victims: “We will not be forgotten.”

A year is not a long time to grieve. Instead of providing listeners with a programmatic, play-by-play musical representation of that day, which may have been traumatic and disturbing to those of us still grieving, “On the Transmigration of Souls” focuses on the victims of 9/11. Through his awareness of these grieving Americans, Adams avoids any large or prolonged dissonances, centering instead on the actual “transmigration” process of the victims—“the passage of a soul after death into another body; metempsychosis” (dictionary.com). In this way, Adams’s piece, instead of conveying the terrible atrocities of that day and the pain still being felt by many Americans upon its premiere, gives listeners hope: the sustained notes sung by the choir early in the piece depict the image of the transmigration process; the souls, after reaching their destination, remind us they will not be forgotten, that this will not have happened in vain. My initial disappointment in the anti-climatic feel of the music was only understood after the images and text of the souls being portrayed spoke to me through Adam’s music.

Although it’s not my favorite piece of music (utilize the orchestra, dang it!), the work is appropriate for its listeners—many of whom have most likely never heard of (or listened to, for that matter!) “Nixon in China.” Adams was commissioned for this work, and he provided an appropriate, consumer-friendly product—the “memory space” he refers to the piece as. The heavy focus on the choir and the text of the work, although it seems uncharacteristic of Adams, is forgivable given the audience Adams was composing for. There is a time for innovation, for musical sophistication, for controversy-- and this wasn’t it.

On the transmigration of souls

I sit down on my couch, stay some time in silence, free my mind, and then start to listen to John Adams’ “On the transmigration of souls”. And from the very first few seconds I feel how hard it is to experience this music abstracting it from its historical background, from its contingent motivation and all the immediate correlations to an event, which still feels incredibly close, vividly present to all of us.

How can someone approach this listening and not immediately associate clear images with it, and colors, faces, sounds, very personal sensations on a day of ten years ago, emotions, stuck in our soul, suddenly reemerging - mixed with all the new feelings that this experience of recollection, of reemerging of past things is arousing within us?

Maybe someone should not try to prescind from those images and feelings, those specific associations, that recollection: after all, this piece was commissioned and written in occasion of the first anniversary of 9/11 - so maybe it has to be firmly associated with those historical events. And in an interview to the Dutch television given in 2002, the composer himself explains the way his music unfolds, and points out those specific associations, at times in fact indicating some descriptive qualities of the musical events, of the orchestral and vocal texture and colors - and “descriptive” stands here for actually evoking with sounds a physical, concrete image, like the debris falling down from the towers after the explosions.

So the listening can guide us through a very intimate journey, a transmigration of our own soul to a moment in the past, which really only exists in another dimension, to a place elsewhere, maybe a spiritual place, but at times populated by those vivid, specific images and sensations: the ones each of us possesses and recollects - and the ones that Adams offers us from his own experience - or his own recollection of that day - through specific sounds or musical gestures: recorded voices from the street, pregnant words from a newspapers article, names, declarations of love, desperate cries of relatives still hoping that the loved ones survived under the rubble… “The windows on the world”, just the name of a restaurant… a beautiful morning of September… “I see water, I see buildings”, the last words of a stewardess… and a long musical intensification, agitato passages with strings and brass menacingly waving and suddenly interrupted, an orchestral crescendo, to reach the point of maximum tension, a “harmonic crisis” becoming unbearable, in Adams’ own words, before a sudden cut… the explosion? More like the bursting of a bubble, exploding into silent, slow falling of debris - rarefied orchestral texture, gleaming of celesta, like reflections of pieces of metals floating against the blue sky in the sun of the morning, on the background the filigree of tenuous violin threads… And the overall feeling is of a world suspended, silent, distant, to be quietly contemplated. “It was a beautiful day”. The immense human tragedy that 9/11 was harshly clashes with its “poetic” quality, which, very soon after the events, I remember, started to be evoked by many, artists and not, crudely criticized. I guess the poetry is very much related to the absolutely surreal connotation that what happened on that day takes in our perception of distant spectators, making that distance even bigger: it was surreal, we could not believe to our eyes, we could not come to terms with the idea: “this is happening, here and now”. Unless we were directly touched by those events as a person, to most of us everything appeared suspended, silent, unreal, like a rarefied orchestral texture, a shimmering of celesta and fragile violins, a tenuous vocal humming floating in the vacuum…

In this sense, “On the transmigration of souls” becomes a journey of our soul to our own, inner 9/11. It is truly an evocative piece, in the deepest sense.

But I believe it is so even in a broader meaning than the one just exposed.

Once again, in the own words of the author: “The link to a particular historical event - in this case to 9/11 - is there if you want to contemplate it”. I would add that the links are not simple allusions, are concrete, absolute, inescapable in a way. But, says John Adams, this is not necessarily a piece about 9/11, it is not a “requiem” or a “memorial”; it could instead be described as a “memory space. It's a place where you can go and be alone with your thoughts and emotions”.

Of course, its suspended poetic qualities, the peculiar nature of the evocation goes in that direction. But also the materials which are most concretely creating specific references to the historical events are used in a way that allows to transcend the events themselves. One example: we cannot think of anything more concrete and real than the very voices from the street recorded on tape and reproduced. This is the way the piece opens, in theory objective like a documentary report; but the way those voices are used goes beyond neutral observation of happenings: the repetition is the simplest though most pregnant way to draw those voices away from their historical existence, and suspend them, dematerialize them. Repetition fixes everything in a still moment, which by definition is atemporal, out of historical time, immobile and ideally eternal. Then, when the chorus comes in, we don’t hear words, but just a neutral vocalize, once more the concreteness of the human voice is dematerialized, it expresses not a structured thought or a specific message, but speaks an inner sound that is primordial, comes from infinite distance and stays forever with us as human beings. The names of the people killed: they are unique, real, there is nothing more individual, specific, historical than that. But all of us have names, having names is what we have in common beyond individuality, and I feel that in the piece the names are there to commemorate those people as much as to stand for all humanity.

Again in John Adams’ words: “ I hope that the piece will summon human experience that goes beyond this particular event”. To go back to my initial question, in the end I believe that we can and we should listen to this music besides and beyond its association with historical events. I believe so because truly there are no words that can express such human suffering, there is nothing that can speak for the people involved in that tragedy, there is no way to truly share, deeply understand what those people have experienced for us distant spectators. Once I read a quote - I don’t remember by whom anymore - that said approximately that human suffering is not cumulative, that the suffering of one single individual cannot be compared with the one of thousands of people - in other words, pain is a personal, intimate experience, not “quantifiable” and that cannot be really modified by sharing. If we cannot truly share, we can make an effort to feel closer, we can hope to help, alleviate, but what we have left inside is empathy, identification and similar feelings. I think the most important thing that comes to us from 9/11, from history in general is memory, is finding a dimension where we can think - or maybe suspend thinking, is a very basic, simple and unstructured awareness of our nature and our common destiny, is the tension to a place beyond here and now, beyond daily life and human miseries, where we could get closer to our essence of fragments of a whole, closer to what is just being.

“On the transmigration of souls” can also be, and I think it should be a piece about this.

A Review of Joan Tower's In Memory

Joan Tower’s second string quartet, In Memory, was commissioned by the Tokyo String Quartet in 2001. Originally written in memory of Margaret Shafer, one of Tower’s life-long friends who passed away in the summer of 2001, the work gained emotional force following the September 11 tragedy in New York City. Tower claims that the September 11 attacks “amplified” her feelings of grief and loss over the death of her friend.

In Memory is simultaneously sickening, painful, and beautiful. Like Stravinsky’s ballets, Tower’s work makes quick “cinematic cuts” throughout different musical worlds. The rapid juxtaposition of moods and styles is alarming and creates intense discomfort. In Memory toggles between the angelic and the demonic, the innocent and the criminal, the bright and the dull, the beautiful and the groteque. Moments of clarity and simplicity are interrupted by moments of violence and confusion. These tense moments, filled with razor-sharp dissonances and harsh articulations, appropriately represent the mind-jarring confluence of emotions that filled the minds and hearts of many individuals at that time.

I am reminded of Toni Morrison’s “The Dead of September 11” (2001), which was first printed in Vanity Fair. Tower’s response to the September 11 attacks is dramatically different than Morrison’s response. While Tower exploits the intensity and passion of the varied emotions that she felt at that time, Morrison takes a different stance. Morrison makes a statement of courage and restraint:

To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear, knowing all the time that I have nothing to say – no words stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you have become.

Morrison’s response of tenderness and reverence is incredibly powerful, and its message touches me in strong ways. If time permits, I would like to share this work in class.

Review - On the Transmigration of Souls

Street sounds. Cars slowly driving by. Two teenage guys walking and laughing with each other. I hardly know the piece has started until the voice of a young boy says, “Missing”. Very Curious. This repeats until another voice enters, a man - “John Florio” pause “Christina Flannery”. The list goes on covered by a halo of sound from a wordless choir. An atmosphere is being created. A place of memory is forming. This is how the piece began.

When John Adams was commissioned in 2002 to write a piece commemorating the attacks on the twin towers on September 11^th, he called it “On the Transmigration of Souls”. I found these words evocative. He doesn’t call it “Requiem for 9/11” or “Memorial to the Victims of Terrorism” but uses a title more sublime – otherworldly even. In his own words, Adams says:

I want to avoid words like "requiem" or "memorial" when describing this piece because they too easily suggest conventions that this piece doesn’t share. If pressed, I’d probably call the piece a "memory space". It’s a place where you can go and be alone with your thoughts and emotions. The link to a particular historical event–in this case to 9/11–is there if you want to contemplate it.

The choir gradually begins to form words, phrases – “Remember”, “Remember me. Please don’t forget me”, “Jeff was my uncle” “The sister says, ‘He was the apple of my father’s eye’”, “The father says, ‘I am so full of grief. My heart is completely shattered’”. The choir sings these tender, intimate words in tone clusters, creating an atmosphere of soft tension, like telling someone a painful memory, so painful you can only whisper it. A turning point comes when the choir sings a testimony of a woman who lost her husband: “I loved him from the start… I wanted to dig him out. I know just where he is.” These bone-chilling words ignite an intense frustration that builds like something is about to explode. The choir beings to almost shout like this desperate woman who wanted to dig her husband out of the debris. A collection of crazed, spasmatic sounds begins to build in the orchestra – dissonances in the brass, fierce scales in the strings, anvil sounds in the percussion, the choir renters now shouting at the top of their lungs, “Light! Light!” The frustration is released. We then find ourselves floating through outer space. Harmonics in the upper strings and bizarre percussion sounds create this weightless, disorienting place. We almost feel we are a piece of the debris, falling through the air.

These are just a few of the incredibly vivid ways that Adams brings his listeners to experience the events of 9/11 and to contemplate them. But he does far more than that. He brings us into a reality that transcends the events of 9/11. In this piece we inhabit a world of transition, not just from the “living to the dead, but the change that takes place within the souls of those left behind” (Adams, 2002). I found this piece extraordinarily moving and touching. It encompasses such a wide range of emotions: the quite tragedy of loss, the sweet memories of those now gone, the anger and helplessness, but also peace in the midst of everything. The otherworldly quality of his music made me feel almost as if I were looking behind the physical veneer of this tragic event. A veil was removed and I was watching the souls of the dead leaving this world, experiencing the spiritual churning of those left on this earth. In this piece, we witness The Transmigration of Souls.