Category: Articles

Nobody becomes a composer out of a need to express himself or out of a wish to affect the course of music history. We all begin by falling in love with a piece and wanting to make something just like it. With the passage of years, the urge to imitate disappears, but most of us continue to be nourished by the study of music.

The importance of theory is obvious. You cannot really understand Bach unless you have internalized the syntax of functional harmony along with the principles of long-range voice-leading. And the various techniques of extended tonality, free atonality, or serial construction are equally important for music of the 20th century. But no way of thinking about pitch or rhythm provides an automatic advantage; theoretical constructs are only useful as a source of opportunities. What interests us in a piece we care about is the particular occasion, how technical procedures are placed in the service of a musical narrative that is uniquely compelling.

[Ed. Note: Flume, a new CD featuring four of Boykan’s chamber music compositions was recently issued on CRI.]

Kim Cascone

Most of the theory I studied in music school has very little to do with what I do today. Having said that, I would also say that I would not have developed my current skill set if it were not for my musical education. Music theory has mimicked the behavior of many other disciplines in the 20th century by crossbreeding, blurring boundaries, and synthesizing new approaches to composing music. As the definition of music now encompasses many styles made possible only by technology, new skills and disciplines are needed to work in these new media. Filmmaking, mathematics, aesthetics, and computer programming all intersect to make for a more rounded definition of the term “music theory” and continue to play a large role in the development of my music.

Dean Suzuki Photo by Ryan Suzuki

Something has gone terribly wrong at PBS. I recall a day when one could actually see Peter Greenaway‘s documentary films on John Cage, Meredith Monk, Philip Glass, and Robert Ashley; a documentary on Steve Reich; intermedia and experimental performances, films, and videos on Alive! From Off Center; a significant proportion of modern dance on Great Performances; and more, all on PBS. While such new art never dominated the public television airwaves, neither were they marginalized or excluded. While film and video makers still have a presence on PBS, albeit usually in the late night slot, contemporary performing arts appear to have been replaced by baby boomer-oriented MOR rock, a recent renewal of interest in early doo-wop, R&B and soul, light classical fare (including all the multitudinous variations on the Three Tenors), a very curious and unexpected surge in pop music directed at a rather older viewing demographic like some kind of updated version of the Lawrence Welk (e.g. Roger Whittaker), and all manner of new age-y, glitzy, and otherwise flimsy, mainstreamed versions of world music and dance. Enough of Yanni, Fleetwood Mac, Riverdance, Sarah Brightman, and Andrew Lloyd Webber! Give me some new music and contemporary performing arts of substance and meaning!

It is obvious that fund drives that endlessly repeat concerts by the Eagles; the Moody Blues; and pop, rock, and R&B one-hit wonders generate staggering numbers of pledges and dollars offered up by baby boomers with discretionary, disposable cash, but at what cost to the integrity of public broadcasting? Is there any real, substantive reason for PBS to show the Bee Gees or Sting aside from dollars and more viewers? Are PBS and the local affiliates primarily interested in dollars and ratings? Are rating numbers more important than programming? Must local PBS stations feel compelled to compete with VH-1? Whatever happened to their mission to serve the community as an intelligent, thoughtful alternative to commercial television? The cable arts channels certainly are not flooding the airwaves with performances of experimental music.

If the argument is that more dollars provide for more quality programming, then why the onslaught of mainstream pop culture on PBS to the exclusion of contemporary art music and performing arts? It would appear that none of the extra dollars are going to quality programming of contemporary music and performing arts. The major commercial networks, VH-1 and MTV, are perfectly capable of producing slick concert specials.

If you take money from those supporting another Fleetwood Mac concert, or Blenko Glass for that matter, those viewers will certainly expect more of the same and that is exactly what we are getting. I have nothing against the Bee Gees or Sting, but why PBS feels compelled to air their concert specials is beyond me. Such acts have had plenty of exposure on commercial television and other broadcast media and by presenting their music one more time seems to add little to contemporary culture, especially when it is at the expense of experimental music and performing arts that now get little or no exposure.

Where is the television viewer to go to see contemporary performing arts, whether music, dance, or other performing arts? Where is one to go to learn about such art on the airwaves? Current events productions on PBS are probing, stimulating, informative, and, in general, quite excellent, yet the performing arts presentations on public television are seldom progressive or provocative. Where is the musical equivalent of Bill Moyers, Frontline, or Nova? Instead, the performing arts programming at PBS is increasingly aimed at the middle, if not the lowest common denominator.

Important experimental creative artists whose work often revolves around the medium of video, such as Robert Ashley and Nam June Paik, are almost completely ignored by PBS, yet public television, ideally and ideologically should be the perfect venue for their work. I, for one, have yet to see Ashley’s video operas presented in toto or his Music with Roots in the Aether, a series created with television in mind, on PBS. The Kronos Quartet, carefully coiffed and nattily dressed, yet so very musical and musically challenging, seem especially well-suited to television with their decidedly unstuffy approach to performance and music making. How about a series from The Kitchen modeled after Sessions at West 54th or televising festivals such as the Brooklyn Academy of Music‘s Next Wave, the San Francisco Symphony‘s American Mavericks (if it is ever revived), or Other Minds? (Hey, I can dream can’t I?)

In addition to bringing back more performances of new work on PBS, how about a little pre- or post-performance profile of the composer or creative artist and a discussion of his/her aesthetic or artistic vision? Contemporary music is almost always problematic for the newcomer. Anyone who has ever been to a museum knows how baffling the experience that can be. But those taking a docent or audiotape tour know how helpful, even enlightening, that can be. Even a little bit of information and knowledge can profoundly impact one’s appreciation of a new or unfamiliar art. As we all well know, contemporary music is an acquired, but compelling and rewarding taste. Perhaps a well known, intelligent, articulate, and charismatic spokesman and new music champion such as Michael Tilson Thomas or Brian Eno could moderate or host and help make new music accessible and compelling for a larger audience
, as did Leonard Bernstein for classical music in his television series Omnibus and the Emmy Award-winning Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concert with the New York Philharmonic. Bernstein’s programs were enormously popular and influential, impacting the cultural lives of a generation. With some creative effort from the folks at PBS, contemporary music could be presented as the challenging, thought-provoking, relevant, compelling and, at times, accessible art that it is. What Robert Hughes, in The Shock of the New, and Sister Wendy Beckett, in Sister Wendy’s American Collection, did so successfully for the visual arts on PBS, others could do for contemporary music.

While the situation is bad at PBS, it is not utterly desperate. In recent months they have profiled and paid tribute to Picasso, Matisse, Samuel Beckett, and Akira Kurasawa. Kudos to them for such important programming. Surely, then, it would be appropriate that they produce similar programs saluting and dedicated to Cage, Boulez, Nancarrow, Partch, and Messiaen.

Of course, the blame cannot be laid entirely at the feet of the programmers at PBS and the local affiliates. As subscribers, or potential subscribers, we need to voice our opinions regarding programming and service to the arts community. The contemporary arts demographic may be small, but we must be heard. It is the obligation of public broadcasting to serve smaller but culturally important interest groups. And, of course, there is the issue of funding arts programming. Still, with a determined commitment to the arts, such funding could eventually be found.

If PBS is to be a public service rather than a ratings and dollar obsessed entity, it must reconsider its mission and its concept of and contribution to the music and arts communities.

I have worked extensively as both a composer and theorist throughout my career and see no separation between these two complementary, mutually enriching activities. My work as a theorist has been profoundly influenced by my composition and vice-versa.

I view the theorist as one whose role is that of helping to understand the innumerable ways that musical designs reflect our ever changing, ever deepening understanding of the world. A truly important theorist will sensitize us to the many new dimensions of sonic expression that we continually encounter in the work of our most original creators (past and present). Clearly, I do not view the role of a theorist to be that of one who merely formalizes what is known but rather that of one who opens us to the unknown.

Similarly, the really interesting composer is one who creates musical designs that attempt to corral his/her innumerable experiences of the world and—at least for a moment—make some sense of them. The analytical studies of works by such modern masters as Xenakis, Lucier, Feldman, Carter, and Scelsi that I have pursued over the course of my career have helped me discover my own unique concerns and expressive needs and ultimately make my own sense of the world through my composition.

Originally published on December 9, 1971

It’s not very often that a long complex piece of new music receives a standing ovation. What was it about Steve Reich‘s ‘Drumming‘ that brought the audience to its feet at the Museum of Modern Art on December 3? The simple fact that 13 musicians had performed intricate rhythms with amazing precision for an hour and half no doubt had a lot to do with it. Or perhaps it was because the simple white-note scales were refreshing to ears grown weary of dissonance. Or perhaps it was the joyous blend of marimbas, glockenspiels, drums, and voices that turned everyone on. Or was it the pleasure of seeing African and European elements so thoroughly fused—almost as if we really did live in one world. Or perhaps it was because the music had spoken directly to the senses, with the sound itself never sacrificed for the more intellectual rhythmic side of the piece.

For me, the most gratifying thing about ‘Drumming’ is that it achieves a human quality, which I sometimes find lacking in Reich’s work. Although there was a lot of amplification going on, the volume was never uncomfortable, and the effect was not as dependent on electronics as much as Reich’s music is. Like most of his work, the music moves ahead very gradually, one subtle little shift at a time, but the shifts are less predictable and more interesting than in his tape pieces, where machines are often in control.

Because Reich always limits his materials so severely, unity is never a problem, and there is enough difference between the four sections of the piece so that it is never quite boring either. The first section introduces the rhythmic ideas with a set of small tuned drums and male voices. The second combines marimbas and three female singers in a sound which, for me at least, was thoroughly intoxicating. The third section, which seems shorter, combines glockenspiels, whistling, and piccolos in a rather shrill sound, and the final section brings everything together in an unpretentious climax.

Having said all that, I have the feeling I should come down to earth and find something to pick at. After all, there must surely be flaws in ‘Drumming.’ But I’m still feeling very good about the piece as a whole, and I can’t get into the mood to look for them. If they were very serious, they would surely have occurred to me long before this.

David B. Doty

Like any composer working in just intonation, I find a certain amount of theory necessary. When choosing from among a potentially unlimited variety of pitches and intervals, some kind of roadmap is essential. Of course, the composer’s ear should be the ultimate judge of what pitches are correct in a given musical context, but one must have knowledge of the probable choices.

However, it is possible to have “too much of a good thing.” Tuning theory can become a fascination in its own right—divorced from the practice of music; it becomes a kind of recreational mathematics.

Originally published on December 14, 1972

Grauer Grauer Grauer Grauer Grauer Grauer Grauer Victor Grauer Grauer Grauer Grauer Victor Grauer Grauer softly reading softly reading softly reading reading reading reading reading reading softly reading reading reading reading reading reading reading softly reading reading reading reading reading reading reading reading reading reading for more than three hours hours Grauer’s hours hours hours hours hours hours hours reading softly hours Grauer’s hours hours hours hours.

And singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing singing the audience singing singing singing singing singing along long long along long along along along long long long long long singing along hum hum long hum long hum along hum hum hum hum hum drone hum drone drone a long drone hum drone hum a long hum drone hum a long drone a long drone hum drone hum a long hum drone hum hum humming hum hum hum hum hum hum hum humming drone humming drone humming drone humming droning hum droning hum droning hum hum hum humming hum.

Folding folding folding folding folding unfolding folding folding folding folding folding folding folding folding unfolding folding unfolding folding unfolding Grauer softly unfolding folding gathering gathering gathering gathering gathering gathering softly gathering gathering gathering Grauer softly gathering word sound word sound sound sound word sound word sound slowly gathering gathering gathering music sound music music word sound music music music sound sound sound sound word sound music sound sound sound sound sound sound in incantations incantations in incantations incantations incantations slowly gathering incantations incantations incantations in candlelight light light light light light light dark light light light light light light light light light light dark light light candlelight.

This is not a particularly good imitation of Grauer‘s style, but it conveys the rhythms and the atmosphere of his ‘Book of the Year 3000’ better than a prosaic description would. It does not, however, convey the reality of sitting still and listening to Grauer’s meditative poetry music for over three hours. It is not the kind of program that should be recommended to everyone. But for the patient listener who does not require a message or a dramatic line, the rewards can be great.

Tom Johnson

One of my favorite riddles is this:

What is the difference between theory and practice?

Theory is when you know everything about it but it won’t work. Practice is when it works but you don’t know why.

It seems to me that good composers are always concerned with both theory and practice. They not only compose, but they also think a lot about how they are composing and why. I sometimes even recommend to younger composers that they make a trip to the library once in a while. Study some idiom carefully before you try to write your parody of it. Study what other people have already done before you try to compose chance music or serial music or graphic scores. Try to avoid reinventing the wheel.

And as you approach 60, it can be an excellent idea to sit down and try to explain verbally the specific techniques you have used, partly to help others understand what your music is about and partly just to clear out your own jumbled memories and figure out where to go next. I spent almost a year writing a purely technical book called Self-Similar Melodies (1996), and I feel this has clarified and deepened everything that has come since.

Originally published on December 9, 1974

The procedure had been suggested silently by a poster hanging on one wall of the Experimental Intermedia loft. ‘Letting the metal swing back and forth,’ it said, ‘making it sound when it comes to you (just by touching).’

Now six or eight of us were sitting on the floor around a brass bell, which was suspended from the ceiling. With the help of an occasional push, the bell revolved continually in circular and elliptical patterns. The bell rang against mallets which we each held, and its music varied considerably, depending on which mallets it would hit, and how it would happen to hit them.

At first it was tempting to actually hit the bell when it came around to my side. But I soon realized that that would be missing the point. ‘Don’t be a klutz, Tom. Forget your own intentions. Follow the instructions. Let the bell determine whether it’s going to hit your mallet or not.’

Intellectually I understood, but physically it wasn’t working. When the bell did hit my mallet, it just klunked. When it didn’t, I grew impatient and moved closer into range. But then it would just klunk again. This seemingly simple problem was becoming a real challenge to my muscles, my patience, and my musical sensitivity. I could see that I had much to learn about bells and mallets and unintentional sounds. Perhaps I could learn from others.

Still holding my mallet out, I began to watch Philip Corner, who happened to be sitting near me. He had made the sign that hung on the wall, and he has been experimenting with unintentional sounds for a long time. I figured he must know a lot about this kind of music – how to play it, how to listen to it, and how to enjoy it.

One thing stood out immediately. Instead of holding his mallet rigidly, as I was, Corner kept a loose grip. That way the mallet bounced a bit when it hit, and he’d get a nice ring instead of a klunk. I loosened my grip and watched him more carefully. I began to notice something more subtle. Not only was he holding his mallet loosely, but sometimes, when the bell came to him, he would actually move his thumb in a tiny striking motion.

That seemed wrong at first. Corner wasn’t following his own instructions. He was hitting the bell instead of allowing the bell to hit the mallet. But no. He was really following the instructions. Those little flicks in his thumb were not controlling the bell at all. The bell was still calling the shots. The way he did it, the little thumb-flicks were simply sensitive responses to the bell.

I tried again, but I overdid it. I could tell by the way the bell sounded when I hit it – just a little too loud, a little too distinct. It sounded as if I was hitting the bell on purpose instead of simply responding to the movements of the bell itself.

Gradually I began to be able to really go with the bell. I stopped getting both the dull klunks and the intentional rings. When the bell came around to my mallet, it responded more easily, more naturally, and I felt better attuned to Corner and some of the others. But the bell was losing momentum and I could no longer reach it. I started to move in a little closer, anxious to continue. ‘No, wait a minute.’ I caught myself. ‘You’re being a klutz again. If you move in you’re forcing your own will on the bell. If the bell is ready to die down, let it die down. Let there be silence.’

But now a newcomer joined the group. In all there must have been 20 to 25 people present that evening. Every once in a while someone would join or leave our particular group, and I hadn’t been paying much attention to these personnel shifts, but this time the change was obvious. The newcomer, a young woman, had been occupied somewhere else, and was not sensitive to the kind of music we had been making around the suspended bell. She plowed right in, knocking out some stupid rhythm, and it irritated me. ‘What a klutz. We had this nice thing going, and now she comes over and ruins it all. No. Wait a minute. Relax, Tom. It’s not just you and the bell. Other people have a right to their experiences too. You haven’t been exactly the most sensitive one around yourself, you know.’ I had begun to be patient and tolerant with the bell, but I had to try to be patient and tolerant with other people too. I held my mallet patiently, trying to continue as before, trying to keep my emotions in check. Soon the newcomer went away, and everything was as before. She hadn’t hurt a thing. Why had I been upset?

The bell was dying down again, and this time no one ventured to give it a push. We continued holding our mallets up. Perhaps someone would give it a push. No one did. I put my mallet down, figuring that this would be the end of the bell music. Others, however, still held their mallets up, unwilling to break the mood so suddenly. They were more sensitive than I had been. I felt like a klutz again. But I perceived another level. ‘That’s your problem. You keep comparing yourself to others. More sensitive than this person, less so than that person. That’s why you’re such a klutz. You’re all caught up in competing.’

I could see that I had a lot to learn if I ever wanted to be able to play this kind of music well. It’s a whole philosophy really. ‘Sounds out of Silent Spaces,’ the flier had said. ‘Meditations with Music.’ The phrases are apt, but they don’t explain how hard it is to do.