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Photo by Sharon Guskin

I can only speak for myself of course, but I find writing for each medium a distinct process with concerns of its own. Here are a few of my thoughts on the subject.

The single most profound difference in the composing process (leaving aside the differences in producing the music in the studio as opposed to preparing it for live performance) is that in film underscoring, for the most part, many critical musical parameters are rigidly predetermined by the visual and dramatic aspects of the particular scene you are writing for. The picture (and the director) tell you when the music stops and starts, to the fraction of a second, as well as its overall shape. This is often very specific—the music must start out very subtly but then 10.5 seconds in it must immediately shift to something with a lot of forward motion, but not too frantic, and be sure the music acknowledges the exact moment when you see the character through the door etc., etc. In concert writing one must also determine how long a piece or section is and where formal changes occur, but that would be left to the composer.

Certain textural considerations are somewhat predetermined as well. You have to be quite careful about being too busy; it is rare that there is much counterpoint, and melody must also be used with care. Often the dialog of the scene is the melody and underscore is accompaniment, or at the least the composer must take into account the placement of the dialog and “leave holes” for it by weaving the melody, harmony, and rhythm around it.

I also find that every small musical emphasis—be it a rhythmic accent, a harmonic change, or melodic leap—accrues a large meaning when played against the picture. One often has to work within a very constricted range of gestures because any time the music draws attention to itself it also draws attention to and highlights what is happening on screen at that moment. This of course is used to great advantage but also must be monitored extremely closely. Rarely can a gesture be made for purely musical reasons, the constant challenge is to find something musical that works dramatically.

A difference so obvious it seems scarcely necessary to state it is that most underscore cues are very short; few are even four minutes long, very few over six. Much concert music is of course longer.

Having said all that, in a given measure of music I’m not sure there is anything that one could write as concert music that couldn’t be written as film music or vice versa. Context is all.

Dean Suzuki Photo by Ryan Suzuki

A while back I wrote a column emphasizing the importance of musicians and especially composers being aware of artists in other fields and even being a part of a larger integrated arts community. Knowledge is one thing, and a very good thing it is, but some composers and likely more composers should take the next step and collaborate with their colleagues. And by collaborating, I mean much more than simply accepting a commission for a dance score, installation, or film sound track and writing music according to the demands of the choreographer, artist, or director. Of course not all choreographers, artists or filmmakers will want input from the composer. On the other hand, there are plenty of examples of composers working hand in hand with other artists and the final piece is the result of discussions, brain storming sessions, consultation, and other forms of give and take.

The results, if truly collaborative, will be a work which none of the parties would have created of their own accord. The composer’s contribution will undoubtedly bear imprint of the collaborative effort, taking the composer into an area he or she might not have entered were it not for working with the other artists.

Erik Satie was part of a rich and dynamic cultural milieu that had tremendous breadth and depth, including composers, painters, choreographers, photographers, writers, and other artists, among them neo-Classicists, Dadaists, Cubists, Impressionists, post-Impressionists, and others. Satie collaborated with artists on several works, but none more important than Relâche described as a Dada spectacle. The scenario was created by Dadaist Francis Picabia and the choreography was by Jean Börlin. Within Relâche is a most important collaborative piece: Entr’acte cinématographique, also known as Cinéma, a film by René Clair. With a score by Satie (it was not intended to synch up with the action on screen), the absurdist film includes Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Satie, and Börlin. Satie also worked with Picasso, along with Jean Cocteau in the ballet Parade. With these collaborations in mind, it is difficult to imagine Satie’s work without the influence of Dada and Cubism, though one would hardly describe Sate as either a Dadaist or Cubist composer.

Of course, John Cage organized the ground-breaking inter-media event at Black Mountain College in 1952 which included Merce Cunningham, Robert Rauschenberg, M. C. Richards, Charles Olson, and David Tudor, the forerunner of the “Happenings,” Fluxconcerts, and Performance Art. It was not until 1958 that Allan Kaprow mounted the first so-called Happening. Shortly thereafter, artists such as Claes Oldenburg, Jim Dine, and others engaged in the staging of Happenings. Cage had a direct hand in the birthing of Fluxus and Performance Art is clearly in the lineage and under the inspiration of Cage’s event at Black Mountain.

Perhaps the contemporary composer who has done the most collaborative work is Philip Glass. His partners have included both commercial and experimental filmmakers, theater artists, sculptors, librettists, poets, even other musicians and composers. His best known collaborative works are probably the ground-breaking opera Einstein on the Beach and the films of the Qatsi trilogy, but especially the first, Koyaanisqatsi, which presented the composer to his largest audience up to that time.

The Qatsi trilogy offered an opportunity for true collaboration in which the various parties involved in the creation of the work were near equal partners. Director Reggio consulted extensively with Glass regarding the shape of the films and their content. Indeed, Glass is credited as “dramaturgical consultant” in the last two films of the trilogy in addition to his credit as composer. In an effort to create a unified vision for the film, it was decided that some of the music would be composed prior to the filming. Additionally, Glass often traveled to the locations where Powwaqatsi was shot, often with Reggio, in order that he might develop a sense of the culture and place. Thus, for the opening sequence of Powwaqqatsi, Glass wrote the music first and the cinematographer listened to the music on a personal stereo as he shot the film. This unusual situation profoundly affected the way that Glass composed for the films and the type of music he came up with. Rather than adapting music to the film, the music helped steer the film. This is a far cry from the traditional role of the film score composer who submits to the demands, needs, and even whims of the director.

The scenario for Einstein on the Beach was decided upon during sessions between the two primary creators: Glass and Robert Wilson. The main character emerged after a series of suggestions offered up by each artist. Early in the process, Wilson suggested Adolf Hitler and Glass countered with Mahatma Gandhi. Each rejected the o
ther’s suggestion. Later, Wilson offered up Charlie Chaplin, then Albert Einstein who was agreed upon as the main character. Later, the two artists eventually agreed upon the various acts and scenes. Glass wanted to include a science fiction component, hence the “Spaceship” scenes. While some aspects of the scenario were created by Wilson alone, it is very clear that Einstein is the product of a joint vision.

The point is not so much that Glass made contributions beyond his role as a composer, rather his non-musical contributions informed what it was that he did as a composer.

Paul Dresher established his career through collaborative works with experimental theater artist George Coates whose non-narrative, non-linear works were the results of teamwork and collaboration. Dresher was not only the composer, but also drafted as an on-stage performer and actor.

Dresher eventually struck out on his own and established himself as a composer of music theater pieces. Not only did his collaborations with Coates open his eyes to the possibilities of the theater, especially experimental, non-linear theater, Dresher continued to work with others to help realize his vision. After leaving Coates, he continued to work with theater artists, including many works with vocalist/writer Rinde Eckert who also worked in Coates’ theater company. Dresher is honest enough to admit that his area of strength is as a composer and not a playwright or theater artist, and has actively sought out collaborators to help realize his vision. His operas Slow Fire, Power Failure, and Awed Behavior all feature librettos by Eckert. Dresher and Eckert worked closely in the development of these operas. Once a topic, subject, or governing idea is established, Dresher continues to participate in the creative process, offering feedback, suggestions and ideas that help form and complete the text. The team of Dresher and Eckert was expanded to include Terry Allen and Jo Harvey Allen in Pioneer. Eckert and the Allens wrote the libretto, Terry Allen created the set design and Jo Harvey Allen performed the lead female role, all in close consultation with the composer. Dresher’s Sound Stage, discussed in a recent column, not only features text by Eckert, but instruments designed by Dresher and instrument builder Daniel Schmidt who has also built instruments for John Cage and John Adams. Additionally, Dresher has worked closely with the Margaret Jenkins Dance Company for many years creating numerous scores for them. None of these works could have been realized without Dresher’s collaborators, yet all are representative of Dresher’s artistic aesthetic, even apart from the music.

Very recently, San Francisco based composer Victoria Jordanova collaborated with Relja Penezic, a visual and video artist, who also happens to be Jordanova’s husband, on Panopticon. The work, based on Jeremy Bentham‘s pioneering work on surveillance techniques, explores the concept, philosophy, and reality of surveillance and Big Brother through music, video, and live interactive video, including video “surveillance” of the audience and the performers. The piece garnered a positive review in the Los Angeles Times which states: “[Panopticon] deliriously blended music by Jordanova (also playing harp and harmonica) with mosaic like video by Rey Penezic . . . [The] video’s sardonic charm, satirically spinning off the post-Orwellian better living through surveillance theme . . . Jordanova’s score kept our interest, with its rueful, aloof rewiring of folk influences.” It is not likely that Jordanova would have realized the work with all of the video technology that the piece requires were it not for Penezic’s skills and artistic vision.

For those not plugged into a larger art scene, another option is to collaborate with other composers. While this may not appeal to many composers, it is not without precedent. John Cage, Lou Harrison, Henry Cowell, and Virgil Thompson played a kind of musical game that resulted in compositions known as the Party Pieces written between 1944 and 1945. In various combinations, the composers would each write one measure of music plus two notes. The manuscript paper was folded such that only the last two notes were revealed and the next composer would use them as a springboard for the next bar and two notes. Better known is Double Music for which Cage and Harrison each wrote two parts for the four performers. After agreeing upon fundamental compositional procedures and the lengths of the various sections, the two composers worked independent of one another. The composers regarded the results as successful. The four parts were layered together and not a note was changed. Harrison states: “By that time I knew perfectly well what John would be doing, or what his worm was likely to be. So I accommodated him. And I think he did the same to me, too, because it came out very well.” [Leta E. Miller and Fredric Lieberman, Lou Harrison: Composing a World [New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 19.]

Philip Glass worked jointly with composer John Moran on the opera, The Juniper Tree along with librettist Arthur Yorinks. The work was created with all three working together in Nova Scotia. Unlike the Cage and Harrison collaborations, Glass and Moran each composed complete scenes independently, though they discussed their music with each other as they composed. Ultimately, Moran used a theme composed by Glass for one of the scenes as the basis for a set of variations to be used in another scene. Other musical collaborators who have worked with Glass include Ravi Shankar, Foday Musa Suso, and Aphex Twin, among others.

Harold Budd embarked on a path leading to numerous collaborations when he began working with Brian Eno. Initially, Eno offered to produce an album. Later, the two collaborated on a recording, The Plateaux of Mirror. While Budd composed all of the keyboard works, he regards the final product as a true and complete collaboration. After composing the music, Budd entered the studio and played. Tapes were then sent to Eno who then applied “studio treatments” which often dramatically transformed the texture and tenor of the work, creating textures, timbres, and atmospheres that were simpatico, yet for Budd, unexpected and eye opening. The results were quite unlike what either Eno or Budd would have arrived at alone. As a result of this collaboration, as well as a second on the album The Pearl, Budd has continued to explore the use of the studio as a compositional tool.

Subsequent collaborators with Budd include Daniel Lentz, Ruben Garcia, and numerous rock and pop musicians including the Cocteau Twins, Bill Nelson (ex-Be Bop Deluxe and Red Noise), Andy Partridge (XTC), Daniel Lanois, and Hector Zazou, among others. While Budd concedes that his musical collaborators must adapt more to his musical language than he to theirs, he also recognizes and takes great satisfaction in the knowledge that these collaborations lead to a music that he would never have created on his own.

Of course there are many other examples of composers collaborating with other artists and composers. That being said, it is a path that many more composers might want to consider following. As has been the case with the composers discussed herein, many may discover that new possibilities, doors, and vistas will open up to them that they would not have encountered or considered were it not for the collaborative work.

Collaborations, whether with artists working in different disciplines or with other composers, may not be suitable, practical, or practicable for many composers. Collaborating with other composers can be especially problematic, as the arts are so very personal and so much ego investment is required that it may be too much to ask that the composers set aside their egos in service of the creation of new work. For others, however, collaboration may prove to be stimulating—eye and door opening, leading to exciting new ideas and possibilities.

Daniel Asia Photo by Steven Meckier

As a young composer just in graduate school, I submitted a piece, Dream Sequence I, for solo amplified trombone, for recording on Max Schubel’s enterprising Opus I. I was very happy when the piece was accepted, but when I discovered that I had to pay to have the piece recorded and produced, I was somewhat mystified and perplexed. It hadn’t occurred to me that this is, in fact, how most of the recording business works. Much to my present chagrin, I passed on the opportunity that Max presented to me. Later, while teaching at the Oberlin Conservatory, I had the good fortune of sharing in a concert with Anthony Braxton. After hearing my work, Rivalries, for chamber orchestra, he asked me if it was recorded. I said no, and he replied that he thought I should really be “documenting” this and other pieces on disc. It was at this point that I began to think about, and perhaps even begin to understand, the importance of the recorded media. Not that it necessarily produces or captures a perfect performance (since there isn’t any such thing anyway, of course), but that it documents a piece in another way from a score, and that it provides access, and repeated access, to any one who is interested, and who may never have the opportunity to hear a live performance.

Since that time, I have had the good fortune of seeing eight discs devoted to my music make it out into the world, on the Summit, New World, Albany, and Koch International Classics labels. All my symphonies are recorded, as is other orchestral music, including my Piano Concerto (with Andre-Michel Schub, its dedicatee). Most recently, Summit has released two DVDs of music, in surround sound. These include the song cycle disc, Breath in a Ram’s Horn, featuring the singers Robert Swensen and Faye Robinson, and pianist Tannis Gibson, and the electro-acoustic cycle Sacred and Profane, a 45′ cycle co-written with Kip Haaheim. This recorded body of work provides a pretty good view of the development of my music over the last thirty years or so. This seems to me a good and beneficial result of the recorded media.

There is, however, a potential danger here. This is the problem of feeling like a piece is not quite real until it is recorded. It would seem to me that live performance is still the more important, and preferred, form of communicating the essence of the musical experience, at least for acoustic music. However, given the ephemeral and episodic (at best) nature of live performances, recording seems to me another means of communicating with a segment of the listening public. And as Anthony said, it is also certainly a way to “document” a piece’s existence, and, if the composer is involved in the recording process, to create an insipient performance guide and tradition for future performances.

The issue of spatial presentation in music is, of course, not a new one. As an ardent young trombonist in my youth, I discovered this musical idea in the multi-choir music of Giovanni Gabrieli and his other collaborators in the San Marco School of Venice. I remember feeling the glee of realizing the possibility of actually being ‘surrounded’ by glorious music on all sides.

In my own compositions for acoustic instruments, I have rarely realized this spatial notion. The sole exception is the work Rivalries, for chamber orchestra, which has two separate trios located on either side of the orchestra. This allows for essentially disparate musics engaging each other from separate locations, which perhaps helps to highlight their individual qualities.

It would seem to me, however, that the most effective utilization of space has occurred in the electronic medium. Of early works in the medium, one need only think of Déserts by VarËse, Gesang der J¸nglinge by Stockhausen, The Wild Bull of Subotnick, or my Miles Mix. Quadraphonic developments of the 70’s were great for composers of electronic music, in as much as an established format was created to allow the music to move in three dimensions rather than just in two. The difficulty was, of course, one of control. One simply didn’t have as much as one would have liked.

In my most recent releases on DVD, which include the electro-acoustic cycle Sacred and Profane, and the song cycle disc, Breath In A Ram’s Horn, I have been able to return to the question of space with the flexibility and control that I always desired, and that the digital domain can provide.

In Breath, the surround sound medium simply creates a sense of a superb, and normal, concert hall. In other words, one hears as if one is in a great concert hall, with the sense of space and resonance that this implies. This is no small accomplishment.

For Sacred and Profane, I spent vast amounts of time realizing spatial locations, as well as speed and directionality of movement, with Kip Haaheim. We initially produced a stereo mix. When we went back to do the surround sound mix, we worked a bit more quickly, and perhaps even more intuitively, as we realized that we could rely on our previous decisions to work exceedingly well when expanded into the newly enlarged space. The result, in this latter version in particular, is a degree of sensuous spatial movement and presence that I would like to think rivals that of hearing all those brass in the San Marco Cathedral. Only now, each player can move and fly throughout the space with exceptional speed and without hitting each other.

Terri Lyne Carrington Photo by Thomas Dorn

The first thing I do is try not to compare between live and recorded performances. I try to look at them like apples and oranges, enjoying both, though they are two totally different flavors. I look at recordings as something that is archived forever, which lends itself to a bit of a safer environment because the presentation is so important that it must stand the test of time. Live performances, to me, are more of an energy exchange, unique to that moment, never to be captured again, especially in the creative style of jazz. That is what makes jazz so special. The very point of it is for every performance to be incredibly different. Jazz at its best in the live arena is not safe at all. What gives me the greatest charge is to take risks as much as possible, without sacrificing the musical presentation. This is challenging because with this kind of risk taking, it just does not work out the way you want every time, so there is the element of forgiveness that happens naturally from both the player and the listener when one is stretching outside of the safety zone. The most amazing feeling in the world is when it all comes together and every player is on the same page. That’s what makes it magical.

On the other hand, when I am recording or producing, I tend to find the balance between taking risks and holding back. The element of control is very important in the studio. It is paramount for making a classic recording, but not so controlled that it sounds sterile. It is this kind of harnessed energy that pulls the listener in and keeps them attentive. I look at producing records like being a film director. The end result is based on artistic vision and the ability to pull greatness out of all involved, in order to make the strong artistic contribution possible.

The positioning of each musician in a live setting is very important. In jazz, communication is a must and eye contact is essential. The only way to successfully have this is to set up very close. I have to sometimes angle the drums in order to see everyone. When playing with Herbie Hancock, I have to really stay on my toes and watch him at all times. I sometimes have to even watch his foot tapping to know where he is. I like to be close to the bass, but not behind the amp. It is better to get as much of the sound coming from him and his amp settings, rather than coming out of a monitor. In the studio, the luxury of this much contact is not always the case due to isolation booths. Sometimes we are even in different rooms. This is when your ear must do all the work. It is essential to have a well-developed ear and to use your eyes so the presentation is as strong as possible.

Cindy Cox

Recording technology opens up large new realms to explore, but it also presents us with some dilemmas: how does one replicate a living, breathing performance in the medium of a recording? I began my musical life as a performer (a very serious pianist), and it is in the visceral world of physically playing music on a stage for a live audience that my musical ears and abilities were shaped. When my compositions are transcribed to recordings, I definitely do not have the same type of experience.

But surprisingly I find I usually like recordings better: in my own music I can achieve a more careful balance of the overall texture, which is often difficult given my typical layered and complex polyphonic approach to composition. I can record sections of the music many times and use the best “take” which can be important when the music is challenging to play, as mine usually is (according to the performers!). Many composers profess disappointment with the experience of a studio recording, as they feel it lacks the spontaneity and musicality of a live performance. But surprisingly I have not found that to be the case, at least not very often, when comparing my live recordings to the studio ones.

There is also an immediacy to modern digital recordings if well engineered, I feel like I am “inside” the sound, and there isn’t that sense of distance that separates the audience from the players onstage. And I can play it loud! In a live performance one has all of the excitement of an event which is happening now and won’t happen again in the same way, but somehow I often feel disappointed by the experience and miss the control I have with the fast-forward or review buttons on the CD or tape player. In the same way I gravitate to the act of composing, I also appreciate that in the privacy of my study I can go backwards and forwards in a recording and study and relish the special moments again and again at my pleasure.

Leonardo Balada

The idea and exploration of space in my music has changed in importance over time, as I explored different media. In the sixties I composed a number of works in which I tried to use the closeness or far distance of some instruments on the stage to my advantage. The results were disappointing. I concluded that this had been an effort on my part to compensate for the weakness of the actual musical ideas.

Curiously in future works, especially in operatic works, spatial concepts became very useful, thanks to the failures of my previous attempts in concert pieces. Since in many of my works I have been the creator of the story, and writer of the libretto as well as the music, I was able to conceive situations in which the position and relationship of the singers on the stage became an important tool. Of course, those spatial elements became lost once the work was recorded. The thrill of the recent recording of my opera Hangman, Hangman! turned into a frustrating experience in some instances. A couple of moments were. In one moment the Mother enters the stage in a very comical cartoon-like manner, but the music in the recording can’t make up for the void in the action. In another scene the Sheriff, Hangman and Johnny sing staccato notes that are supposed to bounce from one character to the other at a distance, as if they are passing each other a ball. All that made less sense in the recording.

Elliott Schwartz

Whether we’re moving Shakespeare from English to French, the Mona Lisa from a wall in the Louvre to the pages of an art history book, or a Tchaikovsky symphony from concert hall to a compact disc, “translations” can be a tricky business. Even at their most successful, they don’t pretend to offer more than reasonable approximations of the originals. And when they’re not successful, they can fail spectacularly—by misrepresenting, extending or even contradicting their sources.  Given this rather iffy context, I’d say that one can (more or less) “translate” certain kinds of spatial music to the medium of recording. Two loudspeakers, separated as widely as possible, can handle the antiphonal effects of a Gabrieli canzona (right-left), or create the illusion of three locations (right-center-left). More complicated arrangements can be suggested by way of artful microphone placement, fooling the ear into equating volume level with physical distance. I recall an old LP record which included one of Henry Brant‘s “Millennium” series for brass ensemble, with Henry speaking about the piece at the start of the recording. His voice and his words set the stage perfectly, describing walls of brass players lined up on opposing sides of the concert hall; my imagination was sufficiently fired up that when the music began I could visualize the entire event, even on a stereo LP. (And by “visualizing” it, I convinced myself that I could “hear” it.)

A verbal description, then, can trigger a useful sort of illusion which (for some listeners, anyway) might be translated into a spatially separated quality. Ironically, this verbal program note may be more useful if it describes visual arrangements–the physical, architectural context–rather than sounds!  When a listener already knows the context in advance–an opera-goer familar with the last act of Mozart‘s Don Giovanni (one orchestra in the pit, another on the stage), for example, or the electronic-music-buff familiar with the multi-speaker setup of the Varèse Poème Électronique (in its original Brussels performance)–the spatial separation can be imagined, often quite vividly.

With the exception of the Brant, these examples are basically two-dimensional, in that the spatial activity is in front of the listener. To record anything more elaborate, such as Henry’s Orbits for 80 trombones or the great Thomas Tallis 40-part motet Spem in Alium, both circular in-the-round, one would need four-channel quad capabilities (which, ironically, existed in tape-decks and playback systems of the 1960s and ’70s, but never found a mass market and eventually disappeared). An easily assembled latter-day variant of that quad technology would be two CD systems (left-right-front-back) with their disks playing simultaneously. They could be perfectly synchronized (if control were an issue), or randomly “performed” by two individuals (if spontaneity counted for higher priority than rigor). In the future, perhaps a brand-new body of music will be composed specifically for such a format. And as a simple test of the system (!) I would love to see a major recording company issue a version of Charles Ives‘ The Unanswered Question for which the three spatially separated forces were recorded on different disks. Then listeners could actually perform the piece in their own living rooms or wherever. Fantasy, I know. (Dream on….)

Mention of the phrase “living room” raises another concern, and that is the issue of space itself. Most great spatial works of the past were designed for very large performance areas–vast, resonant, often awe-inspiring–and for specific architectural features such as balconies, alcoves, plazas, domes. The grandeur of such music isn’t all that suitable for the “space” of our living room (or the space between our ears, if we happen to listen via headphones).

I’ve composed a number of works that used spatial separation of players, including a few which depend upon separation for their very existence. These include my Chamber Concerto I (where members of the chamber ensemble leave their seats and join the percussion section), Magic Music (a mock piano concerto where various musicians from the orchestra gather at the piano & eventually force the soloist off the bench), Scatter for large wind ensemble (in which the performers move all around the hall), and Elevator Music (players on different landings, audience traveling up and down). I would NEVER think of having these pieces recorded! They were designed almost as an antidote — a radical alternative –to the permanence and fixed quality of the recording medium. A great many other composers have explored spatial (and multi-media) possibilities for the same reasons. To record such pieces would be to distort their intent. On the other hand, such pieces do get recorded. When listeners put on such recordings, they should realize that they are not hearing “the piece” but a particular realization in performance. Perhaps we should remember that when we hear recordings of Brahms as well!

Why bother “translating” one brand of space into another (totally antithetical) kind? For the same reason, I suppose, that people buy art picture books with reproductions of the Mona Lisa. They fill a need; we recognize that they’re approximations, and we learn to live with the compromises they entail.

It also needs to be said that, although many translations “fail,” they often lead to unforeseen developments. In fact, they may become new originals. Think of the 17th century Florentine Camerata trying to recapture ancient Greek drama (and instead inventing opera), the earliest violins and flutes imitating voices, early tape-music technique based on film editing, the first computer-generated sound programs modeling themselves after Moog and Buchla synthesizers; the history of music is filled with wonderful “translations.” Where would we be without them? Here’s to their continuation!

The 20th Century gave us a deeper understanding of the relativity of perception in matters scientific as well as cultural. We saw further into outer space as well as further into psychological inner space and the realms of cognition. And as our perception has been expanded, so has our sense of the unknown. Those composers who have made music which explores space and perception have pointed us toward realms of extraordinary possibility.

It’s a wonderful reminder that the parameters of music should never be taken for granted. Music has been largely a linear art, but many composers in the past few decades have given us variations on work which functions as timespace, where sequence becomes elastic. Indeed, the relationship between time and space, and the concept of the two things as something more integrated, is a central mystery of contemporary explorations of cosmology.

The late scientist and philosopher R. Buckminster Fuller developed a theory of an “omnidirectional halo” of non-linear wave and event energy. John Cage was among those composers influenced by Fuller’s thinking, and for me, it is Cage’s late work which begins to scratch the surface of the possibilities implied by Fuller. In Ocean, a work Cage conceived but did not finish (musical realization was completed by Andrew Culver), the music is spatial on both the antiphonal and temporal fronts: a 112-player orchestra surrounds the audience (which surrounds the dance), and all musicians proceed independently through overlapping and layered timespaces.

In any case, expanding the spatial dimension of music as Henry Brant has done, is a powerful step towards expanding our perception of music. The possibilities inherent in new technologies, and in the spirit and imagination which might arise from transformed conceptions, are rich indeed. I suspect that in the future, one aspect of space composers will explore more deeply is the space within sounds, and the realm of fractal structure. But what do you think is next? Where do you think music is going?