Category: Articles

View From the West: Experimental Instruments and Sound Sculpture


Dean Suzuki
Photo by Ryan Suzuki

Newly invented instruments offer a world of possibilities to composers. There may be a limited number of possibilities in terms of sound production (percussion, vibrating strings, or columns of air, and the like), but the potential forms and sonorous possibilities are virtually limitless. More than a handful of composers, sculptors, instrument builders, and inventors have concocted a plethora of new instruments demonstrating imagination and vision as well as resourcefulness.

The Italian Futurist Luigi Russolo (an important forerunner not only to Partch, but important for Varèse and Cage, among others) wrote a manifesto called “The Art of Noises” (1913) in which he encouraged the use of noises, derived from or inspired by industrial sounds, as components of an aural art or music. He even went so far as to create, with his brother Antonio, so-called “intonarumori” or noise instruments. Similarly, the Russian Constructivists suggested the sounds of the industrial world in compositions such as Alexandr Mosolov‘s Music of Machines (1923) also known as Iron Foundry, which uses a thin sheet of metal that is shaken as one of the instruments.

Henry Cowell, around the same time, claimed to have discovered 160 ways to make sound with the piano, in addition to the traditional, orthodox manner. In his book New Musical Resources (1930), he also suggested, among other things, the use of player pianos, a suggestion later taken up so successfully by Conlon Nancarrow. Cowell’s string piano (i.e. playing directly on the strings), while not a newly invented instrument, looks into new timbral resources which eventually led to Cage’s prepared piano and a host of performers using extended techniques, from Steve MacLean’s “Piano Drop,” in which a piano is dropped from a height of about 100 feet, to the bowed piano, best known through the works of Stephen Scott.

Of course, the central figure in the arena of newly invented instruments is Harry Partch. He opened up new musical vistas with his magnificent instruments that have inspired generations of followers. His instruments are not only functional, created to play in his 43-tone just intonation scale, but they are also stunningly gorgeous sculptures. Indeed, Partch always intended that his instruments not only serve his musical needs, but be aesthetically pleasing, if not compelling, to the eye as well.

Since Partch’s forays into the field of invented instruments, legions of others have followed suit. Some are composers/musicians seeking new musical possibilities. Others are artists, sculptors, and inventors who come to music by way of their instruments. Some make instruments that are a feast for the eyes as well as the ears, while others focus on the sound rather than the appearance. In other instances, a simple, even crude looking instrument is part of the aesthetic and the visual appeal.

The (relatively early) pioneers in instrument building are a diverse, if not motley lot. Among these are sculptors whose creations have a sonic component, including the French brothers, FranÁois and Bernard Baschet, who have created numerous sound sculptures and have worked with composers and performers, including Jacques Lasry, as well as his son Teddy Lasry, Stomu Yamashta, and more recently Michel Deneuve, to write compositions for and perform on their instruments. [Some of their CDs appear on the FMR Records label, which also has recordings by other instrument builders including Hugh Davies and Steve Hubback.]

Harry Bertoia typically created sound sculptures characterized by a plinth supporting a series of long, thin vertical metal rods which can be brushed and stroked, causing the rods to strike one another. Composer Daniel Goode created The Bertoia in the Yamasaki Building—Princeton for one of Bertoia’s sculptures.

Among a younger generation, Seattle-based sound sculptor Ela Lamblin creates works that range from small hand-held instruments to larger fantastic contraptions, some of them trapeze-like or rocking chair-like sound sculptures which are both played and ridden. He has collaborated with UMO, an experimental theater group, as well as choreographers and dancers.

One of the best-known contemporary sculptors to emerge in recent year is the German, Trimpin, also living in Seattle. Combining musical training, a background in engineering, electronics, computers, and acoustics, he has collaborated with Conlon Nancarrow including an arrangement of one of the Studies for Player Piano to be played by a Macintosh-controlled array of mallets striking 100 Dutch wooden shoes. A major installation resides at the Experience Music Project, the rock’n’roll museum in Seattle, where Roots and Branches, a massive multi-story guitar tree comprised of hundreds of guitars, as well as other instruments, some of them MIDI-controlled (the instruments are even tuned by computers), plays various styles of American vernacular music. Other works include a computer-controlled water drip system that “plays” complex and intricate rhythms and pitch combinations as drops of water splash on hand-blown glass vessels. Trimpin has even worked with flames in his dramatic FireOrgan.

Though it is an area beyond the scope of this column, at least for now, some artists use sound as a medium to sculpt, define, and describe space, as in the work of Bill Fontana, Michael Brewster, Max Neuhaus, Alvin Lucier, and even La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela (their Light Box).

Leon Theremin, a pioneer in electronic instruments, created his namesake instrument, one, which more than any other until keyboard synthesizers were invented, helped advance the public awareness of electronic music. From the film score to Forbidden Planet by Louis and Bebe Barron to its central role in Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys‘ “Good Vibrations,” the theremin became a kind of sonic icon of the space age. Raymond Scott, probably best known for music adapted and arranged for Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies by Carl Stalling, was also a pioneer in electronic music in the 1940s. He eventually designed and built an early keyboard synthesizer patented in 1956, more than a decade before the appearance of Robert Moog‘s keyboard synthesizers hit the market.

In addition to being the iconoclastic street musician/composer, Moondog played a few invented instruments, including the fancifully titled Oo, Trimba, Yukh, and Tuji. And jazz musician Rahsaan Roland Kirk‘s simultaneous usage of two refitted wind instrument hybrids which he called the stritch and manzello was tantamount to performing on a newly-invented instrument. Perhaps not central to their work, the invented instruments were emblematic of their eccentricities.

Lou Harrison, with the help of his partner, instrument builder Bill Colvig, devoted a considerable portion of his career to works for his so-called American gamelan, newly invented instruments modeled on the Indonesian forerunner.

Some instrument builders focus on specific media and types of instruments. The Glass Orchestra from Canada and also Annea Lockwood created a series of pieces for a variety of instruments made from exclusively of glass. Daniel Lentz has, for many years, incorporated rubbed wine goblets made of fine leaded crystal and filled with wine which is consumed during the performance to alter the tuning and the brain chemistry of the performers.

Those who have taken to instruments with very long string lengths include conceptual artist Terry Fox (one piece had 2 300-foot lengths of piano wire using a church door and a wooden covering of a crypt as resonators, and the entire cathedral as resonating chamber), audio artist Paul Panhuysen, and composers Ellen Fullman and most recently Paul Dresher. These instruments may be plucked, as with Fox, with unexpected and amazing results. Fullman discovered that longitudinally “bowed” long strings (using rosined hands or gloves and rubbing them along the string length) create intense, loud, and rich buzzing tones.

Susan Rawcliffe has concentrated on instruments in the flute family and especially ocarinas and, more recently, Judy Dunaway has written compositions for balloons, which serve as wind instruments (e.g. double “reed” instruments using the open end of the balloon as a double reed), percussion, and more.

For some reason, invented instruments have been associated with a number of free improvisersóincluding artists and groups such as AMM, Hugh Davies, Fred Frith, and Hans Reichelówho use extended technique which verge on instrument de-construction and re-construction. In the case of Reichel, he eventually re-built his guitars, in essence creating new instruments based on the guitar model with multiple pick-ups in unorthodox positions, two necks heading in opposite directions, and the like. Later, he invented the Daxophone, small but lovely carved strips of wood which are bowed and manipulated by a “Dachs” yielding a nearly vocal, but idiosyncratic and bizarre sound. Avant-garde ensembles incorporating new instruments include the Gravity Adjusters Expansion Band, Nihilist Spasm Band, and ZGA, among a host of others.

Invented instruments have even invaded popular culture from time to time. The fourth release on Brian Eno‘s groundbreaking record label, Obscure Records, a series of a mere ten records which was an important gateway to experimental music for a sizeable adventuresome crossover rock audience from the mid- to
late 1970s, was New and Rediscovered Musical Instruments by Max Eastley and David Toop. Yoko Ono‘s 1971 album Fly prominently featured the automatic instruments of Fluxus artist Joe Jones

in which very small electrical motors connected to small pieces of rubber, used as beaters, were used to very delicately play a drum or the strings of a harpsichord or zither. A more traditional jazz style is found in the music of Uakti which incorporates popular Brazilian jazz styles and elements of minimalism with their invented PVC tuned percussion instruments. Uakti has not only released their own recordings, but has been featured on recordings by Paul Simon, the Manhattan Transfer, Milton Nascimento, and Stewart Copeland.

A number of rock bands and artists, both obscure and well known, have incorporated newly made instruments in their music, including French progressive rock chanteuse Catherine Ribeiro in her group Alpes, with cohort and instrument builder, Patrice Moullet (Moullet continues to build instruments, though his rockin’ days are long over), Wurtemburg and Magma‘s Yochk’o Seffer. While they did not invent the instrument, Lothar and the Hand People made the theremin a central part of their brand of rock music. Indeed, Lothar was not the group leader, rather the moniker given to the band’s theremin. Today, there are innumerable groups using (and often building their own) theremins. Tom Waits has not only made and used invented instrument in his recordings, he has become a champion of the genre, writing the Introduction to Gravikords, Whirlies & Pyrophones: Experimental Musical Instruments, the book and CD anthology edited by Bart Hopkin.

Some composers have collaborated with instrument builders. One of the largest such collaborations is to be found in Beth Custer‘s Vinculum Symphony, a composition in which the composer solicited the involvement of a number of instrument builders/performers including Krys Bobrowski, Darrell DeVore, Oliver DiCicco, Bart Hopkin, Brenda Hutchinson, Chico MacMurtie, Tom Nunn, Susan Rawcliffe, Trimpin, and Peter Whitehead. Several of these are San Francisco Bay Area residents.

Indeed, the San Francisco Bay Area appears to be a hotbed of instrument building. Tom Nunn is an important and long-standing figure in the Bay area/invented instruments scene as well as the local improvisation scene. His electro-acoustic instruments typically feature a large amplified soundboard to which are attached threaded metal rodsóin essence, long, often bent screws which are variously plucked, rubbed, bowed, scratched and struck.

Oliver DiCicco is the leader of Mobius Operandi, a new music ensemble that performs on instruments of his design and construction. Splitting the difference between free improvisation and avant-pop songs by the group’s two female members, the instruments, mostly amplified, range from woodwinds to percussion (drums, marimbas, kalimbas, etc.), to elaborate string instruments, from harps to giant steel guitars. As DiCicco notes, after the instruments are built, it is up to the members of the ensemble to figure out how best to play them. The types of sounds, the techniques used to play them, the effects used to color the sounds are not prescribed but discovered as the music evolves and as the group rehearses and develops.

Peter Whitehead, a former member of Mobius Operandi, makes simple instruments, most of them plucked strings modeled after guitars, zithers, and harps and made from found material, hardware store items, and junk. Recently he has allied himself with like-minded artists, including instrument builder and songwriter Elaine Buckholtz and a small coterie of ensembles featuring invented instruments on a collectively owned record label, Out of Round Records out of San Francisco.

It seems that Skip La Plante and his partner Carol Weber have been making instruments forever. With a collection of over 250 instruments made from unlikely materials including cardboard mailing tubes, Styrofoam boxes, table legs, cigar humidors, and tennis rackets, they offer an annual series of concerts at their Bowery loft in Downtown Manhattan with an ensemble, appropriately titled Music for Homemade Instruments.

For years, Z’ev worked with found objects, frequently made of sheet metal, that he dragged, scraped, and hurled on hard floors, creating a magnificent din that was sonically stunning and performances that were visually and viscerally compelling. The theatrical and movement components his work suggested the energy and rage of punk.

From Scratch is an ensemble from New Zealand led by composer and instrument builder, Philip Dadson whose aesthetic derives, in part, from Cornelius Cardew an
d his work with the Scratch Orchestra (hence the group’s name), and whose music derives from that of the minimalists and hocketing. Their works are performance spectacles that bring together political statements and an over-riding spiritual center and focus.


A few samples of Chas Smith’s handiwork.
Photos courtesy Chas Smith

Composer and pedal steel guitar player Chas Smith, who studied with Morton Subotnick and Harold Budd at the California Institute of the Arts, makes a living as a metal worker. Skilled with the torch, he designs and constructs fantastic metal electric and acoustic instruments. His instruments have become a focal point in his recent work documented on CDs (two already issued and one forthcoming) on the Cold Blue Music label.

Wendy Mae Chambers is perhaps best known for her car horn organ made from twenty-five car horns and a homemade keyboard powered all by a car battery. Her best-known work is her endearing arrangement of the song “New York, New York.” How apropos.

Bart Hopkin, the man behind Experimental Musical Instruments, offers many resources for those interested in newly invented instruments. Experimental Musical Instruments began in 1985 as a journal that was published regularly until 1999. Along the way, cassette tapes, books, and CDs have been published and Experimental Musical Instruments is now a Web site offering not only back issues of the journal and all of their other publications, but also software, various hardware for instrument building and amplification systems, news, articles, and lots and lots of links. EMI is a terrific resource for the would-be instrument maker.

All of this only scratches the surface of the many possibilities in the world of instrument making. There are many, many other instrument builders and composers who use and create such instruments. This is but a brief survey of a handful of these.

This is not a plea for all composers to start inventing and building their own instruments, rather it is offered as food for thought. The possibilities are seemingly endless.

Next month, an in-depth look at an important new(ish) work utilizing invented instruments: Sound Stage by Paul Dresher

How does using music notation software affect your music? Mary Ellen Childs



Mary Ellen Childs
Photo by Warwick Green

I love using notational software when I write traditionally notated instrumental pieces. However, I also write a lot of music that can’t be notated in any standard notation, mainly because movement is an integral part of my music and I often use invented playing techniques for percussionists. The “scores” for these pieces take on whatever form is needed, whatever notation is needed—often created for the piece—and for these pieces I only rarely use notational software. It simply makes no sense. Instead I use a combination of invented names, written and verbal explanations, some traditional notation (written out by hand), and videotape to create the score: the way of communicating with performers.

But for my instrumental music I’ve been using Finale since shortly after it became available. I still write with pencil and paper, but each day I enter newly written measures and any corrections into the computer and print out a the latest version of my piece. Although I miss the tactile experience of seeing how the work has changed over time (erasures, added measures taped here and there, passages crossed out), it’s wonderful to know that when the piece is done, the score will be in a copied and usable version. Often I still hire a “copyist,” who will make sure the score looks great and the parts are properly formatted, but this is a copying job that takes very few hours.


Score sample from Missing Link for ocean drums



Score sample from Shiva

How does using music notation software affect your music? Gloria Coates



Gloria Coates
Photo by Anne Kirchbach

Personally, I find it easier to compose the old fashioned way—with paper and pen—and usually do not recopy a score once the music is written. I did try to create a computer notation system for my Second Symphony, but it was not as clear for the musicians to grasp as the original handwritten score, so I returned to my old method of writing.

In general, I think that a personally hand written manuscript has something to say about the music. I enjoy looking at original scores, even if the writing is sometimes difficult to read.

It might be that there will be a division in music history of music written before or after the computer; BC or AC. There are various technical devices that are simpler with the computer, such as those in minimal music or any other music with patterns dominating. Likewise, one can collage very easily, manipulate phrases and sections of music, or transpose. The possibilities for composing with the computer are almost unlimited.

It is often frustrating and wearisome to have to write all the notes by hand, but on the positive side, this allows time for more deliberation, especially for composers like me who weigh each note or chord. I think writing by hand also frees the imagination and illuminates more possibilities. Most important, I can go deeper into my thoughts and feelings.

How does using music notation software affect your music? Jerome Kitzke



Jerome Kitzke
Photo by Phil Douglas

Any explanation of why I do not use a computer for score production would have to begin with the fact that I do not use a computer at all. This is in no way an ideological stance. I simply, thus far, have not needed one. Since 1975 I have used a Pentel 0.5 mechanical pencil with HB lead to produce my scores. With the aid of straight edges and templates, they end up looking much like those created on any software program, if not a bit more personal. Looks aside, the reasons I do my scores by hand are two-fold, having to do with sound/sight and time. Firstly, I am still completely enamored with the sound of pencil lead moving over paper and the sight of blank paper slowly turning into a score by my hand. There is something in the tactility of this craft that retains its wonder well into my career. Secondly, because I do not sketch, but rather think my pieces through before ever picking up a pencil, the slowness of the process after the pencil is lifted allows me the time to be quite certain of my musical thinking, a very handy thing when your first draft is also your last. In the old days I used to draw the staves as well, but now, in an indirect use of the computer, my publisher, Peer Music, custom makes blank music paper for me. Ultimately it comes down to my love for my hands-on process being as fresh and vital today as it was when I started over thirty years ago.

How does using music notation software affect your music? Robert Morris



Photo by David Morris

In the early 1960s, when I was an undergraduate composer at the Eastman School, there was really only one way to reproduce one’s scores, short of having them engraved in the process of publication. One copied music on transparent music paper (velum) in India ink and sent the masters to a blueprint house to be reproduced on an ozalid machine. Other options—reproduction via chemical copying machines or music typewriters—were infeasible, and xerography was in its infancy. (In fact, we had to wait until the early 1970s before Xerox machines were good enough to reproduce music.) So if one wanted to meet professional standards, to produce a fair copy of a sizeable piece took months of work.

In the 1970s, music publishers in the United States began to encounter severe financial problems and began to print most new music in the composer’s hand by photo offset (camera ready) methods. In a few cases, composers, such as George Crumb and Joseph Schwantner, had become so adept at music calligraphy that reproducing their beautiful hand-copied scores was not only appropriate, but even an important part of their creative work. And if a composer was working with new forms of music notation—in vogue in the 1960s and ’70s—camera ready methods were the only way to go. Still, the prices of published music were sky-rocketing; sometimes it became difficult to get performances of published work since performance organizations couldn’t afford the rental and publication fees. So there was motivation for composers to publish their own work at affordable prices. Among the first of these composer-owned and operated publishing houses was Donald Martino’s Dantalian Music. But since memory was limited and processor speeds were so low (except on very expensive mainframe computers), music copying software did not exactly burst onto the scene. (A pioneering mainframe computer program was written by Leland Smith, using a specified entry language to encode the music into the computer and a pen-plotter to write out the score; this was the precursor of SCORE, certainly among the most flexible and complex music copying programs ever available.)

So it was only in the late 1980s that music copying programs were introduced for use on modest home computers. Most of these programs failed to impress professional composers who continued to use ozalid methods or copy in pencil on paper and xerox the result; therefore, even today many composers of my generation have not moved over to use programs such as Finale or Sibelius, although they may employ copyists that do. The initial resistance of many professional and established composers to getting involved with computer music copying circa 1990 was much more than a matter of habit combined with an unfamiliarity with computer systems. Almost all of the music copying programs available at that time were too regimented and limited. Although such programs might have been useful for reproducing hymns and lead-sheets, they were literally or practically unable to meet the demands of concert music notation; many of them had major bugs, and those that worked didn’t even get close to professional engraving standards. The possibility of playing computer-copied scores electronically via MIDI did not impress either, for part of a composer’s training is to hear music internally by reading a score, and the sound of the raw MIDI information played by cheesy synthesizers was abominable. (Today it is possible to edit MIDI files and “perform” the music on sophisticated synthesizers with some degree of nuance so it can sound tolerable, if not at all true to the live sound; but this takes a lot of time.) Moreover, many novel musical conventions had arisen in new music, originating in the scores of composers such as Krzysztof Penderecki, Luciano Berio, Earle Brown, John Cage, and others, none of which seemed implemented by music copying programs of that time.

For these reasons I was not attracted to computer copying at first, even though I was quite familiar with computers and programming from my work in music theory and electronic and computer music. I wanted the process of music copying to be transparent and flexible, as it is with paper (with or without music staves) and pencil (and eraser!). I noticed also it took longer to produce an adequate computer-copied score than to use the ozalid or xerox methods. (Since then, this has dramatically changed.)

The program that changed my mind was NoteWriter written by Keith Hamel. This program was essentially a CAD with musical symbols, and there were very few preconceptions about what kind of music the user would be copying. It was like writing music on paper—one could put a symbol or line anywhere and in any configuration. This meant the program could produce any kind of score, including those in which musical time is not measured by traditional rhythmic symbols. Special symbols and layouts could be manufactured and placed in libraries as needed, text could flow freely within the score, and score layout could be configured in any way one imagined. In addition, it proved ideal and unmatched for quickly making musical examples for use in scholarly publications and in teaching.


Robert Morris, page 1 of “Dryad, Low and Gruff” from Playing Outside for improvisers, orchestra, chorus, gamelan (2001) (NoteWriter)

Despite my enthusiasm, NoteWriter had some limitations. It was platform specific; it demanded that the composer already have considerable professional knowledge in how to lay out a score and familiarity with all of the coordinative details known to engravers; it had no MIDI capability; the extraction of parts in proper transposition was not automatic (but cut and paste methods were direct). I found it was best used for chamber and solo music. (NoteWriter is still available, as is its descendent Notability, which does have MIDI capability.)


Robert Morris, page 1 of “Shadows Disagree” from Playing Outside for improvisers, orchestra, chorus, gamelan (2001) (NoteWriter)

The need for a program to help copy orchestral scores led me to Finale. M
y practice has been to copy the score into the program without dynamics and articulations. Because it implements MIDI, I can enter notes from a keyboard very quickly and efficiently using various macros. I then hire a copyist to enter the dynamics and articulations, to work out the format and page layout of the printed result, and to generate the parts. But my relationship with Finale has always been a negotiation; in the end the product has been better than adequate. I plan to get to know Sibelius to do the same tasks, since my students seem to have had good experiences with it and their scores are often well-made.


Robert Morris, page 6 of Tigers and Lilies for twelve saxophones (1979) (Finale)

For many projects, Nightingale has been the most efficient copying program I have used. It was designed using music engraving standards so when it automatically lays out the score, there is little more to do than simply print it out. Its limitations are only that it can hardly produce open scores with special symbols and layouts (although it can write a score in “piano roll” notation). But this isn’t exactly a problem, for I still use NoteWriter for such projects. I should say that such scores can be produced in Finale, but only with great difficulty by turning off the “normal” functions and using options that are tricky and counterintuitive.


Robert Morris, sample from page 9 of Wabi for piano solo (1996) (Nightingale)

I also use music copying programs to generate MIDI code for use in MAX and to specify exact pitches and timings for use in compositions using computer-generated sound. The look of these “scores” is of course unimportant. (Alexander Brinkman‘s Score11 program was useful for such functions in the 1980s.) I have not found copying programs to be helpful in composing—as many younger people do, writing their music at the computer screen—and only listen via MIDI to what I have copied to detect copying errors.

Thus my response and involvement in computer music copying has been driven by practical concerns. Because I have found myself involved in many different kinds of compositional projects, I have needed more than one music copying program. I have no problem with this, for perhaps it is too much to ask one program to do everything. And there is the well-understood tradeoff between tools that are subtle and flexible but difficult to learn and those that are simple and direct, easy to use, but limited, as in the difference between Microsoft Word and TeachText or WordPad. But I don’t think English word-processing models are really appropriate for music copying programs—just imagine the complications if one program had to be able to edit texts in all major written languages including Sanskrit, Russian, Chinese, and Arabic. But it would be nice if there were a “suite” of copying programs, which could transparently interact and communicate with each other.

I’ll end with a few other issues that concern me and some observations about music notation in general. If I have reified professionalism as an important criterion for the adequacy of music copying software, let me say that I am fully aware there are many standards of professionalism, depending on the nature and function of the music involved. Moreover, professionalism—what practitioners know and do—and musical notation are aspects of musical tradition which evolve, if but slowly, while resisting wholesale change. It is therefore important to consider musical notation in the context of musical practice and tradition, especially performance practice. We don’t read and play Baroque music in the same way that we read and play Romantic music, even though the syntax and symbology of music notation is (or has come to be) almost identical for these different musics. My point is that music notation is not merely objective—a set of symbols written according to certain rules—it is intersubjective among the members of musical community. Notation might best be considered as a hermeneutic, through and by which we interpret musical actions and sounds. Thus, notation is expressive and evolves as needs change and new situations arise. (Even its “look” has meaning within a music community—another reason why some composers have not been interested in using copying software; for them, standard notation is too generic and impersonal.)

This simple idea is complicated, however, because perhaps only in Western concert music is it believed that notation can capture and represent musical experience (as well as to describe music structure and prescribe musical action). This is why the score is considered the authority for musical identity. In other words, while in general musical notations code the perceived qualities (quales) of music as quantifiable symbols, in Western music the notation functions in reverse, to imply literally the musical quales that the symbols quantify. Thus, we can experience the sounding form of music we have never heard before by reading scores and hearing the music “in our heads,” and we can learn and study music from scores alone. But as I mentioned, this process depends on knowing the performance practices that go along with the notation, and that is part of the nexi of intersubjective relations in a musical community.

Even if we take a particular musical community as a given (as I did when I was talking about my own experiences with computer copying), the relation of musical quality to notational quantification is anything but simple.

First, emergent effects may or may not occur when certain symbols are put together in notation. Thus it takes years before composers can know or reliably estimate what “works” by writing music before they hear it live.

Second, music notation is both digital and analogue—that is, notation represents music by mapping symbols to musical entities and processes as well as representing musical shape with a matching visual shape. These two modes usually interact in many complicated ways. (Oddly enough, rhythm is notated completely digitally, by symbols whose visual spacing from left to right need bear no connection with the temporal intervals they specify.)

Third, musical notation is not only sonic but also cognitive. Many aspects of notation do not refer to sound—for instance, a quarter rest, a bar line, a repeat sign, a term such as “allegro non troppo.”

Fourth, music notation does not always code musical structure one-to-one—for instance, while the major scale has two sizes of intervals, it is notated by equal-sized moves on the staff. On the other hand, the equal-tempered chromatic scale i
s noted by unequal staff moves with sharps and flat signs (digitally) denoting changes of pitch.

None of these points (and others) should be considered defects; in fact sometimes they provide insight into musical matters, as in point four, which has led to some interesting research on the structure of musical scales and tonality.

To summarize: musical notation is complex and not detached from musical tradition or practice. Notation is intersubjective, not objective, and considering it only as a closed system of symbols does not help us understand what it is (for) and how to use it. Computer programs that help composers and arrangers produce musical scores ought to implement the standards and professionalism of a given musical community on one hand, and allow elbow room for change and evolution on the other. In this way, the computer implementation of musical notation can stimulate, rather than control or inhibit, the evolution of musical practice and expression.


Robert Morris, page 1 of “Dryad, Low and Gruff” from Playing Outside for improvisers, orchestra, chorus, gamelan (2001) (NoteWriter)

How does using music notation software affect your music? Joseph Pehrson



Joseph Pehrson
Photo by Orlanda Brugnola

I started using the Score notation program for the IBM 10 years ago in 1992. Although some of my music was published at that time, the publisher did not engrave it but just used my ink copy. For that reason, it was very exciting for me to be able to create my own engraved compositions with computer software. My immediate instinct, after finally learning the software which, with Score, took a bit of time, was to engrave the majority of my pieces that I considered most significant. Naturally this increased legibility and aided performances: performers took the works more seriously, I took the works more seriously, and performers ended up actually seeing and playing the correct notes on the page!

The downside of this software was, of course, in more experimental works, such as a work for theremin that I wrote in 1997. For this kind of piece, the computer software was more of an impediment than an asset, and I found myself reverting to a nice felt-tipped pen that could make the kind of wavy lines that could best describe the pitches produced by the continuous pitch spectrum of the theremin.

Flash-forward to the present time. Well, Score isn’t what it used to be. Although the doyenne of the IBM 286 computer, the software never advanced into the Windows environment, incredibly enough, so eventually I was ripe for a change. Enter Sibelius, a software program that, I have on good authority, is more intuitive than Finale (which I haven’t tried) and which, importantly, could read all my old Score files. What’s more, I can now enter into the MIDI age of fully hearing what I’m composing as I go about the process. Score did have a MIDI implementation, but it was extremely primitive, and not even worth calling by that name.

I’m finding working with Sibelius now just wonderful. I can compose with a full-sized 88-key MIDI keyboard, earphones that won’t disturb the neighbors (actually a problem at one point), and can get a better sense of what I’m doing than my former method of singing, humming, and banging on the piano. And the best part is, right while I’m composing the music, the engraving has ALSO been done! Since that was always a significant time sink, this is a significant improvement! Generally speaking, I still do sketches as I’m working, but the actual piece is entered in directly on the computer in its fully engraved form.

Recently I’ve been immersed in the study of alternate tuning systems. I was, initially, concerned with how Sibelius would implement all this. Fortunately, it handles PostScript fonts with ease, so I can use microtonal accidentals for the scale that I currently prefer: 72-equal temperament (a “superset” of our regular 12-equal). The microtonal symbols, created by a colleague in a font-creation program, are easily imported into Sibelius as symbols, so I can easily add microtonal accidentals to my pitches.

Still, one might ask, how can you create music in Sibelius that plays back microtonal pitches? Fortunately, this is also a possibility on this incredibly flexible program. Although Sibelius supports “only” quartertones (enough for many composers, I know!) it is also possible to create pitch bends in the music which will play back the other pitches I am currently using, which include the 6th of a whole tone and the 12th of a whole tone. All I have to do is enter in a few numbers above each note on the staff, and voila, the pitch is bent appropriately, and my score is realized as intended! It took a little math to figure out just what to use here, but the expertise is not beyond the grasp of most composers (or even high school students!)

Software programs are now more than an engraving tool: they are an entire composing world, and make it possible for people to more easily hear their music, have it accurately performed, and save a lot of time in the process!

How does using music notation software affect your music? Walter Thompson



Walter Thompson
Photo by Nancy S. Donskoj

I am a composer who works with an improvisation/composition system I’ve created called Sound Painting. I was recently asked to compose a Sound Painting for publication. In the process of preparing this piece, I came across some interesting problems using music notation software.

The Sound Painting composing/conducting system is for musicians, dancers, actors, poets, and visual artists working in the medium of structured improvisation. This ever-evolving system comprises more than 700 gestures signed by the composer/conductor to indicate the type of improvisation desired of the performers. Direction and structure of the composition are gained through the parameters of each set of signed gestures. Simply put, Sound Painting is related to sampling, as in DJ sampling, only using live performers.

The syntax of Sound Painting is broken down in four parts: Who, What, How, and When. The “Who” gestures are Function signals. They indicate which specific performers are being signed. For example, “Whole Group” means the entire ensemble, or individual performers, such as Dancers 1 and 2 or Actor 5 and Woodwind 1, may be signed. The “What” gestures, “Pointillism,” “Point-to-Point With Alliteration,” and “Minimalism in F Major With a 5 Feel,” to name a few, are Sculpting signals indicating the type of improvisation to be performed. The “How” gestures indicate dynamics, duration, and intent and are called faders, such as “Volume Fader” and “Duration Fader.” The “When” gestures, or Go signals, tell the performer(s) when and in what manner to enter the composition. For instance, “Play” means to come in immediately, hard edged; “Enter Slowly” means to wait approximately 5 seconds before entering; and “Develop Organically” means to listen or watch and then enter relating to the direction(s) of the other performer(s).

Composing a Sound Painting for publication poses an obvious problem—namely, how do you take a composing/conducting system that is propelled by live performance and set it down on paper?

I use Finale for most of my composing. I’ve been using Finale for more than 6 years and have found it to be more than adequate for notating traditionally, but somewhat difficult for notating certain complex rhythmic structures such as polyrhythms across bar lines.

In my experience, Finale has been both exceptional and frustrating in the creation of a notation system for Sound Painting. I began by creating a timeline in place of the traditional staff. Easy enough to do. I used the single-line percussion staff, with each staff representing approximately 30 seconds. Using “Shape Designer,” I created opaque rectangle boxes, placing them on the timeline. Each rectangle box contains most of the information the conductor will use in signing the ensemble.

I placed some of the “How” gestures on the timeline such as VF for “Volume Fader” (dynamics). I also used letters for the Function signals contained in the rectangle boxes, for example, WG for “Whole Group.” For the Sculpting signals, I used “Shape Designer” to compose drawings that visually relate to each gesture—a long line for “Long Tone,” multiple dots and short lines for “Pointillism,” 3 arched lines for “Scanning.”

As Bones from Star Trek might say if he were in my place, “Jim, I’m an artist not a software designer.” My biggest challenge in notating the Sound Painting system was in using the “Shape Designer” tool. When I adjusted one Sculpting signal shape in a particular box, all of the repetitions of that shape in the other boxes would also change. The same thing happened when I adjusted one of the dotted lines: all of the other dotted lines changed to match. There is likely a solution to this problem, but I could not readily find it So, I called Finale‘s Customer Support line. Unfortunately, I ended up waiting on hold for a long time and I had to give up. I did not have a chance to pose the question to any of the Finale message boards, as I needed to complete the project in a limited amount of time.

My solution: I created a separate dotted line each time I needed to use one, which then allowed individual adjustment. Although tedious and very time consuming, I used this tactic to solve the similar problems encountered with “Shape Designer.” I was thus able to work around most of the problems and felt very pleased with the final results.

In Conversation with Bernard Gendron



An interview with the author of Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club: Popular Music and the Avant-Garde

Molly Sheridan: Let’s talk a little bit about what drew you to this topic. What was so interesting to you about researching the worlds of popular culture and the avant-garde?

Bernard Gendron: For me it involved a certain recycling of my interests, because I used to write about the philosophy of science and the philosophy of technology. It was really that, aesthetically speaking, I’ve always liked popular music. I’ve always thought that at least some of it was aesthetically very good, but of course I was surrounded, being in a university, with lots of people who thought it was pretty low or good entertainment but for dancing, etc. So really it’s aesthetics that drove me onward. But the factor along with it that interested me a lot is how in the past century popular music, or at least certain kinds of popular music, really grew in respect or, I wouldn’t say prestige, but that more and more of it was taken seriously as music. I wanted to see how this happened, how something that was once simply seen as vulgar—a nice entertainment on the side even for the people who were more sophisticated—how it came to be regarded as itself a kind of art music. That’s really my main interest. You might call it the cultural triumph of popular music. The other thing that interested me—to my surprise because I’d always thought there’d been a lot of hostility between high culture and mass culture—but I was struck by the fact that since the mid-19th century, there have been recurrent engagements between high culture and popular music, very friendly engagements as in the case of the artistic cabarets of the late-19th century in Paris where on the same stage you had poets, you had paintings hung on the walls, and you had popular singers. So my book actually traces high moments in those interactions between so-called high and so-called low, but my objective is to see how the low in that process gradually acquired a certain kind of cultural status.

Molly Sheridan: What do you think was gained by those interactions?

Bernard Gendron: Well, I think popular music gained a lot. I don’t know how much high culture gained or lost. In these interactions there were advantages on both sides. In the late 19th century and the early 20th century in the so-called modernist period, generally the modernist painters of the later-19th century and the modernist poets had a very small audience. They were shut out from mainstream academic and high culture. And so they actually gained; they widened their audience in effect. Interchanges of popular music really replenished the high arts every once in awhile. I mean, the appropriation of jazz in the 1920s by people like [Darius] Milhaud clearly helped. It’s like you go shopping for materials to replenish your work. Popular culture has always been a source of materials. It could be popular music, it could be jazz, it could be rock, etc., so that was the case for high culture. For low culture it was simply a gain in, I guess I’ll use the term cultural capital, because popular culture always did well economically but people who are in the field also want a certain kind of prestige, a respect. It helps actually to acquire a certain prestige, like Bob Dylan had certain prestige that ultimately helped sales. It’s had to find someone who doesn’t want his or her work get a certain kind of aesthetic respect, so popular music in a way won because it not only continued of course to sell, but now it became an object of academic interest. Musicians, especially jazz musicians, could get positions in conservatories and the like. So when you get cultural prestige it’s a kind of power over and above economic power.

Molly Sheridan: Do you think anything was lost? I guess I’m really curious how you would answer someone who felt that this pulled the avant-garde culture down, corrupting it somehow.

Bernard Gendron: It was always a controversy amongst people in high culture, but the people most on the edge were always the ones more friendly to mass culture. That’s very interesting. If you look at the past century, those who were more mainstream musicians, artists, and so on, despised mass culture as well as did many of the critics. But the ones who where most adventurous oftentimes were really those who where most friendly toward mass culture even when they didn’t quite appropriate it. But it’s an interesting question. I mean, I think that in the sphere of music that’s a very relevant question because it appears to me that high culture music—and I mean particularly contemporary art music—has really seen its audience shrink. There’s no question about that. What happened was that what would have been a potential audience for this music, for those people it became very aesthetically fashionable to, say, like hip-hop. I mean this is among people who are university professors and the like. In other words, if you still accept the distinction between highbrow, middlebrow, and lowbrow, in the 1940s and ’50s you could identify highbrows in terms of the music they consumed. You can’t do that anymore.

Molly Sheridan: What do you think the role is now for contemporary art music, as you call it? You talk in your book about how the modern art world left the highbrow and became involved more with the New York punk scene and what came after. But the serious music side seems to be left at the highbrow end, left behind almost while the other arts moved on, or in a different direction at least.

Bernard Gendron: Yes, exactly. Well you had of course a lot of people like John Zorn and people like that who really operated on the boundaries, Glenn Branca in the early 1980s, Peter Gordon, you had people who have actually benefited from the association with popular music. You have Elliott Sharp. And these are people who are highly respected by rock musicians. Also, there is a two-way stream here because with the increasing popularity of electronic music there’s more and more a return to listening to some of the great pioneers—Stockhausen obviously and Feldman and people like that. I know a lot of people who have been traditionally completely caught up with popular music who are now turning to these people. I think there was a lot of innovation, especially with technology. Pop music has always been technologically oriented so they are very quick to pick up, for example the electric guitar and even the synthesizer in the 1970s. But the point is that many of these people now are learning from some of the great innovators of the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s. But it’s true that there certainly is an audience problem for art music, there’s just no question that there is that problem.

Molly Sheridan: On a cultural level, after looking all these different interactions, how they’ve inspired different people, what would you urge someone who is a composer in this contemporary classical world to do? Would you suggest they seek out certain arts or artists or explore certain trains of thought?

Bernard Gendron: Well, I happen to be a fan myself of contemporary art music. I think that the
music field now is so fragmented. I mean there’s an uncertainty, an ennui even, in the pop music field. It’s as if now you have—and this is where I agree with John Seabrooks who wrote Nobrow. He tried to claim that there’s no real hierarchy anymore, it’s just a flattened plain with different niche markets. There is some truth to that. Today, it’s not as if you have a dominant popular culture with a dominate music style. Pop music is completely fragmented now and full of uncertainty so I would just recommend that people keep experimenting in the music that they’re comfortable with because it’s true that now you don’t have the clear hierarchy of high and low, now you have simply a number of niche markets. The work being done by people trained in composition and so on is really exciting work. I would never suggest, for example, that people appropriate other existing musical forms. In a way that’s dated. The thrill is gone as far as cutting across the boundaries like that. I’m not a sociologist so I can’t predict where so-called high cultural music will go but it’s certainly a vital force even though the audience is smaller.

Molly Sheridan: I’m always curious when someone does this amount of research, looking at what some of the surprise discoveries were or if there were changes in your own philosophies that you didn’t even expect. Obviously you started out with a certain idea…

Bernard Gendron: Yes, I started out with a certain idea and I think pretty much I got what I expected. Maybe it’s because I imposed my own template. I mean I discovered a lot of small interesting things. The big surprise to me was to find out how long ago the interchanges between high and low culture existed. If you look at the history of this country in particular there was always a great deal of antipathy at the high cultural level towards mass culture. American music was not as firmly established as say European music that had all the prestige. And here also mass culture was so powerful. So if you look at the history of early jazz, for example, there was much more animosity towards early jazz in this country than there was in Europe. But what surprised me most is that so many people used to talk about modernism, for example, as if it was a period where high and low were altogether hostile to each other and they sometimes described postmodernism as a period where they became really, really friendly. What really struck me is how early the interchanges between high and low began to take place and how early European high culture in particular was friendly toward and took from the popular cultural forms of the day. You can see this in impressionism. I’m not saying something that will bowl people over, but really from the very beginning of what we would call modernism—which in France I would date that around the mid-19th century—there was an interchange from the get go. I think it varies from country to country. In France I would peg myself to literature more than music, say with Baudelaire, indeed where there is no longer any kind of eternal beauty, but beauty’s always shifting and we have to live with these constant shifts in aesthetic criteria. Musically, I guess it would be with Debussy towards later part of the 19th century.

Molly Sheridan: Yes, I thought that was interesting how there are different time frames for the different arts even if they are influenced by what might be a similar movement. That can vary wildly.

Bernard Gendron: Yes, exactly.

Molly Sheridan: So, you’ve finished this book and you are about to go on sabbatical, but any plans for your next project floating around yet?

Bernard Gendron: Well, I have a couple little projects. I think it’s very tempting for an author to, you know, you have this sort of yawning chasm that emerges at the end of a book and you say what am I to do next. So I’ve tried to simply focus on some smaller topics, but I’m very interested in the history of what you might call cultural capital, a term that was introduced by Bourdieu, a kind of capital that you accrue that has more to do with your cultural prestige than with the money you’re getting. I’m working on a project I’m facetiously calling Why Jazz Lost to Rock ‘n’ Roll, talking about how by the 1980s and ’90s, it was much more hip to like various kinds of rock music than to like jazz. Jazz has prestige, right? It’s at Lincoln Center, but it lacks other kinds of cultural capital. It’s not a hip music. So I may not answer the why question, but more how jazz lost…let’s call it the hip audience. I really focus on the ’60s, particularly when college students, who had been a large part of the constituency for jazz, began to turn toward rock music. So I’m going to study the crisis of jazz in the ’60s primarily but I’m going to look backward and forward, because jazz in the ’60s is really exciting. It was going through an economic crisis and you have the jazz avant-garde who where really going off the deep end. And then at the same time you had the rapprochement of jazz and rock, which was to lead to jazz-rock fusion, emblematized by Miles Davis‘s Bitches Brew album, so you have all these forces at work. Another topic that interests me, although it’s a little more long term, is the circulation of African popular music in North America. In the early ’80s, there was actually an audience and all sorts of African acts where coming to this country and this is what ultimately led to what we call the world music market that’s now of course pretty well established. So that’s another phenomenon that interests me quite a bit.

Molly Sheridan: So even though you are a professor of philosophy it seems that music is your passion?

Bernard Gendron: Philosophy’s a field that allows you to sort of recycle yourself. But I tell my philosophy colleagues that what I’m really interested in is aesthetics, and I’m interested in the sort of values that are in place. So if I’m looking at why jazz lost to rock ‘n’ roll, I’m interested in how aesthetic values have shifted so that for the people we might call the elite purchasers, certain kinds of music acquired greater status than jazz. So I’m very historical about aesthetics. I don’t believe that there are these eternal aesthetics. I think at these given times there are dominant aesthetics and at certain times there are some major transformations. They’re not necessarily convinced when I tell them this, but that’s what I tell them.

Tools for Organic Compos(t)ing

“Musical notation is one of the most amazing picture-language inventions of the human animal. It didn’t come into being of a moment but is the result of centuries of experimentation. It has never been quite satisfactory for the composer’s purposes and therefore the experiment continues. Why is this process frowned upon today? Must we alone ignore the future?”
– Ross Lee Finney, 1968

The ecology of music, like that of the earth, is always changing and adapting. This ecology includes how the musical imagination is transcribed on paper, how music comes to be performed and on what kinds of instruments, and how people listen to music. And of course there is much more to this ecology. But like any animal focused on its own survival, a composer may sometimes forget how interconnected this ecology is, and how one’s actions – at even a basic level such as notation – affect the whole.

When computer notation and MIDI playback became available, I found it very helpful in my own work. I was always envious when I entered a painter’s or a sculptor’s studio, and you could see a work taking shape before your eyes, each step in the process having a tactile result that one could assess before moving forward. Computer playback seemed to be a step towards that kind of creative process, to me more helpful than the inner ear working with pencil on paper.

Yet I wonder if my generation’s increasing conversion to computerized notation, and our love of things which “simplify” a task, hasn’t taken a toll on the breadth of our musical possibility. It wasn’t so long ago, in the 1950s and 1960s, when many composers disdained the conventional notation which software now strives to perfect. Like Morton Feldman, they thought of standard notation as “devices belonging to the Stone Age.”

One of the most remarkable artifacts of that era and 20th-century music is John Cage’s 1968 score anthology Notations. It includes score pages from over 269 composers, from Ashley to Wuorinen, with a dizzying stylistic diversity from Jolivet to Fluxus and everything in between. Looking through this volume recently, I’m not sure if I see computerized notation programs as progress for our art. Notations shows music springing outside of the box. It makes us aware that agreed-upon notions of notation are cultural habits to facilitate communication, but that if we forget that, we allow such habits to impose limits on our imagination of what music can be.

As someone who performs and presents a lot of new music, I see a lot of new scores. And I must say, I donÕt see today the kind of diversity of imagination that exists on the pages of Notations. I am afraid that many people of the computer generation write music that is in part defined by their tools and their mastery (or not) of their technologies – fulfilling a warning of the philosopher William Irwin Thompson’s 1973 Passages About Earth, that if we are not alert, our technology can surround our imagination.

Also, the young musicians I conduct today are perhaps more talented at a younger age, and they know the standard orchestral repertoire frighteningly well – too well. Yet upon exposure to Brant, Brown, Cage, Cardew, or music whose performance practice and notation breaks the mold, the same tutorials take place as when the works were new. It is as if an entire swath of recent music history is known only to those dedicated to it.

I believe that much of our musical evolution in the 21st century will be about recovering, incorporating, and understanding the explosion of musical imagination in the 20th century. Much of that music is still very much new music. In the future, the potential of 20th-century music, so thwarted by misunderstanding and the legacies of history, will be realized as composers of the future draw upon that very deep well with new technologies and new notations – with new relevance for new times and places.

In the early 21st century, ecological cultural movements are spreading roots. As it is with the environment and our future, so it is with music. Permaculture. Preserve original and unadulterated seeds in our food supply and plant world. Make communities filled with biodiversity. Grow organic. Use sustainable and imaginative technologies. Go where computers can’t go. It’s all part of the ecology, and it’s still about survival.

“Notation is a primitive guide to music. The unimaginative are slaves to it, others see behind it.”
– Norman Dello Joio

NewMusicBox asks: Can music for dance stand alone? Alice Shields



Photo by Mark Rubin

In response to the question of writing stand-alone music for dance, I would say first that yes, I compose my music for dance so that it will also work as an independent piece of music. In exploring my thoughts on how I do this while at the same time writing what I believe are effective works for dance, I find I have to first clarify for myself the issues in writing for dance in general.

The challenge in writing music for dance, as I see it, is to leave psychological and sensory ‘space’ in the music in which the dance can maintain its own power and presence. The establishment and maintenance of this psychological and sensory space requires the careful manipulation of density in several sound parameters, in particular the control of:

  • vertical density (the presence or absence of chordal structures and the vertical distribution of their components)
  • horizontal density (the presence or absence of contrapuntal melodic and rhythmic material)
  • regularity of occurrence (the presence or absence of meter)
  • frequency of occurrence (tempo)
  • volume density

High density in any of the above brings the music into more prominence; high density in all of the above means that all of the psychological and sensory space is being used by the music at that point, and that the dance at that moment will likely seem, at best, unrelated to the music, or at worst, will seem irrelevant, artistically impotent.

The control over these parameters is even more important when it comes to electronic sounds, where the composer’s almost too-easy access to overwhelming volume and timbre requires a developed sense of restraint in order to maintain musical structure alone, much less providing the psychological space to which I have been referring. For example, in one of my early electronic works for dance (Domino for the Mimi Garrard Dance Theatre in 1967) I did not resist the impulse to blast away on stage in huge sounds created from sampled thunder. Eventually Mimi Garrard, the intelligent and talented choreographer, simply lined the dancers up on the back wall of the stage and had them stand there while I indulged myself in these furious sounds on the tape. Although Mimi turned even this to good effect, I had left no ‘space’ for the dance.

So now that I have explored what I think the issues are in composing effective music for dance, I can ask myself what the issues are in writing effective music for dance that is also a standalone, effective musical piece for the concert hall or CD recording. And here’s my thought: it is overall form. In a moderately effective work on stage, either the music or the dance may bear the overall structuring function, creating the formal, sectional changes of the piece. In a truly effective work on stage, I believe the forming function is equally borne by the music and the choreography. In such a piece, the music can stand alone without the dance, for its formal structure is strong, just as that of the dance was. The creation of such a work requires, of course, a good aesthetic and working relationship between composer and choreographer.

So it seems to me that an effective piece of music for dance which will also stand alone as a piece of music not only provides the necessary psychological and sensory space for interaction with the dancers (which makes it at least an effective accompaniment to the dance), but also has a highly developed formal musical structure as well.

Although I was aware while working on my computer piece Dust that I was creating music which would be happening on a stage along with dancers, I deliberately composed the formal structure of the music so that it could later stand alone and be played by itself, either on concerts or on a commercial recording. Dust (2001) was commissioned by Dance Alloy of Pittsburgh and is a collaboration between me, choreographer Mark Taylor of Dance Alloy, and choreographer Anita Ratnam of the Arangham Dance Theatre of Madras, India. It is performed by two dancers from Dance Alloy and two traditional Bharata Natyam dancers from the Arangham Dance Theatre. The full 30:39 minute version of the music of Dust works on its own without the dance, but for practicality’s sake I also created a 12-minute concert version.

One of the pleasures for me of working on Dust with choreographer Mark Taylor was being able to use the difficult rhythms of Bharata Natyam with both Western and Indian dancers. After brief consultations at the beginning of my collaboration with choreographers Mark Taylor and Anita Ratnam, I suggested that the overall dramatic form of the work be based around the Tibetan Chöd ritual first described by the intrepid Victorian adventurer-scholar Alexandra David-Neel. Mark and Anita agreed, and I then created the musical structure by which this ritual would be expressed, basing the musical form on the Bharata Natyam dance form known as Tillana. I used two North Indian ragasMadhuwanti raga and Todi raga — and four traditional Bharata Natyam jethi-s (South Indian rhythmic sequences). Created on ProTools with GRM plug-ins, I used as timbral sources Tibetan trumpets, Tibetan ritual conch shells, Indian drums and an Indian singing voice. I finshed the music and sent it to Mark on CD, so that he could begin choreographing the piece.

Watch a video clip from Dust with music by Alice Shields