My husband Jeff has been sick with a mysterious illness…
My husband Jeff has been sick with a mysterious illness…
What are we supposed to call new music? It’s not a new problem (is Rhapsody in Blue classical, jazz or pop? Yes, yes it is), but it’s an increasing and increasingly complex problem. Or to put it another way, it’s an increasingly subtle and sublime pleasure. Zoologists and astronomers seek the joy of finding a thing that is new to human eyes, and giving that thing a name. And so do music fans.
What’s new means different things to different people. When I arrived at college, I was interested in new, contemporary classical music, like Morton Feldman, and new jazz. My classmates told me how they liked new music too, which to them meant The Romantics, Duran Duran and whatever was in heavy rotation at WLIR. The idea of “new” was segregated by style and experience, and pop music fans could barely imagine that anything new was being made outside of their own, famously cyclical and cannibalistic, genre.
But then came the personal computer, the internet and iTunes. There’s more than one generation now with the experience of music as a vast, cross-referenced database. Genres still exist because styles still exist, but there are few, if any, barriers separating them from audiences and especially from musicians and composers. New music is being made, music in every form and style is being made, with the use of electronics (a great genre leveller and connector); classical and non-clasical musicians are meeting up on laptops across the world.
This is explicit in the title of the new Nonclassical label, and in their output, which provides a substantial answer to what to call the music on their CDs by pairing composed pieces with a set of remixes of same, with one interesting exception. Of course, the pairing doesn’t really answer the question of what to call the music, but it shows how the means of making music and approaching pieces are currently common across genres. If the twentieth century broke down the practice of segregating music by genre through, roughly, the conservatory for classical, the garage for rock and the woodshed for jazz, then the twenty-first century has a laptop in each place, the musicians chatting and playing together across local and wide-area networks.
Nonclassical, the label and the style, could be the equivalent of indie- or alt- classical music, although the cuteness of those labels excludes real information. “Indie” is what everyone is who doesn’t regularly work for or depend on The Man. “Alt” is a little more useful, but in conveying a challenge it over promises; Kronos Quartet has been putting out arrangements of non-classical music for far too long for this to be an underground, alternative way to make music, and too many middle-aged jazz musicians have had to wash dishes or deliver mail for far too long because alt-type organizations can’t work up the gumption to challenge themselves and put them on stages or on records. No, it’s the music that tells us what to call it, and, like all types of music, how it’s made and what it intends are the keys.
A prototype of this music, and the prototype for the goals of the Nonclassical label, is Cortical Songs , from John Matthias and Nick Ryan. The CD title comes from the main piece, a work for solo violinist – Matthias – and string ensemble, playing music devised by the two men and programmed for the computer by Ryan. They have taken rhythmic patterns based on the firings of neurons and made a piece where the instructions for the musicians are controlled by a computer that simulates the neuronal process through LEDs; when an LED ‘fires,’ the musicians respond. It’s ingenious and more than just a clever idea, as the piece itself is simple, straightforward and achingly gorgeous, a four part minor key lament with the transparent texture of Arvo Pärt and a sound familiar to anyone who has heard the slow movements of The Four Seasons. The music is made via techniques pioneered through the centuries in classical music, and is made to sound simply strong and good; it will arrest any ear. It’s followed by eleven different remixes of the piece, which is a good example of one important nonclassical value; collaborative, open-source, music meant to be a beginning, not an end. There’s an inherent irreverence in this idea, that something can always be redone, reworked, even improved in someone else’s hands. That’s always been true to some extent in how musicians and composers become who they are, but it’s new to have this as a developing public aesthetic. Last year’s In C Remixed is the premiere example, but Cortical Songs is more concentrated, tougher and more evocative in every way, in part because the piece is new and it’s still becoming familiar in the ears, and in part because the remixes are not only uniformly excellent but also mainly stay away from the dance music aesthetic. There are very few beats and lots of evocative textures and fascinating restructuring of a piece that already has an open structure. The cuts from Thom Yorke, Simon Tony, Dominic Murcott and Marcus Coates are particularly fine. Cortical Songs gets more interesting and rewarding with each listen, and is one of the strongest releases of the year.
Another new and important nonclassical label is New Amsterdam, which has already put out an impressive array of excellent contemporary classical, pop and jazz CDs. They are also the home to the self described “ambient indie classical’ violin and guitar duo of Caleb Burhans and Greg McMurray who call themselves itsnotyouitsme. Their description is a good place to start, but what they do is improvise, and with the help of electronics (looping, signal processing), create richly textured soundscapes. The music is tonal, mostly consonant, ambient in the sense that it all has the same depth, there’s no separation between foreground and background, and rather than audible beats there is the sound of simple, repeated patterns flowing from one color and emotional timbre to the next, like coming upon a stream and seeing what we missed up the line move past us. The repeated arpeggios under a fairly clear musical line on “Vanity Stays My Hand” (on the new release, fallen monuments) is pretty close to a song, but that’s as pop as their music gets, no matter the incredibly simple, satisfying pleasure of listening to the disc. It’s as beautiful as their debut release, but I think given that these are live recordings, there’s a quiet but gripping intensity that gives the new record a good deal more power. This is music that makes the world a better place to live in. It certainly is ambient improvisation, but classical? Not quite, but why not. Put it amongst its peers in the tone-poem form, and it fares well. I’d take it over Richard Strauss any day.
Gabriel Prokofiev, composer, DJ, and founder of the Nonclassical label, and of course Sergei Prokofiev’s grandson, has the exceptional release noted above, a CD of his Piano Book No. 1, performed by the painist GéNIA, who by happy and important coincidence is the great-great granddaughter of Vladimir Horowitz, who premiered the recording of the elder Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 7. Gabriel has already made an explicit “indie-classical” work, his Concerto for Turntables and Orchestra, but that piece is more a slogan than a constructive musical idea, a stagy dressing-up of the turntable in a tuxedo without the musical interest that Christian Marclay and Bernhard Lang generate with the same instrument. The Piano Book is classical through and through, a concentrated set of pithy pieces presented as they are, with no remixing, in gorgeous sound and excellent playing from the pianist. The music hints at some expectations, then exceeds them and surprises. There is an aesthetic debt to his grandfather in the muscular sound and the quality of deadpan aggression, walking a fine balance between malevolence and parody. The way the music is made in detail, though, the way the notes fit together into chords, the way the chords are set into rhythms and especially the way Prokofiev sets out phrases that banter and bicker with each other, comes out of the legacy of Ligeti’s piano music, his earlier pieces and especially his monumental Etudes . Like those pieces, the Piano Book explores a combination of technical ideas and musical questions. Sections like “Rockaby” juxtapose phrases that don’t seem to quite fit together, and then find ways to bring them into the composer’s musical logic, while “Cold Wooden Window” is an open-ended ballad, seeming to ask why, but never giving an answer. This is accomplished contemporary classical music, atypical in a way from the other Nonclassical releases, but also an important addition to the catalog. If indie- or alt- classical means music made out of the tradition of Western Classical Music that pop fans would want to listen to, then Prokofiev has given them the sugar with his label and added the tonic with this CD.
The balance between the two is idealized on Import/Export, a collaboration between Prokofiev, as composer and Joby Burgess, under his Powerplant project, as percussionist. This is a piece for junk percussion, metal drums, soda bottles, plastic bags, the physical detritus of global trade. If the idea seems at hearing like a combination of easy political slogans and “Stomp” style theatricality, the results once again massively exceed expectations. This is a fascinating, thoughtful and engrossing work. The objects are used in a completely musical way, for their sound, and Prokofiev has made a piece of music that has a great balance between sound and the rhythmic interest that a large scale percussion piece needs. It has a loping pulse that makes the body move in time and well-crafted space and dynamics. There’s another set of well made remixes and a DVD that features a filmed performance of the piece in its multi-media realization, which includes the silent narrative of a film running alongside and behind Burgess as he plays. As a piece of music, Import/Export has the rigor and craft of a classical composition, and as a performance and package it again has a broad, and truly smart, appeal to listeners who may never know that this kind of music was pioneered by dead, white Europeans and Americans. This is an excellent all around release. You can hear both works from Prokofiev live at LPR this Wednesday, with both GéNIA and Burgess performing and the composer himself DJing and laying down phat . . . . sonatas?
Now, a question? What typically classical instrument elicits the most surprise and delight when found in a nonclassical ensemble? My completely unscientific, anecdotal survey says it’s the cello. Two cellists who started out in bands and have since gone their own ways each have new recordings out this summer, Maya Beiser (a founder of the Bang on a Can All-Stars, important progenitors of nonclassical music), and Zoë Keating (previously of Rapustina and sometime member of Amanda Palmer’s band), and they are fine complements to each other.
Beiser’s Provenance actually puts here closer to the company of another cellist, or proto-cellist, the great gamba player Jordi Savall. Her disc takes territory Savall has been exploring, the music of Sephardic Spain, and approaches it from the opposite end, a contemporary viewpoint rather than an archeological one. It’s in no way derivative of the other work and shows how rich the Sephardic musical traditions are, and makes a strong and enjoyable point about how they’ve been with us through the centuries, even in popular music. That’s on the most provocative track, an arrangement made by Evan Zyporin of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” with a multi-tracked Beiser accompanied by Jerry Marotta on the drums. It’s close to the original, which already combines a Levantine riff with a Medieval beat, and Beiser caresses Robert Plant’s line in a remarkably articulated way. It stands out as familiar, but there’s no gimmick. It falls at the end and rounds off opening “I Was There,” by Kayhan Kalhor. The piece has a long, ruminative opening with Beiser and oud player Bassam Saba improvising in a minor mood, carefully scaling the tension so that the ear anticipates the frame drums that enter with a beat at exactly the right moment. There’s a sense of ensemble play that is very much like Savall’s work, again with an interesting, modern difference. The sense of rhythm that comes through in the strong, regular beat and Beiser’s driving attacks comes directly out of rock, but it’s subtle enough that the effect is of modern musicians playing ancient music and, in their own way, making it new again. After this, “Kashmir” appears seamlessly, and the middle stretch of “Memories,” “Mar De Leche” and “Only Breath,” the first from Armenian musician Djivan Gasparyan and the last from composer Douglas Cuomo, elide together hypnotically, and knit the CD together into a coherent musical suite and a substantial journey through how the present views, and is in debt to, the past. As noted on the previous items, the disc is ravishingly beautiful and has a haunting power.
Keating’s Into The Trees has it’s own great beauty and haunting power. Self-produced in every way and self-released, this follows from and develops on her previous recordings. While Beiser’s nonclassical approach is fair to hear as world music project (with the inherently obvious meaninglessness in that label), Keating’s method is easy to quantify but harder to label. She uses technology to loop and layer cello patterns into pieces of music that have substantial structure and substantial emotional power. In one sense, she’s a Minimalist, but with less focus on process and more on expression. The language of her playing is lyrical, very much songs without words, and the short phrases and rhythmic accents she prefers would be right at home in pop and rock music. The sound she produces is deeply sensuous, as rich as the most enthralling kind of drone music, but she has a lot more going on.
Into The Trees has no particular standout tracks because the entire recording is outstanding. She’s a musician who gives the impression of looking inward and finding lovely things to share with us. The powerfully mournful sound of her cello is curbed with the feeling of pleasure in how well she expresses her ideas. There is an anthemic quality to a lot of the pieces, and a bit of the literal idea of a journey into the woods, with an evocative blend of curiosity, longing, trepidation, confidence and joy. There’s also a Romantic journey of some struggle culminating in the success and acceptance of “Don’t Worry,” certainly the sweetly inspired climax of the record, but the denoument takes us through even more interesting territory and states, and tacks on a nice bit of tension. There’s a postscript in a second version of “Optimist,” which shows that Keating is a performing musician who makes technology work for her. And, again, the music is simply beautiful, with a thrilling sense of power at its core. So, what to call it? With her compositional techniques and rigor, the depth and richness of her expression and her pop accessibility, I think Zoë Keating is actually the paragon of the idea of nonclassical style, most of all because what she is doing is so unfussy, undogmatic and personal; she’s just making the music she wants to make out of her own experience of listening and playing and is showing the possible way to everyone else.
If you’d like to hear some nonclassical, and classical, music from a cellist, head down to LPR on August 8 for the debut appearance of Peter Gregson, a young Scotsman who, while more classically inclined than Beiser and Keating, is hauling the instrument into the twenty-first century. He has already performed across the web, interactively, via Twitter, and like Keating works directly with technology as part of his performances, including accompanying himself in Steve Reich’s Cello Counterpoint, originally written for Beiser, and creating his own luscious arrangement of Thomas Tallis’ great motet Spem in Alium. He’ll be playing those two pieces, and more.
Hearing chamber music instruments in a more pop context is no accident these days. It has a great deal to do with young musicians, brought up listening to pop music, training at conservatories and wanting to make music that’s both challenging and enjoyable. Twenty years ago, a cello or clarinet appearing on a pop record would have been a slightly pretentious ornament, nowadays there is pop music being made exclusively with the cello.
Except it’s not quite pop music, it’s something that can be identified as being truly new. It’s not an ideology but it certainly is a movement, and again it’s being driven by young, trained musicians who find that they love Brahms and Bowie. They grew up in a generation that felt less of a need to segregate their tastes, and their tastes had them playing jazz and rock and orchestral and chamber music, and singing. They also have listening habits based around that great genre leveler, iTunes, which transforms a music collection into a database of styles that can be queried and interrelated in good and constructive ways that many usually perceptive and sensitive critics are uncomfortable with.
What they produce is music which hovers in the region of different stylistic compass-points, shifting its balance and influence towards the spaces between, sounding at times a bit more like new chamber music, a bit more like jazz, a bit more like rock, but never solely one of those styles. A real pioneer who has done it as an independent artist is Zoe Keating, who as a solo performer uses the cello to make music that has rigorous structure and methods, is grounded in classical and new music techniques, and has the sonic and emotional immediacy of rock. Now there are two new recordings featuring ultra-contemporary cello playing, on out and one upcoming, which express two very different approaches to this idea Along with the cello, their common threads are philosophical; they each push forward the possibilities of what can be done with this fundamentally catholic approach to style.
Out right now is “The Secret Language of Subways” from Amy X. Neuburg and The Cello ChiXtet, which is actually a trio. This is a real album, music created for a live song-cycle. Listening to it is an intriguing experience. The sensation of a coherent set of songs, most of them in the first person, the cello accompaniment which ranges through a variety of rich harmony, counterpoint and propulsive rhythms, is the experience of cabaret. That’s a tricky genre to define, but there are certain things that it features; songs concerning personal narratives, a sense of the dramatic in musical style and performance, elements of various styles of popular music, show music and classical melded together with a sense of artifice (which may be sincere or ironic, or both). In the imagination, cabaret inhabits a timeless space where people are sensitive, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, perhaps a bit more elegant, refined and wealthy than we are, vaguely lonely and, in the room and listening to the music, acknowledging each other’s loneliness. There is a self-consciousness in cabaret that connects it to these ongoing projects to make something new out of musicians’ personal ideas, and the idea of cabaret is a useful lens through which to discover ways to apprehend and appreciate these in-the-moment styles, even if the music itself is not intended for that milieu. A mercurial and wonderful example of this is Iva Bittova’s recording with the Bang On A Can All-Stars, a charming and indescribable work that creates a new and satisfying place in the imagination.
Neuburg’s record is very much cabaret and also very much a new thing. The songs have a narrative complexity that goes beyond superficial slogans into personal searching and (un)intentional confession, the music works its way through styles, not only from song to song but within songs itself – a cabaret hallmark – always providing accompaniment that fits the lyrical content. Her singing has elements of whispering delicacy and dramatic belting, her harmonies emphasize modulation and her melodies emphasize intervals over the small up and down motion in most pop music.
There are knotty things going on here; the odd-meter, rocking pulse of ‘Someone Else’s Sleep’ accompanies a sinuous voice/cello duet that sounds South Indian; ‘Closing Doors’ has elements from Steve Reich’s “Tehillim,” and these are melodic elements which makes it a deeply interesting aspect of that composer’s influence on younger musicians; the record concludes with a confident, accomplished arrangement of Genesis’ ‘Back in NYC,’ which fits the lyrical and musical qualities of the record (there is more than a little progressive rock in the music that’s exploring the possibilities of these styles; pretty much any musician who has enjoyed playing classical, jazz and rock finds something musically appealing and inspiring in the work of groups like Genesis, Yes and, yes, Rush).
These are elements in how it works, but what does it do, exactly? It tells the story of a woman in a city, getting from situation to situation and from one emotional state and experience via the underground, which in the songs is both a physical conveyance and a way of thinking and feeling, of digging in and tunneling through out to the other side and, in this case, a sense of life. There is, like in Mahler and many classical song-cycles, a deliberate beginning in darkness and a gradual, complex, movement to some sense of light and reconciliation. While the Genesis tune serves as a send-them-out-the-doors epilogue, Neuburg’s lyrics begin in the tub, with the troubles of a performer (a self-referential quality that is cabaret at its best), take us into the subway, into emotional turmoil and conflict, and, finally, into a contemplation of the messes around and inside us that are an inevitable part of living. There are moments of circus humor and the best incorporation of ‘Chopsticks’ I’ve ever heard intended seriously – and yes, it works. As a whole, it’s an involving listen. Between the bookends, the songs will work to various degrees with various listeners; they have so much specific personality and don’t seek to please every imaginable listener, but they are all well-crafted. But this is not a record that one will sample, it’s one for listening all the way through, and that is a truly moving experience, the emotional and musical skein eliciting a plangent response right in the gut and a catch in the throat. The bookend songs, ‘One Lie’ and ‘Shrapnel,’ are dazzling, exquisite and powerful, and I predict they will be performed in front of well-dressed, smart, and vaguely, quietly lonely audiences in cabarets for years to come.
On September 15, you can buy “Ancient Star,” the debut recording from cellist-singer Jody Redhage and her ensemble Fire In July. Her synthesis of classical, jazz, rock and pop is much more in the chamber music vein, with a heavy emphasize on jazz and improvisation. Her excellent band features clarinet, trumpet, trombone, vibes, guitar, piano, bass, drums and percussion. While Neuburg is a dramatic, forceful singer able to move through different characterizations, Redhage’s pure-toned soprano is in the style of contemporary Medieval-Renaissance vocal performance practice. Her music has different ideas about composition, style and performance, it’s a step away from the personal drama of cabaret towards the slightly more abstract sense of individual pieces and songs, a concert rather than a salon performance. It covers a broader stylistic range as well; it’s made with more of a classical sensibility, and juxtaposes sections, placing Medieval monophony against a march, a shuffle beat against a Dixieland idea of group improvisation. Her lyrical material is an opportunity mainly to use her voice as an additional instrument and color in full-spectrum textures. Along with her own songs, she sets four William Carlos Williams poems, with varying results; ‘Ancient Star’ supports the text with a graceful groove and soaring melody, while the well-known ‘This Is Just to Say,’ is a perhaps deliberately awkward exercise in scanning, it stands out for taking the wrong lessons from Charles Ives’ songs because so much else of the record flows both vocally and instrumentally. The pieces structure pop grooves with the techniques of classical chamber music (more prog-rock) legacy, and the band handles that juxtaposition with aplomb, firm in the rhythm, transparent in the interplay and maintaining a supple line.
Her setting of Williams’ ‘The Boticellian Trees’ would fit on the program of any contemporary music recital, and is played with that stylistic understanding and sympathy. The band lays down a bass-line that would not be out of place on a Rush record on ‘Elevation,’ and plays a supple tango on ‘I Wonder Why.’ As an ensemble, they develop quite a lot of musical and emotional power, and there are real standout passages, especially an excellent vibes solo from Tim Collins on the concluding ‘Greenpoint Slide,’ and the entire ensemble on ‘Rum Point.’ They groove, rock, sing and shout. The general flaw is some stiffness in the leader; her singing is at times still caught in a classical conception of phrasing and rhythm, when the music she is making clearly calls for something else. But “Ancient Star” is a real accomplishment, refreshing and enjoyable, music that is exploring and pioneering a new style and doing so with real thought and skill.
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