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Opening Statement |
Program Notes An die Nachgeborenen (3) (1995) for chamber ensemble Bertolt Brecht's text An die Nachgeborenen (3) (To those born after) elicits images of shame, weakness and failure, reflection with a plea for patience, and hope. In one respect, the poem is a damning socio-political criticism (the more remarkable when considering its pre-W.W.II publication), on the other, it evokes the firm conviction, not just the possibility, that one day man will help his fellow man. The musical setting involves an unusual ensemble (three trombones, three oboes, violin, viola, cello, and low voice) that seeks to address, impress, and explore the poignant emotions and sentiments of the text. The interaction between the instruments and the vocal part resist any soloist-accompaniment relationship (the 2nd oboe is as much a soloists as the 3rd trombone, the viola, or the voice). Verses 1 and 4, set lyrically and in long, winding melismatic lines flank the more syllabic, declamatory, and secco presentation of the interior verses. These poetic passages unfold within a tight formal process organized by the interrelation of distinct rhythmic modes, phrase patterns, ratios and proportions, harmonic "triangular" sets, as well as timbral and textural saturation and thinning. In An die Nachgeborenen, the voice of the Holy Fool is ever-present: the mouse that dares speak the truth in the mouth of the lion - even when not in exile.
At the still point of
the turning World (2001-2002)
In these lines from the first of his Four Quartets, T. S. Eliot speculates on time and existence through the movement towards/around/away from the still point. This point is a perceived moment in time, and echo of choice, the one end that is itself timeless. Choice naturally harbors opposition; the road taken acknowledges the road not taken. Once on the former, frequent self-similarities (of expression, reflection, events, experiences, etc...) emerge on the way. I came to associate circularity (around the still point), opposition, and self-similarity with "[t]he still point of the turning world." As I set the words, one per stand, in an octagonal arrangement at
[I] I realized that any word could be the beginning or the end.: e.g. world at the still point of the turning or of the turning world at the still point From this rotational conception I derived structural possibilities (based on circularity, opposition, and self-similarity) in which words could even appear repeatedly during the course of the given realization: e.g. the turning world at the still point of world at the still For each given performance, the performer is free to choose the beginning stand which will provide him with certain possibilities of the order of musical events (order and direction of stands). Moreover, the player pre-selects the musical segments to be performed from the octagonal arrangement on each stand. Hence, the myriad of possible structural pathways set up on the work's architectural designs are near endless - as such, the duration of the piece is anywhere between 12 and 50 minutes. Each stand has a specific musical profile directly inspired by the corresponding word of the text (at, the, and of are more neutral reflections). The numerous timbres, playing techniques, gestures, and ideas reflect not only the 1) contrasts between octagonally related and poetically contrasting words (still-turning; point-world), 2) both direct and close self-similarity between words (the-the; at-of), but also the 3) range of poetic allusions inherent in each word. Central to these musico-poetic profiles are the musical intimations of Eliot's textual opposites (still-turning) on a temporal level. The music constantly fluctuates between movement and rest, sonic activity and inactivity, hesitation and impulse. Within the musical fabrics turning world, the numerous rests emerge as delicately sprinkled still points. Furthermore, on a larger temporal scale, each stand has a metronomic still point (e.g. stand I tempo 90; stand II tempo 72; stand VII tempo 54, etc...) towards which the octagonal segments either move or recede from (both regularly and irregularly), or establish fixed momentary temporal relationships (e.g. quarter note = x = M.M. within acc. from 36-54). The motion of segments around the local metronimic still points of each stand finds a broadened self-similar correlation in the octagonal tempo arrangements of the stands themselves around the cellist. It would seem then that the performer, surrounded by 8 stands, who in performance navigates around/towards still point(s), himself becomes the music's visual still point as long as he does not change positions. But he does, and his rotations set up ever new relationships (musical, dramatic, and visual) amongst himself, the material on the stands, and the stationary audience... In the work, every pitched and non-pitched sonority helps serve and preserve a dramatic equilibrium that is essentially non-teleological. The individual events, suspended in carefully delineated registral spaces in which silence absorbs each point, line, and gesture, exist in what may best be described metaphorically as states-of-being, not becoming. Hence there is no one beginning nor one ending, no singular past linearly processing the future. Rather, the segments hover in present states-of-being, nows. A sound is the present made audible; silence is both the memory of a now and the anticipation of the next present.
Concerto Concertante per Sei Instrumenti (1998-99)
Two Seraphims cry out to each other: "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts" (Isaiah 6:3). To me, this heraldic and awesome image of two magnificent, fiery, winged Angels is both a most grand and most intimate poetic revelation. In his 1610 Vespers, Monteverdi famously sets this passage in Duo Seraphim, a concerto for few voices. Nearly four centuries later, Isaiah 6:3 embodies both the inspirational and essential and essential propelling force behind my Concerto Concertante, a work that includes giving homage in title and spirit to two divinely inspired artistic heralds: Monteverdi and Raphael. Monteverdi's Seraphims' vocal concerto is but one of several concerto ensembles employed in the sixteenth century and most of the seventeenth. As used in the early and mid-Baroque, a concerto refers to a group of various instruments or voices or both. My work's title uses this original meaning - the more modern soloistic connotations and implications (as evident in the piece) are suggested by the 'concertante' designation. The image of two Seraphims emerges not only in the Concerto Concertante's 3-movement structure where two large movements flank a brief, connecting Interludium, but also in the specific musical design of the opening Duo Seraphim: Two overlapping Fibonacci series articulate key musical points as well as larger musical sections (planes) that intersect shortly before the end of the movement and lead to a final, virtuostic flurry. The Omaggio a Raphael considers and takes inspiration from the native of Urbino's mastery of dramatic equilibrium and exchanges. Energy couple with restlessness abound in his 'classic' figures, forms, and compositions (e.g. angels, characters from Scripture, scenes from antiquity). Whether overt or latent, vitality and intensity are central to the movements and rhythms springing from his canvasses. Similarly in the Omaggio, a 'classic' Rondo/variation form with a chorale ritornello dramatically exchanges free and fluid with vigorous and even violent gestures. Calm and stillness and vigor and animation go hand-in-hand; they constantly counterbalance each other in a movement of energy that is restless at its core. The Omaggio is both general and specific. Raphael's Transfiguration looms large in this movement: the conflict and counterpoint of colors, the simultaneous juxtaposition and isolation of registers, suspensions. Lastly there is that high thread heard in a solitary violin, that seemingly untouchable and undisturbed line that is to the musical texture what Christ is to the apostles and the possessed child...
...de la mas sabrosa y agradable vida... (2003) for orchestra 'God forgive you, friends, for taking me away de la mas sabroso y agradable vida' ("from the most delicious and delightful life") - these are the first words Don Quixote utters after emerging from the Cave of Montesinos. Submerged in this cavern of wonders, literally a subterranean Mountain of Destiny, Don Quixote falls into a time lapse of a half hour that lasts five hundred years. Here he beholds visions of all that he impractically quests for and seeks to uphold. In a sumptuous castle of clearest crystal he encounters things and personages worthy of his archetypal idealism: countless marvels, a death-stricken, afflicted knight, courageous and noble, mourned over by the latter's loyal, beautiful beloved, as well as the his own matchless, peerless Dulcinella. The work ... de la mas sabrosa y agradable vida... is not program music; it neither attempts nor desires a programmatic rendering of Cervantes' passages. Instead, I am drawn to the rapture and vibrancy of the Don's revelatory phrase. Thus, on the one hand, I envisioned a music that is full of ebullience, a music that scintillates and revels in its own dance. On the other hand, there is also music that emerges as a shade in this brightness, a current of uneasiness that surfaces and checks the exuberance. For indeed, upon deeper reflection, there is something disquieting about this whole affair: Here is a madman living in a fabricated reality who descends into a real hole in the ground on the plains of La Mancha, where, in a dreamstate, he beholds his beloved Dulcinella, herself a product of Sancho Panza's lie. Then, in the ultimate coup-de-theatre, the entire episode is retracted as a non-truth by none other than the Don himself, sane and dying, at the end of the tale. These numerous, parallel contradictions resound in music that may not only appear cautious, unsettled and perhaps even somewhat uncertain as the the genuineness of the overall gleam, but also wistful and full of longing. Yet towards what is this yearning directed? The truth of the affair? True untainted exuberance? Both? Or perhaps the musical exuberance, reflection, disquietude, and wistfulness in and of themselves are behind the truth of a most delicious and delightful life and need no further explanation. Don Quixote himself, sane or insane, reminds us that truth admits neither reply nor argument: "cuya verdad ni admite replica ni disputa." I am deeply grateful to Max Hobart and the Civic Symphony Orchestra of Boston for bringing this music to life - and to my wife Basia, to whom this work is dedicated, all my love in this most delicious and delightful life. RYG
Glocken-Spiel (2004) Perhaps there is no clearer description that better illustrates and captures the essence of the brazen call of the bell than Schiller's words that preface his Lied von der Glocke: "Vivos voco mortuos plango". I am not only drawn to the powerful symbolism behind the bell tone, an anchor of constancy and regularity amidst uncertainty and inconsistency, but also the enormous range of associative antipodes. The same bell calls the living and laments the dead, calls for solemnity and celebration, summons restraint and proclaims exuberance. We give different meanings to the same sound. As such, metaphorically, the unwavering, steadfast bell toll encompasses the swinging pendulum of experiences. In Glocken-Spiel, for piano quartet, the concept of associative antipodes springing from the same source transfers to all significant structural levels of the composition. The violin and viola, grouped together, are critically set against and apart from the cello. This division into upper and lower strings is highlighted through registration, material, and argument. Despite their antipodal relationships, the music for the strings is set in motion from an unassuming, quasi basso ostinato motivic figure in the piano. During the work's unfolding, the more independent cello part transforms not only into the luminous overtones produced by the piano, but also, by joining the violin and viola, registrally shifts and dramatically reinterprets the basic basso ostinato motive. Thus, much like the numerous meanings, range of experiences and associations signaled by the bell toll, Glocken-Spiel changes the meaning of its fundamental material during its course. By the end, the pendulum has swung from one end to the other.
Ich schreite kaum... (2007) Immediately preceding the "Transformation Music" in Act I of Wagner's Parsifal, the hero and the Grail knight Gurnemanz engage in a most cryptic exchange: Parsifal: Scarce have
I moved a pace, [ich schreite kaum] Gurnemanz: See, my
son, This metaphysical concept suggests the elusive interaction of movement and stasis: time (linearity/a state of becoming) convenes with space (nonlinearity/a state of being). I am intrigued that distance is seemingly measured in a nonteleologic space where time is virtually subsumed into a timeless dimension; so intrigued, in fact, that in such a dimension I believe the opposite of Parsifal's statement to be true as well: Parsifal: Many steps
(from the German Schritte and schreiten) In this work, this state of becoming convening with a state of being is reflected in the unfolding of the two ever-present, delicately unobtrusive and understated concertante parts: there is, in fact, only one fundamental line that becomes two when it is set in invertible counterpoint against itself. Together, these parts form a musical backbone unfolding as three isorhythmic canonic cancrizans that, theoretically at least, are and move in an ad infinitum state of being. Due to the structural musical circularity of the concertante parts, the "musical" steps taken on this aural Möbius Strip seem to "borrow" from music already heard or destined to be heard in the other part. Such "borrowing" of material informs both micro and macro levels of Ich schreite kaum. 'Parody' technique is central in articulating the architectural design of the work as the concertante line(s) played throughout serve(s) as the pre-existing composite melody that forms the basis for subsequent sections. The underlying 'chant' melody, first heard in conjunction with a fundamental chordal progression from which it and all proportional, rhythmic, melodic and harmonic relationships are derived, unfolds by itself in an extended passage. Thereafter it is orchestrated, mostly maintaining its two-voice texture, becoming a timbral 'motet' of a most delicate fabric. This 'motet', in turn, along with the constantly unfolding concertante part(s), then serves as the substance for the six-sectioned 'Mass': principle contrapuntal motifs are drawn from a textural ritornello that prefigures each section in which textures range from two to eight voices. Ich schreite kaum seeks to make quietude audible and consistently demands extremely soft dynamic markings where the musical steps taken frequently border on the inaudible. In search of this space I am reminded of the last line of Jorge Luis Borges' Boast of Quietness: "I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect [hope] to arrive."
Kinderkreuzzug Cantata (2005) In the years following his 1933 escape from Nazi Germany Bertolt Brecht penned some of his most extraordinary and grim anti-war poetry. This bitter, anti-war literary crusade finds one of its most poignant expressions in a ballad that springboards with dramatic precision from reality to allegory and parables. The Kinderkreuzzug consists of 35 4-line stanzas. Brecht's simple and direct tone betrays a lyric force and beauty that stems from and unfolds in an unadorned and episodic story-telling style that is never sentimental or callous. Kinderkreuzzug is a dramatic cantata for children's voices and small chamber ensemble including clarinet, string trio (vln, vla, vc), church hand bells, and organ. The story is simple: in 1939, fifty war-orphaned children embark from Poland in search of a land of peace... Brecht's socio-political commentary is as relevant and necessary today as when it was first published in 1941. There is nothing new in the deprivation, want, suffering, and death Brecht profiles. Nor is there any redemptive moral hidden in the lost innocence, dogged hope, and simple sincerity of this little band of children. They are neither martyrs nor goodwill heralds, but simply orphans who are hungry and tired. Their plight and wretchedness is actually quite unremarkable and all too familiar tale in that each generation from time past to time present bears witness to such pitiful crusades. Even hope has become ordinary. In fact the only extraordinary outcome would be for these children to actually find a land of peace. Probable? I feel utterly compelled to write this music. Brecht's children still walk and suffer in our collective conscience. Although my music may not give bread, it just may harbor their hope, and ours, for the extraordinary.
Mysterium doloris quintae (1996-97) for solo piano
The mystery of the fifth sorrow is the crucifixion and death of Jesus Christ on the cross. The figural image of a cross emerges as the music unfolds. This cross is the cross of tropes: Quotations from Bach, Mozart, and the songs of children from around the world. The quotations, arranged, juxtaposed, and superimposed on each other, come from and recede into sections of originally composed music. In order to focus an aural space into a figural image, the cross is suspended between temporally equidistant piano recitations of an Ave Maria plainchant melody. The division of this text into ten phrases represents the ten repetitions of the entire prayer as it appears in the Rosary. The work's inception is a line from the Gospel according to St. Matthew: "But Jesus said, 'Let the children come to me, and don't prevent them. For such is the kingdom of heaven'". (Matthew 19:14)
Sinfonietta (1994) for chamber orchestra
The centerpiece of the main altar in St. Mary's church, Krakow, is both singular and extraordinary in respect to its design and portrayal. Scenes of Christ's life are arranged as sculptural tableaux on the front and back of two wooden side-panels that open and close. Once opened, they flank a central image that depicts the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. The dramatic novelty of Wit Stwosz' (1445-1533) centerpiece lies in the simultaneous focus on both Christ and the Madonna. Yet within this equal presentation, there is a clear focal progression from one to the other: the animation vitality, and dramatic rhythm set in motion individually and collectively in the scenes on the movable side-panels lead to a flow of energy that, although not static, revolves within the single, spiritually focused event/portrayal of Mary's Assumption. Balance and direction are key to the dramatic design. Thought and panels' combined dimensions equal the dimension of the central scene, the door-like (opening into) construction and the shift from eighteen events to one highlight and accentuate the clear forward/inward directional movement. This structural and symbolic image may help explain the close and tender relationship between the two movements of my Sinfonietta for chamber orchestra: the association is suggestive: "side-panel(s)" (1st movement) lead to the central scene (2nd movement). The ABA' form of the opening movement indicates a most obvious, basic notion: departure from-arrival at-return to. Essential to this linear process are elements of opposition and repetition. Opposition occurs on interacting technical, expressive, and stylistic structural levels. This, for example, the juxtaposition of solo vs. tutti (or groups of soli) not only reflect rather obvious oppositions of instrumentation, but also of the musical material directly shaped and defined by specific orchestral timbres. Key to the work's unfolding processes are the distributions and redistributions, associations and reassociations of musical material along harmonic, rhythmic, temporal, textural, and gestural considerations. Large-scale processes and local episodes are defined as much by repetition as by opposition. The central B section unveils a three-tiered musical continuum: a harmonic ostinato provides the base for a so-called "white" theme, a theme that continues to unfold while simultaneously giving rise to five variations that "colour" it. It is predominantly this central B section that looks beyond itself, that emotionally arches forward and joins with the In Memoriam second movement. Even the solo viola passages from this B section is carried forth - only the colour of the solo changes, from a quasi una viol to a cello. This voice sings and laments, cries out and somehow weaves itself through the rounded structure until joining the full orchestra on a broad and climatic dramatic summit. Much like the forward-looking central section in the first movement, the view from this peak is not solely fixed on its own dramatic arrival; it looks out towards a second, but contrastingly, most introspective climax. In fact, the duality of the emotional content and intent that reflects the relationship between these two climatic plateaus echoes the larger relationship between the movements themselves: vibrant vs. reflective, charged dynamism vs. meditative, extrovert vs. intimate, 'side-panel(s)' vs. the central scene.
Sonata-Mazur (2001) for violin and piano
As the title suggests, my Sonata-Mazur for piano and violin brings together two forms whose structural and poetic interrelationship is centrally motivated by the subtext "Aus der Ferne..." (from a distance...) Fundamentally, my Sonata is a musical vehicle that in some fashion irons out and reconciles its oppositional kinks. How, to what extent, and why, depends on the nature, breadth, depth, and psychology of the material. Crucial to the Sonata's dramatic unfolding are not only the ideas and gestures in and of themselves, but their frequent and frequently altered emergence, submergence, and reemergence in the musical fabric as perceived through time and distance. On one level, these temporal perceptions - time and distance - suggest literal time, i.e. the time the music takes; on another they stress the time (and distance) the music evokes. While the Sonata unfolds on both these fundamental and interactive levels, the latter emerges as one of the central ingredients to the work's dramatic conception and meaning. Formally, the structural elements of the Mazurka and Sonata constantly interact and are juxtaposed in a charged dynamic that ultimately lead to an architectural intersection, perhaps even coalescing, of both forms in the dual rold of a coda/trio. At the same time, these formal unfoldings make sense of and are given sense by the poetics of the form, i.e. the poetic implications set forth by the different materials (harmonic, rhythmic, textural, etc...) contained within each. Hence, for example, when musical elements of the Mazurka return at various points and stages in the piece, we not only witness a return of previously heard material, but perceptually engage in a variety of distances, literal 'clock-time' being merely the most obvious but dramatically least revealing. Most essentially, the musical 'distance' (i.e. the differences in musical style and fabric) between the Mazurka and its Sonata surroundings evokes 'distant' poetic landscapes. Along with the Polonaise, the Mazurka figures centrally as one of Poland's most idiomatic dances that, ever since Chopin's nineteenth century stylizations, captures, resounds in, and espouses the poetry of a national identity. Writing a Mazurka draws me into a landscape colored as much by longing, nostalgia, and quiet agitation as by sentiments of repose and reflection. (If you look closely, this landscape is even visited by a Schubert Laendler-like trio). Thus, by combining a Sonata and Mazurka into a Sonata-Mazur, I do not merely engage different forms in some architectural fancy, but seek to freshly elaborate upon those issues at the heart of the Sonata style, opposition and resolution/reconciliation, through a spirit that recalls Caspar David Friedrich's painting Wanderer over the Mist. The wanderer, his back turned towards us, looks out upon a great, natural, quintessentially romantic landscape vista. His wandering has led him to behold a new horizon. We share his new view but also, by virtue of being behind him, stand in his old horizon. I invite you, the listener, to be the musical voyeur who not only journeys towards new and distant horizons, but also turns around and looks back at those distant horizons now behind you.
Streichquartett (1990-92)
This highly charged, expressionistic work exhibits music of lyric and force of velvet and sandpaper. The long and intense opening viola solo encapsulates the shape of the dense and rich contrapuntal music to come. The arch-like melody which punctuates the formal process with dramatic recurrences betrays the dramatic progression of the entire movement: increasing tension stems from distinct motives that are continuously set against each other. Temperamental clashing, juxtaposition and development lead to a climatic point of arrival highlighted by a 4-octave unison passage that culminates in an extended presentation of a charged ensemble figure first heard directly after the opening viola solo. The subsequent descending slope of the formal arch exhibits a concentrated recalling of material: principle motives weave around the now fragmented (in phrases and different instruments) solo line in music that is both serene and exhausted. Delicate timbres and hushed sonorities impress a veiled, even exotic, quality on the Largo 'Nachtmusik'. Recitative-like solos emerge from and lead into more sostenuto and dramatically deliberate two to four voice passages. These solos may be said to symbolically represent individual awakenings; a complementary harmonic process occurs in the gradual expansion from tertiary to quartal-based harmonic structures. The rather virtuostic opening tempo giusto of the Allegro molto prepares for an expansive double fugue distinguished by both the nature and presentation of its two subjects. The first and principle subject, silence, is made to 'sound' in various expositions. At the climax of the central episode, a second fugue is introduced in retrograde. This procedure applies quite literally to both the subject and formal evolution of the fugue itself: a climatic stretto of the second subject moves 'backwards' through various expositions and episodes 'culminating'/ending with a single-voice presentation of the subject. In the meantime, the fugue on 'silence' counterpoints with the second fugue. As the former expands and climaxes in stretto, the latter contracts - the work ends in structurally logical and dramatically motivated silence.
Treny (1993) for Baritone and Piano
The Polish Renaissance poet Jan Kochanowski wrote 19 laments after the death of his three year old daughter Ursula. These threnodies (Treny) evoke images of classical antiquity as well as embody a wholesome ideal of life in the spirit of touching humanism. The conflict between Christian humanism and pagan wisdom pervades the cycle as the father searches for reason and consolance from his grief. Laments I, II, III, and V constitute the song-cycle.
Trio for Violin, Cello and Piano (1993)
The interaction of clearly defined rhythmic, melodic and phrase/periodic contours are central to the Trio's translucent textures. A dance-like first movement, both witty and playful, engages the instruments in delicate motivic exchanges and conversations. The gentle Arietta, a lullaby for my first-born child, leads attacca to an introspective and reflective Andante. This sentimental movement unfolds through moments of utmost cantabile to passages of pressing urgency and reflection. The psychological pairing of the interior movements complements the close relationship of the outer two. The wit of the allegro turns into a spirited presto that couples instrumental virtuosity with an unrestrained exuberence. At its peak, a central motive from the Allegro returns and musically 'binds' movements I and IV together - a brilliant coda provides the final flurry.
Zrodlo (2004) Zrodlo (The Source) was commissioned in Fall 2004 by the Moniuszko Musical Society for the 25th anniversary of the visit of Pope John Paul II to Boston and the United States. I deeply regret that this musical offering will not reach his eyes and ears, yet I find consolation knowing that he is now at, in, with the Source that beckons each one of us. The pure, innocuous stream endlessly waters the sea of humanity, always and unfailingly bearing witness to our lives - it becomes our task to bear witness in return. I am thankful for and find encouragement in that comforting phrase so central to his apostleship: "Do not be afraid". Do not be afraid to trip and stumble, over and over and over again, in search of the source - nor be afraid to find it. The music reflects the poem's various psychological landscapes. Delicate string chords first heard in the opening return repeatedly as points of reflection and quietude. These hushed moments alternate with passages of hesitation, conviction, and a questioning that becomes increasingly deliberate, urgent, and demanding. "Gdzie jestes, zrodlo?!", set to a recurring musical motto heard first in the opening measures, turns from a searching plea to a dramatic outcry. Towards the end, the chorus and soloist intone the questioning motto one last time, however to words that seem less demonstrative. Rather, the closing music and last lines of the poem suggest a reverence that perhaps, in order to truly find the answer to "Gdzie jestes zrodlo?" involves a serenity shaped and acquired by the presence of grace. In deep humility I dedicate Zrodlo to the Holy Father Karol Woytyla, John Paul the Great.
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