Steve Reich and Ann Teresa de Keersmaeker

A great many things fascinate me about art, but process is probably the most enthralling of all. Musical process has created some of the most astounding works to ever impact my life, be it Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten, In the White Silence, or Larry Polansky’s 4-voice Canons. These pieces set out a trajectory somehow linked intrinsically or organically born from the material used, and yet the process never sound arbitrarily chosen. There is a link between crafting perfect materials, which will be constantly exposed and must possess a depth that allows them to endure repetition, and distilling the proper rules and formal desires from them. To me, when I deal with it, if you feel like you’re choosing, you’d best throw the piece away.

Earlier this week, my student brought me a video that made me appreciate this in a new way- the choreography of Ann Teresa de Keersmaeker, a Belgian choreographer who brought me a great deal of joy in her interpretations of Steve Reich’s phase pieces:

Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker – Fase 1/5 (music Steve Reich)

The concept is simple- Piano Phase is made of two pianists, one keeping a perfectly steady tempo while the second very gradually speeds up, getting out of sync and locking in again one note out of time, then repeating this to create an array of inherent patterns. De Keersmaeker sets this with two dancers and two lights on them at diagonals, such that each casts two shadows, and one set of these shadows overlaps. Then, as the patterns phase, so do the dancers. Not literally, of course- they have an element of freedom that separates them from simply being musical entities. However, these tiny moments are made apparent by the two inner shadows, which oscillate from depicting one solid, unified shadow, and two fuzzier shadows nearly lined up but not. As their motions deteriorate with the music, so do the shadows. There’s something about this that just feels natural, and now I almost find that Piano Phase is naked without this video.

of Clocks

It’s time for this blog to get a lot more low-brow. Let’s go video games like nobody’s business.

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The Clock Tower from Zelda: Majora's Mask

Here at Oberlin, like other liberal arts colleges, we have a winter recession where we’re encouraged to try something new rather than watch a lot of TV during January. I’m through with all of my projects (gamelan, composition, and a brief foray into the world of viol de gamba), but part of me still wants to try something new. I’m going to be teaching some gambang and ciblon drumming and working, but ultimately I wish I could create a version of the above clock.

I’ve been a fan of the Legend of Zelda video games since I can remember, and nearly a decade ago I became a fan of the above clock. The entire game is about counting down until the end of the world, and the game developers were clever enough to create an alternate style of timekeeping to reflect this. The entire clock is read from the top, with the outermost ring representing minutes and the inner circle representing hours. As a minute elapses, the outermost ring rotates clockwise, as does the inner ring on the hour. The result is that time is read counterclockwise- 11:05 is essentially represented as “55 minutes until 12″ giving a subtle layer of stress as the world approaches its end. On an artistic level, a circle is cut out of the center rotating face, revealing a moon at night and a sun at day (though in practicality, it would have to reveal a moon at 12am/12pm and a sun at 6am/6pm).

I have negligible woodworking skills, unfortunately, but wish I could somehow make a wooden clock that did exactly this. For winter term I might try my hand with a few friends, but until then I’ll keep daydreaming about it.

An Anecdote in Old-School Pedagogy?

After 430 days without calculus IA (which I loved, as my GPA reflected), I went to apply for IB today. I openly admit that I’ve done very little save for this week in using calculus in my life. It simply hasn’t appeared in the realms of algorithmic design, theory of computer science, and discrete math, and of course not in gamelan. I remembered the chain rule for the most part, most common derivatives ^[] brushed up on optimization and related rates, sketching graphs from derivatives, anti-derivatives, indeterminate forms, implicit differentiation, and so on. I’d been told to expect related rates, derivatives of varying types, and graphs of various functions.

The actual test was one problem, finding f’ when f(x)=x(sin(root(x)). Which was great, except it took me a second to remember root(x)=x^.5, and I made a careless error- accidentally writing an “x” in lieu of writing a “root (x)” in my final answer. Yet, after I had simplified it all, my prospective teacher appeared a little bothered. Having given d/dx(root(x)) to be (1/2(rootx)), it was awkward to be lectured on how to find that d/dx(root(x)) to be (1/2(rootx)) and how everything I had explained actually worked. Regardless, I was pleased, and eager to show anything else or dive further into the material. The teacher’s diagnosis, however, was different: I would be allowed to take the course, but they heavily expected me to need a tutor as of day one in order to pass. I’ve dealt with integration a little on my own, and I know that if I need a great deal of help with them, then the class will be in the same situation.

This didn’t bother me a ton, but made me reflect on how long it’s been since I’ve had a teacher emphasize Knowledge and Comprehension over Analysis and Synthesis. I was attracted to Computer Science because it returned me to an upper tier of Bloom’s Taxonomy:

Lower-Level Learning: Knowledge —> Comprehension —> Application
Upper-Level Learning: Analysis —> Synthesis —> Evaluation

I don’t disagree that memorization and recitation is, on a basic level, integral to the understanding of concepts. However, I am opposed to the opinion that if analysis, synthesis, and evaluation take place regularly, but knowledge temporarily suffers as a result, that the overall level of understanding suffers a great deal. Beginning memorization through application allows for the entryway into a field, but it is ultimately when the student sees the first three categories as tools used in the upper three that true, visceral learning takes place. And to me, evaluation is the learning style that takes place most outside of the classroom. It’s not just defending or rejecting an idea- it’s the muddy, intangible way that we as scholars attempt to connect everything around us. Forgive the bad example, but it’s John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, seeing the overlapping structures of the light’s reflection in a punch bowl and an ugly tie. It’s my quiet fascination with the overlap of approaches in conceptualizing contemporary music and contemporary art.  Ultimately, that’s what the allure in teaching is to me- opening up this experience to others while continuing it yourself.

^[]
(e^(csc^2(tan(1/x^.5)))? No thanks. x^2*(sin(tan(3x^3-2x^2+x)))? Surprisingly enough, sure.

Apa Kébar

Last week was midterms, and I was heavily contemplating what material to introduce to my gamelan exco [a student taught extra-curricular course] to avoid stressing everyone out. I didn’t expect everyone to show up (and rightfully so, as three people did not attend), but I did want to try something atypical sounding to try to wake people up and make the class somewhat more enjoyable than average. So we tried our first kébar section!

Pardon the pun, but apa kébar? What is this “kébar” you speak of? A kébar section, according to Richard Pickvance, is:

1. a lively style of garap used in iråmå tanggung (or iråmå dados but with a double-density balungan), involving ciblonan, imbal bonang, extra kempul strokes, and keplok.

What does this mean exactly, for the lay listener? The speed of the piece will slow down just barely, to allow for more rhythmic and intricate dance drumming while the bonang alternate between interlocking parts and sekeran, or flourishes (literally “flowers”) towards seleh (“goal”) tones. The kempul, a hanging gong, now plays more actively and no longer only on strong beats, and all singers begin interlocking clapping that work with the other changes to make kébar sound quite lively.

This is great, except that we’re playing Ladrang Gajahendra. Which, to my meager knowledge, doesn’t actually involve the kébar treatment. It was a brief dilemma, but the allure of teaching imbal was too great, and I flew towards the sun. As long as I am transparent in my intentions, I figure it will be alright. I want to introduce my students to the Ladrang form. I want to introduce them to kébar style, as they will become comfortable with following ciblon drumming, listening to imbal-style bonang, and learn a new way to negotiate iråmå changes. I briefly considered Ladrang Pangkur, but Pangkur itself is such a large piece, and knowing that we will not reach iråmå wilet at all, I prefered a simple ompak/ngelik like Gajahendra.

Things went great. We also worked on Lancaran Parisuka, but that is a completely different story. All of this begged the question: why is this group learning so quickly? I have no problem with it- in fact, if anything, it’s wonderful. The group is in no way clean, as we’ve been dealing with different concepts each rehearsal, and we’re not exactly refined as we use the most basic patterns and sekaran, but concepts like iråmå are not so difficult. I think part of this is the group, but another part is that I try to avoid prefacing concepts by describing them as difficult. We’ve found it is best to teach bonang without any notation beyond the balungan. While it is nice to know how bonang barung and panerus relate visually, listening and replicating seems to endow the most confidence in the players. Sekaran are friendly to teach as well, as there are often simple sekaran that lead to more complex patterns. For example:

Sekaran 2:
6  3  6  1      2  1  6  2
6  3  6  1      21  6  1  2
6  3  6  1      21 65 32 2

It’s all very exciting to watch the group progress. Next week we finally tackle the change from iråmå tanggung to dadi and back. If we can handle iråmå lancar to tanggung, tanggung to lancar, and the transition to kébar, then this should only be…a little tricky. But fluency is for the next half of the semester, and until then, it’s time to enjoy my fall break.

Lancaran Terkam, or How to Write a Gamelan Piece

With the freedom one finds only on three day weekends here at Oberlin, I spent part of my afternoon not sunbathing, but in the basement of Asia House, with the gamelan. It was nice to practice gambang, but it was nicer still to sit in front of a saron and really work on a piece I’ve been wanting to write for a while. Beyond a piece I wrote for class, I’ve always been terrified of writing for gamelan- I neglected it, despite my deep desire to compose for the ensemble, because I never felt I would be able to do justice to the tradition well enough. While I am very much a boléh, and will forever be one, I wanted my first real approach to writing a gendhing to be one that didn’t appropriate as much as extend.

The result of my work so far today is below:

Lancaran Terkam laras pelog pathet lima

- 4 – 2)          – 4 – 1)          – 4 – 2)          – 4 – (5)
- 4 – 2)          – 4 – 1)          – 4 – 2)          – 4 – (5)
- 6 – 5)          – 4 – 2)          – 4 – 3)          – 2 – (1) *=> at cue, to alternate (ciblon)
- 5 – 6)          – 4 – 5)          – 2 – 1)          – 2 – (5)

Ciblon (iråmå lancar):

- 4 1            – 4 1          – 4 2          4 5)
- 4 1            – 4 1          – 4 2          4 5)
- 4 1            – 4 1          4 2 –          2 4 5)
- 4 2 1         – 4 1          – 4 2 4      5 4 2 (1)

The first half is mostly traditional, to the point of me worrying I’d recalled some lancaran I once heard and wrote part of it. The final line includes a variation on the traditional “cadence” 5645 2165. The loud middle section, though, is suddenly twice as fast feeling, and in irregular groupings (11 + 11 + 12 + 15), bringing about feelings of some of the loud outbursts in wayang kulit, though in a less typical and much more kitsch way.

When approaching the idea of this draft, I had to ask myself what I thought quantified this as a contemporary work; clearly, the latter section has no groupings in multiples of four, and instead propels itself forward with mixed meter closer to Bulgarian music than Javanese. However, is writing a melody really enough? The answer is no. Along with conceiving the balungan and the melody it abstracts (which I deliberately do not write down, but seek to explore), I am creating an alternative slenthem part (an even more abstract balungan, playing – - – 2) – - – 1) – - – 2) – - – (2) in the first line, for example), a vocal part, rules for the garap of the bonang, substitutions for the peking part in the latter section, and schema for the kendeng.

Yet, writing these parts myself feels like stealing, and there has to constantly be a dialogue with traditional patterns and roles of these instruments. This process feels to me much more like a detailed translation; the tradition of karawitan does not fit the sound I desire to hear, but through a careful study, we can make small changes that preserve both parties. It feels like a compositional approach more similar to Jody Diamond’s works for gamelan than for Evan Ziporyn or Lou Harrison’s works.

My plans from here? Expand the lancaran into a larger gendhing form, with a lancaran -> ladrang – > ketawang – > lancaran form similar to Gendhing Parisuka. I would like to expand the role of pathet, letting pelog lima (with it’s many fours) bleed into barang (with 7s instead of 1s), and even eventually crossing into a mixture of slendro and pelog that Hardjosoebroto called “pathet X”. I’d like to examine the role of irama and allow the lancaran multiple density levels, using balungan nibani (with pin, or rests), balungan mlaku (typical four note gåtrås), and double density balungan while developing the abstraction and letting the “ciblon” section inform the entire work.

Composition Lesson I

Today I had my first ever composition lesson…as a teacher instead of a student.

My taste in music, on some level, was close to hers; if I weren’t getting more and more tired with listening to contemporary classical music, we’d have been very similar to one another. It meant, of course, that I could recommend so many wonderful composers to her, from Louis Andriessen to John Luther Adams, and Arvo Pärt to Julia Wolfe. She is into forms she can grasp and are simple, though still able to convey more complicated textures through layering of different rhythms, etc. There’s simply too much music to offer up…and she has almost no experience in contemporary classical music.

Which scares me a little bit; in showing her music that she would like, I am opening a door into the greater contemporary community and giving her a few footholds to use in exploring on her own. However, it’s important that I get to show her other, unrelated sounds as well so that she doesn’t stay in her comfort zone simply because she hasn’t been exposed to other types of music. I did get to show the Berio Sequenza for Violin and that interested her as well, but that’s hardly an introduction to so much European music of today. And after Nono and Lachenmann, that’s hardly even an introduction to violin technique.

Without discussing her piece (I certainly know I wouldn’t want my works being mentioned by my teachers online!), I felt like it would be a good idea to get her to expand the way she thought about the materials and sections she writes. At the start of our lesson, she’d confessed that she wasn’t very good with transitioning or doing anything different once she’d set up a pattern; so, when I began to discuss what a particularly salient section of her piece might mean in the context of the whole, I hope that I was able to plant a seed of cognition into her composition process that she can cultivate at her own pace.

My hope was that by examining how one section influences sections that aren’t immediately adjacent, she will begin to question how sections overlap and relate, and eventually explore compositional transitions. To promote her experimentation with breaking free from patterns, I suggested looking at varying common threads through the entire piece and deciding which ones could be severed temporarily to bring attention to them upon return. To encourage her to explore large-scale forms she likes, I offered the suggestion of exploring a score of Dream in White on White. Hopefully the contrast of these activities will spur creative thoughts regarding what actually defines simplicity and complexity, without actually demarcating musical styles as simple or not.

I’m very nervous in general about this whole experience. I’ve had great teachers, who suggested things I would like not because I would like them, but because they related perfectly with a concept I was struggling to approach. I’ve had horrible teachers as well, who suggested music they found interesting and hoped I would adapt into my own works, but instead turned me away from music I needed to simply approach more gingerly on my own time.

It’s so strange, being in the position of power to introduce completely foreign sounds and concepts to a student, one-on-one. When I wrote up a sheet of some basics about violin techniques, I felt compelled to mention that things like harmonics, pizzicati, bow position, etc. aren’t things you should use without reason. I don’t want to introduce these things as either natural or artificial (pun intended), but as some of the many different flavors of violin for her to recognize when seen or heard, and then place in the greater scope of her own compositions. There are spectacular violin solos without a single extended technique, and there are others with only extended techniques.

Anyway, today was an eye-opener to the concept of opening (and closing) doors to students. It’s terrifying to think that in one lesson that she thought went very well, I’ve already exerted accidental influence. What do we as teachers need to do to curb this, when students approach us for recommendations and guidance, beyond mentioning that they should keep an open mind and decide on their own?