In
which the South Bank Centre treated us Minimalist music devotees to
two events within a week of each other, each with it's own focus...
REPEATING
PATTERNS
Subtitled
'The Start of Minimalism in the US', this London
Sinfonietta performance aimed to give us “an introduction to the
world of minimalism, tracing it's origins in 1960s New York loft
apartments and art galleries.” A self-description which however
enticing might even sell the show short, for while it stars veteran
New Yorkers Steve Reich and Philip Glass, it concludes where the
whole thing started - with 'In C' by Californian
Terry Riley. If Riley is the least-known here, this piece more than
any other could be described as the stem cell of Minimalism, the
breakthrough that made all subsequent developments possible. (Reich
even pitched in with it's first performance, back in '64.)
They're
right about the lofts, though. Back then these guys extemporised with
small groups of friends in whatever impromptu spaces they could find,
to audiences who occasionally made it into double figures. In a
recorded interview, Glass wryly commented on how in the early days
the New York critics simply wrote off not just them
but anything from Downtown New York. (He was told
“you have to draw the line somewhere. And we draw it at 34th
street.”) Nowadays Glass had composed operas and won Academy Awards
for his film scores, while Reich has a Pulitzer Prize for Music
sitting on his shelf.
Yet
while it's cool these guys finally overcame those cloth-eared critics
and hit the concert halls, it's sometimes overlooked this shift in
setting co-incided with a shift in the music. Performances grew to
larger ensembles, notation became tighter and non-instruments or
unorthodox sound sources were phased out. Were we
nomenclature-fixated folk, we could call this a shift from Early into
High Minimalism.
It's
as if the price of fame was to overlook the scene's lowly origins,
with these earlier pieces far less often performed. (Something
perhaps truer for Glass than for Reich. But notably the programme
from Reich's subsequent night spoke of him emerging “from the
early tape and phasing pieces to masterworks.”) It's as if we're
supposed to see them as experiments or try-outs, mere warm-ups for
the main act. So, while we're in the smallest venue the South Bank
Centre offers with an audience not a fraction of the size of the one
who showed up to see Reich himself the following week, it's
worthwhile to remember and celebrate this stuff.
Part
of the reason why it's sidelined is that, even more than High
Minimalism, it's music you have to see live – with every other
option a second-hand experience. That's partly because the
performance can have a ritual aspect, something we'll get onto
later. But there's also a more directly musical reason. Take Reich's
'It's Gonna Rain'; made from two phase-shifting
voice recordings, it may not seem a likely contender for the live
experience. Surely it will sound much the same as if you put the CD
on at home. Yet heard on the venue's vast PA instead of my reasonably
priced stereo, it became one of the highlights of the night. People
were nodding along to it as much as during any of the more obviously
musical pieces.
Part
of this response may be that the music bases itself on such... um...
basic sources. The opening piece, Glass'
'1+1' takes as it's instrumentation a guy thumping
a wooden desk. While in Reich's 'Pendulum Music'
microphones dangle over amps lying flat on the floor. The 'players'
simply give them a push, so they feed back as they pass over the
amps, then calmly walk off stage and let it happen.
Yet,
while the after-show talk described these pieces as
Fluxus-influenced, they're not really provocations or anti-art
stunts. (In the manner of, for example, Christian Marclay's
'Guitar Drag' in which an electric guitar was
dragged behind a lorry.) In Glass' piece, for example, as the
player's hands slip in and out of sync with one another, the
surprising thing is how quickly it becomes musical.
It becomes almost like a magic trick. As the sparse equipment comes
on stage you note there's nothing up their left sleeve, nothing up
their right - then the show begins.
For
Reich's 'Violin Phase,' in which a violinist plays
against a tape recording, they'd gone to the lengths of hiring an
old-style back-in-the-day reel-to-reel recorder - when they probably
could have done the whole thing just by plugging in a laptop. But
it's such a striking image it makes it worth the effort. Minimalism
tended to use the standard instruments of classical music, not the
synthesized hums of Stockhausen or the pumped-up electrification of
rock.
I've
argued before the effects of Minimalism aren't simplistic,
even if the component lines can be. It's perhaps important to
describe just how the lines combine. They might
seem another example of counterpoint, of course a longstanding staple
in music. But there your ears pick up two distinct lines, two sets of
information which get compared in your brain. Instruments with
opposite and complementary timbres are often used, such as bass and
treble sounds, to enhance the separation.
In
Minimalism the sounds are so similar they superimpose on one another
before they even reach you and your ears are no longer quite sure
what they're picking up. During 'Violin Phase',
for example, my ears kept telling my brain there couldn't possible be
two simple repeating patterns producing all those rich intricacies of
sound, and asking my eyes to check again. This was underlaid by the
repeated use of montage effects in the filmshow, with images not
placed alongside but overlaid one another.
But
there's more! While rock gigs can fetishise electrification, with
totemic walls of amps and guitars held aloft, classical recitals
tended to treat that stuff the way you treat the wiring in your house
– best kept out of sight. A modern music, Minimalism didn't hide
the means of amplifying and disseminating itself in the same way.
Originally,
tape recordings of players were in part a pragmatic way to keep the
numbers involved more manageable – a machine saving a human having
to do it. But there's also something inherently optimistic about
Minimalism, and one example would be it's finding a humanity even
inside machines. It's almost the opposite of Kraftwerk's “we are
robot” schtick; instead of allowing for perfect playing each time
and allowing the performers to effectively become robots, it finds
imperfections in the analogue machine sound (never-quite-aligned
timing, tape hiss and so on) and enhances them. (In the manner of
Dali's “mistakes are sacred”, Reich stumbled upon phasing when
trying to align two tape recordings in composing 'It's Gonna
Rain'.)
Which
is of course not so far from to the parallel attitude to the City seen
in the recent 'Pioneers of the Downtown Scene' exhibition of
Seventies New York; “the City becomes a kind of
exoskeleton, augmenting and enhancing us, freeing us from the
limitations imposed by nature.”
Others
saw machines as quite a different symptom. Music snobs would jeer the
repeating patterns involved in this music were “too easy to play”,
as if that somehow invalidated it. (Whereas in the after-show talk,
players commented how challenging and counter-intuitive
phase-shifting can actually be.) The accompanying filmshow and stage
direction (by Netia Jones aka Lightmap) was generally exemplary,
fitting without being dominant or gimmicky, coming up with neat
visual metaphors for the music. One recurrent image it used was of a
typist, which may have been intended to take on the accusation that
the players were no more than temps in a typing pool. But like Patty
Hearst, the more repeatedly she's invoked the more that typist comes
over to our side. When projected over such involving, immersive music
all that typing gets transformed and starts to look like some kind of
Zen exercise.
However,
for all that was achieved there was a downside to leaving downtown.
It's not so much these pieces weren't intended to be performed in
concert halls, for that notion may simply have seemed an
impossibility at the time. But they would have worked better where
they were born - in the lofts and art galleries. In 'Pendulum
Music', had we been sitting on the floor around the
dangling mikes, with them swooping over our heads, it would have been
more direct and involving than seeing the same thing raised and
separated from us on a stage.
Though
the show pressed a narrative of Minimalism advancing uptown and
breaking into the concert halls, it's truer to say the scene
bifurcated at that point. True, Glass and Reich moved away from
process-based pieces such as 'It's Gonna Rain,'
straightened their ties and became (at least in formal terms)
composers bearing scores. But others, such as La Monte Young, instead
came to emphasise the ritualistic aspect of the music – performance
not so much recital as event. You wouldn't count listening to the CD
as any more than documentation, in the way you wouldn't count
watching a video of a sermon as going to church. Significantly, his
work has blurred the line between musical performance and
installation work. (Young refused permission for any of his pieces to
be performed here, though they didn't go into the details why.)
An
example of a performance more in Young's spirit would be Tony Conrad at Tate's Turbine Hall a few years ago, a cross
between gallery event and Modernist warehouse party. (Though notably evenin Reich's recent birthday celebrations at the Barbican, the early pieces were performed in the echoey main hall of the
complex, not the concert chamber.)
It's
strange how important setting can be when hearing music. It feels
almost frivolous to suggest it matters at all - but it clearly does!
As I commented after seeing Acid Mothers Temple, the spacey,
free-form jamming of Sixties-style space rock was made to be played
at festivals or for happenings, and never fits in the box of straight
venues that well.
Similarly,
I first saw Riley's 'In C' played in a stageless
community hall in Brighton sometime in the Nineties, played by a gang
of amateurs to a Saturday night crowd. (Who responded rapturously.)
After all, the score allows individual players great latitude while
still keeping them playing together in the key of... oh, you
guessed... and so is more an invitation to become involved than set
of instructions. Getting carried away as I am wont to, I responded by
imagining it as a manifesto for a harmonious, free society - as much
as any autonomous political pamphlet I've ever read.
Performed
here 'In C' felt more like one of those revivalist
folk clubs, so desperate to preserve something that they forget about
the more important task of keeping it alive. There wasn't the same
sense of the musicians seizing the chance to take off, with the
result that the evening's finale was not a particular highpoint.
Having
complained about the space, I'll go on to feel the width. Bluntly,
pieces could run to the short side. If not length, then indefinite
duration was a frequent feature of Early Minimalism. One participant
joked in the after-show talk about how in those early days this was
taken to such an extreme it became something of an endurance test, as
hours would pass in venues ill-endowed with comfy seating or adequate
heating.
Perhaps
I'm just a sucker for punishment but, in music which largely eschews
dynamics, duration would seem to become a core component. There's
something about duration which becomes mesmeric, which pulls you
deeper and deeper into the music. In Voodoo, the rituals have to take
a while, to give time for the spirits to journey down to our world.
Minimalism, though kinder to chickens, feels kind of similar. (Which
is of course what
I emerged saying after having seen Glass' four-hour 'Music in Twelve
Parts'.)
In
the end I emerged feeling rather half full/ half empty. While I'd
first been lulled by the bravura simplicity of the pieces and the
elegant stage design, my doubts and disenchantments had seemed to
grow as the night progressed. The thought was a good one, there's
something precious and unique about Early Minimalism which means it
shouldn't simply be overwritten by what follows. But as a means to
celebrate all that, the night was mixed.
The
first part of Terry Riley's original 'In C':
But
of course that didn't stop me going back for more...
If
many Minimalist pieces serve you two similar lines until you notice
how much they actually diverge, these two nights were no exception.
This programme of Reich's music was clustered around a new piece,
'Radio Rewrite,' receiving it's world premiere.
After seeing Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood perform a version of his
'Electric Counterpoint' in Poland, an impressed
Reich had composed the work around two Radiohead tracks. Notably, the title plays on the popular term 'radio music' as well as the band's name.
The Guardian recently cited Reich as the antithesis of
Schoenberg's elitist notions of contemporary music (“if it is art,
it is not for all”). Minimalism can have a Marmite reaction among
listeners; some find it enthralling, others unbearable. But those
reactions are direct, almost innate. You won't come to like
Minimalism any more or less by reading up on music theory, you don't
need to prepare for concerts like they're exams.
Reich
himself has often spoken eloquently of the barriers between high and
popular music impeding creative flow, and in the programme speaks of
a “dialogue” between them as music's historical “natural
state.” Which he's clearly right about. But we need a note of
caution – a dialogue is an interchange between two separate people,
taking from each other whatever they find that makes sense to them.
It's not the same thing as the prevalent notion that all music is in
need of being funnelled into something 'popular', like it needs
bringing to “the people” and that's the accepted route. The
result of which is normally some neither-nor hodgepodge.
It's
like when 'radical' theatre companies come up with a hip-hop version
of 'Hamlet' or something; so much of what made the
original is lost in translation, alienating existing fans, while it's
intended audience would rather listen to Wu Tang Clan. (Reader,
please imagine I used a more contemporary hip-hop name there.) People
don't necessarily know much music theory, but they can tell when
they're being patronised.
Plus,
these oft-stated overlaps between Reich and popular music often seem
overstated. In the accompanying programme, Tim Rutherford makes one
of the better comparisons of Reich's Minimalism to dance music. But
he's really talking about a formal similarity more than links, and
the fact remains no dance DJ could get away with playing a Reich
piece. There's little I could find to disagree with in this Guardian piece on Reich's influence, but it noticeably
falls short on naming names. Reich's influence has been pervasive but
indirect, permeated rather than transmitted.
Moreover,
on a more narky point, while I have liked Jonny Greenwood's film
soundtracks and solo compositions I confess I have never seen the
appeal of Radiohead. (Mostly I vote with my feet as soon as I hear
Thom Yorke's whinging voice... but I digress.)
So
soon after my boldly stating Minimalism retained classical
instrumentation, the first half of this show is pretty much devoted
to compositions Reich made not just for electric instruments but
guitars and basses – the staples of rock. Happily however, he shows
general disregard for rockist cliches. Generally people latch onto
the power of rock music, like befriending the big
kid in class, something in which he shows no interest. Reich has
called these “not rock'n'roll [but] chamber music for rock
instruments.”
If
'Electric Counterpoint' sounds like anything from
guitar music it's the softer, lilting rhythms of Afrobeat. (I later
read in the programme Reich was influenced by Central African horn
music.) '2x5' contained sequences of multiple
guitars supplying a kind of morse code note-picking, the nearest rock
equivalent for which I could imagine being the intro to Pink Floyd's
'Shine On You Crazy Diamond.'
Devotees
of Reich's music, however, may have noticed concessions. One was even
heralded in an already-given piece's title – counterpoint.
'Electric Counterpoint' was based not on the
blurring of similar lines, such as in 'Violin Phase',
but overlaid lines. It was mildly reminiscent of the live looping
used by performers like Bela
Emerson. (Though in this case all but the top line were
pre-recorded.)
There
was also something of a hierarchy between the instruments; in
'2x5' twin pianos provided a strumming not unlike
a drum beat, while the guitars moved around over the top. It was a
fairly shallow-sided pyramid compared to orchestral music or the
full-frontal guitars often found in rock bands, but was noticeable
all the same. (None of which necessarily matters. Just saying is
all.)
The
second half then eschewed the electrics. Though 'Radio
Rewrite' was the night's sell, I probably enjoyed it less
than the other pieces. How close the piece is to the originals I
wouldn't be the one to tell you. If anything, from the jagged
staccato the pianos sometimes employed, I'd have guessed it's origins
lay with Kurt Weill. Reich has stated he merely took two Radiohead
melodies as a starting point, the way Stravinsky and Bartok borrowed
from folk music.
The
night was bookended by older pieces, the perennial warm-up
'Clapping Music' and 'Double Sextet.'
Neither of which have a whole lot to do with popular music
influences, and I'd previously heard 'Double Sextet'
during
Reich's afore-mentioned birthday celebrations. But then
they who say they've heard 'Double Sextet' enough
are truly tired of life – and it made the evening's highlight for
me even on it's second serving.
So
why 'Double Sextet' over 'Radio
Rewrite?' As long-term fellow travellers, we naturally
think of Reich and Glass together. But while Glass moved towards the
world of post-minimalism, drawing on a wider sonic palette, Reich has
stuck more to his Minimal roots. Which seems to me each man doing
what works for him. Some artists thrive on collaboration and
cross-fertilisation, others are best being left alone. 'Double
Sextet' works better because Reich being Reich is best, and
conscious efforts to engage with wider traditions merely dilute him.
And I say that as someone who mostly listens to popular music. (Well,
the more unpopular ends of it...)
By
co-incidence, both nights took a tack slightly off-centre, focusing
respectively on Minimalism's early years and on Reich's relationship
with electric instrumentation and popular music. I was drawn to the
first idea more than the second, but on the night enjoyed the second
programme the best. There is probably some kind of moral there...
The
audio only of 'Radio Rewrite'...
Jonny
Greenwood's actual performance of 'Electric
Counterpoint,' to which Reich responded with 'Radio
Rewrite'. Alas, an incomplete recording...
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