Programme Notes - Download
Canción y Tango (2003)
In the heart of the old city of Málaga (just by the cathedral) lies a wonderful café known as El Jardin. Dating from 1865, it provides an interesting glimpse of 'salon' musical activity as it must have been in the past. More recently, it has acted as an unofficial cultural centre for the more than eighty thousand Argentineans who now live (many as exiles) in the greater Málaga region. Here, I came across some of the best exponents of the Tango - people like Angel Montes (an ageing guitarist who must have three hundred Tangos and Milongas in his head and at his figertips) and the wonderful smoky contralto Claudia Atrio whose renditions of Tango stories often left exiled Argentineans weeping into their drinks. I have been playing Tangos for years and know well the works of Carlos Gardel, Enrique Santos Discepolo and Astor Piazzolla, but here, among the Argentineans, I was able to experience Tango first hand, as it were, to absorb the music, the stories and the expression. And so I have become a little addicted to the form. Of course, there are many different types and mixes of Tango (arrabales from the suburbs, milongas from the pampas) and so categorisation is sometimes difficult. However, this Tango could be describes as a kind of Porteño (an instrumental, sophisticated Tango from the port - Buenos Aires).
Does the writing of Tangos constitute the central core of my output? - of course not. But, at the same time, I don't consider this a study in pastiche. Within the form, one can try to create something different and also at play here is an attempt to write 'through' the instrument. In any case, I think it's important to keep the tonal pencil sharpened! I have paired it with an old piece of mine dating from 1995 to form a new grouping - the Canción y Tango.
Guitar Quintet 2003
The Guitar Quintet is a reworking of my Concerto for Guitar & Strings of 1998 which was commissioned by the Instituto Cervantes to celebrate the centenary of the birth of the great Spanish poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca. To say that it is an arrangement would be to completely underestimate the level of re-composition which was required. Indeed, reducing the harmonic argument to five instruments was one of the most challenging projects in recent years, and both the structure and the harmonic content has undergone significant alteration (not to mention improvements in the guitar writing itself). The themes are built upon two major motifs - a three-note descending figure in semitones (which pervades the work throughout) and the interval of the perfect fifth which influence both the melodic and harmonic development. At the core of the work, following a brief guitar solo, is a central passage for strings alone based on that solo (the absence of guitar signifying the premature absence of Lorca). This is what I call my 'Lorca' music (it has seeped into one of my Études - 'After Lorca'). A cadenza follows after which quartet and guitar embark on a high voltage rhythmic interplay. The energy eventually dissipates and the guitar weaves a melismatic gauze around an expanding fan of fifths opened by the quartet in ethereal harmonics again signifying an 'aftermath' of sorts.
Piano Trio I 'quasi una fantasia' (1995 rev. 1998)
Piano Trio I ‘quasi una fantasia’ is one of my earliest works. Written in 1995 for violin, clarinet and piano, I reworked it in 1998 in versions for violin, soprano saxophone and piano and for the normal piano trio combination - violin, cello and piano. This latter version is the one most often performed. Piano Trio I works in truth as a duo - for violin and cello (saxophone or clarinet) that undergoes numerous changes in tempo and mood, which is held together by the harmonic ‘binding’ provided by the piano. In this sense, the latter instrument always serves the other melodic instruments. Some of the faster music for these instruments (heard at the beginning and in a later section) strives at times to subjugate the individual voices they might provide and compels them to meld into a single swaying energized line. It is in the quieter movements, underpinned by mesmerized repetitive chordal sequences on the piano, where the individual lines of the melodic instruments weave around each other in a complex interlacing that upholds linear singularity while mutually supporting each other. Both instruments do manage to take centre stage with a cadenza but the work finishes in a dismantled state, quite the opposite in mood to the beginning.
Apuntes sin títulos (2003)
Maybe, as a performer and composer, I am biased, but the old adage that all art constantly aspires towards the condition of music seems to me to still offer a convincing argument. And within Walter Pater’s well- known statement lies the seed of difficulty in the negotiation between word and music. In its normal use as a system of communication, language occupies and serves the rational, denotational, syntactic medium required to fulfil its functional role. Its very suitability as a namer, a labeller of objects, its ability to describe accurately our surroundings, feelings, pasts, futures, ideas, places it in a different experiential arena to music. The fact that it is in the words of Steiner ‘handcuffed to the avarice of logic’ deprives it of the fluidity, the purely metaphoric state enjoyed by music. A clarification of this can be shown when we consider music’s capacity to have horizontal and vertical characteristics (melody and harmony), it’s capability to transcend its own structural and mathematical makeup (the ‘beauty’ of the fugue), to present numerous arguments, sometimes simultaneously contradictory, (counterpoint, inversions, bi- or polytonality or polyrhythmic structures). Subject language to any of these processes (was this a Joycian dream?) and you are left with gibberish. In its normal, functional state, language lacks the flexibility, the meta-constituents that music has.
However, there seems little doubt that the changes brought on in language when it is transformed into poetry and heightened prose somehow inject it with metaphor, and therefore greater fluidity. It is probably impossible to analyse the processes that take place in the creation of poetry, nonetheless they do seem to unlock the handcuffs and transform language into a richer, more fluid conduit for suggestion; not a system utilised to offer one distinct meaning, but one that literally trees the imagination to a ‘chorus’ of possibilities and interpretations. Every line of great poetry is a breaking free of the boundaries of rational admissibility. And so when we take Macdara Woods’ lines ‘ …useless gasp of golden breath’ (Gods), we understand not only a description of a fish out of water, but we also intuit a sense of final breath, an awareness of our own ‘gasp’ at a realisation of finality, of wonder. Something of music’s potentialities to uphold simultaneously but mutually denying characteristics are inherent here with the negative, fatalistic ‘useless gasp’ counter-pointed with the redeeming and life-affirming ‘golden breath’. I could go on. Suffice to say that this language is something close to music.
Music and language, despite an impressive and historic intimacy, are strange bedfellows. This stems, I think, from the way human consciousness engages with each medium. Exalted poetry and prose bathe in metaphoric meanings; however, regardless of the wealth of metaphor contained, ultimately, these meta- messages offer themselves up to that part of human cognition that deals with the interpretation of denotational, verbal syntax. On the other hand, the liaison music makes with our consciousness takes place outside the arena of ‘labelling’ cognisance. Music isn’t injected with metaphor, it is metaphor, and in this respect, it resonates deeper within consciousness.
I think this is one reason why a conflict exists whenever word and music conflate. Each seems to want to dominate. Words, set to music, seem obliged to loose their own rhythmic pulse and syllabic clarity (this, of course, is what. singers spend years trying to preserve), while music’s autonomous nature is at risk when forced to ‘accompany’ the text. There is something of the punctuation, the chopped rhythmic pulse, the logical rationale of words which act in direct contravention to the timelessness, the sense of open space and endless nuance of timbre, the meaning’less’ness (or meaning’full’ness!) of music. It might very well be this essential conflict, this frisson of incompatibility which gives the lied, the choral work, the aria their unique place in art authorship.
This leads me to ask if a word or sentence can be reliably or accurately duplicated in music? To what extent does Wagner’s leitmotifs really ‘mean’ what they are intended to? In what significant and meaningful way does Shostakovich’s ‘signature’ DSCH (the notes D, E flat, C and B natural derived from the German transliteration of his name Dimitri SCHostakovich) really represent the man or his life? A scrutiny of the use of, say, the diminished chord, will show that Schubert may use it to highlight a deeply felt sentiment of love, whereas Schumann may use the same chord to sharpen the blade of rage. My point here is that music will always be too metaphoric to ‘mean’ anything in the way we can tell ourselves verbally; music is by nature too beautifully ambiguous to ‘signify’ anything in the way a text does, no matter how much it ‘aspires towards the condition of music’. This conclusion presents, at least for me, important questions in relation to composing where the intention is to set words or respond to text.
The questions of conflict between language and music, ruminations of the exactitude of correlation between text and sonority have occupied me greatly. This probably explains why I have set little text (to date two poems by Derek Mahon, and some poems by Ted Hughes). But a swift perusal of my output will show that many of my instrumental works have been composed directly in response to the ‘word’- Omeros and Omeros II (after Walcott’s epic poem); Scenes from Crow (after Ted Hughes’ Crow series); Soneto del Amor Oscuro (after sonnets of the same title by Lorca). Even my Concerto for Percussion & Orchestra — Rajas, Sattva, Tamas, was strongly inspired by ancient Vedic philosophy and Sanskrit tests. In most cases (Scenes from Crow being an exception to a small extent), words have not been set. My responses to these varied texts have been nearly always ‘wordless’. I have, on the other hand, attempted to respond to the affect these texts have had on me.
And this is the case with these new guitar pieces, entitled 'Apuntes sin títulos' (the very title offers a due to my approach here) which I have written in response to new poems by Macdara Woods - In the Ranelagh Gardens September/October 2002. I have not in any way, attempted to write music which purports to correlate to these beautiful texts; I have not attempted some type of sonic transliteration. I have tried only to respond to my own responses to the poetry; not the words themselves but to the aftermath created when they have been passed through. Here, I’m reminded of Crow’s (narrated) question — ‘....And what spoke that strange silence after his clamour of caws faded?’ (Crow’s Theology). In this respect, 'Apuntes sin títulos' don’t claim any authority of meaning of the text. They represent a soniferous, ambiguous response to initial subjective responses to the poems. If they correlate to the text they do so only in the way the poems themselves offer ‘fractured images’ (Mythology), only in the way the words themselves ‘search for sense and shape’ (Judgement).
Omeros II - amplified ensemble and tape
The fundamental ideas contained in Omeros II derive from the linguistic processes of deconstruction found in many sections of Dereck Walcott's epic poem Omeros. A perfect example of this can be found in Chapter 2 III, which goes as follows:
I said "Omeros,"
and O was the conch shell's invocation, mer was
both mother and sea in our Antillean patois,
os, a grey bone, and the white surf as it crashes
and spreads its sibilant collar on a lace shore.
Omeros was the crunch of dry leaves, and the washes
that echoed from a cave-mouth when the tide has ebbed.
For me the interesting aspect of this verse is not the poetry itself (although it is surely very beautiful) but rather the way in which Walcott puts his language through a process on unlayering. The word Omeros is stated and then divided into three further syllables - 'O', 'mer' and 'os', which are merely further (surprising) meanings held within the initial word. The continued unlayering of the meanings in the word result in Omeros being reduced to mere sound - 'the white surf as it crashes and spreads its sibilant collar…..the washes that echoed from a cave-mouth…' Essentially, Walcott is mining language for deeper, perhaps purer meaning, he is searching for the transcendental in language. These processes became the inspiration for me in writing the music and so the work is about the development, disintegration, layering, unlayering, transformation and metamorphoses of musical language. In many places throughout the piece layers of free, pure sound are pitted against highly structured segments. In this way the work plays with the concepts of freedom and structure (restriction?). This is further echoed by the juxtaposition of highly concentrated notated music and freely improvised 'moments' in the work. Although seemingly haphazard, the tape part has undergone very similar processes. A limited number of source sounds have been used which, when they return a second time, have undergone further processing (deeper excavation). I would like to thank Roy Carroll for his assistance with the making of the tape part. His creativity and humour make him a joy to work with.
Twelve Études (by Benjamin Dwyer)
Benjamin Dwyer – guitar
Twelve Études
Book I: Étude No. 1 Relentless
Étude No. 2 After Britten
Étude No. 3 Un peu Animé
Book II: Étude No. 4 Red
Étude No. 5 After Lorca
Étude No. 6 African Print
Book III: Étude No. 7 Strata
Étude No. 8 Penticus
Étude No. 9 Goblin
Book IV: Étude No. 10 Why not Mr. Buckley?
Étude No. 11 Allegro energico
Étude No. 12 Improvimemoriam Berio
The first sketches for these Études for guitar were drafted as early as August 1996 and, following many trial performances and try-outs, the last Étude was revised just some weeks ago. In that time I have tried to tackle (in the age-old tradition) the problems of writing works for the instrument which address specific technical problems and which are also concert works of value - that combination necessary to produce the true concert Étude. There are, of course, many exemplary precedents not least the Caprices of Paganini, the piano Études of Chopin Op. 10 and 25, the wonderful Études by Debussy of 1915 (not to mention the Transcendental Études of Liszt) and the more recent contributions to the genre made by György Ligeti and Pascal Dusapin. With regards to the guitar, there are surprisingly few groups of Études that could also be truly heard as concert pieces. Those of the 19th century 'masters' (as Segovia liked to call them) failed to produce any works that transcended their purely pedagogical purpose. It was not until 1929 when Villa-Lobos wrote his Twelve Études that the guitar finally had a set of finely judged concert studies and there is no doubt that these works cast a shadow over me in my own efforts.
The fretboard was the starting point for me in writing these works and so I made a decision early on that I would not restrict my musical language to exclude any technical aspects regardless of whatever outside characteristics they may bring to the music. The result is a journey through various guitar genres ranging from jazz, Latin American, rock, classical, contemporary and any other types the fretboard would suggest. It would be wrong, however, to think that everything was written to 'fit' the instrument. On the contrary, I have tried to push the range, volume, harmonic, contrapuntal and sound limits of the instrument, and in so doing I hope to have produced works that will push the guitarist to the limit also. Despite the obvious eclecticism produced by my open approach to the writing, the Études are completely unified in that they are all based (to a lesser or greater degree, and in various ways melodically and harmonically) on two distinct motifs - a descending three-note figure in semitones (or its ascending opposite, or even a fragment of these), and the interval of the perfect fifth (or its inversion).
I have not attempted to tackle in an ordered fashion the traditional technical and pedagogical aspects of instrumental playing – 3rds., 6ths., octaves, scales, etc. These are, in fact, addressed in the Ètudes but in the context of providing studies that deal with the specific challenges posed by contemporary musical trends. The focus has, therefore, been on confronting advanced rhythmic complexes, on controlling multiple voices simultaneously (often with distinct rhythmic characteristics), on the exploration of extended techniques, on the separation of the hands (often demanding completely distinct tasks), on the shaping of cumulative processes, on the performance of extremes in range, speed, volume and stamina, and on the examination of the broad harmonic and timbral ranges that the guitarist must confront in the modern repertoire.
Book I
No. 1 'Relentless'. This study incorporates a number of Latin American-type guitar harmonies couched in a series of increasingly complex rhythmic structures. It concentrates on octaves and arpeggios and sets out both the three-note semitone and the perfect 5 th motifs clearly.
No. 2 'After Britten'. This Étude places a long melodic line in 4/4 against two accompaniments (set antiphonally) in 3/4 time. The principal three-note motif acts here as an harmonic axis (not quite a modulation but a point upon which the harmony shifts) - a technique which is utilised a number of times throughout the set.
No. 3 'Très Animé'. Based almost entirely on the three-note principal motif, this Étude exploits the left hand slurring technique. It outlines two distinct lines - a fast (slurred) figure framed by a more sustained melody. Sometimes both lines incorporate the main motif in a 'mise en abyme' fashion.
Book II
No. 4 'Red'. This Étude is built on a six-note melodic fragment - (C- F# - A - D# - D - C#) - the last note of which is played on the 4th string. This final note, which resonates brilliantly, creates for me a synesthetic experience – the resonance correlates to the colour red. This study in arpeggio playing returns, near the end, the six-note motif (in reverse this time) but supporting a series of chromatic arpeggios which recalls (if only briefly) Debussy's Étude No. 7 (Pour les Degrés chromatiques).
No. 5 'After Lorca'. A sonorous meditation on the main three-note motif, this work is a study in line phrasing, high register playing and arpeggios. The motif here extends into long sustaining chromatic lines and informs the harmonic characteristics of the work.
No. 6 'African Print'. This is another left-hand study. The first half is almost entirely for the left hand alone. The second half juxtaposes a rhythmic pattern (played by the left hand only) against a series of glissandi, high-pitched harmonics and percussive sounds in a distinctly different rhythm (played by the right hand) - it offers a rare example of both hands acting completely independently of each other.
Book III
No. 7 'Punctus contra punctum'. This Étude exploits the truly polyphonic nature of the instrument sustaining up to four independent 'voices' against an ostinato that runs throughout the piece. The work juxtaposes numerous voices that are rhythmically distinct presenting unique challenges, particularly for the right hand.
No. 8 'Penticus'. The fifth motif dominates here. Again, like No. 5, this Étude is a study in sonority, but also explores numerous aspects of polyrhythm and polytonality. It sets itself apart from the other Études in that it follows its own harmonic plan (though informed partly by the first motif) built upon a three-note progression separated by a semi-tone and a major third. This forms both an harmonic frame and a counter melody to the open fifths that pervade the work.
No. 9 'Goblin'. A goblin - perhaps a smaller relative to Ravel's Scarbo - appearing here and, suddenly, disappearing, popping up from nowhere and vanishing in an instant, was the initial vision for this 'programmatic' Étude. A fast linear and arpeggiated piece which enwraps the principal three-note motif in its complicated mesh, it finishes as suddenly as it starts.
Book IV
No. 10 'Why not Mr. Buckley'. The first half of this Étude could be described as a study in repeated notes with bubbling lines reiterating the note B and chromatically colouring it. These line repetitions are interrupted by a violent fragment in the bass which, in time, develops into the basis for the second half of the work - a rock-inspired toccata of virtuosic brilliance. Each section is divided by a series of furiously rising arpeggios and chords which climax at the highest register incorporating a rhythmic motif derived from the third movement of John Buckley's Sonata for Guitar No. 1 (1989) – hence the title.
No. 11 'Allegro energico'. Built almost entirely on a four-bar rhythmic pattern, this Étude incorporates aspects of minimalist writing - but incorporating processes of accumulation so that development never ceases. A study in chord slurring, octaves, harmonics and the percussive technique of hitting the strings violently (common in much South American guitar playing), it breaks out into an imaginary folk tune – a passing tribute to two of the better composers for guitar - Heitor Villa-Lobos and Joaquín Rodrigo.
No. 12 'Improvimemoriam Berio'. Very much a through-composed work, the explosive music of Berio acted as an inspiration here. This Étude is a wild improvised fantasia that incorporates many fragments of all the previously heard studies (stitched together with threads from a Berio Sequenza) and so the work acts as a coda of sorts to the set as a whole. The principal three-note motif is exorcised through spiralling arpeggios, violent chords, arpeggiated harmonics, and explosive glissandi (sometimes executed by both hands separately, simultaneously and in contrary motion).
Parallaxis (1997)
A parallaxis is the ‘apparent change in the position of an object resulting from a change in position of the observer’ (New Collins Concise English Dictionary). The way the moon ‘follows’ you when you move, or that strange sensation you get if the stationary train beside the one you are in seems to move away when, in fact, your train is the one moving, represent two examples of the common parallactic experiences we have daily. This sense of uncertainty, the optical play on reality can be rather disconcerting and points to sensory and psychological misreadings which put into question our sensorial relationship with our surroundings. A space opens between our physical environment and our perception of it which is volatile, vulnerable and strangely magical.
With this work for alto and soprano saxophones, I wanted to explore those processes which make our perceptions susceptible to the persuasions of sensory distortion. The long opening lines of the two instruments, therefore, are merged so that one is unable to tell which instrument is playing, indeed that there are, in fact, two instruments at all. The notes undergo minutely notated micro-tonal manipulations so that the sense of pitch itself is tenuously undermined. Parallaxis proceeds under a strict regimen limiting the pitch relationships (almost exclusively to augmented 4ths and major 2nds and their inversions). The range within which those notes operate is also carefully controlled resulting in a slowly expanding field, an ever-broadening palette which reaches extremes almost beyond the physical possibilities of the instruments (the work is beyond the abilities of only the most virtuosic). A central section regroups the material in a series of refrains and echoes (again, confusion regarding identification of instruments creates a parallactic space where aural and spacial disorientation results). The music then develops to incorporate the voices of the two performers. This is a highly detailed notated section which seeks to provide a choral texture. The transformation from ‘single’ line at the beginning to a rich multi-voiced fabric offers a textural ‘development’ that correlates to the other ‘developments’ concerning pitch relationships, dynamics and harmonic shifts. The controlled combination of two saxophone lines and two vocal lines, in conjunction with the complex overtones created by their alliance, gave me the opportunity to create a primordial music, a sound correlative to some extremely private damage that seeks outlet. Parallaxis was written in 1997 for Kenneth Edge and John Hogan. The present recording was made with Kenneth Edge playing both parts.
String Quartet
The String Quartet is a three-movement work lasting seventeen minutes. Despite the difference in character of each movement, they are structurally connected in that they all utilise the same four main motivic fragments. The first movement is designed as a mosaic structure that attempts to juxtapose musical fragments that are stylistically distinct from each other. The movement as a whole incorporates many distinct compositional techniques including mechanically driven processes, homogeneous structures, more traditional goal-orientated formulas and the expansion of conventional pitch-range.
The second movement is built structurally on the interval of the perfect 5th (harmonic layers a fifth apart) taking as its model the open string tuning system of the instruments. Unlike in the two outer movements, the four motifs are clearly outlined as theme fragments serving here as melodic strands.
The third movement is built from a tightly woven series of motivic patterns. Here, the music explores a wide range of timbral effects from harmonics and pizzicato through to intense vibrato and ponticello in a technique that could be described as textural modulation. Extremes of range and volume are explored as well as what I call ‘stitching’ techniques where stylistically different sections of music are ‘stitched’ or ‘grafted’ together. Following an extended section that intensely explores the theme fragments between the cello and first violin, the work ends with a virtuosic coda which rapidly fades away in a flight of disappearing harmonics.
The String Quartet was written in 1997 and was premiered by the British contemporary music group Topologies at the Bank of Ireland Mostly Modern Series in Dublin on 10th of December 1998.
Twelve Etudes (by John Buckley)
Benjamin Dwyer: Twelve Études for guitar by John Buckley
The Twelve Études for guitar by Benjamin Dwyer are best experienced as a whole. While individual movements or groups of movements undoubtedly leave a strong impression on the listener, it is the accumulated impact of the work as a whole that makes it a landmark in the repertoire of contemporary guitar music.
In comparison with the piano or organ, the guitar would seem to offer a somewhat restricted palette of possibilities: a smaller range, limited dynamics, certain combinations of notes simply not possible and so forth. It is a measure of the extraordinary technical resource and sophistication of the Twelve Études that all apparent obstacles are surmounted and the seemingly impossible is achieved.
The work is characterised by richness of melodic and harmonic invention, rhythmic vitality, a high level of virtuosity and a formal cohesion and unity. It ranges in character from the introspective ruminations of Étude No. 2 (After Britten) and Étude No.5 (After Lorca) to the flamboyant extroversion of Étude No. 1 (Relentless) and Étude No. 10 (Why not, Mr. Buckley?).
In entitling his work, Twelve Études, Dwyer is clearly making a statement of intent. In engaging with the history of the genre, each movement focuses primarily on a particular instrumental or compositional technique. Some movements draw inspiration from and extend new colours into traditional guitar techniques as in Étude No. 4 (Red), an impressionistic exploration of repeated notes and figurations, while Étude No. 3 (Tres anime) underpins a sustained melodic line in long notes with undulating accompaniment figurations.
There are other movements however, that exploit entirely new territory: Étude No. 6 (African Print) being an outstanding example. In this movement, Dwyer makes extensive use of the left hand in playing continuous figurations, while the right hand exploits a kaleidoscope of technical devices: harmonics, glissandi, plucked strings beyond the nut, bouncing one finger off the string, while plucking with the thumb. These highly focused gestures and sonorities create colourful imprints on the basic pattern of the left hand and conjure up a hauntingly delicate and beautiful sonic landscape.
Dwyer’s extensive use of polyphony is one of the most striking features of the work. While the traditional guitar repertoire has not eschewed part-writing, it more frequently focuses on block chords, melody and accompaniment, pedal notes and figurations. While all of these textures are evident in the Twelve Études, they are complemented by a rich vein of polyphonic writing, which surpasses the apparent limitations of the instrument. At its most striking in Étude No 7 (Rahu, Katu), Dwyer interweaves several layers of highly chromatic melody against an ostinato backdrop, giving an extraordinary richness of texture.
From a historical perspective, the term étude implies study and technical development and a great many etudes were intended for these purposes rather than concert performance. Benjamin Dwyer’s Twelve Études can certainly serve as studies, at the most advanced level imaginable but the work has transcended the pedagogical and technical into the realm of the poetic. The Twelve Études represent a distillation of time, thought, technical refinement, and musical imagination and invention of the highest order. While the work’s origins may lie in technical considerations, the result is entirely expressive; hauntingly evocative and exuberantly dramatic in turns, always emotionally powerful.
Twelve Etudes (by Fabio Zanon)
Benjamin Dwyer: Twelve Études for guitar
by Fabio Zanon
‘I come to the theatre to enjoy myself, not to study!’ yelled an audience member when Franz Liszt announced he would perform an étude in a concert in Milan in the 1830s. More than a Romantic gesture, the adoption of the concert étude as material for public performance was an arrow that was launched in the 19 th century and landed in the 20 th. Obviously, earlier composers had written charming, even visionary music with the specific purpose of technical training, but by the time Liszt, Chopin and Schumann came up with their completely reconfigured ideas of the genre, a public performance of technical ‘lessons’ was akin to the public exposure of one's laundry. Even the finer music by a Bach, Scarlatti or Czerny belonged to one's secretive preparation and was only valued as a ladder towards a haughty command over technical hindrances, one leading to the gates of proper artistic presentation.
The impulse underscoring a fine concert étude is telling to contemporary sensibility, which values the process of creating a work of art as art in itself. It absorbs the information contained in sketches, journals and studies for their aesthetic value. The early Romantics understood the étude not only as a mechanical production line, but as a laboratory for the cultivation of compositional possibilities: textures, granulations, range extensions, polyphonic configurations and dramatic gestures as shaped by an instrumental geography. They also understood that the genre is most successful when the musical content is mirrored in the technical challenge. Awkwardness of execution increases in tandem with compositional complexity and aims at a higher dramatic impact. The player, bathed in sweat, embraces an overwhelmed listener. Under this aesthetic umbrella, Paganini's Caprices, Bach's Inventions and Scarlatti’s Sonatas also became part of the current repertoire.
Chopin maintained the concept of a lesson: his Études are, for the most part, restricted to a single technical element, which is applied to a variety of situations pre-determined by the harmonic course. This approach was adopted by his heirs Debussy and Ligeti. In contrast, Liszt saw the étude as a character piece, a lesson in expressive playing as much as an exercise. His Transcendental Études have more complex, narrative forms, which promote a variety of technical elements as an adornment to wide-ranging melodies, a method adopted by Rachmaninov among others. This type of étude is, more or less, an independent unit in a convenient assemblage. Meanwhile, Schumann occupied himself with the overall architectural structure, subjecting his technical imagination to a formal pole of theme and variations. Subsequently, architectonic preoccupations became a central concern for composers such as Brahms.
The Twelve Études for guitar by Benjamin Dwyer can be looked at as a synthesis of these three methods in a cycle of a magnitude of formal proposition rarely seen in the guitar repertoire. Socio-cultural vicissitudes have kept the guitar history de-synchronized from the mainstream of piano, chamber and symphonic development. The Spaniard Fernando Sor (1778-1839) is the earliest composer of études who keeps a place of honour in the repertoire; his guitar miniatures have a lyrical grace reminiscent of Mendelssohn, who was just a boy when they were published. Giulio Regondi's (1822-1872) eccentric Ten Études are a recent discovery and probably did not have much impact in his lifetime. This absence of a systematic collection of technical vocabulary is symptomatic of the guitar’s low standing at the heyday of the Romantic period.
The work which immediately provided the guitar with a portentous gap-filling cycle and a vision of what would be the 20 th century guitar sonority was the Douze Études by Brazilian composer Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887-1959). Written around 1929, they create an innovative musical fabric taking advantage of the harmonic and mechanical particularities of the guitar. Their unique character absorbs folkloric accents at strategic points, and the composer makes an effort to devise an overall formal framework for pieces that can be played individually or in groups.
Benjamin Dwyer has managed to write a series that acknowledges these elements as a focus of combustion for his own instrumental imagination. His attitude is totally in keeping with a 21 st century necessity to maintain an historical vantage point, but at the same time avoids the traps of explicit manipulation, of homage-syndrome, of presumptuous distance. His aesthetic is hands-on. His investigation of the guitar geography is made with his fingertips; it retains the innocence of discovery but is governed by a level-headed formal plan, which is neither obscure nor simplistic. Confronted by a new work, I always have a word flashing in my mind which sets the tone to my general impression; in the case of Dwyer's Twelve, it is ‘spontaneous’.
When one comments on a genre whose raison d'être is pedagogic, a word about technical invention is necessary. Composers such as Sor or Liszt wrote their music upon a considerably homogeneous aesthetic foundation. Their études tackle the necessities of art music as their contemporaries saw them. Villa-Lobos already works on slippery ground. Benjamin Dwyer is fully aware of the many culturally and sociologically relevant facets assumed by the post-war guitar. If the fingerboard is his point of departure, it is nonsense to restrict his language to the specific view of orthodox classical music. Accordingly, his attempt to allow the guitarist to play more accurately, faster and with a wider dynamic and colouristic range, instead of covering the scholastic use of various arpeggios, slurs, scales and intervals in an orderly way, absorbs the Lisztian transcendental view of subjecting them to the necessity of a poetic imperative. Poetics of this nature incorporate a different sense of tact, one imported from jazz, rock and Latin playing styles into the modern classical guitar method.
The questions here are not how many colours the note ‘E’ has, but how these colours affect the rhythmic groove; not whether a slur is awkward, but how this awkward slur is heard in a thick texture; not how far up the fingerboard a figuration can be extended, but how to keep a consistent tone quality in the process; not how to increase the left hand stretch, but how to make it work comfortably in rather complex polyphonic and polyrhythmic writing; not how much stamina is needed to sustain a rather strenuous movement, but how to retain an eerie atmosphere; not how accurate parallel chords can be, but how they can keep the excitement of rock'n-roll power chords.
Conversely, Dwyer at times consciously overcomes some of the ‘natural’ limitations of the everyday guitar. In Études Nos. 5 and 8 (After Lorca and Penticus respectively) he sets himself the challenge to write broad and complex melodic movements in an extended chromatic context. Étude No. 7 (Punctus contra punctum) contains polyphonic writing of a quality rarely seen in the guitar repertoire, where up to three voices work in thick counterpoint, with the classical method of movement reversion and value augmentation, revolving around an ostinato. External references abound, but they are neither self-conscious nor pretentious. Étude No. 2 (After Britten) not only enables the player to better play Britten's Nocturnal, but enhances his perception for tonal ambiguity which is a primary requirement for good Britten playing. Étude No. 7 (Punctus contra punctum) reflects the musical preoccupations of guitarist and teacher Timothy Walker (one of the four dedicatees cited in the score) of pushing a musical and technical possibilities to theoretical extremes. Étude No. 9 (Goblin) is a piece which nurtures a smaller relative of Ravel’s Scarbo with a varied menu of special effects. No.11 (Allegro energico) is an explicit extension of the glissando technique of Villa-Lobos' own Étude No. 12, but where the Brazilian wanted a fauvist consecration of African-Brazilian jongo the Irishman combines the Latin slant with a distant Celtic echo. No.12 (Improvimemoriam Berio), which was in fact being composed at the time of Berio's passing, reconstructs the mnemonic process in musical terms and dispenses with a grand finale in favour of an open-ended one. It is also worth noting that the material of Études Nos. 1, 2, 10 and 11 has been re-elaborated by the composer in major works like his Concerto No. 1 for Guitar and Strings, his Concerto No. 2 for Guitar and Orchestra, his Sonata for Flute and Guitar and his Guitar Quintet.
Last, but not least, a word about the overall structure of the cycle. All of the Twelve Études are in some degree informed by two motives: a descending three-note figure in semitones (or its ascending opposite, or even a fragment or extension of it), and the interval of the perfect fifth (or its inversion). Rather than being clearly heard, this unifying device (as often happens) creates an impression of mutual belonging, an invisible veil covering all the pieces. The chromatic motif frequently creates an impression of undoing, of sliding down, of melting down, occasionally of decadence or collapse. It is balanced by the positive and alert effect of the fifth. The Twelve Études are arranged in four groups of three, and each of them, rather than having structural uniformity are tied up by poetic affinity.
The genre of the concert étude can only be tackled successfully by a composer who has a more than passing practical knowledge of the instrument in question. Some of the greatest études have been written by consummated virtuosos such as Paganini, Liszt and Alkan. Being a fully trained professional composer is not only a bonus, but a precondition for making great music on top of efficient technical display. Villa-Lobos was a fine but reluctant guitarist who had a proverbial symphonic vocation. After him, there have been a few encyclopedic attempts, the obvious names being ex-guitarists Leo Brouwer (1939) and Angelo Gilardino (1941), and a less obvious Francisco Mignone (1897-1986), who was not a guitarist but had an extraordinary intuition to fully explore the instrument. Benjamin Dwyer is in a completely different league, not only because he is an excellent guitarist who is also a professional of symphonic thought and writing, but because he has put his best efforts into a cycle intended to be a summation of an entire guitar epoch. Unlike his older colleagues, he has created a cycle which is compact enough to be understood as a single work, but totally uncompromising in its technical and musical demands. Coming from a country where classical guitar culture and repertoire are relatively recent fixtures, one has to admire his daring to jump so high from such a restricted ground. The audition and reading of his Twelve Études filled me with excitement and wonder for the capacity of a little box to conjure up such a vast range of thoughts and sensations. This is the same wonder I experienced when I first heard and read Villa-Lobos' guitar works as a boy. Having no vocation for prognosis, I can only hope that Dwyer's Twelve Études achieve a comparable place in our repertoire.
Piano Tio II: Praeludio and Passacaille (2008)
Both movements of Piano Tio II: Praeludio and Passacaille take their cue from two major figures of the Baroque - J.S.Bach and G.F. Handel. The Praeludio is based on the opening prelude movement to Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 BWV 996 - a work I know intimately having performed it in a guitar transcription for many years. I used the opening melodic flourishes as a platform for my own compositional extemporisations. Although free sounding, the harmonic and melodic structure of Bach’s prelude profoundly shaped the harmonic, rhythmic, motivic, and timbral choices I made.
The Passacaille emerges from the numerous chaconnes Handel wrote. Passacailles and chaconnes are formal structures whereby a melodic line provides the harmonic basis for a series of variations to follow. My melodic line (or ‘ground’ as it is known) couldn’t be simpler - seven descending, mostly semiquaver notes - Eflat/D/Dflat/B/Bflat/A/Aflat. The limitation of such a simple line presented a significant but rewarding challenge. Piano Trio II is not some post-modern pun on Baroque music. The extraordinary works of Bach and Handel have profoundly impacted on me in ways that I cannot quantify. Working on these commissions offered me an opportunity to re-assess, engage and learn from the two greatest composers of the high Baroque. The work is dedicated to the Syrius Trio.
Praeludio and Passacaille (2008)
Benjamin Dwyer - Praeludio and Passacaille (2008, for Baroque Violin, Double Bass & Harpsichord)
Both movements of Praeludio and Passacaille were written to commission for the Temple Bar Cultural Trust’s Dublin Handel Festival. The Passacaille (originally for Baroque violin, violone, and harpsichord) was first performed by Trio Quartteto who featured in the Handel Festival in 2007. I wrote the new Praeludio for Maya Homberger, Barry Guy and David Adams, with the idea of placing both works together in a new instrumental format of Baroque violin, double bass and harpsichord.
The Praeludio and Passacaille take their cue from two major figures of the Baroque - J.S.Bach and G.F. Handel. The Praeludio is based on the opening prelude movement to Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 BWV 996 - a work I know intimately having performed it in a guitar transcription for many years. I used the opening melodic flourishes as a platform for my own compositional extemporisations. Although free sounding, the harmonic and melodic structure of Bach’s prelude profoundly shaped the harmonic, rhythmic, motivic, and timbral choices I made.
The Passacaille takes its cue from the numerous chaconnes of Handel. Passacailles and chaconnes are formal structures whereby a melodic line provides the harmonic basis for a series of variations to follow. My melodic line (or ‘ground’ as it is known) couldn’t be simpler - seven descending, mostly semiquaver notes - Eflat/D/Dflat/B/Bflat/A/Aflat. The limitation of such a simple line presented a significant but rewarding challenge. Praeludio and Passacaille is not some post-modern pun on Baroque music. The extraordinary works of Bach and Handel have profoundly impacted on me in ways that I cannot quantify. Working on these commissions offered me an opportunity to re-assess, engage and learn from the two greatest composers of the high Baroque.
Movimientos I-IV (1997)
Movimientos I-IV (violin and piano) were written over a period of eight months in Barcelona and Dublin. Together they constitute a kind of sonata, or at least, have the dialectic characteristics, proportions and weight of a sonata work for violin and piano. Movimientos I and II are composed upon the idea of what I call (for my own convenience) pitch tunnels. That is that the music is constructed using a series of alternating pitches (which change at an exponentially increasing rate). The dynamism of the works are therefore created not only by the shifting harmonic 'centres' but also by the webs of 'orchestrated' sounds created around each pitch. Tensions are created by the incorporation of 'parasitic' pitches and timbres which attempt to bend and colour each pitch centre. Further movement (movimiento!) and tension is created by pitting one instrument against the other by way of the juxtaposition of opposing tempos, the superimposition of diminishing textures against those which are filling out, and the employment of volume rates in contrary motion. Movimiento III uses a traditional form - the passacaille - as a basis for its development. The unusually simple 'ground' paradoxically offers plenty of opportunity to develop rather complex rounds (before the music returns to a less-innocent simplicity). The fourth movement is built upon the juxtaposition of what are apparently incongruent rhythmic entities - they fit perfectly well in the score, but the result is more hocket-like and somewhat off centre. Movimientos I-IV is a highly virtuosic work though this may only be apparent in the fourth movement where a relentless skill is required throughout not least in the final bars where violin and piano (whose individual rhythmic units jar) are locked in a violent struggle to the end.
Al - Andalus (2005)
[accordion, violin, cello, flute (doubling bass flutes), clarinet (doubling bass clarinet) and percussion]
Al-Andalus was written in Barcelona and Dublin and completed in February of 2005. It comprises three movements - El viento de Tarifa, Calor and Bulería (Tarifa Wind, Heat and, the flamenco dance Bulería). So they are three 'Images' (alla Debussy) or, in Spanish 'Imagines' - my images, or perhaps, imaginings of Andalucía. I certainly didn't want to write three 'postcards' of sunny Spain, so there are no quotes here of guitars and castanets. The work generally comes out of my own psychological and emotional responses to the extraordinary landscape and music of this region.
The constant exposure to the powerful wind at Tarifa (the southern-most village in Europe), which blows every day, all year round, can be very troubling. It has been known to cause mental dislocation - a condition further complicated by the easy flow of drugs from north Africa...I saw young men barking in the streets with a rabid craziness! The first movement therefore represents not only this incessant wind but also the increasing unease one can feel when exposed to these forces over a period of time.
The heat in Córdoba can be highly oppressive for a Celt (one summer I had to withstand 49 degrees centigrade). Under these severe conditions the heat is very suppressive. Calor explores the psychological response to the extreme heat conditions of inland Andalucía. The music suggests the increasing din, or oppression the heat creates, its swelling sonorities allude to the heat swells that can be seen rising from the streets. The glistening harmonies insinuate blinding sun reflections.
The Bulería is an uplifting dance that shifts and plays with two-time and three-time beats. It originated in Jerez during the 19th century, originally as a fast, upbeat ending to soleares (which share the same rhythm and are still often ended this way). It is among the most popular and dramatic of the flamenco forms and often ends most flamenco sessions. The name bulerías comes from the Spanish word burlar, meaning 'to mock' or bullería, 'racket, shouting, din'. It is the style which permits the greatest freedom for improvisation, the metre playing a crucial role in this. However, I wanted to subsume the characteristics of the dance into my own rhythmic and tonal language while the freely virtuosic style of the accordion part provided the necessary improvisatory character to the movement.
Winter Psalms (1995 rev. 2005)
The idea for the combination of soprano saxophone and choir used in Winter Psalms came to me after hearing the ECM recording with Jan Garbarek and the Hilliard Ensemble. This recording allowed me two conclusions: one, that the combination of saxophone (particularly the soprano saxophone) and choir was an almost perfect one, and two, that the mixture of post-minimalist Nordic jazz and Renaissance choral music was, in the final analysis, incongruous. However, I was inspired to attempt to create a fully integrated complex that weaved the saxophone part throughout the choral writing, not just as an extra voice, but also a commentary which was harmonically and stylistically integrated in the whole.
The texts used are my own, from a series of poems entitled 'Winter Psalms', which endeavour to utilise aspects of winter as a conduit for more personal and psychological explorations. The themes centre on death, sickness, things ethereal, and memory.
(In memoriam baby Matthew)
1.
He kept sentry
over a forgotten future.
light and sound
invaded the senses.
Hostless, they hung like
nailed meat cold and
unforgiven.
Cadential thought spun
into a shell's whisper-
puppet to nuance of
child-breath.
Was it him
or a fossil-dream
resurrected?
2.
This is a winter vision
grained in the remains of day.
Inclined to imprecision
singing its gift sotto voce.
Doused in theived light and still,
existing for occurrence only-
for being to be
proven and inscrutable.
It leaves to fill a future dream,
and yet lies before me
but as a shadow, maybe,
of something now unseen.
3.
When the sky is open, cloudless,
and all that moves is the felt-only breeze
wild for the pain,
there's a kind of utter exposure
that leaves you there
alone on the earth.
The way you must have been
when your eyes
finally broke rein.
I started in the wait.
I learned the potency of time.
I saw the frailty
that joins womb to tomb-
the umbilical certainty.
4.
Sometimes you're a moment.
Or the gravity that gives absence weight.
And when you're a sound,
it's the sound of memory
scratching like twig shadows
on a window.
AfterJoyce I (2004)
There is a point where Joyce’s prose crosses a line. In direct contrast to Beckett’s attempts to reduce literature and theatre to its absolute minimal, Joyce sought to include everything numerous languages, invented words (suggestive and onomatopoeic), endless streams of thought that flow in an improvised manner, plays with words and word-rhythms, quotes (the Latin Mass, Italian operatic arias, limericks, invented and real, ballads and folksongs, the list goes on). The result is an amalgam, a fusion of languages, sounds and rhythms that have altered the general conception of what prose is. More than any other writer, Joyce pushed literature towards the condition of music and found for himself a via media between the word and music matched perhaps only by Wagner.
Afterjoyce I attempts through specific instrumental techniques to locate this via media. At the core of the work lies the idea of transformation from abstract music to vocalised sounds. This is a musical monologue that emanates from new territory that is neither word nor music. The percussion here provides the scenery, offering suggestions, possible interpretations of the text - itself an abstract monologue of Joycean amalgamation.
Auroraborialis....Ulrike....Punkt....Introibo ad altore Dei In nomine Patris et Spiritus Sancti et unum sanctum catolicam et apostalicam ecclesiam riddle me riddle riddle me riddle riddle riddle riddle rid….For Ulster will fight and Ulster will be right Aghh... go pogue mahone Sinn Féin amháin and Ulster will be right agghh pogue mahone I am the resurrection por eso la chi darem la mano suil suil suil....Sotto voce sotto sotto sotto sotto voce….crescendo Lucifer! Lucifer entrez mes enfants hoi polloi polloi polloi polloi ad libitum forte! Forte! Forte amaroso ma non troppo Buenas noches señoritas Shiva Shiva Shakti Deine Kuh Trübsal melkest Du…Nun trinkst Du die süsse Milch des Euters....When love absorbs my ardent soul..idée fixe....les petites femmes…petites femmes....crème de la crème....Ahhhhh....Bí a do hoist.
Afterjoyce I was commissioned by the Contemporary Music Centre, the Association of Irish Composers and Temple Bar Properties for the ‘Rejoyce Dublin – Celebrating Bloomsday 100’ festival 2004.
Scenes from Crow (2007) - (for amplified ensemble and tape)
Soprano
Flute (piccolo, alto flute)
Tenor Recorder (soprano recorder, bass recorder)
Oboe (cor anglais)
Soprano Saxophone (baritone saxophone, megaphone)
Violin
Cello
Percussion: Vibraphone, Marimba, Tam-tam (basin of water), Large Cymbal (bow),Medium Cymbal, Large Chinese Cymbal, Five Tom-toms, Snare Drum, Crotales Heavy Chain, Pane of glass (hammer), Whip, Thunder Sheet.
Tape
Scene I Legends
Scene II Crow Abstracts
Scene III Crow’s Vanity
Scene IV Conjuring in Heaven
Scene V Crow (improvises)
Scene VI Glimpse
Scene VII Magical Dangers
Scene VIII Littleblood
The music in 'Scenes from Crow' is inextricably linked to the 1970 edition of ‘Crow – from the Life and Songs of the Crow’ by Ted Hughes. However, the influences on the music run beyond the Crow sequence to the broader issues which have dominated Hughes’s poetry since his first collection of 1957 –‘The Hawk in the Rain’. These include his interest in the big primitive themes – nature, war, sex and death, and the contexts and methods through which he works them. Hughes attempts to address the violence of the modern world by using the emblem of the crow. A crow is an intelligent, widely distributed and omnivorous bird. It is black, solitary, tough and non-musical. It is an eater of carrion and so is dependent on death and destruction. All these attributes are presented in Hughes’s Crow, but so too are visions of post-nuclear disaster, memories of war, and distortions of well-known texts. Crow is also a prankster and in this sense gives the poetry a ‘carnivalesque’ quality. In fact the raven is a famous 'trickster' character in the mythologies of the North American Indians and the Tlingit of Alaska. The trickster is a necessary component of these societies acting, as it does, as a satirical self-regulator. In this sense Hughes's Crow is a modern version of the 'trickster'; one admirably suited for the extremities of the 20th century and particularly at the end of the century and the collapse of the Judeo-Christian era. Hence all distortions of familiar Biblical texts and other mythological stories created by Crow's tinkering. If Crow is the modern era's 'self-regulator' he is also a mirror of man's consciousness, in which case, he reflects little hope.
Many structural aspects of the Crow poetry have been incorporated in the music. These include the ritualistic repetition of words, suggestions of oppression and violence and the use of old Anglo-Saxon language. The latter aspect led me to use John Dowland’s (1563-1626) ‘In Darkness Let Me Dwell’ as a focal point in the work. This appears throughout the Scenes; sometimes obviously, sometimes as distorted fragment built upon its pitch characteristics, in one case, as a brassy waltz! Alongside the Elizabethan world lies the world of modern warfare and violence as graphically described in some of the tape part. The graphic nature of the music is in response to the graphic nature of the poetry, however, the element of the farcical should not be missed. The music also reflects the eclectic nature of the poetry. The titles of the scenes are mostly taken from titles of individual poems within the collection but it must be said that the Scenes are created largely from abstract responses to the text.
Crow (Improvises) (1999) - [version 1]
for amplified tenor recorder & tape
The music in Crow is inextricably linked to the 1970 edition of ‘Crow – from the Life and Songs of the Crow’ by Ted Hughes. However, the influences on the music run beyond the Crow sequence to the broader issues which have dominated Hughes’s poetry since his first collection of 1957 –The Hawk in the Rain. These include his interest in the big primitive themes – nature, war, sex and death, and the contexts and methods through which he works them. Hughes attempts to address the violence of the modern world by using the emblem of the crow. A crow is an intelligent, widely distributed and omnivorous bird. It is black, solitary, tough and non-musical. It is an eater of carrion and so is dependent on death and destruction. All these attributes are presented in Hughes’s Crow, but so too are visions of post-nuclear disaster, memories of war, and distorted versions of Biblical and other mythological stories. Crow is also a prankster and in this sense gives the poetry a ‘carnivalesque’ quality.
Many structural aspects of the Crow poetry have been incorporated in the music. The ritualistic repetition of words, the use of old Anglo-Saxon language, suggestions of oppression and violence. Central to the score is a quote from John Dowland’s In Darkness Let Me Dwell. This appears on the tape part but all the opening music on the flute is constructed of distorted versions of the Dowland song phrases. Alongside the Elizabethan world lies the world of modern warfare and violence as graphically described in the tape part. The graphic nature of the music is in response to the graphic nature of the poetry, however, the element of the farcical should not be missed.
Crow was originally written for recorders and tape in January 1999. A second version for piccolo, flute, alto flute and tape was made soon afterwards for Susan Doyle who gave the world premiere performance (of the second version) at the ‘Electron Musik Festivalen 1999’ in Skinnskatteberg, Sweden in June of this year. I would like to acknowledge the wonderful assistance given by Darby Carol and Roy Carol in the preparation of the tape part.
Crow's Vanity (2003) - for amplified cello & tape.
Crow's Vanity was commissioned by the National Concert Hall (Dublin) for its Composers' Choice Series. It was written for English cellist William Butt, who gave the premiere in 2003. This is the second work I have written for tape and live performer and also the second work which is linked to the 1970 edition of ‘Crow – from the Life and Songs of the Crow’ (1970) by Ted Hughes. However, the influences on the music run beyond the Crow sequence to the broader issues which have dominated Hughes’s poetry since his first collection of 1957 –The Hawk in the Rain. These include his interest in the big primitive themes – nature, war, sex and death, and the contexts and methods through which he works them. Hughes attempts to address the violence of the modern world by using the emblem of the crow. A crow is an intelligent, widely distributed and omnivorous bird. It is black, solitary, tough and non-musical. It is an eater of carrion and so is dependent on death and destruction. All these attributes are presented in Hughes’s Crow, but so too are visions of post-nuclear disaster, memories of war, and distorted versions of Biblical and other mythological stories. Crow is also a prankster and in this sense gives the poetry a ‘carnivalesque’ quality.
One aspect of Crow's persona is that he is not always aware of his own instinct for violence. Poems like The Black Beast, Crow Tyrannosaurus and Crow's Vanity, among others, highlight Crow's unawareness of his own personality. This new work explores these ideas - that is, ideas of self-delusion, blind instinct, dislocation from the self etc. The parallels, which we might deduce from this for our own lives, are obvious.
Concerto No. 1 for Guitar and Strings (1998 rev. 2008) - 'Lorca'
Concerto No. 1 for Guitar and Strings was written in 1998 to celebrate the centenary of the birth of the great Spanish poet and dramatist Federico Garcia Lorca. It was commissioned by the Instituto Cervantes (Dublin) and first performed in August 1998 by the Irish Chamber Orchestra with the composer as soloist. I performed the work a number of times since with the Irish Chamber Orchestra, the National Symphony Orchestra of Ireland, and the Santos Symphony Orchestra in Brazil. The entire work is governed by two dominant motifs - a descending three-note semitone fragment (or its inversion or extension) and the interval of the perfect 5th.
The Concerto is in one single movement. It opens with a prolonged fast section where guitar and strings exchange musical ideas. Within the string section, a more intimate string trio (violin, viola, cello) is formed which, along with the guitar, provides a concertante construction (common in Baroque music) for the orchestra. This gives the concerto a characteristic chamber music quality. A second section (or phase) introduces slower music - a soft lament for the early death of Lorca. This is followed by an intense section for strings only. The emotional centre of the entire Concerto, this section attempts to understand the absence of Lorca - the absence of the guitar here is an apt metaphor. The section climaxes into the guitar cadenza which, on completion, brings in the orchestra again in a highly charged section of rhythmic complexity. This is more celebratory in mood and reaches a powerful climax before emerging again into a second slow section. This final phase displays a sad and lyrical guitar solo over a broadening fan of perfect 5ths on harmonics in the strings. The work finishes with the lamenting guitar hovering over these celestial harmonies in a mood of both celebration and sadness for the poet Lorca. [BD]
Concerto No. 2 for Guitar and Orchestra (2007)
An RTÉ commission, my Concerto No. 2 for Guitar and Orchestra was written especially for the renowned Brazilian guitarist Fabio Zanon whom I have known since my student days at the Royal Academy of Music, London. The technical challenges of writing for such a small instrument as the guitar in such a large setting as an orchestra have been daunting (even for a guitarist-composer). Furthermore, to the standard orchestra I have added (quite atypically for guitar concertos!) a piano, a harp and a celesta (not to mention some unusual percussion instruments). Andrés Segovia once said that the guitar was a miniature orchestra. Notwithstanding this rather exaggerated view of the instrument, I decided to take this idea as a basis for establishing the relationship the solo instrument would have with its giant accompaniment. The first movement, therefore, sees the orchestra emerging out of the guitar's material (as if amplifying the instrument's latent orchestral qualities) and fading away in a constant swelling fashion as if the guitar sound was somehow being magnified sonically and colourfully by the orchestra.
Longer than the two outer movements framing it, the second movement is an extended Passacaille which is initiated in the guitar cadenza that introduces it. That cadenza, which opens with a simple seven-note ground (the melodic line upon which the whole movement is based), develops into an increasingly embellished and complex multi-voiced tableaux which ushers in the orchestra to continue the expansion of the simple ground. By the time the orchestra has reached its climax that simple opening melodic phrase will have been transformed into a full tutti incorporating almost every instrument of the orchestra further exemplifying my idea of the orchestra being an amplification of the solo instrument.
The final movement I suppose is a Scherzo of sorts and light in character. Certain sections might be thought of as Minimalist were it not for the music's constantly driven character. There's a folk tune somewhere here (my own!) which is a nod towards the great guitar composers Rodrigo and Villa-Lobos, and indeed, this movement allows the soloist to indulge in some highly virtuosic displays before the orchestra embarks on a collision course of huge clashing rhythmic units. Suddenly, the guitar is left alone only with the Cuíca to accompany it. The Cuíca is a Brazilian drum used in Samba music and seemed to me to be the right instrument to join Fabio in finishing this virtuosic tour-de-force.
Rajas, Sattva, Tamas - Concerto for Percussion and Orchestra (2000)
Rajas, Sattva and Tamas, the qualities born of nature bind the immortal soul in the body.
Bhagavad Gita XIV.5
An RTÉ commission, Rajas, Sattva, Tamas was written in 2000 and premièred by Richard O’Donnell and the National Symphony Orchestra with Nicholas Kok conducting. It was my first work for large orchestral forces. The orchestra certainly plays a dominant role and the work might very well be described as a Concerto for Orchestra with Percussion Soloist. However, the highly virtuosic nature of the solo part (not to mention the large number of instruments he or she must get through) remind us that this is indeed a Concerto for Percussion and Orchestra.
According to the Indian Vedic tradition, there is one ultimate substance behind whatever can be perceived in the realm of matter and mind, which is responsible for all the qualities and energies that we observe. This prime material is called Prakriti and is the basic substratum of the universe, both gross and subtle. Prakriti is the original form of matter or objectivity, the unmanifest essence or undifferentiated potential of all that can appear in name, form and action.Prakriti means ‘the first power of action’, and it's qualities direct the entire cosmic movement. It provides the raw material out of which the universe, the different worlds and indeed our bodies are built. Prakriti therefore is called the ‘unmanifest’, it contains all that can be manifest in a dormant form.
Prakriti is composed of the three prime qualities of Rajas, Sattva and Tamas, the qualities of energy, light and matter, also known as the three Gunas. Rajas brings about creation while Sattva maintains and preserves that creation.Tamas consolidates but also ultimately brings about the decay and destruction of what has been manifest.The qualities of these three Gunas can be described as follows....
Rajas - is the active, stimulating or positive force that initiates change, disturbing the equilibrium, bringing out creation
Sattva - is the quality of light, is neutral and balancing, harmonizing the positive and negative, evolving and growing, preserving and nourishing creation
Tamas - is the passive, obstructing or negative force which sustains only previous activity and eventually brings about destruction of creation.
The three Gunas are ever in dynamic interaction. All three forces remain intertwined, affecting each other in various ways. Rajas and Tamas exist in the field of Sattva; Tamas and Sattva can be found in the field of Rajas, and Sattva and Rajas in the field of Tamas. We rarely see pure Rajas, Sattva or Tamas. At the same time the Gunas tend to hold their particular natures for a certain period once they come into dominance.
Even this simple understanding of the Vedic idea of three forces that effectively govern every aspect of existence represented an immediate model for my percussion concerto. I had the idea from the very beginning that I would use a large number of percussion instruments and a large orchestra. I was already thinking in ‘cosmic’ terms. So when I began studying the Vedic concepts of Prakriti (a title I gave to an earlier work for saxophone) and Rajas, Sattva and Tamas - the forces of creation, sustenance and destruction - the idea seemed to me readymade for large orchestral forces.
Therefore, Rajas is built from cellular fragments which accumulate and multiply. The soloist uses (for the most part) non-pitched instruments. The quality is one of uncontainable swirling bolts of energy. The music searches throughout the whole orchestra to find its form. The direction is one towards order. Sattva, holds the light. Its opening sections are created through the unfolding of chords (as if to allow us look into them, or rather to hear into them). The soloist moves to pitched instruments - vibraphone and tubular bells dominate. The work reduces its forces when the soloist plays only pitched gongs over sustained basses. This is the still centre. Following this, a theme develops, built on a series of perfect 5ths - an open sound, neither dissonant nor consonant, a harmony that resides beyond grounded dualities. The movement ends on a sumptuous repetition of floating, overlapping harmonies. Tamas immediately displays its destructive force with an outburst on loud brass and piercing whistles (played by all the brass players!). The brass and strings often act against each other. The soloist reverts to drums only (with the assistance of the ominous timpani). Melodic fragments overlap and accumulate into destructive collision. A primordial force is at work. The movement moves into an energised frenzy but one that is ultimately self-destructive. The entire work is in one overall movement and is preceded by a Prelude to Existence. Here, the humming of the still universe is invoked.
Homenaje a Maurice Ohana: (primera parte - seconda parte) (1997 rev. 2007)
Homenaje a Maurice Ohana was originally written in 1997 and appeared then as the first two movements of a work called Three Pieces for Piano. The third movement of that work always struck me as being stylistically incongruent with the first two and so, after much consideration, I decided to separate them and re-name them. The third movement became an Étude. The first two movements were given the title Homenaje a Maurice Ohana: (primera parte - seconda parte). Central to this renaming was the fact that I had, in the second piece (now seconda parte) quoted from a work of Maurice Ohana’s - his haunting Tiento (1957) for guitar. This work was already a homage to this most unique maghrib-franco-hispanic composer. The first movement (now primera parte) occupied such similar tonal and emotional territory to its sister piece that I felt that it would work extremely well as an accompanying work. This movement was conceived on a structural plan which allowed for two separate layers of music to follow their own harmonic trajectory - the upper layer to proceeds by a sequence of 5th while the lower line follows a sequence of 4ths. Each layer initiates its harmonic journey be use of the same melodic motif - the repetition of the interval of the 7th. As each proceeds, the music is enriched harmonically, texturally, and in terms of register expansion. As the musical arguments develop, the work arrives at a period of prolonged and repetitive arpeggios in the bass while figurations in the higher register are brought to a frenzied climax. Emerging from a powerfully sustained bass chord, fragments of material slowly fall from the higher register. As they proceed downwards they inevitably morph into the opening 7th motif and the original two layers. This time the motifs take on a more sinister character and each reiteration sees the addition of a new note attaching itself to the motif. In time, three strands (layers) of music develop. With every repetition the motifs become as heavy as tombstones.
The seconda parte is altogether more ethereal. Built on a simple foundation of three notes (a major 3rd apart) - Bflat / D / Fsharp, melodic fragment weave around a repeating series of slowly cascading chords. When all three harmonic centres have been passed through the music quotes a melodic phrase from Ohana’s Tiento. Following this, the harmonic sequence of Bflat / D / Fsharp is again traversed, but this time in a series of disintegrated melodic and harmonic fragments which are, themselves, interspersed with tiny fragments of the Ohana quote. The work closes with a strange reiteration of the Ohana quote in the high register of the piano over sinister repeated notes in the low bass. The figurations slowly fade out of earshot.
Voces Críticas (2004)
Written in Barcelona in 2004, Voces Críticas (critical voices) was commissioned by Music Network (Ireland) and RTE Lyric fm and was written for the renowned Australian guitarist Craig Ogden who premièred it in the Coach House, Dublin Castle on November 2nd of that year.
From the earliest sketches of this work the idea of ‘critical voices’ presented itself. This mutated into the Spanish, Voces Críticas. The words ‘critical’ and ‘voices’, taken alone and together, conjure up many images. ‘Critical’ suggests numerous things: a critique, something rather important, or something at an extreme point, an urgency. ‘Voices’ can suggest, simply, voices. But one can voice an opinion. This implies to articulate, to offer a distinct alternative, to be heard. In terms of music, ‘voices’ means lines or separate strands of music which can be played together, as in chordal passages, for example, or against each other, as in fugal writing. So from the beginning, Voces Críticas signalled a particular direction for me, one which suggested lines of music, a contrapuntal writing that was concise, that voiced only what was critically required. This emphasis on contrapuntal structures presented many difficulties considering the instrument in question. Though by no means alien to contrapuntal music (the guitar’s ability to comfortably discharge the violin and cello suites of Bach ably demonstrates its capabilities in this area), the interrogation of multi-voices textures on the instrument presents huge technical challenges for both composer and performer.
Voces Críticas is in three movements. The first, Pasacalle, is structurally very simple. A semi-tone dominated descending line (or ground) is repeated (as in a Chaconne with its ground bass) and is continuously embellished. Paradoxically, the use of a very simple ground offers plenty of opportunity to develop rather complex rounds; each variation of this underlying 'theme' offers new and more brilliant versions of the same line. In this way the work resembles a series of portraits of the one subject, each offering a new insight and shade. As the movement progresses, additional lines appear, sometimes in retrograde. At its most complex, four distinct lines are working simultaneously (one appears on harmonics). Following some climactic variations, the work returns to its opening simplicity but one which is somewhat less innocent. The distorted notes at the end suggest a damaged aftermath of sorts.
The second movement is called Ecos de Seikilos (Echoes of Seikilos). The Seikilos is a melody reputed to be the oldest known surviving example of a complete notated musical composition. The song, the melody of which is recorded (alongside its lyrics) in the ancient Greek musical notation, was found engraved on a tombstone, near Aidin in Turkey sometime between 200 BC and AD 100. The following is a transliteration of the words which are sung to the melody, and an English translation:
Hoson zēs, phainou
Mēden holōs sy lypou;
Pros oligon esti to zēn
To telos ho chronos apaitei
While you live, shine
Don't suffer anything at all;
Life exists only a short while
And time demands its toll.
In composing Ecos de Seikilos, I worked from a visual image of broken shards of the tombstone containing the notated song floating backwards through time and space towards me. Each shard represented fragments of the Seikilos melody which came to me slightly distorted. The minimalist, disjointed nature of these melodic fragments conjures up a distant, objective music, as if the fragments we hear have no emotional quality for us today. The shards (or lines of melody) overlap: some fragments come towards us while others recede into the distance. The movement attempts to piece together sufficient fragments in order to decipher the tune, and indeed, the Seikilos melody does appear to us momentarily in a muted form only to disappear again without trace.
The third movement, Pasillos (passages), is the most advanced movement of the work. Somewhat in the vain of Berio’s Chemins (paths), this work is centred around what I could describe as pitch-tunnels, or lines (voices) which are dictated by chosen pitch centres. All activity is either an affirmation of, or a deviation from, these prescribed pitch centres. The contrapuntal concern remains. However, each voice is now ‘orchestrated’ or coloured, shaded and distorted. The harmonic movement is dictated by the shifting pitch-tunnels and the speed at which these centres alternate. The exponential rate of the pitch-tunnel shifts add considerably to the momentum of the movement. The work climaxes at the arrival of the pitch-tunnel E thereby reinforcing the natural ‘key’ of the instrument itself. Technically demanding to an extreme degree, Pasillos explores numerous innovative practices and asks sometimes for both hands to act completely independently of each other, as in the ending which sustains a tremolo melodic fragment (played by the right hand alone) over a repeated E/F dyad (plucked by the left hand alone).
Top of Page