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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.

Quasi una fantasia

Quasi una fantasia can now be considered an early work but one (to quote James Wilson) I´m still not ashamed of! It might seem hard to believe but the guitar playing of Jimi Hendrix was a seminal influence on this work, hence the soaring violin lines at the begining where the instruments have been conflated into one ´sound block´. It is only in the centre and final slower sections where the instruments assert their individual voices. I should say the ´melodic´instruments as the piano, for the most part, serves as the harmonic platform for a struggle for autonomy which the violin and clarinet seek. Both instruments do manage to take centre stage with a cadenza but the work finishes in a dismantled state, quite the opposite to the beginning.

Apuntes sin títulos

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

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 Ansioso
Étude No. 6 African Print

Book III: Étude No. 7 Strata
Étude No. 8 Penticus
Étude No. 9 Improvisation

Book IV: Étude No. 10 Goblin
Étude No. 11 Why not Mr. Buckley?
Étude No. 12 Drive

The first Book of Études for guitar was completed in August 1996 and the last Ètude was written 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 real concert Ètude. 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 Ligeti. 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 what outside style 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 unified in the that they are all based (to a lesser or greater degree, and in various ways melodically and harmonically) on two distinct motifs - a descending 3-semitone figure (or its ascending opposite, or even a fragment of these), and the interval of the perfect fifth (or its inversion). So, even though the Études have absorbed various styles and genres they are all structured around two fundamental motifs.

No. 1 'Relentless'. This 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 the first 3-note motif 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 3-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 'Un peu Animé'. Based almost entirely on the 3-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.

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. For me this creates a particular resonance that 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 'Ansioso'. This was a favourite marking of Britten and again Britten is conjured up in this meditation on the 3-note motif. This work is a study in legato playing and sonority.

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.

No. 7 'Strata'. This Étude exploits the truly polyphonic nature of the instrument sustaining up to four independent 'voices' against an ostinato that runs throughout the piece.

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. It sets itself apart from the other Études in that it follows its own harmonic plan built upon a three -note progression separated by a semi-tone and a major third. This forms both a harmonic frame and a counter melody to the open fifths that pervade the work.

No. 9 'Why not Mr. Buckley'. Some titles are too complicated to explain. The first half of this Étude could be described as a variation on the note B. This initial subdued lines are interrupted by a fragment in the bass which, in time, develops into the basis for the second half of the work - a rock-inspired improvisation of great energy.

No. 10 'Drive'. Built almost entirely on a four-bar rhythmic pattern, this Étude incorporates aspects of minimalist writing - but the development never ceases. It breaks out into an imaginary folk tune (it could be any piece written for guitar in the Segovia period - or later for that matter!). Despite the potential for cynicism, it is, in the end, a small tribute to two of the better composers for guitar - Heitor Villa-Lobos and Joaquin Rodrigo.

No. 10 '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 work. A fast linear and arpeggiated piece which enwraps the principal 3-note motif in its complicated mesh, it finishes as suddenly as it starts.

No. 12 'Improvimemoriam Berio'. Written very soon after the death of Berio. This is very much a through-composed work, the explosive music of the Italian composer acted as an inspiration here (moments of one of his Sequenzas finds its way into the music). Essentially a right hand work, the principal motive is enacted through spiralling arpeggios and exploratory improvisations that stretch both the instrument and the performer to the edge.

Parallaxis: 1997

A parallaxis is the 'apparent change in the position of an object resulting from the change in position of the observer'. This title reflects the difficulty a listener may have in determining exactly what and when each instrument is sounding. The opening of the work is created from a long sustained f note that is sounded by both instruments alternating seamlessly. It also hints at an apparent movement in the work that is felt as a result of timbral and instrumental manipulation rather than distinct harmonic progressions.

In many ways the work is about transformation. The opening section indicates a single line; by the end of the piece the textures have been made richer by the addition of voices to create a four-part harmony with additional complex overtones. The seamless opening gives way to a rigorously rhythmic second part. This is further transformed into a third section that encapsulates space as an integral element of the work. Both saxophone parts and vocalisations in this tape version were realised by Kenneth Edge.

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.

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