The sound of paths not taken

The new piece is written, and the score and parts delivered. The performance is set for 26 April, as part of Stroma’sMirror of Time 2’ programme. The underlying thread of the programme is the same as last year’s ‘Mirror of Time’ concert, bringing together early and contemporary music. The early music is mostly things that were the avant-garde of their time, and often styles and technical approaches that weren’t developed in later, more familiar music, so they still sound strange to us today. I think this is a really interesting way to construct a programme; last year’s concert was great, and I’m looking forward to this instalment. As with last year, the performers are Stroma’s regular string players, with soprano Rowena Simpson, and recorder player Kamala Bain.

My contribution is a short piece for recorder and string quartet, provisionally titled Canzona per sonare: degraded echoes. That title seems likely to stick, barring a sudden flash of inspiration between now and the concert. I generally find this stage of the process the most uncomfortable – the pause between letting go of the music, and hearing it in rehearsal. This is the time when the doubts set in: does the score convey what I think it does? Have I found notational solutions which make sense to the players? Do the sounds the notation stands for work together as I imagined?

Perhaps because of my attempts to document some of the process, I was conscious of some aspects of the creative process involved in this piece. I’m thinking particularly of the step from the open-ended planning stages, where I have a general image of what the music might be like, to the point where I have to commit to something, and start filling in details. It’s probably more accurate to describe the initial stage as a number of competing images, some of which are incompatible, in a way that they couldn’t all be part of the same piece. I think the friction between these multiple possibilities is necessary to the formation of a piece, but at some point I inevitably have to choose to let go of things that earlier seemed like really good ideas. Or, it’s not always a conscious choice: more than once I reached a point where it became apparent that certain directions were now inaccessible, and indeed, looking at a more-or-less finished form, realised that several promising strands had been left unexplored.

It’s compounded in this case by the piece’s short duration – probably about five and a half minutes, and mostly moving quite slowly, so there’s less scope for covering a lot of ground. None of this should be read as suggesting that I’m unhappy with where I’ve ended up; but some of those paths not taken are still enticing. Actually, it’s probably quite useful to have material in reserve – some of the things that didn’t fit this time could be adapted to other contexts, although by the time I come back to them, who knows if they’ll still be interesting?

So now I’m in the limbo between finalising the score, and hearing it played. I often find that this is the lowest ebb of the creative process, particularly if I haven’t had a collaborative relationship with the performers along the way. (I did manage one very productive session with Kamala, trying out some options for manipulating the timbre of the recorder, in which I learnt two things: the acoustics of the Ganassi recorder are even more interesting than I expected, and I’m in awe at the subtlety of Kamala’s playing. There’s the beginnings of another piece right there.)

Usually what happens is that once I hear a piece played, I can start to appreciate it as it is, rather than seeing it in terms of how it diverges from the original idea. And more often than not, the surprises are good ones – the overlay of the performers’ interpretation onto the notated score. But I never feel that I can count on that until it happens.

With this piece, I feel that there are some risks involved, and I’m waiting for a rehearsal to see how they turn out. The first of these is the use of the Gabrieli motet as a source of material. There are direct quotations, and isolated melodic fragments, and aspects of the motet’s modal harmonic framework underpin sections of the piece. There’s a degree of tension between that soundworld and a layer of harmonically static, timbrally driven music – it remains to be seen whether this tension propels the music, or whether it’s just uncomfortable.

The main concern is with the rhythmic notation. Most of the piece is without a metrical grid, so it’s left to the players to form the relationships between the parts. This follows on from some of the approaches taken in The stars like years, particularly the idea of de-emphasising counting, while still allowing for the possibility of rhythmic complexity. I’m excited about the possibilities of sharing creative responsibility with the performers in this way, and it’s been quite effective in earlier pieces; but I’m still not sure I’ve found a reliable way of notating these sorts of approaches. There’s a delicate balance between too much notation, and not enough (and this piece probably leans towards the too-much side). I think the greatest concern is whether the notational solution I’ve arrived at makes sense to the people who have to play from it – again, time will tell.

And, on a more practical level, there’s the question of balance between the recorder and the string quartet. I’ve written it for Ganassi soprano, in the hope that the high register will help keep the recorder audible, and the Ganassi design is generally stronger in tone than baroque-style recorders. And of course, I don’t doubt that the players are sensitive to these issues, and for most of the piece, there’s plenty of space around everyone’s contribution. And, for the most part, it isn’t a soloist/accompaniment kind of texture, so that should work itself out when it’s played.

But that’s probably enough of my insecurities. I’m really looking forward to the next part of the process, when the musicians turn my score into music.

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