Sent to hospital – by Symkevi!

[NB this post was begun around ten days ago, while I was still in hospital. I’m out now, and have been for a few days. I haven’t bothered to change the tenses though.]

I’m back in hospital. I’ve got an IV line in my arm, a ventilation machine by my bed and an antibiotic drip that comes round three times a day. I’m supervised by physios, dieticians, nurses, doctors and pharmacists. When I get out, I’ll have been here a week and half, and then there’ll be few more days at home with the antibiotics.

Yet my position isn’t as bad as it sounds. Normally when I’ve been here I’ve been ill – chest infections catching up on me, that sort of thing. This time I’m here because I’m doing quite well. The treatment is much the same, though, like a modern-day version of that scene with the doctor in Blackadder 2: leeches for everything.

The author (r)

Two months ago I started on a new CF drug called Symkevi, a relative of Orkambi, which was approved for use on the NHS last October after a long campaign by the CF Trust, MPs (in particular Ian Austin and Sarah Wollaston), and CF patients and parents. The day of the news was one of huge celebration. Unexpectedly, I was in Ibiza when I heard the news. Away from Pixar films I don’t cry much, as a rule, but I did that day. A lot.

With several thousand eligible CF patients in England in the line to start the drug, rollout of Symkevi was slow and steady. (According to Twitter some cystics are still not through the process.) I started on 21 January. The medication arrived at my door the day before, and I unboxed it with the same sense of wonder and excitement I used to get tearing the cellophane wrappers off CDs on the tube home from teenage trips to Soho record shops. I played with the clever cardboard packaging. I took in the design. I read every word on the box. I took the first tablet at 9am the next day – sunshine yellow for the morning dose, cool blue for the evening – with awe and trepidation. To be granted something that you have desired for so long; into which thousands of people have invested money, time, brilliance, ingenuity and real blood; that your loved ones hope and believe will transform you; and that you cannot be sure will even work. All the while, scrutinizing everything your body is doing, to an information-warping degree.

The response from my body was almost immediate. Hours after that first tablet I had a spell of dizziness and nausea just as I set out to collect my son from school. Strange, I thought. Did Peter Parker feel the same thing when the radioactive spider DNA started to work through his body? In the following days, the headaches began, and a general sense that I was coming down with something. My cough got worse, and more productive. Over the first weekend I had to cancel appointments, including a Riot Ensemble Trustees meeting, because I felt so washed out. Yet I wasn’t worried. I knew that this was all relatively normal. Symkevi works on such a fundamental, cellular level that it inevitably comes with a range of side effects, from headaches to insomnia to bowel trouble to liver function. What I was experiencing was normal.

I drew great strength from the online CF community. One of the upsides of so many of us starting on the same drug at roughly the same time is that people were reporting their symptoms and side effects on a daily basis, sharing tips and advice. Was what I was feeling normal? A few minutes on Twitter confirmed that yes, it was. As I went through those first days, I took great encouragement from things like @NormalLife’s Symkevi diary of his first week on the drug. I empathised with Kate Eveling’s anxieties. I scoured the #symkevi hashtag for every snippet of information or perspective I could find as though it was the morning after seeing a life-changing gig.

After that first weekend, the side effects calmed down a lot. I had a few days when I felt really good. The headaches and the productive cough were still there, but in between I felt better than usual. It felt like the last day of a heavy cold: when you’re not out of the woods, but you can feel the virus leaving you. I went back to my Couch to 5K programme. After a winter away from running I started back at the beginning, but I was excited to see what difference Symkevi was making to my aerobic fitness. In the event, I felt almost no different. Hard to tell any effect at all; but I was so out of shape anyway, I told myself, maybe that was asking too much.

Gradually, though, I became less and less aware of any benefits to Symkevi at all. After three weeks I was still feeling under the weather, and I’d picked up a mild cold as well, which wasn’t helping. Nevertheless, I went to my regular clinic appointment on 18 February – my first since starting Symkevi – in an optimistic frame of mind. Even before I’d started I’d posted an unusually good lung function result (64% of expected FEV1), and I had good hopes for improving on that, or at least maintaining that high. When I was weighed and was found to have put on an unprecedented 4 kilos since December, a mad part of me even saw 70% as a possibility just over the horizon, somewhere I’ve not been since my early 20s.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a drop. Certainly not a big one. Of three tests, the best I could blow was a measly 55%. My overall lung capacity also fell off a cliff, from 88% expected in December to 65%. These were numbers that would ring alarm bells, I felt sure. I waited for my consultant with dread.

I love Dr J. I have had several consultants in my time at the Brompton, and he is one of a few I trust absolutely. This is important. When I explained my disappointment he wasn’t fazed, and I was enormously reassured. (Three weeks later and I am still drawing on his reaction.) It’s not unusual, he said, for people’s lung functions to dip after starting Symkevi. Really? I thought.  No one is talking about this on Twitter. Everything there is sunshine and light and 10% bumps in lung function. Yep. Because the way Symkevi works is that it loosens all the mucous that is stuck to your airway walls. In my case, there is a lot of it, and it is sticky. It’s attached to my airways like concrete render, with such a tenacity that you almost don’t notice it having an effect at all. (At least superficially.) What Symkevi has done, in my understanding, is take a jackhammer to all that render, and now it’s swilling around all over the place, getting in the way. Hence the increased level of obstruction showing up on my spirometry.

Lung function is not the only measure we can use, said Dr J. It’s not even the most important one – which was news to me! He pulled up the x-ray I had had done that afternoon. For the first time in a very long time, it showed noticeable improvements. Even my untrained eye could see: the right upper lobe was markedly clearer, and overall there was a sense that the thick spidery whiteness that covered the rest of the picture was a layer or two thinner. This was very encouraging.

So, said Dr J., how about we bring you in for a few days? Since the Symkevi is doing its job loosening everything in your airways, how about you come onto the ward for some intensive physio, to make the most of this moment? OK, I said, I see the logic. Presumably I won’t need an IV while I’m there? Oh no, we’ll put a line in anyway. Might as well get some antibiotics in you as well, to help the effort. But I’ll be able to come home? Yes, after a few days.

And that is why I’m back, on Foulis Ward, surrounded by equipment. Symkevi is working well: let’s step on the accelerator and give it all we can.

Always on brand

Update since drafting the above: I’m now back home. I came back in a taxi on Friday, four days ago, scrunching an alcohol wipe in my hands all the way. Being in hospital while the coronavirus outbreak spread everywhere outside was frightening. But I’m home, I’m staying home, and I feel relatively safe. I feel lucky in a way: a week later, and I would have been terrified to make that journey. And at least this way I’ve been put into the best possible shape for whatever there is to come. I’m going to be home for the next few weeks at least with lots more time to write. For the time being, this blog may become as much a diary of that time as it is a place for me to share thoughts on contemporary music. No doubt it will be a bit of both, and me being me they will leach into one another anyway.

Take care everyone, and speak to you soon.

Albums to look out for in 2020

Albums to look out for in 2020

This is the season of end-of-year lists (I’m pleased to see several of my top 10 make it into The Wire‘s albums of the year). But it is also a time of year when many great recordings are still coming out that might get overlooked in twelve months’ time. I want to give quick shoutouts to a few of these that have become aware of in the last few weeks.

Anna Höstman: Harbour (Redshift Records)

When I wrote about Canadian experimental composers for The Wire a couple of years ago, Anna Höstman‘s name was one that came up in my research, even though I wasn’t able to write about her at the time. Harbour (released 11 Jan 2020) is an album of piano solos, played with great finesse and concentration by Cheryl Duvall. I emphasise concentration, because Höstman’s music demands a combination of intense mindfulness and extremely long-range thought. Not unlike her compatriot Martin Arnold, she is fascinated by musical lines – rather than encasing structures – that unfurl and loop and roll under their own volition. At points they seem to catch, on a motif or a chord, and at these moments the repetitions bring Feldman to mind. At other times, the music meanders quite carelessly, but somehow always doing enough to hold your attention. The 25-minute title piece, composed in 2015, is particularly sumptuous. One not to miss in 2020.

Robert Haigh: Black Sarabande (Unseen Worlds)

Another record due out at the start of 2020, this is also another one for fans of off-kilter piano music. Haigh’s second album for Unseen Worlds occupies a sonic space filled with hauntological tape hiss, synth pads and almost-out-of-earshot field recordings. Shades of Harold Budd, as well as Vangelis’s Bladerunner, with a harmonic and textural subtlety – a hallmark of Haigh’s work that runs all the back to his drum ‘n’ bass days as Omni Trio – that keeps it all from shading into simple ambience. Unseen Worlds had a tremendous year in 2019; Tommy McCutchon’s label looks to be start strong in 2020 too.

ELISION: world-line (Huddersfield Contemporary Records)

It’s great to have a proper recording of Richard Barrett’s world-line, a work that affected me deeply when I first heard it at the Transit festival in Leuven a few years ago. Written for custom-made lap-steel guitar, with percussion, trumpet and electronic accompaniments, it is not only an exemplary instance of Barrett’s interest in bespoke instrumental ergonomics but a moving (and forgivably masculine) portrait of his relationship with Daryl Buckley and ELISION: everyone duets with Daryl’s guitar, and the movement where Daryl and percussionist Peter Neville – partners in music for 30 years – get to improvise on their own is surprisingly touching.

Also on the disc are Timothy McCormack’s subsidence for lap-steel guitar (two players), a 30-minute pitch-black spiral down into slack strings and popping pickups. A seriously dark piece and a great taster for McCormack’s forthcoming portrait disc on Kairos. The CD is completed with Liza Lim’s Roda – The Living Circle, a trumpet solo for Tristram Williams drawn and elaborated from the ensemble work Roda – The Spinning World.

This one is already out: you can see full details at the NMC website.

POST-PRESS ADDITION: David Brynjar Franzson: longitude (Bedroom Community)

Another recent release is David Brynjar Franzson’s longitude, performed by Ensemble Adapter. Composed in moody instrumental and electronic atmospherics – jagged, hissing, perforated sounds that crossfade in and out – it’s a compelling soundscape that I’m sure is even more striking heard live. It’s also an exploration of the extraordinary story of the Danish adventurer Jørgen Jørgensen, whose complex involvement in the Napoleonic Wars can be read as both heroic and traitorous: after fighting with the Danish against the British in the Gunboat Wars, he attempted to liberate Iceland from a Danish trade monopoly that was slowly starving its people; he named himself ‘Protector’ of Iceland, but after 40 days he was taken back to England, imprisoned, and eventually became a British spy working in France and Germany.

Over the course of longitude‘s 50 minutes, those sibilant atmospheres take on more emotionally provocative identities: the work is never programmatic (although one is free to imagine in its sounds something of Jørgensen’s voyages across the North Sea between Denmark and Great Britain; the famished state of Rejkyavik that he encountered in 1809; and the whistling harmonics of Scandinavian folk music), but draws one ever-deeper into sonic ambiguities that echo the shifting allegiances and morals of Jørgensen’s life. Worth the investment of time; you can get it through Bandcamp here.


This is not a love story: Chaya Czernowin’s Heart Chamber

Chaya Czernowin’s fourth opera, Heart Chamber, will receive its premiere at Deutsche Oper Berlin on 15 November, and subsequent performances on 21, 26 and 30 November, and 6 December. Tickets and other information can be found here. The following essay is a longer version of the text that is published (in German, translated by Wieland Hoban) in the programme book.

This is not a love story. The history of opera already has plenty of those: Orpheus and Eurydice, Dido and Aeneas, Tristan and Isolde, Pelléas and Mélisande, Porgy and Bess. Two lovers meet and become bound together by the forces of fate or the rules of society. Whether their story is tragic or comic they must fall in love, and love is an irresistible force.

Or is it? Heart Chamber, by the Israeli composer Chaya Czernowin, confronts that convention. This is a romantic opera for the twenty-first century. At its core are questions that could not have been asked seriously before. Is it inevitable that two people should be joined in a physical, emotional, social and familial bond? Do we want to be alone, or do we want to live in a couple or in a family? Must we sanctify love above all else?

The two characters in Heart Chamber are nameless. We are told almost nothing about their pasts. Although sung by a woman (soprano, Patrizia Ciofi) and a man (baritone, Dietrich Henschel), they are almost without gender. Their desires and fears are the same. Their story is minimal and we are shown only a few tiny moments: their first encounter and an accidental touch of skin; a phonecall and an invitation to talk a walk; a conversation and a revelation. They are not star-crossed lovers, doomed to a tragic fate. Nor are they romantic hero and heroine, bound to live happily ever after. They are figures slowly opening themselves up to each other, their minds and bodies hyper-sensitised to all the excitement, potential and danger that that involves. They are universal.

Falling in love is a huge risk. To share your life and your self with someone is to risk pain and suffering – and in extreme circumstances even torture and death. This is very rare, of course, although movements like #MeToo have made us all more aware of the amount of physical abuse that does take place. And even in a kind and caring relationship in which each partner is able to grow, to love is to lose something – other lives, other loves. It means giving up our autonomy and independence in order to become part of something larger. It is an opening up that is both physical and psychological. In Czernowin’s words: ‘In all this process of falling in love or opening your life to somebody else there are so many emotions, and they are all very focused, all very concentrated. It is almost like the whole body – and the whole body of the personality – know that they are going to undergo a huge change. And that change is described to us by society as something so idyllic: not many people talk about the risk, of opening an organism into another organism.’ Insofar as it tells a story – or describes a series of scenes – Heart Chamber does so in ways that engage us listeners aesthetically, psychologically and physically. As far as is possible, we are drawn into the same adventure into the unknown as the lovers themselves.

The libretto for Heart Chamber was written by the composer herself: it is ‘An inquiry about love’, according to its subtitle. The opera is dedicated to Czernowin’s husband, the composer Steven Kazuo Takasugi. The two voices are each partnered with another who sings their unspoken thoughts (additional text is added by a chorus and, near the start of the opera, recorded voices). The vocal pairings – the woman with a contralto (Noa Frenkel), the man with a countertenor (Terry Wey) – ensure that the separated ranges of the soprano and baritone mingle and overlap. (Again, Czernowin has deliberately blurred the gender divisions.) The libretto was originally written like a musical score: four lines, one for each voice, with all four lines to be read simultaneously. In the opera, this counterpoint comes out in the way in which the characters’ internal and external worlds continually interact with each other. ‘Take care when you pick it up’, sings the woman at their first encounter. ‘Don’t look at me like that, your eyes your gaze is burning’ adds her internal voice. The man is no more confident. ‘It looks solid enough to me – here you go!’ he replies to her, but inside he is anxious: ‘I didn’t mean to touch her hand like that it was by chance’. This push and pull of inner and outer continues throughout the opera, right up until its very last moment. Even as the sixth and final scene begins with the chorus noting that ‘Love is approaching’, the characters lay bare their fears of what that entails: ‘You erase me you consume my space you need so much of me’ (soprano); ‘You can’t suddenly cut away like that, why? I have to cry but I can’t turn away you opened me’ (baritone).

Composing Heart Chamber also left Czernowin exposed and on the brink of something unknown. This is the first time she has written her own libretto, for example, and it is – in her own words – ‘not a shy text’. Heart Chamber is, she freely admits, her most personal work, the completion of a twenty-year arc within her own artistic development, and also potentially the beginning of a new phase. It is her fourth composition for the stage, after Pnima … ins Innere (1998–9), a study in the consequences across generations of the trauma of the Holocaust, based on the novella See under: Love by David Grossmann; Adama (2004–5), a companion to the unfinished fragments of Mozart’s Zaide; and Infinite Now (2015–16), a meditation on entrapment and existence based on the short story Homecoming by the celebrated Chinese writer Can Xue, and the play FRONT by Luk Perceval (itself based on Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front).

Czernowin’s first opera, Pnima, had been a point of arrival, not only for her career – it established her among the leading composers of our time, winning the Bayerische Theater Preis 2000 and being named the most best premiere of the year by Opernwelt – but also for her music, as it drew together many of the themes of construction and deconstruction, and multiple and singular identities that she had begun to explore throughout the 1990s. There are two characters: an old man and a boy. The man is a Holocaust survivor; the boy is trying to understand the trauma that his grandfather will not discuss. Like the boy, and Grossmann, Czernowin is of a generation born and brought up in Israel, a generation who had grown up knowing something terrible had happened in their parents’ past but who were only ever shown glimpses of it; it was something concealed and rarely spoken about. The profound discontinuity between two generations’ experience is expressed in a musical language of friction and disruption: the sounds of winds and strings being stopped, distorted, split. Sometimes the sounds are smooth; but like memories they just as easily catch and break as air pushes against dilating lips, bow hairs scrape across strings, fingertips pluck and slide. The musical space is articulated not by continuities of melody, rhythm or harmony, but by relative degrees of resistance and obstruction.

These discontinuities carry through into Pnima’s dramaturgy. Although the work is an opera, neither the boy nor the man sing or speak on stage to each other or to the audience. Instead they are represented by two separate groups of voices and instruments, which express not only the space between the characters but also their conflicted, complex, and fragmented internal states rather than their external voices. Unlike Heart Chamber, in which external and internal voices are in constant dialogue and frequent conflict with one another, the dramatic tension in Pnima arises from the fact that the boy and the man cannot speak to each other, and can therefore never reach a resolution.

Pnima marked a significant point in Czernowin’s artistic development. ‘But then I really wanted to change’, she has said. ‘And I had to fight very, very hard.’ One way out for her was to introduce a visceral physicality that was not only imagined or metaphorical, but also present in the music itself. Pnima had already opened this door, yet subsequent works went further in this direction, drawing direct equivalents between sound and its physical production. A key example is Sahaf, written in 2008 for Ensemble Nikel, which prominently features a ratchet, an instrument whose sound is very closely matched to how you play it. Heart Chamber features moments like these on almost every page, but they are most vividly heard through the electronics, which are all derived from ‘concrete’ or recorded sounds, all of them the sounds of things in motion: swirling marbles, a spinning record, leaves blowing in the wind. The principle of kinetic energy is carried through to the innovative use of a sound ‘beamer’. This is essentially a loudspeaker attached to a long tube that can direct sound like a beam of light to a single point. In Heart Chamber it scans the auditorium, adding a layer of sound that is in continuous motion over those of the orchestra and voices, and the enveloping surround-sound electronics.

Czernowin takes the connection between the sonic and physical dimensions of sound still further in Heart Chamber, through her use of the recently identified phenomenon of ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response). This is a physical sensation of tingling skin that usually begins on the scalp and passes down the spine. It may be triggered by many things including certain auditory stimuli, particularly quiet, granular sounds such as crumpling paper, crushing eggshells, brushing hair, or writing – all of which also come with intimate physical associations. Examples of such sounds used in Heart Chamber include breathing and the plucking of comb teeth. Although your own sensory response to these sounds will be personal to you, Czernowin’s use of them indicates her desire to extend the physical metaphor of her music as far as the sphere of listening.

As Czernowin peeled away the layers of her own practice through the 2000s, she also opened up new spaces. This is a central conceit not only of individual works but also her whole way of working: that you can keep on simplifying sounds or experiences, but each time you do you reveal something new inside. ‘When you are going down the layers’, she has explained, ‘I also slow down everything so that it can be followed. Externally, you will initially think it will be much simpler because it is slowed down – you can follow it. But what it shows you is that when you slow down and you come close, you suddenly see all the amoebas, all the germs, and you suddenly see that it’s far more complicated than you thought.’

Space and electronics started to become components in her musical language. Maim (2001–7), for five soloists, orchestra and electronics, and perhaps Czernowin’s most important work of the 2000s, featured a system that would project the sound of the orchestra from the back of the hall, behind the audience. HIDDEN (2014), her forty-five-minute piece for string quartet and electronics, written for the JACK Quartet and first performed by them at IRCAM, goes further, using a surround-sound system to compose an ever-shifting virtual architecture that surrounds the live musicians. It was with this piece that Czernowin first worked with one of IRCAM’s computer music designers, Carlo Laurenzi – ‘an ideal collaborator’ who became essential to the creation of Infinite Now’s electronic parts and who also worked with her on Heart Chamber (along with Lukas Nowak and Joachim Haas at the Freiburg Experimentalstudio). ‘He understands my work completely,’ Czernowin has said of Laurenzi. ‘We find the thing that we don’t yet know, but we do it as two people. It doesn’t feel like collaborating with a foreign person, it’s very close to home.’ Nowak and Haas have also been close collaborators on earlier pieces: Haas worked with Czernowin in 1997 on Shu Hai practices javelin, her first piece to combine voice and electronics; and Nowak worked with her last year on Habekhi, a chamber piece for ensemble, voice and electronics that anticipated some of the ideas used in Heart Chamber.

Infinite Now was written as a series of six tableaux, each one developing the structure and the material of the last, continually stripping layers away and uncovering new things. The effect was rather like looking at a photograph at increasing levels of magnification: zooming in on a single, repeated moment. The process of ‘zooming in’ is central too to Heart Chamber, and is epitomised at the opera’s start. Subtitled ‘Tunnel, distant light’, the work’s first section is a long solo for double bass, played by Uli Fussenegger and gradually joined by the solo instruments of Ensemble Nikel (Patrick Stadler, saxophones, Yaron Deutsch, electric and acoustic guitars, Antoine Françoise, keyboards and piano, and Brian Archinal, percussion) and the vocalist Frauke Aulbert. ‘I didn’t know very much about the piece when I started it’, Czernowin tells me when I ask her about why she started the piece from this point. ‘This contrabass solo was for me like walking into a tunnel and opening something to look through.’

The solo itself begins from the widest possible space, covering the whole range of the instrument from high to low, as well as a large number of playing techniques. Soon it focuses on a very narrow point in its range – two notes, B and C above the treble clef. It is a strange place to begin a ninety-minute grand opera. Against the great overtures of Mozart or Wagner it seems almost perverse that the music should close itself down so quickly almost to nothing. But this is precisely Czernowin’s model of the tunnel – as a space that does not enclose and restrict, but that draws one closer to hidden worlds of detail. (It is telling that the opera’s title refers not only to the biological organ with which love is traditionally associated, but also to a confined space, a chamber.) As the pitches reduce down to just two the bass is instructed to play fast and on the bridge (sul ponticello); despite the narrow pitch band the actual sound heard is unstable and constantly changing. ‘When you come close to something you don’t only notice the outlines of the most important things in the room’, Czernowin has said. ‘You suddenly notice the air, you suddenly notice the heat from the radiator. When you get into an internal space you actually notice everything in the room. That also happens when you experience something very, very strong, when you have a strong emotional experience. You see how light works, how the dust is in the air, because everything slows down, and the room becomes audible, visible, and it brings itself into existence.’

In her works of the 1990s and 2000s, Czernowin would notate her music in almost obsessive detail, adding layers of information to even the tiniest particles of sound. Maim, for example compresses multiple intersecting processes into its first few notes alone, and maintains this intense level of detail throughout its fifty-minute duration. Over time, however, she has been able to relinquish some of that control and to allow her writing to become more generalised. She has said that a lot of what it means to be an artist is ‘giving what is unique to you in the best and the cleanest way that you can’. Although her sonic language has remained as characteristic as ever, she has found ways of expressing it without having to control every moment of the work. Slowness has brought hidden details of the sound into the foreground. Earlier pieces hinted at this new direction, particularly White Wind Waiting for guitar and orchestra (2013) – which might be considered a guitar concerto were the orchestra not whittled down to a stark textural underlay, and the guitar to a handful of enigmatic interjections – and they came to the fore in HIDDEN and then Infinite Now, both works that feature sonic tableaux that are static in many respects but full of unpredictable detail as you allow your ear to be drawn into them. The same quality is true of Heart Chamber. One set of instructions taken from the double bass introduction is indicative: ‘heavier pressure, slow bow / discontinuity in the sound as grain of sound appears when bow is extremely slow/ very little horizontal bow’.

Having reached this point of extreme focus, the opera follows a unique formal design that echoes Czernowin’s presentation of love that is not determined by social requirements or conventional narrative, but by the realities of physical and psychological change. Unlike HIDDEN or Infinite Now, Heart Chamber shifts its emphasis away from frozen moments of almost bottomless depth, and towards a continual forward motion: it is a constantly changing organism. Yet unusually, the piece does not grow outwards from a single point or idea – a common procedure that can be found in musical history from Josquin to Gérard Grisey – but proceeds towards a point. Moreover, that single point is unpredictable from the outset. Neither the man nor the woman know where the different moments in their journey will take them. As listeners we cannot discern how the opera will unfold from the extremely minimal beginning of two notes played repeatedly by a double bass. Even the composer herself was uncertain. At each step along the opera’s path something is added that changes its course, alters its endpoint. Following it is like tracing your finger through a maze, but in reverse. As elements combine, they open, they gain something, they lose something, they move forward. Where we end up is not encoded in where we began. There are moments in the opera – such as when the woman telephones the man to invite him to join her on a walk, or the man’s revelation about a previous lover. But each of these marks a point of departure; they are openings rather than arrivals. They are not ‘scenes’ in the conventional theatrical sense. They are revelations that set things in motion rather than bring them to rest.

The morning after the premiere of Infinite Now, in April 2017, I interviewed Czernowin in the luxurious breakfast room of her hotel in Ghent. The spring sunshine was glowing behind the leaves of a vine growing across the window. The composer could not have been happier, or more relieved. ‘I feel such a huge liberation right now’, she told me when I asked her how she felt. ‘Because I have no idea where it is going. I know, though, that it is almost like I now have wings and that I can fly!’ Yet perhaps the seeds of Heart Chamber were already in her mind. As she described to me the structure of Infinite Now, with its overlapping layers that go deeper and deeper into the truth of a situation, she used the analogy of falling in love. ‘It’s like when you see a person for the first time’, she said. ‘You know nothing about them. But you think, after I have lived with them for half a year I will know. But it’s exactly the opposite. You see them for the first time and you know everything there is to know. You live with them for half a year and you know nothing!’

One month before the premiere of Heart Chamber, in October 2019, I spoke to Czernowin again. This time we connected via Skype, from the more ordinary surroundings of my home. It was fascinating to compare the two conversations, one conducted just after a major premiere, the other a few weeks before. Extending over a total duration of two and half hours, Infinite Now was Czernowin’s largest work to date – at the time she called it her ‘most extensive, wide and I hope deep and far-reaching statement’. Along with HIDDEN it remains one of the works that she is most proud of, breaking new ground in terms of how large she could make the internal space of the music. It continues to be special to her because in it she accepted her own artistic tendency – which she also describes as a vulnerability – to dive deep into the interior of sounds, and was able to render that internal space as infinite. Yet just two years later, she already regards it as a transitional step of its own, this time on the path that has brought her to Heart Chamber. ‘With this opera I am really going all the way back to Pnima with everything I have learned’, she tells me over Skype. She feels many parallels between tonight’s opera and her first. ‘I feel like Heart Chamber takes all the knowledge of psychology [from Pnima] and puts it inside the body. I am now inside the body. I am sensitive to the neurons, the muscles, the kinetic energy. I am sensitive to the quality of the voice and what it sends into the muscles and the nerves.’ Pnima, she says, closed a chapter in her life in which she completed her debt to her parents, and rebelled against them too. It was the moment she was able to come into her own as an artist. I put it to her that she told me something similar about Infinite Now, two years ago: that that opera was the summation of everything she had done since the beginning of her career. ‘Always in love with the last one!’ she laughs. The ending is not an ending. It is a beginning. This is love.

Tim Rutherford-Johnson, 2019

Tim Rutherford-Johnson is author of Music after the Fall: Modern Composition and Culture since 1989 (University of California Press). He is married and has two children.

Speaking appearances, November 2019

I will be talking about music in two settings next week.

On Tuesday, 5 November, I will be at the University of Huddersfield as a contributor (with Robert Adlington and Aaron Cassidy) to the first session in this year’s Speculations in Sound, a five-week series of seminar/workshop afternoons discussing the role and place of new music within contemporary culture and society. Session 1 is rather bracingly called ‘What the fuck are we doing here?’, and Robert, Aaron and I will be doing our best to spin that as a call to action rather the end of the world.

Three days later, on Friday 8 November, I will be at November Music, in the gorgeous town of ‘s-Hertengebosch, the Netherlands, to give a keynote lecture on the subject of ‘Music after Music after the Fall’. Since I finished Music after the Fall in spring 2016, the world has, let’s say, changed a bit. Did I accidentally capture an era, from 1989–2016? What do I think has happened since then that will change the direction of music? (It might not be what you think.)

New piece, FEV1/FVC premiering at Deep Minimalism festival

Kathryn Williams will be including a short piece of mine in her performance of one-breath pieces Coming Up for Air as part of the Deep Minimalism festival at the Purcell Room, Southbank Centre this weekend. I am absolutely thrilled. Coming up for Air is an ongoing project of Kathryn’s, in which she collects and performs pieces for flute (or related instruments), all of which can be played in the space of one breath. I was very privileged to write the notes for Kathryn’s forthcoming CD, which documents 40 such pieces (by Chaya Czernowin, Brian Ferneyhough, Sarah Hennies, Amber Priestley, Jack Sheen and many more, nearly all of them written specially for her).

Coming Up for Air was inspired by Kathryn’s struggles with chronic respiratory conditions, and how she shaped her own practice as a flutist around these. Of course, as someone with my own respiratory issues I had to know more about what she was doing. After seeing her play at Cafe Oto last year I was inspired to sketch out a piece of my own (my first composition for 20 years!), based on a test for measuring lung function that she and I both know well, from our respective experiences with asthma and cystic fibrosis. The piece is called FEV1/FVC after the ratio that is used to measure the amount of obstruction within the airways. This is calculated from a breathing (spirometry) test that falls into three phases: deep breath in, breath out as hard as you can and then as long as you can, and then at the very end a short breath in as full and as fast as you can manage. All I’ve done with my piece really is insert a flute for phases two and three, but Kathryn makes it sound much better than this.

Spirometry tests are emotionally fraught territory for me – as they may be for other people with CF. As the primary measure of how well or not you are doing, there’s a lot hanging on how well you perform the test. A bad result might mean intravenous antibiotics, an intensified physio regime and a two- or three-week in-patient stay. Yet it’s not a simple test to do: there’s a lot of technique involved, and tension or anxiety can lead to constriction and a poor result. It’s a bit like playing an instrument, in fact, so I’m chuffed that my musical renditon is going to get an outing on stage.

Deep Minimalism looks like it is sold out this Saturday, but if you are able to make it, it would be great to see you there.

Lim and Nono chronological playlists

I suppose as a nascent hobby I’ve started putting together chronological, bingeable playlists of composers’ outputs on Spotify. So far I’ve done this in connection with something I’ve been reading and/or writing about. My first one, for the music of Luigi Nono, was inspired by a review I was writing of Nostalgia for the Future, University of California Press’s English edition of his writings and interviews.

It seemed to go down pretty well on Twitter, so I’ve just made a second in this unofficial series, on Liza Lim, on whom I wrote an entry for the Komponisten der Gegenwart encyclopedia earlier this year. While the Nono playlist was close to complete (surprisingly so, actually), this is far from it. Yet it’s better than I thought, and – gratifyingly – much, much better than it would have been four or five years ago. You can listen to it here:

The Nono list is here:

With both, but particularly the Nono list, there were some occasions where I had to choose between recordings. If you have your own preference, or know where I might find anything that I’ve missed (perhaps it has been mistagged), please let me know in the comments.

Never throw away

From theatre, film and game composer Matthew Reid comes an amusing story: Reid was pleased to discover that a movement from his orchestral work Intervals was included in a recent official Spotify playlist of new classical releases, sequenced between excerpts from Act III of Siegfried and ‘Torna ai felici di’ from Puccini’s Le villi.  Reid’s Intervals is now going viral – ‘well, modern classical viral’, he says. The catch? Intervals was written in 1992, when Reid was still an undergraduate. The lesson, he says: ‘Never burn your early works!’