Some recent writings

Last autumn, I was fortunate to be asked – separately, but serendipitously – to write essays on five of my favourite artists: Apartment House, Chaya Czernowin, Evan Johnson, Liza Lim and Timothy McCormack,. Although I enjoy most writing, it’s rare to be able to take such pleasure from it, and over such a sustained period – eight weeks through September and October in this case. It was a wonderful time. With the release this week of McCormack’s debut CD (on KAIROS), the events and CDs for which I wrote those essays have finally all come to fruition. I’m moved therefore to share a little extract from each here. I particularly like the fact that I have written about some of these musicians for a decade now: having them all together engendered a profound sense of ‘what next?’, but also felt like a victory.

The three liner notes below accompany CDs that I believe are among the essential releases of the last few months, and I recommend them to you as highly as I can.

A mountain’, wrote the Scottish novelist and naturist Nan Shepherd (1893–1981), ‘has an inside’. Like Shepherd’s ‘living mountain’, McCormack’s music also has an inside. To be in a landscape is to be part of it, to participate in its creation, evolution and destruction. We do not observe, we do not consume, we do not utilise, we do not inhabit or farm or pollute landscapes passively. They enter us as we enter them. For karst survey McCormack told the flutist Zach Sheets, ‘I really wanted to put the listener on the ground walking through it and not understanding the connections between its features. … I wanted to put the listener really in the middle of this landscape, and you’re only seeing what you’re able to see – you don’t see how the whole thing connects until you’ve walked through it all.’

From sleevenotes to Timothy McCormack, KARST, karst survey, and you actually are evaporating, released by KAIROS.

In the final movement of [Extinction Events and Dawn Chorus] is a remarkable sound, based on a real phenomenon: the ‘dawn chorus’ of coral reef fish that takes place in the changing light of morning; a mass of clicking, rasping percussive sounds, transcribed by Lim through the sound of Waldteufels and windwands being swirled in the air. As the music passes theoretically below the range of human hearing (thanks to a contrabassoon that has been extended with a metre of plastic tubing), we end listening to a song that we can no longer know nor understand, looking to a future perhaps no longer meant for us.

From sleevenotes to Liza Lim, Extinction Events and Dawn Chorus, released by KAIROS.

A hyphen sits between. A hyphen is small. Its use implies the presence of two more substantial items – words, or parts of words – on either side, which give it its function and meaning. Those words constitute a sort of white or negative space, whose presence and influence can be inferred even if the words themselves are not spoken. It is an image articulated spectacularly in a favourite artwork of Johnson’s, the pen and ink drawing Der Hafen von Antwerpen beim Scheldetor (1520) by Albrecht Dürer. Dürer’s picture inverts the normal rules of Renaissance perspective by becoming more detailed the closer one gets to its vanishing point. At its centre, where the outlines of buildings and ships collide, it reaches a state of almost self-negating intricacy, the profusion of lines leading to less, not more, definition. But outwards from this point the picture tends towards white space, and indeed more than half of the page is completely white, including the large expanse of dockside pavement on which were are standing. Johnson’s music can be understood in large part in response to this picture – and it directly inspired his 2014 string quartet inscribed, in the center: ‘1520, Antorff’. The works on the present recording, written before this quartet, reflect alternative responses to the dialectic of compression and emptiness revealed by Dürer.

From sleevenotes to Evan Johnson portrait disc, also on KAIROS.

Despite a continual swinging between opposites – from art gallery to concert hall, from detailed notation to allusive text, from the heart of Europe to the fringes of New York, from the cutting edge to the historical – Apartment House have created an artistic identity that transcends those differences . . . In part that identity is guided by Lukoszevieze’s own tastes, contacts and performance opportunities. He has described a word of mouth aspect to the group’s artistic direction that is driven by enthusiasms and personal relationships rather than publishers’ catalogues or occasion-related prestige. The group’s direction is also driven by Lukoszevieze’s own reading of musical history (shared with Cage), not as a straight line going in one direction, but as a series of rivers, and Lukoszevieze delights in discovering or reviving works and composers – particularly from the 1960s and 70s – that have left only the faintest traces on history. Not even the early experimental or minimalist works that might be referenced in textbooks of the time, but those that were published only in small-run magazines, or were performed only once, or that for any other reason might have slipped beneath the floorboards of history.

In a musical world in which fragility and precariousness are countered by institutionalisation and formality, Apartment House have made flexibility into a virtue. The group’s name alludes to Cage’s Apartment House 1776, but more significantly to the idea of different rooms within a single building: rooms with different functions, rooms on different levels, rooms close or far apart, some rooms with people in, some that are empty.

From programme essay on Apartment House, for Rainy Days Festival, Luxembourg.

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.

From programme essay, Chaya Czernowin, Heart Chamber, Berlin Opera. (Full text here.)

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.


New videos from ELISION

Freshly uploaded to YouTube and added to my YouTube mega-post.

All these pieces were performed by ELISION at Kings Place in February (and the videos are live recordings from that concert). When I reviewed that concert, I was absolutely taken with Liza Lim’s cello solo, Invisibility, and I’ve not changed that view.

Invisibility draws inspiration from Aboriginal art, particularly the the use of ‘shimmer’ effects to reveal the simultaneity of past, present and future spiritual reality.The piece demands two bows, one standard, the other a ‘guiro’ bow of Lim’s devising, in which the bow hairs are twisted round the wood of the bow, like a damper spring. This gives the sound across the string an irregular, serrated effect, rather like the cross-hatchings of Aboriginal art. The bow stunted the cello’s dynamic range, but as well as obscuring it also revealed new drifts of sound beneath the notes. Unlike many of the other composers represented, Lim deals not in the sparks and abrasions of conflicting musical forces, but in a stretching and dissolution of those forces to find new realms beyond: discovery, not destruction. The result was breathtakingly beautiful. Séverine Ballon’s superb performance may be a hard one to follow, but this is a piece that deserves a long life in the repertoire.

Liza Lim – Invisibility

Timothy McCormack‘s Disfix is already familiar to regular readers; this video complements the live recording made in Huddersfield last autumn:

Timothy McCormack – Disfix

When I first heard it in February, I found Richard Barrett’s brass duo, Aurora, tricky to get my head around. Listening again, I’m still thrown by that opening section of disintegrating harmonics, but the piece’s overall shape benefits from a couple more listens:

Richard Barrett – Aurora

10 for ’10: Timothy McCormack

Timothy McCormack (b. 1984) writes high resolution music. Music of razor sharp detail, printed on aluminium. No: not that. It is music magnified too far, so that the spaces between every RGB pixel on the screen are visible. Still no: it is both these, both micro and macro. Timothy McCormack writes music that occupies a fractal world of multiple, conflicting geometries.

It has a monolithic quality, certainly, there is no narrative pull, but it nevertheless inhabits and participates in the passage of time. The monolith is neither static in space, nor within itself. Like a body whose cells replace themselves entirely every seven years, standing on a ball of fire and shifting continents, exploding to the edge of the universe at the speed of light. It’s all a question of where you look from. And yet in all locations there are still the same universals, the same forces acting in the same ways. Hyper-activity, completely caged.

The extract above is from the opening of McCormack’s The Restoration of Objects (2008), for four strings. Although McCormack’s output is still relatively small, and some compositional preoccupations are still coming into focus, this is, for me, a very accomplished piece. The sound of four string instruments, and the striated treatment of their technique, give the whole a sonic homogeneity that belies the intensity of activity beneath the surface. Again, it all depends on where you stand. As is apparent from the interview below, questions of perception are central to how McCormack writes his music.

Disfix, which ELISION will play tomorrow night, is a slightly earlier work. Scored for bass clarinet, piccolo trumpet and trombone it doesn’t have Restoration‘s sheen. Instead, however, it has a sharper grain; the margins between parameters – breath, embouchure, fingers, tongue – are wider, the difference between instrumental timbres similarly so. It leans, therefore, to the intensity of those RGB pixels, brought bright and burning right up to the eye. This video is of ELISION’s performance of this piece at Huddersfield last year. A pdf of the score may be downloaded from the link below.

Disfix – pdf score


Tim Rutherford-Johnson: Composing is an anachronistic career choice for the 21st century, isn’t it? Why do you do it?

Timothy McCormack: There are a number of reasons why I’ve stuck with composing. When I first started seriously composing, I appreciated music’s ability to remain completely abstract and non-representational, or at least more so than other art mediums. This sentiment as been expressed many times throughout history (‘All art aspires to the condition of music’ etc. …), but it was an important early realization for me. Any mirror that music attempts to hold up to the world is a highly subjective one. Thus, I find the medium of music is more adequately described as a filter – and I find that filtering the real is more interesting than merely representing it.

Something else I find fascinating about composition is that it includes a confrontation with other artists and interpreters as a condition of its process and its completion. Meaning: my music gains its significance after having had a confrontation with a performer and listener – it does not end with the double-bar line that I write once I’m finished with the score. I view performance as a confrontation between composer, score, performer and perceiver and, in this arena, each of these forces has the ability to influence the experience. Thus, ‘the piece’ exists on many levels at once, including but not limited to: the piece as realized by the performers (taking into account their unique approach to interpreting music and the individuality of that performance); and the piece as perceived by the listener (who continues to shape their perception of the piece even after its performance has ended). I find the latter to be particularly interesting, as I think that what the listener remembers surely cannot be ‘the piece,’ but an imprint of the piece; a memory-object – something non-aural yet created from and triggered by an aural experience. The possibility of such post-musical experiences is something that my recent pieces directly address through an attempt at preemptively creating a dialogue with the perceiver’s memory and inducing a listening state in which the remembered sound is more prescribed, narrowed and in focus for the perceiver after the aural event has ended. In a way, the piece attempts to become its own self-reflexive filter, doing so to itself as would a performer and listener.

In short, I am a composer because music continues to provide objects of inquiry that I find interesting: spatiality vs. temporality; density perception; sensation; acoustics and mechanism; the performer-instrument apparatus (which I’m sure I’ll discuss later in this article). The fact that music invites the study of such divergent areas is a large reason why I continue.

Switchboard operator. Now that’s an anachronistic career.

Tim R-J: How do you think composing, being a composer, now is different from 20–30 years ago?

Tim McC: Obviously the Internet has had a huge impact on a composer’s ability to connect with performers, ensembles, listeners and other composers. But, more interestingly, I believe that the performer situation has changed in the past 20 to 30 years. It seems that more performers are getting interested in pursuing contemporary music performance at a younger age, and are engaging with it very seriously. I see more and more young performers investing a significant amount of time and employing a rather developed, advanced degree of thought into their performances and their role as contemporary music interpreters. I went to Oberlin Conservatory, which is an exclusively undergraduate school, so: students in their late teens and early twenties. There was a tremendous interest and investment in contemporary music performance practice at the school, and the students were interested and proficient enough to tackle some pretty incredible projects (I’m thinking specifically of three portrait concerts of Lachenmann as well as a fully-staged, US première of Olga Neuwirth’s opera Lost Highway). More indicative of what I’m talking about were the equally ambitious and, importantly, student-initiated solo and small chamber group projects. I use Oberlin as an example because the performers who attend are so young, but I’ve seen ambitious projects being tackled by young performers all over the place.

As a young composer, this means that the relationships I make with many of my performers become lifelong engagements, and the nature of the relationships become highly exploratory and collaborative. It is a truly special situation when both composer and performer forge such a close relationship, and develop as artists together over years. Which I suppose leads us to your next question.

Tim R-J: How important for you is it to work with performers on a new piece? And what happens when that piece is taken up by another player/group?

Tim McC: My relationship with the instruments I write for, and how I write for them, is typically a product of my personal relationship with the instruments themselves. The sound world explored in a piece is largely a consequence of the specific techniques and physical operations I myself explore with the instrument in question. That being said, working with performers is a hugely important and valuable part of my compositional process. My personal work with instruments is perhaps a testing-ground for the elements that will eventually comprise a piece of music, and it is with performers that these elements are cultivated into material able to sustain significance throughout a piece’s duration.

It is more important to me that my relationship with a performer is one that continues through multiple pieces rather than one that begins and ends with one piece. This goes equally for performers specifically for who pieces have been written as well as for performers tackling pieces not written for them. Since the basic elements of my pieces are yielded from my own private work with instruments, it is always interesting when another performer takes them on. As long as the performers or groups approaching my music do so with interest and intent, I don’t think that there can be a ‘definitive’ interpretation. The performers become mediators of the music I have written – the music bends to their personalities as artists. (Despite its apparent rigidity, my music is actually quite malleable.) Thus, ‘what happens’ when a piece is taken up by another player/group is an accumulation of significance, as it continues a dialogue between myself and the two (or more) interpretations/interpreters. In this way, the pieces I write can be seen as invitations for collaboration and discussion between myself and the performers who choose to accept them. The pieces suggest and request a long-term engagement and exploration. I believe that it is this ongoing dialogue, experimentation and collaboration with performers that takes my personal exploration of instruments from technical research to artistic endeavor.

Tim R-J: What is musical material for you?

Tim McC: Anything that I find I am able to use to circumscribe the musical territory in which a new piece may operate would be considered ‘musical material,’ even if its originally non-aural. That is, anything that suggests to me how a piece might behave (not necessarily how a piece might sound).

Though a number of forces may influence and shape a piece, it is the instrument itself, as well as the performer-instrument apparatus, that is the greatest factor in determining how a piece behaves and sounds. I view the relationship between body and instrument to be one of mediation whereby they each have the ability to articulate and actuate the other and circumscribe how each operates within the context of the other in order to create sound. The nature of this relationship has become the basis for most material in recent pieces. To narrow it even further, the actual point of contact between the body and the instrument, and the space created therein (which I conceptualize as a catastrophically violent, albeit microscopic, space), has served an increasingly more significant role as material and thus in determining both aural and behavioral aspects of the piece in progress.

Tim R-J: A lot of composition is about ways of proceeding, extending an idea in time. What sort of decisions are you dealing with as you compose?

Tim McC: How to deal with time has always been one of the most interesting and terrifying compositional issues for me. Olga Neuwirth once said to me: ‘Every second is a decision, which is a horrible thing’. Though it resonates deeply with me, I attempt to overcome this sentiment by composing a space in which the decisions I make yield multiple relationships between gestures and events. I employ a developmental and contrapuntal approach that is deliberately interested in musical events relating to other events in a multitude of ways. In doing so, the piece becomes a three-dimensional object for me, conceptually. In such an ‘object,’ I no longer need to connect events and gestures linearly or teleologically; rather, I see the temporal flow of the piece as charting a path of exploration within a spatial territory, even if that territory is highly conceptual or aestheticized. In a way, I like to think that my pieces explore the spatiality of time, and vice-versa.  To use this approach may be a decision that is made before the piece itself, but it informs how I proceed through the compositional process.

Tim R-J: What projects are on your desk at the moment?

Tim McC: I am currently working on a new voice and trumpet work for ELISION called Map of Glass, as well as a flute solo for Richard Craig. The projected ELISION première of Map of Glass is at King’s Place next November.

Tim R-J: Here’s a middle C. What do you do now?


Tim McC: There are so many forces and influences that would have to convolve before that middle C exists. I would first need to know the instrument from which it is produced. The answer to that would then suggest what physical operations the performer and instrument are engaged in. Chances are, in the end the middle C would be pulverized, and robbed of its ‘middle C-ness’. If a wind instrument produces it, the middle C would become more a fingering than a pitch, providing a mechanical ground from which god-knows what horrible sounds would be issued; if a string instrument, it would be more a hand position than anything, and the likelihood that the hand would rest upon that middle C and that the bow would rest on the string on which it exists for any significant amount of time is slim.


All that being said, what would I do now? Probably, and generally speaking: move away from it as quickly as possible.

Rambler Roundtables: ELISION ensemble concluded

The third and final installment of these roundtable conversations takes the music of Klaus K. Hübler as a springboard to a discussion of the possibilities and implications of ‘radical instrumentalism’.

The previous two parts, on the subjects of interpretation and the limits of the musical, may be found here and here. And don’t forget that this Monday, 8th February, all the composers and performers featured in these roundtables will be involved as ELISION make their first visit to King’s Place of 2010.

Hübler casts only a light shadow in the corners of recent music history. Despite being the recipient of several major prizes (including Darmstadt’s Kranichsteiner Musikpreis in 1988) and in possession of a considerable European reputation, he was left out of the New Grove II (an entry is forthcoming for the online edition). Brian Morton and John Vinton also overlooked him in their dictionaries too (but not Laura Kuhn in the 1997 edition of Baker’s). Wikipedia has certainly never heard of him. He does have a website, somewhere – I’ve seen it – but I’m damned if I can find it again. He seem to have been overlooked even by Google. Nevertheless, his influence is felt extremely strongly by some and his music, the best of which dates from the 1980s, when Hübler was still in his 30s, has an almost cultish appeal. Serious illness prevented him from composing between 1989 and 1995 – one possible explanation for that shadowy presence – but the interest of a younger generation of composers in his innovations in notational technique, as well as a growing body of players able to meet his exacting performance requirements, may well presage a re-examination of his work.

Roundtable 1, ELISION ensemble: Klaus K. Hübler and ‘radical instrumentalism’

TimR-J: It’s great to have Hübler on a programme like this. How do composers and performers rate his importance, and his legacy on current trends in composition (especially in notational and performance practice)? And what do you think is the potential for exploring this legacy further?

Richard Barrett: I heard Hübler’s Third String Quartet at Darmstadt in 1984. This I believe is the piece in which his characteristic way of doing things was most fully-developed. At the time I found it very thought-provoking, one of those things one has to make one’s mind up about one way or the other. In retrospect (and I’m sure this was quite conscious on his part) I see it as a demonstration of the problematic nature of splitting instrumental practice up into (what one chooses to be) its constituent parts and composing/notating them in a quasi-polyphonic relationship to one another. The main problem for me is that if a composer “separates” a number of aspects of instrumentalism and then makes a point of keeping them separate, the machinations necessary to do so result in massive limitations in the structural/expressive potential of the music. What interests me, and I suppose this can be seen as partly a reaction to Klaus’s quartet ‘painting itself into a corner’, is to think of the disassembly of instrumental practice as a stage in a process, which is succeeded by a stage of reassembling those elements into a new configuration. If one must constantly be exposing the disassembled state of the instrument and its relationship to the performer, this closes off too many musical possibilities as far as I’m concerned, particularly those which might serve to create relationships between instruments and sounds.

TimR-J: Isn’t something of that reassembly that you mention always going to happen, in effect, simply by virtue of a performer playing the music? That a certain reassembly happens as a consequence of an individual bringing performative (and possibly interpretive) coherence to the disassembled bits on the score? I’m not sure – from the perspective of the listener, anyway – how far a notated disassembly can be maintained once a piece is learned, performed and heard.

Daryl Buckley: I first heard of Hübler in the late 80’s through cassettes supplied by my infamous Darmstadt correspondent and man on the ground, Michael Whiticker, then again through conversation with Richard Toop, and lastly in the early 90’s through materials from Robert Platz demonstrating his work as a conductor with Ensemble Koln. I do recall Toop telling me that Hübler was one of three German composers to watch (Wolfgang Rihm was also on that list!). Its quite curious but for someone who was at the time regarded as extremely provocative the music has lapsed and seemingly disappeared from continental festival and ensemble programmes. I have no idea why. However the work is not easy.

While loathe to construct evolutionary trees, pantheons and genealogies I do think over time that Hübler will be seen to have had an increasingly important, albeit individualised conception, of the composerly dissection of instrumental choreography and practice. There has been a resultant ripple from the Third String Quartet and this can be found, in my opinion, in the recent work of American composers such as Aaron Cassidy, Timothy McCormack (and yourself Evan?) and others where the notational parametricisation of the physical actions of players has been given a central importance. And I think these ‘ripples’ will continue.

As a guitarist I’ve never played Hübler.  But I have tackled Richard Barrett and am in the process of relearning transmission!!!   For a musician the nature of performance, of learning a piece, is inevitably as Tim has noted, drawn to some king of reassembly and I wonder how far this process can be defeated-at least in the domain of these extremely virtuosic pieces. The torrents of energy unleashed onstage are underpinned by hours of practice and integration of musical detail into streams delivered by the breath, fingers, lips and minds of the musician. Certainly when playing Richard’s music one is conscious, and often physically so, of the stress of competing and contradictory parameters and requirements BUT there is always the integration into a sonic whole- the interpretative coherence that Tim refers to is required.

Evan Johnson: My Hübler experience started with two graduate student colleagues of mine at the State University of New York at Buffalo, Aaron Cassidy and Carter Williams; the two of them were also my introduction to Hans-Joachim Hespos and much else besides.  For me, no doubt unfairly, Hübler is the idea of treating the right and left hand of a string player separately; seeing the scores for Opus breve and the Third Quartet were a sort of ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ moment.

Among the few composers I know of who rigorously pursue the consequences of Hübler’s approach to string writing, and its applications to other instrumental families, are Aaron and Wieland Hoban (and you, Tim? I don’t know enough of your work to say!).  I’ve never been particularly tempted in that direction, partially because my music tends to retain too much of a ‘lyric’ impulse for the somewhat marginal, unstable, flickering soundworld that such an approach tends to evoke to have much of a place.  What Aaron calls ‘decoupling’ does appear in my scores, but more incidentally, and certainly much less rigorously and thoroughly treated than in his, Hoban’s, or indeed Hübler’s own work.

Richard’s reservations are also well taken, although I’m not so averse as he is to the idea of the limitation of expression through formal restrictions.  Certainly, though, the more general idea of ‘writing from the instrument’ and its technique is something I know is absolutely fundamental for Richard, and I wonder if he sees Hübler as a ‘pioneer’  of any sort in this more general respect?

Richard: Hübler was probably the first to notate this ‘decoupling’ idea in a systematic way, but it’s been around in improvised music for a lot longer. I don’t expect Klaus would see his usage of it as emerging from the work of people like Malcolm Goldstein or Barry Guy or Evan Parker though. (I think on the other hand that the way I try to approach instrumentalism has at least as much to do with such musicians as with the tradition of notated music.)

I’m not ‘averse to the idea of the limitation of expression through formal restrictions’ at all. It depends on what the restrictions are. What I meant was that, if a music is constantly having to reaffirm its decoupledness (and often for reasons of notational elegance, I have the impression), its potential for audible structural articulation is greatly attenuated, and, more crucially, its potential for creating relationships between instruments (especially instruments with dissimilar techniques), between the sounds of those instruments, is reduced to the most simplistic of levels.

By far the majority of compositions which use this idea in an extensive way are for a single performer, they’re all fairly short, the activity in them is all uninterruptedly rapid, and the composer writes only one piece for the instrument in question. (Klaus Hübler’s Third Quartet sidesteps such issues by enacting its decoupling as a global structural process rather than beginning with that “ideology” already in place. But again that’s something you can only do once.) So the particular ‘restrictions’ we’re talking about here might be perfect for particular situations, but as a ‘way of life’ I think they constitute a straitjacket.

Daryl: As an Artistic Director of an ensemble I have the liberty of a different perspective here. I often think it is the weird straightjackets that composers don, the arcane and idiosyncratic sonic paradigms that make them interesting, even sometimes annoyingly so! For some reason Aldo Clementi’s endless obsession with the scavenging of musical fragments as debris and delivering them over to a good solid canonic pummeling springs to mind.  And in the mid-90’s Australia, a Chris Dench ripping off his burning shirt of Nessus, resiling from all of his previous notational exertions, and in an effort to get more performances consciously simplifying his existing scores (or at least talking lots about it)-eliminating the impeding ‘complex rhythms and microtones. The removal of what he perceived to be a straightjacket and notational dead end didn’t help his situation of course but this leads me to my next observation.

And that is that the moment a composer working with the idea of decoupling distils those ideas even further into a radicalised notational format that moment is one, which drastically shapes both the number and nature of performance opportunities available. There are few ensembles and few players who will engage with this and certainly most of the major new music ensembles that have to run seasons of activity will focus on pieces they can do in one or two calls. This music, as is much of the work ELISION undertakes, does not readily fit that mode of endeavour. So perhaps the repertoire outcomes are more about the available performance resources? The few brave souls who are out there?

In our final concert for this year at Kings Place I am hoping that we can do the oboe solo Grave e sfrenato with Peter Veale and I would also love to tackle Hübler’s ensemble work Feuerzaber.  It’s earlier than the Third String Quartet but it has, amongst other things, an absolutely fabulous instrumentation.

Richard: I hadn’t looked at it in terms of ‘weird straightjackets’ and ‘arcane and idiosyncratic sonic paradigms,’ to be sure. But more generally (and possibly quite off topic) I have a problem with those ‘musical philosophies’ which incorporate implicit rules about what can and can’t happen. I would prefer to see the music I’m involved in as characterised primarily by an infinity of possibilities, rather than primarily by its smallness in relation to the surrounding culture. If this kind of music has any place at all in the world, as far as I’m concerned, it’s as a demonstration of the possibility of imaginative freedom on a level which isn’t readily available to more commercially-oriented musics. I don’t think this is helped by composers staking out little aesthetic territories which they tend and defend and refuse to go outside.

Benjamin Marks: For what it is worth, CERCAR, while having its various split layers (harmonics, slide, mute, trigger, breath impulse), has other perhaps slightly more hidden constructions that might put some perspective on his work. CERCAR is from RICERCAR (presumably the RI missing would suggest it isn’t dedicated to a King!) and the prominent notes at the beginning are c, e flat, g, a flat and b natural (reference to Bach). I haven’t looked further than this into the correlation between realized pitch (i.e. working out what sounds the combination of slide and embouchure produce) and Bach’s music. Also the rhythmic material of the harmonic line is perfectly retrograded at a mid point, with the addition of a short wild coda and the inclusion of a vocal line (very much hidden behind other material). The vocal line articulates the acrostic – Cantio Et Reliqua Canonica Arte Resoluta (this is not really that possible to hear – try saying an ‘n’ and making your lips buzz!). I haven’t had a lot of time to fully analyze the piece (I have to play it after all!) but I’m sure the slide line would reveal other constructs, perhaps also Bach related. It may well be a mistake to focus too much on his notational practices, if you are looking for the guts of his music (unless the Bach is seen as just a kind of useful vessel, without any other import or significance). There are moments in CERCAR where he almost pokes fun at the notation – a sudden change from mute open to mute close and back to mute open, without any other activity (perhaps this a reference to a similar event at the start of Berio’s Sequenza V). Or you could be more serious perhaps and see this as necessary to visibly articulating the multi-layered process he is engaged with. Finally Aaron made a point that it is possible to work out most (if not all) of the pitch material in CERCAR (some of the pitches are suggested in the score too). Aaron was interested in using his notation in such a way that pitch couldn’t be worked out – that there was no other way of writing the score. As a performer I generally stick to a three part approach (was that articulated by Ferneyhough?) of i) reading the piece (a general feel, shapes, phrases, landmarks) ii) detailed work (in this case ‘working out’ most of the desired result combination by combination, finding all the interesting ‘cracks’ between the layers) iii) putting it all back with a sense of both (you then start to ‘read’ the notation as perhaps Hübler intended, rather than rely so much on the ‘workings out’). Sorry very general but I should be learning some music. Bye!

Richard: … to which I would add another intended resonance of Hübler’s title is carcer, ‘prison’…

Benjamin: Thanks Richard. It makes a lot of sense – the slide line is certainly struggling throughout to break free of the mirrored, closed structure of the harmonic line. Perhaps this is also indicative of this piece in that the new territory Hübler unearths by decoupling the physical elements is in conflict (perhaps internally) with received traditional practices (as suggested by the Bach references).

Richard: I found Hübler’s obsessively thorough dismembering of instrumental technique pretty startling when I first came across it, and it was something I felt it necessary to define my way of looking at things in relation to, but at the same time it’s important to note that the ideas weren’t without precedent – firstly in the domain of improvisational performance, as I’ve already mentioned, but also in the work of composers like Holliger (two examples: First String Quartet (1973), and Studie über Mehrklänge (1979), the latter being written in tablature throughout), Lachenmann (obviously), Kagel (the cello parts of Match) and even Berio (the harp and trombone Sequenzas). One thing that most of those examples have in common, which in the end I feel closer to (and indeed which I feel has greater potential in a more general sense), is a concern not just with the disassembly of instrumental technique but also then its reassembly into new configurations, “new instruments”.

One example of what I mean in the programme of this upcoming concert is the final part of Aurora, in which the two instruments have been ‘deconstructed’ into a particular set of compositional ‘parameters’, some of which (pitch, dynamic) are then held at a constant value (the D natural a ninth above middle C, pp) while the others (articulation, the “wawa” of harmon mutes, breathiness, pitch-fluctuation by random valve/slide movements while fpcusing on the constant pitch) alternate asynchronously between two states. The rate and relative regularity of these alternations articulates four parallel structural processes, with minimal ‘intuitive’ intervention. So, I conceive this as reassembling chosen elements into a new instrument (or pair of instruments), whose (drastic) limitations are coextensive with the musical identity of this area of the piece.

The rest of Aurora works in the same way, to one extent or another, so that the “partial instruments” in the resulting ensemble are interrelated and mutually complementary. Instrumental parameters, such as the ones mentioned, are placed in different relative perspectives in different areas of the overall structure (indeed these changing perspectives and their durational proportions are the overall structure), and they include concepts of pitch- and time-interrelationships. The intention is thus not (or not invariably) to negate such more ‘traditional’ perceptual modalities, but to generalise and expand them.

TimR-J: Does the sort of disassembly and reassembly that Richard describes chime with other composers here? What other potential areas for exploration are there once one has begun to think about instruments like this (is there more out there than taking apart and putting back)? And how does all this feel to the instrumentalists – presumably you break through to a new understanding of your instrument?

Daryl: I always used to joke with Richard about his 10-string guitar solo Colloid … the humour I recall was centered around the feeling of his dots almost composing the body-yes, a definite disassembly and a fascinating reassembly of the muscles and tendons!  Linking through to another thread Colloid I would venture is a really wonderful example of Richard’s links to notions of decoupling drawn from the improvisers’ language – I think Barry Guy would be a case in point especially as the piece works it way down towards the final and very physical phrases on the lowest strings. Let me know if I’m wrong here …

Richard, back to Aurora. What kind of role has your comprehension or sensibility towards the work of Jakob Böhme impacted upon the way you have thought about the processes of reassembly in Aurora?

Liza Lim: Great, Richard.  That’s so interesting to hear you describe so succinctly what a ‘decoupling/re-coupling’ approach to instrumental writing allows you to achieve.  It moves it beyond just another bag of ‘tricks’ – you can complicate performance all you like but does the compositional idea move beyond Paganini?  I guess my focus in instrumental exploration tends always to look at areas where I feel there there’s a lot of ambiguity and flux in the quality of the sounds – inbetween states, like between ‘solid’/’liquid’, ‘granulated’/’gaseous’ – a sense of potential for transformation that can occur very fluidly from any point in a continuum.  Stringed instruments lend themselves particularly to this kind of ‘3-dimensional’ extension of sonic flux and that becomes a point of reference for the way in which I hear other instruments when I’m writing.  I often look for technical analogues – the way certain kinds of multiphonics on wind instruments or split tones in the brass can offer a similarly nuanced mobile field of sound – to what can be achieved on say a ‘cello.  The zones I’m interested in are the ‘paradoxical’ places where the instrument flickers between a number of possible sounding outcomes – between harmonics/subtones/’real’ notes/distortions – so that you get a sense of colliding morphing layers.  But I don’t notate anywhere near the level of detail that Richard does – I rely more on the performer to nuance changing densities and qualities by using the gestural language of the music as a guide for moving energy through sounds.

Richard: Daryl: The kind of thing I was describing actually applies to most of what I do with instruments, so it isn’t confined to what happens when I think about Böhme! The passage in Aurora that I was talking about relates of course to the “higher unity” mentioned in my programme note, represented by the last minute or so of the piece being all on a single unison pitch, though the concept of “unison” is at the same time being questioned or undermined by everything that’s going on “inside” the sound so to speak.

The ‘disassembly/reassembly’ idea, I should add, is something that goes on between instruments as well as within them. The ways in which instruments can (or can’t) be combined to generate some kind of aggregate sound is also part of “instrumentalism” in history, performance practice and compositional thinking, and this is an important aspect of Aurora as well, as it is of my preceding duo Hypnerotomachia for two clarinets and the next one, Città del sole for flute and recorder. So none of these pieces consists of an encounter between two monadic entities – in a sense they aren’t just pieces for two ‘new instruments’ but also, and to varying degrees, each features a single ‘new instrument’ played by two players.

Timothy McCormack: I very much identify with most of what has been said here. However, in my own work I am starting to see the process less as ‘taking apart’ an instrument and then reassembling it, and more as enclosing the instrument within itself, creating a new directionality specific to that instrument’s unique properties. Perhaps it is, in the end, not all that different from what what has been said here already.

Dominik Karski, when asked about his unconventional usage of the harp in an in-concert interview (ELISION was performing his trio motion+form), said that he does not see his sounds as being strange or unconventional; they are ‘simply sounds that are available’. That is how I view the various ways I have performers manhandle their instruments in my music. The operations are simply available through the union of/interaction between the performer and the instrument. I do not consider an instrument to ‘become an instrument’ until it is in the hands of a performer.

A good example of an ‘available’ physicality that has been totally integrated into a piece’s aural, physical and structural fabric is a certain operation with the bass clarinet(ist) in Disfix, which you will hear on this upcoming ELISION concert. The performer is constantly altering his embouchure position upon the mouthpiece itself, causing the pitch material to jet upwards into the higher partials. The performer is typically fluidly transgressing between different positions on the mouthpiece, causing the sound to also be in constant flux. Pitches, ranges and timbres collide, issue from and morph into one another, yielding a multi-layered, contrapuntal, highly ‘vertical’ sound from a (primarily) monophonic instrument.

This is all informed by my interest in mediation. Finding ways in which numerous, defined forces exist in the same space (in an instrument, for example) and work to mediate each others’ influence on the resultant sound is a huge concern/exploration in my music and why that which is aural and that which is physical cannot be separated. Just as Richard indicates that his ‘dissassembly/reassembly idea … is something that goes on between instruments as well as within them’, my employment of mediation also interests me because it cuts across and exists in several performative strata, which then causes further mediation between those strata. The instrument’s ability to mediate itself; the instrument and performer both imposing their force of mediation upon the other; the constituent members of the ensemble mediating each others’ influence (I approach this not only through timbre, but also through counterpoint and, most importantly, density). Layers upon layers of mediation resulting in one final sound-object.

Richard: Something I was meaning to mention in connection with ‘unison’ was an anecdote I recently heard, about a musician from Uganda who was invited to work with some new-music players in the UK. On the first day he demonstrated the music he played on his wooden flute, and the British musicians worked hard with adjustments to their techniques – embouchure, microtonal fingerings etc. – to be able to play exactly the pitches that the Ugandan flute-player was using. When he arrived on the second day he had sawn the end off his flute so that all the pitch-relationships had changed (though, as far as he was concerned, the music he was playing was “the same”). So the ‘concept of unison’ can be narrower or broader depending on one’s viewpoint. I would like to think that my own viewpoint is considerably broader than that of the aforementioned British musicians!

Tim, I don’t understand your use of ‘mediation’.

Tim McC: I use ‘mediation” to characterize the nature and behavior of the relationship between various techniques/operations that I use in my music. I think of sound as a result of multiple physical forces being activated simultaneously. The fact that these ‘forces’ take place simultaneously and in the same space (the space of, for example, one instrument), means that their individual influence upon the sound may not be heard, but their composite influence is. They ‘mediate’ each others’ influence.

But enough with the flowery language. This mediation can take the form of keys being added to or subtracted from a ‘primary fingering’ to change timbre/pitch content, etc; the directional operations of the bow (side-to-side (speed), up/down (pressure), to-and-fro (position ie: sul pont, etc …)) changing independently of one another; the performer simultaneously executing multiple flutter-tongues (with the tongue and in the throat); the performer altering breath/air quality, embouchure quality or position on mouthpiece, etc … One can handle these in such a way that their shifting influence upon the other techniques becomes audible. It also allows for me to write contrapuntally for individual instruments using parameters other than pitch and register. In this way, I see it as being very similar to what Richard indicates as the ‘unison’ section in Aurora. It’s a way for me to work ‘inside the sound’, as you put it.

In a way, techniques (I think the term ‘operations’ is more fitting, actually) become ‘objects’ to me – they are independent of one another and have their own qualities and boundaries; but they can be combined with others, the act of which may cause them to lose some of their qualities, or be pushed beyond their boundaries. As a result, my music tends to employ a limited set of operations-per-instrument, and the piece is sustained through their proliferation and the constantly varying sound resulting from their mediation.

Since all of the techniques I use are yielded from the instrument itself, or the nature of the performer-instrument relationship, I see my handling of instrumentalism to be inward-looking, using what the instrument/performer apparatus makes available, rather than as a process of deconstruction/dissassembly. In the end, I think that what we’re all doing with instruments is very related, and I’m not suggesting that my approaching the instrument ‘from the inside’ vs. your approaching the instrument through its deconstruction are radically different. If anything, they are two sides of the same coin, the difference between them perhaps being one of syntax or mentality rather than of actual practice or philosophy.

I hope that helped clear things up, though, looking at how long it turned out to be … probably it didn’t!

Richard: I get the impression sometimes that composers use idiosyncratic terminology, to describe something they do or some way of doing it, as a means of announcing that it’s more different from what other composers do than it actually is. To a nonspecialist listener (which let’s hope most listeners are!) such territorial claims probably look somewhat overdone.

Maybe I could ask the following question to the composers here present: if you were asked by someone without specialist knowledge of contemporary music and its terminology (or that of critical theory etc.) to describe the way your music works with instruments and players, what would you say?

Evan: Off the top of my head, and perhaps more thought would reveal a more useful answer, I’d probably wind up saying something general enough that it certainly describes the quite different instrumental practices of the three of us at least, probably Liza as well given what she has said (although with different emphases and aims, I would imagine) and probably a good deal else besides: that I take the instrument itself and the physical act of playing it as grounds for ‘musical’ thinking and development, and that these approaches can often result in the player being faced with contradictions in what they are being told to do.

Richard Barrett: To answer my own question, I’m interested in a music which exposes the physical means and processes of producing sound and makes this exposure part of its sonic/structural/expressive vocabulary.

Liza: I get what Tim McC’s saying about the way various actions/forces combine so that one arrives at a more complex, probably unpredictable result.  Another thing that can happen though is that things cancel each other out and you get a less interesting outcome.

As for your question, I’m interested in creating situations of heightened attention for performers/listeners  (the musician is the first listener) – & to explore an erotics of performance – a kinaesthetic & ritual dimension for music.  The classic cultural reference for me is Chinese qin (zither) music which has a highly developed vocabulary of gestures and where the sensorial zone between sound and silence is expanded through a focus on incredibly nuanced inflections, rubbing sounds and other subtle noises that are considered to be the ‘breath’ of the instrument (ie: the instrument is alive).   Working with sounds that are ambiguous in nature or that sit at the margins between noise/’tone’/silence requires high level attention and finesse from the musician to keep the sound in a fluid state.  In a sense I’m setting up conditions for musicians to navigate a morphing, activated world of sound.
The performer’s body and instrument are the medium for registering the level of connection they have to this state of activation.  What I’m listening for is changing energy states as performers move through different phases of attunement (of which the music is just the means).

TimR-J: I’m interested to know, Liza, do you think in terms of de-coupling or disassembling instrumental technique when you’re trying to find these ‘paradoxical’ sonic areas, or is it for you a question of stretching/distorting a pre-existing performing tradition – or something else entirely?

Liza: I often focus on areas within an instrument that have some aspect of inherent instability built in but tend not to work with these from the point of view of ‘decoupling’ – ie: I don’t usually treat layers of action in a parametrical way where they might have different rates of change or separate rhythmic identities.   My approach has been more about exploring the ‘inner life’ of that sound, extending the transitional aspects of the sound by identifying component qualities from a broadly spectral point of view – eg: say a multiphonic effect on a ‘cello has a certain graininess overlaid with a flicker effect between a number of different harmonics and a fundamental pitch – these things form part of a vocabulary that I can combine in different degrees – the mix of noise in relation to harmonic content; faster or slower flickering between harmonics – so that the qualities of certain sounds become the basis of the musical language.

Richard: Is there possibly a contradiction there between saying that you ‘can combine in different degrees’ a vocabulary of (according to your own description) quite micro-detailed sound processes and what you say earlier about ‘setting up conditions’ and ‘relying on the performer’?

Re Tim McC’s statement: I just think it was introducing unnecessary terms and complications.

I find a lot to agree with in Liza’s last post – as far as I’m concerned, the issue of ‘decoupling’ is only one component of ‘radical instrumentalism’. Another way I could answer the question I posed earlier would be (as Ben has already hinted) composing for acoustic instruments is (filtered through notation, with all the limitations as well as opportunities it offers) a vision of how I’d play those instruments myself, if I could: that’s the kind of engagement with sound and physicality I’m trying to aim at.

Liza: I think no matter how detailed a composer makes their instructions, there is always the space for the performer (that’s the ‘interpretation’ question again).  Saying ‘the performer plays what the composer writes’ is only part of the story and sometimes very partial!  As Séverine said with respect to Invisibility, there is a process whereby the performer brings their whole cultural makeup to learning and performing music and that introduces a hugely mediating (!) factor into the proceedings.  I like that story about the Ugandan flute player and his concept of what gives a musical work its identity – different aesthetic prioritisations will produce different interpretations and you don’t have to go to some exotically distant culture to find this – just think of how differently an orchestral player in BRF or SWR compared to a musician in a British Orchestra compared to a specialist new music player operate in musical time and space.

Rambler Roundtables: ELISION ensemble continued

(This is the second in a series of posts. Parts 1 and 3 may be found here and here.) 

One of the things that intrigues me about complex music, the sort of music that stretches performers, listeners and notational practice to their limits, is its frequent contextualisation within systems of thought, constructional models and terms of reference that might be considered by many to fall outside the purview of ‘the musical’. Such contextualisations might work in two, opposite directions on a particular piece: as (one of) the means by which the composer arrived at or nurtured this musical idea; or as a possible way in for the listener, an interpretive toolkit.

The following discussion reveals that those two directions are not necessarily as opposite as they might seem. Complexity allows for networked associations, layers, multiplicities and ambiguities. Trying to unpick absolutes in terms of composerly intention or ideal listening is impossible. The musical work, heavy of import and light of being, hangs somewhere in tension between the two. In the end its phenomenal presence is all that can be relied upon.

The musical/non-musical dichotomy evaporates in these regions of uncertainty: in its expression through temporally organised sound, notated in such a way as to guide the actions of an interpreter, any idea, intelligently composed, can become musical. Or, rather, achieves a musicality that was always latent. Composition becomes, at some level, the process of finding and fixing that latent music.

Roundtable 1, ELISION ensemble: ‘The new programme music’?

TimR-J: With a lot of ELISION’s repertoire, including most or all of the pieces on this programme, there is often a considerable explanatory, philosophical aura that accompanies the music. Although this isn’t programme music, I find it tempting to think in such terms, whereby the musical constructions are being asked to take on considerable responsibility for extra-musical dimensions. I’m interested to know to what extent this seems like a fair assessment; and if it is fair, how far can this responsibility can be pushed and still remain perceptible?

Richard Barrett: I haven’t been too sure about how to go about answering this question, Tim, without something more concrete as a starting point, so here is my programme note for Aurora:

Aurora traces a trajectory from the natural harmonic spectrum heard at the opening (the first ten odd-numbered partials of a low C, subsequently distorted by multiphonics), towards an eventual unison which is internally sculpted into several timbral layers. Together with many of the other component parts of my large-scale project CONSTRUCTION, begun in 2005 and including the strongly-related clarinet duo Hypnerotomachia (premiered by Elision last November), Aurora refers in its title and form to a ‘utopian’ vision, in this case the writings of the German mystic Jakob Böhme and in particular their theme of cosmological evolution from ‘innocence’ through a differentiated and conflicted state into a higher state of unity. Aurora is dedicated to James Dillon on the occasion of his 60th birthday.

I suppose the ‘extra-musical dimension’ here is the allusion to Böhme (a frequent point of reference for James Dillon also, of course!), although, as I hope is clear, the structural idea connected to that allusion isn’t at all ‘extra-musical’. So the question of ‘responsibility’ doesn’t arise … or does it? The more I look at it, the less clear I am about what this ‘responsibility’ actually means.

Daryl Buckley: Tim, I am also not so sure about the question – in a sense of there being an absolute and clear division between musical and extra-musical dimensions. The composers whom I value, respect and have gotten to know over a period of time are clearly creative and extraordinarily intelligent people in the broadest sense. Obviously at some point in life their energies and efforts are framed and shaped by studies, professional experiences and encounters, and so their artistic responses and thinking resolve into musical outputs. But maybe there is also a level of abstraction which underpins the creative process, however briefly, before it settles into a sonic domain. With Liza, with Richard and with others there is too much thinking, reading and engagement (in their individual ways) in the broader world for me to see this as a clear and ‘extra-dimension’.

Richard, would Dark Matter have been conceivable without a decades long interest and consideration of physics, cosmologies and philosophy? And for Liza with her engagement with indigenous Australian aesthetics I wonder if the cello solo Invisibility could have been possible at all if we had not lived at 11 Cameron St with a senior Indigenous visual artist and activist living next door, without the friendship with other Indigenous Australians that developed over the 12 years or so we were in Queensland.

Benjamin Marks: I would be interested to know, from the various composers, if the programme notes evolved with the piece of music, or whether they were part of the primal material, or perhaps a way of defining a final product, or a summation of events? Programme notes, composer chats, or introductions seem vital in giving an audience a few clues as to the aural landscape they are about to encounter. You don’t want your audience, expecting to fry in the heat of Mercury, stuck on the polar caps of Mars … well you might want that, but it’s not always the nicest or right thing to do! I’ve always loved ELISION programme notes (read some early Dench!) as they generally articulate a very open, intelligent, associative space, that allows you to find your own way to or through the sounds. Matters very much to me as a performer – I crave ‘connection’ on some level and like to be ‘onside’ if I can (a positive audience ‘vibe’ always gives you an extra boost as well as inviting more risk).

TimR-J: What I’m getting at is how far the idea of the ‘musical’ can be stretched before a composer runs the risk that a neat bit of theorising can bring anything under that rubric?

Daryl talks about there not being a clear division between musical and extra-musical dimensions. What the question is aiming at is how far can that proposal be pushed? At some stage – when the work is actually performed and heard, eg – the notes have to bear the burden of transforming the conventionally non-musical (physics, fractal geometry, archaeology, etc) into the musical. To what extent is that sort of metonymic transformation sustainable? Does it come down to faith in the composer’s creative and intelligent engagement with the world? That’s what I’m getting at with the idea of the notes’ ‘responsibility’ – at some point they have to do the composer’s talking for themselves.

Or do they? Or are they completely inseparable from the surrounding context?

Richard: This isn’t the way I think about it though. For a start, I’d like to reemphasise that making any kind of boundary between the musical and non-musical is a problematic thing to do. In fact, I suppose a lot of what I do is concerned at some level with trying to imagine a situation where that boundary doesn’t exist, and I mean that both in terms of the relationship between sounds and ideas and in terms of what constitutes a musical sound in the first place.

Timothy McCormack (composer): I think that the idea of ‘musicality’ or of something ‘being musical’ becomes far more interesting once it is stretched to its limit, once it is radically and deliberately taken out of our general understanding of what these ideas signify. Please let me briefly cite two examples:

Though the work of Aaron Cassidy has not removed sound from its equation, it is largely communicated through the physicality behind sound production. Specifically, his notation typically employs an extended tablature system prescribing the physical actions/operations necessary for sound production on a given instrument (see the example given, from The Crutch of Memory). This is because Cassidy’s music operates under the belief that these physical actions are in and of themselves are already musical, and carry with them musical significance. This has been the primary informant behind all of his work for the past decade, and, in my opinion, has yielded gradually more intriguing results and consequences.

Secondly, the work of Peter Ablinger has, for quite some time, challenged our conception of what music is, or at least what counts as an aural experience, and to some very interesting and provocative ends. For example, his piece WEISS/WEISSLICH 26b: Arboretum is literally an arboretum he planted ‘according to acoustic criterias as, e.g., colour and intensity of noise’ and stands as the first act to his Landscape Opera (more information here: He describes his series Seeing and Hearing as ‘music without sound; photographs, photo series, photos and chairs.’ These pieces, among many others of his, ask the question: Does a confrontation with a soundless object (a photo, for example) still present the possibility for a musical experience? Is ‘imagined sound’ sound? Is ‘remembered sound’ sound? I think the answer to this lies more with the perceiver/listener/experiencer than with the composer, who is just setting up the situation/environment for this possibility to be realized or rejected.

If the idea of the ‘musical’ is not being stretched by a composer, I do not believe the composer is engaging with the medium to a significant degree. I do not mean to suggest that a composer who is not considering the musical potential of non-aural forces, etc .., is therefore not engaging with musicality. However, these theories and practices, and the questions they raise, are absolutely fascinating to me, and are a large reason why I am a composer. The fact that music is a medium which allows for such varying relationships between theory, perception and sensation is why I engage with music, and why I listen. For me, it is not a question of what is being brought under this rubric, but why it has.

Liza Lim: I think there’s a bit of a value judgement in the question which pits ‘pure’ music versus a somehow more contaminated ‘programme music’ that can’t ‘speak for itself’.

I don’t define being a composer as just writing music as if it were some kind of ‘pure’ form. I don’t define being an artist in a single dimension.  My particular medium is music but I find correlations to compositional ideas in many different places – other works of art, philosophical thought, cross-cultural models etc.  Yet for me, it’s not so much about those things in themselves.  Rather, what always attracts my attention are certain kinds of internal structures where energies and intensities interact across a number of levels.  I might find examples of this say in the asymmetrical temporality of Japanese court music or the shimmer effect of Aboriginal art.  I’m looking for a certain dynamism, a relationship between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’, that I find enculturated in different ways in different places.  So the ‘programme note’ points to this wider field of creative engagement – I’m sharing where I found systems of knowledge that have been drawn into the creative process.

Richard: Tim McC raises a couple of interesting examples, and that of Peter Ablinger is indeed quite relevant in this context, in that he comes closer than most people called ‘composers’ to what in a visual-arts context would be called the ‘conceptual’. While I find much of Ablinger’s work fascinating, my own commitment is to encourage listeners in the direction of the connecting and radiating complex of ideas around the music, if at all, as a consequence of engaging with it as sound/form/presence, because that’s been the nature of my own most important relationships with music.

Liza: Yes, I find Ablinger’s work very thought provoking – the clarity with which he frames a situation so that he foregrounds a way of perceiving it as a musical event is impressive. I wanted to add to my comment above though, that I don’t think that whatever a composer says about their work should necessarily be privileged in terms of the meaning of a work.  Surely the power of music/art lies in the way it can be refreshed in its impact and significations at every encounter between a work and the perceiver/listener.  When I write a programme note, it’s just my take on something at a particular time rather than standing in for ‘what the work means’.

Richard: It’s not just about programme notes, though. Personally I don’t tend to read them before or during the concert (and often not afterwards either, if the music hasn’t generated sufficient interest!), and I know plenty of others who don’t. So I’m assuming that at least some of the people listening to my work aren’t going to be aware of Tim’s ‘explanatory … aura’. However that may be, something that’s in the back of my mind constantly is the idea of an ‘uninitiated’ listener coming to the concert (it does happen!) without any particular expectations, and I’m hoping that, even if they leave at the end in a state of bemusement, their interest would have been activated rather than repelled. Daryl will confirm that he has to squeeze programme notes out of me these days: if I were left to my own devices I’d probably limit them to a couple of facts and acknowledgements …

TimR-J: Reflecting on the three composers’ posts here, I wonder if it is true to say that although there may be any number of non-note-based influences etc brought in during the compositional process, at some stage their importance falls away from the final, sounding result, which essentially ought to be able to stand on its own?

Looking back at Benjamin’s post, however: ‘I crave ‘connection’ on some level and like to be ‘onside’ if I can’ – is there a case to be made that performers might benefit from more priviledged access to the inspirational background to a piece?

Richard: It depends (as Mr Clinton might say) on what you mean by ‘importance’ and ‘final’… you could look at that the other way around, that hearing the music, for the listener, might well be the beginning of something, which might well be related to Ben’s ‘crav(ing) for connection’.

I know for a fact that not all performers share Ben’s feeling that knowing something more than the notes is a desirable part of developing an interpretation. Irvine Arditti, for example, is proverbially not interested in such matters.

Benjamin: Yes, there is the danger that knowing too much beyond the score can obscure rather than clarify, or the music can take on unwanted dimensions. I have to say it is also a frequent occurrence that I find out more about a piece at the concert, when everything is already rehearsed (thinking ensemble pieces not solo pieces), and I get a copy of the programme note. With ELISION we rarely play a piece where we don’t have direct contact with the composer, so developing an interpretation is a shared process anyway. I look for information when I don’t have that contact or feel uncertain about the context, mostly with much older music. It would also be extremely hard to approach Richard’s music without thinking of the way he performs i.e. it would actually take an effort to distance myself from that.

Daryl: I wouldn’t neccessarily share Irvine’s cited attitude on this. In most instances I do feel there has been benefit (at least with ELISION) to players and composers having a shared dialogue and access to knowledge of each other – and the band having an experience of the composer from rehearsal to the concert and in the various social situations surrounding the endeavour.  All of this form part of the connections that Ben is referring to and can be very helpful in generating and sustaining player engagement, interest and commitment. Rarely is it not positive. I think I can pretty confidently say that ELISION as an ensemble has an ethos which welcomes contact with and meeting a composer and tends to the inclusive.

I also note that in some instances the musicians are inherently and directly privileged within the creation of the work by the composer. I remember Liza for a long while saying that everytime she wrote for cello she heard the sound of Rosie (Rosanne Hunt) in her head and Richard’s composer drafts for ELISION have player names instead of specified instruments preceding his staves.

In this environment access to knowledge of a work’s inspiration can be very positive. Musicians will absorb this knowledge in different ways, at different times and rates BUT its all part of the overall osmosis.

Richard: In fact DARK MATTER has the names of the players throughout the published score too (as well as the instruments!).

Another aspect of the ‘dialogue’ Daryl refers to has become very immediate to me in recent weeks, working on the brass duo Aurora, and listening often to the ELISION recording of codex IX in which Ben and Tristram [Williams, trumpet] both took part, and to which they contribute their own musical imagination, this being a piece for improvising players. So there’s a complex interweaving taking place on a number of different levels, some of which (as Ben has pointed out) are more immediate than a discussion of formative ‘extra-musical’ ideas: what Ben and Tristram play in codex IX is conditioned to a degree by my fully-notated music as well as our mutual experience of improvisation, and certainly by the way the improvisational score is laid out, which is in turn partly an encapsulation of my own practice as a performer, and then the result feeds back again into thoughts which find their confluence in another fully-notated score.

Tim McC: I have always been of the opinion that, for me & for many of the musicians with whom I have a particularly deep relationship, the ‘non-note-based influences’ and the ‘sounding result’ are completely connected. Somewhere in the compositional process (before it? During it? Sometimes, afterwards.) the extra-musical influences and intentions become just as musical and the resultant sounds become just as semantic, physical, graphic, painterly, etc … That having been said, I have also always been of the opinion that, yes, the final, sounding result can stand on its own and, due to the unpredictable and divergent life experiences of the pieces’ perceivers, it has to.

But, as far as my music is concerned, I also believe that a listener’s experience of the final sounding result can also stand apart from any historical, traditional or lineagic knowledge. So I wouldn’t say that at some point in the life of a piece, these non-aural forces suddenly lose all importance/consequence. Rather, at some point the purely aural aspects of the piece are able to speak for themselves; they carry the influence of these forces without necessarily trying to communicate them.

Though the non-aural influences working to shape my music are significant to me, and may be of significance to a performer or listener, I am more interested in learning what a perceiver gathers from the performance itself (I am, after all, writing music to be performed live in front of a body of listeners). In this way, I very much like what Richard said: ‘…hearing the music, for the listener, might well be the beginning of something’. I would like to take that further: since my ideas, experiments and lines of thought, both extra-musical and primarily musical, are typically developed, altered, recontextualized or affirmed through the writing of many pieces, I would say that actually hearing the music might well be the beginning of something for me. At the least, it is a significant point in the middle (the ever-expanding middle…).

Rambler Roundtables: ELISION ensemble

What goes on when a composer writes a score, a performer learns it and plays from it, and an audience listens?

It’s certainly not a straightforward process of communication, although it is often described as such. But what do performers and composers really think happens in the process? What would they like to happen? And where are the points of determinacy and indeterminacy in a work’s production and reception?

Because of the particularly close way in which Australia’s ELISION ensemble work with the composers that they perform, the relationships between composer, performer, score and audience have been thematised in the group’s performing and commissioning practice. That then feeds back into the way that composers think about writing for the group. Some of that feedback is through obvious channels – selection of instrumentation, innovations in technique, etc – but some of it is less obvious – such the musical inscribing of a particular composer’s personal history with a particular performer. The effects of both may be heard in the music that results.

ELISION therefore present themselves as a fertile testing ground for exploring questions such as those above. Their methods and results may be highly unusual, even esoteric, but that doesn’t mean that the questions they are grappling with as an ensemble are any less important.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been chairing a small series of online discussions with composers and performers associated with the group. This is all in advance of the group’s next London appearance, at King’s Place on 8th February. I’ve trimmed those conversations down to three separate threads, on Interpretation, Klaus K. Hübler and ‘radical instrumentalism’, and what I cheekily call ‘The New Programme Music’, and will be posting the results over the next couple of days. (Parts 2 and 3 may be found here and here.)

The discussions are, I think, interesting for a number of reasons, but I was particularly interested in the frank way that the composers – Richard Barrett, Evan Johnson, Liza Lim and Timothy McCormack – spoke of their working methods and reception aspirations, both in general and with respect to the pieces that they are having performed on the 8th. The input of three performers – Séverine Ballon, Daryl Buckley and Benjamin Marks – counterpoints this with different considerations to do with the practicalities of realisation and the processes by which they communicate some or all of those aspirations to an audience.

The topic of interpretation and the role of the performer in realizing the composer’s vision kept returning, so we begin with this very question.

Roundtable 1, ELISION ensemble: Interpretation
TimR-J: What space is there for interpretation in music like this? How important is the performer as an interpreter, rather than a reproducer?

Evan Johnson (composer): I can only answer this for myself, of course, but for me the whole point of instrumental music as a polymorphous sort of encounter between subjects (composer, performer, score-reader, listener …) is in the interpretation. The communicative gaps that form between composer and performer (or score-reader) and in turn between performer and listener are a large part of what interests me about composition.

The notational practice of my recent work – particularly the pieces for ELISION, who allow me to get away with all sorts of questionably practical things – is calibrated to force interpretation in all sorts of ways. The notation is almost always impossible to transmit aurally – either through the fact of there being simply too much on the page to do all at once, the use of impossibly specific rhythmic and articulatory information, the deployment of notational devices that have no direct bearing on the aural result (the studied repetition of expressive indications, for instance, or the use of fragmented tuplets over a single attack), and so on. The result is a space for interpretation. I don’t mean this precisely in the old mid-century graphic-score or open-form sense, though, because that space in my work is generated specifically through over-specification. It’s sort of the fundamental aesthetic/performative idea behind Ferneyhough’s 1970s works, I guess, filtered through the more ‘playful’ or purely ‘aesthetic’ approach to the writing down of music that you see in Satie, certain works of Cage, even Schumann and the medieval ars subtilior.

In short, what I want out of music has to do with muscles, breath, a shared space of resonance and mental experience, and the joint work of interpretation itself.

Benjamin Marks (trombone): It is (mostly) what it is and always has been. There’s a score (a written articulation of a sonic landscape), the performer uses the information provided, plus anything else they can get (i.e. talking to the composer, books, notes etc.) to create the music (a score, in itself, is not music). The creative act is not ‘over’ once the score is written. The creative act happens again and again with each performance, for the composer, the performer and the audience. Interpretation might be seen as a problem with highly detailed music if you subscribe to a more top down view of the process i.e. composer sets the ideal, the performers tries their best, the audience receive the product. I don’t subscribe to that view!

Evan: Benjamin writes:

There’s a score (a written articulation of a sonic landscape), the performer uses the information provided, plus anything else they can get (i.e. talking to the composer, books, notes etc.) to create the music (a score, in itself, is not music). The creative act is not ‘over’ once the score is written. The creative act happens again and again with each performance, for the composer, the performer and the audience.

I have no problem with the first sentence here, but for my own purposes I don’t accept the second or third. For me as a composer the creative act is indeed over when the score is written, and the creative act engaged in by the performers and then by listening audience is of a different order. It may be a primarily semantic distinction; but I see my role in this process – i.e. the creation of the score proper – to be one of setting the boundaries, the parameters, though not the ‘rules’ for the subsequent creative acts.

To put it more precisely: the boundaries and parameters of my own creation are those of style, conscious (or cultivated) and unconscious (or unspoken); the results of that act are the boundaries and parameters of the performer’s creative act; that in turn results in the setting of boundaries and parameters for the listeners’. This is not to say that I am any ‘freer’ in my decisions than the performer or the listener–it is not a question of a progressive winnowing or narrowing of a creative ‘field,’ but a more free-form transformation of its extent and nature. But whatever happens, I consider my role as composer to have most emphatically ended, in that sense, once the performer steps on stage.

Daryl Buckley (artistic director and electric guitar): Evan, I wonder though if you were to work with the same performers on the repeat of a particular work, over time come to hear different things in what you had written and then were to write a second piece using the same performer … I wonder in this instance whether or not the creative act would be more ongoing? I’ve just been listening to a live performance by ELISION of Negatives from HCMF 1996 and surprised yet again about the depth of history surrounding ELISION and Richard Barrett. In some instances I think ongoing relationships and dialogues between composers and performers are invaluable.

TimR-J: Are we then talking about two different creative acts? I don’t know how the composition of Negatives took place, precisely, or the exact nature of the collaborative effort between Richard and ELISION, but my understanding of what Evan says above is that when he draws that double bar line, the score is done, and one particular creative act ends right there. That doesn’t necessarily preclude working with the players in rehearsals, after concerts, at subsequent performances, recordings, etc – but that is maybe a separate ‘creative act’ from the one Evan is referring to? (ie – the same boundaries/parameters set out by the score continue to apply)?

Richard Barrett (composer): This may be tangential, but as far as I’m concerned the process of composition is indeed actually a constant one, rather than beginning and ending at a certain point, and for me a double bar line is more like a comma than a full stop. Negatives, since this has been mentioned, evolved over quite a long period such that some important aspects of the completed version were crucially influenced by the experience of working with the musicians on the performance of the earlier constituent elements; that is to say, it isn’t a ‘portrait’ of the ensemble at a specific moment in time but a ‘moving picture’ as both the composer and the performers evolved and changed. (Of course it isn’t only that, I hope, but that’s the aspect Daryl is talking about I think.) Which led to Opening of the Mouth, which led to DARK MATTER, which is leading to CONSTRUCTION, with various other more or less connected points through which we passed on the way like codex IV and IX. The fact that none of this would have been possible without this ensemble is only partly to do with the excellence and imagination of their playing; it’s also the product of a long-term commitment from both sides.

Evan: I certainly don’t want my comments above to be read as denigrating the importance of the process of long-term collaboration, mutual influence, and so on; I’m not saying that my responsibility for the work, or my interest in it, or my commitment to it ends with the double barline! All I am saying is that, for me, the goal of writing music down is to present a textured and bounded space for interpretation for a performer – excluding what is outside that frame, as much as determining what is inside it – and that the ambiguities, contradictions, and unsolved problems that inevitably remain are things that are not mine to resolve. That is not to say I do not enjoy, or do not see the utility or importance of, fostering a dialogue about a completed work, or hopefully using it as a springboard to a longer-term mutual project, only that as of the moment of the double bar my role as composer shifts, and insofar as I participate in the creative processes that ensue it is as a co-navigator of the internal space, interpretively speaking, of the work.

To turn this back to Tim’s original question, summarizing the above: interpretation is all there is, and the style of notation or performance practice can influence the directions in which that interpretation goes, but as far as I am concerned the idea of ‘reproduction’ of a score is a meaningless one.

Benjamin: I feel a bit like a cheap shock-jock – making broad statements that are easy to agree or disagree with! Evan, I certainly understand why you see your creative act as finished once the performers take the stage. I mean, what can you do then, apart from sending countless positive vibes towards the stage and out into the audience, or find interesting new things in the performance which might be the start of a new idea or composition? But, is it not possible to see the whole event of the performance as a continuance of the creative act (and I don’t mean a different or secondary creative act but a primary one)? That the ‘creative act’ hadn’t stopped anywhere, and for as long as the piece is played (we’ll do our best here!!!) it never will? When you wrote the score did you imagine it as performed? I’m not saying we don’t each have our areas of speciality and deliberate creative concern – I couldn’t give you an Alto Trombone ‘Tune a Day’ and expect you to perform a heart wrenching ‘Ave Maria’ – but I hope we share a primary common interest in making your incredible sounds and processes come to life. Also, for those who haven’t seen the score, there are deliberate ambiguities, contradictions and unsolved problems composed in the score so Evan is being very generous in providing this space for a performer to ‘interpret’ his piece. Despite the general impossibility there is great freedom.

Evan: Certainly, of course it is possible to see the whole event of the performance as a continuance of the creative act. But that is a creative act of a fundamentally different sort, in a thoroughly different (if, of course, related) medium, acting upon – but not necessarily, I wouldn’t think, continuing – the object of the previous process. I fear I am on the verge of hair-splitting, semantics-games territory here, but I hope the distinction is somewhat clear!

Séverine Ballon (cello): What is the role of an interpreter in the development and first performance of a piece?

First, there is the work with the composer on ideas and sketches. At the genesis of Invisibility, Liza contributed the idea of a guiro bow (the wood of the bow around which the hair is wound), and I explained and demonstrated my research of cello multiphonics.

After Liza sent me the score, I learned the piece very quickly whilst trying to remain as faithful as possible to the text. The first meeting, in order to work together on the composition, was important to understand the central ideas and the energy of the piece. I was impressed that Liza has a exact conception of the music, she has a precise idea about the texture of sound and at the same time allows a lot of freedom to the interpreter e.g. the guiro bow, the sound cannot be predicted for it is different every time. This is one of the integral aspects of the work.

Then came the time to take time, for a few weeks I worked on a few bars every day, to contemplate and leave them again, like one would ponder over a select few flowers in a garden.

There is also the time one have to connect the music one is studying to one’s own sound memories and to one’s own bodily gestures.

There is also the time one needs to understand how the piece behaves, develops its own structure and points where the composition demands peace.

At the end of this process, one has to leave the music be, allowing the music to exist on its own terms, whilst being present as the interpreter: the facillitator. One always has to come back to the score, there are so many elements that one can rediscover, or that one didn’t understand musically before. In my preparation, I also like to focus on different parameters (rhythm, dynamics, structure etc.) to give me more freedom in the moment of performance.

Invisibility is a piece with a meaningful power, the day of the premiere I was deeply touched in discovering and sharing this music with an audience. I am looking forward very much to playing it again in London on the 8th of February.

(merci Richard Haynes for translating my froggy english)

Liza Lim (composer): Thanks so much for this Séverine. You really offer a picture of how a ‘work’ can be a confluence of so many creative impulses – how the making of a work can be a manifestation of a ‘distributed creativity’ (which I think Ben is also talking about in his comments above). I’m really interested in the ways in which music (not just the composition part) is shaped by ‘performance practice’ in its fullest sense – taking in the performer’s personal history of other repertoires/performance practices/& the sonic/ bodily memory of performing and how that embodiment meets my own histories/body memories/listening culture.

Séverine brings so much awareness to her playing and she is really developing new approaches to ‘cello technique and the instrument’s sonic resources through her own improvisation. Working with improvising musicians is such an inspiration to me. I love spending time with musos and waiting for that moment when they let on some ‘secret knowledge’ about their instrument – something very idiosyncratic that belongs very much to them and which they offer so generously to a composer.

Séverine’s contribution and presence as a musician is absolutely embedded in Invisibility in a primary way and directs how the piece will continue to evolve over time as it gets played (both by her and others).

I experience composition as an ongoing flow, a conversation with the world, which just happens to be divided into discrete pieces. In a sense everything gets drawn into what is composition – there’s a kind of transparency, a movement to and fro between ‘life’ and music. but it’s not autobiography either, no ‘one-to-one’ correlation between events and work. It’s somehow more alchemical than that where things, feelings, perceptions are transformed at a subtle symbolic level, where concrete things are forgotten and then re-emerge (perhaps ages after) quite abstractly as forms of intensity, as ‘behaviours’. I look at a performer’s engagement with my music as a kind of attunement, as a way of discovering resonances in the work – different ones each time and hopefully ones that I wasn’t aware of before!

ELISION – Invisibility

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, comes in two parts:

1. Get out your diary, turn to February 8th, and write down some or all of the following information:


Date: Monday 8th February
Time: 8PM
Venue: Hall Two, Kings Place 90 York Way
Price: £9.50
Booking and more details

Timothy McCormack: disfix (2008)
For clarinets, piccolo trumpet/flugelhorn, trombone

Klaus K Hubler: Cercar (1983)
For solo trombone

Liza Lim: Invisibility (2009)
For solo violoncello

Richard Barrett: Aurora (2010)
For flugelhorn and trombone

Roger Redgate:  new work (2009)
For bass clarinet, violoncello and trombone

Evan Johnson: Apostrophe 2 (pressing down on my sternum) (2009)
for quarter-tone flugelhorn and alto trombone

James Dillon: Crossing Over (1978)
For Bb clarinet

Richard Barrett: Codex X1 (2010)
For oboe, clarinet, trumpet, trombone, electric guitar, cello and live electronics

The personnel list for the performance is-
Peter Veale | oboe
Richard Haynes | clarinet in B-flat, bass clarinet
Tristram Williams | piccolo trumpet, trumpet, flügelhorn
Benjamin Marks | alto and tenor trombones
Daryl Buckley | electric guitar
Richard Barrett | live electronics
Séverine Ballon | violoncello

2. Stay tuned for some great original material in support of this concert – composer interviews, free downloads, round table discussions, party balloons, cake!