Music for Carillon no.s 1-5 (1952-1967)

As far as I know, there is currently no album containing all five Music for Carillons. A version of no.1 performed by David Tudor is available on the 1958 25-Year Retrospective and nos.1-3 are all available on American Classics. I already had no.1 so I downloaded no.s 2 & 3 off iTunes. Unfortunately, the production on all of these is fairly poor. No.1 is distorted and fuzzy, especially when flurries of notes are played quickly, which happens quite often. In the American Classics recording, it sounds like the carillon is way off in the distance, and there is an odd, unpleasant quality to the sound that seems like what happens when you have music at a very low bitrate (as I said, though, I got these off iTunes, at 260kbps and 272kbps). No.4 doesn't seem to be available anywhere. No.5 was another iTunes purchase, found on this album.

To be fair, part of the problem is that a carillon probably isn't an easy thing to record: it's a very large instrument usually found in church belfries that consists of large bronze bells connected to a keyboard. I imagine that it's very impressive to hear in real life, but that a lot of its qualities are lost on a recording. Still, if there's anybody planning on releasing some new Cage stuff, and you play the carillon, it would be great to hear a good recording of the whole series.

Nos.1-3 are all for solo carillon, and are pretty much what you'd expect from playing a bunch of chance-determined notes on a carillon. No.5, composed 13 years later in 1967, is rather more interesting. It's utterly chaotic - it sounds like somebody took a number of different recordings of carillons, manipulated them electronically, then played them over each other. The result is more along the lines of HPSCHD than the first three Music for Carillons. There are flurries of twinkling high-pitched notes, electronic bleeps and bloops, jangling bells, metallic clangs, drones that sound like they were produced by synthezisers or strings - and sometimes all of this is happening all at once. It's surprising coming after the first three in the series, but it fits right in with Cage's work of the late 60s. A number of his compositions from that time involved playing various unrelated musical pieces simultaneously: HPSCHD, 33 1/3, Musicircus. Like those pieces, this is a rich and fascinating sonic storm. My only complaint is that at only five minutes, it's too short!

Given the radical difference between nos.1-3 and no.5, I'm curious to hear no.4.

Five3 (1991)

Composed for trombone and string quartet, which here is two violins, viola, and a cello, this is in many ways quite similar to Seven2, which I reviewed a couple of days ago: at 40 minutes, it's one of the longer Number Pieces (eight times longer than all the others Fives); it mostly features dissonant notes played slowly and softly; and the music often gives way to stretches of silence.

In many of his Number Pieces, Cage draws attention to what would often be seen as accidental, imperfect elements of the sounds. Here, the strings are played so quietly, and the notes held for such long times, that we often have a chance to hear the notes wobble - not vibrato, but just the natural imperfections of human playing - and the even the sound of the bows scraping on the strings. I love Cage's focus on these kinds of subtle variations because it makes the music feel so much more vital and organic.

Also, I wonder if this focus on imperfection was one way Cage resolved the tension in the ideas behind his music. On the one hand, being extremely resistant to the view that music should be a form of expression, he had always endeavoured to remove the voice and emotions of the composer and performers from his music. On the other hand, as he got older, his anarchist social beliefs began to influence his approach to composition, and he wanted to find ways to preserve and respect the individuality of each performer. So the question is: how do you eliminate personal expression while preserving individuality? I will probably talk about this more later, but for now, note that imperfections and accidents are completely unintentional, so they cannot be a form of expression; but because they depend on each person’s way of playing, they also reveal the peculiarities of each musician. Perhaps this explains Cage's preference in the Number Pieces for long-held, very quiet notes.

The strings create a beautiful droney backdrop for the trombone, whose notes are often shorter and louder - indeed, some really blast out. The impression I have is of the strings being a lake, with the imperfections in the notes being ripples on its surface; and the trombone is like large bubbles floating to the surface and bursting.

34'46.776" for a Pianist (1954) and 31'57.9864" for a Pianist (1954)

In 1953, Cage began composing a variety of "time-legnth pieces" - pieces whose titles refer to the length of time they are played: for example, 45' for a Speaker is a 45 minute composition for vocals. The idea was that the pieces could be played solo or in any combination, and Cage's original plan was that the work as a whole (which has come to be called The Ten Thousand Things) would be forever unfinished, as he could keep adding more and more pieces to it ad infinitum. As it happens, he abadoned the project after only three years. During that time, he completed two piano works for it: 34'46.776" for a Pianist and 31'57.9864" for a Pianist. Yes, Cage has indeed specified the time-lengths to the thousandth and ten-thousandth of a second. I assume he was being somewhat humorous here; presumably he did not actually expect the performer to have such a superhuman control of time.

Ideally, I would like to have reviewed these separately, but I don't own solo performances of each of them. Solo performances are available on the USB I-Ching Edition of The Ten Thousand Things from Microfest Records. This looks like an incredibly cool release: it contains all of the time-length pieces, plus a computer program that will play them in any combination, as Cage intended. Unfortunately, the cheapest I can find it is for £45, and I'm not willing to put up that amount of cash for the sake of this blog. Cage fans who are less frugal might want to check it out.

So I'm listening to the simultaneous performance of 34'46.776" and 31'57.9864" (plus three other time-length pieces) here. One of the things that initially struck me as odd about these performances is that the piano parts clearly continue for more than 34 minutes, the length of the longest. The reason for this is that when played in combination, the structure of each time-length piece is rearranged, so 34' can continue for longer than 34'. This is one of the big problems with not having a solo performance: you really are listening to a different composition.

Both pieces are pretty much along the same lines as Cage's other chance-composed piano works. Notably, these are among the very few chance-based piano works for prepared piano, which gives them a more varied and unusual timbral palette. Most notes sound like a standard piano, but some notes rattle, some notes thud, etc. They also include occasional other sounds - e.g. by hitting the exterior of the piano, vocalising, whistling, etc. However, because I'm listening to a performance with a bunch of other time-length pieces, it's not always obvious whether these sounds come from one the pianists or somebody else. In any case, the use of a variety of non-pianolike sounds certainly helps the piano pieces blend in seamlessly with the others.

(I would guess that one big reason why Cage dropped his Ten Thousand Things project was that in the later 50s he became increasingly interested in compositions that were indeterminate of performance - that is, compositions where important parts are left in some ways vague, and up to the interpretation of the performer, and so will sound significantly different in each performance. The time-length pieces were all fairly strictly notated. However, there are moves towards indeterminacy of performance in them. In these piano pieces, Cage does not specify the preparations exactly, so two performances might involve quite different sounds.)

Seven2 (1990)

At over fifty minutes, this is one of the longest Number Pieces. Cage gives it a dark texture by using mostly low pitches, with an ensemble of bass flute, bass clarinet, bass trombone, contrabass, and cello (plus two percussionists), being played very slowly, softly, and quietly.

Indeed, despite the seven-piece ensemble, the arrangement is sparse. There are rarely more than three instruments playing at any one time, and the music is interspersed with long stretches of silence. It seems to merge with the ambient noise.

Like most Number Pieces, this is notable for its constant dissonance, which in combination with the lower, quieter tones creates an atmosphere of anticipation and foreboding. One of the instruments - I'm not sure which - occasionally produces a sort of ethereal groaning sound that adds very much to this mood. I had the impression of thick, dark, slowly moving cloud, perhaps rumbling towards a storm. There's even the aural equivalent of flashes of lightning: at 34:30 we get a sudden bang on a drum, just in case the previous part had been lulling you to sleep; at about 38:30, there's a short, loud blast from the trombone.

I think it's a pity that Cage didn't compose for ensembles of lower-pitched instruments more often, as I love the low, deep sounds of instruments like trombones and contrabasses.

Two4 (1991)

This one comes in two versions: it's scored for either violin and piano or violin and shō, a Japanese instrument that sounds somewhat like a cross between an organ and a harmonica. Cage was rather enchanted with the shō when he discovered it late in his life, so he wrote a few pieces for it. I'm not sure why he gave the option of either piano or shō for Two4. They certainly don't sound anything alike.

Cage's score exploits the different abilities of the three instruments in two interesting ways. First, as a violin, unlike a piano/shō, can sustain a note indefinitely, the violin holds long drones of single notes while the piano/shō plays more quickly (though still fairly slowly - just a few notes per minute, in fact) over it. Second, while the pitches available to a piano/shō are discrete and fixed, a violin has the whole field of pitch in its range at its disposal. Hence the violin part is microtonal: Cage splits the octave into eighty-four notes (versus the standard twelve). I must confess, though, that my untrained ear would never have picked up on this had I not read about it. I can sometimes tell when music is microtonal - it's obvious in Harry Partch and a lot of world music, for example - but frankly I can't tell what difference it makes here.

Obviously, the two versions sound fairly different, and each has its benefits and drawbacks. On the one hand, the shō has a rich, unusual timbre that brings a rather more exotic flavour to the piece, and its notes can be sustained for as long as the player's breath so it tends to be quite droney like the violin. They merge together; it's sometimes difficult to tell where one instrument begins and the other ends. However, partly for this reason, the shō tends to drown out the subtleties of the violin part. The piano isn't so invasive. Since the violin is played so softly and without vibrato, we have a chance to focus on the slight "imperfections" in the drones, that are like ripples on the surface of water. It provides an intricate and beautiful bed of sound to complement the delicate piano notes.

Piano or shō, I love this piece. I love its long drones and its gradually changing texture as over time, almost imperceptibly, the pitch of the violin drops. It slowly divides the two instruments, since the piano/shō part is for the same seventeen notes throughout. Both begin at a high pitch, but the violin ever so slowly drifts away.

36 Mesostics re and not re Marcel Duchamp (1972)

Throughout his life, Cage created a great deal of written work, both academic essays and more artistic writing. Perhaps his favourite form of artistic writing was the mesostic, a poetic form that he used frequently from the late 60s until his death.

This is, as the title suggests, 36 mesostics, both about and not about Marcel Duchamp. Although it was originally a written work, it has been performed as music. Cage blurred the line between his music and writing by giving frequent musical performances of his poetry and prose. In the case of mesostics I find this somewhat problematic because they have an essential visual element: the central vertical "spine" cannot be communicated when speaking them (well, I guess you could say it before or after the poem proper, but you still wouldn't be able to see how all the lines fit together). And in any case, they simply *look* wonderful... you lose a lot of their charm and beauty by translating them into sound. This excerpt from 36 Mesostics is a good example of how even the most mundane statements are infused with a subtle grace when presented in the mesostic form:

                   inviteD
                        oUt
                    he'd Cut
            the evening sHort.
                         At
                       hoMe
   he'd suggest we stay uP later.

So I think mesostics should ideally be read, not heard. As a poem, 36 Mesostics is extremely impressive. Many of Cage's poems were written, like his music, by the use of chance operations - often resulting in uncompromisingly experimental writing that had only the barest resemblance to the English language. However, no chance was used here (except perhaps in determining the order of the mesostics). Hence this is a good example of Cage's skill as a more conventional poet. Here's a lovely excerpt:

   since other Men
              mAke
              aRt,
            he Cannot.
            timE
          is vaLuable.

Or consider this reflection on Duchamp's death, the penultimate mesostic of the set. To me, this is one of the most moving passages about death and loss ever written; its poignance is matched only by its simplicity and brevity. Its impact is particularly powerful as it comes after several mesostics about rather more humdrum, day-to-day things:

   questions i Might
              hAve
            leaRned
        to ask Can
        no longEr
    receive repLies

At their best, mesostics are like haikus: highly constrained writing that can highlight the beauty in the apparently mundane, or express profound feelings and experiences in a strikingly simple way. 36 Mesostics is a wonderful poem that demonstrates both of these virtues.

It is also, at least on the recording that I'm listening to, a fairly interesting piece of music, though I'm not sure how many, if any, of the musical elements were actually composed by Cage (I think he only wrote the words). It's performed by two voices, Paul Hillier and the minimalist composer Terry Riley, who each take turns reading the mesostics. Hillier sings in an exaggerrated baritone that evokes medieval monastic music (which is unsurprising, given that this is on the same CD as the performance of Litany for the Whale that I reviewed yesterday), and which is subjected to various kinds of electronic manipulation.

This makes for a rather amusing performance for several reasons. First, because so many of his lyrics are so banal - it tickles me to imagine a medieval monk singing, with all the gravity and sincerity he gives to his religious songs, lyrics like "crême fraiche followed by three kinds of potatoes" and "they told me someone who had a problem engaged him in a discussion of it". Second, because the electronic effects are sometimes a little ridiculous. For example, in one of his parts, we hear a copy of his voice that's had its pitch shifted upward, so it sounds all high and squeaky. And finally because all of this is at jolting variance with Terry Riley's totally straight, unprocessed, spoken-word readings.

Although I still think that 36 Mesostics works better on paper, this performance is a lot of fun, and at only 11 minutes (yes, only 11 minutes... plenty of Cage compositions go on far longer than 11 minutes) it doesn't overstay its welcome. Whenever Cage performed his mesostics, he would usually just read them out straightforwardly. This creative interpretation is far more engaging.

Litany for the Whale (1980)

Like the piece I reviewed yesterday, this is a rather incongruous entry in Cage's catalogue. While the incongruity of that piece can be explained as arising due to Cage's love of Satie, I'm not sure what the explanation for this one is. It's a composition for two vocalists, who take turns singing letters of the word "whale" in a call-and-response fashion. Here's an excerpt of the score:

The structure is simple. Vocalist A sings the recitation "W-H-A-L-E". Vocalist B responds with "H-A-W-E", then sings the recitation. Vocalist A responds with "E-A-H-A-E", then sings the recitation. Etc etc for the next twenty-five minutes. Presumably, the order of the letters in the responses was partially determined by chance, though note that each response ends with the letter 'E'. Further, Cage fixes the notes of each letter, like so:

W-D   H-C   A-B   L-G   E-A

Hence, this consists of straightforward monophonic melodies with a simple tonality (from my limited knowledge of music theory, I assume it's in A-minor), to be sung slowly and softly without vibrato. It is extremely peaceful, even religious - indeed, it strongly evokes Gregorian chant, especially with its reverb-heavy production that makes it sound as if it was sung in a church. The monastic overtones are, of course, made explicit by the "litany" of the title.

It would be interesting to know more about Cage's intentions and what compositional methods he used here. It sounds like one of Cage's "transformative" works - as in Apartment House 1776, Cheap Imitation, Hymns and Variations, Quartets I-VIII, etc - in that it sounds like he took some previously existing work, in this case a Gregorian chant, and then altered it somewhat. I think this was composed from scratch, though. What is particularly odd in the context of the rest of his work is how he gives it a tonal centre, on the note A (the letter E). Even in his compositions that used more traditional pitch-sets, this is something that as far as I understand he always worked to avoid. Per Cage's aesthetic, the problem with a tonal centre is that it means that notes are arranged in hierarchy, and according to a theory. In all his work from the early 50s onwards, Cage had endeavoured to create compositions where, essentially, all sounds are equal - where there are no hierarchies, where each sound is its own centre, where "each sound vibrates from itself, not from a theory" (that quote is from Conversing With Cage, pg 90). By all means play an A, but don't play an A as the tonal centre. (The anti-theoretical inclination comes from Zen; the anti-hierarchical inclination from anarchism.)

Of course, none of this has anything to do with the quality of the music, which is extremely high. Just as "litany" suggests religion, so "whale" suggests the ocean, and the music seems evocative of the ocean to me. Notes are sung deliberately, one by one, surrounded by silence; they have an undulating quality, like waves coming into shore. The alternation from the first vocalist to the second and back again conjures the rise and fall of the tides, with the steady repetition of the recitation underlining its cyclical character. To paraphrase one of the favourite slogans of deep ecology, Litany for the Whale may be simple in means, but it is very rich in ends.

I came across a performance of this on carillon, which can be found here (there is a 48 second youtube video; the whole performance is given on a link below). I don't like it so much, and for me it drives home just how important the choice of instrument can be for a composition. Litany for the Whale is beautiful, but a lot of that depends on the qualities of the human voice. Without the voice, without the monastic mood, it becomes a bit boring. It ends up sounding like a child's first attempt at writing music. (The carillon version reminds me quite a lot of Cheap Imitation, another one that I don't find so interesting.)