Festival: TSO's New Creations Festival (Saturday)

Toronto Symphony Orchestra's New Creations Festival: "Electronica Meets Orchestra"

Roy Thompson Hall. Saturday, March 5, 2011

This is an an expansion of my earlier notes which appeared here.

Once again, the festival's programming at Roy Thompson extended beyond the main concert, and I arrived early enough to hear some of the pre-show lobby performance by the Gryphon Trio, which sounded a bit like a mildly abrasive 'moderne' sort of chamber music — a stately-but-drunken mix of Bartók and "Rock of Ages".

That was curiously enjoyable, but I also had another tangential musical adventure in mind, so I took care to settle into my seat with enough time to listen to the orchestra warming up. I've always loved that random drift, the soundquilt of overlapping melodic fragments, from even before I knew anything about "ambient" or abstract music of any kind. It's actually one of my favourite things about going to the symphony.¹

The programme proper began with Gary Kulesha's Torque, which was simpatico with the later City Noir — and also paralleled the previous show's Short Ride in a Fast Machine with the brisk invocation of a sleek car ride. But Kulesha's piece, though designed as something sort and punchy to begin shows with a burst of energy, employed more of a atmospheric cinematic vocabulary than Short Ride.

And then on to the main event — Mason Bates' Liquid Interface. This night's title ("Electronica Meets Orchestra") was an interesting demonstration of the pace at which "popular" forms filter up into the high culture, and enough to make me wonder if, by the time they reach this level, things might have already moved on at ground level. Although it's not particularly my realm, "electronica", as a word or concept, has a bit of a turn-of-the-century whiff to it, coming off (in the accelerated world of pop forms) as a bit of a quaint attempt to create a marketable umbrella term for what is really a diverse rage of subgenres.

It also offers the promise of one of my least-favourite live tropes — the image of the lone figure behind a laptop, possibly pressing keys to control the music in vague and unfathomable ways — or just updating their twitter for all the audience might know. So, watching Bates take his spot in the orchestra, "playing" his laptop and drumpad, I was curious to see how everything here was going to meld.

As the title implies, Liquid Interface was a sonic exploration of various states of water, from icebergs sliding into the sea to the gentle patter of falling droplets to the overwhelming power of a gale. Bates' contributions were mostly percussive, and surrounded by the lushness of the orchestra, the beats sounded somewhat tinny and boxy. It's also interesting to ponder on whether the metronomic regularity that the programmed beats enforced on the orchestra² let the ensemble "breathe" a little less than they might have otherwise.

The various movements went in a few interesting directions and Bates also provided a lot of scene-setting sound effects, from the drip-drop rain patterns to the white noise of wind. There was one jazzy section that made this feel more akin to the night's next piece than I was expecting — but also a bit like a "pops" piece as well. On the whole, I wasn't particularly overwhelmed — I wouldn't say either half of the style collision did much to elevate the other.

Then again, the reason I was chuffed for this show came from the next selection, John Adams' City Noir. It was introduced by Adams as a sort of theoretical film noir soundtrack, unrestrained by film music's need to give way to dialogue — "you just get going, and you have to stop," he said of his frustrations with music cues.

The piece also functions as a tribute to Los Angeles, playing itself in its seedy, after-hours, dark-side-of-Hollywood guise. As such, the music did a good job of building up a tense texture of implied threats of violence alongside hints of glamour. Because of that pre-existing cinematic language, it was very vivid, and musically, there were homages to bebop and Ellington brushing shoulders against rushing car-chase tempos and moments of stillness like a foggy night in a desperate harbourtown.

By that measure, this was great fun to listen to, and a smashing success, right up to the bombasto ending. I don't know if this was pushing the envelope forward, technically speaking, like Adams' Harmonielehre (performed at the festival's previous show), but it was interesting as hell.

The night concluded with an after-show lobby party, featuring Mason Bates switching personas to spin some discs as DJ Masonic — another lively touch even if it's not my sort of thing. And anyway, wrapping up early-ish meant that I could rush off to another show to complete my evening.

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¹ I ask this in all seriousness: has anyone ever released an album just of orchestras warming up? If you had a bunch of source material and the sensibility to edit it, you could make something deliciously woozy.

² It's worth noting that John Adams conducted not only his own work, but Liquid Interface as well, wearing a click track in his ear for the latter. I have no particular insight, but it would be interesting to hear whether that drove any change is his approach and how he guided the orchestra.

Festival: TSO's New Creations Festival (Wednesday)

Toronto Symphony Orchestra's New Creations Festival: "Short Ride in a Fast Machine"

Roy Thompson Hall. Wednesday, March 2, 2011.

This is an an expansion of my earlier notes which appeared here.

Spring, with all its symbolism of regeneration, is an apt time for the TSO's annual festival of "new music" — meaning, basically, "classical" music made by people who aren't dead yet and/or are trying to push forward the horizons of the European art-music tradition. Because of its highbrow associations, there's a tendency to think this music has to be approached with some more elaborate conceptual framework — that you have to be learned to "get" it, and that the same instincts that tell you whether or not you dig any other kind of music are suddenly invalid. Well, poo on that — I might not have a lot of aesthetic sophistication, but that's not going to stop me from liking/not liking this stuff.

For the TSO, this is also one of their occasions to try and bring in a different crowd than the older/affluent types who show for the classical repertory. The nights of the festival were each curated as mini-events with a bit more zazz than pomp,¹ so I felt a bit less alienated than I usually do at these sorts of things. K., who kept bringing up The Soup Dragons' "I'm Free" every time the festival's name was mentioned helped to keep me relaxed as well.²

For this night, as a sort of adjunct to The Shaman, the lobby pre-concert show was by the Lightning Bolt pow-wow group. Growing up in the country on the prairies, I've seen a few pow-wows in my time, but this was certainly the by far the swankiest digs I've ever heard the drums in. As the group's voices filled Roy Thompson Hall's north lobby, I looked out the window, over the cold and windswept expanse of King Street and the illuminated PATH stacked below, where a few stray office workers were belatedly making their way to the subway. Meanwhile, my mind turned to memories of scrubby fields, the scent of woodsmoke wafting past, with fires where you could cook bannock on a stick. We live in many worlds all at once.

Then we headed into the hall for the show proper. The first concert of the series opened and closed with works by John Adams, leading off with the eponymous Short Ride in a Fast Machine, which is five minutes of straight-up symphonic go! compressed to popsong length. Backed by a constantly clattering woodblock, this is probably the closest thing you're going to get at the symphony to a "more cowbell" moment, and in its surging gusto, the piece probably owes as much to Carl Stalling as to any "serious" composer. All of which makes it top-notch in my book.

In breaking down the formality of the classical concert, composer Vincent Ho came out on stage to introduce The Shaman and to chat about it a bit. Discussing the idea of the shaman as intermediary to the spirit world, he told the audience that the best approach to the piece is to "treat it as if it's a mystical journey and Evelyn is your guide."

"Evelyn" would be Dame Evelyn Glennie, who is said to be the world's only full-time symphonic percussionist³, for whom this piece was composed. The first striking thing about The Shaman was seeing Glennie's percussion tools on stage — the Brobdingnagian kettle-drums and marimbas engendered a sort of joy just to behold, not to mention a childlike desire to want to leap down onto the stage and have a go.

So, like Short Ride, this had an obvious percussive kick to it — although it started in that quieter, mystical terrain with the music connoting a distant wind and a voice of a howling spirit. For the first few minutes with Glennie leading the charge, it felt like an electroacoustic improvisation. Once the strings kicked in the composer's hand was more strongly felt.

Glennie dashed between her three percussion workstations as the music built itself up. The orchestration during the more roiling segments was sometimes a bit of a mixed bag, with a bit of a "throw in the kitchen sink" sort of feel. Although the busier sections were entertaining just by virtue of Glennie's physicality, I think my favourite part here was the excellent quiet movement (the section entitled "Fantasia – Nostalgia", presumably) where the vibes resonated against the stillness, their sounds hanging in the air — lingering, lingering.

That worked for me more than the unabashed ornamental over-the-topness, but it was hard not to get roused up a bit by the finish. The whole piece went just over thirty minutes, and I found it, outside the one brilliant stretch to be engaging in fits and starts, but the audience liked it and a fair number of people stood to applaud.

After the intermission, the night concluded with John Adams' Harmonielehre — a word that will presumably vex me each time I try to spell it. This half of the night started with an on-stage conversation with Adams. He talked about this early piece (from 1985) being important to him because of how it proved to himself he had a voice as a composer. The compositional novelty is in its "bizarre marriage" of minimalism and motoric gestures with Germanic Romantic music.⁴ He also mentioned the dream-origins of the piece, which set it up well.

After a blasting fanfare, it started with a jarring minimalist riff before finding some Glass-ian repetition. It rolled along like it could have been called "Minimalism!" for almost five minutes before a metronomic marimba urged itself forward. Then came the opposite side of the coin, with the lush romantic theme on the strings — and the rest of the piece was basically those two forces rubbing up against each other in different ways. I found the first movement, going not-quite twenty minutes, to be be both mentally exciting and emotionally elevating.

It was interesting to see the two styles slide against each other in different ways — sometimes one dominating the other, but at a few points feeling more like a mashup of two separate compositions playing simultaneously. I was wearing down a bit by the end of it, but it was rather lovely. And the ending was rousing as hell, creating jagged wakefulness after reverie, and not just for me — as the last notes faded, just on the cusp of the crowd's applause, someone burst forth with a hearty, unsymphonic "yeah!"

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¹ There were also a lot more affordable tickets on offer than usual, which is always a bit of a sticking point for getting out to the symphony.

² K. was also fixated on why, out of all the instruments in the symphony, anyone would choose to play the bassoon. I had no strong counter-argument.

³ This is a unique status made all the more interesting by the fact that Glennie is profoundly deaf. Her "Hearing Essay" unpacks some of the misconceptions around the spectrum of deafness ("something that bothers other people far more than it bothers me") and its relationship to her musical abilities.

⁴ Harmonielehre was also the title of a book on harmonic theory written by Arnold Schoenberg, and hence a nod from Adams to his composition's rootedness in that romantic tradition.

Currente calamo: TSO's New Creations Festival

TSO: New Creations Festival, 2011

While these shows were fresh in my mind I wanted to get some quick notes down. I'm a nerd for not wanting to throw my full reviews out of sequence, so by and by I'll put up a full review, which will include increased ramblings on a range of topics, including my memories of the smell of bannock, The Man Who Knew Too Much, mutterings about class war and curiosity on why someone would choose to play the bassoon. For the moment, though, let's focus on the music itself.

"Short Ride in a Fast Machine" (Wed. Mar. 2, 2011)

The first concert of the series opened and closed with works by John Adams, leading off with the eponymous "Short Ride in a Fast Machine" — five minutes of straight-up "go", compressed to popsong length. Backed by a constantly clattering woodblock, this is probably the closest thing you're going to get at the symphony to a "more cowbell" moment, and in its surging gusto, the piece probably owes as much to Carl Stalling as to any more "highbrow" referent. All of which makes it top notch in my book.

Vincent Ho's "The Shaman" had a similar percussive kick to it — in fact it was designed as a showcase for Dame Evelyn Glennie, said to be the world's only full-time symphonic percussionist. For the first few minutes with Glennie leading the charge, it felt like an electroacoustic improvisation until the strings kicked in — then the composer's hand was more strongly felt. Glennie would literally dash between her three percussion workstations, composed of Brobdingnagian-looking instruments including giant drums and marimbas. The orchestration during the more roiling segments was sometimes a bit of a mixed bag, with a bit of a "throw in the kitchen sink" sort of feel. Although the busier sections were entertaining just by virtue of Glennie's physicality, I think my favourite part here was a quiet interlude where the vibes resonated against the stillness, their sounds hanging in the air — lingering, lingering. The whole of it engaged me in fits and starts, but audience liked it, and a fair number of people stood to applaud.

After intermission, the night concluded with Adams' "Harmonielehre" — a word that still makes my eyes glaze over when I try to pronouce it. Introduced by Adams as a "bizarre marriage" of minimalism and Germanic Romantic music, it started with a jarring minimalist riff before finding some Glass-ian repetition, it rolled along like it could have been called "Minimalism!" for almost five minutes before a metronomic marimba urged itself forward. Then came the opposite side of the coin, with the lush romantic theme on the strings — and the rest of the piece was basically those two forces rubbing up against each other in different ways. I found the first movement, going not-quite twenty minutes to be be both mentally exciting and emotionally elevating.

It was interesting to see the two styles slide against each other in different ways — sometimes one dominating the other, but at a few points feeling more like a mashup of two separate compositions playing simultaneously. I was wearing down a bit by the end of it, but it was rather lovely. At the stirring ending, just on the cusp of the crowd's applause, someone burst forth with a hearty, unsymphonic "yeah!"

"Electronica Meets Orchestra" (Sat. Mar. 5, 2011)

This night's title was an interesting demonstration of the pace at which "popular" forms filter up into the high culture. Although it's not particularly my realm, "electronica", as a word or concept, has a bit of a turn-of-the-century whiff to it, coming off (in the accelerated world of pop forms) as a bit quaint. The night took its name in a nod to Mason Bates' "Liquid Interface", on which the composer took part in "playing" his laptop and drumpad alongside the orchestra.

As the title implies, the piece was a sonic exploration of various states of water, from icebergs sliding to the sea to the patter of falling droplets to the overwhelming power of a gale. Bates' contributions were mostly percussive, and surrounded by the lushness of the orchestra, the beats sounded somewhat tinny and boxy. The various movements went in a few interesting directions and there was one jazzy section that made this feel more akin to the night's next piece than I was expecting. But on the whole I wasn't particularly overwhelmed.

Then again, the reason I was chuffed for this show came from the next selection, John Adams' "City Noir". Introduced by Adams as a sort of theoretical film noir soundtrack, unrestrained by the the needs of a sound cue to give way to dialogue. I don't know if this was pushing the envelope forward, technically speaking, like "Harmonielehre", but it was interesting as hell, and filled with evocative moments — homages to bebop and Ellington brushing shoulders against rushing car-chase tempos and moments of stillness like a foggy night in a desperate harbourtown. By that measure, this was great fun to listen to, and a smashing success, right up to the bombasto ending.

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A symphony outsider's musings for future expansion:

• I'm always struck by the dynamic range at the symphony, were there's such shifts of quiet to loud. For someone used to rock shows in clubs, the availability of quiet is profound.
• is there any sound more awesome than an orchestra warming up? I think sometimes that's my favourite part.
• symphony crowds — they sure can clap at great length. Most shows I'm used to, people would already be back at the bar getting a drink while the symphony crowd is still clapping away. I guess when you don't applaud every few minutes it just wells up in folks.

The New Creations Festival wraps up with one last show, this Thursday, March 10.