Transcendence... (part one)

Sometimes the context of a musical work provides so potent a dramatic force that it becomes intertwined inextricably with the work itself. When one experiences the work, then, there is an inherent challenge in considering the material and its intramusical workings independent of the extramusical framework. Somewhat strangely, I attended two performances in the past week that invoked this very issue.

I first became aware of the late Nono works "Hay que caminar" soñando and La lontananza nostalgica utopica futura in about 1993 through Gidon Kremer's recordings (published in 1992). At the time I was captivated by the extraordinary fragility and austerity of the sound worlds revealed in those works. I listened to the recordings repeatedly. They seemed to put me into a trance-like state. Over the years, I learned more about these works. They were among the last compositions Nono completed ("Hay que caminar... was, indeed, the last) before his death, in 1990. He suffered greatly from cancer in his last years, so these works were produced with what was assuredly a very real sense of The End looming ever larger.

I first saw a score to "Hay que caminar" soñando, for two violins,  at the Ricordi store in Milan, in 1994. It's a puzzling document. Like many of his later works (including La lontananza... and the string quartet Fragmente-Stille, an diotima) the published score is a reproduction of the composer's hurried manuscript: drawn in pen with bold, barely legible strokes.

When they had the money to do something about it, I expect there was some tension in the house of Ricordi regarding whether they would engrave the score so the materials would be clearer. The manuscript remains a vital and somewhat disturbing display of the composer's efforts to produce this music, which in many respects sounds like a distillation of hundreds of years of violin behaviors into aphoristic modules that fade in and out of the ether. It would be a shame to lose this.

Both of these works expand the traditional territory of the stage by placing stands around the performance space. In the duo, each performer has three stands. The performers determine the precise stand positions and the route (and order) to take during the performance. In La lontananza..., which is for violin and tape, this situation is blown up even further: there are 8-10 stand positions and 8 tape cues, and not only is the order of events up to the violinist, but the engineer is also free to play cues in any order. Indeed, both of them have the option of repeating materials and omitting others. Nono's relinquishing of control over the specific order of events in his works invites a searching spontaneity from the committed performer.

The past Saturday, János Négyesy and Päivikki Nykter played these two last works in a performance that grafted new theatrical elements onto the score. I should first note that János and Päivikki have been incredibly important people in my life, having worked on two projects with me, one of which found its way into a very nice recording project. Back in 1998 when we began working together I was very much in the thrall of these Nono works. Now I recognize a sort of fatal incompatibility between his influence and my music at the time, which I suppose can be summarized fairly simply: a young composer in good health can't fathom what an older composer experiences as he faces his death. That I'm wary of this issue now reflects my own creep into middle-agedom.

János and Päivikki approached their performances with a lightness and sense of humor that I never really imagined was possible given the circumstances of the work. Of course, playfulness is a hallmark of János and Päivikki's personalities, both on-stage and off, so this was a really interesting interaction of work and performer, and to some degree it tested the limits of Nono's score while introducing some compelling theatrical moments. This was most apparent in La lontananza..., in which János donned a jacket mid-performance (evidently to evoke a 'traveler' persona) and explored the cavernous space of Mandeville Auditorium. It was at times surreal, and often quite beautiful. Working with the director Tom Dugdale, they produced one truly sublime moment in which Negyesy stood under a cascade of falling sheets of paper -- a denouement of the 'problem' introduced in their conceit of this particular performance: János has to search the auditorium for the music he is to play.

To be sure, some of the theatrical elements interfered with the music, on two basic levels: first, the space that sometimes emerged between the listener and the performer was too great for some of the subtle musical details to speak, and second, there were several points where a light, comical theatrical moment was in direct competition with the severe delicacy of the material.

Interestingly, the theatrical conceit managed to drive a wedge between the context (Nono's illness) and the work itself, perhaps superimposing its own context. Maybe the inextricability I mentioned in the opening of this blog entry is not so inextricable, but it takes unusual measures for the wedge to occur, and one dimension must be replaced by another.

It was a fascinating experience. Make no mistake: the work can tolerate this sort of treatment. In the end, I am left with some compelling images but the music itself reverts to its original form, in all its stark beauty and with the specter of Nono's illness fully at hand.