Abandoned TimeInternational Contemporary Ensemble/Tony Arnold, soprano/Daniel Lippel, guitar

Festino is an ideal window into Mario Davidovsky's style. It contains all of the facets of his characteristic voice: rhythmic ingenuity, constant equalization of extreme expressive worlds, flaunted expectations, and an internal identity struggle within the piece. Davidovsky wrote Festino shortly after finishing his first guitar piece, Synchronisms #10 for Guitar and Electronic Sounds. In both instances, he creates a larger-than-life guitar, with the tape sounds in the Synchronisms and with the string trio in Festino. Davidovsky is well known for his pioneering role in the world of electronic music, as the composer of the Synchronisms series and as a path-breaking faculty member at the Columbia University Electronic Music Studio. As much as Davidovsky is associated with electronic music, he has never been a technocrat; his interest in technology was strictly driven by a desire to achieve musical means than he felt were not possible with acoustic instruments. In many of his more recent acoustic works, like Festino, he brought the language of electronic music full circle, incorporating characteristically electronic gestures into his acoustic writing. The tightly coordinated rhythmic machines that punctuate so many of the phrases in Festino are an outgrowth of this retranslation. More often than not, these quirky ensemble mechanisms are used in a wry, comical context, frequently to break the tension of a serious passage. Davidovsky's expressive world is meticulously balanced. Moments of raw emotion are balanced by clever humor. Moments of visceral impetuosity are balanced by poignant nostalgia. As Davidovsky related in an interview, "I have this kind of valve inside, it's almost automatic inside myself, I am always two places at the same time, or nowhere." His music reflects this simmering existential anxiety--how can we construct uncomplicated identities when we live in such a complicated age?

Throughout his body of work, Davidovsky flaunts expectations, particularly with respect to his handling of instrumentation. In his Synchronisms for percussion ensemble, he flaunts the expectation of a loud drum ensemble but avoiding non-pitched percussion for almost the first half of the piece, opting instead to emphasize quite rolls on mallet instruments. In the guitar Synchronisms, the tape part doesn't enter until five minutes into the piece, long enough for the listener to forget that it's an electro-acoustic work. Similarly, in Festino he effectively neuters the low string trio (viola, bass, cello) by asking the players to imitate the guitar with plucks, pops, and body hits (watch out vintage Cremona viola!). He saves the more traditional string writing for string tutti sections without guitar, which alternately explode with pathos (timing) and whisper with a mournful calm. The string trio augments the guitar to create a hybrid instrument, "a big guitar", mirroring the role of the electronic part in Synchronisms #10. The texture emphasizes accents, and diminishing decays, just as the guitar's sound is loudest at the attack and decays immediately. Davidovsky calibrates his use of the ensemble based on his goals for the piece, reinventing the string trio in the process.

In some ways, Davidovsky's music is very traditional. It proceeds linearly, introducing motives that develop and later reconcile with each other. What is new in his narrative process is how he juggles several "strata" in the piece, almost as if the protagonist is struggling with multiple identities all inside one personality. "I will begin the piece, more often than not, with a statement like a motive. I try to make a statement like how Beethoven would present a theme in a symphony-- very consistent and cohesive and natural and elegant. In my case, I construct that kind of statement out of motives that are essentially very different from each other. You could say that each of those motives have their own implied rhythm, their own implied harmony, even character. Then what I do, more or less looking back at Beethoven, I take those motives, and actually generate a different piece of music. Instead of voice leading things, I will develop a strata. You could say that Carter does that stratification as well, but the difference is that Elliot seems to talk about each instrument as a different person. In a way, my stratification involves one person telling four stories-- the one person is the remnant of the voice leading. What I like to think I do is develop a trajectory for each of those motives, it's almost like super glorified voices that develop a simultaneous story-- though they might seem completely unrelated, eventually the four voices come together." Festino is a perfect example of this stratification of motives, indeed, of multiple "stories" within a piece. The juggled identities in Festino include several moods: clever/clownish, melodramatic/passionate, awkward/apologetic, nostalgic/wistful, and focused/resolute. In almost all of these passages, the primary motive of the piece, the short three-note figure that opens the work in the viola appears, dressed in different expressive garb. This little motive (the same motive that drives Synchronisms #10 in fact) is the part of oneself that we carry through all the different spaces of our lives. As we wear many hats, that core marker of our persona shifts, but it is never left entirely behind. This style of stratification is a hallmark of Davidovsky's music, and allows him to musically capture something about the layered process of how the mind works, and how we perceive our complicated identities. The title "festino" refers to a work like a serenade, with the character of an opera buffa perhaps. I've often felt that Davidovsky's Festino is a deep portrait of a clown, with the virtuoso trickster outside hiding the loneliness and longing underneath. It was recently pointed out to me that the piece would work in collaboration with a live performance by a mime. I totally agree. Anyone know a great mime?

It is interesting to compare the two Finnish pieces on the recording, Linea d'ombra and Adjo. Both place considerable emphasis on extended techniques; percussive effects on the instruments, extra percussion instruments on stage, a large role for key-clicks on the wind instruments, vocalizations for the instrumentalists as well as the soprano. They also use text in a similar way, often fragmenting words into syllables and milking them for their sonic effect even if it risks obscuring their meaning. Even the use of the guitar is similar--both pieces employ an alternate tuning of the bottom string to Eflat, a fairly rare scordatura.

That said, the two works could not be more different. While Linea is extroverted to the point of occasional aggression and brashness, Adjo is sensuous and introverted. The same percussive techniques that are punctuated in Linea are lyrical in Saariaho's piece. The work is divided into three large sections, with a concluding coda. The first section is taut and rhythmic, with a lilting triplet motive that seems to float in the air at the extremely slow tempo (quarter=30). Phrases come out in little starts and stops, as if they are being stifled by an arctic cold. The soprano's bursts of fragmented text are mirrored in the soft whispers in the flute part, as if they have been picked up by the wind. A spacious guitar solo follows, most notable for the intensity of its silences and the white noise background provided by flute and sandblock. The voice reenters gloriously, finally soaring in the high register with freedom. The ice from the early section seems to have melted, at least enough for the lyricism of the piece to become full-throated and long-lined. In contrast to the rigorous rhythmic notation of the opening, this entire section employs graphic notation, with events occurring variably one after another, instead of relating to a fixed pulse. The choice of a loose rhythmic notational style for this section licenses the performers to inject an expansive sense of liberation into these phrases. After a soaring vocal climax, there is a far away coda, on the syllable "ah". We used some very mild recording trickery here--Tony Arnold turned her back to the hall to recreate the otherwordly effect.

Du Yun has been an integral part of ICE since its inception at Oberlin Conservatory in 2000. Not only has she written countless works for ICE and its members, but she has served on the group's advisory board and as a composer-in-residence for years. She has had an enormous influence on the creative direction of the ensemble, and the group's willingness and enthusiasm for taking artistic risks. The working relationship that ICE has cultivated with Du Yun is unique. As a group, ICE generally is interested in getting beyond the surface of the notation, and inside the composer's motivations for their musical choices. With Du Yun, the group has been able to take that one step further, as the notation is primarily a springboard for the all-important last stage of composition--that stage that happens between composer and performer during working sessions. Du Yun brings her sound out of players, through singing, wild gestures, and the sheer force of her personality. While it's not implicitly stated, it is always clear from working with her that the player should bring something of her energy to the piece. And so, even though there is some wiggle room left for the players to interpret portions of Du Yun's scores, all of her pieces have the immediately distinguishable mark of her artistic voice. This belief in the artistic value of the collaborative process, to say nothing of the communal one, is one of the reasons that the relationship between Du Yun and ICE has remained so exciting for so many years. Vicissitudes no. 1 was first written while Du Yun was a doctoral student at Harvard and the Bang on a Can All Stars came to Cambridge to do a residency with the student composers-- hence the unusual instrumentation (originally) for guitar, bass, cello, piano, clarinet, and percussion. Du Yun created an optional version with saxophone which became ICE's staple performance line-up for the piece. The piece actually features three instruments prominently: the saxophone, percussion, and guitar. The saxophone is given the role of projecting the emotional desperation that pervades the piece. The wails and cries on the sax are set off by frenetic improvised lines, almost in a "free jazz" vein (in quotes because the term "free jazz" doesn't really describe a sound... or at least by definition it shouldn't). The percussion part, with its piercing cowbells and primal tom-toms, lays the foundation for the persistent anxiety expressed by the other instruments. In performance, the guitarist waits off stage for the first half of the piece, and comes on after the dramatic percussion solo. The first few notes of the guitar solo radiate a centered wisdom previously unheard in the work. Du Yun mentioned that she was intentionally evoking East Asian plucked string instruments in this passage, specifically the Japanese shamisen and later the Chinese pipa. The contrast of these simple phrases meant to evoke ancient instruments with the stridency of the earlier material in the other instruments is striking, and focuses this moment in the piece. It is as if the timeless lessons of tradition are being offered as salvation from desperation and alienation. As the guitar solo unfolds, however, it is swept up in an uncontrollable frenzy of its own, washing away any salvation in a tsunami of energy. The ensemble returns later, as a stain washing over a wound, and the piece ends much as it began, with a profound sense of dismay.

In many ways, the overall concept for the album Abandoned Time grew out of ICE's relationship with Magnus Lindberg's Linea d'ombra. The process of learning, performing, and eventually absorbing this piece was a challenging and perpective-shifting experience for the ensemble, and came to embody a certain raw, physical style of performing new music that has become a hallmark of ICE concerts. One thing that an audio recording sadly cannot capture is how visually dynamic this Lindberg piece is in performance. The individual parts in themselves are quite virtuosic, so watching a performance is a little like watching a high wire act, or a boxing match (depending on your inclination).The piece not only is instrumentally demanding, it makes demands beyond the instruments themselves; the clarinetist and guitarist flail maracas and sandblocks in the air, drawing out every drop of sound; the flutist and clarinetist feverishly click the keys of their instrument creating unsettling insect-like noises, all four players put aside their modesty and turn their voices into sonic weapons in a panoply of vocal techniques (full-throated screaming, punctuated shouts, palatal clicks, meditative chants, and syllabic whispers in a hybrid of Finnish, Italian, and gibberish). During the clarinet cadenza, the other three players gingerly leave their places, and converge on a face-up tam-tam cymbal. In the ICE performance of this work, the tam-tam is set on the front of the stage in the corner, to suggest that this section of the piece is delivered as from a podium, perhaps as a reflective soliloquy. The jangly tam-tam fanfare after the clarinet cadenza (ca. 12:10) is played by the percussionist, guitarist, and flutist, as they huddle around the large cymbal. Lindberg mischievously writes several mallet changes for all three parts here, so the flutist and guitarist learn a bit what it is like to be a percussionist, as they scramble to switch between wood, rubber, and metal sticks, chains, and cardboard tubes. Eventually, stage whispered gibberish syllables take over, and the piece ends with a fragmented reading of a mysterious passage from an Italian poem by Walter Valeri: "Sorridi, sospira, sospendi la morte, giura che un melo di freddo da fiori stasera" (Laugh, sigh, defy death, but be warned that the apple tree of cold will bloom tonight). When ICE worked with Lindberg in preparation for our Miller Theatre performance of Linea, he was reluctant to offer any facile explanation for why he chose these words. My interpretation (though it may be facile) is that there are an admonition that the youth, freedom and liberation that the piece celebrates don't cease the flow of time. The cold apple tree will bloom, we will get old and die, etc...

Linea d'Ombra is musically idiosyncratic in many ways. One of its unifying characteristics, for instance, is that the four players only play in rhythmic unison on a couple of occasions in the work. Instead, many of the close ensemble moments are deliberately notated in such a way that the players play ever so slightly apart. Perhaps this is a reference to the title, which translates to "shadow line", as the instruments shadow each other closely throughout the piece, but in any event it contributes to the sense of organized chaos. The four lines in Linea are all vying for prominence; no clear primary or accompanimental voices emerge. The three solo cadenzas in Linea give the listener a chance to focus on the specific personalities of the instruments and their players. All in all, Linea is a charisma driven piece, from its composition to its performance.

-Dan Lippel