Jeremias Schwarzer: New Recorder Concertos

Liza Lim’s The Guest evolves with splashes of powerfully evocative colors of sound. The recorder often finds itself enveloped inside the orchestral texture, with Lim leaning in to the recorder’s unique capacity to imitate poignant, vocal wailing. The piece possesses a cinematic depth, not the kind that suggests on-screen narrative but instead the kind that depicts fantastical visual worlds. The recorder soloist navigates this landscape as a courageous protagonist who is nonetheless subject to its dramatic whims. Lim’s recorder writing is deft and sensitive to the subtleties of its possibilities, integrating growling multiphonics, flutter tongues, and various other extended techniques that further humanize the sounds the soloist makes.

Dai Fujikura’s collaborative process involves close work with the performer; short videos are exchanged via email back and forth between player and composer and Fujikura is as interested in discovering the essence of the performer’s musical personality as he is in excavating possibility on the instrument. A shorter solo recorder work of Fujikura’s, Pérla, preceded and served as a template for the writing of the Recorder Concerto, with a particular focus on exploring a broad vocabulary of articulation on the instrument. We hear the fruits of that exploration in the contrasting passagework in the solo line, between lithe, soaring legato passages to biting, punctuated bursts. Expanding upon that, the orchestra itself becomes a kind of amplifier for the articulations in the solo part, creating a blooming hyper-recorder.

Iris ter Schiphorst’s Whistle Blower establishes a multi-layered texture incorporating structured improvisation, audio samples, physical gestures, and vocalizations that encapsulates the experience of speaking up to power and the challenge it can represent to an individual. Mining a process she calls “performative composing,” ter Schiphorst provided Schwarzer with guidelines for improvisation that were then recorded and deconstructed to create a kind of vocabulary that would ultimately serve as the materials for a live rendition of the piece. This variability plays out over an orchestral texture that is vigorous, rhythmic, and defiant, with extensive use of col legno and strident ponticello articulations in the strings that underscore the harsh circumstances of institutional untruth.

Schwarzer plays with passion and precision throughout, bringing requisite flair and subtlety to the solo role. Add to that his tireless championing of the recorder in these featured settings, and the weight of his contribution begins to take shape. And yet, each of these pieces are strong statements in their own right, independent of the significant additions they represent for this underserved instrument.

– Dan Lippel

Introduction by Jeremias Schwarzer

This album presents four extraordinary works for solo recorder and orchestra composed by Liza Lim, Iris ter Schiphorst, Dai Fujikura and Samir Odeh-Tamimi—internationally renowned contemporary composers from different countries and cultural backgrounds. In their music, they all present the recorder as a highly versatile and dynamic solo instrument and juxtapose it with four very different orchestral ensembles.

The 'recorder concerto' is an unconventional format, even in contemporary music. Since the recorder no longer played an equal role among the wind instruments in the 19th century, when the orchestra was given its current instrumentation, it is typically an infrequent presence in the modern symphony orchestra and even more rarely the protagonist of a virtuoso and expansive contemporary work with orchestral accompaniment.

During the instrument's heyday in the 17th and 18th centuries, recorder players were not limited to this instrument alone; they often also played the oboe, for example, and alternated between the two instruments as wind players in the Baroque orchestra (e.g. in Handel's opera orchestra or Bach's cantatas).

In the pioneering specialist ensembles for contemporary music, which were founded in Europe from around 1980, modern orchestral instruments were primarily represented. Through the groundbreaking work of these ensembles, profound research and instructions on contemporary playing techniques for almost all orchestral instruments have been developed.

The fact that the recorder's presence in this network of orchestral instruments and composers was significantly less even as a “guest instrument” than, for example, the accordion or guitar, might be due to the fact that its musical home is seen primarily in early music and that there are far fewer recorder players who concentrate their work on new music than, for example, in the field of guitar, saxophone or accordion.

On the other hand, the recorder's role as a somewhat marginal phenomenon in the contemporary music scene may also have something to do with its symbolism in the collective perception: it is often misjudged as an unloved beginner's instrument that can be made fun of, with a “ludicrous” (T.W. Adorno) sound that, within the (questionable) narrative of the gradual evolution and further development of instruments, represents at most a preliminary stage to the “fully developed” transverse flute. In addition, it was known to be a widely used group instrument during the National Socialist era.

A consistently positive image in the 20th and 21st centuries is quite different.

So although many people know the recorder and some of its baroque repertoire and there are now a few outstanding solo works for it by contemporary composers, it is still a “fairly unknown” instrument in orchestras, in specialist ensembles for contemporary music and in the European contemporary music festival scene, which represents the “main market” for the results of collaborations between specialist ensembles, orchestras and contemporary composers.

This position as an outsider naturally offers significant potential for intriguing explorations, for example when the recorder moves beyond its 'traditional' realm of early music and pedagogy and ventures onto new and less familiar paths.

In this case, for example, it enters the podium with the assembled symphony orchestra and takes – playfully- the place next to the conductor that is traditionally reserved for the heroically athletic solo virtuoso, whose quality in the narrative of this setting is superior to all others in the accompanying orchestra.

But the recorder's status as the 'underdog' compared to the orchestral instruments did not play a role for the works presented here: the composers approached the instrument with great respect and care.

However, the contrast between the individual and the collective was an important theme in every piece: and the fact that the soloist’s instrument is not represented in the orchestral apparatus was always approached with great awareness.

In this setting, the contrasting dynamics of attraction and repulsion, contrast and fusion, “home” and “foreign” formed a central component of the musical narratives.

On the collaboration with the composers

The collaboration with Samir Odeh-Tamimi

In two previous pieces, Lí Sabbrà for recorder and percussion and Nami for soprano and ensemble, Samir Odeh- Tamimi had already opted for a tenor recorder at A=466 Hz, based on 16th century models. This instrument has a very strong and powerful sound, which met the composer's desire for high energy and intense expression of the wild and ecstatic states of the work's protagonist Madjnun, the heartbroken poet in the desert.

His attention to trying out and rehearsing material during the process was always focused on the constant presence of a very high state of intensity—musical phenomenons like overblowing processes and the spectrum of multiphonics for him were not defined by pitch but always emerged out of a highly charged flow of energy. Breathing played a crucial role: the power of the piece unfolds almost entirely from the physicality of the breath and from its movement “outwards” through the instrument.

Experiencing the very demanding explosive passages, one might also notice that many parts in this work are not loud at all but follow very finely graded dynamic contexts. The solo instrument is the “lone wild singer” also in its fragility, the orchestra maintains its distance from it in its unyielding sound. Right at the beginning, the orchestral instruments also perform percussion sounds which surround the soloist with their hostile and defensive attitude. Despite attempts at dialogue in the course of the piece, nothing ultimately changes—especially in the vulnerability of the delicate breathing lines with which the piece ends, the protagonist remains alone.

The collaboration with Liza Lim

The collaboration for The Guest, a work commissioned by Donaueschinger Musiktage for the opening concert in 2010, was preceded by a meeting on Liza Lim's solo work The Weaver of Fictions.

Even in this short solo work, it was fascinating to experience how the music moves along in textures consisting of different layers at the same time: Melodic progressions were given unmediated microtonal impulses and counterpoints, seemingly static multiphonics fanned out into modal textures, as if these different principles were two ways of describing the same thing: what was happening musically was also always something else at the same time.

In The Guest, this phenomenon of cross-fading is elaborated even more: there is little to separate the soloist in terms of sound and musical gestures and textures: when the recorder first appears, it emerges out of the orchestra sound, which is also given a special sonority by the addition of the cimbalom that tells of many melodies and timbres flowing into one another.

This melting pot of orchestral sounds could not be guessed in the least during the tryout sessions exploring many possible recorder types. In the end, Liza Lim (in addition to the aforementioned recorder based on 16th century models) chose an alto recorder at 415 Hz and a basset recorder at 442 Hz. “A lot of things will happen to you” was all she said regarding the anticipated dramaturgy of the piece.

In fact, the pulsating sounds that engage both the soloist and the orchestra seem like wave movements that are controlled in their visibility or their merging by “greater forces” in the background—in the spirit of the Rumi poem quoted in Liza Lim´s remarks. Consequently, the piece ends with the soloist “dissolving”: he joins the winds in the orchestra, where he plays the end softly and thus merges musically into the “greater whole”.

The collaboration with Dai Fujikura

In the collaboration with Dai Fujikura, everything is characterized by the composer’s great curiosity to get to know the performer and his instruments very precisely and to develop the musical material of the work together. To this end, he records numerous videos during the rehearsal phases, allows the player to improvise a lot and is on the lookout from the outset for sounds that show instrument and player “in harmony”, i.e. that radiate a liveliness that has an immediate musical effect.

He tries to translate these “finds” into compositional material, which he then transmits directly to the musician with the request to record these “snippets” and send them back to him. This creates an immediate dialogue—the musical material is formed in direct contact between the composer and his performer. Dai is a master of encouragement and good humor and it is very important to him to “satisfy” and spur on his partner. The result is a musical material the soloist feels at ease despite the challenges.

Of course, this does not lead to “easy to play” pieces—rather, the dialogue process gives the performers more and more desire to playfully challenge themselves, which in turn produces interesting new material for the composer who attentively encourages this process.

The piece is essentially “tailored” to the performers. In this process, Dai Fujikura devotes himself with great dedication to his “favorite sounds” that he hears from the musicians' playing, which he then develops into musical material: in other words, he writes the music that he would most like to hear in collaboration with this musician. In fact, he is very generous in his dedication to this collaborative work: he really wants to make his soloists “happy” with “their” piece and he really means it. Being seen and appreciated that way creates a bonding and a friendship: there is no musician who ever worked with him who does not love Dai: he brings out the best in you!

In the case of the recorder, this collaboration was also preceded by a shorter solo piece, Pérla, in which he had already intensively explored the recorder as a particularly differentiated instrument in relation to many ways of articulation. This principle of extensive articulation which is only possible in this variety on the recorder, is developed in the Recorder Concerto in an even much more differentiated and extensive way with the tenor, sopranino and basset recorder. The orchestra also adopts the principle of differentiated articulations and acts as an echo and sound space for the soloist's actions. Through contrapuntal overlapping of the motifs, however, constantly new phrases and dialogues of the various principles are created: an actually calm melody by the soloist can “come back” as an answer with added articulatory elements such as tremolos from the orchestra. In the very first conversation about the piece, Dai Fujikura told me about the concept of data transfer where information is compressed by the sender and then “unpacked” by the receiver—and about the unexpected events that may arise if such a seemingly simple principle would have a small change or disturbance on any side in this ongoing process: from then on, many processes would unfold a completely unpredictable effect. For me, this is an apt image for the motifs that vary between quick and extended and wander back and forth between soloist and orchestra. Underlying everything, however, is a horizontal, wind-like movement that blows through the entire piece, as Fujikura writes in his very short program note, which leaves everything else up to the listener of this marvelous piece.

The collaboration with Iris ter Schiphorst

In her commentary on the work, Iris ter Schiphorst explains the compositional principle of “performative writing”: the sound material of the solo instrument (here: tenor and soprano recorder) is created in close connection with the performer, who generates musical material for the piece in improvisational attempts.

In her compositional process, however, this represents only one of several layers of material: disturbing “acoustic ready-mades” such as the soundtrack from the widely known WikiLeaks video of the shelling of a civilian vehicle in Baghdad, speaking and screaming sequences—performed by the musicians of the ensemble—and the whistleblower's continuous struggle to be heard against the unfeeling collective, condense into an oppressive audio piece.

The constant overworking of the soloist, who has to speak and sing while simultaneously playing the most precise glissandi and microtonal figures, creates the image of a character in an emergency or extreme situation, who is simultaneously throttled and gagged while trying to express himself.

The composer vividly captures this state of anxiety and threat: the monstrosity of the real events underlying the piece becomes visible precisely through the use of real quotations from noises and text excerpts as sonic materials.

The energy produced during the composition process forces us not to look away, not to listen away.

The cruelty in our world exhibited here is not contrived, but made visible. The composer allows us to decipher her ciphers by listening to them and by also making it clear in the piece where the material comes from: Chelsea Manning's letter to Obama can be decoded both in terms of content and as musical material: the audience is put in an investigative state of wanting to get to the bottom of the acoustic ciphers by listening to them.

The messages in this musical “escape room” can be decoded—only to realize afterwards that we have not escaped but are in the real world where all this is actually happening.

Work texts of the composers

Samir Odeh-Tamimi in conversation with Florian Olters, 2009

About Madjnun

“Madjnun” refers to a book titled ‘Leila and Madjnun’. It's a story similar to 'Romeo and Juliet', but older. It was written by the Persian poet Nezami Ganjavi around the 12th century. These are collected poems that have been compiled into a story. It's a love story, and Madjnun means ‘The Madman’ in Arabic. Madjnun falls in love with Leila, but his love remains unrequited. As a result, he goes mad in the sense that he only writes love poems from then on. He abandoned his tribe, wandered into the desert, lived among animals, and shed his clothes. He became a great Sufi because he abandoned everything and everyone. He no longer ate what humans eat but nourished himself like the animals. Ultimately, it illustrates how art can sometimes emerge from madness. Just to be clear, I didn’t compose program music. When I compose, I forget all these inspirations.

About the Recorder

In this work, I tried to musically depict this madman through the recorder. What does madness truly mean? This theme permeates the entire work and extends beyond the recorder. Naturally, the piece features a soloist, and the recorder has its own solo passages. Sometimes these are supported or taken over by the orchestra. But I didn't create a classical concerto: I see the piece as a whole, as a unity. It's about a feeling towards the person.

I myself played the recorder in my childhood. The first work for recorder I composed was in 2001, and it was for three recorders, a recorder trio. The second piece was Námi for soprano, recorder, three violas, and harpsichord from 2004, which began my collaboration with Jeremias Schwarzer. He introduced me to the Ganassi instrument, which I also use in the new piece. It's a tenor recorder in C-sharp, with a powerful sound. As a composer, you have a lot more possibilities compared to ordinary Baroque tenor recorders. This flute can be incredibly loud as well as quiet and sensual. It has a wide range of expressions.

About the Collaboration with Jeremias Schwarzer

I wrote the work for him, and it results from an increasingly close collaboration. He is a recorder player for whom I dare to write a lot, where others would say it is impossible to play on the instrument. I take quite a risk with him because through his incredible virtuosity and openness, he always finds new techniques and fingerings. This naturally strengthens the collaboration. He wanted a piece from me, then came a request from the Ruhrtriennale to create a music theater about ‘Leila and Madjnun’ (the project is in development). So I read the book again, I know it very well, and it was immediately clear to me: If I don't write a music theater piece about it yet, it will be the recorder. These decisions weren’t purely intellectual; they simply felt right. I find the recorder very similar to the human voice.

Liza Lim: The Guest

In Sufi poetry, ‘the Guest’ (Divine presence) is sometimes indicated by states of longing, grief, desire, intoxication—these words need to be peeled away again and again to reveal something very subtle and naked.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

~ Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi (13th century) ~

(The Essential Rumi, versions by Coleman Barks)

– Liza Lim

Dai Fujikura: Recorder Concerto

My starting point for this concerto was to research and explore the recorder's unique attributes. I found that the articulation of the players can be directly magnified by the recorder, so I thought I should make a piece in which the string orchestra functions as an amplification of the articulations which come from the recorder. In other words, everything in this work originates from the mouth of the soloist.

I also had an image that the recorder player is playing somewhere in the desert and a simoom starts and blows the sands around him, sometimes entangling the recorder, sometimes leaving it, sometimes returning.

– Dai Fujikura (Edited by Harry Ross)

Iris ter Schiphorst: Whistle Blower

Whistle-Blower was composed for the exceptional recorder player Jeremias Schwarzer, who not only delights with interesting and unusual programs, but also inspires new compositions for his instrument with great curiosity and enthusiasm.

The premiere of the complete version is the result of a multi-layered working process between the composer and the recorder player, based on a very specific procedure, the so-called 'Performative Composing'. It refers to what the feminist performance theorist Della Pollock called 'Performative Writing', which I transferred to the composition process.

With the help of this process, different layers of times, states, intensities, languages, but also physical gestures are condensed into a very unique ‘code’. All these layers take their starting point from the first 'performative settings' between soloist and composer.
In the final 'performance' (= the concert), the soloist has to 'translate' this complexity, which has coagulated into code, into writing, into a living 'now-time'. The string orchestra acts as an attractor, giving ground to the soloist with rhythmic patterns.

And what is this about the title Whistle Blower? And how does Chelsea Manning come into play?

On the term 'Performative Composing'
In the first step, a setting was created for the soloist, in which he had to improvise according to certain guidelines worked out by the composer.

These improvisations, or more precisely: these 'performances' were recorded and further processed in various ways in subsequent work steps (transcribed, edited, cut into samples, examined with the help of spectral analysis, etc.). The important thing was to find a setting that would enable the soloist to arrive at a kind of 'proper time', a form of 'isomorphism' (simultaneity) of performing with the body (i.e. trained movements), hearing/seeing, perceiving/thinking. For in the improvisational situation of a ‘performance’, in this special form of highest concentration, something can take place that cannot be invented in the media of writing alone.

This procedure, as described, borrows from what feminist performance theorist Della Pollock calls ‘Performative Writing’. Pollock writes of 6 criteria:

(1) Performative writing works citationally, reflecting and enacting itself within what has already been written (or recorded, I.t.S.): “Citational writing figures writing as rewriting, as the repetition of given discursive forms that are exceeded in the ‘double-time’ of performing writing and thereby expose the fragility of identity, history, and culture constituted in rites of textual recurrence.”

(2) Performative writing evokes what is absent (the soloist's ‘original’ performance) without merely representing it. Through various acts of re-reading, re-staging and reflecting (on what is recorded), something new and different emerges that nevertheless remains connected to what is absent (the ‘first’ performance).

(3) Performative writing (composing) rewrites!—i.e. consciously takes up and plays with the manifold differences of sign and signified; it does not believe in the identity of sign and signified at any moment.

(4) Performative writing (composing) evokes an infinite chain of ‘translations’ (transformations). (Very specifically related to the compositional process are the various ways of transferring the source material through media-technical procedures such as spectral analysis, translation into midi, translation into musical notation/notation, translation into audio, translation into musical notation, translation into a performance in the rehearsals and the premiere).

(5) Performative writing always takes its beginning from a ‘performance’ whose most important characteristic, besides ‘fleetingness’, (and ‘uniqueness’) is the greatest possible isomorphism (simultaneity) of body/i.e. trained movements, hearing/seeing, perceiving/thinking. This ‘initial performance’ is—like any performance—unrepeatable and unrepresentable.

(6) Performative writing is permeated by very different temporalities! Time of the performance, time of the re-reading, time of the re-writing, (=time of the media-technical adaptations), time of the concert-event/the concert-performance).

– Iris ter Schiphorst