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Monday, 29 June 2015

Adventures in … augmentation dots?

A couple of months ago, Aaron Cassidy gave an interesting lecture on rhythm. Aaron’s music is extremely complex—and in recent years, particularly since the Second String Quartet (2010) he has been interested in, if not simplifying, at least consolidating the vast amount of information his scores contain.

But there was one little moment in his talk (which is worth watching, by the way, particularly for his  exposition of the intricate rhythmic flow of elite cycling[1]) which sparked me. It was that Aaron had never found a convenient way to notate 9’s and 5’s. (See 1:06:00 in the talk.)

This got me thinking. Surely there has to be a convenient way of notating 9’s and 5’s—indeed, I’d felt I’d encountered it before.

It’s particularly odd that we haven’t retained a 9-length note, especially because of the tempus perfectum maior being the summit of mensural time measurement. Indeed, this frustrated the musicologist Willi Apel so much that he invented his own notation for a 9-length note. But more on that in a moment.

First, let’s see if we can tackle 5’s. Anyone who is familiar with Conlon Nancarrow’s brilliant pencil scores for his pieces will have seen his solution for notating 5’s. Consider the following excerpt from his Study no. 7. Is there a clearer way to notate this?

Nancarrow’s solution was to invent a new notehead to attach to the minims that would lengthen them by one quaver. The notehead looks something like a turn ornament. When this is done, the clarity of the line increases greatly.

While this is an elegant way of achieving a clear 5, it lacks extensibility—that is, if you want a length of 5 crotchets, you have to tie two of these together (unless you’re willing to use a stemless one like a semibreve, though Nancarrow never does this). Meanwhile, a length of five semiquavers is impossible to represent, without inventing some other notation.

Incidentally, George Crumb had another way of showing this length—by positioning another dot to the left of the note. The logic was probably that the note is double-dotted, but the second dot subtracts rather than adds that length. Thus a dotted note length 6, instead of being lengthened again to 7, is reduced to 5. I think this is a nice notation, but it suffers from lack of clarity if these dots collide with each other (if two Crumb-dotted notes are close together).

In a recent piece (a piano trio) I’d experimented with the ‘half-dot’, using a small circle—a la the harmonic marking—as an extendable way of achieving a length of five.

I was later very pleased to see that Ben Johnston does the same thing. See this excerpt from his Two Sonnets of Shakespeare (1978). The strings and winds divide the 8/8 bar into two notes, length 3 and 5, with the 5 showing the small clear circle after it.

The nice thing about this method is that it’s totally extendable. The Johnston half-dot can be appended to any note to add a quarter of its length.

Using this notation, let’s again look at that Nancarrow fragment. How would it appear using these Johnston half-dots?

Just using the half-dot, in combination with the other dots we already have, can yield some beautiful results. Notating ‘augmentation dot rubato’, as it might be called, is easy and can summarise enormously complicated rhythms with comparative notational efficiency. Consider this version of the song Old Man River.

With mensurstrich bars, the rhythm expands gracefully over the barlines, and while there is definite visible syncopation, when a human being plays this back, they would flex the rhythm according to feeling, rather than attempt the impossible task of actually calculating the underlying demisemiquavers. If this melody were notated ‘normally’, one would have to write something like this:

Here, one is trapped by the grid of the demisemiquavers, and further, it is much more difficult to see the melodic line, let alone flex with it.

Incidentally, one interesting feature of augmentation dots is that they can be used to subdivide bars of their length. A single-dotted note subdivides a bar of 12 (or 6). A half-dotted note subdivides a bar of 10 (of 5). And a double-dotted note subdivides a bar of 14 (or 7). In this way each of these lengths can be ‘converted’ into a bar of 4—in the same way that one could place a large 4-tuplet over the bar.

(From these notations, one can see that Sibelius struggles to notate the groupings in the upper, plain bar. In 14/8, the situation is particularly bad. I should also emphasise that Sibelius does not do well when notating these things—appending symbols to notes is fiddly, and if you realign anything in the bar, the whole arrangement can go out of alignment, leading to a time-consuming manual fix needed. I experimented with making these dots ‘custom articulations’, but even then problems arise. There is no way to make a custom augmentation dot, not even using a plug-in—it is a deeper part of the Sibelius architecture. The closest one could get would be to write a plug-in to detect notes of a given length and insert a symbol next to them. But even this would be subject to the same problems as doing it manually.)

So far, we’ve only considered the half-dot, as a notation for 5. But to notate a 9, we need another augmentation dot. Notating a 9 is like notating 4.5—we’re adding only an eighth of the length again. We need to invent a ‘quarter-dot’.

My proposal is to use, again, a clear dot, but with an oblique strike-through. I’m not particularly sure how clear this is—and another notation could plausibly be found.

This notation is interesting as it subdivides 9 into 4. This can produce some nice results—such as 5-4 ‘swing’. Consider this melody—from On the Sunny Side of the Street—the swing here is very light, close to the sort of swing rhythm that a jazz musician might actually use. It close to being straight quavers, but not quite.

The augmentation dots are interesting as they represent a ‘consolidation’ of the underlying grid. The 32nd or 64th notes that underlie the rhythm are present, but only ‘sort of’, as the rhythm is more ‘felt’ than calculated. As an example, consider this more complex ‘transcription’ of the waltz section from Strauss II’s Die Fledermaus overture, a piece which has many ‘conventional’ rhythmic nuances. Viennese waltzes by convention have an early onset second beat. I’ve also taken some liberties with the melody, to create ‘augmentation dot rubato’.

Here the augmentation dots really do nothing more than ‘suggest’ the push and pull of the rubato, as again, actually calculating the rhythms is extremely difficult. In computer playback, however, the extremity of the rubato is clearly audible.

In summary, then, here are all of the durations, from 8 to 16, summarised using these ‘custom’ augmentation dots. Some are common practice, others are invented.

The duration 18 presents some interesting difficulties. While it is possible to notate a semibreve with a quarter-dot, there is another notation, coming from Willi Apel, which is interesting and plausible.

This notation ‘dots’ a dotted note. It would, in other words, take a dotted note, and add half its length again. This, in 9/8, results in a dotted minim plus a dotted crotchet. Apel’s notation was to use a dotted minim with two dots, one positioned above the other. (This example comes from the appendix of his seminal book, The notation of polyphonic music.)

I therefore offer not one but two options for notating 9’s, depending on context. One could use the quarter-dot if you were equally subdividing the bar, into two halves of 4.5. Or one could use the Apel dotted-dot to imply threefold subdivision, as in tempus perfectum maior.

The 21/8 duration also presents some interesting opportunities. If one had divided the bar into three double-dotted crotchets, one could use a dotted double-dotted minim (a minim with two horizontal dots and one vertical dot) to show this. Or, one could use a double half-dot. Both these options appear above.

The only lengths my scheme omits are 17 and 19, but these are very uncommon. In any case, they can be shown as 17 = 12 + 5, and 19 = 10 + 9, or any other subdivision.

How, then, might we notate the rhythm that Aaron was interested in, at 1:06 of the video above?

How ideal is this solution? Could it be made clearer? Quite possibly. Different varieties of noteheads, that unlike Nancarrow’s, could be made ‘white’ as well as ‘black’, and hence extendable, might solve some of the clarity problem. One can see here that when the score is small, the quarter-dot is very similar in appearance to the half dot. Nevertheless, the rhythm on the right does have greater transparency than the one on the left.

The other thing these augmentation dots can do to aid us is give us greater precision in approximating a 7-tuplet rhythm like Aaron’s using 2-limit or 3-limit quantisation. Consider the following approximations.

The first, a) is very highly approximate, but gives a sense of the overall shape of the rhythm. On the other hand, I like b)—as it has much of the slightly lopsided quality of the 7-tuplets. The third approximation c), using its triple dots, is ungainly and not ideal (but almost identical to the 7-tuplet rhythm). However, I think my favourite is the fourth approximation d)—the advantage of this one is that it shows where the second half of the 4/8 bar occurs, something all the other rhythms do not.

Actually, not quite, as the second approximation does that in its own way—expanding out the first beat, and ‘contracting’ through use of the half-dot, the second beat. The question one is led to is ‘is the third note of b) “off the beat”?’ Indeed, is the third note of the original 7-tuplet rhythm “off the beat”? These are deep questions, to do with our notions of beat and rhythm—and when we use augmentation dots in this way, we can bend beats at will, it makes beats gluey, and while they retain their gravitational quality, they can fall away from the underlying grid.

In the end, these augmentation dots signal at least one way of explicitly (i.e. not merely through conventional performance practice) suggesting movement away from a rigid underlying grid. In Chopin performance, say, no one expects rhythms to be attacked robotically or without a healthy amount of license. But that kind of conventional performance approach cannot be ‘written in’ to a modern score particularly easily, especially when, for performers, the material may be very different from conventional notions of rubato pianism.

But with these augmentation dots, the rhythms are mostly ‘felt’; they elide the grid they sit on; they subvert it to a certain degree. Consider again that ‘transcription’ of Fledermaus. As a pianist, if you were presented with that excerpt, how would you play it? Would you try to ‘calculate out’ all the subtleties of the rhythms, or would you sight-read through and ‘feel out’ those subtleties?

I don’t have as much interest as Aaron does in re-inventing notation—as I feel that, given the limits placed on rehearsal time for new music, and the pressures on musicians performing it, more conventional notations are usually more efficient and transparent, and can still be used powerfully. But I do agree with him about how for a rhythm to be a rhythm (as opposed to a series of durations), it must have points of gravitation; it has pattern to it. It has 2-ness or 3-ness; it has upbeats or downbeats. To bend and stretch rhythms, so that they’re fluid and can be bent by the performers themselves, but still retain ‘up-ness’ and ‘down-ness’, ‘off-beat-ness’ and ‘on-beat-ness’, is a great priority.


Some of these ideas crop up in a piece I wrote for harpsichord, which was recorded recently. The score is available to download here, and can be listened to below.

[1] One can’t, or at least, I can’t, watch the section of the talk without thinking of Alan Partridge’s cycling commentary on The Day Today: ‘they look somehow like cattle, in a mad way, but cattle on bikes’.

Monday, 8 June 2015

Squaring the damn composition—research circle

John Croft
There has been some talk directed, of late, to the topic broached by John Croft’s article for the most recent issue of Tempo, Composition is not research.[1] It’s rare for academic essays to be so blunt, but Croft, as is plain from his title, is unequivocal in his view: that despite their presence in many departments of music, it’s largely confusing to think of composers as ‘researchers’, that compositions are not ‘research outputs’. That the presence of composition in the academy as ‘practice-based-research’, while observably real, is presaged on a fudgy, sometimes vague metaphorical linkage, which does a disservice by association to both composition, and research, considered on their own.

A taste—this comes from the opening of the article:
There are, by and large, two kinds of composers in academia today – those who labour under the delusion that they are doing a kind of ‘research’, and those who recognise the absurdity of this idea, but who continue to supervise PhD students, make funding applications, and document their activities as if it were true. Composing, of course, might on occasion depend on research – how do I make an orchestra sound like a bell? How do I electronically sustain a note from an instrument so that it doesn’t sound mechanical? What is the best way to notate microtones or complex rhythms so that they can be accurately played? But none of these is actually the composition of music.

Since publication of this article—which had been doing the rounds for some time as a talk (at the request of the late Bob Gilmore was it put in print)—there have been a few discussions, mainly located in facebook threads. Aside from the back-slapping and general ‘go John’ mood—saying the unsayable, calling out the bullshit, ‘down with REF’ (the ‘Research Excellence Framework’[2]) etc.—the other responses have been along the lines of ‘well, it’s a bit more complicated than that’.

Initially, the thought of this discussion was frightening as hell. In one corner: composers and performers, who possibly have some place within the academy, who are going to be out and proud and not going to take any more of this damn REF-inspired nonsense. In the other: more composers and performers, whose careers—as well as thought, ideological grounding—might have been shaped by ‘practice-as-research’ as an allegedly coherent starting point. But they might dislike REF as much as anyone else, it’s just that they had different ideas about research. Or did they? In any case: all participants recognise the peril. It’s just that some are more present to the peril than others, and have decided to act accordingly (though I’m not sure which corner they’re in).

And then, of course, comes the joke: will Croft submit the article as another published ‘research output’ when the next REF exercise comes around?

All of which got me squirming a little. For a few reasons: the first being a pragmatic one, that I had been thinking a lot about my upcoming doctorate (I enrol in September), which is ‘in composition’. But I had philosophical worries too. Wasn’t the idea of ‘composition as research’ similar to the idea of ‘experimental music’; something, for all its faults, I remain attached to? And what about performers? Were their insightful experiences and discoveries when playing different music (new and old) not constitutive of research, in one way or another? Could composers participate in this discovery? And what about aesthetics? Is artmaking philosophical?, and generative of new aesthetic models? To flip Hegel on his head: is all art philosophy?

Francesconi ‘weighs in’

The other reason: I’d heard this weird phrase, ‘research music’ before.

Luca Francesconi on ‘research music’—from 1min in.

Teaching is one of the most important things we can do, it’s the only real influence we can have in this field of ‘research music’—that's how I call it, because I want to avoid the term ‘contemporary’, which sounds almost like an insult nowadays. Research music means that we try to dig into—to find a way through—the real burning[?] method, which is still the core of every human being [every artist?].

Well—er, what? What, exactly, does Francesconi have in mind? Is ‘research music’ entirely academic and different from music conducted outside the academy (which is then, what, ‘professional music’)? Or is it independent of the academy, but sometimes overlaps? The Gulbenkian is a private charity—is this ‘Third Sector research music’? (Christ…) And what is its putative relationship to teaching?

Actually, Francesconi may be suffering from translation issues here. The Italian musica di ricerca (lit. ‘research music’) is the usual translation of the English term ‘experimental music’. Perhaps what Francesconi was trying to say was that he prefers the term ‘experimental music’ to ‘new music’ (=Neue Musik, of the Bekker/Adorno variety). Perhaps. But this leaves an intriguing problem. If ‘research music’ is, at some level, synonymous with ‘experimental music’, where does this leave us? Can we square the ‘experimental music’ circle and thereby square the ‘research music’ circle, or ‘music-as-research’?

Francesconi give us some hints—the metaphor he uses: ‘dig into’, the way he talks about ‘method’. Is he talking about aesthetics?

Musicologist Bob Gilmore at work
Mapping the experimental world

In his audio documentary about experimental music (reprinted with additions in Artistic Experimentation in Music: An Anthology, Leiden, 2014), Bob Gilmore attempted to circumnavigate the thorny term, and provided several approaches to it. They were five in number, and in order they are:
1.     Experimental music is ‘the introduction of novel elements into one’s music’.
2.     An experimental action is ‘an action, the outcome of which, is not foreseen’. (both from John Cage[3])
3.     ‘An experiment in music is like a scientific experiment, and as in scientific work, one experiment always does lead to another one.’ (ie. Music-as-research, from James Tenney)
4.     ‘Experimental’ refers to a type of music of a particular historical era, essentially, if not quite exclusively, music of the fifties, sixties and seventies, stemming from Cage’s ‘hard’ (ie. No. 2) definition. (building on Daniel James Wolf)
5.     ‘“Experimental” is all the interesting new music that isn’t avant-garde.’ (Michael Nyman)

These definitions are rather disparate, especially when they’re so bluntly laid out like this. Gilmore points explicitly to definition 3, coming from James Tenney, as being ‘composition as research’. Tenney’s music was marked by this aesthetic predilection—music that could at once constitute acoustic and aesthetic investigation. But, of course, not everyone can compose like Tenney—and indeed, not many actually do.

And, perhaps more troublingly, what about the presence of ‘science’ in this definition? We may well wish to see art resemble science in certain ways—but Croft’s entire premise was to build up an especially ‘scientific’ idea of research (and here we see the impact of STEM emphasis), in order to distance artmaking from this approach. But there are other ideas of research, even within the academy.

And anyway, scientific researchers don’t really fall into any of the definitions above, certainly not 2. (On the whole, scientists know exactly what their experiments are supposed to do, their outcomes are most certainly ‘foreseen’.) And if we accept 3, what should we glean from the linkage? Scientific experiments, if they aren’t used to confirm an already-existing theory (e.g. the LHC at Cern) are designed with a view to generating novel data. The data pertains to a particular model, used to predict particular outcomes. If we are to follow Popper, unlikely hypotheses are posited, and then attempted to be disproven (falsified). If they can’t be, and they can’t be incorporated into some already-existing model, then the model has to be altered or thrown out—this is the ideal scientific method. It’s not necessarily about the world itself; it is about the model being applied to the world. Scientists argue about different mathematical and statistical approaches to understanding experimental findings and data. But while the world is not subject to paradigm shifts—it stays more or less the same—science is subject to these shifts, as new and more sophisticated experimental technologies to measure and manipulate the world are designed, and their resultant data interpreted, new understandings formulated. Scientists, like everyone else, are subject to intellectual fashion, wishful thinking, and their own peculiar form of aesthetics.  

So what would this mean for art? It seems obvious to me that artistic research can’t be any sort of science along those kind of lines, in terms of forever developing a model. If we take the idea of a specifically artistic kind of experiment seriously, what then is experimental music?

Robert Ashley
Aesthetics to the rescue

Composition is anything but experimental. It is the epitome of expertise. It may be aleatoric or purposefully unpredictable in its specific sounds, or purposefully exploratory of a sound, but ‘experimental’ is the wrong word.
(Robert Ashley, quoted in Gilmore)

The irony is that scientific experimentation isn’t ‘experimental’ either, in Cage’s terms (definition no. 2). Scientists know exactly what their experiments are designed to do, and have a clear expected set of results. What Cage, perhaps, had in mind with his definition was the notion of the ‘accidental’, when a scientist happens upon, serendipitously, a new result, through neglect of their equipment, or desperation, or sheer luck.

But what Cage really had in mind was creating for himself a idiomatic way of working, and a particular aesthetic—notably one he could also, for want of a better word, ‘sell’ in later writings. By giving over to chance operations and other experimental procedures, one could ‘stumble upon’ previously unlikely combinations of sounds. One could get away from one’s habitual manoeuvres. The results could be curious, puzzling. Experimental music, when it is done best, is a reorientation, to transform the composer into just another curious listener. In science, experimental puzzlement at a result is not the stated end; it leads to a more sophisticated theory, a more sophisticated model of reality. In music, experimental puzzlement is the end in itself; it is a great leveller; it is taking pleasure in curious bafflement at the never-quite-explainable. In the end, Cage’s experimentation (and, I think, by extension, Tenney’s) has nothing to do with experimentation per se, and everything to do compositional aesthetics.

Aesthetics, then, is the combination of habit, method, reference, style, connotation, meaning, fashion, ideology and sensuality that fuse to make the process of art-making and art-receivership peculiarly itself. Artists are like their publics, in that they make art in a shared world of habit and reference. So far so Danto.

But could this kind of activity constitute research? One clue comes from discussions on the philosophy of music. There is an almost universal condition applying to philosophers writing about music—that they will mention Cage, and 4’33”. Discussions of this piece are alarmingly ubiquitous[4]—in discussions of ‘musical ontology’ (that is, the condition of the musical ‘work’), on performance, on listening, on composing, on musical meaning. But one of the great frustrations for anyone at all familiar with other experimental music is that these philosophers on the whole do not familiarise themselves with the plethora of other pieces that were made by Cage’s generation and the generations that followed. Might these other pieces also have something to tell us about these philosophical problems? About what music is, and what it means? About where the edges of music might lie?

When one views the history of experimental music and art practice in these terms, one sees it often adopts the character of philosophical inquiry. Like philosophers, artists are forever interested in working around familiar aporia. They are interested in the same old topics. Time, memory, the body, space, the external world, cultural detritus, symbols, signs. And just like art, philosophical research has its origin with the experience of an individual, their life, readings, thoughts, preferences. Indeed, the preferences of philosophers are almost as arbitrary as stylistic preferences of artists. Philosophers find certain ideas and approaches ‘attractive’, in an almost aesthetic way. Students adopt, or attempt to debunk, ideas for much the same reasons.

Engels' caricature of the Berlin Young Hegelians (then known as 'Die Freien', the free) looking alarmingly like an artistic movement. 1841.
Say you asked a philosopher why they were, a logical positivist as opposed to a poststructuralist, or a realist or idealist, Kantian or Hegelian, phenomenologist, existentialist, or a Christian as opposed to an atheist. Would they be able to give you a rational answer? In the same way, composers and artists have certain beliefs and approaches, styles, but can they really account for them? Training, formative influences, language, family are all factors. And philosophers, like artsts, are subject to modishness, to the vicissitudes of fashion, wanting to impress or undermine their teachers or colleagues, fallings-out, personal likes and dislikes, and so on.

It’s no secret that philosophy departments have been hit by the recent STEM refocus as much as anyone else within the humanities. Perhaps it was detected by the neoliberal powers-that-be that be that philosophical research doesn’t really have the same ideal sciency character that research should according to their model. Indeed analytic philosophers have noticed this for many years—and have tried to make their work look more like science or, particularly, mathematics. The great dream of the analytic philosopher is to be able to overturn some scientific theory using just the power of reason.

Conversely, parts of the continental tradition have increasingly adopted the character of literature. While the analytics are obsessed with Truth as a logical category (though they can be as maddening obscure as anyone else), French philosophers in particular seem to be interested in, well, ‘Truthyness’. The feeling of an idea being so true, so seductive and magical in its potentiality. What has now come to be known as Theory lives to be applied to art, and is found in art gallery bookshops.

In other words, the ideas of philosophy are rather like style. They live through their applicability, and influence. All philosophers mostly talk to other philosophers and philosophy students, but the most successful ones are the ones that can make their ideas current for other audiences, and attract as many followers and acolytes. Analytics have set their eye on scientists and mathematicians, Continentals on artists, curators and literary critics. And just like artists, the most successful philosophers are the ones that can attract as many protégés and bright young things to their departments, whilst writing sometimes with the lay public in mind too.

But another reason philosophical research lacks ‘sciency’ character is its sheer age. Scholasticism predates science by at least five hundred years—and after all, most of what philosophers do has to be classed as fundamentally scholastic (interpreting, or as they would prefer, ‘reading’, and re-reading, and reading others’ readings). The other half of philosophy is thinking all of itself—which itself is built on reading, but more obliquely. This activity is absolutely ancient, and science is basically a subset of philosophical ‘thinking’ and interrogation and grew out of it. Physics is still occasionally called Natural Philosophy at Oxford.

Perhaps the suspicion about philosophy stems from this very ancientness, that it predates capitalism and industrial society by two thousand years. Of course, artmaking predates philosophy by ten thousand years, at least. But we’ll just leave that there.

Is making art so much like doing philosophy? If artists really know what they’re doing—and provide good, well-researched and interesting commentaries to their work, then it can be. The work, obviously, has to be good and provocative in the first place (a good commentary can’t save a mediocre piece). But many decent art projects are let down by incoherent commentary from curators and artists alike. Contemporary art and music had (and still has) a great capacity to expand the boundaries of our worldview, and mess with our heads. Great, new ideas can do this too.

Here, I disagree with Croft, who is building on Gadamer, about research ‘describing the world’, whilst art ‘adds to the world’. This is a false dichotomy. Ideas can add a great deal to the world, not least in changing our view of it and inspiring actions in people. Meanwhile, art absolutely can ‘describe the world’: it can describe and paint our experience of it, and the experiences of others.

For me though, the crucial link is one of style, and aesthetics. Philosophers have certain ways of thinking about the world that, in the end, are personal, and cannot be absolutely justified. Their research attempts to make reasoned arguments for their positions. But ultimately, one has to find their approaches ‘attractive’ or reject them; one has to find that delicious ‘Truthyness’ in the picture they paint. In this sense, philosophy is so much like art that one could understand why Hegel thought the one could be replaced by the other.

Cartoon by Tom Gauld
Calling a spade a spade: the problem of ‘bureaucratic patronage’

But even if there isn’t necessarily a good way to find a model of research that fits with artmaking, the problem Croft was talking about isn’t really about this question. What he’s really talking about is the fact that he feels uncomfortable with the way that artists and their work have been categorised by the new bureaucratic layer one now finds in the universities.

Creative people have long been part of universities—and composers longer than most.[5] The first recorded doctorate in music at Cambridge was presented in 1461, to Thomas St Just. More famously, a few years later one was awarded to Robert Fayrfax. In this case it was not just the historical study of Pythagorean harmonics—as part of the Quadrivium—that these doctorates represented. It was also the practical application of theoretical principles, and composition too. Fayrfax submitted his mass, O quam glorifica as his doctoral ‘exercise’, and later found himself appointed at Oxford.

Composers, then, can point to a long history of being included in academic establishments. But the problem for composers was the same then as it is now. Having chosen this most precarious of vocations, how ought one support oneself? In fifteenth century England, only the church and various chapels (Royal, or attached to the new colleges at Oxford and Cambridge) could offer much in the way of stability of employment. By the late twentieth century, the situation had diversified vastly. But educational institutions still offer and enticing degree of stability for composers and other artists for whom the wider market seems indifferent or completely hostile.

The number of private patrons interested in new music—a la Betty Freeman or Paul Sacher—has decreased too. The majority of private commissions come not from individuals but from foundations. And despite the much-vaunted anti-capitalist capacities of Adornian Neue Musik, many large-scale commissions come from large industrial corporations. Gulbenkian of the Gulbenkian Foundation (mentioned in the video above) made his money from the Iraq Petroleum Company; the foundation continues to have an oil interests. Sacher’s money came form Hoffmann-La Rouche, a company that still commissions new composition today.

Just as audiences for classical music are falling, it seems the number of composers is rising. This is likely an effect of the boomer-generation composers holing up in educational establishments for support, as patronage models shifted. As a result, more young composers were and are being trained. Counting myself as one of them, one the reasons I wanted to do this doctorate is to give me time and experience teaching (which I enjoy greatly) and doing musicology—as well as writing some pieces!—such that I might be able to get a university job at the end of it. This is the exact same thought that has been had by hundreds if not thousands of other composers: some of them are lucky enough to find themselves employed in those universities.

Fielding some of these ideas with one or two people at the Music and/as Process conference the other day, it seemed there are basically two conversations. One is: what is artistic research and how could we best think about it? This is the subject of the collection edited by Bob Gilmore (Artistic Experimentation in Music), and it’s a very reasonable conversation to be having.

The other conversation is ostensibly similar but really has little to do with this. It is: how can we stay healthy, with institutional patronage? How can we be honest about the work we do, and keep our jobs in educational establishments?

It is natural for composers and artists to support each other. The more of us there are, the more support we can lend to one another. But it’s also crucial for us to be honest about what we really want. If composers find themselves in educational institutions, for what reason are they there? If presence in a university is a mere stop-gap, or a way of prolonging the inevitable spat-out-into-the-world moment, or as a mere day-job, it’s hard for me to find too much sympathy. If they’re there, but  resent and would prefer not to have to make their work more available via writing (writing words) and teaching, the outside world is always ready and waiting. But if educational institutions can support fascinating art—and the great artists and performers who make it, and who themselves are great communicators and inspirations to students—we should fight for them to do so. The only way to really do this is to be truly honest about what it is we’re fighting for. 

Composers (not to unfairly pick on them, but I’ll do it anyway) have been present in universities longer than science has even existed. That has to give us confidence. Certainly we’ve been here longer than these damn bureaucrats.

On the whole, the academic community has done a pretty crap job of sticking up for the system they’re in, as it has been so violently ‘reformed’ over the past few years. Few have been especially active in supporting the Universities and Colleges Union, say, or the student movement, who have been fighting for free education and reductions in cuts. Universities are as awash with money as they’ve ever been, thanks to the new fees regime, and vice-chancellors (the worst of the bunch, and many are highly-enriched former academics) do not wish to lose their newfound bounty. But having a more honest approach to the REF can only come as part of a wider re-appraisal of all the changes forced through the university system over the last few years. We have to fight for a decent university system and not just for our own self-interest or the interest of our field. We’re going to need to do this, especially following the 2015 election.

Academics get scared easily because they fear losing their privileges. But there’s one way in which we, as artists, are different from the philosophers. We’re more flexible. We can make a living independently. I mean, whoever heard of a freelance philosopher?

[1] Some of the discussion following it has been summarised and commented upon by Luk Vaes here:
[2] I notice looking at it now, though, that the REF deigned 76% of submitted research ‘world leading’ or ‘internationally excellent’, which seems to me rather madly high. But then I can remember a certain joviality on Twitter when the results came through last year.
[3] No. 1. from History of Experimental Music in the United States, and 2. from Composition as Process, both collected in Silence, 1961, p. 72 & 39. The documentaries are online here:
[4] He’s so ubiquitous even I have mentioned him five times already…
[5] An article by Piers Hellawell discusses the activities of composers based at British universities more recently, such as Alexander Goehr, Robin Holloway, Robert Sherlaw Johnson. He also discusses his own experiences.

Monday, 4 May 2015

The Tectonics Premieres

Candleriggs. Ph: flickr, StressedTechie
    Ne’er cast a cloot ‘til May be oot.
(Don’t bother taking off your coat until June.)

Or so they say. Glasgow in early May is not the most likely of places for a ‘refreshing weekend break’. The emphasis should be on ‘refreshing’, maybe. And as if to add more insult to the injurious Glaswegian meterological ‘punch-in-the-face’, weirdly, arriving as I did for this year’s Tectonics festival in time for Adam Bohman and Karen Constance’s excellent set, I’d thought I’d travelled up the country when I could have easily stayed put. Adam, who of course always does the same thing, lives about a mile from where I do in Catford.

But Peter Brotzmann’s set that followed was sure enough consolation though—and like Balkan folk by way of Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Brotzmann’s music has become so virtuosic in its reference to other musics it sounds as if it is referencing whole worlds simultaneously.

The festival offered some great musical experiences—especially the concerts of orchestral premieres played with great skill and dedication by the BBC Scottish Symphony and conducted by Ilan Volkov. Volkov and Alasdair Campbell have to be commended for putting together one of the most exciting and encouraging festivals of new music anywhere in Europe, by all reasonable estimations.

Over the weekend the orchestra presented a swathe of premieres, by Joanna Bailie, Paul Newland, Christopher Trapani, John Croft, Cassandra Miller, Peter Ablinger, Enno Poppe (a UK prem.), Christopher Fox/Rhodri Davies, as well as two extra pieces by Daniel Padden and Hild Sophie Tafjord. There was also some highly significant new chamber music from Eliane Radigue. Much, then, to write about. I came away thinking just how wide apart not just approaches but even simple musical thought was among these composers and artists.

I thought I would write brief accounts of most of these pieces (I didn’t see Daniel Padden’s piece).

Ilan Volkov conducts. Ph: BBC 
i. Orchestral pieces:

[A number of these pieces are now available to listen to here and here on the BBCs Hear and Now programme.]

Joanna Bailie’s piece, To be beside the seaside, which opened the first orchestral concert on Saturday, seemed to me an extremely fine thing. Highly accomplished and sophisticated, it had a good dash of healthy irreverence. Split into three sections, the piece used starting points from Debussy, Beethoven and Strauss respectively. It occurred to me she had split her response to the ‘seaside’ location into three physical strands: water, sky and land. The first movement was a careful exploration of ‘sea harmony’, slowly transforming chords mostly sitting under an inverted pedal. Like other of Bailie’s pieces—notably Harmonising, for singers and field recordings[1]—one has the sense with her harmonic writing that these chords are ‘analysing’ the wider sonority of the world. Indeed careful spectral analysis of Debussy’s La Mer was what generated much of the harmony. But the movement combined the odd rigour of algorithmic expansion with a looseness born of attention to breathing and bodily swells, of ocean and human. The second movement too, located in the sky (with high string harmonics) concerned itself with the scherzo-like dancings of Beethoven 4. Birds and Doppler-shifting planes. At times silly, but buttoned-down somewhat. The final movement was I think an interpretation of Strauss’ Rosenkavalier waltzes, again stretched and bent by a process unseen. But here the orchestra is returned to the land—the schlocky, kitschy vistas of seafront pleasure, of dance-halls and Wurlitzer organs. The aromas of chip-fat and sweaty evenings one associates with, say, Scarborough or Eastbourne. The waltzes highlighted the kitschy core at the heart of the orchestra, it being (as Cassandra Miller had said earlier in the day) essentially an ‘nineteenth-century instrument’. Out of these dances came braying donkeys too—staple of the ‘land’ beside the seaside. This was a fine piece all told—in the end it was a good example of what Chris Petit has called ‘heavy entertainment’.

Paul Newland’s piece, Angus Macphee, was a portrait of the Scottish outsider artist, severely mentally damaged by his experiences in the Second World War. He became almost mute, only talking very occasionally, and began making exquisite weaved art objects out of grass. Newland’s piece was moving, but long, too long probably, and could have benefited from editing. Sections of it, where the orchestra plays in an unsynchronised way and sung too, were especially beautiful, and were reminiscent of the heterophonic congregational singing common in the Western Isles, called ‘snaking the voice’. But alongside this material came a surfeit of aphoristic, and thus rather tautological, chords in silence. A stroke one can only perform so many times, arguably. But an accomplished piece nonetheless.

Weaved objects by Angus Macphee. Ph:
Christopher Trapani’s piece Rust and Stardust somewhat passed me by. Adopting the kind of ‘colourism’ one might come to expect in recent orchestral music, it put predictable focus on percussion, along with gestural ‘rips’ and yelps from the trumpets. Of course many of these timbral things were very striking, but to my mind they aren’t really enough to sustain such a piece on their own. (Given the propensity of so many composers to write pieces like this, many would disagree, apparently.) While there were also interesting rhythmical aspects to the piece’s explorations—particularly in the latter sections, scraping and shuffling and scooching and sliding—the piece might have benefited from redrafting and stripping-down in some way. Occasionally there would be a glimpse of an idea that could have been really pushed, but hadn’t been.

John Croft’s piece too I felt accomplished but too ‘diverse’, prose-ish, to take a grapple-hold of me. Everything that happened, happened only the one time, and by the time you’d registered its happening, something else was going on. There is of course much music like this—music one is inclined to say ‘just hang on a sec’ to. And I’m sure it will benefit from repeated listening. Essentially, a kind of concerto grosso for the horn section (which put up a valiant job whilst being somewhat defeated by the difficulty of the material), the piece …che notturno canta insonne, as the title suggests is a kind of nocturne. Again, like Bailie’s piece, there was a (perhaps unintentional) sea topic at work here. One was reminded of the famous horn-and-cello section from La Mer. For Croft the horns are instruments redolent with microtonal possibility—they did much sliding from natural just harmonics, via hand stopping, to weird new chords. The sonority leaps right out of the orchestral mush, pulled as it were, like a sheet of paper out of a ream. The harmonic structure of the piece expands outward, loosely, from an opening sonority eventually to a wide overtone series. But the process is not especially ‘immediate’, though in some sense audible—as I say, perhaps repeated listens will reveal it more fully.

Peter Ablinger. Ph: Charlotte Oswald 
On the Sunday, the second concert began with a wonderful new work, QUARTZ, of Peter Ablinger’s. It was especially nice to be able to meet him too—shy, but jovial, and particularly careful about saying things. Even speaking to little me, in a second language, there was no sloppiness of expression of any idea. He doesn’t say ‘you know’ or ‘I guess’. I asked him: ‘So is there a kind of machine this time, with this piece?’ He paused and said: ‘Well yes, but then there is always a machine. Tonality is a machine. … But it’s not a single-button machine piece. I have to oil it and adjust it.’ Like others of his pieces, this piece is a kind of instrumental rendering of ready-to-hand sound. This time, it was the sound of a watch—a quartz watch—ticking, but as such mechanisms do, ticking ever so slightly irregularly. Each section of the piece applies a different ‘grid’ to the rendering, meaning Volkov had to conduct, sometimes furiously, at a very different tempo to the rough ‘quarter = 60’ aural result. As such it was extremely distracting watching the musicians—this is music to listen to, first and foremost. The piece made quite fiendish demands on the players who excelled themselves playing material that requires as much conceptual as physical dedication.

Enno Poppe’s piece Altbau, which followed, was a UK premiere, and was a Donaueschingen commission from 2008. A curious piece—completely lost on Jennie Gottschalk who was sitting with me—it seemed at times to playfully and rather gratuitously rip on a number of late-20th century orchestral classics. The opening movement nicked whole bits of Messiaen’s Chronochromie, and later was highly indebted to Bernd Alois Zimmermann in its jazzy eclecticism. The second movement began by nicking Ligeti’s stock middle-period opening harmonic movement, outward from a second, and kept on nicking bits of Clocks and Clouds. And again, Zimmermann seemed a strong influence, absurdist trombones to boot. I’m sure there were other things mixed in here that I missed. It was like being at a dinner party, with all these fellows invited, and Poppe stealing all their best jokes, safe in the knowledge that the old codgers are too past it to remember they came up with them in the first place.

Charles Curtis and Ilan Volkov perform Cassandra Miller. Ph: BBC 
            ii. Concertos

On the Sunday, we heard Christopher Fox’s new piece Topophony, written for the orchestra and improvising harp player Rhodri Davies. I was excited and curious to hear this piece, as I love both of these musicians deeply, they’re both extremely gifted. But aesthetically they seemed quite far apart—this, in any case, added to my curiosity. I hesitate to say too much about this piece—after all my opinions, such as they are, can only be subjectively my own—but I don’t think it worked. Fox had written a longish series of rather lush chords for the orchestra; from the sounds of it, most were under fermatas. Davies hadn’t really heard it until the day. Fox’s voice-leading is of course wonderful, but these chords, this style, were so alien to anything I’ve heard Davies do in the past, I was puzzled. It’s not as if including Davies is like including any kind of ‘ordinary’ harpist. Like other musicians from the improvising scene, the harp for Rhodri is a sound-making object; it is quite ‘unphilharmonic’. He isn’t interested, necessarily, in received ideas about how the harp is (to be) played. The electroacoustic improvisation scene around the world is still, for the most part, quite antiromantic. It’s suspicious of outward displays of affectation. For Fox, romanticism is framed by historical distance, historical irony too, and therefore essentially welcome; and in any case, his music is so diverse that almost any kind of expression can be included. Not so for Davies—and what we saw here was a musician, Rhodri, confronted with a kind of orchestral style which required a different sort of harp material than he could really bring himself to give over, honestly. He would listen intently, and add something to the texture—and then often decide against it shortly after having done so. Not that there was much ‘space’ for things to fall into. Fox clearly thought he was giving Davies space—by most accounts he was!—but space under a fermata was in the end no kind of space at all, not the right kind of space. What is required is silence, basically. Davies needed to be able to determine the texture, and the orchestra—Fox—needed to listen to him more. But after each thing Davies did, he would bail, give up, sometimes dejected, sometimes defeated, sometimes hopeful, sometimes baffled. He moved to the larger acoustic harp and spent an age preparing it with pegs (something he could easily have done beforehand), but spent a fraction of the time he spent preparing the strings actually playing them. At one point it felt as if he was going to give up the ghost, and go for broke, playing bisbigliando crescendo swells in the upper register. It was as if the rippling harp that the orchestral music so ‘desired’ was going to come out. But it didn’t come. In the end it was a kind of tragic piece—moving, though for the wrong reasons I dare say. 

Excerpt from Duet for Cello and Orchestra

The highlight of the festival for me (aside from Eliane Radigue’s music, see below) was Cassandra Miller’s Duet for Cello and Orchestra[2], a quite unbelievable piece. It’s difficult to describe this music without lapsing into hyperbole, but those who know her music will know just how fine it is becoming of late, and this is the best thing I’ve heard of hers.[3] It’s that good. Based on a very detailed transcription of an Italian folk song, Maria Carta’s Trallallera, it was a piece which had really only one idea—an idea that was pushed further and further until one felt it was impossible for it to be pushed any more, and then further still it went. The cellist Charles Curtis began by alternating slowly between tonic and dominant, at a kind of breathing pace, accompanied by a bass-drum rumble and a quietly portentous tubular-bell roll. And then this bright, violently Mediterranean song is called out by the ridiculously virtuousic trumpet section of the orchestra. One can hear the tiny inflections of the Carta refracted and quantised and re-rendered by Miller’s meticulous transcription, and each phrase ends with a long—sometimes very long—held note, followed by a rapid slide upward or downward, diminuendo. And back we go to tonic and dominant alternation.

This folksong-derived material was harmonised triadically for each section of the orchestra. It slowly expanded, in canon with itself, from trumpets, to cellos and violas, to winds, to violins, over the course of some ten minutes or more. After each phrase, and each held note, and each slide, we returned to the tonic and dominant material, often for quite a long time. Each time the tonic-dominant alternation returned, it was ‘endeepened’ by adding further bass instruments, again in canon, fifths and fourths away.

Maria Carta's Trallallera

Cassandra had said that the piece was about ‘masks’—and certainly it was. The cellist represented a stoic protagonist, a figure carrying-on-regardless, whilst the great mass ‘behind’ him, in the form of the fanfare-like folk material, is akin to something of the character’s inner psyche, blown up as if by rear projection. Miller’s music often exhibits an ecstatic mood—which this piece certainly did on occasion—but she is not really a romantic composer. She’s an experimentalist; like other Canadians, highly influenced by the estetiku divnosti of Rudolf Komorous, and especially the plentiful weirdnesses of Martin Arnold. But in this ecstatic mood she is closer at times to Ben Johnston—and in this case, it was the tragic ecstasy of the southern Mediterranean, of Sicilian Banda music say, or Sevillian holy-week pageantry, that this piece seemed to reference. It is both about masks and masques.

An example of Italian Banda music: from Banda Ionica's album Passione (1997)

It’s not as if the cellist is a sacrificial lamb though; the cellist isn’t Christ. The piece is more about the experience of our lives more generally, those enormous inner, oceanic feelings we carry about with us inside us, and which there is nothing to do with but carry around. Indeed a more Schopenhauerian piece one could not want. The world of this music is Will (orchestra) and Representation (cello). But ecstasy is so close to tragedy. And at the end of Schopenhauer, we have the inevitable ‘renouncing’, or really, reabsorption into, the Will. The final section of the piece is devastating. After the full orchestral tutti is achieved, slowly the tonic-dominant alternation of the cello is transformed into a chordal alternation in the orchestra. It repeats for a long time, these chords breathing, but slightly too fast for comfort. The kind of relentless heavy breathing one does when fearful or joyful. The cello is tacet for this. Gradually everything is reduced down to two soli orchestral cellos. But still, for ages and ages, the solo cello is silent.

And then—and it is a shock, but one, in retrospect, you have been prepared for all this time—the solo cello plays its final call. In the high harmonics, a melody of plainness and at the same time total intensity. Total renunciation, after all possible finitude. Not forte nor piano, it nonetheless flies out of those strings, out of Charles Curtis’ fingers. It is a melody we have come to expect—after all, the solo cello cannot just sit on dominant and tonic forever—but whence does it come? Where does it fly? To what does it amount? In order to have arrived here, we have had to throw off all the shackles of everything we had come to know beforehand. We have had to engage in such breathless waiting. It is a moment of enlightenment, tragic enlightenment. And its ending too, with its rapid slide upward, is inevitable, from that damn folksong, but still indelibly breathtaking. The tragedy of this piece is that its conclusion is set up right from the fore. But it takes us such an age to get there, to arrive at the reabsorption into Will, for the mask to dissolve away leaving the nothingness that was always never there.

Is it a pessimistic piece? If it’s a self-portrait, then maybe. But like Schopenhauer there is complete, total joy—the purest kind of joy there is of any—in this renunciation of the Will. It is the moment of harikiri, but it is also the moment of Nirvana. Fine music.

            iii. Eliane Radigue

Over the two days of the festival there were opportunities to hear a variety of pieces by Eliane Radigue, for a specially assembled ensemble. This was a group of some of the most sensitive and accomplished players around. Robin Hayward has for years been based in Berlin, and has created a unique practice in tuba playing—with improvisers and with composers as well. Rhodri too has fundamentally reinvented his chosen instrument. There are few players like each of them, really. I’d only encountered Daphne Vicente-Sandoval, a bassoonist, at Huddersfield last year, but she’s amazingly sensitive, and well attuned to the aesthetics of minimal improvisation (in Huddersfield she was playing some very quiet music indeed, with Ferran Fages, Lali Barrière and Angharad Davies, sister of Rhodri). Charles Curtis meanwhile, though not an improviser, is perhaps the foremost cellist associated with experimental music anywhere in the world, for years working with La Monte Young, as well as being a principal cellist to the NDR Orchestra in Hamburg. A good group then.

Curtis had premiered the first composition of Radigue’s for an acoustic instrument, the hour-length Naldjorlak I (2004)[4], and has performed and recorded quite a bit of it since then. All of Radigue’s acoustic music goes unnotated. It is developed in close collaboration with musicians, directly; and as she is nowadays too frail to travel, this happens as it can only, in Paris. It also means that the music is all performed from memory (there’s nothing Radigue has written down, though the musicians might make notes) and perhaps more importantly from the point of view of the audience, it is performed without stands. From this point of view it is an oral tradition, akin to Indian classical music—and in theory these musicians will be able to continue with this tradition themselves, teaching it to further musicians.[5]

The musicians performed nine pieces over the two days (some of the pieces were repetitions, but then the music is never quite the same twice). Radigue’s music is interested in the extension of single tones, of single harmonicities. Certainly one can see the affinity with the Indian tambura. And one can also see parallels between her work and the one-colour paintings of abstract expressionism, of Milton Resnick, Yves Klein, Barnett Newman, Ad Reinhardt, Agnes Martin. Despite her materials being of a minimal character, she isn’t really a minimalist. Like some of the monochrome artists, she’s a kind of expressionist. For the musicians each piece begins—and, as Robin Hayward said, such a French way to begin—with an image. From there an approach to the tone is found.

In the Radigue pieces, while there certainly is tranquillity, the partials and overtones dance and waver, glimmer, are terrifically busy, restless even. Each piece in the series being performed fell into three sections, not always of equal length. The first would be a fairly ‘plain’ introduction, often with gaps (in the pieces for bassoon and tuba this was the case). This might be quite didactic, quite rough even. Like other composers, part of Radigue’s aesthetic project is to teach you how to listen to the piece during the piece itself. Pieces would start with vegetables, and progress towards dessert. In many of the pieces performed, one would settle down into the tone, think to oneself ‘oh, I see what’s going on here’, whilst the partials danced around a little—only to find about three quarters of the way through that a new section of utmost delicacy and distinction had been arrived at. ‘Oh!’ one would think. Indeed, in the way these concerts were arranged, this was typically the effect of the entire programme—as the pieces progressed, the aural result became ever more impossible, ever more unreal.

There were partials and overtones in these pieces I’ve simply never heard before, and not likely to hear again in a hurry. Curtis would generate a difference (under?)tone a fifth lower than the low C string. Vicente-Sandoval could produce tones from the bassoon that included minor ninths above the fundamental, a surely impossible sonority. Davies would bow the lower strings of the harp and produce sonorities of such richness and distance. And Hayward, sometimes in the same piece, might play a high middle C on the tuba, or might play a C three octaves below. Not just individual sonorities, but the pace—determined by the musicians, naturally—and the subtle gradations in tuning were subjected to fine control. And in addition, the particular pitches and their timbres and their entry points. Towards the end of the last concert, the result of a particular bassoon entry into a texture was enough to elicit a simultaneous gasp from me and Luke Nickel, who was sitting a couple of seats away. The additive properties of these pieces are subtle in the extreme—but you have to give yourself to Radigue. You have to let her teach you how to hear again.

Rhodri Davies. Ph: BBC
We have this word—‘monotonous’—which is used in commonplace parlance to describe the boring, the overbearing, excessively repetitious. But even in these monotone pieces there is nothing monotonous. It is a deep critique of the idea of monotony; more than that, Radigue sets out to destroy our very conception of monotony. We know nothing, we must relearn.

It’s fitting, then, that Radigue has today become something of a guru figure, to whom a few people make pilgrimages. This is music that requires aesthetic devotion on an almost spiritual level. And yet, oddly, or not so oddly, it is terribly fashionable these days too. Everything ‘drone’ is departing from its previously carved out niche and enjoining in a wider party of latter-day soixante-huitards and other Dalston types. But we have to be careful, I feel. Radigue has the old-fashioned didacticism associated with the ‘traditional’ avant-garde. There’s nothing ‘ambient’ about her music, it’s not music to ‘space out’ to. Whether her aesthetic will live on in all its fullness will be down to whether musicians take all this seriously, and perhaps moreover, whether audiences realise this. We won’t know until later, in all probability.

Recordings from the Tectonics Festival will be broadcast on BBC Radio Three’s Hear and Now programme, on three consecutive Saturdays from May 16.

Cassandra Miller’s Duet for Cello and Orchestra can be heard again in Bologna at the AngelicA festival later this week, alongside a new work for the Bozzini String Quartet, and some Italian premieres of Laurence Crane by Anton Lukoszevieze and Apartment House.

Thanks to Luke and Jennie and Cassandra and Gregor for being such great company this festival!

[1] This piece was featured in on of Bob Gilmore’s recent podcasts, ‘Field recordings and new music’,
[2] Or was it Cello Concerto as put in the programme? If Cassandra has retitled it ‘Duet’ then I think it’s a shame, as the piece is really a concerto, not a duet. The orchestra is a chorus, not a partner.
[3] James Weeks’ article on Cassandra Miller’s music ‘Along the grain’, in Tempo vol. 68, issue 269 (July 2014) is here:
[4] The three Naldjorlak pieces (2004-9) were recorded and released on SoundOhm last year.,-II,-III/pid/21019/
[5] An interview with Charles Curtis where he discusses working with Radigue can be found on Paris Transatlantic here: