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Church of Truth
May 26, 2017
One of the glories of the English language is its built-in ambiguities; it is replete with words of apparently opposite, yet in fact identical, meaning ("flammable" and "inflammable") and others which, depending on their pronunciation, can have quite different connotations. While this makes it a poor choice for legal and other matters demanding precision, it has long been a boon to the poet.
And to at least one composer: Robert Pritchard, whose Converse opened the second half of Friday night's concert by the Nu:BC Collective.
As Pritchard pointed out during his commendably brief spoken introduction, the word "converse" has different, contradictory meanings depending on which syllable is emphasized; converse: to hold a conversation, as opposed to converse: the opposite.
And it was this underlying ambiguity which inspired the music, in which the three players, in addition to their "normal" duties (although conventional sound-production was only a part of that) had to speak and sing a series of syllables; moreover, the electronics not only treated their instruments and voices, they also provided pre-recorded material, in the shape of cylinder recordings of Edison and Brahms (the spoken introduction to the 1889 recording of part of the first Hungarian Dance, to be precise).
In fact, the work's opening seemed little more than the crackling of a cylinder being played back, as the players spoke. The speech seemed mainly to consist of the vowel-sounds "E" "O" and "A" — with the lion's share going to the last, which perhaps I have mis-transcribed: "eh" would certainly underline the work's Canadian-ness.
A most entertaining work.
Elainie Lillios' Among Fireflies for alto flute and electronics opens with a hugely audible intake of breath, followed by an enormously busy first couple of minutes, in which the performer has to employ a variety of unconventional means of "playing" the instrument, while seemingly having no time to breathe again.
While the performing technique ultimately settled down to the more conventional, the electronics provided commentary and accompaniment in the form of chirping birds (or, possibly, bats).
Paolo Bortolussi played the music with aplomb and it did not seem one second too long.
The old canard says that Leonard Cohen wrote two songs: one was "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye"; the other wasn't.
Which is almost certainly an unfair verdict on this Canadian icon (and even I will acknowledge his stature in our culture), but I have to admit to enjoying Keith Hamel's Heroes in the Seaweed, inspired by Cohen's music and writings, considerably more than I ever have the man's own music.
The work is scored for flute, cello, piano, electonics [sic, perhaps some relation to plate tectronics?] and voice; the Collective was joined by Liz Hamel, speaking the texts (taken from Cohen's songs and other writings) and speaking them in such a way as to underline their significance (and diminish what might seem to some to be their pretension), while the instruments played mostly harmonious music accompanied by washes of electronic sound, administered by the composer.
Some of the music was highly rhythmic in nature, some very atmospheric. It was all intriguing and an enjoyable end to the evening.
The first half of the programme featured no electricity at all (with the honourable exception of the lighting).
Dorothy Chang's six Bagatelles, commissioned by the Collective and premiered last year, ranged from the quasi-pastoral to the almost pointillist. Each had a distinctive character and all were short and to the point. I'd like to hear more of her music.
In a change of programme, Eric Wilson and Corey Hamm played Arvo Pärt's Spiegel im Spiegel ("Mirror in the mirror"); dating from 1978 — and therefore, by several decades, the oldest music on the agenda — it is one of the last works he composed before leaving his native Estonia. The performance was dedicated to the memories of three friends and acquaintances of the performers who had recently died.
Originally composed for violin and piano, the work is often played by viola or, as on this occasion, cello; there are also versions for double bass, clarinet, horn, flugelhorn, flute, bassoon, trombone and percussion (Pärt has never been averse to getting his money's worth out of his compositions). On one web site the only version currently in stock is the cello and piano version, leading one to deduce that is is (probably) either the most or least popular version.
The music is in Pärt's minimalist style and was given a deeply felt and moving performance, although I did feel that Wilson's vibrato was a touch excessive at times.
It is tempting to make two distinctly glib remarks about Brian Cherney's 22 Arguments for the Suspension of Disbelief: firstly that I particularly enjoyed reasons 11 and 17, secondly that the title was the best thing about the work.
I will admit, though, that I enjoyed this piece the least of the six performed; it was fairly harsh in places, although that in itself is, for me, insufficient reason for a negative reaction, but it did have some real rhythmic life in places. However, it was far too long: if it had been a dinner guest, I'd have had my pyjamas on and be standing by the front door making farewell gestures by the time it had finished.
That aside, this was an enormously satisfying and entertaining evening, which I am more than glad not to have missed.
Next time the Nu:BC Collective visit, I hope that rather more Victorians will choose to come out and hear them. For anyone interested in contemporary music — and there are a fair few of us lurking around town — they are essential listening.
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