The Groucho Marx Dance

Here we go, my first blog. Better late than never, I say.

Every time I tried to write this blog, I panicked and thought that instead I should be using the little time I had to write the composition that was sitting like a fat toad in my subconsciousness.

In fact, I’ve given myself very few chances to compose (myself and the work) this year. In January I was offered the opportunity to make an album. Naturally I thought that I could record and produce my first CD, and set up a publishing company, and that it would ‘all be over by Christmas’. It wasn’t. Though I carried the sounds in my head all year, I found myself writing the first notes of my LSO composition just four days before the deadline for the draft submission this month.

Until then, each time I faced the LSO blog, and then panicked and faced the LSO composition, I then panicked and did ‘the Groucho Marx Dance’ – a spritely move that involves hopping and twisting alternate legs. A procrastination exercise? Indeed. But it’s had a profound effect on my composition, ‘A Dancing Place’.

The Marx brothers tumbled their way into the themes of this composition, and they’re lending me their anarchic confidence as I complete it. Although the title of the piece draws from the original meaning of ‘orchestra’ in ancient Greek theatre, I found the efficient hierarchies within modern orchestral practice did not reflect the name’s roots in classical democratic society. As a composer used to working with individuals and improvisers, I was awe-struck by how the LSO, a body of 100 souls, appears to think and move as one. They follow the leader.

My response? I’m writing a work that draws on the 3-minute pop structure which, ironically, I’ve ignored in my pop album this year. It has a bass and a beat you could move to. The lines are constructed out of ornamentation, rather than decorated with it. But while the intricacies would be improvised in the cultures that inspired them (French Baroque and Middle-Eastern Mugham) I have worked to current orchestral practice and notated every curl.

When my grip on this convention lessened, I’ve written semi-theatrical directions that encourage the players, for a few seconds, to work independently. However, these directions are sometimes based on conditions that they have no control over… like the colour of their eyes.

Thus, I aim to make melodic music from ancient democracy and chaotic anarchy, and draw from both the elegance of Lully’s ballets (when he was underscoring the comedy of Molière) and the clowning of Groucho (when he was dancing over the music of his brothers).

I confess that, as an outsider to whom the orchestral world is exotic, and by awkwardly trampling over 19th-Century traditions, I do feel like a bit of a clown. But in the true sense of clowning, what I intend to express is sincere and essential. Thankfully, the Panufnik Scheme has provided me with space to negotiate through cultural clashes, and begin to learn new languages. The open and friendly nature of the London Symphony Orchestra has allowed me to approach its players for advice. Suddenly, I’m writing for individuals after all.

I may well write another blog (hopefully shorter, for everyone’s sake) as I complete ‘A Dancing Place’. I sign off with the news that I’ve just been nominated for an award which involves me submitting a detailed proposal on the exact same date that my final score must meet with the LSO copyist. The submissions have to go to different cities. ‘Groucho Dance’, here we go again.

Continuity and Disjunction

With my last post on this blog having been written three months ago, it seems that I have failed in my ambition to write several articles about the start of my compositional process; indeed, with the deadline for the draft having passed on Monday, the process is nearing its end. So this post constitutes less of a look forward to what issues I plan to explore, and more of a summing-up of what I hope I’ve achieved.

I’ll start with the common-sense observation that the more a given musical object contrasts with the music around it, the longer the time for which the listener will remember it. If a loud chord appears in the middle of a sequence of other loud chords, it will be forgotten almost immediately; at the other end of the spectrum, if it appears in the midst of quiet music, it will be remembered for the duration of the piece (or, at least, for the duration of a three minute piece).

In my previous music, I have been at pains to smooth over all the seams and create continuous structures where one event follows the next as naturally as possible; loud chords are worked up to and down from, never appearing from nowhere. This approach makes for music that is satisfying on a moment-by-moment basis, but which, I think, lacks tension: ‘music that flows naturally’ is ultimately another way of saying (or even a euphemism for) ‘music that does exactly what the listener expects it to do’.

In my piece for LSO, I am playing explicitly with the idea of surface disjunction for the first time, in the hope that it will prove a useful device for creating tension over the course of a musical structure. If the music does not immediately answer the questions that it asks (a loud chord asks the question “Why am I here?”; the surrounding quiet music fails to provide an answer) the listener will continue to ask that question until an answer is provided. If that answer is not provided until two minutes later, the listener experiences a level of anticipation which is very hard to achieve if the music flows continuously; and the resolution – the answer – is all the more powerful for having been withheld.

And yes, you guessed it. My piece does indeed include a loud chord in the middle of quiet music.

And it’s all over…

Recently, I returned from a holiday in Wales, mostly spent taking photos of Red Kites and braving the great outdoors wearing inadequate clothes (well, I thought August was supposed to be hot!!).  I was very pleased that I managed to finish the LSO piece before I left, as I’ve discovered on previous occasions that composition and holidays with my husband don’t mix particularly well!   I’m now embarking on the next piece – which I’m writing as part of the VOX course at the Royal Opera House – but the LSO piece is still very much in the back of my mind.

One really useful aspect of the scheme is that we are able to send draft instrumental parts to individual players of the LSO, in order to get advice on writing for those instruments we feel less confident with.  In my case this is definitely the harp – as an ex viola player I can just about cope with four strings, but any more than that flummoxes me somewhat!  I have also taken the opportunity to send my percussion part over and I hope this will produce some useful feedback.  Then, after submitting my draft score, I can wait for some final feedback from James MacMillan before looking forward to the workshop in January.

Writing for the LSO has been a great challenge, slightly nerve-racking, but overall a tremendously exciting experience. Getting to know the orchestra has been wonderful too. I first remember hearing the LSO when I was about 12 years old – I was rather obsessed by Yuri Bashmet from around this time and I remember dragging my long suffering father along to several Bashmet/LSO concerts.  My ambition at that time was not to be a soloist like Bashmet, but to play in an orchestra – and hearing the LSO left an indelible impression.  A couple of years later, I was lucky enough to undertake my school work experience with the LSO.  I spent a week helping (or possibly hindering!) the admin department, backstage – and sitting in on Vengerov and Rostropovich recording the Shostakovich 1^st violin concerto which was an unforgettable experience.

By several twists of fate I haven’t ended up playing for the LSO, but have ended up writing for them instead!  As this will be my final blog post here I’d like to thank everyone involved with the scheme and encourage all composers out there to apply as it really is a great experience.  I hope to see you all at the workshop in January.