While I was browsing the aisles of a used book store last Friday, my gaze fell upon the spine pictured above. With no disrespect to the author, I hope I may be forgiven for interpreting the title as Onions: Bearers of Meaning and believing for a moment that the book was really about the semantic potential of this indispensable vegetable. For no reason noble or worthwhile, I decided to devise a few titles for possible sequels to Onions: Bearers of Meaning. Here they are:
Shallots: Capsules of Signification
Pumpkins: Vessels of Erudition
Lima Beans: Agents of Reference
Eggplants: Envoys of Intellection
Potatoes: Canisters of Qualia
Brussels Sprouts: Vectors of Logicality
Peas: Pellets of Gravitas
Tomatoes: Conduits of Intention
Artichokes: Impresarios of Allusion
Radishes: Couriers of Denotation
Avocados: Vehicles of Symbolization
Carrots: Utensils of Argument
Parsnips: Virtuosos of Ratiocination
Cannellini Beans: Custodians of Discernment
Yams: Emissaries of Reason
A monarch seen on August 21, 2018 at Eastie Farm in East Boston, MA.
The color contrast in this image has been accentuated, making the flower seem almost psychedelic, and perhaps there’s something fitting about that, when you consider that butterflies are known for having excellent color perception, with the ability to see into the ultraviolet range.
It’s humbling to consider what a butterfly accomplishes in its life. As it searches for nectar, it inadvertently carries pollen from plant to plant, helping those plants reproduce. If it lives for six to eight weeks, how many plants does it pollinate? Hundreds? Thousands? How many resources does it consume, and how much waste does it leave behind?
Ask those same questions of a human. Generally, humans don’t pollinate plants. In fact, a typical human living in the developed world kills vastly more living beings than that same human fosters or assists. A human generates countless tons of non-biodegradable waste and causes the emission of countless tons of carbon dioxide.
If the butterfly’s kindness to plants is not true kindness, because it is inadvertent, so too could it be said that the human’s malice towards plants and other living things is not true malice, because it is inadvertent? We don’t want to pollute, we don’t want to destroy, but we live in a system where pollution is the byproduct of most choices available to us — our choice of what to eat, our choice of where to go, our choice of where to live and how to fuel our home.
Why is it that one being’s effort to survive places it in a virtuous cycle, while another being’s effort to survive places it in a vicious one? Why did it happen that the butterfly’s system of survival leads it to inadvertently assist so many organisms in its short lifespan, while injuring so few, whereas the human’s system leads it to destroy so many while assisting so few? And what does that mean for the longevity of these systems?
A second image of the same butterfly doing a dive:
This is a dragonfly I spotted at Millenium Park in West Roxbury last Sunday. It was resting on a twig with its wings forward. As far as models go, it was accommodating and not at all skittish. Whenever it did become startled by my motions, it would fly away and lead me to believe I’d never see it again, but then, in an act of apparent forgiveness that startled me each time, it would promptly return to the same spot! It seemed not to mind as I got deeper and deeper into its personal space, but it did take exception when I made wide changes in focus with my lens. Conditions were mildly windy and I didn’t think I had a chance of focusing manually here, so I repeatedly engaged autofocus as the twig blew a few millimeters one way or another, trying to keep the dragonfly’s eyes sharp. The dragonfly didn’t mind those tiny focus adjustments on its eyes, but when I tried to focus on a different part of its body entirely, like shifting from the eyes to the abdomen, it would somehow sense the bigger change and fly away. How did it know what I was looking at? I realized that my lens was making a louder noise whenever I made a larger focus adjustment. Although dragonflies are not supposed to have a sense of hearing, I gathered that this dragonfly was somehow sensing the stronger vibrations made by the autofocus mechanism when asked to make a larger adjustement. The micro-adjustments were soft enough not to startle the insect but the large ones caused too much vibration for comfort.
Earlier in the morning on Sunday I had listened to an episode of the radio show Living On Earth that discusses an observed decline of flying insects in the natural areas of Germany by a whopping 75% since 1989. Professor Dave Goulson tells us that “[flying insects] pollinate more than 80 percent of all the plant species on Earth so if we lose the flying insects we will lose all the flowers on Earth, literally all of them… Three quarters of our crops need pollinating by flying insects. So, we’d have a world without most fruit and vegetables… Most birds at some stage of their life cycle eat insects. Almost all reptiles, amphibians, aquatic fish, bats, lots of small mammals, all depend on insects. So, essentially take away the insects and everything else is going to collapse.” Reflecting on this, I look at the dragonfly above with a different awareness. It first caught my attention as an interesting photographic subject, but of course it’s more than interesting. Without this dragonfly and other flying insects like it, I wouldn’t be here to do photography and you wouldn’t be here to view it. So, thank you, dragonfly!
As I mentioned in an earlier post, my musical focus this summer has been on writing a concerto for tabla and percussion quartet, for tabla artist Shawn Mativetsky and members of the New Jersey Percussion Ensemble. I undertook this project along with five other composers who wrote concertos of approximately 8 minutes each, as part of the Shastra 2018 summer workshop organized by Payton MacDonald. It has been a wonderful experience in every way.
Here is a recording of the first movement of my concerto. Turn up the volume, it’s meant to be heard loud:
My goals for this first movement were quite specific. I wanted to explore how material from a traditional tabla composition or kaida could be shared by a four-player percussion ensemble. The idea is that that other instruments in the ensemble — cymbal, bongo, marimba, vibraphone, glockenspiel, bass drum, tam tam — should each focus on a certain aspect of the tabla part and echo it, reflect it, or otherwise imitate it.
I should note that the idea of playing tabla material on an instrument other than the tabla is not new. All tabla compositions can be recited vocally using syllables that refer to specific strokes or stroke combinations — this vocal recitation is a central part of traditional tabla practice. Moving beyond tradition, percussionists like Pete Lockett and Dan Weiss have experimented with mapping each of the individual tabla strokes or bols to the Western drumset. However, I had a four-player percussion ensemble to work with and I wanted to go beyond merely translating the tabla part to one other percussion instrument.
One way I could have approached my piece is to take a long, fully-composed tabla solo and assign each tabla stroke to one of the ensemble instruments, thereby creating a direct orchestration of the tabla solo. For this piece, however, I took a different approach as I wanted to leave room for a more creative interplay between tabla and ensemble. Instead of trying to orchestrate an extended tabla composition, I took a short, four-bar composition as my seed material. The piece begins with the tabla stating this four-bar composition, after which the tabla player is free to improvise variations on the seed. As the tabla player goes on improvising variations, the ensemble echoes different aspects of the seed itself, staying true to its original form. This means that the outcome of the piece is quite dependent on the tabla player’s improvisational choices. When the tabla player creates a variation that differs markedly from the seed, the tabla part will seem to contrast with what the ensemble is doing; but when the tabla player restates the seed or creates a variation that’s close to its original form, the tabla part will seem to be in sync with the ensemble.
Neither I nor tabla soloist Shawn Mativetsky were sure how well this would work before we got to the rehearsals, but it turned out to work better than expected. Shawn told me that as he played, he found it interesting to hear the “shell” or “skeleton” of the kaida continuously echoed by the ensemble. He said that the oscillation of being in and out of sync with the ensemble, as he played closer and more distant variations on the kaida, added a level of variety to the piece which kept it interesting.
Another point to note is that the ensemble in this piece consists of melodic instruments like marimba, vibraphone, and glockenspiel along with purely percussive instruments like cymbal, tam tam, bongo, and orchestral bass drum. In writing the piece I faced the question: How does one create a melodic interpretation of a purely rhythmic composition? How to introduce pitch in a way that emphasizes the character of a rhythm rather than distracting from or overtaking that character? I had begun to think about these questions in working on my earlier percussion piece Escher’s Drum. With Escher’s Drum, the melody came about in an expected way when percussionist Gavin Ryan chose to perform my purely rhythmic parts on pitched gamelan instruments; with the current tabla piece, I wanted to “melodize” the rhythm in a more deliberate way. The result can be heard in the repeating riff played by marimba and vibraphone.
The piece begins with a kind of fugal introduction, where the tabla part first states the kaida, and then the cymbal enters, imitating the tabla’s na strokes. Next the bass drum enters, imitating a different aspect of the tabla composition, the resonant bass strokes ge. Next the tam tam can be heard to double the tabla’s tun stroke. (This was an aspect of the piece I was unsure about: the tam tam has a long sustain even when the player attempts to mute it, while the tabla’s tun stroke is quickly muted by subsequent strokes. Would the tam tam’s tail be too long? In fact I think it worked out fine, as the tail creates a kind of textural mass that’s welcome in the piece.) Next the vibraphone enters, doubling the tabla’s na strokes as the cymbal had begun doing earlier. And then the marimba enters, playing a riff that aims to interpret the tabla part melodically. The vibraphone joins the marimba in this effort and eventually they play in canon. Later the glockenspiel enters, imitating the tabla’s na strokes mostly on a single note, but with bits of melody suggested. Then the bongo enters, trying to copy the tabla part as closely as possible, while the tabla moves to an accompanying role, the cymbal switches to a contrasting rhythm, and the vibraphone plays a chordal vamp. In the final part of the piece we hear the glockenspiel play a cadential melody three times, in dotted quarter notes, with the final statement skewed so that the last note aligns with the final rhythmic accent on the sam of the teental cycle.
A number of things about this piece worked better than I expected in live performance, including the improvisational freedom in the tabla part that led to that part being in and out of sync with the ensemble, and also the sustained tam tam strokes that added textural mass. What didn’t work as well as I imagined? For one, I expected a greater timbral contrast between the marimba and the vibraphone, and I was depending on this contrast to create a sense of variety as the shared “riff” is stated many times by both instruments in the opening sections. In the recording, there’s less timbral contrast between the two instruments than I’d like, and so I feel the statements of the riff can seem too repetitive. I’m not sure this is a compositional problem though; it could probably be “solved” by a different recording technique along with contrasting mallet choices for the vibraphone and marimba parts. The present recording was made from a distance with a pair of AEA N8 ribbon mics in a Blumlein stereo configuration. If I could do it over again I’d move the marimba and vibraphone closer to the mics, or if even more luxury was afforded, I’d add add additional mics to isolate each of those instruments, and I’d then bring them forward in the mix so their individual characters could be heard more clearly.
The second movement of my concerto, a brief “interlude” that’s meant to be like a deep breath between the two intense outer movements, can be heard here:
The third movement of the concerto explores how a percussion ensemble can join the tabla in a traditional cadential composition or tihai. We would have needed a little more rehearsal time during the 2018 Shastra session to get a good recording of this third movement, but I’m delighted to have such great rendering of the first two movements, and I hope to continue writing for tabla, to continue collaborating with the wonderful folks at Shastra, as well as with anyone else who might be interested to join me in similar cross-cultural musical explorations.
My photography from the 2018 Shastra rehearsals can be seen here.
Last summer I had the pleasure of speaking with Wade Roush about my Canons album and my path to creating it. Wade is the creator of Soonish, a podcast about “science, culture, curiosity, and the future.”
My story became a part of the latest episode of Soonish – released, July 27, 2018 – which explores the topic of Making Music With Machines. Other voices in the episode include the leader of Google’s project Magenta, which applies machine learning to the creation of new music and visual art; a DJ and EDM label manager; and a team of commercial composers.