Contents

Preface v

Conversations with:

1. Celso Antunes (2014) – Beyond Frontiers 1 2. Richard Barrett (2014) - Asserting Imaginative Freedom 6 3. John Cage (1990) – Beautiful Music 22 4. Lawrence Casserley (2001) - Of Exploration And Discovery 29 5. Simon Emmerson (2008) – Somewhere Else 41 6. Luc Ferrari (1999) – Freeing Music 47 7. Michael Finnissy (2014) – Translucent Objects 66 8. Jim Franklin (2014) – Between Worlds 79 9. Dame Evelyn Glennie (2014) – One Same Music 91 10. Vinko Globokar (1999) – Communicating Music 109 11. Jonty Harrison (2001) – Expanded Listening 120 12. Jonathan Harvey (1997) - From The Region Of Near-Transcendence 131 13. Folkmar Hein (1999) - The Electronic Studio At The Technical University Of Berlin 164 14. Carol Morgan (1996) – The Piano Music Of Haubenstock-Ramati 176 15. Heloise Ph. Palmer (2015) - Muïesis: Re-Contextualising Performance Practice 188 16. Nuria Schönberg-Nono (1999) – Arnold Schönberg And The Luigi Nono Archives In Venice 197 17. Klaus Schöpp (2014) - The Modern Art Ensemble Of Berlin 208 18. Elliott Sharp (2014) – Utopian Pursuits 216 19. Daniel Teruggi (1997) – Composition At The INA-GRM In Paris 228 20. James Wood (2015) – Rhythm And Magic 246

Index 273

Preface

Is there a universal thread that runs through the creative power of all artists? If music is essentially a mystery, is it because its creator is such? I have always been fascinated by the marvels of the human mind, spellbound by the inventive potential of many musicians and eager to know how they feel about life and relate to their own work. From the apparent isolation of the composer to the collective activities of performers and conductors, there is a common ground for artistic responsibility that seems to characterise the work of all creative minds. Can this responsibility be meaningfully discussed as an all-inclusive experience of humanity? The British philosopher Roy Bhaskar once pointed out that personalism (the branch of philosophy that considers the person as the ultimate key to the understanding of reality) is “characterized by the attribution of responsibilities to the isolated individual in an abstract, desocialized, deprocessualized, unmediated way.”1 Bhaskar’s assertion seems to be particularly relevant when transferred onto the realm of musical creativity. Indeed, isolation typifies the social condition in which composers come to terms with their “responsibilities”. I have already argued about abstraction as being a necessary vehicle for musical creativity,2 about the pulse of artistic inventiveness breathing out of the musician’s personal experience of the world, and referred to a musical work as an epitome of the composer’s awareness of existence.3 Musical knowledge is more than the performance information that is entailed in the analysis of a score. A heartfelt discussion with a musician can generate unparalleled knowledge of the musical work, prompt alternative discoveries about artistic creation and trigger a new awareness of the world through the shared experience of others. Furthermore, such discussion may shed light on two fundamental truths: that the enigmatic nature of music is inherent in the personal dimension of the musician; and that in spite of our idiosyncrasies, we

1 Bhaskar, Roy. Dialectic the Pulse of Freedom. Verso, London, 1993: 265. 2 Palmer, John. Perceptual Abstraction and Electroacoustic Composition. Seamus Journal, USA, Vol. XIII, No. 2, Fall 1998. 3 Palmer, John. Introduction to ‘Images of the mind’. Published in ‘Musik und Neue Technologie 3, Musik im virtuellen Raum’ (edited by Bernd Enders), Universitätsverlag Rasch, Osnabrück (2000). And: Palmer, John. Conceptual models of interaction: towards a perceptual analysis of interactive composition (1997-8). Seamus Journal, USA, Vol. XIV no. 1, Summer 1999.

v are all linked by a common quest and therefore belong to a community of kindred spirits who share the same passion for the same art. On that note, I perceive the history of music as a mirror of a living reality that is not only related to social and political events as “mediating” conditions, but also connected at all times to artistic insight, emotional impulse and philosophical inquiry as “processing forces” that inspire creative minds to write, perform and even to promote music! It is this living reality of music that I was interested to discuss with other musicians.

This book comprises 20 conversations conducted over a timespan of 25 years, from 1990 to 2015. I prefer to call them conversations rather than “interviews”, as I believe they reflect the spirit that characterises the dialogue: these are discussions between fellow musicians and musical friends. Initially they were prompted by a desire to gain a better understanding of the personal universe of some composers whose work had inspired me in the 1980s and 1990s. It goes without saying that the focus on composers was related to my own compositional interests and activities: from the unequalled personalities of John Cage and Luc Ferrari, and the existential quest of Jonathan Harvey and James Wood to the unique reality of composer-performers such as Vinko Globokar, Jim Franklin, Elliott Sharp, Michael Finnissy, Richard Barrett, and the magic of the electroacoustic universes of Lawrence Casserley, Jonty Harrison and Simon Emmerson.

But a living reality of music is bound to include a more wide-ranging profile of musicians: performers, conductors, researchers and even curators whose visionary approach to performance practices and whose lifelong dedication to the promotion of new musical traditions needed to be included in the discussion. From Carol Morgan’s single-minded focus on the piano music by Roman Haubenstock-Ramati to the passionate work of conductor Celso Antunes; from Pierre Schaeffer’s legacy at the INA-GRM in Paris (Daniel Teruggi) to the long-standing mission of the Electronic Studio of the Technical University in Berlin (Folkmar Hein); from the zealous commitment of the Modern Art Ensemble of Berlin (Klaus Schöpp) to the mesmerising world of Dame Evelyn Glennie, the revealing muïetic performances of Heloise Ph. Palmer, and, not least, the dual legacy of Nuria Schönberg-Nono including the Luigi Nono Archives in Venice.

The conversations can be grouped into two periods: the first period ranges from 1990 (John Cage) to 2001 (Jonty Harrison) and the second period, from 2008 (Simon Emmerson) to 2015 (James Wood). Most of

vi the early conversations are face-to-face discussions that I recorded and transcribed on paper later on. When working on the written texts I have kept the spontaneous qualities that characterised these early conversations. With the growing advantage of email correspondence I conducted the second group of conversations in a written form; I guess the readers will easily identify the more framed quality of these late discussions.

On a more editorial note, I am delighted to reveal that the conversation with John Cage has been published here for the first time. This is because in all these years the original record of the conversation had got lost in the somewhat congested Vision Archives and was found only recently. I am equally pleased to issue the unabridged original conversations with Jonathan Harvey (1997), the longest discussion in this book, and Luc Ferrari. Unabridged are also the other conversations that had been previously published and edited elsewhere. Sadly, by the time of this publication three of the protagonists of this book are no longer with us: John Cage died in 1992, Luc Ferrari in 2005 and Jonathan Harvey in 2012.

Last but not least, I am very grateful to all the participants to this project for their generous collaboration without which this book would have not come to fruition. I am indebted to Dr Birte Twisselmann for her enthusiastic commitment to this project and the patient provision of editorial advice. I express my thanks to Dan Goren for his graphic work and valuable collaboration. I also wish to acknowledge the following music journals for their kind permission to republish some conversations included in this book: Avant (UK), Living Music (USA), Mitteilungen (Germany), SAN Journal of Electroacoustic Music (UK), Tempo (UK), 20th Century Music (USA), 21st Century Music (USA).

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viii 2. Asserting Imaginative Freedom (2014) A conversation with Richard Barrett

JP. Your musical training is rather unusual. You actually graduated in genetics and microbiology from University College London in 1980 and began to study composition with Peter Wiegold after your graduation. You were 21. What was going on in your mind at that time? How would you explain such a drastic change of direction from science to an artistic discipline? And why music in particular? How important had music been in your life up to that point?

RB. It had been centrally important since my early teens, but meeting Peter (just a couple of weeks after I graduated) turned out to be a catalytic event in this change of direction. Previously I had thought that I’d probably have some sort of scientific career, with my musical activities taking place in my spare time, but in retrospect that would have probably been a compromised and half-hearted sort of way to live. For me, the exploration and communication of the imaginative faculty is one of the most important and valuable things in life, both individually and in society. Of course there are many ways of realising this, including scientific research, but somehow I became more attuned to what you might call a musical way of discovering and understanding things. I do believe in any case that music could be expressing something fundamental about time and memory, to name only these, as well as being a terrain of ontological investigation and speculation, not just for musical creators and performers, but for listeners too; I say this because listening was my first musical activity, from which I was led to composing, partly as a result of frequently looking for something to listen to that accorded with my thoughts and desires, and finding that it didn’t exist. I think I knew to a crucial extent what kind of music I wanted to make, a long time before I developed the necessary skills to make it, if indeed I have developed them at all.

JP. What made you embrace socialism at that time?

RB. If I had to name one person responsible for that it would be Margaret Thatcher. As the 1980s wore on it became increasingly clear to me how her governments were committed to attacking and if possible nullifying all the steps towards social justice that had been achieved in the UK since 1945, and of course none of her successors has done anything to reverse that process. I gradually became convinced that the political system needed more fundamental change if those steps were to go further towards a society free of institutionalised inequalities of class, race, gender, education and so on.

! 6! 3. Beautiful Music (1990) A conversation with John Cage

This conversation took place at John Cage’s flat in New York City, on 28th August 1990. After he had introduced me to his cat, Losa Rimpoche, and shown me his many plants and pictures on the wall, John and I sat at the table and drank a cup of tea.

JP. We met three months ago in Switzerland, the first time after your performance with water and shells at the Kantonschule in Wetzikon, the second time after the premiere of Fourteen in Zürich. I remember you telling me how tired you were and that you wanted to go home…

JC. Yes, it was a very tiring journey, but everybody took great care of me. They never wanted to leave me alone and wanted me to rest as much as possible.

JP. If I remember correctly, Fourteen was commissioned by Werner Bärtschi and René Müller.1 How did you experience the performance?

JC. It was a good event, and the musicians were very committed to the performance. They seem to have understood the relation (that is, the non- relation) between the bowed piano part and the other instruments.

JP. Is the solo piano part related to the rest of the ensemble at all?

JC. The bowed piano is more of a solo part throughout the piece. I mean, it’s like an unaccompanied solo part unrelated to the other instruments.

JP. Another example of what you call the anarchic society of sounds, if I may say that?

JC. Yes. I am interested in the anarchy of non-relational situations: in life as well as in music.

1 Bibliographical reference: Musikkollegium Zürcher Oberland 1990, Wetzikon, Switzerland. Programmheft von Werner Bärtschi, mitorganisierten Veranstaltungsreihe mit 3 Konzerten mit Musik John Cages im Mai 1990. Mit Texten von John Cage und einem Gespräch mit Werner Bärtschi. ! ! 22! 7. Translucent Objects (2014) A conversation with Michael Finnissy

JP. At which point in your life did you feel you were going to be a musician? What triggered it?

MF. I had started writing music, under the guidance of my great-aunt, Rose Louise Hopwood, when I was about four and a half years old. We started playing simple classical piano duets a little before that. I went on writing, and playing the piano throughout school. Writing music was always in my mind and, as I wasn’t particularly good at, and had no sustainable interest in, anything else, I pressured my parents to let me apply for music college. I had won a composition trophy at a local music festival while I was in sixth form, written music for two Shakespeare plays produced at the school (Beckenham and Penge Grammar), played in the school orchestra, been a kingpin in the music society and so on. What else did it look like? My dad was not keen on the idea, he wanted me to be a schoolteacher (English or Maths).

JP. According to your work catalogue, by the year 2009 you had written 326 works: this makes you one of the most prolific living composers. Your output has been constant throughout the past 50 years. What is it that urges you to compose at such a regular pace?

MF. I have a lot of energy, most of which gets channelled into writing and making music. I am not very good at relaxing or taking holidays, I travel for work. I don’t enjoy, so don’t go to, receptions and parties. So the catalogue now includes about 400 pieces, through sheer bloody hard work. My dear friend Matthew Lee Knowles, who is 28 years old, thoughtful, authentic and very fascinating, has written more than 600 pieces; and, even given our differences, there is some doubt in my mind that I am going to exceed the productivity of Bach, Vivaldi, Telemann, Haydn, Mozart, Milhaud or Villa-Lobos. I LOVE writing; it’s my life. What urges it on? The need to do it, and that it is usually fuelled by requests, sometimes even by a paid commission. As David Hockney said about his painting: “This is what I am here to do”.

JP. Your enormous creativity and variety of musical output has clearly shown the academic world that your music is much more comprehensive and universal than a restricted description such as “new complexity” may suggest. Your attentiveness to life as a complex living Gestalt goes much beyond a one-sided perspective of the world. Your music says it all. However, how would you verbally ! 66! 9. One Same Music (2014) A conversation with Dame Evelyn Glennie

JP. At which point in your life you felt you were going to be a musician? What was the trigger?

EG. I made the firm decision to pursue a professional career as a musician at the age of 15. Up to that point, music was a wonderful activity that I heavily participated in, but an activity I viewed as a hobby rather than a possible vocation. The trigger was being given the opportunity to perform small solos on percussion at school and in the community. I loved it and decided to become a solo percussionist. I assumed the world was full of solo percussionists because all my fellow percussion colleagues at school were given the same opportunities. It was only once I entered the Royal Academy of Music in London at the age of 16 that I was discouraged from pursuing such a dream. It had never been done before and there was a significant lack of repertoire for solo percussion. Nevertheless, as far as I was concerned every “no” or “can't” or “don't” meant “yes”, “can”, “do”.

JP. Your first instrument was the piano. When and why did you decide to go for percussion instruments?

EG. I continue to play the piano to this day. I went for percussion simply out of curiosity. All new pupils at my secondary school in Ellon, north of Aberdeen, attended an assembly, in which the school orchestra played. I looked around the ensemble and decided I would give percussion a go. I had no idea whether I would enjoy it or not. I had already been playing the clarinet for one year, piano was progressing very well, but my hearing situation made clarinet playing a challenge, so I was looking for another outlet, preferably something to take up alongside the piano. The variety of instruments within the school orchestra’s percussion section was enough to fuel my curiosity.

JP. As a child you had perfect pitch, didn’t you?

EG. Yes, I had perfect pitch. However, since losing my hearing my relationship with pitch has changed. At the end of the day I’m less interested in pitch itself and more in resonance, which is where I think the emotional impact of music (and all sound) lies.

JP. What did music mean to you at that time? (I think you must have been 12, if I am correct?)

! 91! EG. My interest in music up to the age of 15 was always as a hobby. That said, I never struggled with the desire to practise or the discipline of practising. I loved to play by ear things that I saw other people do on TV or live. Improvisation allowed freedom in my playing. I was not listening to music through the radio or stereo, so everything I played had an “Evelyn” identity very early on. The freedom was crucial for me, not just in the actual playing, but in the way I would prepare. I was able to listen to myself as a person in order to understand how I functioned, rather than having other people tell me how I should function according to a textbook or system. I thought hard about the possibility that a higher specialised institution might thwart that freedom, which is why my goal was simple and clear in my mind.

JP. I know you have a huge collection of percussion instruments. It must be a universe of its own. What kind of relationship do you have with them? And could you tell me of some instruments that are particularly close to you, both sonically and emotionally?

EG. My instrument collection has close to 2000 instruments. Each one has a story. Whichever instrument is in front of me is my favourite (similarly, whichever piece I am playing is the greatest piece ever written). That way I can be 100% focused without dragging things down with negative inner chatter. Some of the instruments are home-made. Take the barimbulum for example; inspired by a piece of farming machinery from my brother's farm, it has long horizontal prongs placed over a wooden box, which acts as a resonator. I play it with triangle sticks, and the sound is incredible. Another surprising instrument is the wrenchophone, which is made from three octaves of tuned wrenches. I highly recommend you revisit your tool box because it may be more musical than you think! I have a lovely trio of long Venezuelan drums made especially for me by a native drum maker when I visited Caracas. He lived with his family in a high-rise, very basic and very tiny apartment. There was barely room to move. I was touched by his generous spirit: he wanted to give me the drums without charge. I could not allow his time and talent to go financially unrewarded. To this day I treasure those drums and the journey that led me to them.

JP. You have been seminal in expanding the repertoire for percussion instruments and creating a new culture of percussion concertos over the past 30 years. Your untiring work has helped shaping a new awareness of percussion instruments within the orchestral setting that is in a way comparable to the pioneering work of Edgar Varése. The historical circumstances are different, of course, but you have

! 92! 12. From The Region Of Near-Transcendence (1997) A conversation with Jonathan Harvey

This conversation took place at Jonathan Harvey’s home in Lewes, Sussex, in July 1997.

JP. Perhaps we could start by looking at your artistic formation. Your musical education has been a very traditional one: in the 1950s you were a chorister at St Michael’s College in Tenbury...

JH. That’s right: late 1940s and early 1950s. I went, at the age of 9, to this very interesting foundation in the heart of the countryside, which was a special musical foundation for church music, founded by an Oxford professor in the 19th century. All the boys learnt instruments, and the choir sang two services a day, which was a lot for those times, with one rehearsal every day. So we got through a great deal of music. We learnt to understand how polyphony worked, how all the parts were vulnerable and subject to refinement in rehearsal (not just our own) and had to work together. Some of the men weren’t particular good singers, I can tell you, they came from the fields in the countryside, but there were good musicians among them, so it was a mixed bunch. The choirmaster was excellent. He taught us harmony and counterpoint, theory and history, as well as giving us piano and organ lessons, and I had cello lessons. So this was really a thorough preparation in rather idyllic surroundings. Indeed, it was a little bit uncontrolled: we were left to our own devices a lot of the time and no boundaries were set. We could roam freely and wildly. I spent a lot of the time being hooked by music, so I suppose I must already have had from my family, my father in particular, a very strong musical necessity of some sort, and I used to spend hours in isolated rooms by myself, composing and playing the piano, which certainly wasn’t like the other boys, although there were other boys who composed a little. Looking back on it now I was a bit strange in that respect. This particular temperament and predilection towards contemporary music I got from my father, who was a composer and had a vast collection of contemporary music at that time; I was nurtured and was able to somehow develop all those seeds and get them to grow at that place.

JP. It sounds as if it was a school for boys...

JH. Yes, it was a typical English prep school, a boarding school, a choir school. You feel rather homesick, you are separated from your parents for long periods. But it is an experience, and most choir boys, of whom there are great many in England, have inherited something rather special from ! 131!