#51: J. S. Bach, "The Well-Tempered Clavier, Books I and II"
J. S. Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier, Books I and II, released 1986 by CBS Masterworks
Glenn Gould, piano

Discs 1-3

The Well-Tempered Clavier, BWV 846-893

For centuries, how to tune the twelve-note scale has been a subject of (often incredibly heated) debate in Western music. Various systems and methods exist, each with their proponents and detractors; and while there is currently a tuning system called "equal temperament" (more on that later) that is quite dominant, it's certainly not universally accepted.

Let's begin with a brief introduction to acoustics[1]. Vibrating things produce noise as they excite the air around them. Once something starts vibrating frequently enough (about 20 times per second, or 20 Hz), we lose the ability to distinguish each individual vibration and hear the sound being produced as continuous pitch. The most commonly used example is that of a string. When plucked, a string will vibrate at a specific frequency (pitch) assuming its length and the tension applied are constant.

So we have a string vibrating along its length producing a pitch at, say, 100Hz, the "fundamental". However, that's not the only length at which it's vibrating! It's also simultaneously vibrating along half its length, 1/3 of its length, 1/4 of its length, and so on -- producing pitches at 200Hz, 300Hz, 400Hz, and so on, respectively, ad infinitum. These higher frequency notes are called "overtones" or "partials", and the sequence of them forms the "harmonic series". The fundamental is also referred to as the "first partial", the next note in the series the "second partial", etc[2]. The higher the partial, the less audible it is -- hence we mostly hear the 100Hz pitch (the "fundamental").

We can hear those partials more clearly by changing the length of our string. If we chop our original string in half, its fundamental now vibrates at 200Hz; if we chop off two-thirds, its fundamental now vibrates at 300Hz; and so forth. This presents the possibility of multiple tones, all of which are derived from our original 100Hz pitch. The "aural" space between two different tones is called an "interval"; they are sometimes referred to by their whole-number relationship.

Now, for some reason, when we hear two tones which are in a 2:1 frequency ratio, *they sound the same*, only higher/lower. We call this interval the "octave", and it is one of the most basic concepts of music. Because of this near-equivalence, we can take higher partials and and "collapse" them so that they fit into the octave, creating a scale -- dividing higher partials by two until they fit between 100 and 200. Here's what I mean:

100 , 200 , 300 , 400 , 500 , 600 , 700 , 800 , 900 , 1000 , 1100 , 1200 , 1300 , 1400 , 1500 , 1600

becomes a scale of

100 , 112.5 , 125 , 137.5 , 150 , 162.5 , 175 , 187.5 , 200

That would *very* roughly correspond to our modern (assuming C = 100Hz)

C - D - E - F# - G - Ab - Bb - B - C

Note that these frequencies can also be expressed as a series of ratios relative to the fundamental:

1:1 , 9:8 , 5:4 , 11:8 , 3:2 , 13:8 , 7:4 , 15:8 , 2:1 [4]

Or relative to any other pitch...for example, the G:

2:3 , 3:4 , 5:6 , 11:12 , 1:1 , 13:12 , 7:5 , 15:12 , 4:3

This use of simple whole-number ratios is also known as just intonation.

However, while this is probably the most obvious way of generating a musical scale, it was Pythagorean tuning that -- I believe -- was predominant when Western music first started being written during the first half of the second millennium A.D. Pythagorean tuning generates notes to fill the octave using the 3:2 ratio, the perfect fifth. Assuming that C = 100 is our starting pitch, we get (rounding to 1 decimal):

C = 100
G = 150
D = 225
A = 337.5
E = 506.3
B = 759.4
F# = 1139.1
C# = 1708.6
G# = 2562.9
D#/Eb = 3844.3
Bb = 5766.5
F = 8649.8
C = 12974.6

Which compresses to:

C = 100
C# = 106.8
D = 112.5
D# = 120.1
E = 126.6
F = 135.2
F# = 142.4
G = 150
G# = 160.2
A = 168.8
Bb = 180.2
B = 189.8
C = 202.7

Uh...oops. The "octave" we arrive at via this method is not in a 2:1 ratio; it is off by 2.7%, a *huge* difference to the human ear, which can perceive much smaller deviations surprisingly clearly. To compensate, one of the fifths is detuned to make sure that the octave is still "pure". This detuned interval is known as the "wolf fifth", and it is usually one that is unlikely to be used in a given key; for example, C#-G# in C Major. Note that Major thirds are in the ratio of 81:64 rather than the 5:4 of just intonation, a difference of about 1.2%; pronounced enough that such thirds in this tuning system are considered dissonant and to be avoided, with the perfect fifth as the point of stability.

Some Pythagorean tuning systems alter each fifth an equal amount so as to bring the Major Thirds closer to the 5:4 ratio.

Similar to Pythagorean tuning is a system called Meantone tuning, which uses the ratio of 5:4 rather than 3:2 -- basically, the effect is the inverse of Pythagorean tuning, in that pure major thirds are emphasized at the expense of the fifth; octaves are still a problem, though.

The problem with all of these systems -- just, Pythagorean, and Meantone temperament -- is that the scales derived from them work best if the key you're in is the same as the "foundation" note. If you're in C Major, and all the tones in your music are derived from C, intervals will sound great. However, if you modulate to a different key, things will sound a little less good...and so on the farther[5] from C Major you go...until you're in F# Major and everything sounds completely alien because all of your notes are derived from something completely unrelated.

As music became more and more florid and complicated and composers moved around from key to key more often, this limitation became more and more of a problem. Instruments with flexible tunings could compensate, but the growing popularity of keyboard instruments -- which are impractical to tune on the fly -- inspired musicians to look for other solutions, bringing us to...

Well temperament is a system of tuning whereby intervals are altered in such a way that no key sounds particularly out of tune. This doesn't mean they all sound the same; certain keys are given "preference", the end result of which is that each key has a slightly different character. There is no one method for doing this; some lean more towards Pythagorean, some more towards meantone, etc., etc.[6]

Most common today is a kind of well temperament called "equal" temperament, in which the octave is divided logarithmically into twelve equal parts. Proponents of other tuning systems tend to consider this an abomination against man and God[7], claiming that equal temperament deadens music by homogenizing the different keys and corrupting pure intervals.

Some people claim that musicians that play on instruments of flexible tuning -- singers, strings, some woodwinds -- consciously and/or unconsciously adjust their pitch to conform towards just intonation. I believe this is actually true, to a nontrivial extent.

As for me, I don't have anything against the "purer" forms of tuning; I'm certainly curious about how they sound -- particularly with tonal minimalist pieces that are unconcerned with modulation. But equal temperament is *way* useful, and it's probably not going away anytime soon.
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(1) Don't take my word for any of this! I'm not an acoustic physicist.

(2) Different instruments have a different overtone "profile" -- which is to say that the strengths of each partial differ from instrument to instrument; for example, the clarinet's odd-numbered partials are strong but its even-numbered partials are weak. This profile almost certainly contributes to the difference in timbre between instruments.[3]

(3) Some instruments, due to their construction, cause the overtone series they produce to deviate from this simple progression -- most notably, bells. I like to claim that bells are dissonant with respect to themselves because of this.

(4) According to psychoacoustics, the less complex the ratio between two tones, the more pleasing it is to the ear, as less mental processing is required to "parse" the relationship.

(5) Keys a fifth away in either direction are considered "neighbors"; therefore, G Major and F Major are C Major's closest neighbors.

(6) Carol L. pointed out a fascinating article on what may be Bach's tuning instructions.

(7) Seriously, it's frightening how fanatical and preachy tuning fundamentalists can get.

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#52: J. S. Bach, "The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I"
J. S. Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I, released 1986 by Decca
Andras Schiff, piano

DISCS 1-2

The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I BWV 846-869

The Well-Tempered Clavier is a collection of paired preludes and fugues in each major and minor key, another of Bach's monumental achievements in counterpoint. There are two sets, Book I and Book II, each with a full complement of 24 pieces. One of the remarkable things is the individuality of each piece, even though the basic forms are the same; there's certainly the occasional sense of encountering recycled material, but for the most part each one sounds fresh and vibrant.

It's remarkable how much András Schiff's performances differ from Gould's. Though Schiff is well known for his Bach interpretations, his strong interest in Romantic-period music is evident; he tends to focus on highlighting specific lines and melodies, and his performances have the quality of song -- particularly with the rubato he brings to his playing. In contrast, Gould does his best to give all of the parts and voices in a piece equal weight, and takes a much more rigorous approach to rhythm...traits also suited to another of his specialties, early 20th-century modernist music.

The producers' choices also make for an interesting contrast. The Gould is relatively dry and spartan, complementing the crisp and technical nature of his playing and his emphasis on the intellectually satisfying aspects of Bach's music[1]; the Schiff is lusher and 'wetter', reflecting Schiff's greater interest the emotional and melodic elements present in The Well-Tempered Clavier.

That's not to say that Gould presents a cold, robotic approach, nor that Schiff's recording is tastelessly histrionic -- but that the two pianists occupy very different places on that Cartesian plane. Oddly, despite Gould's headier approach, his recordings are infused with a real sense of drama and excitement; and despite Schiff's Romantic tendencies, his recordings communicate a sense of calm and balance. Both performers bring out very different things in Bach's music, and both say something worthwhile about The Well-Tempered Clavier.

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#53: J. S. Bach, "The Gamba Sonatas | Brandenburg Concerto No. 4"
J. S. Bach, The Three Gamba Sonatas | Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, released 1950/1994 by Sony Music

The Gamba Sonatas
Pablo Casals, cello
Paul Baumgartner, piano

No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1027

1) I. Adagio – Allegro ma non troppo
2) II. Andante
3) III. Allegro moderato

No. 2 in D Major, BWV 1028

4) I. Adagio – Allegro
5) II. Andante
6) III. Allegro

No. 3 in G minor, BWV 1029

7) I. Vivace
8) II. Adagio
9) III. Allegro

Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G Major, BWV 1049
Prades Festival Orchestra; Pablo Casals, Director
John Wummer & Bernard Goldberg, soloists

10) I. Allegro
11) II. Andante
12) III. Presto

Pablo Casals was one of the most revered cellists in the world of classical music, and was closely identified with his nuanced and heartfelt interpretations of Bach; he is often credited with popularizing much of Bach's music, in particular his Suites for Solo Cello.

These performances were recorded live at a gigantic festival to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Bach's death, and that was organized in small part to convince Casals to resume concertizing; he had quit playing for audiences in the mid-1940s, some say out of disgust for the rise of fascism and dictatorial rule in his native Spain, and in Europe in general.

The Gamba Sonatas were originally written for the viola da gamba (or viol), a now-obsolete string instrument; it has begun common practice to substitute a cello instead. Honestly, as simple melody-with-accompaniment pieces, they don't really do a whole lot for me -- I much prefer Bach's more contrapuntal works. As well, live recording technology in the '50s was still fairly crude, and so the piano sounds like it has a cold and the cello sounds raspy and ever-so-slightly grating. Given Casals' reputation, I'm happy to blame the audio engineering techniques of the day.

Everyone knows The Brandenburg Concertos; I have to admit that I loathe them. In large part that's likely a function of the cultural context that's coalesced around them, a Masterpiece Theater vibe that I find stuffy, cloying, and plodding; listening to them is like trying to eat cotton. Wonderful a musician as he was, Casals can't make the Brandenburgs enjoyable for me.

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#54: J. S. Bach, "Mass in B minor"
J. S. Bach, Mass in B minor BWV 232, released 1991 by Decca

Mass in B minor BWV 232
Chicago Symphony Orchestra; Georg Solti, conductor
Chicago Symphony Chorus; Margaret Hillis, director
Felicity Lott, soprano I
Anne Sofie von Otter, soprano II/contralto
Hans Peter Blochwitz, tenor
William Shimell, baritone
Gwynne Howell, bass

DISC 1

KYRIE
1) Kyrie eleison
2) Christe eleison
3) Kyrie eleison

GLORIA
4) Gloria in excelsis Deo
5) Et in terra pax
6) Laudamus te
7) Gratias agimus tibi
8) Domine Deus
9) Qui tollis peccata mundi
10) Qui sedes ad dextram Patris
11) Quoniam tu solus Sanctus
12) Cum Sancto Spiritu

DISC 2

SYMBOLUM NICENUM (CREDO)
1) Credo in unum Deum
2) Patrem omnipotentem
3) Et in unum Dominum
4) Et incarnatus est
5) Crucifixus
6) Et resurrexit
7) Et in Spiritum sanctum
8) Confiteor
9) Et Expecto

SANCTUS
10) Sanctus

OSANNA, BENEDICTUS, AGNUS DEI, ET DONA NOBIS PACEM
11) Osanna in excelsis
12) Benedictus
13) Osanna da capo
14) Agnus Dei
15) Dona nobis pacem

The Mass in B minor, an oratorio for chorus, soloists, and full orchestra, is admired as one of the greatest works in the Western tradition and one of the pinnacles of Bach's compositional output. Based on the Latin Mass, at two hours long it was almost certainly not intended to be performed as part of a service. In fact, by Bach's time the Mass -- though not stripped of its religious meaning[1] -- was very much considered a standardized musical form, to be performed in the concert hall rather than in church.

The Mass is generally in four sections: Kyrie, Gloria, Symbolum Nicenum (more often known as the Credo), and the Sanctus. The Kyrie is a exhortation to God and Christ to listen to our prayers; the Gloria is an expression of praise and adoration; the Credo is an affirmation of belief in God, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection; and the Sanctus (which more or less covers the rest) is a plea for salvation and peace.

The chronology of Bach's Mass in B minor is a bit unclear. Each of its sections was composed at a different period in his life -- and exactly when is a subject of some debate. Indeed, although the four parts fit into a unified whole, no one knows for sure if Bach intended them to be performed together. Nevertheless, that is the form into which they have coalesced, and most scholars nowadays accept that Bach probably envisioned those sections as fitting together into one. The earliest documented performance of the Mass entire was in the mid-19th century; multiple editions exist, and which is "most correct" will probably never be fully resolved.

The Mass is a gorgeous, exhilarating, moving work, another masterpiece in a career dauntingly littered with them; many consider it the apotheosis of his writing for chorus and I'm not going to disagree. The only quibble I have with this recording is the bass soloist, who has trouble staying on pitch. Otherwise, Solti and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra & Chorus do a great job, performing with majesty, clarity, and rhythmic verve.

(Allegra M. writes: I am going to quibble with some of your statements.

First off, the Mass form in general is in five sections. The Sanctus (and the Hosanna and Benedictus that go with it) and the Agnus Dei (and the Dona Nobis Pacem that goes with that) are considered separate sections. I am not familiar enough with the B Minor Mass to comment upon its structure, but the general mass form is 5 movements, which composers then play around with (often the Benedictus is its own separate movement in classical masses, for example.)

Building on that, the Sanctus is actually just praise: "Holy, holy, holy, heaven ad earth are full of thy glory" and it's the Agnus Dei that is a prayer for salvation and peace.

The second quibble is that it's my understand that the Mass did not become a concert form until the late classical/Romantic period. One of the reasons the B minor mass is so strange is that Bach must have known it could never be performed in his lifetime, since he was a Protestant musician and they don't do masses. I don't know whether it would have been flat-out impossible for it to get a concert performance, but it would have been very odd, and his minister and sponsor would have probably been peeved at him.)
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(1) Some later composers ignored the connotations of the Mass entirely, considering it an abstract, established form along the lines of sonata-allegro form -- a skeleton to be fleshed out rather than a text to be expressed.

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#55: J. S. Bach, "St. Matthew Passion"
J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion BWV 244, released 1990 by deutsche harmonia mundi

DISCS 1-3
St. Matthew Passion BWV 244
La Petite Bande; Kuijken Sigiswald, conductor / Gustav Leonhardt, director
Tölzer Knabenchor; Gerhard Schmidt-Gaden, conductor
Christoph Prégardien, tenor
Max van Egmond, bass
René Jacobs, alto
Marcus Schäfer, tenor
Klaus Mertens, bass
David Cordier, alto
John Elwes, tenor
Peter Lika, bass
Christian Fliegner, soprano
Maximilian Kiener, soprano

The Passion refers to the story of Jesus' suffering after his capture at Gethsemane until his death on the cross; it was a common subject for Baroque composers, who would set selections from one of the Gospels. Scholars believe that Bach wrote multiple Passions -- probably setting each at least once -- but only this and the St. John Passion[1] have survived.

The St. Matthew Passion is an oratorio setting of Matthew 26-27 for orchestra, chorus, and soloists, with interpolated poetic commentaries by Bach's frequent collaborator Picander. One of Bach's most ambitious pieces, it spans nearly three hours; an extremely operatic piece filled with recitatives and arias[2], it has inspired some to claim that it comes closest to what Bach really wanted to do but never had the opportunity: to write operas.

This piece has a particularly exalted position for Bach scholars because it was instrumental in Bach's revival in the early 18th century. Bach had been largely forgotten after his death (and during his life was primarily known as a virtuoso keyboard player and improviser), and his many composer sons had surpassed him greatly in notoriety until a performance of the St. Matthew Passion organized by Felix Mendelssohn spurred renewed an interest in Bach's music that eventually led to recognition of his place in the canon of great Western composers. However, because the concept of historical performance practice was as yet undeveloped, his music was interpreted and performed in the Romantic tradition, a habit that persisted until the early 20th century.

This recording is by a baroque orchestra and boys' choir, and it's an excellent rendition. Their tone is gorgeous throughout, and they bring a thoughtful passion to the music. Unfortunately, I'm just not a fan of opera that isn't postmodern, and I've never been able to put my finger on exactly why -- it may be that I'm just not a fan of solo singers in the classical idiom. However, the choruses are include the most moving music Bach has ever written, in particular the paired laments that begin and end the piece.
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(1) I haven't encountered the St. John Passion, but everyone I know who has considers it a really odd piece. I guess that's unsurprising, considering the Gospel of John itself.

(2) Why is Jesus always represented by basses? I always imagine him as a tenor, but I may be biased by my early (and continuing) love of Jesus Christ Superstar.

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#56: Tirta Sari, "Gamelan Semarpegulingan"
Tirta Sari[1], World Sounds: Gamelan Semarpegulingan, released 1996 by JVC Musical Industries

1) Tarna Jaya
2) Raja Pala
3) Kebyar Trompong
4) Legong Kraton

Gamelan generally refers to a kind of music found in Indonesia performed by an orchestra consisting of lots of percussion -- metallophones, drums, gongs -- occasionally joined by wind instruments or vocalists, and usually played as part of a dance, ceremony, or wayang kulit (puppet theater)[2]. One of its characteristics is its colotomic structure, a multi-layered pattern in which the tempo of each instrument corresponds to its pitch; that is to say, the lowest-sounding instruments play most slowly, and higher-sounding instruments play faster and faster relative to those underneath them. It is broadly divided into two categories, Balinese and Javanese. Balinese music tends to be very dramatic, full of contrasts and sharp shifts in dynamic, texture, and tempo; Javanese tends towards a more even, homogenous sound -- what we would characterize as meditative.

While they are far from standardized, there are two main scales used in gamelan music, pelog and slendro. As in western music, often subsets of those scales will be highlighted to evoke different moods and affects. Neither tuning system corresponds to ours in any way other than the use of the octave as an anchor, and often duplicate instruments will tune a quarter-tone apart from each other, creating a shimmering sound that is one of gamelan music's most recognizable features.

The influence of gamelan on Western music has grown since its introduction to Europe during the turn-of-the-centry World Fairs. For some composers, its influence on their music is subtle and abstract, perhaps using gamelan's colotomic structure to shape their ideas but using traditional musical resources[3]; on the other extreme, some write directly for gamelan orchestras[4]; and of course, everywhere in between. It's finding its way into popular music as well; electronica artist Kim Hiorthøy uses samples of it often, and gamelan can be found on the soundtracks to Steven Soderbergh's Solaris and to the recent remake of Battlestar Galactica.

I don't know enough about gamelan music to be able to judge the relative worth of specific pieces, or of different ensembles; though there are four different pieces on the CD, they all sound indistinguishable to my ear. What attracts me to gamelan is the timbre of it, the incredible complexity of the interactions between rhythmic layers, and the hypnotic repetitions of figures and phrases within...but also its otherness. It makes me uncomfortable its exotic nature is part of why I enjoy it, and that I don't understand the subtleties or the cultural meanings found within -- that part my pleasure derives from the fact that I'm the kind of person who enjoys listening to it.
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(1) In one of my few nods to convenience over precision, all of my Balinese gamelan music is lumped under "B".

(2) Note that -- as in many cultures -- there is little distinction between the music and the ritual in question. They are not separable -- they mean each other.

(3) A beautiful example would be Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians; an earlier would be Claude Debussy's piano pieces Pagodes.

(4) Evan Ziporyn is one of the most prominent composers to do so regularly, although gamelan's influence can also be found in less obvious ways in the pieces he writes for more conventional ensembles.

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#57: Gamelan Semar Pegulingan of Ketewel, "Music of Bali"
Gamelan Semar Pegulingan of Ketewel, Music of Bali, released 1989 by Lyrichord Discs

1) Bopong
2) Lasem
3) Subandar Rawit
4) Penyelah Gelar Keramas
5) Legong Lasem
    a. Pengawak
    b. Pengecet
    c. Pengipuk
    d. Pesiat

Gamelan Semar Pegulingan of Ketewel presents a notably different style of gamelan music than Tirta Sari. While still retaining the characteristics that make it Balinese, Ketewel's music is much more subdued; in contrast to the often abrupt and unexpected changes in Tirta Sari's music, Ketewel's transitions are smoother and more subdued, less overtly dramatic. Among the more cosmetic differences are that all of Ketewel's music includes a wind instrument; and while Tirta Sari's pieces all begin loudly and with a great deal of energy, Ketewel's pieces all begin gently and quietly.

I found myself enjoying Ketewel's music much more than Tirta Sari's; though I can't pinpoint exactly why, it felt more developed and comprehensible -- perhaps Tirta Sari's constant theatrics obscure what's actually going on to some extent. Ketewel still offers rhythmic verve and surprise, as well as the dense tapestry of counterpoint, though to a lesser extant than Tirta Sari -- but the more considered nature of Ketewel's compositions feels much more satisfying, and provides more delineation between the different pieces they play.

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#58: banco de gaia, "the magical sounds of banco de gaia"
banco de gaia, the magical sounds of banco de gaia, released 1999 by Six Degrees Records

1) I Love Baby Cheesy
2) Harvey and the Old Ones
3) Sinhala
4) Touching the Void
5) 144K?
6) Frog's Dinner
7) Glove Puppet
8) No Rain

banco de gaia is a dance music outfit that offers techno/dub tracks that feature multiple layers of beats and loops with samples of ethnic musics thrown in for flavor; I learned of them thanks to the presence of "drippy" on the π soundtrack. It's pleasant enough music and makes great background, but the aforementioned layers don't feature the intricacy or the craft that would compel me to actually pay close attention. While banco de gaia purports to be influenced by the different musics they draw from (Middle Eastern, Arabic, etc.), the way they utilize these traditions is fairly superficial and doesn't have a whole lot to do with the actual structures of their tracks -- loops of, for example, Persian singing seem present to add a sense of exoticism rather than as a real focal point, to add the cachet of World Music to what's competent but uninspired techno.

The low point on the album is actually the first track, which features a sports-style announcer chanting, "I've never experienced anything like this before in my life! It's great!" which strikes me as ridiculously self-congratulatory, as if banco de gaia is praising both its audience and themselves for something that really isn't nearly as mind-blowing or as original as it thinks it is. Things get better -- "Sinhala" is my favorite, a reggae track featuring a cool brass riff, throat singing, and a great bass groove whose constant repetitions become hypnotic and kind of consciousness-consuming.

As I mentioned, it's nice enough music and nicely crafted, reminding me of what I've heard of B.T. and Paul Oakenfold. But the constant reference to non-Western musics without really trying to understand and integrate those musics into something more interesting than just dance music gives it a faintly unpleasant air of exoticism and imperialist Orientalism that make me feel mildly guilty about listening to it. Nevertheless, it's certainly excellent wallpaper and is probably great to dance to.

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#59: Bang on a Can, "Cheating, Lying, Stealing"
Bang on a Can, Cheating, Lying, Stealing, released 1996 by Sony Music Entertainment

1) David Lang: Cheating, Lying, Stealing

Annie Gosfield: The Manufacture of Tangled Ivory
2) Part I
3) Part II

4) Evan Ziporyn: Tsmindao Ghmerto

5) Lois V. Vierk: Red Shift

Nick Didkovsky: Amalia's Secret
6) An Especially Fine Dress Rag
7) Amalia, Hanging in a Painting
8) Two Heads, Sitting Together, Snapping the Dreams of Your Sap
9) Swallow the Neck of the Guest Who Hisses When You Pass
10) Amalia's Secret (Modelled after the One for Your Parents)
11) The Smallest Glimmer Disturbs Them
12) A Weak Little Gentleman, Gazing, Too Dumb to Wonder
13) The Letter Opened, The Bottle Broken
14) Shamefaced Smiles and the Back of Frailty
15) All Debts Owed Paid, She'd Survive This Too

16) Frederic Rzewski: Piano Piece No. IV

17) Hermeto Pascual: Arapua

Founded by composers Michael Gordon, David Lang, and Julia Wolfe in the mid-80s, Bang on a Can is a performing ensemble based out of New York City that's one of the country's foremost advocates for contemporary chamber music, with a particular emphasis on music that draws from a wide variety of Western musical traditions, particularly jazz and rock. As such, I believe that they were one of the first such ensembles to include electric guitar and saxophone as part of its regular lineup.

The genre of music their usually perform is generally referred to as "postminimalist", although it's more a handle and not terribly descriptive. Among the characteristics of such pieces are (all of which may not necessarily apply to a given piece): the use of instruments considered more idiomatic to rock, jazz, and/or ethnic musics, as well as synthesizers and real-time electronic processing; a harmonic language that, while not necessarily tonal, is easily understandable; pulsing, contrapuntal rhythms with a strong sense of physicality, drawn actively from rock, funk, etc., often featuring lots of hocketing or phase-shifting.

David Lang: Cheating, Lying, Stealing for piano, cello, bass clarinet, and percussion

According to Lang, he wrote Cheating, Lying, Stealing to highlight the less savory aspects of human nature as a contrast to more traditional, canonic works that celebrate heroism and nobility. Whatever. What really matters is that it's a fun, engaging piece of music filled with angular melodies, jagged, funky rhythms, and fascinating timbral combinations. The more I listen to it, the more I like it.

Annie Gosfield: The Manufacture of Tangled Ivory for cello, double bass, sampling keyboard, percussion, and electric guitar

Part I features the keyboard along, joined by the rest of the ensemble in Part II. The synthesizer used for The Manufacture of Tangled Ivory essentially duplicates an old, uncared-for piano, out of tune with distorted, warped sounds, evoking an atmosphere of decayed memory -- and it's beautiful. The first part is halting and improvisatory, the second veers back and forth between forceful mayhem and delicate introspection. It's a good piece of music, although its constant changes of mood contribute to a mild sense of incoherence and aimlessness.

Evan Ziporyn: Tsmindao Ghmerto for bass clarinet

Tsmindao Ghmerto is performed by the composer himself, a virtuoso; it's a gentle, thoughtful work based on a religious choral piece from Georgia. As a chordal piece for a normally monophonic instrument, it's practically a study in multiphonics, a technique for sounding multiple tones by using specialized fingering and embouchure combinations and occasionally singing through the instrument. The thing about multiphonics is that they're very buzzy and harsh -- reminiscent of the noise strip that often lines highways -- so listening to them for an extended period of time can get somewhat grating, which undercuts the piece's placid nature.

Lois V. Vierk: Red Shift for cello, keyboard, percussion, and electric guitar

Red Shift was inspired by gagaku, Japanese court music, and evokes that style through extensive use of glissandi in the cello and guitar, punctuated by occasional interjections from the percussion and (I believe) occasionally given heft with held notes on the keyboard. It's a very alien combination of sounds and Red Shift's slow start -- presenting what feels like an unconnected, pointillist texture that's a random series of events -- makes it feel more like a compositional exercise than a finished, polished work. But as the piece continues, all the different elements slowly come together, and build to a really thrilling climax.

Nick Didkovsky: Amalia's Secret for cello, double bass, piano, drum set[1], electric guitar, and clarinet

Amalia's Secret takes its title from a chapter of Kafka's The Castle, and its movement titles from a random sentence generator written by Didkovsky himself, using prose from the book as well as his own as raw material. The piece is a series of short musical vignettes ranging from 30 seconds to 3 minutes long, featuring different permutations of the core ensemble, and drawing from a wide range of vernacular American traditions. While it has its highlights -- particularly the solo guitar movement "Two Heads, Sitting Together..." -- I often found myself having trouble paying attention, and drifting off.

Frederic Rzewski: Piano Piece No. IV

This is an astonishing piece, featuring nonstop, shuddering, shimmering pulsation that makes its melodies and motifs feel smeared out, like the afterimages produced by constantly shifting and flickering lights. Its harmonies drift between dissonant Modernism and sumptuous Romanticism with almost imperceptible transitions, as if there are two worlds competing for focus and attention. I want to learn how to play it myself...

Hermeto Pascoal: Arapua (arr. by Evan Ziporyn)

Pascoal is a better known as a highly experimental composer of Brazilian jazz; this is an arrangement made for Bang on a Can by ensemble member Evan Ziporyn. Maybe it's just another symptom of my inability to really appreciate jazz, but although Arapua a busy, energetic piece with a lot going on, it falls flat for me, although Pascoal's almost Messiaenic harmonies are truly gorgeous.
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(1) I've almost never encountered a piece involving drum set that didn't sound somehow cheesy in doing so. Maybe it's so strongly associated with rock music -- even more so than the electric guitar -- that the contextual dissonance of hearing its pounding rhythm in any non-rock context induces in me a kind of mental queasiness.

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#60: Bang on a Can, "Industry"
Bang on a Can, Industry, released 1995 by Sony Classical

1) Julia Wolfe: Lick for soprano sax, electric guitar, percussion, piano, cello, and double bass

2) Louis Andriessen: Hout for tenor sax, electric guitar, marimba, and piano

3) David Lang: The Anvil Chorus for percussion

Louis Andriessen: Hoketus for panpipes, alto saxes, congas, fender rhodes, pianos, and bass guitars
4) A
5) B
6) C
7) D/E

8) Michael Gordon: Industry for cello and effects

The pieces on Industry do less to differentiate themselves than on Cheating, Lying, Stealing. Lick and Hout are fun, energetic pieces with a lot of rhythmic drive, but there's nothing particularly memorable about either. The Anvil Chorus is a piece for solo percussionist using lots of found metallic instruments and bass drum that never really seems to find a point, wandering in and out of various sounds without ever going anywhere. Industry is the standout work on the disc, a piece for distorted electric cello that uses repetition to increasingly ominous and terrifying effect before practically exploding with dread.

However, I want to give special mention to Hoketus, which is maddeningly annoying. In this piece, Andriessen explores the technique of hocketing, whereby different groups of musicians each play independent figures that, when combined, form a coherent and interesting whole. Except in this case, Andriessen ignores the interesting part. Instead, in each section, two separate groups oscillate between two sonorities. Over and over again. Sometimes in slightly different rhythms. For 6 minutes at a time before moving on to the next section. It's like listening to construction work at full volume over headphones.

I've also heard Hoketus live, and -- oddly -- found it really cool and compelling then. Perhaps it needs to be experienced with concert hall acoustics to be really appreciated.

In general, this disc is relatively forgettable, with the exception of Industry. The first few tracks are pleasant enough, but lack a certain something...I suppose if there can be such a thing as generic postminimalism, they would fit the bill, showcasing an affable, mostly tonal language with fun riffs and bouncy rhythms, but with a kind of flatness of affect, lacking any real sense of arc or journey, emotionally or musically.

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