Concert Review: Nick Hennies, Solo Percussion

Community School of Music and Arts

Ithaca, NY 2/27/14, 8 pm

Tonight, Nick Hennies made an inspiring entrance into the Ithaca's music scene. Playing thoughtfully experimental concert percussion music to an intimate crowd, he laid down some fascinating sounds for observation and meditation. Within an ostensible canvas of extreme minimalism, there was something new and fascinatingly beautiful to discover in each texture every second. I walked out of the concert refreshed, lost in thought, and vastly more open to the sounds of the world, which is exactly how I hope to walk out of any successful experimental music concert.

Nick moved to Ithaca just a few months ago from Austin, TX, where he was deeply entrenched in the experimental music scene. He owns and operates Weighter Recordings, which releases a variety of long, textural experimental music like his, and is a member of the percussion trio Meridian. He studied for his Master of Music degree with Steve Schick, regarded worldwide as the number one expert in multiple percussion music, and this intense concert percussion background clearly shows in Hennies’ care, performance atmosphere, and attention to extreme detail. I was fortunate enough to meet Nick last summer, when he directed a full performance of Cornelius Cardew’s massive work The Great Learning as part of Make Music New York 2013. Taking part in this brought me to see Nick’s artistic voice, and I knew he was someone worth watching for in the future.

For his debut concert in Ithaca, Nick performed a bipartite program. Each half consisted of the program for an album he has recorded. The first half was the program for his most recent album, “Duets for Solo Snare Drum” (Weighter Recordings, 2013), and the second half of the concert consisted of the program from his release “Psalms” (Roeba, 2010). The “Duets for Solo Snare Drum” are three solo works for snare drum accompanied by another element. Two are accompanied by a non-performative element: silence (Cage’s “One4”) and static noise (Ablinger’s “Snare Drum and FM Noise”); and one is accompanied for part of its duration by three other drone/noise-producing performers (Hennies’ own “Cast and Work”).

The Cage work was classic Cage, inviting the audience to listen to individual, discrete sounds with silence between each. Hennies demonstrated some unique methods of drum sound production. For example, he placed a long, thin metal object with one end on the head and one end hanging over the edge, then bowed the portion hanging off the drum to produce resonant frequencies of both the object and the drum. Ablinger’s work for snare and static noise was a one lone texture of snare drum, excited by the hands, blending its timbre into amplified radio static and alternating with periods of silence. This was perhaps the least effective work of the concert for me, as the snare drum seemed to make little difference to the work, and only served to visually distract from my concentration on listening to the static.

Hennies’ work “Cast and Work” is a 25-minute roll on the drum, snares off, with fixed media component consisting of a nearly unchanging drone. This is the work on the concert that took me by surprise and threw me for a loop. Hennies roll invited me into a sound world of constantly shifting emphases on different overtones of the drumheads and their interactions with the drone. The head sound reverberated around the large, resonant room, and as it did so, irregular sustains began to emerge. I was brought into a deeply meditative state, as I believe is an intended result of the music. Finally, 15 minutes into the roll, the three other musicians entered. One played a rebab (bowed Gamelan string instrument), one played a tin can, and one manipulated a fascinating noisemaking contraption of cymbals perched atop tensed spring coils. These were used as repetitive noise producers. As a listener, I am NOT normally one to attach my own narrative to pieces that do not explicitly have intended, grounded narrative. Having said that, I was shocked to find an immediate, narrative response the instant the other musicians entered. Suddenly, I was on the production floor of a factory or mill, with all the machines humming, whirring, whining, and rattling around me. The snare drum and fixed media were the general hum of the constant unchanging machinery (perhaps heating or cooling), while the other three musicians represented the regular repetition of cyclically acting machines. I found myself suddenly transported to this world, and after several minutes of it with my eyes closed, I managed for several seconds to really believe that I was simply in a factory, production whirring along full steam ahead, while I enjoyed the steady noises of the industrial equipment.

The second half consisted of five works, all directly based on Alvin Lucier’s famed “Silver Streetcar of the Orchestra” for solo triangle. Each work was for one solo percussion instrument (vibraphone, snare drum, woodblock, triangle, vibraphone again). Lucier’s work was included, and the other four were composed by Hennies. All followed the compositional design of the Lucier, with moderately fast constant notes used to highlight gradual changes in timbre. Hennies transitioned without pause from each piece to the next, which was effective in connecting them sonically and ideologically.

Particularly of note was Hennies’ “Psalm 1” for vibraphone. As Hennies hammered away at the barrage of notes, the instrument’s sustain echoed around the wonderfully reverberant room. The damper was removed from the instrument altogether. Sustained sounds came in irregular waves, sometimes instantaneously, sometimes for several full seconds before receding into only attack sounds. Different overtones came to light, and would occasionally overpower those normally audible on the instrument. This was sometimes due to Hennies’ careful stroke placement on the bars, and sometimes simply due to chance echoing and my ear’s tendency to wander across different overtones when hearing one sound repeatedly for so long. What I know for certain is that I heard different aspects to the vibraphone’s sound that I haven’t properly listened to before. The works for snare drum and woodblock were also effective, and the Lucier was fascinating as always. Ending on vibraphone brought obvious but satisfying cyclical unity to this half of the program.

Hennies plans to put on at least several concerts per year. Some will be shows by other musicians or groups (he’s bringing organ and electronics duo Coppice on March 21), and some will be solo shows for him. I look forward immensely to whatever Nick plans to put on in town; he has a distinctive and worthwhile voice that is a welcome addition to Ithaca’s ever-eclectic music scene.

Nick Hennies: http://www.nhennies.com

Weighter Recordings: http://www.weighterrecordings.com

Graphic Notation

Graphic notation is, for me, one of the largest innovations to classical music in the last century.  I speak not only about scores that look entirely like abstract art, but also the freedom to include new symbols and imagery in an otherwise standard score, which can be highly useful in clarifying meaning.  The most profound strength I see in graphic notation is that it can serve to provide more or less specificity, more or less instruction, more or less intention to composition.  For example, Morton Feldman uses graphic scores to make things less specific, by giving times when events should happen but letting the performer realize the specifics in his or her own way around the right time.

Morton Feldman, "King of Denmark" (1964)

Contrastingly, Penderecki uses elements of graphic scoring to show pitch continuum locations more specifically than traditional notation can.

Penderecki, "Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima" (1960): specificity through

combination of traditional and non-tradition notational ideas

In this way, there is more freedom in opening one's notation to non-traditional methods, because the composer can choose precisely how precise he or she wants to be, from widely open-ended to minutely exact.

Graphic notation also creates an easy bridge between two worlds of art, which is, in my opinion, a very good thing.  The world of artists often has unfortunately strong imaginary borders, so opportunities to bridge these borders are great.  This is a great way to rope visual artists into becoming composers, rope composers into becoming visual artists, interesting performers more deeply in visual arts, and more.  The other wonderful thing is that you don't have to be deeply entrenched in any area(s) of the art world to dive into graphic notation.  If you have no background in the arts but a definite interest, you can make a graphic score.  All you need is a musician friend (or generally artistically adventurous non-musician), and your work of art can be realized.  Bridging all these borders is fun and can open one's eyes suddenly into areas someone in our field might not necessarily bring us.

Speaking as a music student, I wish all music students spent at least a little time interpreting and working on graphic scores.  When I play them, I often quickly stagnate in my ideas for interpretation, and my creative mind has to go on overdrive in order for me to keep my performing interesting to myself.  This has done wonders for my improvising skills, and I think it would be a fantastic mental and artistic exercise for all musicians to undergo.

Unfortunately, I have not worked much yet with graphic scores.  I have only premiered one work for graphic score (Kayleigh McKay's "The Viola Tango" (2012/13), for solo performer playing viola).  I have looked through some others, read through a couple, and seen many performances of many works. My favorite experience with alternate notation has been performing Cornelius Cardew's "The Great Learning" as part of Make Music New York 2013.  One major aspect of Cardew's work that I love is that it explores a wide variety of notational systems: traditional notation, purely graphic scoring, a halfway point between the two, instructional scoring, and more.

Cardew, "The Great Learning" (1971), Paragraph 1

semi-graphic notation in top and middle parts; fairly traditional notation on bottom (organ) part

Cardew, "The Great Learning" (1971), Paragraph 6

instructional score

Cardew, "The Great Learning" (1971), Paragraph 7

instructional, with light elements of graphic scoring

In this work, every movement was a very different challenge to decode, and that was where much of the fun was.  Each movement was a new experiment and a new experience, and brought a new sense of playing, often through the vast differences in notation.

Having said all this, I'll be honest: I've had much more fun with my experiences in instructional scores than with graphic scores.  Having worked on Wolff's "Sticks" and "Stones," various movements of Cardew's "The Great Learning," premiered a work for solo performer in offstage closet (Alex Cronis's "The Day We Stopped Talking," 2013), read through Tim Feeney's "Still Life," and written a couple small instructional works myself, I've taken more out of these and felt like I was able to make better performances.  I'm not certain about why.  Perhaps I'm reticent to improvise when given too much context of how to do it (specific durations, contours, etc; needing to adhere to a score in time), and prefer to improvise when given more freedom.  I'd say I definitely enjoy being able to study a set of instructions in great depth, make a detailed plan about my realization of it, then just go without having to stick constantly to a score in front of me.  Instructional scores, like graphic scores, can connect us to other arts (writing), as well as roping in non-musicians (who need only know how to read and write in a language in order to compose such music, and often to perform it as well).

Finally, I'd like to briefly address the question of labeling graphic scores: is the "composer" really a composer?  Is the performer the composer?  Who writes the music?  I'd like to submit that these questions don't matter.  I think this is a point where labeling becomes a hindrance to discussion.  Labeling should exist to clarify discussion and debate; however, in this case, we do not need to answer these questions in order to communicate clearly about this art and our opinions on it.  I don't care whether I should call the writer of the score a "composer," "facilitator," or just "artist"; I don't care whether I should call the performer a "composer/performer" or perhaps "realizer."  I care whether I find it interesting and worthwhile, and why; and I care whether someone else finds it interesting and worthwhile, and why, so that we can discuss it.  The rest of the answers to such questions would only distract the conversation from the actual art at hand.

The New York School

Cage was the central composer of a group considered the "New York School."  The other members of this group are Christian Wolff, Earle Brown, and Morton Feldman.  Of these, Wolff is still alive today, while the others have all been dead for years.  All four are interested in a focus on individual sounds, graphic scores, new notation, and silence as a compositional device.  All four influenced each of the others.

Feldman's individual signatures among the group are his specific notational grids, and his focus on quiet music.  His multiple percussion work "King of Denmark" (1964) is a perfect microcosm of most aspects of his major styles.  This work (along with many, many of his others) is:

-quiet
-rhythmically floating
-calm
-timbrally explorative
-notated with a time- and range-based grid

In this work and many others, Feldman's notational grid is specific about certain parameters while vague about others.  He writes indeterminate rhythms (____ number of notes) with determinate durations (____ number of notes over the course of ____ seconds).  He writes indeterminate pitches with determinate ranges (split up as high, medium, and low).  Within this grid, he offers some articulations, and other notes without much or anything in the way of instruction.

Feldman uses all these notational and compositional techniques in many other works, including this specific type of grid.  He was never interested in loud music, always seeking out quiet sounds.  In fact, he saw "King of Denmark" as a sort of "silent resistance" to other, louder percussion music.

The work bears an important role in percussion history.  The chronology of the invention of multiple percussion is as follows:

1) 1956: Cage composes the first multi percussion work: 27’10.554” for a Percussionist

           Samuel Z. Solomon performing 27'10.554" for a Percussionist

2) 1959: Stockhausen, Zyklus

Steve Schick performing Zyklus

3) 1962: Cage’s work 27’… is premiered

4) 1964: Feldman writes King of Denmark, his “response” to Zyklus

IC alumnus Marco Schirripa performs King of Denmark

Zyklus is often loud, always very active, and expressionist; King of Denmark is always quiet usually fairly inactive, and not at all expressive.  Feldman wrote the work while relaxing on the beach, in reaction to hearing the disparate and distant sounds of life.  It holds the distinction of being the third work ever for the medium of solo multiple percussion, and in being so, set the precedent that not all percussion works need to be loud or rhythmically driving.  For this, I am grateful, because if all percussion writing were loud and rhythmically driving (as is tempting when writing for percussion instruments), our art form would stagnate and be unnecessarily dull.

It is also important that this work has an open instrumentation, which set the scene for massive amounts of open instrumentation percussion works to come.  Sometimes, as a percussionist, it is difficult to remember that compositional elements like open instrumentation haven't always been around, and were at one time radical innovations.  This work and Cage's 27'… both have some openness of instrumentation, and were among the first works to do so.

The title "King of Denmark" refers to the story of King Christian X of Denmark wearing a yellow star as a "silent resistance" to the Nazis as they took over his country and oppressed those people who were forced to wear yellow stars.  The story is urban legend, and not at all true; however, it sets the scene for Feldman's "silent resistance" to Stockhausen's Zyklus.

American Modernism: Who Cares If You Compose?

Today covered a wide examination of what can be termed "modernism": that is, the field of complex, academic, rigidly composed music, maintaining a severe distance from tonality and usually from most or all centricity.  This includes the music of such influential composers as Elliott Carter, Roger Sessions,  Stefan Wolpe, and especially Milton Babbitt.  I have always had mixed feelings on such music.  On one hand, to generalize, I do not usually enjoy this music on an emotional or intellectual level, or any other level.  On the other hand, I have no problem with its existence, and I am glad that those who value it may make, listen to, appreciate, and use it to their heart's content.  It certainly does tend to push our art forward in one specific way, and for that reason I am glad that it exists and may be used freely.  Similarly, while I believe all art exists to benefit listeners spiritually or intellectually, this music does not break that: its composers and rare devoted performers certainly take something of value from working on it.

My largest qualm with this music is not that it is off-putting to the casual concertgoer, amateur musician, or non-amateur who simply does not frequently play music of this idiom.  My qualm is that it is so frequently off-putting even to the devoted performer of most contemporary music, who simply does not wish to delve into this one field of contemporary music.  This group of modern musicians generally includes myself, but it is a large and disparate group.  With this distinction, the music proves that it is lacking in the way of artistic merit IN TERMS OF the amount of people who are able to take something away from it.  I will grant that most contemporary concert music is ignored and unenjoyed by the average public listener, but at least most are enjoyed and enthused by the contemporary performer.  This coldly academic music so often is not, and so this does not sit well with me.

That said, Babbitt makes some great points about this music.  He suggests that the composer of such music retreat from life in the public eye, and compose only for the audience who seeks out his/her music and has desire for this sort of music.  In his words:

"I dare suggest that the composer would do himself and his music an immediate and eventual service by total, resolute, and voluntary withdrawal from this public world to one of private performance and electronic media, with its very real possibility of complete elimination of the public and social aspects of musical composition. By so doing, the separation between the domains would be defined beyond any possibility of confusion of categories, and the composer would be free to pursue a private life of professional achievement, as opposed to a public life of unprofessional compromise and exhibitionism."

I am in favor of this--it would be unfair and in a sense fascist to demand that the enthusiastic composer of such music cease to compose their music.  In addition, even though I may subjectively not often enjoy this music, I am 100% in favor of allowing all art to exist--no one should prevent such academic music from flourishing and propagation.  And so retreating from the wider musical public eye seems to me a good choice, allowing the composer the freedom to compose without needing to adhere to public desires and complaints.  I cite Ives as one such composer of the past, as he composed on his own spare time, with little regard to whether his pieces would ever be performed, and so did not need to bend to public opinions.

However, it is after this point that Babbitt no longer has my full support.  He suggests the following:

"But how, it may be asked, will this serve to secure the means of survival or the composer and his music? One answer is that after all such a private life is what the university provides the scholar and the scientist. It is only proper that the university, which-significantly-has provided so many contemporary composers with their professional training and general education, should provide a home for the 'complex,' 'difficult,' and 'problematical' in music."

Babbitt is suggesting that universities take on the financial burden of supporting the endeavors of such composers.  I return us to the example of Charles Ives, who supported himself admirably on an entirely separate career, knowing that his music was an unlikely or impossible source of a living.  Universities would be supporting this music through endowments of money either public or private; if public, then this support would be against the artistic interests of most of its financial basis; if private, then in all likelihood it would also be against the artistic interests of its contributors.

Babbitt argues that universities should be a home to such composers as they have been to scholars and scientists.  I see a key difference here--if in some oblique way, scholars and scientists provide practical benefit to the world, through understanding either of the world or humans' interactions with the world.  Modernist composers, on the other hand, provide art, but neither practical understanding of the world or our interactions with it.  Babbitt claims that they would be contributing to "our knowledge of music," but I fundamentally disagree.  It is not as if they are searching to discover musical laws of nature--concert music is a human-imposed medium, not something to be discovered.  As for the study of our music, that is for theorists, not composers.  Babbitt asks, "what possibly can contribute more to our knowledge of music than a genuinely original composition?"  I would argue that the study of such music, not its composition, is what is valuable.  I grant that the former obviously cannot exist without the latter, but I believe that people's money would be better spent through universities toward the study of such music, not its propagation, as very nearly all its contributors have no interest in the music and wouldn't mind if it stopped being composed.

One final point I'd like to make, where I was highly affronted by Babbitt's views, regards the following quote:

"Admittedly, if this music is not supported, the whistling repertory of the man in the street will be little affected, the concert- going activity of the conspicuous consumer of musical culture will be little disturbed. But music will cease to evolve, and, in that important sense, will cease to live."

Again, I am strongly in favor of the existence of all art.  That said, I am offended by the suggestion that without modernist, academic music, "music will cease to evolve."  This directly implies that musical evolution can only occur through this body of music, and not through any other body of music, of the vast variety that exist besides modernism.  Other current music has value, and facilities the evolution of music.  In this statement, Babbitt clearly shows a lack of respect for all music that is particularly different from his own, and as an artist, I am offended that my work should be second class if it isn't very close to one specific composer's.

This is where I leave off on Babbitt's article "Who Cares If You Listen?"  I am in favor of Babbitt's sort of music existing, and being enjoyed and studied by those who wish to do so; and it seems intelligent and prudent for its composers to retreat from the public eye and reject accountability to the public.  That said, I do not believe universities should use much of their money specifically to facilitate its creation, when those truly providing the money have no desire for this music; and I do not take kindly to Babbitt's implications that this is the only music with real worth to the art of music.

Microtonality: Partch, Johnston, Nancarrow

As the 20th century progressed, composers entered a new realm of composition.  Earlier composers had already started the search for new sounds, but often it wasn't strictly controlled.  Harry Partch, Ben Johnston, and Conlon Nancarrow all continued this search, but did so with varying styles of precision in the results.

Nancarrow sought to compose music in a manner that would be the same every time, and could allow for live performances that weren't playable by people.  He did so by utilizing an invention that already existed: the player piano.

Johnston and Partch, however, dove into microtonality of various types to create their new sound palettes.  The key difference between these two composers is that Johnston used pre-existing instruments, and Partch created his own instruments.  Partch used a 43-note scale of his devising via just intonation, and invented a massive variety of instruments that would allow him to use it.  He created a unique, idiosyncratic form of notation for these instruments and tuning system.  Johnston used a wide variety of tuning systems, also usually based on just temperament, and crafted adaptations to the standard Western notation system to allow for his compositions.

Examples of Ben Johnston's notation, adding symbols to alter Western notation

Composers before these had already experimented lightly in microtonality in the sense of using pitches between the standard Western 12-pitch chromatic scale.  However, earlier experiments were generally inexact, such as Antheil and Varèse's use of sirens, which cannot be played with exact pitch in mind.  Partch and Johnston used rigidly controlled and tuned systems of microtonality, which in turn allowed for specificity of musical results.

Partch called himself "a philosophic music-man seduced into carpentry," and that is a highly accurate manner of describing him.  Partch had sensibilities far outside the realm of typical society, and given his unpredictable and wildly individualistic personality, it is not surprising that he chose to be a hobo for large portions of his life, riding around the country on trains.  He had strong beliefs about music, generally focusing on implementing every aspect of a performance, especially the physical aspects at play.  He coined the term "Corporealism" to describe the full involvement of the body in playing music.

As for the carpentry:  Partch made vast arrays of his own instruments, many of which took legitimate ingenuity to assemble, and many of which resemble wacky inventions from books by Dr. Seuss.  The instrument from which all others are tuned is the chromelodeon, an adapted reed organ.

Chromelodeon keyboard

Partch also adapted various guitars and violas for the purposed of performing his works.  In fact, the recording of Barstow we were given is on only a guitar, and is a close reproduction of Partch's original version of the work, which he later destroyed.  That said, when more Partch instruments are added to Barstow (see clip below), the more musically interesting it can be, simply by virtue of number of timbres.

Harry Partch, Barstow (1943)

Performed by Harry Partch and John Stannard, John McCallister, Danlee Mitchell,

Emil Richards, Michael Ranta, Linda Schell.

Beyond these adapted versions of pre-existing instruments, Partch also invented many from scratch.  Pictured below are his gourd tree and cone gongs.  The gourd tree uses temple bells attached to gourds as resonators, with aircraft nosecones used as "cone gongs."

Partch's gourd tree and cone gongs

Some major difficulties attached to Partch's works is that they are limited by both availability of instruments, and performers who have the knowledge to play them and read his notation.  At present, about 3 sets of Partch instruments exist.

1) The original instruments, constructed by Partch through trial and error, are housed at Montclair State University in New Jersey, where they were brought by Dean Drummond, a microtonal composer who worked with Partch for several years before Partch's 1974 death.  However, their future there is uncertain, as the university recently decided to revoke and repurpose the facility space that has been used for the instruments until now.
2) One set of reproduction instruments is at Los Angeles Pierce College, and was built by John Schneider, a Partch devotee who also worked with Partch when he was alive.
3) A European group recently built a full set of instruments in order to tour playing Partch's magnum opus,  Delusion of the Fury, a 75-minute work of experimental musical theater.

The only players trained to play thee instruments are students and other associated people at these two institutions, and the members of the third group.  It really takes verbal instruction from an experienced player to teach others to play the instruments and read the notation.  As a result, there is almost no one who can effectively play Partch's works.  He is in immediate danger of being lost to the sands of time, and there is legitimate concern that at some point far sooner than for other composers, his works will exist only as recordings, not performable works.  This would be a tragedy, as his voice is a vital one in the course of the American musical avant garde.