Cast in three movements – Too Far, Too close, and Bridging the Gap – Middle Ground searches for a common space between opposites. The first movement, Too Far, emerges quietly from the highest range of the violin. Barely audile, fingers at the instrument’s edge, the music hovers in a cloud of ethereal tones before slowly descending. In an abrupt shift, the second movement, Too Close, lives in the violin’s lowest range. Distorted, rhythmic bursts hammer away at chopped up scales and jagged arpeggios. Eventually waves of sound surge upwards, only to plummet back down, pulled by a relentless, unyielding gravity. The final movement, Bridging the Gap, seems almost without hope. Exhausted by the previous movement’s struggle, the music searches for a new path forward. Two lines, one descending and the other ascending, gradually, methodically move towards each other, steadily intensifying as they approach middle ground.
Check out a recording from the premiere featuring Kate Stenberg, Violin.
Middle Ground was commissioned by Kat Kroll, Barbara Sapienza, and Nancy Karp + Dancers and premiered February 10, 2016 by Kate Stenberg at the ODC Theater, San Francisco, CA.
Chamber Orchestra (1111.2 sax.111.perc.pno.11111) and Two Sopranos – 12 minutes
The Sun Speckled Climbing Up takes its inspiration from Book of Hours, an artist book stitched on tissue paper by Laura Grey. Loosely following the structure of a medieval book of hours, the project reimagines the ancient prayerbook as a large, hand-stitched, table- sized book. Several texts from various sources are collaged together, creating a narrative that references the structure of the original, while offering a contemporary perspective on the practice of daily devotion. The Sun Speckled Climbing Up is a musical setting of one section from Book of Hours featuring fragments from Rainer Maria Rilke’s own Book of Hours collection. Accompanying the music are video projections created by Hannah Wasileski and Laura Grey comprised of slow moving close up footage of the hand stitched, tissue paper book. The Rilke text speaks of gaping emotional chasms, yearning, and desire. This sentiment finds its way into the music, fueling the piece’s angular vocal lines and churning ensemble rhythms. This piece was commissioned by the Albany (NY) Symphony Orchestra.
An Economy of Means is a kind of companion piece to my trio An Index of Possibility. In Index I used a wide range of materials—glass, metal, wood, ceramic, drums, toys, found objects—to create a large form that moved between distinctive worlds within a broad sonic palette. With An Economy of Means I’ve done the opposite, deliberately using one instrument, the vibraphone, and forcing myself to make the most out of limited resources. With a few simple preparations—tin foil, a manilla folder—and judicious usage of the vibraphone’s natural properties, I tried to build something vast and varied, as broad and ambitious as the trio but in a narrower, more focused context. Set in six movements, the nearly thirty minute piece doesn’t have a specific narrative. Even so, I think there is always a sense of motion, of drifting from space to space, with little dramas unfolding along the way. An Economy of Means was commissioned by Doug Perkins and a consortium of alumni from the Chosen Vale Summer Percussion Seminar. I think the infectious spirit of friendship and collaboration so strongly felt at Chosen Vale found its way into this work, and for that I am extremely grateful.
Stretching across the Massachusetts North Shore from Gloucester to Salisbury, the Great Marsh is the largest salt marsh in New England. My piece is a collection of snap shot impressions, each movement a reflection on some special feature of this beautiful area. On my first visit to the Great Marsh I couldn’t help but think this is what much of the New England coast must have looked like long ago: vast stretches of marsh, barrier beaches, and tidal rivers fanning out for miles, an eternity of mud, grass, and brackish water. The first movement, Salt Hay, refers to the tall thin grass common to the area. Rushing scales, flowing lines, and bright harmonies burst forward, evoking the quicksilver motion of Salt Hay as it flashes back and forth in the wind. In the second movement slowly shifting harmonies, suspended dissonance, and languid motion evoke the oozy muck of tidal Mudflats while a playful, buoyant third movement represents the Seaside Sparrow, a rare bird local to coastal marshes. The final movement, Estuary, reflects on the perpetual tidal ebb and flow, the transition from land to sea, and the ancient, delicate balance of life sustained by the Great Marsh. The Great Marsh was commissioned by Music at Eden’s Edge.
Check out this live recording from the Congregational Church of Topsfield on 7.16.16
To purchase a score and part set please click here
premiered 07.15.16 at the North Shore Arts Association, Gloucester, MA by musicians from Music at Eden’s Edge
Flute, Clarinet, Violin, Cello, Percussion, Piano – 20 minutes
For much of the world, 2015 was one of the warmest winters on record. In Boston, where I live, it was one of the coldest. By mid-January it seemed like we might get a pass from mother nature, but in the last week of January, winter storm Juno paid us a visit, launching a series of massive blizzards that brought a record breaking amount of snowfall. At the time I was holed up in a small New Hampshire cabin, fireplace and food close at hand, working on this piece, actually. For me the storms brought an eerie, magical calm: leafless trees crackling in the wind; pristine, untouched snow as far the eye could see; deep cold and an endless white horizon. At the same time my wife, eight months pregnant with our son, was alone in Boston, commuting to work on treacherous, ice-covered streets hemmed in by ten foot tall snow banks and a sea of frustrated commuters. The contrast was extreme. My piece Juno, reflects on that time: the anticipation before the first big storm; the beautiful stillness of fresh snow; the loud, dirty, struggles of an urban winter; and the feeling of heaviness as the season drags on seemingly without end. Juno was commissioned by the Mandel Foundation for the Utah Arts Festival and premiered in June 2015 by the Verge Ensemble.
Check out this video by Scott Quade of Hub New Music’s performance at the Fenway Center in Boston:
To purchase a score and part set please click here
premiered 6.27.15 at Library Auditorium, Salt Lake City, UT by the Vertigo Ensemble, Andrew Rindfleisch, Conductor.
Orisonis an old-fashioned word for prayer. Before writing this piece, I watched a Youtube of Rostropovich playing the complete Bach Cello Suites in a huge cathedral space. I was particularly taken by the Sarabandes. He played them quite slowly and took all the repeats, which made them very long. The slow tempi and the Cathedral’s intense natural reverb directed my ears toward the cello sound itself rather than particular notes or phrases. In those moments it seemed the music’s essence was not Bach’s beautiful writing, but the long tones and rich double stops reverberating through the cavernous, stone space. The impulse for Orison came directly from that listening experience. While ostensibly a solo, Orison’s simple material, bathed in reverb and long, gradually decaying echoes, becomes a kind of duet with the sound itself. Each tone is a question, calling out to a vast, unknowable space, and with every reverberation the cellist must listen carefully, searching for an answer before moving on to the next thought. Orison was made possible by the generous support of the Metropolis Ensemble, New Music USA, Rodney McDaniel, Carol Whitcomb, Hermine Drezner & Jan Winkler.
Check out this live recording by Ashley Bathgate from the World Premiere at (le) Poisson Rouge:
premiered 1.12.16 at (le) Poisson Rouge, New York, NY by Ashley Bathgate
Book of Hours takes its inspiration from an artist book stitched on tissue paper by Laura Grey. Loosely following the structure of a medieval book of hours, the project reimagines the ancient prayerbook as a large, hand-stitched, table-sized book. Several texts from various sources are collaged together, creating a narrative that references the structure of the original, while offering a contemporary perspective on the practice of daily devotion.
Often when looking inward we encounter a volatile and turbulent space: memories, worries, cares, visions, and dreams clash with wide-ranging emotions of sometimes great intensity. Book of Hours enters this space. Wistful childhood memories lead to a joyful outburst of song in the first movement, Now now now now. A quiet meditation on time in the second movement, A thin layer of time, is rudely interrupted by the angry outburst of Why had we even bothered? followed by a short instrumental interlude of equally violent intensity. In Alone on a roof a sense of deep loneliness dissolves into the final movement, Timor Mortis. A layering of text from Shakespeare’s Macbeth and a fragment from the Catholic Office of the Dead, Timor Mortis concludes the work with a quiet prayer, gently accepting fear in the face of an uncertain future and unpredictable fate.
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This piece was commissioned by the Present Music Commission Club for its landmark 35th season. Milwaukee, WI, USA, www.presentmusic.org, 2016.
I grew up singing and playing hymns. I’m not particularly religious, but somehow they stuck with me. I love them for that. I love how they’ve always been there. How they never fail to reach me, to draw out some long forgotten feeling. They’re like an old friend: we don’t keep in touch so well, but every time we see each other we pick up right where we left off. My piece Hymning is like a daydream, a quiet stroll through hazy recollections of these tunes. I don’t think I quote anything specifically, rather it’s a sort of fantasy, an extended riff on little phrases that feel similar to probably hundreds of different tunes. After a long, meandering first section the music finds it’s way back to the beginning. On second look the tune takes a few unexpected turns. Digressions lead to wistful flourishes and unexpected tonal detours before returning once again to the opening idea. The piece ends, but I think there’s a sense it might still be going, quietly, barely heard, somewhere off in the distance. I can pick up this thread any time. It’s always there.
The score has not been published, but contact me if you’d like to be notified when it is!
Hymning was commissioned by Michael Burritt
premiered 11.11.16 at PASIC 2016, Indianapolis, IN
Down Down Baby is a childhood clapping game. Kids stand in a circle, clapping hands in choreographed patterns while singing a simple rhyming song. You know – Shimmy, Shimmy cocoa pop / Shimmy, Shimmy pow. When I began the piece my son was four months old. As a new Dad I often found myself trying to remember what being a kid was like. At the same time, perhaps with a bit less frequency, I was also thinking about how to approach cello and percussion in a completely new way. The two thoughts merged and I started to wonder if I were a kid with no prior knowledge of cellos and percussion what would I do? My immediate answer – I would hit and pluck in every possible way other than the normal way.
Thinking about childhood, led to games, which led to clapping games, which led to the amazing way two people facing each other performing the same motions become mirrors, which is a mesmerizing thing to watch; so I decided Hannah and Mike would be mirrors, and the cello would be their shared instrument. They would play, sing, whistle and clap (often all at the same time), and it would be hypnotic and joyful, maybe even capture some of the playful spirit and intricate physicality of the game Down Down Baby itself, or at least that was my hope!
With all this in mind, each movement became a short childhood scene. In Follow the Leader the players discover their new instrument, exploring a series of sounds and imitating each other as they go. Next is a brief Daydream, a moment of repose before a spirited Singing Lesson and a beguiling Strange Dance. After a second short Daydream the piece concludes with the title track, Down Down Baby, a kind of virtuosic romp through intricately coordinated hand gestures and interlocking rhythms.
Down Down Baby was commissioned by New Morse Code and developed with the support of the Avaloch Farm Music Institute.
recording coming soon! in the meantime check out these rehearsal videos:
premiered 10.04.16 at Kansas University by New morse Code
Grand Tour is a musical diary of time I spent living in Venice. For centuries the Grand Tour was a rite of passage for budding young aristocrats. Privileged offspring of wealthy European families ventured south for months at a time, paying homage to the decaying relics of antiquity. For many the trip ended in Venice, a place of decadence and exotic splendor. While far removed from its past opulence, vestiges of the Grand Tour linger, bringing millions of tourists a year to Venice’s well-worn landmarks. Today the old idea of travel as self-realization remains, but now resides within the disneyfied marketplace of modern tourism. Romantic visions of antiquity clash with gigantic cruise ships and swarming tour groups as a constant assault of vendors, products, and services target the wayward traveler at every turn. Nonetheless, as a bookish, romantically inclined introvert, I clung to my Byron and sought out that old sense of poetic melancholy as I wandered the labyrinthine Venetian streets.
Grand Tour lives in this conflicted space, somewhere between the Fantasy-class Cruise liner towering over St. Mark’s Square and the anonymous 15th century wood-carving – perfect and splendid – tucked away in an obscure church. Cast in seven movements, the piece roughly outlines what at the time was a typical day: becoming hopelessly lost after a morning walk; weaving my way through the always busy Strada Nuova; a frenetic visit to some beautiful old palace overrun by tour groups; the daily spectacle of massive cruise ships leaving the narrow harbor as throngs of travelers lean over rails, zealously snapping photos and frantically waving arms; an evening stroll, people watching and gelato; a sunset drink on the lagoon; and finally, the nocturnal walk home through dark and narrow streets, at last quiet and empty.