Revelations and Amazements in the Key of C

Posted by mwblogger

May 9, 2009

I cannot believe that in the whirlwind of my week (where I had a huge concert in New York dedicated to my own music) I neglected to mention the absolutely profound experience I had at Carnegie Hall last week when Terry Riley and (a whole lot of) friends performed his seminal work In C. My instincts here are to rave like a fanboy because it was one of the more remarkable experiences I’ve had in a hall (and I’ve had some good times in halls). Words fail a little in seeing the piece, oddly, as it might have been meant to be when written: a true communal experience. There the composer was, seated amid what had to be well over a hundred souls, leading the charge (with Kronos as the kind of musical motor), swirling amid the sounds of So Percussion, the Young People’s Chorus of New York, Philip Glass, Oswaldo Golijov, Mark Stewart, Dan Zanes, Stewart Dempster, Morton Subotnick, and many many (many many…) more. It was less like being at a concert and more like touching history.

Purists will of course quibble (but don’t they always) with the “rehearsed” nature of the piece—there was even a conductor, of sorts, Dennis Russell Davies holding up signs at moments. Originally the work, in a much smaller ensemble, is built to be one big improvisation (hippie-style!) but with such a mass onstage and such expense gone to in order to arrange said mass, a little order seemed to be in order. I liked the flow—it was a very different experience than the five different recordings I own (my favorite of which being the one Sony and Carnegie Hall recently reissued which remains definitive in my head because it was my first and most abused, listened to over and over in its previous incarnation) and isn’t that the point? That every time one hears In C, one has a different experience?

I loved the way Mr. Russell Davies paced things—there were striking moments for Kronos, for the Young People’s Chorus, for So Percussion—because it allowed a somewhat symphonic element to govern the piece. Highs, lows, contrasts, climaxes, all there, well built and gorgeously executed. The night ran near two hours and seemed nowhere close, and whomever had the brilliant idea to project the one-page score on a large screen behind the dense sea of performers ought to be knighted—it worked like the proverbial charm. Suddenly toes could tap and heads could bob, but also those who could read music and knew the argument of the piece could see it in full-flower and understand its intended nuances. I already had a heap of respect for Mr. Riley and especially this piece of his, but now I’ve got more.

Most touching, though, was the sheer humanity that dripped from the stage. How incredible was it to see Philip Glass, who obviously learned much from Riley the guru, sawing away as a sideman? Or how thrilling to see the members of the Young People’s Chorus onstage with many four or five generations older at least? In the end, the together-we-shall-prevail ethos of the piece played spectacularly—all were together, all were there not just to celebrate a master but an age, an idea, and the very spirit of music.

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