Watching Sandy’s approach over the deserted George Wash­ing­ton Bridge.

I am writing to you from Grand Rapids, MI, home of Steel­case furni­ture and the Grand Rapids Symphony Orches­tra. I am here to super­vise the perfor­mance of two pieces—Nightjar and Para­phrase on Themes of Brian Eno. Yester­day’s rehearsal was astound­ingly good. It’s heart­en­ing to hear playing like that right away, and it allows me to do my job, which is to push & pull at the tempos a bit, sit in the hall and adjust for balances, tell politely ask the glock­en­spielist to use softer mallets, the pianist to use more pedal here and less there. Most of this is just stuff I forgot to put in the score anyway, which I then do when I get home, which makes life easier for the next people who perform the piece. There are perfor­mances tonight and tomorrow; in the meantime I am keeping fueled with Madcap Coffee while working on this new piano quintet. 

If you thought the whole “Made in America” movement was big in Brooklyn, you should expe­ri­ence Grand Rapids; there is an urgency to it here. I scoped out a local bike shop yester­day (as I usually do when visiting a new city, yes) and got into a conver­sa­tion with the owner about an unfa­mil­iar brand of frames; he sounded deeply apolo­getic as he explained that they were manu­fac­tured in Taiwan (“but by a Dutchman!”), even though the company was in Seattle. I wanted to comfort him! There are shops proudly devoted to American-made wares, like Wolver­ine boots and Filson bags, all with their requi­site back-stories on display; I hoped nobody could deduce the trai­tor­ous prove­nance of my raincoat (Uniqlo, naturally). 

Writing about music is hard; try it for a moment, see if you don’t get discour­aged! If you’d like to read an example of good music writing, look no further than Alex Ross’s article on the Franck Symphony in this week’s New Yorker (subscrip­tion required, unfor­tu­nately). It accom­plished what the best music writing can achieve: it made me want to listen to the music it was describ­ing, which in this case was a piece I’m pretty sure I can’t stand. It’s so easy to simply make fun of a piece like the Franck Symphony (and Alex does get a few jabs in there) but that’s also the easy way out—it’s much more diffi­cult to be generous, to listen with a truly open mind—and to convince your readers to do the same. 

(I still can’t do Franck though. I tried.)

Last week a bunch of us crowded into a couple of cars and headed up to Yonkers, where Ryan Streber main­tains the great Oktaven Audio. In addition to record­ing Rob Honstein’s Begin­nings (listen up!), Dave and I (both with pathet­i­cally leaking noses) recorded a nice clean version of Retro Music, my four-hands piece from last year. The whole thing comes together in a way that I don’t think the previous live record­ing quite captured; it makes sense to me, of all people, at long last. Here you go:

Timo Andres: Retro Music

recorded at Oktaven Studios, Yonkers, NY, Septem­ber 2012
perform­ers David Kaplan & Timo Andres, piano four-hands

I am sitting in my unsea­son­ably warm apart­ment awaiting the arrival of a new compo­si­tion student. Yes, wonder of wonders, I have a student! Does this mean I have to start follow­ing my own advice?

I’ve finally put up the first round of events for 2012–2013 so HEADS UP. As usual, more to come as details are finalized/I find out about them. 

As I settle into my new apart­ment I want to take a moment to recom­mend the services of Safeway Piano Movers of Kinnelon, New Jersey. They have moved my Bösendor­fer twice now, both times dealing with tricky spaces (lots of tight corners and stairs). They are good-natured and reason­ably priced and they are True American Heroes, so go ahead, give them a call: 973–283-0900.

It’s been a summer mostly of anxiety and changes, and I’m happy to see it out. I spent most of it working on what may be my most luxu­ri­ant, stable, comfort­ing piece—the title, in fact, is Comfort Food—not a conscious response to my circum­stances, I don’t think, but an inter­est­ing juxta­po­si­tion if you go by those sorts of biograph­i­cal details. The final score left the nest a few days ago, winging towards Milwau­kee, so it feels like a natural time to draw the season to a close. 

Comfort Food is partly a piece about another season: Thanks­giv­ing-time, when it will be premièred by Present Music and the Milwau­kee Choral Artists. There are holiday periods during which a certain type of person feels obliged to make lists, whether it’s “Things 2 B Thankful 4” or New Year’s reso­lu­tions or those peren­nial end-of-year critic’s “best of/worst of” lists. I can abide none of the afore­men­tioned so I made a list of comfort foods, collected haphaz­ardly from my friends and family as well as members of the chorus. I didn’t use the entire collec­tion, but here is how the text of the piece turned out: 

• Nutella
• buttered toast
• pastina
• pasta with peper­on­cino, garlic, and olive oil 
• kedgeree
• liver and onions 
• fish and chips the English way 
• ramen
• my mother’s meatloaf
• pancakes
• red wine
• chicken noodle soup
• matzoh ball soup
• red-cooked pork belly
• rye whiskey
• potatoes of almost any kind
• solitude
• walking
• cats
• quiet
• company
• a good chair
• my own bed
• “Sense and Sensi­bil­ity” with Emma Thompson
• take-out Chinese food on Christ­mas Eve
• the inex­press­ible comfort of feeling safe with a person
• Prokofiev seventh symphony

As you can see the text begins in the plod­dingly pedes­trian, grad­u­ally moves into depres­sants, and ends up some­where a bit metaphysical—a familiar evening trajec­tory. The penul­ti­mate line is from either George Eliot or somebody named Dinah Craik. The last line refers to some­thing I tweeted back in May—pedestrian indeed, but the original inspi­ra­tion for the piece nonetheless. 

I’m moving to a new apart­ment this week, out of tran­sient hipster G‑train-land and further into the vener­a­ble heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant (Bed Stuy for short). Another double bar of some kind, and also what feels like a tiny step further into adult­hood. I’ve never had my own domain that wasn’t shared with a roommate or signif­i­cant other, and I’m more excited about the impend­ing solitude than I would have imagined.

I meant to write about this weeks ago, but as so often happens, I got side­tracked because I was probably looking at a weird bug or some­thing. I went to this concert at Avery Fischer wherein John Adams conducted a super-orches­tra of students from Juil­liard and the Royal Academy of music. The program was: Respighi’s Feste Romane, Ravel’s G major piano concerto, and John’s new-ish symphony City Noir. I’m going to write about Respighi because I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned the man up here, and you all probably know how I feel about Ravel and Mr. Adams. 

There are certain pieces that I think should only be played by youths, and Feste Romane is at the top of the list (joining, let’s see here: The Planets, Academic Festival Overture, and most every Tchaikovsky symphony). I’m not even sure these pieces should be recorded; at least, I can’t imagine a situ­a­tion in which I would choose to listen to them. But sit me down in a concert hall in front of a hundred bristling teenagers or twenty-some­things and I’ll enjoy every minute. There’s some­thing I find incred­i­bly moving about watching & listen­ing to a young orches­tra (I sound like my mother here, shock). Perhaps I’m just project­ing my own (limited) expe­ri­ence of playing in orches­tras. It’s a defining expe­ri­ence, the first time you play one of these “hit” pieces. Sure, you’ll go on to play 4,000 more perfor­mances of Tchaik 6 but you’ll always remember the first time. It’s like watching 100 people lose their virgin­ity on stage! Always brings a tear to the eye. 

Feste Romane is a piece I’d heard only once before, and I’m in no hurry to hear it again (not sure my delicate eardrums could take it). It’s expe­ri­en­tial music, meant to be enjoyed in the moment and then forgot­ten, as tech­ni­cally assured as a Spiel­berg picture. There are all kinds of cine­matic baubles to catch your atten­tion along the way—the piece is a shoo-in for the ‘Best Visual Effects’ Oscar. The final episode feels like one of those over­whelm­ing chase sequences through a bustling market­place (bustling with stereo­types, that is): a snatch of balalaika in the left channel, and the next second we’re on to the marching band!—a kind of modernist pastiche with all that scary modernism drained away (the Holly­wood adap­ta­tion of Gruppen?). But despite all of my snobbish quibbles, I had 100% of a good time thanks to the enthu­si­asm and virtu­os­ity of these young­sters. The grown-ups at NY Phil or the BSO or even the fun-times LA Phil shouldn’t ever touch this stuff. 

Since it’s summer I’m solidly in composer-mode. Many of my colleagues have taken off for “Artist’s Colonies”. I’ve never quite under­stood the attrac­tion of such places. I think many of us were rather too deeply affected by reading about Mahler’s summer compos­ing huts, and subcon­sciously think to ourselves “I must have a hut”. If you’re a profes­sional artist I firmly believe that you should be able to work at home, or wherever else you happen to be, not have to go off to some special “artists only” place to be coddled. If you can’t work at home than you need to reeval­u­ate your living situ­a­tion, or get a studio, or something—it would make me too nervous for my produc­tiv­ity to rely on the whims of an admis­sions committee. 

The last true summer festival I went to was Tangle­wood, in 2006. There are a variety of huts on the premises but they are primar­ily used by adven­tur­ous teenaged couples from BUTI. I think Tangle­wood probably ruins other summer festi­vals for most people because it’s kind of the be-all, end-all. There­fore I am happy in my festival/colony of one, holed up in my air-condi­tioned apart­ment orches­trat­ing choral music, slowly learning some Adès ditties.

I’ve finally gotten around to posting a few things on my site. You can now listen to full record­ings of both Retro Music and Trade Winds, as well as a lovely new studio version of You broke it, you bought it.

Timo Andres: Trade Winds

recorded Zankel Hall at Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs, NY
perform­ers Ensemble ACJW

Timo Andres: Retro Music

recorded live at (le) Poisson Rouge, New York, NY, May 2012
perform­ers David Kaplan & Timo Andres, piano four-hands

Timo Andres: You broke it, you bought it

perform­ers The Living Earth Show: Travis Andrews, guitar; Andy Meyerson, percus­sion.

Just back from my London trip, enjoying a jet-lagged and cloud­less day. Every­body I met in London apol­o­gized for the gray weather there, though I don’t think any of them were at fault. I didn’t mind, even though I failed to find a proper mack­in­tosh. Today is devoted to those post-travel chores which seem extremely neces­sary; deliv­er­ing dry cleaning, facing the ball of black once-lettuce in the fridge.

Can anyone explain the follow­ing phenom­e­non: Until this morning, I hadn’t touched a piano since playing the final note of my Wigmore show last Friday, and now I sound fantas­tic. I just ran through Schu­man­n’s Gesänge der Frühe, a peren­nial favorite, and I think it may have been the best I’ve ever played it in my life. Now, I am sure that this is really not the case; it must be some sort of aural/perceptual illusion at work. But even so, I had some quite real inter­pre­ta­tional ideas about the piece, new details I hadn’t uncov­ered in the last 12 or so years I’ve played it. I suppose I’ve just proved true the pedes­trian advice that taking a break is some­times helpful. But I wonder how many profes­sional musi­cians make a point to take time off their instru­ments. Most of the ones I know seem too neurotic by half.

Lots of people told me that (the) Wigmore Hall (it’s got a paren­thet­i­cal pronoun like [le] Poisson Rouge) is a fantas­tic place to play, and I’m happy to report that it is. The expe­ri­ence is very old-world; there is nothing super­flu­ous. The hall is orna­mented but not over­bear­ingly so, and the stage is just about the perfect size for a concert grand and a body. The acoustic is perfect, which is to say you don’t notice it; the piano just sounds like the best possible version of itself. There was a nice-sized crowd of what looked to be mostly young people; appar­ently I scared most of the gray-haired ladies off (I love you too, gray-haired ladies! You’ll come around even­tu­ally). There are differ­ent ratios for things in London; for instance, I think Wigmore must have the largest for size-of-green room to size-of-hall. My hotel also had the largest size-of-shower-head to size-of-bathroom ratio of all time. I’d say about 20% of the bathroom was shower-head. Wigmore Hall also has a dread­fully polite coughing policy which, as far as I could tell, appears to work quite well.

Tried many inter­est­ing food­stuffs. Did not try the Brown Sauce. I’d say that I prefer Eccles cake over Eton mess, and kedgeree over every­thing. For a proper take on kedgeree, watch this video, then commit it to memory.

The follow­ing is an essay/program note I wrote for my Wigmore Hall program on June 8. It also applies to this Tues­day’s LPR show (there will be an extra-special surprise that night as well).

⁂

When I was set the task of coming up with an hour’s musical “self-portrait” I started to mentally cate­go­rize the rela­tion­ships that comprise my musical life. There’s the self-contained: writing some­thing to perform myself (which is how I began compos­ing, about 20 years ago); writing for perform­ers who aren’t me, which has its advan­tages and draw­backs; the reverse of that, when I perform someone else’s music—usually, but not always, that person being alive; then there’s a sea of conscious and uncon­scious influ­ences on my own writing—teachers and friends, critics, the constant barrage of music in everyday life; and finally the lines between all these things to an audience, either real or imagined. 

The six pieces I chose form a skeletal kind of connect-the-dots among these forces. I asked Ted Hearne to write me some­thing about a year ago. I’ve known Ted since graduate school, and we’ve gone on to become collab­o­ra­tors, confi­dantes, and Brooklyn neigh­bors. The five-movement Parlor Diplo­macy (I’ll play the first three) is by turns hilar­i­ous, combat­ive, and beau­ti­fully reverent; tropes from the Clas­si­cal canon are severed, chopped up, and recon­tex­tu­al­ized into some­thing new and strange, yet oddly familiar. In the first movement, that element is a banal five-one trill; in the second, it’s the falling arpeg­giated thirds from (not coïn­ci­den­tally!) Brahms’s B minor inter­mezzo. The third movement, perhaps the heart of the piece, is a painstak­ing Gradus ad Parnas­sum, which revels in the frag­men­tary beauty of learning. 

I took on related 19^th-century baggage in How can I live in your world of ideas?, the center­piece from my 2010 album Shy and Mighty. This piece, however, is more concerned with inte­grat­ing capital‑C Clas­si­cal Music into my own, 21^st-century world, and all the diffi­culty and satis­fac­tion that results from it. Conceived as a series of esca­lat­ing inter­rup­tions between two pianos, I subse­quently arranged it for solo performer. This demands a unique split-person­al­ity virtuosity. 

Ingram Marshall was one of my graduate school profes­sors, though our compo­si­tion lessons were as likely to take place hunting for mush­rooms in the nearby woods as at the piano. Authen­tic Presence is one of Ingram’s few purely acoustic pieces. The elec­tronic-music tools of delay, reverb, and sampling are integral to his compos­ing style, taking their place along­side 1970s Cali­for­nia mini­mal­ism, Balinese and Javanese harmonies, and early American hymns in his musical nature preserve. Hazy memories of the civil rights protest song “We Shall Overcome” cycle through the dramatic episodes of Authen­tic Presence; the piece has a pleas­antly un-rigorous formal logic to it, concerned perhaps with follow­ing a train of thought rather than any set musical program. 

During a concert year or so ago, I had the spur-of-the-moment idea to follow Authen­tic Presence directly with the first inter­mezzo of Brahms’s op. 119. It was a game of harmonic free-asso­ci­a­tion more than anything (the piece begins with the same major-seventh chord Ingram’s ends on). But I liked the effect so much that I decided to retain the pairing. It’s often said that the late piano pieces are like super-concen­trated versions of Brahms’s symphonies and sonatas, and op. 119 no. 1 might be the most intensely distilled of the lot. The skeleton is decep­tively traditional—a simple A‑B-A form made up of regular eight-bar segments. But the music constantly subverts these expec­ta­tions, playing little rhythmic and contra­pun­tal games, creating chains of ever-longer nested phrases. There’s so much subterfuge going on that it allows a deli­cious inter­pre­ta­tional freedom: one can’t possibly do justice to every element in a single perfor­mance, but any choice will work out all right. It ends in one of those trade­mark Brahm­sian twilights, summing up far more than the piece’s three minutes could possibly contain.

Schu­man­n’s work is at times deni­grated (quite unfairly, I think) because of the forms he chose to work in—suites of instru­men­tal or vocal minia­tures. He strug­gled with larger genres, and his sonatas, quartets, and symphonies are routinely ignored by musi­cians and audi­ences. They lack the effort­less, endless melodic flights of Schubert and the archi­tec­tural mass and stolid­ity of Beethoven or Brahms. 

But Schu­man­n’s strength—the ability to conceive a wild array of seem­ingly disparate elements within a frag­men­tary struc­ture and create a coherent musical statement—is just as valuable, and perhaps rarer. In the piano suite Kreis­le­ri­ana, he nests recur­ring material in tele­scopic move­ments, alter­nat­ing between serene and stormy. A couple of summers ago I devel­oped a severe obses­sion with this piece, which led to the creation of a “compan­ion” to play along­side it. I wanted to create a similar kind of form, at first appear­ing to be a series of minia­tures, but from a bird’s eye view reveal­ing a coherent whole. The title I chose—It takes a long time to become a good composer—is a tongue-in-cheek refer­ence to the idea that musical duration equals compo­si­tional achieve­ment (it’s also some­thing my roommate once said, which was too good not to write down). 

To close, I’ll play one of the most char­ac­ter­is­ti­cally Schu­mann­ian minia­tures: Vogel als Prophet (Bird as Prophet) from the set of nine Wald­szenen, which focus on the natural world (a fantas­tic and not alto­gether reality-based one, for sure). Bird as Prophet surrounds a tiny, six-bar chorale (the “prophecy”?) with a gnomic swirl of arpeg­gios, each ending in an upward inflec­tion. This music never really resolves; rather it contin­u­ally ques­tions what came before it—“What now? And what then?” The melody consists mainly of leading tones (the “wrong” notes which border the actual harmonies); even as the figu­ra­tion of the music is fanciful, the affect is baleful, needling. The closing section is iden­ti­cal to the first; the bird is revealed a false prophet, and the piece is left as a series of unan­swered questions.

I impro­vised such a good dish today that I feel compelled to note it down here so that I don’t forget it. I suppose one could classify it as a form of potato salad.

Put a bunch of small potatoes in a cast iron skillet with some salt & pepper, garlic cloves, and shallots. Coat the whole thing with olive oil (or schmaltz, if you have; I have) and roast for 25 or 30 minutes in a 400 degree oven. Mean­while, boil a couple of eggs, medium-style (but you would never over-boil them). While these things happen make a salad of escarole (or some other hearty leaf) and parsley. Chop up and add a few gherkins or corni­chons. Add the eggs, quar­tered. Dress the whole thing lightly with olive oil and light-colored vinegar. When the potatoes are ready, add them directly to the salad, hot; they wilt the greens and bring about a nice warm coales­cence. I housed this thing so fast I don’t even have any pictures to show you.