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CONTEMPORARY MUSIC REVIEW
A Composer's Incomplete Portrait April 15, 2002
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By Michael Fiday
There was an obvious misnomer inherent in the Olly Wilson "Retrospective"
concert given by the Berkeley Contemporary Music Players at UC Berkeley's Hertz Hall this past Monday, celebrating the music of Cal's senior-most professor of composition. Of the four works on the program, three were composed during a 3-year period in the mid-70's while
the most recent was completed in 1988. Wilson's own success is partially to
blame. Since the 80's he has enjoyed a string of commissions from many of
the country's top orchestras (New York, Boston, Cleveland and San Francisco
among them), shifting his focus from the solo, electronic and chamber works
represented on this program towards the broader vistas of the orchestral
palette. The portrait that took shape as the evening wore on was that of a
consummate craftsman struggling to assert his identity within the confines
of an impersonal aesthetic, with a brief glimpse of what it sounded like to
break free.
The first two works on the program, Echoes for clarinet and 2-channel tape (1974) and Trio for violin, cello and piano (1977), are both indicative of
the academic style of composition still in vogue in the mid-70's. This is a style
that sought a level of sound abstraction through disjunct melodic lines,
avoidance of tonal connotation, and general lack of rhythmic pulse.
From the standpoint of our digital age, there is something almost quaint and
nostalgic about the sound of Echoes, its slightly distorted blips, squiggles
and drones reminiscent of the bad ol' days of reel-to-reel tape. More
than a mere conveyor-belt of sounds, however, Wilson imbues the work with an
obvious dramatic shape and sense of cohesiveness. (A single pitch that
resurfaces throughout the course of the work, undergoing various coloristic
shifts between clarinet and tape, served as one such unifying feature.)
The work was played expertly by clarinetist Peter Josheff, who produced some
lovely low-register tremolos only possible by balancing the instrument on
his knee.
The Piano Trio from 1977 consists of a long central movement bookended by a scherzando-ish fragment. The opening and closing fragment skittered in a gossamer fashion while the centerpiece explored a broader range of expression, beginning slow and static but gaining in rhythmic propulsion as it unfolded. A climactic unison tremolo passage in the strings was especially striking. The work received a taut and passionate reading by violinist Anna Presler, cellist Leighton Fong, and pianist Michael Orland. In addition to their other duties, they were called upon at various points to hum sustained pitches and make swishing noises. Since both Echoes and Trio speak in the abstract language of their time, the burden is on the composer to render the musical gestures with absolute clarity in order to make their poetic thrust obvious. This, Wilson handles with aplomb. Still there is the sense for this listener that he is succeeding in spite of, not on account of, the musical grammar he employs. What's missing is a personal voice, maybe through no fault of Wilson's own, but owing to a dated, moribund aesthetic that causes the music of even the most striking composers to blend into an undifferentiated wall of gray. Despite its being composed during the same era, that certainly cannot be said of Sometimes for tenor and electronic tape (1976). This is largely due to its use of borrowed material, the African-American spiritual "Sometimes I feel Like a Motherless Child," and its attendant emotional subject, the expression of desolation, hopelessness and transcendence associated with the traditional spiritual. The work involves an obvious theatrical element, with tenor William Brown entering stage-right during a backdrop of electronically modified voice sounds that become more prominent as he traverses cross-stage. Then, as he exits stage-left, his voice and the tape sounds die away into nothingness. The role between tape and singer continously shifts, culminating in a gut-wrenching vocal cadenza at center stage.
Olly Wilson denies the listener any comfortable, beginning-to-end statement of the original spiritual. This is key to the unnerving effect of Sometimes. Though continously fragmented and disfigured, text and tune remain recognizable. Brown's singing was extroverted but often intentionally devoid of warmth or vibrato. Even Brown's stage presence — microphone in one hand, hunched over the score — gave the uneasy feeling that everything was constrained, under the thumb of some oppressive force, screaming to be given free reign. The end result was a haunting and disquieting work which left the audience gasping, the abstract and the concrete working together to produce a volatile substance. Sometimes was initially inspired by and composed for William Brown. He has been performing it for some 25 years now and sang the exceedingly difficult and taxing work as if he owned it. Composed in 1988 , the evening's most "recent" offering, A City Called Heaven, reflects Wilson's increasing interest in filtering "the different genres of African American music" through his own style. Each of the work's three movements is devoted to one such genre: blues, spiritual and boogie-woogie, respectively. The degree to which these influences are obvious varies from movement to movement, with the "blues riff" used in the first movement being the most explicit. This riff begins with a tenacious statement of major seconds which gradually branch outward and gain momentum. There is an element of swing, first surfacing in momentary patches then let loose towards the end. Clearly, such passages were not penned by a pretender: Mr. Wilson, who played jazz piano in combos during his early days in St. Louis, knew how to make it swing, as did the 8-piece ensemble on the stage Monday. In the lovely slow second movement, based upon the spiritual of the work's title, Wilson seems to find an emotional connection not present in some of his work in the 70's. Though not as up-front as the previous movement's riff, the spiritual tune is in evidence, first appearing in a hushed statement in the viola, framed by diverse countermelodies and strident harmonizations. The music increases in warmth and passion, culminating in a Mahlerian climax which dives to the lower registers.
Though I would liked to have heard the boogie-woogie influence more to the forefront in the final movement (it may be in there, but I couldn't hear it), A City Called Heaven nevertheless succeeds marvelously in providing Wilson the opportunity to make a personal connection in his music via the music that he loves. The performance was again excellent, by turns tight, lyrical and aggressive, featuring some explosive percussion playing by Tim Dent and Russell Breenberg and luscious low-register flute work by Matthew Krejci. The immediate standing ovation showed the audience members' sense of indebtedness to Olly Wilson for his 32 years of creative service to the UC/Berkeley community. The evening's "retrospective" told only part of the story. Those familiar with his later work know how to fill in the blanks. As for the rest of us, it leaves us wanting more, which, in the end, is not such a bad thing. (Michael Fiday is a composer, currently residing in Oakland. His "Automotive Passacaglia" was performed last season by the Oakland East Bay Symphony, and he is currently at work on a song for New York's Sequitur Ensemble.) ©2002 Michael Fiday, all rights reserved |