The program was really interesting: a piece by Nathan Davis, the percussionist for ICE, for triangles + MSP; a piece by local Long Island composer Greg Pfeiffer for narrator, oboe, and harpsichord; a piece by Kaija Saariaho, Près, for cello and electronics, and finally, mine.

The Davis and the Saariaho demonstrate a kind of sound world that, I totally appreciate and love, but for the life of me, I just can’t seem to compose.  Here’s a performance of the Davis work, Diving Bell:

I absolutely love the different plays and sounds that you can get from just a triangle and a MAX patch.  But hey, that’s what MAX is good at.  Now let’s take a look at the Saariaho, with a visualization courtesy of Tim Vallier:

Both of these pieces occupy a sound world that is at once poetic, still, and achingly beautiful.  I felt absolutely silly putting piece at the end of a program containing these pieces.  Until I have a recording of my piece, you’ll have to settle for listening to a (fairly accurate) mockup here:

As you can hear, it’s a lot different.

And I don’t mind sounding different.

I spent years upset that my old composition teachers wouldn’t let me write music that was what I really wanted to be writing.  I felt (and still feel) that a lot of new music being written has a lot of forced self-importance.  You can usually tell by its title whether this piece is meant to be really important: something like Transfigurations of the Inner Sanctum, or something like that.  If there’s an SAT word in your title, than it’s obviously an important piece!  I struggled for years to keep from creating this sort of generic, burnt-on-the-outside-cold-on-the-inside of music.

When I got to where I am now, I was able to let loose, and my music is a lot more “fun” for me to compose, and doesn’t really take itself so seriously.  I’ve had a lot more freedom to explore what I want my language to be (as opposed to “what I want my language to be if I want to get into a good grad school…you do want to get into a good grad school, don’t you?“).  What I’ve found is that, just like for everyone, I bet, it’s very easy to be cynical and ironic.  Real emotions, however, are hard as hell to compose!

I feel like I’m Betsey Johnson, who works with a mostly neon color palate in her designs.  I don’t know if she even has anything to color her sketches in except for highlighters!

But what if Betsey Johnson had to design a dress for an inaugural ball, or a funeral or something?  I’ve started working with materials that are great for more fun stuff, but I’m concerned that the language I’m using can’t create something poetic, still, and achingly beautiful, like the Davis or the Saariaho.

Some (including my current prof) simply say, “Then just change your language.  What’s the big deal?” And I know that it isn’t a big deal, I guess, but I want to think that the techniques that I use can be universally applied.  I’m having a hard time accepting that every piece can’t express everything, and that some pieces aren’t meant to express some things.

I hope that, by the time I want to say something without winking, shrugging, or pointing to something else, I can simply stand and deliver.  Poetically, still, and aghingly beautifully.

Anyways, here’s the first two minutes and change of the piece (the score is in C):

The score is sitting in an iframe, so while page formatting prevents you from leafing through it readily (stupid tabloid score!), you can scroll around and get a look.

You can have a listen to the electronic mockup here:

I named the piece Slough, a term for rubbing layers of skin off (I only later found out about the other meaning, of a bog or an alkaline pond…which is kinda cool, I guess).  I chose the title because of the reedy, gruff sounds that the saxophones (especially the bari!) make.  I like that it has a weird, off-kilter dance quality to it.  I’m interested to see where this thing goes.

As usual, I could always use some feedback by anybody willing to give it!  Leave some comments below!

To be more precise, he thinks it’s there, but artists (and composers) don’t want to talk about it.  It’s a valid question, but I’m not sure I like why he’s asking.  I do think that the man has a point about artists being coy to avoid being censored by people on the lookout for the decay of whatever moral fabric of something something society Jesus something.  On the other side of that, though, there is no better publicity than a little scandal, when you can upset the more uptight members of a society, the more easygoing members will check it out just to see what the fuss is all about.

I also think that another reason that artists keep their mouths shut is that they have to work in a capitalist society.  If I have some artistic “truth” or “meaning” to impart that nobody wants to pay for, I starve.  It is much easier to challenge the world like you want me to, Richard, if I get paid even if you don’t like what I have to say.

Also, since when did the struggle with a piece become completely invalid?!  Meaning in art is not something that the artist is always consciously aware of.  It’s not like the answer to your big questions are written on the back of the painting; you can’t really get meaning right or wrong (unless you live in a society where all you do is memorize and regurgitate information about art, rather than try to interpret for yourself).  You can’t simply walk up to artists and say, “Meaning, please!”  If you can’t derive any meaning for yourself from a piece, like it seems that you have trouble doing, what makes you think that some answer from the artist is going to make you feel any better?

The problem with Richard’s approach is that he wants art to function like the Internet, where if he wants to learn about a piece, he can simply Wikipedia it.

Take a look at the score here:

You can listen to the Finale Mockup of it here:

I would LOVE some feedback if you have any.  Please feel free to comment below!

The whole Digital Embrace (the concert’s title) was an incredible event.  David Vickerman, the conductor/organizer, really put himself out there to make this happen.  There were two days worth of activities (at least for me).  Day One was dress rehearsal day.  I had never been to Peabody before, and man was I impressed when I got there.  It has to be one of the most beautiful music schools I’ve ever laid eyes on; there were all sorts of marble statues, staircases, and all sorts of Hogwarts-esque stuff all over.  I’ve put some pictures below: take a look!

This was also the first concert that I had absolutely nothing to do with in terms of preparation.  My job was to come in, say my piece, wave when my piece was done, and go home.  It was a strange feeling, but I definitely felt like a “real” composer during the whole process.

I got to meet to really awesome composers (and nice guys, to boot!): Christopher Stark and Stephen Bryant.  Christopher and I shared a room, and he took me out drinking, where I may or may not have confessed my eternal jealousy toward one of his outstanding colleagues (alright, I definitely may have…).

The musicians at Peabody did an incredible job, and I wish I could have thanked each one personally!  The experience of writing for large ensembles is completely addictive; after this, I’m chomping at the bit to write another one!  I’m hoping another opportunity comes soon.

Take a listen to TWEAK here:  

For the uninitiated, the process of applying to competitions goes a little something like this:

1. You find out about the competition from some board, a friend, colleague, frenemy, or by reading some random poster on the wall of your music building.  It will usually give you a submission date some six months away.  You will take down the info, and put it in your calendar.  You will then forget about the competition until about three days before it is due, when you see the random entry and wonder what the hell was that you scribbled in.
2. Finally figuring out what you scribbled in, you will then proceed to comb through your work to see if you have any music that could qualify you to enter the competition.  Nine times out of ten, you don’t.  Three times out of ten, you give serious thought to composing something in those three days you have until the submission date.  You find whatever meets the demands of the competition most closely.
3. Once you’ve chosen the piece (or pieces) that you’re going to submit, you have to give your score a minor face lift, fixing glaring notation errors (No score on earth is without notation errors; look hard enough, and you’ll find them, just like allllll the germs multiplying on your skin, invisibly!  Quick, clean them!  Clean them!), and removing anything that might identify yourself as the composer.
4. This is generally the time where you start to look at the formatting requirements of the competition.  This is where competitions eliminate 85% of their entrants.  If your score is on tabloid, TOO BAD!  It has to be on letter.  Heartfelt dedication to the performers?  SCRAP IT.  Once you rid the score of your stink, your job is to fill in random information about the piece that usually never makes it onto the score to begin with.  How long is this piece?  Put that right under the title, but don’t use double-space.  Tell the percussionists every single mallet they’ll want to consider (and then disregard), along with what brand of drum head you prefer.  If you don’t comply with these, your score won’t get looked at.
5. You’re going to want to include something to listen to.  Most of the time, this piece that you’re submitting has never been performed, so you’re forced to tuck your tail between your legs and beg the gods of Garritan Performance Orchestra to bleep and blorp through your score.  You’ll end up putting something on the recording reading, “Electronic mock-up: I swear to God it sounds better on real instruments, and those are supposed to be glissandi in measure 47!  Oh, and percussion doesn’t play back.”
6. Gather all these materials together, and proceed to start putting them in a complicated series of sealed envelopes, nested in one another.  It helps if you have a unicorn to lick these envelopes.  The judges can tell.
7. Write a check for $35.  Just do it.  These things cost money, you know.  It’s probably to pay off  some Composer Mafia.
8. Put this sucker in the mail.  Remember to overnight it, because wherever you live, the competition is taking place on the opposite side of the country.
9. Wait.

Hey, it’s me, Jason.  I hadn’t heard from you in a while so…I just wanted to see what you were up to.  I didn’t know if you had lost my number or anything.  So…I had a really great time with you the other night…so, um…I was wondering if I can see you again sometime?  Uh…yeah, gimme a call.  My number hasn’t changed or anything…yeah, just wondering if you’re around.

Right Here All Over (Occupy Wall St.) from Alex Mallis on Vimeo.

Those who know me know that I abhor politics, which might be one of the reasons that I haven’t been able to get my mind off of the subject (I really oughta be composing right now, but this seems to be all I can think about at the moment).  #OWS has been criticized for not being focused on a single issue, and for not aligning itself politically.  I have always found traditional politics to be a very sophisticated form of distraction for people: we’re so busy reading, watching, and listening to whatever political crisis is being pumped through the airwaves that we fail to see that the sides look eerily alike, and that their messages are generic enough to be repeated over and over without any real progress for one side or the other.  Rich people are the voices of both parties.  What’s interesting to see is that this movement is largely (although not totally) about separations in socioeconomic status.

As a classical musician, issues of class weigh heavily on me.  Classical music has always been associated with the wealthy, or at least with those of the uppermost class.  It had always been thought of as “intelligent” music, and not intended for “regular people.”  There has always been a popular music, in various forms, throughout the years, designed to be relatable/palatable  to the unwashed masses.

Anecdotally, I like to say that during the 1960s, popular music started to become, for lack of a better term, elevated (I also like to say that The Beatles ruined classical music, but that’s only when I’m feeling cynical).  Suddenly, the masses created meaningful music for themselves, which made for a dodgy situation for classical music.  Classical music, which had always been archaic, no longer had a premium on intelligence.  And classical music has struggled to find its position in the world ever since.

What strikes me as interesting that we think of the vast majority of popular music as corporate, meaning that it has “sold out,” or that it is designed to reap profit from the aforementioned unwashed masses.  It isn’t designed to be meaningful, it’s designed to fill the radio silence in between ads.  It keeps people shaking their ass in clubs, buying drinks, buying CDs, and it’s very good at its job.  I know hundreds of classical musicians who, although being surrounded with the “smartest” of music, still can’t resist the urge to dance to Ke$ha.  It’s a contradiction that many don’t think much about.

When I look at classical music being composed today, it’s music that is very far from corporate music.  It is small-batch, localized, and usually without a slick veneer of marketing.  Ironically, the classical composer working today resembles the protesters in Zuccotti Park much more than any music more widely available (and, ironically, much more than some of the music that they may be listening to during the breaks in protest).  As a group, we’re unfocused, apolitical (except those who aren’t!), and unable to be pigeonholed, packaged, marketed, or sold.  In this way, I feel a certain kind of solidarity with the people in the park, fighting the tendency toward homogeneity, and playing toward the sound byte, and the lowest common denominator.

What we need is a way to advocate for ourselves as a group, to show these people out there that we are making music that is like them; unique, complex, and not simply a repetition of our past incarnations.  In an unlikely twist, classical music has the potential and opportunity to be more relevant than it has been in at least a century.

If that doesn’t work, try this link.

And here’s the score for the bass clarinet:

I could really (really REALLY) use some feedback.  Let me know what you think!

As followers of my Twitter have heard me say, the piece is a mix of Hindustani Raga and Country Western song.  Which is funny, not so much because of the odd pairing, but because I’m the one doing the pairing.  My composition prof pointed out that both of these forms require a kind of patience that I don’t exhibit in my everyday life (I believe he called it “Yankee Impatience”).  I have found myself trying to slow down for this piece, which has been really really tough!  What’s nice about this piece (and with working with said composition prof, in general) is that I’m being forced to closely examine my thought process as I compose.

I like working with this guy.  We don’t agree on a lot of ideas; I have always made it a point to take lessons from composers whom I disagree with; I don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for pats on the back and gold stars.  I want someone who will see the perceived flat sides of my music that I can’t see.  He can usually say one thing in the start of the lesson that completely shifts the way I thought of whatever I’m working on.  It’s a good feeling, in its own frustrating way.  It’s what learning feels like, and it keeps me hungry.

My “Yankee Impatience” has me frustrated lately, particularly with the advancement of my career, overall.  Now that I’m firmly entrenched in the process of getting my PhD, I’m trying to turn my focus towards the next step in the process.  From here, it gets murky.  I’ve put up a website, I’ve made myself accessible via all sorts of social media, I blog every now and then.  This makes me just like the hundreds of other composers I’ve encountered on Twitter and Facebook.  All of us have found our way into the same river, and now we’re just swimming in circles.  At first, it was exciting!  We were all busy introducing ourselves, handing out business cards, following one another.  We had so much to do.  But now, it feels like we’re in a rut.  Where are all the people looking for a composer to take a chance on?  The more I look around, the more I see that people around me are all waiting for discovery, not waiting to discover.  Suddenly, this looks just as frustrating as not being known at all.  The only difference is that now all the unknowns know each other.  We all apply to the same festivals and competitions, chase the same leads, and even the winners and the chosen end up back in the same ol’ river, swimming with the rest of us.

I have been told that, after a certain amount of preparation, that all that’s left is luck.  That’s the part that kills me: there’s nothing I can do but wait and look appealing.  If I was patient, that might be the easy part, but…

“The advice I like to give young artists, or really anybody who’ll listen to me, is not to wait around for inspiration. Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightning to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself. Things occur to you. If you’re sitting around trying to dream up a great art idea, you can sit there a long time before anything happens. But if you just get to work, something will occur to you and something else will occur to you and something else that you reject will push you in another direction. Inspiration is absolutely unnecessary and somehow deceptive. You feel like you need this great idea before you can get down to work, and I find that’s almost never the case.”
— Chuck Close