Some
years back the Sydney Opera House advertised a forthcoming concert simply as
'The Philip Glass Ensemble'. Being 'in the know' and not wanting to miss an
opportunity to see one of my favourite composers and performers live on stage,
I snapped up my ticket and eagerly awaited the day. Come the night, after
making my way to the Opera House, milling about in the foyer, shuffling up the
stairs under the grand concrete sails and finally taking my seat in the centre
of the concert hall, I took the opportunity (as many do) to look around at what
I initially assumed to be my fellow enthusiasts, only to be somewhat surprised
at the apparent diversity of the make-up of the crowd. Certainly many music
genres appeal to a wide cross-section of the community - but I was a little
suprised at the number of seemingly conservative elderly couples in attendance.
I formulated a theory (later borne out by a significant reduction in audience
numbers after intermission) that these were people unfamiliar with Philip
Glass, who had purchased tickets (or perhaps were season ticket holders) based
on the strength of the word 'ensemble' and its conotations of some small
orchestral instrument group playing popular classics. Nor was this assumption
necessarily contradicted by the appearance of the stage - a formal arrangement
of some high music stands, a keyboard of some description, an air of order and
restraint. Even the entry of the musicians did little to dismiss such notions
as they were, all four, similarly attired in traditional black and white with
neat ties as they took their bow of acknowledgement of the applause from the
auditorium and sat with quiet solemnity at their respective stations.
The
house lights dimmed, the audience hushed, a brief anticipatory pause elapsed -
and then, like some apocolyptic onslaught, this vast, dense wall of greatly
amplified sound rushed from the speakers, engulfing the audience as it advanced
at speed across the ranked seats in a giant wave that crashed against the rear
wall of the hall, almost threatening to blast it from the foundations and send
it crashing into the waters of Sydney Harbour beyond. My sigh of contentment
and sly smile of joy as I slowly slid down into my seat, letting my eyelids
drift closed as the music filtered through every fibre of my being was
countered only by the sharp intakes of breath by the mature couple to my
immediate right, who seemed to tense every muscle in their bodies in inverse
proportion to my own relaxation.
To
be honest, I forget exactly which piece of music the concert commenced with,
but in my recollection I like to think it was one of the more dynamic passages
from his soundtrack for the wonderful film by Godfrey Reggio, 'Koyaanisqatsi'
(the first of a trilogy for which Glass contributed the music and perhaps my
favourite film of all time). What I most recall are both my sheer pleasure in
immersing myself in the rushing, rolling, pulsating rhythms, melodies and
syncopations of the piece, and my surprise (and delight) that my immediate
neighbours, after their initial shock, settled into this new musical experience
and were not among those that abandoned the building at the first opportunity.
I
consider myself to have a reasonably broad musical taste, ranging from some of
the better known popular classics, through the greats of the early R&B days
and 1960s rock and roll. I was not a big fan of disco come the seventies but
certainly attended my fair share of early electronica, new wave and punk (or
what passed for punk at that time in the Sydney pub and club scene). In my
early twenties I had a disposable income that saw me buying one or two albums
every week - often based on little more than the sleeve artwork and a quick
listen to a couple of tracks picked at random in the store. In this way I
discovered (among many, many other fine recording artists) the likes of XTC,
Ultravox, OMD, Grace Jones, Gary Numan, Kraftwerk and other exponents of the
pared back sound and unique soundscapes possible with new musical technologies.
A friend one night challenged me to stay awake through the entirety of Brian
Eno's first Ambient album 'Music for Airports' and a whole new world of aural possibility
started to open in my head. I still remember where I was sitting, listening to
my work radio (tuned to Sydney's Triple J - as it always was) when I heard for
the very first time Laurie Anderson's 'O Superman' - I was astonished,
convinced I'd head the future of music.
My
partner (not yet met in those distant days) was deeply entrenched in the local
Sydney pub-band culture, and to this day, still an avid JJJ listener, keeps me
abreast of the contemporary music scene, which I would otherwise miss in my
almost single-minded preoccupation with my small collection of favourites. Thus
the family collection has the entire suite of JJJ Hottest 100 compilations and
a diverse range of contemporary pop/rock the likes of Muse, Eminem, Gotye, Daft
Punk, Birds of Tokyo, Simian Mobile Disco, Yuksek, etc. Plus I'm a sucker for
any truly astounding voice, so I love my small horde of Bjork, Jeff Buckley, Sigur
Ros, Regina Spektor, Florence and the Machine, Katie Noonan, Sarah Blasko, et
al.
But,
despite all that, I keep returning to my handful of favourites - Philip Glass,
Brian Eno, Michael Nyman, Eric Satie, JS Bach ... Their compositions share something
that I respond to - be they big, bold, brash, dense, cacophonies that wash over
you or small, quiet and simple melodic threads that weave their way through
your mind and heart - they all have the power to soothe. Srangely, even those
building crescendos of rushing sound that accompany the destructive footage in
Koyaanisqatsi actually have a calming influence on me. Is it simply the freedom
they give you to become so totally absorbed in their sounds that lets you
relegate other concerns to the rearmost sections of your mind? I'm not a big
fan of music simply filling the background - I feel if it's playing I should
listen. Indeed I get annoyed with myself if I become preoccupied with another
task and fail to hear favourite passages through inattention. So much do I
enjoy actively listening to music that I've always been a little disappointed
that no-one other than Brian Eno (to my knowledge - which is admittedly quite
scant) has truly explored the region of music deliberately composed for playing
at almost sub-audible levels. His ‘Discreet Music’ is a favourite still with
its insistence that you tun the volume way down – and really pay attention.
Likewise, one of my true musical delights is the experience, only occasionally
happened upon, of being somehwere (preferably outdoors) and hearing, oh so
faintly, a gentle whisper of sound emanating from some nearby performance. Just
light, drifting snatches of gentle melodies, wending across the landscape to my
ear - painting pictures in my head of the event for which they are properly
intended but from which I have stolen some pleasure for myself.
And,
if I might be permitted a little hypocrisy (when I repeatedly advocate being
fully present in the reality of the moment) my latest guilty pleasure, one that
I seemingly share with an ever growing majority of my fellow beings since the
first introduction of the Sony Walkman compact cassette player all those years
ago, is to 'plug myself in' to my iPad with a suitably moody piece playing
through my ear buds (perhaps Philip Glass's 'Mad Rush') as I wander through the
city streets between bus-stop and office. I find such moments can transform my
experience of 'now' from a simple journey through the sights, sounds and
smells, hustle and bustle of early morning commuter crowds and angular
modernist structures, to an almost cinematic experience wherein I deliberately
bring my attention to a considered focus on compositions of forms and light and
textures and motion - creating the 'movie' for which I already have the
soundtrack cascading through my conciousness. I'm genuinely not sure if this is
an escape from the now or a heightened perception of, and presence within it?
I
sometimes promise myself that one day I'll bring a video camera along with me and
capture these moments to share with others, creating mini sound and vision
compilations of simplicity and beauty and quietude. But to do so would simply
dilute their worth by removing them from their prime strength - being there to
experience the moment in person. If you don't already do similarly yourself, I
highly recommend it!
