A surprising document appeared in my inbox a few days ago: a copy of a letter I wrote in 2000 to my manager Monica Felkel at Young Concert Artists. Writing just after graduating from Juilliard, I alluded to meeting “Brad, who is number 2 at Santa Fe Opera and currently in charge of new productions, commissions, etc … he requested some music and materials.”
Over the seventeen years since then, that seed became a tree that, just a few weeks ago, bore fruit with the premiere of The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs. Many visits to this wonderful opera house ensued, initially to see world premieres but eventually to see just about anything. Jobs may appear to be a first theatrical endeavor by a symphonic composer and DJ, but in fact it is the result of many years of hard work and false starts. Here are some thoughts about the process of bringing this piece to life over the past month.
First of all, many people do not realize how long I have dreamed of an opera premiere. My career has appeared to focus on electro-acoustic symphonic works, which are highly informed by my work as DJ (which also has impacted my role as a curator with institutions from the Chicago Symphony to the Kennedy Center). But I’ve always fixated with special passion on opera, the only artform to unify so much theatrical media simultaneously. And as the narrative nature of my symphonic work indicates, I’ve always been interested in telling new, wild stories with music.
Several embryonic works led to this moment, from a medieval mystery play produced at Juilliard to an opera about a California writer spiraling into personal crisis workshopped in Aspen. (That latter work was presented to Brad about ten years ago; the polite response was I think you’ll have something else.) Those experiences taught me some important lessons: first of all, find a resonant topic; and then, find a world-class librettist.
Mark Campbell took on the challenge I laid out to him with an opera about Steve Jobs, which he had some initial ambivalence about. But he quickly fell in love with the complex, duel protagonist-and-antagonist role of Steve Jobs, and then (just as importantly) with the soulful figure of Laurene Jobs and the mystical character of Kobun, the Buddhist spiritual advisor to Jobs. Mark’s libretto is a master of new storytelling, with a non-linear form tethered by rock-solid dramatic themes.
During the premiere process, Mark and I became something of an old married couple, working out issues behind closed doors and then going to the creative team as a solid unit. After years of this opera living in our heads, it started to come to life in staging rehearsals run by gifted director Kevin Newbury. Whenever I had a question about a particular piece of staging or direction, I’d whisper into Mark’s ear for a quick consultation. Does Jobs really need to wear a single black turtleneck throughout the show? Is it clear when this scene takes place? Is Laurene too static during the fiery argument scene? Mark and I would quietly work out our issues and then, as a unit, take our concerns to the team. I never wanted any daylight between me and Mark during rehearsals; there’s simply too much going on to have competing opinions between librettist and composer.
As we got into the dress rehearsals, Santa Fe Opera constructed a special ladder that I could ascend from the pit, where I am stationed with my electronic gear, so I could check balance in the hall and watch staging unfold. (SFO has a unique moat that runs between pit and audience – a kind of “fourth wall” stream – and I felt like I was passing through a theatrical portal every time I went over it.) Many times I would run out and have a quick chat with Mark and Kevin, giving feedback from fresh eyes.
Kevin Newbury was the perfect director to bring this piece to life. He is a master at assembling a strong design team. Due to the subject matter of this show, we needed a dazzling, high-tech production that would take as through time and space in a unique way. He brought in production designer Vita Tzykun, who created a mesmerizing series of lighted panels that glide around the stage, along with lighting designer Japhy Weideman and projectionist Ben Pearcy. I learned a great deal watching these four people work at each tech rehearsal, which in Santa Fe occur in the wee hours of the night. Lighting storms would play out in the desert behind the stage while, onstage, the magic of stagecraft would unfold.
The biggest question for me was about pacing and clarity. Could I unfurl ninety minutes of drama in an elegantly executed arc? Would the most important elements be perceived amidst all the glorious detail of orchestration, lighting, and theater?
In symphonic premieres, sometimes the sensation of oversaturation settles upon me. In your head or in the safety of your studio, a particular melody or sonority might be the musical focus; but amidst the swirling of eighty other instruments, ideas can get lost. Carefully composing clear, cravable ideas that are transparently orchestrated is the obvious solution, but you have to take risks in order to continue to develop as an artist. Risk-taking means that some things might not work and need adjusting. In an opera, the listener is buried by so much information – music, words, staging – that oversaturation is one of the greatest risks.
There were many, many adjustments made to the orchestration and electronics in the rehearsal process. Creating little windows of silence around specific words was one solution; another was to omit unnecessary over-doubling of the voice; and still another was to whittle-down the volume of accompaniment. The principal singers were especially helpful on this front. Sasha Cooke, our star mezzo-soprano, had just premiered my Passage at the Kennedy Center, so we had a very efficient process. The amazing Ed Parks was a great collaborator, and I made quite a lot of adjustments to Steve Jobs’ big “vision aria” so that the aria would fit him like a glove. I found ways to have the orchestra appear and disappear rapidly around his soaring lines.
There have been many other crucial players in this premiere. Maestro Michael Christie provided crucial suggestions from the beginning. From suggesting vocal space around certain words or balance adjustments within the orchestra, Michael has become a true partner. My music distributor Noah Luna provided key on-the-ground help with orchestral parts. Sound designer Rick Jacobson successfully juggled two dozen mic’s, three guitars, and my circus act of electronic sounds. My ears in the hall were on the head of conductor Ryan Haskins, who continues to give me highly detailed info about electronic and orchestral balance. Assistant director James Daniel and choreographer Chloe Treat were essential collaborators in getting those giant monoliths to dance onstage.
We’re not even halfway through the run. An additional show was added to accommodate the demand, something I didn’t even know was possible, so I’ll be in Santa Fe a little more than I expected this month. Which is fine with me, because I’ve fallen in love with this enchanted town and its superb opera house.
One curious aspect of writing an opera about Steve Jobs: he continues to haunt me. Indeed, he continues to haunt everyone. As the creative team and cast rehearse The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs in preparation for its premiere this summer at Santa Fe Opera, we find his presence inescapable. Most of this opera has been created on his computers, most of communication relayed through his devices. In fact, most people reading this – and on this planet – probably feel a strange kinship with a man who impacts us daily. Just check your pocket.
The sleekness of the devices Jobs created – which we all carry like miniature monoliths – underscores a fundamental tension in 21st Century life: how do we simplify human communication on such beautifully minimalist devices – when people are so messy?
This tension exploded in Jobs’ own life. In both his work and his life, he strove to hide all the ugly wires with sensual exteriors. Whether it be the cancer he tried to control through diets, the refusal to acknowledge his first daughter, or his imperious management style, Jobs sought to control his life as forcefully as he did his software. But as Jobs learned, life doesn’t have one button.
That tension is the stuff of opera.
This medium can get to the essence of his story in unique ways. Unlike film or literature, opera has the ability to present many characters’ thoughts simultaneously. Themes weave together, disparate musics collide. A dramatic version of this approach, which is a kind of extreme version of Wagnerian leitmotif, is essential in an opera about a man who revolutionized human communication. The primary roles in this work – Steve Jobs, his wife Laurene, confidante Steve Wozniak, girlfriend Chrisann, spiritual advisor Kobun – are associated with highly distinct music. As they interact, their musics will blend almost like on a DJ rig.
The other reason that Jobs’ story is so well suited to opera: it’s a non-representational medium. A poetic approach can illuminate a story in deep ways. For example, Mark Campbell’s masterful libretto presents the story in kinetically non-linear, almost ‘pixelated’ manner. Any one of these short scenes seen own its own, like a single pixel, is but a flicker of light. But arranged together, these pixels animate an image, a life. The juxtapositions that occur in this kind of storytelling help us understand a man who transformed from a hippy in an apple orchard to a mogul at the helm of the world’s most valuable company.
Indeed, new storytelling techniques are a part of every element of this piece. The electro-acoustic score not only animates the inner music of Jobs, but also that of his spiritual advisor Kobun – a key figure in Jobs’ life-long search for inner peace. Unlike the quicksilver electronics and acoustic guitar that run underneath Jobs, the sound of Kobun is calm and mystical. Prayer bowls, gongs, and chimes swirl through the electronics whenever he is on stage. Other characters, such as the key figure of Laurene, are illustrated very differently. She’s oceanic strings and grounded harmonies, since she represents the ‘ground’ between the positive and negative charges of Jobs.
The production continues this new storytelling. The opera opens in the early garage of Steve Jobs and his adoptive father, but soon the walls of the garage fly apart and become projection surfaces that form a kaliedosopic range of spaces. These giant panels are a beautiful collision of 21st Century technology and old stagecraft. Each looming panel is invisibly moved by people, yet each one has tracking technology that allows high-definition projections to continuously project images upon it while moving in all directions. This tracking technology, developed in motion-capture for films, has not yet been explored in this medium.
This dynamic set us to tumble spaces seamlessly into other and deepen the narrative. For example, if you look carefully on the shelves of Jobs’ boyhood garage, you see all the components that would later be transformed by the iPhone: a projector, a telephone, an 8-track player, a camera. When the walls of the garage fly apart, we see Jobs in 2007 holding the first iPhone at its launch.
Technology, in fact, has always been an important element of opera, as well as the orchestra. After all, pyrotechnics and moving scenery were the Lucasfilm of their age. But all of these new techniques, from music to libretto to production, are in the service of the story, and this story is about a man who rediscovers what it means to be human. That journey is guided by his wife, Laurene, who so crucially acted as the ‘ground’ between the positive and negative charges of Jobs.
From the moment he began tinkering in his Los Altos garage, Steve Jobs looked to a future where computers would change the way we interact, where these devices would become as friendly as pets. But in changing our world, he changed too – and sometimes forgot that life is not as streamlined as his devices.
His journey to rediscovering true human connection is the story of this opera, and I invite you to come experience it at Santa Fe Opera.
How do you set a President to music?
I confronted this challenge when the National Symphony Orchestra commissioned a new work on the occasion of John F Kennedy’s centennial, which occurred on May 24. Working inside a ‘living memorial’ has been a strange and beautiful experience over the past two years, but nothing has approached the uniqueness of commemorating a man whose very spirit inhabits the building. The result is Passage, a work for mezzo-soprano, orchestra, and electronic sounds. Here’s how it came to life.
Commemorative works, let’s be honest, can ring a bit stilted. Even one of the most beloved, Copland’s A Lincoln Portrait, plods along too much for me. Whether because of subject matter or the use of narration, the orchestra feels like a backup band, not the main event. I wanted to write a piece that would both commemorate JFK and live beyond the occasion of its premiere, and – just as important – stretch me artistically. And the orchestra is always the main event.
So I quickly abandoned the idea of narrating JFK’s speeches and decided to use the speeches themselves: the actual recordings of his voice, which carry so much more personality than the words alone (as stirring as they may be). Pouring over his many utterances, from the topic of civil rights to national defense, I found myself most drawn to his moonshot speech at Rice University.
This is one of the most audaciously ambitious moments in all of history – and, unbelievably, it succeeded. When JFK said “we choose to go to the moon, not because it is easy, but because it is hard,” he catalyzed the entire country to achieve something that seemed literally beyond the reach of mankind. Listening to that speech over fifty years later, amidst our seemingly intractable world problems – from climate change to socio-economic divisions – I felt JFK’s aspirational vision was needed more than ever. This President defined the American optimism and aspiration that, sadly, seems a distant memory. We need more of JFK today.
To complement his moonshot speech, I wanted another voice in the piece, a more poetic perspective on American exploration. Enter Walt Whitman.
From my English major days, I remembered a mystical poem called Passage to India. What begins as an ode to the steamship explodes into a sprawling homage to American exploration and the limitless frontier. Whitman marvels at our ability to travel by ship to India, then by locomotive to California – then looks into the heavens and says “O sun and moon – passage to you!”
The piece crystallized: a setting of Whitman trailed by ghostly echoes of JFK’s voice, two perspectives on the expanding frontier from two American visionaries – President and poet. Technology has been a topic I’ve returned to in new ways, and the idea of juxtaposing two different kinds of American voices intrigued me.
I reached out to Sasha Cooke, whose voice I’ve fallen in love with during the composition of my opera The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs. The warmth of her voice, her expansive range, and her special understanding of American music made her perfect for Passage. She joined the project, and I got to work.
My biggest challenge: handling the recorded fragments of JFK’s clipped, Bostonian accent – both in terms of acoustic clarity, and in terms of integration into the orchestra. Human speech makes the listener hear differently, and I had to confront both technological and psychological barriers.
JFK speeches available online are not exactly high fidelity. They inhabit a very small spectrum and often are accompanied by crowd noise. Luckily, the Kennedy Center has special access to this kind of thing, and the resourceful Charles Lawson of Public Radio provided me with much higher-bandwidth recordings.
Armed with these, I played through each clip in the Kennedy Center’s Concert Hall with in-house sound engineer D.C. Valentine. Using a spectrograph and our ears, we identified which frequencies needed to be filtered out. We had to adjust so much, the resulting parametric EQs looked like mountain ranges. Then back in my California studio, I also slowed down, sometimes considerably, the clips themselves to make them more understandable.
Remarkably, all this surgical sound design results in something that sounds natural and untouched. But this is what you have to do when playing 1960’s speeches into a highly resonant space.
Next, on the orchestration front, I had to carefully orchestrate around each clip, making sure the orchestra was very spare whenever JFK appeared. Mid-range woodwinds, for example, compete directly with the human voice, so I kept them out the way. While the piece is primarily focused on the Whitman setting, each ghostly appearance of JFK’s voice needs to be understood.
I also had to very carefully weave the orchestra from foreground to background whenever JFK spoke, because the human ear instantly zeroes-in on speech when it’s present. This piece has plenty of busy music – steamship music, chugging locomotive music, even the music of a rocket launch at the end – but whenever JFK or news clips occur, the orchestra momentarily freezes.
On the Sasha front, I gave myself a special assignment: write some passages in her chiaroscuro range with almost nothing in the orchestra. When Sasha inhabits her middle and low end, there is so much color and warmth that over-orchestrating would be a big mistake. Having lived with her voice for two years while writing Jobs, I knew exactly where I wanted to feature her unique sound. There are also plenty of places where she sings at full force, with the orchestra churning underneath. Passage is dedicated to Sasha, a brilliant collaborator and exceptional voice.
Walking through the Kennedy Center over the past six months while immersed in this project has been surreal. I might see a JFK quote chiseled on the wall and think That one has a lot of 700 Hz and some crazy crowd noise. I also think about his vision and, as well, the vision of Walt Whitman – and all Americans who looked to the ever-expanding frontier and said, “O further sail!”
When it rains, it pours. April has me in a variety of cities at work in a variety of mediums, from symphonic to opera to club. California’s big rainy season very much seems, to me at least, to be accompanied by a storm of notes.
The Philadelphia Orchestra performed Alternative Energy at the start of the month under the baton of the astonishing Yannick Nezet-Seguin. This exceptionally gifted maestro designed an entire program around my ‘energy symphony,’ and performing with this legendary orchestra one of the most memorable musical experiences of my life.
Yannick wove Alternative Energy’s subject matter and compositional approach throughout the program. Bookending the concert were two pieces about Prometheus, the Greek god who stole fire from Zeus. Both Beethoven and Liszt depict fire in their own ways, with Liszt especially effective in using novel orchestral effects to evoke the imagery. He staggers violent accents across the strings, for example, to create an explosive musical surface.
These pieces not only relate to my work’s depiction of energy, but they also relate to my narrative approach. The great programmatic symphonists of the 19th Century – Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner – pointed to Beethoven as the first to integrate extra-musical content into symphonic form. The 9th Symphony does this most dramatically with the inclusion of a chorus; at that moment, with the appearance of text, a symphony could suddenly be about something.
Those 19th Century symphonists were drawn to imaginative forms because they often needed to invent new sounds to bring the stories to life. While the composers draw from literature and mythology, the medium of course is music – and the goal always is always create wild new sounds to move the listener. The 20th Century saw this approach discarded in favor of process-driven approaches such as serialism and minimalism, which spin small cells into large forms. As I’ve revived the narrative approach, I’ve looked to the sounds of the 21st Century to tell new stories in new ways.
This makes my music a natural fit for Yannick, a master musical dramatist who, in 2020, takes the helm of the Metropolitan Opera. I was amazed to see how vividly he brought Alternative Energy to life, conducting it as joyfully and naturally as if he’d been living with it for years. He pulled all the subtleties out of the work while also intuitively understanding its techno heart. I love this dude.
Next up was the Guggenheim Museum’s sneak peak of my opera The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs. Santa Fe Opera brought most of the cast to the “Works & Process” series for two nights of performance and discussion. Now that the heavy lifting is behind me (mainly), it was such a pleasure to chat onstage with the librettist Mark Campbell and director Kevin Newbury.
We discussed the fundamental challenge at the heart of Jobs’ life: he changed human communication by shrinking it onto beautiful sleek devices – but people are so complicated. Life is does not operate with one button. You can’t swish away an unacknowledged daughter or pancreatic cancer with the swipe of a finger. Jobs’ journey to a deeper understanding of human relationships was guided by his wife Laurene, who is the critical character in this story.
I next head to the Kennedy Center, where the National Symphony Orchestra performs Liquid Interface, my ‘water symphony,’ on April 20 & 22 under the baton of Cristian Macelaru. This is especially meaningful for me because, ten years ago, the piece was premiered by the very same orchestra. It’s exciting to bring back a work that was written well before my post began as composer-in-residence of the Kennedy Center, and with a rising star in the conducting world. I’ve fallen in love with the place and all its possibilities, and the NSO lies at the heart of it. Many NSO musicians play on my KC Jukebox series, which presents new music in fluid, immersive formats. It’ll be cool to join them onstage.
And finally, on April 28, Mercury Soul returns to the San Francisco’s DNA Lounge for a “California Mystics: From Reich to Burning Man.” This classical/club show has gathered strong momentum in SF, presenting the city’s finest indie classical ensembles alongside awesome DJs. This show examines visionaries of California, from Lou Harrison to Terry Riley to Steve Reich, with special appearances by DJ Derek Hena and electric violinist Homer Hsu from Pink Mammoth. Burning Man very much exemplifies the maverick, iconoclastic streak in West Coast music history, and we’re very thankful for the participation of two energizing Pink Mammoth members.
That’s April. Tune in next month for a preview of my new JFK piece.
Can orchestras do lean? Can they be the musical equivalent of a Special Operations unit, dropping into strange spaces to project power in asymmetrical ways? Can the great behemoths of classical music act as disrupters? Let’s hope so.
Orchestras are, by definition, big institutions. Like an army, their scale offers unique powers and opportunities. Nothing competes with the sonic blast of a big orchestra, and there’s no canvas as huge as a symphonic piece. I love the gargantuan scale of the medium.
But times are a-changing, and orchestras are starting to deploy their musicians in intriguing, small-scale formats. I’ve brought this approach to the Kennedy Center’s KC Jukebox series, which is a kind of ‘new music disrupter’ that takes a highly adventurous and experimental approach to concert presentation. In many of these concerts, we use a mix of musicians from the Center’s two orchestras alongside local players, and most of them appreciate the opportunities and challenges of working in an intimate and hip environment. We let the audience roam free in most concerts, which are immersed in dynamic lighting and projected program notes. People love coming up close to the instruments as they’re being played; it’s a different acoustic experience, it’s a different human experience.
Another example is the MusicNOW series at the Chicago Symphony. It’s a great example of the Swat team approach: CSO musicians, often supported by local freelancers, bring to life one of the best new-music events in the country. Everything about MusicNOW is different from the mainstage identity of the CSO, from the sleek Harris Concert Hall to the production to the rep. The audience is different, too: a younger, more diverse crew than at Symphony Center. When I curated the series with Anna Clyne for many years, we felt that our experiments in concert presentation very much benefited the larger organization. Given a leaner format, we could take more risks with, say, the music we chose or the way we designed the cinematic program notes. The series is alive and well under Sam Adams and Elizabeth Ogonek.
Other orchestras are going lean and mean, notably the SF Symphony on its Soundbox series. Here you can watch, up close and personal, principle percussionist Jake Nissly perform the music of Christopher Rouse or Lou Harrison. Isn’t it nice to see the percussion section escape the back of Davies Hall once in awhile? Or you can hear Robin Sutherland play Bach, a wonderfully crystalline experience if you’ve only heard him play within the SFS.
The LA Phil Green Umbrella and the NY Phil Contact! series fit into this trend, with the LA crew offering more traditional concerts in their home hall while the NY Phil gets out to National Sawdust. The more old-school seated format is fine, but I think it’s most interesting when the lean-and-mean approach is paired with an imaginative rethinking of the concert experience, an ethic I’ve developed on my own Mercury Soul project.
Since 2008, we’ve been scattering chamber ensembles around clubs all over the country, integrating classical music into DJ sets and immersive production (here’s a nice overview of our recent show pairing baroque music with EDM). The point is to make the experience more social, with ambient information and videos replacing the stodgy program book. We’re careful not to lard up too much stimulus when the classical musicians are playing; we save the lasers and haze for the DJ segments. But it’s amazing how much more adventurous your programming can be when the format is more inviting.
Is there a downside to the Swat team approach? After all, disruption does have consequences. A recent lively discussion on Twitter pushed back on these efforts of orchestras to colonize new spaces. The thread went a number of directions. Some composers emphasized that orchestras shouldn’t use chamber events to alleviate any obligations to program new music on their symphonic series, a sensible argument to me. From the local freelancers came the feeling of encroachment – ie, here comes the 800-pound gorilla trying to take over ‘our spaces,’ equipped with more funding and staff. That one’s a bit more complicated.
No question: orchestras should perform more new music on their mainstage symphonic series, and the Swat team approach shouldn’t replace new-music programming. That we can agree on.
As far as turf-invasion, I can understand the knee-jerk resistance to big institutions trouncing out into the field. Say you’re a local chamber ensemble that’s spent a lot of effort building a concert series, and here comes the big dog barreling into the neighborhood. I know that feeling because, as the founder of a small non-profit (Mercury Soul), I’ve seen several institutions use our format as a model. But honestly, it’s only good for the local music scene when more music happens, and anyway, the whole point is to change the field by example. Furthermore, no two series are going to be identical. For example, Mercury Soul hits more of a literal club angle than SFS Soundbox, and we both enjoy a lot of audience overlap because people appreciate the different experiences. We happily coexist.
Most importantly, we have to remember that orchestras are made up of people – local musicians, yes, who also like to let their hair down in different venues and formats. These people are all important members of the musical community, and in many cases they perform outside the concert hall very rarely. I’m sympathetic to the concerns of some local freelancers who feel encroached, but I really believe that any music scene is better with more music.
The field is demanding that orchestras adapt to changing times and tastes. So if they air-drop a special op’s unit into a club somewhere, let’s give them a chance.
Thud. Did you feel it? That’s the sound of an opera being turned in.
Last month I sent in all three-hundred pages The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs, premiering this summer at Santa Fe Opera, and rarely have I felt as if such a giant weight was lifted from my shoulders. With both opera lovers and Jobs devotees now grabbing tickets and planning their trips to the high desert, now’s a good time for an update on what this opera is all about.
Over the past few years of composing this piece, I sometimes get asked “Why an opera about Steve Jobs? Well, opera history is full of powerful yet surprising subject matter, from St. Francis to Richard Nixon, and Jobs’ story is beautifully suited for opera. It exists at the intersection of creativity, technology, and human communication – and the collision of those topics is something that opera, in particular, can explore.
This piece explodes one of the quintessential operatic techniques, leitmotif – a Wagnerian invention that attaches a theme to a character or idea. With an opera about a man who changed human communication, I wanted to give every character not just a leitmotif, but a soundworld – and see what happens when they collide.
Imagine, for example, the possibilities for bringing to life Kobun, the spiritual advisor to Steve Jobs – an important and overlooked figure who receives stunning treatment by librettist Mark Campbell. A panoply of Tibetan prayer bowls and Chinese gongs drift across the electronics, sometimes sounding purely ‘acoustic,’ sometimes imaginatively processed as if in a nirvana-esque limbo. Think of how beautifully and eerily those sounds can blow across the mystical textures of a low bass voice.
Or imagine the music of Steve Jobs himself : quicksilver textures in both orchestra and electronics, with the latter being built by samples of early Mac gear. His expanded soundworld also includes an acoustic guitar – an instrument whose predecessors appeared quite often in early opera, but one that has scarcely been heard in opera houses since. Jobs loved the guitar, and the energetic sound of finger-picked steel-string will be an interesting way to illuminate the busy inner world a restless man.
In fact, Jobs’ search for inner peace is the story of this opera – which, in a sentence, is about a man who learns to be human again. The key role in this journey is his wife Laurene, who acts as the electrical ‘ground’ to the positive and negative charges of Jobs. His buzzing inner energy made for a visionary of Jesus-like charisma, but he could quickly become a cold tyrant. Laurene is a soulful and strong woman who convinces Jobs of the importance of true human connection, the person who reminds him that people don’t have one button: they are beautifully complicated.
Imagine her slow-moving, oceanic harmonies colliding with the frenetic music of Steve. How does one music impact the other? How do they merge? How can Laurene slow down the busy inner world of Steve? In an opera about a man who revolutionized human communication, this technique of “musical worlds colliding” will be key.
The primary roles in this work – Steve Jobs, Laurene, confidante Steve Wozniak, girlfriend Chrisann, spiritual advisor Kobun – will be associated with highly distinct music. As they interact, their musics will blend almost like on a DJ rig. I’ve always looked to exotic forms to pull new sounds out of me when writing symphonic music – from my ‘energy symphony’ to a new piece about mythological creatures – and for me in opera, that will happen on the level of character.
A crucial inspiration has been the singers who will create these roles, and the creative team that’s bringing the piece to life. Ed Parks is one of the most powerful and clear baritones I’ve heard, and he also has stellar acting skills. While many people know of Ed within the field, he will become a sensation after this piece, which has him onstage almost all the time. Sasha Cooke, our leading lady, has been a singer I’ve been fortunate to hear for many years in San Francisco, whether at the SFS or the opera. Her unique warmth has the power to melt metal, and that’s exactly what she does in this opera.
On the creative side, there’d be no opera without the words of Mark Campbell, who’s created a wonderfully non-linear libretto that so masterfully creates the key characters in Jobs’ life. Director Kevin Newbury has played such an important role in the workshops that have been so crucial to the development of the piece, as has maestro Michael Christie, whose experience in the medium makes him an extremely valuable part of this.
So if you have a few days this July or August, come to Santa Fe Opera. It’s the perfect example of a world-class arts institution in a beautiful, unique setting.
Sending a satellite into space takes vision, madness, collaboration, and patience. These are also important elements, too, in the less celestial field of classical music – for this is a world of long gestations and late payoffs. Much time is required to compose a new piece, and years may pass before it enjoys widespread appreciation or is released on CD. And then one day, many years after the work’s conception, some happy news might come beaming back: for me last month, this came in the form of two Grammy nominations.
One of the nominated recordings, the San Francisco Symphony’s Bates: Works for Orchestra, includes two works that are almost ten years old. When I started Liquid Interface, I was living on Berlin’s Lake Wannsee in 2006, a less seasoned composer and human than I am today. But the piece nonetheless demonstrates many topics of ongoing fascination for me.
The most obvious is the addition of electronics, and my approach to this new element has evolved significantly over the span the pieces on these recordings. Certainly the influence of downtempo electronica can be heard in Liquid Interface’s opening movement, which conjures the calving of glaciers by shattering huge blocks of symphonic textures over massive trip-hop beats; but the more important element of the electronics is the theatricality it brings to the symphony’s form. That was an early revelation for me.
Actual recordings of glaciers hitting the Antarctic open the work; samples of water droplets become a quicksilver beat track; and processed recordings of a hurricane explode in the climax. This is where it becomes impossible to separate form and content – ie, the narrative of a work, and the sounds used to articulate that narrative – and where an expanded soundworld enables more imaginative forms. In Liquid Interface, I pushed the electronic sounds to behave with the richness of orchestral sounds, to carry not only rhythm and harmony, but place and context.
That approach underlies both of the other works on the SFS CD in different ways. The B-Sides uses a completely different form: five brief touchdowns on surreal planets, from the north shore of Kauai to the outer atmosphere of Earth. Each movement uses specific musical techniques to realize a mini drama.
For example, “Aerosol Melody (Hanalei)” imagines a melody that evaporates at cadence points. The woodwinds sing a bending melody that, at each pause in the phrase, is enveloped in a cloud of string harmonics that float upwards. The central movement, “Gemini in the Solar Wind,” sets an actual NASA spacewalk to music, and I found it to be the most challenging but also the most rewarding movement to compose. The human ear behaves peculiarly when it hears speech; it kind of relegates everything else to deep background. At first I was a bit distressed at moving the orchestra from being the primary focus, but I eventually realized that this created a magnificent opportunity to surprise the listener by having the orchestral reassert itself. In this movement, you hear the astronaut exit the spacecraft – and then the orchestra takes over. Michael Tilson Thomas has been a key mentor in my exploration of form and content, and his commissioning of The B-Sides gave me a big opportunity to try a new approach.
The final work on the SFS CD, Alternative Energy, exploded this narrative approach to the orchestra. The piece is an ‘energy symphony’ that moves one hundred years ahead with each of the four movements, from Henry Ford’s scrapyard to a post-energy future in Iceland. The key in the great programmatic music of history, from Tchaikovsky to Berlioz to Corigliano, is to make the musical materials as vivid and memorable as the narrative. This requires highly distinctive musical materials that push the orchestra into new territory. Alternative Energy requires a small junkyard to be assembled in the percussion section, haunting the concertmaster who plays a bluesy fiddle concerto. As the piece unfolds into the present day and then an imagined future, you can hear the idée fixe melody and the junkyard rhythmic motif transform into larger and more extreme versions.
Both in its theatrical use of orchestral sounds to articulate extra-musical narrative, and its connection the Chicago Symphony that commissioned it, Alternative Eenrgy is worth considering alongside the other Grammy nominated recording, Anthology of Fantastic Zoology.
Riccardo Muti premiered both works, and his highly attuned approach to musical drama certainly informed both works. Having led the opera house at La Scala for several decades, Muti knows how to wring the most dramatic sounds out of an orchestra. I wrote him a purely acoustic piece that was highly informed by my years working with the power and drama of electronics.
Anthology of Fantastic Zoology is a setting of the book by Luis-Jorge Borges, a master of magical realism and narrative puzzles, who created a marvelous compendium of mythological creatures. My musical realization of this is eleven interlocking movements, an expansive form inspired by French and Russian ballet scores. In between evocations of creatures familiar (sprite, nymph) and unknown (an animal that is an island), brief “forest interludes” take us deeper into the night, and deeper into the forest itself.
Each narrative puzzle prompted novel musical solutions. In “Sprite,” the riffs hop from stand to stand, shattering the normally monolithic string section into several dozen soloists; a musical palindrome conjures a serpentine creature that slithers up and down a tower; and “Sirens” are evoked by two offstage violins who seduce their colleagues one by one.
The trick of the piece is that all of the animals fuse together at the end, when the preceding 25 minutes collapses in a thunderous 10-minute finale that occurs at the witching-hour moment between midnight and dawn. The sprites bounce around the stage, the palindrommic animal flashes forward and backwards, the Gryphon shoots tongues of fire – and the Zaratan, an animal that is an island, devours them all.
Heard together, the works on these two CDs show a decade of exploration of symphonic sounds and form, and as much as I appreciate the Grammy nominations, the biggest honor was simply having these pieces recorded to begin with. Recording new symphonic music is a very big leap for any orchestra, and it’s nice when their efforts can bring some recognition. These two orchestras, the SF Symphony and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, have been essential partners in my musical development, as have their maestros.
If you want to take a listen to either CD, you can find both here. Enjoy!
Mason Bates and librettist Mark Campbell talk about making of Bates' opera, The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs premiering July 22 with the Santa Fe Opera. Tickets at www.santafeopera.org.
The grooves of Sea-Blue Circuitry hiccup from measure to measure as rapidly as data quietly flashing on the silicon innards of a computer, yet the piece is entirely unplugged.
• Financial Times: “Sante Fe Opera has a hit on its hands”
September 21st, 2011