COMPOSING FREEDOM
Dr Linda Kouvaras
As a human being, I believe that I have a moral obligation
to do what I can to improve the society I live in. The
corollary of this, as a human being who is predominantly
involved in the artistic expression of music composition,
is that I am morally obliged to improve society through my
art. (Broadstock, 1992)
Amongst many Australian composers of prior generations —
not least among those, Brenton Broadstock’s former teacher,
Peter Sculthorpe — has been the attempt to reflect
“Australian” themes, centering on geographical or
historical aspects of this country. Formerly, Broadstock
has seemed to stand apart from this approach in his music.
Rather, Broadstock’s works in fact, can be likened to “a
good, long novel, progressing through impediments to some
kind of resolution ... romantic metaphors of destination.”
(Musicologist, Roger Covell.) Over the past few years,
however, Broadstock has been keen to explore what he
perceives as a kind of psycho-geographical Australianness
in our nature.
While he was in the USA in Penn State in 1993, during a
six-months’ study-leave period from his lecturing position
at Melbourne University, he observed a group of Americans
immersed in Australian studies (a very healthy Centre for
Australian Studies thrives there). They described
Australian society as embodying a certain directness of
attitude and approach, an almost naive quality; they
concluded that we “don’t suffer fools gladly”, we have an
element of “brashness” to our nature. These are very broad
generalisations, of course — open to argument and, finally,
unprovable. But Broadstock found useful the truism that
people overseas can be more objective about another
country; this can also occur in the case of an Australian
reflecting about his/her home country from thousands of
miles away over a period of time.
The most significant outcome of this time for Broadstock
was that the conversations spurred him to crystallise his
own compositional voice, which resulted in a turning-point
for him. This turning-point did not result in any shift in
raison d’etre, nor a radical re-think of musical language:
his music retains the idiomatically-developed, serialised
use of modal structures, for example, and it has always
contained a rich lyricalness; he continues to structure his
works (albeit less consciously these days — he no longer
has to labour over this) in an arch form consisting of the
“golden mean” climax roughly two-thirds of the way through
the work. But the means of expression is more direct, less
cluttered; the gestures and flow of material less
complicated. There is less tendency to use
twentieth-century, extended techniques for their own sake.
One work on this recording comes from the composer’s early
mature period:
Beast from Air
(1984); the remainder are recent works, representing the
fruition of this compositional development. However, one
constant has remained of utmost importance to Broadstock
for his compositional process: this is his social
conscience.
Brenton Broadstock is not alone in this approach to his
art. Throughout this century, well-known European composers
such as Dmitri Shostakovich, Michael Tippett, Hans Werner
Henze, Luigi Nono, Benjamin Britten, Kryztov Penderecki,
Cornelius Cardew and Hanns Eisler, to name just a few, have
been galvanised by the heinousness of their political and
social situations. And closer to home, Australian composers
in recent years have written works which refer to political
events in the Pacific region: Neil Currie’s
Ortigas Avenue
portrays the revolution in the Philippines; Colin Bright’s
opera,
The Rainbow Warrior,
is concerned with the sinking of the eponymous Greenpeace
vessel; Martin Wesley-Smith has written several works
expressing his concerns over the invasion of Timor; and Ann
Boyd’s
Black Sun
was her response to the massacre in Tianenmen Square.
In the clear majority of cases, it is a title or a concept
which stimulates the very act of composition for
Broadstock. The extra-musical association will then
continue to influence the work, acting upon structural
processes, determining the dramaturgy of the music itself.
His inspirational sources cover an enormous range — from
aphoristic maxims, to literary titles and philosophical
quotations. But any initial impression of random
eclecticism gives way under closer examination to reveal
the consistency in compositional impetus. Particularly,
Broadstock explores in different ways concepts of “freedom”
and its antithesis: the suffering that is caused when
freedom is impeded for whatever reason — either organic and
internal or external and political.
Titles of Broadstock’s works such as
Deserts Bloom ... Lakes Die
(1990),
And No Birds Sing
and
From the Skies
(1987) and
Beast from Air
portray the composer’s sense of outrage concerning global
pollution caused by industrial waste and nuclear testing:
acts of political neglect and/or irresponsibility which are
contributing gradually to the lack of “free”, unpolluted
air on earth, with consequences for everyone. In
Beast from Air,
stabbing percussion and grating trombone denote an
elemental sense of response to the destruction of the
planet, specifically against nuclear testing by the French
in the Pacific. The piece progresses organically, a
condition of stasis and stability is gradually eroded and
fragmented, replicating the effect of nuclear fallout on
living things. It is prefaced by the composer’s own text:
Beast!
Mushroom of repugnant residue…
Nebulous… malicious…
Malevolently meandering…
Mindless mogul of decay…
Fatal… fearful of phalanx…
Fingers gouging at our existence.
Deformity — infertility — pollution — death,
Slow agonising death,
The harvest…
A millennium of harvests…
Beast from air!
The
final score direction to the percussionist reads “wait for
at least 8 seconds until audience thinks that the piece has
ended… then STRIKE!”, as though to remind the listener that
even after the initial devastation from the ignition of the
bomb, aftermaths continue.
A
great part of Broadstock’s compositional output has been
the exploration of the visual metaphor of light. “Light”
has always been present, from his later-period student
works (the first two from the Aureole series) of the early
1980s, but it is now developed in the recent works; the
concept of freedom is still at the core but the pictorial
image has been abstracted into a generalised metaphor,
which manifests in many of the titles on this recording.
Dating from the earliest Aureoles, the concept of “duality”
has served as a metaphorical vehicle for Broadstock’s
exploration of “freedom” — in all its various
manifestations. An “Aureole” is defined as “... a border of
light or radiance enveloping the head or sometimes the
whole of a figure represented as holy.” Broadstock was
inspired by paintings showing figures with this aura around
them, and again by examples of Kerlean photography which
shows this aura around all living and some inanimate
things. But it was not the sense of holiness which provoked
Broadstock's compositional stimulus. It was rather “the
dichotomy that exists between holiness and unholiness,
radiance and darkness, the so-called ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ —
those opposite facets of our human nature which are
constantly struggling for supremacy.”
In
Aureoles 1 and 2, the demarcation between contradictory
musical elements is clearly delineated; the juxtaposition
of opposites is maintained. A clear compositional
development occurred in
Aureole 3
(1984-85), which Broadstock describes as the first of his
mature-style pieces. In this piece, as in Aureole 1 and 2,
the two solo instruments are cast as musico/dramatic
protagonists in order to reflect the contemplation of
duality; but unlike the earlier works, the boundaries
between their disparate characteristics are blurred;
cross-pollination takes place constantly; positions of
respective supremacy are in a state of flux throughout — in
fact, it is not until the end of the piece that the actual
natures of the protagonists emerge unambiguously.
In
the Silence of Night
(1989) belongs to the genus of his output Broadstock calls
his “Life Cycle” series, along with
Clear Flame Within
(1996). Light is here perhaps muted, perhaps non-existent,
in a physical sense, but in a metaphorical sense it could
be representing emotional clarity — it is possible to gain
the clearest insights and elucidations when alone at night.
In an instance of those rare yet intriguing coincidences in
the creative process, no sooner were the title and piece
written than the pianist came across this poem from Søron
Kiekergaard:
Either/Or, A Fragment of Life
(1843), which the composer agrees is an apt reflection of
the central notion of the piece.
I
have but one friend, Echo, and why is Echo my friend?
Because I love my sorrow and Echo does not take it away
from me.
I have only one confidant, the silence of night;
and why is it my confidant?
Because it is silent.
The music unfolds over slowly altering,
minimalist-structured ostinato patterns. Cast in the aolian
mode, it proceeds in a hypnotic yet wistful fashion, until
it reaches its climax at two-thirds of the way through,
conforming as usual to Broadstock’s predilection for the
Golden Mean form. The intensity of dynamics and harmony at
this point suggest that the meditator, experiencing the
silence of night, is very much awake and is perhaps using
this time to make deeply private reflections. After the
turbulence subsides, the original mood returns; this time
the ostinato patterns have swapped between the hands. The
piece concludes with a recapitulation of the opening,
gentle chimes-effect, which was transformed into a
breathless surging forth at the climax, and transfigured
again at the end into E major sixth sonorities, becalmed at
last.
Clear Flame Within
(1996) maintains a delicately-honed balance in the cello
part resulting in what could be termed a “relaxed
intensity”. It is accompanied by another poem by the
composer:
I
see — through eyes opaque
......yet see clearly
I hear — with muffled ears
......yet hear clearly
I feel — constrained, torn
......yet feel passionately
I touch — with ambivalence
......yet touch honestly
I know — what should be, cannot
......yet know there burns a clear flame within
I am —- alone
......yet not alone
Glistening Tears
(1998) is accompanied by the following lines — a
heart-wrenching verse, penned by the composer, first
meditating on the subject of Matthew, his
multiply-handicapped son, then generalised into the
thoughts of a carer of a person who has an incurable
illness. Light touches the son’s/sufferer’s tears, reaches
the father/carer; both parties in either situation are
bonded by their helplessness.
I touched your glistening tears....
I stroked your hair
helpless,
watching as the life ebbed from your body
Your eyes, like mirrors
lifeless,
reflecting only the life outside of you
The sun shone through a nearby window
giving radiance to your face,
making the tears in your eyes glisten
I wiped away your tears.....
I can do no more.....
This
is a more intimate musical essay on Broadstock’s feelings
about Matthew than in his First Symphony,
Toward the Shining Light
(1988), which tracks not only the parents’ own struggle
towards acceptance of a tragic situation, but also
celebrates the achievements and developments that Matthew
has made. In the present work, characteristic Broadstockian
appoggiatura grace notes decorate the soprano saxophone
melody that maintains a pure innocence and is accompanied
by a gently supportive piano comprised of continuous
quavers in a modern, also Broadstockian Alberti-bass type
minimalist texture, reminiscent of another work on this
disc dealing with loneliness, In the
Silence of Night
(1989), for solo piano. The joyous, almost ecstatic
mid-section of Tears defies the notions expressed in the
poem — until the texture of the first section returns and,
in retrospect, one feels more a sense of yearning in the
central section rather than an attainment of unmitigated
positivity.
In
another rare deviation from the normal course of
compositional events for Broadstock, the title for
At the Going Down of the Sun
(1998) emerged after the music was written. The work had
resonances of war for Broadstock, perhaps because of the
sound of the instruments for which it is written, and the
trumpet plays, in a happy coincidence, a fanfare
reminiscent of The Last Post; and when he heard the ritual
on Anzac Day the answer seemed obvious; it fits the mood of
the music very well. The title is taken from the Returned
and Services League Burial Ritual:
They
shall grow not old as we that are left grow old,
Age
shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We
will remember them.
Once
again, then, the themes of light and freedom — political
freedom, once more — intertwine. The opening organ
augmented chords create an elegiac feel, the muted trumpet
sounds distant: a new interpretation of typical
associations with The Last Post is effected in the simple
arpeggiation in the organ part and the muted dotted rhythms
in the trumpet part.
Glistening
Tears, Clear Flame Within,
and
At the Going Down of the Sun
are all very much melodically-based. They provide a
challenge to the lyrical qualities of the instruments for
which they are written, focusing especially on their upper
registers and potential for passionate rendition.
All that is Solid Melts Into Air
(1992) highlights notions of political freedom along
with
In Chains
(1990) and
Fahrenheit 451
(1992). The title is taken from The Communist Manifesto by
Karl Marx, written in 1848, and now has a certain irony
with the demise of communism in Eastern Europe.
The
work is to be played quietly and gently throughout, with a
very breathy and “un-solid” tone from the flute and bass
clarinet, except for the sections which are bracketed and
marked agitato or feroce. The treatment of pentatonic scale
structures traces the dissolution of the “solidity” of the
essentially monodic woodwind lines with gently piano
accompanimental figures. In contrast to the meditative
first and third sections, the second contains much more
contrapuntal, ferocious and agitated slabs of material, the
eastern, meditative qualities shaken from the structure.
The final section defies east-west dichotomies: the melodic
structure is expanded to a much fuller chromaticism, the
three instruments are more independent but the meditative
effect remains. Each time the music establishes itself it
“melts” into a single tone.
The 14 Stations of the Cross were commissioned from
fourteen Australian composers by the Song Company in 1993.
Broadstock was asked to write the setting of the
14th Station.
The words are:
Then
having brought a linen shroud,
Joseph took Him down,
Wrapped Him in the linen,
And laid him in a tomb which had been hewn out of
rock.
In
its use of modally-inflected organum, the elegaic music has
an archaic sense to it, but in postmodern fashion it does
not seek to recreate any existing style from the past.
Rather, it is more like the imagined memory of a distant
genre, which never actually existed. At the request of
Ingrid Leibbrandt, formerly the director of Chora
Australis, he is currently completing his own settings of
the other thirteen Stations.
Broadstock
introduces
Dying of the Light:
The
media hype, hysteria and bigotry surrounding the AIDS virus
has waned but the suffering of those who have contracted
the disease continues. The title comes from a poem of Dylan
Thomas and is a tribute and reminder that many HIV
sufferers are still raging against the dying of their
light, still fighting to maintain their health, their
dignity and their humanity.
Do
not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words have forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The extra-music-structural trajectory is clear in this
work, particularly at the end where despite the bursts of
life and the angry and at times confused attempts of will
to overcome the decaying process of the disease, death
overtakes. And yet beyond the sense of tragedy and outrage
at untimely suffering and death, there is a feeling of
transcendent positivity.
The
suffering caused by schizophrenia could be described as the
internal “dark (or even overly-neon-hued) prison” of an
individual who has lost the grasp of reality. During his
work as a music therapist, Broadstock worked with many
schizophrenics; but it was twelve years later, while
browsing through a second-hand bookshop in Carlton, that he
was struck by the title of an obscure book:
Stars in a Dark Night.
The book is a collection of letters by English poet and
composer/songwriter Ivor Gurney, a poet and musician who
suffered from schizophrenia; the “stars” represented both
the precious letters he received while in the “dark night”
of the trenches during World War 1, and also the
ever-decreasing periods of sanity in the “dark night” of
his mental deterioration. Gurney's book inspired
Broadstock's Second Symphony (1989) which borrows the same
title; in the earlier work as in Bright Tracks, the
dynamics of the schizophrenic condition — lucidity and
rationality degenerating quickly and unpredictably into
irrationality and mental distress — constitute the
structural processes of the music.
Bright Tracks
(1994) contains a mix of tonally stable sections where the
tortured protagonist’s mind comes to rest for brief moments
of saddened reflection. These alternate with mental
frenzied out-pourings as the protagonist rails against the
confinement of the mental asylum, the injustices wrought by
human against human and the prison of (her/)his own mind.
The words are taken from the many poems of Gurney. Gurney
suffered from schizophrenia and spent the latter part of
his life in a mental asylum. The poems chosen (particularly
“To God”) reflect Gurney's mental instability, frustration,
anger and a pathetic sense of hopelessness.
SONG 1 - 'THE SONGS I HAD'
The
songs I had are withered or vanished clean
Yet there are bright tracks where I have been
And there grow flowers for others' delight
Think well O singer soon comes the night.
'SONG 3 - HAD I A SONG'
Had
I a song I would sing it here
Four lined square shaped utterance dear.
But since I have none well regret in verse
Before the power's gone
Might be worse, might be worse.
SONG 3 - 'TO GOD'
God!
Why have you made life so intolerable
And set me between four walls
Where I am able not to escape meals without prayer,
For that is possible only by annoying an attendant.
And tonight a sensual hell has been put upon me,
So that all has deserted me
And I am merely crying and trembling in heart
For death
And cannot get it.
And gone out is part of sanity
And there is dreadful hell within me
And nothing helps
Forced meals there have been and electricity
And weakening of sanity by influence
That's dreadful to endure.
And there is orders and I am waiting for death
And dreadful is the indrawing or outbreathing of breath
Because of the intolerable insults put upon my soul,
Gone out everything from my mind
All lost that ever God himself designed
Not half can be written of cruelty of man on man
Not often such evil guessed as between man and man.
SONG 4 - 'THE SONGS I HAD'
The
songs I had are withered or vanished clean
Yet there are bright tracks where I have been
And there grow flowers for others' delight
Think well O singer soon comes the night.
In
this work, Broadstock reflects on the fact that there is no
cure for schizophrenia; and the fluctuations between the
representations in the music of ‘insanity’ and ‘sanity’
mirror the fine line between control and the lack of it
that exists — Broadstock believes — for indeed all of us,
not only for those diagnosed as schizophrenic. So, once
again, Broadstock explores the idea of positivity (light)
and negativity (darkness) which may unpredictably dominate
our psyche at any given period in our
lives.
From
its abstract manifestation in the seminal Aureole series,
the exploration of the Manichean preoccupation with
duality, manifested in the metaphor of light and its
implied opposite, darkness, acquires a more unified
application in Brenton Broadstock’s later compositions. The
works on this recording explore concepts of metaphorical
“prisons” and “freedom”, “tragedy” and “transcendence of
anguish” — and the way that one state can impinge upon and
ultimately overtake another. His mature style, more direct,
less cluttered, more lyrically based, presents the
realisation that innate, oppositional qualities are
mutually-interactive and can adopt or absorb their own
antithesis, and it is this which, in a dialectical fashion,
constitutes the human condition.
One of the greatest dangers for humanity is history’s
potential to “forget” such atrocities as the Holocaust, to
ignore such potentially devastating situations as global
pollution. It might be argued that Broadstock’s music —
indeed, any music — cannot indisputably and intrinsically
“mean”, for example, someone being shot!, or, say, the
emission of greenhouse gasses: indeed, Broadstock does not
intend to portray in real terms these concerns. Rather, he
alludes musically to them and, further, through programme
notes, titles, and associations built up through culture —
through concerts, radio broadcasts, recordings, teaching —
history’s lessons do not die; they are not buried
underneath the often palliative blanket of “high art”: they
remain as a constant in our culture.
©1998 Linda Kouvaras
Dr Linda Kouvaras is a composer, pianist and musicologist
who lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her website is
www.amcoz.com.au/composers/composer.asp?id=1328