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