Johann Johannsen: Arrival, Orphee, and the Icelandic Essence

Being a fan of heady, philosophical sci-fi, I assumed that sooner or later I would eventually see Arrival.  The love affair that I had last year with the Interstellar soundtrack had also left a void, so it seemed fitting that I should check out Arrival’s score.  In my opinion, the best soundtracks can stand on their own compositional merit without being attached to the action of a movie.  This paradigm was cultivated in, and perhaps limited by, the work of John Williams, but in recent years Hans Zimmer and Steve Reich have opened my ears to increasingly subtle uses of melody.  This increased interest in less “Neo-Classical” forms of film scoring cleared a path for me to readily appreciate Johann Johannsen’s soundtrack to Arrival.

Arrival, as a freestanding piece, is minimalistic but not minimalist, at least not in the mathematic tradition that Reich and Glass epitomized.  Melodic content is used sparingly throughout, with an emphasis on soundscapes and atmospheric textures.  This might suggest that Arrival veers towards mere ambience, but tastefully placed tension and non-orchestral timbres imbue it with a certain narrative capacity.  At its most intense, Arrival captures the austerity of Japanese Gagaku, while otherworldly murmurs and voices provides a sense of impenetrable, creeping alienness.

All of these ingredients are essential to the tone of the film and make Arrival a fascinating piece of sound sculpture.  More impressively, it sustains a narrative that allows it to work as a freestanding composition, but in a way more aligned with contemporary composition practices than the thematic leitmotif that I have often used to define a successful soundtrack.

I began to dig a little deeper and  discovered that Johannsen is quite prolific.  In addition to scoring quite a few films, he has also composed several freestanding works.  In the spirit of collecting some new music for late-night feedings, I put 2016's Orphee into rotation.  Like Arrival, Orphee is minimal but not really minimalist, using simple melodies can draw out a lot of emotion. For me, the first note of opening track Flight from the City, causes the world to slow down.  

I try the best I can to shy away from generalizations, but here is seems fitting: Icelandic musicians are able to capture something unique.  It is not difficult for me to imagine Jonsi from Sigur Ros vocalizing in his signature falsetto over Johannsen’s contemplative soundscapes.  This is not to say that Johannsen is copying Sigur Ros’ hyperbolic post rock, but that there is something essential that the two artists share, not the least of which is a tendency to blur the borders of “classical” music.  

Orphee bears this problematic label, but there are many aspects of the album that are in no way traditional.  While there are moments that pay homage to the eloquence of a Bach Cello Suite, these passages play out on a stage set by impossible background textures, buzzes, and static.  Like Arrival, Orphee seems to play with tradition and technology to widen the horizons of what “classical” music is.  The edges of these horizons will certainly be under scrutiny at 2 am when it is my turn to feed the newborn.

Which will happen very soon.  As I am finalizing this entry, I am in the Labor and Delivery room watching the birthing process slowly progress.  The birth of our son (referred to for the time being as #3), is imminent.  I cannot imagine ever receiving a more meaningful Father’s Day gift.

The Zeitgeist of Repetition: Steve Reich and Little Two

I have not made an official announcement here on the blog, so let’s do it: we are pregnant with Little Two. The feeling is a wadded up ball of excitement, joy, anticipation, stress, and fatigue. Certainly, there is a lot to look forward to. There’s also the downsides, not the least of which is the subtle dread that is attached to the feeding cycle of a newborn. I definitely remember taking my shift on the unenviable 2-3 am feeding time with the Little One a few years ago. Going to sleep was not really an option, but staying awake was nearly impossible.

I dredged the margins of my CD collection looking for albums that were intellectually stimulating enough to keep me awake yet soothing enough to allow her to sleep. I discovered a bunch of really interesting stuff that I had not listened to in a long time, or that I had ever really gotten into for lack of an appropriate setting. I eventually came to look forward to these meditative reprieves in the wee hours listening to jazz, Indian raga, shakuhachi repertoire, and chamber music. It was here that I rediscovered Steve Reich.

Again, for lack of an appropriate setting, I have not revisited Tehilium much since then, but I definitely notice when Reich’s name comes up. It really caught my attention, then, when the inimitable DFW personality and Ten Hands vocalist Paul Slavens cited Music for 18 Musicians as one of his most-listened to albums of all time. In my opinion, Slavens’ advocacy demands respect, and it got the album in my player at the first available opportunity.

I had an idea of what to expect. As is often the case with minimalist compositions, a superficial description of the piece sounds tiresome: an hour’s worth of simple melodies propelled forward by an unwavering, relentless tempo. In practice, however, I was taken aback by how was immediately likeable Music for 18 Musicians is. It is an enthralling journey through an ever-evolving landscape of rippling ostinatos that balances introspection and intellect with the greatest of care.



The piece’s debut recording was released in 1978, and it is somewhat difficult for me to listen to Music for 18 Musicians without thinking of the sequenced textures that would follow in the early 80s. Although I can’t necessarily envision Sting listening to the piece and being inspired to create the intro to Synchronicity I, I do think that the similarities indicate a broader interest in the creative potential of repetition.



This zeitgeist of repetition continues even today. Looping artists like Battles and Nissenenmondai employ it regularly, often with varying results. Music for 18 Musicians stands above, however, due to the intense investment of the performers, which infuses the music with subtle excitement. I don’t see how any contemporary looping musician could approximate the collective concentration that is necessary to play the piece.

A few months from now, Music for 18 Musicians will undoubtedly be floating in the air during our newborn’s late night feeding sessions. I have actually been considering it as one of the first albums she listens to. Her older sister began life listening to Kind of Blue, and by all rights it seems to have worked out pretty well. The Little Two’s life experiences will be completely unique, though, so perhaps starting off on a path distinct from her sister’s is more reasonable. In any case, I feel pretty sure that it won’t be bad for her synapses to hear such fascinatingly organized sound.

The Superhero Theme Project Part 4: The Flash

He is not particularly strong, he doesn’t fly, and he’s doesn’t talk to fish, but The Flash is still very easy to describe to a two year old: he’s “fast.” That description implies a lot musically, but I did not think that it would do for his theme to merely have a quick tempo. I had a specific sound in mind, and although there were many pieces with parts that were appropriate, there was not a single one that seemed to fit. The opening of Holst's Jupiter, with its rippling arpeggios and driving pulse, rang pretty loudly in my ears, but as an entire piece, it is too long. I want to save The Planets for when astronomy catches the Little One’s attention, anyhow.



With this vague idea as a starting point, the list of contenders seemed to grow longer and longer, but nothing seemed right. One of the finalists was the Flying Theme from E.T.



It is undeniably fleet of foot, and has a memorable melody that I could pull out of context to define the character. Still, it was a bit too soft, and as a definitive John Williams composition, it broke the “musical favoritism” rule.  Additionally, a quick poll revealed that E.T. is still relevant kid’s TV, so she might end up seeing the movie. Finally, the last two themes I had pulled from existing soundtracks, and it was not my intention to co-opt her entire superhero theme repertoire in this way. I wanted to mix in more "serious" literature as well.

The texture I was looking for was minimalist, but most of my go-to composers in this genre capitalize on the meditative qualities of the style. I was looking for something brighter and more driving. After seemingly endless digging, I recalled a work called Short Ride in a Fast Machine by John Adams. I had not heard this song for many, many years, and even then it was only by relatively superficial exposure in a 20th century music class. Its name alone, however, suggested a revisit, and it immediately caught both my attention and imagination.

This song was driving and intense, and it captured the bright, festive intensity that I saw as essential to The Flash. More importantly, it was a piece that was relatively unfamiliar to me, and I was excited about examining it more closely alongside the Little One. It did break a cardinal rule, however, because the song is not defined by a clear melody. Its musical interest is generated by broad harmonic changes and disorienting rhythmic dissonance. Short Ride in a Fast Machine would, in a sense, be the most programmatic selection I had made, but once I seriously considered it, any other song just did not seem right. I took the risk.

By the time I got the song on the playlist, she had been asking about The Flash for a couple of days. I was not sure exactly what her ear would be drawn towards, so I did not give her much of a cue. I just asked her if she wanted to hear “The Flash,” and she excitedly said she did. Within moments of its first playing, her eyes widened excitedly and she gleefully screamed from the back seat “HE’S RUNNING!”

Success.

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Steve Reich's "Tehillim:" Walking, Thinking, and Dreaming

When we finally got to contemporary music in my undergraduate studies, the topic was noticeably rushed. Perhaps this reflected the musical preferences of my professor, who seemed to get bogged down by his passion for romanticism, or perhaps it was because the 20th century was still in progress, but at any rate, we were encouraged to fend for ourselves on the subject. I was enthralled by what little I had heard, and I made a list of composers that I wanted to follow up on if the chance presented itself. Fortunately, this happened in the mid 90s when I was working at the Blockbuster Music in Lewisville. This flagship store prided itself on its dedicated “classical” department. When promotional materials came in from 20th century composers, there was very little competition from anyone else in the store, so I slowly began to check names off the list.

I felt somewhat familiar with minimalism by way of Philip Glass, so Steve Reich, being lumped into the same category in the textbook, earned a spot on my list. In 1994, I picked up a release of Tehillim, which I brought home and proceeded to not listen to.…at all….for nearly five years. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.....

In retrospect, I don’t exactly know why I took it off the shelf in 99, but I know I did. I distinctly remember listening to it in my discman (remember those?) on an afternoon walk sometime during the two years I lived in Krum. I discovered this album on that walk.  Tehillim’s pulsing, overlapping complexities ended up being an intellectually and kinetically invigorating soundtrack to an unexpectedly contemplative experience.


This performance starts at 1:39, and it has really nice lighting accompaniment.  When I stumbled across this clip, I was struck by how much larger the ensemble is than I had envisioned, and consequently, how much more complex the piece actually is.   

Although Tehillim has never gotten major rotation in my car, it has certainly remained in my listening orbit.  I regularly revisit it in quieter indoor settings.  Only recently, however, has another listening experience been able to dislodge the meditative walk I took over ten years ago from my memory. When my wife and I first began dealing with the unusual hours that a newborn infant foisted upon us, I set up a dedicated MP3 player in the room by our rocking chair and filled it with different kinds of soothing, intellectually stimulating music. It’s got Eastern Indian ragas, shakuhachi performances, jazz, Indonesian Gamelan, cross-cultual world music, ambient electronica, Stick music, and all manner of other styles floating under its “random album” button. There are also several minimalist composers represented, and obviously, Steve Reich is one of them.

Tehillim gained a new life for me in this venue. I can say with some confidence that a few months ago, the peice kept me from going totally bonkers when it was my turn for the dreaded 3-4 AM feeding. Thankfully, the Little One sleeps well through the night these days, but she still needs a little winding down before bedtime.  The booming lullabies that come from my mouth, however, just don't work like my wife's do. Tehillim, alternatively, serves as a wonderfully peaceful bedtime listen. Although it is calming, it is certainly not intellectually vacuous, like perhaps an ambient album or white noise machine might be. It’s incredibly expressive and deceptively complex to perform, and I can’t help but think that getting those structures in her ear as she drifts into dreamland is doing that growing brain some good.