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Glass, Music in Twelve Parts: Philip Glass Ensemble, presented by San Francisco Performances, Davies Symphony Hall, San Francisco. 16.2.2009 (HS)

Lisa Bielawa, soprano
Philip Glass, keyboard
Michael Riesman, keyboard
Mick Rossi, keyboard
David Crowell, woodwinds
Andrew Sterman, woodwinds
Jon Gibson, woodwinds
Dan Dryden, live sound mix 


Some pieces carry with them a powerful sense of occasion. Mahler symphonies, for example, Verdi Requiems, Wagner Ring cycles. Maybe Philip Glass’ Music in Twelve Parts hasn’t quite developed the currency of those musical monoliths, but you might have a hard time convincing a rapt capacity audience in San Francisco’s 2,743-seat Davies Symphony Hall Monday afternoon and evening. I have seldom seen a faster rise to a standing ovation, and it was well deserved, not least because of the unusual demands of the music, which started just after 5 p.m. and concluded a few minutes past 10. Allowing for two 10-minute intermissions and an hour break for dinner, that’s about 3 1/2 hours of music, and it’s dense, increasingly intricate, music. Virtually everyone plays nonstop. No rests for the weary.

It carries a tremendous impact. On the left side of the brain, it is nothing short of a summation of Minimalism. Each of the 12 parts, which last between 15 and 20 minutes each, explore a facet of the new musical language as Glass developed it in the 1960s and early 1970s. In that respect, some commentators have likened it to Bach’s Art of Fugue, which put together everything Bach knew about counterpoint, key by key. On the right side of the brain, it’s simply a great musical ride, like climbing into a souped-up sports car and careening around town, blasting through stop signs, dazzled by the flashing lights whizzing past. The music has an amazing cumulative effect. Its repetition drives some people crazy. For others, myself included, it builds phenomenal momentum.

Glass wrote the music between 1971 and 1974, beginning with what is now called Part I, a quiet, almost jazz-inflected reverie for three electric keyboards and three flutes. He titled it “Music in Twelve Parts” because he originally planned 12 contrapuntal lines, but a friend interpreted it differently, asking, “What about the other 11 parts?” Amused and challenged, Glass decided to write 11 more.

Like any great composer, he set himself some unifying rules. The material develops from the simple arpeggios and swaying lines of Part I. Each successive part concentrates on one specific technique of development. That decision got him into trouble when he finished Part X. Having used all the techniques he had come up with so far, he had to create two more. The result was some of his most arresting music in Parts XI and XII, which make for a grand finale of epic proportions. 

These days Philip Glass is a household name in the music world, venerated or reviled for his repetitive music. In those days the Glass Ensemble was a fringe band, nipping at the edges of the academic musical establishment against which Glass was rebelling. He hated the prevailing emphasis on dissonance and what he saw as overly intellectual music. He rebuilt his music from the ground up, using blatantly tonal elements, simple scales reminiscent of Indian ragas, and consonant chords that could connect with audiences.

The form he used in Music in Twelve Parts consists of blocks that morph seamlessly from one to the next. Each begins with a scale or arpeggio. After several repetitions, the next block introduces a change, often a subtle one that requires careful listening to notice. Maybe the bass line digs a little deeper. A flute adds an extra timbre. The scale might extend by a note or two. He even uses techniques familiar to Bach, inverting a line, or doubling the speed, sometimes slowing it down with retrograde motion. Some of the Parts shift rhythms, either by changing the emphasis or starting point, or by changing meter from 3 to 4 to 5 to 6 to 7, and further, as the lines expand. These changes mutate the music, often adding complexities and new sounds. A big change can also occur, as it does at the ends of several of the Parts, and after 15 minutes of semi-stasis it feels absolutely earth-moving. Much of the music’s power derives from this technique. There are very few changes of dynamics; most of the time all three keyboards are chattering away, and the three wind players are either doubling the moving lines or adding chordal harmonies on flutes, piccolos or saxophones. The sound of a soprano voice adds a different texture. She sings no words, only solfège syllables. All is electronically amplified, mixed on the spot by a sound engineer credited with the musicians.

For this performance, the Parts were grouped into threes, moving from one to the next without pause within the group. This created yet another ground-shifting effect. After 15 to 20 minutes focusing on a single idea, turning the corner into the next was like emerging from a tunnel into a whole other world. This happened right away, as the quiet of Part I was interrupted by a different key and more energetic rhythm that begins Part II and which also introduced the human voice. Part III then settled into a rapid-fire study of fourths. 

Glass’ worlds are often quite beautiful. The consonance of the music and the familiarity of the scales and arpeggios create beguiling effects as the music develops. In Part IV, for the first time, Glass introduces a sustained chord against the roiling scales that bubble underneath. The chord remains unchanged until it stumbles into the headlong rush of rhythm in Part V.

Rhythm plays a key role in many of these developments. At several points, most notably in Part IX, the meter expands and contracts. The trick in Part IX starts with a snakelike up-down-in-and-out line, like Smetana’s Moldau gone berserk. Then Glass sneaks in an extra beat to accommodate an extra twist. He keeps adding more twists until the snake becomes a veritable python, twisting on itself. And it goes fast. To the musicians’ credit, they never lost the beat. Earlier, in Part VII, the soprano aided and abetted the development with fast enunciations of changing intervals. She too kept the pace and with perfect intonation.

As if that weren’t enough of a technical challenge to the musicians, the final two parts introduce a whole new idea. Rather than keeping to a single scale or chord through an entire part, Glass finally employs shifting harmonies. After an evening of static chords this is another effect that startles. Parts XI and XII build up extraordinary momentum.

To everyone’s credit, there wasn’t a single moment when the music broke down, which seems almost inevitable given the difficulty of keeping up with the shifting elements in the score. Even with Glass giving exaggerated nods from his keyboard to indicate when to move on to the next block of music, it would be easy for the musicians to get lost in the vast expanses of subtly shifting rhythms, scales and harmonies. Except for an occasional section when the pulse got slightly out of phase, articulation and transitions were admirable. The result was an unforgettable evening that proved the power—and staying power—of a seismic shift in twentieth century music.

Harvey Steiman


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