It “lacks half the
take” was Harry Partch’s less than wholeheartedly enthusiastic
opinion of a sound recording of his music. This was because
his corporeal philosophy put music firmly in its place, and
that place was not in the exclusive limelight of sound
recordings. However, this didn’t seem to stop him from emulating
the proverbial pig in muck when it came to making sound
recordings of his music. For this seemingly paradoxical state
of affairs there is, of course, a perfectly rational explanation.
Put as simply as
I can manage, Partch was convinced that, unless he did something
about it, his entire life’s work would die with him. Hence,
with commendable consideration for any of posterity that might
happen to be interested, he made documentation an important
part of that life’s work. In particular, recognising film as
the medium that would preserve the closest approximation to
his living, corporeal art, he collaborated with, amongst others,
the similarly visionary film-maker Madeline Tourtelot.
However, having
spent half a lifetime designing and building his very own musical
universe ‑ a justly-intoned scale, instruments
and notations, and music to be played thereon and thereby ‑ he
wasn’t about to pass on sound recording. After all, “half the
take” is infinitely better than none! If anything, this proved
to be a greater challenge than the film. Because no extant recording
company had the slightest interest in him, on top of everything
else he had to become his own record producer and distributor.
If you find all
this seeming a bit short on whys and wherefores, then you probably
need to arm yourself with a bit of background. For this, please
look up my previous reviews in this series of “Enclosures”,
along with my Musicweb article on Partch (Enclosure
1 review, Enclosure
4 review, Article
“A Just Cause”). These should be enough to get you into
the swing of things.
Now, when you strip
Partch’s corporeality down to his “half the take”, as in this
present issue, something happens that’s at once very strange
and very obvious. Without the visual, dramatic trappings of
the filmed performance of Delusion of the Fury (see Enclosure
4), you become much more keenly aware of the extraordinary musical
substance. In both harmony and sonority it is unlike anything
else on the face of this Earth. Let’s consider these two curiosities:
Partch is often described as a “microtonal composer”, which
as far as most folk are concerned lumps him in with the motley
crew of quarter-tone composers. To my mind, this does him a
serious injustice: the 24-tone scale of common or garden microtonality
is really nothing more than a compounding of the felony of equal
temperament ‑ whereas Partch’s “microtonality”
is merely an accidental by-product of his researches into just
intonation and the tonality of speech-inflections (which I hope
to cover in more detail when I review Enclosure 1). Partch is,
first and foremost, a just-intonational ‑ and
therefore wholly tonal ‑ composer.
Partch had worked
out that speech inflections effectively resolve onto a scale
comprising upwards of 40 degrees, which is rather more than
the 12 of the common diatonic scale, or even the 24 of the microtonalists.
Moreover, the human ear/brain/voice system, bound as it is by
the laws of Nature, naturally latches onto justly-intoned intervals.
Nevertheless, to use such a finely-resolved, just-intonational
scale in music is asking a lot of the average pair of
ears. Yet, ask it Partch did, and it turns out that he was entirely
right to do so. Once the veneer of unfamiliarity has worn off,
your ears, which ‑ don’t forget! ‑ are
bound by the laws of Nature, take to it like ducks to water.
I should add that this is true even if you don’t like
the music itself.
In order to be able
to play his creations, Partch could have redesigned the instruments
of the conventional orchestra. He could have, except that he
was more than a little keen to distance himself from the Western
European tradition. Instead, following his corporeal instinct,
which demanded instruments that were both fair and striking
to look on, he designed and built many weird, wonderful, and
sometimes apparently wacky instruments. Hence, the orchestra
that plays Delusion of the Fury is utterly unique.
The familiar categories
of strings, woodwind, brass and percussion go right out of the
window. Adopting a terminology of convenience, for which I will
take most of the blame, we can say that Partch’s orchestra comprises
Wood, Glass, Metal, Reeds and Strings,
plus sundry odds and sods borrowed from various folk cultures
(for example Jew’s Harps, Japanese Pancake Drums, and Bolivian
Double Flute). In Delusion of the Fury, Partch’s strings
are all plucked. Some instruments straddle families ‑ the
Spoils of War, for example, incorporate elements of both
metal and glass ‑ but on a sound-only recording
that is unlikely to worry you.
Thus, purely in
terms of listening, the uninitiated must contend with the shock
of the “new” on a further front: this entirely unfamiliar musical
machinery. Listeners aged, say, less than forty, and who have
grown up in a world in which the sources of “musical” sounds
have become increasingly diversified and disembodied, should
take this in their stride. Those whose lives have “begun”, and
whose brains insist on adhering to the conventional correspondence
between instruments and sonorities, may find the sound of Partch’s
orchestra a bit confusing. Of course, this problem largely evaporates
when you can see the instruments playing, and for this
reason alone I would recommend that you supplement your purchase
of this Enclosure 6 with either Enclosure 4 or,
at a pinch, Enclosure 1. Do so, and you will also get
the immense bonus of snuggling up a fair bit closer to “the
whole take”.
But, what does
it sound like, this orchestra of other-worldly instruments tuned
to 43-tone just intonation? It’s easy to describe ‑ about
as easy, that is, as describing what a symphony orchestra sounds
like to someone who’s never seen or heard one! It is possible ‑ just ‑ for
me to give some idea of the sounds of individual instruments
(see Article
“A Just Cause”). Then again, if you fancy seeing, hearing,
and even “playing” some of the instruments yourself, try this
musicmavericks
page. However, for the sound of the ensemble, in all its largely
ineffable glory, you really must hear a recording ‑ particularly
as Newband concerts are hard to come by. Nevertheless, I will
comment to some small extent on the qualities of the musical
sounds, although I will of necessity concentrate rather more
on the quality of the music itself in the context of the performance
and recording.
This recording of
Delusion of the Fury is actually the second recording
of Partch made by Columbia. The first, under the title “The
World of Harry Partch” and comprising Barstow, Castor
and Pollux, and Daphne of the Dunes, appeared in
May 1969. Delusion of the Fury surfaced in September
1970, fully 20 months after it had been taped. Part of the reason
for the delay was Columbia’s decision to record a third, “bonus”
LP ‑ effectively a demonstration of all the
instruments, narrated by Partch himself. A good decision, if
you ask me. It’s exactly what we were talking about in the previous
paragraph ‑ and just what the doctor ordered
if you’re feeling mildly disoriented by the main programme!
Hmm. Well, you can
imagine my delight when, back in the 1980s, I discovered that
the doughty Harold Moore’s Records had imported a batch of these
LP sets to the UK. You can also imagine my mortification when,
having bought one, I found that this invaluable bonus
LP was conspicuous by its absence. Oh, the box proclaimed its
inclusion all right, and the handsomely-produced booklet, stuffed
with full-colour photographs, was expressly intended to go with
it. Harold Moore’s, bless ’em, sympathised, but could do sod
all about it! You see, mine was not a special case ‑ the
bonus LPs were missing from all the imported copies.
So, if anyone knows where I can get my hands on a copy of this
LP . . .
All too soon, Columbia
had expunged both recordings from their catalogues. Delusion
of the Fury has resurfaced only through the good offices
of Innova and Philip Blackburn, who have gathered and released
numerous Partch recordings, films and documents under the “Enclosures”
umbrella. This is confirmed on the CD booklet and u-card: “Reissue
of Columbia Masterworks M2 30576 (1971) by Innova Recordings”.
So, quite why that should be in microscopic red print on a dark
background, whilst the words “Sony Music Special Products” are
in much larger, white print on the same background, escaped
me. Aware that you will be mad keen to know the reasons ‑ heck,
I needed to know! ‑ I contacted Philip
Blackburn. What I discovered fair made my blood boil.
Sony may have provided
the master tape and other resources, but it was Philip Blackburn
and Innova who provided the will, and shouldered the entire
financial risk. It took them ten long years of persistent negotiation,
of being put off, of being passed from pillar to post, of climbing
out of black holes into which they had been dumped, to finally
wring from Sony their permission to use the Delusion
tape master. Sony’s consent carried conditions, one of which
was that Sony’s brand should be “equal” to Innova’s. Of course,
it just so happened that Sony’s logo style and colour made it
stand out, which answers our question. On moral grounds, though,
there are those who wonder why it should be there at all.
Yet, it didn’t stop
there. Philip Blackburn had wanted to issue a double-CD, restoring
to the package the “bonus” recording missing from those UK imports,
and filling it up using Barstow and Castor and Pollux
from the other Columbia issue. Sony turned him down flat: another
condition was that Innova could only re-release the licensed
material “as is”. They even tried to veto the simple correction
of an editing fault in the master tape, but luckily Innova’s
unwavering insistence forced them to relent.
During the period
of negotiation Sony (poor souls) had to fend off a stream of
more or less irate letters from people wanting to know why they
hadn’t released Delusion on CD. In a stroke of supreme
irony, since releasing the CD of Delusion Innova has
had to endure a similar parade of pungent mail from folk demanding
to know why they hadn’t re-issued the “bonus” recording
along with Delusion! To top that, if it is possible to
top “supreme”, whilst fielding these letters, Philip Blackburn
was working on the content of the Musicmavericks web page which
I mentioned above, and which is based on the content of that
self-same “bonus” disc.
Even after all this
explanation, one question still nags at me. Clearly, Sony never
had any plans, or even intention, to rescue this valuable document
from their vaults. As far as Sony were concerned, it was clearly
destined for the same fate as the Ark of the Covenant at the
end of the Indiana Jones film. Then, along came Innova, cheque-book
in hand, in effect offering them money for old rope. Right,
so why, why, WHY all the hassle, prevarication,
and straight-arm tackles?
Of course, if the
CD issue turned out to be a success Sony, having in effect “got
their name up in lights” at no cost or risk to themselves, would
be likely to pick up some easy brownie points. Guess what? That’s
exactly what has happened. I await, with bated breath,
Sony’s explanation of their part in this saga. Ah, but is Philip
Blackburn’s account true? My gut instincts yell that it is,
and he assures me that he has a thick file to back it all up.
This then makes Innova’s dedication to the cause of Partch even
more praiseworthy than I had initially imagined. The Delusion
CD might not make Innova’s fortune but, if I may put it this
way, it sure as hell will earn them a seat of high honour in
the Hereafter.
Right, back to the
matter in hand! The CD booklet reproduces the substance of the
front cover of original LP release, notably a superb, moody
colour photograph of the set of the staged performance. True,
the 12 cm. square CD booklet image is hardly as imposing as
the 12 inch square LP sleeve, but it’s a super picture, and
I’m glad that they’ve kept it. The remainder of the CD’s graphic
design is the work of Philip Blackburn. Included are recording
details, lists of performers and instrumentation, an essay by
Danlee Mitchell, a full list of acknowledgements (credits),
an explanation by Philip Blackburn of “Enclosures”, a number
of clippings from Partch’s frequently irate letters, and a biographical
assessment of Partch by Eugene Paul ‑ are you
ready for this? ‑ the “Producer, Columbia Masterworks
Bonus Album” (yes, my italics!).
There are also detailed
notes by the composer on the philosophy, synopsis, set, principals
and chorus. In addition, a transcript is provided of the prologue
and epilogue from ‑ again, would you believe? ‑ that
by now seemingly legendary bonus album. This last isn’t in the
booklet, but comes as a little surprise when you lift the CD
from its transparent tray: it is printed on the inside of the
u-card. Very neat. Most unusually, though, the textual content
of the CD documentation actually exceeds that in the original
LP issue! Full marks to Innova for that, methinks.
This is all very
useful, highly informative, and often inspiring. However, endlessly
fascinating as it is, quite a lot of this relates directly to
the staging of Partch’s ritual, of which a CD listener
pure and simple will be pretty well ignorant. Somewhat illogically,
the booklet of Enclosure 4, whose viewer will be acutely
aware of the staging, does not incorporate this information ‑ and,
to be brutally honest, it damned well ought to.
The graphic design
itself is based on photographs, mainly from the stage production,
blended with elements taken from the cover of Partch’s own musical
score. If, like me, you have less than 20-20 vision, then you
will, like me, find the predominantly small print difficult
to make out against the busy background. That said, however,
visually the booklet is nothing short of superb, to the extent
that you’ll be tempted to frame it and hang it on the wall for
all to admire.
Turning to the technical
quality of the CD, I’m happy to report a big thumbs-up. The
original LP was an absolute cracker, as we’ve come to expect
from recordings produced by John McClure. There is some evidence
of the infamous Columbia/CBS microphonic “spotlighting”, whereby
instruments seem to take a step forward when contributions are
deemed “important”. Fortunately, though, it is done with tact
and in moderation, helped to some extent by the chamber ensemble
scale of Partch’s “orchestra” which, all told, comprises fewer
than two dozen musicians. So, what we hear is a reasonably spacious
acoustic, both deep and wide, pricked by the generally more
immediate sounds of the instruments. Given that most ears will
find the entire experience so strange and exotic, maximum clarity
is a reasonable target at which to aim, and it’s fair to say
that McClure was therefore spot-on in his judgement.
The transfer to
CD, engineered by Debra Parkinson, loses nothing except the
LP “mush”, uncovering a remarkably quiet background of tape
hiss. It gains, not unexpectedly, a small but gratifying degree
of sparkle at the upper end of the spectrum. However, comparison
of the CD with my copy of the LP suggests that nothing has been
added, as such. There is not even the slightest impression of
“artificially” boosted treble, never mind the dreaded “digital
glare” that was almost invariably the result of over-enthusiastic
fiddling with faders.
I did feel that
the bass might ‑ just might ‑ have
lost a tiny fraction of its depth. However, when I put the LPs
away, went out for a short walk, came back, and put on the CD,
I couldn’t tell the difference, it’s that slight. Most crucially
the awesome, pitch-black resonance of the Marimba Eroica and
the full-throated bass pedals of the Chromelodions retain a
presence that would, I’m fairly sure, satisfy even the most
dedicated of motoring “boom-box” fanatics. Imagine: a passing
car throbbing with the sounds of Harry Partch in full flight ‑ that’d
make a nice change from the usual Rock or Rap!
To my mind, the
recording’s only real problems are its very beginning and its
very end. The start cuts in “right on the button”, where I would
much prefer the ambience to be faded in a second or two before
the music. Likewise, the end is severed somewhat sharpish, which
is surely just plain wrong. Here, Partch has been unwinding
the threads of his “web”, and it seems to me that the resonance
of the crawling sounds of the Harmonic Canon should, rather
like the female chorus in Holst’s Planets, drift into inaudibility.
But, these are small points to set against the excellence of
the intervening 70-plus minutes: in respect of sound quality,
the CD is also a cracker.
One of the drawbacks
of the filmed performance available in Enclosure 4 was
that the playing, though fired by youthful zest, frequently
seemed ragged. I had harboured a suspicion that the reason Tourtelot
had interpolated some beach location-shots of the soprano soloist
in Time of Fun Together was to cover some minor disaster
in the staged performance. The CD documentation, belatedly for
me, confirms that this was almost certainly so. Partch, feeling
that it violated his principles of corporeality, did not like
it at all ‑ but if there was a shambles on stage,
what else could Tourtelot do? Anyway, once the performances
were over, the dancers and mimes moved out, the recording team
moved in, the theatre became the recording studio, and minor
disasters ‑ or even workaday glitches ‑ could
be re-taken and spliced at will, ironed out in the time-honoured
manner.
The playing on the
CD, however, does fall perceptibly short of the technical “perfection”
that we’ve come to expect of studio recordings. Frankly, I’d
be surprised if it had been otherwise. Why? Well, as far as
I can gather, although some of the players were seasoned Partch
performers, others were still being trained right up to the
eleventh hour. Then, in the transient-dominated world of plectra
and percussion, even minor misjudgements have a habit of sticking
out like sore thumbs. Finally, there’s the mind-boggling rhythmic
complexity of some of the more propulsive music. Given that
little lot, it’s truly remarkable that they managed it as well
as they did in the limited session time that would have been
available. In one way, these residual glitches ‑ for
that’s all they are, and few and far between at that ‑ strike
me rather like battle scars: reminders of a supreme effort,
something to be borne with pride.
As I described in
my review of Enclosure 4, Partch’s dramatic scenario
relates two tales, one tragic and the other comic. Act I is
preceded by an instrumental Exordium, and Act II by an
entr’acte entitled Sanctus, doing double-duty as a postlude
to Act I. Partch was concerned primarily with the creation of
a corporeal ritual, an amalgamation of dramatic arts and communal
experience, in which the rôle of music is that of a servant.
Yet, in no way did he let this ritual become an altar on which
to sacrifice musical integrity. This was hardly likely when
the major part of his life’s work was dedicated to ‑ conveniently
co-opting the title of his own book ‑ “The Genesis
of a Music”. In fact, we don’t need planet-sized brains to deduce
that his dramatic scenario is equally a musical architecture.
To elaborate a little:
The opening motive, what I’ve called the “web motive”, recurs
at several key moments. Some of Act I’s musical materials are
redeveloped during Act II, whilst the Exordium’s final
bars are recapitulated at the ends of both the Sanctus and Act
II. Also, the internal structures of the two acts are related:
for example, the Bolivian double-flute sounds in Act I’s Chorus
of Shadows are reflected in Act II’s The Quiet Hobo Meal,
whilst both acts hinge around major kerfuffles ‑ the
fight music of Cry from Another Darkness in Act I, and
Time of Fun Together in Act II. Then again, the enunciation
of words by the same solo voice underlines the dramatic “clinchers”
of both acts.
What this adds up
to is that Delusion of the Fury could be just as much
a purely musical work as any “symphony by Strauss” ‑ or
Brahms or Mahler, for that matter. Only “could be”, though,
because what I’ve said raises an obvious question. Partch was
a Jack of all trades sans pareil. Was he master of the
crucial one? Well, although they may present a bizarre but beautiful
sight, his orchestra is no rag-bag of instruments constructed
at whim. Just as the families of instruments in the conventional
orchestra contrast and ‑ more importantly ‑ complement
each other, so do Partch’s families of wood, metal, glass, strings
and reeds. What’s more, far from simply frolicking capriciously
in his instrumental playground, like a child with a pile of
new toys, he orchestrates his instruments as thoroughly
as any master of the conventional art, probing their complex
textural, rhythmic, harmonic and melodic potentialities. How
can I justify these assertions? “Proof of the pudding”, and
all that ‑ I listen to the music!
All of which brings
us back, it seems inevitably, round to that question of “what
does it sound like?”, now modulated into “how well crafted is
it?” It must be very well crafted indeed: over the years I’ve
listened to the whole work many times, and my reaction has steadily
shifted “upwards” from an initial, intrigued but perplexed “what
on Earth am I listening to?” to a point where I am beginning
to perceive cunning counterpoints closely connecting what previously
seemed like disjointed transients. This is a crucial point.
I don’t know many who would entirely disagree with this, but
I feel that what we might call “progressive revelation” is a
reliable subjective measure of quality, or even greatness, in
music. Delusion of the Fury has it in shovelfuls, particularly
bearing in mind that for most folk there’s also a longer road
to travel than that of any conventional, diatonic music.
Apart from in the
exclusively instrumental Exordium and Sanctus,
the human voice features prominently, in a flexible, highly
expressive “instrumental” capacity ‑ emanating
primarily from the chorus, which at any given time comprises
those musicians who are otherwise stuck for something to do!
I get a strong feeling that the “words” ‑ open
and closed vowel-sounds and “nonsense” syllables ‑ that
make up the bulk of the “text” are not arbitrary, but a practical
application of his research into speech inflections. More often
than not, these “words” seem to be selected specifically for
their just-intonational pitch and intervallic implications,
as in the chorus’s very first appearance, the Chorus of Shadows,
where the “mmm”s, “eee”s and “aw”s seem to gravitate onto degrees
of the 43-tone scale.
The work starts
with the Harmonic Canon playing the “Web” motive, its arpeggiated
harping at once flesh-crawling and spine-tingling. As he introduces
other instruments, like the Crychord with its startling, steely
slurs, Partch creates a disjointed-feeling, impressionistic
picture, but one which contains the seeds of materials to come.
However, the Exordium is more than a slow introduction.
Progressing through three increasingly complex and active phases ‑ broadly
speaking, adagio, andante and presto ‑ it’s
designed to tease your interest, seduce your senses, and ultimately
suck you into a mælstrom of music. At the same time, Partch
progressively introduces you to the sounds of his instruments,
at first gradually and then overwhelmingly, in cascades of cross-rhythms
and textural counterpoints.
It quickly becomes
clear that Partch really likes his motivic counterpoint and
ostinati. Through these he displays a tremendous ability to
manipulate adrenalin flows ‑ so much so that,
by the end of the Exordium, you might just be wondering
whether Partch has any melody in his soul. Right on cue,
the Chorus of Shadows gives you your answer ‑
the softer chanting later on develops a gently lyrical quality,
whilst the sterner tones of the central section (“Oh-lah-too
. . .”) even come jolly close to being a tune. Later
on, near the ends of both acts, the melodic phrase that carries
the desolated enunciation of the words “pray for me” is just
one example of a harmonic expression you just can’t get in equal
temperament.
However, in spite
of the lack of sustaining instruments in his orchestra, Partch’s
melody is not confined to the vocal lines. At either end of
Emergence of the Spirit, which continues a “limping”
pulse established in The Pilgrimage, the strings bring
a delicious delicacy to the march-like melody whilst, towards
the end, as the pulse shifts waltz-ward the notes of another
melodic line are tossed around the upper woods. Moreover, in
the subsequent A Son in Search of His Father’s Face,
we find the percussive woods and glass intertwining in rippling
patterns. Through what we might call “lyrical ostinato”, these
multitudes of short notes coalesce into, if not a tune, then
at least a sort of “sustained” melody. That this passage emerges
after commensurate spans of motivic ostinato (Exordium:
c. 11 minutes) and sustained or transient melody (Chorus
of Shadows, The Pilgrimage, Emergence of the Spirit:
c. 13 minutes) surely isn’t entirely accidental, is it?
It’s a very similar
story in Act II, except that in moving from the tragic to the
comic, the overall tenor of the music understandably shifts.
Solemn melodies are supplanted by earthy “ditties”, and percussive
vigour comes to the fore. This much is plain right from the
outset: in The Quiet Hobo Meal the Bolivian double flute’s
theme from Chorus of Shadows now finds itself in the
company of spectacular turns from drums, Boo and Mazda Marimba,
and Jew’s Harps ‑ yes, it does say “quiet
meal”, but this is anything but quiet! While we’re on
the subject of “noise”, I should mention the moment in the final
A STRANGE FEAR! where the storm-clouds break. Here, the
nerve-jangling screeching of the orchestra was also Partch’s
answer to those who imagined that the world of monophony, populated
only with pure whole-number ratios, is nothing but sweetness
and light. Q.E.D., I reckoned, as I slowly unclenched my aching
fists.
Although the Time
of Fun Together corresponds to the “fight scene” in Act
I’s Cry From Another Darkness, in essence it is a divertimento,
just like you can get in opera ‑ and it’s even
cast in good, old-fashioned extended ternary-form. However,
that’s as close to ordinary as it gets, for it is here that
we find the most fluid melody of the entire act. The chorus
and a soprano soloist launch great, curving melodic phrases,
which sail blithely over the choppy waters of instrumental pandemonium.
Only as each phrase ends do the voices merge rhythmically with
the orchestra (“Mumana-mumana-mumana-moo”).
Yet, as much as
I love and enjoy Partch’s unique approach to the human voice ‑ there
is really nothing quite like it, even from such as Schoenberg
or Ligeti ‑ it’s his “Ensemble of Unique Instruments”
that really grabs me by the throat. On CD, Delusion of the
Fury is a 72-minute sequence of sonic sensations, and slap-bang
in the centre of it all stands the magnificent Sanctus,
the jewel in Delusion’s crown. In a little over six minutes,
Partch indulges himself in a compositional orgy, throwing into
the fray, it seems, all bar the proverbial kitchen sink. Its
beginning sweeps away one web of delusion, whilst its end, slipping
seamlessly into a reprise of the sounds that concluded the Exordium,
spins a second snare. Yet, it is such an extraordinary effusion
that I am forced to wonder if it has another purpose, not directly
related to the drama:
It is written that
one of the main reasons for the emergence, during the Seventeenth
Century, of equal temperament was that just intonation couldn’t
accommodate modulation. This was one of Partch’s big bug-bears:
he was constantly being told that, in his justly-intoned monophony,
modulation from one key to another was impossible. As Partch
reported in Chapter 11 of Genesis of a Music, he had
been put down by A. H. Fox-Strangeways, who had written, “.
. . the unfortunate thing is that we don’t want just
intonation: it would stop off the simplest modulation,” and
had cited a musical example in three bars of equal temperament
notation. Partch’s response was to put it to the test. Translating
the example into just intonation, he obtained three alternatives.
He played these to the innocent ears of many listeners. No-one
could deny that any of the three achieved the required sense
of modulation.
Yet I think that
this, coming from a man of some musical eminence, had particularly
stung Partch. He was incensed anyway at all the supposedly intelligent
people who kept on telling him that just-intonational modulation
was impossible, in spite of his repeated presentations of practical,
aural evidence to the contrary. Consequently, and this would
be entirely in keeping with his character, at the centre of
his supreme masterpiece he placed the work’s pinnacle, and at
the pinnacle’s centre he placed ‑ guess what?
Right! There emerges an unstable chord, pulsing insistently.
Expanding in intensity, it reaches breaking-point, sunders,
and erupts in richly sonorous splendour ‑ and,
being justly-intoned, the consonances of the new “key” have
an almost incandescent resonance. It is a breathtaking, heart-stopping
moment, and if it is not Partch’s most prominent and public
declaration of practical modulation at work within the monophonic
fabric, then I’m off out to buy myself a chocolate hat!
Considering that
this is the only CD recording of this work we are ever likely
to have, discussion of the performance seems almost supererogatory,
or even a sheer waste of time. After all, other than looking
at the score ‑ which few professional musicians,
never mind a mere music-lover such as I, could even read ‑ there
is nothing with which to compare it. Nevertheless, you are entitled
to some sort of assessment. OK, so here goes.
Partch had intended
that vocal solos would come from members of the chorus. He resisted
requests to permit specialist singers, and relented only because
none of the instrumentalists could cope with the demands of
the two major rôles. In The Pilgrimage there is a tenor
solo. Being relatively undemanding, this is sung by one of the
instrumentalists, John Stannard, who projects his lines with
a finely balanced sense of suppressed intensity. The bass solos
in the final scenes of each act ‑ Pray for
Me and Arrest, Trial and Judgement ‑ are
taken by Paul Bergen. As I said in my review of the film, “High
honours are due to Bergen, whose intonations of the ‘punch-lines’
in both acts carry very considerable clout, deep, dark and doom-laden
in the first, deep, dark and dopey in the second.” Well, on
the CD, although he doesn’t quite hit that mark in Act I, if
anything he exceeds it in the second. In Time of Fun Together
the soprano, Victoria Bond, is every bit as effective here as
she was in the film, negotiating her sometimes very demanding
lines with aplomb, and exuding girlish bravura. If, apparently,
she occasionally gets by more through good luck than good management,
that’s fine by me ‑ I like the sense of “danger”
that it brings!
The chorus, of temporarily
and variously spare instrumentalists, do brilliantly at realising
Partch’s demands for open and closed vowel sounds, “nonsense”
words, plus sundry yelps, cries, whistles and sforzando hisses.
They even get to intone a few real words, like “Why doesn’t
she just go away” and “Oh how did we ever get by without Justice”.
Occasionally, and ‑ given the variability of
their complement ‑ forgivably, they are not
always entirely together, but they throw themselves into the
alarmingly wide range of expressive devices with real feeling.
It’s said that one
of Partch’s few miscalculations concerned his idea that, following
his corporeal principles, the orchestra should not be tucked
away out of sight in the pit, but up on the stage, in costume,
and expected to contribute to the acting and mime as well as
play (and sing!). Alright, in the film of U.S. Highball
(Enclosure 1) the players were clearly enjoying themselves,
bouncing their intoned lines off one another and playing their
parts with evident relish. However, that was filmed in a relaxed,
private context, whereas Delusion was performed in the
full glare of a public arena.
It didn’t work all
that well because, even when they’ve been trained to perform
the music, musicians are still specialists ‑ people
with the wide-ranging multiple talents that Partch required
were, and pretty much still are, very thin on the ground. Partch
was simply asking too much, even of the evidently eager and
enthusiastic youngsters. To some extent you can see the inhibiting
effect of this in the film, and it’s probably for this precise
reason that the playing on the CD is so much more assured: by
simply allowing the musicians to get on with doing their own
thing, they could give of what turned out to be their very considerable
best.
Thus Danlee Mitchell,
with a little help from the Man Himself, had no trouble at all
coaxing some intensely thrilling playing from them. Relatively
speaking, the one “purple patch” comes in Time of Fun Together:
in spite of the lusty vocals and immensely gutsy playing, this
somehow doesn’t quite take flight as I imagine it should. If
pressed, I’d point to the tempo, or more precisely microscopic
slackenings of the tempo, robbing the music of its accumulating
momentum. The 66 minutes which make up the balance of the work
are filled with the unalloyed pleasure of hearing the players
revelling in the heady perfumes of Partch’s exotic musical garden.
In respect of this
recording, “fortunate” becomes a byword. We are fortunate indeed
that Columbia and John McClure seized their one chance to capture
the sounds of this astounding work. However, once the recording
had been deleted from the catalogue, the master tapes consigned
to the vaults, and the extant supplies of the LPs snapped up,
it seemed that the good fortune had run out. Hence, we are also
fortunate that Philip Blackburn and Innova came along. Without
their dedication, dogged persistence and sheer hard slog over
far too many “dry” years, this recording might have sunk without
trace. That would have been a supreme tragedy. Lovers and admirers
of Partch’s music, both living and as yet unborn, will forever
be in their debt.
The plain fact is
that this recording is an historical document of immense, immeasurable
value, and, as such, we would be fortunate even if it was a
tatty and dog-eared affair. Doubly fortunate we are, then, that
by anyone’s standards it is altogether superb. It encapsulates
a vindication of Partch’s entire life’s work, a testament to
his radical imagination, and proof beyond all reasonable doubt
that even if his chosen path was a blind alley, then it was
also a tunnel terminating in a great and enchanting light. Moreover,
the greatest fortune of all is that it’s a damned good listen,
a musical world every bit as involving as any of Mahler’s. Need
I say more?
Paul Serotsky
Ensemble
of Unique Instruments/Danlee Mitchell; supervised by the composer.
