2020-2021 Paideia Texts and Issues Lecture Series: Building Community in a Changing Society

Chamber Music at a Distance: How Musical Collaboration Transcends Traditional Spaces

by KATHY REED, Instructor in Music, Director of Paideia

Editor’s note: The complete lecture-performance may be viewed at https://www. luther.edu/paideia/texts/. Performances described within the text are noted at the time they occur in the lecture. “In order to play in the cistern environment, we had to learn to listen in a new way.” —Pauline Oliveros, TEDxIndianapolis, Nov. 12, 2015

In her first experiment in what she came to call “deep listening,” the great composer, activist, and teacher Pauline Oliveros had three musicians squeeze through a manhole-sized opening into the two-million-gallon concrete cistern lying underneath the north end of the Olympic peninsula. The original purpose of the cistern, built in the 1900s, was to hold water to put out bunker fires if the military fort above it came under attack. Decommissioned in the 1950s, Fort Worden was repurposed by informal gatherings of artists from nearby Port Townsend who found it a creatively inspiring place. In particular, the forty-five-second reverb within the cistern attracted spontaneous sound experimentation. Finally, in 1988, the first formal recording was made in what came to be known as the “Cistern Chapel.” Pauline Oliveros, with composer-performers Stuart Dempster and Peter Ward used accordion, trombone, didgeridoo, the human voice, and found metal objects in the cistern to create the works for the album “Deep Listening” (Evans). We find ourselves today in another kind of non-traditional environment, an environment where musical collaboration in the ways we are used to cannot take place. The work of Oliveros, who died in 2016, came to my mind as I began thinking last spring about what would happen to the music I love the most—Baroque chamber music, and really, all chamber music—in an environment in which it was no longer safe to bring musicians and audiences close together inside a traditional “chamber” or room to make music. The whole premise of chamber music is that performers and audiences come together in a friendly space to share an intimate, time-honored musical tradition. Kathy ReedOr is it, I wondered? Is there a heart of chamber music that transcends this premise? To explore this idea, I began by recruiting colleagues who have performed together often, musicians who know and trust each other. It would have been extra hard, I reasoned, to try to build new collaborative relationships under strange circumstances. From there, and with input from these colleagues, I began to think about pieces of music that in themselves suggested interesting spatial relationships. I thought about spaces where it would be aesthetically inspiring to play, and where the space and the musical text could interact in creative ways. What could the spaces and settings teach us about the music itself? We might not be going into a cistern, but it felt like a new musical world to explore, and a desperately needed way to ameliorate a lonely world for musicians and audiences during the pandemic.

A Canon Across an Atrium

One of the first pieces to come to my mind was a piece not for harpsichord, my instrument, but for a treble instrument like flute, the instrument I used to play. Georg Philipp Telemann (16811767) published his Six Canonic Sonatas in 1727 with a title page that indicated they could be played by two flutes or two violins. The sonatas are composed with a single musical line that two players begin one measure apart. One player begins, and the second player follows a measure later with exactly the same music. The challenge of composing a canon is to write one musical line that fits perfectly against itself. It was a challenge that Telemann and his Baroque contemporary J.S. Bach particularly enjoyed. These are wonderful pieces for a teacher to play with a student, or for two friends to play together reading from the same music stand under normal circumstances. How might distanced spacing take advantage of the composition? I thought of my colleagues Heather Armstrong, oboist, and Carol Hester, flutist—friends whose Jenson studios are next to each other. Both have a strong affinity for Baroque music, and I know from previous collaborations among the three of us that their sounds complement each other beautifully. Why not take this collaboration across the street to the beautiful and resonant atrium of the Center for the Arts, standing nearly empty last summer? Carol and Heather decided on three movements of Telemann and worked

on them individually in their respective locations in Georgia and Decorah in July. At the same time, they were busy as all music faculty members were last summer, following the research to try to figure out how to teach and rehearse safely during the pandemic. Wind instruments, along with the human voice, are naturally the biggest culprits for spreading aerosols. Carol and Heather each placed a custom-made sack over the end of her instrument, a means that has been shown to have some mitigating effect. However, the research shows that safety is mainly about good air circulation and adequate distance. When they came together in August, they were separated by a long distance apart from each other on opposite sides of the airy atrium in the CFA. Not surprisingly, they faced challenges. In reflecting on the experience, Carol noted the heat and humidity in the building (it was a hot August), and of struggling to hear in enough detail to respond to the oboe’s “nuanced but rhythmic part.” The unfamiliar ambiance of the empty building also made it harder to focus. Heather made some specific observations about playing this particular composition in this space. She wrote, “The Canonic Sonatas use the canon effect, essentially a musical echo effect, one voice imitating the other. In the cavernous space of the CFA, I felt and heard three layers of echo: 1) Telemann’s literal written-out musical echo (the canon); 2) the echo (reverb) in that huge, open space; and 3) the mirroring/echoing image of Carol across the ‘canyon’ from me. I kept wondering what she was seeing and hearing from over there. We are usually so close in chamber music that playing so far apart this time really did make me wonder what Carol was hearing. Was it the same as how I heard myself? (No!) It was hard to imagine what her experience of hearing and seeing me was like in that space.” Indeed, she was saying, they were listening in a new way. Heather further observed that it felt like “paddling upstream, fighting to do something ‘normally,’” but realizing it wouldn’t work to slip into her “regular” chamber music mode. She recalls, “At first I think I ‘zoomed in’ too much, trying too hard to hear, to play together, to adjust from so far away. I think I did begin to understand (barely) that ‘zooming out’ was what was needed, letting go, becoming more expansive in my awareness, and learning to trust the space and trust Carol more, not necessarily what I was hearing.” This focus on trusting the other player to feel the music in the same way you do is an instructive and metaphorically valuable lesson from the experience of making music at a distance. My only role in this performance was as a listener, the one designated member of the audience. I sat one level below them on the first floor of the CFA Atrium. How privileged I was to be there. Both Carol and Heather commented on the importance of having someone to play for after five months, someone who was listening, as Heather said, “intentionally and consciously” to what they were creating in real time. Carol summed it up: “While playing, my experience was that of being in one orbit, with Heather in another, but both of us connected to the listener, perhaps more so because of the physical distance and space between each of us. I found it fascinating how incredibly helpful it was to have one solitary, very intentional listener. This created a triangular affect between the performers’ orbs, so to speak, and the quiet listener—in a setting that is visually very beautiful.“Indeed, the pull of this triangle was powerful. Their performance of sonatas in A minor and G minor from The Six Canonic Sonatas by Telemann was video-recorded and edited by Nicholas Bjerke, Luther College Visual Media Manager. Below is the time location on the Youtube video, “Chamber Music at a Distance.” You will see that Nick was also a part of the audience for the performance along with Tom Berger, who happened to emerge from behind Jewell Theatre and thoughtfully removed his shoes. [“Chamber Music at a Distance” lecture at 12:15.] One of the things that struck me as an audience member placed where I was and listening to this music, was how well I could separate the two lines in my ear, both because of the contrasting tone colors of flute and oboe, and, perhaps especially, because of the physical distance between them. It was almost as if I was experiencing a time warp: one ear was hearing the original music, and the other was lagging behind by a measure. The idea of a canon had never been so clear. Emotionally, the effect on me was profound. By August it had been five months since I had been in an audience for live music. The experience brought tears to my eyes, and gave me a sense of profound gratitude for what I have had all of my life, and will never again take for granted.

Two Instruments as One: The OrganHarpsichord (“Claviorganum”)

Long before the pandemic, Gregory Peterson and I had spoken together about his experience on sabbatical of hearing music for an oddity of a Baroque instrument that combined his instrument and mine—the organ and the harpsichord. That got us to thinking about new kinds of collaborations for us. We have played together in pieces for organ, four hands (duets with both of us on the organ bench at once), and in a duet for organ and harpsichord up in the organ loft in the CFL. We have also played basso continuo together, that is, provided the harmonic foundation for the bass line in Baroque music. Greg and I have formed a continuo section of organ and harpsichord in choral works such as Handel’s Messiah and J.S. Bach’s Mass in B minor. But what if we experimented with existing solo repertoire for one instrument, and divided it between our two instruments, as Greg had heard done in Sweden on his sabbatical? After the pandemic arrived and I began thinking about the question of how musical collaborations could continue to take place, I thought again of this idea. Why not try this project using the CFL organ, with the harpsichord down below on the stage? Well, it turns out that the reason why not was that every minute of time in the CFL this fall was being used for ensemble rehearsals and classes, exactly because of its cavernous space. So we thought of another space, the Sundt organ hall in Jenson-Noble Hall of music. By moving the harpsichord out of the practice room where it normally lives and into Sundt, we created a win-

win situation; another practice room became available for students to practice and have lessons, and we gained a space where Greg and I could safely rehearse and record. Here is Greg’s description of our project: The use of two keyboard instruments for continuo playing during the Baroque era was common. A stringed keyboard instrument such as the harpsichord could alternate with the portative organ, a wind keyboard instrument, depending upon the style and texture of the music. Alternatively, both could play simultaneously, following the same bass line and harmony while allowing for individual applications of chord voicing, arpeggiation, and ornamentation. An oratorio such as Messiah by Georg Frederick Handel with its choruses, recitatives, and arias, is an example of a work where this approach to continuo playing is sometimes applied. In fact, Handel himself designed a prototype instrument for this very purpose, but he never had it built. In 2019, Gothenburg Baroque in Sweden commissioned an instrument maker to build such an instrument according to Handel’s designs. It is called the claviorganum – clavier or keyboard plus organ. A single instrument combines an organ with a harpsichord through long-movement action. One player plays both instruments, either separately or together, with the aid of a coupling mechanism. It is a clever design. It was a privilege to see and hear this stunning new instrument in several performances last fall while on sabbatical in Sweden. Not only for continuo playing, the idea of claviorganum can be used creatively to present organ and harpsichord literature. In fact, it also highlights a tradition of pedagogy where teacher and student can each sit at a keyboard and work through complex counterpoint by dividing the notes between two players in pieces originally composed for a single player. More than didactic, however, this presents the music in a new way. The listener hears shapes, textures, melodies, and motives differently. The listener can also gain insights into the piece through this enhanced sonic experience. Last fall, I heard music performed in this manner both by one player on the claviorganum, and by two players on two contrasting keyboard instruments. Therefore, in this time of physical distancing because of the pandemic, the idea of claviorganum allows two people to make music, separated by distance. It is truly chamber music, distanced, but in a new way. The piece Kathy and I are playing is an Echo Fantasy by Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck (1562-1621). Sweelinck served the city of Amsterdam as organist of the Oude Kerk. There were two organs in the church which Sweelinck used for his weekday recitals. The EchoFantasy in A minor, presum-

PHOTO COURTESY OF GREG PETERSON ably composed for a single player using a large organ, lends itself well to the application of claviorganum with its easy division by echoes between two players separated by distance, but coming together in a reverberant space. Listeners enjoy the various textures and musical effects, including the song of the cuckoo! One of the most striking aspects of this way of dividing a solo piece between two players was the chance that it gave us to inspire each other to improvise ornamentation. In Baroque music, it was standard practice for performers to add notes to the written music for the purpose of expression and variety. With the “echo effects” in this Sweelinck Fantasy divided between players, one of us could try a decoration or addition and the other would respond from across the room. It felt even more like a conversation than usual in this distanced set up, and was never the same from one time through the piece to the next. The process of preparing for this recording provided an injection of musical exploration and fun during a time in September when we were both buried in the work of preparing classes and trying to get our feet on the ground for teaching this fall. We relished talking about the music, and working out who would play what when, what registration we should use on our instruments, what tempo worked best. We tried it one way, recorded it, and tried something different. We didn’t have a lot of rehearsal time, but we made it count. Those are normal collaborative conditions, but they felt new in an atmosphere that differed in so many other ways. We were fortunate to have the skill of Mick Layden, music department Digital Media Producer to record and film us, and also to provide an audience and a pair of critical ears. [“Chamber Music at a Distance” lecture at 27:08.]

A Duel

Next we will leapfrog over three centuries of music to hear a work composed by Pauline Oliveros, the visionary artist quoted at the beginning of the presentation. It was a coincidence that when I proposed this project, which was inspired by the quotation from Oli-

veros, my colleague Andi Beckendorf responded to my call for ideas about musical collaboration across distance with the suggestion of a piece by Oliveros herself. “Double Basses at Twenty Paces” must have been written for the pandemic—except that it was actually composed back in 1978. It is intended as a piece of theatrical humor, which it is, but from our current perspective it also offers a commentary on the trials of operating at a distance. It is, as the title suggests, a duel. This duel was enacted by Beckendorf and her student, senior Zach Mayer. The duelers also need “seconds,” played by Zach’s fellow seniors, Olivia Steffl and Andrew Scheller. Finally, a duel also requires a referee, played by Luther College Orchestra Conductor Daniel Baldwin. The duel is based on a musical score that reads more like a set of stage directions. There are relatively few musical notes on the page; instead, there are a series of stopwatch timings and instructions for each player and the referee. The instructions include a stage diagram and performance cues such as this one: “Attitude: all participants must devote undivided attention, maintaining at all times a serious professional manner.” Here is the URL for“Double Basses at Twenty Paces: a theater piece for two double basses, their seconds, and a referee (or conductor)” by Pauline Oliveros, recorded in the CFL by Mick Layden. [“Chamber Music at a Distance” lecture at 33:45.] As Andi Beckendorf noted, this piece requires no adaptation to be performed at a distance; it is built into the score. One unusual feature required by the performance instructions is that the conductor faces the audience—in our case, the camera—rather than the players. This gives the sense that the (virtual) audience is being conducted as well. The conductor is in a sense more of a theatrical effect than a necessity, since the two players are actually not supposed to be playing the same thing at the same time. Andi commented, “We have noticed that it is harder to play together at a distance in the instances where we have the same music, but also observed that ‘not being together’ is probably the effect that Oliveros intended. Oliveros also plays on this by having the referee (conductor) conduct different movements of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony while the players do other things. There is only one section in which we play the same thing at the same time, following the conductor.” Professor Baldwin might agree that conducting an orchestra rehearsing in the CFL may sometimes feel like refereeing a duel or even a melee between orchestra members!

Purcell in Nature

Returning to the Baroque, and moving from the absurd to the sublime, we’ll end this investigation of music at a distance and in unusual spaces with the music of Henry Purcell, English composer who lived from 1659 to 1695. Baritone Andrew Whitfield and I have performed Purcell together a number of times before. One of my favorite Purcell songs, “An Evening Hymn,” has a text that I have often thought should be sung as a prayer at the end of the day. It begins, “Now, now as the sun has veiled his light, and bid the world goodnight….” As I thought of the possibility of recording some music for this presentation out of doors this summer, I immediately thought of recording the Purcell “Evening Hymn” outside at sunset. Could it happen? It did, and it was miraculous. We recruited Andi Beckendorf to join us and shore up the bass line, doubling the harpsichord left hand as is common practice for Baroque music. Her presence was especially important in the outdoor acoustic, where it was harder to hear precise attacks and releases. We decided that as long as we were moving a harpsichord and bass outside for music, we might as well do some other Purcell songs as well, so we chose three, two of which you may hear. We kept it simple: one rehearsal, and then, with the help of Spencer Martin and his I-pad, a recording one hot summer evening in July. The campus was officially closed, so the only audience we invited were a family member and a friend who helped carry the harpsichord. A couple happened to be out walking their dog on campus that evening, so they got a surprise concert. And as you will see, in this recording of Purcell’s “Music for a While,” there were some other unexpected guests. The text speaks of the hypnotic effects of music, and it apparently had that effect on the wildlife on campus. A doe with her fawn meandered and lingered behind us as we played. Later, in “An Evening Hymn,” a buck appeared and stopped, apparently transfixed!). [“Chamber Music at a Distance” lectureat 47:45.]

Andrew Whitfield, Andi Beckendorf, and Kathy Reed perform the music of Henry Purcell on the Luther College campus, July 3, 2020.

Listening in a new way? Absolutely. Sound is different outdoors, and so is tuning for harpsichord and bass on a hot, humid July night. We could have fussed with it indefinitely, but then we would have missed our window of light. And somehow, it seemed less important. We listened extra hard to match articulation, and to support the meaning of the text—things we do anyway, but that felt even more central in this outdoor setting. We realized that the sounds of the setting—evening bird sounds, dogs barking, a child’s voice in the distance— became part of the music in a way that they can’t in the acoustically engineered and relatively sterile sound environment of the recital hall. This final experience of playing outdoors at sunset gets at some of my takeaways about the heart of musical collaboration, things that I will carry with me in my life as a musician. You have to listen to the space you are in, and let it become a part of the performance. You need to be able to see each other’s body language. You don’t need a big audience, but you need someone to listen, to become a part of the musical “orb” as Carol called it. Perfection of the details—ensemble, tuning, every single note in its place—is still worth striving for, but it is not central. You need to respond to what happens in the moment. The process is as important as the product. And the opportunity to make music together is a gift, one that musicians will go to all lengths to give and receive. To conclude this lecture essay, I offer Purcell’s “An Evening Hymn,” recorded around 8:30 p.m. on July 3. As Andrew and Andi and I talked about our feelings that evening, we agreed that the peace invoked in this text was aspirational, as if to say, “Please, God, let this peace come over me.” I thought of a friend who was going to bed and waking up in the reality of the recent death of his wife, and we thought of all of the people living in grief and fear. Creating music together on the Luther campus in the quiet of the evening was an act of prayer, hope, and of reverence. That is the heart of musical collaboration, wherever you are. [“Chamber Music at a Distance” lecture at 54:33.]

WORKS CITED

Evans, Nat. “The Cistern Chapel:

Resonance from the Pacific Northwest.”

Newmusicbox, April 6, 2016. https:// nmbx.newmusicusa.org/cistern-chapel/ Oliveros, Pauline. “The difference between hearing and listening.”

TEDxIndianapolis, Nov 12, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_

QHfOuRrJB8