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My musical process is strongly connected to live performance. As much as I can prepare in the time leading up to a performance, a certain enhanced concentration and listening is activated in me only in the moment I find myself in front of an audience. It is as if the music cannot unfold without the audience present. I like that I am part of the audience as well, and that I am sharing a musical experience as a performer and a listener simultaneously. In a recording or workshop, there is always the possibility of correcting mistakes and getting a second chance. During performance, however, I am forced to confront the music as it is happening in real time, which opens up a kind of honesty or authenticity—a certain response that I can’t capture in private situations.
I have decided to program concerts each semester during my research period for the following reasons:
1. Showing the work in progress with an audience present
2. Putting myself in a performance mode, where I must construct a musical narrative in real time
3. Documenting the concert both as audio and video, which will allow me to analyze and reflect on the performance
Preparation
I have chosen a setup with only one drum: a lovely German kettledrum, which I received as a gift in 2008 from my friend Lars Finborud, the now-former curator at the Henie Onstad Art Center (HOK) outside Oslo. While tidying up the museum's attic, he found a pair of kettledrums that were apparently left at the HOK after a performance in the late sixties or early seventies. I received one of the drums, and my colleague Erland Dahlen received the other. (My curator friend later found a photograph in the attic showing three kettledrums shining beside Mauricio Kagel and his ensemble, though I later learned that these were not our drums.) I still have no clue how my kettledrum came to be at the HOK for all these years.
At that time, I didn’t know that this kettledrum would come to mean so much to me and play such a significant part in the development of my music and my current project. This kettledrum, with its white metal kettle, iron rim and natural cow skin, produces a specific and attractive sound, similar to that of traditional timpani, with a warm, baroque resonance. Unlike modern kettledrums, the tuning is activated with a hand crank, not a foot pedal. This feature is probably the main reason why I fell in love with this drum. It allows me to work with a flexible pitch, and gives me greater control over sound production than I would have with a foot pedal. The setup feels more natural for my balance and body movements, and allows me also to have my feet placed on the ground. Due to the height of the kettledrum, I choose to sit so as to be more comfortable and more easily maneuver the hand crank while playing.
I am not a trained timpanist—my interest in the instrument lies more in how I can use it a resonator for the vibrating speakers. For this performance, I am focusing on trying out sonic material with my vibrating speakers in contact with the membrane of the kettledrum. I want to try and answer a few questions:
1. Where on the skin should I place the vibrating speaker to obtain the best resonance?
2. Which frequencies resonate best on the skin I have mounted on my kettledrum?
3. What happens to the resonance when I change the pitch with the hand crank?
4. What happens to the sound when I apply different kinds of objects on the skin while it vibrates?
5. What happens to the sound when I perform circular and linear movements with fingers, hands, or other objects on the skin while it vibrates?
These questions are at the core of the research, and they are also valid in my work with the Gran Cassa (GC) and the snare drum, the two other drums I use in my research project. The kettledrum has a far wider range of pitch than the GC and snare drum because of the mechanical hand crank that can tighten and slacken the entire circumference of the rim. The Gran Cassa and the snare drum do not have this system, and thus have a smaller range of pitch when one tunes the drumhead with the screws on the rim.
To establish the position of the transducer on the kettledrum, I start by sending sine waves of different frequencies through the transducer. According to researchers Michelangelo Lupone and Lorenzo Seno(Lupone 2023), the best position of the transducer is at one third of the diameter on the drumhead when measured from the rim. (Here, I interpret the “best” position to be where the skin resonates best.) In my practice, this position is problematic because the transducer becomes an obstacle, hindering me from preparing and elaborating upon the musical material I generate on the skin. I understand that I will need to make some compromises. I need to find a position for the transducer that won't significantly reduce the effect of the vibration and the resonance, and that at the same time will give me enough space and elbow room to manipulate the sonic material. I consider organizing a mathematical frequency analysis to find a sufficiently good placement for the transducer on the skin. However, after reflecting about my intentions and goals for this project, I quickly realize that there are many variables to take into consideration for a proper analysis, including:
- the weight of the transducer
- the tuning of the skin
- the frequency sent through the transducer
- the resonating frequency
- my preparations and their effect on resonance and vibration
My conclusion is that a comprehensive frequency analysis will take a lot of time, and my instinct tells me that the results will not necessarily be beneficial for my ultimate direction with this project. I decide to forgo formal analysis and just use my ears. I try out a range of sonic material, changing the pitch of the skin and the placement of the transducer. At some point I get lost in the process. I am in my natural habitat, creating music. I decide to abandon the analytical method entirely and instead navigate by listening and playing with material that will provide the sonic palette for my first concert. I have decided where to put the transducer, and I feel comfortable with it. However, I am still waiting for the new transducers and amplifiers to arrive from China to be able to put together my new transducer setup. In the meantime, I am stuck with the old vibrating speaker, with its awkward design and sonic limitations. Thus, the first concert will involve new sonic material and an old transducer.
I prepare for the solo concert by working with selected percussion, pitches, motifs, and possible starting and ending points. I prepare for one long piece, somewhere between 30 to 35 minutes. I move freely between the predetermined elements, trying to pay attention to where the music takes me and to orchestrate the sonic material in the room. I decide not to lock in a preconceived form for the concert. I will not use a score. I will rely on my listening and my memory to perform the sonic material spontaneously. I prefer to shape the structure of the piece in the moment because I am introducing the sonic material in a new space with an audience present. I want the material and the formal development to be flexible so that the music can reflect the space where it is performed. My compositional frameworks are in constant flux, allowing new processes to bleed into the creation of the work. I want to leave myself open to what can emerge through an interplay between room, the audience, myself, and the sonic material. Not deciding on a predetermined structure will allow me to make choices that I could not have anticipated. If I trust in the sonic material and my listening, the music can blossom.
The prepared sonic material for this concert comprises:
- A kantele sample that comes with the application Patterning, an eight-channel digital drum machine I operate from an iPad. I prepare the pattern’s programming for this concert in advance
- A tuned drone with sine waves played on the iPad in the application SrutiBox
- A small glissando melody played on the iPad in the application Ribbons
- A singing bowl and a bell and a tam-tam with fixed pitches
- Skin preparations that include two triangles, brushes, chains, and assorted metal
The concert
I am entering Levinsalen at NMH. In Oslo and at the Academy, there are restrictions because of the ongoing pandemic, so I cannot have more than ten people in the audience, and they must be either Academy students or employees. I try to fix the camera setup and the recording system in the hall on my own. I am stressed. I am not sure if they are working, and I’m not sure if any of the people in the audience would know what to do either. Well, I have a backup plan with my Zoom recorder and a lo-fi small camera from the library, in case the hall systems fail.
Now, do I have to say a few words to the audience? Oops, I should probably just have made a program. I feel awkward speaking before playing. I have always felt like that. In general, speaking in front of a group of people makes me nervous, and even if I prepare an introduction, I usually end up saying something else or nothing at all. I am thinking that the same pattern is probably transferable to my performances. I can decide upon a form, a starting point, or a sequence of events prior to a performance, but I usually end up putting any preconceived idea aside as soon as I start playing. Why is that? When the nerves kick in, I start to doubt the decisions I have made, perhaps because they were not made in the process of playing. Am I not capable of following a plan or score? Does this mean that I am throwing my ideas out the window? All of these questions pop into in my head just before the concert starts. I am waiting for a person who is running late. Finally, she shows up, and I make a short introduction in English.
A hasty start: in my stress and insecurity about the cameras and making my introduction, I forgot to turn on the vibrating speaker before I cue the kantele sample. I try to take my time, to let the kantele sample resonate in the room by the contact between the vibrating speaker and the skin. The acoustics in Levinsalen are beautiful and livelier than those of my studio. I enjoy listening to the opening note for quite a while, tracing the room’s acoustic response. I start to tune the skin with the timpani’s hand crank. By tightening or slackening the skin, I can play with subtle changes in the harmonics of the opening note. Slowly, I add more notes to the kantele pattern, then introduce the sine wave drone underneath. I try to create layers of frequencies and textures that are related in some way, but at the same time detached from one another. These layers will function together as well as individually, and can be introduced and taken out at any time. At first, the kantele pattern might sound like a loop, but I have in fact programmed each note with a tiny displacement so that the rhythmical combination never repeats itself. I do not like loops, but I can enjoy repetition with variation.
I can appreciate some of the elements of my performance, but I have several doubts about whether the work as a whole was successful. I see that I am constantly searching for frequencies that I managed to achieve in my studio prior to the concert, but which eluded me during the show. I realize that searching for specific timbres that I was able to generate previously tends to hinder the musical development. To me, this mindset creates a static void that blocks the fluidity of the music.
However, I do find the part between 17:30 to 23:00 to be interesting. Here, I only work with dissonance between a few sine tones while tuning the skin with the hand crank. It is clear to me that I am in the music, responding to and shaping the music in the room. In this section, I can hear myself listening to the frequencies bounce off the walls in the room and giving myself the time to calmly play along with acoustics.
I struggle with the transducer, both its technical specifications and how it affects where I need to place my tools. It is not sturdy enough, and the device itself is noisy and unreliable. This performance is an example of why I need to solve my setup with a fixed transducer on the skin, together with a small amplifier.