A Certain Person noted that there were actually 20 persons on the Disney stage last night performing Steven Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians. No wonder. It’s pretty demanding for the performers. I kept staring at the older woman at the marimba, who basically has to bang the same notes continuously and steadily for an hour.
Also fascinating was the girl in the black top, who functioned as a “floater,” sometimes helping at a marimba, sometimes turning pages for a pianist, and then—her big moment—rocking out with two maracas. Whenever she got out of her chair you knew something was going to happen.
And a lot happens. I knew the piece—everybody I knew circa 1980 had the silver ECM album—but I hadn’t appreciated how magnificent it was. It’s the happiest, least tormented classical music of the whole 20th century. Though it’s not exactly lighthearted: after 40 minutes it starts to become oppressive. But that’s part of its lovely bluntness.
I have read the explanations of how it’s all based on 11 chords and each section’s riff on a chord is signaled by the metallophone, and all the patterns are very simple.
But they don’t sound like that at all. It sounds like a continuous shimmering field of textures and patters. The singers and instruments don’t play tunes so much as insert contrasting textures.
Yes if you are art-inclined it is analogous to the bliss of an Agnes Martin painting or a Sol LeWitt wall drawing. But it is also closer to the experience of a jazz club or rock band at a bar than any other classical music. That happy, American way of being straightforward and matter-of-fact but also magical.
It’s also theater (the four female singers cooing as they bring their microphones closer to their lips) and performance: i.e. an experience we all undergo together. When the musicians stopped, the audience exploded into cheers.
