A calming darkness surrounds me. At first, its familiar silence is soothing and refreshing - a cocoon to retreat to in a chaotic world. I am safe here in this pillow of violet-ebony.
I know this place and what to expect.
Nothing can enter this cocoon.
I lay in bliss, enjoying the silence. I let my mind seep into it. But slowly, it begins to
tighten
grip
crush.
Without outside input, the silence becomes deafening, stiff, and brittle.
I put one feeler outside the cocoon - one tiny crack in this safety net that has become my prison.
A blast of color
kaleidoscope of sound
blasts away the cocoon.
The neon sparklers coat the amethyst suede in an overwhelming flurry. Scarlet waves of rhythm flow through the room, reflecting at every angle a new shade of red, from crimson to blood
a whirlwind of sound.
This is my first visit to Darmstadt International Summer Course. Just a few years ago, all I knew about “new music” was that it sounded “weird” and used sounds, performance techniques, and compositional styles that were outside my experience. I was accustomed to music with a melody, that played with dissonance but specialized in tonality.
But over the past few years, I’ve discovered that “weird” is where I want to be.
So I came to Darmstadt Summer Course, an international festival in the west of Germany that has been an essential part of the new music scene for decades. The festival has multiple performances every day, mostly of world premieres, lectures from composers, performers, and academics, and open space performances organized by participants. Darmstadt isn’t just the festival - it’s also a course, with studios for every type of instrument, young composers, residencies, and recently, a class for those interested in music journalism.
I sort of knew what to expect after having experienced Märzmusik in Berlin, another new music festival, earlier this year, but I had no idea how intensely I would experience the performances here.
The whirlwind picks up speed, drawing in the neon sparklers,
the amethyst suede.
It gains speed, spinning
faster
faster
faster
until it feels like it will burst into every color
on the spectrum.
From the first night, the word that came to mind immediately was CONVERSATION. Everyone seemed to be constantly conversing, exchanging ideas with words, music, movement, and gestures. By the time I sat down for the first concert, my head was already spinning, filled with new sounds, thoughts, and textures.
It continues to spin, creating a thick onyx wind, which spreads through the air, colliding with and altering everything it touches.
The plush emerald floor transforms into a transparent coral cloud
wavy walls straighten and crack, bend outwards in a brilliant orange
I stand in the middle, surrounded by chaos. I try to grab onto an slippery aquamarine thread as it
slithers by
and dodge a mahogany wave crashing overhead.
I am lost
in a sea of
color
sounds
pressure
as the whirlwind grows and grows.
In the first concert, an incredible performance of George Aperghis’ Situations from Klangforum Wien, I felt submerged in a sea of color, sounds, and textures, as if an overwhelming surge of experience had washed over me. The piece, written for the 23 soloists of Klangforum Wien, explores the unique body of sound that the ensemble has created over its years of performing together. To create the piece, Aperghis communicated with many members of the ensemble and included their personal experiences, childhood songs, and favorite memories in the work.
Opening the festival with a work that deeply explores community and communication was just the beginning. This experience continued - every day brought new sounds, new conversations, new ideas, and new experiences.
Each morning, I went to class with my fellow music journalists in the Words on Music course, a forum to discuss the way music “criticism” and journalism is changing and what the future holds for the industry.
We had fascinating, intense discussions ranging from the future of music “criticism” to the use of trigger warnings in programs. Immediately after class I headed out to practice, attend concerts, hear lectures, and, hopefully, eventually get some sleep.
I had been warned by friends who were Darmstadt veterans. You will become overwhelmed, they said, don’t go to everything. Of course, I ignored them and went to everything I possibly could in the first 3 days.
I am engulfed.
I am sucked inside the pulsing blood-red whirlwind and
suddenly
the chaos is pleasant. The colors outside
batter the walls
they vibrate and tremble from the onslaught
but inside, the eb and flow of color is clear. I can reach out and grab the threads as they flow past
I watch as they make their own beautiful dance.
On the third day of the program, I went to see Sarah Hennies’ Motortapes. It was, for me, the first piece in the festival that truly resonated with me. I sat engrossed, able for the first time since coming to Darmstadt to sit INSIDE a piece rather than simply feeling it wash over me as a blast of color. The piece explores the work of neuroscientists who have researched the unconscious aspect of creativity. According to Rodolfo Llinás, there are constantly running “motor tapes” underpinning our brains, which run in repetitive loops and generate “continuous, random, motor pattern noise.”
In Motortapes, Hennies uses all the instruments in Ensemble Dedalus to explore and expand upon this idea of never-ending snippets. As the piece developed, I was able to follow each thread until it joined imperceptibly with another.
Why did this piece resonate so strongly with me? I’m not entirely sure. Some people I spoke with loved Motortapes while others preferred Situations. Many used the terms “good” or “bad”. I find these terms problematic when discussing any art, whether that’s a performance, a written piece, a score, or visual art. Who are we to decide if something is good or bad? Each person has their own set of experiences, feelings, and emotions which directly affect how they experience a piece of art. Whether they like something can depend on the day they’ve had, the year – even the five minutes before the concert.
Music - and art - are inherently personal. What moves one person to immense anguish could seem superficial or “inauthentic” to someone else. With that in mind, how can we discuss works critically without some implied bias of good or bad? As I sink deeper into the colors of Darmstadt, I am beginning to find a path to the center of the whirlwind. To write about music, I must first become engulfed.
I have found my new cocoon here inside this whirlwind.
And tomorrow
when this whirlwind fades,
I will search for another.
Words On Music 