Landscape, Winter 2019

Written in 2019 for String Trio (11 minutes)

Original program note

No one has ever described my home state of Nebraska as having a particularly elevated landscape. In fact, one might be compelled to describe it as “flat.” I think this is fine description, but it disappoints me that it’s generally used with negative connotations. To me, flat does not mean boring, that’s a chosen attitude. I think about it in comparison to the ocean; a vast, flat boring surface of blue that you can’t even go out and be part of. What matters is what you’re doing and what you are choosing to take the time to see. If you’re on a slight hill in the Winter, you might see miles and miles of beautiful and gentle landscape accented by trees, quaint country houses, and a sky so big it feels like it’s engulfing you. This is one of my favorite experiences driving home in the winter. In some way, I’ve tried to paint a bit of a portrait or landscape with this piece; my own take on a pastorale.

Thoughts on the Piece

This piece took years to get off the ground and to finally make happen due in large part to COVID 19. Because of that, while it was written in 2019, it wasn’t performed until the Fall of 2022.

The Amorsima Trio is a great string trio out of North Texas. I’m really stoked to call Mia, Kourtney, and Mike my friends, and I’m always happy to get to see them play. On more than one occasion, we’ve even gotten to make music together and all three of them have ended up on a ton of recordings of my work and I can’t even guess show many shows, stages, and weird little gigs I’ve shared with at least one of them. So, to me this piece has a quality of friendship about it that I don’t think you could ever feint to guess just by listening to the piece alone. Rather, this piece was part of that early, somewhat awkward period of my life in Texas: knowing people or getting to know people still and trying to establish myself or something of my voice in the music scene here. At the same time, the piece has this preoccupation with texture and timbre that I also showed with pieces like As if You’d See the Light and on revision and rehearsals, I added a lot more and asked for a lot more that isn’t reflected in the score you see here.

It's a thorny, brittle little piece. It’s almost austere, I guess. You can hear it in the instability of the strings.. it isn’t a particularly friendly piece, is it?

Free association while listening: I’m listening to it now and thinking about how the service the title pays to the music. It’s cold, distant. I’m thinking about first-wave black metal and lo-fi bathroom recordings; so much of my music was recorded in a scrappy DIY way just trying to get things down and somehow affirm that the work matters and that all of us together can make something interesting happen. Music like this is so hard to play: you are always expected to practice your Tchaikovsky and nobody ever asks you to practice playing a very long and very quiet low G. It’s not a cozy piece: you’re not cuddled up next to the fire; you’re feeling the draft and you’re feeling the brittle ice hit your face while you look over the hills that don’t have enough trees to stop that wind from making your eyes water and freeze to your cheeks. I don’t think we’re going to die out here: no, there’s a chance for something else on the horizon, but I’m not happy to be here, I’d rather be warm inside. I can hear the windmill creaking: the snow makes everything sound so flat, so dry, so dead. Suddenly there’s a hymn? I don’t remember this part of the story. Yes I do. I always imagine it. Maybe there’s warmth after all. There’s a story here. There’s a narrative. I won’t consult my notes; it’s not a literal story. It’s a dreamscape. It’s cold outside.