You know those times when you are made viscerally scared by a piece of music? I remember back when I was a big black metal fan, in my teenage years, I found the scariness of the music intoxicating. I’m not sure if the music is intrinsically scary. Certainly, if you listen to it very impassively, the music can sound silly — indeed, the line between what’s scary and what’s silly can be a faint one. But if you listen to black metal conscious of the dozens of church burnings, the numerous murders, the pseudo-ritualistic violent imagery, you’re likely to find the music at least a bit scary.
There is a Norweigan black metal ‘singer’, Gaahl, who infamously tortured a man in apparent ‘self-defence’ by first beating him, then collecting his blood in a cup. He did this while wearing a satanic garb and threatening to sacrifice him. The lenient Norwegian system gave him only a year in jail and a fine. This was far from the only offence he or his fellow band-members committed. In a 2004 show in Krakow a band Gaahl fronted, Gorgoroth, used nude models on crucifixes, some eighty litres of sheep blood, and sheep’s heads on stakes. These violated Polish laws against animal cruelty and religious offence. I’ll let you make your mind up whether it’s scary or silly, or both:
(He’s still a popular black metal figure today, and there’s an interesting, though somewhat over-the-top, half-four Vice documentary on him.)
Now, years later, that music has no hold on me, thank goodness. I have different values and different ears. What frightens me now is Sofia Gubaidulina’s music, whose work, for all the magnificence in it, has a sense of creeping darkness, and of constant battle. Her music is sublime, in the most religious sense — it’s scary because of the mystery in what it represents, and the intimidating musical language she uses to represent it. She is among the great twentieth-century Christian composers from the Soviet Union, from Arvo Part to Schnittke to Penderecki, whose faith was a profound and brave contrast to the totalitarian society in which they lived. Gubaidulina faced opposition from Tikhon Khrennikov, First Secretary of the Union of Soviet Composers, who labelled her an ‘undesirible’ composer for her aesthetic and religious qualities. Offertorium, the 1980 violin concerto which gave her worldwide recognition, had to be smuggled into the West for violinist Gidon Kremer to perform, himself unpopular with the regime for his refusal to return to the Soviet Union.
This is all a roundabout way of getting to the news that a new work by Gubaidulina, her Triple Concerto for Violin, Cello, Bayan and Orchestra, was premiered by the Boston Symphony. One of the odd things about Gubaidulina’s music is how it can be borderline atonal in a way that sounds tonal. In this work, the opening notes on the cello are from the minor pentatonic scale. When she breaks with the scale, it’s by using a major third in a way that sounds faintly bluesy. After that you hear the signature chromatic ascents and descents of Gubaidulina’s music and the long glissandi — attempts to climb towards divinity, perhaps. There’s a terribly exciting bit at 18:19 (video below) on the bayan, a Russian accordion, that sounds like panicked breath exploding into a chromatic scream, with a long but frantic glissando descent. The main chromatic theme, heard frequently, is particularly memorable, perhaps owing to its easy symmetry — 1,2,3 ¦ 3,2,1 — although inverted and ornamented and contorted throughout. And with familiar arpeggios hovering above the dissonance, and familiar melodic leaps of tritones and fifths, the piece is much less incomprehensible than it ought to be. Perhaps this is the benefit of modernist music rooted in something more than abstraction. (Gubaidulina, however, identifies her music as ‘archaic’ not modernist.)
Anyway, those are my meagre thoughts on the piece. Well worth a listen: