Terry Riley received a 20-minute standing ovation after the 45th anniversary performance of his seminal work, In C, last night at Carnegie Hall. The guru of Minimalism wrote the piece while riding the bus "properly stoned" in San Francisco in May 1964, when the pattern, he said, started unfolding, and wrote down all 53 patterns in one sitting the next day. When told that that was faster than Mozart, he replied it was more simple-minded--it was Mozart stoned.
The piece, of course, is far from simple-minded. Riley's idea was to gather a random and diverse group of performers (35 if possible, but smaller or larger groups are OK) to play from the same page of 53 melodic patterns in sequence. Each performer has the freedom to determine how many times they repeat a pattern, while carefully listening to one another and timing one's playing according to the organic feel of the work in progress. One of the joys of In C, he says, is the interaction of the players in polyrhythmic combinations. Sort of like jazz, I reckon.
What we heard at Carnegie Hall last night was nothing short of a stoned experience, minus the drugs, which were unnecessary, as the music transported the audience to something even more celestial (drugs just don't quite get there, alas). Immediately after the first few raga notes, you were immersed in a mesmerizing trance and found yourself traveling through the edge of the universe, where other worlds wafted and faded out of view. There were stretches of desolate, uninhabited spaces, exoplanets with their own tumults and surprises, and now and then a glimpse of some heavenly realm and strains of eerie, angelic voices. The music, in other words, was very visual, the way I suppose (or remember) a stoned experience makes every moment an experience both felt and seen, immediate and visceral. The ebb and flow of sound reminded me of the breath of Brahma, the eternal re-creation of the universe. Unlike the original recording of the piece, which to me seemed more urban and earthy, last night's performance was more finely textured, ethereal, haunting, I dare say nearly divine: I imagined Timothy Leary coming out of the heavens to bless everyone in the hall. The work lasted for nearly two hours; if it wouldn't have been cruel to the 71 performers involved, I could have gone on for overtime.
Just to give you an idea of the phenomenal, universal sound of the concert, here's a partial list of instruments involved: keyboards, strings, winds, didjeridu, conch, guitar, theremin, claviola, melodica, mandolin, bagpipes, "neglected instruments," toy piano, grand piano, accordion, pipa, guzheng, banjo, reeds, koto, recorders, drums, percussion, and voices.
Among the performers were some of the world's most renowned artists, including Kronos Quartet, Oswaldo Golijov, Philip Glass, Dave Douglas, Ustad Mashoor Ali Khan, the Young People's Chorus of New York City, and Riley himself. (You can check out the Carnegie Hall website for a full list.)
Riley is one of those true geniuses whose work transcends time and space. He changed 20th century music and, judging from last night's concert (and the diverse audience, from old fogies to young hipsters), he's certainly going to continue being an expansive influence on the 21st century as well.
What I like most about Riley is that he articulates the generosity of spirit a true artist must have--humility and gratitude for the talent that is given by some mysterious source. "I've always felt that the most important thing about an artist is that you somehow are connected to some kind of universal mind," he says. "Nothing originates from you. So if you hear something come through, that means it's something given to you. Try and get it down right away and not question it."
PS. I hope this performance gets recorded and released pretty soon. I would like to be among the first to own it.
