Like most foreigners, I find Tokyo a place of immense wonder and am constantly marvelling at the way a place of such extremes can function in such an orderly fashion. Temples nestled between skyscrapers set the ancient alongside the modern with a slight feeling of awkward impermanence, as if awaiting the next earthquake. The subway network appears an unfolding labyrinth of intersecting lines on a map, yet the rail system runs like clockwork. Trains seem about to burst open due to the crowds, but the people themselves are the depiction of politeness, aside from a few Friday night revellers who have had a little too much sake and karaoke. It’s the constant battle to contain the chaotic elements into a rigid formality that make Tokyo a place of enduring interest. A similar struggle between musical extremes and strict form gives traditional Japanese music its mysterious allure.
Japanese instruments exhibit a certain wild potency as their seemingly simple design allows for much flexibility of pitch and timbre, coupled with a striking array of extended techniques. Raw and unrefined sounds are frequent in the traditional repertoire and are considered aesthetically pleasing. To this end, the instruments have not been ‘modernised’, so to speak, and their music has evolved around set limitations that the instruments’ basic construction presents. For example, the end-blown mouthpiece of the shakuhachi allows a startling degree of pitch freedom and variance of tone colour. However a pentatonic scale is produced by opening its five finger holes in order, and fast movement between pitches outside this scale is troublesome.
Similarly, the shamisen, a three-stringed cat-skin lute, has freedom of pitch due to its fretless fingerboard. The music is bound always to the pitch of its lowest string, which is left a little loose at the nut to create a rough, buzzing sound. With sympathetic resonance, this takes on an incessant drone-like quality that reinforces the prominence of this pitch. In contrast, the movable bridges of the koto mean that any number of different tonalities is possible, however, once they are set, only small modulations are feasible. Players focus on adding colour and expression through varied plucking techniques as well as pushing and pulling the strings to manipulate the pitch. Japanese traditional musicians claim that the freedom to inflect the tone of their instruments makes theirs a living and breathing sound, whose animation more than makes up for perceived limitations.
An acceptance of free elements into form and structure also occurs on a broader level in the different genres of traditional music. In a series of lectures I was able to attend by the Japanese composer Ichiyanagi Toshi, he raised the issue of freedom in relation to time. In our modern-day world, he asserted, we measure time as absolute in minutes and seconds, whereas in old Japan, time was a relative concept. Each day was divided into six equal parts, and the lengths of these segments varied as the seasons changed. Many genres of music in Japan similarly allow for such flexibility of time. For example, shakuhachi honkyoku pieces consist of phrases which are drawn out to the length of one breath, which will differ between performers and performances. In my ongoing study of this repertoire, there is a strong focus on how to space the notes of a phrase suitably within the time of my own breath. In gagaku, the ancient court music, the final beat of each bar is lengthened quite dramatically in a way that disrupts the sense of pulse. This creates a floating and otherworldly mood, which is further heightened by the overlapping chords of the sho (a mouth organ) and the wandering melodies of the hichiriki (a double-reed instrument). Ichiyanagi also pointed out that no traditional Japanese music uses a conductor, therefore ensembles must listen closely to each other within the fluctuating time.
It was with this idea of a tug of war between chaos and containment in mind that I observed the gendai hougaku scene (contemporary music for traditional instruments) during my residency. A highlight of my stay was seeing my host ensemble Aura-J perform Miki Minoru’s Concerto Requiem for 21-string koto and ensemble. The soloist, Kimura Reiko, is a leading exponent of the 21-string koto, and Miki’s skilful writing for the instrument allowed her to show off the entire range of her expressive talent, from delicate harmonics to strong percussive attacks. What became immediately clear was that Miki had explored the limits of soloistic virtuosity, while still allowing space for the raw elements, the subtle pitch inflections and resonance of the more noise-like sounds, to really bring Kimura’s performance to life.
This was a major lesson for me, as other pieces I saw during my residency, that failed to utilise the distinct range of sounds available to the instruments, were at times bland and uninteresting. At the opposite end of the spectrum, pieces that used the pitch freedom and extended techniques excessively, or in an unrelated fashion, became a foray too far into the abstract to maintain the liveliness of the performance. My recent experience of Japanese instruments has confirmed that to write music which encompasses the wild and chaotic within a structure, for Japanese or Western instruments, I must pursue a musical world where juxtaposing extremes of expression coexist in a balanced way.
Exploring the ‘forbidden’ things led to a more complete understanding of the whole
Concurrently in my practice room, I was facing some serious ongoing hurdles in my technical progress and action was required. I decided to undertake a complete rebuild of my embouchure, even to the extent of blatantly discarding advice I had received in lessons to ensure I came to my own conclusions. Actually exploring the ‘forbidden’ things led to a more complete understanding of the whole. And perhaps this non-rational approach mirrors that of the zen koan, a seemingly obtuse question or situation requiring deep contemplation to perceive the inner meaning. Surely for a shakuhachi player, finding a beautiful tone is really our eternal koan?
Exploring ideas to which I was personally opposed then became a basis for a series of compositions. To challenge my attachment to the yearning semitones of the miyako bushi mode, I composed The Night Sky Fall (2011) on the notes of the harmonic series, thereby forcing me to create musical tension by other means. In Confluence (2014) I ask two percussionists to seek an ‘ensemble ma’, an agreement on flexible honkyoku-like gestures deliberately spread between them. I soon targeted my long-held belief that honkyoku could not (and should not) be performed on Western instruments. After much consideration, I arrived at the following rationale:
I wanted to present opportunities for classical musicians to engage with the honkyoku tradition on their own instrument and in their own notation, but in which they must face some of the unique challenges of honkyoku. Furthermore, I wanted to transmit my own interpretation of the honkyoku in a way that effectively mirrors the physicality and intensity in the new instrumental medium.
My first attempt was to create a string quartet in my image of the honkyoku piece Yamagoe, the primary challenge being to achieve the concentrated level of physicality. The piece sat surprisingly easily over a driving pulse in compound time, and exploiting the strings extended range and playing techniques ensured a lively experience for the audience and players alike.
I wanted to present opportunities for classical musicians to engage with the honkyoku tradition
Daha, a favourite honkyoku of mine for its juxtaposition of the ocean in both violent and calm moods, became the model for the first movement of my Piano Trio. The strongly pulsing komibuki from the original is taken up by a syncopated ostinato at a break-neck pace as I imagined both my diaphragm in action and the imagery of powerful waves crashing against cliff faces. The strings present the melody in minor ninths while the piano reinforces the strong accents and adds its own wave-like gestures. In the subsequent lyrical section, the melody is taken up by the strings moving in floating parallel elevenths with the gentle aura of glassy piano chords above. Later, the fragility of a particularly high and intimate phrase is achieved by having the violin and piano play gently but precariously in their upper-most range, before thickened textures return for the more muscular climax. The second and third movements are of my own imagination, distilling the ideas of Daha in my own language.
I hope that these works can be viewed as broadening the reach of honkyoku
Having explained the how and why of using honkyoku in my compositions, I wish to pause momentarily for thought on the issue of cultural appropriation. I still remain uneasy about using Daha and Yamagoe, and in truth never sought the approval of my teachers Kaoru Kakizakai and Katsuya Yokoyama before or after referencing them in my compositions. But rather than being viewed as an insensitive grab of another culture’s music, I hope that these works can be viewed as broadening the reach of honkyoku; even as a form of transmission in some sense of the word. After all, there is an inherent element of change in every individual’s version of a piece, and I have simply chosen to enact my own interpretation in a different sphere.
Perhaps the final answer will be in the strength of the Sitkovetsky Trio’s performances of my Piano Trio in its upcoming national tour, in which Daha will reach a total audience well into the thousands.