Brandi Carlile

I’ve fallen into the habit of pairing the first listen of a much-anticipated album with a good bottle of something fitting. For the release last year of Brandi‘s “by the way, I forgive you” I choose a London Gin because of conversations during the album’s string sessions with engineer @edwardspear about what we were into at the moment. So happy to have been able to do the music prep for arrangers Kristin Wilkinson and the late legendary Paul Buckmaster on the project, and thrilled to see Brandi and the twins winning Grammys for it tonight!

Poetry (2018 reads)

Goodreads tells me I read 37 poetry collections last year, which makes me happy and glad I devoted time to sit with writers who are, to borrow Marilyn Chandler McEntyre’s description of poetry, “paying attention to words at the level of the syllable.” I started off the year rereading a favorite collection from Irish poet Pádraig Ó Tuama, and finished it with a new Adam Zagajewski collection that had just been translated into English from Polish. I read an Adrienne Rich collection Erin had, which led me to pick up another Rich collection when I was at McKay’s Used Books & CD’s, where I find a lot of the older collections I read; that’s also where I found Jones’ Elegy for a Southern Drawl, which I picked up for the title and bought for lines like these: “The boy has heard that music is not sound but an engraving / of silence, / That silence is defined by what precedes and follows it, / and only in this way / Do the moments differ from each other.”

For Christmas, Erin gave me Half-Light, Frank Bidart’s 737-page collected poems that won the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, and I tore through it in a surprisingly short amount of time, loving especially his long poem about Nijinsky (the dancer who choreographed Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring). 

I am interested in new poems, poems written by people struggling (and not struggling!) to articulate a response to what they see happening around them, in this second decade of the 21st century. In He Held Radical Light, Christian Wiman writes about his time as editor of Poetry, where as part of his work awarding the Ruth Lilly Prize for lifetime achievement, he made his way “through the collected works of just about every American poet of note.” Before this experience, he had believed that “greatness will out, as it were, that fate will find and save the masterpieces from oblivion no matter what,” but was convinced otherwise by this reading assignment, persuaded of the value of paying attention to what is in front of you. He writes: “There are many, many poems that, though the future will likely find them cold and curiously dark, can nevertheless light the time we’re in. This is a sadness, yes, but also a freedom. Take your eyes off eternity’s horizon and you might miss the meteor that flashes by every century or so (though I doubt it), but the immediate landscape is suddenly much more interesting. There is a spiritual lesson here.” 

One of the ways I find new poems that have a good chance of stopping me in my tracks is by paying attention to various poetry awards. I read Ocean Vuong’s Night Sky with Exit Wounds after it won the T. S. Elliot Prize, and continued my commitment of a couple years to reading at least the 5 books shortlisted for the National Book Award, if not the full long-list. In 2018, that means I read Rae Armantrout’s Wobble; Terrance Hayes’ American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin (an amazing collection that included a poem that read differently if you read one line at a time or if you read it as one long run-on sentence, and another that began: “Seven of the ten things I love in the face / Of James Baldwin…); Diana Khoi Nguyen’s Ghost Of (eulogizing a brother lost to suicide, where she reprints family photos with her brother cut out of them, and then on the following page, a poem compressed to the shape of her missing brother); Justin Phillip Reed’s Indecency, and Jenny Xie’s Eye Level, maybe my favorite collection I read all year and also the winner of the Walt Whitman award (“One self prunes violently / at all the others / thinking she’s the gardener.” And from Solitude Study: “Times when I think a mind uncluttered with others / is the only condition for gentleness.”)

Those were from the 2018 shortlist. I started out the year with selections from the 2017 shortlist, including Leslie Harrison’s The Book of Endings, Shane McCrae’s In the Language of My Captors (I heard him give a reading in Grand Rapids where he mentioned how much he loves the stark compositions of Galina Ustvolskaya, and I’ve returned often to them since, an absolutely appropriate soundtrack for 2018), and Danez Smith’s Don’t Call Us Dead (hearing his performance—there’s not a better word—of several of these poem in a classroom at Vanderbilt in the Fall of 2018 made me love them even more).

Reading Charles Wright’s Buffalo Yoga and A Short History of the Shadow prompted me to continue with The World of Ten Thousand Things — Poems 1980-1990, which convinced me to read Wright only in stand-alone books and not collected works. The new collection from our Poet Laureate, Tracy K. Smith’s Wade in the Water, had me digging into her earlier book The Body’s Question, which I bought after hearing her give a reading. Same for Mary Karr—after buying Tropic of Squalor at Parnassus Books the day it came out, I went back and read Viper Rum and The Devil’s Tour. I read Donald Hall’s The Painted Bed after he died, along with Jane Kenyon’s Constance. And the collected poems of Denis Johnson, The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly, after his passing. I wrote at the time that “Johnson’s poems are filled with the same hope and heartbreak and loss and tenacity that animate his short stories and novellas, and I am grateful for all of them.”

The year ended with a preoccupation with Jane Hirshfield’s poetry, particularly “Autumn Quince.” I first came to her work via “Lake and Maple,” which I think I discovered in a collection, perhaps one by Roger Housden — “I want to give myself / utterly / as this maple / that burned and burned / for three days without stinting / and then in two more / dropped off every leaf.” In the years since then, I’ve bought her books whenever I’ve found them at used bookstores and one, her newest, after she gave a reading at Vanderbilt. 
Of Gravity & Angels, published in ’88, was the first one I found, and as soon as I read “Autumn Quince” I knew I wanted to someday set it to music. And I finally had the chance. I was asked to write a piece for the Winter concert of the ALIAS Chamber Ensemble here in Nashville, along with a number of other Nashville composers. I settled on what I thought would be the richly warm instrumentation of French horn, English horn, and Clarinet, alongside a string quartet, with the text sung by countertenor Patrick Dailey. The piece is finished now, we have our first rehearsal later this week, and the concert will be on Sunday, the 24th of February, at the Blair School of Music’s Ingram Hall.
Tickets are available here:

Alicia Enstrom’s Frenzied Whispers


These two books have been tremendously helpful to me recently in thinking about how to approach orchestrating Alicia Enstrom’s composition for solo violin with electronics, “Frenzied Whispers.” In considering ways to have a chamber orchestra interact with loop pedals and the generated repeated patterns, Bachelard’s chapter on miniatures has provided plenty of food for thought, like his musings about how “as soon as the imagination is interested by an image, this increases its value,” and this quotation from a Botany dictionary, of all things: “Reader, study the periwinkle in detail, and you will see how detail increases an object’s stature.”
Ben Ratliff’s thoughts about recordings where “the air around the music becomes an almost tangible quantity” have helped me think about how pizzicato notes from a string section and harp harmonics and the decay around a note produced by soft yarn mallets striking a marimba can compliment the space created by the reverb in samples triggered by a solo violin. And this: “Feeling the rhythm is not too far from playing the rhythm, and one’s response to a repeated tone is to replicate the tone for yourself, hold it in your head, think along with it or sing along with it, and experience the musician darting above it and below it, putting it against other notes and chords.”

I think we’ve come up with something pretty cool that should be fun to witness. We’re performing it with a great group of musicians this Saturday at 3:00 at West End United Methodist, under the auspices of the Nashville Concerto Orchestra. I hope to see you there!

Douglas Tappin’s I DREAM

Thrilled to make it up to Charlotte last weekend to see a performance of I Dream. It’s been great working on this the last couple months with composer Douglas Tappin and orchestrator Carl Marsh, getting the music ready for these Opera Carolina and Toledo Opera performances.

Trying Nothing

Every time I work on a new orchestration, I think of a story Carl Marsh told me of a conversation he had with another arranger—Ronn Huff, if my memory serves me correctly. One of them was having trouble with a spot in the orchestration they were writing, and lamented that they had tried everything they could think of but nothing worked. The other asked, well, have you tried that? So they did, and it was perfect. “Nothing” was exactly what the song needed from the orchestration in those bars.

I was reminded of this advice last night, sitting in the theatre as the credits rolled for Darren Aronofsky’s stunning, description-defying new film, “mother!” when I noticed that the Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson was credited as “music and sound consultant.” There are few things that turn me off to a movie more than a score that is working at cross purposes with the storytelling, and I kept being glad, watching “mother!,” for the pitfalls being avoided where a bad score would have ruined a scene. It turns out, I discovered after I got home and started reading about the film, that Jóhannsson actually wrote a 90-minute score but during the editing process arrived at a consensus with Aronofsky that the music—all of the music!—was taking something away from the storytelling. So he turned to creating a minimalistic score (playing a pane of glass with mallets, recording the key clicks of a sax player, etc.) and then his work was mixed in with sound designer Craig Henighan’s contributions. The result is a score that perfectly suites the film. Kudos to Aronofsky and Jóhannsson for having the kind of working relationship that allowed those discussions to happen (seemingly without conflict), and for digging until they discovered what exactly the film needed.