The opening of Philip Glass’ Scene from Act 4, Scene 2: Bed from his opera Einstein on the Beach has always reminded me of the famous organ line from Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. I think it is the elaborate melismas extended in an improvisatory web over a sustained pedal, suspensions, and delayed resolution that remind me of the opening bars of the Toccata. Perhaps the instrumentation, a synthesizer, also serves as more than a passing reference to the organ used by Bach. This resolution of the opening chord transitions to new thematic material that appears much like a subject in a fugue. If you strip fugal technique of countersubjects, tonal answers, counterpoint, and even episodic development, this is one possibility of what you might get. Our form here is open, with infinite possibilities really. What separates a fantasia from minimalist opera? Perhaps just about 300 years.
The entrance of a soprano senza vibrato and expressione glides smoothly over arpeggiated major triads, forming seamless, long curvatures that might be called phrases. The contour of this melody begins placidly with a stepwise motion that soars unexpectedly in disjunct leaps. This is not a vocal line marked by phrasal direction or diatonic leading tones; rather, the destiny of this melodic line plays a secondary role to the more primal interest of highlighting the gradual, timeless evolution of the triad.
Next, Scene from Act 3: Spaceship, also from Einstein on the Beach. Once again the synthesizer’s arpeggiation of triads opens the scene, but this time the brief introduction seems to infer the mystical sonic universe of an underwater kingdom or a glistening Emerald City shimmering in the distance. An abrupt textural change occurs with the entrance of the vocalists, signaling a pulsating, frenetic quickening of pulse and tempi. A fascinating layering of timbres develops between the vocalists and electronic instruments, bringing to mind the texture of a richly ornamented silk scarf that has been discarded in a heap on the floor. The spiraling, twisting layers of folds and wrinkles of this musical cloth provide the aural interest for listeners.
Two more distinct textural shifts occur, seeming to erupt as a pandemic of change. A middle section contains a breathless, long passage of extended sixteenths notes racing tirelessly up and down the diatonic scale. The doubling of harpsichord, saxophone and flute for this passage provides a captivating timbre that succeeds at providing an articulate wash of sound (something of a paradox, therefore, awesome). This scalar motion ceases as abruptly as it began; it is immediately answered by a gyrating, energetic tutti passage marked by rapid arpeggiation and a groovy bass line that functions like a basso continuo for saxophone and harpsichord. The rhythmic variation is fascinating, sublime, and impressive in its polyrhythmic complexities.
Glass even provides us with a satisfying tag at the end of the scene, played in unison by instruments as disparate as harpsichord and baritone saxophone. A brief, unexpected caesura provides a tongue-in-cheek transition of silence that is answered by a final, frenzied choral outburst. If this scene were a march, these last phrases are the stinger.
I was curious to see some actual video of the staging for the opera, so I have uploaded this short clip from the Universal Music Society's recent staging at the University of Michigan. This includes interviews with Philip Glass as well.
Next, Scene from Act 3: Spaceship, also from Einstein on the Beach. Once again the synthesizer’s arpeggiation of triads opens the scene, but this time the brief introduction seems to infer the mystical sonic universe of an underwater kingdom or a glistening Emerald City shimmering in the distance. An abrupt textural change occurs with the entrance of the vocalists, signaling a pulsating, frenetic quickening of pulse and tempi. A fascinating layering of timbres develops between the vocalists and electronic instruments, bringing to mind the texture of a richly ornamented silk scarf that has been discarded in a heap on the floor. The spiraling, twisting layers of folds and wrinkles of this musical cloth provide the aural interest for listeners.
Two more distinct textural shifts occur, seeming to erupt as a pandemic of change. A middle section contains a breathless, long passage of extended sixteenths notes racing tirelessly up and down the diatonic scale. The doubling of harpsichord, saxophone and flute for this passage provides a captivating timbre that succeeds at providing an articulate wash of sound (something of a paradox, therefore, awesome). This scalar motion ceases as abruptly as it began; it is immediately answered by a gyrating, energetic tutti passage marked by rapid arpeggiation and a groovy bass line that functions like a basso continuo for saxophone and harpsichord. The rhythmic variation is fascinating, sublime, and impressive in its polyrhythmic complexities.
Glass even provides us with a satisfying tag at the end of the scene, played in unison by instruments as disparate as harpsichord and baritone saxophone. A brief, unexpected caesura provides a tongue-in-cheek transition of silence that is answered by a final, frenzied choral outburst. If this scene were a march, these last phrases are the stinger.
I was curious to see some actual video of the staging for the opera, so I have uploaded this short clip from the Universal Music Society's recent staging at the University of Michigan. This includes interviews with Philip Glass as well.
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