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Stravinsky and Andriessen, with whom you later studied, were part of a long lineage of inspirations and teachers. Why is this lineage so important to you?
The question of why I respect compositional lineage is a philosophical inquiry, and deals with the concept of ideas. Ideas transcend time. Music is an idea. Therefore, music has the ability to transcend time. Its effect does as well … Since music also takes place in time, it has its own special problems to solve. Though the individual language may have changed, these compositional matters have not changed throughout history. Working with those whose musical results you respect puts you in touch with these same interests. This, also, has the ability to transcend space and time, in my opinion.
You don't use the term composer light-heartedly.
I believe a composer needs to have something musically meaningful to say! Having meticulous craft, though it is very important, isn’t quite enough. It is one’s duty, as a musician, to genuinely project meaning in the music. Whether composer, instrumentalist, conductor, journalist, critic or audience member, the main duty that should never be lost is being true to the ideal of the music being conveyed. For true composers, this is very serious business, yet, a steady slew of dilettantes seem to jump into the arena since subjective evaluation is ultimately the criteria. But to be a composer means to live, fully in one’s own time, and to be interested in many musics of the present and of the past. Not only interested, but dedicated and knowledgeable enough to learn, and to have studied a bit, what it is about various musics that excites and brings emotions, and musical meaning. Furthermore, it takes tremendous selfdiscipline to carry out ones own ideas in relative isolation. The fruits of dedicated labor do arise upon successfully completing a work and sharing it with others. We live in an exciting time, where all music that has ever been composed, performed, and/or improvised and recorded, is available to hear. We take this for granted. Composers’ individual aesthetic filters have just begun to express the possibilities this expanded palette is beginning to provide. Nothing is anachronistic. All is vocabulary.
Stravinsky's death was an epiphany for you. Was that because it proved that the time of great composers wasn't over?
Absolutely! Stravinsky was my favorite composer from my elementary school music history classes. Those early ballets are so extraordinary. I must have missed the class where my teacher Mrs. Fidler told us he was still alive! So when, as a twelve year-old, I heard Walter Cronkite, on CBS News, announce that the great composer, Igor Stravinsky, had died in New York, it really struck me that great classical music was still being composed. Shortly afterwards, my grandfather, with whom I was very close, died. We were next door neighbors and the best of pals. I will never forget being in awe of his extraordinary mind and his inspiring, indominatable spirit. After his death when I was thirteen, I stopped piano lessons. Everything stopped for a while, except my volatility, which increased. But music was always an outlet, a place to pour my energies, and a vehicle for communication and social interaction as well.
Elliott Carter had to fight considerable resistance in order to be able to pursue his dream of life as a composer. How did the situation present itself to you?
I am aware that the American composer, Charles Ives, who sold insurance to the well-to-do businessman Elliot Carter, Sr.’s family, gave the young Carter encouragement. As in most families with a business background, I rather suppose a few conversations centered on how the young Carter would survive selling his wares to such a small slice of the market. It is a hard case to make for anyone trying to survive on art music, for that market is even smaller now. The universities are current patrons. I have had immense life struggles, but from the start, my family has always been supportive, in ways too numerous to mention. There is not room for me to express the depth of my gratitude.
That does not mean we have not had conversations which point out such things as I mention above. Further, I have been subjected to goodnatured jousting in more direct terms, “Why don’t you just write something I can sing in the shower?“
At home, there was always a lot of classical music around. Whenever you'd leave the house, though, you'd be exposed to rock, pop and jazz. How did these different worlds coexist in your mind?
My childhood was one in which all types of music existed. My earliest recollections are those of my sister and I asking Mom to play just one more Chopin Prelude before bed time. Our favorite, the C Minor, we called ‘the banging song.’ That short piece contained such mystery, depth and power. So music began as an illuminating, magical and important part of my life. I tinkered around and began trying to emulate what I heard. These improvisations led to piano lessons, and to elementary music theory. My first piano teacher was my cousin, Kathy Murphy. I then took lessons with Marie Moore, a Japanese WWII bride who was studying with Menahem Pressler, the great pianist of the Beaux Arts Trio, at the time. She took me to his recitals, though was very strict, and I received a thorough introductory grounding in music theory, as well as pianistic technique.
We also had this self-contained record player and a bunch of albums from various countries of the world. In addition to some great American folk music, there were Italian songs, Irish music, songs from Spain and Mexico, French chansons, etcetera. I used to love playing those records as a child.
You also mentioned your elementary school music teacher, Mrs. Clara Fidler as an important early influence ...
I owe much to her for teaching me how to listen to music. She would 'drop the needle' in her grade school music classes. Imagine, we were taught to differentiate Bach from Handel, Mozart from Haydn, Schubert from Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky and so forth - all before we were allowed to cross the street by ourselves. Fantastic! She had us singing, playing recorders, playing drums, and as a whole, we would present four or five school holiday concerts during the year. She also encouraged my band, which gave me early experience in creating music, and working with musicians in elementary school.
I have thought of another early influence which is in a way unique. My family, on both sides through my grandparents, enjoy saddlebred horses. I remember as a child being astonished how the horses kept time with the music during shows. In fact, of course, it was the organist or big band who kept time with the 5 different gaits of the horse. The magic of music, and the fact that it actually emphasized particular motion and contrasting emotions, became visually apparent to me.
When did jazz enter the picture?
During high school. I then learned a great deal from lessons with Steve Allee, an amazing pianist from Indianapolis who has played with many jazz greats, and who has his own trio and big band. In Indy, a wonderful stride piano player, James “Step” Wharton, taught me to solo over his chord changes, how to harmonize and think about chord structure. I was in a jazz fusion band with bassist Gary Montgomery, nephew of Wes Montgomery, the legendary guitarist. During high school, I also had a trio with vibraharpist Paul Ray, and saxophonist, Tom Mitchell, who has recently been featured in Jimmy Buffet’s band for over a decade. I played in a pop band too. We stayed together for seven years, playing on college campuses, Midwest nightclubs, the US National Figure Skating Championships in 1982, a Coca-Cola sponsored album project and an MTV commercial video. But alongside this, I had two years of college level music theory in high school, with a dedicated composer named Doug Wagner, and a terrific music history class. I listened to the music of Charles Ives. His 4th Symphony especially struck me then. So did the music of John Coltrane, McCoy Tyner, Freddie Hubbard, Oscar Peterson, Yes, and Frank Zappa, from whom I learned about Edgard Varèse, whose music is quite unlike anything of its time.
So to answer your question about diverse influences, to be honest to myself and my tastes, in my compositional world, all musical influences are welcomed.
I'm sure this diverse education is at least partially responsible for the eclecticism in your work ...
I find myself influenced by the muse of whatever I am interested in at the moment, so to speak. By the time my piece is complete, I am interested in, or inspired by, something new. Originality is never the issue, it is always simply work to be done, and dedication to that work. Regarding aesthetics, I have usually found that quality trumps all. Creative expression is innate, and manifests in each work of someone who cares about quality, and who is dedicated to achieving it. One’s voice comes through writing music, after the music has been written, and is not for the composer to decipher or manipulate during its construction. It is something that evolves after years of hard work. It is not a consciously controlled, or projected, manifestation. It is the result of one’s lifetime in music made manifest.
Your biography mentions that, early on, you drew from „experience in electronic music for helping you develop a strong sense for instrumental color“. What kind of experience was this?
I learned firsthand, fundamental orchestrational concepts. Basically, recording electronic music in the studio - now on our computers, with the immediate playback capabilities - teaches anyone with ears that certain qualities of sounds consume others. Pure tones are eaten by those rich in harmonics. The concept of combining instruments, whether registrally layering them, or having them play in unison, becomes a bit like painting. Too much color can muddy the whole thing up. Clear out spatial room for prominent lines that are more devoid of overtones. Take advantage of the overtone series, its spacing and sonic potential. Most importantly, the fact that instruments can play for long periods of time, does not mean that the ears do not like variety.
Being in an electronic music ensemble at Indiana University also opened my ears. While there, we provided electronic music for John Eaton’s opera, The Tempest, and I was a consultant to his development of an idea, involving an X/Y axis, for live, keyboard control. Various parameters could be programmed, such as vibrato, dynamics and pitch shifting, into either the X or Y axis pick-up strips, built into the keys, thus making live performance in electronic music far more musical. This was for Robert Moog who was then working at Kurzweil Instruments. (Ray Kurzweil is amazing!) I am not sure if the idea was ever implemented. I haven’t thought about that in years. I got to meet Robert Moog at one of John Eaton’s gatherings after a production.
You started studying music in the 70s. The academic system in the States has often been described as a hermetically sealed off world, disconnected from the daily lives of most other people.
I would not agree that the university is hermitically sealed off and disconnected. It may seem that it is, but it allows creative people a place to prosper and flourish. Extraordinary advances come from the research being done in universities. Scientific discoveries, medical breakthroughs, etcetera, and I think even the corporate brainstorming models came straight out of academe. I enjoyed the fact that professors in various subjects were notable. In fact, after taking philosophy and logic courses, I nearly switched majors. But the philosophy chair knew I was a composer and told me, with a smile, “the only thing less practical in this world than a degree in music composition is a degree in philosophy.”
As you once put it, „ironically, your first significant success was found in purely acoustic music“.
A transforming event in my life took place in 1982. The International Violin Competition of Indianapolis was created by legendary violinist, Josef Gingold and by Thomas J. Beczkiewizc, a cultural leader in the State of Indiana. This competition was an immediate, extraordinary success, due to its co-founders and the immensity of talent which they brought to the city. My mother volunteered our family to host a competitor, and our violinist guest was Mihaela Martin, then of Rumania. There was some question, even up to a week beforehand, if the Rumanian government would allow her to compete for fear of her possible defection. But since her family was in Rumania, they eventually gave approval and Mihaela arrived days before the first round. It was such an exciting time. She was just fantastic, knew a good bit of English, and would watch music videos inbetween practicing in our family room. For a budding composer, it was a Godsend. Her talent and virtuosity shined from her violin in tones, and scalar flourishes I had not heard before. Her dedicated practicing gave me a new impression of what it takes to be a world class artist. In any event, as each round of the month-long competition ensued, Mihaela’s playing was astounding. However, before her final concerto performance with the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra under John Nelson, she had a crisis of confidence. The pressure, travel, new circumstances, and rushed routine had gotten to her. My mother, who is remarkably sensitive and intuitive, consoled her, built her up, reinforced all the positive traits Mihaela brought to the music, and basically lifted her spirits which truly soared during the concerto. She brought the house down and John Nelson said she was an artist already with whom he could make significant music. Mihaela won the competition, and it was a triumphant, exciting time for all of us. I was able to meet and get to know Josef Gingold, Tom and Ania Beczkiewicz, Henryk Szeryng, and many exceptional artists. I promised to write a piece for Ms. Martin upon her return to judge the next quadrennial competition in 1986. I delivered on that promise, composing most of the fast second movement of my first sonata for violin and piano in nightclub dressing rooms during my band’s set breaks in the spring/summer of 1985.
It sounds like a life-changing experience ...
During this time, I would wake up with a daunting nudge to quit pop music altogether and devote myself fully to the serious study of music, which I did in autumn of 1985. I wrote the lyric first movement of my sonata during the spring of 1986, then copied it in time to proudly present my sonata to Mihaela! And imagine this, even during her full-time duties as a juror, Mihaela made the time to learn my sonata during the month of September, and gave its world premiere that very month in Indiana University’s Recital Hall with pianist, Deanna Aikman. They also recorded the work. Joshua Bell heard a recording while judging the Carmicheal Competition, and he chose to play the piece with pianist Charles Webb, then Dean of the Indiana University Jacob’s School of Music. Their performance was recorded and broadcast live from the television studios of WFIU/WTIU. Thereafter, Josh Bell and I became friends, and many other fine violinists began to play my music.
In the 90s, you then moved to the Netherlands. What was Amsterdam like at the time?
I had been to Amsterdam in 1988 for the Gaudeamus Musicweek, as a guest, being a laureate of the Bourges competition. I love the country, the rich cultural history, the wonderful and intelligent people, and first discovered the music of Louis Andriessen. Upon returning to the US and completing my graduate studies, I took up contact with him, via letter. I asked to study with him and he said, “I suppose it should not be a problem.” I was awarded a Fulbright Fellowship in Music Composition, to study with him. Amsterdam was then, and is now, a vibrant center for contemporary music. They have coffee shops/bars which also contain theaters in which new music is actively performed for the public, at a cost that is reasonable. This type of environment has recently begun sprouting in New York and around the States.
What were these courses with Andriessen like?
I was a private student of Louis Andriessen. I wrote music, brought it to the lessons, we talked about it, and about many things: Mozart’s letters to his father, the importance of metronomic exactitude when composing, centrality of idea and process in a piece of music, painting and Dutch artists and much more. Louis is incredibly knowledgeable of many things, but especially of music throughout history, and would point out, in musical scores of say, Bach, or Chopin, ideas which paralleled, architecturally speaking, sections of music I had brought in. This was inspiring, as well as daunting. We met every two weeks, on Mondays, his teaching day, in his apartment on the Emperor's Canal, Keizersgracht. I can not possibly begin to tell you how much it meant to me to be a composer, composing music in Amsterdam, a city which names streets after composers. I was treated remarkably well by the Dutch, who highly respect composers. Louis invited me to all concerts of note, and included me in his circle of friends. At one point, I remember telling Louis that I woke up one morning absolutely knowing that I am a composer. He replied, “then you don’t need me anymore. We will see each other at concerts.” This was a pivotal moment in my life, sitting at my keyboard in my apartment in Amsterdam, writing music all day, and going to concerts at night, knowing that all my hard work had put me on the right track. Upon returning to Indiana, I brought with me the firm knowledge that music is a continuum, and that I was part of it.
When you returned to the States in the mid-90s, the situation seemed to be confusing to a lot of composers. Could you sympathise with someone like George Rochberg, who had already in the 1960s left the maximalist race and returned to the safety offered by traditions?
I knew George Rochberg and admire his honesty and his music. He has a book with a foreword by William Bolcom, called, The Aesthetics of Survival, which addresses these concerns very well. William Bolcom’s musical vocabulary allows him to shift between between various musics on a dime, effortlessly, and uncontrived. In my case, I was freed by a confidence in my own work, and from the challenge of reconciling the many musics of my experience. Also, from a comment by William Bolcom coincidentally, who said I would always be fine if I just write what I hear. Music is an aural art, after all is said and done, and after years of studying techniques, forms, methods, it all boils down to what the composer actually hears. In that, I was, and remain, confident.
In which way have your compositional challenges changed over the past decades?
It is a gift to write music. At first, most young composers write to impress. Impress their teachers, their colleagues, their girlfriends, their boyfriends, etcetera. But life happens and we realize that composing is more than an elevated form of showing off. Once the weight of writing something meaningful, music that strikes the mind and the heart, has been achieved, the challenge intensifies to do that with each piece. But we gladly accept that challenge because we confidently believe we have something to share. And the more we mature, the more firmly it is felt as a duty.
How do you personally define success?
As genuinely conveying distinct musical thoughts, emotions, and meaning to others, through the inspired interpretation of performers. Connecting, in other words, in a shared experience of what I hear with others, including those who might be living in the future.
By Tobias Fischer
James Aikman Discography:
White Sunday Light (Non Sequitur) 1999
Tremors From A Far Shore (Centaur) 2005
Venice of the North Concerti (Naxos) 2011
Recommended James Aikman Interviews & Articles on the Web:
Leslie Bassett interviewed in-depth about orchestration by James Aikman.
James Aikman's page at Non Sequitur publishing.
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