Three interviews

 

I

Warsaw, June 2003, before a Naked City concert

(with Michał Libera and Krzysztof Trzewiczek)

 

 

We had this strange idea about starting with the question of melody – what do you think about it?

 

What do you understand by melody?

 

É that was the question we wanted to ask youÉ

 

 Actually itÕs an interesting question because I think melody is at the very center of what I do, but rather loosely defined, or defined and used in a number of different ways. At its most mathematical melody is a series of durations, so itÕs not necessarily a tune, for example.

 

And itÕs not necessarily a theme, is it?

 

No. For example, I work with a construction principle which I call Ōblock-melodiesÕ. This is a way to construct linear narratives out of widely different kinds of material. First I generate a set of durations. Sometimes the numbers for these durations come from reading the newspaper – the Wall Street Journal is very good in that respect – so I may have a random set of numbers like 4, 9, 17, 1, 37 and so on. These numbers correspond to durations, and for each duration I can create a sound-world, say, distorted flute, percussion and somebody dropping rice onto a violin or something.  Now every time the same number occurs in the series, I might make that same sound-world - thatÕs one way to do it. In the studio when I construct these blocks of material I can record each block separately, I donÕt even need to listen to everything else. All the fives first and than all the fours and all the nines and in the end youÕll have something, which sounds like euhh, ee, uuu, e huu [I donÕt really know how to notate that]. And for me thatÕs the melody, made out of blocksÉ

 

How many blocks are there?

 

Oh, it could be any number. That depends on what youÕre doing. Do you know Accidental? ThereÕs a lot of Ōblock-melodiesÕ in that.

 

Does this have anything in common with another compositional principle, which you called Ōmelody extractionÕ?

 

 ŌMelody extractionÕ is a principle of seeing if you can derive all of your material from one central melody in a continuous, chronological sequence. Pacifica, for example. Pacifica consists of 14 bars of quarter notes, a quarter-note melody, very regular. This is also necessarily harmonic - just as you canÕt have two notes succeeding each other without creating the idea of an interval, so you canÕt have three or more notes next to each other without creating the idea of a harmony. The quarter-note line in Pacifica, which is rather slow, goes through a kind of harmonic contour, and our perception of that contour is constantly changing.  What was interesting for me was to take this melodic line and say: Ņwell, if I take the second note of the second measure and use that as a starting point for a new melody and let it sustain until the fourth note of the ninth measure than it will create a kind of slow counter-series with its own harmonic and intervallic possibilitiesÓ. The whole piece was a way to see if I could be consistent to that idea. Always in chronological sequence, but trying to create new information out of it. Eventually there are subtexts - eighth-notes or sixteenth-notes in between the quarter notes - and they have potential for melody extraction as well. So it can become quite complicated.

 

But the main idea is to takeÉ

 

Éis to take information out of one melody and to create other melodies out of it, without using compositional techniques associated with serialism, like retrogrades and other inversions – the chronology is the key to the technique. ItÕs easy to hear when itÕs slow like Pacifica, but in a piece, do you know my record with Ferdinand Richard called Dropˇra? ThereÕs a lot of melody extraction in Dropˇra, and thatÕs quite fast. In a way itÕs just deciding to emphasize certain notes in a sequence, which creates melody, or more accurately, which draws attention to a melody which is already there, but which is only subliminally there unless you start making that accent. But the principle is to derive all the material absolutely clearly from the same source.

 

And how is it related to the guitar quartets and string quartets?

 

Most of the guitar quartet pieces that IÕve written - The as Usual DanceÉ or in some places Motormouth, - have Ōmelody extractionÕ parts and also The as Usual DanceÉ has some Ōblock-melodyÕ parts. So there are ideas like that. But sometimes I work in a very different way, but since you want to talk about melody weÕre talking about melodyÉ.

 

We – I mean we as listeners – always thought about your music as something spaciousÉ let me try to explain this: itÕs like the lines of different instruments are well prepared to interrelate with each other to make everything integral whole. Maybe a metaphor of constructing a space would be a good one; or maybe of organizing a space by particular instruments, melody lines or whatever?

 

I think any music making, of any description, involves a specific relationship with physical space and its properties. When I talk with my students about improvising I often make the point that being a soloist does not mean filling a space – it means owning a space. And that these two things are not the same. And if, as a soloist, all you can do is fill the space – than youÕre probably not listening because you havenÕt got time to listen. And therefore owning a space just means Ņthis belongs to me – how am I going to use it effectively?Ó But those two things will be important. So having a relationship with the musical space is really important.

In the terms youÕre talking about – creating that kind of space – I think IÕm very much influenced by the cinema. I think actually most musicians are very influenced by the cinema. I donÕt think itÕs avoidable; I think that since 1930s all music has to have some kind of relationship with film. Because film is the predominant popular culture in the world and music is used by the cinema for very different kinds of significations. We know that if you take a piece of Schoenberg and ask somebody to listen to it, they will probably find it completely horrible. But if they go to a movie and hear the same kind of music they wonÕt even notice it – it will be a part of the total experience. And so thereÕs a complete disjuncture between the idea of what you sit down and listen to as Music, and whatÕs going on when you watch a movie, where you get all kinds of styles and music used to serve the narrative. And I think as a musician you canÕt avoid having some kind of relationship with that. ItÕs not just about doing film soundtracks but about watching a lot of movies and being aware how music has developed in the history of cinema. And this way of creating narrative structure I think has changed music forever.

I think also as a rock musician my fundamental learning about being a composer didnÕt take a place in the Academy or as a virtuoso – because IÕm not a virtuoso and I never went to the Academy – it took place in recording studio. And for me as a composer most of my techniques come from what happened to me in the studio. So in my composition, even when IÕm notating, the ideas about what I can do in the studio become the things that I put in the music score. The recording studio process is a parallel for the film process. And I think most rock musicians have been through this process of creating music in the studio using what Brian Eno eventually referred to as Ōusing the studio as a compositional toolÕ, which in fact is what everybody who has ever used a studio has always been doing. This is a process that necessarily goes along with whatÕs happening when youÕre putting things together in the recording studio. And itÕs very similar to the process that goes on when youÕre editing a film. When you have material and you have to try to make it work in the right and convincing amount of space. What fascinates me in the situation that weÕre in right now is that it is only in rock music that the significance of the invention of the recording has been fully realized. In the world of classical music the studio is still used as a way to create a kind of idealized perfect version of a piece. And nobody actually uses the studio as a way to create structure or the way to create a piece from scratchÉ

 

Édo you mean they want to make it as neutral as possible?É

 

É I mean itÕs very interesting because obviously the studio is used in a very sophisticated way in a classical music. If you hear a piece of Wagner opera there are probably 350 edits and itÕs taken from 20 different performances in the studio so obviously they are well aware of the advantages of working that way but theyÕre creating an illusion – just like Hollywood is creating an illusion – of a certain kind of reality, which has nothing to do with whatÕs actually happening. And it seems to me interesting that the composer could get into that situation and actually use the fact that youÕre recording. Stretching and editing everything to create a piece of music in the studio; using it as a technique with musicians. Whereas that has only really happened in the world of rock music. Jazz music is considered to be a performance medium and so with the exception of the period during the seventies when Miles Davis was doing a lot of editing, itÕs still fundamentally about getting the best performance possible. And the irony in this case is that jazz would never have developed at all if it wasnÕt for recording. I mean basically this was the first time that anybody could actually study a solo so all those people out there playing a Charlie Parker solo they are doing it because they can actually hear a Charlie Parker solo on a record and learn it. So the music developed as an intellectual construct because of the birth of the recording, but recording didnÕt actually change the music except from this point of view of people learning how to play it. And in classical music it changed what could be done in a studio to make the music absolutely perfect realization of what composer wanted. But in rock music because they didnÕt have to deal with virtuoso-technique and they didnÕt have to deal with a composition, which is already in existence on paper, the studio was something quite different. In other words it was the beginning point and not the ending point.

 

That reminds us about ŌMaybe MondayÕ project or Henry Cow – did the idea about using the studio start with those projects?

 

Well in the case of Henry Cow back in the early seventies when we first went into a studio we were really young and na•ve and we were entirely a performance band so our first record was about Ōhow to do our musicÕ and we soon discovered that it was just an incredible tool – a 16 track tape, we didnÕt really all have to play at the same time or we could do something later or when we made a mistake we could do it again and this was completely exciting! But it also led us to think that next time when we do a record why not take it as a starting point rather than the ending point. So on our record ŌUnrestÕ we spent two weeks improvising and then listening to the improvisation and say if we take this little three minutes here itÕll be a song if we add this part to it. So it was about notating and adding parts and making loops – creating the music out of the improvisation and turning it into something else. And I still think that that was a fairly revolutionary thing to do at the time. IÕve done a lot of recording using similar methods but with the improvisation I had the feeling that I got to the end of a certain way of dealing with improvisation and I wanted to use a studio as a way of Ōkick-myself-in-the-assÕ, I suppose. So there were two or three projects I did in the same period starting with the record with Michel Wintsch and Franziska Baumann – I donÕt know if you know that one: itÕs called Whispering – which is similar project inasmuch as we were improvising and afterwards Michel edited it and made it into something else. And after that I made a record with Jean Derome and Pierre Tanguay, All is bright but it is not day, which is about live treatment in the studio, and Maybe Monday came after that so we have three records that are all about how to alter the possibilities of what the improvisation can be, using the studio as a mechanism which can change how we react, how we playÉ

 

Éso the improvisation was like producing the material to work onÉ

 

Éin a case of Maybe Monday, which is the furthest the process became for me it was quite complicated. Actually Myles Boisen was altering the sound that we were making while we were recording – some of us could hear what he was doing and some of us couldnÕt. Because when you are playing acoustic saxophone without headphones youÕre just hearing saxophone so Larry [Ochs] had no idea what Myles was doing. So first of all we generated a lot of recordings, which were manipulated by Myles while we were recording so there was no choice. What was very important for me was that this was not an option – it had to be something where there was no going back. If we had done it separately – effects on separate tracks so that we could take them away if we wanted to - in the end it would just be the same kind of improvising. What I wanted it to be was something irrevocable. And then it was all on two tracks – we didnÕt do on multi-track, so everything went to two tracks – and when I took two-track tapes away and started categorizing it and I had this list: this amount of density or this particular key or this particular kind of solo structure – started to make blocks of material and than I invented an imaginary possibility of how I could make that into something else. So I wrote a theoretical narrative of parts into my notebook. And I went into a studio and I told the engineer exactly what I wanted him to do: weÕre gonna take minutes 3.20 till 5.16 and put it in the computer and weÕre gonna take minutes 7.01 till 7.21 and put in the computer – put all those pieces of material in the computer and I said Ōok, I want to overlap those two and I want you to cut that out and put this hereÕ – just not listening to it, just doing it – and then we had the seventy minutes of music and then we listened to it and said Ōoh, thatÕs terribleÕ [everybodyÕs laughter], or ŌthatÕs greatÉ.

 

Do you treat that kind of work as a work of composer?

 

Of course, but I think it is very important not to get too involved into aesthetics too soon. So if I have been saying to myself Ōwe cut that and listen to thatÕ and you say Ōwell, itÕs not quite rightÕ you donÕt have the sense of the whole thing. So for me it is important first of all to make a whole thing and not really worry too much whether it works or not. And then apply your critical process to the totality of the material.

 

So do you think that what you said about owning a space is only valid for a composition or also for performing or improvising?

 

No, for everything. I think this is a question of your responsibility to yourself as a creative being – youÕre trying to, as best as you can, crystallize an idea and you donÕt necessarily need to know what the idea means. Francis Bacon, the painter, said something about how he was trying to make images as accurately as possible off his own nervous system and I think this is a good way to put it. You donÕt know the intellectual, theoretical definition of what youÕre doing and sometimes itÕs very powerful and you donÕt know why, and sometimes it doesnÕt work at all and you need to throw it away.

 

Are you trying to teach that to your students?

 

IÕm trying to teach my students not to waste their time, to be very consequent about how they work, to realize their own ideas as accurately as they can. So itÕs not so much about how I work but about discovering how they work and how they can best do that. WhatÕs interesting about Mills is that we donÕt have the restrictions of a normal music collage where youÕre learning how to do certain specific technical things. TheyÕre not trying to teach new complexity or minimalism or whatever, you know, basically you can come to Mills with any agenda you want. WhatÕs important for me as a teacher is that you define your agenda and then you try to work it out. And you spend your time doing that as consequently as you can. So you come to work extremely hard and trust yourself.

 

Is there any learning process for you as well?

 

Of course, if I wasnÕt learning something from anything I would probably always try to do something else. ThereÕs nothing like having students, many of whom are more rigorously formally trained than I am – that constantly keeps you thinking about what you do. When I have students who have studied longer than I have, who have technical skills that I donÕt have, theyÕre studying with me but they may actually write music better than I can, on a certain level. But on the other hand they may be confused, they donÕt know what they want, they donÕt know where theyÕre going, so what I can provide them with is a context to define better the direction for themselves. And by so doing I have to define for myself the direction that I want. Because I always have to separate myself from the people IÕm teaching. I donÕt want to teach them how to be me.

 

We also thought about ŌGravityÕ – the record you made with Scandinavians. Was that the similar experience of learning? Or maybe a specific one?

 

Music is a social process, a collaborative process, itÕs always a collaborative process, you canÕt make it without collaborating, even as a soloist thereÕs a process that goes on before you arrive at a solo performance that is collaborative on some level. So if you ignore that youÕre denying an important part of who you are. ItÕs not an accident that painters are painters because theyÕre alone with their work, and musicians are musicians because they are not.   Everything IÕve done is dependent on other people. And thatÕs how you move forward. And the art of choosing which people you work with is probably the most important. ItÕs like saying, you know, a musician who can do anything probably will [everybodyÕs laughter]. And similarly, choosing to work with ŌanybodyÕ means that you probably wonÕt ever discover who you are. As you always choose your partners, you can put yourself in a position of challenging yourself.

 

We canÕt avoid that question we keep on asking ourselves: what does that mean, we always wonder, that youÕre in a blues tradition. Where can we find in your latest music the blues tradition you always keep in mind, as you usually say?

 

I said that? IÕm not sure, but obviously as a teenager in England in the sixties, blues had a transformative effect on my life. At the same time it was uncomfortable because it had nothing to do with me. When I was a 16 year old kid, singing those old songs from the American south was great and liberating but also na•ve. When I was 16 years old it was more that I was getting rid off my classical background and learning how to be free of paper and learning that I could make stuff up. And identifying with the oppressed or whatever political idea I may have entertained. So it was valuable process to go through. And as youÕll hear tonight I can still play the blues [laughter]. But in my own music this is something that I canÕt see clearly anymore. ItÕs just a part of who I amÉ.

 

Yeah, thatÕs what we thoughtÉ

 

But have you heard the record with Aki Takase? This is a record where she invited musicians to play the music of W.C. Handy - I played guitar, it was only two years ago so in a way it was a road back to blues which was unusually interesting for me.

 

This is also a question we had an email exchange on – the question of overcoming the blues tradition by European guitar players and the strange discussion and article in the Polish press about it. Do you agree with that?

 

Huh?

 

 

II

Answers to an online interview from May 2001 (questions now lost)

 

I started violin lessons early in life (at 5 years old) but when my parents moved 5 years later I changed teachers, and quickly lost motivation.  I continued the lessons, but without much conviction.  When I found a guitar (by chance at age 13) it enabled me to be self-sufficient: I had enough training with the violin to be able to understand the basics quickly, and I could read music, so I taught myself from books - 500 Guitar Chords, or Bach, or the Villa Lobos Etudes, or Lute Music.  But more importantly I started learning things by ear from records, first by groups like the Beatles, but later folk music from Bert Jansch and eventually a whole lot of blues players, especially Mississippi John Hurt and Skip James.  Because I didnÕt understand yet about alternative tunings I learned their music in standard tuning, which led me to play it in my own way.  I didnÕt have role models or other players I could learn from, except my girlfriend: she had a friend who taught her clawhammer technique, and she taught it to me. It changed my life!  But the process of learning by ear - the oral tradition - was mostly a matter of playing records over and over again and trying to figure it out.  I had a Yugoslavian friend at school who taught me some of his folk music, and that was another big door that opened......

 

So I never went to an academy.  I wouldnÕt have gotten in anyway, and I abandoned the violin more or less completely by the time I was 16.  I only took it up again as a ŌfiddlerÕ - in Henry Cow, and to play folk music at parties.

 

I never made a conscious decision to be a professional musician.  First I just kind of drifted into it with folk club engagements, and later with Henry Cow; I had various day jobs, like working on construction sites or cleaning hospital operating theatres at 5 in the morning. As the group started (very slowly) increasing its profile we depended more on wives and girlfriends to make the money.  For the first 5 years we didnÕt make a record, and thatÕs an awful long time to stay together with no commercial outlet. We couldnÕt have done it without our partners!   Eventually we were making enough money to live on (just) and so I became a professional without even noticing it......

 

You ask if the blues was liberating for me, and yes of course it was, on many levels.  Not only the profound one of escaping from paper and learning to listen very carefully, but also the deep ŌvoiceÕ that is in the centre of any oral tradition, the passion and pain which brought me into contact with a very different cultural history from my own, the guilt which led me to try and define myself separately from my own culture, the raucousness that enabled me to free my own voice, the understanding that virtuosity isnÕt only the way itÕs defined by Western classical music; and so on and so on. Later I felt perplexed, because the blues, which I had sung and played as ÕmyÕ music from the age of 14 onwards, in reality felt like it had nothing to do with me, that I was imitating something which was outside of my own experience.  I had to search for my own music, from my own experience. Blues was the trigger that helped me to start on this journey.

 

 ŌOrganizingÕ and ŌimprovisingÕ are not mutually exclusive at all - a composer organizes sound and so does an improvising musician. The only difference is the time frame in which the organization occurs; also of course the interpreter of the composition is not improvising, though many aspects of the composerÕs work may have originated in improvisatory or intuitive impulses.

 

I donÕt have a ŌconceptÕ when I begin an improvisation. I find that thinking about a performance ahead of time is a sure way to destroy it; in fact I do everything I can to be empty of ideas at the moment I walk on stage.  Only then can I be in the moment with these people in this place, and be open and receptive to what occurs, and inventive in knowing how to respond and also how to offer musical suggestions.  There is never one way to do something. We are constantly taught right ways and wrong ways to do things, and also how important it is to be true to your own ŌopinionÕ.  And sometimes such ideas are important and useful. But I also believe that if we understood that changing oneÕs mind can be a sign of strength and humility and not just flakiness, things might work a little better.  In music you have to be constantly ready to change your mind, and constantly alert to the possibility of a change of direction......

 

If we talk of influences I think it is more helpful to say that I am mostly influenced by the people I work with - I could name this or that record or performance, but itÕs not the same as working with a friend for a long time and exchanging ideas and sharing experiences on a regular and long-term basis.  So my milestones are Henry Cow, and Massacre, and Skeleton Crew, and the Guitar Quartet and Keep the Dog - thatÕs where I learned the most and I think if you asked my colleagues in those groups youÕd probably hear much the same thing from their personal perspectives.

 

Style is increasingly hard to define. Any one piece might refer in subtle or unsubtle ways to many styles at once, and sometimes there are styles that were based on other styles and we donÕt even know what the original style was any more.

 

If people ask you what kind of music IÕm making in my dreams I would like to hope that you could reply: ŅMusic thatÕs alive, that touches me deeply, that can make me laugh and cry, that moves me physically, that has something to do with how we live now, thatÕs personal and passionate, that takes risks, that may fail sometimes, that I donÕt always understand, that makes me curious, that keeps me alert to the possibilities..Ó  Or some combination of the above. ItÕs not a genre...

 

And what do you mean by understand?  Sometimes our bodies understand when our brains are too cluttered, and why not leave it that?

 

Any sound has the potential to be music, if the listener wishes to perceive it as such.  And not, if she doesnÕt.....  I dislike music that is made without love, in the broadest possible definition of the word.

 

There isnÕt a ŌmessageÕ.  Communication can also be a question of sharing a moment, and celebrating the fact that we are alive.  I write music from the point of view of trying to answer questions that I ask of myself.  Usually I fail to find the answer I was seeking, but arrive at another question instead.  If the audience gets something from my narratives, I am happy; but thatÕs not the important motivation for writing the piece.

 

Werner and Nico had sole responsibility for the whole of the film, including the choice of which music to use where.  I was not interested in influencing this process, because I had no wish to make a ŌdocumentaryÕ or to control my image.  I saw the rough-cut and made some suggestions, but mostly they ignored them!  Sometimes I suggested places where we might go to shoot, and these we did; but not all of them are in the film.  For my own music, I think there is almost always some kind of narrative feeling; but I donÕt think about it when I do it, and I donÕt illustrate it in my mind either.

 

Film and music are inseparable. Even when a film has no music, we hear it.

 

I often hated to be in front of the camera, and I hate the parts of the film where I am talking - self-conscious and stiff, and inarticulate....  But this ŌdenialÕ is also a form of vanity, because youÕre thinking of all the deeply important and wonderful things you SHOULD have said!

 

As for the comparison between processes, I think that in the material that was shot, there is a deep and intuitive bond between the ŌmusicalÕ moment and the ŌcinematicÕ one.   The film-makers were quick, and agile, and explored many aspects of the dialogue in innovative and exciting ways. But when my performance is over itÕs over. When the shooting is over, the film work is just beginning - 13 hours of footage, and 6 months of constant work to make sense of the material.  In this sense there is no comparison - Step Across is a sophisticated composition constructed out of a large number of musical and cinematic improvisations.  As such it sheds light on the improvisatory process, and does so in a profound and beautiful way, but it doesnÕt ŌexplainÕ it - as you pointed out, there isnÕt a plan anyway!

 

 

III

Responses to questions asked during an online symposium on recording and improvisation (December 2004)

 

Is improvisation in music something specific enough to presume a specific kind of recording strategy?  Like, for example, should the sound engineer be as neutral as possible [is sustaining the same levels of the recording parameters without any respect to the changes in the live performance neutral or rather exactly the opposite?]? Or should the sound engineer try to capture the special ŌsomethingÕ of the moment [whatever it is?]? Or maybe it simply does not matter [as far as the recording should be pure documentation and the way it is going to be recorded is a part of the document itself]?

 

Last time I looked improvisation meant making things up in the moment. There are so many different kinds of improvisation in music as to render the question almost unanswerable in my opinion. Maybe purist ŌimprovisersÕ have a polemic about recording. I donÕt, particularly. As we know, the sound of a recording is never the same as the sound of the performance. ItÕs always some form of approximation. And IÕve heard recordings of very good concerts sound like very poor concerts. ThatÕs part of the deal, even when you go to a lot of trouble to try and be ŌaccurateÕ. IÕm actually more fascinated by what happens to the recorded sound and how it colours and transforms and remakes the music, so that a run-of-the-mill performance is suddenly riveting on ŌtapeÕ.

Having accepted and celebrated that on many occasions, and having spent a good part of my creative life in recording studios, IÕm entirely open to the idea of the engineer also being a performer, improvising with the sounds of the instruments. IÕve done several records like that, and I like all of them for different reasons. In any case, as soon as a performance of improvised music is recorded its significance to the listener is irrevocably altered, because it can be listened to more than once, studied, compared, categorised.

IÕve been altering recordings of improvisation in the studio for at least 30 years and I find it a fruitful way to work. The result may not have much to do with improvisation any more, but the only important factor for me is whether the end result excites me or not, so that is not really an issue either. Perhaps this has more to with how I have generally situated myself (and been situated) with regards to other improvisers, which is pretty much as an interested outsider. IÕm not really involved in it as a genre with rules and regulations.

My answer to all of the questions you ask above is that it always depends, and any strategy is justifiable depending on the context and the desired end result.

 

[2.]    What are the criteria of selecting the improvised material to issue?

Do you select between recordings of a certain live-performance as a whole? Or maybe you cut out some parts of the particular performance recording and put them together with different ones? [by the way: what are the acceptable methods of manipulating the recorded material in the studio if you are about to call it ŌimprovisationÕ?]

What does the answer to that question depend on? . Or maybe on the improvised material ŌitselfÕ? What makes you decide that the particular material is worth [or not worth] issuing? What makes the material good enough to make an album out of it?

 

Maybe this response should begin with the same pragmatic observation:

it always depends, and any strategy is justifiable depending on the context and the desired end result! Do I select between recordings of a certain live-performance as a whole? Sure, if thatÕs the parameter that IÕve set myself. Or maybe I cut out some parts of the particular performance recording and put them together with different ones? Has been known. What are the acceptable methods of manipulating the recorded material in the studio if IÕm about to call it ŌimprovisationÕ? What I end up calling it seems the least interesting aspect of this particular process. Obviously if IÕm presenting something as a Ōheard as playedÕ performance, IÕm not going to do anything to it anyway. And if not, what does it matter?

What does the answer to that question depend on? I suppose some kind of attitude to a perceived notion of authenticity, or accuracy. Recording always colors our perception in this regard. Compare Big Boy CrudupÕs recording of ŅIÕm AlrightÓ with Elvis PresleyÕs. Easy to make observations about how the Presley version was tarted up – higher key, snappier arrangement, plenty of reverb – but then you realize that the Crudup was recorded 15 years later than PresleyÕs, and all of that mono, lack of reverb, in your face sound was a deliberate choice in the face of a by then infinitely more sophisticated recording technology. And this was also an aspect of marketing – in this case the ŌauthenticityÕ of the original (as determined by the Blues revival label I assume).

So, does it depend on the idea of the recorded entity [an album?] I have in mind? If thatÕs what IÕm working on, yes. If IÕm just experimenting, not necessarily. What makes me decide that the particular material is worth [or not worth] issuing? Same as any other kind of recording – Do I like listening to it? Does it seem to be approaching the material from a different and interesting angle? Is there that tantalizing feeling of there being something transcendent that I donÕt understand? Does it resonate with me in this moment and in this place and in this time?

And I donÕt ever KNOW that the material is Ōgood enoughÕ to make an album out of it. IÕve put things out that seem stronger now than they did when they were released, and the opposite. You can only deal with your feelings in the moment and not worry too much about the rest. I say no to more records than I say yes to, put it that way.

 

[3.]    Is improvised recording possible? Is it possible in the practice of live performance [musical performance, live-electronics] and studio work [recording techniques]? Recording is a kind of practice – is it possible to improvise it? Does it make any sense?

 

Like most other forms of creative work, recording involves a fair amount of improvisation even in its most conservative manifestations. You have to be ready for sudden unexpected peaks and changes in the plan as the music unfolds. As an engineer you deal with it. Traditionally that meant that you were still trying to preserve the accuracy of the process as much as you could. But it can also mean that you can be quick on your feet in more actively music-altering ways as well.

 

Does it make different senses for a studio improvisation and stage improvisation?

 

You can approach them both in a wide variety of modes. IÕve had engineers improvise with the musiciansÕ spontaneously generated material using signal processing or mechanical contraptions with helium balloons, and it doesnÕt make much difference if itÕs live or in the studio other than the studio being a more controlled environment. Perhaps in the live setting the theatre of it can be more obtrusive, but not necessarily.

 

Does it make any artistic sense?

 

To me, yes, if it works. The chance of screwing up is one of the things that makes improvising interestingÉ.

 

Is it something different for a musician and the engineer?

 

I donÕt make such a big distinction between them. Most of the engineers IÕve worked with on any kind of regular basis have been musicians as well, many of them improvisers. IÕve also worked as an engineer. Perhaps when youÕre in one role or the other you may have a subtly different appreciation for your job.

 

If yes – in what sense does it differ from improvising with other musicians?

 

Worth noting that there are already colossal differences working with different musicians. For example, I play duos with the drummers Chris Cutler, Han Bennink. Jean-Pierre Drouet, and Evelyn Glennie. IÕd be hard put to find much that they had in common with each other as improvising performers.

 

Has recording as a practice changed anything in the practice of improvisation?

 

Well, how about the entire history of jazz? For one thing. Given that the study of improvisation was enabled and vastly accelerated by being able to study it on record. But from my own point of view I have noticed that most of my practice as a composer has derived in some way from my experience in the recording studio, and it would be pretty silly to think that this hadnÕt had a major effect on my improvising as well. The parameters I work within are often the ones I use in the studio, definitions like cutting, fading, processing, altering, juxtaposing. layering and so on, these have taken on a very physical practical dimension for meÉ

 

Is Ōlive sound manipulationÕ a kind of music improvisation?

 

Sometimes.

 

Is it possible to improvise on the stage with a pre-recorded multi-track? Can we still call it improvisation?

 

Did the multi-track get recorded live in the same context? If so, then I would say clearly yes. Actually I think I would say that itÕs possible to improvise with anything. But it doesnÕt mean that it will always be the case. And it will be a different kind of improvisation. But so what? Is it about setting up rules that say this will be improvisation and this not?

What matters is surely if it speaks to us directly and clearly whatever the mechanics of the communication?

 

If no – what is so specific about improvising with people/instruments that cannot be reached in the process of recording?

 

Is this only about improvisation? I recently saw Werner Bartschi perform a 3 hour program of Paganini variations by Brahms, Liszt and others that was stunning in its intensity in a way that no recording could ever be. IsnÕt this about the physics and physicality of the way we receive sound and feel the vibrations of air? A live performance has a physical dimension, a theatrical dimension, that exists in a shared space and has to do with communal memory and a feeling of community, as well as one of transformation. A record is mostly listened to in a rather controlled intimate and unsocial environment. That strikes me as the big difference, regardless of genre.

 

[4.]    Is a relation between improviser and the recording engineer a relation of subordination?  Can we agree that [for some time, to some extent] the instrumentalist was treated by the composer as nothing more than the medium of transmitting the pure ideas of the composer?

 

I question this more and more, perhaps because my own practice as composer depends on a rich and continuous interaction with the performers IÕm writing for, and IÕm persuaded that this has probably always been the case, however much it may have been reduced in importance by those who write about such things (or donÕt). And I see the relationship between improviser and engineer in exactly the same way. The relationship and the results are much better when there is an exchange of ideas and a collaborative process. My own relationships with engineers have always been creative and dynamic. We thrive on each other.

 

Do you think that the institutions of improvised music – can we all agree that the improvised music [in some sense, to some extent and on certain level of course] has become an institution? – form that kind of inequality?

 

To that I can only plead ignorance. Improvising is a thing that I do, not a club IÕm trying to join or a genre IÕm trying to learn. IÕve always been outside of the institution of improvised music such as it is, and its criteria, even if they were able to be reduced or defined in any useful way, are probably not the same as mine. I have to admit, IÕm not even sure if I understand this question.