John Cage / Robert Black, Eberhard Blum, Iven Hausmann, Gudrun Reschke, John Patrick Thomas, Jan Williams

Ryoanji

★★★★

It's been a long time since I wrote something long. Almost two months; and during that period of time a lot has happened and it's involved a great range of emotions. And surprisingly, music really hasn't been something that I've turned to. It's been a mix of books and movies, and that's fine but I needed to return at some point. And while this is a daunting hour of music and something I was unfamiliar with, I'd heard good things and was interested in discovering what Cage had to say this time around. I really haven't delved into the later works of Cage, and this being composed between 1983 to 1985 makes it one of the more significant works of his later life. So the story goes that Cage visited Japan and while spending time there, stopped by Ryōan-ji, a Zen temple. The abstractness and fluidity of the rock garden, with its seemingly natural rock placement in the sea of white gravel, spoke to Cage and he pushed himself to create such an environment in his music. I think out of all the Cage pieces I still want to listen to, I'm content with the fact that I chose this. It's almost non-musical in a way. And with the changing times I've been in, I needed a music so natural and flexible that would set me back on course. I know September will have its own challenges in store for me, but I appreciate what will come. And thanks to music like this, I'm able renew my love for discovering new and interesting music, instead of relying on old favorites. 

The lineup here is interesting and in some ways reminds me of Feldman's music. Robert Black on double bass, Eberhard Blum on flute, Iven Hausmann plays trombone, Gudrun Reschke on oboe, Jan Williams on percussion, and last but not least; John Patrick Thomas with his vocals. Honestly, during my first listen I believed the vocalist to be woman. Almost like Joan La Barbara. It's even better that the vocal work doesn't come in until at least twenty minutes into the piece. The trombone and oboe can be harrowing at times, and without any context it seems mysterious and pretty ghastly. But also this isn't music that can be listened to in the background. You need to focus on each instrument, on all the moments of silence and instrumental attacks. And I definitely could envision myself listening to this while in a Zen Buddhist garden. I've visited a few in my life, none in Japan, but whenever I have come across one it seems as though time stands still. A garden without your usual foliage, instead containing few elements that are pruned and designed to provide the most natural environment possible. This music can sometimes be exactly like that; few instruments that strike in glissandi in a certain succession that makes it seem like a large orchestra. An orchestra that plays as though the music is swooping like wind through a broad valley. 

I've always appreciated the minuscule minimalism of rock gardens, and some other gardens in general. When I focus on a certain aspect of the set, it transforms into something much larger. A rock into a mountain, moss into a large grassy knoll, the white gravel into a vast ocean. Only our imagination could provide such scenery, and it's not just for fun. It lets me focus on a singular feature of the environment and elevate it to a whole new level. In this piece, the vocals become a choir, the percussion becomes a line of gently played gongs. Cage considered the percussion to be a key figure in this piece, and unlike the other instruments, the role is notated and unchanging. It acts as the white gravel, the ocean, of the piece. While that ocean is its own element, it plays an active role in everything else that resides in it. In this case it's the other instruments. Each instrument adds a certain feeling or piece that completes the music, but I'd definitely say that the percussion is the backbone. Even if this composition was missing one part, it would be worthless. A husk of the natural world that it provides in its full state. And one of those defining parts is the listener. Cage always was intrigued by the role that a listener can play in the music, and here is no different. Without the listener being in that natural environment of the music, the music would be hollow and purposeless. 

I think there's almost a circular motion of the music for me too. Like a sort of reincarnation that happens over and over. After listening to this album for three hours in one sitting, while in the shower I watched the water drop from my hair down to the shower floor, over and over and over. Starting close to your eyes and racing down before you can give it a second thought. It's this repeating pattern of intensity in the foreground and then traveling to background, and I made the connection between that and the music I had listened to earlier. I could put this on repeat and never notice a beginning or end. There's such a range of sonic textures that it really does feel like one live organism. That organism breathes, lives and dies, and starts it all over again. That idea of the Zen Buddhist rock garden translates into the world we live in; both in its transience and permanence through my point of view. It's a music that's hard to pin down or define and I don't think I should try to either. Maybe I'll take this with me if I ever visit another rock garden, or maybe just in a natural environment in the morning. Comparing the events of the world around me to that of the sonic events the players are constructing. Exactly what I needed to push me back into the world of unpredictable and worthwhile music.

Favorite Song: Ryoanji