“I have realised that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.” Alan Watts
We think of a single moment as something small, but somehow, it contains the whole world in it. Everything we’ve ever seen, heard, thought, felt, is brought to bear upon it, and countered by the influx of our senses. And the light of the furthest stars is thousands of years old by the time we see it. If you could slice out a single moment, like a sort of cross-section of time, what great complexity of ingredients would it hold?
This piece is an imaginary study of such a cross-section: a moment of great joy, folded out and dissected. In the middle somewhere, happiness, hope, ecstasy. But also, lurking at the perimeter, the memory of suffering that makes joy possible; and the knowledge that it won’t yield to your grasp.
Chris Perren on A Luminous Moment, Unfolded (2017)
LEARN MORE ABOUT A LUMINUOUS MOMENT, UNFOLDED, AND CHRIS’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES.
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
This is a piece about the experience of joy, and what a single moment of pure joy hides within itself.
Perhaps best explained in the program note:
“I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.” – Alan Watts
We think of a single moment as something small, but somehow, it contains the whole world in it. Everything we’ve ever seen, heard, thought, felt, is brought to bear upon it, and countered by the influx of our senses. And the light of the furthest stars is thousands of years old by the time we see it. If you could slice out a single moment, like a sort of cross-section of time, what great complexity of ingredients would it hold?
This piece is an imaginary study of such a cross-section: a moment of great joy, folded out and dissected. In the middle somewhere, happiness, hope, ecstasy. But also, lurking at the perimeter, the memory of suffering that makes joy possible; and the knowledge that it won’t yield to your grasp.
In the tradition of the string quartet format, the piece distils the essence of the composer’s unique voice; in it can be heard the push and pull of polyrhythm, precarious metric modulations, lush pandiatonic harmony with few moments of true resolution, and a motoric sense of movement.
Its single movement is divided into sections, each named as a moment along an abstract journey through an exploded single moment:
The brightest of lights
scattered throughout the universe
in effortless gestures.
From a great stillness
emerge glittering fragments
leading you home.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
Like a lot of my works, A Luminous Moment, Unfolded is based around a very small motif – just an ascending four-note figure – which acts as a seed from which the rest of the piece is grown.
When I compose, it’s important to me to play with the ideas in a range of different ways. I want to make sure that I’m not just sitting looking at
bars on a computer screen. So I’ll pick up a guitar, a pencil and paper, a violin, sit at the piano, or use different software, to see where the ideas
want to go on those different tools. Each makes different kinds of possibilities visible. This helps me to get a broader view of the potential
directions the piece can take, the different ways ideas could evolve.
Around the time I wrote this, my process was changing a little too. Over a few years, I became much more focused on generating huge amounts of material, and much more ruthless in selecting what material actually made it into the piece. And these days I have a sort of benchmark that if I’m going to write a good piece of music, then at least half of what I come up with should end up in the bin! So, this piece is very much like that – it is as much a result of what went out as what went into it.
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
It’s very important to me that my music is enjoyable for musicians to play. I try hard to make sure that nothing is exceedingly difficult to play unless there is a real worthwhile musical payoff. And this being a piece about joy, I didn’t think it would be fitting for the musicians to be having a terrible time!
I am not a string player myself, so sometimes achieving that can be hard, because it’s not always obvious to me what is going to be hard to execute or frustrating to read. I have been really lucky to work with the string players in my group Nonsemble very closely over the past decade, and this has been the best possible education in how to write playable music for strings, and also how to notate it in a transparent way. So, this piece benefits very much from their guidance over the years.
My way of thinking about composition is that at the end of the day, whatever reaches the listeners’ ears is the composition. It doesn’t matter what my intentions are or how I wanted it to sound. So, thinking of things that way, it motivates me to realise musical ideas in the most ensemble-friendly way I can, which can be challenging, but can also be a really satisfying problem-solving process.
4. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
A Luminous Moment, Unfolded is a piece of music for listeners to inhabit and experience in a very intimate way, I think. I really enjoy this idea that enfolded within any moment of pure joy is a counterpoint of sadness and suffering, and that far from taking away from it, it is actually what makes it possible, in a yin/yang sort of sense. So, I hope the work captures that for listeners, without ever overwhelming the sense of hope, beauty, and happiness that is at its core.
This piece was written after visiting Winton in Western Queensland. I had never been out west, and I was instantly taken by the striking, harsh beauty of the landscape.
Driving from Longreach I was struck by the way the country slowly morphed, as the trees gave way to vast grasslands, stretching literally as far as the eye can see. Even though most of the land is used for sheep and cattle you see very few livestock and you really get a sense of wilderness and the vastness of our country. It is very flat and sparse, and one gets a similar type of broad, panoramic view of the surroundings as you might see from a mountain view. I almost got a sense of vertigo looking across the endless plains. There is a surprising number of birds; seeing a brilliant gold and green flock of budgies contrasting the barren land was stunning. The landscape is occasionally punctuated by totemic, red, rocky outcrops, which the locals call ‘Jump Ups’. On my first afternoon in Winton, I went up to a Jump up on Rangeland’s station and explored the cracked, crevassed surface and then watched a spectacular and colourful sunset from a high position across the plain.
The night sky is unbelievable. The darkness was kind of scary as there was only a sliver of moon and as I watched the lights of Winton disappear into pitch darkness as I drove out into the night, the combination of nocturnal dark and the vast nothingness around me gave me a strange, lonely feeling. But then getting out of the car and looking into the spangled night sky I was overwhelmed by a primal feeling of wonder. I feel mankind must have experienced this an uncountable number of times, staring into a clear night sky which seems quite alien to the sky one can see in a city. I found it impossible to capture the spirit of this amazing landscape of our vast country in photography, so this piece attempts to capture something of the feeling of the land in music. We hear the dry rattling wood of col legno, violin bird calls and flickering harmonics all of which try to paint a sonic picture of the plains. A high cello solo is an attempt to emulate that sense of vertigo I experienced looking across the plains and a heat stricken allegro middle section attempts to convey the tectonic starkness and harshness of the landscape.
John Rotar on Plains Baked Golden in the Morning Light (2021)
LEARN MORE ABOUT PLAINS BAKED GOLDEN IN THE MORNING LIGHT, AND JOHN’S CREATIVE PROCESS.
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
I was struck by the beauty of the country of Western Queensland, and that is what inspired the piece, here is what I wrote about it at the time:
The thing that most struck me was the country. Having not ever gone out west before I was really taken by the striking, harsh beauty of the landscape. The countryside is just huge grasslands that stretch literally as far as the eye can see. I found it kind of like looking out over the ocean in that you sort of lose a sense of perspective because of the vastness and lack of visual cues. It’s very flat and sparse and so you get a similar type of broad, panoramic view of the surroundings as you might get from looking off of a mountain, very weird, but very cool, I almost got a sense of vertigo looking across the endless plains. Also there’s a surprising amount of birds; seeing a big flock of budgies contrasting the barren land was pretty stunning. The landscape is occasionally punctuated by big, red, rocky outcrops, which they call ‘Jump Ups’ and and on my first night in Winton we drove up to one of these and walked around on top and explored some crevasses and then watched the sunset from a high position across the plain; very spectacular and colourful. I also drove about 15kms out of town at night to near a place where they have a dark sky reserve and the night sky was almost unbelievable. The darkness was kind of scary as there was only a sliver of moon; watching the light of Winton disappear into pitch darkness in my rear view mirrors was weird, and the combination of night time dark and the vast nothingness around me was a strange, lonely feeling. Even though the majority of the land is used for sheep and cattle you see very few livestock and you really get a sense of wilderness and the vastness of our country.
The piece tries to capture something of this amazing landscape, with rattling dry wood of col legno, violin bird calls and flickering harmonics. The high cello solo is an attempt to emulate that sense of vertigo I got from looking across the plains and middle sections attempts to convey the tectonic starkness and harshness of the landscape. The title comes from a quote from one of the Matilda museum exhibits and I felt like this section from Banjo Patterson’s Clancy of the Overflow pretty much perfectly captured my feeling of the outback of Winton:
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plain extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
I began writing the piece on my second night in Winton. It began with that lonely, longing cello melody and then I just ‘coloured in’ around that, filling in the soundscape of the piece with what I felt were the natural sounds of the landscape I was in.
3. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
I really would love listeners to be transported to Western Queensland… and to, in just ten minutes, try and capture that feeling of the extreme vastness and rugged beauty of our incredible country.
The stunning environment of sand, lakes, rock pools, and creeks that I experienced during my time on K’gari (Fraser Island) was the perfect impetus to write a piece.
Returning to the Sand is inspired by three lakes: Boomanjin, Birabeen, and Garawongera; as well as the Wun’gul sandblow and the Maheno shipwreck. The refrain in this rondo-sonata form work represents the three lakes, with the sandblow and shipwreck inspiring the first and second episodes. The bell sound reflects the bell of the SS Maheno, a ship built in Scotland in 1905 that held the speed record for the Tasman crossing between Australia and New Zealand. It was converted to a hospital ship and was at ANZAC cove six times, carrying dead and dying soldiers during WWI.
The ship was eventually destined to be scrapped in Kobe, Japan, but some 100kms off the coast she broke free during a storm and was eventually located on the pristine sands of K’gari (Fraser Island) where she has remained since 1935. The bell hear is a tubular bell, but for Camerata’s 2019 tour a replica of the Maheno Bell was carted around Queensland for the performances of this work. Signs of organic matter still decaying give the wreck a feeling of connection with the living. The process of deterioration is visible in the bends, the rust, the return to the sand. (From diary entry #13, March 9, 2019)
Samuel Dickenson on Returning to the Sand (2019)
LEARN MORE ABOUT RETURNING TO THE SAND, AND SAMUEL’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
Returning to the Sand was inspired by various natural and man-made features of K’gari (Fraser Island): Lakes Boomanjin, Birrabeen, Garawongera; the Wungul Sandblow and the Maheno Wreck. The recurrence of the lakes as inspirational elements was conducive to a recurring theme, or refrain, in a rondo-form work. The remaining two elements naturally lent themselves to being episodes within this framework.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
During my stay at K’gari (Fraser Island) I visited several locations throughout the island, taking notes about the feelings I experienced at each one. After collecting this conceptual material, I tried to find connections between my experiences at some of these locations, eventually settling on the five places/features that became the focus of Returning to the Sand. From here, some of the melodic and textural aspects began to reveal themselves. My compositions unfurl from smaller motivic cells, which are richly altered as each piece develops, serving the memory function of music and my aesthetic goals of approachable and accessible unification. However, before the music itself is written, I plan out the overall form and length of the work (in this case, a five-part rondo with coda). Once I constructed the work from the macro level, I planned out the general progression of the music, including which tonal areas I would visit (and their relationship to the subject matter).
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
One of the challenges of composing my piece was balancing and contextualizing a kind of “reverse Neapolitan modulation” that occurs during the climactic moment of the work. Modulating up a half-step from the tonic for brief periods before moving to the dominant and tonic chords of the original key is a feature of some Romantic-era music, extending and deepening this colourful and interesting predominant area. In my work, I wanted to rework this idea in reverse, modulating a half-step lower than the tonic, then applying the same processes that would normally reach this “Neapolitan area” to return to the tonic. To make this idea sound natural to the ear, I presented the first episode in the Neapolitan key area (a half-step up from the original tonic), anticipating the same process that would later return the listener back home.
4. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
K’gari (Fraser Island) is a wonderful natural landmark with beautiful wildlife. I would love for listeners to take away the calming stillness of the lakes, breathtaking grandiosity of the sandblows, and strange beauty of the Maheno wreck, slowly disappearing to time.
Camerata sent Connor D’Netto ahead of their trip to the Maranoa region in 2016 to gain inspiration and ideas, and his trip was meant to include a visit to the famous Charleville Cosmos Centre, and a daytime “joy flight” among other things.
In the end, the weather forced a cancellation of these activities. A call out on social media for other ideas, led to Camerata supporter, Toni Baker indicating that her aunt Joan Houghten was still living in the area after many decades and that Connor should visit her. At 94 years-old, smoking like a chimney, sharp as a tack and driving to do her own groceries, Joan was full of life and stories, including those of how she of met her husband while playing piano at parties after the war. She allowed Connor to look about her home which was a step back in time. Joan was still playing piano daily (at the time she was learning a new tune – Michael Jackson’s “Ben”). None of this is tangibly present in Air & Fantasy, but the music is evocative of the western Queensland landscape and atmosphere, particularly that of Charleville where Camerata gave the official world premiere performance at the Charleville Racecourse.
Connor writes: “For someone who had spent his whole life living in South-East Queensland, there was something that immediately struck me when I landed in the South-West corner: It’s flat. So flat. The roads go on forever, straight out to the horizon. Plains of grass and bush sprung from the red earth – unending, spotted with wire-like trees. The breeze filters through everything; distant winds blow down the high-street. There’s a stillness out there, cut by the wind. But, the sky moves with the wind. Within a moment, grey becomes blue, thick cover clears; the depth of the night sky is unlike anything you see in the cities. And then it’s gone again.”
Connor D’Netto on Air & Fantasy (2016)
LEARN MORE ABOUT AIR & FANTASY, AND CONNOR’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
I had the pleasure of heading out to Charleville with Brendan to do a little reconnaissance mission head of their 2016 tour just as they’d approached me for the is commission. It was a cute trip, full of meeting local resident, some radio interview etc., but what struck me most as soon as I arrived was how flat the landscape was – roads stretching to the horizon, vast plains of red soil sprouting tall dry grass and scattered trees, with a strange stillness cut by the wind. It was my first time out west and like nothing else I’d experienced before in Australia.
But the highlight of the trip was something completely unplanned. We were tipped off that we should meet a local named Joan Houghten, who had been playing piano in Charleville for the last half a century. 94 years-old at the time, still smoking like a chimney, and sharp as a tack; she told us stories of her life, how she met her husband playing piano at parties after the war, and let us look about her home, which was a step back in time. She even played us a tune. These were just some of the memories on my mind while writing.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
My process tends so be pretty methodical and straightforward: starting with general brainstorming, thinking of different musical textures and ideas I’d like to explore with the instruments at hand; then organising these, thinking about different combos of ideas or how one might progress to the next; I then take a step back and look at the piece’s structure as a whole, work out it’s proportions, measure out how many bars each section will be; from there I work at the piano, staring with some improvising and then working out and writing all the main themes, melodies, harmonic progressions etc., possibly even writing out entire sections at the piano; then finally on computer, bringing all this together and filling fleshing out all these materials.
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
This piece actually ended up being quite a challenge simply because of the timeframe – around the time Camerata approached me about the commission I was deep in to the honours year research project at university, at was in the road a lot for various things, so other than that trip to Charleville with Brendan I think I only had about a week window write the whole thing, and I’d I remember correctly, half of that I was in Melbourne, so without access to a piano!
4. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
I tend to like my pieces to be pretty open-ended, a canvas of sorts for anyone to bring whatever they’re going through to, without needing to know the backstory of the music, and find something that resonates with them. That being said, for me this piece has a prevailing sense of calm and stillness, so I hope people might find some of that for themselves
Beams and Waves is a work based on the architecture of the Tree of Knowledge memorial in Barcaldine, Queensland.\
The memorial is constructed of 3,449 beams of wood suspended on the inside of a large box surrounding the tree. Waveforms created by the beams being suspended at different lengths show the negative space of where the branches would have stretched out were the tree still alive. Different perspectives on the architecture offer different visual experiences. From the outside, the beams appear to be phasing in and out of each other. From the inside, the waves and negative space can be viewed in their full glory. Looking down, the view becomes kaleidoscopic where the reflection of the beams can be seen in conjunction with the roots of the tree underneath the patterned glass.
Beams and Waves explores these perspectives and renders them as sonic structures, jutting themes and rhythmic grooves. Expressive melodies recall the branches of the tree, stretching out amongst the architecture.
Isabella Gerometta on Beams and Waves (2018)
LEARN MORE ABOUT BEAMS AND WAVES, AND ISABELLA’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
Barcaldine is the home of the Tree of Knowledge, a heritage listed ghost gum under which the workers of the 1891 Shearers Strike met, which was poisoned and killed in 2006. In response, a giant memorial consisting of beams of wood suspended from a box was created which fills the negative space around the tree’s branches as if they were in full bloom. If you’re a sighted person within a kilometre of the town, you can’t miss it.
My piece ‘Beams and Waves’ is based off this architecture.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
Probably like any other composer, I find something I like and work with it. In this case I drew it from the architecture of the monument, finding music and gestures that mimicked different viewpoints of the box – outside, far away, from above and below.
Logistically, I’m on a bed, couch or beanbag with a piano nearby. Either anime or Twitch on in the background. I can’t look at computer screens for too long or I get headaches even with a blue light filter and no external stimuli – I try to use manuscript paper as much as possible, but sometimes I go for it on software if I can. I prefer to compose at night, for as much of the night as possible. I have a Toxtricity plush who constantly accompanies me while I compose, for company.
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
For this particular piece, the beginning of and the title were probably the two most difficult elements. The first few things I wrote for both felt too cringey. Eventually I found a cool rhythmic element I could use at the beginning to make it exciting and anticipatory, and ‘Beams and Waves’ was an intriguing title without any pretensions.
4. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
Whatever they’d like. I’m not one to tell people what to think. I guess I can say that when I listen to it, mentally I’m back in Barcaldine under the shade of that monument entranced by the beams dangling with a slight sway in a hot breeze. Since it’s a monument and piece that links architecture with a significant historical moment and a once living thing, there are less and more sentimental perspectives than mine, but everyone should make up each of their own minds. It’s more fun that way.
This piece was written for all the people of Regional Australia, but specifically inspired by the town and people of Longreach in Queensland.
The piece is so many things for me. It is an attempt to capture the hope and resilience that I saw in the people of Longreach and Ilfracombe; at the time of writing this work, they were enduring what was an unrelenting and devastating drought. It was my desire with this piece to capture the struggle of the long wait, but most importantly the hope I saw in the people. The music captures, in atmosphere, the first drops of rain on long dry soil, and in emotion the joy, and relief such a moment must surely bring when it does at last come.
In a middle section of the work is also what I think of as ‘a song of farewell to Josie’. Josie was the horse of Sidoney, a wonderful resident at Pioneers Retirement Centre whom I had the opportunity to meet in Longreach. Sidoney and I spoke about Longreach, her time living there, and in particular she mentioned Josie, a beautiful horse who died in a very sad accident. I was struck by Sidoney’s words and wanted to honour the memory of Josie who was clearly a close friend.
Christopher Healey on Renewing Rain (2015)
Brisbane-born Cameron Patrick is an Australian composer busy working in both the screen and concert music sectors. He currently holds the post of Head of Screen Composition at the Australian Film and Television and Radio School.
As a violinist, Cameron was also the Founding Leader of Camerata (then Camerata of St John’s). In Camerata’s earliest years, the group undertook rehearsal weekends away near Allora and Warwick in the beautiful Darling Downs region.
Little Corellas: Allora, 1987 is a birthday dedication to Camerata’s Founder, Elizabeth Morgan AM, and references the joyful times and music making of these formative years in the ensemble’s history.
Cameron Patrick on Little Corellas: Allora, 1987 (2021)
I was fortunate to visit Emerald, Queensland in 2022, tasked by Camerata – Queensland’s Chamber Orchestra with composing a new work inspired by my journey.
While Emerald the town is distinct, it is Emerald the community that most resonated with me; I think I have never truly met such friendly people. My activities were varied. I visited Fairbairn Dam and, after much practise, operated a siphon tube. I confess that I exceeded the bounds of my charge and ventured deep into The Gemfields. The rugged geographies of Anakie, Sapphire and Rubyvale have been difficult to shake from my mind. There seems to me to be a kind of beauty in rusted machinery scattered across the desert. Man’s interaction with nature in this manner is, I think, terrifying – in the biblical sense. At the conclusion of my Central Queensland adventures, I returned to Brisbane via the Spirit of the Outback.
The train departed Emerald’s historic station at seven o’clock in the evening; after dinner, I retired to my cabin, doused my lamp, and watched as hundreds and hundreds of lights slowly lumbered their way through the night. In composing Central Highland Rounds, I drew on my experiences, and on what memories I have of the Central Highlands’ landscapes and stories.
Alexander Voltz on Central Highland Rounds (2022)
Robert Davidson’s Elegy has been a central part of Camerata’s repertoire, particularly for many regional tours of Queensland where we have been asked again and again for a recording.
Robert writes: Elegy was commissioned and first performed in 2000 by the Australian Youth Orchestra as part of a suite, A Short Hour Unseen. It is an attractive and popular work that has been used in film and theatre, with soaring overlapping melodies and an obsessive, ruminating triadic figure creating a sense of sweet melancholy.
Robert Davidson on A Short Hour Unseen (2000)
LEARN MORE ABOUT A SHORT HOUR UNSEEN AND ROBERT’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES.
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
I was reflecting on the loss of my mother to cancer (twelve years before I composed Elegy in 2000). It was simply that I was thinking fondly of my mother and how much I missed her when I sat down at the piano and immediately played the opening chords of the piece, singing the violin melody. The music is certainly sad, but also becomes tender and affectionate. Of course every time I hear the piece, I miss my mother.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
I work very intuitively. Most days I spend time improvising (using piano, voice, double bass, guitar or just tapping out rhythms on my legs), and musical ideas present themselves (often in response to a specific emotional state or stimulus); alternatively, they come to me while I’m walking, cycling or (inconveniently) driving (don’t worry – I pull over before writing them down!). Many ideas seem to come while I’m waiting – waiting backstage before starting a concert, to teach my next class, for a meeting, for a rehearsal to start.
I also spend daily time going through backlogs of ideas, searching for what I might be able to spin out into something bigger, or put together with other ideas. I make a clean separation between these two aspects – creating ideas and selecting ideas. In the creating stage, it’s crucial that I leave out any judgement. But judgement is totally necessary for the second stage. Then it’s a different mindset again to develop the ideas and finally to put them all together into a satisfying structure, usually involving the painful process of cutting things out (I can always save them for another piece though).
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
It wasn’t a big effort for me to compose Elegy – it was one of those pieces that almost present themselves fully formed. I had to work a little bit to make the contrapuntal lines all interweave and be distinct from one another. And of course I had to work through intense emotions of grief. Music itself is a great help with that process. It’s really why I became a musician.
What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
If you’re missing someone, it can be very healing to fully enter into that emotion, but not sink down into an ocean of it and drown. Music can help create a more contained emotional world, where one can sense all the space in the world to experience a large range of feelings without becoming overwhelmed.
Otherwise, perhaps listeners may simply enjoy the interweaving of melodies in a kind of tapestry of string sound.
Camerata gave the premiere of this work in 2013 and has performed it on many of its regional tours over the years.
Love to Love Your Strings, Baby! is an affectionate homage to disco strings. I’ve taken inspiration from Barry White’s Love Unlimited Orchestra, from the New York, Philadelphia and many other symphony orchestras, and the many great arrangers who had a role in developing the disco sound. My piece takes motifs and fragments from the golden era of disco and weaves them together with my own original themes to present a fantasy montage.
The title refers, of course, to the 1975 Donna Summer hit Love to love you, baby. “Erik Griswold’s Love to Love Your Strings, Baby! A simultaneous homage to Donna Summer and the Love Unlimited Orchestra, has the most exciting opening imaginable, and continues with stop-start brilliance from there.” Martin Buzacott, The Australian
Erik Griswald on Love to Love Your Strings, Baby! (2013)
LEARN MORE ABOUT LOVE TO LOVE YOUR STRINGS, BABY! AND ERIK’S CREATIVE PROCESS AND CHALLENGES.
1. What inspired you to compose your piece specifically on?
I’ve always been a fan of disco strings…the soaring melodies, rhythmic stabs and colourful filigree found on classic recordings of the Love Unlimited Orchestra and others. I love these musical crossover moments, when one style merges into another, and I wanted to celebrate this period of musical history in a free-wheeling homage.
2. How would you describe your creative process?
I’m a very hands-on composer, I often start by improvising at the piano, working out ideas and then either transcribing or recording them. From there I brainstorm, using free association and trying lots of variations, pulling tools out the figurative composer toolbox, to find things that excite me. “Love To Love Your Strings, Baby!” is very much a stream of consciousness, in which one musical idea flows directly into the next.
3. What would you consider the most challenging aspect of creating your piece?
Certainly, there is a lot of tricky rhythmic work in there, and some quick passage work, but I think connecting all the disparate ideas requires a lot of musicality. Camerata do an incredible job of reflecting the whole range of colours and moods.
4. What would you like your listeners to take away from your piece?
I hope listeners will be energized by the fast-paced ride and will be tickled to hear some familiar motifs reimagined in new and unexpected ways.
