Part 2

What role do electronic tools and instruments play for your creative process? What does your creative space / studio look like and what tools does it contain?

Like most modern composers, I use notation software—sometimes quite early in the process. But I belong to one of the last generations to grow up in a completely analog world.

Back in the day, I used to write everything by hand, carefully imagining all the sounds. There are trade-offs. Composing is simply more enjoyable when you can hear something, even in a crude way, and it often helps you have a better sense of narrative timing. On the other hand, imagination tends to flourish more when writing by hand, and the music often ends up more structurally sound.

When working on concert music, I try to strike a balance—going back and forth between the computer and paper. When working with electronics, as in my piece Toy Store for violin and electronics, all hell breaks loose. I switch between DAW (Ableton has been my primary tool), notation software (Dorico since 2019), and the piano. I usually have a few instruments lying around as well.

I find acoustic instruments to be the most reliable and timeless tools. In addition to the piano, I used to play the cello, which gives me a certain fluency with string instruments. I try out as many of my ideas as possible directly on the instruments I have access to, but I make a point not to let my technical limitations hinder the music.

It is my impression that adding a conceptual, non-musical dimension to one's work is almost a prerequisite for commissions and grants. How do you view this tendency and how “conceptual” is your own approach to writing?

I believe there is always some kind of concept behind a piece, though it’s not always easy to define what is musical and what is not.

I remember that some of my most successful applications were centered around musical themes. One was about reinventing the piano for the 21st century (there’s a version of this that I turned into an article on my website, titled An Ode to the Piano); another focused on exploring new contours of contrapuntal language (also available as a program note for my sextet Contrapuntal Forms).

I don’t believe a concept has to be non-musical to be valid—what matters is having a fresh perspective.

If a panel for those commissions and grants is expecting a specific type of message from proposals—unless that’s clearly stated in the call—they’re doing a disservice by filtering out submissions based on unstated internal criteria. Composers should be free to decide what concept—musical or extra-musical—they want to explore. And that concept may vary from piece to piece.

Working with long forms, complex concepts or new vocabulary is potentially more challenging today because they require us to remember things that happened perhaps minutes ago – while most of us are finding it hard to focus even on what's happening right now. Both as a composer and as a listener yourself, how do you deal with this?
 
I work with the assumption (perhaps an illusion) that we all have the capacity for deep focus, and that a piece will be heard more than once. Sustained concentration is something we need to fight hard to reclaim.

Sometimes, cutting off one sense seems to bring focus back. In Birds, Bees, Electric Fish, some blindfolded audience members reported that their concentration on sound deepened within minutes. (Granted, a few others fell asleep.) I often close my eyes when listening to music and find that my concentration deepens immediately.

What I don’t want to do is compromise by assuming the audience lacks focus, and therefore make the music more easily graspable through excessive repetition or by resorting to short, flashy forms. Instead, I try to shift my attention from the audience to the performers. They are usually much more attuned to complex, unfamiliar idioms through repetitive and patient practice—I often find them hyper-focused.

As a composer, I consider materials that might be transparent on first hearing, alongside others whose relationships only emerge after living with the work for a while. I like thinking about that kind of layered experience.

I've also been curious about incorporating a pre-concert ritual—perhaps something like meditation. As composers, we often don’t have the luxury of shaping the entire experience of an evening, from pre-show to post-show. But that could be an interesting direction, one that would also require some commitment from the audience.

What’s exciting is the idea of treating a heightened state of concentration not as something the audience must bring, but as something the music itself is designed to cultivate.

For many artists, life-changing musical experiences take place live. Few works these days, however, are performed beyond their premiere. What, do you feel, does this mean for composers, and the music they write, and how does this reality influence your own work?

I do not agree that most life-changing musical experiences happen live.

I grew up without any access to live music, and my most transformative experiences came from playing Bach on the piano alone and listening to a few CDs I had at home. I see scores, recordings, and live performances as equally valid avenues for life-changing musical moments. So I think for composer, they could think about various ways to reach the audience, and it could be in the form of recorded music.

The truth is, whether a piece survives beyond its premiere is not up to the composer. If performers are interested in playing it, it will be performed again. If no one is interested, it may indicate that the music isn’t compelling enough. (In my experience, difficulty or impracticality is often overcome by dedicated performers.)

Of course, it’s also possible that the world simply doesn’t know the composer exists due to a lack of exposure—an entirely different issue for which I don’t have easy answers. Perhaps this is a controversial view, but I believe it’s important for composers not to create music in a vacuum, nor to write only for other composers in ways that are viable only within academic environments.

My favorite musical collaborations often come from my solo works. Large ensemble and orchestral performances are often hastily put together and poorly rehearsed. In contrast, many solo performers are deeply dedicated—sometimes even performing from memory—and I really value that kind of close, one-on-one connection with the performer. I also tend to get more opportunities for repeat performances with solo and small ensemble pieces.

For larger or more impractical works, I try to get high-quality recordings so I can at least reach listeners directly. That said, there’s no easy formula for any of this—and I’m still learning.

How, would you say are live performances of your music and your recording projects connected at the moment? How do they mutually influence and feed off each other? 

It varies. For my acoustic pieces—which make up most of my output—recordings often provide the best representation of an ideal performance. My music tends to be quite notey and often fast, so it's difficult to execute perfectly in a live setting, though certainly not impossible. The difference between recordings and live performance isn’t huge in these cases.

However, recordings can offer a kind of intimacy—as if you’re listening up close to the performers—that I find very appealing, even in place of the immediacy of live performance.

For pieces that include electronics, like Toy Store, the recording differs significantly from the live version. In the recording, the electronics and violin are mixed with great precision, thanks to my sound engineer, Carlos Diaz Jr., who carefully balanced the subtle character of each sound within the dense texture.

The piece references several genres—funk, heavy metal, classical, etc.—and Carlos mixed each movement differently to reflect those influences. That kind of balance is often difficult to achieve in a live setting, and I sometimes find myself making substantial compromises—especially in venues with less-than-ideal sound systems.

That said, live performance brings its own value: the performer’s virtuosity, energy, and physical presence can more than make up for those compromises.

To some, the advent of AI and 'intelligent' composing tools offers potential for machines to contribute to the creative process. What are your hopes, fears, expectations and possible concrete plans in this regard?

I really need to get over my bad attitude about AI and learn how it works for music. Empirically, I believe (know?) great music can’t be created by a statistical model trained on massive amounts of data. Art comes from an individual—it’s the result of a unique path, drawn from the infinitude of possibilities, and shaped by personal experience.

Even with current technology, much formulaic, generic, or run-of-the-mill 'wallpaper music' could be replaced by automation—and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

So, when I’m asked about AI, I tend to lean toward cautious optimism. Not because I believe AI will create something truly great, but because it might help us create better work—either by handling the most basic tasks or by giving us something to push against or build upon.
 
Are there approaches, artists, festivals, labels, spaces or anyone/-thing else out there who you feel deserve a shout out for taking composition into the future?

Performers come to mind first. I admire many of my collaborators, but specifically for advancing new music, I would say the JACK Quartet, Arx Duo, and the New York Classical Players.

The JACK Quartet is widely known for their ability to execute extremely complex music. Working on extended just intonation with them has been an immense privilege.

Arx Duo is a percussion duo dedicated to commissioning and performing new music. While percussion quartets have a vast repertoire, duets do not, and Arx Duo has contributed significantly to developing this repertoire.

The New York Classical Players (NYCP) is primarily a string orchestra made up of a dedicated group of players and conductor Dongmin Kim. They offer high-quality performances of compelling mix of new and old music for free in the New York area.

As for a label, I am deeply grateful to New Amsterdam Records for releasing my recent album Obsolete Music. The style fusion on the album is unconventional and doesn’t fit into any specific genre. I find that New Amsterdam values the authentic voices of individual artists and is highly inclusive.

The Montreux Festival intends to preserve its archive of recordings for future generations. Do you personally feels it's important that everything should remain available forever - or is there something to be said for letting beautiful moments pass and linger in the memories of those that experienced them?
 
I think you already know my answer: definitely preserve everything worth preserving. Ephemeral beauty can be re-experienced through an archive. There's no reason why these experiences should be exclusive to those who were there.

Many factors limit people's access to firsthand experiences. Also, as someone with a passion for old things, I deeply appreciate any artifacts that technology allows us to preserve.