Streams stands out in Martin Schlumpf’s catalogue of works in two ways. The first is its genre: it marks the first time that he wrote a double concerto. The second involves the choice of solo instruments: the clarinet and bass trombone form an exquisite but extremely rare instrumental combination. The reason why Schlumpf chose this combination of instruments is that he wrote the concerto for his two friends, Matthias Müller and David Taylor. Müller and Taylor met each other in New York during the latter part of 2009, after which Müller wrote excitedly to Schlumpf about their meeting. This prompted Schlumpf to discard his original plan for a “normal” clarinet concerto in favor of one for the present two instruments. More than that, he had already met Taylor as early as 1987 when they toured with the international improvisation band Cadavre Exquis.
Writing pieces of music for his professional friends is surely the standard case in Schlumpf’s output. Here his friendship with Matthias Müller plays a special role. Ever since Müller started teaching at Zurich University of the Arts in the late 1990s, Schlumpf has written a large number of works for him, including Cumuli III, Rattaplasma 2, Atemspuren, and pulsar_1. Müller also took part in the major world première of Schlumpf’s Trio for clarinet, cello, and piano. Writing music for friends also means giving them an opportunity to display their defining qualities and strengths in a special light.
In Streams, this prompted Schlumpf to insert a structured improvisation for both soloists in the middle of the piece (Parts D and E). There are perils to such an enterprise, of course. For one thing, there is no way of knowing exactly what the soloist will play at any given moment. For another, the improvised section must not differ too greatly in impetus from the through-composed sections lest the piece fall apart structurally. Schlumpf countered the first danger by defining the rough course of the improvisation with judicious verbal directions. Moreover, in key passages, specific entrances after rests are precisely defined. The second danger is offset in the orchestra by a style of notation which is often imprecise in rhythm and meter, and which makes certain interventions by the orchestral instruments dependent on events in the improvisations or defines them globally within a given temporal unit.In this case the conductor, rather than beating time, merely marks the boundaries of the units. There are also entire passages of precisely through-composed music, thereby lending a rich and many-sided appearance to the whole five-minute section of improvisation.
But it is wrong to speak only of the dangers that may occur in a piece with improvisation. The composer’s actual motive for employing improvisation is, of course, the extraordinary fascination of creating a space in which the improvising musicians can react spontaneously and with great license to their musical surroundings. The result, when it comes off, is something that can never possibly occur in through-composed music!
Finally, the end of the improvised section (beginning of Part F) marks one of the most striking passages in the form of the entire work. After intensive trills and madcap figuration in the altissimo registers, the music collapses into the bottom registers while retaining its loud dynamic level. At the same time as the extreme change of register there is a sharp shift in density of movement, from extremely agile to tensely sustained. This radical shift symbolizes Schlumpf’s aim of taking his music to the limits of the expressible. In contrast, the fractured quality stands out as an isolated instance.
All the other distinct caesuras, such as the opening of the improvisation (beginning of Part D) and the opening of the coda with the Doppelgänger music (beginning of Part G), are organically directed toward a goal. Even the fabric of the other sections is largely “flowing” and in a state of developmental variation. One of Schlumpf’s characteristic resources for obtaining this variability within a continuum is his technique of tempo leaps, known elsewhere as metrical modulation. This technique is particularly in evidence in Part F. In ten stages the opening tempo is accelerated or decelerated again and again in accordance with simple integral ratios.
Assuming that the tempo changes at a ratio of 3:2, this means that the tempo of an eighth-note triplet in the first section is equal to that of an eighth note in the next. In other words, the meter or the beat has accelerated at a ratio of 3:2 while an important group of rhythmic values remains at the same tempo. This makes it possible to achieve fluent transitions. But quite apart from these technical explanations, the technique can easily be followed with the unaided ear: if you listen carefully, you will suddenly sense that the music is being “counted” in a different way. If you were to dance to it, you would feel you had to quicken your steps, but without being able to say exactly where the transition took place.
Finally, the design of the concluding Part G deserves special mention. It is a sort of drawn-out coda that relates in a very idiosyncratic way to the music of Schubert’s Der Doppelgänger from his final song cycle, Schwanengesang. The introductory booklet text already points out the special role that this song plays in Taylor’s public performances and Schlumpf’s teaching activities. Here this form of “quotation” will be briefly placed in the context of Schlumpf’s music. Quotations already occur in his early works: Ostinato II of 1982 uses fragments from Mahler symphonies, and Winter Circle of 1991 (reworked into Summer Circle in 2007) employs various quotations from Ives, Eisler, Beethoven, and others. Until then all these quotations were literal and largely programmatic in character. Later the function of the quotations began to change: the originals were recast in many ways, and the music, one might say, began to orbit the original without necessarily making it recognizable. So it is in Streams. Nowhere is the music identical to the song, but it comes very close to it in many passages. In this way a sort of underlying gesture from Schubert’s original is woven into Schlumpf’s musical language. We sense the pain, a sorrowful hopelessness and despondency. Once again a quite special role attaches to the bass trombone – the “singer” of the song, and the instrument capable of probing the nethermost depths.
But the piece is not over yet. Schlumpf’s “sonic universe” is not the same as Schubert’s.
