Review of Form and Method: Composing Music (The Rothschild Lectures) by Roger

Reynolds
Author(s): Nicholas Cook
Source: Music Perception: An Interdisciplinary Journal, Vol. 22, No. 2 (Winter 2004), pp.
357-364
Published by: University of California Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/mp.2004.22.2.357
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Music Perception
Winter 2004, Vol. 22, No. 2, 357364

2004

BY THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Book Review
Roger Reynolds, Form and Method: Composing Music (The Rothschild
Lectures). Ed. Stephen McAdams. New York and London: Routledge,
2002. pp. xiv + 104 + 137.
In the past several decades, writes Pulitzer Prizewinning composer
Roger Reynolds, there has been an almost complete silence regarding the
ways in which recognized figures actually go about their work (p. 83;
page references in this review refer to the initial [text] page sequence). It is
precisely this lack that Reynolds attempts to make up for in the present
volume, produced in collaboration with his long-time collaborator at the
Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique (IRCAM),
Stephen McAdams, consisting as it does of something less than 100 pages
of text and something more than 100 pages of score extracts, sketches,
and other related materials (not, unfortunately, including recorded
extractsalthough almost all the works discussed have been released
commercially). About a quarter of Reynoldss text consists of general
remarks about composing and his approach to it: the remaining three
quarters consists of demonstration, discussion, and evaluation of how he
composed specific works. The result is a unique insight into the working
methods of a highly articulate composerand (I am bound to add as a
music theorist) a demonstration of the distance that now exists between
institutionalized music theory and compositional practice.
Reynolds comments on this himself, actually in the sentence after the
one I just quoted: There is, of course, more than a little music theory
available, but this has in most cases little to do with what seems to me to
be the deepest wellsprings of musical art. As the quotes indicate,
Reynolds fights shy of the word theory altogether: I have a practice
rather than a theory, he writes (p. 83). Of course theory is a practice too,
but his meaning is clear enough: the goal, whether in his compositions or
this book, is not a grand unifying method, much less a theory in the scientific sense, but rather a personal tool kit . . . that can be rummaged about
in (p. 83). And it would probably be true to say that music theory as
practiced today has less to do with composition than it did only a few
decades ago: both theorists and composers have moved on from the kind
ISSN: 0730-7829, electronic ISSN: 1533-8312. Please direct all requests for permission
to photocopy or reproduce article content to University of California Presss Rights and
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357

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358

Nicholas Cook

of synthesis of theorizing and composing represented by the work of, for

instance, Milton Babbitt or George Perle. There are of course traces in
Reynoldss approach to composition, and in his works, of the campus
composition theory of the post-war years: he talks of series and complementation and transformations. But he does not talk about them very
much. The emphasis is rather on personal compositional strategies, idiosyncratic structures adapted to specific expressive purposes, and on the
way in which systematic thought is adapted, inflected, or simply bent to
the requirements of specific compositional contexts. That, as I see it, is the
most important lesson of Reynoldss book, and it is a dimension usually
missing from institutionalized music theory.
The book is divided into two halves, entitled Form and Method
(given Reynoldss proclivity for numerical patterning, I dont know
whether or not it is pure chance that each half consists of 42 pages, with
the first being divided into two subsections of 21 pages). For Reynolds,
form signifies the means by which a works wholeness is achieved; at
one time such wholeness was associated with conventional forms, he says,
but I do not believe that, in our time, form should be thought of in terms
of categorical patterns, whether old or new (p. 6): wholeness must be
achieved in terms applicable to the individual work, and it is essentially
the forging of these terms that Reynolds refers to when he speaks of form.
(Of course Reynoldss suspicion of categorical forms has long been shared
by music theorists: one of the basic premisses of Schenkerian theory is that
textbook models of sonata or rondo are inadequate representations of real
musical processes). Reynolds proceeds by unfolding a series of binary
oppositions. Wholeness, he says, consists on the one hand of integrity,
which is a matter of objective relationships, and on the other of coherence,
which is a matter of subjective relationships: it is not something suddenly
revealed (in a flash of insight, according to Romantic mythologies of creation), but something that is painstakingly constructed, or that emerges,
in the course of the compositional process. One might see this as a process
of transition between the subjective intent (Reynolds consistently uses this
form of the word, with its nineteenth-century connotations) and its objective realization, except that what is involved is a process of constant interaction, as attempted realization feeds back and clarifies or modifies what
was intended. Or, to invoke another of Reynoldss binaries, it might be
seen as a process of transition between form and material, through which
an idea of or commitment to a formal shape (p. 5) stimulates and motivates the generation of musical content, whether this proceeds through the
deployment and control of algorithmic methods or through intuition. Yet
another binary is between dimensionality, which for Reynolds comprises the intellectual operations of reflecting, comparing, and anticipating,
and depth, which refers to the emotional domain: once again, the rela-

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Book Review

359

tionship between these perspectives is one of interaction, as the conceptual and the expressive work upon one another in the cycle of developing
determinacy that constitutes the compositional process.
Reynolds now introduces some of the general aspects of the various
structural models by means of which he attempts to organize these
processes of transition and interaction. For example, he says that, if compositional structures are to mean anything to the listener, they must be
embedded in parameters that are capable of supporting the necessary discriminations: timbral brightness, pitch, duration, dynamics, and spatial
location (p. 14; he makes reference at this point to McAdamss research).
And he explains that where such structures are to be organized in quantitative termsfor instance, a series of durationshe favors logarithmic
proportions (he justifies this on psychological grounds: trended change
is a more natural and engaging address to the perceptual system than constancy, p. 17). Then again he explains that his music is normally contrapuntal, in the sense of consisting of several independent streams of events
at any one time: traditional mono-directional textures, he argues, are
at odds with the experience of daily life today (p. 18), when we are constantly having to cope with multiple, simultaneous stimuli. He also puts
forward a similar argument against the viability of literal repetition: the
routine resorting to identical or nearly identical repetition, he says (and
the italics are his), is a vestige of earlier times and their simpler realities
(p. 21). That, of course, reflects Reynoldss location within what might be
called the modernist mainstream of twentieth-century music: Reich and
Adams, to name but two, would presumably disagree.
With the exception of the two-page Concluding Remarks, the
remaining three quarters of the book consists exclusively of case studies
of particular works, which range from 1982 to 1994, and from music for
guitar to compositions for orchestra with or without computer-processed
sound. The case studies proceed in two passes. The second half of the
essay on form consists of two- to three-page accounts of the formal frameworks adopted in eight different compositions: these perhaps represent
the most analytical part of the book (in the music-theoretical sense),
describing how traditional constructs like variation form may be
rethought for contemporary compositional contexts, or how Reynoldss
conception of the core theme extends traditional ideas about thematic
identitybut also how visual stimuli ranging from rock formations to
graphic art may elicit a compositional response. By contrast, the second
essay, on method, concentrates on just two of these compositions and one
other (there are also brief remarks on a fourth), offering sustained
accounts of the ways in which these formal frameworks organized or regulated the process of composition: by jumping around between the examples, it is often possible to match up successive stages of the same passage,

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360

Nicholas Cook

from early, schematic sketches or calculations of numerical series through

increasingly detailed synopses to the final score. (It is necessary to jump
around in part because the distinction between form and method proves
in practice to be highly permeable, so that the second part of the book
often returns in greater detail to matters introduced in the first; that is
why I referred to two passes.) For the reader, especially the composer
reader, it is likely to be this process of following through specific details
that represents the most rewarding aspect of the book, but it is inherently difficult to summarize, so instead I shall follow up a number of more
general issues that recur throughout the case studies.
One concerns the role of the visual. For Reynolds the impetus behind
a work is often visual: Versions/Stages IV (198691) is a study in changing relationships between formal structure and material realization
inspired by Monets series paintings of Rouen Cathedral, while a particular spatial disposition of computer-processed sound in Personae (1990)
was suggested by the pattern of rushing snowflakes during a winter drive
(p. 81). The most striking translation from visual to sound image, however, is provided by Symphony [Myths] (1990), which is based on a rock formation on the shore of Honshu (Japan): a large and a small rock surrounded by the sea but linked by a braided rope, with between them a
smaller rock that is often hidden under the waves. Reynolds translates this
image into music in a number of different ways. There is a story that the
two main rocks represents male and female gods, who were separated
from one another but have been symbolically rejoined by the rope, while
the third is a spirit rock: Reynolds not only explores the expressive ramifications of these stories but also links them to other myths (such as the
clashing rocks from the story of Jason and the Argonauts). Then again,
he uses the height above the sea of the two main rocks (in feet) as reference points for the numerical series that controls such aspects of compositional structure as the musics durational distribution. He also attempts
to convey the rocks massiveness through layered ostinati that create
effects of constant change within an unchanging framework.
But there is more to it than that, for he draws a sketch of the two rocks
(his Example 16), transforms it into a more schematic but still readily recognizable representation whose coordinates are now time and pitch height
(Example 17), and then progressively formalizes the representation until
it eventually reaches a condition of notational specificity. It is fascinating
to trace the process of abstraction by which a visual image is transformed
into a compositional structure, but this is obviously something of a special case: Reynolds introduces it as a form that is more explicitly wedded
to its subject, that actually attempts the direct musical manifestation of a
more physical model (p. 30: more, that is, than the compositions he has
talked about up to then). All the same, you only have to flick through the

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Book Review

361

many sketches reproduced in Reynoldss book to see the extent to which

graphic representations not only act as a shorthand for intended musical
effects, but also apparently speak back, as it were, to the composer, and
so play a full role in the process of interaction between intent and realization, between composer and page, through which the composition comes
into being. And it is worth observing that Reynoldss language is full of
often graphic imagerya characteristic often observed in contemporary
composers (Ligeti is an obvious example).
It is also, in part, the role played by visual representation that enables
Reynoldss musical ideas to be realized in either instrumental or electroacoustic form (the dialectic between or integration of which is an important element of his compositional identity). I say in part because the
same might be said of the mathematical dimensions of his approach to
composition. Indeed much of what I have said about Reynoldss use of
visual images might be said about his use of numerical series: in
Symphony [Myth], he explains, he based the series on the height of the
rocks (13 and 29 feet) not simply because the rocks happened to be that
height, but because the proportion has attractive features. If, for their
example, their relative height had been 30:15, I would have bypassed this
datum (p. 61). Here the criteria are obvious enougha simple arithmetical proportion has no potential for interesting developmentbut in
another, parallel situation (the selection of a pitch series in Variation for
solo piano), Reynolds explains that Although a very considerable
amount of time goes into exploring alternative rows, the process by which
one possibility is discarded and another is more extensively searched
remains for me a very personal one, resistant to objectification (p. 46).
Mathematical relationships, it appears, speak back to him in the same
way that the visual images do. And so, not content with working with
multiple numerical sequences, he invokes computer-based algorithms that
redistribute the terms of the series in order to create further effects of
transformation, the outputs of which can equally well be translated (usually through approximations) into notational terms or directly realized in
the electroacoustic domain. All this means that a careless reading of Form
and Method could easily convey the impression that Reynolds falls into
that discredited tradition of post-war campus composers who explored
sophisticatedor sometimes not so sophisticatedmathematical models
that they then translated into sound at the last minute, so to speak, with
the consequence that there was little or no interaction between mathematical conception and musical realization.
In fact, read properly, the book is a polemic against such approaches
(Reynolds refers disparagingly to the rote architectonicisms resulting
from the numerical absolutism of the 50s, p. 20). He says it over and
over again: of itself, no rule, no system, no algorithm is likely to give rise

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362

Nicholas Cook

to humanly interesting music. Because this point is so central, it is worth

quoting Reynolds at some length:
I should emphasize, if it is not already evident, that I am not implying (because I do not believe) that the direct translation of physical
concepts or their mathematical representation into musical terms
holds much promise for most composers. My goal, my interest in
such things, is far more limited: a certain plausibility, an acceptable proposal to which useful aesthetically directed responses can
be made. Evidently, anyone can simply sit down and invent an eccentric pattern of relationships. Anyone is free to do so. What I have
found is this: if one can identify an external source of proportions, a
resource that is acceptable, it may carry with it valuable bonuses. (p.
27)

And at another point he goes on to spell out what these bonuses might be:
I believe that while plausible notions about form and its contents are
necessary, they are certainly not sufficient to confer inevitable merit.
It is the quality of and the reasonable coherence of the many small
decisions and adjustments the composer makes while working that
lend to the music its ability to engage us dimensionally. (p. 41)

In other words the mathematical, visual, or other givens are of value

not for what they are but for what they do. They present possibilities for
further action that the composer may accept or reject, for any compositional realization represents but a tiny subset of what might have been
done (as Reynolds says, The process only proposes, the composer
decides what will find its way into the score, p. 55). They define a terrain within which the composer responds to stimuli (elsewhere Reynolds
refers to mathematical processes as a spur as well as a guide, p. 72),
and it is often the contradictions or approximations that they introduce
their failure to map seamlessly onto the requirements of the moment
that prompt the myriad intuitive decisions of which the compositional
process ultimately consists, or as Reynolds puts it the freeing of local
invention for more intuitional vibrancy (p. 41; there are many specific
examples of this in the book). In this waythough Reynolds does not put
it like thiscomposition might be described as a highly structured and
sequential process of improvisation, for The point [of such givens] is that
one is able to think about different aspects of creation at different stages,
not in one, unmanageably congested, here and now (p. 28). That is one
answer to the obvious question why, if in the end it all boils down to intuition, it is necessary to go through such complex mathematical rigmaroles.
But Reynolds also offers another answer, which again places him in a
modernist tradition that might be traced back to Adorno:

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Book Review

363

If a fresh wholeness such as I mentioned in the first Essay as the

sine qua non of musical art is to be achieved in our time, it will not
come about through any natural or wholly intuitive process. The
welter of materials and contexts with which we must contend cannot
be absorbed and intuitively shaped by a composer except by
recourse to well-established conventionalities. To do something more
responsive to our own time requires a consciousness of scaffolding
and choice that must be personally forged. Disciplined ways are, of
course, essential to the projection of any intent, whatever its stylistic
cloak. (p. 83)

It is no wonder, then, that Reynolds describes the approach to composing he has outlined in his book as a flexible network of methods, strategies, habits that might qualify as an ethic of sorts (pp. 8283), and in the
penultimate sentence of the book he summarizes its message thus: one
may be variously disciplined without being formally theoretical or doctrinaire (p. 84).
As I have already suggested, if there is nowadays something of a standoff between theorists and composers, the reason may be a lack of consciousness on the theorists part of the extent to which, in composition,
theoretical constructs may derive significance not from what they are but
from what they do: not from being embodied in any literal sense in the
music, but from being part of the works history, from their role as guides
or spursor even perhaps sparring partnersin the process of composition. (Joseph Dubiel is a notable exception, in that he constantly emphasizes the contingency of theoretical models, their inseparability from the
compositions they are models of and vice versabut then he is a composer as well as a theorist.) Reynoldss book is uniquely illuminating as
regards the relationship between theoretical knowledge and the compositional process, but might lead one to think of the composition as the trace
of a process rather than an aesthetically significant entity in its own right.
Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing: perhaps the crisis of modern
music partly reflects our general tendency to hear it on the model of how
we hear Mozart rather thanto draw a comparison from the visual arts
how we see a Jackson Pollock. (Perhaps, in short, composition might be
thought of as to some extent a species of performance art.) All the same,
it would be reasonable to ask what, if any, role the musical listenerthe
punter in the concert hall, or at home with the CDplays in Reynoldss
approach: if a composer not only constructs his music from multiple
numerical series but then inflects, approximates, or deviates from them
according to who knows what intuitive criteria, what chance can the listener possibly have of understanding what is going on?
Reynolds has a good deal to say on this subject, although it is hard to
be sure quite what it adds up to, or how far it adds up at all. In the first

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364

Nicholas Cook

place, he is careful not to assume a necessary coincidence of the composers and the listeners concerns: he explains that the sectional structures he
talks about have significance as a means of organizing the composers
work without his requiring them to be heard. Sections in this sense help
describe not the experience of hearing the work but rather that of creating it (p. 10). That doesnt, however, mean that they have no audible
effect: Reynolds writes of Variation that A listener might well sense the
shadow of certain of the subsections laid out in the plan, but the ear is not
intended to hear many formal demarcations of a sectional sort. Rather,
one experiences an unforeseeable amalgam of fragments from coexistent
algorithmic reservoirs in kaleidoscopic reformulations (p. 44). He also
suggests that sometimes the most intimately absorbing effects are produced by organizational factors that may not be consciously registered by
the listener (p. 12)which seems to imply some kind of subliminal operation of cause and effect. It might be hard to turn such an idea into a plausible theory of musical cognition, but then, Reynolds is not a theorist, and
in practice the accommodation of music to listener is likely to have less to
do with structural models than with the multitude of local, intuitive decisions that give rise to the music we hear.
It is true that Reynolds makes occasional explicit references to perception and cognition: for instance, he invokes the duration of the perceptual present as a boundary between the local domain of materials and
method and the global domain of form (p. 13), and talks about the
idea of writing a composition that will enlarge the perceptual present
beyond the normal limit of around 10 s. But these are just a few references
among the many sources on which, like most composers, he draws in a
thoroughly eclectic manner. Besides, the modernist tradition within which
Reynolds works has never stood for easy listening, but rather for difficult listening, that is to say for an aesthetic experience that is challenging
in terms of what can be heard and how it can be heard. In the same way,
Form and Method is itself challenging: you have to work hard to get the
most out of it. But it is worth the effort, as the most perspicacious account
we have of the activity that was traditionally seen as lying at the heart of
musical culture, but that in todays commodified world perhaps lies dangerously close to the margin.
Nicholas Cook
Royal Holloway, University of London

Address correspondence to Nicholas Cook, Department of Music, Royal Holloway,

University of London, Egham, Surrey TW20 0EX, United Kingdom. (e-mail:
nicholas.cook@rhul.ac.uk)

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