"I frequently compose out the entire metric structure of a piece in modified cyclic form, where each cyclic revolution undergoes some form of 'variation' much as if measure lengths were concrete musical 'material.'"
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Ferneyhough is letting the mask slip: the groove isn’t a container for music, it is the music. In most listening cultures, meter functions like architecture - reliable, mostly invisible, there to hold the drama. His point is that he treats it as sculptable substance. “Measure lengths” aren’t just a grid you pour notes into; they’re “concrete musical material,” capable of being stretched, fractured, swapped, and permuted with the same seriousness we usually reserve for melody or harmony.
The phrase “modified cyclic form” carries a double sting. “Cyclic” suggests repetition, return, maybe even comfort - the promise that something will come back around. Then he undermines that promise: each revolution is altered, subject to “variation.” The subtext is almost adversarial toward habitual listening. If your body is waiting for the downbeat to confirm where you are, he’s already moved the floorplan.
Context matters: Ferneyhough sits at the core of so-called New Complexity, a post-serial, post-minimalist world where the score becomes a high-pressure site of information. His intent isn’t mere difficulty-for-difficulty’s sake; it’s an ethics of composition that refuses the easy bargain of pulse as narcotic. By composing the metric structure “out [in] entire” first, he signals a compositional hierarchy: time is precomposed, and the notes must negotiate with it, not vice versa.
The deeper wager is that altered cycles can produce a different kind of continuity: not the predictable loop, but a continuity of constantly renegotiated expectation. In Ferneyhough’s hands, meter becomes narrative - not the metronome’s tyranny, but time as argument.
The phrase “modified cyclic form” carries a double sting. “Cyclic” suggests repetition, return, maybe even comfort - the promise that something will come back around. Then he undermines that promise: each revolution is altered, subject to “variation.” The subtext is almost adversarial toward habitual listening. If your body is waiting for the downbeat to confirm where you are, he’s already moved the floorplan.
Context matters: Ferneyhough sits at the core of so-called New Complexity, a post-serial, post-minimalist world where the score becomes a high-pressure site of information. His intent isn’t mere difficulty-for-difficulty’s sake; it’s an ethics of composition that refuses the easy bargain of pulse as narcotic. By composing the metric structure “out [in] entire” first, he signals a compositional hierarchy: time is precomposed, and the notes must negotiate with it, not vice versa.
The deeper wager is that altered cycles can produce a different kind of continuity: not the predictable loop, but a continuity of constantly renegotiated expectation. In Ferneyhough’s hands, meter becomes narrative - not the metronome’s tyranny, but time as argument.
Quote Details
| Topic | Music |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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