Very recently I've taken to Arvo Part. I don't really know much about him, his ways or his oeuvre, but that's probably subject to change.
The composition in question that prompted this new interest is called Fratres. It exists in almost as many versions as I have names, and really I'd love to get hold of the dots for the 'Cello and Piano version for the usual Banjo-fication. Don't worry, I'm being totally serious. I can hear rifles being loaded and pitchforks being sharpened even at the very typing of that thought.
Fratres is steeped in droning and deep into the balance of wide, open spaces and grinding dissonance that is the Phrygian mode. The most recognisable part of the Phrygian mode itself is the flat 2nd, creating a crushing effect on both the ascending and descending scales. Personally, I favour the minor third going up, but coming down on the major third, meaning that there is a whole minor third before you reach the penultimate note of the scale. This creates a distance even before we are crushed by the final semitone to settle on the final note, and is also known as the Phrygian Dominant scale, or more commonly still, the Jewish scale (hah!).
The Phrygian mode appears more often then is to be expected in these iib-V7-I, equal temperament times. The Phyrgian cadence, with it's superb clashes. It sometimes appears as a lead in to a perfect cadence (kind of VI6sus aug4-V-I), as through centuries of conditioning mostly via Bach and his pesky chorales, we expect a perfect cadence at the end of a piece. FREE YOURSELF FROM THESE SHACKLES. A-hem. Of the Phrygian melodies that you're most likely to know, the christmas carol The First Noel springs to mind as the best example. Your shining light as a rule to discovering whether a melody lies in this mode is just the same as seeking out cadences; a step down of one semitone. When you find a true expression of the cadence, instead of VI6sus aug4-V as above, V becomes I, and you get the major tonic chord formed above it. It can truly be a grand effect and, of course, affect. Look to Asturias for Piano by Albeniz - yes, the guitar arrangement is very impressive, but the original for Piano is simply brilliant and contains a lyrical central section that showcases what I've tried to describe much more ably. Play it, listen to it, whatever, the faster and more passionate and impatient the better. It is a stereotypically Spanish piece that reminds us very much of Flamenco music, which is strongly linked to the whole Phrygian schtick. Eastern european folk music, Moorish chanting, and even the Cantors at the Synagogue are know for their phrygian turns. It's more compelling than the lydian mode, more passionate than the dorian, and more familiar than the ionain.
Another wonderful composition that uses this delightful mode is the stormy Piano Quintet in F minor by Brahms. The Scherzo, one of my defining pieces, is wild and unforgiving. It conjures up images of conflict, great strength and finally, a well-deserved victory, ending on unison C's directly from the crushed flat 2nd.
Anyway. Fratres. I first heard it at a dinner with the Chief and some of our good friends in Norwich, that fine City. We had just recovered from ingesting tiny samples of the Naga, or ghost chilli. Enquiring as to what it was, I was surprised to hear it was composed by Part. I have since sought it out on the Naxos Music Library, and found many many versions. Some recordings that suffer from poor tuning, and one for wind octet and percussion that suffers from simply being in equal temperament. The Clarinets are out from the Horns by what sounds like a syntonic comma, ie just enough to make a difference. I bloody hate how the octaves are just out. Anyway.
There is something deeply understated, even through all the dissonance, where the true power of the mode lies in Fratres. The intimately mysterious beginning of the Strings and Percussion version, has touches of eastern mysticism about it - the 5ths droning away at the bottom punctuated by a xylophonic touch. The strings speak to us, reminding us through the clashing suspensions that violence is only a hair's breadth away. As they fall silent, the xylophones return, backed by an enormous bass drum, adding even more depth to the gradually increasing dynamic of the drone. We can attach so many images to these textures answering each other with this distinct tonal environment, where could we even begin. You should seek it out and listen for yourself. A little patience will be necessary, if you are unfamiliar with the tonal world, but it's worth it. For me, there is a deep satisfaction in the settling of the Phyrigian cadence, the expectation in the suspension, the delaying of gratification in the grinding flat 2nd. There is a touch of overcoming a difficult struggle about all this.
And if you want even more heart-breaking space in your life, then you could do far worse than Spiegel im Spiegel. It hangs in space, with it's crystalline Piano arpeggios, sailing through eternity with the held string notes - Viola being my personal favourite.
But it's the space that makes both of these pieces. Silences of articulation are not just desperately vital in keyboard playing, but also in composition, especially in this minimalist soundworld. As super smooth as these phrases are, the gradual attack of the strings only highlights whenever they fall silent and are punctuated by wooden percussion. In fact, perhaps it is this space that makes Part's Fratres just as powerful as Brahms's Opus 34, the Piano Quintet in F minor. They both have a minor cloud that is parted by a ray of phrygian sunshine, but Brahms uses many more textures in doing so.
I will be taking the time to listen to more Part, hopefully after I've got some sleep. Fratres proves that the dark side of the Phrygian mode can be expressed with emptiness as well as busy textures. It's not better, it's just saying something different, so it uses another voice, softly spoken but not straining to be heard over a maddening crowd, its crowning glory in quiet but lasting victory.
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