Critical Perspectives On Michael Finnissy

Critical Perspectives on Michael Finnissy
The composer and pianist Michael Finnissy (b. 1946) is an unmistakeable

presence in the British and international new music scene, both for his
immeasurable generosity as prolific composer for many different types of
musicians, major advocate for the works of others, and performer and con-
ductor who has also been a driving force behind ensembles; he was also
President of the International Society for Contemporary Music from 1990 to
1996. His vast and enormously varied output confounds those who seek easy
categorisations: once associated strongly with the ‘new complexity’, Finnissy
is equally known as a composer regularly engaged with many different folk
musics, for working with amateur and community musicians, for a long-term
engagement with sacred music, or as an advocate of Anglo-American ‘experi-
mental’ music. Twenty years ago, a large-scale volume entitled Uncommon
Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy gave the first major overview of the
output of any ‘complex’ composer. This new volume brings a greater plu-
rality of perspectives and critical sensibility to bear upon an output which
is almost twice as large as it was when the earlier book was published. A
range of leading contributors – musicologists, composers, performers and
others – each grapple with particular questions relating to Finnissy’s music,
often in ways which raise questions relating more widely to new music, and
provide theoretical foundations for further study both of Finnissy and other
composers.
Ian Pace (b. 1968) is internationally renowned as the leading pianistic

interpreter of Finnissy’s work, as well as a major scholar who has writ-
ten extensively on compositional, aesthetic and performative aspects of
Finnissy’s music, including major sketch study. He gave a six-concert series
of Finnissy’s complete piano music in 1996 for the composer’s fiftieth birth-
day, and followed this twenty years later with an eleven-concert series of the
now vastly expanded output, including a complete performance of Finnissy’s
epic five-and-a-half-hour cycle The History of Photography in Sound, which
he premiered in London in 2001, recorded for Divine Art, and about which
he published a monograph. More widely, he is well-known as a staunch
advocate of new music who has given over 300 world premieres, played in
over 25 countries, and recorded over 30 CDs. He is also a musicologist, and
is Senior Lecturer and Head of Performance at City, University of London,
having previously worked at Southampton University and Dartington
College of Arts. His PhD was on new music and its infrastructure in West
Germany from the Weimar Republic to the early Allied Occupation. Other
areas of expertise include nineteenth-century performance practice, contem-
porary performance and practice-as-research, critical musicology, avant-
garde aesthetics, and music under fascism and communism.
Nigel McBride (b. 1990) is a composer and researcher. He was educated

at The Queen’s University, Belfast, and St Anne’s and Magdalen Colleges,
Oxford. His research primarily focuses on philosophical approaches to com-
positional and musicological issues. While at Oxford, he taught composition
and musicology extensively, as well as developed and convened the seminar
series The Composers’ Forum at Magdalen College. As a composer, he has
collaborated with many leading performers of new music, including Ian Pace,
Christopher Redgate, Gleb Kanasevich, Jack Adler-Mckean, The Cavaleri
String Quartet, Jonathan Powell, and others. His music has been performed
in Germany, across the UK, the USA, and elsewhere.
Critical Perspectives
on Michael Finnissy
Bright Futures, Dark Pasts
Edited by Ian Pace and Nigel McBride

ROUTLEDGE
Routledge
Taylor & Francis Group
LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published 2019
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2019 selection and editorial matter, Ian Pace and Nigel McBride;
individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Ian Pace and Nigel McBride to be identified as the authors
of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters,
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced
or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means,
now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording,
or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record has been requested for this book
ISBN: 978-1-138-49197-7 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-351-03154-7 (ebk)
Typeset in Times New Roman

by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire
Contents
Acknowledgements viii
List of figures x
List of music examples xi
Notes on contributors xv
Introduction 1
IAN PACE AND NIGEL MCBRIDE
SECTION A
Finnissy’s aesthetics and styles 25
1 Michael Finnissy: modernism with an English accent 27

CHRISTOPHER FOX
2 Post-experimental survivor: Finnissy the experimentalist 39

PHILIP THOMAS
3 Negotiating borrowing, genre and mediation in the piano

music of Finnissy: strategies and aesthetics 57
IAN PACE
4 Ontological implications in the work of Finnissy 104

NIGEL MCBRIDE
SECTION B
Finnissy’s identities 127
5 Marginality and Finnissian performance in the 1980s 129

RODDY HAWKINS
vi Contents
6 ‘My “personal themes”?!’ Finnissy’s Seventeen Homosexual
Poets and the material world 167
GREGORY WOODS
7 Finnissy’s voices 180

JAMES WEEKS
8 ‘Listening to the instrument(s)’: a performer’s response to

Finnissy’s music for String Quartet and the Chi Mei
Ricercari for cello and piano 198
NEIL HEYDE
SECTION C
Compositional considerations 219
9 Notational and non-notational paradigms in Finnissy’s

music 221
NIGEL MCBRIDE
10 Finnissy and pantonality: surface and inner necessity 241

ARNOLD WHITTALL
11 The medium is now the material: The ‘folklore’ of

Chris Newman and Michael Finnissy 261
LAUREN REDHEAD
12 Finnissy’s hand 280

JAMES WEEKS
SECTION D
Contexts and case studies 299
13 Questioning the foreign and familiar: interpreting Finnissy’s

use of traditional and non-Western musical sources 301
MAARTEN BEIRENS
14 Finnissy’s three-point plans: Political Agendas and musical

enunciations 316
MAX ERWIN
15 Finnissy’s alongside 328

RICHARD BARRETT
Contents vii
16 From Jean-Luc Godard to Dennis Potter: Finnissy’s
cinematic and televisual inspirations 344
IAN PACE
Index 376
A special website has been created in conjunction with this book. This
includes a comprehensive bibliography of writings on Finnissy, a discog-
raphy, a worklist, the full programmes from Ian Pace’s 2016–17 series of
Finnissy’s complete piano music, and an interview between Finnissy and
James Weeks. The URL for this is https://michaelfinnissy.wordpress.com/.
Acknowledgements
The process from initial conception of this book in 2016, through a more
concrete form following the conference Bright Futures, Dark Pasts: Michael
Finnissy at 70 in 2017, to the writing, editing and proofing of all the contents
for publication in 2019, has been remarkably smooth, and for that there are
various people who the editors wish to thank. First of all we wish to thank
Annie Vaughan, Laura Sandford, Joanna Harden Heidi Bishop at Routledge
for their thorough support and help at all stages of the project, and also Rob
Wilkinson for his editing work.
To the contributors themselves, we are grateful for their patient, thought-
ful and constructive responses as we made sometimes quite exacting editorial
requests, and also for the speed at which they were able to incorporate these.
For the initial conference at City, University of London, we wish to thank the
university and Department of Music, and then Head of Department Miguel
Mera, for their support in making it possible and dealing with many practical-
ities. At the conference itself, we would like to thank Aaron Einbond, Lauren
Redhead, Roddy Hawkins and Christopher Fox and Alexander Lingas for
chairing sessions, Ben Smith, Christopher Redgate, Nancy Ruffer, Bernice
Chitiul, Alexander Benham, the City University Experimental Ensemble and
especially Michael Finnissy himself for performances.
Finnissy’s catalogue is vast, and much of the work contained herein would
not be possible without the amassing of a huge collection of scores on the
parts of the editors, with the help above all of Finnissy himself, but also Dr
Christoph Taggatz at Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin, George Jackson of Oxford
University Press, Katie Wood at United Music Publishers, and Andrea
Natale at Universal Edition. We would also like to thank all of these people
for granting permission to use a considerable range of musical examples.
To the reviewers of this volume, we express considerable thanks for
extremely helpful and insightful comments which have helped enhance the
quality of the volume.
And both editors would like more than anyone else to thank their respec-
tive partners: Lindsay Edkins, unfailingly supportive towards all of the activ-
ities of Ian Pace. She is one of the few people to have listened to multiple
complete live performances of The History of Photography in Sound, and
Acknowledgements ix
memorably asked Michael Finnissy if she could ‘have Ian back now’ follow-
ing his 2016–17 concert series; and Jemma McBride, whose encouragement
and steadfastness – not to mention her good humour – has greatly helped
Nigel McBride in working on the present volume.
List of figures
1.1 Magic Square. 29

2.1 Finnissy, text instructions from Transformations of the
Vampire (1968–71). © Universal Edition 1979. 44
2.2 Christian Wolff, ‘Stones’, from Prose Collection (1968–97).
© Christian Wolff 1969. 44
3.1 J. Peter Burkholder’s categories for Ives’s borrowing. 67
3.2 Proposed categories for Finnissy’s borrowing. 68
14.1 Finnissy, the three Political Agendas. 318
16.1 Images from Stan Brakhage, Song 14 (1965). 354
List of musical examples
2.1 Finnissy, Beat Generation Ballads (2013), from ‘naked

original skin beneath our dreams 80 robes of thought’.
© Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2015. 41
2.2 Finnissy, manuscript of instructions for Transformations of
the Vampire (1968–71). © Universal Edition 1979. 43
2.3 Finnissy, Piano Concerto No. 5 (1980), from piano part.
© Michael Finnissy. 47
2.4 Finnissy, from Make-Up (1964, rev. 1970). © Michael
Finnissy. 49
3.1 Finnissy, Kapitalistische Realisme, from The History of
Photography in Sound, as analysed by Richard Beaudoin.
© Oxford University Press 2004. 59
3.2 Finnissy, from ‘Embraceable you’. © Oxford University
Press 1990. 76
3.3 Finnissy, from ‘Embraceable you’. © Oxford University
Press 1990. 78
3.4 (a) Rough transcription of section of Judy Garland
performance of ‘But not for me’ in Girl Crazy (1943); (b)
Finnissy, ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for me.’
3.5 (a) Franz Liszt, La lugubre gondola No. 1; (b) Sergey
Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, last movement. 82
3.6 Finnissy, ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for me’.
3.7 Finnissy, Septet with Chorus: ‘Verdi come il buon
vegliardo…’, Ernani (Part 1), from Verdi Transcriptions,
Book 1, No. 5. © United Music Publishers 1995. 85
3.8 (a) Verdi, two passages from ‘O cieli azzuri…’, from Aida,
Act 3; (b) Finnissy, Romanza: ‘O cieli azzuri…’, Aida (Act
3), from Verdi Transcriptions, Book 4, No. 3. © United
Music Publishers 1995. 86
3.9 (a) Finnissy’s transformations of Johann Strauss II,
Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald; (b) Finnissy, ‘Geschichten
xii List of musical examples
aus dem Wienerwald’, from Strauss-Walzer (1967, rev.
1989). © Oxford University Press 1991. 88
3.10 (a) Aleksander Skryabin, Prelude in G# minor, op. 22,
no. 1; (b) Finnissy, from SKRYABIN in itself (2007–8).
© Tre Media Verlag 2008. 91
4.1 Finnissy, Autumnall (1968–71), first three systems.
4.2 Antonio Vivaldi, Recorder Concerto in C, RV 444. 119
7.1 Finnissy, Tom Fool’s Wooing (1975–8, rev. c. 2015),
opening. © Universal Edition 1979. 182
7.2 Finnissy, Tom Fool’s Wooing, from first section.
© Universal Edition 1979. 186
7.3 From Finnissy, Gesualdo: Libro Sesto (2012–13), No. III.
7.4 From Finnissy, Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, No. II. © Verlag
Neue Musik, Berlin 2016. 194
8.1 Finnissy, Chi Mei Ricercari (2013), i, bar 1. Penultimate
version, private email to NH. © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin
2016. 200
8.2 (a) Finnissy, Chi Mei Ricercari, i, bars 26–31 and 38–44.
© Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2016. (b) Finnissy, Chi Mei
Ricercari, i, bars 38–44. © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2016. 201
8.3 Finnissy, Sehnsucht (1997), bars 1–13. © Verlag Neue
Musik, Berlin 2016. 210
8.4 Finnissy, Civilisation (2004, rev. 2012–13), vi, bars 1–22.
9.1 A4 indication. 222
9.2 Finnissy, opening of De toutes flours (1990). © Oxford
University Press 1998. 223
9.3 Finnissy, from Déjà fait (2006). © Michael Finnissy. 224
9.4 Illustration of Finnissy’s example of notational distinctions
in ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’. 225
9.5 Finnissy, All the trees they are so high for solo violin (1977),
a passage in the original form, then with octupled note
values. © Michael Finnissy. 225
9.6 Finnissy, opening of North American Spirituals (1997–8),
from The History of Photography in Sound. © Oxford
9.7 Finnissy, from Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978, rev. 1996).
9.8 Finnissy, from Le réveil de l’intraitable realité (1999–2000),
from The History of Photography in Sound. © Oxford
9.9 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise (1998), from The History
of Photography in Sound. © Oxford University Press 2004. 230
List of musical examples xiii
9.10 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise, with lines to indicate
placing of attacks. © Oxford University Press 2004. 231
9.11 Finnissy, from Casual Nudity (2000–1). © Michael Finnissy. 232
9.12 Finnissy, opening of Cibavit eos (1990). © Oxford
9.13 Finnissy, graphic from Après-midi Dada (2006). © Michael
Finnissy. 234
9.14 Finnissy, graphic from Post-Christian Survival Kit (2003).
© Oxford University Press. 235
9.15 Finnissy, graphic from Babylon (1971). © Universal Edition
1979. 236
9.16 Finnissy, diagram from Babylon (revised 2001 version).
10.1 Howard Skempton, Even Tenor: (a) source chords; (b) pitch
gamut; (c) pitch Mode; (d) first and last pitch groups.
10.2 Finnissy, This Church, setting of four verses of George
Herbert’s ‘Teach me, my God and King’. © Michael
Finnissy. 248
10.3 (a) Brahms, String Quartet in C minor, op. 51, no. 1, as
cited in Arnold Schoenberg, ‘Brahms the Progressive’;
(b) Finnissy, from Mit Arnold Schoenberg (2002).
© Tre Media Verlag 2004. 250
10.4 Finnissy, Unknown Ground (1989–90), Song I. © Oxford
10.5 Finnissy, Unknown Ground (1989–90), Song II. © Oxford
10.6 (a) Johannes Brahms, Deutsche Volkslieder, WoO 33,
No. 30, ‘All mein Gedanken’; (b) Finnissy, Brahms-Lieder,
No. 1. © Verlag Neue Musik 2015. 255
11.1 Chris Newman, The Reason Why I am Unable to Live as a
Composer in my Own Country is a Political One (1983–4),
page 2, systems 5–6. © Chris Newman. 262
11.2 Finnissy, excerpt from ‘Le demon d’analogie’ from
The History of Photography in Sound (1995–2001), p. 6.
11.3 Finnissy, Pimmel (1988–9), systems 7–8, p. 2. © Oxford
11.4 Chris Newman, The Reason Why I am Unable to Live as a
Composer in my Own Country is a Political One (1983–4),
page 1, systems 1–4. © Chris Newman. 266
11.5 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 1, systems 1–2.
© Chris Newman. 268
11.6 Finnissy, from Kapitalistisch Realisme, p. 207. © Oxford
xiv List of musical examples
11.7 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise. © Oxford University
Press 2004. 272
11.8 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 4, movement II,
system 9. © Chris Newman. 273
11.9 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 5, movement III,
system 3. © Chris Newman. 273
11.10 Chris Newman, An Everything and Us (1990), MusikTexte,
issue 38 (February 1991), pp. 13–22; systems 10–12, page
15. © Musiktexte 1991. 274
12.1 Finnissy, Freightrain Bruise (1972, rev. 1980), opening.
12.2 Finnissy, Reels (1980–1), No. 1. © United Music Publishers
1984. 284
12.3 Finnissy, Autumnall (1968–71), last page. © Oxford
12.4 Finnissy, My love is like a red rose (1990). © Oxford
12.5 Finnissy, sketch material for Were we born yesterday?
(2017). 288
13.1 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise (1998). © Oxford
14.1 Finnissy, opening of ‘You know what kind of sense Mrs
Thatcher made’, from First Political Agenda (1999–2006).
© Tre Media Verlag. 319
14.2 Finnissy, opening of ‘My country has betrayed me’, from
Third Political Agenda (2016). © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin
2018. 320
15.1 Finnissy, alongside (1979), opening. © Universal Edition
1979. 334
15.2 Finnissy, alongside, beginning of section 3. © Universal
Edition 1979. 337
15.3 Finnissy, alongside, episode from section 5. © Universal
Edition 1979. 340
16.1 Claude Debussy, Préludes, Book 2 (1911–13), no. 7, ‘… La
terrasse des audiences du clair de lune’. 347
16.2 Finnissy, from Snowdrift (1974). © Edition Modern 1975. 348
16.3 Finnissy, from Song 1 (1966). © Michael Finnissy. 355
16.4 Finnissy, from Song 9 (1968). © Michael Finnissy. 358
Notes on contributors
Dr Richard Barrett is internationally active as both a composer and an

improvising performer, and has collaborated with many leading performers
in both fields, while developing works and ideas which increasingly leave
behind the distinctions between them. His long-term collaborations include
the electronic duo FURT which he formed with Paul Obermayer in 1986
(and its more recent octet version fORCH), the ELISION contemporary
music group, for which he has composed and performed since 1990, and
regular appearances with the Evan Parker Electro-Acoustic Ensemble since
2003. Recent projects include CONSTRUCTION, a two-hour work for
twenty-three performers and three-dimensional sound system, premiered
by ELISION in 2011, and the hour-long life-form for cello and electronics,
premiered by Arne Deforce in 2012. He studied composition principally
with Peter Wiegold, was a professor of composition at Brunel University in
London between 2006 and 2009, and has twice been a member of the staff of
the Institute of Sonology, between 1996 and 2001 and again from 2009 to the
present. Richard Barrett’s work as composer and performer is documented
on over 25 CDs, including six discs devoted to his compositions and seven
by FURT.
Dr Maarten Beirens is a lecturer in musicology at the University of Amsterdam.

He studied musicology at the Catholic University of Leuven (KU Leuven),
Belgium, where he also received his PhD with a thesis on European minimal
music. He held a postdoctoral fellowship of the FWO Flanders at the KU
Leuven, conducting research on the music of Steve Reich. His publications
include articles and chapters on European minimalism, the music of Michael
Finnissy, Karel Goeyvaerts, Louis Andriessen, Michael Nyman, Steve Reich,
and analytical strategies for minimal music.
Max Erwin is a musicologist and composer originally from Franklin,

Tennessee. His research is primarily focused on the post-war European
avant-garde, especially so-called ‘total serialism’. He has published articles
in Tempo and Music & Literature among others, and his modern critical edi-
tion of Karel Goeyvaerts’ Diaphonie for large orchestra is forthcoming from
xvi Notes on contributors
Donemus. His concert music has been performed in North America, Europe
and Australasia.
Max Erwin graduated cum laude from the University of Southern
California on a Presidential scholarship in 2013. He is currently pursuing a
PhD musicology at the University of Leeds under Martin Iddon funded by a
Leeds Anniversary Research Scholarship.
Dr Roddy Hawkins is a musicologist and Lecturer in Music at the University

of Manchester. Working primarily in contemporary music studies, his cur-
rent research is focused around the production and consumption of avant-
garde music in Britain during the 1970s and 1980s. With a focus on the
emergence of the grouping and name New Complexity, his research explores
material culture, creative labour, aesthetic discourse, performance practice
and critical reception; central to this research is the contested, gendered and
constructed nature of marginality as it relates to the categories of sound and
listening.
Currently working on three further articles on New Complexity (a recep-
tion study, an assessment of ensemble performance, and a study of notation
and copyists), Hawkins is also a contributor to a forthcoming interdiscipli-
nary book on aesthetics and complexity, as well as to a special issue of Senses
and Society generated from the same project. Hawkins has also written on
popular music, and a chapter on ‘driving anthems’ for the book Popular
Music and Automobile Cultures is currently in press.
Prof. Christopher Fox is a composer, teacher and writer on new music and
since 2006 has been professor of music at Brunel University London. His
work has been performed and broadcast worldwide and has featured in many
of the leading new music festivals, from the Amsterdam PROMS to the BBC
Promenade Concerts and from St Petersburg to Sidney. He has established
particularly close relationships with a number of ensembles with whom he
regularly works, including Apartment House, EXAUDI and The Clerks in
the UK, the Ives Ensemble in the Netherlands, and KNM Berlin in Germany.
Fox’s music is widely available on CD, with six portrait CDs on the Metier
label, a portrait CD on the NMC label, and other recordings on Artifact,
BVHaast, FMR, HatHut, Metier and NMC.
Fox has been hailed by The Wire as ‘a tantalising figure in British Music’
and the Sunday Times has described his music as ‘impressive, thoughtful,
entertaining and extremely varied’. His work regularly extends beyond
the conventional boundaries of the concert hall and includes a number of
extended ensemble works which defy categorisation.
Prof. Neil Heyde is the cellist of the Kreutzer Quartet and Head of
Postgraduate Programmes at Royal Academy of Music. His research focuses
on the interfaces between performance, composition and analysis. As a solo-
ist and chamber musician he has appeared throughout Europe, broadcasting
Notes on contributors xvii
for the BBC, WDR, ORF, Radio France, Netherlands Radio and many
other networks.
New music is central to his work but he is also dedicated to performing
and recording neglected areas of the repertoire. Important projects have
been Ferneyhough’s Time and Motion Study II for solo cello and electronics
(1973–6) and first recordings of the complete quartets of Michael Finnissy,
Roberto Gerhard, David Matthews (ongoing) and Anton Reicha (ongoing).
He has edited a series of critical editions for Faber Music. He has supervised
numerous doctoral students to completion and currently has students work-
ing on Bartók, Piatti, Stokowski, and on developing innovative combinations
of theatre and musical performance.
Dr Nigel McBride is a composer and research. He was educated at The

Queen’s University, Belfast, and St Anne’s and Magdalen Colleges, Oxford.
His research primarily focuses on philosophical approaches to compositional
and musicological issues. While at Oxford, he taught composition and musi-
cology extensively, as well as developed and convened the seminar series
The Composers’ Forum at Magdalen College. As a composer, he has col-
laborated with many leading performers of new music, including Ian Pace,
Christopher Redgate, Gleb Kanasevich, Jack Adler-Mckean, The Cavaleri
String Quartet, Jonathan Powell, and others. His music has been performed
in Germany, across the UK, the USA, and elsewhere.
Dr Ian Pace is a pianist of long-established reputation, specialising in the

farthest reaches of musical modernism and transcendental virtuosity, as well
as a writer and musicologist focusing on issues of performance, music and
society and the avant-garde. He studied at Chetham’s School of Music, The
Queen’s College, Oxford and, as a Fulbright Scholar, at the Juilliard School
in New York. He is Head of Performance and Senior Lecturer in Music at
City University, London, having previously held positions at the University
of Southampton and Dartington College of Arts. He has co-edited and was
a major contributor the volume Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael
Finnissy, which was published by Ashgate in 1998, and authored the mono-
graph Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study of
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation, published by Divine Art in 2013.
He has given world premieres of over 250 piano works, including works by
Patrícia de Almeida, Julian Anderson, Richard Barrett, Konrad Boehmer,
Luc Brewaeys, Aaron Cassidy, James Clarke, James Dillon, Pascal Dusapin,
Richard Emsley, James Erber, Brian Ferneyhough, Michael Finnissy (whose
complete piano works he performed in a landmark six-concert series in
1996, gave an eleven-concert series of his complete works in 2016–17, and
also premiered in 2001, and later recorded, The History of Photography in
Sound), Christopher Fox, Wieland Hoban, Volker Heyn, Evan Johnson,
Maxim Kolomiiets, Nigel McBride, André Laporte, Hilda Paredes, Alwynne
Pritchard, Horatiu Radulescu, Lauren Redhead, Frederic Rzewski, Thoma
xviii Notes on contributors
Simaku, Howard Skempton, Gerhard Stäbler, Andrew Toovey, Serge
Verstockt, Hermann Vogt, Alistair Zaldua and Walter Zimmermann.
He has also published many articles in Music and Letters, Contemporary
Music Review, TEMPO, The Musical Times, The Liszt Society Journal,
International Piano, Musiktexte, Musik & Ästhetik, The Open Space
Magazine, as well as contributing chapters to The Cambridge History of
Musical Performance, edited by Colin Lawson and Robin Stowell (Cambridge
University Press, 2012), Collected Writings of the Orpheus Institute: Unfolding
Time: Studies in Temporality in Twentieth-Century Music, edited by Darla
Crispin (Leuven University Press, 2009), The Modernist Legacy, edited by
Björn Heile (Ashgate, 2009), and Beckett’s Proust/Deleuze’s Proust, edited by
Mary Bryden and Margaret Topping (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).
Dr Lauren Redhead is a composer of experimental music, a performer of

music for organ and electronics, and musicologist who focuses on the aesthet-
ics as socio-semiotics of music.
Lauren’s music has been performed by international artists such as Ian
Pace, the Nieuw Ensemble, Trio Atem, Philip Thomas, BL!NDMAN
ensemble and rarescale, and she has received commissions from Yorkshire
Forward, the Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival, Making Music
and the PRSF for Music, Octopus Collective with the Arts Council of
England and most recently from TRANSIT festival. Her opera, green angel,
was premiered in January 2011 with the support of the Arts Council of
England. Her work has been performed at Huddersfield Contemporary
Music Festival, Gaudeamus Muziekweek, the London Ear Festival,
London Contemporary Music Festival, Firenze Suona Contemporanea,
Composer’s Marathon V (Vienna), Full of Noises Festival, the New York
City Electroacoustic Music Festival, and many locations throughout the
UK and Europe. She is Senior Lecturer in Music at Goldsmiths College,
University of London, having previously taught at Canterbury Christ
Church University.
Prof. Philip Thomas is Professor in Performance, having joined the University

of Huddersfield in 2005. He specialises in performing and writing about new
and experimental music, including both notated and improvised music. He
places much emphasis on each concert being a unique event, designing imagi-
native programmes that provoke and suggest connections.
He is particularly drawn to the experimental music of John Cage, Morton
Feldman and Christian Wolff, and composers who broadly work within a
post-Cageian aesthetic. In recent years he has been particularly associated
with the music of Christian Wolff, performing and recording the solo piano
music, and co-editing a book about his music. He has commissioned new
works from a number of British composers whose ideas, language and aes-
thetic have been informed in some ways by the aforementioned American
composers, such as Stephen Chase, Laurence Crane, Richard Emsley, Michael
Notes on contributors xix
Finnissy, Christopher Fox, Bryn Harrison, John Lely, Tim Parkinson,
Michael Parsons, James Saunders, Howard Skempton and Markus Trunk.
Solo recordings include releases on ‘another timbre’, ‘HatHut’, ‘Huddersfield
Contemporary Records’, ‘Bruce’s Fingers’, ‘Edition Wandelweiser’ and ‘sub
rosa’, featuring music by Laurence Crane, Michael Finnissy, Christopher
Fox, Jürg Frey, Richard Glover, Bryn Harrison, Tim Parkinson, Michael
Pisaro, James Saunders and Christian Wolff.
Dr James Weeks read Music at Cambridge before completing a PhD in

Composition at Southampton University, studying with Michael Finnissy.
His music has been commissioned and performed by many leading perform-
ers including London Sinfonietta, Apartment House, Quatuor Bozzini,
Alison Balsom, EXAUDI, Morgan/Dullea, Wandelweiser, New London
Chamber Choir, Uroboros Ensemble, Endymion, Anton Lukoszevieze and
Christopher Redgate. He has been performed at UK and European festi-
vals and venues including City of London, Spitalfields and Huddersfield
Contemporary Music Festivals, Gaudeamus (Amsterdam), Quincena Musical
(San Sebastian), de Bijloke (Ghent), Wandelweiser (Düsseldorf, Munich),
Weimarer Frühjahrstage and Mafra (Portugal). His music is heard regularly
on BBC Radio 3’s Hear and Now, and in 2012 he signed to University of
York Music Press.
As a conductor, he is best known for his work with the contemporary
specialists EXAUDI, the vocal ensemble he founded with the soprano Juliet
Fraser in 2002. With them he maintains a busy international touring sched-
ule, collaborating regularly with the world’s leading composers, new music
soloists and ensembles, and has released six acclaimed CDs, of Finnissy, Fox,
Lutyens and Skempton on Mode, NMC and Metier.
Prof. Arnold Whittall is Emeritus Professor at King’s College London, and

taught previously in Cambridge, Nottingham and Cardiff. He has also served
as a visiting professor at Yale University, and lectured extensively in Europe
and America. He was instrumental in expanding and promoting studies in
music theory and analysis at King’s, as well as undergraduate and postgradu-
ate topics concerning music since 1900. In 1982 he became the first Professor
of Music Theory and Analysis at a British university, and collaborated with
Jonathan Dunsby on Music Analysis in Theory and Practice (Faber Music,
1988). His list of publications began in the 1960s with two articles on Benjamin
Britten, and his first book was a BBC Music Guide, Schoenberg Chamber
Music, followed by Music since the First World War, a text that eventu-
ally transformed itself into Musical Composition in the Twentieth Century
(Oxford University Press, 1999). He has also written extensively on Wagner
and other aspects of nineteenth-century music. In 2000–1 Arnold Whittall
gave a special series of six London University lectures to mark the turn of the
millennium which became Exploring Twentieth-Century Music: Tradition and
Innovation (Cambridge University Press, 2003). He has recently written the
xx Notes on contributors
Introduction to Serialism (Cambridge, 2008), and The Wagner Style: Close
Readings and Critical Perspectives (Plumbago Books, 2015).
Prof. Gregory Woods is Emeritus Professor of Gay and Lesbian Studies

at Nottingham Trent University. Since his earliest scholarly publication, a
group edition of Milton’s ‘Lycidas’ for Cambridge University Press (1975),
he has published many essays and reviews in Britain, Italy, Norway, Finland,
Australia and the United States. As well as with literature, these have dealt
with queer politics, film and cultural studies. His main academic book is the
240,000-word A History of Gay Literature: The Male Tradition, commis-
sioned by Yale University Press and published by them in 1998. It was the
first such history to be published.
From 2004 to 2013, he chaired the Gender Studies expert panel on the
European Science Foundation’s project to develop a European Reference
Index for the Humanities (ERIH). He was a member of the peer review
colleges of the European Science Foundation and the Arts and Humanities
Research Council, assessing funding applications in gay and lesbian stud-
ies; and was a strategic reviewer for the latter, the AHRC. He has been a
Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, and is a founding Fellow of the English
Association.
Introduction
Ian Pace and Nigel McBride
In March 1977, Oliver Knussen noted that ‘Michael Finnissy is a young

composer – 30 last year – whose reputation has been steadily growing since
his first professional performance more than a decade ago (Le dormeur du val
(1963–8) at a Macnaghten concert in November 1965).1 He has been repeat-
edly performed at contemporary music festivals on the Continent where he
has scored considerable success, but his work (despite an ‘underground’
reputation) remains virtually unplayed in his own country.’2 As of 2018,
now an Emeritus Professor of Composition at Southampton University,
Finnissy’s seventieth birthday has just been celebrated, featuring global per-
formances of his works, a year-long, eleven-concert festival of his complete
piano works performed by Ian Pace between Oxford, London, and other
parts of the UK, a weekend celebration of his works at the Guildhall School
of Music and Drama, and a significant two-day conference on Finnissy’s
work at City, University of London, which was the impetus for the present
volume. Furthermore, Finnissy’s oeuvre now stands at around 500 works
(not including various discarded pieces, juvenilia, film and theatre scores),
some relatively large sub-sections of which – such as aleatoric and indeter-
minate composition, sacred music, work for amateurs, or organ composition
– might have seemed peripheral twenty, let alone forty years ago. In contrast
with Knussen’s account of Finnissy as a thirty-year-old, Finnissy is now a
globally significant composer within the New Music world, with over thirty
CDs of his work, many international performances, and a wider influence
through numerous students and students of students. Many works previ-
ously considered practically unplayable now have a whole series of inter-
national interpreters. Yet, a cursory search on RILM Abstracts of Music
Literature for entries related to ‘Finnissy’ returns 82 hits. A comparable
search for Finnissy’s contemporary ‘[Brian] Ferneyhough’ yields 307, and a
search for ‘[Harrison] Birtwistle’ proffers 305. The contributions of Finnissy
and Ferneyhough to international trends in New Music on a technical,
aesthetic, performative, and musical level are monumental, but neither has
quite achieved the more ‘mainstream’ status we can attribute to Sir Harrison
Birtwistle. Perhaps something of Knussen’s account of Finnissy holds true
forty years later in terms of scholarly attention.
2 Introduction
Despite the comparative lack of scholarship on Finnissy, much of it is of
high academic value. The multifarious nature of Finnissy’s diverse and often
extreme output has resulted in an equally diverse range of approaches to the
study of his music. To date there have been two full volumes published on
Finnissy’s work. The first was the influential Uncommon Ground: The Music
of Michael Finnissy published in 1997, featuring an extensive and highly
illuminating interview with Finnissy, and individual essays from Julian
Anderson, Christopher Fox, Ian Pace and Roger Redgate.3 Sixteen years
later, in conjunction with a CD release, Pace published his single-author
monograph Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A
Study of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation, an extremely detailed exe-
gesis of Finnissy’s five-and-a-half-hour magnum opus for piano (hereafter
simply the History).4
Most early publications on Finnissy’s work were either informative if rela-
tively general articles on his composition as a whole or descriptive pieces,
sometimes extended reviews, on individual works.5 One major exception was
a longer article on Finnissy’s piano music by Brian Ferneyhough, written in
1978 to accompany a projected Australian recording of English Country-Tunes
(1977, rev. 1982–5), but not published until 1995.6 In what is still a remarkable
piece of writing today, written at a time when Finnissy’s output for piano
was a fraction of the size it is today, Ferneyhough gave an extremely detailed
account of Finnissy’s gestural language, multi-dimensional relationships
between his musical materials, and approach to rhythm and metre, focusing
upon Song 9 (1968), all.fall.down (1977) and to a lesser extent English Country-
Tunes. Ferneyhough also provided some contextualisation for Finnissy’s work
in the form of influential works and traditions, including Charles Ives’ Concord
Sonata, Pierre Boulez’s Structures, Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Klavierstück X,
and the approach to transforming found musical materials seen in the work of
Franco Donatoni, not to mention earlier precedents such as the piano music
of Charles Valentin Alkan and Franz Liszt. Many of these themes were devel-
oped by later commentators and scholars.
The first serious musicological attention given to Finnissy came in the
form of Richard Toop’s influential 1988 article, ‘Four Facets of the “New
Complexity”’.7 Toop sought points of unity and divergence between the
four composers considered and their work – Richard Barrett, Chris Dench,
James Dillon and Michael Finnissy. Toop himself acknowledged the poten-
tial short-livedness of the moniker, but the term ‘the New Complexity’ has
survived well into the new century, not only to describe the composers Toop
discussed, but also newer generations. While the description did succeed in
capturing something of the character of the works it applied to, it was not
without its drawbacks. Various composers were unhappy, not least Finnissy:
MICHAEL FINNISSY: It horrifies me that people say the music is com-

plex. It isn’t, except in a very superficial detailed kind of way. It’s complex
if you accept that human beings are complex, and that all art is complex.
Introduction 3
But to say that it’s complex with the implication that somehow it’s not
‘refined’, enough, or that somehow it should conform to the ideals of an
18th-century French garden – you know, geometric precision, economy
of pitch-statement à la Webern: that’s completely ridiculous. Hardly any
music is like that, and critics who think that contemporary music ought
to be, have got their heads stuffed up their arses.8
Toop’s article also included the first sketch-based work on Finnissy’s music.
On the basis of access to Finnissy’s sketches, he outlined his ways of trans-
forming a small series of pitches derived from a Verdi melody to supply close-
packed trichords which are then used to create a para-microtonal type of
linear writing employed in the first of the Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005).
He also traced the dramatic structure of the String Trio (1986), its use of a
vocabulary of rhythmic cells and their distribution, and the employment of
a pitch sequence derived from Mahler’s Ninth Symphony as an underlying
cantus firmus for the work as a whole.
The early 1990s was a transitional period for Finnissy, as some of his
previous admirers remained ambivalent about his turn towards sacred
composition in such works as The Cambridge Codex (1991), Seven Sacred
Motets (1991), Anima Christi (1991) and the Liturgy of Saint Paul (1991–5).
Furthermore, his stage works Thérèse Raquin (1992–3, rev. 1997, 2006) and
Shameful Vice (1994–5) received very mixed responses from critics. However,
as 1996, the year of his fiftieth birthday, approached, several commentators
used the occasion to form broader perspectives upon what was already a
substantial output of over 200 works. In 1995, Richard Barrett identified
many recurrent features and concerns: musical influences and parallels, in
the forms of tribute pieces to various composers, settings of works of others
(such as Machaut, Obrecht, Verdi and Gershwin), and then more complex
machinations upon a range of found materials from art and folk musics;
particular types of instrumentation, including works with indeterminate scor-
ings; the employment of texts (in many languages) and theatrical traditions
from the York Mystery Plays, through music-hall and Japanese ritual thea-
tre, to experimental contemporary Polish work; the use of quasi-cinematic
montage; and very individual approaches to musical notation.9 Of particular
importance in this overview was Barrett’s acknowledgement of the changing
role of musical allusion:
One obvious development in Finnissy’s music between the early works

and the Gershwin and Verdi pieces is a greatly increased confidence in
allowing the inherited material to occupy more of the foreground.10
However, in a broad article like this, space did not permit a wider discus-
sion of the musical, or other reasons for this shift. As in the History, and as
addressed later in Max Erwin’s chapter on the Political Agendas (1989–2016)
in the present volume, Finnissy utilises varying levels of salience in his quoted
4 Introduction
material in order to project the opportunity for a more coherent commentary
through the semantically rich materials he weaves together.
In another article in the same volume as Barrett’s, theatre director Lynn
Williams presented the first extended writing on Finnissy’s theatrical works.11
Focusing in some depth on the then relatively recent The Undivine Comedy
(1985–9, rev. 2017), Williams elucidated the conflicts between the spiritual
and earthly dimensions of the work, as well as drawing it into a comparison
with Philip Glass’s Akhnaten and exploring Finnissy’s use of different forms
of intervallic emphasis as a structural device. She went on to give a brief
account of Finnissy’s little-known 1970s theatrical works such as Tsuru-Kame
(1971–3), Circle, Chorus and Formal Act (1973), and Tom Fool’s Wooing (then
1975–8, subsequently revised 2015) and then the subsequent group of works
Mr Punch (1976–9), Vaudeville (1983–7) and Soda Fountain (1983), including
a significant amount of interview material with the composer. This article,
combining both theatrical and musical perspectives, served to introduce a
new range of readers to this important component of Finnissy’s output, and
its engagement with ritualistic and archetypal approaches to the medium, in
contrast to a predominantly realistic music-theatrical aesthetic which then
and now continues to dominate in the UK.
In a two-part article, Ian Pace presented a related if somewhat distinct
overview, considering first Finnissy’s approach to register, harmonic fields,
use of intervals, and structures derived from these; the employment of binary
oppositions, influenced by the work of anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss
and others; a brief consideration of ideas from the cinema, and then from
literature, theatre and the visual arts; the relationship between line and struc-
ture, instrumentation and indeterminacy; Finnissy’s relationship to earlier
post-war European modernists, tribute pieces and the use of found source
materials; transcription as a central concern; Finnissy’s once-contentious
turn to sacred music in the early 1990s; his interest in folk musics, focusing
on the series of works with Japanese, Javanese, Sardinian, Balkan, Central
Asian, Australian and Native American allusions, the engagement with
English traditions and evocations of an imaginary ‘England’, and the ‘meta-
folkloristic’ cycle Folklore (1993–4), which was then Finnissy’s most extended
work for piano.12 In a briefer article, Jonathan Cross focused on then-recent
work, such as the piano trio In Stiller Nacht (1990, rev. 1997) and its allusions
to Brahms, Glad day (1994) for baroque-style orchestra, alluding to Henry
Purcell but also a motet by the Scottish composer Robert Carver, a little on
the Verdi Transcriptions and the simultaneous interplay between tonal and
atonal music, and the allusions to African-American spirituals in Folklore.13
The publication of Uncommon Ground made available to readers much
more comprehensive and detailed overviews of Finnissy’s output, much of
it at the time forgotten and little-known except to a few aficionados. It also
expanded considerably the range of published analytical and sketch-based
study, especially that focused upon compositional process, though some of
the contributions could be argued with hindsight to be a little hagiographic.
Introduction 5
Pace’s sketch-based work on G.F.H. (1986) delineated the compositional
processes used to construct the work, noting in particular the role of both
quasi-serial operations combined with random-permutations applied to the
original source material, taken from Handel, in order to generate new pitch
and rhythmic content, and then further transform this in turn.14 Similarly, in
his analysis of William Billings (1990–1), Pace identified a distinct approach
towards the quoted material from Billings’ own hymn tunes, involving frag-
mentation and re-assemblage of the source material.15 Pace’s reading of
Folklore, however, set out a methodology for close examination of Finnissy’s
most complex transformations and also the types of intercuttings between
contrasting materials which are used for dramatic effect.16 The folk materi-
als used by Finnissy in the construction of Folklore were contrasted in their
original (and unmodified) forms against the transformed counterparts from
the score itself, while an exhaustive catalogue clarified the trails of reference
such as form a type of hidden narrative (also encompassing the composer’s
personal ‘folklore’, through allusions to musics important to him at an early
age).17
Roger Redgate’s chapter on Finnissy’s chamber music focused upon the
ways in which Finnissy articulates multi-dimensional temporal schemes,
particularly in the works Afar (1966–7), as when upon a trancèd summer
night (1966–8), and alongside (1979). Redgate discussed the various facets of
Finnissy’s notation which contribute in undermining the sensation of regular
metrical groupings, including the roles of barlines and differing lengths of
simultaneous phrase structures.18 In his discussion of the orchestral music,
Julian Anderson examined all of the orchestral works, especially their deline-
ation of points, lines and chords (which had some roots in some of the broad
parametric approaches of Boulez and others), as well as identifying particu-
lar scales and chordal structures employed by Finnissy.19 Furthermore, an
analysis of the temporal structure of Sea and Sky (1979–80) revealed some
proportions rooted in Fibonacci sequences.20
Pace considered briefly the use of quasi-cinematic devices (including cuts,
dissolves and fades) in some of the early Songs (1966–78) and Snowdrift
(1974) for piano, all of which are explored in more detail in the final chapter
of this volume. Christopher Fox’s discussion of Finnissy’s vocal music began
with the observation that ‘the great piano sets, for example, all in some way
transform vocal music for Finnissy’s own digital “voice”, the keyboard’.21
Considering Maldon (1991), Fox noted that Finnissy is not generally con-
cerned with “good” word-setting’, rather he treats the textual elements of
songs as a pseudo-schemata of timbres, consonants and vowels.22 This cre-
ates a curious situation in which the idiom which for Finnissy could be the
most direct, in terms of extra-musical narratives, actually becomes among
the most abstract. Fox framed Finnissy’s approach to choosing and employ-
ing texts in terms of cinematic techniques, by which the text is considered
in terms of ‘the “establishing” shot’, ‘“reaction” shots’, and ‘a montage of
“cut-aways”’.23 Fox also provided detailed technical analysis of Finnissy’s
6 Introduction
vocal writing, focusing particularly on the evolving lines and structural use of
different vocal groupings in Finnissy’s vocal sextet Kelir (1981).24
Pace’s chapter on Finnissy’s theatrical works, picking up from and extend-
ing the treatment of the subject by Williams, featured sketch-based studies of
The Undivine Comedy, Thérèse Raquin and Shameful Vice, as well as chroni-
cling the exegeses of Finnissy’s earlier theatrical works. He began by situating
Finnissy’s first acknowledged theatrical work Tsuru-Kame (1971–3) in the
context of ritual theatre, in which the traditional dramatic scaffolding of
dialogue and story-telling are supplanted in favour of ‘a focus on ritual and
a communion with the elemental, pre-rational aspects of the mind’.25 Tsuru-
Kame is notable in the context of Finnissy’s wider output from the 1970s,
as it introduced the gagaku-style counterpoint that would emerge in other
non-Japanese inspired works such as alongside and Seven Sacred Motets.26
Pace also dwelt at some length here on the nature of Finnissy’s revisions of
works such as The Undivine Comedy; following the first production, Finnissy
modified the work to alleviate fears that the instrumental forces lacked char-
acter, and to ensure that the ensemble writing would support the dramatic
narratives.27
There have been several interviews with Finnissy since the publication of
Uncommon Ground, but the ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’ featured
in that volume is the most comprehensive and wide-ranging, and has become
something of an essential piece of reading for student composers interested
in Finnissy’s work. It is this article that introduced a multi-faceted Finnissy
to the reader, in which the binary oppositions and unlikely pairings that are
so integral to the effect of much of his work are also reflected in his thinking
about music and culture more generally:
When I was a student I was made fun of by the other composers who
were my contemporaries, because I liked Tchaikovsky and I was ready to
defend composers like Tchaikovsky, Bellini and Verdi, who were – and
probably still are – out of favour with the modernists. […] playing for
ballet classes, I really enjoyed improvising in that style of music yet I also
liked to go to concerts of Webern.28
Not only does the incidental account of Finnissy’s indifference to composi-

tional orthodoxies and schools demonstrate the multifarious influences that
are frequently referred to in his works, it also subtly introduces the tension
present in Finnissy’s relation to the mainstream new music world. By identify-
ing with the poet Arthur Rimbaud, Finnissy characterised himself as an ‘out-
sider’ in the New Music world, which forms a recurring trope that emerges
not only in the kinds of narratives that surround Finnissy’s reception, but is
also evidenced in the frequently unorthodox analytical approaches that are
applied to the study of his work.29
Finnissy featured regularly in the first wave of writing on the ‘new com-
plexity’. The origins of the term are a little ambiguous: Roddy Hawkins cites
Introduction 7
a 1982 review by Keith Potter of an opera by Oliver Knussen;30 Richard
Toop suggests around 1980 by the composer Nigel Osborne;31 Finnissy
gives an earlier date of 1978 and attributes the term to the late critic and
writer Harry Halbreich.32 Few of the composers routinely associated with
the term have been fond of it, but it has persisted (and much promotional
literature in particular has continued to evoke it).33 The first major article on
musical ‘complexity’ was published by François Nicolas in 1987,34 but this
did not mention the term ‘nouvelle complexité’ and considered no compos-
ers other than Ferneyhough. By contrast, in his influential article ‘Four
Faces of the “New Complexity”’ from the following year,35 Richard Toop
presented Finnissy, alongside Ferneyhough (who does not however feature
in the article, as Toop had discussed his work amply elsewhere) as the elder
figures in a ‘school’, with James Dillon, Chris Dench, and the younger
Richard Barrett.
For a while, the type of ‘school’ consolidated by Toop, around three
younger British composers whose own work more obviously resembled that of
Finnissy (and Xenakis) than Ferneyhough, was reflected in other publications
on musical complexity.36 Composers clearly influenced by Ferneyhough, such
as Klaus K. Hübler, Alessandro Melchiorre, Claus-Steffen Mahnkopf, James
Erber or Roger Redgate, occupied a more marginal position in this body of
literature, though a review of the Darmstadt courses of 1988 by Keith Potter
suggests that a view was well developed by which, alongside Ferneyhough,
‘Barrett, Dench and Dillon (probably not Finnissy, though maybe some of the
others [James Clarke, Richard Emsley, James Erber and Roger Redgate])’
were ‘the 1980s equivalents of the 1950s serialists in their quest for a synthesis
of intellectual rigour and musical forms consistent with acoustic realities’
(editor’s emphasis).37 It is not surprising that by this stage, when Finnissy had
recently completed the first book of Gershwin Arrangements (1975–1988) as
well as works with titles such as Catchpenny Rhymes (1986), Red Earth (1988)
or the Beuk o’Newcassel Sangs (1988), that his work would have been seen at
an increasing distance from such a movement, issues considered in the chap-
ter by Christopher Fox in Chapter 1 of this volume. An article by Mahnkopf
in a 1990 mini-symposium in German initiated a shift towards a different
focus upon a long historical tradition whose contemporary representatives
were selected much more in terms of their relationship to Ferneyhough.38 A
similar if less didactic attempt at outlining a complex ‘tradition’ came in a
subsequent article by Ulrich Mosch,39 and many publications since the late
1990s, especially those by Mahnkopf, have continued in this vein.40 Toop, in
a later article, appeared rather daunted by the debate that he had unleashed
and, like Mahnkopf, Mosch and others, attempted to broaden the concept to
encompass a long period of polyphonic music.41
A substantial monograph on ‘new complexity’ published in 2008 by the
French writer Nicolas Darbon, the first of its type, was centred around
Ferneyhough but still made plenty of space for Finnissy, though most of the
relevant material was essentially a paraphrase of other existing scholarship.42
8 Introduction
Then two years later, a doctoral dissertation by Roddy Hawkins, an intellec-
tual and cultural history of the very concept of ‘complexity’ and thus associ-
ated with it, developed the ‘two complexities’ thesis, identifying two ‘spheres
of influence’, one in Germany around Ferneyhough, the other in Britain
around Finnissy, which served as a valuable synthesis of the divergent paths
within writing on the subject.43 While this model works mostly well for the
focus of this thesis (Britain from the 1970s until the late 1980s), its geographi-
cal reach needs to be broadened when considering later periods, as both
Finnissy and Ferneyhough’s teaching and influence have spread wider, and
some of their students have themselves had students and generated spheres
of influence.44
Hawkins’ thesis focuses upon both performers (not least the ensembles
Suoraan and Exposé) and ‘cultural intermediaries’ (such as Keith Potter,
Richard Steinitz, Graham Hayter, Roger Wright, and also composer
Christopher Fox) for their role in building and consolidating the reputations
of various composers. He was also one of the first to cast a more critical eye
over some aspects of the public construction of Finnissy as found in both
journalistic and scholarly literature, especially themes of exile and marginal-
ity,45 which are developed further in his chapter in this volume. Hawkins
looked in particular at the early reception of World (1968–74) and Pathways
of Sun and Stars (1976), comparing this with that of then-contemporary
works of Ferneyhough and elucidating early constructions of Finnissy as
influenced by, but distinct from, the European modernist mainstream. Like
other commentators (including Richard Barrett in this volume), he also con-
sidered the important role of Finnissy’s alongside for younger figures, and
then the importance of Finnissy’s work as a pianist in ensembles Suoraan
and Exposé, and his performances at the British Music Information Centre,
upon which he expands further in this volume. Overall, Hawkins’ thesis
serves as an invaluable resource in terms of reception and quasi-institutional
history (in the sense of complex composers, and those around them, as an
‘institution’) though he does not deal with other aspects (compositional,
performance-related, analytical, referential) of individual works of Finnissy
or others.
In 2003, Maarten Beirens produced an important article on Folklore,46
which is referenced extensively in Lauren Redhead’s contribution to this
volume. Following Pace’s detailed account of the sources employed in the
work and their transformation, Beirens focused more broadly upon the
nature of the contrasts and drama embodied in the work, identifying ‘filter-
ing’ as a crucial component of the piece. He went on to explore themes of
marginalisation and the figure of the ‘outsider’ in a manner more reminis-
cent of Cross than in Hawkins’ later work, arriving at hermeneutical, quasi-
programmatic readings of parts of the work as a result which were distinct
from those of Pace (for example, Beirens reads the use of Rumanian melodies
in Folklore II in relation to the Ceaucescu regime, and dwells further on the
function of folk music in regimes propounding a socialist realist aesthetic,
Introduction 9
and how this related to the politics of Cornelius Cardew, whose music is also
referenced in the cycle).
Since the publication of Uncommon Ground, the most significant addition
to Finnissy’s output has been his monumental The History of Photography in
Sound (1995–2000) for solo piano, which weights-in at five-and-a-half hours
and was premiered complete by Ian Pace in January 2001. Christopher
Fox wrote an overview of the work and some of its conceptual and other
concerns (not least relating to the writings of Roland Barthes) in an article
published in 2002, following the second complete performance in Leuven,
Belgium in October 2001. In particular, Fox raised the important questions
of the discernibility of Finnissy’s musical ‘photographs’ and the meaning of
composing in a para-semiotic fashion; he included some anecdotal evidence
from playing sections of the cycle to students. Richard Beaudoin published
an article five years later which examined in great detail the opening of the
eighth chapter of the cycle, Kapitalistisch Realisme.47 Distancing himself
from the source-based approaches of Pace and others, Beaudoin instead
concentrated upon the immanent properties of the resulting work, claiming
that ‘we are engaged by its handling of musical materials on its own terms’.48
Beaudoin took something of a hard-line formalist approach, working on
the assumption ‘that both performer and listener are unaware of all original
source material, or at least are unable to link the two in real time when
encountering the History’, though immediately tempered this to a wish to
‘investigate the piece without overemphasizing the cultural importance of its
source material’.49 He also argued rather sweepingly that ‘almost none of the
quotations can be heard’.50 Fox’s article suggested on the contrary that even
if the specific sources could not be identified by students, nonetheless they
had a sense of some of the wider generic qualities, for example of hymn-like
material. Beaudoin himself could not avoid mentioning Finnissy’s obvi-
ous Ivesian allusion to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony at the beginning of
the work. Nonetheless, he attempted to downplay its significance, focusing
instead on the precise details of the configuration, and then went on to
explore some of the resulting tonal implications of Finnissy’s superimposed
materials (working under the assumption – which may be contingent upon
approaches to performance – that they will be heard by listeners as part of a
unified whole). These issues and Beaudoin’s article are further addressed by
Ian Pace in Chapter 3 of this volume. Beaudoin also included two reproduc-
tions of pages of sketches, which made visually manifest some of the detailed
‘edits’ employed by Finnissy during the compositional process. A later arti-
cle by Beaudoin and Joseph Moore is much closer to the mainstream of
Finnissy scholarship. This explored Finnissy’s Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen
sind (1992), based on a Bach chorale prelude, in the context of earlier tran-
scriptions of Bach by Busoni, Ignaz Friedman, Webern and Stravinsky,
and christened the process of rendering a musical source in a new musical
‘dialect’ as transdialection (though found that this term had a history of
its own).51
10 Introduction
In 2013, Pace published his own monograph on the work after some ten
years’ gestation, which engaged with various concerns of Fox and Beaudoin
and many others. Above all, this book combined a strong emphasis upon
compositional process – in an attempt at demystification – based upon exclu-
sive access to Finnissy’s complete collection of sketches; it stands as by far the
most comprehensive sketch-study to date of any of Finnissy’s music.52 This
was combined with a series of critical explorations of various hermeneutic
themes and implications of the cycle, examining issues of post-colonial rep-
resentation and appropriation in the context of the chapters North American
Spirituals and Unsere Afrikareise, meanings of popular culture and its interac-
tions with militarism in My parents’ generation thought War meant something,
Beethoven as a symbol of the composer as entrepreneur in Kapitalistisch
Realisme, issues of gay culture, consumerism, archaism and masculinity in
Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets and Sizilianische Männerakte, and the
dichotomy between expressionism and rationalism in Eadweard Muybridge –
Edvard Munch. Pace provided exacting detail of the sources of practically
every quoted material in the cycle and the nature of their transformations,
and the highly complicated structural workings at both microscopic and mac-
roscopic levels of the work, but also considered aspects of the wider harmonic
working at medium-range levels, arriving at somewhat different conclusions
to Beaudoin. The second chapter of the monograph, in particular, ‘Material
as Archetype in The History of Photography in Sound’, set up a methodology
for examining the cycle as a whole through assembling disparate materials
into three ‘macro-categories’ of Chords, Gestures, and Lines (relating to
Anderson’s earlier identifications), each of which are further divided into
sub-categories.53 While this methodology was developed with the History in
mind, it can facilitate the analysis of Finnissy’s works from across his output.
The release of the CD and monograph of the History stimulated a free
literary fantasia from Arnold Whittall, setting the work in a wider context
of British music, including Vaughan Williams, Britten, Tippett and Peter
Maxwell Davies, as well as that of Charles Ives in particular.54 Whittall con-
centrated especially upon Pace’s observation that the end of the History con-
sisted of an affirmatory near-cadence into E-flat major which then dissolves,
and also one of the key motives from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung, reflecting
Whittall’s much wider Wagnerian expertise. In an attempt to expand Pace’s
range of reference, Whittall also related the History to the work of Berg,
specifically the Violin Concerto and operas Wozzeck and Lulu, and even to
some of Maxwell Davies’ Naxos Quartets.
Performance of Finnissy’s music has received only a relatively small
amount of sustained treatment. Amongst the most important contributions
to this subject remains Philip Thomas’ 1999 PhD thesis, dealing with inter-
pretation of a range of contemporary composers, but in which Finnissy was a
regular presence. Thomas considered at some length the nature of Finnissy’s
notation, the role of the bar line, beaming, dynamics, tempo, rhythm, grace
notes figurations and their relation to time, Finnissy’s own performances and
Introduction 11
recordings, the function of work titles and the relationship of the music to
improvisation. The thesis is also valuable for the inclusion of original inter-
view material with Finnissy himself and several other pianists relating to their
experiences of performing Finnissy’s compositions.55 Pace wrote a section
about Finnissy in a wider article on notation, time and performance of con-
temporary music, looking briefly at the Verdi Transcriptions and Gershwin
Arrangements (revisited in Chapter 3 of this book),56 and also included a
chapter on performance in his monograph on the History,57 though this was
small in comparison to the attention given to the work’s composition and
meanings.
A series of articles authored or co-authored by Amanda Bayley relating
to rehearsals and performances of the Second String Quartet (2006–7) made
bold claims for a new methodology. In an article relating to a DVD released
relatively soon afterwards (essentially a database of filmed or scanned materi-
als), Bayley and Michael Clarke presented their approach, essentially inde-
pendently of other Finnissy scholarship, through consideration of successive
stages between composition, rehearsal, performance and reflection of the
work, with some of these stages feeding back into the others.58 They drew upon
a series of interviews, recordings of rehearsals, performances, questionnaires
and discussion between composer and performers. This approach was said
to examine ‘all aspects of creativity’ compared to ‘conventional text-based
analysis’. A large part of the article was spent discussing and promoting the
methodology and associated software, but some of the actual findings have
been covered in more detail elsewhere. For example, Bayley and Clarke noted
that the individual parts of the quartet are unsynchronized, with no score,
but this is true of many other Finnissy works (see Philip Thomas’ extensive
treatment of the subject in Chapter 2 of this book), and this compositional
strategy has been discussed extensively in earlier literature. Furthermore,
a large number of musicians have developed corresponding performance
practices, but this was not considered by Bayley and Clarke. A simple block
diagram was given of which players are active at various points during the
piece, turning into diagrammatic form the type of information collected in
early descriptive reviews. However, there was no consideration of the pitch or
rhythmic content of the musical material, how the performers might respond
to this, or how the work relates to pre-existing materials or styles (other
than to mention that Finnissy referenced Haydn’s String Quartet op. 64 no.
5 in rehearsal). A further 2011 article by Bayley alone sought to locate this
type of approach within the scholarly sub-discipline of ‘ethnomusicology at
home’,59 but again spent a good deal of the article extolling the merits of the
approach rather than proceeding to investigate in depth the music, rehearsal
process, performance or reflection. The method did not involve an analytical
approach to score or performance (going little beyond saying, for example,
that the use of portamento and vibrato provides a more ‘romantic’ inter-
pretation), but drew extensively upon rather incidental information picked
up through filming, without engaging critically with pronouncements by
12 Introduction
Finnissy or the quartet members. Nonetheless, this article did include some
interesting figures on percentages of time spent on play, co-ordination, sound
quality, and general conversation. Otherwise, much of its content would be
unremarkable to those with even a small degree of familiarity with this music
and its performance, while it is not clear how much of what is said would not
be equally applicable to numerous other composers and performers, so the
contribution specifically to understanding Finnissy may be slight. A further
article published in French contained some valuable interview material from
Finnissy and copies of some sketches,60 and used a few musical examples to
demonstrate some basic textural similarities between Finnissy’s work and
some of its sources. The nature of Finnissy’s transformations of source into
final work was not however explored in the manner of the work of Toop,
Pace, Beaudoin and others, nor the implications of this for performance.
A more focused and practical approach towards performance scholarship
was taken by Graziela Bortz in her 2003 doctoral thesis, ‘Rhythm in the music
of Brian Ferneyhough, Michael Finnissy, and Arthur Kampela: a guide for
performers’.61 Bortz proposed four strategies, with a chapter on each, for
dealing with complex rhythms in the work of the three named composers:
strategy 1: Least Common Denominator; strategy 2: Calculating changes
of tempo by finding the new metronome marking of an entire ratio; strategy
3: Finding New Metronome Markings in Irrational Meters; and strategy 4:
Calculating the metronome marking of the last sub-ratio in a nested rhythm.
In the introduction Bortz stated that ‘Finnissy’s music does not present nested
tuplets, he uses series of different consecutive ratios in independent lines, each
line dividing the measure differently’.62 This is incorrect. The Piano Concerto
No. 4 (1978, rev. 1996), English Country-Tunes, the History, Yvaroperas 1
and 2 (1993–5), and other Finnissy works use this rhythmic construction.
However, Bortz’s dissertation is the most extensive resource on preparing
the sorts of rhythms one might find in Finnissy’s scores, focusing on two
works, Banumbirr (1982–6), for flute, clarinet, violin, cello, and piano, and
…above earth’s shadow (1985), for solo violin and ensemble. On the latter
Bortz concluded from Finnissy’s performance indications that the vertical
coordination of the two violin parts is to be approximate, and the flow of the
music matters more.63 This can be understood in the context of Finnissy’s
other works as a localised point of asynchronicity, rather than the aberration
of strict rhythmic writing, which Bortz seems to suggest. Bortz also demon-
strated how in her view, the ‘least common denominator’ approach can be
applied to achieve rhythmic fluency, applied the various methods outlined to
both the above-mentioned works, and then combined strategies one and two
to apply to a section of Banumbirr (1982–6).64
Michael Hooper, like Bayley and Clarke, also looks at a collaborative
process (though in a quite different fashion), in this case between Finnissy
and oboist Christopher Redgate in the composition of Greatest hits of all time
(2003).65 Hooper examined Finnissy’s treatment of the source material from
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (which is employed simultaneously with other material
Introduction 13
derived from Beethoven, Mahler and Korean court music), commenting that
‘it is as if compressing the Vivaldi into six bars has heightened each of its con-
stituent elements’.66 The crux of Hooper’s discussion was the collaboration
between Finnissy and Redgate, specifically focusing on Redgate’s search for
a consistent means of producing the extended ranges requested by Finnissy.
There are a number of other articles which warrant consideration here.
Larry Goves’ article ‘Michael Finnissy and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart:
The Composer as Anthropologist’ applies Timothy Ingold’s metaphor of the
‘wayfarer’ to Finnissy’s output.67 In the article, Goves characterised Ingold’s
methodology (which could be argued to be equally applicable to almost any
composer) by outlining two distinct kinds of travel. One of these is ‘wayfar-
ing’, which is a transformative approach to travel in which the wayfarer
is movement, continually travelling, as where ‘transport’ is a goal-oriented
mode of locomotion.68 Goves was correct to identify that Finnissy’s approach
to quotations and allusions is transformative, though this has already been
demonstrated through others’ detailed technical analyses. However, he did
not go beyond an initial summary of how, say, Cibavit eos uses verbatim
material from Mozart, and inserts ‘sections of new decorative linear writ-
ing’;69 this makes it harder to argue a convincing case for Finnissy as a way-
farer. Goves’ article is a useful account of Finnissy as an anthropologist, as
opposed to an ethnographer, but then the question remains of what subject
exactly is he an anthropologist? The wayfarer may transform that which he
encounters, but it is not unreasonable to conceive of Finnissy transforming
his own mythos, incorporating elements from his real surroundings, some-
thing which he alludes to in the preface to the History:
‘History’ in the title conveys ‘remembered or invented past and present’;

or ‘a chronological continuum’; or ‘the appearance and stylistic attrib-
utes of previous and current eras’.70
Georgios Theocharous’s ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall Of Notation In Michael

Finnissy’s Autumnall For Solo Piano’ was considerably more problematic,
because of a cursory knowledge demonstrated of Finnissy’s work and its
musical context.71 Starting from an antagonistic and rather caricatured view
of so-called ‘Darmstadt composers’ and associated performers who had ‘to
read the unreadable and render the unrenderable’, via a detour, a rather tor-
tured discussion of the spelling of Autumnall (1968–71), Theocharous went
on to discuss Finnissy’s use of measured and unmeasured rests in the piece.
He accounted for the shift between both of these in terms of a technical
deficiency in Finnissy’s writing, without allowing the possibility that dis-
tinct notational practices might also be performatively and hermeneutically
distinct. This was followed by a ‘philosophical reading’ of the piece, though
this did not engage with any wider philosophical background, such as that
on metaphor theory. Nigel McBride develops this critique in his chapter on
ontological implications in Finnissy in Chapter 4 of this volume.
14 Introduction
The current volume expands considerably upon previous scholarship and
seeks in particular to supplement fruitful areas of research which have previ-
ously been neglected or only treated in a cursory fashion: aesthetics and rela-
tionship to other aesthetic movements; critical engagements with borrowing
and orientalism; Finnissy himself as performer and strategies for performing
his music; compositional process and relationship to the compositions of
others; notations; and the influence of film. Then there are a series of new
studies on works or groups of work which have not previously received sus-
tained scholarly attention. The contributors include musicologists (Whittall,
Pace, Hawkins, Beirens, Erwin), performer-scholars (Pace, Thomas, Heyde,
Weeks), composers (Fox, McBride, Redhead, Barrett) and a poet and scholar
of literature and issues of sexuality (Woods).
The first four contributors to this volume all deal with Finnissy’s rela-
tionship to different modern musical movements, aesthetics and styles.
Christopher Fox focuses upon a series of Finnissy works from the 1970s and
early 1980s, in particular Pathways of Sun and Stars and English Country-
Tunes, as well as later works such as Folklore and The History of Photography
in Sound, and relates these to the work and aesthetics of then-contemporary
movements in European modernism, especially the new generation of Gérard
Grisey, Helmut Lachenmann and Salvatore Sciarrino. He concludes that
narrow views of Finnissy as either ‘continental’ or ‘British’ are simplistic,
and that his work needs to be viewed in terms of an interaction between these
traditions. Philip Thomas looks westwards, in order to consider Finnissy’s
relationship to a so-called ‘experimental’ tradition from Charles Ives through
John Cage. He considers the relationship of some of Finnissy’s notational
strategies, including unsynchronised parts and pure textual instructions, to
the work of figures in this tradition, focusing especially upon ‘kit’ pieces such
as Post-Christian Survival Kit (2003–5). But Thomas is one of several writers
also to filter in Finnissy’s work as a pianist, and considers briefly the compos-
er’s championing of the music of British ‘experimentalists’ such as Howard
Skempton, John White, and Laurence Crane in terms of his own music.
Much of Finnissy’s work draws upon a range of existing sources, which
are invariably transformed in many ways, often quite radically. In Ian Pace’s
first chapter, the most extended contribution to the volume, he develops
models from the work of J. Peter Burkholder and others on musical borrow-
ing, placing these in the context of a short history of scholarly work on the
subject and the work of Gérard Genette on intertextuality, and considers
the implications of the resulting models for performance. Furthermore, he
considers at length the issue of musical genre and its refractions via Finnissy’s
borrowing, in a dialectical relationship with the factor of compositional medi-
ation between borrowed sources and the final work, not least to demonstrate
again some of the possible implications for performance. Pace uses a series of
examples from Finnissy’s works based on Gershwin, Verdi, Johann Strauss
II and Skryabin, to demonstrate how different approaches to performance
can be conceived in terms of differing degrees of emphasis of either genre or
Introduction 15
mediation, as well as considering briefly how these relate to earlier genres of
‘transcription’ literature.
In the first of two chapters, Nigel McBride also considers questions of
performance, in relation to fundamental ontological questions appertain-
ing to Finnissy’s work. Taking as a starting point the arguments presented
in Theocharous’ article mentioned above, McBride notes the ontological
assumptions in this essay, especially the application of a model of the ‘work’
as a type of Platonic ideal over and above particular realisations. He offers
an alternative ontological model, drawing on the thought of Jerrold Levinson
and Nelson Goodman, whereby Finnissy’s compositions can be fruitfully
modelled as a ‘composite of performing-means and their notational realities’.
The next four chapters consider multiple identities or personae associ-
ated with Finnissy. Roddy Hawkins considers Finnissy’s work as a pianist
from when he began to give public concerts in 1977, and how his work
in this respect, often playing at ‘fringe’ venues such as the British Music
Information Centre in Central London, has informed wider discourses of
marginality and ‘outsider’ status. Drawing upon a wide range of archival
information, Hawkins surveys the important work Finnissy undertook with
ensembles Suoraan, Exposé, and Ixion, and their role in developing the
reputations of a range of other composers who have come to be categorised
as ‘complex’.
The poet and writer Gregory Woods, himself the first of Finnissy’s
Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets, delves into the disparate range of
poets celebrated by Finnissy in this work, considering their work and poetic
tone, politics, relationship to popular culture, development of theories of
sexuality, and self-positioning relative to homosexual and other subcultures.
This is framed as part of Finnissy’s supposedly ‘personal themes’, alongside
other works with explicit references to gay culture, or events involving gay
men. Woods argues, however, that to view all such things simply as ‘personal’
reflects unequal sexual hierarchies, even since the end of decriminalisation.
James Weeks considers the central role of the human voice and its relation-
ship to line in Finnissy’s work, and goes on to consider two important works
for multiple voices (all of which he has directed with the group EXAUDI):
Tom Fool’s Wooing (1975–8, rev. 2016), and Gesualdo: Libro Setso (2012–13),
and their specific qualities of ‘vocality’ and its relationship to the dramatic
aspects of the pieces. Neil Heyde explores the identity of the performer of
Finnissy’s compositions, via a detailed consideration of his own collabora-
tions with the composer on a range of pieces for string quartet which he has
performed and recorded as cellist of the Kreutzer Quartet, and also Chi Mei
Ricercari (2013) for multiple cellos, and its relationship to specific instru-
ments. As well as dwelling upon the function of Finnissy’s notation, like
several other contributors to this volume, Heyde also focuses upon Finnissy’s
gentle rejection of a ‘projected’ approach to certain strands of musical mate-
rial in the work, but also the meaning of his quartet’s interactions with
recorded bird song in the Third String Quartet (2007–9).
16 Introduction
The third group of chapters deals more intensely with composition and the
compositional process. Nigel McBride’s second chapter expands on an aspect
of his first, in order to give a detailed account of Finnissy’s notational prac-
tice, an area often casually remarked upon, but never investigated in detail.
He identifies a range of key tendencies across Finnissy’s output, focusing in
particular on those types of notation which entail a high degree of indetermi-
nacy of output, not least in some of the ‘kit’ works also discussed by Thomas.
Arnold Whittall dwells upon Schoenberg’s favoured term ‘pantonality’ (as
opposed to ‘atonality’) as a useful paradigm from which to survey Finnissy’s
compositions. He considers how various tonal elements remain intact in sev-
eral works of Finnissy, not least those which rework older tonal music, and
compares this to the work of very different figures who Finnissy nonetheless
greatly admires, Howard Skempton and Chris Newman.
Lauren Redhead also considers the commonality between Finnissy and
Newman, through both composers’ distinct but related strategies for employ-
ing borrowed material, and the political connotations of so doing. Redhead
applies Newman’s subject-object distinction, alongside Nicholas Bourriaud’s
concept of the exform. James Weeks considers quite simply Finnissy’s ‘hand’:
the hand that writes, the hand that plays, as extension of the body in motion
and by implication the relationship of some of Finnissy’s work to contem-
porary dance. Presenting Finnissy’s notation as ‘the hand moving across the
page’, Weeks also examines the composer’s early training in draughtsman-
ship, and the relationship between writing and transcription.
The last set of chapters is a diverse collection of contextual analysis and
specific case studies of Finnissy’s work. Maarten Beirens situates Finnissy’s
folk music-based works, in particular Folklore and Unsere Afrikareise, in the
context of a wider tradition of compositional folklorism from the twentieth
century, including the African influences upon Steve Reich and the work of
György Ligeti. Beirens draws Finnissy’s work into the context of debates
on ‘orientalism’, as theorised in particular by Edward Said. He reads these
works relative to common critical themes relating to exoticism while noting
the particularity of Finnissy’s approach.
Max Erwin considers Finnissy’s three tripartite Political Agendas, which
make reference both to specific political events and also (in the Second
Political Agenda, much longer than the other two) to three composers: Satie,
Schoenberg and Skryabin. Erwin considers points of contact between the
three very different cycles, but also examines the precise concept of the ‘politi-
cal’ in Finnissy’s music, relating this to other models from John Cage (espe-
cially in light of recent scholarship reconsidering the role of Cage’s sexuality)
and Cornelius Cardew.
Richard Barrett centres his essay on a pivotal work of Finnissy, the ensem-
ble piece alongside, written in 1979 for the London Sinfonietta. Like Fox,
Barrett considers in this context Finnissy’s relationship to the post-1945
European avant-garde (though also in this work to Japanese influences from
gagaku music), but presents this work as the culmination of such a tendency,
Introduction 17
after which Finnissy moved in different directions, away from this degree of
abstraction and complexity. Present at the first performance, Barrett also
explores this work as a catalyst for a range of younger composers, includ-
ing James Dillon, Richard Emsley, Chris Dench, James Clarke and himself.
In this way it stimulated a further range of composition drawing upon its
achievements, at the very same time as Finnissy himself was turning towards
a more eclectic music drawing upon found materials.
In the final chapter, Ian Pace presents the most in-depth treatment to date
of Finnissy’s relationship to film and moving images, considering the subject
from multiple perspectives. He surveys models available within the uneven
existing body of work on cinematic influences upon music, and also looks to
‘neo-formalist’ film theory for some concepts but also anti-methodological
approaches and attitudes to analysis, which can be fruitful for music in gen-
eral and Finnissy’s heterogeneous body of work in particular. He considers
some of the most important film-makers from whom Finnissy drew ideas
and inspiration, not least Stan Brakhage, Gregory Markopoulos, Jean-Luc
Godard and Pier Paolo Pasolini, and details how in various works Finnissy
employs different types of musical ‘montage’ akin to the categories delineated
by Sergei Eisenstein. Then he considers the relationship of the work of radical
television screenwriter Dennis Potter to Finnissy, especially in parts of the
History, and also a little-remarked-upon central influence on this cycle, that
of Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma.
This volume does not pretend to be comprehensive, nor exhaustive, in
terms of potential areas for investigation. For example, there is more to be
written about Finnissy’s penchant for revising his works, often in a most
extensive fashion (as for example with the stage works The Undivine Comedy
or Therese Raquin (1992–3, rev. 1997, 2005)). Also, while various contribu-
tors to Uncommon Ground, and also Richard Barrett in his earlier over-
view, tended to conceptualise Finnissy’s output in terms of two fundamental
‘periods’, the first of which culminated in alongside, the huge growth in
Finnissy’s output in the two decades since then, not to mention rediscoveries
and revisions of earlier works, suggests a more complex picture, in which
several strands of composition which had previously seemed exceptional and
uncharacteristic now can be seen as the beginnings of more sustained tenden-
cies. For example, Finnissy’s relatively intense period of sacred composition
in the early 1990s (including The Cambridge Codex (1991), Seven Sacred
Motets (1991), Anima Christi (1991), Two Motets (1991) and The Cry of
the Prophet Zephaniah (1992)), which once seemed a short-lived change of
aesthetic direction, could be related back to earlier works such as From the
Revelations of St. John the Divine (1965–70) and the Mysteries (1972–9), but
also forward to such works as This Church (2001), Post-Christian Survival Kit
(2003–5), the first and second Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis (2006–7) and var-
ious subsequent works, simply in terms of sacred themes, while the particular
uses of modal material and elaborate counterpoint thereof in several of these
works have clear parallels in many of Finnissy’s secular compositions. The
18 Introduction
History might also be viewed as a turning point, even ushering in a ‘third
period’, but various contributors here eschew such a monolithic view. Philip
Thomas considers a long-term strand of indeterminacy over the breadth of
Finnissy’s output, Max Erwin deals a little with the issue of different periods,
and Richard Barrett returns to the role of alongside, but periodisation is
not a central theme of the present volume (and would perhaps be best dealt
with in a single-authored monograph). Nonetheless, this volume provides a
series of rigorous, detailed and critical examinations of Finnissy’s music by a
distinguished range of expert commentators who variously situate the music
in wider musical, theoretical, political and other contexts, and also provide
elucidation of processes at play in the music which lie beneath its obvious
surface features. Furthermore, many of the approaches and findings have
potential implications and applications not only to Finnissy’s music, but for
wider scholarship on aesthetics, borrowing, historiography, notation and
performance.
Notes
1 This took place on 19 November 1965 at the Arts Council, St James’ Square,
featuring the Arrigia String Quartet, Josephine Nendick, mezzo, Suzanne
Rozsa, violin, Neil Black, oboe, Susan Bradshaw, piano and celeste, Colin
Tilney, piano and harpsichord, and Eric Allen, vibraphone. The rest of the
concert featured works of Hans Werner Henze, David Barlow, Alfred Nieman,
Karlheinz Stockhausen (his Refrain) and William Walton. See ‘London Diary
for November’, The Musical Times, vol. 106, no. 1472 (October 1965), p. 821.
2 Oliver Knussen, ‘Finnissy’s Pathways of Sun & Stars’, Tempo, New Series, no.
120 (March 1977), pp. 48–50.
3 Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground:
The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998).
4 Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study of
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), available for
download at www.divine-art.co.uk/CD/77501info.htm (accessed 5 April 2017).
5 For example Oliver Knussen, ‘Finnissy’s ‘Pathways of Sun & Stars’; Keith
Potter, ‘Michael Finnissy’, Classical Music, 1 December 1979; Paul Driver,
‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘alongside’’, Tempo, New Series 132 (March 1980), pp.
42–5; and ‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘Sea and Sky’, Tempo, New Series, nos. 133/134
(September 1980), pp. 82–3. Andrew Clements, ‘Finnissy’s Undivine Comedy’,
The Musical Times, vol. 129, no. 1745 (July 1988), pp. 330–2; John Warnaby,
‘Michael Finnissy’, Music and Musicians (February 1988).
6 Brian Ferneyhough, ‘Michael Finnissy: The Piano Music’ (1978), in Collected
Writings, edited James Boros and Richard Toop (Amsterdam: Harwood
Academic Publishers), pp. 183–96.
7 Richard Toop, ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity”’, Contact 32 (Spring
1988), pp. 4–50.
8 Ibid. p. 5.
9 Richard Barrett, ‘Michael Finnissy – an overview’, Contemporary Music Review,
vol. 13, no. 1 (1995), pp. 23–43.
10 Ibid. pp. 26–7.
11 Lynn Williams, ‘Reinstating “The Spiritual Quest”’, Contemporary Music
Review, vol. 13, no. 1 (1995), pp. 45–63.
Introduction 19
12 Ian Pace, ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (I)’, Tempo, New Series 196 (April
1996), pp. 25–35; ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (II)’, Tempo, New Series
201 (July 1997), pp. 7–16.
13 Jonathan Cross, ‘Vive la différence’, The Musical Times, vol. 137, no. 1837
(March 1996), pp. 7–13.
14 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 78–81.
15 Ibid. p. 84.
16 Ibid. pp. 113–14.
17 Ibid. pp. 120–2.
18 Roger Redgate, ‘The Chamber Music’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 135–68.
19 Julian Anderson, ‘The Orchestral Music’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 169–210.
20 Ibid. pp. 181–3.
21 Christopher Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 211.
22 Ibid. pp. 211–12.
23 Ibid. p. 216.
24 Ibid. pp. 236–7.
25 Ian Pace, ‘The Theatrical Works’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 260.
26 Ibid. p. 262.
27 Ibid. pp. 303–16.
28 ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 4.
29 Ibid.
30 Specifically a preview by Potter of the London premiere of Oliver Knussen’s opera
Where the Wild Things Are (1982), in which he says that in some respects ‘Knussen
has things in common with a very different group of English composers, who
represent what might crudely be called the New Complexity: Brian Ferneyhough,
Michael Finnissy, James Dillon and Chris Dench’ (Keith Potter, ‘Wild Romantic
Things’, Classical Music, 13 March 1982, p. 17, cited in Roderick Hawkins, ‘(Mis)
understanding complexity from Transit to Toop: “New Complexity” in the British
Context’, (PhD thesis: University of Leeds, 2010), pp. 8–9).
31 When introducing a concert of works of Dillon and Dench. See Richard Toop,
‘Against a Theory of Musical (New) Complexity’, in Max Paddison and Iréne
Deliège, eds., Contemporary Music: Theoretical and Philosophical Perspective
(Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), p. 89.
32 Michael Finnissy and Marilyn Nonken, ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’,
Contemporary Music Review, vol. 21, no. 1 (2002), p. 75.
33 Roddy Hawkins presents a sophisticated argument by which various composers
have tended to evoke the term but simultaneously disown it, thus foregrounding
their membership of something bigger but also stressing their individuality at the
same time (or, some might say, having their cake and eating it). See Hawkins,
‘(Mis)understanding Complexity’, pp. 89–133.
34 François Nicolas’s article ‘Éloge de la complexité’, Entretemps 3 (1987), pp. 55–68.
35 Richard Toop, ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity”’, Contact 32 (1988), pp. 4–50.
36 See Jöel Bons (ed.), Complexity in Music? An Inquiry of its Nature, Motivation
and Performability (Amsterdam: Job, 1990), based on the eponymous sympo-
sium; the two issues of Perspectives of New Music centering upon ‘complexity’,
guest-edited by James Boros (vol. 31, no. 1 (1993) and vol. 32, no. 11 (1994)); and
the issue of Contemporary Music Review edited by Tom Morgan, entitled Aspects
of Complexity in Recent British Music (vol. 13, no. 1 (1995)). Erik Ulman, writ-
ing in the second Perspectives issue, listed Ferneyhough, Finnissy, Dench, and
Barrett as representatives of the school (Ulman, ‘Some Thoughts on the New
Complexity’, Perspectives of New Music, vol. 32, no. 1 (1994), pp. 202–6).
37 Keith Potter, ‘Darmstadt 1988’, Contact 34 (1990), p. 28.
38 Claus-Steffen Mahnkopf, ‘Kundgabe. Komplexismus und der Paradigmenwechsel
20 Introduction
in der Musik’, MusikTexte 35 (1990), pp. 20–32. For the wider symposium, see
ibid., pp. 3–40. A good deal of this issue consisted of re-prints in German of
material in the Bons volume; Mahnkopf’s own contribution was a significantly
expanded version of his own ‘Complexism as a New Step in Musical Evolution’,
in Bons, Complexity in Music?, pp. 28–9.
39 Ulrich Mosch. ‘Musikalische Komplexität’, Darmstädter Beiträge zur Neuen
Musik 20 (Mainz: Schott, 1994), pp. 120–9. As Mosch points out, the differing
meanings of the terms ‘complex’ (complexe) and ‘complicated’ (compliqué) had
already been explored in the 1950s by Boris de Schloezer and Marina Scriabine (in
their book Problèmes de la musique moderne (Paris: Minuit, 1959)), but this should
be considered a distinct if not unrelated debate to that around ‘new complexity.’
40 See in particular Claus-Steffen Mahnkopf, Kritik der neuen Musik. Entwurf
einer Musik des 21. Jahrhunderts. Eine Streitschrift (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1998);
‘Adornos Kritik der Neuern Musik,’ in Richard Klein and Claus-Steffen
Mahnkopf (eds.), Mit den Ohren denken. Adornos Philosophie der Musik
(Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1998), pp. 251–80; ‘Neue Musik am Beginn der Zweiten
Moderne’, Merkur 594/595 (1998), pp. 864–75; and ‘Complex Music: An Attempt
at a Definition,’ trans. Frank Cox, in Mahnkopf, Frank Cox, and Wolfram
Schurig (eds.), Polyphony & Complexity (Hofheim: Wolke Verlag, 2002), pp.
54–64. In the latter, Mahnkopf lists the 1980s complex composers as Dench,
Finnissy, Barrett, Redgate, Erber, Dillon, the earlier Ole Lützlow-Holm, René
Wohlhauser, Hübler, Frank Cox, and Mahnkopf himself, followed in the 1990s
by Wolfram Schurig, Brice Pauset, Aaron Cassidy, Wieland Hoban, Simieon
Pironkoff, Claude Lenners, Franck Christoph Yeznikian, Ian Willcock, and
Mark André, whilst identifying as engaged with similar issues the following
composers: Steven Kazuo Takasugi, Chaya Czernowin, Amrio Garuti, Gerald
Eckert, Liza Lim, Walter Feldmann, Klaus Ospald, James Clarke, and Erik
Ulman. Lützlow-Holm and Dillon are seen as having distanced themselves from
complexism, though oddly Finnissy is not mentioned in this context.
41 Richard Toop, ‘“New Complexity” and After: a Personal Note’, in Mahnkopf
et al, Polyphony and Complexity, pp. 133–5; also Toop, ‘Against a Theory of
Musical (New) Complexity,’ pp. 89–97 (this article was originally published in
French in 2001). Chris Dench takes a similar line in his essay ‘Complexity and
Polyphony’, ibid., pp. 180–7.
42 Nicolas Darbon, Brian Ferneyhough et la Nouvelle Complexité (Notre-Dame de
Bliquetuit: Millenaire III Editions, 2008). Darbon’s book is one of two which he
collectively entitles La capture des forces; the other being Wolfgang Rihm et la
nouvelle simplicité (Notre-Dame de Bliquetuit: Millenaire III Editions, 2008).
43 Hawkins, ‘(Mis)understanding complexity’, p. 2.
44 From the late 1980s onwards there were new waves of Finnissy students, includ-
ing Andrew Toovey, Morgan Hayes, Luke Stoneham, Alwynne Pritchard,
Paul Steenhuisen, Thomas Désy, Matthew Shlomowitz, and later many others
(particularly following Finnissy’s appointment as Chair of Composition at the
University of Southampton in 1998) who started to gain some prominence. It
should also be noted that none of the older figures – Dillon, Dench, Barrett, or
James Clarke and Richard Emsley – had actually studied with Finnissy, though
some of them had had an involvement with his playing and music, not least
through the work of the ensembles Suoraan and Exposé. See Hawkins, ‘(Mis)
understanding complexity’, pp. 116–23, 178–90, for more on this.
45 Ibid. pp. 30–1.
46 Maarten Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self: Michael Finnissy’s Folklore’, Tempo,
vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 46–56.
47 Richard Beaudoin, ‘Anonymous Sources: Finnissy Analysis and the Opening
Introduction 21
of Chapter Eight of The History of Photography in Sound’, Perspectives of New
Music vol. 45, no. 2 (Summer 2007), pp. 5–27.
48 Ibid. p. 6.
49 Ibid.
50 Ibid. p. 24.
51 Richard Beaudoin and Joseph Moore, ‘Conceiving Musical Transdialection’, The
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 68, no. 2 (Spring 2010), pp. 105–17.
52 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound.
53 Ibid. pp. 10–37.
54 Arnold Whittall, ‘Michael Finnissy’s instrumental drama’, The Musical Times,
vol. 155, no.1928 (Autumn 2014), pp. 71–91.
55 J. Philip Thomas, ‘Interpretative Issues in Performing Contemporary Piano
Music’ (PhD thesis: University of Sheffield, 1999), pp. 15–16, 21–4, 28, 31–2,
39–42, 46, 58–63, 70–5, 92, 97–8, 129, 145, 148–52, 160, 163–5.
56 Ian Pace, ‘Notation, Time and the Performer’s Relationship to the Score in
Contemporary Music’, in Darla Crispin (ed.), Unfolding Time (Leuven: Leuven
University Press, 2009), pp. 175–80.
57 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 280–2.
58 Amanda Bayley and Michael Clarke, ‘Analytical Representations of
Creative Processes in Michael Finnissy’s Second String Quartet’, Journal of
Interdisciplinary Music Studies vol. 2, issues 1&2 (Spring/Fall 2009), pp. 139–57.
The DVD is Evolution and Collaboration: the composition, rehearsal and perform-
ance of Finnissy’s Second String Quartet (PALATINE, 2011).
59 Amanda Bayley, ‘Ethnographic Research into Contemporary String Quartet
Rehearsal’, Ethnomusicology Forum, vol. 20, no. 3 (December 2011), pp. 385–411.
60 Amanda Bayley, ‘Enquête sur la genèse de Deuxième quatuor à cordes de
Michael Finnissy’, Genesis 31 (2010), pp. 37–54.
61 Graziela Bortz, ‘Rhythm in the Music of Brian Ferneyhough, Michael Finnissy,
and Arthur Kampela: A Guide for Performers’ (PhD thesis: The City University
of New York, 2003).
62 Ibid. p. 4.
63 Ibid. p. 17.
64 Ibid. p. 52.
65 Michael Hooper, ‘Reaching Higher: Finnissy’s “Greatest Hits of All Time” as
the Impetus for Innovation’, The Musical Times, vol. 152, no. 1916 (Autumn
2011), pp. 43–57.
66 Ibid. p. 47.
67 Larry Goves, ‘Michael Finnissy and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Composer
as Anthropologist’, Tempo, vol. 71, no. 280 (April 2017), pp. 47–55.
68 Ibid. p. 52.
69 Ibid. p. 49.
70 Michael Finnissy, programme note for The History of Photography in Sound,
published in Vol. 1 of the score (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. i.
71 Georgios Theocharous, ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall of Notation in Michael
Finnissy’s Autumnall for Solo Piano’, Perspectives of New Music, vol. 52, no. 1
(2014), pp. 4–27.
Bibliography
Anderson, Julian. ‘The Orchestral Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox
and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 169–210.
22 Introduction
Barrett, Richard. ‘Michael Finnissy – an overview’. Contemporary Music Review,
vol. 13, no. 1 (1995), pp. 23–43.
Bayley, Amanda. ‘Enquête sur la genèse de Deuxième quatuor à cordes de Michael
Finnissy’. Genesis 31 (2010), pp. 37–54.
Bayley, Amanda. ‘Ethnographic Research into Contemporary String Quartet
Rehearsal’. Ethnomusicology Forum, vol. 20, no. 3 (December 2011), pp. 385–411.
Bayley, Amanda; and Clarke, Michael. ‘Analytical Representations of Creative
Processes in Michael Finnissy’s Second String Quartet’. Journal of Interdisciplinary
Music Studies vol. 2, issues 1&2 (Spring/Fall 2009), pp. 139–57.
Bayley, Amanda; and Clarke, Michael. Evolution and Collaboration: the composition,
rehearsal and performance of Finnissy’s Second String Quartet. DVD: PALATINE,
2011.
Beaudoin, Richard. ‘Anonymous Sources: Finnissy Analysis and the Opening of
Chapter Eight of The History of Photography in Sound’. Perspectives of New Music
45/2 (Summer 2007), pp. 5–27.
Beaudoin, Richard; and Moore, Joseph. ‘Conceiving Musical Transdialection’.
The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 68, no. 2 (Spring 2010),
pp. 105–17.
Beirens, Maarten. ‘Archaeology of the Self: Michael Finnissy’s “Folklore”’. Tempo,
vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 46–56.
Bons, Jöel, ed. Complexity in Music? An Inquiry of its Nature, Motivation and
Performability. Amsterdam: Job, 1990.
Bortz, Graziela. ‘Rhythm in the Music of Brian Ferneyhough, Michael Finnissy, and
Arthur Kampela: A Guide for Performers’. PhD thesis: City University of New
York, 2003.
Brougham, Henrietta; Fox, Christopher; and Pace, Ian, eds. Uncommon Ground: The
Music of Michael Finnissy. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997.
Clements, Andrew. ‘Finnissy’s Undivine Comedy’. The Musical Times, vol. 129, no.
1745 (July 1988), pp. 330–2.
Cross, Jonathan. ‘Vive la différence’. The Musical Times, vol. 137, no. 1837 (March
1996), pp. 7–13.
Darbon, Nicolas. Brian Ferneyhough et la Nouvelle Complexité. Notre-Dame de
Bliquetuit: Millenaire III Editions, 2008.
Darbon, Nicolas. Wolfgang Rihm et la nouvelle simplicité. Notre-Dame de Bliquetuit:
Millenaire III Editions, 2008.
Dench, Chris. ‘Complexity and Polyphony’. In Claus-Steffen Mahnkopf, Frank Cox,
and Wolfram Schurig (eds.), Polyphony & Complexity (Hofheim: Wolke Verlag,
2002), pp. 180–7.
Driver, Paul. ‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘alongside”’. Tempo, New Series, no. 132 (March
1980), pp. 42–5.
Driver, Paul. ‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘Sea and Sky’. Tempo, New Series, nos. 133/134
(September 1980).
Ferneyhough, Brian. ‘Michael Finnissy: The Piano Music’ (1978). In Brian
Ferneyhough, Collected Writings, edited James Boros and Richard Toop
(Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers), pp. 183–96.
Finnissy, Michael. Programme note for The History of Photography in Sound, pub-
lished in Vol. 1 of the score. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.
Finnissy, Michael; and Nonken, Marilyn. ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’.
Contemporary Music Review vol. 21, no. 1 (2002), pp. 71–9.
Introduction 23
Fox, Christopher. ‘The Vocal Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 211–57.
Goves, Larry. ‘Michael Finnissy and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Composer as
Anthropologist’. Tempo, vol. 71, no. 280 (April 2017), pp. 47–55.
Hawkins, Roderick. ‘(Mis)understanding complexity from Transit to Toop: “New
Complexity” in the British Context’. PhD thesis: University of Leeds, 2010.
Hooper, Michael. ‘Reaching Higher: Finnissy’s “Greatest Hits of All Time” as the
Impetus for Innovation’. The Musical Times, vol. 152, no. 1916 (Autumn 2011),
pp. 43–57.
Knussen, Oliver. ‘Finnissy’s ‘Pathways of Sun & Stars’. Tempo, New Series, no. 120,
(March 1977), pp. 48–50.
‘London Diary for November’. The Musical Times, vol. 106, no. 1472 (October 1965),
p. 821.
Mahnkopf, Claus-Steffen. ‘Kundgabe. Komplexismus und der Paradigmenwechsel in
der Musik’, MusikTexte 35 (1990), pp. 20–32.
Mahnkopf, Claus-Steffen. Kritik der neuen Musik. Entwurf einer Musik des 21.
Jahrhunderts. Eine Streitschrift. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1998.
Mahnkopf, Claus-Steffen. ‘Adornos Kritik der Neuern Musik,’. In Richard Klein
and Claus-Steffen Mahnkopf, eds., Mit den Ohren denken. Adornos Philosophie der
Musik (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1998), pp. 251–80.
Mahnkopf, Claus-Steffen. ‘Complex Music: An Attempt at a Definition,’ trans.
Frank Cox. In Mahnkopf, Frank Cox, and Wolfram Schurig (eds.), Polyphony &
Complexity (Hofheim: Wolke Verlag, 2002), pp. 54–64.
Morgan, Tom, ed. Aspects of Complexity in Recent British Music. Contemporary
Music Review, vol. 13, no. 1 (1995).
Mosch, Ulrich. ‘Musikalische Komplexität’. Darmstädter Beiträge zur Neuen Musik
20 (Mainz: Schott, 1994), pp. 120–9.
Nicolas, François. ‘Éloge de la complexité’. Entretemps 3 (1987), pp. 55–68.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (I)’. Tempo, New Series 196 (April
1996), pp. 25–35.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (II)’. Tempo, New Series 201 (July
1997), pp. 7–16.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Piano Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and Ian Pace
(eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate,
1998), pp. 43–133.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Theatrical Works’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 259–346.
Pace, Ian. ‘Notation, Time and the Performer’s Relationship to the Score in
Contemporary Music’. In Darla Crispin (ed.), Unfolding Time (Leuven: Leuven
Pace, Ian. Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study
of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), avail-
able for download at www.divine-art.co.uk/CD/77501info.htm (accessed 17 July
2018).
Potter, Keith. ‘Michael Finnissy’. Classical Music, 1 December 1979.
Potter, Keith. ‘Wild Romantic Things’. Classical Music, 13 March 1982, p. 17.
Potter, Keith. ‘Darmstadt 1988’. Contact 34 (1990), pp. 26–32.
24 Introduction
Redgate, Roger. ‘The Chamber Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 135–68.
Schloezer, Boris de; and Scriabine, Marina. Problèmes de la musique moderne. Paris:
Minuit, 1959.
Theocharous, Georgios. ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall of Notation in Michael Finnissy’s
Autumnall for Solo Piano’. Perspectives of New Music, vol. 52, no. 1 (2014),
pp. 4–27.
Thomas, J. Philip. ‘Interpretative Issues in Performing Contemporary Piano Music’.
PhD thesis: University of Sheffield, 1999.
Toop, Richard. ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity”’. Contact 32 (Spring 1988),
pp. 4–50.
Toop, Richard. ‘“New Complexity” and After: a Personal Note’. In Claus-Steffen
Mahnkopf, Frank Cox, and Wolfram Schurig (eds.), Polyphony & Complexity
(Hofheim: Wolke Verlag, 2002), pp. 54–64, pp. 133–5.
Toop, Richard. ‘Against a Theory of Musical (New) Complexity’. In Max Paddison
and Iréne Deliège, eds., Contemporary Music: Theoretical and Philosophical
Perspective (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 89–98.
Ulman, Erik. ‘Some Thoughts on the New Complexity’. Perspectives of New Music,
vol. 32, no. 1 (1994), pp. 202–6.
Warnaby, John. ‘Michael Finnissy’. Music and Musicians (February 1988).
Whittall, Arnold. ‘Michael Finnissy’s instrumental drama’. The Musical Times,
vol. 155, no.1928 (Autumn 2014), pp. 71–91.
Williams, Lynn. ‘Reinstating “The Spiritual Quest”’. Contemporary Music Review,
vol. 13, no. 1 (1995), pp. 45–63.
Section A
Finnissy’s aesthetics and styles

Taylor & Francis
http://taylorandfrancis.com
1 Michael Finnissy
Modernism with an English accent
Christopher Fox
I first became aware of Finnissy’s music in 1975, not through a performance or

recording but through an extract from the score of his piano piece Snowdrift
(1972) that was being used to advertise the work of the London-based music
printing company, Photographic Reproductions. The extract had presum-
ably been chosen because it looked extraordinary – a filigree of grace notes,
leger lines, stems, beams and brackets – and, in particular, extraordinarily
modern. The marketing implication was that a company capable of print-
ing this type of score would be able to print anything. A little over a year
later I heard the premiere of Pathways of Sun and Stars (1976), conducted
by Pierre Boulez at the Round House in London. Again the impression was
of modernity: in part because of the context – Boulez didn’t conduct old-
fashioned music – but also because the music sounded like the modern music
I knew, and more like the modern music of continental European composers
than their British counterparts.
Gradually, as I got to hear more Finnissy works, I came to realise that
Finnissy’s version of modernism was perhaps less easily categorised,
although there was no shortage of critics and promoters keen to make such
a categorisation. This chapter is not, however, an attempt at a reception
history of Finnissy’s music; for that I would recommend Roddy Hawkins’s
2010 PhD thesis (Mis)understanding complexity from Transit to Toop: ‘New
Complexity’ in the British Context.1 Instead I wish to consider a number of
different elements within Finnissy’s work and compare them with the same
elements in the work of a range of other composers, focusing especially on
subject matter, form and musical materials.
Subject matter
The profuse invention that is so characteristic of all Finnissy’s work can some-
times suggest that the principal subject of his music is music itself. But music
is always about other things too, implicit in the work and often specifically
announced by the composer through the work-titles. In Finnissy’s output
works with generic titles such as sonata, song, trio, quartet were few and far
between until the last decade (except for the series of piano concertos written
28 Christopher Fox
between 1975 and 1981). Indeed, one might even argue that the appearance of
one of these titles would be a guarantee that the work in question will set itself
against the conventional ideas of that genre2 – and much more often Finnissy
chooses titles that locate works in the domain of places, or people, or other art-
works, sometimes music, but often poetry. Using these titles as a starting point,
followed by a closer interrogation of the works to which they are attached, one
can then compare Finnissy’s subject matter with that of his contemporaries.
As I suggested earlier, musical modernism underwent a series of crises
during the 1970s. To a certain extent these related to questions of style and
technique: for example, the serialist innovations begun in the 1950s had run
their course and the main composers involved in those innovations were
seeking new directions for their music. There were political pressures too:
the growth of a radical left, inspired in part by the liberation struggles in
Africa, Indo-China and Latin America, in part by Maoist propaganda, had
led to a growing tendency amongst western European and North American
artists and intellectuals to imagine that through consciousness-raising work
they might help trigger popular revolution. At a more mundane level there
were also institutional crises: for example, the shift from annual to biennial
Darmstädter Ferienkurse was a necessary response to a reduction in state
funding for new music in West Germany.3
Clearly these different socio-political tensions were not directly consequen-
tial on one another, but they did produce a more general forcefield whose
effects can be traced in the music created during this period. In the subse-
quent sections on form and musical materials I will consider how ideas about
musical narrative and rhetoric, about sound resources and how to organise
them, also reveal the influence of this forcefield. For now, however, I wish
to consider the most obvious evidence, the names of things and the extent to
which those names are helpful.
Take, for example, the first Finnissy work that I encountered in concert,
Pathways of Sun and Stars. Pierre Boulez conducted the first performance
in the Round House, a former railway engine shed in Chalk Farm, north
London, that had been converted into an arts centre and had become a
home for rock music, jazz, avant-garde theatre, and dance. The premiere of
Pathways was part of a new music series promoted by BBC Radio 3 that also
included works by Varèse and Boulez himself, and the commission and per-
formance can be seen as validation of Finnissy’s modernist status. Pathways
was an ambitious work, playing continuously for 20 minutes, and made con-
siderable demands on the resources of the BBC Symphony Orchestra, whose
players formed the ensemble. It is not a symphonic work, however: there are
single strings, three horns and two trombones, six woodwind players (includ-
ing oboe d’amore, Eᅈ clarinet and basset horn, and contrabassoon), two
harps, and five percussionists.
This is a typically modernist inversion of the classical musical ensemble,
something I will discuss later, with the extravagant use of percussion and
more unusual members of the reed families being typical of a tendency in
Modernism with an English accent 29
continental European modernism to regard the specification of an ensemble
as part of the compositional process. This is logical enough; if timbral com-
position is part of a composer’s work then innovative work may well require
new timbres. This was the argument that led to the creation of electronic
music studios, to developments in computer music, and in instrumental music
to a host of ‘new’ techniques and unfamiliar combinations of instruments. In
instrumental music an unusual ensemble also implies a disjunction with clas-
sical music history, so that the grouping of instruments on stage becomes part
of the subject matter of the music.
So far so continental. The rogue element is that title. It is not ‘path-
ways to or from sun and stars’ which might imply either the space travel of
Stockhausen’s Sirius (1977) or the constellation music of Xenakis Pléïades
(1978). Instead these are the pathways of sun and stars, the pathways that
these celestial objects trace across a landscape and, specifically, the English
landscape, pathways that are tracked by ley lines and given numerical signifi-
cance in magic squares. These supposedly ancient concepts had had a recent
revival in English musical culture, a fuller account of which is given in Rob
Young’s Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music.4 Young’s book
is primarily about folk-rock but he describes how interest in ley lines had
been rekindled in the 1970s by the republication of Alfred Watkins’s 1925
book, The Old Straight Track, in which Watkins had ‘claimed to have discov-
ered a complex system of ‘leys’ criss-crossing the English landscape, aligned
through […] prehistoric mounds and long barrows’.5
A key advocate of Watkins’s work was John Michell whose 1969 book
The View over Atlantis had combined ‘archaeology, mathematics, Holy Grail
legend and New Age cosmology to propose a system of energies embossed on
the English landscape, intersecting at key spiritual sites […] such as Avebury,
Stonehenge and Glastonbury Tor’.6 Michell’s book became something of a
hippy bestseller and, crucially, included a number of magic squares, number
grids associated with the sun and planets in pagan belief systems. For example,
the magic square of the sun (given below in the version printed in Michell’s
book) is a 6x6 square, that of the moon 9x9, and Venus 4x4 (see Fig. 1.1).
Whether Finnissy made use of these numbers in some way in compos-
ing Pathways of Sun and Stars I do not know, nor is their use any more
1 35 34 3 32 6
30 8 28 27 11 7
24 23 15 16 14 19
13 17 21 22 20 18
12 26 9 10 29 25
31 2 4 33 5 36
Fig. 1.1 Magic Square.

30 Christopher Fox
discernible in this music than Peter Maxwell Davies’s use of magic squares
in his compositions from the 1970s onwards. But Finnissy’s title situates his
work within an English folk tradition whose antique quasi-science, founded
on superstition and coincidence, is at odds with the music’s modernist veneer.
A similar and more explicit disparity is to be found in Birtwistle’s operas
Punch and Judy (1967) and Down by the Greenwood Side (1969) in which
modernist music is used to retell old English folk dramas.
Englishness is more explicit in a number of other works from the 1970s,
especially the eight-part series entitled Mysteries (1972–9), setting texts from
the English mystery play cycles and Mr Punch (1976–7, rev. 1979), but is most
explicitly confronted in English Country-Tunes (1977–82, rev. 1982). The first
edition of the score declares that this 50-minute work in eight movements was
‘written in celebration of the Silver Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
II’,7 but it offers a celebration closer to the dystopia of Derek Jarman’s
Jubilee8 or the Sex Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’9 – ‘she’ll make you a moron,
a potential H-bomb’ – than to a cheery street party or a commemorative
mug. Englishness is evoked through the movement titles, from ‘Green mead-
ows’ to ‘Come beat the drums and sound the fifes’, and through the modal
melodic passages that open the second movement, ‘Midsummer morn’ and
run throughout the seventh, ‘My bonny boy’, as well as appearing elsewhere
in the work. But these signifiers of Englishness, rooted in the early twentieth-
century folk-inflected music of Percy Grainger and Vaughan Williams, are
always under threat, the melody of ‘Midsummer morn’ from other sorts of
piano texture, that in ‘My bonny boy’ from a process of modulation which
progressively unsettles its initial modal stasis.
It is interesting to compare English Country-Tunes with other near-contem-
porary new music reflections on nationality, such as John Cage’s Apartment
House 1776 (1976), Helmut Lachenmann’s Tanzsuite mit Deutschlandslied
(1980) and Walter Zimmermann’s Lokale Musik (1977–81). Cage’s work,
written to mark the USA’s bicentennial, is a vision of the melting-pot multi-
cultural society that liberal Americans like to imagine they might have
achieved. Lachenmann and Zimmermann’s works, in their different ways,
reflect on the difficulties associated with any sort of assertion of German
national identity. What distinguishes Finnissy’s work is that it is a much
more individual amalgamation of ideas, combining musical reflections upon
English social history with others embodying an intensely private and imme-
diate personal history. For Finnissy ‘England’ is a version of Arcadia, but
it is also centuries of militarism and the contemporary threat to gay men
presented by queer-bashing skinheads; it is the bucolic nationalism of the
folk-song movement and the racist nationalism of the far right, flourishing in
the late 1970s under the banner of the National Front.
Pathways of Sun and Stars and English Country-Tunes are unmistakeably
modernist works but where Pathways had concealed its Englishness in the
arcana of magic square operations, English Country-Tunes makes Englishness
its very audible focus. Since English Country-Tunes Finnissy has repeatedly
found ways to merge the syntactical fragmentation and disjuncture so char-
acteristic of modernism’s musical lingua franca with much more local con-
cerns, whether they be eastern European melodies in Câtana (1984), or the
south-east Asian vocalisations of Kelir (1981). But his most powerful works
are perhaps those, like Maldon (1990) or My parents’ generation thought
War meant something, the fourth chapter from The History of Photography
in Sound (1995–2001), that follow the example of English Country-Tunes,
making modernist utterances with an English accent.
Form
Why did Pathways of Sun and Stars strike me as a modernist work when
I first heard it in the context of Varèse and the second book of Boulez’s
Structures? In part this was an impression created by the types of musical
material being deployed, but the musical forms within which these materials
were deployed were equally important, and in this context I intend to extend
the conventional notion of musical form to include not just an overview of
the succession of musical events within a work but the wider cultural forms
within which that work is situated.
These larger forms include the spaces within music is made, even the idea of
‘music’ itself, and part of the modernist project in the twentieth- and twenty-
first centuries has been to question at least some of the assumptions about
these spaces. For Finnissy, however, most of these forms remain unchal-
lenged: he is a composer who writes scores that are performed by musicians
in concert halls to be listened to by audiences. Nevertheless he does offer a cri-
tique of received ideas about musical form in two domains: instrumentation
and duration. A glance through Finnissy’s catalogue of works soon reveals
instrumental combinations that depart from the conventional groupings of
classical music, either in the invention of new ensembles – a personal favour-
ite is the plucking trio of mandolin, guitar and harp for Obrecht Motetten II
(1989) – or the (often inconvenient) extension of existing ensembles (the
addition of two didjeridu players into the orchestra of Red Earth (1987–8)
may well have deterred some promoters from programming the work). Such
modifications have been typical of new music production for many years, but
by the beginning of the 1980s it had become a feature of the modern music
concert, so that after each piece there would be a lengthy delay while the stage
was reconfigured to accommodate the instrumentation of the next work.
Similarly, one might argue that Finnissy’s frequent exploration of extended
work-lengths is typically modernist. Just as the familiar groupings of classi-
cal musical ensembles were being questioned, so too were the groupings of
works within the familiar two-part classical concert. As the 1970s gave way
to the 1980s composers increasingly produced works that could not easily
be programmed within a mixed programme of works by other composers,
either because their technical demands were at odds with most other works
or because they were too long to be accommodated within the normal concert
32 Christopher Fox
structure. The series of extended works that Morton Feldman produced from
1979 until the end of his life in 1987 established a new possibility for compos-
ers, that of creating works whose duration meant that rather than being part
of a programme they became its sole subject.
More widespread was the practice of conceiving individual works as part
of a larger cycle. This had the pragmatic advantage of allowing promoters to
present one or more parts of a cycle within a conventional mixed programme,
a less risky strategy for both composer and promoter than Feldman’s all-or-
nothing approach. From the mid-1970s this cyclical tendency spread across
every musical genre, from Philip Glass’s Music in Twelve Parts (1971–4), to
Gerard Grisey’s Les espaces acoustiques (1975–84), to Brian Ferneyhough’s
Carceri d’invenzione (1981–6) and, most spectacular of all, Stockhausen’s
LICHT (1977–2003), a seven-day opera that was nevertheless made out of a
set of individual modules. One might even argue that the fashion for double
and triple concept albums in the pop music of the period, such as Yes’s 1973
triple album, Yessongs, and Stevie Wonder’s 1976 double album and EP,
Songs in the Key of Life, share and to some extent anticipate the grandiose
ambition of these cyclic works.
Finnissy also adopted this way of thinking about compositional projects
as an extended group of works based within a single conceptual framework.
The Mysteries (1972–9) are a set of eight works for voices and instruments on
Biblical subjects, but they are based on much older cycles, the Mystery plays of
medieval England; Finnissy’s first autonomous cycle is English Country-Tunes,
initially composed in 1977 and then revised between 1982 and 1985. The eight
component parts of English Country-Tunes play for between four and eight
minutes – perfect recital material – and the whole cycle for 43 minutes – half of
a conventional concert. More ambitious in scale are the Verdi Transcriptions,
first planned in 1972 and gradually expanded until in 2005 they reached their
final form, thirty-six pieces grouped into four books, around two-and-three-
quarter hours of music. They are, however, like the Mysteries, based on an
existing cycle, the works of Verdi, with one piece for each opera or version
of an opera, as well as pieces relating to the String Quartet and Requiem, all
assembled in the chronological order of their sources.
Folklore (1993–5), again for solo piano, matches the modernist cycle
template more straightforwardly. Its four parts vary in length from about
12 minutes to nearly half an hour and together play for about 70 minutes, so
that the individual components can be played in mixed programmes while the
complete work might make up an entire concert. The History of Photography
in Sound, on the other hand, blows the template apart. Although some of the
eleven pieces – perhaps North American Spirituals, Alkan-Paganini, Seventeen
Immortal Homosexual Poets and Etched bright with sunlight – have a formal
arc and a duration suitable for conventional recitals, many of the others have
complex, fragmentary forms that only truly make sense in a performance of
the complete cycle. Yet such a performance is, because of the overall length
of the cycle, necessarily several performances, possibly over more than one
day; a work consisting of five-and-a-half hours of solo piano music will,
regardless of the nature of the music, make serious demands on both pianist
and audience.
Written in an era when an extended timescale has often been used to create
performances that are described as ‘durational’ or ‘immersive’, The History
of Photography in Sound might appear, on the clock at least, to be part of this
tendency. The reality is rather different. In a typically Finnissian paradox the
experience of listening to the complete History is not one in which, through
immersion in the artist’s chosen material one loses track of duration: rather,
the diversity of the material deployed both across the cycle as a whole and
within individual pieces, and the constantly changing ways in which this
material occupies time, makes the passing of time a central subject of the
work. On the two occasions when I have heard complete performances of
The History of Photography in Sound I have found that the ways in which
the work’s musical materials articulate its form are so various that one’s
attentiveness is continually challenged. It’s a profoundly uneasy, although
(another paradox) ultimately very satisfactory, experience.
Histories of European modernist music usually trace a movement from a
predominantly formalist approach to composition in the 1950s, exemplified
by titles like Structures, to a more referential approach in the 1960s and 1970s,
perhaps most strikingly represented by the works of B.A. Zimmermann and
Mauricio Kagel. In retrospect this desire to situate new works within a refer-
ential frame defined by existing music and musical practices can be seen to be
the dominant tendency in new music from the mid-1960s until well into the
1980s, stretching across continents, genres and stylistic allegiances. Notable
examples include John Cage’s Cheap Imitation (1969) and all the subsequent
pieces he made out of other composers’ work, Kagel’s Variationen ohne Fuge
(1961–2, rev.1971–2), Helmut Lachenmann’s Accanto (1975–6), Ligeti’s
Horn Trio (1982), Christian Wolff’s many works made out of political songs,
as well as the more straightforwardly conservative reversion to older formal
models in Peter Maxwell Davies’s symphonies.
A glance across Finnissy’s catalogue of works will soon suggest that refer-
entiality is an important part of his approach to musical forming too: English
Country-Tunes, Reels (1980–1), Verdi Transcriptions, Doves Figary (1976–7,
rev.1981) illustrate the range, from the general to the very specific. What
distinguishes Finnissy’s practice from his contemporaries, however, is the
density of reference and the extent to which he transforms his source mate-
rial. Only occasionally, as in some of the Gershwin Arrangements (1975–88),
where the original tunes are well known and where the music that Finnissy
spins around them is principally focused on that tune, is the relationship
between the musical objet trouvé and its new context straightforwardly dia-
lectical. More usually, Finnissy fragments, transforms, juxtaposes elements
of a large number of different pieces of music to construct a rich motivic stew
within which each component is significant not so much for what it represents
in itself but rather more for what it represents as part of this new form.10
34 Christopher Fox
Thus, in the spaces they occupy – physical, instrumental, temporal – and
in the ways that they articulate those spaces, Finnissy’s works are consistent
with some of the most striking developments in modernist musical forming
of the last fifty years. Yet, just as with its subject matter, there is much more
about the form of this music that is entirely particular to his compositional
personality.
Musical materials
The modernist crises of the mid-1970s were most clearly audible through
their impact on the sorts of material composers chose to deploy in their
music. If the European modernism practised by the emerging composers of
the 1950s had initially focused on a radical disposition of familiar instru-
mental sounds – the old notes but in new configurations – this quickly
shifted to an emphasis on new sounds, whether generated electronically or
through different ways of making instrumental sounds. The compositional
path that took Stockhausen from Klavierstück I (1952) to Klavierstück X
(1961) and beyond is one that passed through the electronic music studio –
only through that experience could he have discovered the new sonic con-
stellations of his later work.
In the 1950s Boulez had drawn a sharp distinction between electronic
music and instrumental music,11 privileging the latter, but by the 1970s even
he, through the IRCAM project, was seeking new sonic resources in an
attempt to extend his compositional palette. In Europe IRCAM reified an
approach to compositional practice that combined electronic and instru-
mental sounds, developed digital technologies for sound processing in both
concert and studio settings, and used computer sound analysis as a tool to
aid the creation of new sounds. Its success (and its considerable funding) has
made it an attractive focus for generations of composers, both as a place to
work and as a career validation.
Finnissy’s career, however, lacks any such validation and his huge output
is without any works for electronic media other than the most rudimentary.12
This absence is, of course, not unusual: there have been many composers
since 1950 who have stayed away from the electronic music studio, particu-
larly those whose careers have been spent largely outside of institutions.
In the UK, studio facilities tended to be concentrated in universities (such
as those in York, Birmingham, Edinburgh or City, University of London)
and colleges, where they were primarily available to those who taught or
studied there, and there has often been a very distinct aesthetic separation
between the composers who worked in these studios and those who, like
Finnissy, wrote music for instrumental performers. Studio work was also
usually slow, particularly in institutions where a number of composers were
competing for a limited amount of studio time, and even the quickest of
glances through Finnissy’s catalogue will confirm that he is not a composer
who works slowly.
Whatever the reason, the absence of this studio sensibility is very evident
in Finnissy’s work. Paradoxically it is the centrality in Finnissy’s music of
two of the principal compositional methods of electronic music, collage and
transformation, that makes this absence particularly striking. If one com-
pares Georg Katzer’s Aide memoire (1983) with English Country-Tunes it is
clear that, although both composers are confronting aspects of their national
heritage by appropriating, filtering and juxtaposing bits of historically signifi-
cant source material, Katzer is working directly on his material – mostly frag-
ments of Nazi broadcasts – whereas Finnissy must, necessarily, use notation
as a medium through which his material is transcribed before the processes of
transformation and collage can begin.
In 1952 Boulez deemed ‘useless’ any composer who had not experienced the
‘necessity of the dodecaphonic language’,13 and in the 1960s the same might
have been said of any composer who had not felt the necessity of electronic
music. During the 1970s, in the wake of works such as Helmut Lachenmann’s
Pression (1969) and his subsequent proposal in 1972 of a musique concrète
instrumentale14 a similar orthodoxy began to grow up around the forensic
study of the acoustic potential of classical concert instruments. Modern music
gained an additional set of signifiers, requiring woodwind players, for exam-
ple, to control not only the fundamental tones of their instruments but also the
overtone structures of each of those tones, string players to bow longitudinally
as well as laterally and with a far greater variety of different pressures.
As with electronic sound and sound-processing, Finnissy, however, has
shown remarkably little interest in this newly revealed instrumental sound
world, in spite of working closely with many of its leading practitioners. His
String Quartet (1984), for example, was written for the Arditti Quartet but
eschews the post-expressionist vocabulary of tremulous sul ponticello flutter-
ings in which so much of that ensemble’s repertoire was couched; perhaps
this explains why the Ardittis gave so few performances of this exceptional
work. Instead, Finnissy’s writing for winds and brass is usually centred on
a succession of pitches, conventionally notated, with almost no recourse to
the prescriptive (rather than descriptive) notations used by Lachenmann and
his followers. Virtuosity is required to deal with the speed at which events
occur rather than with rapid changes between different types of events and
tone production. One of the few exceptions is Lost Lands (1977), which has
an extended coda almost entirely in the form of extended techniques, but this
was an unusual piece written for the Österreichische Ensemble, familiar with
similar music from composers such as Hans-Joachim Hespos.
Finnissy has also shown little interest in alternatives to equal temperament,
another set of new musical resources that emerged out of the crisis in musical
modernism of the mid-1970s. Whether in the works of the French composers
associated with Ensemble L’Itinéraire, such as Grisey, Tristan Murail and
Hugues Dufourt, or in the work of composers such as Ben Johnston, James
Tenney, Ligeti or Salvatore Sciarrino, all affected by what Bob Gilmore has
called ‘the climate since Harry Partch’,15 these new tonalities have radically
36 Christopher Fox
extended the expressive possibilities within modern music. In Finnissy’s
music, on the other hand, equal temperament reigns supreme, although in
his vocal, wind and string writing the twelve semitones of the octave are often
given quarter-tone inflections.
Given the centrality of the piano in Finnissy’s practice both as com-
poser and performer this is hardly surprising, and one could argue that his
approach to pitch organisation is essentially pragmatic. Concert promot-
ers rarely respond well to requests that their piano be retuned and, even if
they did, a retuned piano is an instrument that is probably only going to
be suitable for the piece that requires that alternative tuning. As mentioned
earlier, Finnissy’s music is also densely referential and, since many of these
references are to source material from the body of equally tempered works,
it is sensible to preserve their tuning system. So Finnissy’s piano remains in
equal temperament, the rest of his instrumental writing follows suit, and even
when Finnissy’s source materials come from musical traditions using other
tuning systems, he is content to transcribe these through the medium of equal
temperament, a practice whose ancestry lies in the folk-song transcriptions of
Bartók and Grainger. Like his predecessors, Finnissy has an extraordinary
gift for imagining piano sonorities that defy easy aural analysis and, like
Bartók especially, he will often deploy dissonance as a means of reproducing
tunings that lie outside the twelve-tone chromatic spectrum.
More importantly, the fundamentals of Finnissy’s musical language are at
odds with much of the post-1970s thinking about tuning and temperament. In
Finnissy’s music the primary axis is almost always linear: sometimes, as in the
ensemble music of the mid- to late 1980s, orientated around a sustained tone;
more usually in a state of continuous harmonic flux. In the music of Grisey or
Tenney, on the other hand, whole domains of a piece will occupy a particular
tonal territory. As with other areas of non-compliance in Finnissy’s relation-
ship to developments within musical modernism, one has the sense that his
motivation is not so much reactionary – a conservative refusal to engage with
new ideas – as individualistic; aware that these resources exist he nevertheless
does not need them to fulfil his expressive purpose.
It may seem perverse to write at such length about things that a composer
has not done, particularly when there is so much that the composer in ques-
tion has done, but if we are to get a sense of Finnissy as a modernist it is surely
important to compare his compositional practice with that of other modern-
ists in the same era. Emphasising the negative spaces in Finnissy’s music –
what it is not, as much as what it is – makes it easier, for this writer at least, to
assess how and why it is so extraordinary. What becomes clear is that, although
Finnissy’s music first started to attract attention in continental Europe before
it became well known in Britain, this does not mean that his music was like
continental modernist music of the period. In retrospect it seems more likely
that promoters, musicians and critics in France, Germany, Austria and the
Netherlands found Finnissy’s music interesting because it did not sound like
other British music, rather than because it sounded ‘continental’.
In 1976 few people can have had a more comprehensive view of con-
temporary musical developments than Boulez, who by then was not only a
composer and conductor but also in the midst of creating IRCAM, and as
he prepared the Round House premiere of Pathways of Sun and Stars he too
must have been struck by the individuality of Finnissy’s music. Pathways is
a work that needs to be heard again – it is hard to believe that music that
made such an impact on me has lain unperformed for over forty years – and
when it is revived perhaps it will confirm at least some of the ideas I have pro-
posed here. In particular, I suspect that it will demonstrate just how unusual
Finnissy’s musical thought has always been.
Or perhaps it’s not so unusual. The greatest composers of sixteenth- and
seventeenth-century England ignored so many of the new possibilities being
developed in France and Italy and, although the social circumstances of late
twentieth- and early twenty-first-century Europe are very different, Finnissy’s
work does share some of this peculiarly English attitude to innovation.
Insularity may be a cultural condition as well as a geographic reality. At its
heart, Finnissy’s music is essentially modernist in its interrogation of subject
matter, form and materials, but the conclusions reached are radically different
from those to be found in much of the music of his contemporaries. Finnissy’s
compositional choices are intensely personal, determined by his own ways of
making and hearing music, and are therefore, because of his personality, also
often intensely political. As a result his music – by turns beguiling, explosive,
awkward – has a presence in the world quite unlike other modern music.
Notes
1 Roderick Hawkins, (Mis)understanding complexity from Transit to Toop: ‘New
Complexity’ in the British Context (PhD thesis: University of Leeds, 2010).
2 But see Ian Pace’s essay in Chapter 3 of this book for a range of different models
for genre.
3 See, for example, Antonio Trudu, La “Scuola” Darmstadt (Milan: Unicopli/
Ricordi, 1992), pp. 217–8.
4 Rob Young, Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music (London:
Faber and Faber Ltd, 2010).
5 Alfred Watkins, The Old Straight Track: Its Mounds, Beacons, Moats, Sites and
Mark Stones (London: Methuen & Co., 1925), quoted in Young, Electric Eden,
p. 22.
6 Ibid., p. 492.
7 This inscription was included in the first edition of the score, published by
Universal Edition in 1978, but not in the later, revised version published
by United Music Publishers in 1986.
8 Derek Jarman, Jubilee (1978).
9 The Sex Pistols, ‘God Save the Queen’, EMI and Virgin Records, 1976.
10 See, for example, Ian Pace’s analysis of Folklore in ‘The Piano Music’, in
Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground:
The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 111–33.
11 See, for example, Boulez’s contribution to the symposium on ‘The Compositional
Possibilities of electronic Music’ at the 1956 Darmstädter Ferienkurse; a
38 Christopher Fox
tape recording of the symposium is held in the archive of the Internationales
Musikinstitut Darmstadt.
12 The most notable example is probably the extended use of recordings of birdsong
in the Second String Quartet.
13 Pierre Boulez, ‘Possibly…’ (Eventuellement) (1952), in Stocktakings from an
Apprenticeship, collected and edited Paule Thévenin, translated Stephen Walsh
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), p. 113.
14 Helmut Lachenmann, ‘Pression für einen Cellisten (1969/70)’ (1972), in Musik
als existentielle Erfahrung: Schriften 1966–1995, edited and with a foreword by
Josef Häusler (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1996), p. 381.
15 Bob Gilmore, ‘The Climate since Harry Partch’, Contemporary Music Review,
vol. 22, nos.1 and 2 (2003), pp. 15–33.
Bibliography
Boulez, Pierre. ‘Possibly…’ (Eventuellement) (1952). In Pierre Boulez, Stocktakings
from an Apprenticeship, collected and edited Paule Thévenin, translated Stephen
Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), pp. 111–40.
Gilmore, Bob. ‘The Climate since Harry Partch’. Contemporary Music Review, vol. 22,
nos.1 and 2, (2003), pp. 15–33.
Hawkins, Roderick. (Mis)understanding complexity from Transit to Toop: ‘New
Complexity’ in the British Context. PhD thesis: University of Leeds, 2010.
Lachenmann, Helmut. ‘Pression für einen Cellisten (1969/70)’ (1972). In Musik als
existentielle Erfahrung: Schriften 1966–1995, edited and with a foreword by Josef
Häusler (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1996), p. 381.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Trudu, Antonio. La “Scuola” Darmstadt. Milan: Unicopli/Ricordi, 1992.
Watkins, Alfred. The Old Straight Track: Its Mounds, Beacons, Moats, Sites and
Mark Stones. London: Methuen & Co., 1925.
Young, Rob. Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music. London: Faber
and Faber, 2010.
2 Post-experimental survivor
Finnissy the experimentalist
Philip Thomas
It is well known that the range of sources, references, allusions in and

influences upon Finnissy’s music are drawn from a wide range of periods,
traditions, genres and cultures. To label Finnissy as a composer within a
particular mode or tradition would be foolhardy and would serve only to
diminish the breadth of his compositional activity – Finnissy is undoubtedly
a pluralistic composer par excellence. That said, narratives might be use-
fully construed and isolated as means to understand and give prominence
to one or more aspects of his work. Just as multiple sources collide and
rub against each other in contrapuntal relationships with startling juxtaposi-
tions within his compositions, so the compositional techniques and forms
employed by Finnissy are multiple and various, and interact with one another
(albeit sometimes disruptively). This chapter isolates some of the features of
Finnissy’s compositions and musical activity which reflect his relationship to
a conventionally conceived experimental tradition.
The narrative proposed here departs only to a small degree from the his-
torically configured – and undoubtedly restrictive, partial and problematic –
understanding of twentieth-century experimental music, broadly conceived
by Michael Nyman in his 1974 book Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond.1
Whilst this is clearly a skewed, Anglocentric narrative, it is one that reflects
some of the self-acknowledged influences upon Finnissy’s compositional aes-
thetic and technique from the 1960s onwards, in fact pre-dating Nyman’s
book and a number of the seminal works by those composers mentioned.
That Finnissy was composing from an early age, and discovering a wide
range of new and radical scores even before his teenage years, is well docu-
mented – however it can be easily forgotten that his own music anticipates
and is contemporary with some of the most radical scores by composers a
generation older than him. As I will demonstrate here, there are examples of
Finnissy’s music from the 1960s which would not be out of place in Nyman’s
book.
Finnissy’s eclecticism as a composer and performer mark him as a far
more radical and inclusive artist than can be contained within the historically
narrow traditions conceived by Nyman and others. Recent re-evaluations
of experimentalism – which, as well as critiquing the key figures of the
40 Philip Thomas
experimental music canon, include discussions of music that point toward a
greater diversity with respect to gender and sexuality, ethnicity and culture –
are far more representative of a Finnissy view of music.2 Demonstrative of
Finnissy’s interests are his programming choices as a pianist: a selection
of recital programmes from the British Music Information Centre,3 dating
mostly from the late 1970s through to the early 1990s, reveal that as well as
his own music, Finnissy performed music by Chris Dench, James Dillon,
Brian Ferneyhough, Jennifer Fowler, Percy Grainger, Elizabeth Lutyens,
Chris Newman, Howard Skempton, Judith Weir, and John White – a quite
extraordinary mélange of musical styles, aesthetics, and notations. And whilst
the pianist-composers he references as having historically informed his piano
writing and style include Chopin, Leopold Godowsky and Ferruccio Busoni,
Finnissy’s piano style has also been likened to the American experimentalist
Cecil Taylor.4 On disc, however, Finnissy’s choice of repertoire includes the
music of Laurence Crane, Newman, Skempton and Weir, some of which is
considered ‘experimental’, as well as his own.5 And with Ixion and Ensemble
Exposé, as pianist and conductor, as well as performing a wide range of
British music (also adding to the names above those of Geoff Hannan, Bryn
Harrison, Luke Stoneham and Andrew Toovey), Finnissy has performed
substantial works by Cage (the Concert for Piano and Orchestra (1957–8))6
and Feldman (including Crippled Symmetry (1983), the focus of some discus-
sion later in this chapter).
It is not only that Finnissy’s activities reflect and contribute to the English
experimental tradition – the relationship is reciprocated. Keith Potter, in a
review of a Finnissy-focused event at the Union Chapel on 1 July 1988, noted
that ‘“English experimentalists” were, in fact, more in evidence during the
Finnissy events than those one associates with the “Ferneyhough school” of
which he has in the past often been considered a member’.7 Whilst there are
doubtless a number of experimental music diehards for whom a Finnissy
concert would be anathema to their upholding of the tradition, there is
notable interest in the music from composers such as Michael Parsons and
Skempton, while the renowned pianist and biographer of Cornelius Cardew,
John Tilbury, has performed Finnissy’s music on a number of occasions.8
Andrew Clements, in a 1988 article, alluded to the association of Finnissy
with Skempton, Newman and White, who he suggests are typically ‘English’
and outsiders, eccentrics,9 and this is a view reinforced by Finnissy in
interviews, although the terms of reference are wider: in a 2002 article,
in interview with pianist Marilyn Nonken, Finnissy talks of ‘being in the
desert’ – ‘Most of the composers I play, or love listening to, have been in the
desert for a good while. Percy Grainger, Chris Newman, Cage, Feldman,
Xenakis. Figures, to some extent, “marginal” to an Establishment central
ground. I feel bolstered up by the mavericks. I’ve learnt from them. Of
course, you can see their traces in what I write.’10 This isolationist rhetoric
is familiar to the literature relating to the, primarily American, experimen-
tal tradition but Finnissy’s support of and friendships with a wide range
Post-experimental survivor 41
of his peers and younger composers (including one-time students) suggest
an intentional positioning of himself within a culture.11 Still, the fearsome
independence, determination, eclecticism and demonstrably idiosyncratic
qualities of these composers – just as in the experimental filmmakers Stan
Brakhage, Jack Smith and Andy Warhol – are ones which are surely deeply
attractive to Finnissy.
References to the experimentalists within Finnissy’s music are less common
than might be suggested by the emphasis he places upon them in conversa-
tion. Short pieces are named after Ives and Cage (as well as Nancarrow),
and another work, There never were such hard times before (1991) was writ-
ten for the tenth anniversary of Cardew’s death. The music of Wolff (spe-
cifically his 1979 work for solo piano Hay Una Mujer Desaparecida, a set
of variations upon the song of the same name by Holly Near about the
disappeared women and children of Chile under Pinochet) and Cardew
(his arrangements of Chinese revolutionary songs from 1973) feature as
sources for the second of the four sections of Folklore.12 These references are
neither direct quotations – instead Finnissy alludes to the musical features
of their writing, such as the tremolandi in Wolff and the accompaniment
style in Cardew – nor are they references to original music by either com-
poser. The significance is perhaps more to the ways in which direct politi-
cal content is foregrounded in an ‘experimental music’ context, though the
musical content and form in both pieces is amongst their composers’ least
experimental. More broadly the ways in which the music is constructed and
formed demonstrate the degrees to which it is informed by the music of the
experimentalists. The ways in which Finnissy works with time, or around
time – employing grace notes, other unmeasured (indeterminate) noteheads,
space-time notation (see Ex. 2.1 for these latter two), and often prolonged
silences – is deeply rooted in the music of Ives, Cage and Feldman, as he
poignantly articulated it in 2006, with reference to Satie as well as Ives –
‘the removal of the bar line, harnessing simultaneities from the street and
fresh air’.13
Ex. 2.1 Finnissy, Beat Generation Ballads (2013), from ‘naked original skin beneath
our dreams 80 robes of thought’. © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2015.
42 Philip Thomas
Extended melodic sequences – gently unravelling over long sections –
and complex combinations of metrically differentiated material can also
serve to heighten a prolongation of non-metric time. At the microlevel,
techniques used to adapt, transpose, remove, and otherwise reconfigure
found material are particularly reminiscent of those used by Cage in Cheap
Imitation (version for solo piano, 1969),14 Song Books (1970), Hymns and
Variations (1979) and those used in other Finnissy works that make use of
pre-existing material, including a number derived from dodecaphonic and
serial techniques.15 And Cage’s use of found material through collage in
early works for tape, through to the circus pieces (in particular HPSCHD
and the Europeras) is one of the many examples of work paralleled in the
multiple, often simultaneous, uses of material drawn from different sources,
even within a solo work, in Finnissy’s music.16 These are methods by which
Finnissy, referencing Cage, writes ‘in order to hear’.17 In a 1999 article
Finnissy writes of the creative process of notation itself: ‘I write so that I can
listen; I don’t try and hear in my head first (there’s so much junk in there).
The writing is the electric contact, the Promethean fire, the uncoverer and
discoverer of sounds.’18 Cage’s oft-quoted statements such as ‘My favourite
music is the music I haven’t yet heard. I don’t hear the music I write. I write
in order to hear the music I haven’t yet heard’,19 and others to more or less
the same effect, can undermine the extent to which he was fully aware of
the macro-compositional levels of his music. The very considered level of
overall design facilitated the complex chance methods employed to generate
or transform content in ways that were predictable at the macro-level but
unpredictable in the detail, in the same way that Finnissy’s processes lead
to varying degrees of unpredictability in the collisions and continuities of
material.
The indeterminacy of hearing is demonstrated in those pieces – stretching
across his entire output –for open instrumentation. There are few compos-
ers, other than Anthony Braxton, Christian Wolff and certain composers of
the Wandelweiser collective, who more consistently and varyingly facilitate
a wide range of performance possibilities through the use of open instru-
mentation within otherwise more or less conventionally notated scores than
Finnissy. This is in no small part due to his concern to write inclusively, to
accommodate a greater range of possibilities, and, in many cases, to be more
adaptable for amateur players.20 Perhaps most of all it is this undercurrent of
experimentation, of discovery, that most links Finnissy with an experimental
aesthetic, and the associated ‘substantial risk’ that accompanies the act of
composition and its performance.21
The remainder of this chapter focuses upon two aspects of Finnissy’s
work which typify his particular brand of experimentalism and indetermi-
nacy: independence of parts and what have been termed the ‘kit’ pieces.22
Finnissy’s musical language and experimental aesthetic was being forged
at an early age, demonstrated by a work composed between 1968–71,
when the composer was in his early twenties. Transformations of the
Vampire – scored for clarinet, violin, viola and three percussionists, play-
ing drums, vibraphone, glockenspiel and celeste – is in six movements (to
be played continuously) traversing a variety of notational styles. After a
first movement for solo clarinet (the only movement which may be played
alone), characterised by the irregular rhythmic notation for which Finnissy
is most known, and a similarly notated second movement for strings and
percussion (necessitating cues to demarcate the ensemble movement),
a third movement marks a quite radical departure, at least in terms of
process: each of the four instruments (clarinet, vibraphone, violin and
viola) have a page each (four systems) of material which they are to work
through independently, stopping at cues given by a conductor according
to timings set out in the score, and picking up exactly where they left off at
the next cue, playing through to the end of their material after the last
pause (Ex. 2.2).
Ex. 2.2 Finnissy, manuscript of instructions for Transformations of the Vampire

(1968–71). © Universal Edition 1979.
The score allows for flexibility in the detail and the alignments between
instruments, but is written in such a way that the combination of free-
doms of duration are counteracted by a specificity in continuity and types
of material (such as durational ranges for some notes). The fourth move-
ment is noise-based, requiring the string players to tap on their instruments
‘varying the pitch freely’, alongside the drums, according to a strictly rhyth-
micised notation. It is the fifth and sixth movements, however, which are
so startling and radical – these are text scores, composed not long after
Stockhausen’s Aus Den Sieben Tagen (1968) and exactly contemporaneous
with the bulk of Wolff’s Prose Collection (1968–97) pieces and Burdocks
(1970–1) (which similarly features a range of notational types, including
text scores) and also Cornelius Cardew’s The Great Learning (1968–70),
paragraphs 6 and 7 of which are text-based scores. Finnissy’s texts read as
follows:
44 Philip Thomas
Movement 5: Intermittent sounds of breathing, scraping, buzzing, rattling,

tapping, etc. accentuated beyond normal volume level, but, in general, NOT
over-loud.
Do not contrive a formal layout of the material (no climaxes – unfocused).
Duration: not more than 3’00”.
Movement 6: Very quiet and continuous non-referential sounds or single

pitches in the middle and high registers.
Mixed timbres
Do not contrive a formal layout of the material (no climaxes – unfocused).
Duration: not more than 4’30”.
Fig. 2.1 Finnissy, text instructions from Transformations of the Vampire (1968–71).
© Universal Edition 1979.
Compare these with this text by Wolff, from 1969:
Stones: Make sounds with stones, draw sounds out of stones, using a number
of sizes and kinds (and colors); for the most part discretely; sometimes in rapid
sequences. For the most part striking stones with stones, but also stones on
other surfaces (inside the open head of a drum, for instance) or other than struck
(bowed, for instance, or amplified). Do not break anything.
Fig. 2.2 Christian Wolff, ‘Stones’, from Prose Collection (1968–97)23. © Christian
Wolff 1969.
Both scores emphasise the un-musical and the understated, a focus upon
the act of making sounds rather than dramatic or formal qualities, allowing
individual choice and creativity but also expressing a general concern for the
‘unfocused’ and ‘discrete’.
In Transformations of the Vampire, it is as if the young Finnissy is trying
out different means of making sounds, or how ensembles work together,
how they breathe. There are parallels with the notational explorations of
Morton Feldman during the 1960s, in works such as Piano Piece 1964, Two
Pieces for Three Pianos (1966), False Relationships and the Extended Ending
(1968) and Between Categories (1969). In these pieces Feldman juxtaposes
and superimposes different notations, ranging from those in exact rhythmic
detail, cue-based notations between members of the ensemble (or part of
the ensemble) and different types of noteheads (free durations), some within
grids, others entirely open. The resulting types of music might be relatively
similar but the different notations suggest distinct modes of articulation and
movement. Though he has not returned to the method of text scores, from
the late 1960s through to the current day, Finnissy has experimented with
different notations, both specific and more open, pertaining to how perform-
ers move through and across time.
Between the ranges of highly specific and coordinated rhythmic notations,
to the cue-based notations of afar (1966–7) and Horrorzone (1968–71), to
the independent parts of the third movement of Transformations, scores
include instructions suggesting different modes of ensemble interaction:
Sir Tristran (1978), for example, includes the instruction ‘Although often
extremely detailed, the rhythm is intended to sound flexible and free of any
regular or discernible pulse. The coordination of parts is ‘loose’ rather than
‘strict’, and whenever the voice is present always follows the voice.’24 Whilst
the notation is distinct, the effect is not dissimilar to the roughly coordinated
ensemble pieces by Christian Wolff (such as the Exercises 1–13 (1973–4) or
the more improvisatory possibilities of Anthony Braxton’s scores. But it is
those pieces without score featuring only independent parts that most clearly
relate to the experimentalism of Cage, Feldman, and Wolff. Probably the
closest model is the series of chamber works by Feldman beginning with
Piece for 4 Pianos (1957) and continuing with the Durations series in the
early 1960s. In these pieces all players have (paradoxically) the same com-
plete score to read but the written alignments within the score are not to be
observed – instead, each player plays from their part individually, deciding
the duration of each sound in the performance. The scores thus present
themselves as an illusion – the visual appearance is not actually what occurs
in performance, though the fact that alignments are made arguably suggests
a compositional coherence that might be adhered to in performance by no
one player drifting significantly apart from another. Finnissy avoids this
problematic notation by simply presenting performers with their own part,
while retaining the progressive compositional coherence of Feldman’s music
by permitting indeterminacy in the moment-by-moment alignments, but con-
trolling the macro-level continuity. Early works in which these techniques
are explored include, as well as the third movement of Transformations…, a
work composed during the same years for between 1–4 players with the title
n (1969–72) and Forest (1974) for saxophone, violin, guitar, vibraphone and
piano.25 These works also play with indeterminacies of duration, including
open note-heads, space-time notations, and pauses, but the control over tex-
ture and material in relation to continuity is clearly conceived.
After the 1960s Feldman mostly returned to conventional notational
practices, albeit now characterised by a rhythmic complexity not present in
earlier works. However, two later pieces revive the practice of independent
parts: Why Patterns? (1978) for flute (doubling alto and bass flutes), piano
and glockenspiel, and Crippled Symmetry for almost the same combina-
tion of flute/bass flute, piano/celeste, and glockenspiel/vibraphone. As with
the Durations series, players are given only the score which, in the case of
Crippled Symmetry, is aligned to look as if all players are in synchrony,
but in fact the bars – though equal in terms of their graphic space – are of
widely disparate time lengths (such that, for example, the opening bar has
46 Philip Thomas
different time signatures of 48 in the flute part, 165 in the vibraphone, and 43
in the piano part). Crippled Symmetry is unstable in its relationships from
the very beginning: each instrument plays with distinct material, involving
disparate time signatures, independent sets of repetitions, and disturbed
senses of pulse (such as shifts between 4:3 crotchets, four dotted crotch-
ets in the space of five crotchets, four normal dotted crotchets and four
double dotted crotchets), all within a tempo which is unstable from the
outset (ᅄ = 63–6).
The reality in practice will be that each instrument is more or less at the
positions indicated in the score but there may be a greater discrepancy of
ensemble. The consequence of these independent metric relationships is that
variously one instrument might be ahead of another by up to two or more
pages of score, the precise coinciding of material different with each perfor-
mance. However, the uniformity of pitch relationships for much of the piece,
across the parts, establishes a point of reference from which instruments may
deviate, but acting as a pedal, underpins the coherence of the relationships.
Whilst it is almost impossible for the performers to know where exactly in the
score the other players are, and despite the often irregular sense of pulse, the
music requires a close listening and attentive placing of sounds in relation
to the other players, even if momentary alignments are indeterminate. The
second half of the piece, whilst still maintaining independent and distinct
parts, is far more regular in its sense of pulse – at around this time all players
merge to find a common pulse, which is then retained until the end of the
piece, causing the relationship between players to become established and
fixed, albeit differently from one performance to the next.
Feldman’s return to independently functioning parts is in some ways mir-
rored by a similar shift in Finnissy’s music at the same time. During the years
1980–1, Finnissy composed three substantial works, each utilising independ-
ent parts without score – the fifth and seventh piano concertos (1980, 1981)
and Nobody’s Jig (1980–1) for string quartet. These major works (the fifth
concerto and Nobody’s Jig both last 20 minutes) are complex and virtuosic
pieces. However, in contrast to many of the earlier pieces mentioned above
(but in common with parts of n), the notation of each individual part is fully
determined and rhythmically detailed, but the rhythmic relationships between
instruments are inherently indeterminate and to a degree unpredictable.
The Piano Concerto No. 5 – which bears some comparison to the Feldman
pieces, not least because it augments the instrumentation by adding oboe
(doubling oboe d’amore) and mezzo soprano (and removing the glockenspiel
and celeste), is unusually marked ‘Soft throughout, but with “nuances” at
the performer’s discretion’,26 and is no less through-composed – is made up
of mostly sustained, lyrical lines, combined to mark out a highly esoteric
and sensuous texture. The instruments follow a broadly similar structure: a
prolonged first section consisting of a high sustained melody, interspersed
with rests, fluctuating tempo (with ᅅ = 60 as the slower tempo common to
all instruments, fluctuating between very slightly different faster tempi in
each instrument), gradually getting faster and lower; a more rhythmic second
section, with generally fixed tempi, and rhythmic lines, variously legato and
staccato, and more volatile intervallic movement; and a third section which
is more erratic, faster and punctuated. The piano, by way of contrast, begins
with more active material, at first in two-part counterpoint, leading to faster
groups of notes, separated by long pauses, before a substantial section of sus-
tained two-part melody, mirroring the first sections of the instrumental parts,
also progressively nudging faster in tempo though without the fluctuating
movement of the other parts (Ex. 2.3).
Ex. 2.3 Finnissy, Piano Concerto No. 5 (1980), from piano part. © Michael Finnissy.
A no less substantial section of single-line melody follows, faster than the

previous section but still relatively slow, now mirroring the second part of the
instrumental parts with large intervallic leaps (though remaining in the upper
half of the keyboard) before a brief return of the opening texture to end.
All parts are independent, starting exactly together, but ending differently:
the mezzo-soprano has the shortest part and is likely to finish some time
before the piano’s end, followed by percussion, flute, oboe, and ending with
piano. There are no exact points of synchrony whatsoever, but the vari-
ous pauses and changes in texture act as both demarcations of sections and
material as well as useful indicators to the instrumentalists of the ensemble’s
progress through the piece. Through rehearsal, players can readily discover
these relationships and judge how to pace the pauses between sections whilst
48 Philip Thomas
still allowing for flexibility and surprise in the exact coordination between
parts. The pianist, however, once the main section of melodic material has
begun, has little room for manoeuvre thereafter and must judge in rehearsal
how long the pauses in the opening section need to be to ensure that the piano
ends solo, though the amount of material to play almost guarantees this.
Overall, the processes in the fifth piano concerto have greater flexibility and
freedoms accorded the players than in Crippled Symmetry, mostly through
the inclusion of pauses, and whilst the momentary decisions in both pieces
afford nuance and sensitivity to the playing of the other members, the larger-
scale structural decisions in Finnissy’s music are entrusted to the performers’
sense of drama, timing and play.
After what appears to be another break following the seventh piano
concerto,27 other than in successive versions of the piano trio Independence
Quadrilles (1983, rev. 1986,1988, 1995) more works without score but with
independent parts appear from the late 1980s, including the first version of
Nowhere else to go (1989, rev. 2003), WAM for piano, one treble and one bass
instrument (1990–1), Quelle for four saxophones (1994), the revised version
of In Stiller Nacht for violin cello and piano (1990, rev. 1997), Recent Britain
for some combination of clarinet, bassoon, piano, cello and conductor, with
pre-recorded sound (1997–8), Not Afraid for baritone and speaking pianist
(1998), False notions of progress for three instruments (1998), Casual Nudity
for bass flute, guitar, double bass, piano, percussion (2000–1), Kritik der
Urteilskraft for flute, clarinet, violin, cello and piano (2001), Ettelijke bange
eenden for open instrumentation (2001), Springtime for flute, clarinet, violin,
cello and piano (2003) and the second string quartet (2006–7). Some of these
(Casual Nudity and Ettelijke bange eenden in particular) return to the more
experimental notations and instrumentation of Transformations… whilst
others continue the practice of the fifth concerto and Nobody’s Jig. There
is also a section in Plain Harmony (1993), written for Contemporary Music
for Amateurs (COMA), with six independent parts, while another work,
Multiple Forms of Constraint for violin and string trio (1997) contains three
fully-scored and synchronised parts for string trio, but a violin part which is
independent of these, the first of several later works with different elements of
synchronisation and de-synchronisation amongst sub-groups of musicians.
In addition to those pieces which involve independent parts, there are a
number of other works for which no score is necessary, or indeed possible.
These are what can be termed ‘kit’ pieces and indeed one of the pieces in
question uses the term in its title – Post-Christian Survival Kit (2003–5). Kit
pieces generally require performers to assemble, to some degree, a version
ready for any given performance from the materials provided. The tradition
is rooted in Cage (most obviously Concert for Piano and Orchestra, Song
Books, Apartment House 1776 (1976), Europeras (1987–91), and a number of
the so-called ‘circus’ pieces28), Wolff (Burdocks, especially, and some of the
late Exercises (1980–)), and Cardew (Schooltime Compositions (1967)). The
materials provided may simply be pages of music which may be ordered in
different ways and combinations – examples include Notre Dame Polyphony
(2001–2), Déjà fait (2006), Yso (2007) – whilst others may include theatrical
elements, recorded and noise elements, and graphic notations. Almost always
there are instructions which provide parameters within which the piece may
be constructed, though these vary from being quite specific to more ambigu-
ous and open-ended.
The kit pieces date mostly since the millennium, however the first of them
dates, astonishingly, from 1964 (with a revision in 1970): Make-Up is for four
instruments, unspecified – two treble, one bass, and one keyboard instru-
ment.29 Each instrument plays three pages of music, in any order, consisting
of six lines per pages, each of which may be played in any order (though no
more than once each). The music on these pages includes 1. conventionally
notated lines (relatively tonal with key signatures and rhythmically mostly
straightforward); 2. atonal, irregular lines, emphasising variety of regis-
ter and duration and including microtones; 3. note-heads of different sizes
spaced irregularly across a line; and 4. single open note-heads with pauses
(see Ex. 2.4).
Ex. 2.4 Finnissy, from Make-Up (1964, rev. 1970). © Michael Finnissy.
Additionally, inserts are indicated in the treble and bass parts which may be
drawn from a selection of conventional notations on one page (different for
each player) or another page ‘consisting of harmonics, unpitched or pitched
breath sounds, multiphonics and untampered pitches in the instruments’
highest register’, as well as notated rests, which may be repeated. Effectively
each line is a module, which is reconfigured in its changing relationships
with those it follows and precedes, and those with which it is combined in
performance with the other players. In its structure it is perhaps most like
Cage’s Concert for Piano and Orchestra (more so given the possibilities for
50 Philip Thomas
transpositions, added pauses and omissions) but in spirit it is very different
and requires a very active engagement with how the music is formed in the
performance. Finnissy adds further specificity which illustrates both a clear
sense of compositional control over the work and an understanding of what
may be useful to performers: as well as suggesting that the performance,
if using all the material with four players, ‘will last just over four minutes’
(which suggests an average duration of 14 seconds per line), he writes ‘The
performance as a whole should emphasise diversity, irregularity, incompat-
ibility, opposition, even eccentricity of texture and ensemble, in preference to
conformity and even-ness.’30 A performance might, then, be improvised, in
that players might select lines to play in response to what others are playing
to emphasise these characteristics. Alternatively a sequence might be planned
in advance, or worked through in rehearsal, that ensures these qualities are
optimised in performance.
Composed nearly forty years later, Notre-Dame Polyphony works in a
similar manner but is considerably more open, the only instructions being
that the fourteen pages (six single-line pages and eight keyboard pages) be
‘played, with no duplications, in any order and combination. Also inserting
gaps (rests) ‘at suitable moments’ (at bar lines, or as extensions of existing
rests). Dynamic level constant overall: ( ).’ The dynamic
indication is almost the exact opposite of the performance directions given in
Make-Up and no duration is suggested.31 Again the material varies from tonal
and stable rhythmic material to more intricately detailed material, and stem-
less noteheads, clearly identifiable as mensural notational types (rather than
a typically experimental indeterminate notation). Here, however, the consist-
ency of dynamics and types of material make this more akin to the ultimately
more rounded surfaces of Cage’s circus pieces, such as HPSCHD (1967–9).
Very different in both sounding content and notational form are those
kit pieces written between 2003–6, including Post-Christian Survival Kit,
Molly House (2004), Vigany’s Cabinet (2004–5) and APRÈS-MIDI DADA
(2006). In these Finnissy combines notations of varying kinds, and uses open
(albeit sometimes within prescribed limits) instrumentation with instructions
for actions, non-musical sounds and noises (including a coffee-grinder in
APRÈS-MIDI DADA), suggestions for movements and ways of playing.
Post-Christian Survival Kit (dedicated to the musicologist Nicholas Cook,
Finnissy’s colleague at the University of Southampton at the time of its com-
position, where the first performance took place given by a student ensem-
ble) is an assemblage (which might also serve as a useful alternative term
to describe the kit pieces) of historical materials relating to Christianity,
‘re-locating them in an abstracted and alienated context, even perhaps ques-
tioning “secular” appropriation (or secularisation) of them’.32 It is for any
instrumentation though a number of the pages are specifically keyboard
notations. Eleven pages feature two or three lines of un-metred chorale-like
semibreves and minims, essentially tonal or modal two-part harmonies; of
these, seven include one or more lines with text drawn from hymns such
as ‘Nearer my God, to thee’. Nine pages feature between one and five lines
of essentially melodic material, with or without key signatures, notated in
complex and irregular rhythmic detail, with grace notes, sometimes broken
up with numbers of bars rest, and including two-part writing at times. A fur-
ther three pages feature more simple two-part writing, but still rhythmicised
and with time signatures. Eight pages present between two and four lines of
melodic material, modal and rhythmicised, also including frequent and some-
times prolonged rests, with accompanying texts drawn from the same sources
as those mentioned above. These are mostly fairly simple in character but
some contain melismatic features suitable only for more advanced singers or
players. Ten pages of keyboard music vary in length, register, character and
difficulty, from low four-part writing to melismatic and lively rhythmic lines.
The musically notated elements of the piece are completed by two pages (one
of them quite short) of single-line bass writing; these are restricted to a pitch
area no more than a fourth, feature microtones and have the effect of unsta-
ble drones. All musical content has the appearance of fragments, extracted
from sources, with little regard for beginning and end features. The remain-
ing pages of the kit are graphic in character. Sixteen pages feature four freely-
drawn nested squares across which are scattered two types of markings: what
look like little musical accents, in any rotation, which collectively give the
impression of bird claw prints left in the snow, and small four-sided, inked-in
blocks (see Chapter 9, Ex. 9.4). Both types depict distinct journeys across the
page, and in relation to the nested squares, such that a pathway or a number
of pathways might be determined. These may be interpreted as ‘type or
character of sound, its duration or to its physical location’, and are read as
non-musical sounds, noises or extended techniques made on instruments or
in any other way, including ‘non-musical objects in the place of performance
or the performer’s own body’.33 A further ten pages depict what Finnissy
describes as ‘antique illustrations’, extracts from woodcut depictions such as
‘Christus’ by the Lutheran Lucas Cranach the Elder. These might ‘be real-
ized as “ways of playing the other material”, as “supplementary gestures” –
physical actions which deliberately or inadvertently produce a sound, or as
“tableaux vivants” in which sounds might be audible’. Unlike the musical
notated pages, those pages with graphics may be repeated ‘any number of
times’.34 Whilst one could imagine an interpretative approach which attempts
to reflect the contours of the drawings through sound, much like the parts of
Cage’s Score (40 Drawings by Thoreau) and 23 Parts, it is more likely that
these graphics are suggestions for action or to inform the sounding music.
In a performance I directed at the 2016 Huddersfield Contemporary
Music Festival, lasting ten minutes, pages of music were selected by and
assigned to different instrumental groups, including two recorders, a viol
consort, violin, double bass, acoustic guitar, three trombones, tuba, clarinet,
flute, two saxophones, two pianos, a harpsichord, a toy piano, all of which
were spread around and at different levels within the performing space. A
number of these musicians were also assigned a page of illustration with the
52 Philip Thomas
suggestion that the image might inform how they chose to perform the music
on their pages in some way. Other members of the ensemble selected pages
of maps, or illustrations, or both. Those who interpreted the maps aligned
them to the performing area, including the space outside of the perform-
ing area such that entrances and exits were made, which also made use of
two floors above the ground floor of the Creative Arts Building atrium at
the University of Huddersfield (the different levels suggested by the nested
squares). As the performers walked steadily, marking out their paths,
sounds were made at points reflecting the positions of the markings on the
maps. These included electric guitar attacks, percussive sounds of various
kinds, clarinet multiphonics and squeaks, jumping, and shouts, wails and
murmurings. Additionally some performers combined map directions with
the illustrations, most memorably one performer who, dressed in a hooded
cloak, shuffled through the performing space on their knees, another who
occasionally beat in most dramatic fashion a large box, informed by one
of the images depicting flagellation, and another who played short bursts
of a tape collage made from troubadour and trobairitz songs through a
boombox-cassette player, a choice informed by the image of a man with
outstretched hands.35 Members of the audience moved around the sonic
mélange and it was not always clear as to whether someone was performing
one of the maps or merely wandering around as a listener.
As this description suggests, the result was somewhat chaotic, with moments
of poignant transparency, peculiar ritual, and joy as when extraordinary colli-
sions occurred. Finnissy specifically instructs that ‘No overall structure should
be negotiated or contrived’ and thus as ‘director’ my main role was to gather
players, and make suggestions when asked to.36 Having suggested a ten-min-
ute total duration, I intentionally left individuals and groups free to decide
when to play, how to play, and how to interpret the maps and images, whilst
ensuring ideas were shared during pre-performance gatherings such that fresh
ideas might be accrued in response to others. The power and energy of the
music is in no small part due to the combination of individual choices – which
themselves were often unusual and other than the kinds of sounds and actions
these players might normally choose. They responded imaginatively and with
considerable risk to the notations/graphics – with unpredictable and uncoor-
dinated collisions of sounds resulting from many players making choices as to
time and manner of playing, widely spaced apart.
The kit pieces are perhaps the most obviously experimental of Finnissy’s
output; the chance outcomes and indeterminacies of performance, despite the
parameters and controls set out by the notations and instructions, necessar-
ily afford multiple possibilities of texture, content, continuity, and character
in performance. However, the tensions outlined above in relation to the kit
pieces between a kind of intuitive, imaginative and individualised – ultimately
expressive – performance approach, and one which is distanced, objectified,
and curious, point to a mode of performance which I find at work in all
of Finnissy’s music to varying degrees, whether fully notated and loaded
with detail or reductive and open in the notational signification. Chance and
other techniques to transform, distort or reconfigure source material in the
compositional processes suggest – at least to my mind and in my response as
a performer – a similarly distorted approach to performance, one that recog-
nises the expressive potential of the material whilst at the same time requires a
close attention to the work of the notation, the detail. It is a delicate balance,
one that is particularly unique to Finnissy’s music, unsurprisingly perhaps –
the wide range of interests and musics that underpin Finnissy’s aesthetic can
only result in an equally pluralistic situation in performance.37 But the music
as a whole invites a performance response which is curious, inherently exper-
imental – rather than necessitating an interpretation which, for example,
shapes each line or section in such a way that it is fixed or communicative, the
ways in which the music questions material, its continuity and combinations,
suggests a performance approach which is also questioning, open-ended, and
uncertain, placing the performer in the heart of the experiment.
Notes
1 Michael Nyman, Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond, second edition
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). Nyman’s definitions draw
from Cage’s polemics, essentially those collected in Silence (London: Calder
and Boyars, 1968), and his subjects are Cage and his immediate circle and their
English counterparts.
2 See George E. Lewis, A Power Stronger Than Itself: The AACM and American
Experimental Music (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Benjamin
Piekut (ed.), Tomorrow Is The Question: New Directions in Experimental Music
Studies (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2014).
3 Archived at the British Music Collection, at https://britishmusiccollection.org.
uk/ (accessed 24 June 2018). See Roddy Hawkins’ contribution in Chapter 5 of
this volume for more on Finnissy’s early work as a performer.
4 See for example Finnissy’s own programme note to the Piano Concerto No.3:
‘The writing is…intended to sound completely spontaneous (reminiscent of
Cecil Taylor’s playing, or Thelonious Monk) and physically ‘exciting’ – hot
rather than cool; in conversation with the author (5 October 1995, British Music
Information Centre, 10 Stratford Place, London) Finnissy referred to Taylor
when discussing issues of accuracy in performance: ‘someone like Cecil Taylor
will be doing remarkable things at the keyboard and because it produces such
an extraordinary effect musically I want it! But you can’t trap it in the same
way because jazz is part of a whole other world philosophy so one has to find
the fissures in the philosophy which you’ve inherited and which you’re build-
ing on.’ And Philip Clark, in a review of Ian Pace’s recording of the Verdi
Transcriptions and Piano Concertos, wrote ‘Imagine your favourite Cecil Taylor
solo transcribed and then repeated with the conviction and heat of the source
performance.’ (The Wire, March 2002, p. 55).
5 Michael Finnissy plays Weir, Finnissy, Newman and Skempton (NMC D002,
1992); Laurence Crane: 20th Century Music – Solo Piano Pieces 1985–1999
(Metier MSV28506, 2008)
6 Ensemble Exposé, Donmar Warehouse, 11 December 1988.
7 Keith Potter, ‘Music in London’, The Musical Times, vol. 129 no. 1747
(September 1988), p. 473.
54 Philip Thomas
8 Finnissy composed a Samuel Beckett-inspired solo piano piece for Tilbury,
Enough, in 2001.
9 Andrew Clements, ‘Finnissy’s Undivine Comedy’, The Musical Times, vol. 129
no. 1745 (July 1988), p. 332.
10 Michael Finnissy, Marilyn Nonken, ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’,
Contemporary Music Review, vol. 21, no. 1 (2002), p. 73.
11 See, for example, Walter Zimmermann, Desert Plants: Conversations with 23
American Musicians (Vancouver: Zimmermann, 1976), currently available as pdf
at http://home.snafu.de/walterz/bibliographie.html, and the American Public
Media resource ‘American Mavericks’, at http://musicmavericks.publicradio.
org/ (accessed 17 July 2018).
12 See Ian Pace ‘The Piano Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox &
Ashgate, 1997), pp. 117–20. Pace also notes that the grace notes which overlay
the rhythmic notations are derived from Cardew’s A Book of Study for Two
Pianists.
13 Michael Finnissy, interview with John Habron, new notes (May 2006).
14 See Ian Pace, ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (I)’, Tempo, New Series,
no. 196 (April 1996), pp. 32–3; and Ian Pace ‘The Piano Music’, in Henrietta
Brougham, Christopher Fox & Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music
of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), pp. 78–85.
15 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 78–83 for an example of how Finnissy does this
in his piano piece G.F.H. (1985). See also Chapter 10 of the present volume for
Arnold Whittall’s consideration of Chris Newman’s description of Finnissy’s
work as ‘atonal tonal music’.
16 See Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study
of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), pp. 8–43
for a sustained consideration of broader macro-categories for Finnissy’s sources,
and also Chapter 3 of this volume.
17 In conversation with the author, 5 October 1995 (British Music Information
Centre, 10 Stratford Place, London) in which Finnissy directly refers to Cage’s
statement. He also discussed his strategy of writing away from the keyboard as
relevant to this discussion: ‘Sometimes I think one has to learn that one’s ears are
not the only judge; one has to sometimes write in order to hear.’
18 Michael Finnissy, ‘Writing for the Gruppo Ferruccio’, Current Musicology 67/68
(Fall 1999), p. 106.
19 John Cage, ‘An Autobiographical Statement’, in Richard Kostelanetz (ed.), John
Cage: Writer (New York: First Cooper Square Press, 2000), pp. 237–48.
20 Plain Harmony (1993), in its free instrumentation score, is the first of
Finnissy’s pieces to be composed for both amateur players and non-specific
instrumentation.
21 Richard Toop, ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity”’, Contact 32 (Spring
1988), p. 49.
22 Jonathan Cross and Ian Pace, ‘Finnissy, Michael (Peter)’, Grove Music Online
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).
23 Frog Peak Music, at www.frogpeak.org/unbound/wolff/wolff_prose_collection.
pdf?lbisphpreq=1 (accessed 13 June 2018).
24 Michael Finnissy, preface to score, Sir Tristran (London and Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1978).
25 This is the first piece in which Finnissy composed independent parts throughout.
26 Paradoxically, Crippled Symmetry is unusual in having no dynamic marking
(Feldman’s standard is , or words to the effect of ‘as soft as possible’ or ‘very
soft’), and so theoretically could be played loudly.
27 A short piece, Independence Quadrilles, for violin, cello and piano, followed in
1982, with revisions in 1988 and 1995.
28 Though Finnissy’s kit pieces operate differently from those pieces by Cage from
the late 1950s and early 1960s identified by James Pritchett as ‘tools’, namely
Cartridge Music, Fontana Mix, and the first few of the Variations series. These
take the form of mobile scores, making use of transparencies, by which means a
secondary score or plan may be made and are generally indeterminate with regard
to sounding content. Finnissy’s kit pieces are more specific in their notational
content, but also may include indeterminate elements, but essentially constitute
a collection of material to be used. Thus Cage’s music from the 1970s onwards,
such as those identified here, are a far better match to Finnissy’s methods.
29 Though Finnissy also writes that versions for fewer or more instruments may be
made.
30 Michael Finnissy, preface to score, Make-up (unpublished, 1964, rev. 1970).
31 However, on the composer’s website the duration is stated 8 minutes, and the
number of players specified is 6 or 9. Quite how this relates to the 14 pages of
material is not clear.
32 Michael Finnissy, preface to score, Post-Christian Survival Kit (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003–5).
33 Ibid.
34 APRÈS-MIDI DADA likewise features twelve graphical pages, mainly what
appears to be ink splatterings, or blotter remains, to be interpreted by percussion
and/or noises, and four pages of illustrations, fragments of photos depicting a
nude descending a staircase, ‘which may be perceived as a visual analogue for the
musical composition, and which may be interpreted – live or on film – by either
clothed or unclothed silent actors.’ Other Duchamp references within the piece
include pages of notations, titled ‘Erratum’ in space time, for plucked strings
and/or sustaining keyboards, an homage to Duchamp’s own musical experi-
ments. See also Chapter 9 for further discussion on these notations.
35 Jorge Boehringer, the performer, recalled, ‘He looked like he had been carrying
something that had been erased from the picture, like a television he had just
looted from somewhere. The boombox-cassette player seemed a more positive
solution, and one that produced sound. I also thought it was a nice tip of the hat
to Finnissy’s special approach to something like “sampling” in his work.’
36 Some other kit pieces have more structural indications.
37 Comparing existing recordings of piano music, for example, by different pianists,
including the composer himself, readily demonstrates the multiple interpretative
possibilities and attitudes toward performing Finnissy’s music.
Bibliography
‘American Mavericks’. At http://musicmavericks.publicradio.org/ (accessed 17 July
2018).
Clements, Andrew ‘Finnissy’s Undivine Comedy’. The Musical Times, vol. 129
no.1745 (July 1988), pp. 330–2.
Cross, Jonathan; and Pace, Ian. ‘Finnissy, Michael (Peter)’. Grove Music Online.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score, Make-up. Unpublished, 1964, rev. 1970.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score, Sir Tristran. London and Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1978.
Finnissy, Michael. ‘Writing for the Gruppo Ferruccio’.Current Musicology 67/68
(Fall 1999), pp. 99–108.
56 Philip Thomas
Finnissy, Michael; and Nonken, Marilyn. ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’.
Contemporary Music Review, vol. 21, no. 1 (2002), pp. 71–9.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score, Post-Christian Survival Kit. Oxford University
Press, 2003–5.
Finnissy, Michael. Interview with John Habron. new notes (May 2006).
Frog Peak Music. At www.frogpeak.org/unbound/wolff/wolff_prose_collection.
pdf?lbisphpreq=1 (accessed 13 June 2018).
Lewis, George E. A Power Stronger Than Itself: The AACM and American
Experimental Music. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2009.
Nyman, Michael. Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond, second edition. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Panorama of Michael Finnissy (I)’. Tempo, New Series, no. 196 (April
1996), pp. 25–35.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Pace, Ian. Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study of
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation. Swarland: Divine Art, 2013.
Piekut, Benjamin, ed. Tomorrow Is The Question: New Directions in Experimental
Music Studies. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2014.
Potter, Keith. ‘Music in London’. The Musical Times, vol. 129 no. 1747 (September
1988), pp. 471–4.
Toop, Richard. ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity”’. Contact 32 (Spring 1988),
pp. 4–50.
Zimmermann, Walter. Desert Plants: Conversations with 23 American Musicians.
Vancouver: Zimmermann, 1976; currently available as pdf at http://home.snafu.de/
walterz/bibliographie.html (accessed 17 July 2018).
Laurence Crane. 20th Century Music – Solo Piano Pieces 1985–1999. Michael Finnissy,
piano. Metier MSV 28506, 2008.
Michael Finnissy plays Weir, Finnissy, Newman and Skempton. NMC D002 (1992).
3 Negotiating borrowing, genre and
mediation in the piano music of
Finnissy
Strategies and aesthetics
Ian Pace
To John Fallas
Those familiar with Michael Finnissy’s music will know that he draws
extensively upon a range of pre-existing musical sources, whether from the
Western art music tradition, early twentieth-century popular song, music
hall, or many folk and vernacular musics from different parts of the world. In
this chapter, I will consider the implications of such conscious borrowing and
its specific manifestations for performance, and in particular how performers
might respond to both the generic aspects of both the original sources and
also their mediated forms in Finnissy’s works.
This focus on conscious borrowings does not necessarily reflect a poietic
bias, though in my earlier work on Finnissy’s use of found materials I have
often sought to illuminate more information about compositional technique,
believing this to be valuable for other composers.1 However, an investiga-
tion of a work’s sources, and the ways in which these are mediated through
the composer in order to produce the final work, can also demystify what
might otherwise be quite forbidding works. This can, in my view, be as valu-
able for the performer as for the developed listener, not in order to discern
some supposed ‘truth’ in the work, but to gain a more acute awareness of its
components, which can stimulate informed decisions relating to interpretive
possibilities.
A focus on borrowing in Finnissy’s music has not gone unchallenged, and
my own work and that of others in this respect has been critiqued by Richard
Beaudoin,2 coming from what I would characterise as a ‘high formalist’ posi-
tion, somewhat akin to that of the American New Critics of literature.3 In
his article on the opening of the eighth chapter, Kapitalistisch Realisme (met
Sizilianische Männerakte en Bachsche Nachdichtungen) of The History of
Photography in Sound, Beaudoin, using the loaded phrase ‘the music itself’,
focuses almost exclusively on the immanent properties of the work, and
writes that ‘we are engaged by its handling of musical materials on its own
terms’.4 Furthermore, he writes that ‘both performer and listener are una-
ware of all original source material, or at least are unable to link the two in
real time when encountering the History’, but then moderates the sentiment
58 Ian Pace
behind that statement, declaring a wish to ‘investigate the piece without
overemphasizing the cultural importance of its source material’.5 That said,
Beaudoin still feels bound to mention Finnissy’s obvious Ivesian allusion to
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony at the beginning of the work,6 and at the end
of the article he does look at the transformation of motives from Wagner’s
Götterdämmerung on the basis of the sketches, as well as the relationship of
Finnissy’s composition to other Beethoven works.7 He also earlier compares
some of Finnissy’s processes to those of Debussy in ‘En sourdine’, from
Series I of Fêtes galantes,8 which may not be a reference or species of borrow-
ing, but certainly suggests an importance he attaches to the work’s relation-
ship to other pieces of music.
I would dispute whether a work’s ‘own terms’ can be identified so clearly;9
in some ways Beaudoin’s analysis, valuable though it is, reflects its author’s
own external priorities just as much as many other writings. Beyond some
straightforward listings of tempo markings, and registering of discontinui-
ties, Beaudoin takes a ‘vertical’ approach to the music, identifying what he
believes to be near-tonal harmonic progressions in this section of the work.
Much of this is insightful, but it does omit a vital element – the performer.
In fact, performance and its effects upon perception do not feature at all in
Beaudoin’s article, with the music conceived essentially as a platonic ideal.10
He neglects to consider how approaches to voicing, phrase-shaping, rhythmic
emphasis and counter-emphasis, or even tempo flexibility, might inform the
sounding result, and thus how these might affect the ways harmonies and
tonality might be perceived by a listener.
In a section which Beaudoin analyses, Finnissy extracts a line from
Beethoven’s String Quartet op. 18 no. 5 for the bass, while the treble is a series
of modified fragments drawn randomly from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung
(see Ex. 3.1). But those borrowings are not Beaudoin’s concern.
From the Distantly reflecting marking, Beaudoin asserts that ‘the opening
of the passage sounds both stable and open’, due to the use of a G Aeolian
mode (with an added Eᅉ) and that ‘the stability of the first chord of the
section, whose outer voice G octaves are novel in the piece thus far’. Then
he stresses the implied E major (with Aᅈ4 serving enharmonically as G#4),
together with a 9th, then flattened. He claims that the G4/Eᅈ4 dyad on the
second system darkens the colour when ‘We are still hearing the E major
chord’, which is reaffirmed by the B4-E5 fourth immediately afterwards.
Then the following passage, according to Beaudoin, forms a V7 cadence on to
D, at the beginning of the next system, with various added notes.11
I do not necessarily disagree with at least some aspects of this reading. In
particular, considering the music in a somewhat more horizontal manner, I
would note how the low C#2 at the beginning of the last left-hand bar of the
second system, reinforced by the C#3s an octave above which precede and
succeed it, which can be heard as a leading note, reinforce Beaudoin’s claim
for a cadential progression into the key of D. On the other hand, his claim for
a long V7 pedal harmony is weak, as the seventh is only heard once briefly,
Strategies and aesthetics 59
Ex. 3.1 Finnissy, Kapitalistische Realisme, from The History of Photography in

Sound, as analysed by Richard Beaudoin. © Oxford University Press 2004.
approached strangely via the supertonic of V, the A major chord is in a 6-3

position after the release of the pedal on the lower A, and there is no major
third of D, at least until after the Maëstoso onto which that dominant note
can resolve.
To perform the passage in question in a manner I believe to be commensu-
rate with Beaudoin’s analysis, I would play the LH E4 after Distantly reflecting
very quietly, but then the subsequent LH E3 and E4 more prominently, as well
as the RH Aᅈ4. I would pause very slightly on the G4/Eᅈ4 dyad, and stress the
various As, C#s and Es on the second system, and emphasise in particular the
G4 near the end in the RH, all to heighten a sense of a V7 pedal point, while
playing those notes which provide the strongest chromatic clashes, such as the
F#4, D#5, A#4, F#5 and G#4 within the RH 6:5 tuplet, more softly.
However, I could equally stress (relative to the quiet dynamic) the initial
LH E4, together with the G3 and G5 which sound simultaneously, and then
the RH C4, to suggest a type of resolution onto C major, which then shifts
onto a IV6 chord in 6-3 position. I could minutely emphasise pitches so as to
make the RH Bᅈ4 appear to lead to the Aᅈ4 in the lower part of the 7:6 tuplet
grouping, then treat the F#5 (enharmonically Gᅈ5) on the next system as if
60 Ian Pace
were the seventh degree of A-flat. The second RH Eᅈ4 on the second system
can be made enharmonically to appear together with the F#4/D#5 dyad and
the following A#4 to spell out an E-flat/D# minor triad, while just before the
Maëstoso the voicing could imply a resolution into C major (through the E4/
C5 dyad, with the D5 serving as an appoggiatura for the tonic pitch, and the
B4 as a leading note).
One might fairly assume an equilibrato approach to the two hands/parts,
but the realisation of this in practice can take various different forms. Simply
playing every note equally, and at a ‘flat’ dynamic without nuances, will
result in the stronger notes of the bass becoming prominent, while in places
with strong consonant harmonies, a literally equal dynamic can in other
ways communicate an unequal result, because of the degrees of emphasis
provided by supporting harmonics.12 So one must be creative and aurally
engaged to produce a sense of equality between the parts. Yet the fragmen-
tary nature of the left hand, exacerbated by the pedalling, offers opportu-
nities to play the music in such a way (through voicing and some tempo
flexibility, not to mention particular stresses on the beginnings of slurred
groups to displace a sense of a regular meter), that the listener can ‘phase in’
and ‘phase out’ between the parts in each hand, rather than always hearing
one as an extension of the other, or even as a melody and accompaniment
(though the nature of the writing, and the emphasis on line in the right
hand, chords in the left, certainly suggests this).13 If the right hand is played
at literally the same dynamic as the left, then the latter will always come to
the foreground when sounding, creating an effect not unlike that notated
explicitly in the second of Finnissy’s Yvaroperas (1993–5).14 Conversely, if
the right hand is continuously played at a louder dynamic, to counterbal-
ance the natural weight of the left, this can also steer the harmonic gravity
away from that in Beaudoin’s analysis.
Analysis can be said not only to explain existing aural perceptions of a
work, but also facilitate and stimulate new approaches to listening. I would
maintain that elucidation of sources and ‘hidden narratives’ can be part of
this process. But analysis which is oblivious to the role of performance, and
which ignores the creative and mediatory role of the performer(s) between the
score (even when very detailed) and the listeners, has significant limitations.
Recently, Nicholas Cook and Daniel Leech-Wilkinson have written quite
dismissively of the idea that scholarship, and for Cook especially analysis
(using disparagingly the term ‘Analytically-Informed Performance’ or AIP),
might be of value for performers.15 I have expressed elsewhere the view that,
on the contrary, I believe that some type of analysis is at play whenever a
performer renders a work of music.16 It need not matter how formalised or
systematic – or even conscious – such an analysis is. Performers make deci-
sions all of the time; the moment these relate to perceptions coming out of
the scores they play (or from wider knowledge of outputs, composers, styles,
genres, aesthetics and so on) they are engaging in a type of analysis. There is
no reason why some of the fruits of sophisticated analyses could never be of
value to performers, unless one, like Leech-Wilkinson in particular, takes at
face value a good deal of mystical, irrationalist rhetoric about instinctive and
intuitive performance amongst historical figures, and views this as the ideal
model.
So, performers can learn from analysts, and analysts can learn from per-
formers and performances – and some undertake both activities to vary-
ing extents. Both groups of people can also garner valuable information
from considering musical provenance and the compositional process – two
categories from which I will isolate sub-categories of genre and mediation
presently.
To return briefly to Beaudoin: his analyses isolate the musical result – or
rather, his interpretation of this – from the means by which it was obtained,
and as such from the sources, not least because he believes the latter are inau-
dible. There is value in this approach as a corrective to those which isolate
compositional process (poiesis), ideas, conceptions, and aesthetics from their
sonic manifestations. Nonetheless, I believe three points should be made in
response to Beaudoin’s arguments: (1) many of the sources – though not all –
are indeed unrecognisable in their mediated forms, and some are extremely
obscure, but I believe most of them do inform the sounding result, injecting
stylistic attributes, idioms, formal processes or indeed generic features into
this, and for this reason alone I believe them worthy of study;17 (2) when
some of these sources and their relationship to the final work are made
explicit for listeners – to whatever level of detail – this approach can enable
new approaches to listening, as mentioned before; and (3) in his article on
the History, Christopher Fox related a test with some of his students, playing
them some of the work. While they did not recognise the specific sources,
nonetheless they sensed some of the wider generic qualities, for example with
hymn-like material.18
Regarding The History of Photography in Sound, about which I have previ-
ously employed much ink, its allusion to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, one
of the most iconic pieces of Western art music, makes most explicit the link
with Charles Ives’ Concord Sonata. The music connects with that of Ives on
many other levels, and for that reason models of Ives’ borrowings should be
considered alongside other theoretical work in this domain, in order not only
to develop a model for Finnissy, but also to open up new possibilities relevant
for the study of other composers whose work employs found materials.
Borrowing and intertextuality

Whilst scholars have identified and examined musical borrowings throughout
the history of musicology, with important early contributions on the work of
Bartók and Stravinsky, amongst twentieth-century composers,19 the publica-
tion of important articles by Günther von Noé and Zofia Lissa in the mid-
1960s initiated a stronger theoretical foundation for musical borrowing in the
work of modern composers.20 Noé placed a citation (Zitat) as a particular case
62 Ian Pace
of borrowing (Entlehnung), distinguishing it from plagiarism (Plagiat), as well
as unconscious allusion to a motive, conscious stylistic influence, and thematic
processing. He also considered in some more detail how a citation might be
identified as such, and the functions it can play, using examples including
Berg’s allusion to Zemlinsky in the Lyrische Suite.21 Lissa went consider-
ably further and established thirteen defining criteria for a citation,22 which
she combined with a requirement that it must be heard as such by a listener
(so that a fragment of a source can signify to them the whole, pars pro toto,
though the recognition can take various forms beyond simple apperception),
and then considered the various aesthetic functions such a citation can serve.
These include a particular established aesthetic function, as for example with
citations of the ‘Tristan chord’, or of Bach’s chorale ‘Es ist genug’ in the Finale
of Berg’s Violin Concerto; a programmatic function, as with the Dies irae as
cited by Berlioz, Liszt, Rachmaninoff and others, or Shostakovich’s citation
of revolutionary songs in his Symphony No. 12; a more subtle allusion which
may or may not be recognised by the listener, such as Bartók’s use of the
German folk song ‘Der Esel ist ein dummer Tier’ in his Violin Concerto No. 1,
or Schumann’s citation of Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte in the first move-
ment of his Fantasy in C, op. 17; or for parodistic or ironic effect, as found
in Offenbach, Richard Strauss, or Manuel de Falla’s citation of Beethoven’s
Symphony No. 5 in El sombrero de tres picos.23 She went on further to consider
the aesthetic function of citation in various genres: instrumental music, vocal
music, opera and ballet, in the first of these considering B.A. Zimmermann’s
Monologe (1964) (a re-working of the earlier Dialoge (1960, rev. 1965)), with
its interplay between different historical/stylistic layers, comparing it to the
work of James Joyce, Ezra Pound and the Surrealists (all associated with the
concept of a collage), noting that this type of citation does not serve a merely
decorative function, but appeals to a sense of continuity across history, and
forms of ‘community’ between different participants in centuries-long musical
cultures.24 All of these factors and uses of quotation are relevant for Finnissy,
but the requirement of a quotation being able to be heard as such is too great
a restriction for a nuanced model for this music.
Six years later, Elmar Budde drew upon Lissa’s model, and also delineated
three categories: citation, collage and montage,25 though his definitions were
quite loose. If a citation amounted to some ‘foreign’ element within the con-
text it was placed, then the collage principle, which he linked to the visual art
of Picasso, Braque, Duchamp, Ernst and others, occurs when heterogenous
phenomena are combined to create a new phenomenon. Montage was a
technique used in the creation of collages, but was difficult to differentiate
from collage.26 Budde investigated a range of examples, from musique con-
crete to a plethora of collage techniques in works of Zimmermann, Mauricio
Kagel, György Ligeti, Peter Schat, Henri Pousseur, Hans Otte, Karlheinz
Stockhausen, and Lukas Foss, thus creating a lineage of works, many of
them unfamiliar to later Anglophone commentators who drew upon a more
restricted repertoire.27
A combination of Budde and Lissa’s models informed a 1972 monograph
by Clemens Kühn, in which he limited himself to the simple dichotomy of
citation and collage.28 Kühn explored more extensively parallels with art and
literature, linking the compositions of Zimmermann, Berio, and Kagel with
the poetry of Helmut Heißenbüttel, Michel Butor, and Ror Wolf, and the art
work of Kurt Schwitters, all of which problematised the simple idea of cita-
tion, necessitating the use of collage.29 This differed from the use of citation in
works of Berg, Hindemith, Britten, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Stockhausen
in Adieu (1967) and others, which he compared to the quotations in Alfred
Döblin’s Berlin Alexanderplatz (though which also uses collage techniques,
as Kühn observes, as do works of James Joyce, Gerhard Rühm or William
Burroughs).30 The former model is considerably more common in Finnissy’s
output than the latter. Amongst post-1945 composers, Kühn expanded
Budde’s canon to incorporate works of Hans Werner Henze, a wider range of
Stockhausen from Gesang der Jünglinge (1956), and Dieter Schnebel’s book
of ‘Music to Read’, MO-NO (1969) (though oddly not the obvious earlier
example of his Glossolalie ’61).31
In another article, Budde examined in more detail the third movement
of Berio’s Sinfonia, essentially in terms of the fundamental threads pro-
vided by the Scherzo from Mahler’s Second Symphony and Beckett’s The
Unnamable, surrounded by a wide range of other musical and textual cita-
tions.32 Subsequent writers on this movement, including Peter Altmann,
Michael Hicks, and David Osmond-Smith,33 were less concerned to develop
a theoretical model (though Altmann made passing allusion to the citation/
collage dichotomy), preferring to concentrate on identifying the many quota-
tions and analysing structural, aesthetic, and expressive aspects of the work.
Later commentators such as Robert Fink presented the work as ‘without
temporal perspective’, and ‘a random, deliberately unrepresentative sampling
of the musical past’,34 a bizarre conclusion in light of previous scholarship.
But this was a characteristic strategy of Anglophone writers identifying with
postmodernism, including Susan McClary and Jane Piper Clendinning: to
appropriate musical borrowing as a polemical weapon against alleged mod-
ernist purity and structured composition, lauding a supposed new contem-
porary wasteland in opposition to an imagined past.35 Some other writers
on late twentieth-century music have erroneously evoked musical borrowing
in order to draw a clear line between periods in modern music, in this case
before and after 1968, ignoring the earlier lineage of borrowing examined by
Budde, Kühn, and others.36
Glenn Watkins, on the other hand, in his extended study of musical col-
lage (in the broadest sense of the term, to encompass assemblages of musical
materials, texts, aesthetic principles, ideologies, and more),37 framed contem-
porary so-called postmodernist music in a context going back to the begin-
ning of the twentieth century and beyond.38 However, Watkins’ treatment
of specific musical quotation and its different modes is not extensive nor
particularly detailed in compositional or other specifically musical terms.
64 Ian Pace
The most relevant sections of this to the issues I am considering here are a
chapter examining a range of Stravinsky’s citations in The Rake’s Progress
and combination of heterogenous elements in Agon, and another looking at
different approaches and attitudes to collage, which does provide some very
loose categories. These include relocation of music so as to change meaning,
as in late Shostakovich or Christoph Rouse, ‘sophisticated treatment of the
banal’, ‘positioning of sublime materials in hackneyed contexts’ in Kagel,
completions of older musics, or attempts at presenting universalist connec-
tions between disparate materials.39
Some other writers have considered phenomenological and ethical aspects
of musical borrowing. Jeanette Bicknell considered briefly the extent to which
a listener might perceive something as a quotation, which can be highly
dependent upon their cultural knowledge, and how this might affect percep-
tion, especially in terms of fragmentation of the listening experience.40 David
Metzer, in a study explicitly limited to mere ‘quotation’ (like Lissa, Budde
and Kühn’s ‘citation’),41 asked what constitutes a quotation (in particular,
how long should/can it be?),42 and considered different forms of mediation,
listing ‘Fragmentation, expansion, rhythmic skewing, stylistic metamorpho-
sis’ as just some of these.43 Like Bicknell, Metzer also considered questions of
cultural literacy, drawing parallels with the potential ‘elitism’ of some of the
quotations in Eliot’s The Waste Land.44
Some of the most comprehensive and detailed studies of musical borrow-
ing, various of which parallel, extend or modify these other approaches, have
come from scholars of the music of Charles Ives, and these are most relevant
for study of Finnissy. Amongst the most important is a 1969 doctoral dis-
sertation by Clayton Henderson, which led to a 1974 article and 1982 book.
Henderson delineated broad categories for either limited or numerous cita-
tions within a single movement (which can loosely be mapped onto Budde
and Kühn’s citation and collage respectively), also differentiating by type –
according to textual or programmatic implications, thematic or structural
importance, theme and variations, and so on. He also isolated Ives’s tech-
niques for using quotations in terms of strategies for melody (complete
melodies, minor changes, or modification of fragments), rhythm (shifting of
pulse or accents and other transformations), harmony (polytonal employ-
ment, removal of chords from functional harmonic combinations, etc.), and
for horizontal, vertical or ‘fusion’-like combinations of multiple sources.45
Christopher Ballantine followed with a more theoretical consideration of the
function of quotation in generating musical meaning (using the term semantic
connotations), using ideas from Jungian psychoanalysis on dreams, but did
not ultimately investigate the specific types of quotations beyond questions
of texted/untexted sources, and more general comments on fantasy-like or
programmatic interpretations of works which use them.46
But it was a 1985 article by J. Peter Burkholder,47 drawing upon part of
his doctoral dissertation from two years previously,48 which took scholarship
on Ives’s borrowing to a new level. Rejecting the use of a single umbrella
category (‘quotation’, always placed in scare quotes), Burkholder insisted
on the fundamental plurality of Ives’s techniques, which should be examined
separately. Here he isolated settings of existing tunes, with new accompani-
ments or as variations, then five other principal techniques: (1) modelling a
work on an existing one; (2) paraphrasing one melody to form another; (3)
cumulative setting, development of motives as a prequel to the statement of
a theme in full; (4) quoting as a type of ‘oratorical gesture’; and (5) quod-
libet, combining two or more tunes vertically or horizontally.49 Even more
fundamentally, he stressed the historical provenance of these techniques in
the work of composers from Biber through Bach to Sousa, not in order to
posit necessary influence, but simply to emphasise that such borrowing has
been a central aspect of musical practice over a long period in European his-
tory,50 going further in this respect than Budde, Kühn, and Watkins. Then,
in his seminal book All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical
Borrowing,51 drawing upon the work of other scholars of borrowing before
him (and not just those writing on Ives), Burkholder developed a sophisti-
cated taxonomy of types of borrowing, not unlike that of Lissa but expanded
with more detail, to which I will return in the next section.
Finnissy’s use of borrowing, like that of Ives, should not be seen as an
indicator of musical de-subjectivisation or renunciation of individual crea-
tive will, as celebrated by thinkers like Fink, McClary, and Clendinning,
though it can be viewed as an extension of various of the tendencies explored
by Watkins. The subjective aspect is manifested through the high degree of
mediation undertaken on Finnissy’s part between the sources and the finished
score. However, I would not mean to imply by this that, for example, Berio’s
Folk Songs, the third movement of the Sinfonia, or even Rendering, derived
from a fragmentary Schubert score, are by contrast types of music with a sig-
nificantly diluted subjective presence. In the work of Berio, or Zimmermann,
John Zorn or others who use more ‘intact’ borrowings, the subjectivity is
manifested through different compositional elements, such as the choices
of modes of fragmentation, juxtaposition, superimposition, and so on. It is
simply more obvious in Finnissy or Ives, in the context of a musical culture
accustomed to a high degree of individuation of musical material. Finnissy’s
work can also evoke questions of cultural literacy as explored by Metzer, and
touched upon by Beaudoin, a subject to which I will return briefly later in this
chapter. Both of these writers, like Lissa, are however not really prepared to
consider the potentials of subcutaneous borrowing.
But a further concept is also valuable for consideration of Finnissy’s music:
that of intertextuality, in the formulation provided by Gérard Genette in his
1982 Palimpsestes (which is more restrictive than that from Julie Kristeva),52
rather than the vague and manneristic fashion which has become common
elsewhere. Genette uses this term to reference quotation, plagiarism and allu-
sion, all categories of borrowing,53 and sets out wider categories of paratex-
tuality (the relationship between a text and its title, subtitle, illustrations, or
other accessory material), metatextuality (the relationship between a text and
66 Ian Pace
another which entails a commentary without being explicit about this), archi-
textularity (the generic category of a text) and hypertextuality (the relation-
ship between a text B, the hypertext and an earlier text A, the hypotext, which
is one of transformation but not commentary – so that both Virgil’s Aeneid
or Joyce’s Ulysses are hypertexts of the hypotext, Homer’s The Odyssey),54
are all also useful categories for Finnissy, which I will incorporate presently.
All of these fall within the broad category of transtextuality. But more detail
is needed, and this is where Burkholder’s categories are most useful.
Models of Borrowing from Burkholder on Ives

Despite emphasising the commonality of Ives’s techniques with those of
many earlier European composers, Burkholder nonetheless argues that Ives’s
use of musical borrowing is of a different nature to most others before him,
maintaining that in this music listeners familiar with European art music
may experience ‘a kind of aesthetic dissonance, violating the expectation
that compositions should be original, self-contained, and based on newly
invented ideas’.55 Yet I am less convinced by this assertion about expecta-
tions. Rather, the most obvious ‘aesthetic dissonances’ are achieved through
the relationship of tonal materials to Ives’s frequently atonal contexts (for
example the sudden insertion of hushed hymn tunes or robust marches within
the sprawling dominant writing in ‘Hawthorne’, from the Concord Sonata),
configurations (as with the superimposition of tonally disjunct materials in
‘Putnam’s Camp’ in Three Places in New England), or through fragmenta-
tion, repetition, or pitch/rhythmic modification so as to create a distorting
effect. All of these techniques are equally commonplace across Finnissy’s
output for piano. As such, Burkholder’s categories for types of borrowing in
Ives (see Fig. 3.1)56 can be adapted meaningfully for Finnissy. For Finnissy’s
musical borrowings, I propose the modified taxonomy in Fig. 3.2, in which
are included selections of the pieces to which the categories are applicable.
I omit Burkholder’s category of ‘programmatic quotation’, as this rarely
takes such a simple form in Finnissy’s output. In general, the categories are
approximate, and some works can be considered to belong to more than
one, but they encompass the range of Finnissy’s piano music at the time of
writing. Most of them correspond to Genette’s intertextuality, but 14 is a
type of paratextuality, while metatextuality can enter into various categories
where the sources are relatively hidden and others embodying a critical take
on the source. Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 9 in particular can often be considered as
manifestations of hypertextuality.
Genre
Almost all of these categories, including some cases of no. 8 (stylistic allu-
sion) could be viewed as relating to the appropriation of aspects of specific
borrowed works. However, it is also important that some incorporate the
1. Modelling a work or section on an existing piece, assuming its structure,

incorporating part of its melodic material, imitating its form or procedures,
or using it as a model in some other way.
2. Variations on a given tune.
3. Paraphrasing an existing tune to form a new melody, theme, or motive.
4. Setting an existing tune with a new accompaniment.
5. Cantus firmus, presenting a given tune in long notes against a more quickly
moving texture.
6. Medley, stating two or more existing tunes, relatively complete, one after
another in a single movement.
7. Quodlibet, combining two or more existing tunes or fragments in counterpoint
or in quick succession, most often as a joke or technical tour de force.
8. Stylistic allusion, alluding not to a specific work but to a general style of type
of music.
9. Transcribing a work for a new medium.
10. Programmatic quotation, fulfilling an extramusical program or illustrating
part of a text.
11. Cumulative setting, a complex form in which the theme, either a borrowed
tune or a melody paraphrased from one or more existing tunes, is presented
complete only near the end of a movement, preceded by development of
motives from the theme, fragmentary or altered presentation of the theme,
and exposition of important countermelodies.
12. Collage, in which a swirl of quoted and paraphrased tunes is added to a
musical structure based on modelling, paraphrase, cumulative setting, or a
narrative program.
13. Patchwork, in which fragments of two or more tunes are stitched together,
sometimes elided through paraphrase and sometimes linked by Ives’s
interpolations.
14. Extended paraphrase, in which the melody for an entire work or section is
paraphrased from an existing tune.
Fig. 3.1 J. Peter Burkholder’s categories for Ives’s borrowing.
use of musical features which are common across a body of works, so for
this reason I also want to focus more closely on genre, or – to use Genette’s
categories – the architextual qualities of a work.57 Literary genre theory can
be traced back as least as far as Aristotle,58 though musical theories of genre
have only become prominent in recent decades, involving a multiplicity of
views in particular on genre in modernist music. For Jim Samson, a genre is
‘A class, type or category, sanctioned by convention’, which is linked to Max
Weber’s concept of the ‘ideal type’.59 For Samson and others, such classes are
often defined in large measure socially, in terms of the nature of some music’s
production and reception, as something determined by people other than the
music’s creators.60 This is not however the conception of genre I am using here
(in part because of the weakness of the idea of a ‘generic contract’ for modern
music, as discussed below). I use the term instead as a means of categorising
68 Ian Pace
1. Modelling. Modelling a work or section on an existing piece, assuming its

structure, incorporating part of its melodic material, imitating its form or
procedures, or using it as a model in some other way
Jazz (1976); Fast Dances, Slow Dances (1978–79) (both of these take their
structure from the range of tempos in two different sets of Beethoven Bagatelles);
Sizilianische Männerakte (1999).
2. Variations. Here Finnissy’s approach is closer to ‘Veränderungen’ (‘alterations’)
than conventional ‘Variationen’ (‘variations’), as in Bach’s Aria mit verschiedenen
Veraenderungen, his title for the Goldberg-Variationen, and also for the Einige
canonische Veränderungen über das Weynacht-Lied, Vom Himmel hoch da komm
ich her for organ
Bachsche Nachdichtungen (2000); ’Veränderungen’, from Beat Generation
Ballads (2014); Beethoven’s Robin Adair (2015).
3. Paraphrase/Fantasia. This concept is more extravagant for Finnissy than for Ives
and should be expanded to include a freer work in which the source (or at least
some part of it) appears in some more-or-less palpable form at some point, in the
context of various rhapsodic writing with a loose (i.e. not obviously audible)
relationship to the source.
Many of the Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005); Several Gershwin Arrangements
(1975–88); Kemp’s Morris (1978); Taja (1986); Lylyly li (1988–89); More Gershwin
(1989–90, rev. 1996–98); Two of Us (1990); De toutes flours (1990); Sometimes I…
(1990, rev. 1997); Deux Airs de Geneviève de Brabant (Erik Satie) (2001);
Edward (2002); Joh. Seb. Bach (2003); Preambule zu “Carnaval”, gefolgt von der
Ersten und zweiten symphonischen Etüde nach Schumann (2009–10); Zwei Deutsche
mit Coda (2006); One Minute W… (2006) (Chopin Minute Waltz); Choralvorspiele
(Koralforspill) (2011–12); Brahms-Lieder (2015); Kleine Fjeldmelodien (2016).
4. Setting with New Accompaniment.
Several Gershwin Arrangements; Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man (1990); Rossini (1991);
Yvaroperas 2, 4 (1993–95); Sinner don’t let this Harvest pass (2014–16).
5. Cantus firmus.
Various Verdi Transcriptions; G.F.H. (1985); Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sind
(1992); Tell-Dirais (1996).
6. Medley.
Romeo and Juliet are Drowning (1967); New Perspectives on Old Complexity (1990,
rev. 1992); Various sections of Folklore (1993–94); Various sections of The History
of Photography in Sound (1995–2000), in particular Le démon de l’analogie and
Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets; Please pay some attention to me (1998).
7. Quodlibet.
Australian Sea Shanties Set 2 (1983); Much of Folklore I-IV (1993–94); Large
quantities of The History of Photography in Sound (1995–2000), including North
American Spirituals, and Unsere Afrikareise; Erscheinen ist der herrliche Tag
(2003); Z/K (2012); Third Political Agenda (2016).
8. Stylistic Allusion.
Polskie Tance Op. 32 (1955–62); Four Mazurkas Op. 142 (1957); Two Pasodobles
(1959); Romance (with Intermezzo) (1960); Freightrain Bruise (1972, rev. 1980);
Many of 23 Tangos (1962–99); Svatovac (1973–74); We’ll get there someday (1978);
Boogie Woogie (1980–81, rev. 1985, 1996); Terekkeme (1981, rev. 1990); Hikkai
(1982–83); My love is like a red red rose (1990); Honky Blues (1996).
9. Transcribing a work for a new medium.1
Vieux Noël Op. 59 No. 2 (1958); How dear to me (1991).
9.5 Extended transcription (including free elaboration upon existing material).
Cibavit eos (1991–92).
Fig. 3.2 Proposed categories for Finnissy’s borrowing.

10. Collage. This uses a multiplicity of materials, generally presented in short

fragments, with an external structuring principle.
Tracey and Snowy in Köln (1990–91); Yvaroperas 1, 3, 5 (1993–95); Folklore IV
(1993–94); Various parts of The History of Photography in Sound, including not
least Le réveil de l’intraitable realité, and Wachtend op de volgende uitsbarting van
repressie en censuur.
11. Patchwork. For Finnissy this can include a collage based entirely upon a single
work, but through short fragments presented in a wholly new order and
configuration.
Strauss-Walzer (1967, rev. 1989); Reels (1980–81); William Billings (1990–91);
Cozy Fanny’s Tootsies (1992); What the meadow-flowers tell me (1993) (Mahler 3).
12. Material/Configuration Multi-Borrowing. Where two or more different sources are
used, one for direct material, the other (which may be a genre, a composer’s ‘style’,
or a specific work) to provide the type of configuration for the transcription. All
are generally heavily mediated.
Jazz (1976); Fast Dances, Slow Dances (1978–79); Some of the Gershwin
Arrangements and More Gershwin; The eighth pieces of each book of the Verdi
Transcriptions, each modelled on a work of Ferruccio Busoni; There never was
such hard times before (1991) – English folk tune set in the style of Cornelius
Cardew; Cozy Fanny’s Tootsies (1992); Much of The History of Photography in
Sound (1995–2000) e.g. African-American spirituals configured in the manner of
William Billings hymns.
13. Cumulative Setting. In which various free developments of material precede its
appearance in a more recognizable form or simply when a recognizable melody or
fragment is made to seem as if it grows out of the preceding passages.
Alkan-Paganini (1997); Eadweard Muybridge – Edvard Munch (1997); My
Parents’ Generation thought War meant something (1999) (for the appearance of
the two ‘popular songs’); Etched Bright with Sunlight (1999–2000) (for the quote
from Berlioz’s Roméo et Juliette).
14. Portraiture. A general portrait of a composer based upon a plethora of their
music, style, or other factors associated with them or their character.
Ives – Grainger – Nancarrow (1974, 1979, 1979–80); Liz (1980–81); B.S. – G.F.H.
(1985–86); John Cage (1992); Ethel Smyth (1995); Alkan-Paganini (1997); ERIK
SATIE like anyone else (2000–1); Mit Arnold Schoenberg (2002); SKRYABIN like
anyone else (2007–8). Also portraits of other types of artists e.g. Vanèn, Seventeen
Immortal Homosexual Poets or Eadweard Muybridge – Edvard Munch.
15. Completion or re-orchestration. A completion of an unfinished piece, which
employs existing material with only minor modifications, or a re-setting of another
piece.
There are almost no piano pieces which fit this category, but it does encompass
other of Finnissy’s works such as Grieg Quintettsatz (2007) and Mozart Requiem
Completion (2013).2 However, this is worth noting here in case any future piano
works fall into this category.
Fig. 3.2 (continued)
1
Finnissy’s arrangement for 11 instruments of the last number from Gershwin’s Porgy and
Bess, I’m on my Way (1998), would also fit this category.
2
Though not the Piano Quartet in G minor, 1861 or Piano Quartet in A major, 1862–2 (both
2009), which are extremely free compositions despite the Brahmsian allusions in the title, so
belong in category 3.
70 Ian Pace
types of stylistic attributes and/or structural processes observable across a
range of work, based upon discernible work-immanent features rather than
very loose external classifications. Some associate Finnissy’s music with
extreme modernism, others view it as a throwback to nineteenth-century
styles by others; these are the concerns of a study of the music’s reception
(though I will return briefly to them when considering generic contracts), but
not of its genre here. Such work-immanent qualities can include paratextual
information such as a title (Finnissy once denied that his Snowdrift was a
‘snowscape’, but added ‘what else are you going to hear with THAT title?’),61
a programme note, or other information supplied to illuminate some of the
borrowings,62 and can respond to externally-inherited expectations, but I do
not wish here to define genre independently of the agency of the musicians
and other creators involved (so not including, say, those involved in market-
ing or otherwise ‘selling’ the work).63 As such, my definition is distinct from
a musical equivalent of the common conception of film genre as ‘defined by
the film industry and recognized by the mass audience’, as critiqued by Rick
Altman,64 because marketing genres, and some of those used by critics, can be
crude, and are a poor substitute from engagement with the details of music.
It is for this reason I would resist labelling Finnissy’s work ‘new complexity’.
The role of genre in modernist music has been the subject of vexed debate,
which is worth examining briefly in order to arrive at a model to use for
Finnissy. Carl Dahlhaus presented a historical narrative of a declining
importance for genre through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as a
result of the growth of the work-concept and the importance of individuation
and a declining status for ‘functional music’ which grew further away from
art. Liturgical music became an archaising craft, while Gebrauchsmusik was a
relatively short-lived phenomenon. The growth of historicism and a canoni-
cal repertory in the nineteenth century shifted the emphasis away from genre
towards single works. However, according to Dahlhaus: ‘The older manner
of hearing [very much focused around text] vanished without the new one
having become sufficiently well established.’65 For Dahlhaus, Schoenberg
used traditional genre names in order to express an inner affinity with the
past, while Webern did the same but more profoundly ‘dissolved the genre-
determining connections between formal models, movement structure and
types of scoring’.66
This model has been sharply criticised, not least by Jeffrey Kallberg, who
argued that Dahlhaus paid insufficient attention to cultivation of individual
‘genius’ right back in the Renaissance, with an associated license to break
rules.67 Eric Drott, who has written extensively on French musique spectrale,
also questioned Dahlhaus’s view that genre had declined in modernist music,68
drawing heavily on Jason Toynbee on genre’s ‘inevitability’.69 Drott’s argu-
ments rely in part on the idea that a work which managed to stand outside of
known genre categories ‘would immediately define some new category, one
delineated on the basis of its refusal of other categories’.70 Whilst Drott is right
to note that older genres have continued to be employed by modern composers
(including Finnissy),71 or that works set in opposition to older genres create
new ones of their own, his definition makes a category into a genre, without
requiring that the former can be observed over a significant body of work. As
such, it is so broad as to be practically meaningless (Theodor Adorno’s obser-
vation that ‘The work that does not subsume itself to any style must have its
own style, or as Berg said, its own “tone”’72 is more modest and meaningful).
This model leaves no place in particular for new musical experiments which
are not pursued further over any period of time either by their originators or
others, though may nonetheless produce striking results.
If Toynbee and Drott’s models are over-grandiose and lack nuance, there
is plenty of scope for the latter in the late writing on genre by Adorno, in the
context of the dialectic of Universal and Particular. Presenting an alterna-
tive to the view by the anti-genre aesthetic theorist, Benedetto Croce (which
saw genre as an imposition, and claimed that artists never really obeyed
the laws),73 Adorno argued that ‘Probably no important artwork ever cor-
responded completely to its genre’, but recognised in dialectical fashion how
central a role was required for genre in order for such non-conformity to
be meaningful. Adorno maintained that universal or normative concepts of
genre were always mediated by the particular, that both musical genres and
forms are rooted in the historical needs of their material, and that genres
‘must be attacked in order to maintain their substantial element’, so that the
individual work legitimates, engenders and also cancels genres. He also noted
the instability of style under capitalism, a consideration absent from the work
of most commentators.74 Jim Samson draws upon some of Adorno’s formu-
lations in maintaining the permeability of genre, as a generalised category
which can exist in a dialectic with other individuated aspects of style and
form, and goes on to explore Chopin’s Impromptus in these terms.75 These
models will inform most strongly how I consider genre in Finnissy.
Of great importance for Finnissy are the communicative and persuasive
properties of genre, about which Kallberg also criticised Dahlhaus for not
considering them in depth.76 For Finnissy, this consideration effected a shift
away from his earlier more overtly ‘abstract’ compositions, which culminated
in alongside (1979).77 Even this piece was relatively exceptional, as many of
his other early pieces include texts or explicit poetic or other inspirations
(for example Le dormeur du val (1963–8), Romeo and Juliet are drowning
(1967–73), Folk Song Set (1969–76) or Tsuru-Kame (1971–3)). Finnissy has
said that his regular use of musical borrowing, encountered in almost all of
his works from the beginning of the 1980s onwards, was motivated by an
attempt to increase the communicative potential of his works by situating
them within existing and recognisable traditions and genres, so that such
works could be heard relative to the conventions therein.78 Their particulari-
ties may then be more immediate for the reasons given by Adorno.
This conception also relates to Kallberg’s argument that in order to define a
genre, one much consider not simply shared characteristics, but also the com-
munity which employs the term. He evokes Hans Robert Jauss’ conception
72 Ian Pace
of a ‘generic contract’ between composer and listener, by which the composer
agrees to employ some conventions, patterns or gestures associated with a
genre, and the listener agrees to interpret the piece relative to these.79 In a
literary context, just as a musical one, this contract can be implied simply by
the establishment of conventions at the outset of a work.80
The application of this concept to Finnissy is a little problematic, because
his community of listeners is not known to be large, compared to that of
wider listeners to Western art music, and is also somewhat heterogeneous.
There could be said to be a ‘modernist’ community who listen to his work
– many of them often drawn to his earlier and more obviously ‘abstract’
compositions – who continue to situate at least that subsection of his work to
which they are favourable within the category – perhaps genre – of ‘new com-
plexity’, even if not explicitly employing that term.81 Then there is also what
I might call a ‘romantic pianism’ community, naturally drawn to the piano
works, but especially to those works and aspects therein which can be linked
to the music of Charles Valentin Alkan, Busoni, Leopold Godowsky, Percy
Grainger, Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji, and others.82 Both of these communi-
ties (which do have some common members!) have their own generic con-
tracts, which are quite distinct, and Finnissy’s work can be said to fulfil both
contracts in part, but never wholly fulfil either. But this is itself a common
phenomenon: Kallberg points out how departures from generic norms and
expectations have played a major role in the communicative process, and
genres have rarely been fixed and static entities.83
The difference between genre and style is conceptualised quite differently
by a range of writers, as traced by Allan Moore.84 The different conceptions
relate to disciplinary biases: Moore observes that popular music study has
privileged the concept of genre, while musicology has focused more on style.
Theorists of subculture also focus on style, but like popular music scholars
tend to focus upon dress codes, text, social setting and other extra-musical
factors. Some do not consider the two concepts as distinct, whilst others
concentrate on one and ignore the other. In the absence of a consensus,
I wish to preserve the distinction and use the terms in the following narrow
sense: style is a set of characteristic music-immanent attributes, which can
be exclusive to a single work or section of a work, or performance, generally
observed at a localised level, as distinct to structural aspects of composition
and performance. Genre refers to a set of stylistic and/or structural features
or conventions85 which can be observed over a large body of works or per-
formances (possibly from a single composer/performer), though these can
become gradually modified or developed over a period of time.
The works from which a composer like Finnissy borrows are frequently
themselves situated within one or more genres. I am interested in how aspects
of such genres feed into his compositions and are mediated by Finnissy,
and what might be the implications for performance. Genres which inform
Finnissy’s piano music include those from various folk musics, with their
own melodic, ornamental, and other conventions. But it is rare for Finnissy
simply to pastiche these genres, preferring to employ some of their stylistic
attributes in other contexts. Examples include the use of pìobaireachd in De
toutes flours (1990) (where it is combined with material from Guillaume de
Machaut), Folklore (1993–4) (where fragments derived from a bagpipe tutor
are developed, subject to ‘cut-up’ procedures, and then used to form extended
monophonic passages),86 and some other works. Finnissy has also made use
of hymns, most obviously in William Billings (1990–1) (itself a generalised
allusion, in Borrowing Category 8 to the ‘Harmonies’ from John Cage’s
Apartment House 1776 (1976)),87 and explores generic overlap between
these and military songs in various parts of The History of Photography in
Sound (1995–2000), especially My Parents’ Generation thought War meant
something.88 Other obvious examples of generic allusions include those
to operatic arias, duos, ensembles, choruses and scenas (thus a range of
genres identified by structural as well as stylistic features), throughout the
Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005) and some other works including Rossini
(1991) and the Yvaroperas (1993–5), popular song genres in the Gershwin
Arrangements (1975–88), More Gershwin (1989–90, rev. 2016) and Can’t Help
Lovin’ Dat Man (1991), dance forms in the Polskie Tance op. 32 (1955–62),
Four Mazurkas op. 142 (1957), Two Pasodobles (1959), and 23 Tangos
(1962–99), or the African-American spiritual in Sometimes I… . (1990, rev.
1997), Folklore (1993–4) and North American Spirituals, from the History.
On the other hand, in Cozy Fanny’s Tootsies (1992), Finnissy borrows from
a source (Mozart’s Cosi fan tutti) which itself employs various generic con-
ventions, but re-composes the borrowed material in a florid, ostentatious,
and quite un-Mozartian pianistic configuration, so that the work should not
really be viewed as generically related to its source. Works such as Jazz (1976)
or Fast Dances, Slow Dances (1978–9) interact only very obliquely with genre;
it is possible to relate some of the ‘stomp’ writing in the low registers of the
former piece to the ‘stomps’ of Jelly Roll Morton, an explicitly acknowledged
source, but this is far from obvious without having been informed of the allu-
sion. However, stylistic commonalities can be observed between Cozy Fanny’s
Tootsies and other highly ornate writing in the music of Sylvano Bussotti,
Salvatore Sciarrino, and others loosely associated with a ‘camp’ aesthetic, or
indeed with numerous other works of Finnissy himself. Jazz and Fast Dances,
Slow Dances can also be linked in numerous respects to others of Finnissy’s
piano works (such as We’ll Get There Someday (1978) or some parts of English
Country-Tunes (1977, rev. 1982–5)), and to some earlier music of Conlon
Nancarrow, Stockhausen, Bussotti or some types of free improvisation, as
well as drawing their structures from Beethoven’s sets of Bagatelles, op. 126
and 119 respectively.89 Thus in this sense the works relate to alternative genres,
just not those associated with the primary source. As such, they belong in
Borrowing Category no. 12 (Material/Configuration Multi-Borrowing).
Another new music genre is the work for medium-sized ensemble, between
around 8’ and 20’ long, using a standard line-up of single wind, brass and
strings, with piano and a few percussion, sometimes also voice, characterised
74 Ian Pace
by a generous quantity of varied and distinctive timbres and an approach to
material whereby nothing is developed for more than a few minutes at a time
before switching to something different. Finnissy’s relative indifference to
instrumental timbre in particular sets him apart from this and some other
currents in new music. Nonetheless, in earlier works such as Le dormeur or
Horrorzone (1965, rev. 1987) he did employ some aspects of this genre, traces
of which remain in a few later works such as Kritik das Urteilskraft (2001) or
Onbevooroordeeld Leven (2000–2).
Many of Finnissy’s works can be said to employ hybrid genres, which are
themselves nothing new, as Kallberg points out – titles such as Beethoven’s
Sonata quasi una fantasia or Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasy indicate this.90
Others relate to specific generic histories. Alkan’s Concerto for Solo Piano can
be viewed as a particular stage in the evolution of the concerto genre (employ-
ing the generic conventions of the solo concerto with orchestra, but mimicking
them on a single instrument), to which Finnissy alludes in his Piano Concertos
Nos. 4 (1978, rev. 1996) and 6 (1980–1), made explicit through the use of ‘Solo’
and ‘Tutti’ indications, as in the Alkan, whilst the Piano Concertos No. 5
(1980) for solo piano, mezzo-soprano and three instruments, or 7 (1981) for
solo piano and wind quintet relate to later developments of the concerto genre,
as in several twentieth-century works of Janáček, Stravinsky, and others.91
There have also been many counter-genres, works which frustrate most
generic expectations, of which John Cage’s 4’33” is an obvious extreme exam-
ple (and which would themselves define genres if one accepts the formulations
of Toynbee and Drott). If rarely as extreme as this, other of Finnissy’s works
contain elements which push them close to this category, as for example with
the violent interruptions of tonal or part-tonal material with extended pas-
sages of wrenched pointillistic writing in various parts of the History.92
But just as important is Finnissy’s role as mediator between the generic
aspects of his sources and the final work, so that either the genre appears only
in a partial or fragmentary form, or other aspects of the work create dialecti-
cal tension with the generic expectations. Laurence Dreyfus and others have
observed the extent to which Bach frequently composed ‘against genre’,93 so
that his own individuations superseded many generic expectations. Similar
arguments were made by Adorno in his famed essay ‘Bach gegen seine
Liebhaber verteidigt’/‘Bach Defended Against his Devotees’.94 To Adorno,
performers at the time of writing (1950) of Bach’s music treated it as they
would that of a minor Baroque composer, and responded as interpreters
purely to the generic aspects of his work, not those which distinguished it
from that of more average musicians. Whilst Adorno betrays here some of his
nineteenth-century aesthetic inclinations, nonetheless I believe both his and
Dreyfus’s account of Bach is essentially accurate, and this model is also appli-
cable to Finnissy. Furthermore, it could be used by a future scholar to explore
Finnissy’s own use of Bachian models in large scale works, from Bachsche
Nachdichtungen (2000) through to the Koralforspill (Choralvorspiele) (2012)
and Beat Generation Ballads (2013).
Compositional mediation of sources, genres or other influences, as a form
of individuation, can easily become a fetish in its own right, and it would be
simplistic to use this undoubtedly pronounced aspect of Finnissy’s work to
portray it as a model of modernity in stark contrast with a supposedly dead
‘tradition’, conceived as a lifeless museum or conservative canon. Many of
the traditions and sources upon which he draws both were and are radical,
in some ways exhibiting such a quality more meaningfully than through the
various forms of shock tactics encountered in some later music. Gershwin’s
songs can be interpreted as glamorous tokens of some Golden Age, but can
equally be read as embodying covert or less covert messages about emotional
pain, isolation, conditions of great poverty in the 1920s and 1930s, and even
arguably to some extent racism – and this can be argued to be a product of
the relationship of George Gershwin’s settings of the texts, not just Ira’s orig-
inal texts themselves. It is not difficult to locate near-hysterical soprano arias,
banal, almost militaristic drama, and sentimental nationalistic choruses in
Verdi’s operas, but one can equally find subtlety of musical characterisation
of both heroes and villains, moments of startling harmonic ambiguity, inven-
tive orchestral textures (especially in the later works), or highly intricate and
original interactions between characters in ensemble pieces, not to mention
gradual but palpable extension and defamiliarisation (but not abandonment)
of Rossinian operatic conventions, especially from Rigoletto onwards. These
latter factors, reconfigured in contemporary post-tonal contexts, inform
Finnissy’s works as much as do nostalgic considerations.
However, while a significant number of the genres and sources upon which
Finnissy draws might have been familiar to one of his own generation going
through a thorough musical education, such familiarity may be less likely in a
more atomised musical world, with less of a ‘common culture’ or shared rep-
ertoire, even for those with a musical education. In many ways Finnissy writes
for other cultivated musicians, though his music – not least that designed for
amateur musicians – can still be approached on simpler or at least more
easily accessible levels too. Nonetheless, in opposition to a ‘dumbed-down’
approach to music in general, I hope in the following to play a small part in
rendering some of the more intricate aspects of the music more approachable.
Finnissy’s Gershwin Arrangements, like his Verdi Transcriptions, throw into
question Adorno’s claim that ‘Phases of forgetting and, complementarily,
those of the re-emergence of what has long been taboo […] usually involve
genres rather than individual works’,95 as each entails a quite unique response
to the individual song. Nonetheless, Finnissy employs generic as well as
work-specific features: most of the pieces feature a modified version of the
verse-refrain structure, though sometimes with blurring of sectional bounda-
ries or, as in ‘Embraceable you’, the inclusion of a free fantasia at the outset,
or with a monophonic prefix and suffix, as in ‘Boy wanted’. Gershwin’s
melodies generally remain intact and recognisable, albeit with some small
deviations of pitch, and sometimes more significant ones for rhythm. Some
of the pieces are hypertextual, others metatextual, and inhabit a position
76 Ian Pace
between Borrowing Categories 3 and 4 (Paraphrase/Fantasia and Setting
with New Accompaniment) outlined above (some individual pieces belong
more obviously to one or the other category). In Finnissy’s own view (after
the event) of what he was doing:
I [also] wanted to see if I could ‘transform’ the material without falsifying

it (without taking it too far beyond its original technical-assumptions
and devices).
‘Arrangement’ means working afresh with (found and un-original)
material, so most of the emphasis is on transforming – aka endless varia-
tion as recommended by Schoenberg, building on Lisztian metamorpho-
sis, Beethoven and (less obviously here) Brahms.
On the whole what is ‘arranged’ or re-arranged are the harmonies and
rhythms, rather than the structure (which mostly retains GG’s verse/
chorus shaping, sometimes with extra intro and/or coda). The textures
(inner voices) are elaborated.96
Finnissy has also argued that ‘The “Gershwin” of my title is George, not to
be confused with Ira’ and ‘The tunes interest me, the words don’t’,97 another
manifestation of Dahlhaus’s concept of ‘indifference to the text’. However,
there are a few moments where the response to the text is obvious (and thus an
example of paratextuality), as in ‘Embraceable you’, where after the passage
which relates to the line ‘You and you alone bring out the gypsy in me’ in the
Gershwin sheet music, Finnissy launches into an explosively and wrenched
dissonant rendition of the chorus, with chords close to tone clusters (Ex. 3.2).
According to Finnissy himself, all but two of the Gershwin Arrangements
(and all but two of the successor volume, More Gershwin) were based upon
Ex. 3.2 Finnissy, from ‘Embraceable you’. © Oxford University Press 1990.
Gershwin’s published ‘song-sheets’, which Finnissy collected when working
as a bar pianist early on in his career, and around which he would improvise
or ‘doodle’.98 Earlier versions involved a lesser degree of free setting,99 while
the final ones sometimes also drew upon other sources (such as music of
Liszt and Rachmaninoff in ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for me’,
as described below, or Busoni’s Toccata for ‘I’d rather Charleston’),100 and
thus contain metatextual elements. However, in a 2015 interview, Finnissy
implied that various cover versions might be a deeper influence (and so the
metatextuality might run deeper):
I was interested in the niche-position of Gershwin’s music (between light-

weight Tin-Pan-Alley and something more élite, ambitious and aspiring),
a tension between High Art and Commercial Trade that still informs
some contemporary musical cultures; and the story that Gershwin
wanted to study with Berg, or Ravel, or Glazounov. [… .]
My pieces mostly keep to the shapes of the original songs, but not
necessarily the tempo or atmosphere – in this respect they are more like
the versions recorded by Judy Garland or Ella Fitzgerald, which are a
lot slower and more dramatic than those recorded by Fred and Adèle
Astaire, Ginger Rogers or Gertrude Lawrence. So they are part of a ‘tra-
dition’, including that of jazzing the classics. Gershwin’s melodic contour
is also kept pretty much intact, but the harmonies fantasise about how
Gershwin might have arranged them himself, had he studied with the
composer of Wozzeck and Lulu. 101
The published versions by Gershwin nonetheless provide the most impor-

tant point of comparison, in order to understand how Finnissy’s mediations
produce the final score.
Ex. 3.3 shows this for the verse of ‘Embraceable you’. The published
Gershwin version features common generic features of this style – a simple
bass line alternating between the root and the fifth of the harmony, with a
smattering of chromatic acciacciaturas, and melody harmonised in parallel
6-3 triads. I will refer here to bar numbers counting from the beginning of the
Finnissy musical example (not the whole piece). At the outset, Finnissy flattens
the middle note of the first and fifth of the 6-3 triads in the right hand, then in
bar 3 compresses Gershwin’s two lower parts into static major-second dyads,
constructed from what would be the second pitch in the middle part with the
first in the lower one. Back in bar 2, the middle part of the right hand is more
obviously chromatic, but the C#4 is simply a chromatic neighbour note to
the preceding Cᅉ4, followed by a chromatic descent which culminates on the D4
at the beginning of bar 3. The middle part from the end of bar 3 through bar 4
similarly consists of chromatic embellishments using neighbour notes. The
left hand, which Finnissy turns into a more soloistic pizzicato bass line, is also
more harmonically complicated. The first four notes – A3-Bᅈ3-E3-D3 – almost
establish the F-major tonality (omitting an implied C3 to follow – creating
78 Ian Pace
an implied C7 harmony), albeit including the angular interval of a tritone.
However, the key is already made clear in the right hand by the end of bar 1,
so the missing C3 is unnecessary in this respect. But from the second beat of
bar 2, the left hand outlines an Eᅈ7 harmony (with a chromatic neighbour note
of C3), thus a seventh chord on the flattened leading note of the ‘home key’ of
F. The left hand alone is simply redirected in bars 3-4, returning to the chro-
matic walking bass, involving a chain of descending fifths which imply (but
do not state) a progression towards a C-G bass, the dominant of F. However,
returning to bar 2, the left hand and right hand combined enharmonically
create an Eᅈ9 harmony from the second quaver beat, and the other pitches can
be viewed as chromatic neighbours, except for the remote final Bᅉ3 in the right
hand. This does not necessarily create a discontinuity, as the following C4 in
the lower part of the right hand then serves as a resolution. Similar processes
are developed further, with increasing complexity, in subsequent bars.
Ex. 3.3 Finnissy, from ‘Embraceable you’. © Oxford University Press 1990.
One approach to performing this passage, which I myself have employed,

would be to employ various means in order to give the impression of con-
trapuntal equality between voices. But there are other approaches which
reflect different musical perspectives. These include playing the right hand
at a palpably higher dynamic than the left, creating a clear sense of ‘melody
and accompaniment’, with either the Bᅈ3 or the E3 played softer to mute the
tritone leap, and a small diminuendo on the ascending arpeggio from the Eᅈ2.
Furthermore, the top part of the right hand could be emphasised throughout
(for a ‘solo vocal’ effect) and the right-hand E4, D#4 and B3 in bar 2 played
quieter than preceding notes in those parts. These approaches would imply
the passage to be an elaboration of an F-Eᅈ9 progression. If even the low Eᅈ2
in bar 2 were played more softly, it might be heard as a minor aberration
implying a resolution to F2 before the succeeding C3.
But a quite different result would be conveyed by the following approach,
aspects of which I have employed in some performances: a clear stress on
the first left-hand A3-Bᅈ3 (no quieter than the right hand) to foreground
the dissonance with the Bᅈ4-A4 progression in the right hand, then a slight
accent on the E3 to ensure a diminished seventh harmony is made clear, as
well as the tritone leap. Then the Eᅈ2-C3-Dᅈ3-Bᅈ3 progression in the second
bar could be played with a slight crescendo, but not in such a way as appears
to ‘resolve’ with the C4 at the beginning of bar 3 (whose dynamic would be
within a different ‘region’), to minimise the continuity. This has the effect of
defamiliarising the relationship between melody and accompaniment, as if
the left hand were momentarily inverting the hierarchy, literally rising up as
if to dominate, but then cut short abruptly. Similar emphases could highlight
the false relation between the right hand Aᅈ3 and left hand Aᅉ2 across bars
3-4. In bar 5 the most dissonant harmony (the whole tone F#3-G#3-D4-E4)
could be played most prominently, as the peak of that phrase, and then the
dissonant chord emphasised at the beginning of bar 7 (Bᅈmin7 combined with
the remote F3-C4, or possibly heard as a revoicing of Bᅈmin9), as well as that
at the beginning of bar 8 (enharmonically Dᅈ7 combined with G4-C5, though
the wider tessitura, and the fact that the most dissonant notes are all in the
highest range, is something of a relief compared to the more close-packed
chord in the previous bar). Then the beginning of bar 9 will sound like a rela-
tive consonance, erasing the intensity of the previous bars.
These latter two approaches, which I deliberately present in a hyperbolic
form, should highlight the distinction between two fundamentally different
types of approach. The first serves to foreground the generic qualities of the
source (as manifested in the sheet music of the Gershwin song), and render
Finnissy’s mediations as primarily decorative, while the second emphasises
the tension between the more obvious traces of the genre and their more
heavily mediated forms (such as the chromatic pizzicato bass line, which itself
draws upon another generic convention from later jazz), leading to a music of
instability, dissonance, melodic angularity and harmonic discontinuity. One
articulates the work’s supposed proximity to the Gershwin original, the other
its distance. There is a further category of approach, in line with the perspec-
tive of Beaudoin (in some ways a ‘post-Schenkerian’ interpretation), which
fundamentally views the melody and accompaniment as on equal terms, as
with the very first approach I suggested, but also structures the phrasing,
dynamics and voicing according to the interpolated long-range resulting har-
monic structure resulting from a fundamentally vertical approach.
But what happens when other mediating musical determinants are
involved? In Finnissy’s setting of ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for
me’, he has spoken about the inspiration of a rendition of the song by Judy
Garland.102 The piece can thus definitely be considered metatextual. Ex. 3.4
80 Ian Pace
shows my transcription of a short section from the version sung by Garland
in the film Girl Crazy (1943), and then Finnissy’s setting.103
Gershwin’s notated regular crotchets at the opening were surely never
imagined to be sung in such a rigid form. The rhythm of the opening of
Garland’s version is a free parlando around the text, with a slight but clear
increase in the pulse around the words ‘try it’, expressing determination
and defiance. Finnissy’s version at this point is more austere and distant,
merely elongating slightly the first of each group of four notes (a further
sign of his lack of interest in the text).104 He does signify determination
through the accented Eᅈs in bars 10 and 12, though this relates to Gershwin’s
walking accompaniment at this place, in sharp contrast to the chromatic
descent in thirds for the first two lines. His elaboration in bar 13 incorporates
Gershwin’s accompaniment into the melodic line, with a slight nod in the
direction of the orchestral rendition of this in the film. Judy Garland’s ghost
is conveyed more through the intensely melancholy and desolate nature of
the first page of Finnissy’s score. However, from bar 25, Finnissy imitates the
rhythmic impetuousness of Garland’s singing, as he does in the setting of the
final stanza.
Having performed this piece many times, I have found a knowledge of
Garland’s performance has helped to make sense of some of the rhythmic
disjunctions in Finnissy’s arrangements. Such knowledge provides such dis-
junctions with an expressive context, though Finnissy’s rhythms certainly do
not slavishly imitate those of Garland. Various other generic aspects found
in the original sheet music are generally mediated through other sources,
creating a metatextual commentary. These are, specifically, Liszt’s La lugubre
gondola No. 1,105 and a generalised type of piano writing frequently employed
by Rachmaninoff (see Ex. 3.5).106 Therefore the piece belongs to Borrowing
Ex. 3.4 (a) Rough transcription of section of Judy Garland performance of ‘But
not for me’ in Girl Crazy (1943).
Ex. 3.4 (b) Finnissy, ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for me.’ © Oxford
University Press 1990.
82 Ian Pace
Category 12 (Material/Configuration multi-borrowing) above. From Liszt he
takes a three-note descending figure, with a semitone between the second and
third notes, and a larger interval between the first and second, though where
Liszt’s larger interval is always a perfect fifth, Finnissy varies it (and some-
times inverts the direction of the figure), in the manner of the generic chro-
matic descending accompaniment provided by Gershwin. The Rachmaninoff
allusion (which surrounds the section of the melody corresponding to Ira’s
‘With love to lead the way/I’ve found more clouds of grey/Than any Russian
play’, which surely would have evoked, to Finnissy, Liszt’s Nuages gris and
some Russian music) consists of a relatively extravagant accompaniment in
arpeggios and some motion in a narrower tessitura under a melody presented
in full chords surrounded by octaves.
Ex. 3.5 (a) Franz Liszt, La lugubre gondola No. 1.
Ex. 3.5 (b) Sergey Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, last movement.
In the Rachmaninoff, and similar examples such as the Prelude in D, op.

23 no. 4, the accompanying line mostly adds decoration around the vertical
harmonies supplied by the right hand, or sometimes modifies them (e.g. the
Eᅈ4, as a resolution of the F4, and contraction of the preceding G4-Eᅈ4, in
the third bar of Ex. 3.5 (b), which turns a D minor harmony into F13). But
in Finnissy’s piece (in which the harmonies at the beginning of each two-bar
group are a modified rendition of Gershwin’s quite stock progression), some
of the neighbour notes create pronounced dissonances with the melody, as
for example with the Fᅈ2 in the left hand at the beginning of the fourth bar
of this example. In other circumstances, this could be accounted for in terms
of a simple dissonant neighbour note, but here it has a different function, by
which the opening Lisztian figure, with a reduced opening interval, is inserted
into this line so as to add a dark hue to the general sonority (Ex. 3.6). A topic
theorist might say that this element signifies death.
Ex. 3.6 Finnissy, ‘They’re writing songs of love, but not for me’. © Oxford
The Liszt source is too specific to one piece (albeit also imitated in the second
La lugubre gondola) to be considered generic, but this is not true of the
Rachmaninoff allusion, as this refers to a technique employed across a range
of his, and others’, piano music. For this reason, as the music morphs into
that generic configuration – a very striking transformation of texture within
the piece as a whole – the tainting aspect of the continuing Liszt allusion
is all the more striking. One approach is to play the accompaniment softer
at first, with a small crescendo to peak at the Aᅈ4-Fᅈ4-Eᅈ4-Cᅈ4-Aᅈ3-G3
sequence, then diminuendo again, and similarly in the following two bars, or
conversely to diminuendo towards this section to create a form of ‘negative
accent’, or subtlest of tints, depending on degree. Taste and other prefer-
ences will naturally be the major determinants here, but at issue is whether
the performer employs an approach which strives to make apparent both
84 Ian Pace
the generic aspects (and how one might approach that generic configuration
if playing Rachmaninoff, which can itself take many forms) and Finnissy’s
mediation thereof.
The expanded four-book set of Finnissy’s Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005)
creates its own mini-generic (and so architextual) elements across the four
books, with a similar structure for each book, though of increasing length.
The sources become progressively clearer in each book, so there is a trajec-
tory from metatextuality in the first to hypertextuality in the fourth, though
with exceptions to the general direction within each book. The architextual
attributes of the pieces do not necessarily correspond to generic unities of
the sources. The four pieces which begin each book, all of which employ
close-packed chromatic trichords, correspond to an Aria, Duet, Canzone,
and Chorus respectively. The first and third present the melody in a recog-
nisable form, which suggests that they belong in Borrowing Category 12 (if
one considers the para-microtonal use of such trichords as an oblique ‘bor-
rowing’ from composers such as Alois Hába or Giacinto Scelsi), whereas
the second and fourth, in which the melody is unrecognisable during these
sections, belong to Category 3.107 The fourth piece of each book (or third in
Book 2) features staccato writing, originally derived from the staccato chorus
in I Lombardi, though set in a polyrhythmic, quasi-pointillistic fashion remi-
niscent of the music of Conlon Nancarrow, alternating with quite different
material: the original melody with an imitative canonical part in the left hand
in Book 1; abstract material in the low treble register with just passing melodic
allusions in Book 2; a highly ornate setting of the melody somewhat in the
manner of Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji in Book 3; and two types of material
in Book 4 – a sustained line surrounded by staccato ‘punctuation’ (very much
in the manner of much of Elliott Carter’s late piano writing) and a distorted,
chromaticised, but recognisable transcription of 3/8 passages in the Scherzo
of Verdi’s String Quartet, the source for the piece. Thus the four pieces cor-
respond to Borrowing Categories 4, 3, 12 and both 3 and 1, respectively. The
pieces correspond to a Chorus, Duet, Boléro and the String Quartet in Verdi’s
original. The sixth piece of each book is a free fantasia (Category 3), while the
eighth takes a work of Busoni as its basic template (Category 12).
The fifth piece of each book (and the fourth in Book 2) sets a chromati-
cally elaborated rendition of Verdi’s material, with melody, harmony and
rhythm generally intact and clearly recognisable, the arrangement influenced
by the one-handed transcriptions of Leopold Godowsky of Chopin, Johann
Strauss II and others. This is in the left hand in Books 1 and 3, the right hand
in Books 2 and 4, and is combined in a free atonal and a-periodic two-part
quasi-canon in the other hand. As in the second and fourth of Finnissy’s
Yvaroperas, the relationship between the two hands is fundamentally affected
by whether the harmonised melody appears in the bass or treble. Because
of the more powerful sonorities of the bass register of the modern piano,
the tonality will be more prominent when the material appears there, and
the pieces can easily sound like a generic Verdian/Godowskian transcription
(Category 12) surrounded by an assortment of almost random chromatic
pitches. This approach has its merits, but in order to increase the dialectical
tension between the two hands, I choose to accentuate those which have the
more dissonant relationship with the bass, or where a sense of line can be
made most palpable. I have indicated some of these for the first two lines
in Ex. 3.7, the fifth piece from the first book, derived from the Septet with
Chorus ‘Vedi come il buon vegliardo’ from Ernani, Part 1. A further strategy
to heighten the profile of the right hand is to clarify (through dynamic dif-
ferentiation, and phrasing of different elements), which pitches belong to the
upper part, which to the lower, and generally play them in the manner of
lines, rather than atomised single notes.
Ex. 3.7 Finnissy, Septet with Chorus: ‘Verdi come il buon vegliardo…’, Ernani
(Part 1), from Verdi Transcriptions, Book 1, No. 5. © United Music
Publishers 1995.
In Finnissy’s setting of the Romance from Act 3 of Aida, ‘O cieli azzuri…’,

the third piece of Book 4, he extends the instrumental line which appears
towards the end of the aria so as to accompany throughout, weaving itself
in a snake-like manner around the melody in polyrhythmic relationships
(Ex. 3.8). This can be voiced in very different ways: if there is a clear dynamic
distinction between melody and accompaniment, the latter creates subtle
‘interference patterns’, both harmonically and rhythmically, without wholly
86 Ian Pace
engulfing the former, but this can indeed occur if both parts are played at
a similar dynamic. Again, taste is the ultimate judge; the former approach
might seem both more subtle and more powerful to some, whilst the latter
would highlight the extent of Finnissy’s mediation and accentuate the regu-
lar 7:6 relationship between the two lines as more of a polyrhythm than an
expression of rhythmic freedom.
Finnissy’s other major set of transcriptions for piano from a single com-
poser is the Strauss-Walzer (1967, rev. 1989). The third of these, after Johann
Strauss II’s ‘Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald’, makes the source most
immediate at the beginning, yet also deviates the furthest from the basic
Ex. 3.8 (a) Verdi, two passages from ‘O cieli azzuri…’, from Aida, Act 3.
Ex. 3.8 (b) Finnissy, Romanza: ‘O cieli azzuri…’, Aida (Act 3), from Verdi
Transcriptions, Book 4, No. 3. © United Music Publishers 1995.
pattern. Finnissy also presents derived fragments in non-linear fashion, thus

situating the piece in Category 11 (Patchwork), and rendering it metatextual
(possible also paratextual, if one is to interpret the title as a reference to illicit
sexual activity in the Vienna Woods). Ex. 3.9 shows some of the fundamental
transformations of the material.
Finnissy’s addition of a chromatic fifth degree of the scale in the opening
bar, a very characteristic extravagance, as found in the Strauss transcriptions
of Moriz Rosenthal, Adolf Schulz-Evler, and especially Godowsky of what
were originally quite harmonically bland passages, could suggest a rallentando
at the end of the first bar, in order to delay further the resolution, which
would have been quite meaningless in the original. The increasingly adven-
turous harmonic embellishments in the following bars (and differing metric
elements) invite similar types of responses. The rhythm, and specifically the
use of generic non-metrical ‘waltz rhythms’ in the following material, presents
more difficult questions. Finnissy’s arrangement is 69 bars long. 45 of these are
in 3/4, with extended passages of this type in bars 9–14, 16–18, 20–25, 27–29,
36–43 and 46–54. The bars which ‘interrupt’ these can be a type of rhythmic
expansion, with the second and third beats turned into dotted crotchets in
bar 15, or a short three-semiquaver ‘tail’ in bar 19 to the material in bar 18,
linking it to the wide spread chords in bar 20. The ostentation of the writing
necessitates, for purely practical reasons, a significantly slower tempo than is
common for Strauss’ original, yet it is important to maintain a sense of when
the music is ‘in 3’ (either through metrical regularity, or flexibility of pulse
executed in stages, to avoid discontinuity) so that the other bars are heard
relative to this. One stylistic convention for playing waltzes has a low first beat
of a 3/4 bar released for the second beat, which is itself played slightly early
for a crisp effect, However, in almost all the places where Finnissy obliquely
alludes to the ‘oom-pah-pah’ bass, he indicates that the first chord is to be
sustained. If playing the crotchet beats unevenly, it would make most sense to
88 Ian Pace
Ex. 3.9 (a) Finnissy’s transformations of Johann Strauss II, Geschichten aus dem
Wienerwald.
elongate the first for this reason. The exception is in bars 36–42, which feature
a thinner type of writing which could be used as a reason to push the tempo
forward momentarily, and a different rhythmic distribution.
All three pieces in Finnissy’s Second Political Agenda (2000–10) (also
discussed by both Arnold Whittall and Max Erwin in their contributions
to this volume) belong to Category 14 (Portraiture), though sections of
these also belong to Categories 11 and 12. In the third and last piece of
Ex. 3.9 (a) (continued)
the set, SKRYABIN in itself (2007–8), I wish to focus on one passage, near
the outset, which can be viewed as a hypertextual ‘double application’ of
Category 12. Finnissy draws upon Skryabin’s Prelude in G# minor, op. 22,
no. 1, freely modifying both melody and accompaniment, dislocating the
metrical placement of the melody and sometimes reducing it to just a few
sustained pitches, whilst the accompaniment becomes more than just a
means of filling out the harmony through arpeggios, but is given stronger
harmonic implications of its own, though it tends to supplement rather
90 Ian Pace
Ex. 3.9 (b) Finnissy, ‘Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald’, from Strauss-Walzer
(1967, rev. 1989). © Oxford University Press 1991.
than undermine the melody (Ex. 3.10). But this type of elaboration itself
has a pre-history, through the transcriptions of Liszt, Carl Tausig, Busoni,
Godowsky, Grainger, and others, and so one could even speak of a (shift-
ing) ‘genre of transformation’ (or, more obviously ‘genre of transcription’,
but that term would already imply simply that a work is in some sense a
‘transcription’, rather than the more specific meaning I have in mind). An
obvious example would be Liszt’s piano transcription of Chopin’s song
Moja pieszczotka/Mes joies. Liszt does not generally modify or enrich the
harmony, but transforms the accompaniment of Chopin’s simple waltz-like
Ex. 3.10 (a) Aleksander Skryabin, Prelude in G# minor, op. 22, no. 1.
Ex. 3.10 (b) Finnissy, from SKRYABIN in itself (2007–8). © Tre Media Verlag
2008.
92 Ian Pace
chordal setting into flowing arpeggiated figures, as well as inserting some
small melodic embellishments, all techniques of transformation which
Finnissy also employs and supplements.
More generally, SKRYABIN in itself weaves in and out of passages of high
chromaticism/pan-tonality, including three indicated free Canons, before
drastically fragmenting around half-way through, leaving just isolated detri-
tus from the earlier material, and later pointillistic assemblages, recalling
similar moments in both Wachtend op de volgende uitbarsting van repressie en
censuur and Unsere Afrikareise from the History and other non-solo pieces
such as Kritik das Urteilskraft, so that this technique, used as a structural
device, was starting to become generic within Finnissy’s output. Finnissy’s
further use of regular montage between disparate musical materials, with dif-
fering degrees of proximity to their sources and/or genres, is also a feature of
much of Folklore, the History and both SKRYABIN and the second piece of
the Second Political Agenda, Mit Arnold Schoenberg (2002), in the first section
of which Finnissy includes recognisable and essentially tonal fragments from
Brahms’s String Quartet in C minor, op. 51, no. 1, as cited in Schoenberg’s
essay ‘Brahms the Progressive’.108 In any of these pieces the performer faces
choices of continuity and discontinuity, specifically whether to emphasise
the stylistic and generic disjunction between successive fragments, through
pedalling, voicing, phrasing, etc., or whether to use these types of parameters
to create a sense of integration and general continuity, whereby the diverse
fragments create localised variety without disrupting a wider sense of line.
Such questions (which I believe need to be asked anew for each piece or sec-
tion of a piece) entail both questions of source-derived style and genre, but
also wider issues of performance genre such as profoundly affect perceptions
of Finnissy’s works: amongst the options are different places on a spec-
trum from what can crudely be termed a ‘late romantic’ performance genre
(which incorporates some performance traditions which have been applied to
Schoenberg’s music) which emphasises continuity and totality, or a ‘modern-
ist’ genre (especially associated with Stravinsky and post-Stravinskian music)
which emphasises angularity, discontinuity, fragmentation and alienation.
Conclusion
Finnissy’s piano works employing borrowing, which constitute the
majority of his output, almost always exhibit a high degree of composi-
tional mediation between the sources and their associated genres on one
hand, and the finished piece on the other. The forms this can take include
works in which a source associated with one genre is transformed using
another set of generic conventions, or through a hybrid range of genres
presented either simultaneously or in succession. A taxonomy of categories
of borrowing is possible for the oeuvre as a whole, which can themselves be
viewed as ‘genres of transformation’ when encountered in a number of
works.
However, the degree and nature of Finnissy’s compositional mediation
can vary very considerably, and it is far from unknown for a work to con-
sist of varying degrees of mediation and thus proximity to the source or
genre (another example of this would be Alkan-Paganini (1997)).109 It is
rare that no attribute of either of these can be perceived, but when both
are unrecognisable – as in the free ‘fantasias’ in each of the four books of
the Verdi Transcriptions – then Finnissy usually draws upon another genre
(and the fantasia itself is of course a genre). But some pieces’ relationship
to supposedly normative characteristics can itself strengthen their generic
membership, in the manner outlined by Adorno and Samson, especially when
they take up and extend/expand previous types of transformation, as most
obviously in the earlier transcription literature.
What is at stake here is how the performer chooses to foreground the more
generic or individuated aspects of the works. In some cases this may be a false
dichotomy, because the latter only make sense in terms of the former, though
many different possibilities remain available for performance. Furthermore,
many works also raise questions of which of multiple possible performance
genres one might associate with the source, as for example with the various
works of Bach, which have been played in starkly differing ways at different
times during the twentieth century. There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ answer to
any of these questions; instead they supply immense potential for creative
input on the part of the performer, in ways which relate to much larger ques-
tions of history and modernity.
Notes
1 See Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’ and ‘The Theatrical Works’ in Henrietta
Brougham, Christopher Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music
of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 43–134, 259–346; and Ian
Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study of
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013).
2 See Richard Beaudoin, ‘Anonymous Sources: Finnissy Analysis and the Opening
of Chapter Eight of The History of Photography in Sound’, Perspectives of New
Music, vol. 45, no. 2 (Summer 2007), pp. 5–27.
3 I refer here to figures such as John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, W.K. Wimsatt,
Monroe Beardsley and Cleanth Brooks, active in American literary criticism in
the mid-twentieth century, in whose work there was a strong emphasis upon the
immanent properties of literary texts, without recourse to authorial intention or
biography, or reception. For one brief survey, see Leroy Searle, ‘New Criticism’,
in Michael Groden, Martin Kreiswirth and Imre Szeman, The John Hopkins
Guide to Literary Theory, second edition (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins
4 Beaudoin, ‘Anonymous Sources’, p. 6. Italics are Beaudoin’s.
5 Ibid.
6 Ibid. p. 10. Beaudoin at no point in this article however actually mentions Ives,
in whose Concord Sonata this motive plays a prominent role.
7 Ibid. pp. 22–3.
8 Ibid. pp. 13–14.
94 Ian Pace
9 The very idea of being bound to a piece of music or a musical style’s ‘own terms’
has been criticised in particular by some ethnomusicologists, as for example
in John Blacking, How Musical is Man? (Seattle, WA and London: University
of Washington Press, 1973), p. 25; and Henry Kingsbury, Music, Talent, &
Performance: A Conservatory Cultural System (Philadelphia, PA: Temple
University Press, 1988), p. 16. For my response to this, in light of the ironic
situation of once having been told by another academic that the only valid atti-
tude towards ethnomusicological and other writings was to take them ‘on their
own terms’, see Ian Pace, ‘My contribution to the debate “Are we all ethno-
musicologists now?”’ (9 June 2016), at https://ianpace.wordpress.com/2016/06/
09/my-contribution-to-the-debate-are-we-all-ethnomusicologists-now/
(accessed 10 June 2018).
10 See the discussion of this model of music by Nigel McBride in Chapter 4.
11 Beaudoin, ‘Anonymous Source’, pp. 14–15. For my own reading of the har-
monic processes in a passage just after this, which also incorporates thoughts on
performance, see Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound,
pp. 204–5.
12 For an example of a strategy for navigating this situation in the fifth of Finnissy’s
Verdi Transcriptions, see Ian Pace, ‘Notation, Time and the Performer’s
Relationship to the Score in Contemporary Music’, in Darla Crispin (ed.),
Unfolding Time: Studies in Temporality in Twentieth-Century Music (Leuven:
Leuven University Press, 2009), pp. 178–80.
13 On the wider use of lines, chords and gestures in the History, and their relative
predominance in different sections, see Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of
Photography in Sound, pp. 9–31.
14 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 105–8.
15 Nicholas Cook, Beyond the Score: Music as Performance (New York and Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2013), p. 97; Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, ‘Classical music
as enforced Utopia’, Arts & Humanities in Higher Education, vol. 15, nos. 3–4
(2016), pp. 325–36. One must presume that they exempt their own work from this
diagnosis.
16 See Ian Pace, ‘The New State of Play in Performance Studies’, Music & Letters,
vol. 98, no. 2 (2017), p. 289.
17 See for example the hugely modified combination of a Homer Denny rag and a
transcription of a Metis song in North American Spirituals, barely recognisable
but still retaining some essential properties, discussed in Pace, Michael Finnissy’s
The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 34–8.
18 Christopher Fox, ‘Michael Finnissy’s History of Photography in Sound: Under
the Lens’, The Musical Times, vol. 143, no. 1879 (Summer 2002), pp. 31–2.
19 Frederick W. Sternfeld, ‘Some Russian Folk Songs in Stravinsky’s Petrouchka’,
Music Library Association vol. 2, no. 2 (March 1945), pp. 95–107; F. Bónis,
‘Quotations in Bartók’s Music: A Contribution to Bartók’s Psychology of
Composition’, Studia Musicologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 5/1–4
(1963), pp. 355–82.
20 Günter von Noé, ‘Das musikalische Zitat’, Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, vol. 124,
no. 4 (1963), pp. 134–7; Zofia Lissa, ‘Ästhetische Funktionen des musikalischen
Zitats’, Die Musikforschung 19/4 (October–December 1966), pp. 364–78.
21 Noé, ‘Das musikalische Zitat’. Noé also examined the concept and moral impli-
cations of musical plagiarism in more detail in a further article published later
that year, ‘Das Musikalische Plagiat’, Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, vol. 124, no. 9
(1963), pp. 330–4.
22 Lissa, ‘Ästhetische Funktionen’, pp. 365–7.
23 Ibid. pp. 367–73.
24 Ibid. pp. 373–4.
25 Elmar Budde, ‘Zitat, Collage, Montage’, in Rudolf Stephan (ed.), Die Musik der
sechziger Jahre (Mainz: Schott, 1972), pp. 26–38.
26 Ibid. pp. 26–7.
27 Ibid. pp 28–35. Specifically, Budde’s lineage contains Kagel’s Sur Scène (1962),
Ligeti’s Aventures and Nouvelles Aventures (1962–5), Pousseur and Michael
Butor’s Votre Faust (1969), Hans Otte’s Passages (1965), Stockhausen’s Hymnen
(1966–7), Pousseur’s Couleurs Croisées (1967), Lukas Foss’s Baroque Variations
(1967), Berio’s Sinfonia (1968–9), Kagel’s Ludwig van (1970) and a few other
works.
28 Clemens Kühn, Das Zitat in der Musik der Gegenwart, mit Ausblicken auf
bildende Kunst und Literatur (Hamburg: Verlag der Musikalienhandlung Karl
Dieter Wagner, 1972).
29 Ibid. pp. 8–9.
30 Ibid. pp. 24–37.
31 Ibid. pp. 38–84.
32 Elmar Budde, ‘Zum dritten Satz der Sinfonia von Luciano Berio’, in Die Musik
der sechziger Jahre, pp. 128–44.
33 Peter Altmann, Sinfonia von Luciano Berio. Eine analytische Studie (Vienna:
Universal Edition, 1977); Michael Hicks, ‘Text, Music, and Meaning in the
Third Movement of Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia’, Perspectives of New Music, vol.
20, nos. 1/2 (Autumn 1981 – Summer 1982), pp. 199–224; David Osmond-Smith,
Playing on Words: A Guide to Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia (London: Royal Musical
Association, 1985), pp. 39–71.
34 Robert Fink, ‘Going Flat: Post-Hierarchical Music Theory and the Musical
Surface’, in Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist (eds.), Rethinking Music (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 129.
35 See the chapter ‘Revelling in the Rubble: The Postmodern Condition’, in Susan
McClary, Conventional Wisdom: The Content of Musical Form (Berkeley, Los
Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 139–69, in which
the album Spillane by John Zorn is lionised for little more than its stylistic plural-
ism, and Jane Piper Clendinning, ‘Postmodern Architecture/Postmodern Music’,
in Judy Lochhead and Joseph Auner (eds.), Postmodern Music/Postmodern
Thought (New York and London: Routledge, 2001), pp. 119–40.
36 See for example Alistair Williams, Music in Germany since 1968 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2013), especially pp. 4–24; for more on this, see
my review of this book in Tempo, vol. 68, no. 268 (April 2014), pp. 116–21.
Similar problems (with a similar obsession with 1968) beset the writings by
Kenneth Gloag on related subjects, in particular in his Postmodernism in Music
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 53–7. Gloag mentions
Zimmermann together with Berio, but his picture is limited by lack of wider
engagement with various aspects of continental modernism, or with any litera-
ture not in English.
37 Glenn Watkins, Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from
Stravinsky to the Postmodernists (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994).
38 See ibid. pp. 1–8 in particular, including Watkins’ sceptical view of those who
locate this exclusively in the late twentieth century.
39 Ibid. pp. 342–74, 398–418.
40 Jeanette Bicknell, ‘The Problem of Reference in Musical Quotation: A
Phenomenological Approach’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism,
vol. 59, no. 2 (Spring 2001), pp. 185–91.
41 David Metzer, Quotation and Cultural Meaning in Twentieth-Century Music
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).
96 Ian Pace
42 Ibid. p. 4.
43 Ibid. pp. 4–6.
44 Ibid. pp. 7–8.
45 Clayton Henderson, ‘Quotation as a Style Element in the Music of Charles Ives’
(PhD dissertation: Washington University, 1969), reprinted as Quotation as a
Style Element in the Music of Charles Ives (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Press, 1982);
‘Ives’s Use of Quotation’, Music Educators Journal, vol. 61, no. 2 (October
1974), pp. 22–8. Later on, Henderson published The Charles Ives Tunebook
(Warren, MI: Harmonie Park Press, 1990; second edition Bloomington, IN:
Indiana University Press, 2008), the most comprehensive reference book on
Ives’s borrowings.
46 Christopher Ballantine, ‘Charles Ives and the Meaning of Quotation in Music’,
The Musical Quarterly, vol. 65, no. 2 (April 1979), pp. 167–84.
47 J. Peter Burkholder, ‘“Quotation” and Emulation; Charles Ives’s Uses of His
Models’, The Musical Quarterly, vol. 71, no. 1 (1985), pp. 1–26.
48 J. Peter Burkholder, ‘The Evolution of Charles Ives’s Music: Aesthetics,
Quotation, Technique’ (PhD dissertation: University of Chicago, 1983).
49 Burkholder, ‘“Quotation” and Emulation’, pp. 2–3.
50 Ibid. pp. 3–5. Burkholder goes on in the article to detail the manifestation of
these various types of borrowings in a range of Ives’s works, and then in a
more concentrated fashion in his ‘“Quotation” and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second
Symphony’, 19th-Century Music, vol. 11, no. 1 (Summer 1987), pp. 3–25.
51 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical
Borrowing (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1995).
52 Julie Kristeva, Desire as Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art,
edited Leon S. Roudiez, translated Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine and Leon S.
Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980) (French original pub-
lished 1969), pp. 36–8, 67–72. Space does not allow here for a wider consid-
eration of the history of the concept at the hands of Mikhail Bahktin, Kristeva,
Roland Barthes, Gérard Genette, Michael Riffaterre and others, amply explored
in Graham Allen, Intertextuality (London and New York: Routledge, 2000). The
most detailed study of the subject in a Western art music context, Michael L.
Klein’s Intertextuality in Western Art Music (Bloomington and Indianapolis, IN:
Indiana University Press, 2005), is an important study of musical meaning draw-
ing upon topic theory, but it is beyond the scope of this article to engage with it
in detail, and like other such works neglects the mediating role of the performer
between score and listener in terms of generation of meaning.
53 Gérard Genette, Palimpsests, translated Channa Newman and Claude
Doubinsky, with foreword by Gerald Prince (Lincoln, NE and London:
University of Nebraska Press, 1997) (French original 1982), pp. 1–2.
54 Ibid. pp. 3–7.
55 Burkholder, All Made of Tunes, p. 2.
56 Taken from ibid. pp. 3–4
57 My profound thanks to John Fallas for various fascinating discussions and
pointers to literature which have informed this section. Fallas’ own ongoing
work on genre in new music, including the work of Finnissy, promises to be a
major contribution to knowledge on this subject.
58 A solid summary of different perspectives upon, attitudes towards and theories
of genre over literary history remains Heather Dubrow, Genre (London and New
York: Methuen, 1982), pp. 45–104. A more critical account, also drawing upon
literary genre history, can be found in Rick Altman, Film/Genre (London: British
Film Institute, 1999), pp. 1–12.
59 Jim Samson, ‘Genre’, at Grove Online.
60 This is a common belief of recent genre theorists, as for example in John Frow,
Genre (Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2006), pp. 12–17, in a way it was
not just a few decades earlier. Frow argues for one near-definition of genre as ‘a
relationship between textual structures and the situations that occasion them’ (p.
13) and later as ‘neither a property of (and located “in”) texts, nor a projection of
(and located “in”) readers; it exists as a part of the relationship between texts and
readers, and it has a systemic existence. It is a shared convention with a social
force’ (p. 102).
61 Finnissy, letter to the author, January 1996.
62 See Frow, Genre, pp. 104–9 for how the paratext forms a ‘frame’ in television,
theatre and literature, arguments equally applicable to music. See also Nigel
McBride in chapter 9 on ‘composite N inscriptions’ for an alternative theoretical
model.
63 Nor necessarily create genres based upon the social function for Finnissy’s
works, for example setting apart those written for amateurs in a genre of their
own, when the music some of these might correspond just as strongly with some
of Finnissy’s works for professionals.
64 See Altman, Film/Genre, pp. 15–16.
65 Carl Dahlhaus, ‘New Music and the problem of musical genre’ (1968), in
Dahlhaus, Schoenberg and the New Music: Essays, translated Derrick Puffett,
edited Alfred Clayton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp.
32–44, quote p. 39.
66 Ibid. p. 33.
67 Jeffrey Kallberg, ‘The Rhetoric of Genre: Chopin’s Nocturne in G Minor’,
19th-Century Music, vol. 11, no. 3 (Spring 1988), pp. 239–42.
68 Eric Drott, ‘The End(s) of Genre’, Journal of Music Theory, vol. 57, no. 1
(Spring 2013), pp. 1–45. This somewhat problematic piece, which draws upon
the work of Bruno Latour, tends to sideline compositional agency. Drott’s con-
ception of genre is heavily sociological, defined in terms of multiple ‘“art world”
participants’ (after the work of Howard Becker), and as such requires very little
in terms of specifically musical attributes. This enables him to take a rather
uncritical view of very hazy journalistic groupings (experimental/avant-garde,
modern/avant-garde, uptown/downtown/modern) from the writings of Michael
Nyman, Gianmario Borio, Georgina Born, Kyle Gann, David Metzer and
others. Drott’s argument that genre is as much of a factor in modernist music
as ever, made with reference in particular to Gérard Grisey’s Les espaces acous-
tiques, relies too heavily on normative views of large bodies of music, and highly
selective and essentially descriptive musical examination (albeit in convoluted
language), in order to bend the works around the theory, rather than vice versa.
This limits, for example, possible explorations of generic relationships between
some works which have traditionally been categorised as musique spectrale and
others commonly thought to belong to other categories, which may be stronger
than the commonalities between different works for which the musique spectrale
labelling is empirically observable. Ultimately, Drott only succeeds in arguing
that few works are entirely independent of all previous styles or conventions,
nor are they heard in isolation, but I doubt many have ever thought otherwise.
For wider critiques of Drott’s work on musique spectrale, drawing attention to
limited historical research and contextualisation for some of his models, see
Liam Cagney, ‘Synthesis and Deviation: New Perspectives on the Emergence of
the French courant spectral, 1969–74’ (PhD thesis: City, University of London,
2015), pp. 57, 123–4, 331 n. 689, 373.
69 See Jason Toynbee’s chapter on ‘Genre-cultures’, in Toynbee, Making
Popular Music: Musicians, Creativity and Institutions (New York and London:
98 Ian Pace
Arnold, 2000), pp. 102–29. Toynbee is particularly concerned to question claims
made about ‘free’ improvisation, though he founds his criticism entirely upon
writings about the work rather than any information available through listening.
70 Drott, ‘The End(s) of Genre’, p. 7.
71 Though Drott’s examples – Roger Sessions, Alfred Schnittke, David Diamond,
Poul Ruders, William Schuman, Krzystof Penderecki and Gian Francesco
Malipiero, who wrote symphonies, concerts, sonatas and string quartets in 1968,
the same year as Dahlhaus’s essay was published (ibid. p. 5 n. 6) – are not gen-
erally figures associated with ‘high modernism’ (except possibly Penderecki).
Finnissy’s late Sonatas for Toy Piano (2006–7), Clarinet (2007), Violin (2007) and
Bassoon (2007), the Four Organ Symphonies (2002–8), Three String Quartets
(1984, 2006–7, 2007–9), Horn Trio (2013), and other works can be viewed in a
similar category.
72 Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, edited Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann,
translated, edited and with an introduction by Robert Hullot-Kentor (London
and New York: Continuum, 2002), p. 207; Theodor Adorno, Gesammelte
Schriften, Band 7: Ästhetische Theorie (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2003), pp. 307–8.
73 Croce argued against all aesthetics which demanded conformity to generic
laws, in poetry and painting, but maintained that artists had never really done
this, even when they needed to pretend to. See Benedetto Croce, The Aesthetic
as the Science of Expression and of the Linguistic in General, translated Colin
Lyas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 41–2. Hans-Robert
Jauss maintained that the type of absolutism which Croce desired could only
be achieved at the expense of comprehensibility. See Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic
of Reception, translated Timothy Bahti, with introduction by Paul de Man
(Minneapolis, IN: University of Minnesota Press, 1982), p. 79.
74 Adorno, Aesthetic Theory. pp. 199–225, quotes pp. 199, 201. However, Adorno’s
claim that ‘any abrupt change of social structure, such as occurred with the emer-
gence of a bourgeois public, brings about an equally abrupt change in genres and
stylistic types’ (ibid. p. 209) is too simplistic and speculative, a rare excursion on
Adorno’s part into ‘vulgar Marxism’.
75 Jim Samson, ‘Chopin and Genre’, Music Analysis, vol. 8, no. 3 (October 1989),
pp. 214, 221–3.
76 Kallberg, ‘The Rhetoric of Genre’, p. 242.
77 See also Richard Barrett’s discussion on this work in Chapter 15.
78 This has been communicated to me in countless conversations with Finnissy.
Finnissy has said that alongside represented ‘an extreme point along a line of
development which he was not prepared to take further’; see Richard Barrett,
‘Michael Finnissy: An Overview’, Contemporary Music Review, vol. 13, part 1
(1995), p. 32.
79 Kallberg, ‘The Rhetoric of Genre’, p. 243. This concept is also evoked in Samson,
‘Chopin and Genre’, p. 213.
80 See Dubrow, Genre, pp. 31–7.
81 See Christopher Fox’s contribution in Chapter 1 of this volume, and also the
comments in ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, pp. 33–5.
82 See my own thoughts on the relationship of Finnissy’s work to this tradition in
Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, p. 43.
83 Kallberg, ‘The Rhetoric of Genre’, p. 243.
84 Allan F. Moore, ‘Categorical Conventions in Music Discourse: Style and Genre’,
Music & Letters, vol. 82, no. 3 (August 2001), pp. 432–42.
85 These correspond to the ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ form as defining aspects of literature
as theorised in René Wellek and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature (New
York: Harcourt, Brace and Co: 1949), p. 241.
86 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 100, 116–17, and ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The
Piano Music (4)’ (July 2016), at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/17515/ (accessed 24
June 2018).
87 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 84–5.
88 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 11–12,
14–15, 104–6, 108–11, 114–5 for an exploration of this.
89 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 59–65 on this and other aspects of this work,
and ibid. pp. 44–57, for an early attempt to trace the early development of
Finnissy’s pianistic idiom.
90 Kallberg, ‘The Rhetoric of Genre’, p. 245. In literary history, the major debates
before Croce were between traditional and hybrid genres. See Altman, Film/
Genre, p. 7. Altman also traces in detail how various archetypal film genres
came about as a result of considerable cyclical development of earlier ones (ibid.
pp. 30–68) a process which can also regularly be observed in musical history.
91 See Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 71–4 on these works.
92 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 264–5 on
how this works in Unsere Afrikareise.
93 See Laurence Dreyfus, Bach and the Patterns of Invention (Cambridge, MA and
London: Harvard University Press, 1996), pp. 33–58. Dreyfus specifically uses
the concept of composing ‘against the grain’ here.
94 Theodor Adorno, ‘Bach Defended Against his Devotees’, in Prisms, translated
Samuel and Shierry Weber (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981), pp. 133–46.
95 Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, p. 210.
96 Michael Finnissy, e-mail to the author, 24 September 2016.
97 Ibid. Finnissy did in this e-mail however acknowledge the textual response I
detail above in ‘Embraceable you’, which I had asked him about in my e-mail of
23 September 2016 to which this was a reply.
98 Ibid; and e-mail from Michael Finnissy to the author, 12 September 2016. The
two Gershwin Arrangements based upon recordings were ‘Things are looking
up’, based on a recording by Fred Astaire, and ‘They’re writing songs of love,
but not for me’, based on a recording by Judy Garland (see below). From More
Gershwin, ‘I’d rather Charleston’ was part-based upon a recording by Fred and
Adèle Astaire.
99 In particular, I know of three versions of ‘Love is here to stay’, one from 1975
which mostly resembles the later published version, without the verse, another
(recorded on my Metier CD MSV 92030) also from 1975, but revised in 1988
which is more angular and fragmentary, and the final published version.
100 Michael Finnissy, e-mail to the author, 24 September 2016.
101 Michael Finnissy, interview with Jack Sheen (2017), at www.ddmmyyseries.com/
Interview-with-Michael-Finnissy (accessed 18 June 2018). As often with Finnissy,
this view may have developed some time after the composition of the works.
102 Michael Finnissy, e-mail to author, 24 September 2016.
103 Garland also broadcast this song in May 1943 and recorded it separately on 2
November for Decca (23309). These versions differ only very slightly, through a
few rhythmic nuances, from the recording for Girl Crazy.
104 For a detailed consideration of the execution of these rhythms, see Pace,
‘Notation, Time and the Performer’s Relationship to the Score in Contemporary
Music’, pp. 175–7.
105 This Liszt work is also referenced in My Parents’ Generation thought War meant
Something. See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound,
p. 114.
106 I recall Finnissy specifically relating this passage to Rachmaninoff when I played
the piece to him in the 1990s. This kind of figuration is however prevalent among
100 Ian Pace
Russian pianist-composers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century,
and can be found throughout Skryabin’s early output (most clearly in op. 3, 4
and 11) and in other composers from Mily Balakirev to Nikolay Medtner, to
name just two.
107 In the case of the piece from Book 4, derived from the witches chorus,
‘S’allontanarono! N’accozzeremo’ from Act 1 of Verdi’s Macbeth, Verdi’s mate-
rial is only very obliquely observable on the last page, the remainder of the piece
having been extracted from an earlier withdrawn piece for piano and ensemble,
Long Distance. This stretches the concept of paraphrase/fantasia to the extreme,
and is a high-point of metatextuality in Finnissy’s work.
108 Arnold Schoenberg, ‘Brahms the Progressive’ (1947), translated Leo Black, in
Schoenberg, Style and Idea, edited Leonard Stein (London: Faber and Faber,
1975), pp. 398–441, especially pp. 402–4. See also Arnold Whittall’s considera-
tion of this Finnissy work in chapter 10 of the present volume.
109 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 126–39
for details of this.
Bibliography
Adorno, Theodor. Aesthetic Theory, edited Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann,
translated, edited and with an introduction by Robert Hullot-Kentor. London and
New York: Continuum, 2002.
Adorno, Theodor. Gesammelte Schriften, Band 7: Ästhetische Theorie. Frankfurt:
Suhrkamp, 2003.
Allen, Graham. Intertextuality. London and New York: Routledge, 2000.
Altman, Rick. Film/Genre. London: British Film Institute, 1999.
Altmann, Peter. Sinfonia von Luciano Berio. Eine analytische Studie. Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1977.
Ballantine, Christopher. ‘Charles Ives and the Meaning of Quotation in Music’. The
Musical Quarterly, Vol. 65, No. 2 (April 1979), pp. 167–84.
Beaudoin, Richard. ‘Anonymous Sources: Finnissy Analysis and the Opening of
Chapter Eight of The History of Photography in Sound’. Perspectives of New Music,
vol. 45, no. 2 (Summer 2007), pp. 5–27.
Bicknell, Jeanette. ‘The Problem of Reference in Musical Quotation: A
Phenomenological Approach’. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 59,
no. 2 (Spring 2001), pp. 185–91.
Blacking, John. How Musical is Man? Seattle and London: University of Washington
Press, 1973.
Bónis, F. ‘Quotations in Bartók’s Music: A Contribution to Bartók’s Psychology
of Composition’. Studia Musicologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 5/1–4
(1963), pp. 355–82.
Budde, Elmar. ‘Zitat, Collage, Montage’. In Rudolf Stephan (ed.), Die Musik der
sechziger Jahre (Mainz: Schott, 1972), pp. 26–38.
Budde, Elmar. ‘Zum dritten Satz der Sinfonia von Luciano Berio’, In Rudolf Stephan
(ed.), Die Musik der sechziger Jahre (Mainz: Schott, 1972), pp. 128–44.
Burkholder, J. Peter. ‘The Evolution of Charles Ives’s Music: Aesthetics, Quotation,
Technique’. PhD thesis: University of Chicago, 1983.
Burkholder, J. Peter. ‘“Quotation” and Emulation; Charles Ives’s Uses of His
Models’. The Musical Quarterly, vol. 71, no. 1 (1985), pp. 1–26
Burkholder, J. Peter. ‘“Quotation” and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second Symphony’.
19th-Century Music, vol. 11, no. 1 (Summer 1987), pp. 3–25.
Burkholder, J. Peter. All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical
Borrowing. New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1995.
Cagney, Liam. ‘Synthesis and Deviation: New Perspectives on the Emergence of the
French courant spectral, 1969–74’. PhD thesis: City, University of London, 2015.
Clendinning, Jane Piper. ‘Postmodern Architecture/Postmodern Music’. In Judy
Lochhead and Joseph Auner (eds.), Postmodern Music/Postmodern Thought (New
York and London: Routledge, 2001), pp. 119–40.
Cook, Nicholas. Beyond the Score: Music as Performance. New York and Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2013.
Croce, Benedetto. The Aesthetic as the Science of Expression and of the Linguistic in
General, translated Colin Lyas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992.
Dahlhaus, Carl. ‘New Music and the problem of musical genre’ (1968). In Carl
Dahlhaus, Schoenberg and the New Music: Essays, translated Derrick Puffett,
edited Alfred Clayton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 32–44.
Dreyfus, Laurence. Bach and the Patterns of Invention. Cambridge, MA and London:
Harvard University Press, 1996.
Drott, Eric. ‘The End(s) of Genre’, Journal of Music Theory, vol. 57, no. 1 (Spring
2013), pp. 1–45.
Dubrow, Heather. Genre. London and New York: Methuen, 1982.
Fink, Robert. ‘Going Flat: Post-Hierarchical Music Theory and the Musical Surface’.
In Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist (eds.), Rethinking Music (Oxford: Oxford
Finnissy, Michael. Interview with Jack Sheen (2017). At www.ddmmyyseries.com/
Interview-with-Michael-Finnissy (accessed 18 June 2018).
Fox, Christopher. ‘Michael Finnissy’s History of Photography in Sound: Under the
Lens’. The Musical Times, vol. 143, no. 1879 (Summer 2002), pp. 26–35.
Frow, John. Genre. Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2006.
Genette, Gérard. Palimpsests, translated Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky,
with foreword by Gerald Prince. Lincoln, NE and London: University of Nebraska
Press, 1997.
Gloag, Kenneth. Postmodernism in Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2012.
Henderson, Clayton. ‘Quotation as a Style Element in the Music of Charles Ives’
(PhD dissertation: Washington University, 1969. Reprinted as Quotation as a Style
Element in the Music of Charles Ives. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Press, 1982.
Henderson, Clayton. ‘Ives’s Use of Quotation’. Music Educators Journal, vol. 61,
no. 2 (October 1974), pp. 22–8.
Henderson, Clayton. The Charles Ives Tunebook. Warren, MI: Harmonie Park Press,
1990; second edition Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2008.
Hicks, Michael. ‘Text, Music, and Meaning in the Third Movement of Luciano
Berio’s Sinfonia’. Perspectives of New Music, vol. 20, nos. 1/2 (Autumn 1981 –
Summer 1982), pp. 199–224.
Jauss, Hans-Robert. Toward an Aesthetic of Reception, translated Timothy Bahti,
with introduction by Paul de Man. Minneapolis, IN: University of Minnesota
Press, 1982.
Kallberg, Jeffrey. ‘The Rhetoric of Genre: Chopin’s Nocturne in G Minor’. 19th-
Century Music, vol. 11, no. 3 (Spring 1988), pp. 239–42.
102 Ian Pace
Kingsbury, Henry. Music, Talent, & Performance: A Conservatory Cultural System.
Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988.
Klein, Michael L. Intertextuality in Western Art Music. Bloomington and Indianapolis,
IN: Indiana University Press, 2005.
Kristeva, Julie. Desire as Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art, edited
Leon S. Roudiez, translated Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine and Leon S. Roudiez.
New York: Columbia University Press, 1980.
Kühn, Clemens. Das Zitat in der Musik der Gegenwart, mit Ausblicken auf bildende
Kunst und Literatur. Hamburg: Verlag der Musikalienhandlung Karl Dieter
Wagner, 1972.
Leech-Wilkinson, Daniel. ‘Classical music as enforced Utopia’. Arts & Humanities in
Higher Education, vol. 15, nos. 3–4 (2016), pp. 325–36.
Lissa, Zofia. ‘Ästhetische Funktionen des musikalischen Zitats’. Die Musikforschung
19/4 (October–December 1966), pp. 364–78.
McClary, Susan. Conventional Wisdom: The Content of Musical Form. Berkeley, Los
Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2000.
Metzer, David. Quotation and Cultural Meaning in Twentieth-Century Music.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Noé, Günter von. ‘Das musikalische Zitat’. Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, vol. 124,
no. 4 (1963), pp. 134–7.
Noé, Günter von. ‘Das Musikalische Plagiat’. Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, vol. 124,
no. 9 (1963), pp. 330–4.
Osmond-Smith, David. Playing on Words: A Guide to Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia.
London: Royal Musical Association, 1985.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 259–346.
Pace, Ian. Review of Alistair Williams, Music in Germany since 1968. Tempo, vol. 68,
no. 268 (April 2014), pp. 116–21.
Pace, Ian. ‘My contribution to the debate “Are we all ethnomusicologists now?”’
(9 June 2016), at https://ianpace.wordpress.com/2016/06/09/my-contribution-to-
the-debate-are-we-all-ethnomusicologists-now/ (accessed 10 June 2018).
Pace, Ian. ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (4)’ (July 2016), at http://openaccess.
city.ac.uk/17515/ (accessed 24 June 2018).
Pace, Ian. ‘The New State of Play in Performance Studies’. Music & Letters, vol. 98,
no. 2 (2017), pp. 281–92.
Samson, Jim. ‘Chopin and Genre’. Music Analysis, vol. 8, no. 3 (October 1989),
pp. 213–31.
Schoenberg, Arnold. ‘Brahms the Progressive’ (1947), translated Leo Black. In
Arnold Schoenberg, Style and Idea, edited Leonard Stein (London: Faber and
Faber, 1975), pp. 398–441.
Searle, Leroy. ‘New Criticism’. In Michael Groden, Martin Kreiswirth and Imre
Szeman, The John Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory, second edition (Baltimore,
MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), pp. 528–34.
Sternfeld, Frederick W. ‘Some Russian Folk Songs in Stravinsky’s Petrouchka’.
Music Library Association vol. 2, no. 2 (March 1945), pp. 95–107.
Toynbee, Jason. Making Popular Music: Musicians, Creativity and Institutions. New
York and London: Arnold, 2000.
Watkins, Glenn. Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky
to the Postmodernists. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994.
Wellek, René; and Warren, Austin. Theory of Literature. New York: Harcourt, Brace
and Co: 1949.
Williams, Alistair. Music in Germany since 1968. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2013.
4 Ontological implications in the
work of Finnissy
Nigel McBride
Georgios Theocharous, in his 2014 article ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall of
Notation in Michael Finnissy’s Autumnall for Solo Piano’, writes about
the notation of Finnissy’s Autumnall (1968–71) from the perspective of
a performer.1 From the outset, Theocharous writes of his frustrations
with Finnissy’s notation, ranging from issues with the use of tempi mark-
ings, tuplets, and the notation of rests, all of which culminates with the
statement:
we have lost all hope for any possibly accurate rendition.2
In so writing, Theocharous reveals a specific approach to both his perform-

ing ideology, and his fundamental conception of the ontological relationship
between the musical score and resultant performances. Of central importance
to Theocharous is realising the musical work accurately, but in doing so
several assumptions are being made about the nature of musical works, and
their notations.3
In this chapter I will explore the ontological implications for Finnissy’s
music through the ways in which it is framed in Theocharous’s article, illus-
trating the ways in which inappropriate ontological frameworks can hamper
the performance, comprehension, and study of Finnissy’s music. The du jour
ontological framework implicit in the writings of Theocharous, and other
authors explored later, on the relationship between musical works and their
performances will be analysed in terms of their ontological suitability, and I
will suggest an alternative ontology which synthesises the most salient aspects
of influential ontologies from Jerrold Levinson and Nelson Goodman.
To be able to make a determination that a performance is accurate, or
inaccurate, depends on the ontological status of the work being performed or
realised. Arthur Danto argues in his 1974 article, ‘The Transfiguration of the
Commonplace’, that artworks and non-artworks are two distinct classes of
things, and as such, different predicates and qualities apply to each:
[I]t is possible that a painting be exhibited which is merely a square of

primed canvas […] Such works may be scored as largely empty […] Yet
Ontological implications 105
the painting is not empty in the way in which a square of primed canvas,
indiscernible from our work, may be […] For “empty” as applied to
our works is an aesthetic and critical judgment, presupposing that its
subjects are artworks already, however inscrutable may be the differ-
ences between them and objects which, since not artworks, reject such
predicates as a class.4
Similarly to Danto’s argument that mere objects reject certain predicates

as a class,5 certain musical ontologies reject ‘accuracy’ as a class.6 In apply-
ing accuracy as a criterion applicable to a realisation of Finnissy’s notation,
Theocharous is making an ontological claim about Finnissy’s work, and
the relation it holds to performance. Accuracy implies that a correlation
between the notation and the resulting performance is possible. The desire for
performative accuracy (that is, to play the materials of the piece as the nota-
tion, with all of its idiosyncrasies and quirks, indicates) is not a controversial
motivation, but in the context of performance it becomes more difficult to
determine whether or not this is viable. Musical scores comprising notation
do not themselves sound, despite often being referred to as if they did, so the
process of performance and evaluation necessarily requires an attempt to
correlate two distinct domains – musical sound, which is experienced linearly
in time, and musical notation.7
Ex. 4.1 Finnissy, Autumnall (1968–71), first three systems. © Oxford University
Press 1991.
106 Nigel McBride
Theocharous, in writing about the notation of Autumnall, discusses the musi-
cal material as if it exists independently from its corresponding notations.
Discussing Finnissy’s use of tuplets, as seen in Ex. 4.1, he says:
We notice that the piece opens with nineteen quarter-note rests. We

begin to think that if a ratio tuplet is another way of expressing a new
tempo, then the rests could be nothing more than part of the conundrum
that the composer has set up for us to establish the opening tempo.8
There is a clear ontological problem in this statement. It is quite clear that

a tuplet is not another way of expressing a new tempo. While the perceived
outcome of a tuplet can be interpreted as a momentary change in tempo,
tuplets serve to adjust the fractional relationship between individual rhyth-
mic values and their relation to the primary metric pulse. They do not adjust
the pulse itself, even when they encapsulate an entire bar, and they can be
overlaid and nested within one another. There are several compositional
devices that can be used to adjust the perceived speed of musical material,
such as rhythmic augmentation and diminution, which both adjust the speed
at which the material passes, without modifying the primary pulse. In the
case of the example that Theocharous mentions, where no tempo indication
is provided by Finnissy, it is up to the performer to establish their own pulse,
based on the sounding materials and its possibilities. A similar observation
occurs shortly after Theocharous’s first, where he claims of the third system
of the first page of Autumnall:
[Finnissy] could have notated seventeen quarter-notes instead of a fer-

mata of ten seconds.9
While Theocharous is quite right in that these two notations will allow for
roughly the same amount of time to pass, the way in which time is passed is
of a different nature. Crotchets are not an absolute measure of time, and in
fact they have no temporal value unless they are in a metered context; they
typically have a relational value to other music-durational values, but until
they are described in relation to a tempo, they have no temporal meaning. Or,
put simply, if Finnissy had written seventeen crotchets instead of a fermata
of ten seconds, he would have composed a rhythm instead of indicated a
duration. So then, what is clear from this extract is that Finnissy requires the
performer to establish a tempo, even if it is internal, before engaging with
the measured material that follows it. If the silence had been defined as a 10”
pause, then the performer would have to adopt a tempo when the measured
material commences. There are places within Finnissy’s output where this is
swapped. One example is Enough for solo piano (2001), in which full-bar rests
with a fermata periodically alternate with measured silences (‘SILENCE: 7
seconds’). The distinction between the two strategies Finnissy presents results
in a performative difference.
Platonism and musical works

An ontology which maintains a causal distinction between the musical work
and the musical score is platonism. Lydia Goehr succinctly defines a platonic
ontology of musical works as follows:
musical works are argued, contrary to common sense, to be universals—

perhaps even natural kinds—constituted by structures of sounds. They
lack spatio-temporal properties and exist everlastingly. They exist long
before any compositional activity has taken place and long after they
perhaps have been forgotten. They exist even if no performances or
score-copies are ever produced. To compose a work is less to create a
kind, than it is to discover one.10
A platonic understanding of musical works states that they exist as abstract

sound structures – non-spatiotemporal, and acausal – they exist outside of
experiential time and location, and exist regardless of anything causing them
to exist.11 It is thought that when a composer indicates a sound structure (lit-
erally the constituent components of a musical work that they have written
down in some musical notation), they have discovered a sound structure that
already exists, hence the distinction between a musical work and score. A per-
formance is then an instantiation of an abstract structure, experienced in a
particular time and place. There are many indications that the platonic ontol-
ogy is how musical works are generally thought of in contemporary practice,
primarily as Werktreue, a term which originated in a musical context through
discussions of the performance practices of Clara Schumann, Joseph Joachim,
and, to some, Hans von Bülow in the nineteenth century.12 Musicologist and
performer John Butt offers a detailed discussion of Werktreue, ‘truth to the
work’, mostly in its relation to authentic performance practices:
Werktreue in historical performance finds its most fully developed theo-

retical home in one of the most traditional formulations of the musical
work, Platonism. Platonism has long been a feature of music theory,
particularly when theory has veered towards the abstract, mathematical
and formal, or even towards the unheard and ideal. In many ways ‘pure’
Platonism would seem to privilege musical works in the abstract over
their realisation in sound.13
Butt continues discussing many of the implications of platonism for a

historically-informed practice, culminating with ‘the unattainable ideal in
music is analogous to a belief in divine aesthetic and moral order’.14
If Finnissy’s works were to be viewed as platonic objects, as a collection
of abstract sound structures that he discovered and indicated when writing
his works, then Theocharous’ arguments that Finnissy’s notation fails at
conveying these structures is viable, as the complexity of the notation would
108 Nigel McBride
result in a performance that always falls short of a perfect realisation.15 There
are however good reasons to be sceptical of applying the Werktreue and
platonic ontologies to musical works. From the perspective of Werktreue
and platonism, musical works constitute a single fixed sounding structure,
and performers must play the notation in order to invoke the specific fixed
sound that the composer has indicated, eliminating any creative action on
the part of the performer. Even if Werktreue were further removed from the
desire to achieve the demands of the composer, and instead seek to reveal
the ‘essence’ of the work, the ‘essence’ is an abstract ideal that is located
some distance from actually engaging with the notation in the terms that it
is defined.
Formally, some practical ramifications of this model are as follows:
(1) All musical performances instantiate an abstract sound structure;

(2) musical scores are not capable of conveying all aspects of the abstract
sound structure, precisely because it is abstract;
(3) all deviations from the musical score result in a failure to instantiate the
desired abstract structure, and result in the instantiation of some other
similar abstract structure;
(4) abstract sound structures are non-spatiotemporal and acausal, and it
is unclear how we can have knowledge of abstract objects other than a
priori – which is not without its own controversy. Due to point (2), it is
not possible to know what musical work is instantiated where and when,
only that one has been instantiated.
Let us call these four consequences platonic notionality. Therefore, while

under a platonic ontology, Theocharous is right in saying the following,
which applies not only to Autumnall and Finnissy’s music, but all notated
works:
we conclude with an impossibility, one that sums up the entire

piece […] We are promised a sort of “structure” to decode, one that
would make the performance a simple recreation of the composer’s
intentions. Instead, our efforts lead to what is at best numerology.16
In light of platonic notionality points (2) and (3), any hope of musical accu-
racy is forgone before any performance happens, because the nature of
abstract objects is by definition abstract, which is also not specific to the
sound structures indicated by Finnissy, but to all indicated sound structures.
While there can appear to be a theoretical discontinuity between the onto-
logical understanding of musical works and the practices involved with their
performance, Butt’s following observation is relevant:
Not only does theoretical abstraction have little point if it is entirely

divorced from musical practice, or if it is not clear as to what aspect of
musical practice it refers, but the musical practice itself cannot be under-
stood without an awareness of the complexities of history.17
Pianist and scholar Ian Pace has related the ‘theoretical abstraction’ of
Werktreue and its ontological relation to practice in his 2009 article ‘Notation,
Time and the Performer’s Relationship to the Score in Contemporary Music’
and a 2014 paper expanding upon some of the issues. Both this chapter and
the companion to it (Chapter 9) begin an attempt to fill the scholarly gap
identified by Butt. While Butt discusses Werktreue primarily in the con-
text of historical revivals, Pace examines its relevance to performers of new
music, as well as those of earlier repertoires. Several archetypal interpretive
attitudes identified elsewhere by Pace describe differing hermeneutic rela-
tions to musical scores, each of which display varying degrees of ontological
self-consciousness – that is, conceptions of musical works and how they
relate to musical texts that are primarily critical, and not assumed. The most
self-conscious of these attitudes is the ‘analytic/aesthetic’; the one closest to
aligning with a platonic ontology being the Texttreue approach; and the most
general, and the least ontologically referential, being ‘mainstream’.18 The
‘literalist’ view posits that the role of the performer is to realise as exactly as
possible the musical notations associated with the piece, without the need to
contextually query those notations beyond the level of mechanical reproduc-
tion, a view that Pace states is ‘the furthest extension of Stravinsky’s ideal of
the performer as executor rather than interpreter, an attitude that is widely
adhered to by performers of contemporary music’.19 Pace discusses what he
terms the positivist view of notation, in which the score
tells the performer in essence what to do, around which [the per-
former] can elaborate (through use of varying micro-dynamics, rubato,
tempo modifications, etc.) depending upon the degree of notational
exactitude.20
For Pace, ‘positivist’, ‘literalist’, and where applicable, ‘Texttreue’, are gen-
erally synonymous, and constitute what could be called a naive perfor-
mance practice: naive in its attempts to deny the score its dignity in having
an epistemological identity, and thus an epistemological engagement;
naive in its attempts to deny the interpreters interpretation. If one were to
approach many of Finnissy’s most notationally extreme works through the
ideology of Werktreue, then one issue in particular immediately becomes
clear. In the places where Finnissy’s notations call for hyper-virtuosic tech-
nique, such as in Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets (1997), many of the
Songs (in particular Song 9 (1968) for piano), English Country-Tunes (1977,
rev. 1982–5), and Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978, rev. 1996), there is limited
scope to realise these pieces in the manner of such a positivist/literalist
model, and the desire for ‘truth to the work’ becomes undermined by its own
materials.
110 Nigel McBride
Sound structure and performing-means

While platonism entails a discontinuity between sound structures indicated
in musical notation and the works they comprise, Jerrold Levinson’s semi-
nal article published in 1980, ‘What a Musical Work Is’, binds an object’s
ontological identity to specific material states, which refute the notion that a
musical work is an abstract sound structure alone.
Differing from the kind of platonism as articulated by Goehr, Levinson
claims that a musical work is, in fact, quite a specific collection of material
(pitches, instruments, rhythms) and non-material (historical, and cultural)
things:
(1) If musical works were just sound structures, then, if two distinct compos-
ers determine the same sound structure they necessarily compose the
same musical work.
(2) But distinct composers determining the same sound structure in fact
inevitably produce different musical works. Therefore, musical works
cannot be sound structures simpliciter.21
Levinson goes on to include as a constituent component in his ontology,

which is absent from ‘classical platonism’, that a work’s ‘musico-cultural
context’ is an integral component, and perhaps even the integral component,
for constituting a musical work, as without a musico-cultural context a work
cannot have been composed (for there is no composer without one),22 and
without a composer a work could not have been created. Creation is an
important facet for musical works of the type being discussed – musical works
by Finnissy, music that broadly sits within or alongside the same traditions as
Finnissy. If works were indeed discovered sound abstracta simpliciter, rather
than created musical works, then it can be assumed that point (4) of platonic
notionality applies, and we can have no knowledge of them.23
Levinson disbands the notion of pure abstract sound structures in his
ontology, replacing them in his ontology as a synthetic part of any work’s
identity, saying:
I propose that a musical work be taken to involve not only a pure

sound structure, but also a structure of performing means [S/PM].
If the sound structure of a piece is basically a sequence of sounds
qualitatively defined, then the performing-means structure is a parallel
sequence of performing means specified for realizing the sounds at each
point. Thus a musical work consists of at least two structures. It is a
compound or conjunction of a sound structure and a performing-means
structure.24
While Levinson holds to a platonistic ontology for sound structures, he does

not apply a platonic model to musical works as a whole. For him, it is
sufficient that sound structures exist as non-spatiotemporals that are caus-
ally inert, but these sound structures are themselves not musical works. His
ontology does not depend on the abstract qualities of platonistic forms to be
coherent. The more pressing issue for Levinson is how these sound structures
are determined. He says:
Composers do not describe pure sound patterns in qualitative terms,

leaving their means of production undiscussed. Rather, what they
directly specify are means of production, through which a pure sound
pattern is indirectly indicated. 25
The way in which these performing-means are expressed is through musical

scores. A composer indicates in their score a certain pitch to be produced in
a certain way,26 and any deviation from that is a failure to instantiate that
work. Because musical works are more than just abstract sound structures,
because they also comprise a performing-means, then platonic notionality
does not apply, and musical works are both spatiotemporal, and causal.
Musico-cultural context is also ontologically significant in Finnissy’s work.
Taking as an example his Third Political Agenda, both the title of the set,
and of the three pieces contained in it (1. Corruption, Deceit, Ignorance,
Intolerance; 2. Hier kommt ‘U K Ichbezogen Populismus’; 3. My country
has betrayed me) refer explicitly to Finnissy’s cultural context. Even on a
musical level, Finnissy quotes and alludes to other works which have related
to the United Kingdom, which he then sets against the funeral march from
Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony; the criticism implied by such a quodlibet
cannot be accounted for unless a concession is made that the work is a prod-
uct of the composer’s cultural context, and indeed, any other justification or
reasoning for those quotations and allusions would read as hollow.27 There
are many advantages to considering Finnissy’s work in the framework of
Levinson’s ontology: it coherently accounts for works relating to their his-
torical and compositional contexts, while also negating issues around instan-
tiating abstract entities. In the paradigmatic pieces that Levinson is interested
in, he states that the composer ‘typically indicates (fixes, determines, selects)
[a sound structure and performance means] by creating a score’, giving it
primacy within his ontological framework.28
The centrality of the composer and the score in defining a musical work
erected by Levinson is not a universally observed principle. Stanley Boorman
holds a different view:
Obviously a text, as notated, is not actually the musical work:

music exists as sound; it fills time rather than space; and it is nor-
mally perceived as sound-in-time (whether from an external source or
within our own heads) […] the text carries no more than the minimal
necessary information for a new performance. It is not the composition
itself.29
112 Nigel McBride
In contrast to Levinson, Boorman does not see the musical text as integral
to a work’s identity. In fact, he goes as far as making the following point:
there is also no direct correlation between the full text itself (as the com-
poser conceived of it, and with all permissible freedoms) and the notated
source (as the composer wrote it) even though the only evidence for the
text is usually that source.30
Boorman’s take on the purpose and function of the musical text is quite
contrary to the views put forward by Levinson, Nelson Goodman, and
others, and seems to indicate a view of notation that is quite unlike any
actually experienced in practice. It can be inferred from Boorman’s distinc-
tion between the ‘the full text itself (as the composer conceived of it, and
with all permissible freedoms) and the notated source (as the composer
wrote it)’ that the real musical work resides singly in the imagination of
the composer discovering a sound structure, and exists as a compromised
reflection of that ideal. In fact, Boorman states that musical notation is
traditionally viewed as functioning in one of two ways, as either ‘prescrip-
tive’, in which the text prescribes musical actions for the performer, or
‘descriptive’, in which the notation serves to describe the sound structure of
a musical work.31 For Boorman, the issue is that musical notation is insuf-
ficient to be considered a central part of a musical work because it lacks
the capacity to ‘include every aspect of a performance’,32 deducing that the
necessary information for realising notation was implicit in itself during
earlier periods.33 Boorman’s argument hinges on the fact that notation has
never been used to instantiate a specific sound structure, and that notation is
instead ‘an allusive guide, offering the performer hints alongside the instruc-
tions, and therefore depending on the musician’s ability to understand these
hints and allusions’.34 In this regard, his argument is more or less compat-
ible with that of Levinson; the implicit information held in notation that is
integral to Boorman’s conception of a score is equivalent with the musico-
historical context and performing-means synthesis proposed by Levinson.
It is not until Boorman begins discussing the functions of the musical text
more specifically that some issues begin to become more prominent, and its
applicability to Finnissy’s works becomes less possible. From the question
‘why write down a musical composition?’, Boorman claims that historically
notation came after the fact of composition,35 and that works would have
been learned by ear, or alternatively, from the composer – although neither
approach would necessarily ensure a realisation any closer to the composer’s
intent than through notation.36 Curiously, Boorman comments that such
a position, which he generally advocated in his chapter as being a means
by which to get closer to the composer’s intentions, is not possible in the
context of contemporary scores, which while being certainly true, reads as
quite outside the remit of any traditional understanding of ‘contemporary
music’.37
Inscription/notation and compliance/non-compliance

Boorman’s question, ‘why write down music?’ has been answered previ-
ously to his discussion. Goodman addresses this question in his 1968 book
Languages of Art, stating:
A score, whether or not ever used as a guide for a performance, has as a

primary function the authoritative identification of a work from perfor-
mance to performance. Often scores and notations – and pseudo-scores
and pseudo-notations – have such other more exciting functions as facili-
tating transposition, comprehension, or even composition; but every
score, as a score, has the logically prior office of identifying a work.38
Boorman himself does not adequately answer his own question. Rather, he
transforms the question from ‘why write down music?’, to ‘[i]f the musical
text is to be used in this manner to re-create the piece, why is notation such an
imprecise medium?’,39 which contradicts the specific issue that Theocharous
had with Finnissy in which ‘the performer is given not too little but far too
much information’.40 The answer that Boorman proposes is that notation is
necessarily imprecise, because of the way in which scores are read and music
performed, with such imprecision providing a means for performers to exert
their own individual musical tastes and abilities.41 He further argues that ear-
lier notations leave greater room for invention and for performers to display
their prowess. Little of this could be read with any particular objection in
a historical context – the relationship between scores and practical music-
making up until around the nineteenth century comfortably reflects the situa-
tion Boorman describes. However, Boorman applies the same claim to more
recent scores, reflecting his own ideological position on compositional trends:
the score could, at one end of the spectrum, be treated as a guide to an

exact re-creation of a work, based on a precise reading of the notation.
This possibility represents a rigid view of the function of musical nota-
tion and of the document, and is historically a rare one, though currently
conventional.42
The caricature that Boorman presents of rigid views on musical notation is

attributed in part to ‘the development of composers’ concern for detail in
their notation’,43 one which is echoed by Theocharous on Autumnall, and
exemplified in Boorman’s description of technical facets in works by Webern,
Boulez, and Stockhausen.44 The particular details that Boorman mentions –
Webern’s momentary tempo changes, Boulez’s multiple fermata durations,
and perhaps most perplexingly ‘Stockhausen’s indications of the precise
place on a drumhead or gong at which to strike’ – fail to account for the musi-
cal necessity these notations indicate, or the necessity it might hold for the
performers to treat these notated actions as musical material and not merely
114 Nigel McBride
decoratively. It is not clear at all that ‘these are signs that composers recog-
nize the loose connection between notation and sound, and have been trying
to tighten it’, as Boorman claims.45 The argument that Boorman appears to
present is that the situation in the past – whereby performers could implicitly
understand how to interpret a score, which itself was only in the barest sense
indicative of the musical work – should also be the case today,46 for the good
of the music, and the satisfaction of the performers. In the case of Finnissy,
even if his complex rhythmic notation was a result of simply transcribing his
own imagined rubato, then the situation proposed by Boorman, by which the
necessary information for realising notation was implicit in a simpler rhyth-
mic notation, would still not hold true. There are many levels and understand-
ings of rubato, and the specific rubato envisioned by the composer, implied
by any material or context, is not necessarily identifiable, and certainly could
also be viewed as either integral to the composer’s wishes, or integral to the
work itself.47 Boorman’s attempt to explicate contemporary notational con-
ventions contra to historical ones results in a reading by which composers are
now interested in transforming the score from a text that is to be interpreted,
into one that is to be executed.48 In doing so, he overlooks the fact that in
the musical history he is discussing, compositional trends have expanded the
repertoire of performing techniques that are integral to musical works, and as
such they must be presented as constituent, notated elements. In the context
of Levinson’s Sound/Performing-Means (S/PM), Boorman’s claims about
contemporary music suggest that the score is a performing-means divorced
from its musico-cultural context due to notation becoming more explicit,
supplanting what Boorman views as its generally indicative rather than pre-
scriptive role. This specific aspect of Boorman’s thinking paradoxically cor-
relates and contradicts aspects of Finnissy’s works. At once, Finnissy’s often
sparse indication of certain musical markings, namely dynamics and timbral
transformations, align with Boorman’s general attitude that notation is noth-
ing more than a guide, while also undermining the deeply indicatory nature
of Finnissy’s notations (see Chapter 9 for more on this).
While Levinson’s ontology is valuable insofar as it begins to ground
Finnissy’s works in concretely relatable terms (that is, we can knowingly
encounter specific musical works through experience), its performing-means
aspect requires examination. To this end, Goodman’s formidable nominalist
ontology of musical works can serve an elucidatory function. Goodman’s
work on notational systems is expansive, and a detailed discussion of it is
beyond the bounds of the present discussion. However, some specific con-
cepts must be identified. As indicated earlier, scores have the primary func-
tion of authoritatively indicating specific musical works. In order for this to
be achieved, those works must be able to be retrieved from a score, and for
this to be possible a separate list of criteria must also be satisfiable.
A system of symbols, such as musical notation, according to Goodman,
can have the property of being either ‘notational’ or ‘non-notational’.49
Notational systems are ones in which there is character-indifference, where
all examples of the same character, be it a musical symbol or a letter from an
alphabet, relate the same meaning, and there is finite differentiation, where any
characters can be differentiated from each other, and thus relate specific and
different meaning. A practical example of character-indifference would be all
unadulterated minims having the same rhythmic meaning within the nota-
tional system, and finite differentiation would be the ability to discern the dif-
ference between a quaver and a semi-quaver by the number of flags or beams
it bears.50 It is the burden of a notational system to have both character-
indifference and finite differentiation, for otherwise ‘recovery of score from
performance will not be even theoretically possible, identity of work from
performance to performance will not be ensured, and the primary purpose
of a notational system will not be served’.51 Goodman labels the perfor-
mances of notations as either ‘compliant’ or ‘non-compliant’ to the notation
specified, with the notation and its compliant performances amounting to
the musical work: ‘In music, the work is the class of performances compliant
with a character.’52
There are, however, constituent elements in commonly-used musical nota-
tion that sit outside of standard finite differentiation. One such example
discussed by Goodman is with figured-bass:
[t]wo score-inscriptions, one in figured-bass and the other in specific

notation, even though they have some common compliant performance,
will not thereby be semantically equivalent; and two performances com-
plying with the former may severally comply with two specific scores that
have no compliant in common.53
His conclusion as to what this means for musical works is that:
The comprehensive language of musical scores, insofar as it offers free

choice between figured-bass and specific notation, is thus not truly nota-
tional. Rather, it comprises two notational subsystems; and the one in
use must be designated and adhered to if identification of work from
performance to performance is to be ensured.54
In the context of this quotation, Goodman is specifically addressing a ‘system

that permits alternative use of figured-bass and specific notation’.55 In the
case of some other notational systems, there could be many more than two
subsystems.
There is one specific and major aspect of score-compliance that has yet to
be broached. For both Goodman and Levinson, any deviation from the per-
forming-means results in non-compliance with the score – whether intentional
or not.56 As such, a single incorrect note in a performance of a Rachmaninoff
piano concerto fails to be a performance of a Rachmaninoff piano con-
certo.57 Such a statement rightfully causes musicians to bristle, but as will be
demonstrated shortly, full compliance with musical scores is at present only
116 Nigel McBride
a theoretical possibility that depends on the acuity of the compliance tester.
Since Goodman classes tempo indications (though not metronome mark-
ings) as non-notational, they cannot be compliant in performance, so it is in
theory ontologically possible to successfully recover a work at speeds entirely
divorced from the composer’s intentions.58 As such, a performance of a work
which perceivably deviates from any indicated metronome marking also fails
to actually be a recovery of that work. Goodman states that:
So long as the differentiation between characters is finite, no matter

how minute, the determination of membership of mark in character will
depend upon the acuteness of our perceptions and the sensitivity of the
instruments we can devise.59
It is this statement that is among the most troubling in Goodman’s system –

while also undeniable in its truth-content. Any difference in perception
between a performance of a notation by a fallible entity, and the notation
itself, which according to Goodman should be translatable into a single
unvarying sound-structure, will fall into non-compliance, depending on the
sensitivity of the listener or apparatus evaluating the performance. The prac-
tical consequence of this is that while a score may have a compliant nota-
tional system, any subsequent performances will always be non-compliant,
as Goodman’s system deals with the absolute ideals presented by musical
notations, and there is always variance introduced in any translation from
ideal into reality. One listener might perceive no metric distinction between
evenly performed crotchets at a particular tempo, in a particular time signa-
ture, while another listener may perceive in the same performance a slight
anticipation or delay of the principal beats, and thus the performance will be
non-compliant. From one performance object, there can be varying judge-
ments to its score-compliance value. Goodman’s argument here, by his own
admission, is one that sits outside ordinary language, and is concerned with
ontological correctness, rather than any particular implementation in prac-
tice.60 As it is seen though, full compliance is not possible, it may be more
valuable to frame performances as varying in their compliance with the nota-
tion of the work.61
It is not the aim of this discussion to define what a musical work is, rather,
the desire is to highlight apparatuses that can be applied in dealing with
paradigmatic works, a class that comprises a great many of Finnissy’s works.
Musical platonism is a self-defeating exercise; there is no metric by which
any ‘true work’, or ideal, or Form, can be measured or encountered. It
renders musical scores as incidental to the sound structures they are meant
to relate to. Levinson’s S/PM model entails a much more nuanced posi-
tion, that situates musical works in grounded and encounterable terms. The
S/PM model, in combination with Goodman’s articulation of compliance and
notational schemes, actually provides a system that can be used to deal with
musical scores and how performances can relate to them. This is the model
which I will use for encountering a Finnissy score in Chapter 9: as a musical
score (a ‘performing-means’) which when played results in a causally-related
sound-structure that can be considered in terms of its identity through some
of the tools presented by Goodman. I have no strong position on whether or
not sound structures do indeed exist as platonic objects; my intuition is that
they do not, but regardless of whether they do exist or not, there would be no
mechanism by which this could be confirmed or denied, and therefore this is
of no consequence to me. What does matter, fundamentally, is that the musi-
cal score has the primary function of identifying and regulating the works
they pertain to. Whether or not the true content of the work is performed – or
even if it is possible to perform – is a moot question. Rather, performances of
works will vary in their compliance, to both lesser and greater degrees. It is
up to the performer how they might choose to deal with this.
Ontological implications in practice

With the ontological issues of Theocharous’s performative ideology more
fully critiqued, a re-examination of his objections to Finnissy’s notation is
more possible. From the quotation that this chapter opened with – ‘By now
we have lost all hope for any possibly accurate rendition’ – and if the notion
of accuracy is dismantled, a set of assumptions can be determined.62 If pla-
tonist musical works are assumed, then the performance of any specific musi-
cal work is unobtainable – all that can ever be performed is something akin
to the desired musical work. If a pure Levinsonian S/PM model of a musical
work is assumed, then any deviation from the performing-means results in
a failure to instantiate its musical work. If a nominal reading of the work
through the method proposed by Goodman is taken, then any deviation
from the notation (the performance fails to comply with the instruction set
of the notation) similarly fails to be a performance of the musical work. The
consequence is certainly a bleak one for the performance of musical works.
However, Goodman’s nominal method can be expanded to address the issue
of compliance.
Returning to Pace, we can find, as mentioned previously, a demonstration
of the musical possibilities and solutions that arise from a non-platonistic
reading of musical texts. Using the opening four bars of Chopin’s Impromptu
in G-flat, op. 51, he offers a performance strategy that is based not on what
the performing-means states to enact, but states not to enact. For example:
A score indicates a group of three quavers played as a triplet. From a

positivistic point of view, this would imply three notes each played for
a duration of exactly one-third of a crotchet beat (that is literally what
the score tells the player to do). Any deviation from this would repre-
sent some form of rubato. Now, in light of the fact that I believe that a
metrically regular approach to triplets may be the exception rather than
the rule in terms of historical (and even to some extent contemporary)
118 Nigel McBride
practices, I find this sort of definition inadequate. Instead, this triplet
should be viewed as being defined by what it excludes. […] whilst in a
sense it may be difficult to establish with any degree of certitude what a
triplet is, we may be able [to] identify what it is not.63
Pace describes this as a ‘structuralist’ approach towards notation, which is

entirely compatible with the performing-means/musico-cultural hybrid pro-
posed by Levinson, and with Goodman’s compliance model. Goodman was
able to account for other notational aspects of paradigmatic Western Music,
such as free cadenzas, and figured-bass, by conceiving of them as notational-
subsystems, and as such notational compliance is feasible. While contextu-
ally reassigning certain notational elements, such as more extreme rhythmic
formulations, as a distinct notational sub-system may appear as intellectual
gerrymandering, it is still consistent with Goodman’s nominal model, and
satisfies the ontological issues posited by a desire for accuracy in extreme
conditions. Speaking of an example that is significantly more rhythmically
complex than those provided by Theocharous, Pace states of the first bar of
Ferneyhough’s Opus Contra Naturam:
An obvious immediate question is ‘can these rhythms possibly be played

accurately?’ I believe this is the wrong question; rather we should ask
‘why has Ferneyhough notated them in this manner?’64
Pace details his process for dealing with the notational complexities of the
example, and after discussing the practical process of learning such a frag-
ment, he says:
Whether I would play this rhythm ‘accurately’ is perhaps not the point; I
may not know if it is exactly ‘right’ in the sense of how a computer would
play it, but I can detect certain results that are definitely wrong. It would
be wrong if I played the group entirely evenly, if the second to sixth notes
existed in a 2:1 metrical ratio to the first, or if the group took so long that
the rest was imperceptible.65
Pace has reconfigured Ferneyhough’s notation from one that is strictly nota-
tional, and thus subject to issues of compliance, to one in which the rhyth-
mic notation serves to indicate degrees of evenness and unevenness. The
same process can apply to the figure in question from Finnissy’s score that
provoked Theocharous’s claim as to whether or not the rhythmic figure is
‘possible’ or not. Of course, at this stage in Autumnall it is a moot point. No
metronomic tempo indication has been issued, so no accurate performance is
possible anyway. The contextual information needed to translate from nota-
tion to performance is absent – and as such, non-compliance is not in effect.
However, in examples such as Piano Concerto No. 4, which features material
that is both notational and truly pushes the bounds of physical possibility,
other solutions must be sought. One of those is to use Pace’s method, in
which the notation is interrogated in terms of what it is forbidding (‘[i]t
would be wrong if I played the group entirely evenly, if the second to sixth
notes existed in a 2:1 metrical ratio to the first’), and then what is permissible.
Another possible solution to this problem is offered in Chapter 9.
On a related topic, Theocharous asks a valuable question regarding how
Finnissy’s work is meant to be interpreted, asking:
We look at the second system in the hope for a hint as to how we are sup-
posed to read this piece, but here the paradox is even more explicit. Not
only is the next group of mensural notes in sixty-fourth- and hundred-
and-twenty-eighth-notes, but these values are also to be rendered in the
time of a thirty-second-note that also includes three acciaccaturas.66
The paradox is in the seemingly impossible demand of executing hemidemi-

semiquavers and semihemidemisemiquavers in the time of a demisemiqua-
ver which also includes three acciaccaturas. This kind of rhythmic figure,
although radically different in nature, is akin to Vivaldi’s usage in his recorder
concerto in C major, RV 444 (Ex. 4.2)
Ex. 4.2 Antonio Vivaldi, Recorder Concerto in C, RV 444.
According to Goodman, this figure could be played at any speed without

causing compliance issues with the notation; it features no metronome
markings – for the reason that this work long predates the metronome –
which means that is has no notational-compliant potential in regard to tempo.
Vivaldi’s tempo marking of Largo, of course, indicates a vague tempo – that
the movement is to be ‘slow’, but the lack of a fixed point of reference means
the very precise meaning of this indication can only be conjecture, but the
other notational parameters in Vivaldi’s score include time signature , and
other rhythmic units, including crotchets, semiquavers, and demisemiqua-
vers. This brief flourish is extreme in its technical and musical demands
when read in contrast to the rest of the work, and similarly, in the specific
example Theocharous indicates from Autumnall, we have a similar context.
At this point, Finnissy has not indicated a metronome marking, or even a
general tempo indication. This specific problem is by no means exclusive to
Autumnall, and can be found throughout Finnissy’s output (particularly in
the works from the mid-1970s through to the end of the 1980s).67
Theocharous’s observations culminate with the statement that in
Autumnall, ‘The mensural notation is only a pretense, a metaphor that if
120 Nigel McBride
taken too literally could cause violence to polysemy.’68 Although it is not pos-
sible to agree with Theocharous’s conclusion, he has intuited that Finnissy’s
notation falls in places outside of the realms of standard notation, and as
such, should not be treated as if it were standard. However, by labelling
the mensural notation a metaphor denies the compositional integrity of the
work, and Finnissy’s larger compositional project. Finnissy acknowledges
the fundamental distinction between a sonic structure and a performing-
means, and alludes to Goodman’s notation issues in an interview with Ian
Pace, Christopher Fox, and Henrietta Brougham:
Exploring the psychology of notation is more revealing – how you precip-

itate certain kinds of response by either writing half-notes or sixty-fourth
notes. How much detail? How clearly can you hear or envisage a sound?
Notation is about choice and degrees of exactitude, reality-unreality. […]
The notation of music is like that if you start from the premise of sound –
when you impose the conventions of music on it, you’re imposing a filter,
which we do all the time.69
This should not be read that Finnissy’s notation is metaphorical, rather

that he is consciously setting his notational strategies against the notion of
musical sound structures – the sound of the piece, and the music itself, is a
consequence of Finnissy’s performing-means.
Notes
1 Georgios Theocharous, ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall of Notation in Michael
Finnissy’s Autumnall for Solo Piano’, Perspectives of New Music, vol. 52, no. 1
(2014), pp. 4–27.
2 Ibid. p. 10. In fact, this very issue is addressed by Ian Pace, using a considerably
more extreme example, as discussed elsewhere in this chapter.
3 What is meant specifically by my usage of ‘musical works’ will be clarified later
in this chapter, but a general ‘pragmatic constraint’ as advocated by David Davis
in the introduction to Art as Performance (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004), which
he states on page 18 suffices for a general discussion of works:
Artworks must be entities that can bear the sorts of properties rightly
ascribed to what are termed “works” in our reflective critical and apprecia-
tive practice; that are individuated in the way such “works” are or would
be individuated, and that have the modal properties that are reasonably
ascribed to “works,” in that practice.
4 Arthur C. Danto, ‘The Transfiguration of the Commonplace,’ The Journal of
Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 33, no. 2 (1974), p. 139.
5 Danto invests much energy in justifying mere objects as a class of thing in his
article; a thorough discussion of how mere objects are ontologically distinct
from artworks exists beyond the scope of this discussion. However, from ‘The
Transfiguration of the Commonplace’, Danto offers: ‘It is after all possible for
two things to resemble one another with radically different meanings: a quotation
is about an utterance, not about what the utterance is about: and the echo of an
utterance is not about anything at all. So one sort of condition for something to be
in candidacy for an interpretation, title, and structure will be certain assumptions
with regard to its causes. And causes are not the sorts of things we can read off
the surfaces of alleged effects, all the more so since indiscernible objects, as we just
have seen, may have radically divergent causal histories.’ Ibid., p. 140.
6 An example of this might be with some particular radical forms of free improvi-
sation, in which the musical material being searched for is not predetermined
before improvisation, and as such without a set reference structure, cannot logi-
cally be considered as accurate or inaccurate.
7 Andrew Kania notes one such problem in his definition of what music more
generally actually is:
When we aim at defining “music,” what kinds of things do we want our
definition to capture? Unsurprisingly, the concept of sound is central to
most definitions of “music.” But you might point to a musical score and say
“That’s a great piece of music.” Scores make no sounds, however. Does that
mean they are not really music?
Andrew Kania, ‘Definition’, in Theodore Gracyk and Andrew Kania (eds.),
The Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music (London and New York:
Routledge, 2014), p. 5. Definitional projects such as Kania’s are a mainstay in
the study of musical ontology, although the ramifications they might have on the
more applied understanding of music is limited. However, Kania does illuminate
a significant aspect of discussing music and identifiers-demonstratives in point-
ing to a musical score, and identifying it as the work – ‘that’s a great piece of
music’.
8 Ibid. p. 6.
9 Ibid. p. 8.
10 Lydia Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the
Philosophy of Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), p. 14. Goehr is otherwise
critiqued for situating her model of the work-concept in the 1800s, see Reinhard
Strohm, ‘Looking Back at Ourselves: The Problem with the Musical Work-
Concept’ in The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited Michael Talbot
(Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000), pp. 128–52. He summarises his
argument into a ‘single thesis’, the first point of which is the most crucial: ‘The
historical narratives that diagnose a major watershed or categorial breakthrough
in the development of the work-concept and related phenomena around 1800
evade the burden of proof that ought to be placed on them: to show that previous
phenomena were essentially – philosophically – different’, pp. 151–2.
11 Peter Kivy was one of the primary advocates of a ‘classical’ musical platonism,
that closely adhered to the standards encapsulated by Goehr. See Peter Kivy,
‘Platonism in Music: A Kind of Defense,’ Grazer Philosophische Studien, vol. 19,
no.1 (1983), pp. 109–29; and ‘Platonism in Music: Another Kind of Defense’,
American Philosophical Quarterly, vol. 24, no. 3 (1983), pp. 245–52. Levinson has
been considered to present a modified platonist view (see Goehr, The Imaginary
Museum, p. 44), but the fact that Levinson holds the creation of a musical work
to be central in his ontology is a strong transgression of basic musical platonism.
12 Ian Pace, ‘The New State of Play in Performance Studies’, Music & Letters,
vol. 98, no. 2 (2017), p. 289.
13 John Butt, Playing with History: The Historical Approach to Musical Performance.
Musical Performance and Reception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002), p. 56.
14 Ibid.
15 Theocharous, p. 21.
122 Nigel McBride
16 Ibid.
17 Ibid. p. 62. Butt is here referring explicitly to the way in which Goehr treats
music before 1800, saying ‘[s]he tends to homogenise the considerable history
of western music up to the end of the eighteenth century and give short shrift
to earlier swings towards and away from a work concept’ (Butt, Playing with
History, p. 63).
18 Ian Pace, ‘Beyond Werktreue: Ideologies of New Music Performance and
Performers’, paper given on 14 January 2014, Royal College of Music, and
3 November 2014, Magdalen College, Oxford. Available online at http://
openaccess.city.ac.uk/6558/ (accessed 17 July 2018).
University Press, 2009), p. 152.
20 Ibid. p. 154.
21 Jerrold Levinson. ‘What a Musical Work Is’, The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 77,
no. 1 (1980), p. 10. Levinson later formalises his ontology as: ș t1, where
is a ‘S/PM’ structure, șis the composer that sets , and t1 is the compositional
act at a certain point in time. Traditional platonic ontologies would assert that
musical works exist purely as abstract sound-structures – in effect the ‘S’ from the
‘S/PM’ structure. S/PM structures will be addressed in more detail shortly. See
Levinson, ‘What a Musical Work Is’, pp. 19–20.
22 This is actually one of the more radical parts of Levinson’s ontology. As Goehr
pointed out, in platonism, composers don’t compose a work, they discover
one, so Levinson uses the fact that a work has been composed to solve the
problem of multiple composers creating the same piece. It’s a hypothetical sce-
nario, but it eliminates the possibility of Schoenberg and Toenburg both having
created ‘Pierrot Lunaire’ in 1912. The fact that they were created means they
have the attribute of ‘having been created by’, and as such Leibniz’s Identity of
Indiscernibles Principle (F(Fx C Fy) A x = y) is not violated. See Levinson,
‘What a Musical Work Is’, p. 13.
23 This can be further explained by looking at a musical work (Į) which is defined
as being simply an abstract sound structure:
(1) Į is simply an abstract sound-structure, which according to platonism
exists ‘long before any compositional activity has taken place and long
after they perhaps have been forgotten. They exist even if no performances
or score-copies are ever produced’;
(2) Į is discovered through an inscription onto a musical score by a composer.
Musical scores are not capable of conveying all aspects of Į, precisely
because Į is abstract;
(3) all deviations (mistakes, or inaccuracies caused for any reason, miss-
ing pages, or poor copying) from the musical score result in a failure
to instantiate Į, and result in instantiating some other similar abstract
structure;
(4) Į is non-spatiotemporal and acausal due to point (1), and it is unclear how
we can have knowledge of abstract objects other than a priori; there is no
mechanism by which they can be measured or quantified.
24 Ibid. p. 19. Emphasis is mine.
25 Ibid. p. 14.
26 In Levinson’s ontology, the performing-means is absolutely fixed, and to deviate
from it is to fail to produce the musical work. If we take the performing-means
to be indicated by the musical score, then this necessarily includes instrumenta-
tion. So therefore, a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale on ther-
emin rather than piano is not a performance of the work of Tchaikovsky. It is a
performance of a different work which has similarities (pitch, rhythm, structure,
and so on) in common with Tchaikovsky’s work.
27 Ian Pace. ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (4).’ City Research Online.
Available online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/17515/. (Accessed 24 September
2018.)
28 Levinson, ‘What a Musical Work Is’, p. 20.
29 Stanley Boorman, ‘The Musical Text’, in Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist
(eds.), Rethinking Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 403–23.
30 Ibid. p. 408.
31 These terms were first developed by folklorist Charles Seeger, in his essay
‘Prescriptive and Descriptive Music-Writing’, The Musical Quarterly, vol. 44,
no. 2 (April 1958), pp. 184–95.
32 This aligns with (2) of platonic notionality.
33 Boorman, ‘The Musical Text’, p. 408.
34 Ibid. p. 411.
35 Boorman doesn’t explicitly state at which point in history this was; on the same
page he refers to Bach, Liszt, and earlier liturgical chant.
36 Ibid. p. 412.
37 In the case of the more recent composers he references in his discussion, Cage,
Boulez, and Stockhausen, there is little precedent or reason to even suggest
that their works would, could, or should be learnt by ear. In fact, there are few
composers for whom the score and its notation is so central to their compositions
than the three composers he mentions.
38 Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols
(Indianapolis, IN, New York and Kansas City, KA: The Bobs-Merrill Company,
Inc., 1968), p. 128. Goodman’s ontology is not without its criticisms. Butt com-
ments on a hypothetical situation which Goodman himself concedes is an absurd
but valid performance in his ontology, with Butt writing:
Although this leads to certain absurdities, such as that a performance last-
ing ten years can count as an instance of the work, while a performance
with a single wrong note does not, it does have a certain use as a regulative
concept for the performer (i.e. the performer usually intends to get all the
notes right). (Butt, Playing with History, p. 58)
David Davies similarly addresses this specific issue within Goodman’s ontology,
stating: ‘a work whose performances normally last in the region of 30 min-
utes will have legitimate performances that last 12 hours and legitimate perfor-
mances that last 12 minutes, as long as there are performances of those durations
that satisfy all of the notationally represented constraints in the score’. Davies,
pp. 211–12. While these problematic aspects of Goodman’s ontology are present
in its authentic and unmodified form, they are no more ontologically problem-
atic than other musical ontologies.
40 Theocharous, ‘Not too Violent’, p. 21.
42 Ibid. Incidentally, his last observation, that this way of reading scores is cur-
rently conventional, is highly relevant to the aims of the present chapter.
43 Ibid.
44 Ibid. p. 407.
45 Ibid.
46 Ibid. p. 408.
47 Richard Hudson discusses some music of considerable rhythmic complexity
124 Nigel McBride
– and simplicity – in his Stolen Time: the History of Tempo Rubato (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 2004). In particular, his discussions of rubato in the music of
Carter, Stockhausen, and Boulez illustrates the great varieties of rubato that can
be applied to rhythmically intricate music, see pp. 410–35.
48 This resembles the view set out in Stravinsky’s Poetics of Music: In the Form
of Six Lessons, translated Arthur Kondel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1947), pp. 121–35.
49 Goodman, Languages of Art, p. 131.
50 Goodman’s criteria for a notational system go beyond the two points mentioned
here, but these are the most relevant to our discussion, and the crux upon which
his entire system rests.
51 Ibid. p. 182.
52 Ibid. p. 210.
53 Ibid. pp. 183–4. Historically, it would have been expected that performers would
embellish and elaborate on given notations. Under Goodman’s system, these
embellishments would result in a performance that was non-compliant, because
the primary function of the score – to fix the work’s identity – is violated by the
introduction of elements that are a part of the work’s identity, but not notational.
I think it is likely that the general performance practices that included elabora-
tions could be considered a notational-subsystem, much like in the example of a
figured-bass, or a free cadenza, but this precise problem is beyond the scope of
the present discussion.
54 Ibid. p. 184.
55 Ibid. p. 183.
56 Which in Levinson’s case encompasses the intended instrumentation as indicated
in the score.
57 Ibid. p. 186.
58 For example, a ‘fast’ tempo marking may be ignored and the notation performed
at any tempo whatsoever, as ‘fast’ has no meaning in Goodman’s notational
system.
59 Ibid. p. 135.
60 Ibid. pp. 186–7.
61 This is a mechanism that will be further explored in Chapter 9.
62 Theocharous, ‘Not Too Violent’, p. 10. In fact, this very issue is addressed by
Pace, using a considerably more extreme example.
63 Pace, ‘Notation, Time and the Performer’s Relationship to the Score’, pp. 155–6.
64 Ibid. p. 190.
65 Ibid. p. 191.
66 Theocharous, ‘Not Too Violent’, p. 6.
67 See First sign a sharp white moon, as if the cause of snow (solo violin,
1968–75), Offshore (orchestra, 1979), and Ohi! Ohi! Ohi! (solo voice, 1978) for
more examples.
68 Theocharous, ‘Not Too Violent’, p. 25.
69 ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher
Fox, and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 32–3.
Bibliography
Boorman, Stanley. ‘The Musical Text’. In Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist (eds.),
Rethinking Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 403–23.
Butt, John. Playing with History: The Historical Approach to Musical Performance.
Musical Performance and Reception. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
Danto, Arthur C. ‘The Transfiguration of the Commonplace’. The Journal of
Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 33, no. 2 (1974), pp. 139–48.
Davis, David. Art as Performance. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004.
Finnissy, Michael, Fox, Christopher, Pace, Ian, and Brougham, Henrietta. ‘Con-
versations with Michael Finnissy’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox, and
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Goehr, Lydia. The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy
of Music. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992.
Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols.
Indianapolis, IN, New York and Kansas City, KA: The Bobs-Merrill Company,
Inc., 1968.
Gracyk, Theodore; and Kania, Andrew, eds. The Routledge Companion to Philosophy
and Music. London and New York: Routledge, 2014.
Hudson, Richard. Stolen Time: The History of Tempo Rubato. Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 2004.
Kivy, Peter. ‘Platonism in Music: A Kind of Defense’, Grazer Philosophische Studien,
vol. 19, no. 1 (1983), pp. 109–29.
Kivy, Peter. ‘Platonism in Music: Another Kind of Defense’. American Philosophical
Quarterly, vol. 24, no. 3 (1983), pp. 245–52.
Levinson, Jerrold. ‘What a Musical Work Is’. The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 77, no. 1
(1980), pp. 215–63.
Pace, Ian. ‘Beyond Werktreue: Ideologies of New Music Performance and Performers’.
Paper given on 14 January 2014, Royal College of Music, and 3 November 2014,
Magdalen College, Oxford. Available online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/6558/
(accessed 17 July 2018).
Pace, Ian. ‘The New State of Play in Performance Studies’. Music & Letters, vol. 98,
no. 2 (2017), pp. 281–92.
Seeger, Charles. ‘Prescriptive and Descriptive Music-Writing’. The Musical Quarterly,
vol. 44, no. 2 (April 1958), pp. 184–95.
Stravinsky, Igor. Poetics of Music: In the Form of Six Lessons, translated Arthur
Kondel and Ingolf Dahl. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947.
Strohm, Reinhard. ‘Looking Back at Ourselves: The Problem with the Musical
Work-Concept’. In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited Michael Talbot
(Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000), pp. 128–52.
Theocharous, Georgios. ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall of Notation in Michael Finnissy’s
Autumnall for Solo Piano’. Perspectives of New Music, vol. 52, no. 1 (2014),
pp. 4–27.
Taylor & Francis
Section B
Finnissy’s identities
Taylor & Francis
5 Marginality and Finnissian
performance in the 1980s
Roddy Hawkins
Introduction1
On 10 October 1977 Michael Finnissy gave a piano recital in Freiburg con-
sisting mainly of new work by young British composers. Simply entitled
Moderne Englische Klaviermusik, the concert was promoted by the Institute
für Neue Musik at Freiburg’s conservatoire and took place in the gallery
space of the old Black Monastry (Schwarzes Kloster) then run by the city’s
vanguard Art Association (Kunstverein). On more than one occasion Finnissy
has recounted how the Freiburg programme was sparked by his friend, pia-
nist Ronald Lumsden who, along with the Society for the Promotion of New
Music (SPNM), was puzzled by a dearth of new pieces composed for the
instrument:
I said to them: ‘this is just ridiculous! The way you get composers to write
for pianos is, you ring them up and you ask them to write pieces for you!’
But that was either too ‘complicated’ for the SPNM or Ron didn’t like
the idea very much. But, anyway, I’d decided that that was what I was
going to do. So I rang up all the composers I was currently friendly with,
which included Ollie Knussen at the time and Robert Saxton and Jenny
Fowler and Howard Skempton and various other people. My debut
concert had the usual number of—about six or seven—world premières
on it and that was the kind of programme I did. I used to get composers
to write. […] So for several years that’s what I did.2
Though his commissioning and promotion of new work may have tailed
off after the 1980s, Finnissy’s activity as a performer, and more broadly as
an advocate, certainly extended beyond a period of ‘several years’. In 1997,
for example, following his six-year tenure as President of the International
Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM, 1990–6), and his participation
in the then recently founded Contemporary Music for Amateurs (COMA,
1993 to the present day), Finnissy gave a recital for the Union of Composers
in Moscow which included 19 works by 19 different British composers (see
List of Performances). Though none of these was a first performance and
130 Roddy Hawkins
not all owed their existence to Finnissy’s patronage or encouragement, the
selection offered a fair reflection of Finnissy’s (by then) longstanding advo-
cacy of and personal connections to a stylistically diverse range of compos-
ers that complicate what it means to say ‘British music’, especially to a
foreign audience.
It is symbolically revealing that Finnissy’s advocacy and performance
started in Freiburg and was forged during the 1980s – in parallel with his
own growing reputation as a composer – in the context of two interrelated
factors: first, a deeply conflicted relationship with ‘British music’, by turns
nurturing and hostile; and second, the emergence of the label ‘new complex-
ity’, which in the British context owes as much to Finnissy as it does to any
other figure, and one with which he is notoriously uncomfortable. In short,
to trace Finnissy’s performances during the period 1977–86, as I do here,
is to grapple with his relationship to discourses and practices of virtuosity,
complexity and Britishness, and the histories and groupings which they
imply.
Context: a reluctant pianist?

Finnissy consistently refers to the Freiburg recital not only as the beginning
of his activity as a concert pianist but as an accidental one, too.3 In a related
manner, Finnissy has framed his commitment to contemporary music as one
pursued in an ‘amateur’ spirit in the context of a career where income has
been earned via work as a répétiteur, performer and academic. Claiming to
have ‘utterly failed’ as a professional composer, he has said that ‘composing
is, for me, an obsessive hobby, and I’m effectively an amateur’.4 In a variation
on the same theme Finnissy admits that: ‘I am proud to consider myself an
“amateur” of music. But the amateur has to be of a professional standard
to pass the screening processes attendant on broadcasting.’5 This is a claim
which deserves substantive attention in its own right, not least because the
history of amateur participation in the arts and the meaning of the term is
anything but singular, especially in the context of the British class system
and the arts; I raise it here, though, in order to emphasise the way in which
Finnissy and others have framed what amounts to a significant, acknowl-
edged but as yet undocumented, contribution to the performance and advo-
cacy of new music in Britain.
For example, in 1987, having remarked to Richard Toop that the Freiburg
performance had taken place ‘by accident’, Finnissy expressed frustration
about his virtuoso reputation and its attendant implications upon the pro-
duction of his compositional work: ‘I curse the fact that I ever played the
piano every time I practise for a concert, because it takes so much time. I
fundamentally think of myself as a composer; I get up in the morning and I
think of music paper, not the piano keyboard.’ 6 Toop earlier acknowledged
that ‘Finnissy dislikes being thought of as a professional virtuoso pianist.
Fine: in that case, one can say without fear of contradiction that he is one
Marginality and Finnissian performance 131
of the world’s most sensationally gifted amateurs.’7 In 2002 Finnissy echoed
these sentiments in conversation with the pianist Marilyn Nonken, stating
that although ‘[c]omposing and performing are inseparable […] I have always
thought of myself primarily as a composer’.8 According to Ian Pace, it is a
view of artistic labour that Finnissy shares with Liszt, Busoni, Rachmaninoff,
Godowsky, Grainger and Sorabji: ‘they would have liked to concentrate their
energies on composing […]. Several of these figures admitted to performing
primarily by virtue of necessity, in a desire to enable both their own work and
that of others they admired to be more frequently heard and understood.’9
The crux of the matter concerns the desire to be taken seriously, avoiding a
situation whereby ‘mere virtuosity’ is privileged over formal and material
considerations.10 Furthermore, when placed into a context in which virtuos-
ity was often synonymous with the discourse of complexity which developed
through the 1980s, it can, I would suggest, be taken as one of ‘the more polite
words people will choose to basically say you don’t belong’ as described by
Finnissy in Uncommon Ground.11
More recently, and of particular interest in what follows, Finnissy told
Jack Sheen that: ‘I’m not a ‘pianist’! I’m a composer who sometimes plays
the piano, to make myself useful. I don’t play ‘piano repertoire’. I have
simply given the first performance of more than 300 pieces because I liked,
or loved, them and wanted them to be performed.’12 Certainly from the
point of view of music historiography and the sociology of music there is
nothing simple about it. Not only has a focus on his compositional work
meant that there has as yet been no attempt to document this activity: much
of it (especially the solo recitals) took place beyond the purview of contem-
poraneous critics, upon whose reporting so much subsequent concert history
is based. In another way, Finnissy’s performances resonated throughout,
and thus contributed towards, a period in British musical, political and
social history whose various states of flux and factionalism are only just
beginning to be viewed with the kind of distance that three decades can
provide. And the waters are muddied further if one adopts a critical stance
towards the discursive resonances of Finnissy’s reluctance to identify as a
‘pianist’ when read against claims to the status of amateur and outsider.13
Indeed, this performance history belies a complex picture of recognition
and patronage in which the initial necessity of self-promotion – and an
explicit self-positioning as a composer at the margins of British musical life –
operated in no small part through performance. At any rate it is tempting
to suggest that Finnissy’s reluctance – his insistence that he be understood
as a composer first and foremost – may also be responsible for the lack of
attention paid to these performances, even amongst those dedicated to the
study of his music.
This is not to say, though, that Finnissy-as-performer is invisible in early
journalistic reception. As his reputation started to grow around 1980, one
commentator, in a rare review of a London concert that combined English
Country-Tunes (1977) and the first performance of the hyper-virtuosic Piano
132 Roddy Hawkins
Concerto No. 4 (1978–80), noted that: ‘Finnissy is a gifted pianist, combining
virtuosity with refinement of tone, and the arcane player-composer tradition
of Liszt, Alkan and Busoni lies behind much of this music, with its open play
between gestural simplicity and convoluted working.’14 Indeed, the reception
of Finnissy’s own music has long been shaped by the biographical function of
the virtuoso composer-pianist, where, crucially, a focus on the lineage of that
tradition begets a position uneasily reconciled with canon. At a surface level,
this manifests itself in frequent portrayals of (and by) Finnissy as a ‘maver-
ick’ or ‘outsider’. One particularly rich example can be found at the end of
the 1980s, the point at which Finnissy had secured his reputation within the
British classical music scene.15 The sympathetic critic John Warnaby identi-
fied Finnissy’s advocacy and versatility as a performer as the key to under-
standing both the poetics of his music and, in his view, a lack of recognition
within Britain:
For the past twenty [sic] years, Michael Finnissy has worked tirelessly
on behalf of contemporary music, both as composer and interpreter. In
the latter capacity, he has been an enthusiastic champion of the work of
younger composers and by stimulating the formation of a number of new
music groups, has provided outlets for many instrumentalists interested
in performing contemporary music. […] Finnissy is the most obvious
omission from Paul Griffiths’ otherwise excellent [1985] collection of
interviews with contemporary British composers. This may well seriously
undermine the book’s relevance for students primarily concerned with
the music of our time, and the only plausible explanation appears to
be that his work defies easy categorization. Other composers prompted
fewer aesthetic or technical questions.16
To the extent, then, that reluctance, virtuosity and canonicity combine in

subtle, powerful ways it is typically performance, rather than the perfor-
mances themselves, that has been dominant in shaping the reception dis-
course surrounding Finnissy, and especially his reputation as a composer
who, in his own words, ‘doesn’t “fit in”’.17
A cursory examination of Finnissy’s programming reveals the extent to
which the maverick lineage was explicitly evoked and cultivated in his recit-
als, as he has feely noted in an interview with Marilyn Nonken, where the
performativity of composer discourse is on full display:
Both Elisabeth Lutyens and Michael Tippett eventually told me I’d have
to get used to “being in the desert”, as presumably they had. Most of
the composers I play, or love listening to, have been in the desert for a
good while. Percy Grainger, Chris Newman, Cage, Feldman, Xenakis.
Figures, to some extent, “marginal” to an Establishment centre ground.
I feel bolstered up by the mavericks. I’ve learnt from them. Of course you
can see their traces in what I write.18
Whether or not such claims to the margins were as appropriate at the turn
of the millennium as they were in the late 1970s and 1980s requires more
extensive research: certainly the words ‘to some extent’ do a lot of the heavy
lifting here. In any case the early performances of the ensembles Suoraan
(1979–84) and, from 1987, Ixion (which took its name from a Feldman
piece) support a commitment to such work, while the distance between the
date of this interview and the 1980s explored here suggests how formative
those performances have been in Finnissy’s continued claims to marginality.
Situated in this context, then, the list of performances selected here provides
a preliminary sketch for understanding Finnissy’s performance activities
both with and beyond the reception that frames them. His activities are
extensive and broad enough to warrant book-length study in their own right,
and the materials presented here offer but a small segment (perhaps only
30%) of the total number, some of which may not be documented. In the
sketch that follows, I only consider the first of the possible periods, focusing
on the different ways in which Finnissy’s programming and collaborations
(rather than the works themselves) formed and inform the model of him as
a composer who defies categorisation. Through a series of snapshots based
around specific performances, I focus in particular on the programming of
his piano recitals (including the dance collaborations), his relationship with
the British Music Information Centre, and his activities with the ensemble
Suoraan.19
1977–1986: the Finnissy Piano Recital, Ensemble Suoraan, and the

limits of complexity
The Freiburg concert in 1977 was not strictly speaking Finnissy’s first public
performance as a pianist. In the previous year, 1976, he was engaged to per-
form the extant piano music of Brian Ferneyhough at the Mois Britannique,
a major festival hosted by the local government in Toulouse with the support
of the British Council; the next month he also performed as soloist in the first
version of Piano Concerto No. 1 at the Royan Festival.20 (Earlier still, there
is a programme in Finnissy’s personal collection dated 30 November 1971
where he performed music of the turn of the twentieth century, featuring
(in this order) Satie, Schoenberg, Skryabin, Ives, Bartok, Janáček, Busoni,
Szymanowski and Godowsky.)21 Nevertheless, it is easy to see why Finnissy
recognises it as such: in what I am here calling the Finnissy Piano Recital, the
Freiburg programme contains the seeds of his programming, patronage and
performance, captured by four overlapping, interconnected features: one, the
advocacy of new or recently composed works by other British composers;
two, elements both of transcendental difficulty and its apparent opposite;
three, the inclusion of older companion pieces; and four, the performance of
his own music.
In Freiburg Finnissy performed Brian Ferneyhough’s six short Epigrams
(1966), alongside recent works by Jennifer Fowler and Robert Saxton. He
134 Roddy Hawkins
also gave the first performance of new works by Oliver Knussen, Howard
Skempton, and his own work all.fall.down (1977), one of the more virtuosic
piano pieces in his extensive catalogue. In addition to companion pieces by
Beethoven, Bach-Busoni, Liszt and Skryabin (chosen by each of his com-
poser-colleagues), Finnissy presented his own companion piece with ‘Love
is here to stay’,22 the first performance of any of the ‘songs’ that in later
versions would become the complete Gershwin Arrangements (1975–88) a
decade later. Though some of Finnissy’s contemporaries have since become
established figures in British music (the Australian-born Fowler having set-
tled in Britain), at the time most had barely received any sustained public
recognition, an important insight into Finnissy’s subsequent advocacy of
lesser-known composers and one possible reason for the decreasing promi-
nence in his programmes of figures such as Ferneyhough, Knussen and
Saxton in the early 1980s. The pairing of new works with older ones was
abandoned when Finnissy presented a similar promotion of new British
music twice in Holland in January 1979, this time including new works
from Judith Weir and Edward Shipley; however, this is not to say that a
typical Finnissy piano recital contained only new or recent works by British
composers. Rather, the Dutch context points forwards to the ways in which
programmes exclusively of works by younger or emerging British compos-
ers tended to be reserved for international performances, special occasion
concerts, broadcasts or recordings, whether as soloist or as an ensemble
participant.
In Britain, and especially at the British Music Information Centre (BMIC),
the question of what constituted British music was more fluid and keenly
felt, which is to say that the music which Finnissy performed there had a
more explicit relationship with questions of margins and establishment. On
8 December 1980 Finnissy presented the core of these early recitals to a
London audience in the first of two consecutive evenings at the BMIC. With
a new work by Fowler, alongside the Ferneyhough and Skempton pieces
heard together in Freiburg, the first programme concluded with Pas Seul by
Chris Dench. Dench has remarked that in this period:
‘If I couldn’t play a work of mine, it went unheard. One of the brighter
moments […] was when I first met Michael Finnissy, one of the single
most fearsomely creative individuals I have ever encountered. He brought
several of my piano works to life, and enabled me, for the first time, to
hear my more experimentally-intended music. Like so many composers
of my generation, my debt to him is incalculable.’23
The following evening the programme contained music by Grainger and

Nancarrow, alongside Finnissy’s own portraits or tributes, something of a
staple feature in the years to follow, with works written as tributes to Ives,
Gershwin, Elizabeth Lutyens, Bernard Stevens, John Cage, and, in a more
covert way (since there is no single or explicit tribute), Xenakis. Ending with a
rare performance of Finnissy’s piano Songs 5–9 (1966–9, Song 6 later revised
1996) from the 1960s, the second recital included for the first time music by
James Dillon, and in particular the first performance of Spleen (1980), an
important event in building Dillon’s early recognition in London. The con-
certs in December ended an important year for Finnissy at the BMIC, one
that began in December 1979 with the first performance of English Country-
Tunes (1977, rev. 1982–5) and included the first performance of Topologies
(1979, rev. 1980) by Chris Dench. Since Dench, along with James Clarke
and Richard Emsley, had, by the end of 1980, been tentatively identified by
Keith Potter as part of an emerging tendency within British music,24 these
particular concerts deserve a prominent place in the historiography of new
complexity, and not only because of their early status in the process of that
term’s emergence: they are important as a piece of concert history precisely
because of the programmes devised by Finnissy – no Stockhausen, Cage,
Carter or Boulez, for example – and the institutional space occupied by the
BMIC itself. Similarly, a much wider view of the BMIC recitals than is pos-
sible here would reveal the importance of the Finnissy Piano Recital through-
out the first half of the 1980s, during which time Finnissy championed Dillon,
Dench and Barrett as well as Skempton, Weir and Newman. Furthermore,
the BMIC concerts include not only solo recitals but duets with, amongst
others, Robert Schuck (clarinet), Alan Brett (cello), Austin Allen (baritone)
and Josephine Nendick (mezzo soprano).
No recordings exists of Finnissy’s earliest recitals in the current British
Music Collection, but Finnissy’s performances in those early BMIC years are
remembered by its then young, ambitious director, Roger Wright, as ‘seminal
moments’ during an interview from 2007:
I do think that Michael, because of that dual-role [as composer-performer]

was so, so important. I think some of the composers around at that
time – and Michael himself – would admit that at some times there were
elements of generalisation about his performances but they were never
without authority, passion, commitment, on his day the most blinding
virtuosity too, just extraordinary and some really seminal moments for
me. I suspect also for bits of music history of that time, the premiere of
English Country-Tunes on this baby grand piano which we almost needed
to hose down at the end of it. Not a good instrument at all but you really
felt as though you were privileged to be in, in very much a salon environ-
ment actually and moving certain agendas on. When he played Spleen or
Dench’s Topologies or some very experimental stuff, there was a sense in
which he was both leading and nurturing – and actually I think providing
a context in which that music was both acceptable and welcomed – and
that was part of what we tried to do at BMIC.25
With the support of Wright, Finnissy made a significant contribution to the

emergence of ‘new complexity’, to the development of British music and,
136 Roddy Hawkins
moreover, to the development of the BMIC itself beyond a ‘salon environ-
ment’. Already in 1979 Keith Potter, who through his editorship of the jour-
nal Contact reported regularly on a range of contemporary music events,
was one of the first to acknowledge the BMIC’s reinvention – notably as a
‘regular if clandestine concert venue’;26 by the end of the decade, its premises
at 10 Stratford Place in London’s West End (near Bond Street station), was
jokingly referred to by Wright and Finnissy as ‘London’s Other No. 10’ and
less jokingly as ‘the new new music house’.27 Indeed, in a 1984 article Wright
is cited claiming that visitors to the BMIC alone had increased from 500
per year in 1977 to 4000 in 1984 after the Centre put on evening concerts in
order to increase visitor numbers to its collection of scores and recordings.28
According to Wright, Finnissy’s evening performances in the Centre’s small
reading room proved a significant element in that growth and in the develop-
ment of what Wright remembers as a space that was ‘if not experimental, at
least slightly off-centre’.29
On 17 December 1985 Finnissy was named President of the British Music
Information Centre at a concert where Wright, noting the turnaround since
Potter’s characterisation, remarked that ‘No one person has actually achieved
that enhancement of [activity at BMIC] any more than Michael has.’30
Reflecting on the changes, Finnissy replied that: ‘In my mind […] British
music can probably be divided in recent years into pre-BMIC and post-
BMIC’.31 Finnissy’s programme that evening included new work by Chris
Newman and Judith Weir (in the latter’s Michael’s Strathspey, dedicated to
‘President Finnissy’) and took place at the end of a year that had included a
summer Open Day at 10 Stratford Place. This would provide the stimulus for
Finnissy and Wright to collaborate on the first of three annual reviews of new
music in Britain published with Oxford University Press, entitled New Music
87, 88, and 89, in which the two editors noted ‘a compositional vitality which
is the envy of many countries’.32 The concert was followed in February 1986
by the first performance of the revised English Country-Tunes, a performance
which Finnissy recorded the same year for BBC radio.33 By this stage, then,
Finnissy’s reputation as a composer-performer was secure not only within
the BMIC but increasingly within the musical establishment itself.34 And
while the BMIC deserves special attention for these reasons, there is a danger
that an over-emphasis on activities and the many ‘firsts’ that took place
there obscures aspects of this Finnissian performance history that do not fall
within the model of the Finnissy Piano Recital.
Quite apart from its importance as a composition, the early performance
history of English Country-Tunes certainly opens up other, equally important
elements of what, historically speaking, it means to (re)hear Finnissy’s music
at the margins of concert life. As with the recital model discussed above,
the fact of Finnissy’s collaboration with the choreographer and dancer Kris
Donovan is documented, but mainly as a biographical rather than historical
event.35 The collaboration between Donovan and Finnissy lies at the heart
of the early performances not only of English Country-Tunes but also the
almost impossible Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978, rev. 1996) as well as some of
the works inspired by English folk music composed at the turn of the 1980s
such as Reels (1980–1). Sensitivity to this performance setting invites (at
least for this non-pianist) less of a focus on the notorious but surface-level
difficulty and demands of these works and more upon the visceral qualities of
the movement and energy of Finnissy’s pianism, and the interaction between
music (as sound and score) and the bodies of both performers, as revealed in
the rare footage of English Country-Tunes in 1984 at Brighton Polytechnic.36
Something of this interaction is captured in the poster-photography that sur-
vive in Finnissy’s personal collection and in the following note for a concert
of ‘Piano – Dance Duets’, from 1982. There, the collaboration is presented
as one in which the piano is both object and subject: ‘together [Donovan and
Finnissy] have been evolving a new kind of performance in which dancer,
pianist and piano all play an equal part, not only musically, but visually as
well’.37 Such insights suggests ways in which solo piano works which, ‘on
paper’, fall into the lineage of the virtuoso composer-pianist, might instead be
fruitfully approached through a detailed consideration of the art-forms with
and in which they were a component part.38
Elsewhere, the tension between complexity, virtuosity and ‘British music’
can be felt in a more explicit, conventional way through the performance
and reception of the ensemble concerts in which Finnissy participated, where
groupings and factions were more readily read into one another. For exam-
ple, when Suoraan started in 1979 under the direction of composers James
Clarke and Richard Emsley, they provided a biography of the group which
is instructive for how younger composers viewed Finnissy and the space later
designated as new complexity:
Although dedicated to the promotion of recent music, the group limits its
programmes within this sphere to determinately notated pieces exploit-
ing the sounds of ‘live’ performers, at the same time emphasising music
which is new not merely in terms of sheer novelty, but in its develop-
ment of techniques capable of carrying a continuously evolving heritage
‘straight ahead’ – suoraan – into the future.39
But, as with the footage of Finnissy’s’ dance duets, beneath the rhetoric here
too one can find insights into what belies the label complexity.
In 1979 Finnissy became the pianist for Suoraan following a concert in
which he deputised for the group’s usual pianist, Clare van Kampen. The
impact both of Finnissy’s playing and the other player deputising that day –
Christopher Redgate – was such that, according to Richard Emsley, he and
Clarke asked both players to join permanently:
RE: So suddenly for the fifth concert we got a different oboist and a dif-
ferent pianist, and from the first bar the sound was transformed. It was
like “‘Wow!’ This is a definite sound we’ve got here.”
138 Roddy Hawkins
RH: Can you remember what it was about the transformation?
RE: Energy. Punch. It was an aggressive sort of sound, quite in-your-
face rather than ‘music college’, so to say. […] And given that we were
interested in Xenakis and Finnissy, we must have had a taste for that sort
of thing anyway. So we were just delighted when it just happened to link
to that sound.40
These remarks are salutary ones for a concert history focused primarily on
programmes, evoking musical qualities that speak to the ambitions of young
composers to stand out in an increasingly crowded new music scene. In this
context the Suoraan concert that stands out in the initial period is the one
in which Finnissy and Xenakis were featured together in 1981. Finnissy’s
contribution to the ensemble became more important after Emsley and
Clarke left in 1982, whereupon he became artistic director. Finnissy’s early
support for Richard Barrett manifested itself in the ensemble’s first perfor-
mance of Barrett’s Coïgitum (1983), the ending of which Finnissy had to
transcribe in order to render it possible.41 In contrast to the Suoraan pro-
grammes under the directorship of James Clarke and Richard Emsley, the
‘Coïgitum concert’ had a closer resemblance to the Finnissy Piano Recital:
it included the commission and first performance of Skempton’s The Gipsy
Wife’s Song as well as a number of Finnissy’s favoured ‘transatlantic con-
nections’ – Ives and Nancarrow – on which basis the concert was funded.
Coïgitum was evidently challenging enough to require Roger Redgate’s par-
ticipation as conductor for the first time, and thus to sow the seeds for what
in the following year would become Ensemble Exposé, the ensemble with
whom Finnissy performed at Darmstadt in 1986 before joining Ixion in
1987.42
But a different ensemble with whom Finnissy was not personally associ-
ated but nevertheless performed, sheds another light on the development in
London of a pool of performers interested in and committed to ‘that sound’.
In a concert titled ‘New Images of Sound: New Complexities’, Richard
Bernas directed Music Projects/London, founded in 1978, in a performance
of Xenakis, Finnissy, and Carter that featured Finnissy as the soloist in his
own, often raucous Third Piano Concerto. The programme note remarked
that:
The music featured in this programme is distinguished by a number of

shared characteristics: the textures are elaborately worked and notated
with great precision; the instrumental parts are demanding; the pieces
do not make easy listening, but demand the active participation of
the auditor. (Incidentally all three were composed between 1976–1978).
But the dissimilarities are even greater, and it is the purpose of this
concert to demonstrate the varieties of experience that can be com-
municated, with extreme directness, by three composers of “complex”
music.43
And in the following year, 1985, Exposé gave their debut concert at the Purcell
Room, before touring to Paris with a programme of new work, all performed
for the first time in France, a programme which again bore the fingerprints of
Finnissy’s approach in Freiburg. The above sketch, then, suggests a period
in which both Finnissy’s reputation and the name and discourse of new
complexity emerged in response to, and as a product of, a new generation
of ensemble performers, composers and critics with Finnissy as a visible and
influential advocate: in the words of Wright ‘it was Michael Finnissy that was
driving most of that’.44 Indeed, from ‘the outside looking in’ ‘new complex-
ity’ was a specifically British-based grouping of composers and performers,
one that ‘sprung up around Michael Finnissy’ – at least according to the
influential musicologist Richard Toop, reporting from Darmstadt in 1986
and writing, it must be acknowledged, in the annual review which Finnissy
himself co-edited with Wright.45 And to the extent that Toop was concerned
to locate ‘new complexity’ around the influence of Xenakis and the advocacy
of Finnissy, the music and musicianship performed by Finnissy, by Suoraan,
then Exposé and in another way by Ixion, is doubly important: it helps to
understand both Toop’s influence in legitimising the term – his focus upon
what Chris Dench has called a ‘punk’ quality46 – and, moreover, the nuanced
picture of performance in Britain that he polemically ignored. As it relates
to Finnissy, then, the development of complexity is best viewed not, or not
only, in terms of composition but primarily through performances – the very
ones which so obviously complicate attempts to apply or reject the term
simplistically.
There is much work to be done in order to develop a broader account of this
history, including the investigation of Finnissy’s performances in Darmstadt
in the period 1986–1990, the Brighton Festival concerts with Ixion in the
period 1987–1991, and a complete run of activity at the BMIC since the late
1970s, much of which is currently missing. Such information would, for one
thing, help to further explore the extent to which the emergence of discourses
of complexity had an impact upon Finnissy’s programming decisions in the
1980s. In this respect it is, I think, telling that during his first participation
at Darmstadt in 1986 Finnissy performed English Country-Tunes in addi-
tion to a concert with Exposé, but two years later, after Richard Toop’s
interventions, he waited until 3am to get started on his duo recital with
Chris Newman.47 Similarly, in 1988 it was James Clapperton, not Finnissy,
who performed in Exposé’s Finnissy-esque concert of new work by British
composers,48 just as it was Clapperton who performed Finnissy’s Third
Piano Concerto in 1990, on that occasion with Ixion and Finnissy conduct-
ing.49 In other respects, and in less notorious spaces, the late 1980s was
nevertheless a productive period for the Finnissy Piano Recital, as can be
seen in performances of the completed Gershwin Arrangements, the Verdi
Transcriptions and the recitals presented as part of Ixion’s many residencies
at the Brighton Festival (see List of Performances). Furthermore, a fuller
account of Finnissy’s performances after the late 1980s could investigate
140 Roddy Hawkins
how, having secured his reputation as a composer within British music and
internationally, Finnissy became an increasingly outspoken opponent of the
politics of the New Right, especially following the introduction in Britain of
Section 28 (Clause 28) of the Local Government Act in 1988.50 Indeed, as
this last element relates to the main theme underpinning the sketch here – the
‘off-centre’ space of the early 1980s BMIC – through the 1990s marginality
becomes increasingly politically and socially explicit in Finnissy’s advocacy
as a performer and composer, as demonstrated in the first, ‘clandestine’
performance of Uncommon Ground (1989–90) in a benefit concert for the
Association to Fight Aids in Moscow.51
Conclusion: beyond margins

As the snapshots above demonstrate, the period to 1986 was one in which
Finnissy’s activities as a performer were significant, first, to the support and
advocacy of ‘off-centre’ British composers; second, to the presentation of his
own piano music; and third, to the development and support of the British
Music Information Centre as an institution of growing significance. Perhaps
the expression ‘slightly off-centre’ seems at first glance like an appropriately
English articulation of what it might mean to understand the location of
Finnissy’s performance and compositional career at the turn of the 1980s,
bound up as it was with a national music information centre where a mixture
of radical, experimental and conservative positions jostled for attention in a
strange alliance both outside and inside the ‘British musical establishment’,
a phenomenon as slippery and mythical as the outside which constitutes it.
As Stefan Collini remarks in his history of twentieth-century intellectuals in
England, and the privileges of the outsider, ‘we are all inside some circles and
outside others’.52 In this respect Finnissy’s work with Wright at the BMIC
may help to begin a process of thinking through, and gaining critical distance
from, the rhetoric of marginality which so dominates his often caustic verbal
pronouncements on new complexity, British music, and English contempo-
rary culture – views which have not dimmed with the passing of time nor
ceased to inform his compositional work.53
But however appropriate Collini’s ‘glamour of dissent’ critique may be to
the BMIC, the notion of ‘off-centre’ (and complexity) rings politically hollow
when placed in the later context of a period during which gay politics were
increasingly woven into Finnissy’s performance activity and advocacy. To
put it another way, euphemistic expressions such as ‘slightly off-centre’ are
useful to the extent that they trigger new possibilities historiographically.
Certainly this includes an empirical awareness of what music was played, by
whom and where: but when untethered from a discursive focus on style and
refocused instead around (both private and public) spaces of performance,
the question of precisely how Finnissy’s music and marginality develop
through the 1980s and beyond opens in new directions. That is to say that
while the position of the BMIC in the early 1980s invites a critique that marks
the historical limits of complexity or British music or experimentalism with-
out erasing or reinforcing them, it is possible to go further by conceiving the
politics of marginality on a different if related plane.
Indeed, the very notion of a limit or ‘cutting edge’ presupposes a fixed
understanding of the relationships between centre and periphery which
Finnissy’s approach seeks to confound.54 Shifting emphasis, then, from dis-
cursive to social space, what is at stake in a critique of Finnissy’s marginality
is neatly captured in the programme booklet produced for the concert and
symposium ‘Music Breaks Free: Issues of Gender and Sexuality’, produced
at the University of Sussex in 1994, where Finnissy then taught composition.
In an introductory essay – which deserves reproduction in its own right –
Finnissy chastises those who take the salon as a ‘feminine’ or ‘effeminate’
space: ‘I am doubtless supposed to be upset by Maxwell-Davies’ remark
(and now you can quote it!) that my music is like way-out Chaminade’.55
While the British music which characterised the Finnissy Piano Recital in
the early BMIC concerts was by this time less prominent in his own per-
formances, the ‘salon environment’ in which it was developed has clearly
left an indelible mark not only on those composers who directly benefitted
from his patronage, but also on subsequent generations of pianists who
have continued to perform much of the Finnissy Piano Recital since the turn
of the 1990s. Whether it is the old BMIC reading room, a pub theatre or a
university arts centre, we might follow Jake Johnson here, who in an article
on twentieth-century ‘salon culture’, writes that: ‘The space may change, but
the ordained purpose of the salon continues its ancient conversation of ideas
and their exchange, of identity and its sustaining, of assembly and mingled
voices.’56
That is to say that, as a marker of alternative politics and dialogue, the
salon ideal is appropriated by Finnissy to stimulate and communicate his
own sense of place in a country which has formed a consistent point of ten-
sion throughout his work as composer, performer and advocate: in a 2008
interview he remarked that ‘I can’t see [England] artistically anyway, as any-
thing except a monstrous kind of [Gerald] Scarfe caricature rolling around
in its own excrement’.57 In fact, Luke Stoneham’s remarks in the same 1994
Sussex programme provide a crucial, final indication of how margins and
marginality differ in this broader history, and thus how we might approach
Emsley’s account of ‘that sound’ and develop a fuller account of Finnissy,
complexity, British culture, the salon and marginality:
Being gay is a big benefit. You spend your childhood wondering what
the hell is going on, then you have to think hard about your sexuality, so
it’s inevitable that it rubs off onto everything else, that big urge to pull
things apart, see how they work, to question—in ways that I’m sure no
straight person ever can … by being gay you’re in the unique position of
being able to stand beyond the margins of the society you’re born into;
you’re both alien and native simultaneously. It gives you the clearest
142 Roddy Hawkins
picture available to anybody of what a bum-hole of a place this is we’re
expected to live in.58
List of selected performances

Notes:
1. The list contains a few examples beyond the BMIC performance of
English Country-Tunes in 1986 in order to amplify and support observa-
tions made in the text. The list does not provide details of performances
of Finnissy’s music where he was not involved as a performer.
2. A full account of all recitals at the BMIC between September 1985 and
July 1988 can be found in the listings published in New Music 87, New
Music 88 and New Music 89.
3. As far as possible, where dates of composition listed in programmes
and posters differ from those documented in other sources, such as
Uncommon Ground, I have provided the latter in square brackets.
4. Unless otherwise stated, works were written (or arranged) for solo piano.
5. Complete programmes are taken from posters and programme booklets
held by Michael Finnissy and, in the case of Suoraan’s first 18 concerts,
in records maintained and provided to me by Richard Emsley, one of the
ensemble’s founding directors.
6. I use the phrase ‘Complete programme not known’ because the inclusion
of such fragments helps to give a better overall picture of performance
frequency. It should be noted that:
a. this information is drawn primarily from the list of works in
Uncommon Ground, where first performances are listed by work and
version/revision. Not only does this over-emphasise the performance
of Finnissy works which listed there; the performers involved in these
concerts are only known by the requirements of a given Finnissy
work – other performers may have been involved; no reviews or
other sources have yet been found to fill in programme details.
b. where a poster or listing exists rather than a programme booklet,
this is clearly no guarantee that all the works advertised were in fact
performed; furthermore, some posters do not list works.
7. I have marked first performances only, rather than British or London
first performances.
8. The list does not contain comprehensive coverage of Finnissy’s public
performances with dancers and choreographers, including the London
School of Contemporary Dance [often known as London Contemporary
Dance Company and London Contemporary Dance Theatre], Junction
Dance Company or Second Stride. Nevertheless, I do include examples
where they exist in Finnissy’s personal collection.
9. The list does not contain details of Finnissy’s performances in Australia
in 1982–4, though his trips there probably account for some of the larger
gaps in the list during 1982 and 1983 in particular.
30 November 1971 [no other details]
‘Piano Recital by Michael Finnissy’
Erik Satie Sarabande No. 1 (1987)
Arnold Schoenberg Piano Piece Op. 11, No. 1 (1908)
Aleksandr Skryabin 2 Pieces Op. 57 (1908)
Charles Ives Emerson (1st movement of the Concord Sonata)
(1904–10)
Bela Bartok Bagatelles Nos. 11–12, from 14 Bagatelles Op. 6
(1908)
Leos Janáček ‘They Chattered Like Swallows’ from On an
Overgrown Path (1902–8)
Ferruccio Busoni ‘All’ Italia’, from Elegies (1901–8)
Karol Szymanovski Study Op. 4, No. 3 (1906)
Leopold Godowsky Symphonic Metamorphoses on Themes
from Johann Strauss’s ‘Die Fledermaus’
(1908)
10 October 1977, Schwarzes Kloster, Freiburg

Michael Finnissy (piano)
Robert Saxton Two Pieces for Piano (1976)
Bach-Busoni Choralvorspiel: Durch Adam’s Fall ist ganz
verderbt (first version)
Jennifer Fowler Piece for an Opera House (1973)
Franz Liszt Die Trauer-Gondel I
Nigel Osborne New Piece (1977) [Figure/Ground ] [First
Performance]
Brian Ferneyhough Epigrams (1965–6) [1966]
Ludwig van Beethoven Bagatelle in C Dur
Oliver Knussen New Piece (1977) [Sonya’s Lullaby] [First
Performance]
Aleksandr Skryabin Feuillet d’Album Op. 58
Howard Skempton Eirenicon I (1973)
Eirenicon II (1977) [First Performance]
Michael Finnissy all.fall.down. (1977) [First Performance]
Gershwin (arr. Finnissy) Love is Here to Stay (probably a 1975 version)
23 January 1978, Harrogate Theatre, Harrogate

Elain Barry (soprano)
Complete programme not known. Included:
Michael Finnissy Mine Eye Awake (1977)
144 Roddy Hawkins
17 February 1978, Radio Netherlands Worldwide, Hilversum
Michael Finnissy To and Fro (1978, first version)
6 January 1979, Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam.

[Programme repeated 7 January 1979, Cultureel Centrum “‘t Hoogt”,
Utrecht.]
Jennifer Fowler Piece for an Opera House (1973)
Edward Shipley La Luna (1979) [First Performance]
Judith Weir An mein Klavier (1979) [First Performance]
Nigel Osborne Figure/Ground (1977)
Oliver Knussen Sonya’s Lullaby (1977)
Robert Saxton Two Pieces (1976)
Michael Finnissy all.fall.down. (1977)
Uncommon Ground also lists:
Michael Finnissy We’ll Get There Someday (1978) [First
Performance]
23 April 1979, North London Polytechnic

Junction Dance Company59
Programme contained four dances, the fourth of which was titled Fast
Dances, Slow Dances, with ‘music by Michael Finnissy’. Those involved in
this performance were:
Kris Donovan (choreographer)
Christopher Bannerman, Lilian Bruinsma, Avi Magidov, Pernille
Charrington, Anne Went, Philip Taylor (dancers)
In Uncommon Ground, first performances of Finnissy works are listed as
follows:
Michael Finnissy Fast Dancers, Slow Dances (1978–9) [First
Performance]
Short but … (1979) [First Performance]
14 July 1979, St Bartholomew’s Festival of Twentieth-Century Music, London

Suoraan
Nancy Ruffer (flutes)
Christopher Redgate (oboes)
Josephine Nendick (mezzo soprano)
John Harrod (percussion)
James Clarke (conductor)
Richard Emsley At Once (1979) for flute (dbl. alto flute), oboe
(dbl. oboe d’amore, cor anglais), vibraphone
and piano [First Performance]
Luciano Berio Sequenza I (1958) for solo flute
Brian Ferneyhough Epigrams (1965–6) [1966] for solo piano
Vinko Globokar Atemstudie (1971) for solo oboe
Nigel Osborne Under the Eyes (1979) for voice, flute (dbl. alto
flute), oboe (dbl. cor anglais), piano and
percussion [First Performance]
22 July 1979, South Hill Park, Bracknell

Michael Finnissy Grainger (1979) [First Performance]
18 November 1979, Bürgerhaus, Troisdorf

Junction Dance Company
Kris Donovan (choreographer, dancer)
Ellen Cairns (costume)
June Baptiste, Maxine Braham, Lilian Bruimsna (dancers)
Isadora, comprising music by Bach-Busoni
Szenen von damel, comprising ‘songs’ from Charles Ives
Jazz, comprising Jazz by Michael Finnissy
Duo Recital, comprising ‘music by Michael Finnissy’
18 December 1979, British Music Information Centre (BMIC), London

Michael Finnissy English Country-Tunes (1977) [First Performance]
17 January 1980, St John’s Smith Square, London

Suoraan: ‘programme featuring Xenakis and Finnissy’
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod
Richard Emsley Snatches (1979) for flute (dbl. alto flute), oboe
(dbl. cor anglais), vibraphone and piano [First
Performance]
146 Roddy Hawkins
Iannis Xenakis Evryali (1973) for solo piano
James Clarke Ääneen/Out Loud (1979) for flute, oboe, piano
and percussion
Iannis Xenakis Psappha (1975) for solo percussion
Michael Finnissy Sikangnuqa (1979) for solo flute
Tálawva (1979) for mezzo soprano, flute
(piccolo), oboe (oboe d’amore) percussion and
piano [First Performance]
20 April 1980, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan: ‘programme featuring Ferneyhough and Cage’
Brian Ferneyhough Invention (1965) for solo piano [First
Performance]
Coloratura (1966) for solo oboe
Cassandra’s Dream Song (1970) for solo flute
James Clarke Laulu Laululta (1980) for mezzo soprano,
flute, oboe, piano and percussion [First
Performance]
John Cage Composition for 3 voices (1934) for three
instruments
Dream (1948) for solo piano
The Wonderful Widow of Eighteen Springs (1942)
for voice and closed piano
Solo for Voice 1 (1958) for solo voice (with Solos
from Piano
Concert [Concert for Piano and Orchestra])
Richard Emsley Skhistos (1980) for flute, oboe, vibraphone and
30 April 1980, Logan Hall, University of London

‘In Concerto and English Country-Tunes’
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978–80, first version)
[First Performance]
English Country-Tunes (1977)
20 June 1980, BMIC, London

Peter Edwards (piano)
Richard Stockall (clarinet)
Poster only. Advertises piano work by Chris Dench, James Erber, Michael
Finnissy and Christopher Gordon and clarinet works by Chris Dench and
Christopher Gordon.
Chris Dench Topologies (1979, rev. 1980) [First Performance]
Michael Finnissy Nancarrow (1980) [1979–80] [First Performance]
19 August 1980, Dartington Summer School of Music, Devon

Suoraan: ‘programme featuring the two leaders of the composition course’
Brian Ferneyhough Coloratura (1966) for solo oboe
Brian Ferneyhough Cassandra’s Dream Song (1971) [1970] for solo
flute
Michael Finnissy Mountainfall (1978) for solo mezzo-soprano
Brian Ferneyhough Four miniatures (1965) for flute and piano
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No.5 (1980) for solo piano,
mezzo soprano, flute (dbl. alto flute), oboe
(dbl. oboe d’amore), and vibraphone [First
Performance]
28 November 1980, October Gallery, London

Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod, with John Whitting
(electronics)
and piano
Yuji Takahashi Chromamorphe II (1965) for solo piano
Luigi Nono La fabbrica illuminata (1964) for soprano and tape
Yuji Takahashi Operation Euler (1967) for 2 or 3 oboes
[arrangement or version not known]
Tōru Takemitsu Voice (1971) for solo flute
James Clarke Trilogy (1979–80) for mezzo soprano, flute
(dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe (dbl. oboe
d’amore, cor anglais), piano and percussion
(combination of Ääneen/Out Loud, Laulu
Lauluta and On Fire) [First Performance]
8 December 1980, BMIC, London

Brian Ferneyhough Epigrams (1965–6)
Judith Weir An mein Klavier (1980)
148 Roddy Hawkins
Nigel Osborne Figure / Ground (1977–9)
Jennifer Fowler Music for piano, ascending and descending (1980)
[First Performance]
Howard Skempton Eirenicon 1 (1973), Eirenicom 2 (1977)
Edward Shipley La Luna (1977)
Chris Dench Pas Seul (1978)

Percy Grainger Sentimentals No. 1 – Colonial Song
British Folk-Music Settings
No. 2, The Sussex Mummers’ Christmas Carol;
No. 10, Died for Love [Possible First
Performance];
No. 18, Knight and Shepherd’s Daughter;
No. 40, Dublin Bay. [Possible First
Performance].
Conlon Nancarrow Prelude and Blues (1935)
Michael Finnissy Grainger (1979) and Nancarrow (1980)
[1979–80]
James Dillon Dillug-Kefitsah (1976–78)
Spleen (1980) [First Performance]
Michael Finnissy Songs 5, 7, 8 and 9 (1963–68) [First Performance
of Song 8]
2 February 1981, BMIC, London

Robert Schuck (bass clarinet)
Ferruccio Busoni Concertino op. 48 (1918) for clarinet and piano
Michael Finnissy Boogie-Woogie (1981) for solo piano [First
Performance]
Chris Dench Lonely (1979) for solo clarinet
James Dillon Spleen (1980) for solo piano
Chris Dench Time (1979) for solo bass or basset clarinet
[First Performance]
Chris Dench Topologies (1979/80) for solo piano
Ferruccio Busoni Elegie (1920) for clarinet and piano
4 March 1981, Glasgow University

Suoraan
[Programme repeated at Edinburgh University, 5 March 1980]
Brian Ferneyhough Four Miniatures (1965) for flute and piano
Brian Ferneyhough Cassandra’s Dream Song (1970) for solo flute
Brian Ferneyhough Coloratura (1966) for solo oboe
Richard Emsley Skhistos (1980) for flute, oboe, vibraphone and
piano
John Cage Composition for 3 voices (1934) for three
instruments
Dream (1948) for solo piano
Solo for voice 1 (1958) for solo voice (with solos
from
‘Concert’ [for Piano and Orchestra])
James Clarke Trilogy (1979–1980) for mezzo soprano, flute
(dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe (dbl. oboe
6 March 1981, BMIC, London

Michael Finnissy Liz (1980–1) [First Performance]
3 May 1981, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan: ‘programme featuring Xenakis and Finnissy’
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod, with Roger Garland
(violin)
Iannis Xenakis Dmaathen (1976) for oboe and percussion
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No.5 (1980) for solo piano, flute
(dbl. alto flute), oboe (dbl. oboe d’amore),
mezzo soprano and vibraphone
Iannis Xenakis Dikhthas (1979) for violin and piano
Iannis Xenakis Evryali (1973) for solo piano
Salvatore Sciarrino All’aure in una lontananza (1977) for solo flute
Michael Finnissy Mr Punch (1976–7) for voice, flute, oboe, violin,
percussion and piano
4 April 1981, Guildhall School of Music and Drama, London

Michael Finnissy Reels (1980–1, first version)
150 Roddy Hawkins
20 June 1981, Greenwich Festival, London
Members of the Heath Orchestra Wind Ensemble
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 7 (1981), for piano,
flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, bassoon
[First Performance]
30 July 1981, Dartington Summer School of Music, Devon

Suoraan
Michael Finnissy Folk-Song Set (1969–76) [version c] for mezzo
soprano, flute, oboe, percussion and piano
James Dillon Evening Rain (1981) for solo voice
and piano
Iannis Xenakis Dikhthas (1979) for violin and piano
Salvador Sciarrino All’aure in una lontananza (1977) for solo flute
James Clarke On fire (1980) for mezzo soprano, flute, oboe,
piano and percussion
6 August 1981, Dartington Summer School of Music, Devon

Suoraan
Music theatre performance with Barry Smith’s Theatre of Puppets
Richard Emsley The Juniper Tree (1981) for mezzo soprano,
flute (dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe (dbl. oboe
d’amore, cor anglais), percussion and piano
[First Performance]
Martin Davies Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea [Date
not known] [First Performance]
Philip Grange Childe Rowland [Date not known] [First
Performance]
4 October 1981, Guildhall School of Music & Drama, London

Suoraan (SPNM event Alive & Composing)
Nendick, Ruffer, Finnissy and Harrod
Michaël Levinas Arsis et Thesis (1971) for bass flute
James Clarke Red Skies (1981) for solo piano [First
Performance]
Michael Finnissy Mountainfall (1978) for mezzo soprano
Richard Emsley Helter-Skelter (1981) for flute, vibraphone and
19 November 1981, Oxford University

Michael Finnissy Kemp’s Morris (1978) [First (recital) Performance]
29 November 1981, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod with Roger Garland
(violin)
Chris Dench Compulsion (1978) for violin and piano
John Cage Experiences No.2 (1948) for solo voice
Two Pieces for Piano (1946) for solo piano
Solo for Voice 1 with flute part from Concert for
Piano and Orchestra (1958)
James Clarke On fire (1980) for mezzo soprano, flute, oboe,
piano and percussion
Iannis Xenakis Herma (1961) for solo piano
Chris Dench Fin’Amor (1981) [Work not listed: Suoraan
commission suggests full ensemble] [First
Performance]

Josephine Nendick (mezzo soprano)
Michael Finnissy Green Bushes (1980), for contralto and piano
[First Performance]
21 January 1982, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan
Michael Finnissy Duru-Duru (1981), for mezzo-soprano,
flute, percussion and piano [First
Performance]
John Cage Atlas Eclipticalis (1961–2) for flute, oboe and
percussion
152 Roddy Hawkins
A Flower (1950) for voice and closed
piano
Richard Emsley Helter-Skelter (1981) for flute, vibraphone and
piano
Michael Finnissy Ohi! Ohi! Ohi! (1978) for voice [First
Performance]
James Clarke Red Skies (1981) for solo piano
Richard Emsley The Juniper Tree (1981) for mezzo soprano,
flute (dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe (dbl. oboe
[First Performance]
11 February 1982, The Place, London

‘Piano – Dance Duets’
[other performers not known]
‘Morris’, comprising Kemp’s Morris (1978), All the trees they are so high
(1977), and Reels (1980–1)
‘To and Fro’, comprising To and Fro (1978, first version)
‘Spirituals’, comprising Piano Concerto No. 6 (1980–1), Stomp (1981),
Snowdrift (1972)
21 February 1982, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod, with Keir
Rowe (clarinet)
James Clarke Evolve (1982) for oboe, piano and percussion
[First Performance]
Richard Emsley Hologenesis (1978) for solo clarinet
Iannis Xenakis Mists (1961) for solo piano
Michael Finnissy Pavasiya (1981) for oboe and oboe d’amore
[First Performance]
James Clarke In another room (1980) for mezzo soprano,
clarinet (dbl. bass clarinet) and piano
James Dillon Come live with me (1981) for mezzo soprano,
flute (dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe
(dbl. oboe d’amore, cor anglais), piano and
percussion
7 May 1982, Oxford Playhouse
Second Stride
Siobhan (Sue) Davies (choreographer)
Paul Clayden, Siobhan Davies, Ann Dickie, Juliet Fisher, Philippe
Giraudeau, Jeremy Nelson (dancers)
Programme included:
‘Rushes’, comprising Michael Finnissy, Rushes (1981)
8 November 1982, Danish Radio [Danmarks Radio], Copenhagen

Den danske Blæserkvintet (wind quintet)
James Dillon Spleen (1980)
Howard Skempton Eirenicon I (1973)
Eirenicon II (1977)
Chris Dench Topologies (1979/80)
Harrison Birtwistle Refrains and Choruses (1957) for wind quintet
Michael Finnissy Reels (1980–1)
Brian Ferneyhough Epigrams (1966)
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 7 (1981) for solo piano
and wind quintet
[All First Danish performances]
27 January 1983, BMIC, London

Roger Garland (violin)
Michael Finnissy Mississippi Hornpipes (1982, first version)
[First Performance]
29 October 1983, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate (with Finnissy as Artist Director)
Harrison Birtwistle Pulse Sampler (1981) for oboe and percussion
Judith Weir King Harald’s Saga (1979) for solo soprano
Michael Finnissy Dilok (1982) for oboe and percussion
Betsy Jolas Fusain (1971) for bass flute and piccolo
Guillaume de Machaut Le Lay de la fonteinne (arr. Finnissy) (1983, first
version) for soprano, flute (dbl. piccolo), oboe,
vibraphone and piano
154 Roddy Hawkins
8 December 1983, BBC, London
Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Harrod, with Roger Garland
(violin)
Michael Finnissy Mr. Punch (1976–8, rev. 1979) for voice, flute,
oboe, percussion, piano, violin (and cello)
Whitman (1980–3) [unclear which version was
performed]
27 February 1984, Wigmore Hall, London

Suoraan: ‘Transatlantic Connections 4’
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, and Finnissy with Martin Allen (percussion)
and Roger Redgate (conductor*)
John Cage The Wonderful World of Eighteen Springs (1942)
A Flower (1950) for voice and closed piano
Charles Ives Five Take-Offs (1906–7) for piano and
ensemble
Michael Finnissy Ives (1974) for piano
Howard Skempton The Gipsy Wife’s Song (1983) for mezzo soprano,
flute, oboe, vibraphone and piano [First
Performance]
Cornelius Cardew Voices from Thel’s Grave (1957) for high voice
and piano
Our Joy (1973) [assume voice and piano]
Soon (1971) version for solo voice and piano
Conlon Nancarrow Player Piano Studies [arrangement not known]
Michael Finnissy Nancarrow (1980) [1979–80] for solo piano
Richard Barrett Coïgitum (1983)* for mezzo soprano, alto flute,
oboe d’amore, piano and percussion [First
Performance]
4 March 1984, Riverside Studios, London

Music Projects/London
Richard Bernas (conductor)
Iannis Xenakis Epei (1976) for oboe (dbl. cor anglais), clarinet,
trumpet, 2 trombones and double bass
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 3 (1978), for solo
piano and oboe (dbl. cor anglais), clarinet
(dbl. bass clarinet), 2 trombones, cello and
double bass
Elliott Carter Syringa (1978), for solo mezzo soprano, bass
voice and guitar, with flute, cor anglais, bass
clarinet, trombone, percussion, piano, violin,
viola, cello and double bass
14 March 1984, Purcell Room, London

Suoraan
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy and Simon Limbrick (percussion)
Luciano Berio 4 Canzoni popolari (1946–7)
Giacinto Scelsi Hyxos (1955) for alto flute and percussion
Morton Feldman Only (1947) for voice
George Gershwin 4 Songs:
‘I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise’ (1922)
‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ (1926)
‘The Man I Love’ (1924)
‘Fascinating Rhythm’ (1924)
Roger Redgate Ausgangspunkte (1982) for solo oboe
Michael Finnissy Hikkai (1982–3) for solo piano
Ulpirra (1982–3) for solo bass flute
Aijal (1982) for flute, oboe and percussion

Richard Barrett Invention 6 (1982) for solo piano
10 April 1985, BMIC, London

Michael Finnissy Boogie-Woogie (1980, rev. 1981, 1985, 1996,
third version) [First Performance of third
version]
26 April 1985, Purcell Room, London

Ensemble Exposé
Christopher Redgate (oboe)
Roger Redgate (violin)
Simon Fryer (cello)
156 Roddy Hawkins
Complete programme not confirmed. Included:
Richard Barrett Anatomy (1985–6) for cor anglais, violin,
cello and piano (withdrawn version) [First
Performance]
Invention 6 (1982) for solo piano
Michael Finnissy Independence Quadrilles (1982, rev. 1983, 1986,
1988, 1995) for piano, violin and cello [First
Performance]
Roger Redgate Ausgangspunkte (1981–2) for solo oboe
Giacinto Scelsi Hispania (1939) for solo piano
11 May 1985, Studio 104 Radio France, Paris

French publicity lists Suoraan. Richard Barrett work list gives Exposé.
Nendick, Ruffer, C. Redgate, Finnissy, Harrod and R. Redgate
(conductor)
James Dillon Come live with me (1981) for mezzo soprano,
flute (dbl. piccolo, alto flute), oboe (dbl.
oboe d’amore, cor anglais), piano and
percussion
Chris Dench Topologies (1979/80)
Howard Skempton The Gipsy Wife’s Song (1983) for mezzo
soprano, flute, oboe, vibraphone and
piano
Judith Weir King Harald’s Saga (1979) for solo soprano
Michael Finnissy Dilok (1982) for oboe and percussion
l Cabaret Vert, for mezzo soprano, flue,
cor anglais and percussion (1985)
[First Performance]
Roger Redgate Ausgangspunkte (1982) for solo oboe
Richard Barrett Coïgitum (1983) for mezzo soprano, alto flute,
oboe d’amore, piano and percussion
[All first French performances]
6 June 1985, BMIC, London

Sue Anderson (mezzo soprano)
Michael Finnissy Lyrics and Limericks (1982–4) for voice and
Lord Berners Dispute entre le papillon et le crapaud
(c. 1915)
Peter Warlock Folk Song Preludes Nos. 2 and 3 (1918)
Percy Grainger One more day, my John (1915)
Bernard Stevens Fuga alla sarabanda (1980) [First Performance]
Michael Finnissy GFH (1985) [First Performance]
Howard Skempton Eirenicon 4 (1985) [First Performance]
Chris Newman Nice Nights / Nette Nächte / Les Nuits gentille
(1985) [First Performance]
Richard Barrett Heard (1985) [First Performance]
Judith Weir Michael’s Strathspey (1985) [First
Performance]
Alan Bush Mister Playford’s Tunes (1958)
13 February 1986, BMIC, London

English Country-Tunes (1977, revised 1982–5) [First Performance of revised
version]
17 February 1986, The Place, London

Austin Allen (baritone)
Richard Barrett Principia (1982–4) for baritone and piano

Michael Finnissy B.S. [Bernard Stevens] (1985–6) for solo piano
18 July 1986, Darmstadt60

Exposé
Michael Finnissy Duru-duru (1981) for mezzo soprano, flute,
percussion and piano
Contretänze (1985/86) flute, oboe, clarinet,
percussion, violin and cello
158 Roddy Hawkins
July/August 1986 [Date not known], Darmstadt
Michael Finnissy English Country-Tunes (1977, revised 1982–5)
(revised version)
24 May 1988, Brighton Festival

Ixion series: ‘Marathon Concert’
Cornelius Cardew ‘The Cropper Boy’ and ‘Father Murphy’ from
Piano Album (1973)
Morton Feldman Piano Piece (1952)
Piano Piece (1964)
Intermission 5 (1952)
Piano Piece (to Philip Guston) (1963)
Chris Newman Piano Sonata No. 1 (1982)
Howard Skempton Toccata (in memory of Morton Feldman) (1987)
[First Performance]
INTERVAL
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 6 (1980–1)
INTERVAL
Jelly Roll Morton Original Jelly Roll Blues (1905)
Percy Grainger Colonial Song (1913–14)
Peace and Saxon Twiplay (1898) [First British
Performance]
Gershwin/Grainger Love Walked In (1943)
The Man I Love (1944)
Michael Finnissy Gershwin Arrangements (1987–8) [First
Performance as Complete Set]
30 June 1988, Union Chapel, London

Part of the Almeida Festival, ‘New Music in Britain: A Very Broad View’
Michael Finnissy and James Clapperton (pianos)
Michael Finnissy Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005)
Clapperton performed 1-9, Finnissy performed
10–15. 11–15 were being performed here for
the first time.
25 August 1988, Dartington Summer School, Ixion series

Michael Finnissy Gershwin Arrangements (1987–8), ‘songs’ 8–13
Jelly Roll Morton Original Jelly Roll Blues (1905)
Percy Grainger Colonial Song (1911–14)
Michael Finnissy Gershwin Arrangements (1987–8), ‘songs’ 1–7
21 July 1990, Georg-Büchner Schule, Darmstadt

Ixion
James Clapperton (piano)
Andrew Cruickshank (double bass)
Andrew Digby (trombone)
Jason Glover (trombone)
Kenneth Osborne (cello)
Andrew Smith (clarinet)
David Wilson (oboe)
Michael Finnissy (conductor)
Michael Finnissy Kulamen Dilan (1990) for soprano saxophone and
percussion [First Performance]
Chris Newman Big Alsace (1987–90) for oboe, clarinet, 2
trombones, cello, double bass and piano
Andrew Toovey Adam (1989–90) for oboe, clarinet, 2 trombones,
cello and double bass
James Clapperton The Parliament of Four Futtit Beasts (1990) for
oboe, cello and piano
Michael Finnissy Piano Concerto No. 3 (1978) for solo piano and
oboe (dbl. cor anglais), clarinet (dbl. bass
clarinet), 2 trombones, cello and double bass
Steve Cottrell (soprano saxophone) and Steven Schick (percussion) are listed
as performers in this performance of Kulamen Dilan on Finnissy’s official
worklist.61
28 November 1997, Small Hall of the Union of Composers, Moscow

Elisabeth Lutyens Bagatelle Op. 49, No. 2 (1962)
Bernard Stevens Fuga alla Sarabanda (1980)
Cornelius Cardew Father Murphy (1973)
Howard Skempton afterimage 4 (1997)
John White Piano Sonata No. 65 (1973)
Peter Maxwell Davies Ut Re Mi (1971)
Brian Ferneyhough Invention (1965)
Richard Rodney Bennett Seven Swans a Swimming (1991)
Laurence Crane Gorm Busk (1991)
160 Roddy Hawkins
Mark Taylor From Victorian Values (1986)
Christopher Fox Worthless Leather (1992)
Chris Newman untitled combine (1996)
Judith Weir Michael’s Strathspey (1985)
Richard Barrett Heard (1985)
James Clapperton St. Patrick’s Day (1994)
Alwynne Pritchard Mesarch (1996)
Luke Stoneham More Carmen (1992)
Morgan Hayes Flaking Yellow Stucco (1996)
Andrew Toovey to Sappho (1993)
Notes
1 I wish to acknowledge the support and encouragement of Ian Pace and Nigel
McBride, and to thank Michael Finnissy for providing me with access, in December
2017, to files containing his personal collection of programmes, posters and concert
ephemera. Additionally, in 2008–10 Richard Barrett and Richard Emsley both
provided me with details of performances that were otherwise unavailable.
2 Roddy Hawkins and Michael Finnissy, Unpublished interview. Steyning, West
Sussex, July 2008. The same story is relayed in ‘Conversations with Michael
Finnissy’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon
Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 12–13.
3 Explicitly in the case of his interview with Richard Toop in ‘Four Facets of
“The New Complexity”’, Contact, 32 (1988), p. 9. See also ‘Conversations with
Michael Finnissy’, pp. 10–15; Michael Finnissy, in conversation with Marilyn
Nonken, ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’, Contemporary Music Review, vol. 21,
no. 1 (2005), pp. 71–9; Jack Sheen, ‘Interview with Michael Finnissy – ddmmyy’,
at www.ddmmyyseries.com/Interview-with-Michael-Finnissy (accessed 26 June
2018).
4 Andrew Palmer, ‘Michael Finnissy’, Encounters with British Composers
(Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015), p. 175.
5 John Palmer, Conversations (Kindle Book: Vision, 2015), loc. 1945.
6 Toop, ‘Four Facets of “The New Complexity”’, p. 9.
7 Ibid.
8 Finnissy, ‘Biting the Hand’, p. 79.
9 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 43.
10 The term ‘mere virtuosity’ is from Pace, ibid. As regards ‘seriously’, Pace notes
that ‘Ives, Grainger and Nancarrow were each ‘dismissed as eccentric (as has
Finnissy himself), because each pursued a direction tangential to the hegemony of
the primarily Austro-German canonical tradition’ (p. 76). Interestingly, in a 1984
programme note, Finnissy wrote similarly of Gershwin that although he ‘strove
hard for recognition as a “serious” composer, and won acclaim and admiration
of such eminent (if more esoteric) contemporaries as Schoenberg and Grainger,
it is still rare to find his songs included in serious concerts’ (Programme booklet,
Suoraan, Purcell Room, London, 14 March 1984).
12 Sheen, ‘Interview with Michael Finnissy’.
13 By aligning performance and marginality in this way I don’t wish to reduce one to
the other: just as one could investigate marginality from points of view that don’t
take performance and advocacy as their examples, so too one could investigate
performance and advocacy much more fully by looking beyond marginality.
Neither, for reasons of space, do I propose to develop a theoretical model of
marginality as it relates to Finnissy’s music and reception more broadly, though
one is certainly needed.
14 Stephen Reeve, ‘Of Finnissy and Ferneyhough’, Classical Music, 7 June 1980,
p. 25.
15 In terms of press coverage, two particularly important events are the 1987 Almeida
Festival commission and feature of his first opera, The Undivine Comedy, and the
1988 BBC Proms commission and performance of Red Earth (1988).
16 John Warnaby, ‘Michael Finnissy’, Music and Musicians, February 1988, p. 42.
For a predictably stinging critique of Griffiths’ book, see Harry Halbreich, ‘New
Sounds, New Personalities: British Composers of the 1980s in Conversations with
Paul Griffiths, by Paul Griffiths [Review]’, Tempo, no. 158 (1986), pp. 57–8. A
similar perspective was articulated a decade later by Richard Barrett. See Richard
Barrett, ‘Avant-Garde and Ideology in the United Kingdom since Cardew’, in
Mark Delaere (ed.), New Music, Aesthetics and Ideology (Wilhelmshaven: Verlag
der Heinrichshofen-Bücher, 1995), pp. 170–81.
17 ‘My biography? Doesn’t “fit in”. From the wrong side of the tracks all the way.
Virtual failure in commercial terms, but who the hell cares either way?’ (Michael
Finnissy, ‘Biography’, www.michaelfinnissy.info/biography.php (accessed 27
June 2018)).
18 Finnissy, ‘Biting the Hand’, p. 73.
19 This is not even a full account of the performances documented within Finnissy’s
private collection of programmes and concert ephemera, itself a partial (though
fascinating) insight into the full extent of the activities which he undertook
in this period. The details are drawn from information provided by Richard
Emsley (for Suoraan up until February 1982, on the first performance of his own
compositions), Richard Barrett (on the performance of his own compositions),
and the lists of BMIC performances in the three annual reviews of New Music
published.
20 16 February 1976, Conservatoire, Toulouse. ‘Concert de musique contemporaine
avec l’itinéraire, Michael Finnissy et Brian Ferneyhough’.
21 See list of performances.
22 This would probably have been one of the two arrangements Finnissy made in
1975 of this piece. See Chapter 3 of this volume on these.
23 Chris Dench, ‘Biography’, http://chrisdench.com/biography (accessed 29 May
2018).
24 Potter observed that Dench had ‘started to find his own individual path in that
very difficult area, full of pitfalls for composer, performer and listener, which has
been charted most familiarly in this country so far, and in their own very different
way, by Brian Ferneyhough and Michael Finnissy’. Keith Potter, ‘New Music’,
Classical Music, 5 July 1980, p. 16. [Emphasis added.]
25 Roddy Hawkins and Roger Wright. Unpublished interview. London, June 2007.
26 Potter did so in an early feature article on Finnissy that (exceptionally) drew
attention to the first performance of English Country-Tunes. See Keith Potter,
‘Feature: Michael Finnissy’ [New Music column], Classical Music, 1 Dec 1979,
p. 12. Potter also wrote: ‘His reputation as a composer — as well as a pianist,
playing not only his own frequently difficult music but a wide range of composers
a different as Brian Ferneyhough and Howard Skempton — is, it seems, much
higher in Europe than in Britain.’
27 Michael Finnissy and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 87 (Oxford: Oxford
28 According to Dick Witts in ‘Theme and Variations for the Future’, The Guardian,
6 July 1984, p. 11.
162 Roddy Hawkins
29 Wright, unpublished interview. The word ‘slightly’ is important here, since the
BMIC trustees included well-connected figures such as Ursula Vaughan Williams.
30 During the informal post-concert presentation of Finnissy’s Presidency, Finnissy
tells the audience that he began concerts at the BMIC in 1978.
31 Michael Finnissy, ‘Presentation of Michael Finnissy as the new president of the
BMIC friends’, BMIC, 10 Stratford Place, London, 17 December 1985. (Cassette
858, Track 858.15, British Music Collection, Heritage Quay, University of
Huddersfield.).
32 Finnissy and Wright, New Music 87, p. vi. See also Michael Finnissy, Malcolm
Hayes and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 88 (Oxford University Press, 1988);
Michael Finnissy and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 89 (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1989). p. vi.
33 Michael Finnissy (performer), ‘English Country Tunes’, Music in Our Time,
Stephen Plaistow (Chief Producer, Contemporary Music), BBC Radio 3, 2
October 1986.
34 See footnote 17.
35 See Michael Finnissy, interview with James Weeks, at https://michaelfinnissy.
wordpress.com/?fbclid=IwAR0_JDsL0VuuCro2L4kAqDColqVQ8wuO_V1cR-
hyT3qNecAeM0biUGKmRFs (accessed 18 February 2019).
36 Michael Finnissy (piano), Kris Donovan (dancer), in Michael Finnissy, English
Country-Tunes, Brighton Polytechnic, 1984. Video uploaded to YouTube by
Andrew Toovey (29 August 2010), at https://youtu.be/kXBR0JcFO48 (accessed
2 July 2018).
37 Programme note in concert programme of the same date, 11 February 1982.
38 See Ian Pace in Chapter 3 of the present volume.
39 Suoraan concert programme, 22 January 1979, Wigmore Hall, London.
40 Roddy Hawkins and Richard Emsley, Unpublished interview. London, July 2008.
41 Roddy Hawkins and Michael Finnissy, Unpublished interview.
42 In the late 1980s Finnissy also performed with the ensemble Focus, set up by
Josephine Nendick and containing the same core of players as Suoraan and
Exposé. Most of its concerts took place in Cambridge.
43 Concert programme of the same date, 4 March 1984.
44 Roddy Hawkins and Roger Wright, unpublished interview. ‘I did ask particular
people [to perform] who I thought maybe already sympathetic to the notion of
coming and doing something [at the BMIC], and those tended to fall—and this is
a horrible generalisation—into either a very sort of middle-of-the-road category
from the Composer’s Guild or, on the one hand, English simplicity and English
experimentalism—so out of the Michael Nyman book arrives Gavin [Bryars] and
John Wright and Dave Smith and Michael Parsons and Howard Skempton—and
what then subsequently was called the “new complexity” and it was very much
Michael. It was Michael Finnissy that was driving most of that. There is [also]
an interesting overlap between someone like Michael and Howard Skempton
because Michael was rather interested in the music of Howard Skempton, so when
he was doing a recital he’d often drop pieces by Howard into it. […].’
45 In an article which can be viewed as a precursor to ‘Four Facets of “The New
Complexity”’, Richard Toop notes that: ‘England has two outstanding composers
(Birtwistle and Ferneyhough), a very substantial elder statesman (Tippett), some
solid secondary figures (Maxwell Davies, and perhaps [Anthony] Gilbert and
[Jonathan] Harvey), and a handful of promising youngsters (particularly James
Dillon, and others from the group that sprang up around Michael Finnissy).’
[Emphasis added.] See Richard Toop, ‘From Outside Looking In …’, in Michael
Finnissy and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 87 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1987), p. 67.
46 Chris Dench, reflecting on the period 1983–7, has written that: ‘In retrospect, I
am aware that the primary feature I was trying to incorporate into my work was
a quality of punk. I unconsciously felt about most English modernism of the time
rather as the punks felt about Prog Rock: that it was feeble, smug, and medio-
cratisingly amiable. My attempts to insert a bit of edge, of dirt, into my pieces
were less than entirely successful at the time, but I can recall even then describ-
ing their textures with terms such as “wirewool” and “plasma”, […]. Finishing
this empunktion process and liberating them to completion is a debt I owe these
works.’ See Dench, ‘Biography’.
47 Both are reviewed in New Music 87 and New Music 89 respectively.
48 The Darmstadt concert by Exposé took place on 13 August 1988 and included
Michael Finnissy, Iisei (1981); James Clarke, On Fire (1980); James Erber, Fax
(1988), and Aurora (1988); Roger Redgate, Eperons (1988); Richard Barrett,
nothing elsewhere (1987); Richard Emsley, from swerve of shore to bend of bay
(1985); Michael Finnissy, Quabara (1988); and Roger Redgate, mais en étoile
(1987–8).
49 This recording is now available in Darmstadt Aural documents, Box 4: Pianists,
NEOS11630 (2017).
50 The London School of Economics’ Library holds many of the sources related
to the political history of Section 28, and provides a useful contextual overview
of both the Act and the archive. See ‘Section 28, three decades on: the legacy
of a homophobic law through the LSE Library’s collections’, http://blogs.lse.
ac.uk/politicsandpolicy/section-28-through-lse-library-collections/ (accessed 20
September 2018).
51 It was promoted by The Aids Positive Underground Theatre Company and the
performance titled Stretching Frontiers. It took place at the Marlborough Pub
Theatre in Kemp Town, Brighton, on 15 May 1990 during the Brighton Festival
(but not as part of it).
52 Stefan Collini, Absent Minds: Intellectuals in Britain (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2007), p. 415.
53 See Max Erwin’s Chapter 14 in this volume, for example.
54 The point has been eloquently made both by Benjamin Piekut and James M
Harding in different books. See Benjamin Piekut, Experimentalism Otherwise:
the New York Avant-Garde and its Limits (Berkeley, CA: University of California
Press, 2011); James M. Harding, The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s): Exorcising
Experimental Theater and Performance (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan
Press, 2013).
55 Michael Finnissy, ‘Introduction’ in Music Breaks Free (Brighton: The Centre for
Composition and Contemporary Music Research, Sussex University, 1994), p. 4.
56 Jake Johnson, ‘The Music Room: Betty Freeman’s Musical Soirées’, Twentieth-
Century Music, 14/3 (2017), 391–409 (p. 406). To prove Johnson’s point, the con-
trast between the spaces examined here and the Beverly Hills gatherings examined
by Johnson could not be starker, even as he himself opposes salons (as private,
invitation-only spaces) from public, institutional spaces such as universities and
specialist arts centres. He thus appears to close off the possibility that salons
can be disentangled form the private-public dichotomy he ostensibly sets out to
critique.
57 Reflecting on the cultural impact of Thatcherism (from the perspective of pre-
crash, pre-Brexit Britain), Finnissy has remarked that as a composer the expe-
rience of living in Britain ‘makes a certain kind of topic the object of satire,
potentially. So England, instead of being a straight-forward topic, becomes a
series of satirical cartoons. That would be my response to it. I can’t see it artisti-
cally anyway, as anything except a monstrous kind of [Gerald] Scarfe caricature
164 Roddy Hawkins
rolling around in its own excrement.’ Asked about Thatcher specifically he said:
‘Well, I mean she was just a revolting person wasn’t she? Just revolting to look at,
revolting to listen to—dreadful bandsaw voice—and the views … I don’t know
with, again, any degree of political accuracy because, economically, perhaps even
some of it made sense … but it was the whole complex of attitudes which came
with it. The “tighten your belts and fill your larder because, you never know,
we might be having a hard winter” kind of mentality. The little British bulldog
mentality; things I find really, really revolting about this country—well about
any country but especially this country—she seemed to write large. I remember
a comedian at the time saying that she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t let
you have your ball back if it went into her garden. There was something about the
hatchet face and the hatchet ideas that were just revolting; and the arts curled up
and died under that because there was just no oxygen, under that regime. Certain
kinds of art kept going: the “theme park Britain” idea, and classical culture goes
on, you know. I think at that point probably … in some ways the idea I’d grown
up with that new music which was adventurous and good fun and, you know …
maybe dangerous but, “okay, that’s fine” … I think it simply expired. Or went
somewhere else. I think that was the end of a particular kind of new music and
when it resurfaced—if it has properly resurfaced—it was all new only in the sense
that packaging experts use the word “new”. There wasn’t … it wasn’t dirty.’
(Roddy Hawkins and Michael Finnissy, Unpublished interview).
58 Luke Stoneham, in Music Breaks Free, p. 19.
59 Junction Dance Company was founded in the autumn of 1976 by Ingegerd
Lönnroth and Kris Donovan.
60 In his review of Darmstadt in 1986, Christopher Fox writes: ‘The sort of breadth
of awareness which was evidently behind the assembly of the programme for 1986
was also to inform much of the best music that I heard. Nowhere was this more
evident than in the music of Michael Finnissy, who was, with Brian Ferneyhough,
the senior member of a large British contingent (amongst the others performed
were James Dillon, Richard Emsley, James Erber, and Paul Robinson). There
were performances of his String Quartet (1984) (the Arditti Quartet), The Eureka
Flag (1983) (Nancy Ruffer), English Country-Tunes (1979) [sic] (Finnissy himself),
Duru-duru (1981), and Contretänze (1985) (both by Exposé) …’ See Christopher
Fox, ‘Plural Darmstadt: The 1986 International Summer Course’, in Michael
Finnissy and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 87 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1987), p. 102.
61 Michael Finnissy, ‘Works: Full List’, at www.michaelfinnissy.info/works/full_list.
php (accessed 17 July 2018).
Bibliography
Barrett, Richard. ‘Avant-Garde and Ideology in the United Kingdom since Cardew’.
In Mark Delaere (ed.), New Music, Aesthetics and Ideology (Wilhelmshaven: Verlag
der Heinrichshofen-Bücher, 1995), pp. 170–81.
Bloxam, Debbie; Molitor, Claudia; Payne, Andrew; and Willoughby, Rachel, eds.
Music Breaks Free: Issues of Gender and Sexuality. Brighton: The Centre for
Composition and Contemporary Music Research, Sussex University, 1994.
Collini, Stefan. Absent Minds: Intellectuals in Britain. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2007.
Darmstadt Aural documents, Box 4: Pianists, NEOS11630 (2017).
Dench, Chris. ‘Biography’. At http://chrisdench.com/biography (accessed 29 May
2018).
Emsley, Richard; and Hawkins, Roddy. Unpublished interview. London, July 2008.
Finnissy, Michael. ‘Introduction’. In Music Breaks Free (Brighton: The Centre for
Composition and Contemporary Music Research, Sussex University, 1994), pp. 3–5.
Finnissy, Michael. ‘Biography’. At www.michaelfinnissy.info/biography.php
Finnissy, Michael; and Hawkins, Roddy. Unpublished interview, Steyning, West
Sussex, July 2008.
Finnissy, Michael; and Nonken, Marilyn. ‘Biting the Hand that Feeds You’,
Contemporary Music Review, vol. 21, no. 1 (2002), pp. 71–9.
Finnissy, Michael; and Wright, Roger. ‘Presentation of Michael Finnissy as the
new president of the BMIC friends’, BMIC, 10 Stratford Place, London, 17
December 1985. (Cassette 858, Track 858.15, British Music Collection, Heritage
Quay, University of Huddersfield.) Suoraan concert programme, 22 January 1979,
Wigmore Hall, London.
Finnissy, Michael; and Wright, Roger, eds. New Music 87. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1987.
Finnissy, Michael; and Wright, Roger, eds. New Music 89. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1989.
Finnissy, Michael; Hayes, Malcolm; and Wright, Roger, eds. New Music 88. Oxford
University Press, 1988.
Finnissy, Michael; Fox, Christopher; Pace, Ian; and Brougham, Henrietta, eds.
‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Finnissy, Michael (piano); Donovan, Kris (dancer), in Michael Finnissy, English
Country-Tunes, Brighton Polytechnic, 1984. Video uploaded to YouTube by
Andrew Toovey (29 August 2010), at https://youtu.be/kXBR0JcFO48 (accessed 2
July 2018).
Fox, Christopher. ‘Plural Darmstadt: The 1986 International Summer Course’.
In Michael Finnissy and Roger Wright (eds.), New Music 87 (Oxford: Oxford
Halbreich, Harry. ‘New Sounds, New Personalities: British Composers of the 1980s
in Conversations with Paul Griffiths, by Paul Griffiths [Review]’. Tempo, no. 158
(1986), pp. 57–8.
Harding, James M. The Ghosts of the Avant-Garde(s): Exorcising Experimental
Theater and Performance. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2013.
Johnson, Jake. ‘The Music Room: Betty Freeman’s Musical Soirées’. Twentieth-
Century Music, vol 14, no. 3 (2017), pp. 391–409.
Palmer, Andrew. ‘Michael Finnissy’. In Encounters with British Composers.
Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015, pp. 171–82.
Palmer, John. Conversations. Kindle Book: Vision, 2015.
Piekut, Benjamin. Experimentalism Otherwise: the New York Avant-Garde and its
Limits. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2011.
Potter, Keith. ‘Feature: Michael Finnissy’ [New Music column]. Classical Music, 1
Dec 1979, p. 12.
Potter, Keith. ‘New Music’. Classical Music, 5 July 1980, p. 16.
Reeve, Stephen. ‘Of Finnissy and Ferneyhough’, Classical Music, 7 June 1980.
Sheen, Jack. ‘Interview with Michael Finnissy – ddmmyy’, at www.ddmmyyseries.
com/Interview-with-Michael-Finnissy (accessed 26 June 2018).
166 Roddy Hawkins
Toop, Richard. ‘From Outside Looking In …’. In Michael Finnissy and Roger Wright
(eds.), New Music 87 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987.
Toop, Richard. ‘Four Facets of the New Complexity’. Contact 32 (1988), pp. 4–50.
Warnaby, John. ‘Michael Finnissy’. Music and Musicians, February 1988, pp. 42–5.
Witts, Dick. ‘Theme and Variations for the Future’. The Guardian, 6 July 1984.
Wright, Roger; and Hawkins, Roddy. Unpublished interview.
6 ‘My “personal themes”?!’
Finnissy’s Seventeen Homosexual Poets
and the material world
Gregory Woods
The sixth section of Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound

is titled ‘Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets’. The poets in question are
presented in reverse chronological order by birth date, ranging from 1953 to
1840, as follows:
Gregory Woods (1953–)

Mutsuo Takahashi (1937–)
Thom Gunn (1929–)
Allen Ginsberg (1926–)
Frank O’Hara (1926–)
Harold Norse (1926–)
Pier Paolo Pasolini (1922–)
James Kirkup (1918–)
Jean Genet (1910–)
Stephen Spender (1909–)
Federico García Lorca (1898–)
Ralph Chubb (1892–)
Jean Cocteau (1889–)
Konstantin Kavafis [Constantine Cavafy] (1863–)
Oscar Wilde (1854–)
Edward Carpenter (1844–)
John Addington Symonds (1840–).
Each is represented in Finnissy’s piece as an individual episode, connected by

meditative interstices. Seven poets are from the UK; three from the USA; two
from France; and one each from Spain, Italy, Ireland, Greece, and Japan.
They span a period from when buggery was still punishable in England and
Wales by death (repealed in 1861) to the time of composition in the 1990s,
when reverses brought about by AIDS-related hostility were themselves being
reversed, and it was starting to seem possible to equalise such things as ages
of consent and access to matrimony.
Of the words in the title of Finnissy’s piece, only ‘Seventeen’ is com-
pletely unambiguous and unproblematic. (It does, though, raise the question,
168 Gregory Woods
why seventeen?) Each of the other three demands to be hedged about with
inverted commas. For a start, some of the ‘Poets’ are not principally known
as poets. Some were other things besides, and pretty major other things:
Wilde the dramatist and novelist; Symonds the art historian, translator of
Michelangelo’s sonnets, sexologist and historian of homosexuality (pioneer
of the use of the word ‘homosexual’ in English); Carpenter the sexologist
and political activist; Chubb the painter and printer; Lorca the dramatist;
Cocteau the dramatist, novelist and film-maker; Pasolini the dramatist, film-
maker, novelist and political activist; Spender the editor and public intellec-
tual; Genet, the novelist, dramatist and film-maker; Takahashi the novelist,
dramatist and essayist; Kirkup the prolific translator – of, among others,
Cocteau, Lorca, Genet, Pasolini and Takahashi. So we must take the des-
ignation ‘poet’, or the more specific one ‘homosexual poet’, as applying to
the broader landscape of a career as (let’s call it) a gay writer. Moreover,
when they are writing poetry, the Seventeen do so in a wide variety of modes.
For all that the category may seem narrow to those who have not given
themselves the leisure to explore it, where homosexual poetry is concerned
Finnissy’s tastes are broad.
‘Immortal’ is an evaluative term now long out of fashion (perhaps the
contemporary equivalent would be ‘iconic’). Of the Seventeen, although a
majority of the poets were unambiguously dead at the time of composition,
some might be described as immortal, in the conventional sense, for their
poetry alone: I would suggest Cavafy, Lorca, Pasolini, O’Hara and Gunn.
Others might merit immortality as major cultural figures: Wilde, Cocteau,
Spender and Genet. We might be tempted to nominate other gay poets more
‘immortal’ than any of the Seventeen (Walt Whitman, say, or W.H. Auden),
but this does not have to be a competition.
‘Homosexual’ is often used as a supposedly neutral term because it is
‘scientific’, a psychological, medicalised word coined in German in 1868,1 in
contradistinction to such moralising terms as ‘sodomite’ with their blatant
connotations of perverse choice. But it raises questions. Notwithstanding its
longevity and familiarity, which encourage us to take it for granted, it is by
no means a stable category. Even its grammatical status is open to doubts –
adjective or noun? – with far-reaching implications. Is ‘homosexual’ (a) a
series of activities or practices (as the law sees it)? (b) a state of being, perhaps
even amounting to an identity? (c) a condition of consciousness, or of the
unconscious, perhaps amounting to an obsession? Is ‘the’ homosexual essen-
tially the same as the non-homosexual in all but the mechanics of sexual acts?
Or is the homosexual different, if only as a consequence of social/historical
circumstance? Is the homosexuality of one time and place identical to that
of another, or are there geopolitical and historical variations so broad as to
render the single term inappropriate? Wilde and Spender were heterosexually
married and had children. Does this make them bisexual, or is that side of
their lives to be disregarded as having been imposed by strict convention,
contra naturam?
‘My “personal themes”?!’ 169
Can there be a politics, a culture, a poetry of homosexuality? If there is
such a thing as a homosexual poet, what is a homosexual poem? Must it have
homosexual content? If not, what? If there is such a thing as a homosexual
composer, what – in the absence of homosexual content – is a homosexual
composition? Is the marginality associated with the sexual acts, or the identi-
ties, to be visited down on the works of art? And might that not be, in any
case, a desirable alternative to assimilation into the sluggish mainstream?
Finnissy’s use of ‘homosexual’ implicitly raises such questions, without nec-
essarily requiring the listener to provide any of the available answers.
While he was working on the piece in the mid-1990s, one of Finnissy’s
main sources was The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, edited by Stephen
Coote (1983).2 It contains work by all of the Seventeen except Wilde (very
odd, this), Takahashi and Woods. Coote raised hackles with the strategic
vagueness of his key terms and concepts. The title’s ‘Homosexual’ becomes
‘gay’ in his introduction’s opening sentence: ‘This is a collection of poems by
and about gay people.’ He is referring to same-sex lovers, female as well as
male, of any cultures, from the time of Homer to the present; from Achilles
and Patroclus to the protagonists of Michael Rumaker’s gay-liberationist
poem ‘The Fairies Are Dancing All Over the World’.
The anthology is also striking for its inclusion of major canonical poets, from
Homer himself through Virgil, Horace, Ovid; Dante, Marlowe, Shakespeare;
Goethe, Wordsworth, Pushkin; Tennyson, Whitman, Dickinson; Hopkins,
Housman, Rimbaud; and so on. The contents pages alone deliver Coote’s
most powerful argument: that the literature of homosexuality is no mere side-
line tradition of mediocre writers, of interest only to a minority of readers;
no stagnant oxbow of justifiably neglected curiosities – although the book
does have its fair share of these – but, arguably, the centre of the mainstream.
(Fifteen of Shakespeare’s sonnets, for a start.) One of the implications of this
high-cultural cachet must have been that, not just its poetry, but same-sex
love itself has occupied a central place in the mainstream of Western social
and cultural development.
On the other hand, Coote defines ‘a gay poem’ as ‘one that either deals
with explicitly gay matters or describes an intense and loving relationship
between two people of the same gender’. This allowed for the inclusion of
poetry that, notwithstanding its thematic relevance, was not of canonisable
quality. Reviewing the book for the TLS, Alan Hollinghurst complained that
‘a large number of the poems here are, simply, dreadful’.3 However, Coote’s
use of the word ‘Verse’ in his title, rather than ‘poetry’, seems to have been a
deliberate indication that the included material would be of interest less for its
aesthetic refinement than for its revealingly unguarded enthusiasm, whether
erotic, romantic, or political. A case in point might be Edward Carpenter,
whose poetic project Towards Democracy, based on Whitman’s Leaves of
Grass, was reissued as a ‘gay modern classic’ by Gay Men’s Press in 1985.
He tries to inject a measure of Whitman’s expansive new-world optimism
into British social life, by way of the twin promises of socialism and sexual
170 Gregory Woods
reform, with a lanky imitation of Whitman’s long free-verse line, dangerously
close to unintended parody. What still impresses is one of the sources of his
verse’s vulnerability: its earnestness. Far from striking attitudes, Carpenter,
manifestly and transparently, believes in the vision of homo-erotic socialism
he so eagerly pursues. The politics transcend the aesthetics.
In Finnissy’s piece, ‘homosexual’ denotes, emphatically, not just poets who
‘happened to be’ homosexual. All of them chose, in some degree, to write as
man-loving men, not always making an explicit argument as such, but aware
that their sexuality had an influence on their poetry, and content to allow it to
do so – or rather, interested in working with and within it to access their own
individual creative springs. Even if not writing explicitly on the topic, they
were conscious of the Unconscious: it would exert its inevitable influence.
According to Ian Pace, Finnissy chose the Seventeen for reasons ‘as much
to do with their iconic status (from which in part springs their immortality)
as their actual work’.4 I take this aspect of their status as including: Wilde,
Lorca and Pasolini, the radical martyrs; Carpenter, the activist-theorist;
Pasolini and Spender, the public intellectuals; Wilde and Genet, the jail-
birds and outcasts; Cocteau, the camp, butterfly artist of prolific talents;
Ginsberg, the naked, drug-taking Beat; Gunn, the strapped-in introvert,
gradually coming out of the closet and his irony-encrusted shell; and so on.
What strikes me even from this partial list is not so much their sameness as
their difference.
Even with regard to sexual self-definition, the Seventeen form a disunited
front. They were writing at different stages in the modern theorisation of
homosexuality. Wilde used the terminology of the pioneering German sex-
ologist and campaigner for sexual law reform Karl Heinrich Ulrichs. In a
letter to Robert Ross in February 1898, he wrote: ‘To have altered my life
would have been to have admitted that Uranian love is ignoble.’5 Symonds,
too, thought of his type as ‘Urnings’ and ‘inverts’, before moving on to
‘homosexual’.6 But Carpenter spoke of ‘homogenic love’ and – when follow-
ing Ulrichs’ theory of individuals with a woman’s soul in a man’s body, and
vice versa – of ‘the intermediate sex’. At the other end of the chronology,
Norse, Ginsberg, Kirkup and Gunn all subscribed to the principles of the
gay liberation movement and spoke of belonging to gay communities or
subcultures.
On the other hand, some of the Seventeen did not identify with develop-
ing urban homosexual subcultures, or indeed with homosexual/gay identity
itself. Lorca had been shocked, on visiting New York in 1929, to find so
many maricones associating with each other in specifically gay social venues.
He seems to have been both impressed and depressed by this. In his famous
‘Ode to Walt Whitman’, when he quotes homophobic, hispanophone epi-
thets being called out in city streets around the world, it is unclear whether he
wants them to be heard as being endorsed by himself, or as prized insults to
be adopted as badges of queer identity and identified with. Who shouts these
words? Is this a queer-basher or a queer?
Fairies of North America,
Pájaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cadiz,
Apios of Seville,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.7
More actively and unambiguously opposed to mutuality, Jean Genet was, on

occasion, a queer-bashing queer. Notwithstanding the number of gay readers
to whom his work became extremely important in their celebrations of lives
lived against the grain, in 1983 he insisted: ‘I did not write my books for the
liberation of the homosexual.’8 He was not interested in the so-called Sexual
Revolution of the 1960s. Just as Genet sided with the working-class mascu-
linity of the cops at the Chicago Democratic Convention in 1968, Pier Paolo
Pasolini was on the side of the police when bourgeois students were rioting
in Europe.9 Pasolini, who thrived on the fact that the purdah in which Italian
girls were kept pure left Italian boys in a useful state of extreme sexual frus-
tration, was anti-feminist; and when he visited New York in 1966 he strongly
disapproved of the ghettoised politics and pleasures of the gay subculture,
and especially of the aspirations of any gay men to assimilate themselves
openly into bourgeois society.10
When Michael Finnissy was interviewed for Trebuchet magazine, on 3
February 2013, the following exchange took place:
Interviewer:
It’s been written that your personal themes have come to the fore in
pieces like Shameful Vice and Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets. To
what extent do you see this as the case and is it the case that these com-
ments are equating ‘sexual’ with ‘personal’?
Finnissy:
My ‘personal themes’?!11
The closing punctuation here adeptly conveys both a tone of voice and a
facial expression. To characterise a theme, or rather a vast cluster of themes,
in this way is to demote them from the seriousness and universality of the
impersonal and objective. (Shameful Vice, from 1995, alludes to the end of
Tchaikovsky’s life.) The work of women writers and artists has been dis-
missed on these grounds for centuries.
Is this, then, the category into which they must all be forced, all of the
composer’s references, passing or developed, to gay/queer culture and
history? Personal (‘?!’) themes? The interviewer and the cited commentators
are referring to an accumulation of easily identified compositions. These
include the two mentioned, along with others of his works that bear any
172 Gregory Woods
glancing or full-on reference to gay/queer culture or politics: such pieces
as Stanley Stokes, East Street 1836 (1989), derived from Neil Bartlett’s
account of a prosecution for homosexual assault, and a subsequent sui-
cide;12 the piano trio Un chant d’amour (1999–2000) to accompany Genet’s
rhapsodic film of prison life; Éros uranien (2002), alluding to gay texts by
Sar Peladan and Oscar Wilde; Von Gloeden Postcards (2003), alluding to
the great nineteenth-century photographer of Sicilian boys; Molly House
(2004); Whitman (2004–5), settings from the verse of Leaves of Grass and
the prose of Specimen Days to provide an autobiography of the poet…
These are works with a material context no more personal (‘?!’) than Hansard
or the Dow Jones average. They all connect thematically with powerful
trends in gay cultural history, affecting the broader society as a whole.13 In
any case, the truth is that even the simplest, supposedly private fact of one
man loving another, of one man saying to another ‘I love you’, is commonly
treated as a public fact – because it has long been established as a matter
of public concern. Consider just one line from John Addington Symonds’
poem ‘Ithocles’: ‘What will men say, Lysander, if we love?’14 So much for
privacy!
It follows that one of the great themes of gay writing has been the fear of
public scandal. In Oscar Wilde’s comedies, frivolity is underpinned by terror:
the potential unveiling and unravelling of double lives in The Importance of
Being Earnest; the threat of blackmail in An Ideal Husband… As Neil Bartlett
puts it, ‘I thought Wilde was a comic writer, but now I know better. All of
his characters are in terror of being discovered. Their elegance of diction is
only a front; anything rather than speak the truth.’15 The very emblems of
privacy – locked doors, thick curtains, lowered voices, twilit spaces – become,
in gay literature, signs of oppressive public intrusion; signs of public owner-
ship. The man-loving men in Constantine Cavafy’s poems conduct their mar-
ginalised but life-enhancing love lives in the hinterland between public and
private spaces. The armoured masculinity of so many of Genet’s sexual icons
never exists in domestic spaces, unless burgling them, being more at home in
the claustrophobic, homosocial confinement of prisons or barracks or ships.
Beyond these, it flourishes at night in the areas of cities where it is advisable
to carry a weapon.
In a letter to me (23 September 2003), Michael Finnissy wrote: ‘you doubt-
less know that there’s very little written intelligently about gay composers,
and dozens still in the closet. How? Why? … [M]usicologists still ask “does it
really matter whether x is gay or not?”’ The musicologists’ question implies
that it does not really matter. Finnissy’s quoting of it implies the contrary,
that it really does matter whether x is gay or not – it really does make a mate-
rial difference, if not in topic, in tone and undertone. This is not a question of
being indiscreet or self-indulgent or obsessive (as all gay artists are eventually
accused of being). It is a matter of disinhibiting one’s world view at the same
time as engaging with the subcultural history that partly shaped it. Calling
such themes personal (‘?!’) is implicitly to demand that they be silenced and
incarcerated. It is a call for censorship. It is a call for self-censorship too,
designed to inhibit artistic activity.
The characterising of Finnissy’s references to gay/queer culture as personal
(‘?!’) has a context reaching back into laws imposing total secrecy on same-sex
relationships for fear of imprisonment or worse. It was not without reason,
nor merely for the sake of a striking metaphor, that Lord Alfred Douglas
spoke of ‘the Love that dare not speak its name’ in the famous poem, ‘Two
Loves’,16 which was quoted in evidence against Oscar Wilde at one of his
trials in 1895.17 Much later, the partial decriminalisation of male homosexual
acts in England and Wales in 1967 allowed only for sexual activity between
two consenting adults ‘in private’.18 Even where cultural production was
concerned, discretion was required. Hence the radical indiscretions of the gay
liberation movement and, indeed, of the poets who subscribed to its princi-
ples. The whole point of coming out (‘of the closet’), whether individually
or en masse, was an absolute rejection of the privacy imperative. One of the
most obvious instances of kick-back against gay liberation included Section
28 of the UK Local Government Act 1987, a direct attack on the availability
of information about gay and lesbian people.19 That this law was passed at
the height of the AIDS panic, when access to accurate information could
literally be a matter of life or death, and not repealed until 2003, says much
about the continuing strength of feeling against gay and lesbian indiscretion
two decades after male decriminalisation. In such a context it would seem
that personal (‘?!’) music, when performed, necessarily violates the implied
imperative that it remain silent altogether.
Federico García Lorca was killed by the fascists in August 1936, at the
age of thirty-eight. The Lorca family and estate subsequently did their best
to suppress the connection between his work and his sexuality. Most notori-
ously, they prevented the publication of his Sonetos del amor oscuro (sonnets
of dark love) until forced to allow it by the clandestine production of a
limited edition in mysterious circumstances in 1983. Even though the son-
nets do not specify gender, the Lorca family were sufficiently worried by the
phrase amor oscuro to attempt to keep them in the darkness. In the very act
of enforcing privacy, if only for four decades or so, they ensured an eventual
public profile not only for the sonnets themselves but for the broader issue of
the politics of publication.
One of James Kirkup’s poems suddenly became so notorious that the
rest of his long and distinguished career, both implicitly and then explicitly
gay, has vanished into its shadow. Published in the fortnightly newspaper
Gay News in June 1976, it was brought to the attention of the censorship
campaigner Mary Whitehouse, who used the opportunity to test Britain’s
long-ignored blasphemy laws. Spoken by the centurion Longinus, the poem
sexualises the corpse of Christ and homosexualises his life history, in sixty-
six lines of free verse. Its title, ‘The Love that Dares to Speak Its Name’,
is an inversion of Alfred Douglas’s famous line (later echoed in the title of
Finnissy’s 1996 orchestral piece Speak Its Name!).20
174 Gregory Woods
Here again, in both the poem and its subsequent fate (Gay News was
eventually found guilty of publishing a blasphemous libel), the question of
the right to speak or the duty to remain silent is raised: the enforced privacy
of the marginalised ‘personal’ (‘?!’) versus the open discourse of full society
membership. The silencing of a poem which ends with the naïve line ‘the
love that now forever dares to speak its name’ had its own clumsy ironies;
but it served as a mere prelude to the battles to be fought, in the next two
decades, over the relationship between ‘personal’ (‘?!’) morality and the
body politic, within the context of the AIDS epidemic. In a letter to me (17
June 1992), Thom Gunn wrote, ‘I have found that the reviewers like reading
about dead queers. Quite acceptable, that’. He had in mind, among other
things, the rave reviews he was receiving for The Man With Night Sweats
(1992), with its elegies for men who had died with AIDS, following the
relative general indifference to the previous collection, The Passages of Joy
(1982). Here, at last, were ‘personal’ (‘?!’) feelings the critics could stomach:
not desire but loss. The figure of the tragic homosexual is so convenient: the
poetry is in the pity.
Gay literature, like its straight counterparts, is at its most censorable
when addressing desire, desirability and sexual activity themselves; and these
happen to be the crux of what is most likely to be regarded as definitively
private and personal (‘?!’). Every published expression of homo-eroticism is a
deliberate violation of this rule. The ruder, the more so.
Lorca: ‘the sun sings in the navels / of boys who play under bridges’ (‘Ode
to Walt Whitman’).
Spender: ‘But the boy lying dead under the olive trees / Was too young
and too silly / To have been notable to their [the guns’] important eye./
He was a better target for a kiss.’ (‘Ultima Ratio Regum’).
Cocteau: ‘And how my autumn loved your spring!’ (‘To a Sleeping
Friend’).
Chubb: ‘My friends delighted in me and I in them. / We lay abed bestow-
ing close kisses of comradeship’ (‘The Sun Spirit’).
Genet (trans. Kirkup): ‘his milk / Thickens my throat like a long white
flight of doves. / O, be always a rose, a pearl-dropping petal’ (‘A Song of
Love’).
Pasolini: ‘Going toward the Caracalla baths / young friends / on Rumi
or Ducati bikes / with male modesty and male immodesty / indifferently
hiding or revealing / in the warm folds of their trousers / the secret of
their erections.’ (‘Toward the Caracalla Baths’).
Ginsberg: ‘who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcy-
clists, and screamed with joy’ (‘Howl’).21
Norse: the Gluteus Maximus Poems, including one beginning ‘Your ass
has given me insomnia.’
O’Hara on adolescents: ‘Such pimples! such hardons! such moody loves! /
And thus they grew like giggling fir trees’ (‘Blocks’).
Takahashi: count the taboos that are broken in the closing lines of his
boisterous poem ‘Myself With a Motorcycle’: ‘My god eats Kentucky
fried chicken, drinks Coca-Cola, / and from the dawn-colored slit of his
beautiful ass he ejects shit.’ Count all the more in his 40-odd-page ‘Ode’
to the pleasures of cottaging and fellatio.
Gunn: ‘Sweet things. Sweet things’ (‘Sweet Things’).22
Even Oscar Wilde, not particularly noted for his poetic range, writes in
erotic tones as diverse as, on the one hand, his passages of wistful, classicist
pederasty –
He was a Grecian lad who, coming home

With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily,
Stood at his galley’s prow and let the foam
Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously…
– and (speaking of the Unconscious) moments of something much deeper,

more self-interrogatory, perhaps even more proto-pre-Freudian –
Each narrow cell in which we dwell

Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen
And all, but lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity’s machine.23
There is a world of experience between the bookish Hellenism of the former

and the semi-documentary expressionism of the latter; or between the private
rooms of Magdalen College, Oxford, and the auto-panopticon of Reading
Gaol. We hear echoes of the former in Symonds and Chubb, even perhaps
in Takahashi; and of the latter in Genet.24 They resonate idealism and dis-
appointment, concomitants of the mundane process of ageing. Above all,
collectively, the Seventeen remind us of the relationship between desire and
language, the rhythms of the tongue. Genet: ‘The word “balls” is a roundness
in my mouth’.25 But isn’t eroticism the epitome of the purely personal (‘?!’)
matter? Not if it puts you in prison, it’s not. Nor if it gets you attacked in the
street. It is no more personal (‘?!’) than homophobia. Erotic poetry’s public
expression is itself an argument against both the suppression of speech and
the repression of desire. Neither the aesthetics nor the politics of the matter
can be accepted as belonging behind closed doors.
More familiar than Wilde’s eroticism to most readers and audiences are
the cadences of his wit, whether recorded by friends who heard or invented
176 Gregory Woods
his table talk, or refined by his own pen and fixed in the scripts of his plays.
Their tones are hard-edged, resistant to sentiment, often verging on a cynicism
tinged with hurt. These would be recognisable even a century later as deriv-
ing from the mannerisms of Camp. There are echoes of them in Cocteau and
O’Hara, but they are consciously avoided by Carpenter, Cavafy, and Gunn.
Camp is an argot of resistance to the gagging orders imposed by societal hom-
ophobia. It makes fun of ‘normal’ emotional states, both effusive and stifled,
and undercuts the common sense of tautology with uncommon paradox.26
I take the liberty of reading into Finnissy’s response to the Trebuchet inter-
viewer not only irritation – he went on to ask, ‘Would a heterosexual com-
poser only be considered to have “personal themes” that were underwritten
by their sexuality?’ – but also something tonally akin to Edith Evans’s Lady
Bracknell (‘A handbag?!’), haughty and horrified, but also somewhat baffled
and vulnerable, even hurt, as if suddenly left behind by the new manners of the
unmannered. It is one of those camp moments of nervous pearl-clutching as
one struggles not to lose one’s sang froid. When the composer-who-is-gay has
the temerity to highlight the word-that-is-homosexual, this is not the harping
on a ‘personal theme’, as claimed, but an engagement with social history, aes-
thetic tradition and a continuity of political development. He makes his point
with an exemplary effusion of dismay. It brings me out in horrified laughter.
All of the Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets chosen by Finnissy write
on the universal theme of love; and on the universal theme of desire; and on
the universal theme of the thwarting of love; and on the universal theme of
loss. It is not because they are Homosexual that these are also personal (‘?!’)
themes, but, I suppose, because they are human. Listed by name as a line of
descent, even in counter-chronological order, they amount to a cultural gene-
alogy down which a heritage of resistance has been bequeathed, much of it
taking shape as a public struggle for the right to privacy – that is, for the right
to be taken utterly for granted. Pace Symonds, some future Ithocles might
comfortably ask one day, who cares what men will say, Lysander, if we love?
Re-reading the Seventeen for the purposes of this essay, I came across
three trivial connections I had not known before. Allen Ginsberg was among
the individuals Pier Paolo Pasolini originally approached to play Jesus in
The Gospel According to Saint Matthew. Pasolini and James Kirkup, who
translated him, first met when Pasolini picked Kirkup up at Roma Termini
station. Kirkup met Mutsuo Takahashi in 1963 but then kept his distance
because he felt he was going to fall in love with him… This string of mini-
narratives may sound like ‘mere’ gossip – or ‘tittle-tattle’, as the press like to
put it – but gossip has been one of our key ways of maintaining the narra-
tives of our own suppressed history as homosexual people. It is the samizdat
account of the networks which enable our subcultural cohesion. We make
our own retrospective genealogies of gay culture, connecting ourselves with
previous generations of our sort, to make sense of a cultural history, both
terrifying and life-enhancing, that generally goes unwritten, but also to enjoin
a sense of familial heritage, none the weaker for being invented to order. I
have spoken elsewhere of how such networks have been read and re-articulated,
on the one hand, as evidence of subversive conspiracy; or, on the contrary, as
defensive solidarity and creative collaboration.27 Every supposedly personal
(‘?!’) link contributes to the public presence of homosexuality as a cohesive
social force which cannot simply be amputated by those who imagine doing so.
Even if we, we LGBT people, wanted to infiltrate society we could not, since
we already exist, intimately, within it. Whether we assert our sameness or our
difference, we do so in symbiosis with the object of comparison.
Notes
1 Neil Miller, Out of the Past: Gay and Lesbian History from 1869 to the Present
(London: Vintage, 1995), p. 13.
2 Stephen Coote (ed.), The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse (London: Allen
Lane, 1983).
3 Alan Hollinghurst, ‘The Unspeakable Spoken’, Times Literary Supplement, 22
April 1983, p. 397.
4 Ian Pace, ‘The Individual Chapters of The History of Photography in Sound’,
in Michael Finnissy, The History of Photography in Sound (Doddington,
Cambridgeshire: Métier Records, 2013), p. 62.
5 Merlin Holland and Rupert Hart-Davis (eds.), The Complete Letters of Oscar
Wilde (London: Fourth Estate, 2000), p. 1019.
6 The term ‘Uranian’ later became associated with same-sex paedophilia, in part
because Timothy d’Arch Smith used it – in preference to three alternatives,
‘homosexual’, ‘paederast’ and even ‘calamite’ – in his book Love in Earnest,
even though he did so to distinguish his poets from paedophiles as well as adult-
loving adult homosexuals. See d’Arch Smith, Love in Earnest: Some Notes on the
Lives and Writings of the English ‘Uranian’ Poets from 1889 to 1930 (London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970), pp. xix–xxii.
7 Federico García Lorca, Poet in New York (London: Penguin, 1990), pp. 160–3.
8 Edmund White, Genet (London: Chatto & Windus, 1993), p. 610.
9 For Pasolini, the police deserved more support than the students, for ‘Those
cops were the sons of a poor subproletariat, disinherited by bourgeois society
within the police force’. Pasolini issued a tract called Il PCI ai giovani!! express-
ing his sentiments. See Enzo Siciliano, Pasolini, translated John Shepley with
introduction by Paul Bailey (London: Bloomsbury, 1987), pp. 325–8, cited in
Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study
of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), p. 150
n. 22, available online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/2875/ (accessed 28 June
2018).
10 Siciliano, Pasolini, pp. 375–6; Barth David Schwartz, Pasolini Requiem (New
York: Pantheon, 1992), p. 473.
11 Michael Finnissy, ‘I have not gone out of my way to mythologise myself, but…
[Michael Finnissy].’, Trebuchet Magazine, 3 February 2013, 6 January 2018, at
www.trebuchet-magazine.com/complex-classical-michael-finnissy/ (accessed 28
June 2018).
12 Neil Bartlett, Who Was That Man? A Present for Mr Oscar Wilde (London:
Penguin, 1993), p. 98.
13 Of course, Finnissy is not composing music about such matters. As he says in the
same interview, ‘remember I am trying to combine human and abstract! I write
music NOT literature’.
178 Gregory Woods
14 Coote, The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, p. 218.
15 Bartlett, Who Was That Man?, p. 93.
16 Coote, The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, pp. 263–4.
17 H. Montgomery Hyde, The Trials of Oscar Wilde (London: William Hodge,
1948), pp. 235–6. When asked at his trial what was meant by ‘the love that dare
not speak its name’, Oscar Wilde replied with his famous peroration on the ide-
alised, Socratic love of an older man for a younger; but the poem itself does not
do this.
18 The full text of the Sexual Offences Act 1967 can be found at: www.legislation.
gov.uk/ukpga/1967/60/pdfs/ukpga_19670060_en.pdf (accessed 1 July 2018).
19 Miller, Out of the Past, pp. 503–9.
20 ‘The Love that Dares to Speak its Name’ appears in the contents list of The
Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, but when you turn to the page in question
you find only a note saying, ‘Gay News was successfully prosecuted for blas-
phemous libel on publishing this poem. It therefore remains unavailable to the
British public’: Coote, The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse, p. 328. The poem
is now easily found via internet search engines.
21 Hence the 1958 obscenity trial. The ‘joy’ was what caused the offence.
22 Lorca, Poet in New York, p. 159; Stephen Spender, Selected Poems 1928–1985
(London: Faber, 1985), p. 69; Cocteau in Coote, The Penguin Book of
Homosexual Verse, p. 295; Chubb in ibid. pp. 303–4; Genet in James Kirkup,
Refusal to Conform: Last and First Poems (London: Oxford University Press,
1963), pp. 117–120; Pier Paolo Pasolini, Roman Poems. San Francisco: City
Lights, 1986), p. 43; Allen Ginsberg, Collected Poems 1947–1980. (London:
Viking, 1985), p. 128; Harold Norse, Carnivorous Saint: Gay Poems 1941–1976
(San Francisco, CA: Gay Sunshine, 1977), p. 42; Frank O’Hara, Selected Poems
(Manchester: Carcanet, 1991), p. 47; Mutsuo Takahashi, A Bunch of Keys
(Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press, 1984), pp. 95, 27–73. Thom Gunn, The
Passages of Joy (London: Faber, 1982), p. 27.
23 Oscar Wilde, Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (London: Collins, 1994), pp. 797,
897.
24 Ralph Chubb was and remains the hardest of the Seventeen to track down.
Timothy d’Arch Smith had included an essay on him, as an appendix, in his
1970 book on the Uranian poets; and Coote’s anthology included three quite
long extracts from much longer poems. On the evidence thus provided, his work
seems ponderously expansive in its affirmation and analysis of ephebophile
desire. See d’Arch Smith, Love in Earnest, pp. 219–34. The Penguin Book of
Homosexual Verse includes excerpts from The Book of God’s Madness, Song of
My Soul and The Sun Spirit, amounting to five pages in all: Coote, The Penguin
Book of Homosexual Verse, pp. 299–304.
25 ‘Le mot “couilles” est une rondeur dans ma bouche.’; Jean Genet, Journal du
voleur (Paris: Gallimard, 1949), pp. 261–2.
26 Gregory Woods, Mqy I Say Nothing (Manchester: Carcanet, 1998), pp. 375–89.
27 Gregory Woods, Homintern: How Gay Culture Liberated the Modern World
(New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2016), pp. 1–30.
Bibliography
Bartlett, Neil. Who Was That Man? A Present for Mr Oscar Wilde. London: Penguin,
1993.
Carpenter, Edward. Towards Democracy. London: Gay Men’s Press, 1985.
Coote, Stephen. The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse. London: Allen Lane, 1983.
d’Arch Smith, Timothy. Love in Earnest: Some Notes on the Lives and Writings of the
English ‘Uranian’ Poets from 1889 to 1930. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970.
Finnissy, Michael. “I have not gone out of my way to mythologise myself, but…
[Michael Finnissy].” Trebuchet Magazine, 3 February 2013, 6 Jan. 2018, at www.
trebuchet-magazine.com/complex-classical-michael-finnissy/ (accessed 6 January
2018).
Genet, Jean. Journal du voleur. Paris: Gallimard, 1949.
Ginsberg, Allen. Collected Poems 1947–1980. London: Viking, 1985.
Gunn, Thom. The Man With Night Sweats. London: Faber, 1992.
Gunn, Thom. The Passages of Joy. London: Faber, 1982.
Holland, Merlin; and Hart-Davis, Rupert, eds. The Complete Letters of Oscar Wilde.
London: Fourth Estate, 2000.
Hollinghurst, Alan. ‘The Unspeakable Spoken’, Times Literary Supplement, 22 April
1983, p. 397.
Hyde, H. Montgomery. The Trials of Oscar Wilde. London: William Hodge, 1948.
Kirkup, James. Refusal to Conform: Last and First Poems. London: Oxford University
Press, 1963.
Lorca, Federico García. Poet in New York. London: Penguin, 1990.
Miller, Neil. Out of the Past: Gay and Lesbian History from 1869 to the Present.
London: Vintage, 1995.
Norse, Harold. Carnivorous Saint: Gay Poems 1941–1976. San Francisco, CA: Gay
Sunshine, 1977.
O’Hara, Frank. Selected Poems. Manchester: Carcanet, 1991.
Pace, Ian. ‘The Individual Chapters of The History of Photography in Sound’, in Michael
Finnissy, The History of Photography in Sound (Doddington, Cambridgeshire:
Métier Records, 2013), p. 62.
Pasolini, Pier Paolo. Roman Poems. San Francisco, CA: City Lights, 1986.
Schwartz, Barth David. Pasolini Requiem. New York: Pantheon, 1992.
Siciliano, Enzo. Pasolini. London: Bloomsbury, 1987.
Spender, Stephen. Selected Poems 1928–1985. London: Faber, 1985.
Takahashi, Mutsuo. A Bunch of Keys. Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press, 1984.
White, Edmund. Genet. London: Chatto & Windus, 1993.
Wilde, Oscar. Complete Works of Oscar Wilde. London: Collins, 1994.
Woods, Gregory. Homintern: How Gay Culture Liberated the Modern World. New
Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2016.
Woods, Gregory. May I Say Nothing. Manchester: Carcanet, 1998.
7 Finnissy’s voices
James Weeks
Is not song that arena where the voice is so spectacularly displayed, fuelled
by so many breathless propulsions, fantasies, sexualities, and dreams?… The
singer … come[s] to occupy a space of messianic figuring, embodying all
that may drive us beyond ourselves, to incite metaphysical, social, and erotic
gathering.
Brandon LaBelle, Lexicon of the Mouth.1
The human voice has a central place in Michael Finnissy’s work. Our first
image of him may be that of a pianist-composer (see Chapters 3, 5 and
12 for more perspectives on Finnissy’s work as a pianist-composer and
a concert pianist) – yet arguably it is not the piano but the voice which
lies closest to the heart of his compositional identity. ‘If you listen to my
earliest works’, he has said, ‘the voice (in its melodic rather than declama-
tory aspect) has always been paramount’,2 and Christopher Fox, writing
on Finnissy’s vocal music in the 1997 volume Uncommon Ground,3 points
out that not only did roughly a third of his works up to that point involve
singers – an unusually high proportion for contemporary composers – but
that many of his instrumental works too are derived or transcribed from
vocal music, including the Verdi Transcriptions, the Gershwin Arrangements,
the Obrecht Motetten and much of the music based on folk and non-Western
source materials.4 As Finnissy attests, part of the voice’s significance to
him lies in its tendency to melody: his is an art of line, of connective lyric
movement spun out over a breath.5 But it also lies in the voice’s inextri-
cably personal nature, its tendency to subjectivity – a ‘body trying to be a
subject’ as LaBelle describes it6 – emerging from inside us into the world
around, creating and projecting us as selves, and searching for connection
with others. The prevailing humanism of Finnissy’s art – confessional, con-
nective, questing, expressively direct and emotionally demonstrative – finds
in the voice its primal vehicle; his work manifests across the decades an abid-
ing concern with the complex nature of this most bodily, most personal of
instruments – what it is to give voice, to vocalise, to speak or sing in different
contexts and different ways, private or public, as an individual or as part of
a collective.
Finnissy’s voices 181
Who, then, are Finnissy’s voices, and what defines them? My intention
in this chapter is to probe the above generalisations a little more deeply
and investigate the nature and nuances of Finnissian vocality in two vocal
ensemble works written thirty-five years apart: Tom Fool’s Wooing (1975–8,
rev. 2015) and Gesualdo: Libro Sesto (2012–13).7 I choose these pieces out
of the dozens of possible examples not only from personal familiarity8 but
also because the liminal nature of the vocal ensemble – balanced ambigu-
ously (indeed, ‘equivocally’) between the soloistic and the choral – presents
a particularly rich site for the exploration of different modes of voicing,
of the construction of vocal subjectivities and their performance. It will be
seen that Finnissy fully exploits the medium’s polysemic vocal potential in
both of these works; even so they offer only a snapshot of the vast and still-
expanding range of Finnissian vocality as it continues to engage with an ever-
widening field of vocal traditions (professional and amateur, classical and
folk, Western and non-Western) and repertoires. Nevertheless, the extreme
virtuosity of these pieces betokens a composer unrestricted by pragmatism
and able to write freely: thus, a particularly fertile source of insight into
Finnissy’s relationship to the voice.
Tom Fool’s Wooing: voices as archetypes, voices as bodies

Tom Fool’s Wooing, for fourteen solo voices (with two singers doubling on
congas) was written between 1975 and 1978 for the John Alldis Choir, who
had previously performed Finnissy’s first vocal ensemble work Cipriano
(1974) to great acclaim.9 Both works have a relationship to the theatre, but
whereas Cipriano is a straightforwardly dramatic work, with a named pro-
tagonist sung by a solo tenor and a clear narrative arc, Tom Fool frames its
central theatrical section (a setting of an English Mummer’s Play) between
two more abstract tableaux vivants. The theme of the work is marriage and
the joys of love: the outer panels create a montage of texts about amorous
desire and courtship from various folk sources (Romanian, Greek, Turkish)
while two singers (mezzo and tenor soloists) assume the roles of Bride and
Groom, singing passages from Spenser’s Epithalamion. The opening section,
featuring dialogues between onstage and offstage female voices, seems to
be set just prior to the wedding itself, with its presentation of groups first of
women then of men, though there is no explicit sequence of events, and a lit-
eral marriage ceremony is not depicted. Instead, in the central panel, Finnissy
replaces it with an astonishing coup-de-théâtre: the English Mummer’s Play,
a ridiculous burlesque which casts the music abruptly out of its erotic reverie
and into a parodical ‘real world’, reminiscent of the appearance of the rude
mechanicals in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. After a somewhat perfunctory
resolution to this absurd action, the music stages a swift cinematic dissolve
into a revolving, starry universe of quiet, blissful consummation in which the
two solo singers are lulled by the other voices, who gradually become more
distant and disperse in their male and female groups to end the work.
182 James Weeks
Tom Fool was not performed on its initial completion; instead it waited
almost forty years for a premiere in 2016, for which occasion Finnissy chose
to rewrite the Mummer’s Play completely, replacing its Maxwell Davies-
esque expressionist parody with an idiom of simple homorhythmic textures
accompanied by crude drum patterns. Thus one of the most striking features
of the work is the startling change of stylistic, dramatic and vocal registers
at the appearance of this shockingly pared-down (though far from simple)
mummer’s music, a substitution all the more disorientating coming between
music of almost unprecedentedly transcendental vocalism: the outer sections
of Tom Fool’s Wooing are a ne plus ultra of Finnissy’s 1970s vocal writing,
presenting stupendous musical and technical challenges almost unmatched in
the vocal ensemble repertory.
Demanding as it may be, much of the vocality of Tom Fool’s Wooing is
rooted in fundamental vocal archetypes, connected with the work’s similarly
archetypal themes of love, courtship and coupling. It begins with a group of
female voices calling out singly across imaginary vast distances (represented
by a variety of onstage and offstage placements) after the manner of Swedish
kulning (cattle-calling): strong, focused, extremely high sounds whose rhyth-
mic and pitch contours are designed to catch the attention and identify the
caller (Ex. 7.1). This is the primary function of the voice, which, according to
Ex. 7.1 Finnissy, Tom Fool’s Wooing (1975–8, rev. c. 2015), opening. © Universal
Edition 1979.
Brandon LaBelle, ‘operates as an essential force that animates the other to
bring him or her closer to me, while also prompting my own […] I speak in
order to locate myself near you’.10
The first act performed in Tom Fool is thus one of connecting. The sopra-
nos call out into the void to establish contact, no more: one can hear these
initial vocalisations as more like calls than melodies, however ornate and
spectacular they may be. So before there is music, there is a sounding-out of
voices, bringing them together; gradually dialogues begin to emerge as more
singers come onstage, and the voices are slowly becalmed and intertwined
until they reach together a moment of harmony and rest. At that exact
moment the male voices enter shouting, followed almost immediately by the
mezzo soprano (the bride). With the whole company met, the mezzo sings
an aria announcing the dawning of the marriage day, embedded in ecstatic
wordless vocalisations from the chorus, before the scene dissolves and the
drums enter, foreshadowing the Mummer’s Play. The whole first panel, then,
enacts an arrival: a movement from far-and-dispersed to near-and-together.
These ideas of dialogue, of coming into harmonious relation with another,
from one, to two, to many, inform the piece on every level; indeed, it could
be said that the piece proceeds by staging a series of dialogues or ritual com-
munications between individuals and groups.
The most overt staging follows in the form of the Mummer’s Play. This
too takes the form of a series of dialogues and pits male and female groups
against each other in humorous dispute. Following the drama’s resolution,
the third panel opens with all fourteen voices together for the first time in
the piece. This extraordinary, densely luxuriant texture frames a lyrical duet
for the two lovers, their voices in audibly harmonious relation as they sing
modal rather than chromatic material for the only time in the whole piece.
They share the same text (Spenser again), entwining round each other’s parts;
sometimes their melodies pull apart, other times they merge into one line.
Around them floats the wordless chorus, both male and female, supporting
and cushioning the lovers with sound right across the entire human vocal
spectrum from very low to very high, in a moment of supreme conjunction.
A final staged dialogue then occurs as the lovers disentangle, first mezzo then
tenor singing enraptured solos while the chorus bifurcates into a slow sus-
pended texture for the women and gruff, sotto voce interjections for the men.
This closing image dies away, and the work is over.
Viewing Tom Fool’s Wooing as a sequence of staged dialogues seems apt,
for the work references throughout ideas of drama, rite and ceremony, plac-
ing the personal aspect of marriage (the two lovers) within its larger ritual
and societal context (the chorus) in a similar way to Stravinsky’s Les Noces
(which it closely echoes, dramaturgically if not musically). These archetypal
human relations are often articulated by similarly archetypal vocal tropes:
the opening’s calling-out, as has been shown, but also the use of shouted
exclamation, hymn-singing (which appears at the end of the Mummer’s Play)
and the lyrical writing which dominates the lovers’ roles. But an invocation
184 James Weeks
of archetypes is insufficient to account for the spectacular vocal display from
both soloists and chorus which pervades the outer panels of the work and
constitutes its most remarkable feature. In seeking to understand the place of
this ostentatiously excessive vocality within the work’s aesthetic conception
one can again make use of the idea of staging, for it is only a short leap from
considering the voice as a connective vibration leading from inside the body
to outside, to recognising the role of the voice in the staging of our subjec-
tivity. That is, one may view the voice itself as a stage on which the subject
appears, a stage on which many different performances can take place, and
one on which the subject can play many different roles.
This is particularly clear when considering what it is to sing rather than
speak. Firstly, it is a raising of the voice (literally and figuratively), an expres-
sive intensification through its focusing of the voice onto one pitch:
As a special sounding, singing draws the energies of the body outward,

to fill the chest, to ring the mouth, and to flood the nasal cavity with
vibration. The entire body seems to stand up, resounding with tonality,
whether real or imagined, tuned or not.11
If the voice stages the subject then singing may be said further to stage the
voice, so that it takes on a special aura. To sing is to dramatise, to stage,
to take on a role beyond that of ordinary spoken communication. The dif-
ference is physical: singing is the product of a special action, more focused
than that of speech, that has a special effect on the body, that of resonance.
LaBelle emphasises above some of the bodily vectors involved – the breath
filling the chest, the vocal chords vibrating and producing sound, the sound
resonating through the cavities in the head – until, as he says, the entire body
seems to stand up, tuned-in to the sung frequency.
Finnissy’s conception of the voice in Tom Fool’s Wooing, rooted as we
have seen in notions of connecting, communicating and bringing us into
relation with others, is also deeply engaged with the physicality of its pro-
duction. Indeed, what is perhaps most remarkable about Finnissy’s con-
struction of vocality here is the way that it explicitly embodies the voice,
locating it within the singer’s entire body and articulating a radical physical
performativity without which an understanding of this work as a sort of dis-
embodied ‘music’ is incomplete. In Tom Fool, song – that is, a musico-poetic
giving-voice – is reconnected with singing as a bodily act: this is certainly
to a great extent music about singing, but further, singing itself is consti-
tuted here as the physical performance of being-human. Finnissy’s approach
to embodying his voices is to set up extreme performative situations that
uncover one or another aspect of the voice’s physicality. The extremities at
play are obvious: here, vocal display becomes a stripping-naked, a reveal-
ing of the flesh and blood in the sound; at times in Tom Fool this becomes
an almost improper, and certainly dangerous, act – the singer as athlete, as
gymnast, as daredevil. This is a form of staging that leads us back inwards,
towards the inner mechanics of sound production, now revealed as fantastic
physical exhibition.
In this display, all aspects of vocal production are on show. To begin with,
the raw material for the voice is breath, which is not customarily notated but
is of course implied: so the first action of Tom Fool is the drawing of a breath
to produce the required ‘forceful, strong’ sound. We are constantly aware of
breath in Tom Fool – on the pauses on notes (how long can the singer hold?),
in the pauses between the notes, and most obviously in the lengths of phrases.
The singer’s breath control is audibly pushed to the limit: breathing itself
becomes a topic of the music. Moving to the notes themselves, the most obvi-
ous aspect to Finnissy’s writing in the outer sections is the constant, rapid
traversal of the range between low and high, often giving the sensation of
jumping or leaping, and produced by tensing and relaxing the vocal chords to
change the pitch, a muscular flexing whose physicality is here foregrounded
by the sheer extremity of the writing. At the opening of the piece this merges
with the affective and even programmatic intentions of the passage: a state-
ment of presence, and the associations of the mating display, complete with
the quivering trills of sexual excitement.
A subtler configuration of similar ideas can be seen at the first entry of the
mezzo-soprano, the bride. Ex. 7.2 shows the start of a gradual crescendo up to
fff; the mezzo’s material is essentially that of the chorus, but she sings a little
louder, and has text, where the chorus has none – in other words, they have
singing, but she has song. We can see the same virtuosic movement across
the vocal range as earlier, but now the dynamic is pp for the chorus and mp
for the mezzo, so the element of display is contained, or restrained. Instead,
this muscular flexing, the singers delicately touching each note before moving
swiftly to the next, feels more like a waking, a stretching, a toning-up or sensi-
tising towards a state of physical hyper-awakeness, an association heightened
by the chorus’ lack of text: it is pure voice, and purely physical vocality. The
mezzo’s text places her at one remove from this fully embodied state, until
the music gets louder and louder and her words become further spaced apart.
As the music gets louder, the air pressure across the vocal chords increases
to produce more volume, bodily effort becomes more intense and things
quite literally heat up. As for breathing, across the five pages of this passage
there are no rests at all in any part apart from tiny gasps for the mezzo, so
here Finnissy has evoked the mounting erotic excitement of the passage yet
further by literally making his singers breathless.
Such a foregrounding of the singers’ physical presences also reveals what
Roland Barthes famously described as the ‘grain of the voice’: ‘the body in
the voice as it sings’.12 Although for Barthes the voice’s grain is bound up
with its articulation of text, which is generally underemphasised or entirely
absent in the outer sections of Tom Fool, the physicality of the voice – its
strains, pressures, muscular flexes, registral breaks and snatched breaths, the
entire mechanism under thrilling duress – closely intersects Barthes’ state-
ment that ‘I am determined to listen to my relation with the body of the
186 James Weeks
Ex. 7.2 Finnissy, Tom Fool’s Wooing, from first section. © Universal Edition 1979.
man or woman singing or playing and that relationship is erotic’.13 It could

be objected that the exorbitant difficulty of the music as notated, both in
terms of pitching and rhythm, militates against a singer being able fully to
embody such physicality – is there not too much to think about? Certainly
this too-muchness, this informational excess, is a feature of both Finnissy and
Ferneyhough in this era: rather than invoking a straightforward physicality,
the sense of vocal embodiment in Tom Fool coexists in a tension with other
impulses driving the work, impulses concerning not only the sounding result
as conventionally construed but also the act of notation, the manipulation
and permutation of compositional materials and even the physicality of the
act of writing down. The music sets up, exists within, and draws its strength
from these tensions, which we as listeners and performers alike are asked to
negotiate. In Tom Fool, the physical impulse to make the sound is entram-
melled within the intricate web of the notation. This may well at times involve
the singer having to let go of the pitches in order to achieve the physical and
affective presence of the sound, but whatever the compromises necessitated,
the challenging notes and rhythms ultimately serve the singers in a positive
way: the notation acts for them as a focus for the physical geometry required,
a precision tuning-in of the vocal apparatus that gives focus, clarity and taut-
ness to the final result, an expressive charge intensified by the extremity of the
pressures that give rise to it.
Tom Fool’s Wooing demonstrates a unique capturing of the physicality of
vocal performance within the frame of notationally hyper-detailed, formal
concert work. We might even consider the piece as a kind of ‘vocal ballet’
in which the voice is choreographed by the notation, the dance taking place
within the vocal apparatus and compacted into the bodies of the singers
themselves. At least, it has now been shown that Finnissy’s voices are not
merely images of the human but real Bodies; that the essence of Finnissian
vocality is located absolutely inside the body and is bound up in the perfor-
mance of that bodiliness. But whose bodies are they? Tom Fool’s Wooing, for
all its physical human presence, leaves us only with archetypes – the lovers,
the wedding chorus, the buffoonish characters of the Mummer’s Play. To
explore the question of subjectivity more deeply it is necessary to turn to a
more recent work in which the performance of the self is articulated in more
complex and subtle ways.
Gesualdo: Libro Sesto: the voice and the self

I’m aware that my work is an uncomfortable, often by design, synthesis
of many things, stemming from often very diverse forces, but they’re uni-
fied by this sexual thrust.
Michael Finnissy in conversation with Christopher
Fox and Ian Pace, 1996.14
To whom do these voices and these bodies belong? They are always some-
one’s. If there is an element of abstraction to the human ‘types’ of Tom
Fool’s Wooing, the singers are nevertheless given some vital attributes: they
are gendered, and above all they are sexualised, particularly the lovers,
whose music and its physical performance are inescapably erotic. The work,
as we have seen, stages a coming-together, from individuals to couples or
larger groups; the final stages (from Fig. 24 in the score onwards), with their
grunted male jabs and ecstatic female cries over the mezzo’s triumphant ‘For
lo! the wishèd day is come at last’ is about as graphic a depiction of sexual
intercourse as could be imagined, short of literally miming the act itself. As
188 James Weeks
Finnissy provocatively implies, the sexual – in its broadest sense – lies at
the root of his work, as, one might suggest, it lies at the root of all human
interaction, the basis of our desires, motivations, and impulses towards the
social.
All Finnissy’s works, but particularly his vocal works, involve themselves
more or less explicitly in an exploration of this essential human condition.
Finnissy’s voices are not only bodies but someone’s bodies, placed in rela-
tion to these cardinal questions through which they interrogate their own
humanity.15 As we have seen, it is the embodied voice which performs this
subjectivity, as LaBelle argues:
it is my view that the voice is also a full body, always already a voice
subject, rich with intentions and meanings; sexed and gendered, classed
and raced, accented, situated, and inflected by the intensities of numer-
ous markings and their performance (inscriptions, erasures, recitals…).
I would argue that the voice is always identified (though not always
identifiable); it is flexed by the body, by the subject in all its complicated
vitality. Someone (or something) speaks to me, and it is not the voice
I hear, but rather the body, the subject; not a disembodied intensity, a
speech without body, but as someone that enters, intrudes, demands, or
requests, and that also seeks.16
In Cipriano (1974) the embodied, sexualised nature of the ‘voice subject’

is woven deeply into the thematics of the work, which explores a conflict
between sexual abstinence in the service of God and the sinfulness of carnal-
ity. The text was collated by Finnissy from Calderón de la Barca’s play El
Mágico Prodigioso (1637), and projects us into a dramatic confrontation
between St Cyprian (played by a solo tenor) and a Demon, who tempts him
to give into fantasies of the flesh and yield to its offers of ‘the wisdom of the
old world, sweet oblivion of all thought, and the love of beautiful women’.
At the beginning of the work Cyprian is alone on stage, bravely resisting
his own carnal desires by holding himself chaste within a single tone (the
middle C on which he chants, like a charm against evil), deaf to dialogue,
to encounter, to flex, to movement or dance. Both he and the singer playing
him are held in an unnatural tension, as physical as it is spiritual, against the
pressures and pleasures of being a body. The Demon, played by the rest of
the ensemble, begins offstage (as it were disembodied, ironically no more than
a figment of his imagination), shouting, grunting, flexing, writhing about in
an excess of bodiliness, forcing Cyprian to redouble his will. As the hallucina-
tory temptations intensify, the singers join Cyprian on the stage one by one,
led by a vision of female love, Justina, sung to music of lyrical suppleness
by the mezzo soprano. At the end of Finnissy’s scena Cyprian does seem
finally to overcome the demon’s temptations as the chorus finally dissolves,
turning their backs on him. But Cyprian’s final statements of resolution and
faith ring ambiguously into the emptiness: as he dedicates his body to God
rather than the pleasures of the flesh, his voice breaks and lashes out, his
final word – cuerpo (‘body’) – screamed into the silent abyss. This last word
becomes, as it were, the event-horizon of his agony, as Cyprian names that
which truly torments him; in this fully embodied vocal act, Cyprian acknowl-
edges and accepts his yearning for the corporeal in the abstinence that must
now be his lot.
In Cipriano Finnissy’s strategy is devastatingly clear, the musical contrast
between Cyprian’s denial of the body and the Demon’s extravagantly vir-
tuosic fleshliness pushed to extremes in creating this supremely dramatic
scene. But even in less explicitly sexualised contexts the vocal performance
of subjectivity is inextricable from the instantiation of bodily presence: there
is always someone who ‘enters, intrudes, demands, requests…seeks’. One of
the most interesting aspects of much of Finnissy’s music on religious themes,
for instance, is the sense that the true subject is the worshippers and their
desire to come together, to congregate in prayer, rather than any doctrine
they may be expressing. This Church (2001–3, awaiting revision) is a cel-
ebration of community written for members of that community to perform;
other works such as Marriage (2008) and Christening (2007) invoke rites of
passage which involve the tying of the individual into union with another, or
into a community. Seven Sacred Motets (1991) ‘stages’ twelfth-century music
through an interlocked cycle of biblical narratives and hymns, identifying
‘with the ideas and character of another century in order to explore oneself
and the contemporary world’.17 Once again we are watching people singing
together, forming a congregation of believers: these believers in turn identify
with, relate themselves to, episodes from the life of the Virgin Mary that
deal with her joy at her conception, her relationship with her son, and the
grieving community of disciples around the foot of the Cross. The texts of
the hymns that surround these narratives are also gendered, directed towards
Mary, the supreme icon of femininity, in prayers for intercession and for
pregnant women. Finnissy’s music is likewise attentive to gender: male and
female voices take turns to articulate chant and drone, but overall the cycle is
weighted towards female voices, whose florid, soaring solo lines, particularly
in the final Hildegard setting, are perhaps the defining musical image of the
work.
Thus a work ostensibly concerned with sacred doctrine can be seen to
be rooted in a deeper articulation of Finnissy’s humanism, an abiding con-
cern for those who come together to express such doctrine, their identity,
and their motivations for doing so. The subtle exploration of gender through
the cycle shows Finnissy as a composer particularly sensitive to identity, to
voices that are ‘sexed and gendered, classed and raced, accented, situated’;
thirty-five years after the straightforward dramatic oppositions of Cipriano
and the time-honoured sexual archetypes of Tom Fool’s Wooing, he was
to revisit the subjects of sexuality, identity and desire in a vocal ensem-
ble work of richer and more multi-layered depths, Gesualdo: Libro Sesto
(2012–13).
190 James Weeks
Finnissy’s programme note for the work is succinct but revealing:
‘Gesualdo’s sixth book of Madrigals provides a source for this piece, the
texts and a few fragments of his music. Beyond that the fantasies are mine:
about music, about love and death, about the voice.’18 The note explicitly
invites us (as if Gesualdo’s texts weren’t explicit enough) to consider the work
in terms of ‘fantasies’, that is, acts of the unloosed imagination, dreams of the
improbable or impossible, reveries of desire in which music, love, death and
vocality are inextricably entwined. The piece is in seven untitled movements,
each of them re-setting a text from Gesualdo’s last book of madrigals for one
or another combination of eight solo vocalists, thus:
I (Se la mia morte brami) two trios, ATB-ATB

II (Volan quasi farfalle) two duos, SS-BB
III (Beltà, poi che t’assenti) quartet, AATT
IV (Quel “no” crudel) duo, SS
V (Alme d’Amor rubelle) tutti, SSAATTBB
VI (Resta di darmi noia) quintet, SAATB, with S and T emerging as
soloists
VII (Al mio gioir) tutti, SSAATTBB
Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, written for EXAUDI, marks a late return to virtuoso
vocal ensemble writing, and in several movements (II, III and IV particularly)
we see a similar type of extreme linear vocal gymnastics to that of Tom Fool,
though now reconfigured as ‘histrionic’ display in the service of expressions of
pained love. Elsewhere a much wider range of materials is explored, moving
from the ‘delicious anguish’ of Gesualdan chromatic polyphony (I and VI)
to soloistic fireworks (the latter half of VI), and in the two tutti movements
an eerie chordal stasis, one rising inexorably from ppppp to ffff!, the other
juxtaposing emphatic fff chords with mysterious, soft, wave-like antiphonal
exchanges between quartets of singers. Whilst ostensibly a set of madrigals
the tone is frequently operatic and latently scenic (or again, ‘staged’), in the
manner of Monteverdi’s later books rather than those of Gesualdo. Finnissy
himself sees a comparison between these madrigals and the later dramatic
Monteverdi ‘in their expressionist ardour…but in much darker, and more
lethally volatile, more Gothick, colours’.19
Indeed, the cycle can be viewed as presenting a conflation or combina-
tion of genres and dramatic registers between a cappella late-Renaissance
madrigal and opera. The singers are variously members of a chorus, slightly
more autonomous consort voices, and fully autonomous soloists, and often
two of these at the same time (the pairs of soloistic voices in II and III, for
instance). This fluidity of genre, register and ‘casting’ is significant in open-
ing up the work’s play of subjectivity and identity far beyond traditional
madrigal conventions. Rather than an archaic and inherently artificial tex-
ture of anonymous multiple voices under strict contrapuntal jurisdiction, all
articulating the same subjective, amorous text and frequently personifying
indiscriminately male and female characters, madrigalianism is presented
here as a site of subjective ambiguity and multiplicity, moving in and out of,
and playing with, these conventions at will. In this respect of course Finnissy
is invoking the later history of the madrigal, which exhibits very similar ten-
sions between artifice and dramatic realism in the works of seconda pratica
composers, particularly the Monteverdi of Books V–VIII: by reaching back
to this liminal moment in musical history and poising his cycle right on the
representational threshold, Finnissy is able to lead us into a richly ambigu-
ous world, where roleplay, masquerade and cross-dressing abound, a mixed
quartet of soloists can lament the same lover, and a pair of sopranos proclaim
triumph over a pair of scarlet lips.
In the light of this, the choice of Gesualdo as source text is intriguing and
significant. If so much of the work’s representational ethos points towards the
later Monteverdi, why use Gesualdo’s last Book as a basis? As a madrigalist,
Gesualdo faces in a quite different direction to Monteverdi: conceptually his
music remains more or less squarely within madrigalian conventions and is
scarcely concerned with dramatic (that is, theatrical or realistic) representa-
tion, instead expressing its avant-gardism through the exploration of extreme
chromaticism and a striking rhetorical style based on the stark juxtaposition
of radically opposing emotional states and musical materials. Coupled with
the well-worn biographical tales of uxoricide, sexual ambiguity and mental
instability,20 what has been most fascinating to composers and listeners of the
modern age has been the image of Gesualdo’s music as expressively transgres-
sive, manifesting a complex psychology of sexuality and desire through musi-
cally exaggerated states of psychic extremity (joy, grief, love, premonition
of death) and their unsettling mingling. This modern reading of Gesualdo’s
late madrigals owes perhaps more than we can know to our inherited con-
temporary notions of psychology and to late Romantic and Expressionist
movements in the arts, and it is nigh-on impossible to gauge from the music
itself to what extent the emotional content is intended sincerely rather than
as contrived histrionics (in this respect again Gesualdo would seem to differ
from Monteverdi);21 nonetheless it is this image of Gesualdo that seems to lie
behind the searing expressive temperature of Finnissy’s set, its own tendency
to ‘lethally volatile…Gothick’ extremes and stylistic excess. ‘The melancholia
is “pathological”, the joy a kind of hysteria. The piece is, again, a kind of
exorcism (saving myself from visiting a psychotherapist!)’, he observes.22 The
erotic, hyper-charged fantasies of the cycle are fuelled and given licence by
Gesualdo’s lead; nevertheless, they are Finnissy’s own.
Finnissy adopts the seven madrigal texts in their entirety exactly as they
appear in Gesualdo’s book (the texts are anonymous and most probably
self-penned); the use of Gesualdo’s musical material is altogether more spar-
ing and often hard to identify. There are moments of near-quotation – some
of the basses’ motifs in II, and the declamatory chordal openings to III and
VI – and I and VI feature passages of faintly Renaissance-sounding modal
counterpoint, though here the relation to Gesualdo’s actual music is in fact
192 James Weeks
more distant. More important than quotation or stylistic referencing appears
to be the general principle of juxtaposing oppositions: Gesualdo’s tendency
to switch constantly between chordal and contrapuntal sections is writ large
across the cycle in the extreme opposition of stark homophony and more
or less dense polyphony, both within movements (III and VI feature both)
and between them (II and IV are entirely polyphonic, V and VII entirely
homophonic). A further Gesualdan opposition exploited throughout is that
between modality and chromaticism. These are occasionally directly super-
imposed as distinct ‘types’ – as in I, where the lower trio’s gently wandering
modalism is impinged on and ‘spoiled’ by chromatic alterations in the upper
trio – and in the latter half of VI, where the passionate, chromatic solo lines
of tenor and soprano are underpinned by a single, held modal sonority. More
often, however, the opposition of modality and chromaticism is integrated
into the overall harmonic practice through the use of semitonal shifts away
from modal sonorities: the overall harmony of I (that is, mixing together the
two trios) demonstrates this, as do the closing bars of III and particularly the
homophonic tutti movements, V and VII, many of whose chords are modal
(often triadic) sonorities with one note semitonally displaced.
Thus Finnissy adopts and develops Gesualdo’s harmonic and textural
strategies, and the expressive principles underlying them, in different direc-
tions within the work. But his relationship with Gesualdo is, as we have seen,
not the whole story. Even more striking a feature of the piece is the use of the
voices themselves: the ever-shifting roles, the extreme juxtapositions of vocal
manner, the provocative, abnormal combinations of voices within textures.
VI, for example, begins as the most stylistically Gesualdan of the set, the five
voices singing together in a chromatically-twisted chordal texture very similar
to Gesualdo’s own setting of the same text. Yet even in the first bar something
is wrong. The tenor is far too high in the chord, perched on a top A, above
both alto and even the soprano parts. The chord is unbalanced timbrally and
in terms of vocal effort – the tenor cannot but sound like a soloist within what
should apparently be a tutti texture.23 A few bars later conventional service is
resumed, but by the end of the madrigal this initial ambiguity of role appears
prophetic: for later, almost out of nowhere, the soprano and tenor emerge
from the contrapuntal texture into a full-blown operatic duet (Ex. 7.3), call-
ing to each other in super-charged melismas at the top of their ranges while
the altos and bass repeat a single held chord underneath.
Compared with this shocking, unexpected denouement, the roleplay in I is
rather more understated. Here the composer’s intention was to create a par-
ticular scene, the lower trio representing a group of madrigalists at the Court
(‘whose burdensome melancholy is nonetheless well-fed and bejewelled’)
and an upper trio as a Street group (‘cold, thin and hungry’) who are ‘whin-
ing and wheedling for attention. These opposing groups are dagger drawn
against each other.’24 Both groups have the same ATB line-up, and what is
most notable here is the way the two groups are overlaid in exactly the same
register, making very precise delineation of characters difficult: even though
Ex. 7.3 From Finnissy, Gesualdo: Libro Sesto (2012–13), No. III. © Verlag Neue
Musik, Berlin 2016.
the upper trio is ostensibly more soloistic, it has a tendency to blend into
the lower. The piece maintains an uneasy, ambiguous equilibrium, a tense,
ever-shifting symbiosis of the two antagonistic groups, as between solo and
ensemble, opera and madrigal, realism and artifice. This theme thus estab-
lished, Finnissy continues with two movements that further pursue the idea
of multiplied voices and identities while extending the scope of the work’s
vocality in extraordinary ways. II, perhaps the most remarkable textural
conception of the cycle, offers the bizarre juxtaposition of two soprano and
two bass voices, the latter narrating the text while the former flit around
overhead as the moth-Cupids who are singed by the ‘flame’ of the lady’s
beauty (Ex. 7.4). The writing for the two sopranos is highly virtuosic, leaping
constantly all over their full range (but pianissimo e legatissimo!), ostensibly
soloistic material which is in fact textural and accompanimental, veiled and
in the background yet impossible to ignore – the basses, charged with deliv-
ering the text, have no chance against this astonishing sotto voce display.
Following this, III shows a similarly provocative combination of the four
inner voices, struggling against one another in the same registral space, a
194 James Weeks
strange and awkward blending of high tenor, mid-range countertenor (if one
is used) and low mezzo that never allows the singers to settle into timbrally
or vocally comfortable spaces. The sopranos return in IV, whereupon the
veil of II is abruptly ripped off and the vocal exorbitance of Tom Fool’s
Wooing once again rekindled. This is a mad scene-cum-revenge aria for
a double subject, the two singers as continually-erupting twin volcanoes
of vocal lava: their lines relentlessly traverse the entire soprano tessitura,
frequently in huge leaps, revealing once again the body (and the grain) in
the voice. Nor should this be ‘beautiful’ singing: Finnissy’s intention for
the movement is that ‘it is between two Street women who have “made it”,
going from poverty to riches: they have little pride and are yelling, drawing
attention to themselves. I think of the actress Anna Magnani as the embodi-
ment of the quality I am seeking here: strong, passionate, angry, reckless,
prepared to die for her beliefs.’25
Ex. 7.4 From Finnissy, Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, No. II. © Verlag Neue Musik,
Berlin 2016.
And finally the two glacial tuttis, standing out from all the subjective, indi-
vidualistic writhing as monolithic ‘choral’ statements, whose extreme exten-
sion of texture lies as far outside ‘normative’ compositional behaviour as the
virtuoso movements around them. Here the whole company comes together,
giving unison emphasis to the poetic meaning, but in spite of the unanimity
any sense of conviction is elusive: the music, punctuated by silences, feels at
once over-assertive and unsure of itself, provisional rather than definitive,
the ‘joy’ we are offered in the final poem apparently undercut by the wistful
emptiness of the work’s conclusion.26
The kaleidoscopic range of vocalities, vocal textures and vocal roleplay
in Gesualdo: Libro Sesto is reflected not only in the range of materials and
compositional strategies and their relationship to the Gesualdo originals,
as shown above, but also in the overall structural experience of the work.
One is reminded of Finnissy’s remark above about his intention to pro-
duce an ‘uncomfortable synthesis’ of things stemming from ‘very diverse
forces’: there is no consistency or balance in Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, stylistic
or structural – indeed, the arrangement of movements27 suggests an inten-
tion to create a conspicuously asymmetric structure, perhaps taking its cue
from Gesualdo’s own strange formal strategies. In particular, the grouping
of the three most virtuosic movements next to each other, and the loading
of the rhetorical weight of the two slow tutti movements onto the end of the
cycle, create a noticeable sense of structural disproportion. The work is, in
sum, a disorientating and uncomfortable listening experience, from which
we are left wondering: what were these fantasies, these performances, these
stagings of the voice, of sexuality, of eros? To what end these mixings, mul-
tiplications and masquerades? And whose voices were they that performed
them? They are, as Finnissy’s brief programme note implies, the voices of
his fantasy, a succession of phantoms or roleplays, visions appearing and
disappearing, agents of an unrestricted exploration and confrontation with
psychic extremes, both dark and light: it is from Gesualdo that Finnissy takes
his cue, or permission, to probe these extremes without the false comfort of
an easy resolution.
And Finnissy’s voices? They are all of us, searching for connection, in
full possession of body, sexuality and selfhood. In Tom Fool’s Wooing
the extreme virtuosity and physicality of the vocal demands serve to place
Finnissian vocality decisively within the body; in Gesualdo: Libro Sesto
the voice emerges from the body through strategies of multiplication and
roleplay as the primary locus of our performance of sexuality and subjec-
tivity. Finnissy’s profound engagement across his entire career with the
nature of voice, his recognition, exploration and celebration of vocality as
the preeminent musical site for the articulation of our embodied humanity,
places it at the very centre of his artistic vision and constitutes one of his
most significant achievements.
196 James Weeks
Notes
1 Brandon LaBelle, Lexicon of the Mouth (New York: Bloomsbury, 2014), p. 45
2 Michael Finnissy and James Weeks, ‘“I assume ENTANGLEMENT”:
Michael Finnissy on writing, drawing, listening, playing, collaborating’ https://
michaelfinnissy.wordpress.com/2019/01/08/i-assume-entanglement/ .
3 Christopher Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, in Brougham, Fox, Pace, eds. Uncommon
Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), p. 211.
4 The proportion has dropped to a little more than a quarter of the total (never-
theless numbering over 100 works) in the ensuing twenty years, which have seen
a steady stream of solo, vocal ensemble and particularly choral works emerge
embracing a remarkable variety of vocal constituencies, from virtuoso profes-
sionals to amateur choirs, untrained voices and church congregations.
5 For further discussion of linearity in Finnissy’s music, see my Chapter 12,
‘Finnissy’s Hand’ in the present volume.
6 LaBelle, Lexicon of the Mouth, p. 5.
7 Both works, as well as Cipriano (also discussed) can be heard on the CD Michael
Finnissy: Vocal Works 1974–2015 sung by EXAUDI (Winter & Winter, CD 910
246–2, 2018).
8 As director of the ensemble EXAUDI I conducted the world premieres of both
works: Tom Fool’s Wooing at Milton Court, London on 12 March 2016 and
Gesualdo: Libro Sesto in St Paul’s Hall, Huddersfield as part of Huddersfield
Contemporary Music Festival, 23 November 2013.
9 This work, in its first version, was investigated in some detail in Ian Pace, ‘The
Theatrical Works’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 266–71, two decades before it was
performed.
10 LaBelle, Lexicon of the Mouth, p. 3.
11 Ibid. p. 49.
12 Roland Barthes, ‘The Grain of the Voice’, in Image-Music-Text, trans. Stephen
Heath (London: Fontana, 1977), p. 188.
13 Ibid.
14 ‘Conversations with Finnissy’, p. 33.
15 It might be argued that Finnissy’s tendency to sexualise his performers in works
like Tom Fool’s Wooing could be seen as a form of objectification; this should
be viewed from the perspective of these works as theatre or role-play – see the
discussion of Gesualdo: Libro Sesto below.
16 LaBelle, Lexicon of the Mouth, pp. 5–6.
17 Michael Finnissy, quoted in Christopher Fox, liner note to Michael Finnissy –
Seven Sacred Motets (Métier MSV CD92023, 1999).
18 Michael Finnissy, programme note to Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, first published in
programme book of Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival, 2013, p. 52.
19 Michael Finnissy, email communication with the author, 27 November 2013.
20 See Glenn Watkins, The Gesualdo Hex: Music, Myth, and Memory (New York:
W.W. Norton & Co., 2010) for an unsensationalised account.
21 Susan McClary views Gesualdo’s transgressive tactics – modal, structural and
rhetorical – as sites of subjectivisation – for example, the use of drastic alterna-
tions of speed demonstrates one of his ‘fundamental elements of interiority’ – and
notes further that ‘Gesualdo’s strategy of pitting neutral speech against stylized
histrionics of anguish resonates with Judith Butler’s notions of “performance”
or subjectivity as masquerade’; Susan McClary, Modal Subjectivities: Self-
fashioning in the Italian Madrigal (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of
California Press, 2004), pp. 149, 160.
22 Finnissy, email communication with the author, 27 November 2013.
23 A further Gesualdan trait that finds an echo in Finnissy’s work is the tendency
to write unusually (for the time) disjunct vocal lines and to take voices to the
extremes of their range across the course of a madrigal. These ‘expressionist’
tactics are obviously reflected in Gesualdo: Libro Sesto, yet they are so much a
part of Finnissy’s own typical modus operandi that the stylistic congruence does
not seem especially noteworthy. It might be suggested that Gesualdo has, in this
and other ways, long been somewhat of a kindred spirit to Finnissy.
24 Finnissy, email communication with the author, 27 November 2013.
25 Ibid.
26 Finnissy offers the following on these movements: ‘[they] should seem like a
Greek Chorus, the voice of human experience, permanent, tireless, “these things
are always going to happen”, whose wisdom we reluctantly bow to’ (ibid.)
27 In fact, Finnissy was uncertain for a long time of the best ordering of the
movements.
Bibliography
Barthes, Roland. ‘The Grain of the Voice’. In Image-Music-Text, trans. Stephen
Heath (London: Fontana, 1977), pp. 179–89.
Finnissy, Michael; Fox, Christopher; Pace, Ian; and Brougham, Henrietta.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Finnissy, Michael. Programme note to Gesualdo: Libro Sesto. In programme book of
Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival, 2013, p. 52.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 211–57.
Fox, Christopher. Liner note to Michael Finnissy – Seven Sacred Motets. Métier MSV
CD92023, 1999.
LaBelle, Brandon. Lexicon of the Mouth. New York: Bloomsbury, 2014.
McClary, Susan. Modal Subjectivities: Self-fashioning in the Italian Madrigal. Berkeley
and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 2004.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 259–346.
Watkins, Glenn. The Gesualdo Hex: Music, Myth, and Memory. New York: W.W.
Norton & Co., 2010.
Michael Finnissy: Vocal Works 1974–2015 sung by EXAUDI. Winter & Winter, CD
910 246-2, 2018.
8 ‘Listening to the instrument(s)’
A performer’s response to Finnissy’s
music for String Quartet and the Chi Mei
Ricercari for cello and piano
Neil Heyde
Chi Mei Ricercari for cello and piano

In order to find a way in to the designs, strategies and experiences of the large
and varied quartet repertoire of Finnissy, I will begin with some discussion of
this collection of ricercars, written in 2013 and revised in 2015. These pieces
allow a close focus on the ‘idea of the instrument’, as they were written with
the specific aim of exploring the cello.
Finnissy’s series of short notes describing these pieces include the follow-
ing, which lists some of the musical references:
The Ricercari arose from a collaboration between Southampton

University (UK) and the Chi Mei Foundation in Taiwan. They are
published by Verlag Neue Musik (2016). The Chi Mei Foundation owns
a large collection of outstanding string-instruments, including numer-
ous glories by Amati, Stradivari, Vuillaume and other world-famous
makers.
The piece is conceived as a series of seven conversations between an
antique cello and a modern piano, the topics of their discussions being:
i. general allusions to Bach’s unaccompanied [cello] Sarabandes and

Gigues, and to the études of [Jean Louis] Duport;
ii. Giuseppino Cenci’s lament ‘Dunque Clorinda mia per questi prati’
(c.1610);
iii. Domenico Gabrielli’s 5th Ricercar (c.1687–91) and the Presto from
his Sonata in G major, also more generally to Vivaldi and Venetian
folksongs;
iv. Domenico Galli’s Sonata No.12, Frescobaldi’s keyboard Ricercari
(1626), Wagner (Siegfried Idyll) and Berlioz (Symphonie Fantastique);
v. No.18 of the ‘Second Sett’ of John Marsh’s ‘Twenty Voluntaries’
(c.1795);
vi. re-visiting nos. iii and iv;
vii. Bach’s 2nd Gamba Sonata, and Gabrielli’s 2nd Ricercar, to
Beethoven’s [Sonata for Cello and Piano] op.102 no. 2 (mezza voce
‘Listening to the instrument(s)’ 199
con molto sentimento d’affetto), and fast-forward through atonality
to the 21st century.1
The idea of chamber music as a kind of conversation, and a spe-

cifically anthropomorphic view of the instruments, was picked up by
Finnissy in public conversation following a performance of the set in
November 2015.2
[It] must be very strange for these instruments – thinking of them as

‘people’ actually – […] waking up every morning in Taiwan: ‘What are
we doing here? We were born in the Renaissance in Italy and here we are
in Taiwan in the 21st century. What are we going to talk about?’ […] So,
the fantasy was that they would wake up and talk to the modern piano –
about the things they have played, and so on. It would be like they had
met [at] an airport and said, ‘Well, what have you been doing since 1652,
or 1783?’ […] That was how the piece started […] What you create is
relationships […]’3
It is relatively easy to track some of the musical references in these pieces (and
much harder to trace others), but as Finnissy observed in rehearsal, he is not
sure what purpose that would serve.4 Our shared reluctance to engage in a
detailed tracking of sources was framed in rehearsal by discussion of a letter
from Schoenberg to Rudolf Kolisch in which his admiration of Kolisch’s
tracking of the use of the 12-tone row in the third quartet is followed by the
observation that this only leads to knowledge of how something is made
‘whereas I have always helped people to see: what it is!’.5 Rather than trace
sources here, I explore some of the ways in which ‘conversations’ are man-
aged, not just compositionally, but also through the interactions suggested by
the notational strategies, and in rehearsal.
The first piece of the set was substantially revised several times. Ex. 8.1
provides the opening in the penultimate and final versions. The cello part
is unaltered in this revision, and in the context of Finnissy’s programme
note it is obvious that the opening four-note chords suggest Bach’s solo
cello sarabandes (BWV 1009, in C major, in particular). The final version
focuses musical attention more sharply on this sarabande-like material,
and the arpeggiation in the piano is now clearly in support/empathy, rather
than counterpoint (although the rhythmic notation of the two parts appears
designed to keep ensemble in suspension throughout). Finnissy has not indi-
cated a performance practice for the cello’s chords, which are clearly part
of the instrument’s inheritance; however, this was something that came up
very early in rehearsal. Because of the physical distribution of the chords
on the instrument I had been breaking them two-plus-two (i.e. C2-A2,
E3-E4,1 perhaps more in the mode of the opening of the Elgar concerto than
a Bach sarabande). One of the first things Finnissy asked after we ran the
movement through was for me to ‘sweep’ these chords.6
200 Neil Heyde
Ex. 8.1 Finnissy, Chi Mei Ricercari (2013), i, bar 1. Penultimate version, private
email to NH. Final version © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2016.
We did not discuss the physical distribution of the chords on the instru-
ment, but it is clear that a reference like this is always polysemous, accruing
additional or alternative associations as a matter of course. Perhaps break-
ing the chords as I had done was less historically evocative than sweeping
them (suggesting the early twentieth century rather than the early eighteenth
century)? Part of the power of this kind of reference lies in its openness, and
in order to open a conversation, it is useful if what is ‘known or inherited’ is
also in some sense ‘unknown’. The obvious compositional strategy to achieve
this is to frame material in new contexts (which happens throughout) but
Finnissy also finds ways to make the material itself unfamiliar to the player
as well as the listener. Although I have played the cello for over forty years,
encompassing an enormous range of old and new repertoire, I am confident
to assert that I have never played those pairs of chords before.7 I am thus
engaged in a kind of curious listening to myself as well as to my relationship
with the piano. This is a typical kind of starting point for Finnissy’s music,
but in this case this kind of exploration is directly implicated in the ‘ricercar’
of the title.
From a cello-playing perspective these voicings are a striking example of a
defamiliarisation strategy, but perhaps this might seem tenuous to someone
who doesn’t play the cello. (In this case, Finnissy’s peculiar sensitivity to,
and awareness of, the kinds of voicings that can be found across the entire
repertoire is possibly even more remarkable.) At the stage we rehearsed
with Finnissy I had not thought consciously about the fact that these were
‘unknown’ chords to me so we did not discuss this aspect. However, the end
of the piece, which Finnissy revised last, and which was completely rewrit-
ten in both parts, had prompted a private practice encounter that I wanted
to share with him in rehearsal. Ex. 8.2 shows this passage, which consists
of fairly continuous quavers in the cello, accompanied initially by minims
in the piano. The tempo is quite moderate ( = 80) so when this revised
ending arrived by email I looked at it quickly and thought ‘okay, that’s quite
straightforward, we can work that through in rehearsal’. On first sitting down
to play it, every bar fell apart and my performing part (shown in Ex. 8.2 (a))
reveals that I felt the need to place a fingering indication on almost every
note. Although this would not be unusual for me in very fast or awkward
writing it is surprising here; I had used a strategy I reserve for particular dif-
ficult passages (which this is not) to indicate ‘unexpected’ position changes
(circled) or groupings (/), and the last system has a kind of ‘hop’ fingering
Ex. 8.2 (a) Finnissy, Chi Mei Ricercari, i, bars 26–31. © Verlag Neue Musik,
Berlin 2016.
202 Neil Heyde
Ex. 8.2 (b) Finnissy, Chi Mei Ricercari, i, bars 38–4. © Verlag Neue Musik,
Berlin 2016.
that I would normally avoid (indicated above the staff in Ex. 8.2 (b) with an
exclamation mark, which is shorthand to myself to confirm that what might
appear inept is actually intended). The specific details are not of interest in
themselves, and I expect another player would have found quite different
solutions, but as a whole, these indications speak to the way in which this
material (which is entirely generic in its basic shapes) is surprising and unfa-
miliar ‘in the hand’. This is material that requires concerted learning and a
coherent physical delivery strategy rather than pre-configured tools. I began
by saying to Finnissy: ‘The amazing thing about what you’ve written here is
that I’ve needed to put a fingering on almost every note.’ Using an extended
metaphor of ‘awkward corners’, the next sentence he finished for me: ‘Every
corner…’ [NH] ‘… is odd’ [MF]. As I talked on, about every corner being
‘worked’, Finnissy said nothing but appeared to beam with pleasure.8
Finnissy’s understanding that musical material exists in an individu-
al’s private workspace as well as in public, and in their hands and body
as well as in the sound that emanates (implicit in his appreciation of the
physical ramifications in the exchange above) is an important component of
his anthropomorphic understanding of instruments. Much of our rehearsal
discussion consisted of discussion of the relation between the piano and the
cello, exploring the language of accompaniment, which Finnissy described
variously as ‘shadowing’, ‘sympathizing’, and ‘almost mouthing [the cello’s]
words’.9 The piano and cello often occupy the same register in these ricercars,
which runs against standard practice for handling the frequently asserted
‘difficult’ balance between the two instruments, although not with the overt
aim of appearing imbalanced as in Prokofiev’s Ballade op. 15 (1912) in which
the a muted cello is set against a thundering piano. Both Zubin Kanga
and I expressed concern in rehearsal about the difficulty of attaining a ‘good’
balance between the instruments which Michael steered towards a discus-
sion of texture. As in the observation about projection at the head of this
chapter it seems clear that Michael is interested in exploring conceptions of
‘balance’ that are not determined by simple hierarchies – either in volume
or registral space but by interrelationships. Although one could draw many
other examples from Finnissy’s music, Schoenberg’s use of ‘Hauptstimme’
and ‘Nebenstimme’ indications (in the 3rd quartet, for example) as a way of
indicating relationships to the performers without being required to set out
crude means for articulating them in performance sets a useful context.
I expressed concern that I needed to ‘push’ material out in order to be suf-
ficiently present, to which Finnissy responded:
I don’t think you do… . This is what expansive means. [It is part of the
tempo indication for i: Adagio non tanto, espansivo.] It’s very broad.
There’s a lot of detail underneath… . It’s the depth of the texture.10
I think [the piano accompaniment strategy] works but it is quite
strange. It’s my preferred solution to not really writing an accompani-
ment but also not making the piano part too ostentatious, because then it
just overpowers the cello. So, in fact you’re [ZK, piano] kind of a second
cello. A lot of it is in the same register on purpose. It’s ‘setting’ and back-
lighting. It’s a bit like Hollywood – making the cello sound good.11
Finnissy’s interweaving of balance, texture, tempo, and instrumental roles

in this response is typical of his thinking, but these pieces add an unusual
element of complication. Although not explicitly stated in the notes for the
Ricercari, Finnissy initially conceived the piece to be played on seven different
cellos. For practical and technical reasons this is not easily achieved, and the
204 Neil Heyde
performance Zubin Kanga and I gave in November 2015 has at the time of
writing been the only one given in this format.12 Although by no means an
essential requirement, I feel strongly that the exploration of the ‘idea of the
instrument’ is an essential component of the piece and that it can be valuable
to perform and hear it in this way.
Although I initially imagined that it would be interesting to have Finnissy
involved in the selection of instruments from the Royal Academy of Music’s
collection, and to engage in a shared mapping of particular cellos to indi-
vidual ricercars, he made it clear that he felt I was better placed to undertake
these decisions on my own. I spent only three sessions choosing instruments
and rehearsing with them prior to the performance. Each cello was played as
I found it, rather than set up as I might do if it were my own, or, indeed, if
I had it on long-term loan. In addition to an exemplar of the ‘ideal’ cello of
the nineteenth century (Vuillaume, 1850) I chose instruments that represent a
wide variety of different physical and timbral personalities.13 The first session
was a quick play on a large group of instruments in the Academy workshop
to check that we would be able to have seven accessible instruments that
would be suitable for the piece and that wouldn’t be too difficult to adjust to
‘on the spot’. Having made a rough list of possible instruments, Zubin and I
met to rehearse and we spent an afternoon mapping instruments to ricercars.
This was surprisingly easy and as we worked we shifted quickly from think-
ing about what might be ‘viable’ to what might be ‘interesting’.14 Apart from
the selection of the Vuillaume for the opening piece, which was strategically
designed as an ‘entry point’ for the listener, all of the other selections were
made entirely intuitively.
Finnissy keeps the cello in the middle of its range for the vast majority
of this c. 30-minute cycle. We may assume that this is partly because of the
reference points in ‘old’ music, but I think it is also motivated by the idea
of exploring the heart of the instrument (physically as well as conceptually),
and by a sense that listening to seven different instrumental voices might
be assisted by having a focus on this common core.15 In both rehearsal and
performance it seemed to me that these pieces do not present or project some-
thing already ‘known’ but that the strategies of defamiliarisation embodied
in the music and in the use of different instruments set up a performance
environment that feels like a possibility field for things to be revealed, or dis-
covered, which is, of course, what is suggested by the title. The use of different
instruments for each ricercar is in this sense possibly even more important for
the performer’s experience of the discovery process than it is for the listener’s
experience. I made observations to myself on several occasions that I felt I
learned more about the cellos by playing Finnissy’s ricercars on them than by
any kind of ‘normal’ testing out but I can’t provide any ‘trace’ to show this
other than to play the pieces.
The design, or structural management, of the handling of the two instru-
mental ‘personalities’ is clearest in the last of the pieces (ᅄ = 100, with no
verbal indication) which provides a kind of summary of, and closure to,
the set. In Finnissy’s words ‘the story here is that you [the cello] keep your
personality intact whereas the piano changes quite dramatically from a
Bachian accompaniment that begins in bar 2, to “Beethoven” at bar 28,
“Reger” at bar 59 and “Finnissy” for the last [six] bars’.16 One might imagine
this as a counterpart to the ‘departure lounge conversation’ suggested above,
with the piano setting off on a journey, but perhaps it is also a commentary
on the innate ‘personalities’ of these instruments and of the people who play
them. The first movement of Elliott Carter’s Cello Sonata (1948) could be
seen as a precursor (and the strategy traced back further to Debussy’s sonata
of 1915, in which the roles of the instruments are also sharply differentiated).
However, the discussion below of Nobody’s Jig clarifies the individuality of
Finnissy’s approach. Certainly, with Finnissy himself playing the piano, it
would be easy to read the piece as a dramatic embodiment of returning home.
The music for string quartet

Hans Keller has provocatively described the string quartet from both the
playing and composing points of view as a ‘secret science’,
if by ‘secret’ we mean not something that shouldn’t be told, but some-

thing that can’t. It is impossible for any outstanding instrumentalist
who is not a string and quartet player to understand a quartet player’s
string quartet in all its intended dimensions; likewise, it is impossible for
a composer, however great, to write an intrinsic string quartet if he is not
himself a quartet player: the quartets of Brahms, Schumann, Debussy,
Ravel, and yes, Bartók are more than adequate evidence.17
Finnissy is not a string player and clearly has a personal identification with the
piano that has shaped his output for that instrument in ways that a string player
cannot fully grasp. In 2016 I asked him to read Keller’s polemical introduction
to The Great Haydn Quartets, from which the above quotation is taken, and
Finnissy found it ‘badly written’ (in the sense that much of it was about the
writer rather than the materials) and felt that it extolled a kind of historicism
of which he did not feel a part (by which I assume he was expressing displeas-
ure at Keller’s explicit canon-confirmation strategy).18 Nevertheless, Finnissy
was taken with Keller’s idea that the quartet is the ‘truly symphonic’ medium,
and at intervals through a public conversation with the Kreutzer Quartet
given at the 2016 International Performance Studies Network Conference19
he referred to his way of working with the ensemble in ways that picked up
Keller’s central idea that quartet music is specifically addressed to the players –
and that composers thus identify with the players.
The quartet is what it is. It is what you see before you. It is four guys
and they work together.20 It is four people, and what interests me is
people […] – what people feel, what they say, how they express themselves.
206 Neil Heyde
The special thing about writing for a string quartet […] is that it is a
very close-knit ensemble. For many years I ran a diverse instrumentation
ensemble […] The personnel changed and the numbers of people involved
changed […] We worked together all the time (we did many concerts),
but it never got to the tightness of […] I don’t know. Something about
the way you [The Kreutzer Quartet] communicate with each other and
the way the instruments communicate with each other, and the sonority
they produce both individually and collectively, is peculiar to the string
quartet medium.21
Although Finnissy may not fulfil all of Keller’s deliberately provocative

criteria for being a composer of ‘intrinsic’ string quartets, it seems to me –
and to my colleagues – that he has an uncannily intimate understanding
of the dynamic relationships produced by four closely-related instruments
played by musicians with a close-knit working relationship that is implicitly
shaped by interaction with a large and distinctive repertoire that reaches
back to the eighteenth century. Although he expressed discomfort with
Keller’s particular ‘historicism’, Finnissy’s fascination with musical contexts
places him ideally to enter the corporate ‘mind’ of the quartet and all of his
pieces for the ensemble speak to its living relationship with the past as well
as the present.
At the time of writing, Finnissy has completed eleven pieces for the string
quartet formation (allowing for the addition of ‘small domestic objects of
indeterminate pitch’ in Six Sexy Minuets). All of these pieces have been
recorded by the Kreutzer Quartet, spanning three discs.22
1. Nobody’s Jig (1980–1), premiered by the Locrian Quartet (the title a

melody from Playford’s English Dancing Master (1651))
2. String Quartet (1984), premiered by the Arditti Quartet
3. Plain Harmony I-III (1993–5), (the second version of a piece originally
written for COMA), premiered by the Amaryllis Quartet
4. Sehnsucht (1997), premiered by the Royal Academy of Music Manson
Ensemble (the title taken from two Brahms songs: opp. 14, no. 8 and 49,
no.3)
5. Multiple forms of constraint (1997), premiered by the Kreutzer Quartet
(the title from Michel Foucault’s History of Sexuality)
6. Six Sexy Minuets Three Trios (2003), premiered by the Smith
Quartet
7. Second String Quartet (2006–7), premiered by the Kreutzer Quartet
8. Third String Quartet (2009), premiered by the Kreutzer Quartet
9. Civilisation (2004, rev. 2012–13), premiered by the Sonar Quartett, final
version premiered by the Kreutzer Quartet
10. Mad Men in the Sand (2013), (a commentary on a string quartet frag-
ment by Charles Valentin Alkan, located in the British Library (Hirsch
IV.1455, f.10v)), premiered by the Rumore Quartet
11. Continuation and Coda to the unfinished Contrapunctus in The Art of
Fugue (2013), premiered by a large COMA string ensemble directed by
Darragh Morgan, and as a String Quartet by the Kreutzer Quartet
The more recent items interact quite obviously with the kinds of music one
might ‘meet any afternoon on Radio 3’,23 but the earlier pieces – Nobody’s
Jig and the String Quartet of 1984 in particular – are less clearly in dialogue
with the history of the medium. Christopher Fox and Roger Redgate have
written about these earlier pieces at some length.24 The use of four com-
pletely unsynchronised parts to make up Nobody’s Jig is hardly atypical for
Finnissy, and can be dated back as early as Transformations of the Vampire
(1968–71) and n (1969–72).25 This notational strategy reappears frequently
in other works for quartet, but has a different meaning in this context than
elsewhere, perhaps because Finnissy is aware that both audience and ensemble
will listen with particular expectations. The reference to Playford in the title
is probably intended to be provocative, suggesting traditional (folk) music,26
and enjoying the questions of ‘ownership’ it implies, rather than pointing to
any specific musical relationships. But the seating arrangement of the quar-
tet, explicitly indicated on the title page, speaks directly to eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century practice: the two violins sit opposite, with the cello in the
‘normal’ twentieth-century position for the viola, and the viola next to the first
violin.27 This suggests something quite specific to us as players, and highlights
the notion of ‘dialogue’ through the spatial separation of the two violins, often
played out through quite specific different roles for the instruments in the clas-
sical period repertoire. Curiously, Keller identifies the ‘problem of the second
violin’ as one of the central issues of the core quartet repertoire and Finnissy
is clearly sensitive to the potential danger of doubling of roles: both the Third
String Quartet and Sehnsucht, for example, begin with extraordinary virtuosic
flights from the second violin, not matched by the other players.
‘Period’ seating notwithstanding, seen from the perspective of ‘ensemble’
Nobody’s Jig could appear to be a violent rejection of the past and of tradi-
tional chamber music practice. Perhaps that kind of rejection could be seen
as typical of the Finnissy of the 1970s and 80s, but it is clear that this is only
part of the picture. Responding to a question (after a performance of the
piece) about whether it was an obvious thing to have done (picking up the
apparent ‘anti-chamber-music’ stance adopted by the first of Stravinsky’s
Three Pieces for String Quartet of 1914), Finnissy said ‘I wanted to see what
would happen if I did it – and now I know’ which brought the house down
with laughter.28 I still clearly recall the feeling of our first ever reading of it
in the 1990s. We had all worked separately on our parts prior to meeting,
began at the first note as instructed, and played through to the end – some
twenty minutes of music. When we stopped, someone said ‘Bastard!’, and
we all laughed.
Why does something about this piece have the power to make us laugh?
The first thing to note is that the swearing was expressed with love, and,
208 Neil Heyde
perhaps even more, with admiration. What Finnissy has done here ‘should
not work’ as a string quartet, and yet it is so obvious on both performing and
listening to it that it does. By appearing to ‘break’ all of the kinds of cham-
ber music interactions that we take for granted as intrinsic to the quartet,
Finnissy reveals that these are built on a quite different basis to the ‘simple’
musical interactions between parts that we might expect: instead they are
implicated in the whole ‘idea’ of the ensemble. Finnissy surprises us, and
we surprise ourselves, and this causes us to laugh. The implied absence of
typical musical interactions encourages a conception of the four ‘parts’ as
portraits of the instruments/musicians who play them, and, as performers,
we learn to listen to the geography of the piece as a dialogue of behaviours
almost more than of musical materials.29 Because this dialogue is emergent
rather than explicitly stage directed it is quite different to the scenarios
explored in, for example, Elliott Carter’s String Quartet No. 2 (1959) which
is explicitly set out as a series of portraits. I see this implicit portraiture as
exactly what Keller is pointing to when he says that the composer identifies
with the players. By ‘reading one another’ we are able to maintain temporal
relationships that allow us to finish very closely together after c. 20 minutes
of unsynchronised playing. Finnissy makes this possible because of the way
in which the features of each part are configured with a trajectory that
can be ‘read’ using traditional chamber music awareness: the cello’s very
long stepped crescendo towards the end, and then its strangely unvirtuosic,
exceptionally difficult, juddering conclusion are easy to grasp, even in a kind
of aural ‘blind spot’.
In fact, most of Finnissy’s quartet music avoids a full score, existing only
as sets of partbooks. Again this points to the early history of the medium
(scores for quartets were not published until well into the nineteenth cen-
tury), and also to a piece like Witold Lutosławski’s String Quartet (1965),
for which a score was only published at the players’ request, and before that
to John Cage’s Concert for Piano and Orchestra (1958).30 In this, Finnissy
shows a sensitivity to the need for individual differentiation in performance,
and to the facilitating power of ‘not knowing’ exactly what others are doing.
In a public session at the Royal Academy of Music in 1988, Lutosławski
repeatedly urged the players of his String Quartet to ‘play like soloists’
– specifically not paying attention to what others are doing.31 Finnissy,
however, wants his players to be listening, even when they play completely
individually. In several sections of the String Quartet of 1984, Finnissy uses
a notational strategy that has not appeared in quite the same form since.
For example, in the extended passage from figure 20 onwards, each player
is playing highly differentiated material, often in different time signatures to
their colleagues. Finnissy has provided each musician with one other part
(to give something to hang on to) but none of these references ‘join up’ (in
contrast to more traditionally cued parts that have one or more points of
focus): the player whose part I am reading does not know what I am playing,
and the person whose part they are reading does not know what they are
playing – and so on. This is contrasted with sections in full score, and sec-
tions where one player has a principal voice or Hauptstimme around which
everyone else is oriented. Finnissy’s notation thus supplies indications of
how the process of listening to one another might work in performance. Like
Nobody’s Jig, the stylistic references allude to traits from high modernisms
and folk musics.
Sehnsucht, from 1997 (Ex. 8.3), offers a very different kind of listening model.
It is published only in full score, so everyone can ‘read off’ everyone else, but
the musical material is configured in ways that complicate the experience.
The reference material here lies in two Brahms songs that share the title
‘Sehnsucht’: one appears in the viola part (op. 49, no. 3) and the other,
rather less obviously, in the second violin (op. 14, no. 83, Brahms’s melody
appearing in bar 3 following the ornate gesture out of which it emerges). The
first violin and cello provide a kind of framing ornamentation. This sets out
quite a specific hierarchy of listening, but not of explicit balance or perfor-
mance roles: Hauptstimme in the viola, Nebenstimme in the second violin
and accompanimental material in the first violin and cello. In performance,
however, the second violin draws attention to itself with its ornate opening,
but after its initial florescence it has to work hard to make its melody ‘present’
alongside the much more immediate melodic line in the viola. (This is even
more strikingly the case in the second, Lebhaft, section.) It is commonplace
that the inner voices in a string quartet need to work harder to make their
presence felt and we often record somewhat ‘flat’ to the microphone to help
with this, as did the Amadeus Quartet. Placing the core melodic material in
these voices reorients the ensemble and it is only on occasion that the outside
voices step forwards. I do not think that it is coincidental that this piece was
written for the Royal Academy of Music’s Manson Ensemble rather than for
an established quartet. One could even see it as a kind of ‘embodied lesson’
in quartet playing.
Written in the same year, Multiple forms of constraint is effectively for violin
and string trio rather than ‘quartet’. It was written for Peter Sheppard Skaerved
and the other members of the Kreutzer Quartet, and I find it impossible not
to see it as engaging with the idea of the ‘quartet leader’, who is in this case
separated from the ensemble and placed at the back of the hall. The string trio
works from score, strictly synchronised, and the solo violin plays its own mate-
rial in its own time, its part notated independently of the others. There are large
gaps at various points to ensure that nothing can be too closely predicted. Over
the course of the piece the ‘sung’ ornamented diatonic material with which the
solo violin begins gradually finds its way into the trio and the violin takes on
some of musical qualities of the trio’s flickering opening material. In the course
of this swapping over the cello is silenced. The piece explicitly dramatises the
listening process for the traditionally seated concert audience, who are placed
in an uncomfortable position of facing only a part of the process.32 It seems
here as if the audience is invited into the ensemble in some way. It is difficult
for me not to see it as some kind of portrait of the ensemble in 1997, although
210 Neil Heyde
Ex. 8.3 Finnissy, Sehnsucht (1997), bars 1–13. © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2016.
I don’t really know what it says about ‘us’. In conversation, Finnissy described
his approach to writing for a particular ensemble:
MF: For me, the best thing is to compose portraits, so there is a lot of
portraiture in the work that I do with [the Kreutzer Quartet] […] The
portraiture of composing has to do with the personalities of people as
I see them at a particular moment, within the framework of a larger
structural paradigm.
Neil Heyde: We’ve chosen the instruments that we play, but we have also
become one with them. The personality of the quartet cellist is a certain
kind of personality, almost regardless of who plays it. 33
Plain Harmony and Mad Men in the Sand are typical of Finnissy’s fascination
with reworking material, but the Second and Third String Quartets, and Six
Sexy Minuets Three Trios, speak directly to the string quartet’s historical
inheritance.34 The Second String Quartet and Six Sexy Minuets play very obvi-
ously with eighteenth-century conventions and Haydn in particular, but also
reach out to the nineteenth century (Wagner and Tchaikovsky are suggested
at the end of Six Sexy Minuets) and beyond (specifically to Gloria Coates in
the case of the almost static ‘quasi glissando’ section of the Second Quartet).
The Third Quartet is explicitly symphonic, referencing Bruckner and ending
with the quartet silenced by pre-recorded birdsong (from Finnissy’s garden)
that gradually displaces the quartet. Both the Second and Third Quartets
have been the subject of extended pieces of writing. In addition to Christopher
Fox’s liner notes for our recording (see note 24), and the work of Amanda
Bayley and Michael Clarke on the Second Quartet (see note 1), Bayley has
written a study of the Kreutzer Quartet’s rehearsal of the Third Quartet.35
The Third Quartet is largely notated in full score, frequently using different
key signatures for the individual parts in order to facilitate differentiation of
the voices, a strategy also adopted in Sehnsucht and a particularly effective
way of enhancing instrumental differentiation by microtonal inflection. This
is coupled with very minimal dynamic indication, presumably with a view to
avoiding simplistic (hierarchical) distinctions between voices as observed in
other examples above, but also because on this grand scale (c. 45 minutes in
total) it becomes important to search for other means of maintaining con-
tinuity and perspective. (Scarcity of dynamic indications is also striking in
Finnissy’s Liederkreis for clarinet quintet, completed in 2016, as are the Chi
Mei Ricercari, possibly because in both cases he knew he would be able to
collaborate with the initial performers directly.) The Third Quartet explicitly
dramatises listening experience for both players and audience. From roughly
the middle of the piece birdsong begins to intrude, initially underneath the
quartet. It gradually gains prominence and there are longer and longer gaps
between sections of quartet music – and within that music. Eventually the
birds are left on their own and the quartet sits in extended ‘silence’. Instead of
playing in an ‘expressive’ manner, as through most of the first half of the piece
212 Neil Heyde
(in quasi-late-romantic mode), the music making in the second half becomes
much more obviously a kind of ‘activity’ in relation to the birds. This ‘activity’
gradually shifts from ‘doing’, to listening, which is something that feels very
powerful in a concert hall, in front of an audience, but which cannot be trans-
lated in recording. I have sensed that audiences are uncomfortable with it, per-
haps finding it difficult to identify with the players during the later sections of
the piece. Personally, I find being ‘forced’ to listen as a dramatic device in this
way almost unbearably expressive, and this was only heightened by Finnissy’s
observation to us that the birds are not ‘singing’, but just ‘behaving’.36
The different kinds of ‘activities’ embodied in the Second String Quartet
are perhaps less openly on display but are suggested in different ways.37
There is a ‘quasi minuet and trio’ (without explicit indication) from figure 6,
and a direct reference to Haydn’s ‘Lark’ Quartet (op. 64, no.5) in the Adagio
cantabile at figure 24. Surrounding these quite distinctive references to the
eighteenth century are passages that feel more explicitly ‘choreographic’.
Figure 18 of the score/parts, which leads into the Adagio cantabile, is so still
that movement is almost imperceptible, and the beginning of the piece (either
side of the Vivace) is ‘irregular and jumpy’. Again, Finnissy reveals a special
sensitivity to the role of the second violin, which here appears to trigger the
final section of the piece, described in the introduction to this chapter. In the
midst of our highly expressive, ensemble singing, the second violin skitters
off, almost as if bored, or off to another room to do something else. The par-
allel with the bird song is striking, but here the drama speaks directly to the
quartet repertoire in which the second violin is often a disruptor.38
There is probably no better representation of Finnissy’s love for the play-
fulness of personal/instrumental relationships – and for the ways in which
this is suggested in the music of the eighteenth century – than Six Sexy
Minuets Three Trios (for string quartet and small domestic objects of indeter-
minate pitch, and published only as partbooks). The piece begins, provoca-
tively, with a trio. The two violins and viola accelerate and decelerate wildly
between ᅄ = 68 and ᅄ = 166 (there are also two jump cuts) while the cello
‘accompanies’ with pairs of crotchets on a domestic object. Curiously, it is the
least ‘musical’ element of this that ends up shaping the experience. The first
of the minuets is clearly Haydn-like in character, but it is full of awkward and
surprising jump cuts, and at various points all of the players are ‘voiced’ indi-
vidually by rhythmic deformations. Throughout the next trio (in which none
of the players perform on their ‘instruments’ and we hear domestic objects
only), Finnissy leaves everyone uncertain about when they should be together
by placing repeat signs inconsistently across the parts and this playfulness
continues in various forms across the set. In the Kreutzer Quartet we like to
characterise the third minuet (Quasi Allegretto. Un poco minaccioso.) as the
back end of a second-rate viola section: it is entirely pianissimo, except for
two accented notes, and all four parts are predominantly in the middle of the
range. The microtonal ‘stumbling’ seems to want to find a centre, but never
does, and occasionally individual parts stutter out of time with the others.
Only in the final minuet (Andante malinconico, con sordino) does the whole
quartet get to play with a real feeling for the whole ensemble as a unit. This
entire movement is muted (an idea presaged in Sehnsucht) and it is mainly
because mutes rob the instruments of their characteristic overtone forma-
tions that Hans Keller famously claimed that their use creates an ‘invalid’
quartet sound, in which ‘the player is no longer able to produce and modulate
his tone to the extent required by a quartet texture which has to differentiate
more delicately than any comparable choral instrumentation’.39 It is clear
that Finnissy uses mutes here precisely in order to diminish the differentiation
of the instruments which is such a feature elsewhere in the piece.
Civilisation has been described by Finnissy as being ‘about the dangers
of civilizing musical experience’.40 To my mind the implications of this are
both political, referring to the subjugation of some cultures by others, but
also aesthetic, implying the dangers of replacing actual musical expression
with merely the signs of expression. Three of the movements begin Primitivo,
changing expressive tenor to Colto during their course. Two of those move-
ments break down into a kind of musical chaos at the end, but the fourth
ends with highly expressive Second Viennese material. The final movement
is a Haydn-esque parody that ‘creeps away’ unsettlingly and curiously at the
end. The jump cuts and bizarre placement of repeats in this movement (which
caused multiple complete break downs in rehearsal) are clearly designed to be
disruptive and Finnissy told us that he had used a random number generator
(as he has done to determine various musical parameters in numerous works)
to choose the position of the repeats. The beginning of this movement is
shown in Ex. 8.4. As he said in public immediately before a performance of
Civilisation, ‘I used to enjoy the unpredictability of performance, so a lot of
the stuff I devise is deliberately off-centre’.
There are two predominantly lyrical movements with the viola and
cello playing off one another as a pair, disrupted by the violins, but the
really striking thing about this piece is its concern with what happens to mate-
rial when it is ‘civilized’, and it seems no surprise that Finnissy would select
the string quartet as the medium of choice for this exploration. The transfor-
mation of Romanian folk melodies, and music from the Solomon Islands and
African tribes, into ‘Beethoven’ (the second movement specifically alludes
to the ‘Heiliger Dankgesang’ from op. 132) and ‘Haydn’ – and others – is
extremely discomforting, not least because the Primitivo music is so boldly
articulated that the ensuing ‘cultivated’ music almost cannot help but sound
saccharine.41 I think this discomfort is an essential component of Finnissy’s
understanding of the medium and that the last movement can be read as an
attempt to reclaim heritage by deliberately placing it off centre.
Seen in brief here, as a whole, it seems clear that there is an overarching
identity to Finnissy’s quartet music that speaks to his general compositional
interests but also explicitly to the history of the quartet. In his quartet music
we see distinctive and surprising instincts for revealing the historical roots
of the ensemble, for shaping the way the players listen to one another, for
214 Neil Heyde
Ex. 8.4 Finnissy, Civilisation (2004, rev. 2012–13), vi, bars 1–22. © Verlag Neue
Musik, Berlin 2014.
dramatising the listening process for an audience, and, perhaps most compel-
lingly, for differentiating the individual voices. It is this last aspect perhaps,
that makes it clear that Finnissy’s music belongs at the heart of the string
quartet repertoire. As he put it in conversation:
[…] the instrument and the player sound together. They are actually
indivisible to me.42
This idea that the person and the instrument are a kind of fused identity is
perhaps what allows Finnissy, neither a string nor quartet player, to be able
to enter the world that Keller would deny him. By identifying with the play-
ers as individuals, and by identifying with the performance environment as a
place for revealing the thought, play and work of individuals, he speaks to a
long tradition of understanding the quartet as a kind of conversation – from
player to player, players to composers, and players and composers to audi-
ences. This is not so far from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s famous letter
to Zelter of 9 November 1829 that introduces the frequently repeated idea of
‘four reasonable people conversing’, in which he too is struck by the individu-
ality of the instruments:
Whenever I was in Berlin, I would seldom miss Möser’s quartet

evenings. For me, such artistic presentations were always the most intel-
ligible forum for appreciating instrumental music, in which one heard
four reasonable people conversing, as it were, believed their discourse
to be profitable and became acquainted with the individuality of the
instruments.43
Notes
1 Private email to Neil Heyde, 2016.
2 The inner life of the cello, 27 November 2015, Royal Academy of Music. Neil
Heyde, cellos from the Royal Academy Collection, and Zubin Kanga, piano,
with Michael Finnissy in conversation, 2016: at www.ram.ac.uk/research/
research-output/the-inner-life-of-the-cello (accessed 17 July 2018).
3 See interview video at the above link.
4 Early in the rehearsal Michael offered ‘to have a rampage through the sources’
with a view to letting me have the materials, adding ‘I’m not sure what purpose
that would serve’. Chi Mei Ricercari rehearsal (video document): Neil Heyde,
cellos, Zubin Kanga, piano, Michael Finnissy. Royal Academy of Music, 24
September 2015.
5 Schoenberg to Rudolf Kolisch, 27 July 1932, in Arnold Schoenberg, Letters,
edited Erwin Stein, translated Eithne Wilkins and Ernst Kaiser (London: Faber
& Faber, 1964), pp. 164–5. The German original reads: ‘Ich kann nicht oft genug
davor warnen, diese Analysen zu überschätzen, da sie ja doch nur zu dem führen,
was ich immer bekämpft habe: zur Erkenntnis, wie es gemacht ist; während ich
immer erkennen geholfen habe: was es ist!’; Arnold Schönberg, Briefe, selected
and edited Erwin Stein (Mainz: Schott, 1958), p. 179.
6 Finnissy, at Chi Mei Ricercari rehearsal, 24 September 2015.
7 It is the placement of the octave in the first chord that is most strikingly unusual.
The permutations combine the eighteenth-century sarabande gesture with pitch
manipulations typical of Stravinsky – as for example in the opening chords of the
Violin Concerto (1931).
8 Finnissy, at Chi Mei Ricercari rehearsal, 24 September 2015.
9 Ibid.
10 Ibid.
11 Ibid.
12 I would like to thank the Royal Academy of Music for the temporary use of the
instruments from the collection, and in particular to thank the students with
216 Neil Heyde
instruments on loan who gave them up for the event and the instrument curator,
Barbara Meyer, for her assistance throughout the process.
13 The instruments chosen were:
I — Adagio non tanto, espansivo … Allegro molto
Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume, Paris, c.1850.
II — Discorso drammatico
William Forster II, London, c. 1790.
III — Sognando, poco misterioso
Giovanni Battista Rogeri, Brescia, c. 1690.
IV — Sostenuto
Joseph Grubaugh and Sigrun Seifert, California, 2013.
V — Andante sostenuto fugato
Gagliano (possibly Ferdinand), Naples, c. 1760.
VI — Affettuoso e piano. Cantabile … Giga
Francesco Rugeri, Cremona, c.1695.
VII — (N = 100) … Molto Tranquillo
Giulio Degani, Venice, 1906.
14 It emerged late in the process that Finnissy had written no. 6 first (Affettuoso e
piano. Cantabile). This was also the first piece Zubin and I mapped ‘definitively’
to a cello from the collection. Retrospectively, it seems clear that this is because
it is the most obviously expressive and cellistic of the set, and it was mapped to
the obvious ‘star’ from the Academy collection.
15 In the talk given prior to the 27 November 2015 performance I made note of
the Hill family’s assertion that even by the turn of the twentieth century focus
had shifted away from the centre of the cello’s range to its extremes. W. Henry
Hill, Arthur F. Hill, and Alfred E. Hill. Antonio Stradivari, His Life and Work
(1644–1737) (New York: Dover, 1963), pp. 119–20.
16 Rehearsal on 24 September 2015, see notes above.
17 Hans Keller, The Great Haydn Quartets: Their Interpretation (London: J.M.
Dent, 1986), p. 2.
18 Private discussion with NH prior to the conference from which the following
quotations are taken.
19 Performance Studies Network (PSN) Conference, Bath Spa University, 16 July
2016.
20 The reference to ‘guys’ is picking up an observation I had made earlier about
Michael’s description elsewhere of the quartet as ‘four guys in a room’. Michael
goes on here to make it clear that ‘guys’ is a generic term and nothing to do with
gender, as all of the ‘guys’ may in fact be ‘girls’.
21 PSN Conference, 16 July 2016.
22 Items 1–5 are recorded on Michael Finnissy, Kreutzer Quartet. Metier, MSV
CD92011 (1999); Items 6, and 9–11 are due to be released on Metier, MSV
CD28581 (2018); Items 7 and 8 are recorded on Michael Finnissy: Second and
Third String Quartets. NMC, NMCD180 (2012).
23 Finnissy’s description from public conversation, PSN Conference, 2016. He is
using ‘Radio 3’ (the BBC’s classical music station) to suggest the idea of a shared
musical culture. It is possible that he uses this formulation in playful reference to
Hans Keller who played a defining role in the establishment of the identity of the
station.
24 Christopher Fox. ‘Some Recent British String Quartets’, Contemporary Music
Review, vol. 33 (2014), pp. 266–80; Roger Redgate, ‘The Chamber Music’, in
Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox, and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground:
The Music of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998).
25 See Philip Thomas’ discussion of Finnissy’s use of this strategy in Chapter 2 of
the present volume.
26 Finnissy also draws upon this source for material for his piece for pianist wearing
Morris Bells, Kemp’s Morris (2018).
27 It was also common in the nineteenth century for the cellist to sit next to the
first violin, as can be seen in many photographs and drawings (for example, the
Joachim Quartett).
28 PSN Conference, 2016.
29 See Richard Barrett in Chapter 15 of this volume for more on instrumental
‘behaviours’ in Finnissy.
30 See Chapter 2 of this volume.
31 Private communication with Paul Patterson, then Head of Composition,
2008.
32 The audience response at a Kreutzer Quartet performance in Munich many years
ago (the date cannot be confirmed) in which not one person in the large hall
turned around to see what was happening behind them was the subject of much
discussion afterwards as the reaction was atypical. Most audiences have felt the
need to ‘understand’ what was happening by watching all parts of the process.
34 On Finnissy’s wider relationship to musical genres, see Ian Pace in Chapter 3 of
the present volume.
35 Amanda Bayley. ‘Ethnographic research into Contemporary String Quartet
rehearsal’, Ethnomusicology Forum, vol. 20, no.3 (2011), pp. 385–411.
36 Private conversation with the Kreuzer Quartet. Date unknown.
37 A discussion of a number of aspects of Finnissy’s notation in this quartet can be
found in Amanda Bayley and Neil Heyde. ‘Communicating through notation:
Michael Finnissy’s Second String Quartet from composition to performance’.
Music Performance Research. vol. 8 (2017), pp. 80–97.
38 See Joseph Harrop, ‘The Rhetoric of the Second Violin: a study of perfor-
mance practice in the string quartet’, (PhD thesis: University of London (Royal
Academy of Music), 2006).
39 Keller, The Great Haydn Quartets, p. 9.
41 Finnissy employs comparable strategies in The History of Photography in Sound,
especially in the chapters North American Spirituals and Unsere Afrikareise. See
Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study of
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), pp. 66–72,
73–95, 241–67 for more details on this.
43 Karl Robert Mandelkow (ed.), Goethe’s Briefe, Band IV: Briefe der Jahre
1821–1832 (Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1967), no. 1443, cited and
translated in John Irving, ‘The invention of tradition’, in Jim Samson (ed.) The
Cambridge History of Nineteenth Century Music (Cambridge and New York:
Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 178.
Bibliography
Bayley, Amanda. ‘Ethnographic research into Contemporary String Quartet
rehearsal’. Ethnomusicology Forum, vol. 20, no.3 (2011), pp. 385–411.
Bayley, Amanda; and Clarke, Michael. ‘Analytical Representations of Creative
Processes in Michael Finnissy’s Second String Quartet’. Journal of Interdisciplinary
Music Studies, vol 3, issues 1–2 (2009), pp. 139–57.
218 Neil Heyde
Bayley, Amanda; and Clarke, Michael. ‘Analysing Michael Finnissy’s Second String
Quartet: A Multimedia Interactive Approach’. In Christian Utz (ed.), Music Theory
and Interdisciplinarity. 8th Congress of the Gesellschaft für Musiktheorie Graz
2008 (musik.theorien der gegenwart) (Saarbrücken: PFAU, 2010), pp. 319–34.
Fox, Christopher. ‘Some Recent British String Quartets’. Contemporary Music
Review, vol. 33 (2014), pp. 266–80.
Harrop, Joseph. ‘The Rhetoric of the Second Violin: a study of performance prac-
tice in the string quartet’. PhD thesis: University of London (Royal Academy of
Music), 2006.
Heyde, Neil. ‘Communicating through notation: Michael Finnissy’s Second String
Quartet from composition to performance’. Music Performance Research. vol. 8
(2017), pp. 80–97.
Hill, W. Henry; Hill, Arthur F.; and Hill, Alfred E. Antonio Stradivari, His Life and
Work (1644–1737). New York: Dover, 1963.
Irving, John. ‘The invention of tradition’. In Jim Samson (ed.) The Cambridge History
of Nineteenth Century Music (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2001), pp. 178–212.
Keller, Hans. The Great Haydn Quartets: Their Interpretation. London: J.M. Dent,
1986.
Mandelkow, Karl Robert, ed. Goethe’s Briefe, Band IV: Briefe der Jahre 1821–1832.
Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1967.
Redgate, Roger. ‘The Chamber Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox,
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 135–68.
Schönberg, Arnold. Briefe, selected and edited Erwin Stein. Mainz: Schott, 1958.
Schoenberg, Arnold. Letters, edited Erwin Stein, translated Eithne Wilkins and Ernst
Kaiser. London: Faber & Faber, 1964.
Finnissy: Music for String Quartet. Kreutzer Quartet. Metier, MSV 92011 (1999).
Michael Finnissy, Second and Third String Quartets. NMC CD180 (2012).
Michael Finnissy String Quartets. Kreutzer Quartet; Linda Merrick, clarinet. Metier,
MSV 28581 (2018).
Bayley, Amanda; and Clarke, Michael. Evolution and collaboration: the composition,
rehearsal and performance of Finnissy’s Second String Quartet. DVD: PALATINE.
2011.
Chi Mei Ricercari rehearsal (video document): Neil Heyde, cellos, Zubin Kanga,
piano, Michael Finnissy. Royal Academy of Music, 24 September 2015.
The inner life of the cello, 27 November 2015, Royal Academy of Music.
Neil Heyde, cellos from the Royal Academy Collection, and Zubin Kanga, piano,
with Michael Finnissy in conversation, 2016: at www.ram.ac.uk/research/research-
output/the-inner-life-of-the-cello (accessed 17 July 2018).
Section C
Compositional considerations
Taylor & Francis
9 Notational and non-notational
paradigms in Finnissy’s music
Nigel McBride
As seen in Chapter 4, Finnissy’s attitudes towards musical notation

and scoring vary in terms of their co-dependence with particular musi-
cal works. As also argued in that chapter, however, the roles of specific
musical notations are more than incidental to their musical works; they
serve to fix their identity, and provide a means with which to realise the
work. Within these notations, Finnissy establishes and utilises multiple
paradigms, which variously transform a passively indicative role for nota-
tion to one which is actively compositional. In this chapter, I will exam-
ine Finnissy’s notational paradigms for their compositional and musical
content.
Due to the sheer size of Finnissy’s catalogue, an exhaustive investiga-
tion of his notation is beyond the scope of the present chapter. However,
an identification of specific paradigms from key works can still provide
a general framework for exploring Finnissy’s notation. Which paradigms
should qualify for examination, and why? I previously discussed the notion
of ‘paradigmatic works’, paradigmatic because they exemplify the causal
relationship between a work’s performing-means, and the musical work
itself. This category will serve as a sieve through which Finnissy’s notation
will be filtered. The major questions raised by standard notation have been
multiply addressed elsewhere,1 so this discussion will focus upon that which
is specific to Finnissy’s works, and has previously received little comment.
The paradigms that will be discussed are exceptional because they sit outside
of, and often against, the general paradigm Jerrold Levinson attributes to
Beethoven, and ‘most “classical” compositions, and effectively all from 1750
to the present’.2
Methods
In Chapter 4, I proposed a synthetic model for paradigmatic works that
fuses aspects of Jerrold Levinson and Nelson Goodman’s ontologies,
which constructs the musical work as a composite of the performing-
means and the sound structure it indicates. Goodman’s notational/
non-notational classification was used to show the strict relationship between
222 Nigel McBride
a musical notation and any potential resulting sound structure. Levinson
proposed that:
An instance of a musical work W is a sound event which conforms

completely to the sound/performance-means structure of W and which
exhibits the required connection to the indicative activity wherein W’s
composer A creates W.3
The performing-means structure is in part subject to Goodman’s nota-

tional/non-notational classification; in part because the structure is itself
a more complex conglomeration of musical notations, instrumental forces,
and musical-historic contexts. Goodman’s classification is dependent upon
notational differentiation, in which the content of musical inscriptions,
marks, and utterances, is unambiguous and fully determinate.4 According
to Goodman:
A system is notational, then, if and only if all objects complying with

inscriptions of a given character belong to the same compliance class
and we can, theoretically, determine that each mark belongs to, and each
object complies with inscriptions of, at most one particular character.5
Compliance, in Goodman’s ontology, is the correlation between an inscrip-

tion and what it denotes. In Ex. 9.1 the marking A4 has as its compliant a
pitched tone within the tuning system that corresponds with A4 (which, for
most purposes is a tone at 440Hz); a ᅄ in the context of the metronome mark-
ing ᅄ = 60, has as its compliant a duration of 1/s. It is a composite inscrip-
tion of both pitched and rhythmic information, for whichever instrument is
indicated in the performing-means.6
Ex. 9.1 A4 indication.
As the example above indicates no specific instrument, the compliance-class

of the figure can be achieved with any instrument capable of producing the
tone indicated in the inscription, which lies within the range of almost every
instrument common in Western art music.7 There is no process by which
a retrieval of a notation can be made compliant: whatever is denoted by a
symbol, or inscription, or utterance, or mark, is by definition compliant with
it.8 Goodman notes, that in any given system, many things may comply with
a single inscription (such as the example of a free cadenza), which collectively
comprise the ‘compliance-class of the inscription under that system’.9
Notational and non-notational paradigms 223
For Goodman, the quality of being compliant is only attributable to struc-
tures which are notational; musical elements which are non-notational are by
definition not capable of having a compliance-class, and as such cannot have
compliants. Goodman, in summarising his definition of a notational system,
states that ‘the properties required of a notational system are unambiguity and
syntactic and semantic disjointness and differentiation’.10 It is this framework
that I will use to identify the notational and compositional consequences of
Finnissy’s inscriptions. Further to Goodman’s system, two additional con-
cepts are introduced. The quality of ‘compliance-potential’ will indicate nota-
tions which for one reason or other are expected to fail compliance in retrieval
as a result of context, not through lack of notational potential (see the section
‘Extended N inscriptions’, further on). Rather than considering compound
inscriptions (such as Ex. 9.1, where the combination of the clef, stave, and
notehead position relative to them, together have a compliance) as being
either notational or non-notational, they will be considered in terms of what
notational information they do convey. For example, and as seen in Ex. 9.3,
if a pitch is indicated without any rhythmic values, this will be considered as a
notational subsystem in which those inscriptions have compliance-classes. For
clarity, from this point onward, ‘N/NN’ will be used to refer to Goodman’s
notational/non-notational model, with N referring to inscriptions which are
notational, and NN referring to inscriptions that are non-notational.
Compliance
Ex. 9.2 is an extract from Finnissy’s piano piece De toutes flours (1990),
which can be analysed in these terms.
This passage can be considered N: all of the indicated musical features are
fully determinate, and fixed. Considered in the context of Goodman’s model,
it is, at least theoretically if not practically, possible to consistently retrieve
the indicated sound structure from this extract. The speed of each rhythmic
duration is specified through the tempo marking, each pitch is clearly differ-
entiated from the other, and the dynamic volume of the passage is indicated,
although the nature of conveying material loudness is an entire debate in
itself and not considered by Goodman as being a N inscription.
Ex. 9.2 Finnissy, opening of De toutes flours (1990). © Oxford University Press
1998.
224 Nigel McBride
By contrast, Déjà fait for unspecified ensemble (2006) features two
inscription systems, one of which contains little to no N elements,
which Finnissy refers to as ‘a discontinuous accompaniment’, and is not
potentially-compliant:
Ex. 9.3 Finnissy, from Déjà fait (2006). © Michael Finnissy.
The indicated pitches have no reference clef to indicate their absolute pitch
value, there is no rhythmic or metric information, and no dynamic is speci-
fied. The other inscription system employed in this work is what Finnissy
terms ‘conventionally written material’, which is subject to the standard nota-
tional conventions associated with the standard notational paradigm.11 This
example corresponds to Goodman’s discussion of multiple notational sub-
systems within a work, which may have multiple compliant performances.
So while the inscriptions in Ex. 9.3 do not have any potentially-compliant
performances, due to the nature of the inscribed elements, the actual work
Déjà fait may as a whole have multiply compliant performances. Despite
the fact that Goodman’s N model can be applied to Finnissy’s ‘convention-
ally written material’, Finnissy’s inscriptions for the accompaniment mate-
rial have no compliance themselves as an N system. They can, however,
have compliance in the context of the wider work. Finnissy states that the
accompaniment material should be ‘played in either treble or bass’, which
allows the pitched material two compliance-classes (for treble, and bass), and
‘[w]henever elements of the material are repeated a different ‘reading’ should
be made each time – either of clef and register, duration and tempo, articula-
tion, or dynamic’, which further limits the range of performances that might
be compliant.12 Even though Finnissy’s textual direction is not itself a musi-
cal notation, it serves the function of contextualising the inscriptions that
have no potential-compliant, and as such establish a retrieval framework that
the NN elements can comply with.
Composite N inscriptions
Composite N inscriptions are those inscription by Finnissy which comprise
some N inscription and additional contextual information supplied through
other NN inscriptions.
In his chapter on Finnissy’s chamber works in Uncommon Ground, Roger
Redgate notes that Finnissy is ‘acutely conscious of the relationship between
the psychological nature and structural function of his notation’, echoing
Finnissy’s own comments from his interview in the same book.13 The exam-
ple that Finnissy gives of notational distinctions between half-notes and
sixty-fourth notes, which I illustrate in Ex. 9.4, is itself quite revealing:
Ex. 9.4 Illustration of Finnissy’s example of notational distinctions in

‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’.
Despite the vast notational distinction between (a) and (b), the sounding con-
sequence – at least theoretically – is identical. However, the hemidemisemiqua-
ver figuration contains, and implies, significantly more notation information.
There is no capacity for minims to be beamed together in standard notation,
so metrical groupings through beaming are not possible for (a), while they
are for (b), and seen in (c). Aside from the notational distinction, smaller
durational values have a specific historical and musical connotation, which
despite more recent compositional trends, is still prevalent in musical peda-
gogy. As such, smaller durational values have the connotations of being more
virtuosic, more intricate, more complex, and typically faster, and it is not
unreasonable to anticipate that these characteristics affect not only how a
performer might engage with the durations, but also the preparation of such
figures. One might be inclined to practise (b) as a set of individual beats, and
as such emphasise that fact through a slight reduction of their durational
value, as where (c) might be more likely to be prepared as a grouped rhythm,
and as such less emphasis or preparation is applied to the individual attacks,
and more on achieving a uniform rhythmic profile. Ex. 9.5 shows what this
might mean in the context of an actual Finnissy work.14
Ex. 9.5 Finnissy, All the trees they are so high for solo violin (1977), a passage in the
original form, then with octupled note values. © Michael Finnissy.
226 Nigel McBride
In composite N inscriptions, the notation has full compliance-potential, but
also contains additional contextual information that aids in the comprehen-
sion of the musical material. Whether this is a more abstract and psychologi-
cal composite or a more clearly indicated one, depends on the context of the
material. Explicitly referring to NN inscriptions, and their relation to the
retrieval of a work from a score, Goodman says:
Thus the verbal language of tempos is not notational. The tempo words
cannot be integral parts of a score insofar as the score serves the function
of identifying a work from performance to performance. No departure
from the indicated tempo disqualifies a performance as an instance –
however wretched – of the work defined by the score. For these tempo
specifications cannot be accounted integral parts of the defining score,
but are rather auxiliary directions whose observance or nonobservance
affects the quality of a performance but not the identity of the work.15
While Goodman is referring to tempo indications such as presto, allegro

vivace, allegro assai, and so forth, the conclusion he derives is quite clear,
and equally applicable to the sort of composite N inscriptions directly under
consideration.16
An example of what constitutes an explicit composite N inscription is seen
in the previously quoted Ex. 9.2 from De toutes flours, where Finnissy indi-
cates the source of borrowed material in the tenor line.17 While the whole of
Finnissy’s piano piece uses elements from the triplum of Machaut’s ballade
B31,18 it is seen in its most intact form in the tenor line, where it is presented
in a comparatively unaltered state, having been subjected to minor rhythmic
transformations, and transposition down a minor 2nd, assuming Finnissy’s
source was the Guillame de Machaut: Musikalische Werke.19 Left unindicated,
Finnissy’s work would have as its contextual information: a piece for piano,
composed by Michael Finnissy, at such a point in time, and other technical
details. However, the indication of the source of the material appends addi-
tional contextual information to the list of qualities that the notation already
possesses, namely some of those associated with Machaut, and with B31
more specifically. Put plainly, what has happened is that Finnissy has made
it known to those who have seen his score that Machaut’s work is a point of
reference to his own. No singular conclusion can be drawn for the implica-
tions for a performer or scholar of Finnissy’s work, but it does significantly
expand the range of factors for consideration when scrutinising the piece,
evoking constructions of medievalism, its associated performance practices
(such as they have been established), contemporary composers’ allusions to
early music, and so on.
Another example of a composite N inscription can be seen in Ex. 9.6,
the opening of North American Spirituals, from Finnissy’s The History of
Photography in Sound. Unlike in the example from De toutes flours, the
composite N inscription seen in Ex. 9.2, Ex. 9.6 is not a composite of an N
Ex. 9.6 Finnissy, opening of North American Spirituals (1997–8), from The History
of Photography in Sound. © Oxford University Press 2004.
inscription and an inscription with no compliance-potential; rather, it is a

refactoring of an N inscription and its surrounding N context. While in De
toutes flours Finnissy added extra contextual information by marking an
explicit attribution, in North American Spirituals Finnissy adds contextual
information to the N inscriptions by implying a musical tradition also indi-
cated through the inscription of the material itself. The tenor line is at the
forefront of the musical texture, made clear by the fact that its noteheads
are larger than the other notes surrounding it, and the explicit indication of
which voice holds the melody.20 On a strictly musical level, the notational
strategy leaves no ambiguity as to the balancing of this passage: the upper
voices are indicated to be played mp, with the tenor line marked f; the use
of smaller notes surrounding it almost implies an ossia around the main
material, a piano reduction, or the visual style used for ornaments marked in
certain scores of the Romantic virtuoso tradition.
Extended N inscriptions
Extended N inscriptions are those notations in Finnissy’s work which have
full potential-compliance, but other factors undermine their retrieval. There
are prime examples throughout Finnissy’s work, but a particularly relevant
example is found in Piano Concerto No.4 (Ex. 9.7) – which is among Finnissy’s
most technically demanding pieces.
The tempo for this passage is marked at ‘Allegro [ᅄ = 132]’, which means that
the duration of an unmodified quaver is 0.366/s. Some of the registral leaps at this
tempo are challenging enough (the jump from G7 to C4 in the top stave is three
octaves and a 5th!); when combined with the complexity of the multi-layered
Ex. 9.7 Finnissy, from Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978, rev. 1996). © Michael Finnissy.
228 Nigel McBride
rhythmic relationships and the voice-leading, result in a passage that under-
mines the reliable retrieval of the indicated sound structure. In such extreme
circumstances, the methods proposed by Goodman begin to fracture.While
the passage in Ex. 9.7 theoretically has full compliant-potential, the only realm
in which such a compliant retrieval would be possible is from a mechanical
production. Yet, a mechanical production does not solve the N issue in this
passage; it is beyond the present means for digital or mechanical devices to per-
form these paradigmatic musical works. They can accurately retrieve indicated
sound structures to a degree that is vastly beyond the possibilities of human
performers, but they do not have the capacity to make sense of the musico-
historical context of the musical work, which has been previously argued to
be an intrinsic and central component of a musical work’s ontology. As such,
some other method must be found to account for such musical moments.21
As argued in Chapter 4, Goodman’s N/NN fails in practice, as his system
of retrieval and compliance is predicated on a subjective understanding of
perception. In the context of Goodman’s model, an implicit tension resides
between the retrieval of musical works from notation, and the musical ideal
that the notation represents, due to Goodman’s system’s focus on notation’s
qualities, rather than accounting for the physical dimensions of performance.
In fact, it is seen that all musical notations indicate an ideal sound struc-
ture that is variously unobtainable; a fully compliant retrieval of Yankee
Doodle or Twinkle is as likely as that of Finnissy’s Piano Concerto No 4.22
Of course, Yankee Doodle and Twinkle present fewer obstacles in both their
retrieval and recognisable comprehension, but as these categories are so hope-
lessly subjective, they are not a meaningful way to either measure or define
performance, which as an activity is more likely still to be unmeaningfully
unmeasurable. Consequently, a notational situation is presented in which
an N inscription, which has a compliant in the hypothetical, is indicated that
presents no viable compliance-classes from a performative view. As such, it
becomes necessary to view such N inscriptions through the lens of an NN
inscription, to which multiple, rather than a single, compliance-class belongs.
Goodman discusses such a situation in relation to English language:
in object-English, neither a “ktn” nor a “k” has any compliant. Not only
may compound inscriptions happen to be the least units with any compli-
ants but an inscription compounded of inscriptions that have compliants
may or may not have compliants; in object-English, though “green” and
“horse” have compliants, “green horse” does not.23
By their definition, scores depict a musical ideal.24 Most significantly, the

extended N inscription, as typified in Ex. 9.7, forces Goodman’s ontology
to admit that musical ideals specify not only specific notational systems and
sub-systems, but also non-notational systems which are only indicated implic-
itly. In Chapter 4, I discussed Goodman’s acknowledgement that any score
can employ multiple notational sub-systems, but in doing so, any additional
sub-system that is non-notational requires the deployment of choice by a
performer in how to retrieve any indicated information. Goodman’s example
of both figured-bass and free cadenzas admits that they offer ‘free choice
between figured-bass and specific notation’ and that ‘[t]he performer, again,
is given wide scope’.25 Rather than dismantle the architecture that he has
erected, Goodman accounts for these NN elements within the context of his
ontology by stating that ‘the language of musical scores is not purely nota-
tional but divides into notational subsystems.’26 Such notational subsystem
are indicated through extended N inscriptions. An ideal musical sound struc-
ture is indicated in N terms, but any practical retrieval is inhibited through its
own definition. The fact that the indicated material is specific in its composed
elements is a telling sign of how the specific extended N inscription is to be
treated. As will be demonstrated shortly, Finnissy does employ inscriptions
which either contain no, or diminished, compliance-potential, so such a pas-
sage as indicated in Ex. 9.7 must be taken at face value. Ian Pace, in discuss-
ing other musical passages with similar retrieval issues, proposes a method in
dealing with such inscriptions.27 Additionally, in discussing the passage from
Piano Concerto No. 4, he offers this:
My feeling is that this notation creates a type of impossible ideal, which

one can strive for in order to push oneself to the limits, which will gener-
ate a certain type of result even if one falls short of complete accuracy.28
Semi-N inscriptions
These are inscriptions which lack one of more of the attributes needed to
have full compliance-potential, but do retain some compliance-potential ele-
ments. Most prevalent in Finnissy’s scores are pitched inscriptions which lack
N durational information. A recurrent device that occurs in the History is
that which Pace categorises as ‘[u]nmeasured music: Grace note interjections,
pointillistic gestures’,29 as in Ex. 9.8.
While their relationship between the N potential and its inscription is
largely unchanged when used, the compositional impetus can vary wildly
Ex. 9.8 Finnissy, from Le réveil de l’intraitable realité (1999–2000), from The History
of Photography in Sound. © Oxford University Press 2004.
230 Nigel McBride
from piece to piece, and even within the same work. Ex. 9.8, which is the
first full instance of this kind of material and inscription in The History,
arrives without announcement, or if that is not the case, at least emerges
from the preceding material. In this specific example, Finnissy provides no
indication of the precise nature of this notational paradigm. In terms of
potential N compliance, there are indications that a new sub-system begins
at the Eᅈ6 in the middle of the bar, where the quasi-quaver inscription no
longer functions as it did previously. For example, the quasi-quavers begin to
behave quite unlike quavers would in paradigmatic notation; the placement
of the B#2 that is positioned just after the {F#4 – D5} dyad contradicts
the standard proportional 2:1 hierarchical relationship between rhythmic
units in conventional notation, so it cannot be assumed that this is how they
are to be interpreted. There are some clearly maintained N elements, such
as the pitch indications, for which there is no ambiguity. So, what remains
is the rhythmic ambiguity. Even within this now ambiguous framework,
there are indications as to how the passage might be retrieved: in this passage,
and others like it, some canonical rhythmic elements are retained, including
crotchets, quavers, and the inclusion of a third duration, which is the stemless
note head. In the specific example in Ex. 9.8, a metronomic indication from
the start of the section (page 28), of [ᅄ= 108] would still be in effect, from
which a base duration for the quasi-quavers and crotchets could be derived.
There is no precedent for the stemless notehead (as seen with the D#7), but
the compositional action here quite clearly indicates that the duration is not
specified, and as such it must be inferred that it is at the discretion of the per-
former. Like in the example of extended N inscriptions, semi-N inscriptions
of this order have multiple compliance-classes which they denote.
Finnissy treats this particular paradigm in a few different ways. Later on in
The History, he explicitly frames them in a proportional context:
Ex. 9.9 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise (1998), from The History of Photography
in Sound. © Oxford University Press 2004.
Ex. 9.9 shows another configuration in which these semi-N inscriptions
appear. Interestingly in these sections, the actual stave itself becomes a part
of the N context. The direction, that ‘[e]ach line: approx. 7 seconds’, bounds
the duration of the enclosed inscriptions to the dimensions of the stave lines,
resulting in a subsystem that suggests certain compliant-classes. The most
practical way to approach realising such a section is the one used by Pace
when performing this passage. The bar is equally divided into seven sections,
corresponding to the indicated c. 7’ duration (see Ex. 9.10 for a graphic
realisation of this). Doing as such offers a general indication as to what
pitch events happen when, and generally how long they should be sustained
for.30 Although not necessary, this proportional notation could be combined
with the strategy proposed for Ex. 9.7, in which the 2:1 ration between
quaver-like and crotchet-like inscriptions is maintained, while the grace-
note-like and unstemmed inscriptions both occur outside of the implied
tempo framework.
Ex. 9.10 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise, with lines to indicate placing of attacks.
© Oxford University Press 2004.
The points of strong vertical alignment at seconds 1’, 3’, 5’, and 6’, may indi-
cate that this method of analysis corresponds to Finnissy’s composition of
this passage. Consequently, this notational paradigm has as its compliance-
classes all those retrievals which approximately engage the specified pitches
between approximately the durations specified. Much more can be said
about the role of this paradigm in the History which is beyond the scope of
the present discussion. Pace, in his monograph on the History, details the
compositional process of these pointillistic sections, and offers analysis of
their potential poetics within the context of the History more widely.31
Examples of semi-N inscriptions that treat rhythm in a similar way to
the two examples discussed previously can be found throughout Finnissy’s
works. Some notable examples include afar (1966–7), which uses both inde-
terminately durationed pitch inscriptions, and a large finale in fifty sections
that sets the duration of the semi-breve ‘as long as the breath can be held’.
232 Nigel McBride
‘Naked original skin beneath our dreams & robes of thought’, from Beat
Generation Ballads, indicates a system similar to that seen in Ex. 9.8 and 9.9.
Semi-N inscriptions are not limited to situations that redefine rhythmic
relationships. In Casual Nudity (2000–1) (Ex. 9.11), the parts for bass flute,
guitar, double bass, and piano each contain ‘unpitched’ material, in which
rhythms are indicated without any pitch information beyond general indica-
tions relative to a central stave line:
Ex. 9.11 Finnissy, from Casual Nudity (2000–1). © Michael Finnissy.
The vibraphone part does not contain any such unpitched material of this sort,
while its performer is also responsible for another intriguing percussion part
in the score. Finnissy is quite explicit in his requirements for these passages:
7) The unpitched material is to be played on the performers’ clothing,

body, or the floor-space around them. Only minimal (and ‘unconven-
tional’) use should be made of the instruments. The focus should clearly
be on interesting, and audible, SOUNDS. Additional sound-sources and
means to active them should be avoided in preference to tapping, scrap-
ing, stamping, clapping, rubbing and slapping!32
Such inscriptions in Casual Nudity have as compliance-classes all such reali-

sations that meet Finnissy’s requirements, which can be very many.
Semi-N inscriptions need not necessarily be considered as entirely self-
contained paradigms. Much as was demonstrated with composite N inscrip-
tions, semi-N inscriptions can comprise contextual information which
alludes to various traditions and interpretive strategies. A particularly
common trope that reoccurs in Finnissy’s music is an allusion to the sung
liturgical music commonly associated with the Roman rites. His short piano
piece Cibavit eos (1990) (Ex. 9.12), is an example of this paradigm.
Ex. 9.12 Finnissy, opening of Cibavit eos (1990). © Oxford University Press 1998.
Although the musical context for Finnissy’s piece is on the surface quite
removed from any sacred context, his piece is a reworking of the work attrib-
uted to Mozart, Cibavit eos, KV 44.33 Without an explicit attribution, the
presentation of the unmeasured material in this way creates a strong visual
allusion to the tradition of liturgical chant. The implication that this pas-
sage is to be realised in a manner that alludes to the liturgical tradition
is compelling, however, as this is a composite inscription, and not strictly
N, is it not possible to evaluate the compliance-classes that belong to it in
terms of their pseudo-liturgical delivery. Similar examples to this one are
recurrent throughout Finnissy’s works; June (2003), for piano trio, features
an entirely unmeasured violin part, set against N material in the cello and
piano part. Many of the considerations in Ex. 9.8, 9.9, and 9.11 also apply
here. Although the composite N paradigm is not applicable through a clear
allusion to another kind of musical practice, it is in fact still relevant in
such examples. In the context of June, and other works which feature this
configuration, the fact that a semi-N inscription is set against N material
creates a composite-semi-N paradigm. The setting of two systems of inscrip-
tion against each other is both a salient issue in terms of the identity of the
work as a whole, and a vital compositional decision. Due to the pervasive
nature of the ‘psychological’ aspect of musical inscriptions, it is hard to
imagine that any of Finnissy’s inscriptions are not subject to the composite
paradigm in some shape or form.
NN inscriptions
There are relatively few truly NN inscriptions in Finnissy’s output. When
they do occur, they are primarily in the ‘kit’ pieces produced for unspeci-
fied ensembles, such as Après-Midi Dada (2006), and Post-Christian Survival
Kit (2003), or in works inspired by others employing graphical means, such
as Babylon (1971) (whose notation resembles directly sections in scores of
Sylvano Bussotti).
Après-Midi Dada features ‘twelve “graphics”’ (such as Ex. 9.13) for reali-
sation by percussion and/or any other unpitched sound sources (including
electronic and pre-recorded).34
Unlike in semi-N inscriptions, the percussion graphics have no potential
compliant-classes, due to the fact that the inscriptions do not denote any
compliant. As ‘the properties required of a notational system are unambi-
guity and syntactic and semantic disjointness and differentiation’ are not
present in the indicated graphics, the system fails to be notational.35 It is
important to clarify that to categorise an inscription as NN is not a pejora-
tive evaluation, only an observation that it fails to constitute and determine
consistent musical material. If the issue of consistency is the primary deciding
factor as to whether or not an inscription denotes a musical material, then
some of the inscriptions addressed earlier would also fail to be musical mate-
rial; semi-N inscriptions have only a partial theoretical consistency, where
their identity is predicated upon having at least one consistently indicated
material parameter that does satisfy some aspects of notationality. It would
be erroneous to conclude then that all NN inscriptions are in some way
234 Nigel McBride
Ex. 9.13 Finnissy, graphic from Après-Midi Dada (2006). © Michael Finnissy.
supplementary to the musical work. They can still serve one of the primary
functions of a musical text by specifying sounding musical elements, even
though the general characteristic of the musical elements are variously unde-
fined. The example in Après-Midi Dada is not wholly permissible. In fact, the
elements are stipulated quite clearly: ‘percussion and/or any other unpitched
sound sources (including electronic and pre-recorded)’. As such, it would be
possible to differentiate between musical textures that satisfy this require-
ment, and those that do not, even if it were not possible to differentiate the
texture that belongs to the work Après-Midi Dada, and those belonging to
another work that stipulates the same texture. Taking into account the previ-
ous discussion on how the presentation of inscriptions can influence the way
in which the materials are conceived, the graphics of Après-Midi Dada can
conceivably indicate varying intensities and density, although the way in
which these inscriptions are to be determined is entirely at the discretion of
those realising them. It would be no more incorrect to interpret the graph-
ics as an indication that the white-space of the page indicates the density of
attacks than that the black marks do so, which would be an unorthodox, but
equally valid, reading. If one were to decide that the NN inscriptions were
incidental to the work and not interpret them, then while the NN materials
may remain, to use Goodman’s term for being without a compliant, ‘vacant’
both ontologically and in performance, such a decision would have wider
ramifications on the rest of the work. The identity of the work stipulates that
these graphics form a constituent, if undifferentiable, part of it; in a sense,
the work and its instructions form a composite semi-N inscription, in which
the semi-N inscriptions comprise the atomic components of those inscrip-
tions that truly are N, or have compliance-potential, and have the graphical
inscriptions as their contextual NN inscriptions.
Post-Christian Survival Kit makes use of a similar device for the indication
of unpitched percussion (see Ex. 9.14). The indication Finnissy gives in the
preface of the score for these inscriptions is:
These are maps, roughly indicating the performance-space. The sounds

are of two types indicated by different symbols: a small ‘v’ and a square-
block. The sounds should be discreet and of short duration, not neces-
sarily made by conventional percussion instruments. The players (any
number) follow the pathways indicated on the map. This element of the
texture is, nonetheless, ‘background’ and should in no way dominate or
distract.36
Unlike in Après-Midi Dada, which is particularly broad in terms of the

acceptable realisations of its graphics, Post-Christian Survival Kit limits the
character of sounds to two types, thus narrowing the number of compliant-
classes it shares with other similar works.
Ex. 9.14 Finnissy, graphic from Post-Christian Survival Kit (2003). © Oxford
University Press.
236 Nigel McBride
In Babylon, Finnissy utilises a NN inscription that is more obviously
musical than in the example from Après-Midi Dada.37 Ex. 9.15 has fea-
tures in common with the semi-N inscriptions discussed previously. Unlike
those semi-N inscriptions, the example in figure 13 as an inscription has no
potential-compliance of its own. Without the accompanying stave and bass
clef, all musical features would be at the discretion of the interpreter, as in
Ex. 9.13. While pitch information can be generally inferred from the contour
and positioning of the shaded field, no rhythmic information is supplied, and
no means of execution are indicated. As with the examples from Après-Midi
Dada and Post-Christian Survival Kit, it would not be possible to determine
whether the resulting sound structure produced from Ex. 9.15 is different to
another sound structure that is defined from similar constraints. The revised
version of Babylon (2001) removes the sorts of NN inscriptions as seen in
Ex. 9.15, but additionally contains graphics closer to that of Ex. 9.14, such
as in Ex. 9.16.
Ex. 9.15 Finnissy, graphic from Babylon (first version, 1971). © Universal Edition
1979.
Ex. 9.16 Finnissy, diagram from Babylon (revised 2001 version). © Michael
Finnissy.
Works and their inscriptions

By viewing Finnissy’s music through the apparatus of their inscriptions being
notational, or non-notational, and those compromises between them, it is
possible to see how the musical materials and inscriptions define their own
relation to their performance. The methods, derived, but not replicated, from
those of Goodman and Levinson, show the very central role of not only
the traditionally musical inscriptions, but also the contextual elements that
define their execution and content.
In the examples given of Finnissy’s kit pieces, there is no single verifi-
able sound structure that is Après-Midi Dada, or Post-Christian Survival kit.
However, all sound structures that indicate these works will have elements
in common with each other, and potentially to the sound structures of other
works. This is not unique to Finnissy’s music, however. Every work that has
ever indicated the note seen in Ex. 9.1 has that atomic sound structure in
common. For such an element to be common amongst musical works does
not weaken the identities of those that share them.
Works as a whole cannot have their identity bound to all inscriptions
having compliance-classes. While a work has a compliance-class as a member,
that compliance-class can function as the central aspect of the work’s iden-
tity. Other compliance-classes that pertain to it may variously reinforce or
diminish the works identity based on how many other inscriptions also may
share that compliance-class. As much as different compliant performances
can be of the same work, even if they do not all have the same identical
sound structure, down to the micro-timings of rhythms, and intonation of
pitches, performances can be compliant in the same way, even if some specific
inscriptions have no compliants.
Notes
1 There are a great many texts and sources which deal with the notation of musical
ideas, and the grammars and syntax of musical notations. See Gardner Read,
Contemporary Instrumental Techniques (New York: Schirmer Books, 1976); Music
Notation: A Manual of Modern Practice (New York: Taplinger, 1979); Twentieth
Century Microtonal Notation (New York and London: Greenwood Press, 1990);
Pictographic Score Notation (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1998); Modern
Rhythmic Notation (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2003); Kurt Stone,
Music Notation in the Twentieth Century: A Practical Guidebook (New York: W. W.
Norton & Company, 1980); ‘Problems and Methods of Notation’, Perspectives of
New Music, vol. 1, no. 2 (Spring, 1963), pp. 9–31; Christian Dimpker, Extended nota-
tion: the depiction of the unconventional (Münster: Lit, 2013); Erhard Karkoschka,
Das Schriftbild der Neuen Musik. Bestandsaufnahme neuer Notationssymbole;
Anleitung zu deren Deutung, Realisation und Kritik (Celle: Moeck, 2004).
2 Jerrold Levinson, ‘What a Musical Work is’, The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 77,
no. 1 (January 1980), p. 15.
3 Ibid. p. 26.
4 Content in this context means the value of the inscription, which could be consid-
ered a pitch value, or a rhythmic value, so that no A4 could be visibly mistaken
238 Nigel McBride
for any other pitch, and a rhythmic duration could not be mistaken for any
other duration; it should not be possible for a crotchet to mean both a crotchet,
and a quaver simultaneously, or an A4 to also mean a B4 simultaneously, as an
example.
5 Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols
(Indianapolis, IN, New York and Kansas City: The Bobbs-Merril Company,
1968), p. 156.
6 Although there may be various reasons for the origins of metronome markings
in scores, and indeed approaches to the interpretation of them, in the context of
musical notation, which relies on a hierarchical relationship between indicated
beats-per-minute, and subdivisions thereof, this statement holds true. If a flexible
approach were taken to this statement, it would have cascading consequences for
the notational system of musical inscriptions, in which any figurative realisation
of any marking can be justified by reasonable approximation.
7 Is it also worth noting that in Ex. 9.1, the A4ness of the inscription is achieved
by the combination of the notehead and its position relative to the stave and clef;
without the stave and clef, that particular inscription has no A4ness about it, while
it might still have a crotchet-like quality. See Ian Pace, ‘Notation, Time and the
Performer’s Relationship to the Score in Contemporary Music’, in Darla Crispin
(ed.), Unfolding Time (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009), pp. 151–92, for
a negative model of notation which is defined not in terms of which compliance-
classes a notation has, but rather, which compliance-classes it has not.
9 Ibid. p. 144.
10 Ibid. p. 156.
11 Michael Finnissy, preface to score of Déjà fait (Unpublished, 2006).
12 Ibid.
13 Roger Redgate, ‘The Chamber Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher
Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), p. 150, and ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’,
ibid. pp. 32–3.
14 My thanks to Ian Pace for suggesting and typesetting this example.
16 Ibid.
17 See Ian Pace in Chapter 3 of this volume on Finnissy’s processes and categories of
borrowing material.
18 Though ornamented using figurations from piobaireachd. See Ian Pace, ‘The
Piano Music’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 100.
19 Friedrich Ludwig (ed.), Guillaume de Machaut: Musikalische Werke, Vol. 1:
Balladen, Rondeaux und Vierlais (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1954), pp. 35–6.
Had Finnissy not indicated the origin of the material, then the chances of the source
material having been identified would be significantly diminished, and would only
be available to those that had more than a passing familiarity with Machaut’s
secular songs. However, because the source is indicated in the score, much con-
textual information is added to what would otherwise be an inscription much like
any other.
20 See Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound: A Study
of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), pp. 73–95,
on North American Spirituals, for a detailed discussion of the musical and cultural
context to which Finnissy makes reference.
21 See Chapter 4 for a discussion of musico-cultural context.
22 See Chapter 4 for a discussion of how Goodman’s model underscores the theoreti-
cal nature of music notation. The absurdity of such a statement is not lost. But
the realm of Goodman’s model, and indeed the present discussion is situated well
outside of musical practice, and firmly in the domain of hypothetical musical
situations. Such hypothetical situations arise in works by Finnissy, Ferneyhough,
Schoenberg, Liszt, Chopin, Beethoven, Bach, and many others, in which a nota-
tional situation emerges that inhibits a musician from simply ‘playing the piece’.
In much the same way that a pianist must sometimes find a novel fingering to
facilitate the execution of a score, it is sometimes necessary to approach the musi-
cal notation with an eye to the novel, so that some partially viable retrieval is
actuated. This is not due to a deficiency in the compositional capabilities of these
composers, but rather reflects the reality that musical notation and the sounding
life of music are distinct in their form and ontology.
24 If the score and its inscriptions are to be viewed as a kind of musical ideal, which
given that ‘scores serve the function of identifying a work from performance to
performance’, is practically the defining characteristic of a certain kind of score,
then it must be taken that scores do indeed represent the ideal of a particular
inscription that denotes steps taken to retrieve a sound structure. See Goodman,
Languages of Art, p. 184.
25 Ibid.
26 Ibid.
28 Ian Pace, instant message to the author, 18 June 2018.
29 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, p. 59.
30 Though Pace makes clear that this is just a rough guide, and some of the layout
of lines clearly relates to the practicalities of notating them so they ‘fit’ and are
clear.
31 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 19–20, 264–5.
32 Finnissy, preface to score of Casual Nudity (Unpublished, 2000–1).
33 First published in the programme notes for one of the installments in Pace’s year-
long festival of Finnissy’s piano music, Pace drew attention to scholarship identi-
fying that Mozart’s K44 was actually a copy of Johann Stadlmayr Musica super
cantum gregorianum, composed in 1625 and transcribed by Mozart in 1769. Pace,
Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (7), 7 November 2016, and Cliff Eisen,
‘The Mozarts’ Salzburg Music Library’, in Eisen (ed.), Mozart Studies (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1997), p. 102. Larry Goves later made the same observation, but
failed to attribute this discovery to Pace, who had communicated it to him; see
Larry Goves, ‘Michael Finnissy And Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Composer
as Anthropologist’, Tempo vol. 71, no. 280 (April 2017), pp. 47–55.
34 Finnissy, score of Après-Midi Dada (Karlsruhe: Tre Media Musikverlag, 2006), p. i.
36 Finnissy, preface to score of Post-Christian Survival Kit.
37 See chapter 12 for a statement from Finnissy acknowledging the influence of
Bussotti on his notation. Finnissy’s awareness of Bussotti and the particular ways
in which his notations have been realised, indicates that there was a certain perfor-
mance practice that had emerged around these graphical inscriptions.
Bibliography
Dimpker, Christian. Extended notation: the depiction of the unconventional. Münster:
Lit, 2013.
240 Nigel McBride
Eisen, Cliff. ‘The Mozarts’ Salzburg Music Library’. In Cliff Eisen (ed.), Mozart
Studies (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), pp. 85–138.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score of Casual Nudity. Unpublished, 2000–1.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score of Déjà fait. Unpublished, 2006.
Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols.
Indianapolis, IN, New York and Kansas City, KA: The Bobs-Merrill Company,
Inc., 1968.
Goves, Larry. ‘Michael Finnissy and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Composer as
Anthropologist’. Tempo, vol. 71, no. 280 (April 2017), pp. 47–55.
Karkoschka, Ehrhard. Das Schriftbild der Neuen Musik. Bestandsaufnahme neuer
Notationssymbole; Anleitung zu deren Deutung, Realisation und Kritik. Celle:
Moeck, 2004.
Levinson, Jerrold. ‘What a Musical Work Is’. The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 77, no. 1
(1980), pp. 215–63.
Ludwig, Friedrich, ed. Guillaume de Machaut: Musikalische Werke. Vol. 1: Balladen,
Rondeaux und Vierlais. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1926.
1998), pp. 43–134.
Pace, Ian. ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (7)’ (November 2016), available
online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/17518/ (accessed 23 June 2018).
Read, Gardner. Contemporary instrumental techniques. New York: Schirmer Books,
1976.
Read, Gardner. Music Notation: A Manual of Modern Practice. New York: Taplinger,
1979.
Read, Gardner. Twentieth Century Microtonal Notation. New York and London:
Greenwood Press, 1990.
Read, Gardiner. Pictographic Score Notation. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1998.
Read, Gardiner. Modern Rhythmic Notation. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press, 2003.
Redgate, Roger. ‘The Chamber Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 135–68.
Stone, Kurt. Music Notation in the Twentieth Century: A Practical Guidebook. New
York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1980.
Stone, Kurt. ‘Problems and MEthods of Notations’. Perspectives of New Music,
vol. 1, no. 2 (Spring 1963), pp. 9–31.
10 Finnissy and pantonality
Surface and inner necessity
Arnold Whittall
A piece of music will always have to be tonal, at least in so far as a relation

has to exist from tone to tone by virtue of which the tones, placed next to one
another, yield a perceptible continuity. The tonality [itself] may then perhaps
be neither perceptible nor provable; these relations may be obscure and dif-
ficult to comprehend, even incomprehensible. … If one insists on looking for
names, “polytonal” or “pantonal” could be considered.1
The expression, atonal, cannot be taken seriously as an expression.2
Schoenberg tied himself in knots in the attempt to explain how music could
not be atonal, even when dissonance is fully emancipated and tonality is not
singular and stable (‘monotonal’) but (in English) ‘floating’, ‘fluctuating’, or
‘suspended’.3 As a result, he set a challenge for commentators on music since
1900 that remains in place more than a century after his initial terminological
forays in Harmonielehre.4 Yet even if Schoenberg created more problems for
music theory than he could solve by his methods of composing, he was right
to anticipate long-term discontent with the negative connotations of ‘atonal’,
among thinking musicians, and with the difficulties that attempts at blanket
labelling involve. When asked in 2014 by John Palmer if he thought that
‘“pantonality”, and by that I specifically mean a non-discriminatory tonal
eclecticism in composition, may be the true musical idiom of the 21st century’,
Michael Finnissy replied briskly that ‘I try to leave labelling to other people’.
He was clearly not prepared to be set in stone as a non-discriminatory tonal
eclectic, preferring to ‘have fun in exploring, challenging, skating on thin
ice’.5 In music today no ice is thinner than that which a commentator can
confidently claim to pantonally cover the surface of something that is other-
wise even more difficult to label.
A multiplicity of labels
The ‘other people’ to whom Finnissy is happy to leave the task of providing
labels are likely to include music theorists, many of whom in recent times
have given little credence to ‘pantonality’ as a useful concept, despite or
because of its Schoenbergian provenance. For example, Richard Cohn’s
242 Arnold Whittall
willingness to use ‘pan-triadic’ – by analogy with Nicholas Slominsky’s
‘pan-diatonic’ – to refer to ‘any composition, or segment thereof, that con-
sists exclusively or predominantly of major or minor triads without deter-
mining a tonal centre’, on the grounds that ‘both terms designate music that
uses fundamental materials of tonality in tonally indeterminate ways, one
by using diatonic scale without triads, and the other by using triads with-
out diatonic scales’,6 seems expressly to exclude non-triadic contexts, along
with other contexts in which dissonance is emancipated and ‘common prac-
tice’ is not so much extended as contradicted. Cohn’s focus is rather on
the kind of ‘tonal multi-stability’ he finds in arrestingly chromatic yet tri-
adic materials like Wagner’s ‘Tarnhelm’ motif. Cohn’s terminology, like
Dmitri Tymoczko’s ‘extended common practice’,7 appears to stop short of
Schoenberg’s post-tonal credo that ‘one may sooner sacrifice logic and unity
in the harmony than in the thematic substance. … A piece whose harmony
is not unified, but which develops its motive and thematic material logi-
cally, should, to a certain degree, have intelligent meaning.’8 This wording
resembles an attempt to balance modernist lack of harmonic logic against
classical motivic-thematic logic, in the interests of a degree of ‘intelligent
meaning’ – by which the high-modernist Schoenberg seems to understand
something akin to perceptions about ‘sense’ as cogent and connected. By
comparison, a hyper-modernist like Finnissy might appear to by-pass con-
ceptual ‘logic’ or ‘intelligent meaning’ altogether, though this emphatically
does not mean a preference for incoherence or mindless meaninglessness.
Rather, it is as if both tonality and thematicism can be ‘suspended’ in the
manner of Felix Draeseke’s proto-Schoenbergian notion of ‘aufgehobene
Haupttonart’ (1861) in which, as William Kinderman suggests, ‘the German
term retains connotations of preservation together with the basic meaning of
abolishment or cancellation’.9
Finnissy has never sought to play down the challenging and complex
aspects of his music, least of all at the time of his fiftieth birthday, when his
wide-ranging conversations with Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ian Pace include such declarations as ‘I’m aware that my work is an uncom-
fortable, often by design, synthesis of many things, stemming from often
very diverse forces, but they’re unified by this sexual thrust’.10 The core idea
of ‘an uncomfortable … synthesis’ pinpoints the possibility of a style that is
not so much unambiguously avant-garde or experimental (and therefore,
in such cases as Boulez’s Structures Ia, genuinely atonal) but rather aims to
bring the great opposing tendencies of Western art music – classicism and
modernism – into interactive conjunction. In such contexts, ‘synthesis’, at
its purest in the kind of classical tonal structures revealed by Schenkerian
analysis to be richly integrated around their fundamental unities, is made
‘uncomfortable’ rather than gratifyingly triumphant by input from modern-
ism’s disruptive and fracturing features.
During these 1997 conversations Pace remarked that ‘a lot of people find
it surprising that you’re a regular advocate and performer of composers like
Finnissy and pantonality 243
Howard Skempton [and] Chris Newman’, provoking a two-stage response
from Finnissy: ‘Well, I like and know Howard and Chris and I believe in
their work passionately’. This passionate belief is then rooted in Finnissy’s
claim that (despite the superficial contrasts) he sees important similarities
between their work and his own. ‘We are all dealing with large topics like
fragmentation of life at the end of the twentieth century, the despair and
nihilism of people’s responses, the dark cloud of annihilation hanging over
us all. I don’t think Skempton or Newman do this particularly differently
from me. The surfaces of the music might seem different but not the inner
necessity.’ Finnissy then goes on to assert that ‘the number of notes [many
for him, fewer for Skempton] become irrelevant. … In a piece like Howard’s
Even Tenor, the circle is not being closed. It’s a harmonic sequence which
stops short of closing a circle, which I find exactly the same as the kinds of
processes I’m interested in. … There are more important things than notes
or even diatonicism versus atonality or pan-tonality or whatever, those are
all surface factors. It’s the philosophical concerns of these people which
interest me.’11
It is true that ‘philosophical concerns’ cannot be ‘surface factors’ in music,
though defining their contribution to some kind of background presents con-
siderable challenges. But it is equally true that ‘notes’ – whether identifiable
as diatonic scale degrees or as members of modes, post-tonal series forms or
sets – can complement their surface functions with more fundamental struc-
tural identities, suggesting the presence of hierarchies. In his conversation
with Palmer, Finnissy speaks of present-day ‘pluralism’ as ‘a state of stylistic
acceptance that characterises the current condition of the arts, at least in
music’. And in response to Palmer’s question about pantonality, Finnissy
refers to his Brahms-acknowledging Piano Quartet in A Major (1861–2) and
Piano Quartet in C minor (1861), both from 2009, saying that ‘I never wanted
to abandon tonality, the hierarchies make it interesting. But Chris Newman
tells me that I write “atonal tonal music” or “tonally inflected atonal music”.
I am careful to avoid cadences and conventional punctuation, a poetic influ-
ence maybe, vers libre.’12
By using Newman’s ‘atonal tonal’ dichotomy in the context of the declara-
tion that it is ‘the hierarchies’ that make tonality ‘interesting’, Finnissy dram-
atises the terminological and conceptual problems that bedevil attempts to
devise consistent technical language valid for critical accounts of present-day
music. Similarly, the conjunction of an idea of open-ended form and of musi-
cal language endlessly engaged with such archetypal notions as diatonicism,
atonality and pan-tonality is of great interest and importance, even when
the less superficial matter of shared ‘philosophical concerns’ is sidestepped.
Referring in passing to diatonicism and atonality, Finnissy might seem to be
speaking casually, and (in technical terms) conventionally, and yet the term
‘pan-tonality’ tends to sound more specialised, even more recondite, in part
because of its Schoenbergian connotations. ‘Pan-’, as a prefix implying pos-
sible reference to, or inclusion of, all – in this instance – tonalities seems to
244 Arnold Whittall
make sense for Finnissy in relation to the perception that a simple opposition
between diatonicism and atonality fails to do justice to the richness of late-
modernist musical realities.
A Skempton analysis
Even Tenor, written in December 1988 and dedicated to Finnissy,13 is in two
distinct sections. Part One comprises a chorale-like sequence of four chords
(Ex. 10.1a) drawn from a 14-note gamut (Ex. 10.1b) whose predominant
Es, Bs and F#s suggested the spectral, background presence of a Messiaen-
like 8-note mode (Ex. 10.1c). Each of the four chords is used five times
(the sequence possibly determined by the throw of a dice) and dividing this
sequence into two unequal parts based on the presence or absence of immedi-
ate repetitions –
11233422144
132431324
prompts a further exploration of invariants – for example, the presence in all

20 chords of the B above middle C – as embodying a Schoenbergian kind of
chromatically extended E- tonality, to which the ‘emancipated dissonances’
of Chords 2, 3, and 4 contribute strongly.
Ex. 10.1 (a) Howard Skempton, Even Tenor, source chords. © Oxford University
Press 1996.
Ex. 10.1 (b) Howard Skempton, Even Tenor, pitch gamut.
Ex. 10.1 (c) Howard Skempton, Even Tenor, pitch mode.

Ex. 10.1 (d) Howard Skempton, Even Tenor, first and last pitch groups.
If the durational as well as the pitch invariants of this first Part of Even Tenor
can be heard as offering the prospect of monotonality (though extended, not
diatonic), the second part’s sequence of 32 broken chords complements rather
than continues such a structural template. The four pitch-classes excluded
from Part 1’s mode – A, A#, C and D – all occur within the first 8 bars of Part
2, and the invariant process of graded descent by half steps in one or more of
the music’s four linear strands serves to counter Part 1’s relative stability with
regard to tonal centricity. As Finnissy indicated, Part 2 stops just short of
closing the circle and completing the descent of an octave in all four strands
(Ex. 10.1d). And instead of the familiar compositional drama of the polarity
between an evolving melody and its accompanying harmony, random move-
ment across a fixed space (Part 1) and logical movement through a changing
space seems to be the main idea of the piece. If the constant B of Part 1
personifies one manifestation of evenness, the ways in which its disappear-
ance reappearance and ultimate disappearance again in Part 2 shows that a
different kind of evenness or regularity can gently subvert its own apparent
principles. It is not so much that Skempton is employing Finnissy’s kind of
pantonality – not here, at least – rather that a modernist aesthetic underpins
the focus of divergence within Even Tenor in ways which Finnissy can admire,
even when he doesn’t imitate them.
Schoenbergian associations
In 1949, one of Schoenberg’s favoured American pupils, Dika Newlin,
declared that ‘tonality can actually be expressed more fully than ever before,
with the resources of the twelve-tone technique’.14 Newlin’s belief that
tonality was not incompatible with twelve-tone technique is more likely to
have been the result of her knowledge of Schoenberg’s compositions than
the product of his actual teaching: and her declaration could be all the more
unqualified, given that the newspaper in which this bold assertion appeared
was hardly the appropriate forum for an attempt to explain what kind of
‘tonality’ might be present in twelve-tone works from the 1940s like Ode to
Napoleon or Dreimal tausend Jahre. Newlin might even have preferred to
leave the impression that the fullest exploration of such issues lay in the hands
of future generations of twelve-tone composers, not of Schoenberg himself.
Nor did early attempts after Schoenberg to theorise extended tonality and
pantonality promise speedy and unambiguous advances to specific techni-
cal initiatives, if the only book to include the term ‘pantonality’ in its title
246 Arnold Whittall
is anything to go by. Rudolph Réti attempted to capture the elusive nature
of the phenomenon by identifying something ‘which does not appear on the
surface but is created by the ear singling out hidden relationships between
various points of a melodic or contrapuntal web’.15 But his actual examples
did not provide a very persuasive basis for its theoretical validation.
Later references to pantonality outside the Schoenberg literature have also
been sparse, though the concept resurfaced in the 1980s as scholars sought to
discover how the ever-questing Michael Tippett found harmony and tonality
discussed in ways that satisfied him. According to Ian Kemp and Meirion
Bowen, Tippett’s explorations of harmony texts in the 1930s led him from ‘the
pedantries of C.H. Kitson’ to ‘Schoenberg’s Harmonielehre and Hindemith’s
Unterweisung im Tonsatz’. However, ‘what he needed was something that
dealt with the living emotive force of harmony and tonality. Eventually, he
found it in Vincent d’Indy’s Cours de Composition Musicale.’16 As a student,
Tippett preferred French pragmatism to Germanic dogmatism: and in 1979
David Matthews summarised Tippett’s technical evolution from a ‘conserva-
tive’ principle based on ‘the re-creation of Classical tonality’ to a ‘synthetic
language, with its Americanised, blues-based vernacular and widely allusive
range, and its use of tonal gestures within a generally non-tonal background
(one can usefully employ Rudolph Réti’s term “pantonality” to describe it)’.
Matthews argued that it was still too early to determine whether that
‘synthesis’ was ‘a wholly adequate substitute for the Classical tonality of
his earlier works’: and his crediting of the term pantonality to Réti rather
than Schoenberg might have had something to do with the reservations he
expressed a little further on as to the ‘limited expressive range’ of Schoenberg’s
own essentially expressionistic language. As Matthews saw it, composers
who wished to evoke ‘states of joy, gaiety, exuberance’ in their music ‘might
profitably consider how Tippett’s language in its development from orthodox
tonality to pantonality has always been a potent vehicle for the widest range
of expression’.17
From Schoenberg to Finnissy

When Finnissy said of Skempton, Newman and himself that ‘we are all dealing
with large topics like fragmentation of life at the end of the twentieth century,
the despair and nihilism of people’s responses, the dark cloud of annihilation
hanging over us all’ he might have seemed to be decisively rejecting Tippett-
like ‘states of joy, gaiety, exuberance’ in favour of unremitting melancholy.
Nevertheless, other very different emotional states do occur in Finnissy’s
music, and one of the simplest instances of possible pantonality appears in
the hymn settings of This Church (2001–3). Near the end, Finnissy sets the
four verses of George Herbert’s ‘Teach me, my God and King’ for a partly or
exclusively amateur choir. The harmony is purely homophonic, consonant,
almost entirely comprised of root-position triads (Ex. 10.2). These chords
all derive from an accidental-free white-note collection, but there are no
cadences (‘I am careful to avoid cadences’) or other structural progressions to
support a predominant C major or A minor tonality. Instead, what Finnissy
terms ‘the fundamental musical material’18 presents a melodic sequence – A4,
D4, D4, F4, G4 – as both a thematic cell and a paradigm of mobile tonality.
The effect is not of composing-out a fundamental structural progression in
a single key, but of moving through a sequence of tonal possibilities which
intersect and overlap: for example, because the D minor emphasis of the first
four chords does not proceed with tonality-enforcing elements (no Bᅈ or C#),
the chord of F major at the beginning of bar 2 makes no claims to function
as a new tonic, of F, as a mediant of D or, given the G major chord that
follows it, a subdominant of C. Such roving or floating tonality plays with
the homing, tonicising instinct so fundamental to human perception, keep-
ing the prospect of more far-reaching relations to a single, superior tonic in
suspense. Some music theorists, following Schoenberg, might argue that this
harmonic strategy works best when clear allusions to one tonality prevent
(perhaps until a final cadence) the unambiguous establishment of a second.
But Finnissy’s hymn tune seems to prefer a consistent ambiguity that flows
from the sense in which the work’s generative thematic cell includes only a
single triad – D minor – and places that identity in opposition to the overall
melodic motion from A to G.
A range of tonalities – D minor, C major, F major, E minor, A minor, G
major – could all play functional roles in a composition deriving from such
a cell, and it is the emphasis on possibilities rather than actualities that result
when the specific chromatic elements needed to realise most of those keys
are avoided, rather than choosing a single ‘victor’ as the result of a dramatic
musical conflict, that gives this setting its pantonal aura. That said, this hymn
tune, and the white-note instrumental paraphrase that follows it, bringing
This Church to an end, is very much a special case for Finnissy, and some
more characteristic instances, with prominent chromaticism and dissonance,
will now be considered.
Master of disguise: Finnissy and Schoenberg

In his 1997 discussion of Finnissy’s ‘large transcription cycle’, Gershwin
Arrangements and More Gershwin, Pace comments as follows: ‘at the same
time that Gershwin was writing his immensely successful music, the Second
Viennese School were pioneering atonality and dodecaphony on the other
side of the Atlantic. The arrangements attempt to synthesise these musi-
cal worlds, which Berg’s student Theodor Adorno, amongst others, saw
as fundamentally opposed. Gershwin’s home-spun brand of chromaticism
is pushed to its limits, a narrow melodic tessitura being echoed intervalli-
cally in “They can’t take that away from me”, providing a transformational
parallel to Schoenberg’s advancement of Wagner’s harmonic experimental-
ism.’19 Writing a little further on about Folklore 3, Pace mentions ‘refer-
ences to composers who, either as a result of integration or rejection, had
248 Arnold Whittall
Ex. 10.2 Finnissy, This Church, setting of four verses of George Herbert’s ‘Teach
me, my God and King’. © Michael Finnissy.
a substantial effect’ on Finnissy: these include ‘allusions to compositional
styles, in particularly those of Brahms (the “progressive” as described by
Schoenberg, a view that was once shared, but later violently rejected, by
Finnissy), Skryabin, Ives and Bussotti’.20 There appears to be a clear contrast
here between the transformational synthesis of Finnissy’s Gershwin pieces
and the anti-integrative rejection of stylistic allusion in cases where mislead-
ing claims have been made – as, it appears, with Schoenberg’s understanding
of Brahms as ‘progressive’.21
Between 2000 and 2008 Finnissy composed the three large-scale piano
pieces that comprise his Second Political Agenda. The second piece, Mit
Arnold Schoenberg, has a particularly intricate web of musical and textual
allusions bringing to the fore fundamental questions about post-tonal tech-
niques and pantonality. For a performance in November 2016 Pace pro-
vided notes referring to Finnissy’s own comments – comments which suggest
a clear continuity of thought with those earlier concerns with Schoenberg’s
ways of thinking in 1940s Los Angeles,22 and his pedagogical if not compo-
sitional commitment to harmonic progressiveness in Brahms. In particu-
lar, Finnissy seems to be fired up by an oppositional conjunction between
two very different texts: Schoenberg’s essay ‘Brahms the Progressive’ and its
citation of bars 11–23 from the first movement of Brahms’s String Quartet
Op. 51 no. 1, and Walter Benjamin’s essay ‘Theses on the Philosophy of
History’, with its fiery admonition to ‘blast open the continuum of history’.
The polarity between Benjamin’s call for ‘Aufzusprengung’ and Brahms’s
non-disruptive enrichment of traditional harmony and form brings the
Schoenbergian dilemma into high relief by suggesting opposing political
and cultural strategies and committing to the claim that progressiveness is
not enough.
Finnissy’s Mit Arnold Schoenberg begins beyond Brahms, ‘with an intense
section drawing upon material from Schoenberg’s Lieder Op. 1 and 2,
Gurrelieder, and other early works’ and eventually moving on to ‘a hushed
and mysterious passage spanning the whole keyboard, which Finnissy relates
to “the expressionist landscape of Erwartung and Herzgewächse”’. This con-
tinuum is ‘intercut with allusions’ to the beginning of Schoenberg’s Brahms
quartet quotation (see Ex. 10.3), too reticent to create a sense of ‘blasting
open’ the steadily evolving texture, but forming an expressively decisive prec-
edent for the much more fractured material which follows. Finnissy sets up
a new conjunction between ‘a stark series of isolated pitches with varying
durations and dynamics, like a sudden leap forward to a post-1945 integral
serial language’ and material reducing ‘the dynamics to a uniform piano and
mostly triadic harmonies, in a reference to Schoenberg’s 1940 comment in his
composition class in Los Angeles that “there is still plenty of good music to
be written in C major”’. Pace sees the later stages of Mit Arnold Schoenberg as
‘highly ironic’. Finnissy seems not to agree with Schoenberg, in that the music
it provides – arguably in G more precisely than in C – is too primitive to be
‘good’: and the case against writing tonally – as distinct from pantonally – is
250 Arnold Whittall
then reinforced by a closing section described by Pace as ‘a somewhat man-
gled rendition of the first movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet in G Op.
18 No. 2’23 – the mangling involving a final Benjamin-fuelled swerve to end
on octave Fs.
Finnissy’s three sets of Political Agendas embody some of his most bitter
and uncompromisingly negative statements: one thinks of ‘You know what
kind of sense Mrs. Thatcher made’ (First Political Agenda, 1989–2006),
which treats Parry’s Jerusalem ‘in reverse’ and ‘flattens all musical mean-
ing through the extreme dynamic and rhythmic stasis’23 or the pillorying of
‘Rule Britannia’ in ‘Corruption. Deceit. Ignorance. Intolerance’,24 the first
Ex. 10.3 (a) Brahms, String Quartet in C minor, op. 51, no. 1, as cited in Arnold
Schoenberg, ‘Brahms the Progressive’.
Ex. 10.3 (b) Finnissy, from Mit Arnold Schoenberg (2002). © Tre Media Verlag
2004.
movement of the post-Brexit-referendum Third Political Agenda (2016). This

‘uncomfortable’ admission of ‘despair and nihilism’ links the political to the
personal, and the constantly shifting substrata of memories and allusions
in Finnissy’s multifarious materials might be expected to engage a parallel
migration between tonal and atonal, connected and fractured, that occa-
sionally settles into a relatively stable pantonal middleground. Two very
different examples of this potently unsardonic aspect of Finnissy’s work are
Uncommon Ground for baritone and piano trio (1990) and Brahms-Lieder
(2015) for piano. Together they represent the uneven but mesmerising tenor
of a kind of hyper-modernism that has become more rare in British music as
the attractions of the mainstream (and even the middlebrow) have continued
to thrive.25
Unknown Ground
The title of this work is a conveniently unambiguous metaphor for absent
rootedness. Yet just as the technical concept of pantonality highlights multi-
valence rather than absence, rootedness is not so much absent in Finnissy’s
music as rigorously questioned, by way of processes involving a continuum
between simple reinforcement and explicit obliteration: the more inescap-
able, the more intensely resisted. Music cannot not connect with other
music, existing genres, and the protagonist of Unknown Ground describes a
journey even more bleak than that of Schubert’s narrator in Die Winterreise.
Since Schubert, the possibility that a song cycle can be as unsparingly
tragic as the most starkly delineated opera has been obvious. But Finnissy
the hyper-modernist questions basic identities more consistently than the
classic-romantic Schubert. Unknown Ground is a ‘song cycle’ with scenas
rather than songs and with a ‘protagonist’ who shifts identities between the
‘I’s of three AIDS victims, whose texts are highly prosaic and often informal,
252 Arnold Whittall
and the ‘I’s of three Russian poets, set in English. It is a monodrama whose
single character represents those whose words he is transmitting – the class
of modern commentators on suffering, on the meaning of awareness of
impending death.
Finnissy needs pantonality to sustain a kind of expression that is affectingly
poignant rather than merely sentimental, acknowledging from the beginning
that this is a work of art and not a drama-documentary or fundraising appeal.
The initial cello line (another of the composer’s purely white-note inven-
tions) has overt generic connections with ritualised vocal chant, its modality
possibly intended as a counterweight to the English tradition of song-cycle
as chamber music with a pastoral tinge epitomised by Vaughan Williams’s
On Wenlock Edge, whose tolling bells commemorating love, war and death
Finnissy will echo in due course. When the voice enters with a less florid
kind of stepwise chant-derived line, there is a complementary relation to the
cello, a shared emphasis on D as the goal of arioso-like melodic motion, and
a possible context for all the non-D-ness that will emerge as Finnissy makes
clear that this ‘natural’ modality will not evolve into civilised, well-tempered,
rule-governed tonality, whose apotheosis in Brahms, Grieg and Bruckner he
acknowledges elsewhere. Nor will it use its folk-like aura to update towards
vernacular or popular archetypes. Like the hymn in This Church, written
later, this all-white-note section floats across the possible fundamentals but
ends with heightened tension as the voice emphasises B against the cello’s A
(Ex. 10.4). The ‘driving-force in my life’ of which the text speaks is having
difficulty in projecting the prospect of a single, uniquely fulfilling goal: ‘what-
ever the future is, I don’t know’.
Unknown Ground’s short second section involves a strong change of per-
spective that throws any similarities to Section One into stark relief. First,
the cello is replaced by the piano, which reiterates a single, low Eᅈ through-
out the vocal music. The shifting centredness of Section One is replaced by
the tolling bell of a single root, and the baritone initially conforms to this
pentachord (Gᅈ, Aᅈ, Bᅈ, Dᅈ above the Eᅈ1) as the dark, slightly agitated
brother of Section One’s A, B, D, E, G pentachord. As if disturbed by the
absence of melodic response in the accompanying instrument, the vocal line
grows increasingly chromatic, and only when the voice stops does the piano
provide a sense of what ‘somewhere in the distance, men are singing’. Moving
above and below an initially emphasised D4, while the low Eᅈ1 continues to
toll, the piano melody continues in the chant-like manner established at the
beginning, and by almost completely avoiding Eᅈs it demonstrates that for
Finnissy pantonality is more about countering potential diatonic singular-
ity than about bitonally or polytonally deploying neatly balanced conflicts
between alternative single centres (Ex. 10.5). At the end of Section 2 Eᅈ is not
being enriched by a mixture of diatonic and chromatic decorations: rather
it is being estranged by something that seems increasingly indifferent to it.
In this non-atonal, non-tonal world we cannot ignore the pull of sustained
and reiterated tones, or the historical associations of modal or diatonic scale
Ex. 10.4 Finnissy, Unknown Ground (1989–90), Song I. © Oxford University Press
1991.
254 Arnold Whittall
Ex. 10.5 Finnissy, Unknown Ground, Song II. © Oxford University Press 1991.
segments. But the result is not simply a new version of an old harmonic
procedure. A single pedal note provides fixity without controlling surface
details after the manner of classical tradition. It orientates and disorientates
indifferently.
Like Section 2, Section 3 has two stages distinguished by different types
of instrumental counterpoint to the ‘musical prose’ of the vocal narrative.
The text is an impassioned refusal to admit that those afflicted with HIV
should declare themselves guilty – of a crime, a sin. The move to decisive-
ness that this involves requires the music to shift from something smoothly
uncommitted to unquestioning affirmation, the voice closely circling repeated
G2s while the violin hammers out the same pitch unadorned, with dramatic
silences in between. The section is not in some kind of extended G-tonality
throughout, and if one prefers to hear it as arriving at that tonality from a
virtually atonal beginning, rather than being pantonal around G from the
outset, this may be the result of not wanting to associate the earlier stages
with the connections to D and Eᅈ found earlier in the work. In any case, it
is the varying tensions that matter most, since Unknown Ground seems to be
evolving towards its concluding confrontation between the elemental deter-
mination of white-note modality (with an upbeat ‘major’ quality supplanting
pentatonic neutrality) and the destructive atonal despair of expressionistic
clusters and microtonal slithers.
Brahms, Schoenberg, Finnissy

Twenty-five years after Unknown Ground, and a decade or so after Mit Arnold
Schoenberg, the first of Finnissy’s Brahms-Lieder for piano (2015) is a no less
intense example of the composer’s estranging engagement with aspects of
pre-modernist traditions that can be evoked in order to give new energy to
modernism’s own determination to survive. The intriguing title gives no hint
of where Finnissy’s music might fall along the line between straight transcrip-
tion and complete transformation. Comparing the first four bars of no. 30
from Brahms’s Deutsche Volkslieder WoO 33 with the opening of Finnissy’s
composition shows that the melodic line of the former reappears within the
upper parts of the much more diverse texture of the latter. But differences
begin with metre and tempo – ‘Lebhaft und herzlich’ for Brahms, ‘Lento
pianissimo espressivo’ for Finnissy – and extend into texture. What is a
Ex. 10.6 (a) Johannes Brahms, Deutsche Volkslieder, WoO 33, No. 30, ‘All mein
Gedanken’.
256 Arnold Whittall
Ex. 10.6 (b) Finnissy, Brahms-Lieder (2016), No. 1. © Verlag Neue Musik 2015.
melody with accompaniment in Brahms is no longer so clearly differentiated

in Finnissy, and the purely visible distinction between quoted Brahms and
the context Finnissy provides may not be audible – the Brahms melody is
absorbed into something else (and metrically displaced, relative to the other
parts) rather than simply quoted with a different accompaniment, and in any
case Brahms’s continuation – a repeat of the same melodic phrase with differ-
ent accompaniment – is not reproduced by Finnissy (Ex. 10.6).26
Brahms’s song is in G major, Finnissy’s piano piece is not. Asked by
Palmer to explain his ‘approach to classical tonality’ in light of his two
Brahms-alluding works from 2009, Piano Quartet in A major (1861–2) and
Piano Quartet in C minor (1861), Finnissy declared that ‘I never wanted to
abandon tonality, the hierarchies make it interesting’.27 This leaves open
the possibility that references to aspects of the kind of tonality used by
Brahms, with its work-spanning hierarchies, might facilitate the rethink-
ing both tonality and hierarchy from a more modernist post-tonal, and/
or pantonal perspective. As noted earlier, Schoenberg’s own later theoreti-
cal forays into harmonic theory were not concerned with following up the
compositional implications of ‘pantonal’ as a governing concept, but rather
with the kind of distinctions between ‘extended tonality’ and ‘suspended
tonality’ in his early songs which he illustrates in Structural Functions of
Harmony.
Both depend on using the ‘Roman numeral’ symbols of functional har-
mony to represent the interaction between two different regions of a govern-
ing tonality. With extended tonality, a tonic (D major in Schoenberg’s ‘Der
Wanderer’, op. 6, no. 8) is extended by interaction with the flat submediant
and the flat mediant regions, reinforcing the hierarchic superiority of the
tonic by not actually modulating away to a new key but rather chromati-
cally enriching the existing monotonal structure. With suspended tonality (Eᅈ
major in ‘Lockung’, op. 6, no. 7) there is also a sustained interaction between
a tonic and subordinate regions, only this time ‘the tonic [chord] does not
appear throughout the whole piece’. Among later commentators, Richard
Kurth has built on this foundation to argue that, in the later, twelve-tone
Schoenberg, for example the Fourth Quartet, ‘tonality can be thought of as
present, but suspended, “because the tonal references are not explicit and
because the logic and coherence of the music does not depend on them in any
case”’. Also, what Kurth defines as Schoenberg’s devising of ‘a remarkable
mode of “closure” that is no longer final or static’ might create associations
with Finnissy’s aim ‘to avoid cadences and conventional punctuation’.28 If
according to Kurth Schoenberg ‘does this by manipulating the gravitational
power of several different fundamentals, and by generating a sense of mobil-
ity and resolution with respect to them’ there is at least a suggestion of how
the dualistic emphasis of suspended tonality might open up the wider and less
classically defined potential of a truly pantonal harmonic design, along with
a radically non-classical approach to thematic identity and development.
The different layers that begin Finnissy’s Brahms-Lieder I, a work which,
according to Pace, makes reference to the ‘three against two’ rhythms of
Brahms’s Ballade op. 10, No. 4,29 replace the homogenous B major harmony
of that work with what might be thought of as ‘several different fundamen-
tals’ in a context where suggestions of ‘gravitational power’ are supplanted
by a modernist predisposition to dis-empower hierarchies as embodiments
of classical essences. To an even greater extent than suspended tonality,
pantonality fends off the prospect of classically-integrated structural hear-
ing. You hear the febrile lack of convergence and collaboration between the
superimposed layers; the citation of a tonal melody but not its original tonal
harmony dramatises a dialogue between affinity and antipathy. Here the past
is both an inspiration and an intrusion. The dictionary definition of hierar-
chy that applies to classical diatonic composition – ‘classification in graded
subdivisions’ – invites, if not dismissal, then sceptical rethinking, even if the
disconnected equalities of genuine atonality become even less appealing in
consequence.
For Pace, in Finnissy’s Brahms-Lieder ‘the material (in all parts) is in a
continual state of flux, as Brahms’s type of “developing variation” is recon-
figured in a much later post-tonal context’. This invokes another central
Schoenbergian concept, to do with the idea of comprehensible structures
258 Arnold Whittall
evolving from a basic shape or Grundgestalt in ways that promise a more
straightforward connection between the thematic processes of the tonal and
post-tonal (twelve-tone) Schoenberg than does an attempt to plot a path
from diatonic tonality to pantonality. However, it is by no means clear that
Finnissy uses basic shapes with as explicit a connection to the motivic pro-
cesses of pre-modernist music as Brahms or Schoenberg do. The continuities
of the first of the Brahms-Lieder have the essential continuity of recurrent
rhythmic patterns, but the resulting counterpoint is shaped by that ‘continual
state of flux’ that appears no more beholden to the basic shape of the Brahms
melody than the resulting harmony is beholden to traditional ways of enrich-
ing a monotonal structure. Overall, nevertheless, the texture certainly evokes
the flowing ‘broken chords’ of the Brahms Ballade. The connection is there-
fore broadly generic rather than more intricately ‘thematic’, and this opens
up the radically different ideas about continuity and musical character that
are apparent when ‘pure’ Brahms, or Schoenberg, are compared with ‘pure’
Finnissy.
Notes
1 Arnold Schoenberg, Theory of Harmony, translated Roy E. Carter (London:
Faber and Faber, 1978), p. 432.
2 Arnold Schoenberg, Style and Idea, edited Leonard Stein (London: Faber and
Faber, 1975), p. 211.
3 See particularly Arnold Schoenberg, Structural Functions of Harmony, edited
Leonard Stein (London: Ernest Benn, 1969).
4 See for example Arnold Whittall, ‘Metaphysical Materials: Schoenberg in Our
Time’, Music Analysis, vol. 35, no. 3 (October 2016), pp. 383–406; Matthew
Arndt, ‘Schoenberg on Problems, or, Why the Six-Three Chord is Dissonant’,
Theory and Practice, vols. 37–8 (2012–13), pp. 1–62; Richard Kurth, ‘Suspended
Tonalities in Schoenberg’s Twelve-Tone Compositions’, Journal of the Arnold
Schoenberg Center, no. 3 (2001), pp. 239–66.
5 John Palmer, Conversations (Vision Edition: www.visionedition.com, 2015),
pp. 66–78.
6 Richard Cohn, Audacious Euphony. Chromaticism and the Triad’s Second Nature
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. xiv–xv, 23. Nicholas Slonimsky,
Music since 1900 (New York: Norton, 1937).
7 Dmitri Tymoczko, A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the
Extended Common Practice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011).
8 Schoenberg, Style and Idea, p. 280.
9 William Kinderman, ‘Introduction’, in Kinderman and Harold Krebs (eds.),
The Second Practice of Nineteenth-Century Tonality (Lincoln, NB and London:
University of Nebraska Press, 1996), p. 13 n. 6. Kinderman is citing a lecture
by Draeseke, ‘Die sogennante Zukunftsmusik und ihre Gegner’, delivered in
Weimar on 8 August 1861
Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground. The Music of Michael Finnissy, ed.
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), p. 33.
11 Ibid. p. 35.
12 Palmer, Conversations, p. 75.
13 The uncredited liner notes with Finnissy’s recording of Even Tenor on NMC
D002, (1989) closely resemble his 1997 comments to Pace.
14 Dika Newlin, New York Times, 16 January 1949, cited in Kenneth H. Marcus,
Schoenberg and Hollywood Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2016), pp. 263–4.
15 Rudolph Réti, Tonality, Atonality, Pantonality: A Study of Some Trends in
Twentieth-Century Music (London: Rockliff, 1958), p. 65.
16 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett (London: Robson Books, 1997), pp. 167–8.
17 David Matthews, Michael Tippett, an Introductory Study (London: Faber and
Faber, 1980), p. 103.
18 Michael Finnissy, notes with CD recording of This Church (Metier MSV
CD92069, 2003).
19 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Uncommon Ground, p. 96.
20 Ibid. p. 123.
21 Schoenberg, ‘Brahms the Progressive’, in Style and Idea, pp. 398–441.
22 Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (7)’ (November 2016), avail-
able online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/17518/ (accessed 23 June 2018).
23 Ibid.
24 Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (1)’ (February 2016), avail-
25 See Arnold Whittall, ‘Individualism and accessibility: the moderate main-
stream,1945–75’, in Nicholas Cook and Anthony Pople (eds.), The Cambridge
History of Twentieth-Century Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2004), pp. 364–94.
26 See Ian Pace in Chapter 3 of this book for a wider exploration of Finnissy’s dif-
ferent categories of musical borrowing.
27 Palmer, Conversations, p. 75.
28 Richard Kurth, ‘Moments of Closure: Thoughts on the Suspension of Tonality
in Schoenberg’s Fourth Quartet and Trio’, in Reinhold Brinkmann and
Christoph Wolff (eds.),‘Music of My Future’: The Schoenberg Quartets and Trio
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), pp. 146, 149–50.
29 Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (8)’ (November 2016), avail-
Bibliography
Arndt, Matthew. ‘Schoenberg on Problems, or, Why the Six-Three Chord is
Dissonant’. Theory and Practice, vols. 37–38 (2012–13), pp. 1–62.
Bowen, Meirion. Michael Tippett. London: Robson Books, 1997.
Cohn, Richard. Audacious Euphony. Chromaticism and the Triad’s Second Nature.
New York: Oxford University Press, 2012.
Finnissy, Michael. Notes with CD recording of This Church. Metier MSV CD92069,
2003.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Kinderman; William; and Krebs, Harold, eds. The Second Practice of
Nineteenth Century Tonality. Lincoln, NE and London: University of Nebraska
Press, 1996.
Kurth, Richard. ‘Moments of Closure: Thoughts on the Suspension of Tonality in
260 Arnold Whittall
Schoenberg’s Fourth Quartet and Trio’. In Reinhold Brinkmann and Christoph
Wolff (eds.),‘Music of My Future’: the Schoenberg Quartets and Trio, edited
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000, pp. 139–60.
Kurth, Richard. ‘Suspended Tonalities in Schoenberg’s Twelve-Tone Compositions’,
Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Center, no. 3 (2001), pp. 239–66.
Marcus, Kenneth H. Schoenberg and Hollywood Modernism. Cambridge: Cambridge
Matthews, David. Michael Tippett, an Introductory Study. London: Faber and Faber,
1980.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (1)’ (February 2016), available
Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (7)’ (November 2016), available
Ian Pace, ‘Michael Finnissy at 70: The Piano Music (8)’ (November 2016), available
Palmer, John. Conversations. Vision Edition: www.visionedition.com, 2015.
Réti, Rudolph. Tonality, Atonality, Pantonality: A Study of Some Trends in Twentieth-
Century Music. London: Rockliff, 1958.
Schoenberg, Arnold. Structural Functions of Harmony, edited Leonard Stein. London:
Ernest Benn, 1969.
Schoenberg, Arnold. Style and Idea, edited Leonard Stein. London: Faber and Faber,
1975.
Schoenberg, Arnold. Theory of Harmony, translated Roy E. Carter. London: Faber
and Faber, 1978.
Slonimsky, Nicholas. Music since 1900. New York: W.W. Norton, 1937.
Tymoczko, Dmitri. A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended
Common Practice. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011.
Whittall, Arnold. ‘Individualism and accessibility: the moderate mainstream,1945–75’.
In Nicholas Cook and Anthony Pople (eds.), The Cambridge History of Twentieth-
Century Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 364–94.
Whittall, Arnold. ‘Metaphysical Materials: Schoenberg in Our Time’. Music Analysis,
vol. 35, no. 3 (October 2016), pp. 383–406.
11 The medium is now the material
The ‘folklore’ of Chris Newman and
Michael Finnissy
Lauren Redhead
In the preface to Michael Finnissy’s score for the extended piano piece
Folklore, the composer outlines the meanings and associations of the term
‘folklore’ that are explored in the music as an introduction to the work.
Paraphrased, they make reference to:
[…] a distant memory, an assemblage, a critical elaboration, an opposi-

tion of conjunctions, an open-ended investigation, a palimpsest, a self-
portrait […].
[…] Inherent attitudes […].
[…] Imperialism is served […].
[…] A simulacrum […].1
All four definitions can be related to Finnissy’s use of quoted and source
material in the piece and throughout his musical oeuvre. They might also
be related to his approach to form, which could be compared to a montage
in which different episodes follow each other without forward or backward
reference.2 Folklore, not uniquely among Finnissy’s compositions, presents
the piano as both the material of the work (in its historical, social, and
instrumental contexts) and as its medium. The use of extended-duration
piano works as a medium for the translation of musical and cultural ideas
is an important aspect of Finnissy’s work. In addition, notation is a further
medium of his work: Finnissy’s music has been associated with the label ‘New
Complexity’ since the 1980s, if not earlier.3 As a result, the complexity of the
subject matter dealt with by his music and the perceived complexity of his
notation have often been conflated:4 in this way the material of his music has
been refracted through the medium of its notation.
On this surface level of notation, no composer might seem superficially
more different to Finnissy than Chris Newman. The notation of Newman’s
works communicates straight-forwardness – and perhaps anti-complexity –
in its sparseness, use of silence, space, and empty staves, his preference for
single notes or lines, and the contrast of his handwriting to that of Finnissy
(see for example Ex. 11.1). However, like Finnissy, Newman makes extensive
use of quotations and source materials. These are most often drawn from the
262 Lauren Redhead
history of Western art music but are not limited to it: his own works often
appear as self-quotations. Furthermore, quotations in Newman’s music are
heard on the musical surface, without significant compositional manipula-
tion of the original material, promoting their recognisability. In this respect,
these quotations might seem as straightforward as the surface of Newman’s
notation.
Ex. 11.1 Chris Newman, The Reason Why I am Unable to Live as a Composer in
my Own Country is a Political One (1983–4), page 2, systems 5–6. © Chris
Newman.
However, the opposition of Finnissy and Newman is impossible to accept. To

do so would be to accept that ideas like ‘complexity’ only exist on the visual
and aural surfaces of music, and that musical material can only be explored
in a narrow set of ways. Some of the terms employed by Finnissy in his
description of Folklore – memory, assemblage, opposition, self-portrait, and
simulacrum in particular – might just as well describe aspects of Newman’s
music. Indeed, the different but equally important relationships of both com-
posers to the piano – and their long-standing artistic collaboration – invite
a reading of their work alongside each other.5 (Exx. 11.2 and 11.3 show two
occasions where musical features can be observed in Finnissy’s work that are
also characteristic of those of Newman.)
Ex. 11.2 Finnissy, excerpt from ‘Le demon d’analogie’ from The History of
Photography in Sound (1995–2001), p. 6, in which Finnissy writes lines
visually similar to those found in The Reason Why. © Oxford University
Press 2004.
The medium is now the material 263
Ex. 11.3 Finnissy, Pimmel (1988–9), systems 7–8, p. 2, which show different layers
of material moving at different speeds and in different registers; a feature
often found in Newman’s instrumental music. This example also shows
the only barline in the work, which functions to separate two categories of
material rather than to denote time. © Oxford University Press 1991.
The opposition of notational and aural complexity might also be thought

of as a dialectic between the two compositional styles. This is explored by
Newman in his essay ‘February and March’.6 He questions the subject/object
divide, writing that, ‘“self expression” means […] imposing the “I”, the sub-
ject, onto life, the “object”’,7 but that this relationship can be reversed, as can
be discovered in artistic and extra-artistic practice. He writes: ‘you are the
object of life, subjected to it, the object has become the material, the subject
is the medium’.8 This explains how what has been traditionally seen from
inside to outside (i.e. as subjective) can now be seen from outside to inside
(i.e. as objective): ‘[t]he medium is now the material’.9 Through this change
of perspective, Newman writes, ‘[t]he material of the material or the mate-
rial of the medium remain the same, but they have been “refunctioned”’.10
He posits this as the function of his work, stating that a key part of his
compositional practice is understanding how one thing affects another as
a ‘transforming element’,11 simply stated as: ‘[n]ot that they were like that
and now they’re like this, but the action itself’.12 In Finnissy’s work, quota-
tions and source materials might be thought of as transforming elements; the
dialogue of materials and their affects assumes the role of formal processes
in tonal music. Similarly, in the practices and processes of Newman and
Finnissy, the media of the piano and its music are ‘refunctioned’ in various
ways: for example, from a vehicle of virtuoso display towards a more abstract
medium for foregrounding historical and socio-cultural references, as I will
explore further. Thus, their work might be read side-by-side to move towards
a deeper aesthetic understanding of ‘medium’ and ‘material’.
Finnissy’s and Newman’s works can be considered in counterpoint with
Nicholas Bourriaud’s concept of the ‘exform’;13 their materialism could be
264 Lauren Redhead
described as a ‘generalised decentering’14 of the sources that they draw upon,
which finds parallels in Bourriaud’s thoughts about the avant-garde, aes-
thetics, and politics. The exform ‘designates a point of contact, a “socket”
or “plug” in the process of exclusion and inclusion—a sign that switches
between centre and periphery, floating between dissidence and power’.15
In this chapter, I explore quotation as a material at first separately from,
and then alongside, the idea of ‘material’ as an abstract concept, and relate
this to the concept of the ‘exform’. Conversely, the piano as the medium
for transmission of Finnissy’s and Newman’s work is considered beyond its
materiality.
As both Finnissy and Newman have written prolifically for the piano,
it is not possible to address the entirety of their work in this medium here.
Therefore, I will focus primarily on brief examples from each composer’s
piano works (and other keyboard works, in the case of Newman). Ian Pace’s
extensive analyses of Finnissy’s piano works are central to the understanding
of this music: in particular, his analysis of Folklore represents a particularly
informative and in-depth music analysis of this piece;16 Maarten Beirens, in
his aesthetic investigation into this work, similarly observes that Pace’s anal-
ysis functions as an extensive catalogue of the materials and references in that
work.17 Therefore, here I contrast observations from Pace and Beirens with
Newman’s music, which by comparison remains under-examined. By far the
largest body of writing on Newman’s work concerns his visual art; numerous
essays on his solo exhibitions have been published, along with his own poetic
reflections.18 These texts can also be considered relevant to his music, due to
the strong links between his practices across media: he has asserted these links
as further expressions of his artistic practice which is made manifest as his
daily life.19 Newman describes the ‘presentation of self as an extension of the
compositional act’,20 but the opposite might also be thought to be true: the
presentation of art as an extension of the act of living.
Motivations for quotation in music have been described by Philip Keppler
as ranging from ‘misappropriation’ to ‘association’; he contends that quota-
tions deliver ‘a concealed comment’ and rely on, ‘the listener’s foreknowledge
of the quoted source’.21 Both Finnissy’s and Newman’s musics construe this
picture as too simple; the number of references in Finnissy’s music (as out-
lined by Pace in his analyses) are too many to be immediately perceptible
for an individual listener on a single hearing even though most of them can
be discovered by analysis and/or sketch study. A ‘concealed comment’ also
seems an unlikely explanation: there are multiple occasions in Finnissy’s
work where quotations are positioned as the premise of the music – such as
his Verdi Transcriptions (1972–2005) or Gershwin Arrangements (1975–88).
Similarly, Newman seems to make every attempt to make his quoted sources
recognisable: for example, his Piano Sonata No. 6 (1997) asks the pianist to
play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 27 in E minor op. 90 in the right hand
and his own Symphony No. 3 (1999) in the left: the Beethoven source mate-
rial is easily recognisable.
Beyond quotation as a comment, the repetitive nature of the musical
histories and canons from which Finnissy and Newman quote might be
considered. Bourriaud invokes the concept of Durcharbeiten or ‘working-
through’: this term applies to repetitive labour – for example, factory work in
its original use – and in artistic practice could be compared to going over the
same scene many times, such as in the play Heart’s Desire by Caryl Churchill
(1997). The re-performance of the works of music history in examples such
as those above could be considered examples of Durcharbeiten; this can be
contrasted with art that ‘sets chains of signification in motion’.22 There are
multiple chains of signification to be found in Finnissy’s work. The first is
the integration into the material of the quotations themselves: for exam-
ple, in the first movement of Folklore materials are drawn from a collection
of Norwegian folk melodies, quotations from Grieg’s music, an incomplete
tribute to Sorabji by Finnissy, and freely composed material.23 Links are
made, therefore, between transcriptions of folk sources, the music of com-
posers who have used them, homage, and the idea of free-association in the
compositional process. But a second chain of signification can be identified
between the listener and the work: this is a chain of unlimited semiosis, where
the signified is – or can be – endlessly substituted as a signifier for a further
signified.24 It would be difficult to assert that Finnissy selects his quotations
in order to control the latter chain of meaning, but possible to imagine that
he does seek to invite multiple semiotic processes that might begin with the
quotations themselves.
In his monograph on The History of Photography in Sound, Pace describes
many of Finnissy’s compositional processes with and through quota-
tions as: ‘ad hoc modifications’; preferences for ‘wide contours and spread
chords [and] constantly mutating pulses and tonalities and for a general
ostentatiousness and extravagance of result’; and extracting fragments ‘in
ways that blur the sense of key or metre’.25 This is summed up as, ‘a combi-
nation of two metaphors: discovery on one hand and appropriation on the
other’,26 and describes well the contrast and synthesis of Durcharbeiten and
chains of signification in the music. ‘Discovery’, on Finnissy’s part, ‘works
through’ the material, whilst these operations provide the fertile ground for
future signification.
Compositional operations such as ‘ad hoc modifications’, ‘mutating pulses
and tonalities’, blurring the ‘sense of key or metre’, and composing quota-
tions as an act of discovery might also describe many aspects of Newman’s
work. An example of this can be found in the opening bars of the extended
piano piece The Reason Why I am Unable to Live as a Composer in my Own
Country is a Political One (1983–4), where a quotation from Sibelius can be
heard. The first four systems (the piece does not employ conventional bar
lines) transcribe bars 1–8 of the opening of Sibelius’s Symphony No. 5 in
Eᅈ (Ex. 11.4). All the notes sound in the bass clef: the flute and oboe parts
have been read a compound minor third down, and the piano left hand plays
chords that roughly correspond to those spelled out in the horn parts read as if
266 Lauren Redhead
untransposed. The rhythm has been simplified into groups of dotted minims,
and accidentals have been cancelled, giving an overall feel of F Lydian mode.
Here, the practice of Durcharbeiten can be observed, the rewriting of this
quotation and, further, its relationship with the chains of signification that it
musically sets in motion. This quotation also exhibits many of the composi-
tional techniques that Pace finds in Finnissy’s use of quotation: blurring the
sense of key, mutating tonalities, and ad hoc modifications that indicate the
quotation as the subject of the compositional process rather than its object.
Ex. 11.4 Chris Newman, The Reason Why I am Unable to Live as a Composer in
my Own Country is a Political One (1983–4) page 1, systems 1–4. © Chris
Newman.
In an interview with Gisela Gronemeyer, Newman describes his approach

to material as ‘Schrott’ (‘scrap’).27 Such a term implies something that is
discarded, but not yet used up. Bourriaud quotes Althusser’s idea of ‘aleatory
materialism’ as a way to account for this type of artistic practice.28 He under-
stands this to mean that the material starting point is arbitrary, and that art is
found in its processes.29 Bourriaud describes this as ‘the logic of emergence’:
as a result of this use of material, ‘something new begins to function in
an autonomous manner’.30 Such aleatory materialism might be identified in
both Finnissy’s and Newman’s work. The use of the term ‘aleatory’ does not
mean that the materials selected are arbitrary – that the composers do not
put any consideration into choosing them – but that their material function is
not linked precisely to their selection but to their Durcharbeiten in the musical
work. Bourriaud describes this approach as a facet of meaningfulness and
meaning-making in all artistic production; describing art as an ‘eidetic gen-
erator’: something that translates, ‘an idea, a sensation, into organisation and
order gives it new meaning’.31 Those familiar with Finnissy’s work may see
this as a useful metaphor for his approach in many of his works: for example,
Christopher Fox makes a similar observation about the baritone, chorus and
ensemble work Maldon (1990), writing that it functions simultaneously as a
piece about a specific battle and a piece about all battles.32
In the case of Folklore, Beirens observes a similar phenomenon, writing:
‘the recognisability of the source material is of little importance; what is essen-
tial is the way that the material is combined, interspersed, alternated, modi-
fied, followed with or by other material’.33 Beirens’ assessment is somewhat
in line with ‘aleatory materialism’ and with Newman’s practice: he does not
dispute the careful selecting of materials that Pace demonstrates in his analysis
of Folklore, but rather points out that the criticality of Finnissy’s work is
not dependent on the materials themselves, but on their treatment. Pace, it
would seem, agrees, as he writes in a comparison of Folklore and The History
that, in each piece, one might think of ‘material as archetype’.34 Pace’s and
Beirens’ approaches describe the possibility of unlimited semiosis both for
the composer and the listener. As a result, one might then understand how
Pace’s detailed analyses might have contributed in a material way to his per-
formances: both the aesthetic connotations of the source materials and their
poietic presentation offer approaches to the musical text that take the per-
former beyond the re-presentation of quoted source materials in performance.
Moreover, the sources that Finnissy and Newman engage with ideology
as well as history. The practice of ideology (and its links with culture and
history) in music can be identified on numerous levels: the most commonly
explored has been in modes of engagement in the concert hall. However,
hierarchies of musical materials and composers’ reproductions of these as a
part of their compositional practice are also the means by which these ide-
ologies are made manifest: such hierarchies are expressed as compositional
‘norms’ in the form of technique and performance practices. They can be
observed as forms, textures, voicing, and the preferences for certain types
of musical expression; thus compositional material is one way that music
asserts its ideologies. Although local, generic, and stylistic variations might
be observed, when expected compositional ‘norms’ are not adhered to, the
role and purpose of the piano may be brought into question. Indeed, both
composers often invoke strategies that undermine both the expectations of
268 Lauren Redhead
the compositional development of the musical material within perceived tra-
ditions and of their own compositional strategies towards such material.
For example, Beirens contrasts virtuosic and monodic passages in Folklore,
finding the latter ‘perhaps the most surprising element of the cycle’, especially
because they differ from ‘what is traditionally considered to be orthodox
writing for the piano’.35
Newman’s bare, monophonic lines similarly undermine the expectations of
composition for the piano. He addresses the issue of surface simplicity as a
compositional tool, explaining that he would rather call his material ‘naked’
than ‘reduced’ or ‘simply single notes’.36 An example of this ‘naked’ mate-
rial can be seen in the organ piece Song to God (1994): this piece is a single,
monophonic line (Ex. 11.5).
Ex. 11.5 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 1, systems 1–2. © Chris Newman.
Such a presentation of material is more than unorthodox for an organ work:

it undermines everything that could be expected from a piece for the instru-
ment. Combined with abrupt stop changes, that sometimes fall in the middle
of a phrase and – depending on the instrument – will likely effect changes
of octave or register as well as timbre, this composition exposes the inner
workings of the organ to its listeners. As such, the instrument, as well as the
material, could be thought ‘naked’. A useful comparison can be drawn with
Newman’s visual artwork. In the catalogue for the exhibition Existential
Hinge, he writes:
Diese Elemente sind einander überlagernd kombiniert und streben nicht

miteinander nach Harmonie, sondern sind eher aneinander gelehnt, wie
Öl auf Wasser, eine Art von sich automatisch ergebendem Kontrapunkt,
fast so, als müsse das Auge selbst die Elemente zusammen bringen.37
(These elements are combined and superimposed on one another, and do
not strive towards a harmony, but rather they lean against each other,
like oil on water; this yields a kind of automatic counterpoint, almost as
if the eye forces the elements together.)
If one were to substitute ‘eye’ for ‘ear’ in this statement, a similar situation
to that of the listener of Song to God emerges: the ear is left to ‘force’ its nar-
rative of monophonic elements together, to form a meaning that is greater
than the sum of their parts (similarly so in Newman’s Piano Sonata No. 6).
The overall result is not of independent melodies or musical ideas working
together but against each other. The work of meaning-making is here done
by the listener (whose ear forces the elements together) rather than a compo-
sitional process of smoothing out the disjunct.
The instrument – here, the organ or the piano – represents the border
where medium and material meet. It is therefore unsurprising that, for exam-
ple, Pace’s analyses of Finnissy’s works emphasise how the compositional
material he uses interacts with the piano as its medium. He writes: ‘what
should be emphasised is the way in which each of Finnissy’s sources generate
a rich and distinct palette of colours’.38 These colours are only realised on the
instrument. The piano as medium also receives comment from Beirens, who
writes that in Folklore its use is, ‘not only an act of unification but a decision
involving several connotations [of the piano]’.39 The piano is considered not
only a medium but a signifier, and not for a single bourgeois culture but a
host of social and performance situations in which it might be or might have
been found. Beirens writes further that its employment is, ‘an unrelenting
statement, reflecting upon or formulating a critique of many issues that are
crucial to late-20th-century human existence’.40 These issues may include the
separation of public and domestic, or ‘classical’ from ‘traditional’ cultures,
and the implications for identity and culture. In contrast, in correspondence
in 2009, Newman describes the piano (along with the orchestra) as being
‘simply there’, writing ‘its thereness and inertness is what I like’.41 These com-
peting significations and contradictions of the piano are rendered unstable by
Newman’s and Finnissy’s practices of the instrument as medium and mate-
rial. Beirens observes this through the example of the suggestion in Folklore
that the pianist play ‘folk’ material ‘quasi violino’, even though the act of
striving to do so on the piano has the effect of, ‘paradoxically emphasizing
the existence of [its] limitations’.42
Similarly, an example of this instability can be found in pages 25–30 of
the score of The Reason Why…; the ‘thereness’ of the piano as a medium is
here demonstrated by a tension between the instrument and the anti-pianistic
material offered to the performer to place on it. In this section, twenty one
chords, all notated as semibreves (barring the final chord which is dotted),
follow each other in slow, deliberate succession. Each chord brings together
the intervals of a fifth and a third, with the exception of three that contain
two notes as an octave or augmented octave. Three musical cycles of fifths
and thirds can be identified, their end-points signaled by the octaves. The
‘spelling’ of the intervals used highlights false relations between successive
chords, and blurs what can be heard as tonal relationships between consecu-
tive intervals. Despite an implication of D major, this is actually a 12-tone
passage that undermines the sense of key by a final dissonant chord. This
material is similarly ‘naked’ as that in Song to God: these chords are ‘placed’
on the piano but their repetitious sounding and decaying reveals a similar
tension with the instrument to that when Finnissy asks the performer to
270 Lauren Redhead
play as if a violin. Newman’s approach here could be seen as the opposite
of Finnissy’s Durcharbeiten of the connotations of his musical material in
Folklore: he creates the possibility for the resonance of the piano’s connota-
tions in the mind of the listener. In these simple chords, the bourgeois con-
notations of the piano hang awkwardly against ideas of accompaniment and
amateur playing. Thus, Newman accesses the same range of connotations
of the piano as do Finnissy’s references to folk music and traditions, albeit
through different means.
A comparable example can be found in Finnissy’s work at the beginning
of the eighth chapter, Kapitalistisch Realisme (met Sizilianische Männerakte
en Bachsche Nachdichtungen) of The History of Photography in Sound. 43
Like the rest of the work, this section references a multitude of sources. The
opening passage (Ex. 11.6) derives material from three works of Beethoven:
the String Quartet in A, op. 18 no. 5, the fifth Piano Sonata in C minor,
op. 10, no. 1 and the Symphony No. 5 in C minor, op. 67, all used succes-
sively for the left hand, while the right hand part is derived from Wagner’s
Götterdämmerung and later from music of Bruckner.44
Ex. 11.6 Finnissy, from Kapitalistisch Realisme, p. 207. Left hand derived from
Beethoven String Quartet in A, op. 18, no. 5, right hand derived from
Wagner Götterdämmerung. © Oxford University Press 2004.
Someone familiar with Newman’s and Finnissy’s collaboration might hear a

reference to Newman’s work in this section, in particular, as a parallel with
Newman’s frequent return to Beethoven as a source. He has described his
Piano Sonata No.1 (1982) as ‘homemade Beethoven’,45 and Beethovenian
quotations appear in many of his pieces. Writing about the composition of
the piece Air Fool Agony Face (2009) for accordion, Newman states:
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony takes the strung-out pitches from a song

from my cycle “Format” and registrates them and rhythmicises them
afresh. Beethoven “shapes” my pitches, my pitches “choose” Beethoven,
they “pick up” Beethoven. This is a kind of pathway-piece in which the
own and the official are welded together in a single line melted together
in the making of the piece.46
The use of the term ‘official’ to refer to Beethoven describes something of the
connotations of music history that Newman – and perhaps Finnissy, too –
attempts to access through musical material. Pace writes that in the passage
from the History described above, ‘[t]he incessant nature of the Beethovenian
left hand […] provides a cantus firmus upon which the passionate and highly
chromatic Wagner material [from Götterdammerung] can be conceived as
a type of overgrowth’.47 This compositional practice of reading one piece
through the lens of another creates the impression of the piano as an his-
torical narrative that is accessed through its materials. The ‘official’-ness of
Beethoven and the inescapable relationship of the contemporary musical
material to this ‘official’ history is presented through their overlay and inter-
play. In Newman’s case, the composer’s own material is made to conform
to the historical narrative by way of its structure; in Finnissy’s case his com-
positional technique is presented as an extension of the layering of history
upon history. In this way, the piano is ‘simply there’ as Newman describes:
these histories are always-already sounding through its medium; Finnissy
and Newman access, subvert, and render them precarious through the com-
positional process.
Newman’s and Finnissy’s approach to composition beyond personal
styles and systems might be described as political in the cases of both com-
posers. For Bourriaud, the ‘political’ dimension of art ‘bring[s] precarity to
mind: to keep the notion alive that intervention in the world is possible’.48
Similarly, Finnissy describes his work as documenting ‘social awareness and
humanity’49 as a political, but not party-political, element. Bourriaud writes
that, ‘[t]o oppose a system, one must first conceive its nature as precarious’,50
and of this political effect, that: ‘one of the essential elements of contempo-
rary art’s political programme is that of bringing the world into a precarious
state’.51
Examples of this precarity can be found throughout Finnissy’s and
Newman’s work. For example, the tenth chapter of the History, Unsere
Afrikareise, takes its name from Peter Kubelka’s 1966 film of the same name.
The film depicts Austrian tourists on safari, juxtaposed with the African
people who serve them. Pace lists five types of musical material in this
chapter, that range from transcribed folk music materials, to appropriated
or ‘assimilated’ materials, to representations of the same, to more contem-
porary, abstract, material (see Ex. 11.7).52 Pace also notes that this section
acts as a counterpart to the North American Spirituals (chapter 3 of the
cycle), in that it explores orientalism and exoticism in connection with its
sources.53 Kubelka’s film sets up a binary opposition between Europe and
Africa. By the use of juxtaposition, he creates a narrative that shows the
272 Lauren Redhead
Europeans to be barbaric and the Africans helpless in the landscape: the
opposite construction of the one that the viewer is supposed to imagine in
the minds of the European tourists. Finnissy’s composition renders this
binary opposition precarious through his Durcharbeiten of the materials.
Rather than a postcolonial opposition between cultures, this chapter of
the History draws together African and European influences as a musical
‘tourist’, highlighting how these might yet have artistic afterlives – distinct
from their histories – as influences on an individual who views them as
equally valuable musics. Thus, the ‘geographical’ location of these influ-
ences is rendered precarious through their location within the person of the
composer through the composition. Pace notes that, in this chapter, the
distinction between the ‘“original” material [and] that coming from Western
appropriations/representations become[s] blurred’.54 As such, the potential
unlimited semiosis of this material is realised through its contact with an
individual rather than its juxtaposition.
Ex. 11.7 Michael Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise, p. 299. Here folk-derived
materials are combined in a process of symmetry/inversion, and could
perhaps be read as the ‘mirror’ Kubelka’s film holds up to the tourists. The
relationship between this chapter and chapter 3 of the cycle can be noted in
the interjection of the ‘ragtime’ bar. © Oxford University Press 2004.
Precarity can also be observed Song to God. Its title both references the func-
tion of the organ in liturgy and demonstrates an irreverent stance towards
this physical and musical situation within the church. The musical material
in the piece is drawn from a range of Newman’s earlier songs, including
his New Songs of Social Conscience (1990) whose lyrics (for example, ‘it
wouldn’t do you any harm to give some money to that old lady’ and ‘good day
after good orgasm’) might be read as humanist, or irreverent, although not
specifically anti-religious. Rather, the discursive nature of these lyrics
connote singing at (to), rather than singing for (to) as in the manner of a hymn
(Exx. 11.8 and 11.9). Therefore, the sacred/secular distinction in song and
music that seems to be set up in the title and presentation of the work is ren-
dered precarious. As in Finnissy’s work, the potential for unlimited semiosis
here is not achieved through juxtaposition but through the working through
of elements from the subjective point of view of the composer. Bourriaud
explains this as a feature of art, writing that, ‘the work of art does not offer
formal content alone; it also presents a corresponding interpretative and his-
torical context’.55 This is linked with the political act of the production of art
which cannot be avoided: ‘situating oneself in a political space signifies, first
and foremost, choosing the historical narrative within which [one] positions
and displays [one’s] work’.56 Finnissy also mentions this political dimension as
one that imposes ‘ethical considerations’ on the work of the composer.57 This
is not a form of political intervention that seeks to enact social change, but
one that seeks to make the already-political dimensions of artistic production
explicit and precarious in their enactment.
Ex. 11.8 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 4, movement II, system 9. The
first phrase in the bass clef quotes the melody line of ‘It wouldn’t do you
any harm’. © Chris Newman.
Ex. 11.9 Chris Newman, Song to God (1994), page 5, movement III, system 3. The
first two bars quotes the melody line of the laughter (‘a-ha-ha-ha-ha-
ha-ha’) from the song ‘Good day after good orgasm’. © Chris Newman.
The political associations of works composed by Newman and Finnissy are

often openly accessible in their titles.58 Even if not intended as the complete
interpretation to the pieces to which they are attached, these titles point
to composition as a way to work not only with musical material but with
the social circumstances of music. Finnissy himself describes Folklore as a
political piece, stating, ‘it isn’t asking you for a shocked emotional response;
rather to consider issues critically’.59 Folklore, he says, isn’t the presentation
of a single political view but rather, ‘an investigation of different modes of
presence’.60 As a general approach to composition, this falls between and
beyond ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ music, arguably drawing on what might be
seen as the most productive categories of both approaches: the piece does not
claim to create meaning in and of itself, but nor does it claim to be without
274 Lauren Redhead
extra-musical meaning either. Despite not having a programme, the work
does still, on some level, offer a narrative of meaning-making.
Similarly, Newman outlines that he is not interested in absolute approaches
or those that attach meaning to practices drawn from music history
(Bourriaud’s ‘norms’). He rejects the term ‘abstract’ entirely: ‘Ich nenne das
nicht abstrakt, für mich ist das sehr konkret, so zu denken. Für mich gibt es
nichts Abstraktes. Ich sehe das sehr, sehr konkret.’ (‘I don’t call it abstract,
for me it is a very concrete way of thinking. For me, nothing is abstract. I see
it very, very concretely.’)61 The ‘concreteness’ of this approach is again found
in its bareness. For example, An Everything and Us (1990) is created from
discrete categories of materials that are separated in register, texture (single
notes, open intervals, chords) that follow each other without attempts to
relate or develop them (see Ex. 11.10). Pitches (either as intervals or melodic
material) remain associated with specific and differentiated rhythmic material
throughout the piece. ‘Concrete’, in this case, might also bear comparison
the resistant material namesake: brutalist architecture could be brought to
mind. The ‘concreteness’ of Newman’s approach can be identified in its clear
Ex. 11.10 Chris Newman, An Everything and Us (1990), MusikTexte, issue 38

(February 1991), pp. 13–22; systems 1012, page 15, in which different
materials are situated at different registers. © Musiktexte 1991.
structural delineation and lack of surface decoration, just as Finnissy may
sometimes present different material categories as strata or sections such as
in the piece Snowdrift (1972) which similarly moves in places between dif-
ferent material categories in ways that Pace has categorised as ‘cinematic’.62
Therefore although the musical material is differently constituted in each
case, their structural approaches are similar.
Maarten Beirens has written that Finnissy’s music ‘implies there is such
a thing as a “personal folklore”’.63 This ‘personal folklore’ is the subjective
expression of the composer amid the objective approach to the compositional
medium (e.g. Newman’s subjectivity expressed as his objective processes),
and in return invites the subjective response of the material to an objective
approach to composition and the piano as media (e.g. the tensions between
the original contexts of some of Finnissy’s source materials and the piano-
context in which they find themselves in Folklore and the History). This ‘per-
sonal folklore’ could be the strongest link between Finnissy and Newman: for
each, their approach to the practice of composition is the way that the act of
composition itself becomes politicised. The medium (composition) becomes
the material that is offered for critical reflection. It is both personal and
political in as much as their personal, compositional narratives destabilise
overarching socio-musical ones. Such destabilisation is central to the political
effect of their works as art that has the ability to resist ideologies in cultural
life. Key aspects of both Finnissy’s and Newman’s work in this reading are
their properties of ‘decentering’ and making precarious. As such, ‘differences’
between the two composers can hence be seen as complementary parts of the
same idea: material that is expanded in re-composition is further discovered
through the process of Durcharbeiten; the sonorous properties of the scrap
of musical histories are discovered by their re-sounding in the musical work;
the signification of a medium such as a piano is revealed in its contrary use
that renders its ideologies and ‘norms’ precarious; composition is, by its
nature, beyond abstraction. ‘Exformal’, as a descriptor for this music, is not
a category but a property of boundary-crossing and making precarious. The
works described are indeed ‘site[s] where border negotiations unfold between
what is rejected and what is admitted,’64 and as such they re-configure the
ideologies and processes of meaning-making of contemporary music. In this
way, the ‘personal folklores’ of Finnissy and Newman, through their aleatory
materialism, render unstable the musical categories on which they draw, and
allow negotiation of the ‘Schrott’ of these categories for both composer and
listener.
Notes
1 Michael Finnissy, preface to score of Folklore (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1996).
2 Richard Barrett, in ‘Michael Finnissy—an overview’, Contemporary Music
Review, vol. 13, no.1 (1995), pp. 37–9 describes this ‘cinematic’ influence in
276 Lauren Redhead
Finnissy’s work. See also Ian Pace’s consideration of the subject in Chapter 16 of
the present volume.
3 Richard Toop’s article, ‘Four Facets of the New Complexity’, Contact 32 (1988),
pp. 8–18 focuses on Finnissy’s work, and gave the term wider currency. For the
earlier provenance of the term, the first use of which Finnissy attributes to Harry
Halbreich in 1978, see the Introduction to the present volume.
4 See Nigel McBride in Chapter 9 of this volume for more on this and other related
issues.
5 Finnissy appears as a pianist on many recordings of Newman’s piano works
(e.g. Michael Finnissy plays Weir, Finnissy, Newman and Skempton, NMC D002
(1992); Chris Newman: New Songs of Social Conscience/Six Sick Songs/London
Review Records rere 185cd (1998); and Chris Newman Piano Sonatas Nos. 1, 4, 6
& 10, Mode 201 (2008)) – and has long been a champion of Newman’s work for
the piano. French Piano (1991) responds to Newman’s drawing of the same name,
and Pimmel (1988–9) is dedicated to Newman (who is undoubtedly referenced in
the irreverent title; see Ex. 11.3); Newman’s piece Untitled Combine (1996) was
composed for Finnissy’s 50th birthday.
6 Chris Newman, ‘February and March’, KunstMusik, 5 (Autumn 2005), pp. 45–6.
7 Ibid. p. 45.
8 Ibid.
9 Ibid. p. 46.
10 Ibid.
11 Ibid.
12 Ibid.
13 Nicholas Bourriaud, The Exform, translated Erik Butler (London: Verso, 2016).
14 Ibid., p. XII.
15 Ibid. p. X.
16 cf. Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 43–134, 111–33.
17 Maarten Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self: Michael Finnissy’s “Folklore”’,
Tempo, vol. 57 no. 223 (January 2003), p. 47.
18 See for example Chris Newman, ‘Existential Hinge’, in Katalog: Kunstgeschichten –
Die Sammlung des Arp Museums Bahnhof Rolandseck 1987–2009 (Richter Verlag,
Düsseldorf, 2009), and Solid State Variation (Leonhardi-Museum Dresden:
Verlag für moderne Kunst Nürnberg, 2009). These are examples of art publica-
tions that contain texts where Newman discusses ideas that he – elsewhere – has
also associated with his music.
19 Chris Newman interviewed on Radio 3’s Composers’ Rooms, BBC Radio 3, 10
January 2015, available online at www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02slqjf (accessed
17 July 2018).
20 Chris Newman, communication with the author, 13 June 2009.
21 Philip Keppler Jr., ‘Some Comments on Musical Quotation’, The Musical
Quarterly, vol. 42 no.4 (October 1956), p. 473. See also Ian Pace’s extensive survey
of theoretical literature on borrowing in Chapter 3 of the present volume.
22 Bourriaud, The Exform, p. 5.
23 Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 112–16 gives an outline of the exact order of materi-
als in this movement.
24 cf. Umberto Eco, ‘Unlimited Semiosis and Drift,’ in The Limits of Interpretation
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1990), pp. 23–43.
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), p. 5, avail-
able online at http://openaccess.city.ac.uk/2875/ (accessed 3 November 2016).
26 Ibid.
27 “…ohne die Berührung der menschlichen Hand” [without the touch of a human
hand]: Chris Newman im Gespräch mit Gisela Gronemeyer, MusikTexte:
Zeitschrift für neue Musik, 38 (February 1991), p. 3.
28 Louis Althusser, Writings on Psychoanalysis: Freud and Lacan, translated Jeffrey
Mehlman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), p. 22, cited in Bourriaud,
The Exform, p. 23.
29 Althusser demonstrates this both in his conception of history as a process without
a subject and of philosophy as a discourse based in and on its own tradition, cf.
Louis Althusser, ‘The Underground Current of the Materialism of the Encounter’,
in Philosophy of the Encounter: Later Writings, 1978–1987, edited Oliver Corpet
and François Matheron, translated G.M. Goshgarian (London: Verso, 2006),
pp. 163–207.
30 Althusser, Writings on Psychoanalysis, p. 42, cited in Bourriaud, The Exform,
p. 11.
32 Christopher Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), p. 215.
33 Beirens ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 48.
35 Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 49.
36 ‘Newman im Gespräch mit Gronemeyer’, p. 4.
37 Chris Newman, ‘Existential Hinge’ (2009), available online at www.chris-newman.
org/chris-newman_texts.html (accessed 11 November 2016). My translation.
38 Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, p. 102.
39 Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 50.
40 Ibid. p. 46.
41 Chris Newman, Communication with the Author, 13 June 2009, quoted in
Lauren Redhead, ‘The Reason Why I am Unable to Live in my own Country
as a Composer is a Political One: The Politics of Self-Alienation in the Music of
Chris Newman’, Terz, Komponieren Im Exil 3 (2013), at www.terz.cc/magazin.
php?z=362&id=364 (accessed 9 November 2016).
42 Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 50. See also Beirens’ remarks in Chapter 13
of the present volume.
43 In this piece movements are given the designation ‘chapter’ which implies ‘read-
ing’ in the sense of Foucauldian discourse found, for examples in Michel Foucault,
‘The Enunciative Function’, in The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. by A. M.
Sheridan Smith (London: Routledge, 2011), pp. 99–118. Foucault describes this
as a ‘repeatable materiality’ that ‘reveals the statement as a specific and paradoxi-
cal object’ (p. 118).
44 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 201–9
addresses the precise integration of these references to Beethoven into the piece.
For a very different view of the same piece, see Richard Beaudoin, ‘Anonymous
Sources: Finnissy Analysis and the Opening of Chapter Eight of The History of
Photography in Sound’, Perspectives of New Music, vol. 45, no. 2 (Summer 2007),
pp. 5–27, and see Ian Pace’s response in Chapter 3 of this volume.
45 Chris Newman, Liner Notes, Chris Newman: piano sonatas (Mode Records,
2007), mode 201, available online at www.moderecords.com/catalog/201newman.
html (accessed 6 March 2017).
46 Chris Newman, Programme note for Air Fool Agony Face (Music We’d Like
to Hear, 25 June 2009), available online at www.musicwedliketohear.com/
pdf/08072009.pdf (accessed 1 March 2017).
278 Lauren Redhead
49 ddmmyy, ‘Interview with Michael Finnissy’, ddmmyyseries (2015), at www.
ddmmyyseries.com/Interview-with-Michael-Finnissy (accessed 10 March 2018).
51 Ibid.
53 Ibid. pp. 242–3.
54 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, p. 23. For a
slightly different perspective on this work, see Maarten Beirens’ commentary in
Chapter 6 of the present volume.
55 Ibid. p. 45.
56 Ibid. pp. 45–6.
57 Interview at ddmmyy.
58 For example, chapter 4 of Finnissy’s History, My parents’ generation thought
War meant something, and his three Political Agendas (1989–2006, 2000–8 and
2016), the final part of the third of which is titled ‘My country has betrayed me’.
See Chapters 3, 10 and 14 of the present volume for more on the latter group of
works.
59 ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 1–42; quote
p. 24.
60 Ibid. p. 25.
61 ‘Newman im Gespräch mit Gronemeyer’, p. 3. My translation.
62 Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 54–5. See also Chapter 16 of this volume for a more
detailed exploration of the cinematic dimension of Finnissy’s work.
63 Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 55; Finnissy is reported by Ian Pace as
having described the work is embodying his ‘personal folklore’ as well as multiple
other concerns.
64 Bourriaud, The Exform, p. x.
Bibliography
Althusser, Louis. Writings on Psychoanalysis: Freud and Lacan, translated Jeffrey
Mehlman. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999.
Barrett, Richard. ‘Michael Finnissy—an overview’. Contemporary Music Review,
vol. 13, no.1 (1995), pp. 23–43.
vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 46–56.
Bourriaud, Nicholas. The Exform, translated Erik Butler. London: Verso, 2016.
Eco, Umberto. ‘Unlimited Semiosis and Drift’. In Umberto Eco, The Limits of
Interpretation (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1990), pp. 23–43.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score of Folklore. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1996.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 211–57.
Keppler, Philip Jr. ‘Some Comments on Musical Quotation’. The Musical Quarterly,
vol. 42, no. 4 (October 1956), pp. 473–85.
Newman, Chris. ‘February and March’. KunstMusik 5 (Autumn 2005), pp. 45–6.
Newman, Chris. ‘Existential Hinge’. In Katalog: Kunstgeschichten – Die Sammlung des
Arp Museums Bahnhof Rolandseck 1987–2009 (Düsseldorf: Richter Verlag, 2009).
Newman, Chris. Solid State Variation (Leonhardi-Museum Dresden: Verlag für mod-
erne Kunst Nürnberg, 2009.
“…ohne die Berührung der menschlichen Hand”: Chris Newman im Gespräch mit
Gisela Gronemeyer’. MusikTexte: Zeitschrift für neue Musik, no. 38 (February
1991), pp. 3–7.
Newman, Chris. Interview on Radio 3’s Composers’ Rooms, BBC Radio 3, 10 January
2015, available online at www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02slqjf (accessed 17 July
2018).
1998), pp. 43–133.
Toop, Richard. ‘Four Facets of the New Complexity’. Contact 32 (1988), pp. 4–50.
Michael Finnissy plays Weir, Finnissy, Newman and Skempton. NMC D002 (1992).
Chris Newman: New Songs of Social Conscience/Six Sick Songs/London. Chris
Newman, voice; Michael Finnissy, piano. Review Records rere 185cd. (1998).
Chris Newman Piano Sonatas Nos. 1, 4, 6 & 10. Michael Finnissy, piano. Mode 201
(2008).
12 Finnissy’s hand
James Weeks
The hand’s essence can never be determined, or explained, by its being an

organ which can grasp […] every motion of the hand in every one of its
works carries itself through the element of thinking.
Martin Heidegger1
The moving hand

As a young student of Michael Finnissy,2 one of the many things that fas-
cinated me about my teacher was the sheer quantity of music he produced,
and the extraordinary creative momentum it must surely betoken – putting
my own laboriously-eked efforts into unflattering perspective. Discussing
frequently the craft and act of composition with him, I remember conversa-
tions in which he would refer to the ‘hand moving across the page’, as if it
were this that drove the compositional flow. Though partly no doubt offered
as a provocation, this idea has stayed with me through my own working life
as a composer, teacher of composition, and conductor (not least of Finnissy’s
music), and forms the starting-point for this chapter. For it seems to me that
this image of the ‘moving hand’ is all of a piece with our several ideations of
Finnissy’s work as a whole. It can be found everywhere within his creative
production: the attention to the aesthetics and ontology of notation; the pre-
occupation with transcription (writing across or through) and the dialogue
with the musical literature (that is, the written scores of other music as well
as the sound of it) which it entails; the predominance of linearity in his work;
the immaculate, hand-copied scores; and his hands moving across the piano
keyboard, his own instrument and musical ‘confessor’.3
My intention is to connect and illuminate these familiar attributes of
Finnissy’s work by exploring the role played by the hand in his practice of
making. I suggest that the special features, or peculiarities, of Finnissy-as-
maker might be fruitfully understood with reference to a phenomenological
discourse of embodiment, in which the hand, and its inherent physicality
and mobility, plays as fundamental a role in the act of making as more tra-
ditional notions of eyes, ears and imagination. The deep interdependence of
hand and brain in human intelligence has long been recognised in scientific
Finnissy’s hand 281
and philosophical thought. The neurologist Frank Wilson writes that: ‘The
hand is so widely represented in the brain, the hand’s neurological and bio-
mechanical elements are so prone to spontaneous interaction and reorgani-
zation, and the motivations and efforts that give rise to individual use of
the hand are so deeply and widely rooted, that we must admit we are trying
to explain a basic imperative of human life.’4 The hand may be seen as an
extension of the brain, and the question of what motivates the moving hand
becomes one of entangled complexity. Indeed, the evolution of the human
hand – with its saddle-jointed thumb and independently flexible fingers ena-
bling the precise use of tools – plays a seminal role in theories of the develop-
ment of human intelligence and language. For Martin Heidegger, language
is the key to human uniqueness, and the hand is the key to language, because
of its ability to grasp and hold – to establish instrumentality: ‘Man does not
“have” hands, but the hand holds the essence of man, because the word as
the essential realm of the hand is the ground of the essence of man.’5 What
we call ‘mind’, ‘thought’ or ‘imagination’, therefore, resides in this entangled
complex of the hand-brain: the mind, hand-like, reaches out into the world,
touches and holds it.
But ‘touching’ is not restricted to the action of the hand: the Finnish archi-
tectural philosopher Juhani Pallasmaa, citing medical and anthropological
evidence, argues that ‘all the senses, including vision, are extensions of the
tactile sense; the senses are specialisations of skin tissue, and all sensory
experiences are modes of touching, and thus related to tactility’.6 For him,
‘touch is the sensory mode that integrates our experiences of the world and
of ourselves. Even visual perceptions are fused and integrated into the haptic
continuum of the self…This fundamental hapticity of the human life world
heightens the significance of the hand.’7 It is clear, then, that as brain and
hand are entangled, so too are hand, eye, ear, and our other sensory organs.
To return to our image of Finnissy-as-maker: insofar as we can discern spe-
cial qualities of Finnissy’s work that make it different to others, might these
peculiarities be understood as the result of a difference in the relationship of
these ‘modes of touching’? And might such considerations shed light, too, on
the recurrent accusations of ‘Paper Music’ levelled at his work?8 To begin our
investigation we must move away from the writing desk and encounter the
composer first at the piano.
The playing hand

We can’t see the hands but we know they’re dancing: we hear the sonic trace
they leave as they spring, bounce, jump, reach, flow across the keys of the
piano in the treble range, in the irregular, lithe, twitchy rhythmic move-
ment of Finnissy’s personalised pióbaireachd. The dancer herself, holding
her hands crossed high above her head, seems to echo or counterpoint the
pianist’s moving hand in the quick motions of her feet; her static crossed
hands echo the pianist’s striking black braces, and the flying, coloured tassels
282 James Weeks
of her costume offer a further image of fast, wild movement and entan-
gling. Later, the crossing and entangling are taken further as the performers
come together, first holding hands (while the pianist continues to play with
the other hand, and the dancer is still) and then (while the piano is silent)
embarking on a sequence of intricate poses together, holding hands and link-
ing arms as the dance continues.
Much of Finnissy’s early working life was spent playing for dance. His
intensive collaboration in the later 1970s with the dancer Kris Donovan –
their collaborative work Reels (1980–1) is described in the paragraph above –
began after they met while working at the London Contemporary Dance
School in around 1973.9 Before then, Finnissy had already spent nearly a
decade playing for classical ballet and jazz dance classes as well as contem-
porary dance, working extensively with the leading jazz dance teacher Matt
Mattox in the late 1960s, at whose studio he played for such luminaries
as Twiggy, Danny Kaye and Gene Kelly.10 Typically such classes involved
improvisation in whatever style was required, a skill Finnissy prized highly:
‘I had to be top. So I observed other people playing, and thought how crap
they were, and worked on becoming the best.’11
Finnissy’s pianistic encounter with the world of the dance class was
immersive and lasted almost twenty-five years,12 sometimes as much as six
days a week. At the very least, then, it is unsurprising that as well as Reels,
many of his early piano pieces are either titled as dances or are otherwise
based on dance tunes.13 But we might reasonably surmise that such an expe-
rience might have other, deeper ramifications: first, in connecting the act of
playing the piano, hour after hour, day after day, with the intense physicality
and disciplined movements of dance; second, in honing the skill of find-
ing, in the moment, the ‘right’ notes and pathways of the hand required in
improvisation.
In his 2001 book, Ways of the Hand: A Rewritten Account, the sociologist
David Sudnow describes phenomenologically his gradual acquiring of the
skill of jazz improvisation, from first fumblings to the painstaking identi-
fication of melodic pathways, to an eventual ability to move fluently and
eloquently around the keyboard, ‘singing with the fingers’.14 As there is no
time in the moment of performance first to think up a melody and then
play it, these melodic pathways are found by the hand, ‘wayfully engaged
on a path’:15 ‘one behaves wayfully singing with the fingers if every key is
entered with its future and past wheres securely present in a route-finding
hand’.16 One finds just such route-finding, ‘melodying’ (as Sudnow calls it),
in Freightain Bruise (1972, rev. 1980), a piece directly influenced by Finnissy’s
jazz dance playing. At the start (Ex. 12.1), the right hand is guided up and
down the keyboard melodically, falling as it goes into accompanying chordal
shapes which privilege seconds at either the top or bottom of the chord, or
both (that is, fingers 125, 145 or 1245), a kind of simultaneous-crushed-note
stylisation of jazz playing. The right-hand part moves mostly easily and
fluidly around the keyboard, offset by the wider-leaping left-hand, pitched
Ex. 12.1 Finnissy, Freightrain Bruise (1972, rev. 1980), opening. © Oxford
somewhere between a free-style stride bass and a jazz double-bass line. These
are some of Finnissy’s own ‘ways of the hand’ deriving from his experience
as an improviser; the Gershwin Arrangements (begun in 1975) show others.
The route-finding hand might also be discerned in Finnissy’s non-jazz-
based piano music. Finnissy has recently stated that ‘my piano writing is, I
think, “orchestral”…I am not aware of any meaningful equivalence, or even
connection, between the physical movements necessitated in producing the
sound and the composing process.’17 Yet as Ian Pace has pointed out, ‘it is
hard to deny that Finnissy’s piano music bears the hallmarks of a very dis-
tinctive approach to the instrument […] he […] would seem to have his own
particular characteristics as a performer in mind. This may be unconscious on
his part.’18 Reels, for instance, might almost be a transcription of the hands’
movement at the keyboard (though it is not): in No.1, for example (Ex. 12.2),
the hands move energetically, staccato, around a restricted space in the treble
register, taking it in turns to articulate the single line. The short stabs of the
staccato notes alternate with the momentary physical convulsions required
to play the grace notes, and every so often the flow is punctuated by a
characteristic Finnissy ‘reach’ into a different register (for example, the Eᅈ in
bar 11). If not conceived as movement, this is certainly music with movement
somewhere in mind – both of the fingers and hand, and of the Scottish dance
on which it is based.
The same may be said of Autumnall (1968–71), a work in Finnissy’s ‘tran-
scendental’ style which calls for such extreme and rapid traversing of the
keyboard from note to note that the score has almost the look of a tablature
284 James Weeks
Ex. 12.2 Finnissy, Reels (1980–1), No. 1. © United Music Publishers 1984.
notation, a direct representation of physical movement (this is further exag-

gerated by the use of a single stave in the opening section). This is more
than a sequence of far-spread pitches: it is an instruction to an extreme per-
formative physicality that arguably defines the work as much as the resulting
sound. The hands move between hyperactivity and stasis; the grace-note
convulsions (the implication being, faster than the measured rhythms) are
swallowed into the general frenzy of activity. The final page of the work
(Ex. 12.3) exemplifies the restlessness of Finnissy’s pianism, a welter of dif-
ferent figurations – chords arpeggiated upwards and downwards, clusters,
swirls of grace notes – each with their own physical imprint and necessitating
bravura control.
But keyboard hyperactivity, however striking, does not represent Finnissy’s
most fundamental pianistic ‘way of the hand’. For if ‘singing with the fin-
gers’ is Sudnow’s goal, it would also seem to be Finnissy’s: he has said that
‘the voice (in its melodic rather than declamatory aspect) has always been
paramount’,19 and of those early piano works not based on dance, the vast
majority of the rest refer to vocal music or singing. Even Autumnall (based
on a Donne sonnet) contains a species of that linearity that Finnissy sees as
archetypally vocal; My love is like a red rose (1990) shows it in a particularly
pure form (Ex. 12.4). Here the right hand moves supply and connectedly
around a decorated version of the tune, the grace-note skips and flutters
creating little flexes of quicker finger motion within the languid legato of
the main melody. Yet even within this dreaming line the ebb and flow of
Finnissy’s defining restlessness continues to work, pulling and pushing the
hand around the notated rubato, never quite settling, even for one single bar,
on the 89 metre that – on the page, at least – underpins it.
Ex. 12.3 Finnissy, Autumnall (196871), last page. © Oxford University Press 1991.
Ex. 12.4 Finnissy, My love is like a red rose (1990). © Oxford University Press 1998.
286 James Weeks
The writing hand

In seeking understanding of Finnissy’s ways of the hand at the keyboard,
I have traced a line from his early immersion in the world of dance class
playing, through his jazz improvisation-inspired piano works, to other quite
different manifestations of his pianistic idiom. Hypothesising Finnissy’s
route-finding hands in these different contexts, we should be wary of making
the leap – however small it may be – into considering this music as ‘notated
improvisation’, in which the physical performance of the music comes first,
followed by the transcription into notation. Finnissy has repeatedly con-
firmed that his basic (if not exclusive) modus operandi is to write at the desk
and then test and refine at the piano – indeed, it would be hard to imagine
passages such as the last page of Autumnall coming into being the other way
round.20 Nor is it a matter of whether, say, the hand or the ear is dominant
at one or another point – the lesson of Sudnow (and of Pallasmaa) is that the
senses cannot be thus disentangled. Rather, it is to observe that there are very
specific and personal pianistic physicalities ingrained within this music (such
as: basic irregularity and non-repetitiveness of movement; restlessness; con-
nected flow interrupted by sudden ‘reaches’ outside the immediate space of
operation; constant small flexes or twitches (for example, grace note figura-
tions) within slower movement; and in earlier transcendental works the rapid
and hyper-energised movement around the entire keyboard space); to suggest
that the hapticity of his own piano-playing is constantly at work during the
writing process; and to propose that this inherent physicality might itself be
considered one of the defining features of his music as a whole.
The writing hand, like the playing hand, moves. It, too, is a route-finding
hand, ‘wayfully engaged on a path’. In linguistics, the way of the writing
hand is known as the ductus, a term originating in medieval scribal practice
describing both ‘the visible trace of a hand movement while the pen is on the
paper and the invisible trace of the movements when the pen is not in contact
with the paper’.21 Like the playing hand, then, the writing hand performs a
connected, continuous series of movements on and off the page: as the anthro-
pologist Tim Ingold has suggested, the act of writing with a pen (as opposed to
typing) might be likened to a form of ‘wayfaring’, a linear movement (whether
literally drawing a line or not) through the ‘landscape’ of the page. He also
points out the ‘original identity of drawing and writing’ and argues for their
fundamental equivalence; indeed – whether or not one accepts Ingold’s some-
what broad-brush reasoning – we might add that modern musical notation
contains aspects of both. Like writing, musical notation consists of successions
of defined symbols; like drawing, it possesses dimensions – typically, vertical
through pitch space, horizontal through time – and therefore the possibility
of tracing movement (both of these aspects are also integral to some logo-
graphic and pictographic scripts). These might be the active lines of Paul Klee,
dynamic, temporal, developing freely and in their own time and (as Finnissy
himself is fond of quoting) ‘going for a walk’.22 Or they may be the ‘exploring
lines’ of the artist Andy Goldsworthy cited by Ingold, ‘alert to changes of
rhythm and feelings of surface and space’. Drawing, says Goldsworthy, is
‘related to life, like drawing breath or a tree drawing nourishment through its
roots to draw with its branches the space in which it grows. A river draws the
valley and the salmon the river.’23
Finnissy received an early education in draughtsmanship, first from his
father, who had trained as a surveyor and ‘taught me how to use a pen’,24 and
then from his art teacher at technical training school. Here he learnt figure
drawing ‘simply to teach to you look’,25 but his teacher, knowing his inter-
est in writing music, suggested he focus on graphics, working in black and
white with pen and ink. Just as significantly, Finnissy discovered the work of
Hokusai and other graphic artists as well as Chinese calligraphy, where, as he
notes, ‘the control of the brush is also linked to emotion and psychology, so
you’re actually expressing a state of being in the gesture of the brush on the
page. Sound familiar?’26
In considering the work of the hand in Finnissy’s practice of making, this
early training in and exposure to the aesthetics of graphic art, calligraphy and
penmanship is significant. Although not remotely as extensive as his pianistic
training, it would similarly have engendered to some degree that intimate
relationship between brain and hand we call manual skill (though as Ingold
reminds us, our modern distinction between skill and art is misleading,27 the
former being more than merely technological). To have undergone such a
training is to have developed a control over the hand and the pen it holds
that is quite unusual amongst composers, towards the point where the pen
becomes an ‘inseparable extension of the hand and mind’.28
This is the hand which is moving across the page, possessed of a learnt and
embodied skill of draughtsmanship, through which one becomes capable
of ‘expressing a state of being in the gesture of the brush on the page’.29 In
a 1996 interview with Christopher Fox and Ian Pace, Finnissy makes the
link between this training and his writing practice as a composer: ‘I think,
although I am sensitive to colour, I still prefer pen and ink drawings and
lithographs to painting. Now, by analogy, I pursue the sense of line, rather
than colour and texture, in my own work. It’s something I do consciously,
though I’m not sure if it started like that…Line is what I learnt from draw-
ing and line is what I pursue in music.’30 The significance of this cannot
be overstated: here Finnissy is suggesting that the essential linearity of his
music, so often remarked on and so obvious both on the page and in sound,
is fundamentally related to his training as a graphic artist. We should be wary
of taking this too far – we have already seen that elsewhere Finnissy has sug-
gested his line-making is influenced by a primarily vocal melodicism – but it
is nevertheless indicative. In a more recent interview, Finnissy describes his
writing practice thus:
I tend to write them as lines for a certain length of time, and then I will
add – because you can’t write two noteheads at the same time – so there’s
288 James Weeks
that moment, which is quite an interesting one, of conjoining the two
lines. By habit I work this way – I make the mark, I make the line, a
phrase, a breath, one thing, and then something else is joined to it.31
This is the Finnissian ductus, a wayfaring, connected movement of the hand

leaving a linear trail of notes in its wake. And (unlike more hesitant writers,
perhaps) it really is a movement, a more-or-less continuous flow: on the ques-
tion of fluency ‘in the moment’ of composing, Finnissy continues:
I think it’s less about ‘fluency’ (in the sense of ‘facility’) than developing
the capacity for longer and more sustainable, and effective, flights of
fancy. Developing the capacity to look (or hear) ahead, and to respond
to every moment as if it was but a link in the chain, and not distracting
yourself by pausing to adore the supreme beauty of seemingly special
moments.32
Interestingly, Finnissy’s description above is essentially of monodies, which

are then overlaid until enough lines are in play: the hand performs an initial
‘pass’ through the blank page and then goes back and starts over at the same
(or similar) point, adding a new line to the first. When it returns to that
same point, however, the page is no longer blank: the landscape has been
traversed and has gained a temporal and otherwise musical identity. This is
closely related to another technique Finnissy describes as ‘palimpsesting’, or
overwriting:
I palimpsest, which can be irritating as once you’ve written over some-

thing you’ve lost the original, so I’ve now taken to making photocopies
of the first version before I write over the top.33
And further:
One reason I write the stuff down is so that I can go back over it, again
and again, adding things, deleting things – but I need the energy and
momentum of those ‘flights’ to encourage the music to come.34
Ex. 12.5 Finnissy, sketch material for Were we born yesterday? (2017).
Evidence of some of these activities of the hand can be seen in this short line
of sketch material (Ex. 12.5). This is a short insertion into pre-existent mate-
rial for Finnissy’s piano piece Were we born yesterday? (2017). In the initial
two bars three active lines have been superimposed: the line on the lower
stave is the fastest and alternates between two registers; the top line is a
little slower and moves more connectedly and singingly; the middle line is
the slowest, filling in the harmony. Finnissy has added a second note here
and there to the monodic top line to create dyads (the extension of the
stem to the second note is clear). One can imagine each line being written
through consecutively in a single ‘flight’, as in the description above; adjust-
ments and second thoughts are visible in the numerous crossings-out. This
initial three-fold flight breaks off after the second bar; later a third bar (a
new flight) has been joined onto the first two by way of the held Eᅈ in the
middle voice.
If the pen (not pencil, which is ‘too faint to see, and feels/looks indeci-
sive’) is the essential writing tool, compositional ‘tools’ of the kind most
other composers make use of are strikingly absent: one is the computer
(the implications of which are explored below); others are the elaborate
pre-compositional plans,35 programs and systematisations of material on
which many composers are reliant in order to write freely. ‘My brain, my
imagination, is the toolbox’, Finnissy has said. ‘I am not pedantic about
writing, I would rather let it happen, and be resourceful as the occasion
demands.’36 This recent statement might best be treated as a summary of
current practice and applied only with caution to Finnissy’s whole career,
and indeed it would be a mistake to accept without question the composer’s
own impression of spontaneous creation; yet evidence from earlier periods
would tend to back up the assertion that he prefers to ‘travel light’ with
respect to technical apparatus. In Barrie Gavin’s documentary film Dust in
the Road (1988)37 Finnissy is seen discussing his pre-compositional materi-
als: a reservoir of non-systematic pitch and rhythm permutations of a found
melody. Of course, one other thing likely to be on his desk at any point after
around 1980 is a copy of the source material of the work; but beyond this,
the characteristic plasticity (or again, restlessness) with which he treats the
pitches and rhythms of this material seems to be achieved more-or-less en
route.
What is important to Finnissy during the act of composition is to be in
the moment, to sustain a ‘flight of fancy’, whose ‘energy and momentum…
encourage the music to come’.38 Leaving its trail on the page by way of the
writing hand, this ‘flight of fancy’ whose momentum (that is, impetus of
movement) is so vital is not purely an act of the imagination alone but takes
place in what Pallasmaa describes as ‘a state of haptic immersion, where
the hand explores, searches, and touches semi-independently’.39 Once again,
linearity is the key: it is Finnissy’s emphasis on the line as the essential condi-
tion of his musical thought which brings it into alignment with the wayfar-
ing ductus of the hand and allows – indeed, necessitates – these ‘flights’. As
290 James Weeks
Pallasmaa continues: ‘it is impossible to know which appeared first, the line
on the paper or the thought, or a consciousness of an intention. The image
seems to draw itself through the human hand.’40
The listening hand

I enjoy changing stuff. Why do I enjoy doing that? Because it makes it
feel more alive.41
Changing stuff is what Finnissy does: it is the reflexive restlessness of brain

and hand, or brain-through-hand, noted several times above. No two bars are
the same (an abhorrence of the repeat-mark has been, at least until recently,
a venerable Finnissy precept): rhythms shifted, stretched, compressed, per-
mutated; pitches transposed, reordered; motifs turned about, distorted,
reshaped. But ‘changing stuff’ is more than the scratching of an itch: it ‘makes
it feel more alive’ because it creates movement. Once again, this changing, this
movement takes place on the page, by way of notation – indeed, the nature
of the changing which takes place is defined by the possibilities and limita-
tions of what can be notated. One of the special features of Finnissy’s music
is the apparently limitless variety of its notation, particularly with respect to
rhythm, and it is clear that this is an aspect of writing which the composer is
both consciously exploring and in which he is undoubtedly taking aesthetic
pleasure, particularly in the more baroque notational fantasies of the 1970s
and in the ‘experimental’ indeterminate notations typically juxtaposed in
many works of the late 1990s and early 2000s.42
But this way lies danger. The look of the music on the page is seductive,
its cornucopia of visual forms – symbols of infinite variety and infinitesimal
nuance – the beguiling images of an expansive creative imagination. Yet they
are not the sounds they symbolise: in charting as we have done the wayfaring
path of the writing hand, we have so far ignored the sonic translation of these
visual traces. In Finnissy’s case this duality, though intrinsic to musical nota-
tion, has created considerable confusion owing to the undeniable visual allure
of his scores, both in terms of their notational intricacy and abundance and
of the immaculate calligraphy in which they are presented. To read Finnissy
is a pleasure in itself, following the entanglement of its superimposed ducti
‘like a hunter on the trail’.43
To what extent, then, is the ear involved in this process, in the hand’s way-
faring? Finnissy, characteristically, offers multiplicity: ‘it so happened that I
addressed my own inefficiency as much by visual means as by aural means,
and I think my ears and my eyes work together’,44 he says. ‘I’m interested in
technique. I’m interested in what my pen can do, what my eye can do, what
my ear can do, what I can hear, what I can analyse.’45 Here Finnissy invokes
a fully embodied practice in which visual and aural senses are both present,
working in conjunction through the notating hand. This is far from saying
that he is not interested in sound; but interestingly, it is not saying either that
he is only interested in sound at the moment of writing, or rather that it is not
only his ‘inner ear’ that he trusts to find it.
Once again, the hand is at the heart of the matter. Asked whether he has
been tempted to write at a computer, he replies:
No. I like to physically make the note, because that means I am hearing
it, whereas just tapping on a keyboard and seeing the thing come out like
a printed score would be a deception…It’s a moment of living with it
because it takes several seconds to write… So this is why I draw the note,
because that focuses the sound of that note for me in a way that pressing
a computer keyboard wouldn’t…I say to people, although they always
look puzzled, you can improvise with a pen in your hand. I remember
Bussotti saying ‘I draw my scores’. I thought that was quite interesting –
he wasn’t afraid of declaring the fact that the graphic image was for him
the stimulus for making the music work. Because he knew enough about
the sounds he was writing […]46
For Finnissy, then, the moment of drawing the note, of actualising it visu-
ally on the page, is also the moment of actualising it in his mind’s ear: it is
focused at that point, and not – he implies – previously. We can compare his
insistence on the hand over the computer keyboard with Heidegger’s asser-
tion that the typewriter ‘tears writing from the essential realm of the hand’.47
For Heidegger, the word written by hand is the essential agent by which
we are able to become ‘world-forming’; likewise for Finnissy the physical
inscription of the note by hand is the moment when it becomes ‘real’ in his
inner ear – when the imagining mind reaches out into the world and reveals
it.48 It might be argued that his dismissal of the mediation of computer tech-
nology in the act of composing (‘a deception’, as he provocatively describes
the use of notation software above) may read as evidence of a strain of tech-
nophobia in Finnissy’s thought – it is not as if the concept of a keyboard is
alien to his practice, after all. Certainly, Finnissy has been reticent in embrac-
ing new (especially digital) technologies throughout his career in the same
way that he has tended to remain faithful to – even when taking a critical
stance towards – numerous other inherited paradigms of Western art music
production, and the extent to which his aversion to the computer is based on
experience is open to question. But this is not in itself a reason to doubt the
validity of the connection Finnissy asserts between the moment of drawing
and the fixing of the sound in his ear.49 Furthermore, it may be the visual
stimulus provided by the graphic act itself that ‘makes the music work’ –
provided you know enough about the sounds you are writing:
I can’t see, though, if you’re writing things down, how you could not
look at it, how you could remain insensitive to the curvature of notes in
a line – of course they’re about sound, but they also have a sensuality of
shape and texture.50
292 James Weeks
One cannot, however, expect to imagine completely the sounds one is writing
when they reach a point of vertical density typical in Finnissy’s work, nor is
it necessarily desirable for them to remain unrealised in sound throughout
the composing process from beginning to end. On both points, Finnissy is
pragmatic:
I need the physical effect of the sound. I can only work a certain amount
concentrating purely on the page. The sound of the thing also leads me
in other directions that I wouldn’t have thought of – you know, I like
surprises, I like to challenge…I have to invent chords at the keyboard, I
can’t do them aurally – never been any good at hearing vertical harmony.
I have to test it. If I try and do that things will be in the wrong position.
I was very heartened to hear from Bunita Marcus that Feldman used
to improvise for hours getting the right voicing of a chord, because I
can really key into that. I’ll happily sit there for an hour and a half with
one chord, revoicing every possible way, every possible octave, because
I still like to have fun exploring that. Composers who really know how
to do that, like Stravinsky and Ravel, also worked at the piano. They
found those chords physically, they didn’t hear them first and then try
and transcribe them.51
Here the opposite applies: it is the sound, discovered through physi-

cal movement at the keyboard, that leads the imagination. The situation,
then, is complex, precisely as one would expect of an embodied creative
act involving intrinsically all three of ear, eye and hand. What then of
the accusations of ‘Paper Music’ – of ‘drawing music’ that sounds ‘like
shit’ – alluded to above?52 Chacun à son goût, one is tempted to shrug, yet
there is even in this crude barb a glimmer of insight. For Finnissy’s music
arises, as we have seen, from multiple modes of ‘touching’ – visual, aural,
haptic – all of which could be said to be in play at any one point and any
of which might momentarily seem to take the lead. In this, his music is
unlike those composers who treat notation and the act of notating as a
laborious but necessary exercise in orthography, a more-or-less transpar-
ent means to a sonic end. Like those composers, however, the resulting
artistic product of Finnissy’s process is nevertheless sound, and only sound.
These are not (except in a few exceptional cases) graphic scores; the music
is not, to borrow Feldman’s phrase, ‘between categories’:53 the marks made
on the page are symbols with sonic equivalents, and to this end we have no
option but to trust the composer’s ear and our own judgement: à son goût,
enfin.
The reaching hand

One could certainly argue that the dance of sensory stimuli described above
renders Finnissy’s music not entirely ‘pure’ in its sonic conception – that it
carries in its sounding traces of the experiential multiplicity and ambiguity of
its creative process. But to suggest out of hand that this is a weakness of the
music is to fail to place it within its larger aesthetic context. For this is in no
sense a ‘pure’ art. ‘I assume ENTANGLEMENT’, Finnissy says. ‘I cannot
disregard all notions of ethics and morality in regarding the movement of my
hand across the page’.54 In his published interviews, Finnissy habitually de-
emphasises issues of making, seldom discussing matters of technique in more
depth than politeness would seem to demand (this is also, broadly speak-
ing, the present author’s recollection of his teaching). Instead, the focus is
brought back constantly to the whys: to the ‘ethics and morality’ referred
to above, to cultural and philosophical matters. For Finnissy it is clear that
these things are not just interesting ‘liner note’ scenery, they are primary
motivators of the music and an intrinsic part of its meaning. Multiplicity –
indeed, impurity – are aesthetic principles: matters of craft are inextricably
‘entangled’ with the wider aesthetic context, itself manifold in nature: ‘I’m
aware that my work is an uncomfortable, often by design, synthesis of many
things, stemming from often very diverse forces’,55 he has remarked. ‘Hence
the relevance of Film to my work, essentially ASSEMBLING ad hoc, and
often oppositional elements, rather than the Apollonian ‘distillation’ and
assertion of a supposedly ORGANIC unity. The HOW of the music’s crea-
tion is fed by ideological concerns, in which pattern-making and respect for
systems play a relatively small role.’56
In a recent article, the composer Larry Goves has drawn a persuasive link
between Tim Ingold’s description of dynamic, linear ‘wayfaring’ (discussed
above with respect to the ‘wayfaring hand’) and Finnissy’s relationship with
the world around him. He posits Finnissy as the ‘quintessential composi-
tional wayfarer’,57 relating this notion to the way Finnissy ‘writes through’
(arguably a richer and more indicative term than ‘transcribes’) found materi-
als as a kind of territory to explore, in a form of cultural anthropology.58
For Goves, the creative movement ‘through’ the found materials is akin to a
movement through the world, a movement which defines the wayfarer: ‘[t]he
wayfarer is continually on the move. More strictly, he is his movement’.59 For
Ingold, the notion of wayfaring is opposed to transporting: whereas the latter
is a point-to-point movement across a territory from node to node, occupy-
ing but not truly inhabiting, wayfaring is movement along lines within the
territory. ‘The traveller and his line are […] one and the same. It is a line that
advances from the tip as he presses on in an ongoing process of growth and
development, or of self-renewal.’60 Rather than being destination-oriented,
the wayfarer’s lines create meshes, or ‘zones of entanglement’: ‘In this zone
of entanglement – this meshwork of interwoven lines – there are no insides or
outsides, only openings and ways through.’61
Ingold’s figure of the wayfarer illuminates many aspects of Finnissy’s crea-
tive practice. ‘I write all the time […] I do think of my works as a path through
my life’,62 he has said, and in their open-endedness (‘I prefer just to close the
door, as if the music is still going on behind that door’) and in the compulsive
294 James Weeks
curiosity of his engagement with other musics we see precisely the relationship
with the world Ingold is describing.63 But we can also go further than Goves
and join these general observations to insights made earlier in the chapter.
Just as Ingold elaborates an argument from the dynamics of Klee’s active line
and the scribal ductus to the idea of wayfaring as an ethos of habitation, so we
can follow Heidegger in asserting that it is the embodied linearity of Finnissy’s
practice (that is, the way of the hand) that becomes the agent of his revealing
or disclosing the world during the creative act. The Finnissian ductus, draw-
ing lines, superimposing, palimpsesting, weaving line upon line into texture,
is, at this fundamental level of embodied craft, the vehicle of his wayfaring.
This, then, is the final way of Finnissy’s hand: simultaneously moving
across the page and reaching out into the manifold world that surrounds it,
in all its mess and impurity. Trying not to leave anything out but to capture
as much as possible – ‘wandering […] through a dense landscape with a lot
of overlaid information’,64 as he has described himself – and in so doing con-
necting, encountering and engaging with people and peoples, the ultimate
subject of his work and fascination of his art. ‘I don’t design monuments. I
have adventures. I go on journeys’,65 he told the composer Cassandra Miller.
And it is the writing hand – imbued with the intelligence of ears, eyes, imagi-
nation and conscience – that finds the way.
Notes
1 Martin Heidegger, ‘What calls for thinking?’, Basic Writings (New York: Harper
& Row, 1977), p. 357; quoted in Juhani Pallasmaa, The Thinking Hand (Chichester:
John Wiley, 2009), p. 17.
2 Privately 1996–7; at University of Southampton, 2000–5.
3 Michael Finnissy and James Weeks, ‘“I assume ENTANGLEMENT”: Michael
Finnissy on writing, drawing, listening, playing, collaborating’, https://michaelf
innissy.wordpress.com/2019/01/08/i-assume-entanglement/. The image appears in
a discussion of Finnissy’s piano writing: ‘I don’t think of piano-timbre when I am
writing for the instrument, but it is so frequently the confessor to my thoughts, I
might be wrong.’ The idea of the piano as a ‘confessional’ here bears a strong reso-
nance of the story, likely apocryphal, of Liszt confessing his sins to Pope Pius IX
for a whole five hours, after which the Pope cried out ‘Basta, caro Liszt! Go and
tell the rest of your sins to the piano!’ However, nineteenth-century popes never
heard confession. See Alan Walker, Franz Liszt: The Final Years, 1861–1886
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), pp, 86–7, n. 5.
4 Frank R. Wilson, The Hand: How Its Use Shapes the Brain, Language, and Human
Culture (New York: Pantheon Books, 1998), p. 10, quoted in Pallasmaa, The
Thinking Hand, p. 32.
5 Martin Heidegger, Parmenides, translated André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz,
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1992), p. 80.
6 Pallasmaa, The Thinking Hand, p. 100. Pallasmaa’s argument is founded on this
quote by anthropologist Ashley Montagu: ‘[The skin] is the oldest and the most
sensitive of our organs, our first medium of communication, and our most effi-
cient protector […] Even the transparent cornea of the eye is overlain by a layer
of modified skin […] Touch is the parent of our eyes, ears, nose and mouth. It is
the sense which became differentiated into the others, a fact that seems to be rec-
ognized in the age-old evaluation of touch as the “mother of the senses”.’ Ashley
Montagu, Touching: The Human Significance of the Skin (New York: Harper and
Row, 1971), p. 3.
7 Ibid. pp. 101, 100.
8 Finnissy is notably sensitive to criticisms of his work as ‘paper music’ – that is,
music for the eye more than the ear; although articulations of this viewpoint
cannot be traced in print, he has discussed one of them in a recent interview (see
note 52 below) and has several times referred to them in conversation with the
present author. It is clear, at least, that he perceives this to be a recurrent trope in
the reception of his work.
9 Michael Finnissy and Kris Donovan, Reels (first performance, Brighton
Polytechnic, 1981). Video at www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dlfuVl9EE0&t=11s
(accessed 9 February 2017). A further poetic response to this work (presum-
ably the piano solo version) was made by the poet Harry Gilonis in Henrietta
Brougham, Christopher Fox, and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground – The Music
of Michael Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), pp. 348–9. The poet draws a con-
nection between the visual and aural realms throughout the poem: ‘listening to
notes in accord / seeing, a labyrinthine dance / attending to the clarity of value /
unfolding conjunction of opposites / poised in disrupted flow’.
10 Michael Finnissy and James Weeks, op. cit.
11 Ibid.
12 Finnissy estimates his dance playing years as circa 1962–86 (personal
communication).
13 For instance, Strauss-Walzer (1967, rev.1989), Svatovac (1973–4), Jazz (1976),
Kemp’s Morris (1978), Fast Dances, Slow Dances (1978–9), Boogie-Woogie
(1980–1, rev. 1985, 1996), Freightrain Bruise (1972, rev. 1980).
14 David Sudnow, Ways of the Hand: A Rewritten Account (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 2001), p. 71.
15 Ibid., p. 68.
16 Ibid., p. 71.
17 Finnissy and Weeks, op. cit.
20 Ibid.
21 Rosemary Sassoon, The Art and Science of Handwriting (Bristol: Intellect, 2000),
p. 39, quoted in Tim Ingold, Lines (London: Routledge, 2007), p. 96.
22 A much-paraphrased dictum. See, for example, Paul Klee, Pedagogical Sketchbook
(New York: Praeger 1960), p. 16: Section 1.1 – ‘An active line on a walk, moving
freely, without goal.’ Discussed by Finnissy in Brougham, Fox, Pace, eds., op. cit.,
p. 2.
23 Andy Goldsworthy, Stone (London: Viking, 1994), p. 82, quoted in Ingold,
op. cit., p. 133.
25 Ibid.
26 Ibid.
27 Ingold, Lines, p. 130.
28 Pallasmaa, The Thinking Hand, p. 50.
29 Heidegger argues for the fundamental importance of handwriting (as opposed to
typing – see later discussion) to humanity’s ability to be ‘world-forming’ – that is,
to reveal or disclose the world rather than simply inhabit it – owing to the primacy
of the hand in establishing our apprehension of instrumentality (see Heidegger,
Parmenides, p. 80).
296 James Weeks
30 In ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, p. 2.
32 Ibid.
33 Ibid.
34 Ibid.
35 Ibid.
36 Ibid.
37 Barrie Gavin, Dust in the Road (BBC, broadcast 11 December 1988). At www.
youtube.com/watch?v=dKdaktIjafY (accessed 9 February 2018).
39 Pallasmaa, The Thinking Hand, p. 72.
40 Ibid. pp. 91–2.
41 Michael Finnissy and Cassandra Miller, ‘Transcription, Photography, Portraiture’
Cerenem Journal 6 (2017), p. 64.
42 See Chapters 2 and 9 of the present volume for more on these notations.
45 Finnissy and Miller, ‘Transcription, Photography, Portraiture’, p. 63.
47 Heidegger, Parmenides, p. 81.
48 As Ingold remarks, it is the hand’s ductus which is lost in typing: ‘the very move-
ment by which the hand tells, when it holds a pen, is annihilated when it strikes
the keyboard, for it leaves no trace upon the page. The correspondence of ges-
ture and inscription, of hand and line, is broken.’ Tim Ingold, Making (London:
Routledge, 2013), p. 122.
49 It is also notable in this respect how different Finnissy’s music appears when type-
set. Comparing an early example of typeset Finnissy, the edition of Seven Sacred
Motets (1991) published by Oxford University Press, with Finnissy’s original is
instructive: the sense of linearity and flow in the music, so strikingly conveyed
by the composer’s manual ductus with its elegant freehand ties and slurs and
rounded san-serif script, is subtly but palpably diminished in the printed version.
In particular, the typesetter has clearly struggled with the spacing of the notes
in movements such as Hymnos sacrae quos virgini, which incorporate stemless
plainchant note-heads, conventional rhythmic notation and grace notes within
the same line. This notational strategy of Finnissy’s is intrinsically involved with
the act of writing down and suggests to the performer different kinds of rhythmic
flow; the spacing of the notes is vital to help the performer negotiate the difference
as their eye moves across the page. The OUP edition is inconsistent in spacing,
sometimes overly distended and frequently excessively compressed, pulling and
pushing the visual reading speed around. The singer’s cognitive flow becomes
stumbling and disjointed, and the movement thus rendered considerably more
difficult to perform from the printed score.
51 Ibid.
52 Ibid.
53 Morton Feldman, ‘Between Categories’ (1969), in Give My Regards to Eighth
Street (New York: Exact Change, 2000), p. 88: ‘I prefer to think of my work
as: between categories. Between Time and Space. Between Painting and Music.
Between the music’s construction, and its surface.’
55 ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, p. 33. The sentence continues: ‘…but
they’re unified by this sexual thrust’.
57 Larry Goves, ‘Michael Finnissy and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The Composer
as Anthropologist’, Tempo, vol. 71, no. 280 (2017), p. 53.
58 The extent to which this ‘writing-through’ of found materials could be viewed
critically as a species of cultural appropriation is of course open for debate, but
is outside the scope of the present argument. For some consideration of such
questions, see Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound:
A Study of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013),
pp. 73–95, 241–67; Maarten Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self: Michael Finnissy’s
Folklore’, Tempo, vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 46–56; and Maarten Beirens
in Chapter 13 of the present volume.
60 Ibid. Compare Finnissy: ‘It is, need I add?, my own journey that is being artic-
ulated through the ‘line’…who else is putting the things together, making the
choices? It’s not arrogant and idealised self-portraiture, it is an attempt at truthful
and honest Documentary Revelation, with all the mess and muddle’ (Finnissy and
Weeks, op. cit.).
62 ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’, p. 37.
63 Ibid. p. 20.
64 Michael Finnissy interviewed in Classic Britannia, Episode 3 (BBC4, first broad-
cast June 2007).
65 Finnissy and Miller, ‘Transcription, Photography, Portraiture’, p. 61.
Bibliography
Feldman, Morton. ‘Between Categories’ (1969). In Give My Regards to Eighth Street
(New York: Exact Change, 2000), pp. 83–9.
Finnissy, Michael; and Donovan, Kris. Reels, first performance, Brighton Polytechnic,
1981. Video at www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dlfuVl9EE0&t=11s (accessed 17 July
2018).
Finnissy, Michael; and Miller, Cassandra. ‘Transcription, Photography, Portraiture’.
Cerenem Journal 6 (2017), pp. 58–70.
Finnissy, Michael; and Weeks, James. Interview, 2018. At https://michaelfinnissy.
wordpress.com/2019/01/08/i-assume-entanglement/
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Goldsworthy, Andy. Stone. London: Viking, 1994.
Heidegger, Martin. ‘What calls for thinking?’. In Martin Heidegger, Basic Writings
(New York: Harper & Row, 1977), pp. 369–91.
Heidegger, Martin. Parmenides, translated André Schuwer and Richard Rojcewicz,.
Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1992.
Ingold, Tim. Lines. London: Routledge, 2007.
Ingold, Tim. Making. London: Routledge, 2013.
Klee, Paul. Pedagogical Sketchbook. New York: Praeger, 1960.
Montagu, Ashley. Touching: The Human Significance of the Skin. New York: Harper
and Row, 1971.
298 James Weeks
Pallasmaa, Juhani. The Thinking Hand. Chichester: John Wiley, 2009.
Sassoon, Rosemary. The Art and Science of Handwriting. Bristol: Intellect, 2000.
Sudnow, David. Ways of the Hand: A Rewritten Account. Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 2001.
Walker, Alan. Franz Liszt: The Final Years, 1861–1886. Ithaca, NY: Cornell
Wilson, Frank R. The Hand: How Its Use Shapes the Brain, Language, and Human
Culture. New York: Pantheon Books, 1998.
Section D
Contexts and case studies

Taylor & Francis
13 Questioning the foreign and the
familiar
Interpreting Michael Finnissy’s use of
traditional and non-Western sources
Maarten Beirens
Many have commented in these pages and elsewhere about how Michael
Finnissy’s music contains a wide range of references to other music. As in the
Gershwin Arrangements or the Verdi Transcriptions, these references can be
the focal point of an entire set of pieces. More remarkable, perhaps, are those
works in which a vast range of different musical references is combined into
a single composition. Disentangling the numerous quotations, allusions and
their many transformations from Finnissy’s musical fabric can be quite an
endeavour in its own right. Ian Pace’s painstaking identification of musical
sources quoted, transformed, implied and referred to in Folklore,1 or in The
History of Photography in Sound,2 may stand as representative examples of
the rather encyclopaedic scope of Finnissy’s incorporation of or allusions to
other music. They also reveal the substantial catalogue-like musicological
rigour it already takes merely to list those sources. The more urgent matter,
however, seems to be on the hermeneutical level. What does Finnissy’s music
accomplish though the incorporation of those references? It is primarily this
issue which I will address in this chapter.
Finnissy has based entire works on or included references to a wide vari-
ety of traditional music, ranging from English, Scottish and Irish tunes,
Australian Aboriginal material, Negro Spirituals, to various Central
European, Asian and African sources. As always, the presence of pre-existing
material invites speculation on the epistemological function of those appro-
priated materials, as well as the implications of the process of appropriation
itself.
There are a range of possible angles from which one can approach how
Finnissy deals the rich fabric of references and their interpretations, a few of
which I will consider here. As main examples serving here are the Folklore
cycle (1993–4) and Unsere Afrikareise (1998), the penultimate section from
The History of Photography in Sound (1995–2000). The dense nature of these
works opens up the possibility of developing multiple hermeneutical read-
ings of the material involved. In the case of traditional music, this process
could conceivably involve two implied opposing dichotomies: that between
art music and ‘folk’ music on the one hand,3 and that between the Western
and the non-Western on the other hand.
302 Maarten Beirens
The use of traditional music as source in classical composition has a long
history and one of the issues at stake in works like Folklore is the very deci-
sion to engage with that tradition of borrowing, appropriation and the asso-
ciated hermeneutical implications, rather than simply referring to traditional
or non-Western music. Likewise, there are several musicological traditions
which have considered the implications of such references, reading them in
terms of issues such as nationalism, romantic escapism, exoticism and orien-
talism. I would like to begin with a few quite different late twentieth-century
examples of such music alluding to traditional or non-Western traditions, in
the context of which I will compare Finnissy’s approaches, to show how they
do not readily align themselves with such established models.
In 1970–1, Steve Reich composed Drumming, arguably a major break-
through work, which established his international reputation and put
American minimalism on the map. The first movement in particular, with
four percussionists playing on two sets of four tuned bongos, was imme-
diately perceived as highlighting an ‘African’ aspect in the use of rhythmic
patterns, metrical ambiguity, and of course, systematic repetition, and the
ritualistic, perhaps even trance-inducing, effect this might bring. Unlike the
rhythmic cycles of Terry Riley or Philip Glass, who employed rhythmic struc-
tures derived from their encounter with Indian music, but did so through
sounds decisively rooted in a Western rock/jazz amplified ‘electric’ tradition,
it was the instrumentation of Drumming Part I which appeared to openly
acknowledge the primacy of African inspiration. Moreover, Drumming was
written almost immediately upon Reich’s return from a summer spent in
Ghana, where he had studied the percussion music of the Ewe tribe.4 Against
this almost overwhelming body of evidence, Steve Reich himself emphatically
refused to acknowledge his African experience in terms of ‘inspiration’, but
rather as ‘confirmation’ of his intuition to use acoustic and notably percus-
sion instruments.5 It was also a confirmation of the potential of musical ideas
from the pieces preceding his African trip (such as Piano Phase or Violin
Phase (both 1967)), including similarities in form (the 12-beat patterns, mul-
tiple downbeats) and technique (the phase shifting processes).6 Although it is
impossible to guess Reich’s reasons to downplay the ‘African’ inspiration of
Drumming (while consistently continuing to mention his general affinity with
African and later also Balinese music),7 one plausible explanation might lie
in his concern to distance himself from notions of exoticism, appropriation
and – as Edward Said would a few years later place high onto the academic
agenda – Orientalism.8
Although Said’s points can – and have been – criticised in many respects,
his main tenets remain quite clear: Orientalism is essentially an Occidental
way of looking at the exotic, stressing its otherness, reducing it to idealised
picturesque representations or even entailing a phantasmagorical construc-
tion with no substantial relation to the actual reality of oriental life and
culture. Most importantly, it harbours a rhetoric of power, of colonialist rela-
tions, of assuming a polarity between notions of ‘civilised’ versus ‘primitive’
Questioning the foreign and the familiar 303
cultural aspects. It involves ‘narratives of national identity as well as struggles
concerning gender, class, and race, always focused on the “positional superi-
ority” of one group vis-à-vis another’.9 Jann Pasler goes on to point out the
ambiguity that underlies so much of early twentieth-century orientalist art
and music. On the one hand there is a fascination with the picturesque side of
the East (her example is the evocation of India in the work of French compos-
ers Albert Roussel and Maurice Delage): the exotic, the spiritual, the erotic.10
On the other hand, there is the awareness of the growing economic and
military power of the Far East: the uneasy sense of potential conflict if and
when these colonialist power relations were to shift. Both aspects foreground
the ‘otherness’ of the East and its people. Whether enthusiastically embrac-
ing sounds, ideas, images and models from geographically remote places and
thus opening up to (from the Western perspective) ‘new’ artistic possibilities
in terms of musical material, form and expression, or taking position against
a potential (military and/or economic) contender, it is a discourse contrast-
ing their own position with something identified as foreign, an artistic set of
familiar techniques, materials and narrative topics confronted with or sup-
plemented by unfamiliar elements.
It is exactly this notion of otherness, which lies at the core of dealing with
non-Western influences. While Said’s concept was initially directed towards
representations of the Middle East and the Far East (the geographical ter-
minology itself already showing a Western European perspective), it may be
applicable to many cultural dealings with the non-Western world. The focus
on difference as an epistemological ground for discussing non-Western music
both has a long tradition in Western thinking (such as Hegelian dialectics)
and a more recent surge in scholarly attention as gender studies and postcolo-
nial perspectives emerged as leading topics from the 1990s onwards. With the
case of understanding African music as his topic, Kofi Agawu even asserts
that difference lies at the very core of ethnomusicology as such.
Ethnomusicology is founded on difference. Notions of unlikeness or

dissimilarity lie at its core both in concept and, more spectacularly,
in practice. From its antecedents in Enlightenment representations
of world cultures through its concrete emergence as die vergleichende
Musikwissenschaft or “comparative musicology” to its institutionalisa-
tion as a formal fieldwork-based discipline in the 1950s, ethnomusicology
has invested considerable stock in the production of cultural differences
and notions of otherness. To say that ethnomusicological epistemology
is an epistemology of difference is to utter a virtual truism.11
In the case of most African music, the primary parameter to locate the notion
of difference would be rhythm, which Agawu claims is theorised as being
of primary importance, complex and connected to an innate rhythmic sen-
sibility shared by African people.12 This would then be contrasted with a
European predilection towards pitch organisation – melody and particularly
304 Maarten Beirens
harmony.13 One can understand Reich’s hesitation to associate himself with
the exoticist or ‘Africanist’ label that might be attached to his percussion-
driven music built around (shifting) repeated superimposed rhythmic pat-
terns. The association of rhythmic structure with African elements would
neither serve Reich’s identification as a Western composer, nor would it do
justice to the intricacies of African music that cannot be reduced to rhythmic
structure alone.14 But the binary oppositions Western/African, rhythmic/har-
monic also harbour an underlying epistemology of the African as related to
dance, the physical, earth-bound (as opposed to the ‘intellectual’ refinement
of harmony), and hence the erotic and the ‘primitive’. As purely techni-
cal and descriptive as the topic of ‘African rhythm(s)’ may be approached
in the ethnomusicological literature, it remains difficult to separate it from
the orientalist aspects that somehow seem to be entangled in it. Whereas
Reich looked for a way of somehow assimilating African ideas, it seems that
Michael Finnissy thematicises the very impossibility of such assimilation.
A postcolonial African journey

It is the clash of these notions, the Eurocentric against the primitive, the cul-
tured against the savage which is critically examined in Peter Kubelka’s 1966
experimental movie Unsere Afrikareise. There, the film director contrasts
short shots of Austrian tourists travelling through Africa, mostly on an old-
fashioned safari trip (which traditionally involved hunting a lot of animals
just for the fun of it) as well as some shots of the same tourists cruising on the
Nile and visiting the Abu Simbel temples. Interestingly, Kubelka points out
that the reasons for this group of people to go on an African trip were more
to do with social distinction than genuine curiosity about the places they
visited, let alone about the lives of the local people they met there.
I have often said that this film should not be thought of as a personal
account of these special people; they represent a whole class. They were
wealthy people who lived in a small town. They were not passionate
hunters. Among Austrian business people, to be a hunter brings a certain
prestige. You might start by paying to shoot deer in Austrian hunting
reserves. Then you might upgrade and go to Poland, maybe, and shoot
a bear. To upgrade from that, you would go to Africa or somewhere
equally exotic. This is exactly what they did. Theirs was not really a trip
of desire, but a reflection of a certain social structure, which makes it
understandable that they didn’t really want to travel. They didn’t really
want to see people different from themselves.15
Kubelka’s juxtaposition heightens the perception of Western tourists

assuming a position of superiority against the African natives and helps
to critically examine the underlying ‘Orientalist’ tenets. What is remark-
able about Kubelka’s approach is the extremely fragmented nature of his
cinematographic language. He avoids any hint of narrative sequence, by
using extremely short shots, alternating fragments from different places and
from different moments in that ‘African journey’. The editing, with sudden
transitions from one (very short) shot to the next heightens this sense of frag-
mentation, as does the soundtrack, which only uses elements recorded during
that trip (dialogue, ambient sounds, music), but often recombines these with
different images. By repeating shots or cutting up takes and dividing the
short segments across different points in the course of the film, Kubelka fur-
ther stresses the nonlinear nature of his cinematographic style.16 In his own
Unsere Afrikareise, Finnissy adopts a similar approach, juxtaposing musical
material derived from Moroccan, Ethiopian and Venda traditional music,
which are contrasted with fragments derived from minuets by Mozart and
Ecossaises by Schubert. However, as Ian Pace has analysed in detail in his
essay on The History of Photography in Sound, Finnissy never simply uses
crude juxtapositions of ‘African’ and ‘European’ models, but instead pre-
sents many different ways of transforming, and even fusing both.17 Kubelka
establishes a cinematographic language which does indeed stress a crude
opposition between European and African elements, resulting in a more
antagonistic Said-like model of criticising the underlying Orientalist features
in terms of power and oppression. Finnissy creates a more diverse range of
references, where the sources have various degrees of recognisability, often
blending into each other, or to quote Pace:
However, the origins of much of the material ceases to be of much con-

sequence when it becomes transformed, as Finnissy uses configurations
associated with one of the material types in order to transform another.18
Moreover, Finnissy includes references to several European – particularly

French – representations of African culture, (Victor Massé, Félicien David,
Camille Saint-Saëns, and others). By including these outright orientalist
romantic compositions with their idealised and eroticised depictions of ori-
entalist tropes, he adds considerably to the complexity of the perspectives
offered by his composition: encompassing original ‘traditional’ African mate-
rial, contrasting Western ‘traditional’ material and material representing the
Western perception of the African/oriental world. By merging the musical
material of these three types of sources, the composition offers a continuously
changing perspective. Said argued that the East – in spite of the Western
depictions of it – was never a ‘stable reality’ but used his analysis to argue that
the oppressive stance was a quite obvious – though often unspoken – reality.
By means of contrast, Finnissy’s approach of joining, contrasting and merg-
ing elements in an ongoing manner presents us with the impression that noth-
ing is stable and that the complicated African-European cultural connections
are in a permanent state of flux which works in both directions. Oppression
and resistance to it are then no longer clear-cut opposing categories, but an
intricate set of connections.
306 Maarten Beirens
Unsere Afrikareise is neither an attempt at integrating African sources,
nor is it a straightforward critique of the colonialist attitude behind a long-
standing Western tradition of depicting the non-Western. When alerted to
the presence of the French ‘colonialist’ material, a listener might become
aware that the ‘African’ and ‘European’ sources do not function as simple
representations of two autonomous cultural traditions that are simply avail-
able to be musically joined, but are already linked by a shared (colonialist)
past, characterised by structural inequality. The permanent fluidity of the
material further helps to go beyond simple binary relations: there is no real
sense of otherness by juxtaposing familiar ‘Western’ and unfamiliar ‘exotic’
tropes. Instead of directly representing such tropes, the piece is very much
about such representation (and the history of such representation). In the per-
manently shifting perspective all the material becomes, to some degree, defa-
miliarised. In the absence of a stable point of reference, the complexities of
the encounter between European and African cultural aspects are presented
as exactly that: unstable, fleeting, historically charged with connotations,
entangled and complicated.19
If Steve Reich could be considered to appropriate African-inspired mate-
rial (and specifically rhythmic material, the most obvious musical trope in
referring to Africa, as Agawu has pointed out), then it is far less unequivocal
what Michael Finnissy is appropriating in Unsere Afrikareise. Evidently he
does quote from Vendan, Ethiopian and Moroccan music, but also from
Mozart and Schubert, and most significantly from several French orien-
talist compositions. By juxtaposing these sources, blending their musical
characteristics, transforming them and generally forging both contrasts and
connections between them, he moves away from the binary critical attitude
of Kubelka, playing out Western (post)colonialist attitudes versus African
elements. Instead, he contextualises the confrontation of Western and
non-Western materials within a historically and culturally charged history of
Western dealings with the East (or, in the case of Africa, Northern dealings
with the South).
As a British composer himself, Finnissy does not stand outside the prac-
tice of appropriating music from elsewhere. Does that entail an ‘oppressive’
Western stance, as a Said-like reading might have it? I would argue that this
is indeed not the case, because of the acute awareness of his position as a
(Western) composer and the way Finnissy weaves this into the epistemologi-
cal features of the musical tropes at which he hints. Thus, Finnissy can be said
simultaneously to appropriate African music, and in turn David’s, Massé’s or
Saint-Saëns’ orientalist appropriation of similar non-Western tropes. Instead
of merely drawing upon non-Western elements, it also draws on the his-
tory of dealing with such elements. It both contrasts and combines (or even
fuses) this history with archetypal classical and romantic fragments from the
Western canon, further complicating the possible interpretation of compos-
ing out any pre-existing material across different historical or geographical
origins. Instead of some kind of assimilation of the African sources (Reich)
or a clear-cut critical opposition between African and European (musical)
elements (Kubelka), it presents the transcultural appropriation in a way that
highlights the awareness of the historically and politically charged implica-
tions of such an appropriation. If in the fragmented texture of Finnissy’s
Unsere Afrikareise the composer does deal with African music, he also deals
with what dealing with such music means for a British composer in 1998.
Finnissy’s strategies of musical heterogeneity

Where Said focused on exposing and criticising power dynamics and an
implicit sense of cultural superiority, another quite influential approach to
transcultural elements has gained currency in the late twentieth century. This
is the deliberate fusion of geographically and culturally diverse sources, which
are then blended into an eclectic style. The later works of György Ligeti may
stand as a good example of the latter. Ligeti famously described Fanfares
(from his first book of Études) as ‘emanating from an imaginary island some-
where between the Balkans, Central Africa and the Caribbean’. It is in the
imaginary aspect that his position touches upon the equally imaginary and
therefore idealised phantasmagorical depictions (and thus reductions) of
the non-Western world which Said criticised in orientalist viewpoints. The
difference is that Ligeti (and many other composers dealing with such a
sense of transcultural musical fusion) does not contrast the primitive with the
civilised, or the non-Western with the Western, but seeks out novel musical
possibilities through the appropriation and combination of musical charac-
teristics and techniques derived from these non-Western sources.
At first sight, one might be inclined to read the presence of non-Western
elements in Finnissy’s music in a similar way. The encyclopaedic nature of
a piece such as Folklore, with its broad selection of elements taken from
different geographical (and historical) sources would seem to point in that
direction. However, I consider Finnissy’s approach as remarkably different
in several respects, which I will briefly list as different angles or keys from or
with which to approach hermeneutically the function of the non-Western
elements in his music. An obvious starting point is the engagement with
music as a political signifier, as witnessed in the intricate way of dealing
with the historical-political dimension of representing the European versus
the African in Unsere Afrikareise. This political point is perhaps even more
strongly present in Folklore, where the references evoked by the selections
of traditional music from around the world are turned into a reflection on
the composer’s as well as the listener’s (possible) relation to this material.
The geographical range and variety of musical sources may appear eclectic,
through a fusion of musical ideas derived from quite different origins not
unlike the Ligeti example above. The main difference is that for Finnissy,
these elements are often – as in Folklore – combined with a critical, politically
motivated subtext which unfolds an intricate web of criticism and reflection.
Oppositions become less antithetical, questions turn out to harbour further
308 Maarten Beirens
questions, seemingly opposing perspectives turn out to be similar. Instead of
an attempted transcultural synthesis of the heterogeneous elements, as the
Ligeti example would suggest, Finnissy manages to keep the tension between
those elements active at the core of his musical discourse. Unsurprisingly, the
final phrase from Finnissy’s introduction to the score is ‘Evocation becomes
provocation’.20
For the purpose of this chapter, I will limit myself to listing five representa-
tive aspects of Finnissy’s approach that may serve as starting points from
where a deeper exploration of the rich hermeneutic content of a piece such
as Folklore or Unsere Afrikareise could start. Although these aspects are
specifically defined in relation to Michael Finnissy’s ways of dealing with
traditional and non-Western musical sources, many of them may apply in a
broader sense to (aspects of) Finnissy’s compositional technique in general.
1. Criticism
For Finnissy, musical material is never only material of a purely abstract
nature, although indeed his ways of working with and transforming mate-
rial may involve a quite sophisticated composition-technical aspect. The
approaches to ‘filtering’ or transforming the Vendan and Mozart/Schubert
materials through each other’s characteristic configurations in Unsere
Afrikareise, serve as examples of this.21 There is always a deep sense of
ongoing reflection about the implications of the chosen material and of its
treatment.
In Folklore, for instance, one recurrent theme is that of oppression. The
implication that traditional music would be considered as culturally inferior
(indeed, the very term ‘folklore’ itself is nowadays mostly avoided because of
its derogatory overtones) is immediately critically turned around, as the tradi-
tional materials there often articulate the position of outsider or ‘symbols of
oppression’. The prominence of African-American spirituals is a very obvious
example of such a reading, but also on a music-historical level, the inclusion
of references to Edvard Grieg (so prominent in Folklore I), Kaikhosru Sorabji,
Percy Grainger or Cornelius Cardew show Finnissy referencing composers
who can be considered as outsiders from the vantage point of the classical
canon.22 The ways in which Finnissy brings these musical sources together and
draws on them to make his music establishes a set of connections between the
materials (musically) and between the associations they carry (epistemologi-
cally). This invites hermeneutical readings that depend upon the connections
that are made (or not – again, this may depend on the position, background
and knowledge of the listener) between these levels.
2. Sound
The critical potential of Finnissy’s music, if only in the sense of the abil-
ity to bring out ideas evoked by or associated with the type of material
or with the particular sources involved, may be evident, as argued in the
description of the first strategy above. However, it would be misleading
to suggest that for Finnissy, the selection of musical sources is primarily
a matter of addressing the associations, cultural implications or political
relevance of that material. As opposed to making musical choices as mere
signifiers of something else (nationalism, eroticism, colonialism), the choice
for incorporating traditional music from the perspective of the composer
often involves a fascination with the pure musical materiality – the very
sound – of these sources.
In the programme notes to his recent Beethoven’s Robin Adair, Finnissy
argued that: ‘Beethoven was interested in generic folksong as MUSIC because
he found its shapes intriguing and sexy, not for reasons of nationalistic fer-
vour and not simply arranging them for money.’23 It is tempting to consider
this as the composer’s personal statement and assume that we can substitute
the name of ‘Beethoven’ with ‘Finnissy’. The point Finnissy makes here is an
appeal to the primacy of musical intuition, to the basic fact that composing
involves working with basic elements such as pitches and rhythmic values.
Although many hermeneutic aspects can and do become involved, none of
them would make sense without a primary attraction to the source’s sheer
musicality. Interesting ideological connections are bound to become irrel-
evant if the sounding music in its very materiality would be incapable of
engaging the listener.
3. Transcription
Transferring traditional music to other instruments – the ‘spineless and domes-
ticated’24 utterly Western piano in Folklore or The History of Photography in
Sound – serves as an efficient way to immediately separate the traditional
music from its origins. Scottish pìobaireachd bagpipe ornamentation becomes
pianistic grace-note technique in Folklore 2. Fiddle tunes from Grieg and folk
melodies collected by Ludwig M. Lindeman in Folklore 1 lose part of their
original identity and purpose when transferred to a piano. That the pianist
is in one place instructed to play ‘quasi violino’ (in this case for a setting of
a Picardie folk song) actually heightens the awareness of the impossibility
of adequately evoking the original medium and the inherent sound qualities
of the original.
The notion of transcription is a very crucial one in Michael Finnissy’s
music, for which he uses, following Busoni, a very encompassing definition:
There’s the essay in which Busoni refers to all musical composition as

transcription […]. He says that you ‘transcribe a thought’, which I think
is a very meaningful expression to anyone who has been through the
experience. You ‘transcribe it’ because in a sense you realise that you
never literally write it in the way it initially comes to you; writing it is also
changing it, thinking through, imagining.25
310 Maarten Beirens
Transferring traditional music from the mostly vocal or quite specific instru-
mental (fiddle, bagpipes) sound of its origins, also serves to render the tradi-
tional music as raw material. Finnissy does not present us traditional music
as such and neither does he even make arrangements of traditional music (as
opposed to Grieg, Lindeman or Grainger). Instead, unified in the sound quali-
ties of the piano, of pianistic technique and contrapuntal texture, the material
refers to the traditional music from which it is derived, rather than evoking
such music more directly. Unified by the pianistic language, the material is to
some extent neutralised, made malleable and open to meaning that is at least as
much derived from the combinations and transformations involved in its com-
positions as the associations which come from identification of its provenance.
In interview, the composer argues that deriving his material from elsewhere
(which, as the vast array of sources throughout his oeuvre testifies, could be
anything, from the classical repertoire, through Gershwin tunes, to traditional
music from different parts of the world) is not any different from working with
original material of his own invention, because: ‘Composition remains the
same business of actually discovering what your object is and revealing what
your perceptions are, what your insights are about that object.’26
4. Heterogeneity, juxtapositions, contrasts

Finnissy’s techniques involve not only transformation of such musical objects,
but also a cinematic montage-like approach and dense ways of layering.
Elements appear mostly in combinations, in modified guises, in layers and/
or in juxtaposition with other elements. Non-unified tempo, harmonic lan-
guage, dynamics, articulation register, and other such aspects serve a highly
heterogeneous surface which would hopefully thwart even the most stubborn
hermeneutic attempt to reduce it to simplifications or binary meanings. The
associations, references and hence meanings attached to the separate selec-
tions of material are less relevant as they might be in a different context,
because of the multiplicity and variegation of the material. It is not the iso-
lated elements as such which carry interpretive weight, but rather the fact that
these elements are continuously combined with, transformed by and presented
alongside other elements. The diversity of sources and types of material found
in Folklore or The History of Photography in Sound is deliberate and gener-
ates ample opportunity for connections and oppositions, both in terms of the
musical (textural, harmonic, rhythmic, and so forth) characteristics as well
as in terms of what these might bring on an epistemological level. It is most
poignantly in the juxtaposition, fusion, transformation, layering, or other type
of combination of these materials that meaningful elements emerge.27
In Kubelka’s Unsere Afrikareise, the binary opposition between the
European tourists and the indigenous Africans is quite obvious. While any
documentary-like account of that African trip would have succeeded in expos-
ing the late colonialist attitude, sense of cultural superiority and derogatory
treatment of the African people by the Austrian company, Kubelka chose
to present it in a very particular, fragmented way. He used extremely short
shots, disregarding chronology, in a montage with a very sudden alternation
of heterogeneous scenes and images. This way, Kubelka succeeds in making a
point about what came to be known as an essentially orientalist attitude not
by adhering to a coherent narrative of his own, but by presenting bursts of
images, with sudden contrasts and juxtapositions whose non-linear sequence
heightens the immediacy of the critique of cultural inequality that is at stake.
Michael Finnissy has often used a similar cinematographic approach to
composition and particularly to montage-like techniques that at times also
resemble William Burroughs’ ‘cut-up’ approaches. Juxtapositions or layering
of materials are very much present in Folklore – one set of remarkable exam-
ples of this are the monodic passages in Folklore 2, where the texture (pure
monody, played by one hand)28 parts ways with the standard expectations
of piano writing, which is made all the more effective by the sudden textural
contrasts with the quite dense multi-layered and contrapuntal material (or
the passages with the Cardew-inspired ‘overlaid’ grace notes).29 In his Unsere
Afrikareise, possibly encouraged by Kubelka’s film, Finnissy employs ever
more extreme juxtapositions of different selections of material and texture at
a very high rate, as Ex. 13.1 shows. The ongoing transformation of the mate-
rials does not prevent the identification of some of their basic characteristics,
such as the rhythmic and motivic shape of the Ecossaise that still quite clearly
reveals its origin, in spite of the un-Schubert like dissonance in the harmonic
separation between left and right hands.
5. Subjectivity
In his preface to Folklore, Michael Finnissy refers to Antonio Gramsci’s
‘imperative to compile an inventory of the “infinity of traces” that histori-
cal processes leave on “the self”’.30 Although the composer’s dealings with
these traditional sources intersect with their historical and political meanings,
interpretations and implications, the dealings are also personal. They do not
present the traditions as static, well-defined entities, but subjective processes,
a set of formative influences that are to a large extent personal and individual.
The traces left by the traditional music to which Finnissy refers not
only address larger historical, cultural and political issues, but are equally
related to a personal perspective and, inevitably, an autobiographical factor.
Traditional music however remote it may seem geographically can and does
constitute quite strong formative effect, as Finnissy testifies in interview.
My parents had contact with Polish people during the war so there were
books of Polish folk music on the piano from when I was a child, which I
made use of in early pieces and which then led to Chopin.31
It may be for this reason that the salient political sympathies in Folklore are
not only with the oppressed (hence the prominence of the African American
312 Maarten Beirens
Ex. 13.1 Finnissy, from Unsere Afrikareise. © Oxford University Press 2004.
spiritual Deep River) but particularly with the outsider – in Folklore

represented by the aesthetically marginalised Sorabji as well as by the
politically marginalised Cardew. It is the perspective of the outsider, however,
that grants a truly critical vantage point from which fully to consider the
intricate, complex and contradictory nature of a topic such as in this case for
instance: cultural identity when confronted with cultural otherness. It is par-
ticularly in this subjective respect that the entwining of different non-Western
sources in Finnissy differs fundamentally from the imaginary fusion of similar
sources in Ligeti.
Defamiliarising the familiar, familiarising the foreign

Dealing with music from outside the Western art music tradition opens up
many ramifications about cultural values, perspective and inclusion. The
very notion that something would be considered as being ‘outside’ a certain
cultural framework is already problematic as borders between art music and
traditional music or, for that matter, East and West are never clear-cut. Still,
in line with Edward Said’s definition of orientalism, there can be found many
inherent features in Western cultural dealings with the non-Western that
harbour binary thinking, assuming a familiar stable point of cultural refer-
ence against which the ‘foreign’ elements are cast as essentially unfamiliar.
Especially in the works where a vast array of references is used, across such
stereotypical cultural boundaries, Finnissy manages to question the validity of
such notions. On the one hand, there is a strand of unifying approaches dis-
cernible: in the very act of transcription, in the unifying factor of the piano and
in the critical perspective involved which organises the musical material in such
ways that connections and interpretive possibilities can and do emerge. On the
other hand, there is a fundamental sense of openness, of variety, of multiple
connections that invite multiple readings. The critical dimension and political
function of such works is then not as much a matter of presenting a particular
argument, but rather raising the awareness of the complexity of connections
and values that are at stake. The montage-like structures, the open juxtaposi-
tion of elements, the permanent sense of transformation (including, once more,
transcription), but also the way in which musical treatment of material-as-
object does not readily identify with material-as-carrying extrinsic meaning:
all these hint at the fundamental heterogeneity even within cultural values.
The call for subjectivity when confronting these different non-Western and
traditional sources implies that instead of stable categories of familiar versus
unfamiliar elements there emerges the permanently shifting perspective of a
subjective and highly personal relation to music of vastly different provenance.
Notes
1 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 111–31.
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013).
3 These categories are of course far from unproblematic. For one critical explora-
tion of their development, see Matthew Gelbart, The Invention of “Folk Music”
and “Art Music”: Emerging Categories from Ossian to Wagner (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2007).
4 See Keith Potter, Four Musical Minimalists (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1999), pp. 204–7.
5 Steve Reich, Writings on Music 1965–2000, with an introduction by Paul Hillier
(New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) p. 67.
6 As Reich said in an interview: ‘Everything African in that piece [Drumming]-
12/8, repeating patterns – I’d done in Piano Phase and Violin Phase back in
1967. Going to Africa was a pat on the back: yes, repeating patterns are fine,
yes, acoustical instruments are richer than electronic sound, and yes, percussion
can be the dominant voice in an instrumental group. With that green light I
allowed myself to write Drumming.’ – Edward Strickland, American Composers.
Dialogues on Contemporary Music (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
1991), p. 43.
314 Maarten Beirens
7 For a more balanced account of non-Western influences on his music, see Reichs’s
essay ‘Non-Western Music and the Western Composer’, in Writings on Music,
pp. 147–51. This also includes a discussion of taking original African source mate-
rial as the basis for the first movement of Electric Counterpoint (1987).
8 Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978).
9 Jann Pasler, ‘Race, nationalism and distinction in the wake of the “Yellow Peril”’,
in Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh (eds.), Western Music and Its Others:
Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music (Berkeley, Los Angeles
and London: University of California Press, 2000), p. 86.
10 Ibid. pp. 90–107.
11 Kofi Agawu, Representing African Music: Postcolonial Notes, Queries, Positions
(New York and London: Routledge), 2003), pp. 152–3.
12 Ibid. p. 55. Agawu subsequently devotes two chapters to debunking the persis-
tent ‘myths’ of ‘African Rhythm’, regarding these as misrepresentations, typically
made by Westerners, of African music.
13 As always, such binary oppositions tend to oversimplify and ignore, for instance,
all the Western music that is not much concerned with harmony as such (e.g.
plainchant) or African music that is primarily melodic.
14 It would be misleading to imply that ethnomusicology only stresses the rhythmic
aspect of African music. Obviously its melodic features ought to be (and have been)
recognized. See for instance Simha Arom’s work on African polyphony, in his Afri-
can Polyphony and Polyrhythm (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
15 Scott McDonald, ‘His African Journey: An Interview with Peter Kubelka’, Film
Quarterly, vol. 57, no. 3 (Spring 2004), p. 4.
16 The first 27 seconds after the opening credits (0:08–0:35) already may serve as an
illustration of the highly fragmented sequence of images (using already 8 different
shots) Kubelka brings together: (0:08) tourist hunter aiming at an antelope; (0:16)
wide river with hippopotamus swimming; (0:18) tourists lounging on deckchairs
and chatting [three shots, the middle of which is a slightly longer traveling shot];
(0:29) river with hippopotamus; (0:33) tourists on deckchairs; (0:34) tourist hunter
firing his gun, while leaning on the shoulder of a African boy, supporting the gun.
17 Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound pp. 245–67.
18 Ibid. p. 246.
19 A similar position in bringing together music representing white settlers and
Afro-Americans can be found in North American Spirituals from the History of
Photography in Sound. See ibid. pp. 73–80.
20 Michael Finnissy, preface to the score of Folklore (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1996).
22 See also Maarten Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self: Michael Finnissy’s Folklore’,
Tempo, vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 50–1.
23 Michael Finnissy, programme notes to Beethoven’s Robin Adair, programme
booklet for TRANSIT Festival 2016, Leuven, Belgium.
24 Finnissy, preface to Folklore.
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 2–3. The Busoni essay to which Finnissy refers is
his ‘Value of the Transcription’ (1910), in Ferruccio Busoni, The Essence of Music
and Other Papers (New York: Dover, 1987), pp. 84–95.
27 See also Beirens, ‘Archaeology of the Self’, p. 48 and passim.
28 Such monodic writing for piano is not a novel feature in Folklore, but is already
present in smaller traditional music-derived works such as Terekkeme (1981)
and also relates to extended monodic passages in works that go back as far as
Snowdrift (1972) and English Country-Tunes (1977, rev. 1982–5).
29 For a detailed description of the different types and sources of material in Folklore
2, Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 116–22.
30 Finnissy, preface to Folklore.
Bibliography
Agawu, Kofi. Representing African Music: Postcolonial Notes, Queries, Positions.
New York and London: Routledge, 2003.
Arom, Simha, African Polyphony and Polyrhythm. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1991.
vol. 57, no. 223 (January 2003), pp. 46–56.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score of Folklore. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1996.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Finnissy, Michael. Programme notes to Beethoven’s Robin Adair, programme book-
let for TRANSIT Festival 2016, Leuven, Belgium.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 211–57.
Gelbart, Matthew. The Invention of “Folk Music” and “Art Music”: Emerging
Categories from Ossian to Wagner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Keppler, Philip Jr. ‘Some Comments on Musical Quotation’. The Musical Quarterly,
vol. 42, no.4 (October 1956), pp. 473–85.
McDonald, Scott. ‘His African Journey: An Interview with Peter Kubelka’, Film
Quarterly, vol. 57, no. 3 (Spring 2004), pp. 2–12.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Pasler, Jann. ‘Race, nationalism and distinction in the wake of the “Yellow Peril”’.
In Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh (eds.), Western Music and Its Others:
Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music (Berkeley, Los Angeles and
London: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 86–118.
Potter, Keith. Four Musical Minimalists. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1999.
Reich, Steve. Writings on Music 1965–2000, with an introduction by Paul Hillier. New
York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978.
Strickland, Edward. American Composers. Dialogues on Contemporary Music.
Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1991.
14 Michael Finnissy’s three-point plans
Political Agendas and musical enunciations
Max Erwin
Letter to the Editor of Tempo, July 1998:
I was shocked to read the phrase ‘queer musicology’ on page 26 of Tempo

204 […] one does not need to question the influence of a creative artist’s
sexual orientation on his or her work to insist nonetheless that, however
queer (in the proper, nonsexual, meaning of that word) some of it may
be, musicology deals with music and leaves matters of sexuality (that
of the characters or that of the creators) to biography, dramaturgy,
psychology, sociology, gossip and half-a-dozen other non-musicological
disciplines.1
On the following page, directly opposite, there was a notice of the UK

première of Michael Finnissy’s North American Spirituals, performed by the
composer.
Periodisation, analogy, taxonomy, analysis

Michael Finnissy’s output has been divided into two distinct stages, with
the ensemble work alongside (1979–80) representing the summation of his
first period which was largely defined by increasingly abstract figurations.2
Subsequent commentators have retained this bipartite division, and, for
the purposes of the present study, it serves as a useful template. The three
Political Agendas – dating from, respectively, 1989–2006, 2000–8, and 2016 –
appear to span the majority of the duration of this second period (although,
in the first two cases, actual composition occurred rather more towards the
later end of the range given) and, were it not for the mammoth, kaleidoscopic
The History of Photography in Sound more obviously serving such a purpose,
might be reasonably positioned as a culmination of his aesthetic concerns
over these 35-odd years. Indeed, it would be possible to go a bit further
and propose a third period of Finnissy’s practice, complimentary with the
first two, where the stylistic and gestural techniques characteristic of his
earlier compositions are combined, critically foregrounded, and conceptually
enriched in large-scale formal frameworks. Such a model would, neatly and
Finnissy’s three-point plans 317
perhaps helpfully, emplot Finnissy’s compositional development as moving
from thesis to antithesis to synthesis; more importantly, it would allow this
third period to reflect critically on what has gone before. For the more modest
purposes of this chapter, this model is useful insomuch as it can connect the
reflective position of Finnissy’s latest (or third) period to the musics of his
pasts – not least his own compositions.
Elsewhere in this book, Ian Pace has remarked in detail on how Finnissy’s
work consistently draws from the syntax of film.3 Such a deployment is pre-
figured by Finnissy’s approach to material as archetype: as readymade, syn-
tactically charged units rather than spontaneous, non-associative invention.4
The crucial distinction here (which a more ambitious chapter might use as a
springboard to interrogate the categories of modern and postmodern) is that
Finnissy’s various borrowings are shorn of the trappings provided by their
historical context, the only aspects of these which remain being those deline-
ated by Finnissy himself. In other words, the original musical, narrative, and
ideological functions of these borrowed materials are overwritten through
Finnissy’s subjective deployment of them: a passage taken from a forgotten
(though contemporarily well-known) Victor Massé opera no longer refers to
the Romantic pathos of its original context but to the syntagmatic framework
constructed by Finnissy (in this case, an exhibit in an Afrikareise). In aesthetic
terms, the resulting composition may be helpfully considered as a sort of col-
lage of reciprocal alienation – fragments shored against each other’s ruins.
Unlike The History of Photography in Sound, the form of the three
Political Agendas is aphoristic: even in their most extended form, as in the
Second Agenda with its numerous subsections, each movement is devoted to
the articulation of a singular, self-contained musical form. As such, Finnissy’s
syntagmatic framework is much simpler here: each musical archetype is not
presented in a grander syntagmatic contextualisation (as in History) or even
functionally developed, but left to stand ‘in itself’ (cf. Political Agenda 2.3).
Such a simplicity and directness, at least at the global level, is characteristic
of the cycle, which can be understood metaphorically as musical arguments.
Fig. 14.1 shows the schedule of Finnissy’s Political Agendas (all
formatting sic):
As I have just emphasised the importance of syntax in Finnissy’s practice,
I am hopeful that a brief typographical analysis would not be perceived as
irritatingly scrupulous. The polemic intensity of each movement (or item)
can be determined by the degree of punctuation in its title. Accordingly, the
First and Third Agendas are defined by extroverted and unambiguous mate-
rial while the Second is introverted, nuanced, and frequently delicate, giving
the cycle a rough sonata form: ABA. However, the title of third movement
of the Third Agenda returns to the open-ended syntax of the Second Agenda,
suggesting a coda to both the Third Agenda and the series as a whole.
This typographical characterisation is borne out in the music. On a global
level, the music of the First and Third Agendas is blunt and direct, with
each individual movement being primarily and often entirely characterised
318 Max Erwin
First Political Agenda

1. Wrong place. Wrong time.
2. Is there any future for new music?
3. You know what kind of sense Mrs. Thatcher made.
Second Political Agenda

1. ERIK SATIE like anyone else
2. Mit ARNOLD SCHOENBERG
3. SKRYABIN in itself
Third Political Agenda

I. Corruption. Deceit. Ignorance. Intolerance.
II. Hier kommt U.K.Ichbezogen Populismus.
III. My country has betrayed me
Fig. 14.1 Finnissy, the three Political Agendas.
by a single material archetype – musical bullet points, as it were. The Second

Political Agenda is an argument of a far more nuanced and extended charac-
ter, reminiscent in scope and form (if not in content) to the Alkan-Paganini
chapter of the The History of Photography in Sound, where long, elaborate,
and often virtuosic musical phrases are generated from a single sustained
idiom – more style-copy than collage, but with aspects of both forms. As
such, the punctuation in the titles of movements is further enunciated in
their musical form: full stops (and the rhetorical question mark of Political
Agenda 1.2) indicate closed form and, on a semantic level, direct – if fre-
quently ironic – political significance, while open titles are accordingly trans-
lated into reflective, carefully elaborated, and more ambiguous large forms.
The syntactic difference is between slogans and discourse, and, crucially, both
these modes of musical articulation are grouped together here as political.
The opening movement of the First Political Agenda, ‘Wrong place. Wrong
Time’, begins with a barrage of notes in the bass which gradually work
themselves up to the middle register of the keyboard, distinctly reminiscent
of Finnissy’s earlier pianistic output (that is, pieces in the first, more ‘abstract’
phase of his work) generally and the first movement of all.fall.down (1977)
particularly, wherein a similarly wrought, rising chromatic line is followed
in the subsequent movement by a descent, and which Ian Pace positions
as exemplifying Finnissy’s ‘move to a high degree of abstraction’.5 Such a
parallel suggests that the title of this movement is most likely a ruefully
autobiographical one. The second movement, ‘Is there any future for new
music?’, is, at least graphically, one of the most direct and obvious use of
quotation in Finnissy’s entire oeuvre: the score reproduces both the tempo
marking (Andante molto cantabile e non troppo mosso to which Finnissy adds
Con tenerezza.) and movement title (<Benedictus Qui Venit>, complete with
Gothic script) of the section of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis (1819–1823)
which it draws from. The third movement, ‘You know what kind of sense
Mrs Thatcher made’ (see Ex 14.1) is almost entirely derived from Hubert
Parry’s hymn ‘Jerusalem’ – a borrowing very much in line with Finnissy’s
lifelong engagement with music that has a metonymic relation to England –
rendered (to adopt Pace’s filmic analogy once again) in ultra-slow motion.
Correspondingly, this quotation is much more apparent on the page than it
is on hearing, since the music is slowed down past any aural recognition –
the tempo indication is Extremely slow (ᅄ = 52; = 26); the pianississimo
dynamic bears the additional indication ‘frozen’ – and Finnissy has flattened
the already rather plodding melody of the hymn into a static procession
of minims and semibreves (such rhythmic ‘flattening’ found elsewhere in
Finnissy’s music is discussed elsewhere by Nigel McBride).6
Ex. 14.1 Finnissy, opening of ‘You know what kind of sense Mrs Thatcher made’,
from First Political Agenda (1999–2006). © Tre Media Verlag.
The work being done by this material is not a representation of the exact kind
of sense that Mrs Thatcher made but its results: exegesis rather than mimesis.
The Second Political Agenda is markedly unique in the cycle, most obvi-
ously in that it is at least three times the length of its companion pieces. The
three individual movements are published as separate scores; there is, at
present, no collected volume of the Second Agenda. Furthermore, there is no
evident ‘political’ content of a civil sort; a piece of short text for a concert fea-
turing both the first two Agendas says it ‘considers the way Satie, Schoenberg
and Skryabin have each been in or out of favour with prevalent musical taste
and both public and political opinion’.7 It would appear, therefore, that this
piece is something of a hidden agenda, informed subcutaneously by Finnissy’s
self-image as a composer in the world (‘Virtual failure in commercial terms,
but who the hell cares either way?’). Correspondingly, the music is rather less
lehrstücklich than the previous Agenda; the Guide to the Pianist’s Repertoire
describes SKRYABIN in itself (2007–8) thus: ‘Expressive, with a poetic qual-
ity in the opening which passes through two canons and eventually gives way
to an Andante sostenuto.’8
320 Max Erwin
The Third Political Agenda returns to the overt political pessimism of the
First and amplifies it. Written in an extremely short period of time – Finnissy
began work on it immediately after the results of the UK’s referendum on
membership in the European Union on 23 June 2016; the première was given
by Ian Pace two weeks later on 7 July – the work contrasts with the other
Agendas both in its almost instantaneous creation (cf. the evident decades-
long gestation of the First Agenda) and its rhetorical transparency. The first
movement, ‘Corruption. Deceit. Ignorance. Intolerance’, is a shrill exercise in
three-voice polyphony (which seems like it should be a canon, but isn’t) never
descending below the middle register (the lowest note of the section is a D#3).
The second is a grim, grotesque march (the tempo marking is Meccanico.
Alla marcia), quite similar in conception and effect to the third of Berg’s Drei
Orchesterstücke, op. 6 (1913–15), beginning with fanfare-like cadences and
descending into a rigid, harsh ostinato of repeating minor seconds. In these
two movements, the Inhalt of Finnissy’s Political Agenda resembles less a
deliberately nuanced collage as it does a pub rant.
This trend is entirely reversed in the third section, ‘My country has
betrayed me’ (see Ex. 14.2). The melodic material is derived from Polish
folk music sources, which relates to both Finnissy’s growing up with Polish
family friends as well as the attacks directed at Eastern European and spe-
cifically Polish people and businesses in the aftermath of the referendum.
Immediately striking is that the music is entirely monophonic; at no point
are two notes sounded simultaneously. The pitch range of this movement
is slightly less than two octaves – D4 to A6 – which almost exactly coin-
cides with the comfortable singing range of a soprano voice. The indication
Parlando – the sole marking of tempo or dynamics – and the placement of
Ex. 14.2 Finnissy, opening of ‘My country has betrayed me’, from Third Political
Agenda (2016). © Verlag Neue Musik, Berlin 2018.
rests between each melodic phrase, suggesting breaths, further emphasises
the soloistic vocal character of this music.
Such a voice – characterised by both delicacy and persistence, and always
appearing in modal, folk-melodic contours – is something of a Leitfigur
in Finnissy’s second period. It reappears in certain sequences of Seventeen
Immortal Homosexual Poets – most extendedly in the Ralph Chubb section –
and, perhaps most bracingly, in Unknown Ground (1989–90). Finnissy’s
description for this latter piece clarifies: ‘It is about death, fighting for life,
and, if that battle is lost, then losing it with pride and dignity.’9 This voice is
at once an embodiment and an essence,10 macrocosmic victim and microcos-
mic conqueror (with both personae being a bit camp), perpetually dying and
enduring. Accordingly, the Third Political Agenda ends with both a recogni-
tion and modest transcendence of political failure.
Practices, historiography, commitment

For all of his mining of musical traditions, it is rather difficult to emplot
Finnissy himself within a broad tradition of some sort of art music. Indeed, in
view of Finnissy’s own manifest iconoclasm, there seems to be good reason to
avoid such an attempt entirely. Nevertheless, I believe it is helpful in under-
standing how Finnissy approaches the political, both as an aesthetic category
and a mode of communication, to view his music in dialogue with the aes-
thetic and historical interpretation of two other Anglophone composers, both
of whom were experiencing their greatest professional success when Finnissy
was a young man, the one engaged as a queer artist,11 the other engaged as a
(non-revisionist) Marxist artist: John Cage and Cornelius Cardew.
Jonathan D. Katz identifies a series of relative early pieces, beginning with
Credo in US (1942), where Cage dealt with aspects of his personal life in a
relatively straightforward expressionistic mode. He was dissatisfied with this
mode, however, commenting on Perilous Night (1944): ‘I had poured a great
deal of emotion into the piece, and obviously I wasn’t communicating this at
all.’12 Katz characterises Cage’s subsequent adoption of Zen as a repositioning
of his creative relationship to his personal life and particularly his sexuality,
‘not as a source of repression or anxiety, but as a means to achieve healing; it
was in not talking about – and hence not reifying – one’s troubles that healing
began’.13 This is in turn, Katz notes, connected by various commentators to
the projected world-historical phenomenon of aesthetic postmodernism as
exemplifying ‘an instantiation of a nonexpressive authorial voice, an early
indication of the “death of the author”’.14 But Katz is at pains to stress that
this is not a passive abdication on Cage’s part, since if Cage’s social intention
for such a silence was to disguise his homosexuality, ‘it was a manifest fail-
ure’. Rather, ‘Cage became notable precisely for his silences’ because these
silences were so conspicuous in a Cold War context, ‘dissolv[ing] the opposi-
tional by freely allowing other voices to be heard’.15 But within Katz’s critical
framework, Cage, for his own part, was not always comfortable with which
322 Max Erwin
other voices his music allowed to be heard, one notorious example being
his fury at a performance of his 0’00” (4’33” No. 2) (1962), in this context
part of Song Books (1970), by Julius Eastman which involved the ‘leering,
libidinous’ undressing of a male subject onstage.16 Indeed, Cage’s rejection
of this particular performance is made in terms familiar from his disappoint-
ment towards Perilous Night: ‘Now, last night when the S.E.M. Ensemble [of
which Eastman was a part] performed the Song Books, I regretted that I had
composed it. I regret that I have, that my work exists now, as something so
widely misunderstood.’17 What is fundamentally at stake within this model of
political composition is communication – the transmission of an ideal mode of
being through compositional mediation – communication that is destroyed
by the assertion of an authorial ego.
From such a perspective, Finnissy’s work is largely in harmony with Cage,
insofar that its political content is determined through structural mediation
in its creation. This mediation at the poietic level takes the form of Finnissy’s
use and manipulation of pre-existing (and thus ‘objective’) musical material
in an archetypical fashion. Christopher Fox has eloquently characterised this
working method as ‘syncretic agglomeration’, which he explains as ‘the draw-
ing together in a single work of ideas from many different sources – different
times, different places, different cultures – which nonetheless are shown to
have something in common’.18 These would correspond to the ‘other voices’
Katz speaks of, arising from aesthetic concerns, historical contexts, cultural
traditions, lived experiences, and geographies vastly different than Finnissy’s
own, but deployed on his subjective terms. The ‘something’ which they are
shown to have in common, then, is Finnissy himself, or rather his authorial
presence. Thus, in this context, Finnissy’s authorial ego may be seen to be not
so far removed as Cage’s on the global level of the music, but it retains the
American composer’s desire to exercise subjectivity indirectly.
There is comparatively less to unpack in the praxis of Cardew’s late phase,
perhaps best exemplified by his work with People’s Liberation Music (PLM),19
beginning in March 1973 (and thus roughly corresponding to the dissolution
of the Scratch Orchestra) and continuing intermittently until his death in
December 1981.20 During this period, as Virginia Anderson succinctly puts
it: ‘Cardew’s music carried a clear political message in an accessible musical
style.’21 Pursuant to this, Tony Harris explicitly foregrounds Cardew’s artis-
tic legacy in toto as ‘the shaping of future generations’.22 This is rather to the
point, and Harris draws a direct parallel between Cardew’s artistic conviction
and Jacques Attali’s contention that ‘music not only reflects its contemporary
society but also prophesies what is to be’.23 From the lyrics and song titles
found in Cardew’s late compositions, there is seemingly very little ambiguity
about the kind of society Cardew willed to be; but what is relevant in this
context, in juxtaposition with Katz’s reading of Cage, is the manner in which
Cardew combined the categories of musical and social meaning-production
in his desire to bring such a transformation about. Somewhat paradoxi-
cally, the social music-making formations required for Cardew’s universalist
project are of a decidedly nominalist character: the musical personnel were
his close friends, collaborators from previous ensembles (notably AMM and
Scratch), and even family members, but always those fervently committed to
a non-revisionist Marxism-Leninism (or at the very least those, like Tilbury,
who were fellow travellers). Not surprisingly, the social formation of PLM
was tight-knit. Indeed, it appears that such a devotion was of tantamount
creative importance to the group, superseding the music itself. Vicky Silva,
the co-lead vocalist of the group (alongside Cardew) remembers Cardew in
these terms: ‘He could sing/play in any circumstances, in the rain on the back
of a truck or when being pelted by fascists or under attack by the State, [and]
he became more central as time went on.’24 Yet Cardew eventually expressed
despair at Maoist ideology and (implicitly) his own practice: ‘How does cul-
ture assist in the promotion of political line? It can only disrupt the work.’25
Like Katz’s Cage, Harris’s Cardew measures his own failure by the structural
mediation of composition.
Finnissy himself has described Cardew’s creative process in some of the
piano works of this period as ‘the isolation and critique of “tonal” objects’.26
Indeed, certain formal parallels between these works and Finnissy’s second
period are greatly appealing. To use one particularly adventurous exam-
ple, Cardew’s Vietnam Sonata (1976) contains references to various Beatles
songs and popular standards (as Tilbury points out, this repertoire would
be fresh in Cardew’s mind, since had taken an apprenticeship as a pub
accompanist during this period) which are juxtaposed with, and sometimes
overlap, ‘Beethovian’ material.27 Such a range of quotation is admittedly
somewhat uncharacteristic; nevertheless, the adaptation of pre-existing musi-
cal material, in particular popular and folk songs, was a consistent feature of
Cardew’s late period. Indeed, the original repertoire of PLM can be seen to
operate as style-copies of ‘popular music’ in much same manner that Finnissy
reproduces the style of various composers of art music in the Second Political
Agenda. Of course, Finnissy’s works, even at their most stridently polemic,
never approach the orthodoxy of ideological stratification (‘authentic’ pro-
letarian material is presented as good; bourgeois material, as in the Three
Bourgeois Songs (1972–3), is presented as critique) found in all of Cardew’s
late music. Rather, within this discourse, Finnissy’s musical practice can be
understood a compromise, a sort of middle way between these two traditions
of mediated political music in the experimental tradition. On a superficial
level, his compositions often rise to Cardew’s polemic extroversion, while
never relinquishing the thoroughgoing subjectivity and intimacy of Katz’s
Cage. On a deeper structural level, Finnissy’s music does the (projected)
political work of Cardew’s via the subjective positioning of Cage’s practice,
which, within the terms of this scholarship, would propose a social space
where the subjective authority of the author is present through its absence – a
normative suggestion rather than a command. Thus the ‘voice of the author’
is no longer asserting the meaning of the work but its framing, nuancing the
conditions in which possible meaning can arise. Michael Finnissy the man
324 Max Erwin
with certain ideas and experiences in politics and sexuality is, like Katz’s
Cage, absent in a strictly arbitrational function (‘recast[ing] the audience
from passive to active, from consumer to producer, from co-opted to resist-
ant’)28 but, like Harris’s Cardew, is present in a curatorial and ultimately
polemic function. Within such a context, Finnissy’s work repositions the
rhetorical logic of how the political relates to the compositional ego: the
authorial object of ‘Finnissy’s’ voice is the set of preconditions for musical
meaning.
Michael Finnissy like anyone else

From the time that the letter that serves as this chapter’s epigraph was pub-
lished, queer studies has become a significantly more established discipline;
the appeal to a ‘proper, nonsexual’ definition of ‘queer’ now seems jarringly
anachronistic. In the model described above, the queer artistic subject, here a
composer of experimental music, deploys new methods of structuring musi-
cal material as a means of articulating a particular message – a political
agenda. Such a queering is, in turn, assimilated historically as a turn from
authorial dominion over the art object. Nevertheless, Finnissy here utilises
means beyond the structuring of the musical text to articulate his political
agendas.
As a pianist, Finnissy occasionally gives performances paired with a verbal
introduction to the audience describing the creative history of the piece and
his relation to it, of pieces by various composers he knows personally; he
terms these concerts a ‘cabaret’. By most situational indications, these are in
no sense a cabaret of any recognisable sort; they are quite obviously recitals
of (mostly) British piano music, being given usually in a small-ish university
concert hall. As such, this deployment of ‘cabaret’ does not act as a descrip-
tive category but as a normative one, establishing an index of social engage-
ment, of communal entanglement.
In practice, this is quite a bit simpler than the above sentence might sug-
gest. A recent Mini-Cabaret given at City, University of London comprised
a series of short, unimposing pieces by several composers who were also
his friends – Chris Newman, Laurence Crane, Howard Skempton, etc. –
and many of Finnissy’s other friends, musical and otherwise, were in the
audience. This in itself probably would not come as a surprise to anyone;
musicians and their circles of friends tend to be in attendance at each other’s
performances. What is different is Finnissy’s foregrounding of this sort of
admittedly quite simple social arrangement in a context that has been deter-
mined by a cultural tradition of ‘autonomous’ art music. Through its use
of this context, the manifest content of Finnissy’s political agenda becomes
evident: the establishment of a social space where identity is simultaneously
manufactured and shared, where artistic production and reception can be a
virtual failure in commercial terms but a concrete (or at least substantive)
success in social terms.
Notes
1 Michael Graubart, ‘Letter to the Editor’, Tempo, New Series, no. 205 (July
1998), p. 54.
2 This observation was first made in Richard Barrett, ‘Michael Finnissy – An
Overview’, Contemporary Music Review, vol. 13, part 1 (1995), p. 32. For a
later espousal of this model, see Ian Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of
Photography in Sound: A Study of Sources, Techniques and Interpretation
(Swarland: Divine Art, 2013). pp. 8–9. Available online at http://openaccess.city.
ac.uk/2875/1/HOPIS.pdf (accessed 24 June 2018).
3 See Ian Pace in Chapter 16 of this volume.
4 See also ibid, pp. 8–43.
5 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox and
Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael Finnissy, (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 1998), p. 61.
6 See Nigel McBride in Chapter 9 of this volume.
7 ‘Michael Finnissy Piano Recital’, at www.ox.ac.uk/event/michael-finnissy-
piano-recital (accessed 24 June 2018).
8 Maurice Hinson and Wesley Roberts, Guide to the Pianist’s Repertoire, fourth
edition (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2014), p. 387. A small bit of
pedantry: there are, in fact, three canons before the second section of the piece,
which occurs one page after the Andante sostenuto marking.
9 See ‘Unknown Ground, Michael Finnissy: Description’ at https://global.oup.
com/academic/product/unknown-ground-9780193453265?cc=gb&lang=en&#
10 As Christopher Fox points out in reference to Unknown Ground, this is an impor-
tant epistemological shift, since ‘in the art-song, as the form itself has moved
from the private to the public domain, the singer has moved slightly off-centre,
singing about rather than being the subject’. Christopher Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’,
in Uncommon Ground, p. 247 (Fox’s emphasis). Such a foregrounding of subjec-
tivity and embodiment, and its uneasy mediation in Finnissy’s music, is exactly
what I try to contextualise in the next section.
11 In the sense highlighted at the outset of this chapter.
12 John Cage, For the Birds: John Cage in Conversation with Daniel Charles
(London: Marion Boyars, 1981), p. 148. Quoted in Jonathan Katz, ‘John Cage’s
Queer Silence or How to Avoid Making Things Worse’, in David W. Bernstein
and Christopher Hatch (eds.), Writings through John Cage’s Music, Poetry, and
Art (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2001), p. 43.
13 Katz, ‘John Cage’s Queer Silence’, p. 45. Katz himself appears to be less
than convinced by Cage’s reasoning (as he sees it), calling it ‘psychic slight of
hand’ (ibid, p. 46).
14 Ibid, p. 46. Of course, composers working well before Cage deployed structural
devices for a similar transcendental purpose; perhaps the most uncontestable
example being the hundreds of unnumbered Zwolftönspiele composed by Josef
Matthias Hauer from 1940 until his death in 1959.
15 Ibid, pp. 50–51.
16 Ryan Dohoney, ‘John Cage, Julius Eastman, and the Homosexual Ego’, in
Benjamin Piekut (ed.), Tomorrow is the Question: New Directions in Experimental
Music Studies (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2014), pp. 45–6.
Interestingly, Dohoney’s juxtaposition of Cage’s practice with Eastman’s, espe-
cially the latter’s use of outright camp, ultimately makes the same claims for
Eastman’s music that Katz had conversely made for Cage’s, using David M.
Halperin’s description of camp as ‘a form of cultural resistance that is entirely
326 Max Erwin
predicated on a shared consciousness of being inescapably situated within a
powerful system of social and sexual meanings’ (ibid). There is a historical con-
tingency to this reversal: Dohoney notes that, at the time of Eastman’s 1975
performance of 0’00”, post-Stonewall gay activism concerned itself with exposing
the use of certain social discourses as means of control and subjugation, especially
after the American Psychiatric Association’s removal of homosexuality from the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1973. There is, of course,
a second historical contingency at work in Dohoney’s account: his own position
as an American academic in the second decade of the twenty-first century. He
has a tendency to emplot Cage as a repressive figure guilty of ‘condemnation of a
fellow gay musician’ when, as Dohoney himself admits, what was at issue was the
interpretation of one of Cage’s scores. As such, in Dohoney’s reading, Cage and
Eastman represent two diametrically opposed approaches towards queer artistic
engagement, the one (Cage) a misguided, ‘solipsistic’ Apollonian asceticism, the
other (Eastman) an affirmative, Dionysian spirit deployed ‘to forge a queer com-
munity among his collaborators’. To support this, Dohoney rather oddly claims
that Katz positions Cage’s resistance as ‘not active but passive’, despite Katz
spending considerable time describing the opposite.
17 Quoted ibid. p. 48.
18 Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, p. 214. See also Maarten Beirens’ comments on an
‘imaginary fusion of similar sources’ in the music of György Ligeti in Chapter 13
of this volume.
19 Eventually integrated into the Communist Party of England (Marxist-Leninist),
which itself was renamed in 1978 as the Revolutionary Communist Party of
Britain (Marxist-Leninist), as part of the Progressive Cultural Association (PCA).
See John Tilbury, Cornelius Cardew (1936–1981) a life unfinished (Harlow:
Copula, 2008), pp. 548–720. Robert Service characterises all these iterations as
‘permanently ineffectual’; see Service, Comrades: Communism: A World History
(London: Macmillan, 2007), p. 400.
20 Tilbury demonstrates that there are ‘widely differing interpretations’ of the dis-
solution of the Scratch Orchestra, placing it at various dates between 1971 and its
formal renaming as the Red Flame Proletarian Propaganda Team in April 1974
(see Tilbury, Cardew, p. 688). Nevertheless, the Scratch moniker appears to be
in use right up until this latter date; a concert given of new Cardew works at the
Purcell Room on 5 March 1974 is described by a reviewer as being ‘presented by
himself [Cardew] and the Scratch Orchestra with Jane Manning (who, unlike the
others, is not committed to socialist revolution)’. This review itself is broadly rep-
resentative of the critical reaction to Cardew’s music of this period: ‘Some of it
is, at least, very pretty; but none of it was performed with anything like adequate
musicianship (even by Maoist standards).’ Passing mention is also made of ‘some
dismal rock music played by People’s Liberation Music’. See Michael Chanan,
‘Cardew and Quilapayn’, in Tempo, New Series, no. 109 (June 1974), pp. 53–4.
21 Virginia Anderson, ‘The Legacy of Cornelius Cardew by Tony Harris (review)’,
Music and Letters, vol. 94, no. 4 (November 2013), pp. 717–19.
22 Tony Harris, The Legacy of Cornelius Cardew (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), p. 10.
23 Ibid, p. 89. It may be worth noting that Harris’s ideation of Cardew’s legacy
has been harshly criticised by both Anderson and Edward Venn. However, I
am not so much interested in Cardew’s legacy per se as how a particular scholar
understands the social function of his political composition. It must nevertheless
be conceded in passing that there is a certain dishonesty, both in the Attali quote
itself and its use by Harris, in the suggestion that the quasi-messianic force of art
is both directional and intentional, a line of reasoning that would find precedent
in Cardew’s practice for trade union strikes but not, say, nationalist rallies.
24 Quoted in Tilbury, Cardew, p. 683.
25 Quoted ibid, p. 920. This is reported from an evidentially private conversation
with Tilbury, and, as such, should be treated with due scepticism. Tilbury him-
self is, naturally enough, far from being a neutral observer; indeed, presenting
Cardew’s late Maoist period as his primary original contribution to music, as
it is presented here, would probably elicit objection from him, as he is at pains
to emphasise the continuity of Cardew’s musical thought (although he would
most likely agree that there was little to indicate a volte-face towards the end of
Cardew’s life concerning his political music).
26 Quoted in Tilbury, Cardew, p. 711.
27 Ibid. p. 815.
28 Katz, ‘John Cage’s Queer Silence’, p. 58.
Bibliography
Anderson, Virginia. ‘The Legacy of Cornelius Cardew by Tony Harris (review)’.
Music and Letters, vol. 94 no. 4 (November 2013), pp. 717–19.
Cage, John. For the Birds: John Cage in Conversation with Daniel Charles. London:
Marion Boyars, 1981.
Chanan, Michael. ‘Cardew and Quilapayn’. Tempo, New Series, no. 109 (June 1974),
pp. 53–4.
Dohoney, Ryan. ‘John Cage, Julius Eastman, and the Homosexual Ego’. In Benjamin
Piekut (ed.), Tomorrow is the Question: New Directions in Experimental Music
Studies (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2014), pp. 39–62.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 211–57.
Graubart, Michael. ‘Letter to the Editor’. Tempo, New Series, no. 205 (July 1998),
p. 54.
Harris, Tony. The Legacy of Cornelius Cardew (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013).
Hinson, Maurice; and Roberts, Wesley. Guide to the Pianist’s Repertoire, fourth edi-
tion. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2014.
Katz, Jonathan. ‘John Cage’s Queer Silence or How to Avoid Making Things Worse’.
In David W. Bernstein and Christopher Hatch (eds.), Writings through John Cage’s
Music, Poetry, and Art (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2001), pp. 231–52.
1998, pp. 43–133.
Service, Robert. Comrades: Communism: A World History. London: Macmillan, 2007.
Tilbury, John. Cornelius Cardew (1936–1981): a life unfinished. Harlow: Copula, 2008.
‘Michael Finnissy Piano Recital’, at www.ox.ac.uk/event/michael-finnissy-piano-
recital (accessed 24 June 2018).
‘Unknown Ground, Michael Finnissy: Description’ at https://global.oup.com/aca
demic/product/unknown-ground-9780193453265?cc=gb&lang=en&# (accessed 24
June 2018).
15 Finnissy’s alongside
Richard Barrett
In early 1980, the London Sinfonietta mounted a series of concerts in St

John’s Smith Square, London, under the heading ‘1945A’, a fairly com-
prehensive overview of the kinds of music which had come to the fore in
previous decades, although electronic music and ‘minimalist’ styles were
excluded. At that time the Sinfonietta had existed for only eleven-and-a-half
years, together with what became a standard instrumentation for contem-
porary music of single woodwinds and brass, piano, percussion, and string
quintet – a different kind of concept from, for example, the fifteen instru-
ments employed in Schoenberg’s First Chamber Symphony, which with its
duo and trio respectively of variously sized oboes and clarinets, and its two
horns, is constituted more as a scaled-down orchestra (capable of timbral
homogeneities as well as divergences) than the ‘large chamber ensemble’ such
as alongside is written for.
On 19 February 1980, the Belgian conductor Ronald Zollman con-
ducted the work’s first performance, in a programme which also included
Stockhausen’s Mikrophonie II (1965), Nigel Osborne’s In Camera (1979), and
Mauricio Kagel’s Ensemble (1967–9).1 This was the first time I had ever heard
any of Finnissy’s music. The year 1980 was also when I first heard music
by James Dillon and Chris Dench, the year in which I decided to devote
myself to composition, and (in December) in which the first performance of
a composition of mine took place. For a while at the beginning of the 1980s,
it seemed to me that Finnissy’s work of the previous few years (along with
that of a few others, like Nigel Osborne) had opened a new chapter in British
composition, more international in outlook, more exploratory in style, and
taking the postwar European avant-garde as a starting point in a more radical
way than their continental counterparts, who, at that time, seemed rather to
be heading back into a neoromantic past. At the same time, of course, Brian
Ferneyhough and his work were having a parallel influence on his students
at the Musikhochschule in Freiburg, including several British composers such
as James Erber and Roger Redgate; but Finnissy’s influence at this time ema-
nated less from teaching (which he only took up much later) and more from
his inexhaustible energy and productivity as both composer and pianist.2 His
performing repertoire of course centred on his own work, but also took in
Finnissy’s alongside 329
music by those of the younger generation who had been decisively affected by
it, as well as music seemingly from the opposite end of the ‘complexity’ spec-
trum such as that of Howard Skempton. It seemed to me at the time (and still
does) entirely appropriate that these two directions should be complementary
parts of his repertoire, having in common a rejection of a stylistic ‘middle
way’, whose composers rapidly came to dominate concert programmes, not
least those of the London Sinfonietta, as the 1980s (and, I’m bound to say,
the Thatcher era) wore on. Going back to February 1980, though, alongside
came like a bolt from the blue, a pivotal event, with a sense that even in
the relatively staid world of British music (in which excitingly progressive
composers like Stockhausen, Xenakis, Kagel, Cage, and the rest, with whose
recordings I had grown up, were comparatively thin on the ground) there was
at least one composer who wasn’t just keeping up with worldwide develop-
ments but actually leapfrogging over them, to a place where anything might
be possible. I would like to think that I have retained and cherished that sense
to this day, and of course I am by no means alone in this.
As for alongside, the score remains as much a source of astonishment now
as it did at the time. I should note before continuing that my principal reason
for writing about this work in particular was the decisiveness of the circum-
stances under which I first encountered it, rather than an idea that it repre-
sents a ‘key work’ within Finnissy’s oeuvre, which has generally not evolved
in that sort of way; each of his works tends to explore a musical paradigm of
its own, interrelated with others perhaps but not dependent on them, and I
would not say that the smaller ones play a lesser role in the unfolding of his
musical world than the larger.
Nevertheless, within a short time of the completion of alongside, there
occurs a profound shift in Finnissy’s points of musical reference. alongside
and the works that surround it are more often than not characterised by
ecstatically jagged contours of the sort associated with the international post-
war avant-garde. The liberation of the energies latent in Anton Webern’s
comparatively foursquare pitch and rhythm structures can be seen in many
compositions of the early 1950s by composers such as Pierre Boulez, and
Karlheinz Stockhausen, for example in the piano part towards the end of the
latter’s Kontra-Punkte (1952, rev. 1953) (the last third or so of this piece was
omitted in its first performance on the grounds of being too difficult).3 The
‘folk’ elements which often come to the surface in this period of Finnissy’s
work, such as the modal material with which English Country-Tunes (espe-
cially in the second and seventh of its eight sections) is pervaded, seems to be
targeted at (if not ironically, then certainly incisively critical of ) the preva-
lence of such materials in the ‘pastoral’ strand of British twentieth-century
composition, against which the expressive immediacy, and frequent ferocity,
of Finnissy’s music set itself from the beginning. Not long after alongside,
however, the relationship of his music to folk traditions took on a different
cast, in which I suggest his extended stay in Australia in 1982 was decisive,
and which resulted in the often abrasively heterophonic music in tightly
330 Richard Barrett
constrained pitch-bandwidths that characterise many of his compositions of
the 1980s.
Nevertheless, Finnissy in his original programme note mentioned Japanese
gagaku music as a point of reference for the way in which the musical material
of alongside involves a division into three fundamental categories: melodies,
harmonic aggregates, and punctuating attacks (a strategy he also used in his
orchestral work Sea and Sky (1979–80)).4 In gagaku these modes of musical
behaviour are strictly distributed among the distinct groups of instruments
which make up the ensemble, whose orchestration was fixed around 850 BC,
and whose repertoire also remained fixed until the late twentieth century. In
classical gagaku, a punctuating or colotomic function is assigned to drums
and plucked strings, melodic function to groups of double reeds (hichiriki)
and flutes (ryuteki), which play slightly different versions of the same line so
that they move unpredictably between unison and close ‘harmony’ (made
more complex by different glissandi and ornaments), and finally sustained
aggregates of pitches to a group of sho mouth-organs.5 A typical gagaku piece
will involve an overall gradual accelerando, during which more local ‘orna-
mental’ changes of tempo are played independently by the small kakko drum
played by the leader of the orchestra. Many of the aforementioned features
occur in sublimated form in alongside, without in any way diluting the indi-
viduality of Finnissy’s musical concept and sound. The seemingly unrelated
simultaneities, which are characteristic of many forms of Japanese traditional
music, are here registered as a precedent for the kinds of simultaneities with
which Finnissy’s music at that time was centrally concerned.
Indeed it might be interesting to note in this context how gagaku has been
used as a kind of filter through which composers of the late twentieth cen-
tury have seen their own musical concerns. The central movement of Olivier
Messiaen’s Japanese-influenced Sept Haïkaï (1962) is entitled ‘Gagaku’ –
about the original music of that name Messiaen has this to say: ‘The music
contains a melody that is surprising to European ears, played by a small,
primitive oboe: the hichiriki. Its sound is extremely vinegary and it is doubled
badly by other instruments which add flourishes and don’t stick to the same
modes. These false doublings are both extremely disagreeable and at the same
time expressive.’6 Messiaen’s patronising attitude to the music is reflected
in his ‘version’, which tidies up the original into Western instrumentation,
equal temperament and metre, losing much of its character in the process of
being assimilated into Messiaen’s langage musical. Toru Takemitsu’s In an
Autumn Garden (1973) decouples the instrumental groups of a traditional
gagaku orchestra from each other and uses their sounds to articulate the
kind of delicately poised or freely evolving forms familiar from his works
for Western instrumentations. Stockhausen’s Der Jahreslauf (1977), on the
other hand, concentrates on the possibilities of using the different temporal
levels represented by the gagaku groups to create the kind of wide spectrum
between local and global time which characterises most of the components of
his opera cycle LICHT (of which Der Jahreslauf, in its version for Western
instruments closely imitating their Japanese originals, was the first part to
be composed). Something immediately obvious from the score of alongside,
apart from its refusal to imitate anything as closely as the aforementioned
pieces, is that the three fundamental categories of musical behaviour men-
tioned above are not associated with particular instruments or groups, often
being blurred into one another.
Much of Finnissy’s work, as is clear from the other chapters in this book, is
concerned with entering into a creative relationship with pre-existing musics
of one sort or another, and I think it would be true to say, first, that this feature
has become more apparent as time has gone on and, second, that its points
of reference have shifted in directions to which listeners, most profoundly
affected by the startling radicalism of his music up until the 1980s, might
have a difficult time relating. The points of reference for a work like alongside,
including perhaps the choice of gagaku as a model, seem to lie within the
tradition of the postwar avant-garde, which itself often involved pretentions
to being not a ‘style’ but an attitude, of a way of musical thinking in which
irregularity and disjunction in such areas as pitch-sequences, rhythm, and
form, forcibly detach themselves from inherited notions of coherence and
closure. Finnissy’s own take on this historical moment is much too personal
and original to allow itself (except in a few early cases) to be characterised
as an emulation of those antecedents; part of his assimilation of that way of
imagining music is an assimilation of its sense of going beyond superficial
stylistic features, like characteristic harmonies or motives, by internalising
the non-harmonic, non-motivic sound-forms of integral serialism, aleatoric
methods, stochastic techniques, and their various offshoots. This can be very
clearly seen and heard in alongside, not only in the contours of its tangled
instrumental strands but also in its structure, and the way in which it is often
poised on a knife-edge between merging into a texture of inextricable inter-
weavings on one side and remaining a conglomeration of discrete behaviours
on the other. The possibility of changing focus between these perspectives
at almost any moment, or of entering a kind of ecstatic listening state where
all perspectives seem to be simultaneously present, is for me one of the most
attractive, powerful, and indeed influential, features of this music.
‘Behaviours’, in fact, constitute perhaps the most useful and accurate for-
mulation to describe the things that happen in this music. Such ‘material’, as
there is, seems to rest on freely chosen and/or systematically randomised dis-
tributions within carefully established limits, which tend to remain constant
for long enough that a ‘textural’ identity is clearly established. These ‘behav-
iours’ take shape at the moment in which the music solidifies into notation –
as Finnissy says in a 2011 interview, ‘my music isn’t there before it’s written
down’7 – preparatory work for a composition is kept to a minimum so as
not to obstruct the spontaneity with which Finnissy brings it into being liter-
ally by hand (although other composers, such as myself, might claim that
the principal function of extensive preparatory work is precisely to enable
spontaneity in one’s exploration of the musical worlds thus outlined). In fact,
332 Richard Barrett
there is little evidence of any kind of systematic organisation in alongside – it
is not at all clear that the contents of the score can be ‘explained away’ by
reference to a system which on some level could be regarded as rationally
motivated. If one of the attractive aspects of, for example, Stockhausen’s
comparably ‘complex’ Gruppen (1955–7) is the way its sense of rationality
is used as a means of expanding the imaginative consciousness of composer
and listener alike. Finnissy seems to take the resulting delirium as a start-
ing point; and here his approach bridges Stockhausen’s serial universe and
Cage’s aleatoric ‘Zen garden’, where the result of disciplined contemplation
gives the impression of things that ‘just happen’ to have fallen that way rather
than another, or that ‘just happen’ to have evolved organically according to
their own impenetrably mysterious inner forces, while at the same time show-
ing the imprint of the human hand everywhere, transcending any division
between ‘natural’ and ‘artificial’.
All of the above features, which alongside shares to a greater or lesser
extent with many of Finnissy’s other works composed in the few years before
and after it, had a decisive influence on a number of younger composers who
at that time could be described as being in Finnissy’s ‘circle’ to one degree
or another. This can be heard for example in the chamber-orchestra work
Kinjiki (subsequently retitled Symphony No.1) (1977–80) by Chris Dench
(b. 1953), and … Once upon a time (1980) for instrumental octet by James
Dillon (b. 1950), both of which had their first performances later in 1980;
and in numerous pieces written for the ensemble Suoraan, founded by com-
posers Richard Emsley (b. 1951) and James Clarke (b. 1957), whose pianist
was Finnissy himself, including Emsley’s The Juniper Tree (1981), my own
Coïgitum (first performed in an incomplete version in 1984 and then com-
pleted the following year), and several subsequently withdrawn pieces by
Clarke.8 All of these composers had, of course, arrived from different direc-
tions to the points represented by those pieces, and proceeded from them
in different directions too, but I think is clear from the briefest study of the
aforementioned works that alongside, and the works around it, provided in
all cases a model of a liberated music, beholden to no unspoken rules and
regulations but those evolving from its own uncontainable internal energies.
The score’s preliminary notes already display some unusual features.9 The
seating plan for the ensemble is centred on the piano (with its lid removed) but
places the woodwind quartet in front of the string quintet, instead of behind
it as might be expected. This feature is explained by the woodwind material
being more often concerned with melismatic melodies, even if sometimes at
very quiet dynamics, while the strings are more often given long unchanging
aggregate sounds which act as a variously coloured and textured backdrop
to the rest of the music. The percussion setup is typical of Finnissy’s music in
consisting of a highly restricted set of instruments: a maraca, plus four tom-
toms, and a suspended cymbal always played with hard sticks.
Taking an overall view of the score, it can easily be seen that, more often
than not, each of the three fundamental behaviours on which the structure is
based is given to a ‘family group’ of instruments: the three brass, four wood-
winds or five strings, the exceptions being the piano, which has the most com-
plex and soloistic part in the work, and the percussion, which has the simplest
(although often also ‘soloistic’ in terms of dynamics, as well as being assigned
the only actual solo in the work, as will be seen). I would identify eight prin-
cipal sections in alongside, whose junctions vary between, on the one hand,
the new section being a continuation of the previous one but with some
significant change (for example in horizontal and/or vertical density), and, on
the other, a ‘cut’ involving a simultaneous change in most or all parameters.
The durations of these sections tend to cluster around shorter (between 1’
and 1’30” – sections 1, 3, 4, 6, and 8) and longer (between 3’ and 4’ – sections
2, 5, and 7) values without any intermediate durations, this being one of the
many ways in which alongside could be seen as excluding median values and
concentrating on one extreme or the other. There follows a description of
the work section by section, although it will soon become clear that all the
sections are connected by more or less clear cross-references and transforma-
tions (though not ‘developments’ in the sense of musical material undergoing
processes that present themselves either immanently or retrospectively as
teleological), with some pauses along the way for closer examination of some
more general points that arise from the music as it metaphorically goes by.
Section 1 divides the ensemble into three dynamic levels, which Finnissy
suggests in the score should be rehearsed separately:
I. () flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, trumpet, violin 2

II. ( ) trombone, piano, violin 1, contrabass
III. () bassoon, viola, cello
In his astute review of the first performance, Paul Driver refers to Finnissy’s
attempt at ‘a radical recovery of ‘balance’ as an expressive means in its own
right’,10 and indeed this is one of the most suggestive, and indeed perhaps
one of the most influential, aspects of alongside. But the division of musical
behaviours between the instruments does not correspond precisely to this
division. Ex. 15.1 shows the opening of the piece. In ‘group I’ the flute, oboe
and clarinet play melodies occupying more or less the entire pitch-range
of each instrument, principally rather slowly with occasional grace-notes
interpolated between the long durations, but occasionally speeding up for a
short time, especially in the last bar of this section (the bar before rehearsal
number 3) where all begin to play groups of equal (but different) note values
between semi-quavers and quavers. The horn, on the other hand, plays bursts
of between one and eleven legato grace-notes at irregular intervals; the trum-
pet alternates between groups of equal note values (in the same approximate
duration range as the woodwinds at the end of the section) played non legato,
and less regular stretches of detached and accented notes (again in the same
duration range). While the horn and trumpet parts both once more occupy a
wide range, the second violin remains mostly relatively high, beginning with
334 Richard Barrett
Ex. 15.1 Finnissy, alongside (1979), opening. © Universal Edition 1979.

the same kind of longer durations as the woodwinds (without the grace-notes)
but remaining with this same behaviour throughout.
In group II, violin 1 has similar material to violin 2 but in artificial harmon-
ics (‘poco vibrato’) so that it is generally the highest component of the overall
texture. The trombone has similar material to the trumpet’s non legato chains
of notes but in a lower register and with more irregular durations. The piano
(in its lowest register, with the sustain pedal only raised at phrase-beginnings
which are also marked by accented clusters) and (pizzicato) contrabass have
chains of notes that look initially as if their durations are equal quavers,
although both are marked ‘freely, irregularly’ and have unpredictable num-
bers of notes per bar but not specified in tuplet ratios.
Group III plays long durations which begin and end synchronously, occu-
pying a restricted range in the tenor register of less than two octaves (each
group of three actually has a range of an octave or less including the auxiliary
notes of the trills, and each contains at least one major/minor second); the
bassoon plays only trills, the cello bowed tremoli, and the viola both. Given
that the register of group III is constantly being encroached upon by the
trombone, and also sometimes by the trumpet and clarinet, group III will be
audible only fleetingly, hence its much simpler material.
The percussion is not part of this scheme but instead plays long separated
drum rolls (on drum 3), each with a crescendo from to . Returning to
the three groups, it can easily be seen that groups I and II both involve all
three fundamental categories of musical behaviour (melodies, sustains, punc-
tuation) that characterise alongside, as well as both containing at least one
from each ‘family’ of melody instruments, and both being spread over almost
as wide a pitch-range as their constituent instruments will allow. In distinc-
tion to this, group III carries on a shadowy and circumscribed existence
almost like an intermittent background ‘noise’ behind the teeming activity in
the fore and middle-grounds. Thus, the unchangingly dense texture of section
1 already contains within itself many of the extreme disjunctures between
instruments, perspectives, pitch-ranges, behaviours (as well as within them),
and notational manners (between precise and imprecise), which henceforth
occur ‘alongside’ one another in a great variety of combinations and degrees
of density in different dimensions.
Section 2 (rehearsal numbers 3 to 12) is the longest section according to
my subjective division of the piece, being about three times as long as its pre-
decessor. The sudden change of dynamic to tutti at the beginning
of the section (with a ‘noise’ element contributed by the maraca) is followed
after two bars by an equally sudden shift to ffff ! after which dynamics
become more stratified. The woodwinds (now completed by the bassoon,
which however also operates at a dynamic level some distance below the
others) basically continue their previous range of behaviours but in a more
variegated way, with the inclusion of more long silences, staccato passages,
trills (in the clarinet part) and so on. They are joined by a monodic piano part
tracing a jagged outline across the top half of the keyboard, and (after 8) by
336 Richard Barrett
a horn part, slightly softer than the upper woodwinds, which continues the
‘freely, irregularly’ played rhythms of the contrabass and piano in section 1.
Apart from the aforementioned melodic material, the piano part also involves
dissonant staccato chords in the lowest register, and, later on, rumbling trills
and tremoli in that same area. Both of these behaviours recur in later sections
and make a central contribution to the soundworld of alongside, what might
be called a ‘seismic’ level whose changes literally shift the ground beneath
which the rest of the musical activity is taking place. The punctuating type of
material is shared between these low chords and a series of isolated attacks on
drum 4 of the percussion, at the beginning sffffz tutta forza and eventually
. As for the strings, at the beginning of the section the violins and violas
have wide and rapid glissandi sul ponticello with approximately the same
range of speeds as the woodwinds, changing to tremolo-glissandi in longer
note-values and, eventually, sustained sounds changing only occasionally
and independently in pitch. The lower strings converge on this same material,
after beginning with shorter sustained sounds with extreme crescendi and
diminuendi and often adding a second (double-stopped) voice. In the middle
of the section (at 6), the wind instruments drop out to create a ‘window’ of
five bars where piano and strings are temporarily exposed (although this
does not affect what they play). The second section, after an ‘anomalous’
few bars at the beginning, is thus a more extended exploration of some of the
behaviours that comprised the dense and chaotic first section, and embodies
a very gradual movement in the direction of greater homogeneity. A global
sketch like the foregoing might give the impression of a schism between a
fairly unambiguous and even simplistic formal profile and the febrile micro-
structure which it articulates, but this is not really the case: within the broad
outlines described here are many levels of variation within the different strata
and of interaction between them.
Another feature worth mentioning at this stage is the way that the con-
ducted metre in the score, which in section 2 involves a range of time signa-
tures between 16 3 and 47 and several gradual changes of tempo, seems to bear
little or no structural relationship to the music it – to varying extents – coor-
dinates; apart from the free and irregular horn part in this section, tuplet
brackets frequently extend across barlines, and there appears to be no pattern
in the succession of time signatures. This feature, however, is anything but
random: what it means is that the conductor’s ‘part’ then contributes as much
as any of the others to the achievement of Finnissy’s note in the preface to the
score that ‘[a]lthough notated in detail the rhythm is intended to sound free
and spontaneous, unmechanical, and without discernible regular pulse’.11
This feature is brought into sharper focus in section 3, which opens with
two long bars in which each beat has a different (precisely measured) dura-
tion. In the first (at 12), only the piano has precisely notated rhythms (now
in two independent parts which explode across the keyboard in two streams
of notes and clusters), while the horn has a sustained stopped (written) Eᅈ4
with a harmonic glissando to a high open Cᅈ5 at its end, the cymbal has
two secco strokes which may be placed anywhere within the second and
fourth of the five beats, and the three upper woodwinds have yet more wide-
ranging melodic material, but now in sequences of accented demisemiquavers
without tuplet subdivisions but desynchronised from each other and from
the conductor’s beat, which provides only an irregular frame of reference
around which these four layers are arranged (Ex. 15.2). The second bar (at

13) begins with a flutter-tongued accent from the brass trio, has wood-
winds now or , the flute in flutter-tongued grace-notes, again two
secco cymbal strokes but now precisely placed in time, cello and bass
pizzicato ‘freely, irregularly’, and both violins, also pizzicato but initially
with an eventual crescendo to ff !, playing independently accelerating
sequences of semiquavers. After these two bars, the time signature switches
to 38 for the remainder of this one-minute section, while the tempo undergoes
Ex. 15.2 Finnissy, alongside, beginning of section 3. © Universal Edition 1979.

338 Richard Barrett
four accelerandi after each of which the starting tempo is re-established for
a few bars. The violins, joined by the viola, continue as a trio with the same
independently accelerating pizzicato material, now with a crescendo from
ffto ! on each phrase in each instrument. With little internal variation,
this texture, with frequent stops and restarts, continues throughout the sec-
tion, as do the lower strings which play somewhat slower chains of tremolo
pitches, precise tuplet subdivisions, and more unpredictable (and coordi-
nated) dynamics. While, at the level of detail, this material might seem to
belong to the ‘melodic’ category, the way the strings are bound together into
a duo and trio might suggest that each of these textures as a whole belongs
to the ‘sustain’ category. Like the previously mentioned instability between
discrete and textural sound, the division of musical behaviours between the
three original characters depends on how one chooses to listen.
The percussion (on drum 2) has two long crescendo rolls akin to those in
section 1. The upper woodwinds, horn and piano have a similarly intermittent
presence in the main part of section 3, with their most individuated behav-
iours so far, in terms of speed, dynamic and durational regularity, although
never quite losing the morphological commonality shared by almost all the
‘melodic’ material in alongside, where a constant scanning in more or less
wide intervals up and/or down across the entire range of the instrument
is constantly being disrupted to a greater or lesser extent. Sometimes the
disruption is so great that the melodic strands take on an almost randomly
meandering character; at other times the directedness of the strands is hardly
disrupted at all – both of these extremes can be clearly seen in the right and
left hand voices of the piano part in section 8.
Section 4, which has around the same duration as its predecessor, begins
at rehearsal number 18, and, like section 1, divides the ensemble into four
dynamic strata, although now the ensemble is reduced in size by half to only
seven instruments:
I. ff
( ) horn, trumpet, trombone
II. ff
( ) piano
III.
( ) cello
IV.
( ) clarinet
… plus a percussion part playing iterated crescendi, this time using the
maraca, later replaced by secco cymbal strokes.
The single-line piano part unfolds throughout, varying in speed, register,
range, dynamic and the ‘thickening’ of its monody into cluster-like aggregates,
and the intermittent pizzicato cello part alternates between precise and free
rhythms. The brass trio begins by returning to their behaviours of section 1
(but now all in the same dynamic group) and the clarinet plays a mostly slow
and high strand again reprising its behaviour from the opening of the piece.
The section opens with the clarinet having a barline every three conducted
beats and the rest of the septet every four, although again this is something
perceived in terms of freedom from metre rather than of polymetre. At 19,
the piano breaks free from the conducted beat altogether, and at 20 so does
the percussion. At 21, a brief tutti aggregate, diminuendo al niente, acts
(uncharacteristically) as a cadential event leading to the change of texture
at 22.
This is where the long section 5 begins, returning to something more simi-
lar to the collage-like form of section 3, but structured mostly into two
antiphonal groups with the piano providing punctuating material indepen-
dently from either. Bassoon, horn, trombone, and all four drums of the
percussion, play complex melodic material (initially always ff but later in
multiple or single crescendo), frequently ‘ornamented’ by trills in the three
winds, glissandi in the horn and trombone parts, trills with glissandi (horn),
and grace-notes and dyads (drums). The ornamentations in the brass parts
bring up the question of idiomatic instrumental writing in Finnissy’s music of
this period, which frequently employs such features, along with quartertones,
seemingly with scant regard to how they might actually be realised. Certainly
it is clear that not all the trombone glissandi can be played using only the
slide, since they frequently exceed the slide’s range of a tritone, and even
when they don’t they can’t always be accommodated by the instrument – for
example none of the three glissandi in the trombone part at 24 can be played
exactly as notated (Ex. 15.3).
At the same time it isn’t at all clear how the trombone trills are to be
realised, or the trill/glissando combinations in the horn, or the trills on quar-
tertone-inflected pitches in the bassoon. What is to be made of this? One way
of answering is to remark that a committed attempt to realise these notations
will produce a rich, complex and somewhat unpredictable result on the level
of the internal details of individual instrumental gestures which could be seen
as the real meaning (as opposed to a simplified ‘literal’ meaning) of what
the notation is communicating to the players. Finnissy’s way of notational
communication is poetic rather than didactic, which doesn’t make it any less
precise – by ‘poetic’ what I mean is an analogy to the way that poetry changes,
expands and multiplies the possible meanings of words which in other con-
texts might have a straightforward and unambiguous function, focusing on
rather than minimising their ambiguities. Another way of looking at this
situation is to imagine the notation in terms of the kind of approximation
which is generally necessary when transcribing music from oral traditions,
and (remembering Finnissy’s statement in the interview quoted above) there
is a sense in which the practice of notating a composition is for him related
to a concept of transcription, something which of course comes much more
clearly into focus in relation to his later works.
The second principal element in section 5 is a series of long-held chordal
blocks sempre for all five strings, some or all of whom may be playing
double-stops, artificial harmonics or both, so that each sound is a dense
and complex timbre whose individual elements are almost impossible to dis-
cern. Against this and the wind/percussion quartet, punctuational material is
340 Richard Barrett
Ex. 15.3 Finnissy, alongside, episode from section 5. © Universal Edition 1979.
provided once more by very low piano chords, usually either sffffz
or ,
often spread so as to give an indistinct and effectively pitchless sound. Both
strings and piano deploy simultaneous pitches in such a way as to negate any
sense of ‘harmony’, something they of course share with the sho of gagaku
music, whose sound is approached most closely by the string music of this
section. A further articulative feature in section 5 is the presence of several
brief interjections by the upper winds, which refer back to the brevity of the
tutti ‘anacrusis’ just before the beginning of the section, but also to various
dynamic and articulative behaviours which have occurred earlier in the piece
in different forms, including for example the independently accelerating pizzi-
cato phrases of the upper strings in section 3, which are referred to here in two
of the interjections, for flute and oboe playing staccato.
While there is no ‘upbeat’ at the end of section 5 comparable to that at the
end of section 4, there are signs towards its end that a change might be about
to happen (this is a prominent feature of the closing moments of most sections
in English Country-Tunes and many other Finnissy works). At three bars
after 28, a string ‘chord’ is left alone for much longer than usual. The ensuing
silence contains only a single staccato chord in the depths of the piano,
followed by the last of the string aggregates which is now played
sul tasto. The music is fragmenting into its constituent components. After
another silence, briefly ‘coloured’ in the same way as the previous one, the
brass/percussion quartet enters, for the first time simultaneously with an upper
woodwind burst, with all of the instruments playing crescendi. Surrounded by
silence again, the quartet plays another crescendo from to (except that
the percussion ends sffffz tutta forza). Finally, at 31, another simultane-
ous entry by all instruments except piano and strings (woodwinds ff ,
brass ff ffff !, percussion again ending tutta forza) conceals the re-entry of
strings and piano leading to section 6, a brief section this time, beginning at
32 and returning to the almost unvaryingly high density of sections 1 and 2.
Until rehearsal number 33, section 6 involves clearly delineated transforma-
tions and recombinations of various elements familiar from earlier sections:
rapid swooping contours in all woodwinds, and now incorporating more
extended groups of grace-notes in the upper instruments; brief brass interjec-
tions which echo those of the woodwinds from section 5; an alternation in the
percussion part between brief recollections of the complex ‘melodic’ material
of section 5 with silence and accented dyads; a piano part remaining in the
lowest register but now consisting only of tremoli (right hand) and trills (left
hand), and slow sustained behaviour from the strings, now desynchronised
from one another. Everything but the brass and percussion is hushed, and
even these have subsided into quiet dynamics by 33, when a long rallentando
begins and the materials are shuffled again: woodwinds continue but now the
flute and oboe alternate their flurries with silence, and clarinet and bassoon
return once more to the widely irregular durations they played in section 1. In
the brass, the trumpet has long notes sometimes with trills while the horn and
trombone play once more ‘freely, irregularly’, the horn legato and alternating
between stopped and open phrases with the staccato trombone. The piano part
condenses once more into deep spread chords, but now with the sustain pedal
down, while the strings continue their glacial polyphony almost unchanged,
eventually settling on a sustained chord at 35 where the brass stop playing,
the woodwind dynamic level becomes and the percussionist, having
sustained a quiet maraca roll for several pages (an expansion of the percussion
part at the beginning of section 2), suddenly plays a two-handed sffffz tutta
forza accent on drum 1, an event which now disrupts the music completely: the
winds all stop dead in their tracks, the strings fizzle out in a cloud of glissandi,
harmonics and tremoli and the scene is set for section 7, three bars before 36,
where irregularly spaced sffffz attacks on this drum, subsequently and
then once more ff , are initially all that is heard.
342 Finnissy’s alongside
Section 7, only slightly shorter than sections 2 and 5, thus begins as the
opposite extreme to section 1 in the constant traversal of different states of
density which the music has been exploring for its entire duration. It is a
moment which stands both outside and entirely within the structural and
expressive ambitus of the music heard thus far, which simultaneously rup-
tures and redefines the identity of alongside in the listener’s perception and
memory. What can possibly follow this? Slightly after 37, while the random
drumstrokes continue implacably (before switching from ff to a little
while later), an extravagantly linear piano solo begins, the behaviour of its
two strands (the left hand continuous, the right hand intermittent) familiar
from numerous earlier instances of wide-intervalled melodic material.
The final section 8, another of the shorter ones, begins at 39, and is intro-
duced by the strings together playing a ‘harsh’ sffffz glissando (three instru-
ments descending, two ascending, through different wide intervals). This is
then the only material played by the strings from here until the end, as
they occupy for the first and only time the ‘punctuating’ type of behaviour
which other instruments and groups have variously represented up until now.
Indeed there is less internal variation in section 8 than in any of the other
dense areas of the piece. The wind material (both woodwinds and brass) in
this section is a dense polyphony once more, but now each voice is generally
slower than has previously been the case in these passages, and the intervals
of the melodies are generally smaller, with flute and oboe in their highest
registers throughout, all winds being marked al fine. The percussion
plays a series of crescendo drum rolls, each this time on a different drum and
terminating in a group of grace-notes. As previously mentioned, the intermit-
tent piano part in section 8 (also sempre) continues from the previous
section except that the two hands now have divergent behaviours: the right
hand with swathes of notes spread irregularly across a range of almost five
octaves, while the left hand (mostly at a faster speed) plays scalic movements
traversing the remaining range of the keyboard, initially rising only but then
often changing direction.
Sections 7 and 8 (not unlike the corresponding seventh and eighth move-
ments of English Country-Tunes in fact) represent two different, and differ-
ently radical, ways of pushing the preceding structure to breaking point: first
by reduction to a single element, and then with a final peroration whose
overall block-like stasis is articulated by a massive but texturally coherent
internal incandescence, which is cut off as suddenly as it (and the whole piece)
started. By the end of section 6 the outlines and materials of the music’s sonic
identity have become established, reaching a point where their “envelope”
can be sundered, its limits transgressed.
In choosing the terms used for my descriptions, and the issues isolated
for closer examination, I am of course saying more about the influence this
music has had and continues to have than I could possibly say by pointing
at specific instances and parallels. Over and above these concerns, however,
is the question of the poetic-expressive voice of a work like alongside, and in
particular the way it refuses to have anything to do with pulling punches in
the interest of good taste or coherence. Its expression of an unapologetically
intense sensual-intellectual way of being is at the centre of its continuing
attraction and significance, to myself as well no doubt as many others on
whom it was unleashed in February 1980.
Notes
1 Paul Griffiths, ‘London Sinfonietta’, The Times, 20 February 1980. The concert
took place on 19 February at St John’s, Smith Square, London.
2 See Roddy Hawkins in Chapter 5 of the present volume for more on this.
3 Michael Kurtz, Stockhausen: a biography, translated Richard Toop (London:
Faber, 1992), pp. 58–60.
4 See Julian Anderson, ‘The Orchestral Music’, in Henrietta Brougham,
Christopher Fox and Ian Pace (eds.), Uncommon Ground: The Music of Michael
Finnissy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 180–7.
5 William P. Malm, Japanese Music and Musical Instruments (Clarendon, VT:
Tuttle, 1959), pp. 118–67.
6 Quoted in Peter Hill and Nigel Simeone, Messiaen (New Haven, CT, and
London: Yale University Press, 2005), p. 252.
7 Anthony Palmer, Encounters with British Composers (Woodbridge: Boydell &
Brewer, 2015), p. 180.
8 See Roddy Hawkins in Chapter 5 for more on the activities of Suoraan.
9 Michael Finnissy, alongside (London: Universal Edition, 1979).
10 Paul Driver, ‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘alongside”’. Tempo, New Series, no. 132
(March 1980), p. 42.
11 Finnissy, preface to score of alongside.
Bibliography
Anderson, Julian. ‘The Orchestral Music’. In Henrietta Brougham, Christopher Fox
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 169–210.
Driver, Paul. ‘Michael Finnissy’s ‘alongside”’. Tempo, New Series, no. 132 (March
1980), pp. 42–5.
Finnissy, Michael. Preface to score of alongside. London: Universal Edition, 1979.
Griffiths, Paul. ‘London Sinfonietta’. The Times, 20 February 1980.
Hill, Peter; and Simeone, Nigel Messiaen. New Haven, CT, and London: Yale
Kurtz, Michael. Stockhausen: a biography, translated Richard Toop. London: Faber,
1992.
Malm, William P. Japanese Music and Musical Instruments. Clarendon, VT: Tuttle,
1959.
Palmer, Anthony. Encounters with British Composers. Woodbridge: Boydell &
Brewer, 2015.
16 From Jean-Luc Godard to Dennis
Potter
Finnissy’s cinematic and televisual
inspirations
Ian Pace
To Larson Powell
The influence of cinema and other forms of moving image upon Finnissy’s
music has long been tacitly known and mentioned, but how this is manifested
has rarely explored in any type of detail. Twenty years ago, Christopher
Fox explored a certain amount in his chapter on Finnissy’s vocal works in
Uncommon Ground, exploring in particular cinematic dimensions of text set-
ting,1 while I touched upon the subject in my chapter on the piano music in
the same volume,2 and have written a little on the subject in my monograph
on The History of Photography in Sound,3 but few others have explored this
issue further. But this is perhaps not wholly surprising, as the influence of
cinema upon musical composition – specifically that musical composition
not written to be used together with moving images – is a relatively under-
researched area in general.4
Nonetheless, there is a small body of relevant work, which I will now
summarise, from which some techniques and approaches can be drawn.
Several scholars have been stimulated by Debussy’s comments, after seeing
Louis Feuillade’s 1913 film L’agonie de Byzance, about renewing symphonic
music through the application of ‘cinematographic techniques’ (see below
for questions of translation), and how moments of cinema had passed his
mind when composing.5 Richard Langham Smith considers how the visually
evocative writing in the Nocturnes and shifts between different tableaux in
the orchestral Images resemble cinema (and the proto-cinematic ‘shadow
plays’ of Henri Riviere performed at the Chat Noir), though only in quite
general terms.6 A much more comprehensive engagement with such a model
has been undertaken by Rebecca Leydon, who attempts to explain the forms
of ‘enchainment’ between successive musical elements in Jeux and the Études
for piano in terms of dissolves, juxtaposition of varied camera angles, direct
cuts, close-ups, adjustment of film speed and direction, superimpositions
and matted images, and double-exposure. Some of Leydon’s analogies may
be far-fetched in this context – representing a transition between pizzicato
and arco as a ‘shot/reverse-shot’, or presenting antecedent/consequent rela-
tionships as ‘cross-cutting’ – but others, such as the metaphor of cinematic
From Jean-Luc Godard to Dennis Potter 345
superimposition for Debussy’s use of simultaneous disjunct tonal spaces, are
compelling and have plenty of application for later music,7 though there is
plenty of reason to think Debussy derived some of these (in particular super-
imposition of motives using all-black or all-white notes) from his knowledge
of Stravinsky’s Petrushka.8
A more convincing model comes from Mark McFarland, who does note
Debussy’s admiration for Petrushka, and extends Edward Cone’s theory of
stratification between disjunct materials in Stravinsky (linked to Richard
Taruskin’s later theorisation of drobnost, elimination of transitional or
developmental material so as to create a music characterised by an inter-
play between static moments rather than developing processes) backwards
to encompass two pieces from the second book of Debussy’s Preludes, whilst
also noting in a less didactic manner the similarities with the techniques
of early cinema.9 All of these qualities can be found in a range of later
music including much of Finnissy, though the value of cinematic analo-
gies is not necessarily self-evident. Nonetheless, McFarland is one of the
few to take seriously the cinematic dimension of Petrushka as well,10 which
remains under-researched. Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger devote
a short section of their book The Apollonian Clockwork on the use of mon-
tage technique in Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments (a work also
considered by Cone), referencing the theories of Eisenstein and Pudkovkin
and films of Viking Eggeling and René Clair, but are ultimately content to
register the similarity of musical collage techniques to cinematic montage
in general,11 a cursory approach common to various Stravinsky commenta-
tors who evoke cinema.12 Raymond Knapp, however, goes rather further in
applying the theories of Lev Kuleshov on the relationship of cinematic con-
text to meaning to Mahler’s employment of disparate materials in the Third
and Fourth Symphonies.13
Sabine Feisst has considered multiple cinematic dimensions to
Schoenberg’s work, from his ideas on using film in Die Glückliche Hand
(1910–13), through speeches on the advent of the talking film in 1927, to
the composition of his Begleitungsmusik zu einer Lichtspielszene (1929–30),
whose through-composed episodes with unclear boundaries contrast with
Stravinskian dynamic montage.14 Whilst providing an illuminating concep-
tual and intellectual consideration of Schoenberg, Feisst’s work, like that of
Alexandra Monchick on Hindemith,15 offers less in the way of wider models
for analysing music indebted to cinematic ideas. Elsewhere, Neil Lerner uses
topic-based analysis to explore how Aaron Copland’s music relates to pasto-
ral and other tropes which also interact with musical codes used in film scores
(including some of Copland’s own).16 Finnissy’s generally post-tonal and
metrically irregular music offers less obvious points of contact with main-
stream film scores, but such connections certainly exist, and this could make
for a fruitful future study, though is beyond the scope of this chapter.
Jonathan W. Bernard examines the influence of Eisenstein’s theories of
montage (as well as others’ theories of time and the literary work of Joyce and
346 Ian Pace
Proust) upon the work of Elliott Carter. Bernard compares specific scenes
from Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin with passages from Carter’s Variations
for Orchestra (1955) and Double Concerto (1961), for the latter of which
Carter himself used the metaphor of a ‘camera-eye’ focusing in on different
elements of the musical material as they proceed simultaneously.17 Carter had
made explicit the influence upon his First String Quartet (1950–1) of Jean
Cocteau’s film Le Sang d’un poète (1930) and its use of a slow-motion shot
of a chimney being dynamited as a framing device,18 and had also written in
some detail on his interest in Eisenstein’s ideas.19
This body of work, if uneven, does provide models for wider investiga-
tion, some of which I will draw upon below. However, one should also con-
sider the more sceptical view of Scott D. Paulin, who looks critically at crude
employment of ‘musical analogies’ for cinema and ‘cinematic analogies’ for
music. Paulin notes the too great ease with which many draw analogies on
the basis of just a few attributes, and in particular a near-exclusive focus
on montage, the tradition of thought rooted in the theories of Eisenstein,
and discontinuity or transitions in general (which have a wider provenance
pre-dating the history of cinema),20 oblivious to other theorists such as
André Bazin who argued for quite different priorities (and a different type of
cinema).21 Arguing quite reasonably that one should not attribute influence
of cinematic developments which were as yet unavailable or underdeveloped
at the time the composer was writing, Paulin critiques various writers on
Debussy, and disputes the common translation of Debussy’s traitement du
cinématographe as ‘techniques of cinematography’, rather than ‘cinemato-
graphic treatment’. He reads Debussy’s comments instead as a response to
earlier essays by Vincent d’Indy, and makes a compelling argument that
Debussy was talking about actually making films, not adapting cinematic
techniques to music.22
Leydon’s cinematic analogies for Debussy are too tenuous to support her
all-encompassing model; Paulin is rightly more circumspect. Nonetheless, I
do believe that a transition-based model of Debussy’s use of texture, relat-
ing a little to some of the work of Leydon, is valuable at least for the earlier
Finnissy, which abounds with comparable transitions. Ex. 16.1, from the
seventh of Debussy’s Préludes, Book 2 (1911–13), ‘…La terrasse des audi-
ences du clair de lune’, shows a transition from a texture spanning the whole
compass of the keyboard (albeit with only one note in the lower two-and-a-
half octaves, though this can be accounted for through Debussy’s charac-
teristic concern with timbral balance), to a focus on dense chords within a
roughly three-octave tessitura in the upper half of the instrument, combined
with wide-voiced bass octaves with a fifth. But then there is a major shift
in focus at the Un peu anime towards the central registers, accentuated by
other aspects of the change of character from mysticism to playfulness. If the
pianist releases the low bass sonorities at this point, a whole layer of sound
evaporates, adding extra clarity to the new material, exactly analogous to
either a cinematic zoom or at least shift of focus (the repeated low B-flat in
the second bar of the new section becomes just a residue of the preceding sec-
tion, no longer given the focus provided by the earlier voicing).
Ex. 16.1 Claude Debussy, Préludes, Book 2 (1911–13), no. 7, ‘…La terrasse des
audiences du clair de lune’.
Finnissy’s piano and other works are as replete with textural and regis-
tral shifts as are Debussy’s (and, for sure, numerous other composers who
followed in Debussy’s wake). A wholly characteristic example is given in
Ex. 16.2, from Snowdrift (1974), in which the flurry of high grace notes
(combined for at least some of their duration, because of the molto ped, with
some other lower sustained pitches carried over from the previous system)
are cut abruptly to a series of other ‘resonance fields’, almost entirely in the
bass registers, then a sustained D1 is a trigger for a more gestural figuration
in higher registers (superimposed upon the D1, one could say). Then there
is a further superimposition of the high grace notes, before a further pedal
change creates a new focus upon a more measured melodic line in the upper
central register.
348 Ian Pace
Ex. 16.2 Finnissy, from Snowdrift (1974). © Edition Modern 1975.
In cinematic terms, Ex. 16.2 could be compared to a direct cut between

two very different shots, then several small shifts of focus coinciding with
the pedal changes on the first system above, a close-up at the beginning
of the next section, upon which there is briefly superimposed material from
the first shot (and then the pitches within the line could be con-
ceptualised as imperfections on the film). However, these are only partial
metaphors – they do not account for differing degrees of melodic angular-
ity in the above, nor for the dynamics, harmonies, and so on, various of
which require explanation in purely aural terms. Nonetheless, at least in
textural terms, cinematic analogies can provide a useful means to account
for Finnissy’s use of dynamic contrasts and interrelationships, especially in
earlier works, and the more measured interactions between contrasting but
overlapping textures in orchestral works such as Sea and Sky (1979–80) and
Red Earth (1987–8).
These techniques have their origins in some of Finnissy’s earliest
acknowledged mature compositions. In this chapter, I will first examine
some models from film theory which inform my general approach here
and elsewhere, consider briefly the nature of Finnissy’s acknowledged
cinematic influences, then examine three areas in more detail: how early
Finnissy works relate to American experimental cinema, especially the work
of Stan Brakhage; which works of Finnissy can be said to employ different
types of para-cinematic montage as theorised by Eisenstein and others; and
how The History of Photography in Sound relates to some of its explicitly-
mentioned cinematic and televisual influences, in particular the work of
Dennis Potter, as well as Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma. The size
of this chapter precludes presentation of a comprehensive cinematic model
for analysing Finnissy’s music and its composition, not least because one
should also consider wider influences from the visual arts, literature, theatre,
dance, structural anthropology and elsewhere. However, I hope to suggest
some new perspectives and analytic approaches, and expand some existing
ones which can nuance future writing on the music of Finnissy and other
composers.
Neo-formalist approaches to cinema

The term neo-formalism was coined in a film-theoretic context in 1981 by
Jerry L. Salvaggio in a review of two books of Noël Burch, including his
The Theory of Film Practice, and the first edition of David Bordwell and
Kristin Thompson’s Film Art.23 Burch focused on the concept of decoup-
age, meaning for him ‘the underlying structure of the finished film’,24 and
from this explores types of spatial and temporal relationships between dif-
ferent shots or sections.25 He arrived at a view by which a film is defined
by its formal and textural properties rather than simply its ‘content’, the
relationship between which Burch related to the manipulations of rows
in serial composition or the cellular approaches of Debussy.26 Bordwell
and Thompson took and continue to take a more moderate view, reject-
ing a form/content dichotomy, and considering subject matter and abstract
ideas as part of ‘the total system of the artwork’, all of which interact
with each other as a result of its form,27 a view rooted in the thought of
Eisenstein.28 Salvaggio had related Burch’s view in particular to the antipa-
thy towards content in the work of early Russian Formalist literary critics
(though this relaxed somewhat during the second stage of this movement)
and the theories of Eisenstein.29 Thompson built upon the link with Russian
Formalism in a 1981 study of Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible and in her foun-
dational 1988 text overtly embracing neo-formalism, Breaking the Glass
Armor,30 as did Bordwell in his 1985 Narration in the Fiction Film.31 For
Thompson, like Viktor Shklovski before her,32 a defining attribute of art
is its defamiliarisation of reality and existing conventions, even if only to
a small degree.33 More broadly, her presentation of neo-formalism rejects
the idea of a method, as the term had come to be understood, entailing a
particular set of procedures which are bolstered by a particular selection of
films for consideration. Instead, she opts for a self-critical approach which
can be expanded and modified in response to careful and detailed analysis
of particular films, with the potential to raise theoretical issues and consider
the very possibilities for film as an art.34 She also rejects models of art either
as communication or disinterested contemplation, stressing the active and
cognitive role of the spectator (against the emphasis on the unconscious by
psychoanalytic film theorists), not least in films of Alain Resnais, Yasujiro
Ozu or Jacques Tati with enigmatic or incomplete narratives which demand
active participation from the spectator, but also replaces the model of spec-
tatorial ‘passivity’ with one of familiarity with certain cinematic codes.
Above all, Thompson renders interpretation as ‘one tool among many for
the neoformalist critic’ and suggests instead the task of ‘re-defamiliarising’
350 Ian Pace
familiar films.35 Interpretation itself is framed in terms of function, the way
in which any element in a film relates to every other and to the film as a
whole, and motivation, the reason for such elements’ presence (which does
not have to be the same thing as the intention, conscious or otherwise, of one
or other individual involved in the making of the film).36 Her four catego-
ries of motivation are compositional, necessary for aspects of the narrative,
realistic, appealing to notions of the exterior world, transtextual, relating
to conventions of other artworks, and the most complex but perhaps most
relevant here, artistic, to do with the abstract artistic qualities of a work i.e.
its form, and especially pronounced when devices are used in such a way as
foregrounds their artificial nature.37 The latter two of these are most relevant
to music.38
The rejection of art as communication also implies a rejection of the ‘encod-
ing/decoding’ model pioneered by Stuart Hall,39 an approach which Bordwell
links to content-heavy approaches to film study which eschew visual and
aural engagement in favour of traditional literary features of plot, character
and dialogue, and critical reviews.40 Such approaches are even more prob-
lematic for the hermeneutically amorphous medium of music than for film.41
Furthermore, Bordwell and Thompson’s rejection of method leads them to
reject much from semiotics, psychoanalysis and some varieties of feminism
and identity politics.42
Many of these approaches can provide a vital renewing force for a musi-
cology which has otherwise moved in the direction of broad-brush her-
meneutics/interpretation (sometimes informed by the approaches of Hall
which dominate large areas of cultural studies), sometimes with only mini-
mal engagement with the detailed manifestations of sounds occurring over
time.43 Neo-formalist approaches can be especially productive for the study
of new music, including that of Finnissy. A clear form/content dichotomy,
invariably to the benefit of ‘content’, trivialises sound and sonic structures by
rendering them primarily as pointers to external phenomena, in the process
denying any autonomous role for music. A very large amount of music in
many traditions involves the employment and defamiliarisation of existing
conventions (see my discussion of genre in Chapter 3), while Finnissy’s works
such as Red Earth undoubtedly defamiliarise the visual phenomena depicted.
Any fixed method will always be limiting for the study of a heterogene-
ous body of work, as Finnissy’s certainly is, whilst it is also in my opinion
important to engage with the active cognitive aspects of listening to such
ambiguous and sometimes estranged music.
Such approaches are not necessarily new, even if somewhat unfashionable
at the time of writing, and do not necessarily require wider recourse to cin-
ematic analogies. Those aspects of neo-formalist film theory founded upon
‘narrative’, in the sense of an external ‘story’, have more limited applicability
to music, except for some overtly programmatic works.44 However, other
concepts such as roughened form, formal devices designed to make percep-
tion and understanding less easy, delays, by which narrative progress is held
back in line with wider aspects of the total design of the film, and stairstep
construction, in which the progress of one primary thread is subject to delays
and digressions from stretches of other material (free motifs as opposed to
the main bound motifs),45 not to mention the dominant, the main formal
principle organising the devices into a coherent whole,46 do have clear musi-
cal analogies. Nonetheless, while I will make some use of these terms below,
it should be underlined once again that neo-formalist analysis is an attitude
rather than a method, so should not be employed simply to contain works
within manageable known categories. On the contrary, it is imperative to
keep expanding the categories to take account of the diversity of the works,
with music as much as with film.
Thompson argues that ‘the neoformalist critic can take a familiar film
and point out its underlying strategies – strategies usually camouflaged by
motivating devices’.47 Whilst Finnissy’s music could hardly be described as
‘familiar’ in this sense, by employing cinematic analogies I aim less to map
the works metaphorically onto another artistic medium than to illuminate
some of their formal workings (and in the process ‘re-defamiliarise’ them), by
examining a developed and (for some Finnissy pieces) appropriate taxonomy
of devices.
Finnissy and film

Finnissy’s interest in cinema can be dated back to his teenage years. He recalls
first going to the National Film Theatre in London around 1963 and watch-
ing seasons of major French, German and Russian silent films, by G.W.
Pabst, Jean Epstein, Germaine Dulac and Jean Renoir, then work of the New
York Underground – Stan Brakhage, Gregory Markopoulos, Harry Smith,
Jack Smith, Andy Warhol, Robert Breer and Stan Vanderbeek. Today he
lists as his major cinematic influences the work of Brakhage, Markopoulos,
Jack Smith, Warhol, Jean-Luc Godard and Pier Paolo Pasolini; other impor-
tant interests include the work of Lindsay Anderson, Derek Jarman, and
earlier Soviet film makers such as Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin or
Dziga Vertov.48 The work of most of these figures demonstrates a high degree
of self-conscious artifice; even Pasolini’s early essays in Italian neo-realism do
not really convince as being exemplary of the genre, and are all the stronger
as a result. Many of them resist unambiguous interpretation or ‘decoding’,
and often require a fair degree of active input from the spectator, in the
manner outlined by Thompson.
From within Finnissy’s oeuvre, six principal categories of works are nota-
ble for their relationship to cinema:
(a) works whose titles explicitly allude to films, in particular the Songs
(1966–78) and Unsere Afrikareise (1998);
(b) works alluding to proto-cinematic devices, such as Traum des Sängers
(1994) and Eadweard Muybridge – Edvard Munch (1997);
352 Ian Pace
(c) works from the 1960s and 1970s structured using devices involving
sharp contrasts and discontinuities of register, dynamics, texture, density,
obviously paralleling cinematic language, as in Snowdrift, mentioned
above, and many other works from Le dormeur du val (1963–8), Wild
Flowers (1974) to alongside (1979);
(d) ‘tableau’ works involving long, relatively static expanses of relatively
consistent material, lending the works an episodic structure, including
From the Revelations of St John the Divine (1965–76), Transformations of
the Vampire (1968–71), Red Earth (1987–8), Nine Romantics (1992), and
My Parents’ Generation thought War meant something (1999);
(e) works involving a high degree of stairstep construction (as a specific man-
ifestation of montage), with long expanses of intercut strands of material,
beginning with Jazz (1976) and especially common in some 1980s works
inspired by folk musics – such as Aijal (1982), Hikkai (1982–3), and
Câtana (1984); also Folklore (1993–4) and much of the History, as well as
various of the 23 Tangos (1968–98).
(f) works written to accompany existing silent films, specifically Un chant
d’amour par JEAN GENET (1999–2000) and À propos de Nice (2001–2),
both for piano trio, and other incidental music for film, much of it cur-
rently unknown.49
Furthermore, Finnissy’s compositional processes often resemble those of a

filmmaker, involving the creation of stretches of material of varying lengths,
which are later intercut with one another.50 Sometimes ‘left-over’ material,
like cinematic ‘rushes’, will find their way into a later piece; indeed Finnissy’s
transcription from Verdi’s Don Carlo (the sixth piece from Book 4 of the
revised and expanded 2005 Verdi Transcriptions) was originally entitled
Rushes, for this reason.
I will not deal here with the works in category (f), which are essentially
separate from the others, nor those in category (b), which can be viewed
as particular instances of categories (c)–(e). For category (d), Finnissy has
cited the influence of Jean-Luc Godard’s Vivre sa vie (1962), in which a
young woman’s initial desire to escape her bourgeois surroundings leads to
dashed hopes in a descent towards prostitution and ultimately death, told in
a series of 12 episodes, employing non-naturalistic devices common to much
of his work, including particular types of titles and musical fragmentation.
The influence of Warhol can be located in works or sections of works with
long stretches of stasis, as in many of the ‘tableau’ works, or simple linear
development, in such works as when upon a tranced summer night (1966–
8), Banumbirr (1982–6) or Marcel Duchamp, the Picabias and Apollinaire
attend a performance of Impressions d’Afrique (1999–2000). The influence of
Pasolini (one of Finnissy’s Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets) can be
observed in various senses: the attraction to aural landscape, the dual inter-
est in sacred and profane themes, the use of music from spirituals and the
blues, and the attraction to folk music of the mezzogiorno region.
Few of Finnissy’s works simply reconstruct the structural workings of spe-
cific films, not even a piece like Unsere Afrikareise. Rather, some cinematic
devices are freely adapted to a musical concept and are combined with other
aural, conceptual, textual, theatrical and/or other concerns. The following
sections will consider some examples of this approach.
Brakhage, the Songs and Finnissy’s early musical language

Finnissy’s eighteen pieces entitled Song are a response to the 31 silent, pre-
dominantly short, 8mm films of the same name by Stan Brakhage, These are
generally of a lyrical nature, structured by abstract properties rather than
narrative, and are sometimes combined into pairs, another split into two.
Most of them are entitled simply Song followed by a number, though the 15th
piece (at 38 ½ minutes much longer than the previous 14, none of which are
longer than 4 ½ minutes) is entitled 15 Song Traits, the 23rd 23 Psalm Branch
(a whole 69 minutes), and a few others in similar fashion. Finnissy describes
his first encounters with the films as follows:
I first saw his films at an impressionable age (17 or so) at the NFT,
and was seriously overwhelmed by their ‘visual music’, the rhythm
and detail of his editing, the intimacy and introspection, the
obvious self-involvement, the sense of ‘documenting’ rather than
fantasy-narration – his work has remained a visual model of my ideal
‘montage’ but also over-arching ‘content and character’. His Songs
seem to me: aphoristic (as are Wittgenstein’s ‘Tractatus’ and the music
of Webern) – investigative; imploded compressions of material some-
times deliberately disregarding legibility; and inevitably they present
what can seem like foretastes of later, much more thoroughly explored,
material.51
Finnissy composed eighteen pieces entitled Song between 1966 and 1978. The
first four were originally conceived as a set, and the cycle was once planned
to be longer, bringing together all of the forces in a final piece. But the pieces
which exist to date are:
(a) Six vocal pieces: four pieces for solo voice (nos. 1, 14, 15, and 16), using
texts of Torquato Tasso, Walt Whitman and Francesco Petrarch (no.
15 is wordless), another for soprano and clarinet (no. 11), with a text by
Algernon Charles Swinburne, and one for soprano and four instruments
(no. 3) with a text by Alexander Blok.
(b) Five pieces for solo piano in a continuous sequence (nos. 5–9).
(c) Three pieces for medium-sized ensemble (nos. 2, 4 (with 2 solo pianos)
and 10).
(d) Four others for solo bass clarinet (no. 12), violin (no. 13), guitar (no. 17)
and double bass (no. 18).52
354 Ian Pace
Finnissy’s numbering in no way parallels that of Brakhage; so there is no
reason to compare Finnissy’s Song 8, say, with Brakhage’s Song 8, any more
than with any of the other songs.
Several of Brakhage’s films exemplify his characteristic techniques and
style. Song 2 & Song 3 (1964), are a pair, which he described as ‘An envisiona-
tion of fire and a mind’s movement in remembering’.53 Song 2 employs a large
amount of superimposition and montage, in order to establish connections
between the otherwise hugely distinct images of parched desert-like landscape,
plants, and the sea. In Song 3, the use of black and white screens and increas-
ing disruption foreground the artificial quality of the film (a type of roughened
form), whilst the change in the light on essentially monochrome screens cre-
ates a type of dance. The appearance in the film of images of cars is startling in
this context. Brakhage himself, in an interview, mentioned how he and his wife
Jane were listening to Brahms’s Third Symphony and ‘became very tortured
by the incredible beauty of its seeming to build up various kinds of tension
and never breaking through any of them’,54 in the manner of neo-formalist
‘delays’. Song 14 (1965) is described by Brakhage as ‘A “closed-eye” vision
song composed of molds, paints, and crystals’, and involves a large amount
of work directly on the film strip. The frantic activity which results (see Fig.
16.1), forever morphing into new forms, relates directly to the types of textures
which have become characteristic of Finnissy, not to mention the utterly stark
discontinuities and employment of what might appear ‘alien’ material.
I detailed the workings of Finnissy’s Song 7, consisting of 16 fragments
each sharply defined by extremes of dynamics, register and density, in my
essay on the piano music in Uncommon Ground;55 Christopher Fox did the
same with Song 11 for soprano and clarinet.56 Here I will look at two others,
whose key elements are (a) overlaying of disconnected formal structure; (b)
abstraction through fragmentation; (c) stark juxtapositions; (d) creation of
unexpected correspondences, with neo-formalist ‘artistic’ motivations; (e)
superimposition; (f) overlaying of a thread of material with passages of non-
activity (stairstep construction); (g) transitions into and out of non-activity;
and (h) distortions.
Fig. 16.1 Images from Stan Brakhage, Song 14 (1965).

Ex. 16.3 Finnissy, from Song 1 (1966). © Michael Finnissy.
The link to Brakhage in Finnissy’s Song 1 (Ex. 16.3), for solo voice
is far from obvious, but operates beneath the surface. The song uses a
text by Torquato Tasso, ‘Ecco mormorar l’onde’, which was also set by
Monteverdi:
Ecco mormorar l’onde Now the waves murmur

E tremolar le fronde And the boughs and shrubs
tremble
A l’aura mattutina e gli arboscelli, It the morning breeze,
E sovra i verdi rami i vaghi augelli And on the green branches the
pleasant birds
Cantar soavemente Sing softly
E rider l’Oriënte. And the east smiles.
Ecco già l’alba appare Now dawn already appears
E si specchia nel mare And mirrors herself in the sea,
E rasserena il cielo And makes the sky serene
E le campane imperla il dolce gelo, And the gentle frost impearls the
fields
E gli alti monti indora. And gilds the high mountains.
O bella e vaga Aurora, O beautiful and gracious Aurora,
L’aura è tua messaggera, The breeze is your messenger,
e tu de l’aura and you the breeze’s
Ch’ogni arso cor ristaura. Which revives each burnt out
heart.57
356 Ian Pace
The text has resonances with aspects of Brakhage’s Songs 2 & 3. The follow-
ing is my delineation of how Finnissy divides it into phrases or gestures:
1: ‘Ecco mormorar’ medium-paced, some extended

pitches, tessitura of a major 12th.
2: ‘l’onde’ descending, sustained E5 to short
F#4.
3: ‘E tremolar le fronde a more rapid, with inner close chro-
l’aura’ matic sections, same lowest note,
now tessitura of a major 10th.
4: ‘mattutina’ long sustained pitches (modal
B4-D4-A5 preceded by Bᅈ4, with
crescendo, hairpin, diminuendo,
tessitura of major 12th.
5: ‘E gli arboscelli’ sustained, all on single Eᅈ5 pitch,
, ending with morendo.
6: Untexted sustained B4, crescendo, preceded by
C4 grace note.
7: Untexted wide, extravagant gesture, tessitura
of major 13th.
8: Untexted staccato E5.
9: Untexted more rapid and terse gesture,
but tessitura of augmented
11th.
10: ‘E’ single C4 pitch.
11: Untexted medium-active, tessitura of
augmented 11th.
12: ‘sovra’ rising major 7th, second note
repeated
13: Untexted wide-ish tessitura (major 9th),
expansive.
14: ‘i verdi: descending sustained contour,
tessitura of minor 7th.
15: ‘ra-(a)-’ single note and tiny gesture.
16: ‘(a)-’ narrow, quite rapid.
17: ‘mi i’ more expansive.
18: ‘vaghi augelli’ pair of moderately wide phrases,
antecedent/consequent.
19: ‘cantar soavemente’ first and only quarter-tones, terse
gesture.
20: ‘e rider l’oriente’ long, expansive, tessitura of a major
12th.
21: Hum downward/upward contour.
22: Half hum descending 4th.
23: Hum more fragmented.
24: Half hum single pitch, long, then shorter one
minor 9th lower.
25: ‘Ecco già l’alba’ expansive and wide again,
diminished 11th tessitura.
26: ‘appare’ descending contour, major 9th
tessitura.
27: ‘E si specchia nel mare’ wide, major 13th tessitura.
28: ‘E rasserena’ anacrusis (g’) then reiterated As.
29: ‘il cielo’ up and down, minor 7th tessitura.
30: ‘E le campane imperla’ more sustained, major 9th tessitura.
31: ‘il dolce gelo’ angular gesture, diminished 7th
tessitura.
32: ‘E gli alti monti indora’ wide, major 12th tessitura.
33: ‘O bella’ ascending semitone, drawn out.
34: ‘e vaga’ short repeated D4s.
35: ‘Aurora’ wide gesture, minor 10th tessitura.
36: ‘L’aura è tua messaggera’ more involved, active, but wide
gesture, augmented 11th tessitura.
37: ‘e tu de l’aura ch’ogni arso’ slightly more held back, minor 9th
tessitura, resolving to D4-F#4.
38: ‘cor ristaura’ high ascending gesture, rising
through interval of major 7th.
Finnissy’s musical divisions do not necessarily respect the poetic lines of Tasso,
but tend towards abstraction, not least through the insertion of the untexted
fragments. Whilst the types of musical gestures employed are reminiscent of
those in Luciano Berio’s Chamber Music (1953), Pierre Boulez’s Le Marteau
sans maître (1953–5, rev. 1957), and Improvisations sur Mallarmé I and II
(1959–62, revised 1983, 1989), or Luigi Nono’s Il canto sospeso (1956), their
‘function’ (using the term in the manner defined by Kristin Thompson, as
outlined above) is quite different. Most fragments relate to others through a
plural range of attributes – for example 3, 9, 16 and 24 obviously correspond
in terms of rapidity, but 3 also corresponds to 11, 13, 25, 26 and others in
terms of tessitura encompassed, while 5, 12 and 28 all share the use of reiter-
ated pitches; one could equally divide the fragments up according to whether
they are texted or untexted, or according to numerous other parameters.
Such a wide range of potential correspondences and relationships within an
abstract cinema-poetic form allows the listener to make their own connec-
tions, just as do Brakhage’s assemblages of related images.
By contrast, Song 9 for piano is one of the most grandiose and convoluted
of the cycle. This work uses dense textures with some degree of linear devel-
opment (sometimes simply through extended crescendi, diminuendi, accel-
erandi and ritenuti). At the outset Finnissy presents a developing frenetic
image (interspersed with emphasised individual notes in the manner of a type
of cantus firmus), leading to extreme rapidity and ffff dynamics, suddenly
358 Ian Pace
Ex. 16.4 Finnissy, from Song 9 (1968). © Michael Finnissy.
intercuts this with a delay in the form of a flurry of grace notes, then picks
up similar material in a modified state of development – beginning in the
upper half of the piano, just below the peak dynamic – then returns to a low
dynamic with a rapid crescendo (Ex. 16.4).
Then there is the first of several long silences, like the sudden mono-
chrome canvasses in Brakhage’s films. After figure 7 there is a flash of
activity, then a staccato cluster – like the disturbances added manually to
the film in Brakhage, but which also connect with the wider threads of
material. Then from figure 10 in the score there appears a different material
made up of superimposed periodic lines (amounting to a free motif), before
a return to the material of the beginning (in totality a bound motif), which
is thus set into relief. After some further passages, a series of aperiodic
chords and clusters provides an oblique link between the periodic lines, and
the strident procession of chords at the outset of this section. Again, the
structure is an abstract assemblage with its own internal correspondences
and structural rhythms.
Something more akin to a narrative can be found in Brakhage’s Song 4,
which he describes as ‘A round-about three girls playing with a ball … hand-
painted over photo image’. A lot of visual ‘noise’ eventually yields to a series
of sequences of some girls playing with a ball, intercut with blank screens. In
Afar (1966–7), features a greater number of sections developing in a linear
fashion, lending the work a more ‘prosaic’ quality compared to the ‘poetic’
one of the Songs. Finnissy creates different subsections of the ensemble
(flute, cor anglais, three trumpets, percussion and celeste), and categories of
points, line and gestures (here some links to 1950s serialism are clear). As
in the Songs, he exploits the interrelationships between the materials – for
example, a passage at figure 2 can be heard as a thinning out and extension
of that at the beginning of figure 1, through reduction to flute alone, in a
dialogue with similar material in the trumpet, while the three trumpets go
in and out of ‘view’ in successive sections. However, Finnissy suddenly dis-
solves into a series of sustained pitches and sounds for a long final section
(roughly 5-10’). The structural function of this is not dissimilar to that of
the girls with the ball in Brakhage’s Song 4, as it is hinted at earlier on in the
piece before appearing in clear form. Various other works from around this
early period, including elaborate ones for large ensemble or orchestra such
as Offshore (1975–6), or Pathways of Sun and Stars (1976), develop such
strategies further.
Montage
Sergei Eisenstein set out five basic types of montage in his 1929 essay ‘Methods
of Montage’, elaborating his fundamental idea of the synthetic power of the
device:
1. Metric montage: based upon metrical procedures and absolute lengths,

independently of other qualities of the images.
2. Rhythmic montage: more flexible, based upon the demands of the images,
so as to create a sense of continuity.
3. Tonal montage: to create an emotional connection between shots on the
basis of their affective qualities (their ‘tone’ or what Eisenstein called the
dominant, from which Bordwell and Thompson derived the term), and
generate a corresponding reaction.
360 Ian Pace
4. Overtonal montage: a combination of the first three types of montage
to produce a more complex effect, based upon both the dominant and
multiple ‘secondary dominants’ of different elements.
5. Intellectual montage: the use of material external to the primary narra-
tive in order to create a meaning in the form of a critical commentary.58
He also delineated two other types of montage elsewhere:
6. Potential montage: conflict within a single shot, which could ultimately

lead to the separation of its constituent elements.
7. Polyphonic or vertical montage: the simultaneous progress of multiple
lines which operate independently, which contribute to the course of the
sequence, so that when two different elements proceed through alternat-
ing shots, they are perceived to be unfolding at the same time.59
Regular intercutting between long strands of material can be found in

Finnissy’s works from Jazz (1976) onwards. Mr Punch (1976–9) uses a type
of mini-montage within successive episodes.60 In the Piano Concerto No. 3
(1978), interactions between the piano and the rest of the ensemble, with
separate strands of material, use a principle of stepwise construction in the
section encompassing figures 11–19, whereby the trombones and cellos have
relatively static, unchanging material (the bound motif), which alternates with
freer rhetorical gestures for the piano (the free motifs), but enlivened by highly
irregular durations of the ensemble snippets. The Piano Concerto No. 4 (1978,
rev. 1996), has more sustained primary threads in regular rapid semiquavers,
whose progress is delayed through interruption by other fragments or longer
segments, as also for a much slower material in the earlier sections of the Piano
Concerto No. 6 (1980). After a pause for a few years (during which Finnissy
employed devices of varying superimposition in otherwise more continuous
works such as Duru-Duru (1981), Keroiylu (1981), Warara (1982, rev. 1991)
and Banumbirr (1982–6)), Finnissy took up this strategy again pronouncedly
in Aijal (1982), Hikkai (1982–3), and numerous subsequent works.
Equivalents of all of Eisenstein’s categories of montage can be found in
Finnissy’s work,61 if one replaces the ‘shot’ with the fragment of continuous
musical material. The opening of Câtana (1984) employs a metric montage,
with 78 quavers of one type of material, then 78 of another, then 44 of
each, then 54 of each, before patterns become more irregular when three
other types of material are intercut in the following section. Passages in
Le démon de l’analogie, or Sizilianische Männerakte, from the History, use
rhythmic montage to effect reasonably smooth transitions between distinct
material. The String Trio (1986) abounds in tonal montage between pas-
sages with changing degrees of vehemence, tenderness and mystery; the same
could be said of various sections of the Derde symfonische Etude (2013), with
varying degrees of Schumannesque lyricism between passages, leading to a
clearly recognisable allusion to the third movement of Schumann’s Second
Symphony in the second section. Forms of overtonal montage can be found
in Finnissy’s later works, especially from Folklore onwards (in particular in
Folklore 3), while intellectual montage could be located in the use of ‘com-
mentary’ material in the third of the Obrecht Motetten, or in many of the
theatrical works, and others. This last can also be linked to Gérard Genette’s
concept of metatextuality, by which one text comments on another without
making explicit reference to it (see my Chapter 3 for more on Genette’s
five-part taxonomy of textual reference). This is prominent above all in the
History. Potential montage, in the form of conflicting simultaneous sonic
phenomena, is very common throughout Finnissy’s output from the early
ensemble works onwards, from Afar through Warara to Greatest Hits of all
Time (2003), as is polyphonic/vertical montage, through superimposition of
distinct materials, in several of the Piano Concertos, some of the 1980s works
or Folklore and parts of the History.
The History of Photography in Sound

There are several explicit allusions to cinema in the History. Gregory
Markopoulos’s film Galaxie (1966) was a model for the Seventeen Immortal
Homosexual Poets; Finnissy’s characterisation of each poet in terms of
some cultural attributes which can be considered their ‘possessions’ mirrors
Markopoulos’ pans around the apartments of his subjects (artist and intellec-
tuals),62 whilst Finnissy’s construction of the piece out of a range of relatively
short and distinct sections mirrors Markopoulos’s use of thirty 100’ reels simply
edited together.63 Other explicit models are Kubelka’s Unsere Afrikareise
(1966), discussed amply elsewhere in this volume, Derek Jarman’s unfilmed
screenplay Sod ’em, a prototype for the film Edward II (1991),64 and the early
experiments in moving images of Eadweard Muybridge.65 Many chapters are
packed with montage of various types, not least Unsere Afrikareise, which
does not simply mimic the structure of Kubelka’s film, but rather employs par-
allel ranges of correspondences (and a comparable plethora of short snatches
of material, especially in the central section) between sharply distinguished
material categories, which themselves have corresponding associations.66 I
have written elsewhere about the rendition of material from Bach’s Matthaüs-
Passion in homage to Pasolini’s film Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964),67 and
mentioned earlier the ‘tableau’ structure of My Parents’ Generation and its
relationship to Godard’s Vivre sa vie. I also wrote elsewhere about the rela-
tionship of Finnissy’s music to the work of Dennis Potter,68 but wish to return
to this in more detail, and also consider one of the major influences on the
History, Godard’s Histoire(s) du Cinéma, not previously explored.
Dennis Potter
Potter, whose work Finnissy was studying in some detail during the time of
composing the History,69 was of course a screenwriter rather than a director.
362 Ian Pace
He directed very few of his own works – one which he did, the series Blackeyes
(1989), was one of the least successful, though this was also due to other con-
troversial aspects of the drama. To my mind, Potter was not fundamentally a
visually-minded artist, and this element was best supplied by others. But as a
dramatist thinking in fundamentally televisual terms, and also in terms of the
use of music, he had few equals.
Amongst the recurrent themes in Potter’s work is the magnetic hold
that popular culture can have, but also the dangers of the sanitised alternative
reality it offers. In Where the Buffalo Roams (1966), the mentally disturbed
teenager Willy Turner finds solace in fantasies from the Wild West, but then
gets hold of a real gun and commits murder. In Follow the Yellow Brick Road
(1972), the central character of Jack Black prefers the perfect world portrayed
by the commercials in which he stars to the reality of his fading marriage and
deteriorating mental health.70 Music played a similar role in Moonlight on the
Highway (1969), about a fanatical Al Bowlly fan trying to deal with memories
of sexual abuse, and then in his three most important extended series: Pennies
from Heaven (1978) (directed by Piers Haggard); The Singing Detective (1986)
(directed by Jon Amiel); and Lipstick on Your Collar (1993) (directed by
Rennie Rye). These each used iconic songs associated with a particular era
(the 1930s for Pennies, 1940s for Singing Detective, 1950s for Lipstick on Your
Collar), with characters regularly lip-synching these (sometimes for a wholly
different type of voice or even gender from the character, to foreground the
artificiality of the device). While in a classic Broadway or Hollywood musi-
cal, songs would serve to focus and intensify an emotional moment arising
from the narrative, for Potter they are more often profoundly estranged
from the context (and directors often introduce glaring changes of lighting
to accentuate such an effect), only serving as a result to emphasise the gap
between dreams and reality.
Pennies from Heaven is permeated by song throughout, reflecting the
central character Arthur Parker, a sheet music salesman. Otherwise, Potter
generally maintains two or three narrative strands at any one point, but
these proceed more or less in chronological linear fashion, while the montage
is not fundamentally different from that found in many other more orthodox
films or television dramas (the use of songs is another matter entirely). The
same is true in general of Lipstick,71 but the situation is very different in The
Singing Detective. There are numerous songs and other music, which relate to
the wider narrative, but lip-synching is used much more sparingly. However,
two extravagant numbers stand out prominently: ‘Dry Bones’ (Fred Waring
and his Pennsylvanians) in the first episode, and ‘Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the
Positive’ (Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters) in the fourth. These parallel
the two ‘big numbers’ of an imaginary (in this case atonal) 1940s popular
music in Finnissy’s My Parents’ Generation,72 a piece which has much else to
do with The Singing Detective in general.
The narrative structure of The Singing Detective is considerably more com-
plicated than in Pennies, consisting of a series of chronologically dislocated
strands which also shift between the ‘fictional’ and the ‘real’, all relating to
the central character of Philip Marlow:
(a) Contemporary: Marlow in hospital. Gradual recovery from psoriatic

arthropathy, especially chronic in the earlier episodes, peppered by the
character’s rants at the staff, fellow patients, his wife and the world.
(b) 1940s – memory: Memories of Marlow’s childhood - including dis-
covery of his mother’s adultery, defecation in class, which he blames
on his mother’s lover’s son, and his mother’s suicide during a trip to
London.
(c) 1940s – fantasy: Imaginary world of the Singing Detective (also Marlow),
as part of an enigmatic but rather inconsequential spy thriller.
(d) Contemporary/imaginary: (linked to (a)) Marlow’s wife Nicola, suppos-
edly having an affair with Mark Finney.
Sometimes the boundaries between these threads are crossed, especially

towards the end, so that fictional and real characters, or those out of different
time periods, meet one another. But most importantly, songs provide many
of the links between the different layers.73
My Parents’ Generation similarly cuts between ‘contemporary’ material,
in the form of discursive quasi-pointillistic writing, a fantasy world of imagi-
nary popular music of the 1940s, memories from or anticipations of other
parts of the cycle, and an older world of remembered hymns and war songs,
though Finnissy finds a wide range of musical correspondences between the
different strands, just as Potter regarded the popular songs as ‘latter-day
psalms’ providing a similar type of wish-fulfilment.74
The context for Potter’s second ‘big number’ is as follows: one of the doc-
tors, Dr. Finlay and other hospital staff, have arrived in the ward as part of
an off-duty evangelical mission, singing the dreadful white gospel hymn ‘Life
at best is very brief’ (also known as ‘Be in Time’), much to the displeasure
of Marlow. This stirs up memories of childhood for him, including the key
memory of having defecated in class then blamed it on his mother’s lover’s
son (who is brutally beaten as a result and later ends up in a psychiatric insti-
tution). As an escape from this and its associated guilt, Marlow returns to his
fantasy world of the Singing Detective, but this transmogrifies into a further
escape, this time from the hymn, through imagining the evangelicals singing
Harold Arlen’s ‘Ac-Cent-Thu-Ate the Positive’. Nonetheless, even this song
comes to assume an accusatory tone, as the evangelicals point the finger at
him during it, with the same fervour as religious fanatics – a comment on the
hegemonic role of popular culture.
The sequence leading up to the first ‘big song’ in My Parents’ Generation
mirrors this in many ways, even if not providing a wholly parallel narrative.
From after the double bar on p. 91 of the printed score Finnissy employs a
material derived from African-American Spirituals on one hand (those used
in North American Spirituals), and a rendition of Arthur Sullivan’s ‘Whatever
364 Ian Pace
you are’ turned into a type of faded popular song. He freezes the narrative at
several points, and when it seems to be going nowhere, suddenly finds refuge
through a quick segue into an imaginary (if atonal) popular song, with exag-
gerated booming bass, which itself explodes into a rapid series of chords and
notes, then returns to more blank and aimless material, just as the bubble
bursts for Marlow, and he hears the hymns again.
Jean-Luc Godard
A little over half-way through Godard’s King Lear (1985), an off-stage
character reads the following text, a slightly modified translation of Pierre
Reverdy’s ‘L’image’ (March 1918),75 which also appeared in André Breton’s
first Surrealist Manifesto.76
The Image is a pure creation of the soul.

It cannot be born of a comparison, but of a reconciliation of two reali-
ties that are more or less far apart.
The more the connection between these two realities is distant and
true, the stronger the image will be, the more it will have emotive power.
Two realities that have no connection cannot be drawn together use-
fully. There is no creation of an image.
An image is not strong because it is brutal or fantastic, but because the
association of ideas is distant and true.
This statement is vivid as a model for Finnissy’s music in general, and for The
History of Photography in Sound in particular. It is also hugely important for
Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma, which Finnissy has acknowledged
as an influence on The History of Photography in Sound. Throughout the
cycle, Finnissy (like Godard) is continuously striving to find connections
between very distant realities, in the form of musical materials, in order to
find purpose in bringing them together.
A very large proportion of Godard’s Histoire(s) is derived from found
materials: clips from many films, texts from throughout history, in multiple
languages, photographs, music (classical, popular and other).77 As Douglas
Morrey has argued, this does not mean the spectator need be versed in the
intricacies of cinematic history, but can read particular moments as repre-
senting particular times and places,78 just as no listener could be expected to
specifically identify many of Finnissy’s often heavily modified sources. The
only truly ‘original’ content is a series of monologues by different actors,
including Godard himself, not least through his scenes at the outset of the
cycle at his typewriter, the structural role of whose sound parallels the ‘walk-
ing’ music in Finnissy’s Le demon. While this is extended through the film
cycle through primarily visual means, the individual parts of the cycle are
more often held together by extended spoken texts or indeed by music. At
the opening of La monnaie de l’absolu, part 3a, Godard uses Bach’s organ
chorale prelude ‘Erbarme dich mein, O Herre Gott’, BWV 721, together with
a Victor Hugo’s text ‘Pour la Serbie’ of 1876, protesting Turkish atrocities
against Serbs during the Serbian-Ottoman war of that year. This is combined
with images from Goya, Orson Welles’ film Othello, Ucello, Delacroix, and
the 1994 massacre in Rwanda. Godard’s prominent use of Bach chorales
here and elsewhere in the cycle resembles Finnissy’s use of the Bach chorale
prelude ‘Herr Gott, dich loben wir’, BWV 328, in the History79 – not least
because in both cycles the Bach rarely appears alone. The elaborate superim-
position of strands of material derived from snippets from elsewhere in the
cycle, held together by the Bach, at the end of the Poets,80 is an arch-example
of this. Another important musical parallel is found through Godard’s use of
clusters in Une vague nouvelle, which interrupt music of Shostakovich (his
incidental music for Hamlet) and later Webern, as Finnissy does in several
chapters of the work. Often Godard uses the openings of musical works,
almost like ‘headings’. This has parallels in Finnissy’s allusion to Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony and various other sources.
Godard was sent a range of CDs by Manfred Eichner of ECM, who was
a great fan of the director’s work, and he used many of these in Histoire(s)
and elsewhere. They included the music of the likes of Giya Kancheli, or the
Norwegian light jazz pianist Ketil Bjørnstad, in particular his sentimental
album The Sea, which has an overwhelming presence in part 4b, Les signes
parmi nous.81 The effect of this music combined with the many horrific images
and allusions to fascism and Stalinism in that chapter is mawkish, and has no
parallel in Finnissy’s History. A case might be made for the ‘Sicilian’ material
in Sizilianische Männerakte having a similar role, but here the particular dis-
sonances between this and the other materials derived from Busoni offset and
defamiliarise the former much more palpably – at least if this is not ironed
out in performance.
Another parallel is found in Godard’s frequent use of at least two simulta-
neous strands of material – for example a voice-over combined with another
voice,82 often taken from a film or a director (such as Hitchcock) speaking
about a film. Occasionally two layers of music are superimposed. From the
outset of the cycle, Godard employs a commentary on one film while showing
sections from others. The French cinema archivist Henri Langlois presented
a similar phenomenon when projecting two very different films successively at
the Cinemathéque française, not necessarily with specific connections in mind,
but to entice to the viewer to create them.83 Godard is not so thoroughly
arbitrary as was Langlois, but many of the connections invite speculation
and cognitive input from the spectator, rather than serving a more didactic
purpose. The same is undoubtedly true of Finnissy’s History, just as it was of
the combinations of musical ‘images’ in the Songs.
There are other significant relations between the two cycles. In a sec-
tion from part 1a, Une histoire seule, Godard presents a range of both
documentary and cinematic representations of Africa, combined with texts
on Africa by Michel Leiris, André Gide, and music from John Coltrane’s
366 Ian Pace
1961 Africa. The links with Unsere Afrikareise should be obvious. In the film
cycle in general, Godard, as in much of his other work, adds text and blank
screens, as Brechtian estrangement techniques. Finnissy does the same with
silences (as he did right back at the time of the Songs), sudden insertions of
iconic material, and drastic continuities or major and unexpected generic
shifts.
However, Godard’s work is obsessed with death, in many ways, and in
particular the death of cinema. For all the bleakness of parts of the History,
Finnissy’s vision is ultimately considerably more optimistic than this.
Nonetheless, the links between these two works – and also with other histo-
ries which precede either, such as the art histories of Elie Faure and André
Malraux, both referenced by Godard,84 are palpable and vivid.
In this chapter, I have outlined ways in which Finnissy employs formal
techniques and devices, structural strategies, as well as a range of other the-
matic concerns, all derived from particular types of cinema and television, to
create a new framework for future work on Finnissy’s music, or indeed that
of other composers. Nonetheless, the vocabulary of dissolves, direct cuts,
zooms, superimpositions, montage, function and motivation, roughened
form, delays, stairstep construction, free and bound motifs, or the dominant,
invaluable though they can be, still cannot on their own explain many other
melodic, harmonic, rhythmic and timbral ones. As Paulin implies, cinematic
analogies should be used when they provide a specific form of illumination,
not just as relatively exotic metaphors.
Notes
1 Christopher Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, in Henrietta Brougham, Christopher
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 212–3, 216–23, 233.
2 Ian Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 45–50, 54–5.
Sources, Techniques and Interpretation (Swarland: Divine Art, 2013), pp. 2–3, 44,
60, 86, 115, 140–2, 150–1, 154–6, 157 n. 34, 161 n. 45, 177–9, 241, 256–8, 267–9.
4 I would like to acknowledge with gratitude various suggestions and pointers
from scholar of German, music, and film, Larson Powell, during the preparation
of the keynote paper at the conference ‘Bright Futures, Dark Pasts’, January
2017, which formed an early version of this chapter.
5 Claude Debussy, ‘Concerts Colonne’, in François Lésure and Richard Langham
Smith (ed. and trans.), Debussy on Music: The Critical Writings of the Great
Composer Claude Debussy (London: Secker & Warburg, 1977), p. 298.
6 Richard Langham Smith, ‘Debussy and the Art of the Cinema’, Music & Letters,
vol. 54, no. 1 (January 1973), pp. 61–70.
7 Rebecca Leydon, ‘Debussy’s Late Style and the Devices of the Early Silent
Cinema’, Music Theory Spectrum, vol. 23, no. 2 (Fall 2001), pp. 217–41. Leydon
still stretches the point rather far by presenting the conclusion of Debussy’s
Étude ‘Pour les sonorités opposées’ as ‘two diegetic spaces in a film, one “real”
(the notes which accord with the notated key signature) and one “imagined” (the
chords written in small notes in the upper staff). Such an analytical perspective
has ramifications for how one might think about the resolution of “tonal prob-
lems” and “goals” later in the piece.’ (p. 231) This metaphor may be poetic, but
it is unclear how it would be as illuminating as a functional harmonic analysis of
apparently ‘bitonal’ music.
8 See Roy Howat, ‘Modernization: From Chabrier and Fauré to Debussy and
Ravel’, in Richard Langham Smith and Caroline Potter (eds.), French Music
Since Berlioz (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), pp. 211–12. For a more detailed exami-
nation, see Mark McFarland, ‘Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into their
Musical Relationship’, Cahiers Debussy 24 (2000), pp. 79–112.
9 Mark McFarland, ‘Debussy: The Origins of a Method’, Journal of Music Theory,
vol. 48, no. 2 (Fall 2004), pp. 295–324; citing Edward Cone, ‘Stravinsky: The
Progress of a Method’, Perspectives of New Music, vol. 1, no. 1 (1962), pp. 18–26;
and Richard Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions (Berkeley and Los
Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1996).
10 McFarland, ‘Debussy: The Origins of a Method’, pp. 296–7. McFarland notes
that other writers, including Cone, Taruskin and Stephen Walsh, have argued that
discontinuity only really appears properly in Stravinsky from Le sacre onwards.
11 Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger, The Apollonian Clockwork: On
Stravinsky, translated Jeff Hamburg (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press,
2006), pp. 160–4.
12 See for example Stephen Walsh, The Music of Stravinsky (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1993), p. 28; Jonathan Cross, The Stravinsky Legacy (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 10, 31, 33; Peter Hill, Stravinsky: The
Rite of Spring (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 53–4. Glenn
Watkins, in his Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from
Stravinsky to the Postmodernists (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994), focuses
on collage in particular, and prefers in general to compare Stravinsky to Cubist
painting (pp. 229–74). Film features primarily in his chapter on ‘Masks and
Machines’, but again in a rather general manner.
13 Raymond Knapp, Symphonic Metamorphoses: Subjectivity and Alienation in
Mahler’s Re-Cycled Songs (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003),
pp. 13–70. Jeremy Barham, in, ‘Plundering Cultural Archives and Transcending
Diegetics: Mahler’s Music as “Overscore”’, Music and the Moving Image, vol. 3,
no. 1 (Spring 2010), pp. 22–47, considers (amongst other things) ways in which
various film scores employ quasi-cinematic techniques found in Mahler, but
this is only tangentially relevant here, to the extent that scores such as those of
Finnissy may draw upon approaches from film music which themselves relate to
models from Mahler and others.
14 Sabine M. Feisst, ‘Arnold Schoenberg and the Cinematic Art’, The Musical
Quarterly, vol. 83, no. 1 (Spring 1999), pp. 93–113.
15 Alexandra Monchick, ‘Paul Hindemith and the Cinematic Imagination’, The
Musical Quarterly, vol. 95, no. 4 (Winter 2012), pp. 510–48.
16 Neil Lerner, ‘Copland’s Music of Wide Open Spaces: Surveying the Pastoral
Trope in Hollywood’, The Musical Quarterly, vol. 85, no. 3 (Autumn 2001),
pp. 477–515.
17 Jonathan W. Bernard, ‘Elliott Carter and the Modern Meaning of Time’, The
Musical Quarterly, vol. 79, no. 4 (Winter 1995), pp. 644–82, in particular pp.
661–72. Carter’s comments on the ‘camera-eye’ in the Double Concerto can be
found in Benjamin Boretz, ‘Conversation with Elliott Carter’, Perspectives of
New Music, vol. 8, no. 2 (Spring–Summer 1970), pp. 7–8.
18 Elliott Carter, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 1951, and 2, 1959’ (1970), in Carter,
Collected Essays and Lectures, 1937–1995 (Rochester, NY: University of
Rochester Press, 1998), p. 233
368 Ian Pace
19 Elliott Carter, ‘The Gesamtkunstwerk’ (1966, rev. 1994), in Carter, Collected
Essays and Lectures, pp. 327–9.
20 Scott D. Paulin, ‘“Cinematic” Music: Analogies, Fallacies, and the Case of
Debussy’, Music and the Moving Image, vol. 3, no. 1 (Spring 2010), p. 7. Paulin
notes here in particular Taruskin’s theorisation of drobnost as a specifically
Russian but pre-cinematic aesthetic, but also notes how something like ‘mon-
tage’ can be found in music right back to Bach (the same could be said of
Leydon’s ‘direct cuts’). He also observes importantly how Eisenstein traced the
history of his own techniques back through Dickens, Flaubert, Pushkin, Milton
and beyond.
21 Paulin observes that ‘Other film techniques, such as the close-up, have also
inspired analysts to cite musical parallels. But these cases, too, involve transi-
tion points: not just the close-up, but the edit from long shot to framed detail’
(ibid. p. 4).
22 Ibid. pp. 7–11.
23 Jerry L. Salvaggio, ‘The Emergence of a New School of Criticism: Neo-
Formalism’, Journal of the University Film Association, vol. 33, no. 4 (Fall 1981),
pp. 45–52; Noël Burch, The Theory of Film Practice, translated Helen R. Lane
(New York: Praeger, 1973) (first published in French in 1969); Burch, To
the Distant Observer: Form and Meaning in the Japanese Cinema, edited Annette
Michelson (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1979); David Bordwell
and Kristin Thompson, Film Art: An Introduction (Reading, MA: Addison-
Wesley, 1979). My references to Burch’s Theory of Film Practice are to the
1981 Princeton University Press edition with a new foreword by the author
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), and those to Bordwell and
Thompson’s Film Art to the ninth edition (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2010). See
below for the question of whether Salvaggio or Thompson coined the term.
24 Burch, Theory of Film Practice, p. 4. Découpage was also the central theme of
Roland Barthes’ essay ‘Diderot, Brecht, Eisenstein’, in Barthes, Image-Music-
Text, translated Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), pp. 69–78,
which Salvaggio considers in ‘Neo-Formalism’, p. 47. Barthes’ essay was first
published in French in 1973, but Burch does not reference it in his later book,
despite extensive consideration there of Barthes’ L’Empire des Signes.
25 Burch, Theory of Film Practice, pp. 3–16.
26 Ibid. pp. 139–43.
27 Bordwell and Thompson, Film Art, pp. 177–8.
28 See in particular Sergei Eisenstein’s comments on ‘the unity of form and con-
tent that distinguishes genuine works’, in ‘Speeches to the All-Union Creative
Conference of Soviet Filmworkers’ (1935), in Eisenstein, Selected Writings,
Volume III: Writings, 1934–1947, edited Richard Taylor, translated William
Powell (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), p. 38. Salvaggio is concerned
however to differentiate both Eisenstein and Barthes from Burch, emphasising
the importance of semantics in both of the latter; see Salvaggio, ‘Neo-Formalism’,
pp. 47–8.
29 Salvaggio, ‘Neo-Formalism’, pp. 45–7.
30 Kristin Thompson, Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible: A Neoformalist Analysis
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981); and Breaking the Glass Armor:
Neoformalist Film Analysis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988). It
is unclear whether Salvaggio or Thompson first used the term; most likely, as
with so many concepts, it existed in verbal parlance before being given an articu-
lated written theoretical basis.
31 David Bordwell, Narration in the Fiction Film (Madison, WI: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1985), pp. xii, 38, 275, 290–1.
32 Victor Shklovsky, ‘Art as Technique’ (1917), in Lee T. Lemon and Mario J.
Reis (eds. and trans.), Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays (Lincoln, NE:
University of Nebraska Press, 1965), pp. 3–24.
33 Thompson, Breaking the Glass Armor, pp. 10–11.
34 Ibid. pp. 3–7. Thompson here alludes to the more modest definition of ‘method’
by the Formalist critic Boris Eikhenbaum.
35 Ibid. pp. 7–10, 13, 26–35.
36 See ibid. pp. 35–6, in which Thompson makes clear her distance from ‘the “Great
Man” theory of history’, and that ‘Artists have intentions, even if the results they
achieve are often unintentional’ (p. 35).
37 Ibid. pp. 15–21.
38 I deal in more detail in Chapter 3 of this book with transtextual elements, but
would note here that this consideration distinguishes neo-formalism from earlier
types of formalism exclusively concentrating on abstract features.
39 Stuart Hall, ‘Encoding/Decoding’ (1973), in Hall, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew
Lowe and Paul Willis (eds.), Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in
Cultural Studies, 1972–79 (London: Hutchinson, 1980), pp. 117–27. For another
type of critique of this model, which eventually morphed in Hall’s hands into
a populist celebration of commercial culture and benign view of the potential
for mass media manipulation, founded upon questionable readings of Gramsci
and Althusser, see Jim McGuigan, Cultural Populism (London and New York:
Routledge, 1992), pp. 124–68, and Greg Philo and David Miller, ‘Cultural
Compliance: Media/cultural studies and social science’, in Philo and Miller
(eds.), Market Killing: What the Free Market does and what Social Scientists can
do about it (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001), pp. 3–95.
40 David Bordwell, ‘Contemporary Film Studies and the Vicissitudes of Grand
Theory’, in Bordwell and Noël Carroll (eds.), Post-Theory: Reconstructing Film
Studies (Madison, WI and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996), p. 18.
41 For this reason, I reject the approach of Lawrence Kramer, coming from a narrow
sub-field of literary study, which denigrates abstraction and aural autonomy (not
least in terms of their supposed elitism) in favour of musical representation, which
throughout much of Western musical history has been one of multiple possible
aesthetic positions. This attitude recurs throughout Kramer’s work, but is espe-
cially pronounced in his Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History (Berkeley,
Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2002).
42 Bordwell coined the term ‘SLAB theory’ (Saussurean semiotics, Lacanian psy-
choanalysis, Althusserian Marxism, Barthesian textual theory), which he claimed
was dominant in film studies and amounted to a contest between rival doctri-
naire frameworks, without requiring the questioning, historical contextualisation
and weighing of evidence he believed constituted systematic research. See David
Bordwell, ‘Historical Poetics of Cinema’, in R. Barton Palmer (ed.), The Cinematic
Text: Methods and Approaches (New York: AMS Press, 1989), pp. 369–98. Later
Bordwell situated ‘Grand Theories’ of this type within wider currents of ‘subject-
position theory’ and ‘culturalism’, to which he contrasts a ‘middle-level’ research
which entail more modest theoretical claims while still being able to engage with
some of the other concerns. See Bordwell, ‘Contemporary Film Studies and the
Vicissitudes of Grand Theory’, pp. 3–36. His critique here resembles those of the
more ‘pure’ postmodernists (in particular Jean-François Lyotard), with whose
species of thought he has otherwise little in common.
43 For more on this, see my ‘Neo-Formalist Music Analysis: A Manifesto’
(forthcoming).
44 I am thinking here of Bordwell’s tripartite formulation (with terms taken from
the formalist work of Viktor Shklovsky and Vladimir Propp) of fabula – the
370 Ian Pace
underlying story; syuzhet – the sequence of events as they appear in the film;
and style – the use of specific techniques as affects the syuzhet. See Bordwell,
Narration in the Fiction Film, pp. 49–53.
45 Thompson, Breaking the Glass Armor, pp. 36–8. Thompson cites Shklovsky on
the use of such devices in literature of Alexander Dumas and Mark Twain, which
she notes are extended further in some modern thriller and adventure fiction. The
principle of one thread being developed over an extended period, intercut with
other material, also resembles the approach to editing of Vsevolod Pudovkin.
For Pudovkin’s views on the central place of editing, see V.I. Pudovkin, Film
Technique and Film Acting, translated and edited Ivor Montagu (New York:
Grove Press, 1960), pp. 75–8.
46 Thompson, Breaking the Glass Armor, pp. 43–4.
47 Ibid. p. 32.
48 These references come from Michael Finnissy, e-mail to the author, 8 January
2017, and many other conversations and correspondence over twenty-five years.
49 Finnissy’s work as an incidental composer for film, theatre and dance needs
further research, though see James Weeks in Chapter 12 of the present volume
for more on the latter.
50 This is abundantly clear from studying the sketches of Folklore and the History.
51 Michael Finnissy, e-mail to author, 9 May 2016.
52 The original versions of nos. 1 and 4 were for soprano and piano.
53 Brakhage’s short descriptions of each film are reproduced in P. Adams Sitney,
Visionary Film: The American Avant-Garde, 1943–2000 (Oxford and New York:
Oxford University Press, 1974), pp. 210–12.
54 Brakhage cited ibid. p. 214.
55 Pace, ‘The Piano Music’, pp. 46–8
56 Fox, ‘The Vocal Music’, p. 224.
57 Translation taken from Luciano Rebay (ed.), Introduction to Italian Poetry: A
Dual-Language Book (New York: Dover, 1969), pp. 86–7.
58 Sergei Eisenstein, ‘Methods of Montage’ (1929), in Film Form: Essays in Film
Theory, edited and translated Jay Leyda (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World,
1949), pp. 72–83.
59 These are found in Sergei Eisenstein, ‘The Cinematographic Principle and
the Ideogram’ (1929), in Film Form, p. 38; and ‘Synchronization of Senses’, in
The Film Sense, edited and translated Jay Leyda (New York: Meridian, 1957),
pp. 74–5. See also Bernard, ‘Carter and the Modern Meaning of Time’, pp. 664–5.
60 See Ian Pace, ‘The Theatrical Works’, in Uncommon Ground, pp. 286–91 for an
examination of this work.
61 I would question the viability of Eisenstein’s rather heavy-handed musical
metaphors of tonal and overtonal montage, but that is beyond the scope of this
chapter.
62 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 140–75.
63 Wheeler Winston Dixon, The Exploding Eye: A Re-Visionary History of 1960s
American Experimental Cinema (Albany, NY: State University of New York
Press, 1997), p. 113. Markopoulos did employ some editing, in the form of
superimpositions, single frames and groups of frames at particular key moments,
but this was all done in the camera while shooting each portrait, with no further
editing after the film was developed other than to join the different portraits
together. See Gregory Markopoulos, ‘Galaxie’ (1966), in Film as Film: The
Collected Writings of Gregory J. Markopoulos, edited Mark Webber (London:
The Visible Press, 2014), pp. 224–5.
64 Published in Derek Jarman, Up In The Air: Collected Film Scripts (London:
Vintage, 1996), pp. 183–225.
65 All of these are discussed at some length through the course of Pace, Michael
Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound.
66 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, p. 241–67 for
a detailed investigation of this, and also Maarten Beirens in Chapter 13 of the
present volume.
67 Ibid. pp. 150–5.
68 Ibid. pp. 100–1, 121, 123.
69 Finnissy mentions him in ‘Conversations with Michael Finnissy’ (interviews con-
ducted in 1996), in Uncommon Ground, p. 6, and has often referred to his work in
private conversations. I also recall seeing scripts of most of Potter’s major series
in ‘active’ places around his work spaces when visiting his house in Steyning
during this time.
70 This play was written during one of the darkest times of Potter’s life, when his
psoriatic arthropathy was at its peak, hardly able to move, which may account
for its extremely caustic qualities even by Potter’s own standards. See Dennis
Potter, ‘Some Sort of Preface… .’, in Potter, Waiting for the Boat: On Television
(London: Faber & Faber, 1984), pp. 17–20.
71 Potter found this was possible, and preferable, when using two main characters.
See Graham Fuller (ed.), Potter on Potter (London and Boston, MA: Faber and
Faber, 1993), p. 98.
72 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 111–14.
73 See also Glen Creeber, The Singing Detective: A Critical Reading of the Series
(London: British Film Institute, 2007), pp. 21–49 for a detailed consideration of
the multiple narrative layers and the visual devices employed.
74 Fuller, Potter on Potter, p. 86.
75 James S. Williams, Encounters with Godard: Ethics, Aesthetics, Politics (Albany,
NY: State University of New York Press, 2016), p. 271 n. 16.
76 The text was first printed in Nord-Sud, vol. 2, no. 13 (March 1918). The French
text is ‘L’Image est un creation pure de l’esprit. / Elle en peut naître d’une
comparaison mais du rapprochement de deux réalités plus ou moins éloignées. /
Plus les rapports des deux réalités rapprochées seront lointains et justes, plus
l’image sera forte – plus elle aura de puissance émotive et de réalité poétique. /
Deux réalités qui n’ont aucun rapport ne peuvent e rapprocher utilement. Il n’y
a pas creation d’image. / Deux réalités contraires ne so rapprochent pas. Elles
s’opposent. / On obtient rarement une force de cette opposition. Une image n’est
pas forte parce qu’elle est brutale ou fantastique – mais parce que l’association
des idées est lointaine et juste.’ This and the above translation are just part of the
full text read in the film.
77 Celine Scemama has made a ‘partition’ of the film, with five columns for the
timing, images, voice off or in, sounds on the tape, and titles, not wholly dissimi-
lar from the way I have traced the sources in Finnissy’s History. Her ‘score’, ‘La
“partition” des Histoire(s) du cinéma de Jean-Luc Godard’ is available online
http://cri-image.univ-paris1.fr/celine/celinegodard.html (accessed 17 July 2018).
This is distinct from her book Histoire(s) du cinema de Jean-Luc Godard: La
force faible d’un art (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2008).
78 Douglas Morrey, Jean-Luc Godard (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
2005), pp. 220–1.
79 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s The History of Photography in Sound, pp. 10, 13.
80 Ibid. pp. 173–5.
81 Michael Witt, Jean-Luc Godard: Cinema Historian (Bloomington and
Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013), pp. 201–2.
82 See Pace, Michael Finnissy’s History of Photography in Sound, pp. 226–37 on
this passage in the cycle.
372 Ian Pace
83 Morrey, Godard, pp. 219–20. Godard’s Histoire(s) was originally planned as
a collaboration with Langlois, cut short by the latter’s death in 1977. See also
Daniel Morgan, Late Godard and the Possibilities of Cinema (Berkeley, CA:
University of California Press, 2013), pp. 218–21.
84 Specifically Élie Faure, History of Art, five volumes, translated Walter Pach
(London; John Lane, 1923–30); and André Malraux, La muse imaginaire de la
sculpture mondiale, three volumes (Paris; Gallimard: 1952–4); and The Voices of
Silence, translated Stuart Gilbert (London: Secker and Warburg, 1954). Alan
Cuny reads from Faure’s History of Art in part 4a, Le controle de l’univers
(1998). On the wider relationship of Godard’s cycle to these, see Witt, Godard:
Cinema Historian, pp. 3, 26, 37, 60, 85–90, 126, 130, 157. Miriam Heywood also
draws important parallels between Godard’s cycle and Proust’s A la recherche
du temps perdu, in her Modernist Visions: Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du
temps perdu and Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma (Bern: Peter Lang,
2012).
Bibliography
Andriessen, Louis; and Schönberger, Elmer. The Apollonian Clockwork: On
Stravinsky, translated Jeff Hamburg. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press,
2006.
Barham, Jeremy. ‘Plundering Cultural Archives and Transcending Diegetics: Mahler’s
Music as “Overscore”’. Music and the Moving Image, vol. 3, no. 1 (Spring 2010),
pp. 22–47.
Bernard, Jonathan W. ‘Elliott Carter and the Modern Meaning of Time’. The Musical
Quarterly, vol. 79, no. 4 (Winter 1995), pp. 644–82.
Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin
Press, 1985.
Bordwell, David. ‘Historical Poetics of Cinema’. In R. Barton Palmer (ed.), The
Cinematic Text: Methods and Approaches (New York: AMS Press, 1989), pp. 369–98.
Bordwell, David. ‘Contemporary Film Studies and the Vicissitudes of Grand Theory’.
In Bordwell and Noël Carroll (eds.), Post-Theory: Reconstructing Film Studies
(Madison, WI and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996), pp. 3–36.
Bordwell, David and Thompson, Kristin. Film Art: An Introduction. Reading, MA:
Addison-Wesley, 1979. Ninth edition: New York: McGraw-Hill, 2010.
Burch, Noël. To the Distant Observer: Form and Meaning in the Japanese Cinema,
edited Annette Michelson. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1979.
Burch, Noël. The Theory of Film Practice, translated Helen R. Lane. New York:
Praeger, 1973. New edition with new foreword by the author: Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1981.
Carter, Elliott. ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 1951, and 2, 1959’ (1970). In Elliott Carter,
Collected Essays and Lectures, 1937–1995 (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester
Press, 1998), pp. 231–5.
Carter, Elliott. ‘The Gesamtkunstwerk’ (1966, rev. 1994). In Elliott Carter, Collected
Essays and Lectures, 1937–1995 (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press,
1998), pp. 327–9.
Cone, Edward. ‘Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method’. Perspectives of New Music,
vol. 1, no. 1 (1962), pp. 18–26.
Creeber, Glen. The Singing Detective: A Critical Reading of the Series. London:
British Film Institute, 2007.
Cross, Jonathan. The Stravinsky Legacy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998.
Debussy, Claude. ‘Concerts Colonne’. In François Lésure and Richard Langham
Smith (ed. and trans.), Debussy on Music: The Critical Writings of the Great
Composer Claude Debussy (London: Secker & Warburg, 1977), pp. 295–9.
Dixon, Wheeler Winston. The Exploding Eye: A Re-Visionary History of 1960s
American Experimental Cinema. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press,
1997.
Eisenstein, Sergei ‘Methods of Montage’ (1929). In Sergei Eisenstein, Film Form:
Essays in Film Theory, edited and translated Jay Leyda (New York: Harcourt,
Brace & World, 1949), pp. 72–83.
Eisenstein, Sergei. ‘The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram’ (1929). In
Sergei Eisenstein, Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, edited and translated Jay
Leyda (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1949), pp. 28–44.
Eisenstein, Sergei. ‘Speeches to the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet
Filmworkers’ (1935). In Sergei Eisenstein, Selected Writings, Volume III: Writings,
1934–1947, edited Richard Taylor, translated William Powell (London and New
York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), pp. 16–46.
Eisenstein, Sergei. ‘Synchronization of Senses’. In Sergei Eisenstein, The Film Sense,
edited and translated Jay Leyda (New York: Meridian, 1957), pp. 69–112.
Faure, Élie. History of Art, five volumes, translated Walter Pach. London; John Lane,
1923–30.
Feisst, Sabine M. ‘Arnold Schoenberg and the Cinematic Art’. The Musical Quarterly,
vol. 83, no. 1 (Spring 1999), pp. 93–113.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 1–42.
Fuller, Graham Fuller, ed. Potter on Potter. London and Boston, MA: Faber and
Faber, 1993.
Hall, Stuart. ‘Encoding/Decoding’ (1973). In Stuart Hall, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew
Lowe and Paul Willis (eds.), Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in Cultural
Studies, 1972–79 (London: Hutchinson, 1980), pp. 117–27.
Heywood, Miriam. Modernist Visions: Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu
and Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma. Bern: Peter Lang, 2012.
Hill, Peter. Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000.
Howat, Roy. ‘Modernization: From Chabrier and Fauré to Debussy and Ravel’. In
Richard Langham Smith and Caroline Potter (eds.), French Music Since Berlioz
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), pp. 211–12.
Jarman, Derek. Up In The Air: Collected Film Scripts. London: Vintage, 1996.
Knapp, Raymond. Symphonic Metamorphoses: Subjectivity and Alienation in Mahler’s
Re-Cycled Songs. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003.
Kramer, Lawrence. Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History. Berkeley, Los
Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2002.
Langham Smith, Richard. ‘Debussy and the Art of the Cinema’. Music & Letters, vol.
54, no. 1 (January 1973), pp. 61–70.
Lerner, Neil. ‘Copland’s Music of Wide Open Spaces: Surveying the Pastoral Trope
in Hollywood’. The Musical Quarterly, vol. 85, no. 3 (Autumn 2001), pp. 477–515.
374 Ian Pace
Leydon, Rebecca. ‘Debussy’s Late Style and the Devices of the Early Silent Cinema’.
Music Theory Spectrum, vol. 23, no. 2 (Fall 2001), pp. 217–41.
McFarland, Mark. ‘Debussy and Stravinsky: Another Look into their Musical
Relationship’. Cahiers Debussy 24 (2000), pp. 79–112.
McGuigan, Jim. Cultural Populism. London and New York: Routledge, 1992.
Malraux, André. La muse imaginaire de la sculpture mondiale, three volumes. Paris;
Gallimard: 1952–4.
Malraux, André. The Voices of Silence, translated Stuart Gilbert. London: Secker and
Warburg, 1954.
Markopoulos, Gregory. ‘Galaxie’ (1966). In Film as Film: The Collected Writings of
Gregory J. Markopoulos, edited Mark Webber (London: The Visible Press, 2014),
pp. 224–9.
Monchick, Alexandra. ‘Paul Hindemith and the Cinematic Imagination’. The Musical
Quarterly, vol. 95, no. 4 (Winter 2012), pp. 510–48.
Morrey, Douglas. Jean-Luc Godard. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005.
1998), pp. 43–133.
Ashgate, 1998), pp. 259–346.
Paulin, Scott D. ‘“Cinematic” Music: Analogies, Fallacies, and the Case of Debussy’.
Music and the Moving Image, vol. 3, no. 1 (Spring 2010), pp. 1–21.
Philo, Greg; and Miller, David. ‘Cultural Compliance: Media/cultural studies and
social science’. In Philo and Miller (eds.), Market Killing: What the Free Market
does and what Social Scientists can do about it (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001),
pp. 3–95.
Pudovkin, V.I. Film Technique and Film Acting, translated and edited Ivor Montagu.
New York: Grove Press, 1960.
Rebay, Luciano, ed. Introduction to Italian Poetry: A Dual-Language Book. New
York: Dover, 1969.
Salvaggio, Jerry L. ‘The Emergence of a New School of Criticism: Neo-Formalism’.
Journal of the University Film Association, vol. 33, no. 4 (Fall 1981), pp. 45–52.
Scemama, Celine. Histoire(s) du cinema de Jean-Luc Godard: La force faible d’un art.
Paris: L’Harmattan, 2008.
Scemama, Celine, ‘La “partition” des Histoire(s) du cinéma de Jean-Luc Godard’,
available online at http://cri-image.univ-paris1.fr/celine/celinegodard.html (accessed
17 July 2018).
Shklovsky, Victor. ‘Art as Technique’ (1917). In Lee T. Lemon and Mario J. Reis (eds.
and trans.), Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays (Lincoln, NE: University of
Nebraska Press, 1965), pp. 3–24.
Sitney, P. Adams. Visionary Film: The American Avant-Garde, 1943–2000. Oxford
and New York: Oxford University Press, 1974.
Taruskin, Richard. Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions. Berkeley and Los Angeles,
CA: University of California Press, 1996.
Thompson, Kristin. Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible: A Neoformalist Analysis. Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981.
Thompson, Kristin. Breaking the Glass Armor: Neoformalist Film Analysis. Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988.
Walsh, Stephen. The Music of Stravinsky. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993.
Watkins, Glenn. Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky
to the Postmodernists. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994.
Williams, James S. Encounters with Godard: Ethics, Aesthetics, Politics. Albany, NY:
State University of New York Press, 2016.
Witt, Michael. Jean-Luc Godard: Cinema Historian. Bloomington and Indianapolis,
IN: Indiana University Press, 2013.
Index
abstraction 273–4, 308 Ballantine, C. 64

accuracy 105 Barrett, R. 3, 135, 138, 328–43
Adorno, T. 71, 74, 247 Barthes, R. 185–6
advocacy 129–30, 134, 139–41 Bartlett, N. 172
aesthetic dissonance 66 see also Bartók, B. 36
dissonance Bayley, A. 11–2, 211
afar 231, 359 Beat Generation Ballads 232
African music 302–7 Beaudoin, R. 9, 57–61
Agawu, K. 303 Beethoven, L. van 58, 270–1
aleatory materialism 266–7 Beirens, M. 8, 264, 267–9, 275, 301–13
allusion see borrowing Benjamin, W. 249
alongside 328–9, 342–3; behaviours Bernard, J. W. 345–6
331–2; influence 332; international Bicknell, J. 64
avant-garde 329–31; Japanese gagaku Birtwistle, H. 30
music 330–1; preliminary notes 332; body 184–9, 203
section 1 333, 335; section 2 335–6; Boorman, S. 111–4
section 3 336–8; section 4 338–9; Bordwell, D. 349–50
section 5 339–41; section 6 341; borrowing 3–4, 57–8, 61–5, 71, 92–3,
section 7 342; section 8 342 264, 331; categories 68–9; Charles Ives
Althusser, L. 266–7 64–7; Durcharbeiten 265–7; folklore
Altman, R. 70 261–7, 302; genre 72–4; Gershwin
amateur status 130–1 Arrangements 75–84; notation 226–7,
analysis 60–1 232–3; political agendas 318–9;
Anderson, J. 5 scholarship 61–5; SKRYABIN in itself
Anderson, V. 322 88–92; Strauss-Walzer 86–8; Verdi
Andriessen, L. 345 Transcriptions 84–6
appropriation 305–7 Bortz, G. 12
Après-Midi Dada 233–5 Boulez, P. 28, 34, 37
archetypes 182–4, 317–8, 322 Bourriaud, N. 263–4
Aristotle 67 Bowen, M. 246
assemblage see kit pieces Brahms, J. 249, 255–8
atonality 241–4, 247, 251–2, 255, 257 Brahms-Lieder 255–8
Attali, J. 322 Brakhage, S. 353–9
Autumnall 104–6, 108, 113, 118–9, Braxton, A. 45
283–5 breath 185
British Music Information Centre
Babylon 236 (BMIC) 134–6, 139–41
Bach, J. S. 74, 198–9, 364–5 Budde, E. 62–3
balance 203, 333 Burch, N. 349
Index 377
Burkholder, J. Peter. 64–7 Copland, A. 345
Butt, J. 107–9 counter-genres 74
Crippled Symmetry 45–6
cabaret 324 criticism see scholarship
Cage, J. 30, 42, 48–50, 321–3, 332 Croce, B. 71
Camp 176 Cross, J. 4
Cardew, C. 41, 48, 322–4 cultural literacy 64–5, 75
Carpenter, E. 169–70 cyclic works 32
Casual Nudity 232
cello 198–205 Dahlhaus, C. 70–1
chance see unpredictability dance 137, 281–2
Chi Mei Ricercari 198–205 Danto, A. 104–5
Christianity 50–1, 73, 188–9, 232–3, Darbon, N. 7
246–7 De toutes flours 223, 226–7
Cibavit eos 232–3 Debussy, C. 344–7
cinematic influences 5–6, 344, 346–9, defamiliarisation 200–1, 204, 312–3,
351–3; The History of Photography in 349–50
Sound 361–6; Dennis Potter 361–4; Dench, C. 134–5, 332
Jean-Luc Godard 364–6; montage desire 174–5
359–61; neo-formalism 349–51; dialogue 183, 199–200, 205, 207, 215
scholarship 344–6; Songs 353–9; Stan difference 303
Brakhage 353–9 digital technology 291
Cipriano 188–9 Dillon, J. 135, 332
citation 61–3 see also borrowing dissonance 66, 79, 83, 241–2
Civilisation 213 Donovan, K. 136–7
Clarke, J. 332 Draeseke, F. 242
Clarke, M. 11–2, 211 draughtsmanship 287
Clements, A. 40 drawing 287, 291 see also illustrations
Clendinning, J. P. 63 and graphics
Cohn, R. 241–2 Dreyfus, L. 74
collaboration 12–3 Driver, P. 333
collage 62–4 Drott, E. 70–1
Collini, S. 140 duration 31–3, 225
colonialism 302–3 Durcharbeiten 265–7
commissioning 129
complexity see new complexity Eisenstein, S. 349, 359–60
compliance/non-compliance 115–9, electronic music 34–5
222–4, 237; compliance-potential 223, embodiment 184–9, 280, 287, 290, 292,
226–7, 229, 235; composite notational 294 see also hand; physicality
inscriptions 224–7; extended Emsley, R. 137–8, 332
notational inscriptions 227–9; non- English Country-Tunes 2, 30, 32, 136–7,
notational inscriptions 233–6; semi 329
notational inscriptions 229–33 Englishness 29–31, 37, 141
composite notational inscriptions 224–7 ensemble 28–9, 73–4, 207, 209, 211;
composition see borrowing; hand; Ensemble Exposé 138–9; independent
musical materials; notation parts 42–8; Suoraan 137–9, 332
computer software 291 entanglement 293
Cone, E. 345 equal temperament 35–6
conscious borrowing see borrowing equilibrato 60
conversation, music as 183, 199–200, eroticism 174–5, 187–8
205, 207, 215 Erwin, M. 316–24
Cook, N. 60 essentialism 107–9
Coote, S. 169 ethnomusicology 303–4
378 Index
Even Tenor 244–5 Goves, L. 13, 293–4
exform 263–4 Gramsci, A. 311
experimentalism 39–42; independent graphics see illustrations and graphics
parts 42–8; kit pieces 48–53 Gunn, T. 174
Exposé 138–9
extended notational inscriptions 227–9 Hall, S. 350
hand 280–1; listening 290–2; playing
fantasies 190 281–4; reaching 292–4; writing 286–90
Feisst, S. 345 hapticity 281, 286, 289, 292, 294
Feldman, M. 32, 44–6 Harris, T. 322–4
Ferneyhough, B. 2, 7, 133, 328 Hawkins, R. 6–8, 129–60
films see cinematic influences Heidegger, M. 280–1, 291, 294
Fink, R. 63 Henderson, C. 64
First Political Agenda 317–9 heterogeneity 307–8, 310–1
folk music 29–30, 72–3, 213, 301, 329 Heyde, N. 198–215
see also traditional and non-Western hierarchy 256
music high formalism 57–9
Folklore 4–5, 8, 32, 261–2, 264–5, historical narrative 273
267–70, 273, 301–2, 307–12 The History of Photography in Sound 2,
form 31–4, 261, 317, 349–50 9–10, 32–3, 229–31, 301; cinematic
Fowler, J. 133 allusions 361–6; Kapitalistisch
Fox, C. 5–6, 9, 27–37, 61, 211 Realisme 57–61, 270; My Parents’
Freiburg 129–30, 133 Generation thought War meant
something 361–3; North American
gagaku music 330–1 Spirituals 226–7, 271; Seventeen
Garland, J. 79–80 Immortal Homosexual Poets 167–77;
Gavin, B. 289 Unsere Afrikareise 271–2, 305–12,
gay cultural history 171–7 see also 365–6
homosexual poets Hollinghurst, A. 169
gender 141, 189 homosexual poets 167–77; Camp 176;
Genet, J. 171–2, 175 desire 174–5; fear of public scandal
Genette, G. 65–7, 361 172–3; sexual self-definition 170–1
genre 66–7, 70, 72–4; communicative Hooper, M. 12–3
and persuasive properties 71; counter- hybrid genres 74
genres 74; folk music 72–3; generic hymns 73, 246–7
contract 71–2; Gershwin Arrangements
75–84; Gesualdo: Libro Sesto ideology 267–8
190–1; hybrid genres 74; hymns 73; illustrations and graphics 51–2, 233–6
mediation 74–5, 77–80, 84, 86, 92–3; imagination 112, 190, 280–1, 289–90,
modernism 70–1; new music 73–4; 292
SKRYABIN in itself 88–92; Strauss- improvisation 282–3
Walzer 86–8; style 72; universal and inclusivity 39–40, 42
particular 71; Verdi Transcriptions independent parts 42–8
84–6 indeterminacy see unpredictability
Gershwin Arrangements 75–84, 247, 249 Ingold, T. 286, 293–4
Gershwin, G. 75 inscription: composite notational 224–7;
Gesualdo: Libro Sesto 189–95 extended notational 227–9; non-
Ginsberg, A. 176 notational 233–6; semi notational
Godard, J.-L. 352, 364–6 229–33 see also notation
Goehr, L. 107 instantiation 107–9
Goldsworthy, A. 287 instrument/instrumentation 31,
Goodman, N. 113–20, 221–4, 226, 268–9; gagaku 330; idea of 198–205;
228–9, 234 idiomatic 339; independent parts
Index 379
42–8; personalities 204–5, 214–5; materials see musical materials
selection 204; string quartets 205–15; Matthews, D. 246
transcription 309–10 mediation 65, 74–5, 77–80, 84, 86, 92–3,
interpretation 349–50 322
intertextuality 65–6 mensural notation 50, 119–20
Ives, C. 61, 64–7 Messiaen, O. 330
metatextuality 65–6, 84, 361
Japanese gagaku music 330–1 Metzer, D. 64
Jauss, H. R. 71–2 Michell, J. 29
June 233 Mit Arnold Schoenberg 249–50
juxtaposition 192, 305, 310–1 modernism 27–8, 36–7, 62, 242, 244–5;
form 31–4; genre 70–1; musical
Kallberg, J. 70–2, 74 materials 34–6; subject matter
Katz, J. D. 321–2 27–31
Keller, H. 205–6 modular pieces see kit pieces
Kemp, I. 246 montage 62, 345–6, 359–61
Keppler, P. 264 Moore, A. 72
Kinderman, W. 242 Morrey, D. 364
Kirkup, J. 173, 176 Mosch, U. 7
kit pieces 48–53, 233–6 motivation 350–1
Klee, P. 286 movement see hand
Knapp, R. 345 movies see cinematic influences
Knussen, O. 1 Multiple forms of constraint 209, 211
Kolisch, R. 199 musical form see form
Kubelka, P. 304–5, 310–1 musical materials 34–6, 261, 275;
Kühn, C. 63 abstract and concrete 273–5, 308;
Kurth, R. 257 aleatory materialism 266–7; exform
263–4; ideology 267–8; naked
LaBelle, B. 180, 183, 188 instrument 268–9; piano as medium
Lachenmann, H. 30 269–71; politics 271–3; quotation
layering 257, 310–1 261–7
Leech-Wilkinson, D. 60–1 musicality 308–9
Lerner, N. 345 muting 213
Levinson, J. 110–2, 114–8, 221–2 My love is like a red rose 284–5
ley lines 29 Mysteries 32
Leydon, R. 344–6
Ligeti, G. 307–8 nationality 30
linearity 283, 287–91, 293–4 neo-formalism 349–51
Lissa, Z. 61–2 new complexity 2–3, 6–8, 70, 135,
listening 211–2 137–40
Liszt, F. 80, 82–3 new music 73–4
London Sinfonietta 328–9 Newlin, D. 245
Lorca, F. G. 170, 173 Newman, C. 242–3, 275; concreteness
274–5; exform 263–4; ideology 267–8;
McBride, N. 1–18, 104–20, 221–37 instrument 268–9; notation 261–3;
McClary, S. 63 piano as medium 269–71; politics
McFarland, M. 345 271–3; quotation 261–2, 264–7;
madrigal 190–1 Schrott approach 266; transforming
Mahnkopf, C.-S. 7 element 263
Make-Up 49 Nobody’s Jig 207–8
maps 52 Noé, Günter von. 61–2
marginality 40–1, 132–3, 140–1, 169 nominalism 114–20, 322–3
Markopoulos, G. 361 non-notational inscriptions 233–6
380 Index
non-Western music see traditional and performance 10–2, 58–61; Chi Mei
non-Western music Ricercari 198–205; compliance/
Nonken, M. 131 non-compliance 115–9, 228–9;
notation 104–6, 112–5, 221, 261–3, genre mediation 78–80, 84–6, 92–3;
286, 290–2, 331; compliance/non- interpretation 113–4; kit pieces 50,
compliance 115–9, 223–4, 237; 52–3; new complexity 135, 137–40;
listening hand 290–2; mensural ontological assumptions 104–5;
notation 50, 119–20; methods 42, performing-means 110–2, 114, 117–8,
221–3, 339; platonism 107–9; string 120; platonism 107–9; string quartets
quartets 208–9; structuralism 117–9; 205–15; structuralism 117–9
voice and vocality 186–7 performances, by Finnissy 40, 130–2,
notational paradigms 221–4; composite 142–60, 282–4, 328–9; British Music
notational inscriptions 224–7; Information Centre (BMIC) 134–6,
extended notational inscriptions 139–41; new complexity 135, 137–40;
227–9; non-notational inscriptions piano recital 133–6, 138–9, 141;
233–6; semi notational inscriptions Suoraan 137–9; virtuosity 130–2
229–33 performing-means 110–2, 114, 117–8,
Notre-Dame Polyphony 50 120, 222
Nyman, M. 39 periodisation 316–7
phenomenology see hand
objectivity 263 physicality 184–9, 203, 286 see also
ontology 104–6, 115–9; nominalism hand
114–20; platonism 107–9; in pianist status 130–2
practice 117–20; sound structure piano 36, 283–4; Chi Mei Ricercari
and performing-means 110–2, 114, 198–205; as medium 261–2, 269–71;
116–8, 120 see also compliance/ recital 133–6, 138–9, 141
non-compliance Piano Concerto No. 3 360
open instrumentation 42 Piano Concerto No. 4 227–9, 360
orientalism 302–7, 313 Piano Concerto No. 5 46–8
otherness 303 pitch 36
overwriting see palimpsesting platonism 107–9
poets see homosexual poets
Pace, I. 1–18, 131; borrowing 57–93, Political Agendas: form 317;
264–7, 271–2; cinematic influences periodisation 316–7; syntax 317;
275, 344–66; notation 109, 117–8, typographical analysis 317–21
229, 231; pantonality 247, 249–50, politics 28, 41, 140, 250–1, 271–3,
257 307–8, 321; Cornelius Cardew 322–4;
palimpsesting 288–9 homosexuality 169–77; John Cage
Pallasmaa, J. 281, 289–90 321–2; orientalism 302–7, 313
Palmer, J. 241, 243 positivism 109
pantonality 241–4, 246; Brahms-Lieder Post-Christian Survival Kit 50–1, 235
255–8; Mit Arnold Schoenberg 249–50; postmodernism 63
post-Schoenberg 245–6; Schoenberg Potter, D. 361–4
241–7, 249, 255–8; Skempton 244–5; Potter, K. 7, 40
Third Political Agenda 250–1; This precarity 271–2
Church 246–7; Unknown Ground privacy 172–4
251–5 promotion 129–30, 134, 139–41
paradigms see notational paradigms
Pasler, J. 303 quotation see borrowing
Pasolini, P. P. 171, 176, 352
Pathways of Sun and Stars 28–30, 37 Rachmaninoff, S. 82–3
Paulin, S. D. 346 racism see orientalism
pen 287 Redgate, R. 5, 224–5
Index 381
Redhead, L. 261–75 subjectivity 180, 184, 263, 275, 311–3,
Reels 281–3 322–3
referentiality 33, 301 see also borrowing Sudnow, D. 282
Reich, S. 302, 304 Suoraan 137–9, 332
religion 50–1, 73, 188–9, 232–3, 246–7 syntax 317
research see scholarship synthesis 242
Réti, R. 246
Rimbaud, A. 6 Takahashi, M. 175–6
Takemitsu, T. 330
Said, E. 302–3, 307, 313 televisual influences see cinematic
salon 141 influences
Salvaggio, J. L. 349 tempo 226
Samson, J. 67, 71 text scores 43–5
Saxton, R. 133 textual elements 5, 65–6
Schoenberg, A. 92, 199, 241–7, 249, theatrical works 4, 6, 181–7
255–8, 345 Theocharous, G. 13, 104–8, 113,
scholarship 2–13, 60; The History of 117–20
Photography in Sound 9–10, 57–61; Third Political Agenda 111, 250–1,
borrowing 61–5; cinematic influences 317–8, 320–1
344–6; new complexity 2–3, 6–8; Third String Quartet 211–2
performance scholarship 10–2; This Church 246–7
Uncommon Ground: The Music of Thomas, P. 10–1, 39–53
Michael Finnissy 2, 4–6 Thompson, K. 349–51
Schönberger, E. 345 timbre 29, 74
Second Political Agenda 88–92, 249–50, time 33, 41–2, 106, 336
317–9 Tippett, M. 246
Second String Quartet 211–2 titles 27–30, 70
Section 28, Local Government Act Tom Fool’s Wooing 181–7
(1988) 140, 173 tonality 35–6 see also pantonality
Sehnsucht 209–10 Toop, R. 2–3, 7, 130, 139
semi notational inscriptions 229–33 touching/tactility see hapticity
senses see hapticity Toynbee, J. 70–1
Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets traditional and non-Western music
see homosexual poets 301–2, 312–3; folk music 29–30, 72–3,
sexuality 170–7, 191, 195 213, 301, 329; heterogeneity 307–8,
Sexy Minuets Three Trios 211–3 310–1; oppression 308; orientalism
Sheen, J. 131 302–5; otherness 303; reflective
singing see voice and vocality appropriation 305–8; sound 308–9;
Skempton, H. 40, 242–5 subjectivity 311–3; transcription
SKRYABIN in itself 88–92 309–10, 339 see also folk music
Smith, R. L. 344 transcription 309–10, 339
Songs 353–9 Transformations of the Vampire 42–5
sound structure 110–2, 116–7, 120, Tsuru-Kame 6
221–3, 228–9, 236–7 tuning 35–6
Stockhausen, K. 34, 332 Tymoczko, D. 242
Stoneham, L. 141–2 typographical analysis 317–8
Strauss-Walzer 86–8
string quartets 205–15 Uncommon Ground: The Music of
structuralism 117–9, 350 Michael Finnissy 2, 4–6
structure see genre Unknown Ground 251–5
style 72–3 unpredictability 42, 52–3, 213, 330
subcultures 40–1, 172–3 Unsere Afrikareise (1966 movie) 304–5,
subject matter 27–31 310–1
382 Index
Verdi Transcriptions 32, 84–6 226–7; English Country-Tunes 2, 30,
virtuosity 130–2, 283–4 32, 136–7, 329; First Political Agenda
Vivaldi, A. 119 317–9; Folklore 4–5, 8, 32, 261–2,
voice and vocality 5, 180–1, 187–8, 195, 264–5, 267–70, 273, 301–2, 307–12;
284, 321; archetypes 182–4; body and Gershwin Arrangements 75–84, 247,
physicality 184–9; Cipriano 188–9; 249; Gesualdo: Libro Sesto 189–95;
eroticism 185, 187–9; Gesualdo: Libro June 233; Make-Up 49; Mit Arnold
Sesto 189–95; subjectivity 187–95; Schoenberg 249–50; Multiple forms
Tom Fool’s Wooing 181–7 of constraint 209, 211; My love is
like a red rose 284–5; Mysteries 32;
Warhol, A. 352 Nobody’s Jig 207–8; Notre-Dame
Warnaby, J. 132 Polyphony 50; Pathways of Sun and
Watkins, A. 29 Stars 28–30, 37; Piano Concerto No.
Watkins, G. 63–4 3 360; Piano Concerto No. 4 227–9,
wayfaring 13, 286, 289–90, 293–4 360; Piano Concerto No. 5 46–8;
Weber, M. 67 Post-Christian Survival Kit 50–1,
Webern, A. 329 235; Reels 281–3; Second Political
Weeks, J. 180–95, 280–94 Agenda 88–92, 249–50, 317–9; Second
Werktreue 107–9 String Quartet 211–2; Sehnsucht
Whittall, A. 10, 241–58 209–10; Sexy Minuets Three Trios
Wilde, O. 170, 172–3, 175–6 211–3; SKRYABIN in itself 88–92;
Williams, L. 4 Songs 353–9; Strauss-Walzer 86–8;
Wilson, F. 281 Third Political Agenda 111, 250–1,
Wolff, C. 44–5, 48 317–8, 320–1; Third String Quartet
Woods, G. 167–77 211–2; This Church 246–7; Tom Fool’s
works: The History of Photography in Wooing 181–7; Transformations
Sound 2, 9–10, 32–3, 58–61, 226–7, of the Vampire 42–5; Tsuru-Kame
229–31, 270–2, 301, 305–12, 361–6; 6; Unknown Ground 251–5; Verdi
afar 231, 359; alongside 328–43; Après- Transcriptions 32, 84–6
Midi Dada 233–5; Autumnall 104–6, Wright, R. 135–6
108, 113, 118–9, 283–5; Babylon writing 286–90 see also hand; notation
236; Beat Generation Ballads 232;
Brahms-Lieder 255–8; Casual Nudity Young, R. 29
232; Chi Mei Ricercari 198–205;
Cibavit eos 232–3; Cipriano 188–9; Zimmermann, W. 30
Civilisation 213; De toutes flours 223, Zollman, R. 328

Critical Perspectives On Michael Finnissy

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Description:

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Critical Perspectives On Michael Finnissy

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Critical Perspectives on Michael Finnissy

The composer and pianist Michael Finnissy (b. 1946) is an unmistakeable

Ian Pace (b. 1968) is internationally renowned as the leading pianistic

Nigel McBride (b. 1990) is a composer and researcher. He was educated

Edited by Ian Pace and Nigel McBride

LONDON AND NEW YORK

ISBN: 978-1-138-49197-7 (hbk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

1 Michael Finnissy: modernism with an English accent 27

2 Post-experimental survivor: Finnissy the experimentalist 39

3 Negotiating borrowing, genre and mediation in the piano

4 Ontological implications in the work of Finnissy 104

5 Marginality and Finnissian performance in the 1980s 129

7 Finnissy’s voices 180

8 ‘Listening to the instrument(s)’: a performer’s response to

9 Notational and non-notational paradigms in Finnissy’s

10 Finnissy and pantonality: surface and inner necessity 241

11 The medium is now the material: The ‘folklore’ of

12 Finnissy’s hand 280

13 Questioning the foreign and familiar: interpreting Finnissy’s

14 Finnissy’s three-point plans: Political Agendas and musical

15 Finnissy’s alongside 328

1.1 Magic Square. 29

2.1 Finnissy, Beat Generation Ballads (2013), from ‘naked

Dr Richard Barrett is internationally active as both a composer and an

Dr Maarten Beirens is a lecturer in musicology at the University of Amsterdam.

Max Erwin is a musicologist and composer originally from Franklin,

Dr Roddy Hawkins is a musicologist and Lecturer in Music at the University

Dr Nigel McBride is a composer and research. He was educated at The

Dr Ian Pace is a pianist of long-established reputation, specialising in the

Dr Lauren Redhead is a composer of experimental music, a performer of

Prof. Philip Thomas is Professor in Performance, having joined the University

Dr James Weeks read Music at Cambridge before completing a PhD in

Prof. Arnold Whittall is Emeritus Professor at King’s College London, and

Prof. Gregory Woods is Emeritus Professor of Gay and Lesbian Studies

In March 1977, Oliver Knussen noted that ‘Michael Finnissy is a young

MICHAEL FINNISSY: It horrifies me that people say the music is com-

One obvious development in Finnissy’s music between the early works

Not only does the incidental account of Finnissy’s indifference to composi-

‘History’ in the title conveys ‘remembered or invented past and present’;

Georgios Theocharous’s ‘Not Too Violent: The Fall Of Notation In Michael

Finnissy’s aesthetics and styles

I first became aware of Finnissy’s music in 1975, not through a performance or

Fig. 1.1 Magic Square.

It is well known that the range of sources, references, allusions in and

Ex. 2.2 Finnissy, manuscript of instructions for Transformations of the Vampire

Movement 5: Intermittent sounds of breathing, scraping, buzzing, rattling,

Movement 6: Very quiet and continuous non-referential sounds or single

Compare these with this text by Wolff, from 1969:

A no less substantial section of single-line melody follows, faster than the

Ex. 3.1 Finnissy, Kapitalistische Realisme, from The History of Photography in

approached strangely via the supertonic of V, the A major chord is in a 6-3

Borrowing and intertextuality

Models of Borrowing from Burkholder on Ives

1. Modelling a work or section on an existing piece, assuming its structure,

Fig. 3.1 J. Peter Burkholder’s categories for Ives’s borrowing.

1. Modelling. Modelling a work or section on an existing piece, assuming its

Fig. 3.2 Proposed categories for Finnissy’s borrowing.

10. Collage. This uses a multiplicity of materials, generally presented in short

Fig. 3.2 (continued)

I [also] wanted to see if I could ‘transform’ the material without falsifying

I was interested in the niche-position of Gershwin’s music (between light-