07.
Steve Reich / Music for 18 Musicians
Slowness. Not only is it a quality that I love about all of Steve Reich’s works, but it also exists as the title of a short novel I recently read by Milan Kundera. In its first few pages, I immediately felt an affinity with the words that lay before my eyes: Kundera detailed the disappearance of slowness, how technology whispers into our collective cultural ear that everything must be quicker, faster, and more efficient. He describes a setting on a country road in which a car is trapped behind a leisurely vehicle that cannot be passed due to oncoming traffic. Kundera writes, “Beside the driver sits a woman; why doesn’t the man tell her something funny? Why Doesn’t he put his hand on her knee? Instead, he’s cursing the driver ahead of him for not going fast enough, and it doesn’t occur to the woman either, to touch the driver with her hand.”
Music for 18 Musicians elicits precisely the same reaction from me. I revel in its gradual pace, reminding me that the best things in life are not rushed or hurried, but entirely the opposite. Reich’s music is notoriously patient, and with Music for 18 Musicians he crafts subtle shifts and decelerated transitions from eighteen instruments that appear in the typical orchestra ensemble. This hour long composition unfolds slowly, but boredom never enters the equation. The synergy of the melodic components is utterly breathtaking, and as the incessant pulse of the vibraphones bleed into the string sections and cyclical brass melodies, the overtaking whole is so complex that my ears are in a constant state of euphoria. Moderate and laggard it may be, but the vivacity of the eighteen interlocking instruments is enough to keep the hundredth play as fresh as the first.
Also, unlike the typical pop and rock dynamic, every instrument is equivalent in terms of significance. The hierarchy is abolished, the rhythmic elements are not relegated to the base foundation, and the human voice is not elevated to the sound’s crest. Vocals are simply another instrument, another sonic additive, equal to the beat of the marimba and the drone of the violin. This theory is now vital to how I view music: each sound entirely its own, completely inimitable, yet positively equal in all respects. There is no hierarchy: it is compressed, flattened, and balanced.
With all sounds equated, it is astounding to hear this process channeled through headphones, when I can dissect how every minuscule sound comprises the whole, how without every rhythmic building block, every melodic brick, the entire wall would collapse. It is the tiny movements and minute contributions that amount to a beauty this grandiose. Listening, I remember to enjoy the forgotten details and subtle events in life - a loving glance, a fit of laughter, the perfect innocence of a flower - as well as the pleasure of not rushing through every menial task and every happening in my life. Without that the rest would simply not be worth it. That is where the cherished moments lie, the preciousness of life exists.
Slowness is also notoriously a facet of past generations and bygone eras, so it is fitting that this composition utilizes no electronic devices or electric instruments apart from the microphones used to amplify the voices. It seems all too obvious as Kundera asks, “Where have they gone, the amblers of yesteryear?” As long as I can hear Music for 18 Musicians, I will always know they are still right here, still alive, still reveling in its slow pace.