And the first three of them aren’t even really music; they are sound. (I almost said noise. Although a lot of it is indeed noise, it is, in this context I suppose, more accurately, sound.) Each can be heard to represent the composer’s exploitation (and experimentation) of how many different ways he can utilize 4 string instruments to create as many sounds in as many different ways as his imagination can possibly come up with. And as such, it is astounding.
As “music” though, it is absurd.
In these first three works, which are like nothing I’ve ever heard before, what’s so incredible is how 4 Classically trained musicians can interpret all the notations on the page – squiggles and zigzags with bizarre indications like “get wild!” or “go crazy!” or “virtuoso freakout!” or “pizz. and crunch” or “make up something for 3 seconds” – into something coherent. Let alone playable. Well, not coherent; there’s nothing coherent about any of this. But it is oddly mesmerizing. And endlessly intriguing. Almost hypnotizing. As much as I kept thinking this is just nonsense, I simply couldn’t turn it off. Like an addict needing another fix, I was literally impelled to continue on and discover what they could possibly do next.
Grasping for a sense of perspective, I suppose we could start by encapsulating it into things we already know – the innovative inventions of Penderecki and Ligeti, combined with the outrageousness of George Crumb, and the more modern thinking of Jorg Widmann, with limitless possibilities of the imagination. Forget about tonality. Or even atonality. This goes way beyond that. There is all manner of bow effects imaginable (and some you can’t) – scratching, scraping, crunching, screeching, whimpering, crying, throbbing, picking, hammering, bouncing, banging – interspersed with notated harmonics, glissandi, flurries and scurrying – and a few actual notes (!) to help make sense of it all. There’s even an admonition at one point: “Any kind of vocalization is strictly forbidden!” I found myself continually trying to wrap my head around what I’m hearing. How do they make that noise? How do they, as a group of musicians, make sense of what’s notated on the page? 1st violinist, Christopher Otto, expresses the challenge of it when he muses in the booklet: “How can this series of noises become empowered with meaning?”
Indeed.
There really is no way to describe this other than sheer chaos. Except it’s not chaotic. I hesitate to say it’s structured; it’s not. But it actually is. It’s organized madness. And therein lies the genius of it. With the exception of the 4th one, Kol Nidre, this first set of pieces are all the same thing – all the scratching and scraping noises described above, with the occasional completely unexpected (sometimes hilarious) C-major chord progression, or amusing 2-second snippet of a country hoe-down, or a brief lullaby randomly thrown in there (especially in the first one, Cat O’Nine Tails). Yet each piece is fascinatingly different from the other in the way these things are laid out, the order in which they are presented. Even though we’ve heard all these effects and sounds before, they appear in a different context each time, and thus it’s as if hearing them for the first time all over again – completely startling in a new way each time they’re heard. And one is left wondering how on earth does the composer come up with it in ways which continue to be interesting? And how on earth do the performers make sense of it? Somehow he does and somehow they do. And it’s simply incredible.
The first 4 works were composed much earlier (1988-1996) than the later 4 (2003-2017). Again with the exception of Kol Nidre (1996), which really is different from all the rest, there is a remarkable consistency (and similarity) to them all. The odd one out in the middle that I keep mentioning doesn’t deserve to be singled out as often as I have, except that it is so completely different from all the others, none of what I’ve described applies to it. It is tonal, has harmony rather like choral music, and is hopelessly forlorn in spirit. It is quite short too (just 6-1/2 minutes), with nearly half of that being taken up by a lengthy repeat of the opening theme. (The whole score fits onto less than half a page.) Looking to the booklet for an explanation, there isn’t one. The composer merely describes it as an arrangement of “a kind of prayer” originally taken from the Masada songbook.
The 2nd CD takes us into the 21st Century where Zorn’s style transforms into a new phase of creativity. If I had to summarize what we hear in the new vs the old, the later works have actual pitches (notes) replacing all the sound-effects in the earlier ones, but paradoxically tend to sound more extreme in non-musical sound and temperament. So while we now have musical notation as opposed to noisemaking instructions, the results are curiously less musical – more deliberately atonal and “difficult” than the earlier works. While I consistently enjoy the first 3 pieces in the earlier set for their humorous, almost comedic musical snippets interspersed among the noise, the later works have none of that. They almost feel like the composer is determined to be “serious” about it while eschewing the methods he used a decade earlier. And while it’s good to discover he can write music without all the gimmickry, there is a certain loss of allure to them. I find them a bit less interesting shorn of that singular, fascinating trait so predominant in the earlier works. That being said, I’m ever grateful the JACKs didn’t give into the temptation to mix them up for “variety“ for the sake of the recording. They are presented in chronological order, exactly as they absolutely must be.
With Necronomicon, for the first time Zorn structures the piece in 5 separate movements, thus it becomes the closest to being a true String Quartet. The first movement is exactly as I describe above, very atonal and somewhat difficult. But then the second movement melts into a musical expressiveness not unlike a ballad, displaying some of the enticing soundworld of Dutilleux. But just as we settle into its pleasing nature, screeching violins (think Black Angels) interrupt, and the music takes off into rather unpleasant, atonal, nonsensical meanderings which seem a little too deliberate and forced. The 3rd movement is perhaps the best, as Zorn exploits an interesting variety of wild and more traditional techniques – pizzicato, quadruple stops, log legno, sul ponte, et al – looking back at Penderecki, and definitely paying homage to Bartok, especially with a conspicuous musical quotation of those unusual chords from the opening measures of his 4th Quartet’s finale. The 4th movement is desolate, much like Ligeti, before turning furious (and ugly) in the final movement, reminding us this is the composer that “goes wild” in the earlier works. So while Zorn is evolving creatively, we still know it’s him.
The Alchemist is much the same, and may actually hearken back to George Crumb more than the others, as the composer references “nine hierarchies of angelic orders” in the synopsis. It displays a plethora of playing techniques, but nothing particularly novel that I could hear, and a lot of rambling noodling, seemingly without direction. Being one of the longest in the collection at nearly 20 minutes, I began to tire of it before we got anywhere near the end. (Perhaps I needed a break from it all at this point.)
Zorn’s style continues in the same vein in the final two works, but begins to struggle for more consistent tonality. In The Remedy of Fortune, the composer states he based it on one of his first loves, mediaeval music – and maybe one can hear that, but not really until the brief pizzicato passage in the middle, where it is unmistakable. And about his final work, The Unseen, he proclaims it could be the last string quartet he will ever compose. And that would be a shame. (He’s just 71 years old.) I hear this work as a culmination of all his talent and imagination come to fruition, as he moves farther away from the outlandish and matures into the inspired. At last we hear a settled resolve which is entirely satisfying. The piece reminds me of Ligeti more than any other composer, as there is a similar pensive, otherworldly desolation to it. If one can get past the outrageousness of his earlier works, this last one will likely gain the admiration of many.
For a bit of perspective – as bizarre as Zorn’s music can seem, compared to some other sound-oriented works the JACK Quartet has recorded (by Helmut Lachenmann and Iannis Xenakis, for example), it is relatively rational and sophisticated; approachable even – with the right mind-set.
As to the realizations of these unimaginably difficult scores, the JACK Quartet is amazing beyond description. That they can play this stuff and make something worth listening to is amazing beyond comprehension. I’ve seen the score for Cat O’Nine Tails and it is utter nonsense. There’s so little to it – measures of squiggles and criss-crossing wavy lines and instructions of what to do during a prescribed length of time (i.e. do “xxx” for 3 seconds; or make “xxx” noises for 4 seconds). These guys do what they’re told and proceed to make something out of it. To state that it’s thought-provoking would be a start, but mind-boggling might be closer.
As for comparisons, Quatuor Molinari recorded the four earlier works for ATMA in 2018. And it is definitive. I was instantly fascinated by this music and intrigued by this composer after listening to their recording and seeing their subsequent live performances on YouTube. (Incidentally, Cat O’Nine Tails was composed in 1988 on commission by the Kronos Quartet, which they recorded for Nonesuch on their 1993 album, “Short Stories” [nla], which I have not heard.) It’s interesting to compare the Molinari and the JACK in the first 4 as a set. As so much of what’s there on the printed page is left to interpretation, it’s fascinating to hear the end results are so similar with both groups.
The primary (and most striking) difference between the two is the recorded acoustic. The Molinari Quartet plays in a big, empty church with a pronounced reverberation, rendering their readings more atmospheric and a touch less explicit, though with impressive presence and impact. While the JACK Quartet is recorded in a studio, up close, with every painstaking detail revealed in all its pristine glory. Musically, the Molinari are, if anything, a bit more characterful, while the JACK are a bit more immaculate. As a result, the Molinari Quartet invites the listener in to experience something new, while the JACK Quartet invites you to hear them play something new. There is a subtle, but appreciable difference. Both perspectives work marvelously and both recordings are essential listening if you’re going to explore this composer at all. I sincerely hope the Molinari will one day record the later set, as I would expect their more atmospheric approach would benefit these later works especially well.
About this production – it is co-produced by the composer, the recording engineer and the performers, and distributed on a label I’ve not seen before, Tzadik “A Project of Hips Road” New York. The 2 CDs come in a lavish, 3-way cardboard foldout, along with an extravagant booklet which includes pertinent details such as a track listing and timings, brief personal notes from the composer and each member of the quartet, and single-page snapshots of the opening page of the score for each work. (Fascinating!) The bulk of it is taken up by an interesting, though lengthy (and rather esoteric) 13-page mini-biography of the composer, written by music author Lloyd Peterson. What’s curiously missing (and sorely needed) are comprehensive program notes about the pieces themselves. But what is here certainly enhances the listening experience. And the recorded sound, if a bit stark, is stunning in its immediacy.
Before I close, allow me to offer a little word of advice to anyone listening to this recording on the home stereo system. If you play this with anyone else around, it will drive them from the room, shaking their head and flashing you the dreaded “Have you completely lost your mind?” look. I found headphones work best. And I’m serious about this – unless, of course, we really have lost our minds and there’s no use hiding it. (My spouse still wonders why I listen to Bartok!)
Oh, one more thing. About the JACK Quartet – what an odd name for a string quartet. After some research, I found it originally made sense more than it does today. When formed in 2005, the original members were John, Ari, Christopher and Kevin. Thus “JACK” is merely an acronym – or as the guys themselves call it, a “jackronym”. (Ahem…) That was all fine and dandy until 2016, when half of the members left and were replaced with guys whose names didn’t exactly fit that. One did – Austin Wulliman (former 1st violin of the disbanded Spektral Quartet) was a perfect replacement for Ari Streisfeld on second violin (and one wonders if there was conscious thought to that). But the new cellist (Jay Campbell) didn’t – being another “J”. So they’re now missing the “K”. And it doesn’t matter; it’s just mildly interesting.
I’ve heard some incredible string quartet playing on record lately – the Meccore String Quartet playing French/Polish music, the Marmen Quartet playing Ligeti, and the Piatti Quartet playing Phibbs (all reviewed here on my blog). And the Molinari have been stupendous in their series of recordings of contemporary music over the past decade for ATMA (Penderecki, Kurtag, Schnittke, Gorecki, Glass, Zorn, et al). The JACK Quartet soundly joins this list of prestigious groups demonstrating the most exalted level of excellence in string quartet playing today. They simply redefine the state of string quartet playing. Even if this music doesn’t do it for you (and it really is an acquired taste), you absolutely must hear the JACK Quartet play it. It is phenomenal.
